The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You spent time in the Service?”

  Gerswin nodded with a faint smile, then added, “Some.”

  “I thought so. You had that look on your face before touchdown.”

  “Look?”

  “You had to be a pilot or nav type. You people all seem uncomfortable when someone else is doing the piloting.”

  Gerswin permitted himself a half-sheepish grin.

  “Guess you can’t hide it.”

  Clank.

  “You being stationed here?” Gerswin asked, though his attention was more on the unsealing locks.

  “NO. I’m retiring. My wife’s from here, and I decided to join her.”

  “Scandians do stick together,” observed Gerswin before turning back to fact the pleasant-faced young functionary who was standing in the lock.

  “That they do,” agreed the retiring commander.

  “Your entry forms, ser?”

  Gerswin proferred the folder.

  The woman checked the name, and her face took a distinctly sympathetic look, not even a professionally concerned one, but an expression showing real emotion.

  “Commodore Gerswin . . . uhhh . . . your . . . they’re waiting for you...”

  “Gerswin?” asked the commander behind him. “The Commodore Gerswin?”

  The Scandian official’s look darted from Gerswin to the older looking and uniformed officer.

  “Is there a problem, Commander”

  “No. Not at all. I just didn’t realize . . . to have been the same shuttle. . .”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Commander...”

  “Snyther . . . Commander Snyther.”

  “Commodore Gerswin is not here on pleasure, unfortunately, and unless there’s a problem, I would like to clear him immediately.”

  “No, miss. Not at all. Please clear him. Please.”

  The woman shook her head, returning her attention to Gerswin’s documents and scanning them quickly. She ran his pass from the orbit station through the hand scanner, and then nodded.

  “You’re clear, Commodore Gerswin. The Ingmarrs are waiting right outside the debarking gate.”

  Gerswin felt the emptiness inside him grow. The signs were clear enough. Too clear. The “Ingmarrs” had to be Allison and her brother Mark.

  The Guild had gotten to Scandia before New Augusta.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, aware that his face had become more impassive and grim, but unwilling to make the effort to change it.

  His steps echoed through the narrow tubeway as he marched toward the small concourse. As he stepped from the tubeway, he glanced around the space in which he stood. Ahead was the portal into the central concourse area, where doubtless Allison and mark waited. The floor tiles were the same light ceramic as they had been on his only other visit, and the walls were the same yellowed cream, decorated with wood-framed scenes of Scandia.

  “Reacting, that’s all you’re doing,” he muttered as he stopped and stared at the pictures, stopping before proceeding through the next portal.

  “If Corson . . .” He let the words trail off, and a grim smile creased his lips.

  The woman functionary wouldn’t have been a Guild agent, because escape routes would have been closed off. That was no longer true once he was inside the main concourse. And the Guild didn’t forbid energy weapons on Scandia, even if the Scandians did.

  His hands checked his belt again.

  He took a deep breath, sighed, and walked through the portal.

  On the other side he scanned the entire visible concourse, before focusing on Allison and Mark, who stepped forward from where they had been talking less than ten meters away, at the foot of one of the two-meter-square structural columns that supported the soaring ceiling of the terminal.

  Mark Ingmarr had put on weight. While he had not. been slight or slender, he was now more than merely solid, though short of outright obesity, and the clean-shaven look had been replaced with a square cut, full beard. His blue eyes were bloodshot.

  So were Allison’s, but tier face was thin, nearly to haggardness, and her face was pale beneath the light tan, the incipient wrinkles, and the lines of strain and grief.

  “How . . . how . . . did you know?” began Allison even before he was close enough for comfortable conversation, as if the question had been waiting for his appearance and could restrain itself no longer.

  Gerswin’s eyes flickered to Mark Ingmarr’s face. The look behind the apparent concern was enough for him.

  “I . . . just . . . knew . . . ,” Gerswin answered, letting the words space themselves as he moved more toward Mark.

  Gerswin looked past them, to see who or what remarked his arrival, and took another step, at an angle, to Allison’s puzzlement, to place himself’ directly before Mark Ingmarr. He glanced over his left shoulder as he did.

  The movement was slight, imperceptible to anyone else, but clear enough to a devilkid on the hunt.

  Gerswin threw himself forward, brushing by Mark, rolling left before meeting the tiles, and turning as he came to a crouch next to the wide structural column.

  Wssstttt!

  “Unnnnhhhhh.”

  The commodore ignored the falling figure of Mark Ingmarr and picked out the man in the quiet business tunic who dropped his faxtab as if in surprise with the rest of the open-mouthed bystanders. As the others began to scatter, he moved with them.

  In less than three steps Gerswin was crossing the terminal at full speed toward the Guild assassin.

  The man glanced back, as if to protest, yanking his case around so that the long edge pointed toward Gerswin.

  Thunk! Thunk!

  Both knives buried themselves in the assassin’s chest simultaneously, and his case spilled to the floor, where it rested momentarily, before smoke began to drool from the corners, as it began to consume itself.

