“Perhaps not, but I won’t have my hands full the way you will. Especially if High Command finds out how good your people really are. Then some senior commodore, a real commodore, not a preretirement commodore like me, may decide to take over Standora Base.”
“You think so?”
“Unless you make commodore first.” His tone was light, and the shadows that had crossed his features minutes before were gone, gone as if they had never been.
Captain Ihira was waiting at the base of the now nearly empty reviewing stand for them.
The commodore returned the captain’s salute, crisply. He turned and was gone.
Commander H’Lieu swallowed twice before speaking. “Lead on, Captain. Lead on.”
XXXIV
G. Kyra J’gerald, Bio. D.
Department of Environmental Biologics
University of Suharta
Faith, New Hope Code FNH-Red-Sec 3 - RT
DL
Dear Dr. J’gerald:
The foundation has reviewed your proposal for the development through genetic substitution and accelerated environmental stress of “fuel globes” suitable for use in vehicles as a nonpolluting fuel source.
Your proposal has been approved for a Class II grant, for a maximum of seven Imperial years, as you proposed. Class II grants are reviewed annually, and funds are disbursed for the following year upon successful completion of the annual review. If the final specimens meet the criteria outlined in your prospectus, and function as you have outlined, an additional sum will be paid, equivalent to the total amount of the seven-year grant, either in a single payment or annually for ten Imperial years.
The attached contract contains all details. If you agree to the proposal, please authenticate and return three of the copies. On receipt, the foundation will disburse to the account you have specified the first year’s funding.
Failure to make specific annual or semiannual reports will constitute breach of contract. Failure to undertake the work, for reasons other than illness, will be taken under advisement and treated under both local and Imperial law.
We wish you the best.
Sincerely,
Lyr D’Meryon
Administrator
Narla Div Kneblock, Bot. D.
Drop D-100
Full City, Urbana Code FCU-Blue-Sec 2 - RT
BG
Dear Dr. Kneblock:
Thank you for your proposal to create structural and building materials through the accelerated genetic selection and cultivation of deciduous Ttype flora (trees).
Unfortunately, this work has largely been perfected, and the foundation is not in a position to expend funds for incremental improvements at this time. Since we may not have fully understood all the implications of your proposal, if you have amplifying material, of course, we would be more than pleased to review that in light of any updated submission you choose to resubmit.
Again . . . thank you for your proposal, and for your interest in improved biologics.
Sincerely,
Lyr D’Meryon
Administrator
Restra Ver Dien
Professor of Sanitary Engineering
University of San Diabla
Ghila, New Arizona Code GNA-Green-Sec 1 - RT
HY
Dear Professor Ver Dien:
Thank you for the update in your annual report on your progress in modifying water sylphweed to provide the dual function of water purification on a commercial scale and to precipitate toxic and nontoxic contaminants in a reusable mineral form.
In view of your success with water purification, the foundation is pleased to extend your grant another two Imperial years to allow you the additional time necessary to develop the precipitation capabilities in selected sylphweed strains.
An addendum to your contract is attached. Please authenticate all copies and return three to the foundation immediately. Upon receipt of the copies, the foundation will disburse the first of the four additional payments provided for in the addendum.
Looking to your success,
Lyr D’Meryon
Administrator
XXXV
All planets have life. Somewhere . . . somehow . . . there is life. It may be in hibernation forever, created when there was heat, sleeping until moments before a final conflagration. It may be buried in sheltered ravines, or float in high clouds over burnedout lands, but there is life. With one exception.
That exception is Marduk.
Picture a T-type world, with an old red sun still close enough to maintain life, half-covered with oceans, and circled by three small moons.
The seas are crystal violet, and when the waves crash on the rocks, the droplets coating the stone sparkle with the shimmer of blood red diamonds in the sun.
The clouds are white, towering, with a hint of purple.
The sands are purpled silver, and bare, as bare as the dark brown-purple of the mud flats that stretch where there should be marshes.
Where there should be forests stretch only kilometers of purpled clay. Where there should be grass roll on kilometers of purpled bare hills that slowly ooze toward the depressions where rivers should run and do not.
No spires grace continental divides, but aimless heaps of weathered crimson and maroon stone, some buttressed from the bedrock, some lying loose.
The planet promised life, and there was none.
All the explorers found was death.
N’Doro—dying in his shuttle. Crenshaw—screaming for death for days in the Service wards at Bredick. The crew of the Copernick—found dead to the last soul in orbit. The list is long, longer than it should be because the planet should, by all rights, have supported life.
The deaths bolstered the argument that there had to be life, for what else besides unknown viruses or alien organisms could kill so many so terribly?
