The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Might that have something to do with the fact that you are having difficulty tracing the origin of my call?”

  “Dear Shaik, you are so suspicious.”

  “Is there anyone else with you, Carlina?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I was hoping for a witness.”

  “To what?”

  “Just a witness, but it would probably be immaterial. Good day, Carlina. Remember that an honest thief stays bought.”

  “Is that a threat, Shaik?”

  “No. I make no threats. Good day.”

  Gerswin broke the connection, then tapped out another combination and waited as the relay finished the circuit.

  “Rodire and Fergamo.” The dark-haired receptionist was plain, but real, and a welcome sight after Carlina.

  Gerswin smiled at her image. “Shaik Corso for Hamline Rodire.”

  “Will he know you?”

  “Hope so. I’m his landlord, so to speak.”

  “You’re that Shaik Corso? I’m so sorry, but I expected. . .”

  Gerswin laughed, a single bark. “I know, you expected a dark and mysterious stranger who mangled words and sentences.”

  “No . . . no . . . ,” she protested, apparently unsure whether he was joking or serious.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry”

  “I’ll get him.”

  Hamline Rodire, Senior Partner, appeared on the screen. In spite of his mental picture of Rodire’s aging since he had helped the then-younger attorney found an independent practice, he found it hard not to stare at the eagle-beaked and silver-haired advocate.

  “Hamline . . . it’s been longer than I thought.”

  “With you, Shaik, I suspect it always is.” The older-looking man grinned, and Gerswin was reassured by the twinkle in the green eye; and the warmth in the voice. “You never age.”

  “Are things going well for you?”

  “Personally, quite well, although we only get the required minimum from CE, Limited, since Carlina consolidated her hold there. Most of that is boilerplate.”

  “Yes.

  “Are you calling about Carlina?”

  “Maybe time for—let’s say I need to transfer some of my holdings—time to place some more local controls. A few strings, however.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ll have to vote my proxies when you call the shareholders’ meeting.”

  “The annual meeting was just two months ago.

  “There will be another shortly.”

  “Carlina has made both her estate and headquarters into personal fortresses.”

  “I understand, but you need not worry. After I complete my business, I do not intend to return to El Lido, not for some time, and I need to leave control in local hands I can trust. I trust your honesty, and you will see why.”

  “You make things sound so mysterious.”

  “Nothing mysterious at all. Since Carlina insists that might make right, I merely intend to point out to her why that can be a dangerous philosophy.” Gerswin shook his head abruptly. “You still have that estate of yours?”

  “Why . . . yes . . .”

  “Still like it as much as when you first purchased it?”

  “Probably more,” laughed the advocate. “You aren’t . . . that is . . . I didn’t exactly purchase it, you know.”

  This time, Gerswin shook his head evenly and slowly. “Hamline, has Carlina managed to instill distrust all over this planet?”

  “No . . . not exactly . . .”

  “Excessive caution, I can see. Is she as well connected to the Ministry of Domestic Security as she implies?”

  “Unfortunately . . . yes.”

  Gerswin wondered if he ought to write off El Lido completely. since CE, Limited, had been designed as a profit venture and since he did not need anything beyond the proof that the plants did work in wade scale production. But Hamline and a few others deserved a chance, if they would take it. He wondered if they understood the

  price, really.

  “Remember the wonderful time you had with the windboards? And the place where you met a stranger who decided El Lido needed

  an independent advocate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have lunch there tomorrow. Bring some transfer orders for CE, Limited, common and preferred stock.”

  “What—“

  Gerswin broke the connection. While his end could not be traced, he wasn’t about to underestimate Carlina, or Domestic Security. Even so, they would have had a hard time, since he had tapped into the system from a reflector satellite he had deployed before leaving orbit. He doubted that the local technology existed to tap his beam without some knowledge of the Caroljoy’s location.

  He stood up and stretched. Then he sighed before heading toward the sealed and shielded locker. Dirty work required dirty weapons.

  The man who had been a commodore bit his lip, but did not hesitate. Simple graft was bad enough, but to sell out to a central government with enough control to publicly name the secret police the Ministry of Domestic Security was beyond redemption.

  Removing the two canisters from their long resting place in the hold took a few minutes. Setting up the gear he needed and checking them through the equipment in the hold took nearly an hour. Gerswin left both objects clamped in place and climbed out of the cramped three-by-three-meter space that was uninhabitable except when the scout was planetside.

  He settled back in front of the console.

  “Interrogative screen tap status.”

  “Negative. No energies detected.”

  “Interrogative satellite scan.”

  “Negative. No energies detected.”

  “Code Jam Trap Two. Code Jam Trap Two.”

  His fingers touched the studs of the keyboard. Although the communications trap program was displayed, the trap code kept the AI from understanding the contents of the program.

  “Interrogative open channel access. How many different commnet systems can you access simultaneously?”

  “Private systems or public nets?”

  “Some of each. Try an eight private to two public ratio.”

  “Under operating parameters, ten per standard second for a maximum of three minutes.”

  “Stet.”

  Gerswin set up the modifications he needed, then accessed the official and unofficial maps of Lidora. As he expected, the headquarters of the Ministry of Domestic Security was clearly marked.