  Gerswin retrieved his belt knives, wiped them on the dead man’s tunic, and replaced them in his belt.

  He walked back to the center of the concourse where Allison, dry-eyed because she could cry no more, stroked her brother’s forehead.

  Screeee!

  Gerswin looked away from Allison to see the emergency medical cart whining down the center of the open section of the terminal toward them. He did not shake his head, but had Allison not been looking at him, he might have.

  “Why . . . ? Why?”

  “Because he and you were close to me,” lied Gerswin.

  “That many enemies, Greg? That many?” Her voice broke.

  Gerswin nodded. He saw no reason to tell her the whole truth now. Except for the Guild, his enemies lay in the future. Vow that Mark was out of the picture, they would continue to chase him, to destroy him merely from professional pride.

  He stared down at the clinically dead man that the medical team had connected to three separate life-support systems.

  The body called Mark Ingmarr might live, but the warped personality that had paid for Gerswin’s and Corson’s deaths would not survive the treatment, one way or another.

  Gerswin sighed slowly. Once again, it had been his fault. If he had not tried to provide for Corson, if he had not treated Mark so Cavalierly . . .

  He shook his head.

  Allison’s eyes followed the medical team as they moved the tubed and connected figure into the mobile treatment center, and as the whole apparatus began to move toward the far end of the terminal.

  A uniformed figure motioned to them.

  Gerswin ignored the officer and remained standing beside Allison, not that he could say anything.

  Allison ignored the officer as well, turning to Gerswin, looking down on him once more.

  “This means that Corson’s—accident—it wasn’t really an accident?”

  Gerswin nodded.

  “But Why?”

  Gerswin glanced down at the hexagonal floor tiles, knowing that he could not tell her the exact truth, but knowing she would detect an outright lie.

  Finally he lifted his eyes, awa
re that additional law enforcement officers had surrounded the area of the concourse where the Guild assassin had died and where his case had melted itself down into metal and plastic. Had the assassin panicked and fired hurriedly? Or had it been planned? Gerswin would never be certain whether the man had fired to protect Mark from Gerswin, or to silence Mark because he thought Gerswin’s appearance meant that the Guild had been crossed, or because Gerswin was to be killed at all costs.

  In the long run, the reason was lost, and irrelevant.

  Now, a pair of enforcement types stood behind him, and another pair waited beside Allison.

  “Because death seems to strike those I love, Allison. I did not avoid Scandia because you asked me, you know.”

  He waited.

  “I thought so. Now I know.”

  The silence stretched out.

  “Wasn’t there anything you could do?”

  “I did my best. If I had tried to guard you two, that would have been like posting a sign, and it would have put you in a cage. Did you want that? Ever?”

  This time Allison looked at the six-sided floor tiles.

  “No. I guess it was better this way. Especially for Corson. Happy . . . never knew what happened . . .”

  Despite his own resolve to be impassive, Gerswin could feel the wetness in his own eyes. He said nothing, although he could feel Allison’s eyes on him, and kept his gaze fixed on the far end of the concourse, on the portal through which the emergency medical team had taken one dead man, and then another.

  “But you care . . . you loved him . . . you loved me . . . and you never insisted. I don’t understand. Why didn’t you?”

  Gerswin took a deep breath, refusing to wipe his cheeks, but his voice was like cold lead as he gave her his answer.

  “Because you were right. Because Corson deserved his own life, not mine. Because you deserved your own life in the sunshine of Scandia. Because I have . . . miles . . . miles to go.”

  Allison touched the back of his hand, then withdrew her fingers. She looked away from him.

  The silence stretched like the distance between the stars that had separated them and still did.

  “Commodore?” asked a softer, apologetic voice. “Could we have a moment?”

  Gerswin looked up to the tall officer who stood next to him with a sad expression.

  “A moment?” he answered. “Yes. Time is what I am rich in.”

  At the sound of his voice, Allison took a step away from him and toward the officer who waited for her.

  Gerswin doubted he would ever see her again, but he followed the enforcement officer.

  He had left Allison what he could, little as it was.

  He shivered and swallowed, and the taste was bitter. But he took another deep breath, and another step. And another.

  XLI

  “THE GERSWIN AFFAIR . . . not exactly a shining example of our prowess, was it?”

  “We did not have all the facts.”

  “The late client assured you that the commodore was formidable.”

  “A client recommendation only.”

  “A Scandian client recommendation. Can you recall when a Scandian was prone to admit personal deficiencies or to exaggerate?”

  “There are always exceptions.”

  “Was this an exception?”

  The silence gave the answer.

  “Now, with the client gone, our professional reputation remains. We took a contract, and we did not fulfill it. What do you suggest, regional chief?”

  “We have two choices—either a crash search, which would be prohibitive and pointless, or making Gerswin a designated target of opportunity with a triple bonus for the successful agent. I would recommend the latter.”

  “I concur, but reluctantly. Given the commodore’s independent and erratic travel schedules, it is the only realistic approach.”

  “What if he attempts to attack us?”

  “You think that is a serious possibility? One man against the entire Guild?”