The answer, when it came, was disappointing. Chemicals—just chemicals. Every virulent chemical known to intelligence existed in the oceans and lands of Marduk. Every stable synthetic concocted by the late masters of Old Earth had been concocted earlier by the departed masters of Marduk. Concocted and left for the universe to find.
If it is violently mutagenic, teratogenic, carcinogenic, oncogenic, or toxic, Marduk has it.
And for some, Marduk held a certain promise . . .
ANNALS Peitral H’Litre Bredick, 6178 N.E.C.
XXXVI
THE OER FOUNDATION administrator checked the itemization from the Special Operations Account again.
“Unique power source (obsolete) for nontech planet—C/r 1.5 million. Special equipment transport (one time charge)—C/r 4.5 million.”
No explanation on the official accounts, just the figures. The commander, and she thought of him as the commander despite his preretirement promotion to commodore, had spent more than it third of his annual operations budget on just two items. If they were audited by the Imperial Revenue Service, she’d better know what they represented.
On the off-chance that he had had an explanation, but didn’t know how to code it, or wanted to leave that to her, she checked the “notes” section, which was sealed except to her personal key.
Wonder of wonders, she thought. There was an explanation.
“The unique power source is an obsolete atmospheric pulse: tap. Couldn’t buy an equivalent source for less than ten times this, but gadget is good only on a planet with an atmosphere and without intelligent life with a metal based technology. Somewhat limited, but fine for my outspace operations. Even have a place to put it. Will reduce the power costs for the ship. Could be as much as eighty percent less.”
Lyr nodded. It sounded crazy, but if he was right, and about equipment he had always been right, the cost would be absorbed in less then a standard month. His energy bills ran nearly C/r 10 million annually, and that was what he drew from the foundation. From his private sources, who knew what he was paying?
“The one-time transport charge is what it cost for a one-way disposable jump
hull to carry that and some other equipment to base. Didn’t want to charter a freighter, though it would have cost half as much, for obvious reasons. Hope you can figure out a way to explain this.”
She worried at her lower lip once more.
Some things he was so secretive about, as if the Empire really cared about the doings of a foundation promoting biologics research and use. The secrecy, she was sometimes convinced, might cause more problems than the mission.
She frowned, but finally settled on the standard classification of equipment freight charges, with a few codes and supporting figures that should get her through all but the most thorough of audits, if one were even requested.
In more than twenty years, she had been requested to appear before the Imperial Revenue Service twice. Once had been for a grant to Sadukis University, which had been diverted to support the candidacy of the University Chancellor for delegate—unknown to the OER Foundation.
The second time had been because the receipts to and assets of the Forward Fund had exceeded, for a two month period, the thirty percent maximum requirement. That had been her fault, because of a rather spectacular increase in the value of some Torinian bonds that the banking community had written off as worthless.
Still worrying at her lower lip, which was always chapped despite the moisture shield cream she used religiously every night, she began to input the information.
If the commander, in his capacity as trustee, were not so obviously committed to the foundation and its aims, she would have been more worried. At times, his single-minded pursuit of improved biologics scared her, and now that he was pushing the implementation of the basic research and research into actual applications . . .
She shook her head. If she knew more, she would only worry more, and there was more than enough to worry about with the research grants and the accounting legalities.
XXXVII
“THE ASSIGNMENT IS a standard one—the father and the son. The baron, if one could call him that, and the heir. That means the timing must coincide.”
“Explain.”
“The father has his own yacht, and can pilot it himself. He is surmised to have a hidden base, probably in an uninhabited system. The son lives with the mother and her clan, separated from the father. But he remains the only heir.”
“Then there is a preferred order.”
“Exactly. Father, then son. The client did not specify the order, but preliminary investigations indicate that the father is the more formidable of the two, and would be even more so if alerted by—“
“The action against the son.”
The woman nodded. “You understand.”
“If the man travels so freely, how can one predict where he will be?
“That takes patience. He does have a philanthropic connection in New Augusta and must travel there occasionally. That is the sole predictable factor in an extremely irregular and unpredictable schedule. He has never made less than a trip a year, often two or three. We have taps on the torp center and on the clearance sector in Imperial control. Those should give us advance notice, but you will have to take up residence in New Augusta.
“From there, it should be routine. Routine, but not easy.”
“On New Augusta?”
The woman lifted her shoulders. “It cannot be avoided. The com-mission was large, and not to be, turned down.”
“How much of a bonus?”
“Double your normal.”
“I assume the rules for actions on New Augusta have not been changed by the Guild.”
“They have not.”
“Then energy and projectile weapons remain forbidden?”
“Correct.”
The heavyset man glanced at the floor. “You are sure this is the best way to accomplish this contract.”
“Are you questioning the Secretariat?”
