The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Gerswin shook his head. The problem wasn’t the biology, nor the data, but that none of the commercial enterprises or agricultural interests contacted quietly had shown any interest in what was principally an agricultural product suitable only for nonfoodstuff uses.

  The damned plant would make someone a fortune, and no one was interested because there was “no real money” in agriculture.

  The than in black stared at the data screen of the small ship, ignoring the larger pilot displays above and before hint.

  “What else can you do?”

  “Inquiry imprecise. Please reformulate,” answered the AI in its clinically impersonal but feminine tones.

  Gerswin ignored the standard request, then tapped the keyboard, his fingers flying across the arrayed studs.

  “Set for blind torp. Route beta three. Code Delta with databloc trailer. Lyr D’Meryon.”

  “Blind torp in position to receive. Ready to bloc feed.

  The pilot squared his shoulders and faced the scanner.

  “Lyr. Need some basic information. Details are, in the databloc attached. Need recommended corporate type business structure with voting control removed from the system where the business operates. Also need a list of’ systems permitting absentee ownership. Suspect it would include systems like Byzantia, El Lido, and Dorlian. Send a copy of the systems you come up with to Infonet, my code, and request full background on them. I’ll pick up the final from my drop there.”

  He paused, pursing his lips.

  “Doesn’t make much sense, I know, but looks like we need demonstration ventures to prove profitability of biological products and solutions. The: commercial types accept biotech for medicine and raw materials, but not for finished or semifinished products.

  “Enough said for now.”

  He tapped the closure, and hoped that she would read between the words.

  With a sigh, he called up the information in the Fyrio files and began to reformat what he needed for the compressed databloc to accompany his transmission.

  When he was finished, he coded it to the torp message.

  “Torp pack complete. Send at max two.”

  “Readying torp for max two path.”

  Nodding, Gerswin indexed the research files for the information on protein. Somewhere, somewhere, he recalled a project on replicating animal protein structure with a common plant, a weed nearly, that had used Amardian/T-type genetic fusion.

  “Tore released on max two path.”

  “Amardian genetics,” he tapped into the keyboard.

  Three cross-references appeared on screen five, the data screen.

  “In-system contact. Two eight five at one point five, plus three radians. CPA two hundred kays, plus or minus twenty.”

  “Interrogative classification.”

  “Tentative identification in-system ore tug, class three. Low power orbit recovery.”

  “Stet. File and report deviations.”

  He returned his attention to the screen, and to the background on Amardian genetics research.

  Wondering whether he could have been more efficient with a fixed headquarters, Gerswin paused, then shook his head. He’d have long since drowned in the reports, and who else could have tracked down what was important in the long run? This way, he could make decisions, request information, and move enough to avoid terminal boredom while, he hoped, the research grants began to generate the biological techniques needed so desperately by Old Earth.

  In the interim, poor Lyr drowned in the reports.

  Once he finished tracking down what he needed on the meat substitute possibility, it would be time to head for Aswan to reenergize and to take a break before returning to the tedious tracing and verifying that seemed to follow inevitably from each possible lead that his own research in the grant files showed up. For each hundred approved grants, perhaps ten held some promise, and of those with promise, one or two showed either commercial or technical possibilities.

  On the other hand, after nearly forty years since he had insisted on innovative grants, the research product totals had become impressive. The foundation already had an impressive and growing income from some of those developments, nothing that yet matched the income generated by Lyr’s skillful manipulations of income and assets, but he could see when that had to come, perhaps sooner than Lyr expected.

  His own thread venture, if it worked out, could conceivably add a great deal, since the potential was enormous, and since the license fees belonged to the foundation.

  “Energy reserves below ten stans.”

  He shook his head again. Might as well head for Aswan before finishing up. While the times were currently peaceful, he hated to let the ship drop into a low energy state, or to purchase power commercially. The fewer the records about unknown yachts or the Caroljoy that showed for Imperial Intelligence or other interested parties to pick up, the better. And the cheaper as well.

  “Plot course line for jump points,” he ordered as he returned the genetics research to the files and centered himself in the control couch.

  LV

  JORGE FUGAZEY LIKED fax screens, a fact clear from the massive console and the more than thirty screens that angled gently upward around him from his control position.

  His fingers played the control studs in lightning flashes, almost as quickly as his deep-set black eyes flickered from display to display.

  He did not look up as the younger man approached.

  “Father . . . ,” ventured the thinner man, who also had angular features and dark eyes. The son did not vibrate with the focused intensity of his sire, though most men and women would have paled beside either.

  “Screen six alpha—the flashing one, Duran. Your source was correct, long past correct. He has retired from the Service, but still collects an annuity. Signifies that he is still alive. You can act—if you choose.”

  “Choose? What choice do I have? You have expressed interest in the Daeris connection, and Helene has made it clear. Quite clear. That leaves a choice?”

  The performance behind the consoles came to an abrupt halt as the older Fugazey tapped two control plates in succession.

  “Never said you had to contract with Helene. Only that you choose a social and economic equal with a strong family. You chose her, without my advice.”

