The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The commander sealed the hatch beneath him, which resembled another tiled floor square of the cabinlike section of the ship, which contained the fresher, wall-galley, and bunk. He stood. surveying the trim and efficient interior.

  “Stand down mode, full alert,” he ordered.

  “Stand down mode, full alert.” A voice, feminine, but impersonal, answered the commander.

  He sealed the locks behind him, and stepped out into the hangar, which, as he had rebuilt the Caroljoy from scratch, he had turned into a maintenance facility capable of handling all but the largest of private yachts. The equipment within the hangar could also have served virtually all Imperial scouts and corvettes, although that capability remained the secret of the commander.

  He had not kept secret from his subordinates that, after Allison’s departure, his sole rice was his “hobby”—building a private yacht from surplus scrap for his eventual retirement.

  Some of his officers had even visited the hangar and the Caroljoy—at suitably arranged times when the disarray was maximized—and while all were impressed by the commandant’s personal expertise, they shook their heads sadly behind his back at his tales of spending all his savings on his project.

  None knew that the Caroljoy was already spaceworthy. He had not registered her until after he had returned from the maiden voyage. While the fact that his ship was spaceworthy would leak out sooner or later, both the registration date and his officers’ memories would reflect a much later first launch than the reality.

  Gerswin smiled wryly at the recollection of some of the looks as they had seen the scout in the graving cradle, looking as if it would be forever before she lifted.

  His steps carried him across the hangar toward the outside lock and the groundcar that would carry him back to Standora Base, back to the empty quarters of the commandant. Back to a short night’s sleep before another day of shuffling priorities, fleet repairs, and the fragile egos of ship captains who had heard that Standora Base could perform miracles and who all wanted to be first in line.

  The commander shook his head as he thought of the sixteen slender missiles sealed in the Caroljoy’s aft hold. Just as he hoped he would not need them, he knew he would, although he could not say for what. Not yet. But that time would come, had to come, as the Empire began to crumble and the commercial barons began to grab for more and more.

  Not yet did he need them. But to reclaim Old Earth, he had no doubt he would need them, and that he would have little or no time to obtain them by the time he needed such power. By then, too, the source of the weapons might have been forgotten.

  As he slipped from the hangar, he automatically scanned the area, but the private shuttle port was quiet, as usual.

  He guided the official groundcar across the plastarmac and toward the south gate of Standora Base more than twenty kays away.

  XXXII

  THE SENIOR OFFICER accessed the private personal line, fed in the privacy links, and scrambled.

  The screen colors swirled, then settled into the even lines of text provided by the agency.

  “Quarterly Report—Corson Ingmarr.”

  The title was scarcely larger than the text that followed, but the commodore devoured each word, line by line, of the ten pages that had been transmitted by torp, each page costing as much as a set of undress blacks.

  At last he keyed the report into his own personal files, though he doubted he would reread it, not for years, since he could remember the last reports verbatim.

  Finally, he shut down the small console, the single piece of furniture or equipment in the rambling quarters that he could truly say was his own, along with the private comm relay he had leased with it.

  Most of his creds had gone into the Caroljoy, along with the discretionary funds allowed him under the foundation bylaws, although his personal investments were still considerable, since he had attempted to fund the restoration out of income, rather than capital. The fact that his assets were more than comfortable was not surprising, not considering his years in Service, and his few personal needs.

  He stood, blond, slender, despite the loose-fitting flight suit he wore, and walked around the console and out of the paneled room that bore the archaic term of “library,” though there were neither books nor tapes within or upon the wooden shelves.

  The room echoed with his steps, and light-footed as he was, their echo recalled the tapping of other steps. She had never liked the library, and Corson, of course, had not been walking when she had taken him.

  “Why do you do it?”

  The words did not echo as he left the room. The issue carpeting in the front foyer insured that, and his steps were silent as he climbed the wide steps to the second floor. Only the commandant’s quarters had two stories, with the wide staircase, but then the quarters had been designed with entertaining in mind, back in the expanding days of the Empire, when energy had been more abundant, and before the rights of the occupied and colonized peoples had been taken quite so seriously.

  Most nights, the commodore did not mind the quiet and the isolation.

  Most nights . . . except for those when he thought about a curly-haired blond youth skiing across frozen lakes parsecs away.

  Most nights . . . except for those when he dreamed about another curly-haired blond boy scuttling in terror from flaring torches through a tunnel, toward a night filled with king rats and landpoisons.

  He shook his head as he entered the bedroom, not glancing at the overlarge bed he had never replaced when she had left.

  Not that he always slept alone . . . but none had ever asked or hinted to spend another night. Not that he was ever other than gentle . . .

  XXXIII

  ALREADY THE VISITORS’ stands were filled to overflowing, though the seats had been designed to hold more than five times the base complement. Civilians from Stenden were continuing to pour through the main gate.

