The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The commander looked at the silent waiter, whom Lyr had not heard approach this time either, then cocked his head to the side momentarily, as if trying to remember something.

  “The lady will have the flamed spicetails, the bourdin cheeses, the house salad, and the d’crem. I will have the scampig, the cheeses, the salad, and lechoclat.”

  The waiter vanished.

  “You eat here often?”

  “When I’m in New Augusta. Not all that often. Car—one of the founders proposed the membership, I suspect. Took it. It’s helpful.”

  “Helpful? That’s an odd way of describing it.”

  He shrugged, then picked up his glass for another sip.

  She emulated his example, but set the goblet down as the waiter reappeared with the two salads.

  She glanced up from the salad to find him studying her face.

  “Lyr? If you could do something entirely different, what would it be? Where would you go? What are your dreams?”

  The laugh bubbled up in her throat even as she tried to swallow the remaining drops of squierre in her mouth.

  “Phhhwwwww . . . uuouugh . . . ucoughhh . . .”

  He stood, but she waved him away, dabbed her chin with the cloth napkin, coughed twice more to clear her throat. Finally she managed to swallow.

  “Dreams yet, Commander. Please . . .”

  This time she held up her hand before he could interrupt.

  Dreams? Commander, you must be joking.”

  “No joke.” He laughed once, the hard bark that chilled her, that reminded her that for all his directness, the directness that bordered on uncouthness, he would be a dangerous adversary. For anyone.

  “I’m sorry,” she added in a softer voice. “But the question was unexpected. You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Unexpected? Why?”

  Lyr frowned. Should she tell him? Subtlety wasn’t likely to work, one way or another.

  She sighed. “It’s like this. You said once that there were more than a hundred foundations with greater possible endowments than OER. It’s more like fifty—“

  “That’s now. Because of your efforts.”

  “—and they have one thing in common. That’s a lack of initiative. My job isn’t good. It’s the best in my field. That’s why I’ll stay unless you force me out. You handed me something that no one ever expects, much less at my age, and said, in effect, and despite all the mystery; go and do your best. And you didn’t second-guess every investment and every fund transfer. So I’ve done my best.”

  “Very well,” added the commander.

  She stopped and worried her lip. “So you see why I have to laugh at your asking about dreams. I’m worried about your forcing me to leave a dream, and you’re asking me about a dream beyond a dream. You don’t want me to leave, do you?”

  “No. Your work is just beginning, now.” His voice softened on the last word.

  She saw his eyes lose their intensity momentarily as he repeated quietly one of her phrases.

  “A dream beyond a dream...” Then his eyes were back on her, boring into her. “Humor me. Give me a dream beyond a dream.”

  Lyr looked away, damning herself for revealing too much, feeling like she had worn nothing to the table.

  “Do you have dreams beyond your dreams?” she countered quietly.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I dream of rolling hills covered with grass, and streams, sparkling from mountain rocks.” He looked up. “Land . . . so . . . poor . . . where I grew up . . . no green grass.” He looked away and took the last gulp of his fizz. “What about your dream, Lyr?”

  She did not answer, but took a sip, a small sip, of the squierre, ignoring the salad before her, and stared at the white of the linen on the table as she let the warmth trickle down her throat.

  “If I couldn’t do this . . . I’d have to get away. Some place like Vers D’Mont . . . with mountains but culture. I haven’t been there, not even on my salary, but you asked me to dream. People, but with privacy. I-“ She stopped, watching him nod as she spoke.

  “A small cottage?”

  “A chalet, on a hill, not a sharp peak, but one where you could see the high mountains, and the valley below, with a lake. A chalet that had balconies on all sides.”

  The commander continued to nod as if her fancy were as possible as sitting across the table.

  “But that’s impossible!” she burst out, then lowered her voice. “Why encourage an impossible dream?”

  “No dream is impossible. Wasn’t encouraging, but inquiring.”

  “But why?”

  “Dreams are important.” He said nothing to amplify that, but took a last bite of his salad, then sat back as the waiter placed the scampig before him.

  Lyr nodded at the man to take her unfinished salad.

  “What are they?” She studied the question-marklike objects on the porcelain plate.

  “Spicetails. Seafood delicacy. My second favorite dish, but should I tell you that?”

  She smiled in response to the commander’s gentle selfdeprecation.

  “I’ll try them anyway.”

  The longer the meal went on, the more confused she became as to the commander’s motivations. His attitude was not apology, exactly, nor seduction, nor exactly interest, though he continued to ask gentle questions.

  “Do you have other interests . . . hobbies . . . besides numbers? . . . Would you travel widely? . . . Your family? Were you close? . . . Whom of the public figures do you admire the most?”

  Those questions she could not avoid, she answered, gently and as briefly as possible, not forgetting to enjoy the dinner.

  The cost of the meal had to have been astronomical. The setting, the cutlery, which was worked sterling silver, the antique porcelain, the linen, the use of well-trained help—they all pointed to an establishment for the extraordinarily affluent.

  And yet, the man across from her, while born a leader, had obviously not been born to wealth. For all his Service training and accomplishments, he was only a commander.

  Or was he?

