Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Of course, sir. Of course.”

  Most of the clientele seemed to be mid-level junior bureaucrats. Two women to every man. Servarium was a fancy name for self-service off a compuchef, but the odds were that his food at least wouldn’t ambush him.

  Settling on an elaborate omelet and liftea, he gave the machine his credit card, took it back, and made a hornetline for a small corner table where he couldn’t be approached from behind.

  “You’re getting paranoid again,” he said to himself.

  After a minute, he decided he needed to answer himself. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that they aren’t all out to get you.”

  He wasn’t sure he believed himself, but he dug into the omelet anyway, which seemed half real, half synthetic, but filling all the same, and polished it off.

  The lemony taste of the liftea relaxed him fractionally, just enough to lower his pain threshold and bring the throbbing in his shoulder back to his attention. He let his fingers run over the shoulder, but there was no exterior soreness, and the nerve twinges would probably pass within a few hours. So he hoped. Two shots to his right arm and shoulder area in a matter of days wasn’t helpful.

  If the nerve tangler had hit him full in the chest at that power, he’d have been the one carted off, with an emergency sheet over his face and the diagnosis of coronary arrest.

  Checking his other shoulder and the rest of his blacks, he’d noticed a black bump on the fabric behind his upper arm almost impossible to see. He recognized the snooper instantly.

  When had anyone touched him? Not Courtney. She’d kept her distance. The Imperial crowds were sparse and avoided each other. No one had come within body lengths.

  Charles! The friendly receptionist had brushed him when he had left Courtney’s office.

  That was how he’d been tracked. The only question was for whom Charles worked.

  He resisted the impulse to crush the bug on the spot. Instead, pretending to adjust his cloak, he worked it free and slipped it onto a scrap of plastic.

  He studied the others eating in the servarium, listening while he looked, finally zeroing in on an obnoxious-sounding man who was complaining to his tablemate, another man, about the unvarnished ambition of his boss, a woman.

  Nathaniel headed from his table toward the exit. Stumbling slightly as he passed the complainer and banging the datacase against the table, he brushed against the man and left the snoop affixed on his shoulder.

  The stumble had gained him a momentary dirty look, but so intent was the man that he scarcely let up on his tirade. The switch would only deflect things for a few minutes, and he’d have to be even more on guard from now on.

  Outside the servarium, in the same relative positions as the previous team, were another man and woman, both consulting pocket “calendars” which presumably indicated that Nathaniel was still inside. Neither reacted as he passed.

  Checking as he went, he could find no one tailing him as he took the lift shaft to the one hundred fourth level and to the office of Special Assistant Ku-Smythe.

  The exit stage time readout indicated 1410 when he walked off and toward the directory. Marcella’s office was down the branch corridor to the right.

  Before he got close to her office, he ran into a security gate and a console with maroon clad guards sporting both blasters and stunners.

  “Your business, citizen?”

  “I’m not a citizen,” He drew back the cloak to reveal his diplomatic blacks.

  “Your business?” repeated the woman, not knowing or caring what the uniform meant.

  “Nathaniel Whaler, Envoy of Accord. Fourteen-thirty appointment with Ms. Ku-Smythe.”

  “Your I.D.”

  The Ecolitan handed it over.

  “One moment, Lord Whaler.”

  The guard tapped several keys on the console screen.

  She seemed startled at the result.

  “You’re expected!”

  “I knew that before you asked,” he said flatly, knowing he was being snide, petty, and nasty, but tired of all the potshots, literal and verbal. “Room, 104 A-6?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  The gate opened. Hoisting his datacase, he went through. The gate buzzed loudly.

  “Weapons, sir?”

  “Just a stunner.” He fished it out of his pouch and handed it to the guard.

  “You can pick it up on the way out.”

  Ten to one, by the time he left it would have been rebuilt with a complete snoop and trace system inside. He decided to “forget” to pick up the stunner. He also wished he could get rid of the datacase—the damned thing was always getting in the way. He was used to having both hands free. Room 104 A-6 was a small, functional reception area with two maroon pilot chairs, a table, indirect lighting, and a receptionist.

  For the first time, it seemed, the receptionist was a woman, small, coming to his shoulder, with long black hair and brown eyes, olive skin, dressed in a maroon and cream tunic with matching maroon trousers.

  “Lord Whaler?”