  The son shrugged. “Given the alternatives . . .”

  “Study the dossier on this man, Duran. Reconsider what you must do. Do not decide before that. More there than meets the eye. Data missing that should not be missing.”

  Baron Fugazey watched as a red light flashed next to one screen, then another, and a third.

  “Who can stand up to me, especially with your support?”

  “About half the barons in the Empire,” noted the elder with a sour turn to his mouth.

  “But he is not a baron, not even a magnate.”

  “Titles are not everything, Duran.”

  The baron shifted his weight uneasily as the number of red lights on the screens beside and behind him continued to increase.

  “I have met the Honorable Alhenda Strackna Daeris, Duran,” added the older Fugazey. “She crossed paths with the man once before, and neither the Strackna nor the Daeris connections were adequate. I said you had my backing and, right now, I will not back down if you wish to continue, but I do ask that you review the files and re-consider . . . reconsider whether you must have Helene.”

  “I will. It won’t change things, but I will.”

  Duran snapped his jaw shut with a quick motion and turned away too quickly to see the frown that crossed his father’s face. Then, too, he had never looked to see the shadows under the eyes nor the tightness with which the angular Fugazey features were bound.

  The baron watched his son’s back as the man who was scarcely be-yond his student years marched out through the portal coded only to admit immediate family.

  The warnings on more than a dozen screens were flashing red and amber by the time the baron returned to his manipulatio
ns.

  LVI

  GERSWIN WAS SURPRISED to find a message torp waiting for him at the Ydris drop. Not astounded, for occasionally Lyr had used it for information that she thought pressing or of particular interest. But for the torp to be waiting at Ydris meant that she had sent more than a few.

  He wanted to cut short the formalities with the port captain to re-trieve the torp, since it belonged to the foundation, though sent by the Imperial Service, and find out why Lyr was searching him out.

  The captain, a correct lady by the name of Isbel Relyea Herris, shared the tendency toward formality that the senior tech of the Fleurdilis had always exhibited, although Isbel insisted she had no relation, to whoever had served in the Imperial Forces.

  “Wouldn’t have it! No self-respecting Ydrisian would ever sea c for that conglomeration of bullies and apologists for the commercial thugs that comprise the Empire. Yourself excepted, Commander.”

  “No need to except me, Isbel. That assumes I was one of the bullies in Imperial Service.”

  “No assumption. Fact. Your name’s no more Shaik Corso than that scout’s the private yacht she’s registered, apparently registered, as.”

  Gerswin had raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “Scout’s too old and too well rebuilt for the Impies to have done it. And they wouldn’t think of using an old design. New is always better for them. You’re too young to have been senior and retired. That leaves few options. You’re independently wealthy, or you freelance, or both.

  “You’re successful, and that means experience. Wealth doesn’t buy experience. Leaves age or Impie service.

  “Since you’re not that old, you have to have Impie service. Besides”—and her eyes twinkled—“you wear everything so properly, even shipsuits. Like uniforms.”

  Gerswin shrugged. “What can I say? Certainly sounds so much more impressive than my own poor background, and who am I to instruct the always correct port captain?”

  He inclined his head. “But I do have a few matters. . .”

  “I know. Anytime someone sends a private torp, it’s urgent or Hades-fired close. You’re excused. Shaik, and cleared into Ydris again. But I’d feel more comfortable calling you ‘Commander.”’

  “You, Isbel, can call me anything you wish, even if it is not totally accurate.”

  “Break orbit, Commander.” She smiled nonetheless as Gerswin collected the torp pack and arranged for the torp itself to be carted to the Caroljoy.

  He retreated to the ship as quickly as possible.

  Once back inside the scout, he dropped the torp pack into the console.

  Lyr’s face, straight features, and carefully combed sandy hair filled the screen.

  “I still can’t get used to talking to a blank screen, Commander, but I thought you ought to know what’s going on. I hope you have a chance to pick up one of the torps I’ve sent before Baron Fugazey surprises you.

  She squared her shoulders and brushed back a strand of hair.

  Gerswin realized that it was gray, not silver, nor dyed, and shook his head. He thought of her as always there, and unchanging. While she might be there for a long time to come, given Imperial medical technology, she was not unchanging nor immune from the aging process. He wondered if she were the type whom a complete rejuvenation would benefit as he refocused on what she was saying .

  “. . . first sign was a nuisance suit charging that the foundation was employing its special status to subsidize competition to Fugar House . . . then a rather sophisticated attempt to penetrate the databanks . . . continuing shadows on me . . . taken the liberty of hiring Kirnows as antishadows. . .”

  Gerswin continued to listen as Lyr rattled off the lengthy list of attempts, all of which she seemed to have brushed off with style and without calling much public attention to the foundation .

  “. . . That’s a brief update on the situation. A more detailed chronology is speedcoded into the trailer at the end.