  Even when she had left the Aurelian Club, headed back to her own more than comfortable apartment, the hundredth floor of the Hegemony Towers, she could not decide.

  He was more than a Service commander, she knew. But what?

  XXV

  SCF-EC-4 (Sector Red, CW-3)

  SCF-EC is a spectral type G-2, population 3 anomaly. Seven planet system, four inner hard core/crust. Planets three and four within T-compatible life zone. Planets five and six are gas giants. Planet seven is captured comet accretion satellite with irregular orbit . . .

  Planet three possible for future intelligent NH life. Wide spectrum, classification range O/N, WAL, LP/MP, FSR . . .

  Planet four limited organic classifications N/N, SMS/MS. CrB. Site of nonidentified intact Class I artifact (See Aswan, leg ends section, and SCF-EC-4—Engineering/Structures) . . .

  Chartbook, Sector Three

  Commonality of Worlds

  5573 N.E.C.

  XXVI

  BOTH CIRCUIT BLOCS remained black.

  With a sigh, the man in the working tech’s jumpsuit set them aside and stood up.

  Each aspect of rebuilding the courier took more time, more credits, and more equipment than even he had anticipated. He reset the test probes, and reattached the cube blocs. His fingers played across the tester’s console.

  This time, the circuit bloc on the right turned crimson. But the one on the left remained black.

  He sighed again and stood up, glancing across the hangar at the incomplete structure in the graving cradle, the structure that he hoped would someday be the ship he needed.

  His eyes strayed to his wrist and the comp-timer there.

  2230—far too late already. Allison would be asleep, assuming that Corson was not giving her trouble. But Corson seldom did, despite his intense interest in the world around him and his already too active efforts at crawling.

  Corson and Allison—there was nev
er enough time for them, not with the demands of being Standora Base Commander and the invisible deadlines for completing the courier that crept up toward him.

  How could he tell Allison that he had to finish the ship before his last tour at Standora? She thought he had all the time in the universe.

  Caroljoy had thought that, too.

  Perhaps they were right, but he could be killed as easily as any other man, and would be, once the Empire discovered his plans. On that basis, he had little enough time, and no one in whom he could confide.

  Allison, wrapped up in her moments of joy, and in Corson, could not understand the desperate need of a distant and antique planet forgotten by all but the myth tellers, the historians, and one Imperial senior commander.

  Caroljoy, who had understood, had also opted for her moments of joy in her son. But she had left him the means and, indirectly, yet another pressure, to pursue his obsession.

  “Obsession?” he asked himself wryly.

  “Obsession,” he conceded as he placed another circuit bloc into the tester, ignoring the tightening in his guts as he felt the night inch toward morning, as he could sense the loneliness radiating from a large house on a high hill.

  The third circuit bloc flared crimson, and he smiled, using his lips only, as he placed it inside the screen relay he was reconstructing.

  “Only five more,” he muttered as he selected yet another bloc from the case of scrapped components he had obtained through the Ydrisian free market.

  He shifted his weight as he began once more to work the testing console, probing the minute circuits before him to insure their integrity and functions.

  Taking a deep breath, he settled back into the routine. Select, set up the test patterns, scan, and test. Select, set up, scan, and test.

  He hoped Corson was sleeping well.

  And Allison. And Allison.

  XXVII

  “CONGRATULATIONS, ADMIRAL. CONGRATULATIONS.”

  “Appreciate it, Medoro.” The newly sworn Admiral of the Fleet surveyed the palatial office, the wide armaglass windows that overlooked New Augusta from the hillside that the I.S.S. had claimed generations earlier, and the small group of Imperial courtiers, functionaries, and subordinates who waited at the far end of the highceilinged room.

  He repressed a smile as he glanced back at Medoro. The senior commodore, who had served as Chief of Staff for the last two Fleet Admirals, obviously would lose no time in pressing his own agenda. The admiral nodded at his Chief of Staff. “It’s time to play politics, I gather.”

  “It’s always time to play politics, Admiral.”

  The admiral let the smile come to his lips. “Always and forever, from now on. Right, Medoro?”

  “If you want a long and healthy tenure, ser.”

  Medoro’s tone was light, but the admiral caught the bitterness of underlying truth. The most senior officer of the Service took a step toward the white linens of the over-laden table where the official “informal” celebration of his swearing-in would commence.

  “Any space for truth?” he asked the commodore, almost as if the question were an afterthought.

  “Only if you are careful, ser . . . and now is not the time to begin . . . Admiral Keraganis is the one on the far right . . . next to him is Admiral Fleiter, head of logistics and personnel . . . and behind him is Rear Admiral Thurson, Information Services—“

  “That’s basically the Service rep to the Eye Council, right?”

  “He does sit as liaison to the council, currently.”

  The admiral refocused his attention on the officers approaching as he moved up to the table area.

  “Congratulations, Admiral Horwitz,” boomed out the man Medoro had identified as Keraganis. “Look forward to working with you. Heard a lot about you, especially the way you handled the original Ursan contact. Brilliant strategy.”

  Horwitz inclined his head. “Thank you. Just fortunate to have the right people in the right places. I look forward to having the benefit of your unique experience, and your distinguished advice will certainly be welcome.”