  “The same.”

  “You are early, but Ms. Ku-Smythe will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. Would you like anything to drink?”

  “No…but do you have the latest faxtab?”

  “Standard, Ministry, or Court?”

  “What’s the difference between Ministry and Court?”

  “Not much. They have the same columns and gossip.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “The Privy Council reads the Ministry edition.”

  “And the Court edition is mainly for socialites and appearances?”

  The receptionist smiled, one of the first genuine smiles the Ecolitan had seen since he’d arrived in New Augusta…except perhaps for Sylvia.

  “I’ll take the Ministry edition.”

  She tapped several studs on her console, and with a series of buzzes, three pages burped forth, which she delivered to Nathaniel.

  “There you are, Lord Whaler.”

  About half the faxtab consisted of factual briefs a paragraph or two long in relatively simple Panglais. Fifth Fleet dispatched to Sector Eight in support of the Sector Governor on Byron. Would Senator Rysler retire and turn over his Agriculture Committee to Ngnoma?

  Failure of the synde bean crop on Ferne II and the need for Imperial aid. Possible breakdown of the Parthanian Cloud talks. Need for tax reform more urgent and might appear on the Emperor’s Legislative Calendar for the new Senate. Repeal of the sex determination ban to be brought up again by the pro-choice faction.

  Nathaniel skipped to the “personality” section or “Scandalous Sam.”

  Nothing mentioned about Accord or one Envoy Whaler. That was a relief after such bits as: “…should we tell you which Assistant Deputy Minister, after being seduced by his luscious receptionist (what a man!), asked his contractmate for a dissolution?” Or “…it’s rumored that the coronary arrest suffered by the Delegate from Greater Srik Nord wasn’t.”

  “Lord Whaler?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Ku-Smythe will see you now. Through the portal on the left.”

  He folded the faxtab, laid it on the table, slipped to his feet, picked up his datacase, and strode through the left portal.

  The office, with cream wall hangings and a sweeping panoramic window, was three times the size of either his own office as Envoy or that of Courtney Corwin-Smathers.

  Marcella was attired in a formal cream tunic and matching trousers, with a set of gold Commerce pins on her collars. A single maroon ring circled each tunic cuff. Her hair was upswept, severe, and she stood behind her wraparound console, formally, not advancing to meet him.

  The console, at the far end of the office, allowed Marcella to survey both entry portals and the window.

  He bowed and could feel the portal shut behind him.

  “Greetings again, Nathaniel.”

  “Greetings to you, Marcella.”

  She gestured
to the padded antique leather wing chair across from her console. He wondered at the real age of the chair with the new maroon leather, but sat down with the datacase at his feet.

  “How’s the business of Commerce with the Special Assistant?”

  “As well as can be expected. What about you?”

  He hesitated. Should he tell Marcella anything?

  He let his face show some indecision.

  “Not terribly well received somewhere, is that it?”

  “More complicated than that. I’m not sure where to begin, and beginning at the beginning would take much time.”

  He pulled at his chin. “This business is getting more involved than I’d anticipated, and did I not think I would have any illusions about the degree of difficulty.”

  Marcella sat back in the swivel, waiting, seemingly ready to let him take his time to get to the point. He doubted she had that much patience. But she was capable and a good actress to boot.

  “Yesterday, Courtney Corwin-Smathers suggested I come by today to discuss Senator Helmsworth’s interests in trade negotiations. I arrived at the appointed time, was warmly greeted, explained our interests in arriving at a favorable settlement without antagonizing any of the parties involved, and left her a copy of our preliminary proposal.”

  He thought Marcella’s eyes narrowed slightly, but went on.

  “Rather politely, and oh-so-pointedly, Ms. Corwin-Smathers suggested that while I certainly could let the Ministry of Commerce see such a proposal, I would be well advised to put my faith in the Senator.”

  “Did she put it exactly that way?”

  Marcella leaned forward in her swivel, brushing a strand of sandy hair back over her ear.

  Nathaniel chuckled. “Are you serious? Let me see if I can recapture the essence of the conversation. I am not much on innuendos, you know, but try I will.”

  He composed his face into a stern mask.

  “I do wish you luck with your contacts…we’re regarded as poor innocent bystanders…and Commerce could certainly ratify your agreement if that is really what you want…Ms. Ku-Smythe would surely be pleased not to deal with other influences…”

  “She mentioned my name?”