  The woman who would be the next commandant stood behind the reviewing stand and surveyed the ad hoc parade ground, the rows and rows of I.S.S. technicians wearing silver and black dress uniforms creased to perfection, the thousands of Standoran civilians wearing their best brikneas, the crisp white and green dominating the stands.

  She wanted to stamp her foot, to stand on the podium when her turn came, and to bellow that she could do more than anything Commodore Gerswin could ever have done. She knew it was childish, that it might not even be true, but seeing the wistful look in the technicians’ eyes, she still wanted to. Instead, she looked down at the spotless gray-blue plastarmac and took a deep breath.

  Despite the base’s reconstitution as one of the busiest and most efficient refit yards in the Empire, the light breeze bore only the faintest tinge of ozone, and none of metal and oil. Underlying it all was the scent of trilia from the formal gardens planted around both the tech and officer quarters, and from the hedgerows that flanked the small squared sector for accompanied personnel.

  A cough at her elbow brought her head up.

  A young captain, wearing the crossed ships of a pilot on her breast pocket, stood at the commander’s shoulder.

  “Commander H’Lieu?”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “I believe the ceremony is about to begin.”

  The senior commander turned away from the crowds that flanked the reviewing stand, with a smile that could have been described as wry, straightened, and looked toward the steps of the reviewing stand itself.

  She would sit on the left side of the podium, on the left of the crossed banners, for the review. Then the commodore would say a few words before turning over his sword. She would take the podium to say a few words, then return his sword, and then change places with him to review the departure parade as the new commandant.

  All in all, a civilized and ritualized turnover of administrative authority. The only problem was that Headquarters had never told her that the man she was replacing had made himself into a living legend, both to the personnel he commanded and to the locals.
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  She had reviewed the base procedures, seen the audit reports, and interviewed a few key people—quietly, of course. All gave the impression of a competent and dedicated Commanding Officer, fair, impartial, and knowledgeable. But the records and procedures still did not show how he had turned the base around, nor did anyone seem to be able to tell her.

  Yes, the man worked hard. Yes, he had improved operating procedures. Yes, he had instituted outreach programs with the locals. Yes, he insisted on absolute accuracy and perfection. Yes, he insisted on discipline and order.

  She pursed her lips and dismissed her misgivings. Putting her hand on the railing of the temporary stairs, she glanced over at the visitors’ stands. She could not recall a local community ever showing up for such a mundane affair as a change of command, even for a C.O. who had spent an unprecedented three five-year tours as the commodore had.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” asked the captain. “Even the locals practically worship the ground he walks on.”

  The senior commander snapped her head back without commenting and stepped up to the landing.

  The commodore was already there to greet her. She remembered the piercing eyes from a meeting on New Augusta years earlier.

  “Welcome, Commander H’Lieu. Good to see you again.”

  “A pleasure to be here, Commodore.” From the landing she could survey the entire area, and she let her eyes do that. “You obviously command a great deal more than Standora Base.”

  He chuckled, a self-deprecating sound, and then met her eyes. Both their brilliance and intensity were too much, and she eyed the raised stage with the two empty chairs, the podium, and the backdrop with the crossed banners of the Empire and the Service.

  “I pleaded with the exec for something simple, but, as you can see, lost.”

  Face to face, she realized that she stood taller than he did, but that wasn’t the way she felt.

  “Commodore . . . Commander . . .” The captain’s voice moved them apart and toward their seats.

  As the commodore stood before the crowd, the rustlings stopped, as did the background conversation, until there was a hush.

  The sound of the ancient trumpet calls echoed back from the hangars at the bugler below. As the notes died away three squads of technicians snapped into motion.

  The tech drill team’s silent performance was marred by neither mistakes nor by excessive length.

  Commander H’Lieu glanced at her timestrap and realized that the performance had taken well less than ten standard minutes.

  As the drill team returned to position, the ranks of arrayed techs began to move, marching by units before the commodore, who still stood at attention, perfectly straight and yet perfectly relaxed, while giving the impression of total alertness.

  The commander stopped herself from shaking her head. The man looked less than forty stans, yet he’d been at Standora for fifteen, and, if the rumors and records were correct, had more than a century in Service, which was possible, certainly, but totally unheard of.

  The continued hush bothered her. In her own thirty plus years of Service, never had she heard such sustained quiet, almost as if it were a funeral or memorial rather than a mere change of command.

  Her eyes swept the parade ground, the crowd of support personnel, and the visitors. No frowns, no laughs, no signs of fear, but no signs of celebration.

  When the last detachment had stepped past the stand and back into position, then and only then did the commodore move, in quick steps, to the podium.

  He offered no salutations, no jokes.

  “All things must end, and all things must begin.

  “My time here must end, and the time of Commander H’Lieu must begin. Standora Base is respected, appreciated, and, I believe, a worthwhile place to be. That it is all of these things is not because of a commandant, and not because it merely exists, but because the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Because together we can do what none can do separately.