  “Glad to see you again, J’rome,” broke in another admiral, a silver-haired and thin man who stood a half head above the others.

  “Marsta! Didn’t expect to see you. When did you get here?” The Fleet Admiral sidestepped Keraganis, favoring him with a pat on the shoulder that he hoped would get the point across that Keraganis was not working with him, but for him, and around the end of the laden table.

  He stopped before reaching his friend.

  “All of you, it’s a happy occasion. Please enjoy the food and the company. Dig in.”

  Immediately several junior commodores and a senior commander, appearing rather out of place among the senior officers of the I.S.S., took refuge in the food.

  “J’rome. Didn’t expect to make it, but we wound up the Rim maneuvers almost a week ahead of schedule. For once, everything worked. Smart idea that Alexandro had, insisting on premaneuver checks at Standora.”

  “Alexandro? Standora?”

  “C.O. of the Dybyykk. He had some emergency work done there a year ago. Better than any Service yard yet, he insisted, and since no one else out that way could fit the squadron in, I agreed. Took a week more than we thought, but it cut the down time on station by twice that. So I’m here.”

  Horwitz frowned. “Standora? Why is that so familiar?”

  The rear admiral laughed. “How could you forget? Gerswin? He’s the commandant at Standora.”

  “Gerswin is still around? He was ancient at the time of the Ursan contact.”

  “Doesn’t look it, but I understand he’s on his last or next-to-last tour—“

  “Congratulations, Admiral Horwitz,” broke in another voice. “Marc Fleiter, here. Logistics and personnel. I just wanted to meet you informally before we get together officially, and I wanted to let you know how much I look forward to working for you.”

  Horwitz repressed another smile. Fleiter was sharp, and had seen Horwitz’s reaction to Keraganis’s attempt to put the Fleet Admiral down.

  “Good to meet you, Admiral Fleiter. I’m sure we will do well together, and I appreciate your interest.”

  “Not at all, Admiral. Just wanted to say hello, and I apologize if I intruded.”

  “No problem . . . no problem.”

  As Fleiter stepped back and away, and as Horwitz and Marsta were left alone momentarily, Marsta smiled a brief and rueful smile.

  “What out for that one, J’rome.”

  “Sharp, isn’t he?” Horwitz responded. “And dangerous, I suspect,” he added in a lower voice. “But not the most dangerous one.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I think it was Gerswin. Too bad he got mixed up in that Old Earth mess. Or maybe it’s a good thing he did.”

  “Admiral Horwitz...”

  The new Fleet Admiral turned to greet the next in the stream of well-wishers.

  Admiral Marsta nodded and turned toward the fruit.

  XXVIII

  THE EMPTINESS STRUCK the commander as soon as he stepped through the portal into the foyer, with its real slate tiles that had been left from the days when the base had boasted a commodore in residence.

  Boots clicking, the slender officer in working grays glanced into the salon, into the living room, into the formal dining room, and into the kitchen that was twice the size necessary even for the entertainment needs of the base commandant it served.

  Empty—the main floor rooms were empty.

  A dozen quick steps carried him up the wide formal staircase to the second floor, opposite the room she had used as a nursery. The standard crib, which had been presented to them by a local acquaintance, stood empty; the handmade quilt the boy loved, gone with him and his mother.

  The I.S.S. senior officer crossed the small room and checked the closet. No clothes remained.

  With a sigh, he surveyed the room once more.

  Another deep breath, and he left, heading for the master suite, knowing she
would be gone, and that the room they had shared, briefly it seemed, would be immaculate, and vacant.

  In the wide hall outside the old-fashioned doorway, he paused, not wanting to burst in, nor wishing to find what he knew he would discover.

  His eyes traced the perfectly squared panels of the wood. Finally he reached and touched the handle. The door swung inward at his touch.

  For a moment, an instant, everything seemed normal. The crimson trimmed gray quilt still covered the outsized bed. A solideo cube still graced the bedside table on the side where he slept. Late after-noon sun still poured through the western windows of the sunroom and spilled through the archway into the bedroom itself.

  His fears were confirmed by the other absences—the bare table-top on the right side of the bed, the empty space on the wall where the portrait of the three of them had hung, the missing daccanwood box where she had kept her uniform insignia.

  With slow steps he reached the closet, opened it, and saw his own uniforms on the right, and the emptiness on the left.

  He turned, paced back and forth three times along the foot of the bed, almost as if she were still there, always back before him, her long legs curled under her, Corson at her breast, listening to him tell her about the day.

  His eyes flickered to where she usually sat, then back to the floor before he realized that a white square lay across her pillow.

  The commander pounced upon it, so quickly an onlooker would not have believed the speed with which he moved, and studied the script, the nearly childish lines with the large loops and clear and pre-cise letters.

  My dear Commander—

  It is time to go. My resignation has been accepted. While it will hurt, it would hurt so much more later, when Corson and I would become a wall between you and destiny.

  Already, you pace the floor at the foot of the bed at night. A thousand projects are on your mind, and you are torn between us and what you must do. I can see the fury building, though you have never been other than gentle.