  “For all the furor about the foundation, Fugazey could care less about OERF. Prove that I could not. But he could have tied us up in legal battle after legal battle, which would have been tremendously expensive. He didn’t. Once it was clear he could not get the information he wanted with a given strategy, he immediately changed tactics. My own sources, and you suggested I cultivate a few, as I recall, indicate that Fugazey is employing a small fraction of his not inconsiderable assets to obtain the information from the only other possible source.”

  Gerswin knew what was coming, even before she said it.

  “The baron has a number of contacts within the I.S.S., and it is a matter of time before he obtains the information necessary to prove that Commander MacGregor Corson Gerswin is the same MacGregor Corson Gerswin who is employed by the OER Foundation. After that, he will use what he can to narrow your location. Why this is so important to him I do not know, but his interest may be linked to an attachment his son, Duran, would like to form with a young lady named Helene Strackna Daeris . . .”

  Gerswin shook his head. Of all the damned-fool reasons to have someone looking for him.

  “. . . and from what I can determine, her mother was a Major Alhenda Strackna, who was court-martialed and dismissed in disgrace from her position as Executive Officer of the cruiser Fleurdilis, then under the command of a senior commander named Gerswin.”

  Gerswin wondered how she had tracked down all the information as he listened to the remainder of the message.

  “. . . and that’s it. If you wonder how I found this out, it was not that hard for the standard Kirnow ops to track the rumors from the Fugazey household. Apparently dear Helene, while attractive in visage, has not endeared herself to anyone.” Lyr frowned and cleared her throat. “Someday, Commander . . . Commodore, more than one of the loose ends from your past is going to catch up with you, and since you won’t give in, and neither will some of the people you’ve doubtlessly offended, the Empire will end up paying for it.

  “Good luck on your latest. By the way, at last there’s some Imperial interest in the growing commercial power represented by biologic technology. Barons Megalrie, Niniunto, Tvarik, and others are pressing for an Imperial Commission on the subject, and on firms such as Enver Limited, Corso and Associates, MCG Biologics. Thought you’d like to know. Needless to say, the foundation is opposing such a commission unless it includes an investigation of the activities of traditional firms to block biologic commercialization. I predict a stalemate, now that the Imperial Trust has endorsed the OERF position.

  “In any case, now you know most of what I do.”

  Her image remained unspeaking, then she pursed her lips, licked them, and added, almost as an afterthought, “Attached is a databloc coded for entry and locked to your private code.”

  Her image vanished.

  Gerswin touched the console.

  “Record and store the information, visual and coded.”

  His fingers added the necessary codes to complete the entry, and he sat waiting before two blank screens as the AI went about its job.

  The information had reached him before Baron Fugazey’s agents had. If he had gone to Westmark, or Standora, or El Lido, or . . . he shook his head again.

  Resourceful as she might by, Lyr was certainly not about to send torps and messages all over the Empire, and she couldn’t send them outside the Empire, even though Gerswin moved there as well.

  Too bad there wasn’t the equivalent of a planetary communications network for intersystems communications, regardless of political jurisdictions. The jumpshift was the only way so far known to exceed light speed.

  He snorted.

  One day, unfortunately, with his expanding sphere of operations, as each of the operations he directed grew, he would be out of touch for too long. To be able to keep ahead of the Baron Fugazeys of the Empire, not to mention the I.S.S. and the Intelligence Service, he needed something he didn’t have. Between the few cargo ships and the independents, one could reach the major systems, but it might be thre
e days or four weeks.

  He pursed his lips, then turned to the AI. He stopped and frowned.

  Like it or not, he would have to have Lyr get the information . . . somehow . . . assuming he could also deal with Fugazey. But he would have to get Lyr started and hoped he could survive to finish up. He laughed, a hard barking sound. If he didn’t survive, the whole point was mute.

  “Message for Lyr D’Meryon. OER Foundation. Stand by.”

  “Awaiting message,” the AI replied.

  Gerswin sat up straight and squarely before the scanner.

  “Thanks for the information about Baron Fugazey. Hope I can solve his problem my way rather than his.

  “Brought to mind another area that might be fruitful. Need some background information first. Would you find out quietly if there are surplus I.S.S. message torps available, and at what price. If not, what would it cost to purchase or build one thousand of them from other sources? That’s right. One thousand. Any support data you could dig up would be helpful.

  “Let me know as soon as you can.”

  He touched the controls on data screens again.

  “Interrogative analysis on the Fugazey data.”

  “Analysis incomplete.”

  Gerswin drummed his fingers on the edge of the control board and continued to wait, thinking about how to organize a torp-oriented message system on a commercial or public utility basis.

  Finally, after he had mentally designed and discarded three schemes for a system, the AI chimed and interrupted his reflections.

  “Analysis complete.”

  “Put on screen four.”

  He straightened and began to read, left index finger regulating the speed of the summary text.

  When he had completed the first run-through he was frowning, pulling at his chin. He looked at the main flight controls, then at the AI panel.

  He coughed and cleared his throat, then rekeyed the summary, As he ran through it again, his eyes flickered over the pages as fast as they appeared on the screen.

  Then he leaned back in the control couch.