  He smiled to himself as he ran the two locator programs for the two canisters that waited below to be fitted on the launchers of the armed flitter that waited outside in the other side of the hangarbunker that temporarily housed the Caroljoy.

  That done, he pocketed the course discs and returned to the sweltering space beneath what had once been the crew room to remove the two long canisters and to reseal the lockers and the equipment.

  After closing the hatch plate, he left the Caroljoy and stepped into the cool air of the bunker, air that retained a trace of the mustiness of a space seldom used. The lands adjoining Rodire’s estate were left unmanaged, and Rodire was responsible for insuring that the tax payments were made, that the land was posted, and that would-be settlers and squatters were quietly evicted on a periodic basis.

  Wherever possible, Gerswin liked to set up such remote retreats. Usually after five or ten years even the people who had constructed them had forgotten where they were. After less than a year, most people had forgotten their existence, particularly since Gerswin used them so little and tried to arrive at night and as quietly as possible.

  Two flitters waited on the far side. Gerswin directed his steps toward the armed and shielded one, not that there was any obvious external difference between the two. But with Carlina’s allies, he would forsake some speed for arms and shielding.

  He rolled one canister under the port stub, nearly under the intake cover, and returned for the second, which he edged under the starboard stub. Then he retrieved the tools from the adjoining bay. />
  His skills were rusty, and all in all it took him nearly three hours to convert the two missiles and to mount them to his satisfaction.

  He completed the job, returned the tools, resealing them in their protected containers, and returned the empty canisters to the Caroljoy. After that, he climbed into the ship to stretch out and, he hoped, to sleep until morning.

  Sleep there was, and dreams as well, dreams of dark ships dealing death, and of corvettes with orange screens failing, and of iceboats disintegrating, and of landspouts hurling flitters into purpled-clay plains.

  He shook himself awake once, trying to escape from the tumbled images of the past, but when he slipped back into slumber and restlessness, the images reappeared.

  Caroljoy, young in the darkness, aging into a white-haired and fragile duchess as he watched, useless words caught in his throat. Kiedra, reaching for him and throwing herself into Lerwin’s arms, then aging into sadness with her daughter’s death. Young Corwin, their son, turning gray and disappearing into a cloud of ashes. And the other devilkids, Lostwin, Glynnis, each walking down a long dark tunnel away from him, marching proudly toward certain death as he urged them on.

  A man in black smiling as he watched a hellfire flash across an airless moon to flatten a pleasure dome, smiling a smile of contentment, his lips quirking like a dark devil’s.

  “NO!!!!!!”

  He sat up with the sound of his own scream in his ears.

  Both his thin undersuit and the sheets on his bunk were soaked.

  Slowly the one-time commodore eased himself off the dampness where he had suffered, and, without a word, stripped off his own damp sleeping clothes, then ripped the sheets from the bunk. He wadded all of the damp articles together in short and savage motions, then took them across the small cabin to the clothes fresher where he unceremoniously stuffed them inside.

  Then he stuffed himself into the personal fresher.

  After emerging, he donned a uniform brown tunic and trousers, his normal boots and belt. Then he added a few items to the disguised equipment belt.

  To settle his thoughts, he fixed a small cup of liftea and alternated sips with a ration cube, trying to refine his approach to Hamline.

  He’d picked the Windrop Inn because he knew it was one of the few places where Hamline and whoever shadowed him would have to walk. Neither Hitters nor groundcars were permitted in the shoreside blocks of the Bayou Rio.

  He sipped the last of the tea and replaced the cup, cleaning up the small mess he had made before returning to the control cabin.

  After five minutes spent on completing the exit programming for the Caroljoy, he was easing the unarmed flitter from the hangar hunker. He wanted to be early. Quite early, in order to be in place before the opposition.

  LXVII

  THE MAN WITH salt-and-pepper hair studied the sheet of antique paper again, rereading the brief message.

  Momentarily, he set it aside and carefully wiped his forehead, not wanting anything that could trace it back to him to touch the sheets. He wiped his gloved hands on a clean towel before picking the sheet back up and letting his eyes study the brief message again.

  Sire:

  Anonymity is not necessarily the refuge of the coward, but necessary if one must continue serving his Emperor. The rebirth of old myths can only spell the end of the Empire, yet Eye and the Eye Corps ignore those myths. They claim it is done in Your name. Why was Merhlin not traced? Why could the Eye Corps not discover who stole Service hellburners? Why does Eye systematically remove Service officers loyal to the Emperor? Why have flag officers with early retirements been killed by so many “accidents” so soon after retirement, particularly if they opposed Eye and supported the Emperor? Check on the background of Vice Admiral Thurson, if you can, as one example.

  Folding the single sheet into an equally ancient envelope, he stood and slipped the envelope inside his tunic.

  With the hour of open court approaching, he could place the missive in the Emperor’s hand with no one the wiser, and should the new Emperor turn it to Eye, even that functionary would have difficulty tracing the envelope from more than half a thousand of the Empire’s peers who would have had such an opportunity.