  “A moment ago you were cautioning me against underestimating the man. He has turned the tables on two armed agents.”

  “I do not doubt his considerable capabilities, as well as his re-sources, but in the end even the commodore will slow down as he ages. The Guild will not, and Gerswin is not the type to hibernate, not for long. Besides, no one has ever escaped the destination as a target of opportunity. Ever.”

  “That is true enough.” The words expressed doubt rather than affirmation. “Is that all?”

  “That is all.”

  XLII

  CLING.

  The screen flickered twice, and the priority code appeared in the upper right-hand corner.

  Lyr bit her lip, relegated the information on the screen to mem-ory, and accepted the call from the commodore she thought of as a commander, and probably always would.

  “Why a local beam?” she asked as his face appeared on the screen. “You usually prefer guaranteed privacy.”

  “Prefer safety as well,” responded the golden-haired and hawk-eyed man.

  “You care to explain?”

  “My name has become too well-known to some for me to travel as freely and anonymously as I once did.”

  She frowned at the unexpected verbosity, then realized that on a public link he would be somewhat less specific than normal. She studied the background, which she did not recognize, but which looked technical, almost like the bridge of an Imperial ship.

  “Where are you?”

  “In orbit station. That was so I could hook into the local Imperial comm network. Once this is done, I’ll be leaving.

  “The lack of mobility could be troubling in the future, and so my far limited experience indicates it might pose problems for others as well.”

  “How would it affect the foundation?”

  She was surprised to find him grinning at her through the screen. “Always business, I see.” He frowned as quickly as he had grinned. “Limited degree. Would like some recommendations from you. Research. If they fall outside normal business, please bill my account . . . .”

  Lyr nodded.

  “Remember the grant we reviewed about a standard year ago . . . one involving modified bodlerian algae? Looking for information specialists in that system, people who could accumulate and codify background information on most Imperial systems, its well as the ability to provide perfectly legal incognitos for business travellers.”

  “Legal aliases?”

  “Correct. As I understand Imperial law, one may use a name not his own if no illegal intent is involved. No illegal intent. would be involved. For example, if a jewel merchant has to use it courier on a regular basis, unscrupulous interests could scan the passenger lists for that name .... But if accepted aliases were available, a merchant or dealer could use his own courier with greater security.

  “If a commercial baron’s agent wanted to check out a new enterprise, he could do so without alerting the system he was out to check. Such an enterprise might be profitable. Combine that with the information background of the type that commercial types need and have to develop themselves . . . anyway. My local counsel suggests it is legal, but with your contacts in that system . . .”

  New Avalon wits the system, if Lyr remembered correctly, and with the university there, it was certainly a good location for such an information processing concern.

  “Doesn’t anyone provide services like this?”

  “Not to all comers on a cash or commercial basis.”

  Lyr smiled faintly. The pattern to the commodore’s operations was becoming clearer.

  She bit at her lower lip. Whether or not his ventures applied directly to the foundation, there was no question that somehow the foundation always seemed to benefit. With each of his activities, unsolicited contributions seemed to appear. Despite his prohibition on any form of solicitation, outside funds continually appeared to swell the capital and the income from investments of that capital.

  Already she was receiving more than rou
tine information requests from the Imperial government on the foundation’s finances and tax reports, the sort of attention that was reserved, in her experience, for the more important of the charitable and academic foundations.

  She caught herself and cut off her reverie.

  “What do you want me to do with the information?”

  “Send it by torp to the information drop I use most often.”

  “That would be—“

  “NO!”

  She shook her head ruefully. “I’m sorry. I forgot we could be on an open wave. How soon do you want it? Yesterday?”

  The commodore nodded.

  “I’ll get to work on it, and, commander, I think you’ll be billed for research services.”

  “That’s fine. Understand.”

  The screen blanked.

  Lyr left her own screen blank, making no move to retrieve the material she had been studying before he had faxed. She had seen the man in action. For him to worry about his personal safety—even to mention it—meant that he was more than just casually worried. Much more.

  If he had enemies that powerful, what did it mean for the foundation?

  She began to pull what her banks had on security systems. After she finished with getting the commander’s-the commodore’s, she corrected herself mentally, knowing she would continue to slipproject under way, she would undertake a few improvements for the foundation headquarters. Just in case.

  And she needed to reinforce some of her ties with Alord and his friends at the Imperial Humanities Foundation, as well as those with Dimitra at the I.A.F.

  The commander hadn’t given her any instructions, but he hadn’t forbidden it, either, and it looked like they both might need the allies, information, and protection in the years ahead.

  Her fingers moved across the console board, and her forehead cleared as she began to plan.

  XLIII

  THE MAN SMILED and swung his case lip for inspection. His teeth were white and even, and stood out against the darkness of his skin, which was sun-darkened olive.

  “Destination, ser?”

  “Markhigh.”

  “Your pass?”

  The traveler profferred the folder, and the port official nodded, his clearance nothing more than an affirmation of the more detailed clearance already given by the security section of the orbit station.