“No. But a man who could be called a baron and is not, who pilots his own space yacht, and all that implies, who is strong enough to have captivated, even for a time, a Scandian woman, that sort of man will be alert to such things as accidents, poisons. That means—“
“I know what that means. That is why you were assigned.”
The heavyset man’s hands moved toward the long knife concealed in his trousers.
“He is said to have some familiarity with hand weapons, including knives.”
The man smiled. “Some familiarity with knives. How interesting.”
“The details are in the envelope.”
The man picked it up, but did not break the seal, knowing that exposure to air would destroy the material within minutes, as intended.
“Once you have begun, send the signal. The second upon completion.”
“Understood.” He nodded and turned to go.
As he stepped through the portal from the small office into the main corridor of the commerce clearing house, his face was composed into the look of boredom common to many small businessmen, a look perfectly within character, since eighty percent of the time he was in fact a small businessman specializing in the brokering of odd lots of obscure jellies. The twenty percent of his time devoted to the Guild, however, demanded one hundred percent loyalty and provided eighty percent of his not insubstantial income.
For all his bulk and blankness of expression, his boots scarcely sounded as they touched the corridor tiles and as he moved toward the central exchange.
XXXVIII
GERSWIN SIPPED THE liftea slowly as his eyes travelled from one side of the small dining area to the other. While he did not fully appreciate the intricacies of all the varieties of teas, perhaps because to him all their tastes were strong, he found liftea the most pleasant, and far more enjoyable after a meal than the alternatives, particularly cafe.
After all the years since the Torquina, he still failed to appreciate cafe, and he knew he never would.
He shook his head wryly, thinking about it. Cafe had to have been invented by a failed chef, one who wanted all remembrance of food seared out of memory by its bitterness.
With the hour as late as it was, only the smallest dining area of the Aurelian Club was in use, but the staff was as helpful, as quick, and as alert as if the Duke of Burglan were in attendance.
Gerswin did not know what influence Caroljoy had employed—or had it been the Duke himself—to procure his membership in the club. Realistically, he assumed that it had been their influence, although that had never been confirmed one way or another.
He had just received the simple card, stating that he had been proposed for membership, and that, after consideration, his name had been accepted.
The rules were even stranger than the acceptance.
No member could ever invite more than three guests at once, and there were no bills or charges. Restraint in use of the dining facilities was expected, but no such restraints were necessary for the use of the library or the moderate exercise facilities. Extravagant use of the facilities constituted grounds for revocation of membership.
Members were expected to propose one or two qualified individuals for membership at some time, and such proposals were to be accompanied by the entire membership sponsor fee. If the individual proposed was found unsuitable, the club retained the fee, which would be applied to the first suitable individual recommended by the member. The sponsor fee was 250,000 credits.
As he took another sip of the liftea, Gerswin wondered how many people were willing to spend that for a friend or worthy citizen. At some point he probably would, but currently he had no candidate he thought suitable—except Lyr, and he shied away from the idea of proposing her for membership in his sole club. He might anyway, but not for a while.
Two other tables were occupied, the one directly across the open central parquet flooring from him and one two tables to his left. At the opposing table sat a woman, alone, in a severe dark purple tunic.
While he did not know her, she was either wealthy or powerful in her own right, since guests were not permitted without members, and spouses were co
nsidered guests.
At the table to his left were three individuals, two men and a woman. Their conversation was politely modulated, with neither whispers nor low jovialities, suggesting that the subject was whatever commercial interest they shared.
After more than twenty years of membership, Gerswin knew less than two dozen other members by sight, and he doubted that many knew him.
“More tea, ser?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He had asked Lyr if she wanted to accompany him after they had gone over the annual reports he was required to authenticate, but, despite the wistful look on her face, she had declined.
“Damon has been pressing me for months to go with him to the free fall ballet, and I agreed. Next time, do give me more notice, Commander. Please.”
Gerswin shook his head. For all his long range plans for the foundation and his own enterprises, his management of his own personal schedule and life had been less than exemplary.
Two sons, one dead long before he had even known he had a son, and the other as lost to him as if he scarcely existed.
His lips tightened as he pushed away the thoughts of Corson, of the boy no longer a boy, who had inherited, as indicated in the cubes he received and reviewed quietly, his mother’s height and father’s strength.
Was he right to have let Allison raise him alone?
“And what would you have done? Carted him all over the galaxy? Settled on Scandia?”
He took another sip of tea.
Just because he had answers to all the questions did not mean he could lay either questions or answers to rest.
The woman in purple had entered shortly after he had, but had sampled a salad of some type, two mugs of cafe, and now stood to leave. Her face was familiar, and the former commodore suspected she was a government minister of some portfolio, just from her carriage.
The conversation to his right continued, with a trace more intensity and a fractionally reduced volume, as if the trio was getting to a critical point in negotiations.
The Silent Warrior Page 13