  In any case, the risk was no worse than already existed, not with Eye already trying to isolate the young Emperor.

  The junior peer who had once been a senior officer shrugged. Unless His Majesty Ryrce the Quiet silently removed Eye, his days and the Emperor’s were probably numbered.

  Cling.

  He stood and released the hold on the portal.

  An older man, slender and dark-haired for all that he was a decade or two older than the man he visited, stepped into the small antechamber.

  “Ready to visit His Majesty, Selern?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, Calendra.” He debated telling the other about his letter, then decided against it. One could never be too careful, especially since Eye had to be one of the peers normally in New Augusta.

  “Let us hope he is more outgoing than on the last open court.”

  “Extroversion does not necessarily make an Emperor.”

  “What else does he have?” asked Calendra wryly.

  Selern shrugged. “Too soon to tell.”

  “You may be right.”

  Selern followed Calendra through the portal, and the two walked side by side toward the Grand Throne Room.

  LXVIII

  HAMLINE RODIRE WIPED his forehead again.

  “You all right, squire?” asked the pilot.

  “For some reason, I’m warm today, Jorio. Just warm.”

  “You are sure you are well?”

  “I am fine, just fine,” lied Hamline. More than ten years ago, it had seemed to easy to take on the whole planet. Now Corso was back, looking as young as ever, those hawk-yellow eyes demanding allegiance and—harder to deny—justice, and it wasn’t quite so easy.

  “Anyone trailing us?” The fact that he could ask the question without raising Jorio’s suspicions about the reason would have embarrassed him a decade earlier.

  “Not close, if they are.”

  Rodire leaned back in a wide rear seat, tried to ignore the whisper of the wind past the canopy as the flitter sped toward Bayou Rio, tried to push away the glimpse of sadness he had glimpsed behind Corso’s eyes, the sadness that made Rodire feel decades younger than the wealthy Shaik.

  Where Corso had come from, Rodire wasn’t sure, though he had strong Imperial connections of some sort. Nor was the source of his wealth known, only that he had set up CE, Limited, with a unique biological process, one that allowed production of a cheap nonpolluting organic thread substitute for standard synthetic hydrocarbons and silicons.

  From that, CE, Limited, had branched into a number of other products, including most recently battle and stun vests for the planetary police, since Carlina had discovered that the thread produced by the CE proprietary hothouse “plants” could be interwoven with synthsteel threads to produce a cheaper, lightweight, and effective body armor.

  In return, the Ministry of Domestic Security had employed some of its agents to track down employees who had taken cuttings of the plants to insure that the company remained the sole supplier of the special organic thread.

  Rodire frowned as he recalled the developments. He had not remembered Corso ever worrying about employees who tried to grow their own plants. Rodire had mentioned it once, and Corso had laughed it off by pointing out that even a garden full of the plants would only support a family and that most people didn’t want to work that hard merely to get thread.

  “We’re nearly there, squire.”

  “Fine, Jorio. Fine. Just wait for me, please.”

  The pilot set the flitter down and eased it toward the left edge of the paved square on the gentlest of ground cushions.

  The rear door popped open, and Rodire let his stiff frame carry him down the steps. He glanced around to get his bearings. It had been years, but from what he recalled, the inn should be off
to his left.

  He turned, taking a firmer grip on the case with the documents within.

  “I beg your pardon, ser.”

  Hamline’s head shot up at the intrusion, ready to snap until he saw the brown uniform of Domestic Security.

  “Yes, officer?”

  “I suggest you return to your flitter, ser. This area has been cordoned off... Hamline . . . And please try not to react too strongly, old friend.”

  Rodire choked down a response, and shot a glance at the officer, recognizing, with a chill, the same hawk-yellow eyes, realizing that the uniform was not quite standard.

  “Yes, Officer Corso, I’ll do . . . as you say.” He managed to drag the words out.

  Rodire turned back toward the flitter, which, he noted absently, Jorio had not shut down. The “security” man followed.

  “What is the matter, squire?” Jorio peered from the cockpit.

  “Nothing, except the officer has indicated that this area has been closed. We’ll have to . . .” Rodire looked back at Corso.

  “Why don’t you return to your estate?”

  “. . . go on out to the country place . . . .”

  “But, squire . . .”

  Rodire reentered the cabin, and, while surprised that Corso followed, was more surprised when the Shaik lifted a stunner.

  Thrumm!

  Clank!

  Corso yanked the unconscious pilot from his seat, kicking aside the dart pistol that had not been fired by Jorio, and set the body on the cabin floor before settling himself behind the controls.

  “Let’s see. . .”

  Rodire watched, half-numb, as Corso’s hands played over the controls, as the steps retracted, as the cabin door closed, and as the pilot’s canopy snapped into place.

  Click. Snap.

  “There’s probably another homer planted somewhere, Hamline, but we’ll have to see. They can’t object if you merely go home. Besides, they don’t function well at low levels. Carlina’s friends are out in force, although they didn’t close off the pad. That was a liberty that I took. Funny . . . no one even protested, and that’s not a good sign.”

  The attorney sank into his padded seat, not looking at his own pilot, who he had never dreamed would have been armed.