  “No man, no woman, no child . . . stands alone. Nor have we. Together we have accomplished much. In this, I must include those who were stationed here and who have since departed, as well as those of you who have remained. Times and people have changed, but Standora Base remains. Change is a necessity for excellence, and excellence has been your greatest achievement.

  “With Commander H’Lieu, I expect you to build upon that excellence, for much as we have accomplished, much remains to be done. We have forged strong working ties within the Service, within the Empire, and with Stenden, its people, and have begun to work well with the Standoran government. But that work must continue.

  “Never forget that your success is built upon more than machines, on more than discipline. It is built upon the spirit. In the end, that spirit can move and change planets. That spirit alone can achieve excellence, and understand its price and responsibilities. And for that spirit, which you have demonstrated year in and year out, must all of you be commended.

  “In my leaving, my departure, you lose a commandant, and you gain a new one. But your spirit you keep. May it always be so.”

  The commodore bowed his head momentarily in the silence that held, if possible, deeper than before.

  “And now”—and he lifted his sword—“I offer my command and sword to Commander H’Lieu.” He turned. “Commander H’Lieu?”

  The commander stepped forward to the podium, marveling yet at the understated eloquence of the commodore and beginning to ask herself, for the first time seriously, how she could follow the example he had set.

  She stood opposite him, accepting the sword he had offered, then laying sword and scabbard on the half-table on her side of the podium.

  What could she say, knowing that her lengthy remarks, at least by comparison, would have been totally inappropriate?

  “Thank you.” Her words came slowly. “Unlike you, I have not had the privilege of working with Commodore Gerswin. The example he has set is one to which anyone could and should aspire.

  “I am not Commodore Gerswin. We are different people; we have different backgrounds. However, I share his striving for excellence and his belief that such excellence can happen only when we work together.

  “Beyond that, the commodore has said what must be said, and I wish him well. I look forward to continuing his tradition and working with and for you all.”

  She stopped, deciding against any flowery conclusion, and bent to pick up the plain sword and black scabbard.

  “Commodore, while I accept the responsibility you have passed to me, your sword is yours. May it always be so.”

  The commodore stepped forward to take back the sword. Then they exchanged places, and both faced the command and the crowd.

  Still . . . silence lingered across the upturned faces.

  After a long moment, nine notes sounded from the trumpet, in three groups of three, and the reverse parade began as the two senior officers presided over the retreat.

  This time as each squad passed the reviewing stand the commodore received a salute from each. The squads did not reform on the parade area, but continued down the plastarmac to the nearest hangar, into which they disappeared.

  When the parade area was at last empty of military personnel, except for the corner sentries, nine more notes sounded from the antique trumpet.

  The commodore broke the spell by twisting toward the new commandant.

  “Nice touch with your acceptance. They’ll like it, and you’ll come to believe it, if you give them the fairness, the discipline, and the hearing they deserve.”

  She inclined her head toward him stiffly.

  “It is rather difficult to follow a living legend.” She pointed toward the civilians who were now filing out toward the main gate. Even from the reviewing stand she could see that several were wiping their eyes.

  “Hasn’t always been so. Won’t be.” He patted her shoulder. “You’ll make it, probably a lot farther than I did.”

  “Did?”

  “Resigning. I hav
e a few things left to do, and I need the time to do them.” He paused. “Shall we go? Captain Ihira is waiting to show you to your office and quarters.”

  “You’re out?”

  “Out and packed. With the ceremony, my resignation is fully effective.”

  “Just like that?”

  He shrugged. “Traveled light for a long time. Still do. Seems to work that way whether I decide to or not.”

  “What . . . where . . . will you go?”

  “Intend to travel. Check on some research.”

  “If I’m not too bold . . . Commodores are well paid, but not for extensive travel.”

  “Been careful. A small bequest. Position with a group . . . and there’s the Caroljoy.”

  She could not have missed the accent on the name.

  “The Caroljoy? A ship?”

  “Patchwork of sorts, but certified and speedy. Keeps me more than busy.”

  “Caroljoy . . . unusual name . . . understand your—“ She broke off the sentence.

  “No . . . wouldn’t have been right to name it after someone still living. She made it all possible, and a great deal more that I never knew.” His eyes seemed to mist over for a few seconds, and he stopped speaking.

  “Who was she?” asked Commander H’Lieu softly. “She must have been rather special.”

  “Special?” laughed the commodore, and there was an underbite to the self-mocking expression. “Like saying Old Earth was special. Or that devilkids are unusual. She was a—“ He stopped again. “Getting old, I guess, because I’m tempted to talk too much. Leave it at that. She was special.”

  “I’m sorry,” apologized the commander. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You didn’t. You asked, and I did not have to answer.” He grinned. “But I’m just a relic on the way out, with time on my hands.”

  Commander H’Lieu could not help grinning back at him. “You’re scarcely a relic, and I doubt seriously that you will ever have time on your hands.”