  “As I recall.”

  “Did you say you were coming to see me?”

  “No. I made a point of being vague about my appointments, but she seemed to know I had an appointment with you. And that leads on to the next thing, which was even stranger.”

  “Stranger?”

  “I took a tunnel cab over here from the Senate Office Tower and was dumped out in the tunnel outside the concourse—”

  “Outside the concourse?”

  “Outside the concourse. With a stunner, a woman strange to me tried to attack me. The tunnel cab took flight.”

  “Obviously, you survived.”

  Nathaniel shrugged and spread his hands. “Some luck, I think. But left I in a hurry. So why should someone be after me? If Senator Helmsworth wanted one set of terms…if you another…and External Affairs another…but before anyone has said anything? This it would seem would mean that someone wants no talks.”

  Marcella frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Why would you have me assaulted? I would think you would want to see what Accord had to offer. Is that not so?”

  “That’s true. It wouldn’t make sense, not from my point of view.”

  “That implies that more than one point of view there is within the Commerce Ministry.”

  Marcella looked straight at him.

  “I have this feeling you’ve been underestimated, Lord Whaler. I’ll try not to make the same mistake.”

  “Lucky I have been, so far.” He leaned back in the leather chair. “Secondary to something else are questions of trade, and to some facet of Imperial politics not immediately obvious to outsiders.” The Ecolitan bent down and lifted the datacase into his lap.

  “Imperial politics do become somewhat involuted,” added Marcella, “and could be rather confusing to an outsider.”

  Nathaniel didn’t like Marcella being patronizing any more than he had Courtney Corwin-Smathers, but he only opened the datacase and pulled out a trade folder before closing the case and returning it to the floor. He stood abruptly and leaned toward her, watching her hands flick down toward the edge of the console. Ignoring the danger, he read the private line numbers and memorized them.

  So…the console had a full protective system, and dear Marcella didn’t trust him all that much.

  “Here’s the folder with our proposal,” he said as he extended it slowly. “I’m sure you can handle far better than I the intricacies of Imperial politics. After you study it, I would be most interested in your thoughts.”

  “After we study it, I’ll be happy to talk with you.”

  “You know, Marcella, you can trust me or not. But if you really need a console protective system, the controls ought to be in the arms of the swivel.”

  He bowed to her. “Your leave, Marcella?”

  He could see the play of emotions under her tightly controlled face. No secrets there at the moment. He’d gotten to her, and she wasn’t pleased about it.

  “You do me honor, Lord Whaler.”

  “The honor is mine, and outside the questions of diplomacy.”

  She flushed ever so slightly at the compliment, but so quickly he almost missed her reaction.

  He gave a mental shrug as he walked out through the portal, case in hand, to the reception area.

  “Lord Whaler?”

  He looked at the receptionist.

  “Did you leave anything at the security gate?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Ms. Ku-Smythe arranged for your return transportation in one of our tunnel vehicles to spare you the rush period congestion. I am to escort you.”

  “Indebted I am.”

  The small woman led him through a corridor vaguely familiar. He caught a glance of a receiving hall, and the memory jibed. This was the hall he’d come up to meet Rotoller and Marcella.

  They stopped in front of the small lift/drop shaft.

  “Now where?” he asked.

  “We’ll go down to the Commerce official concourse.”

  “Indeed a step up over the public transport,” he commented inanely.

  While several guards patrolled the corridor, none seemed to take notice of either Nathaniel or the receptionist.

  She stepped into the shaft, assuming that he would follow.

  He did.

  As he exited, the receptionist handed him a small flat envelope.

  “I think you dropped this in the shaft. It floated past me.”

  Nathaniel hadn’t.

  “Thank you. I was careless.”

  He surveyed the guards around the concourse, both men and women, as they walked to the embarking platform.

  An electrocougar was waiting.

  The receptionist stayed until he was inside with the door closed.

  The car was upholstered in maroon, but the fabric was less yielding than that in the official car that had brought him to his meeting with Rotoller.

  The male driver was in a plain maroon tunic.

  As the car pulled away, the receptionist waved before she turned. No one had done that before, not on Terra. He turned the envelope over,

  The heavy cream paper was without name or address, except for three intertwined initials on the reverse flap, and was barely sealed…just at the tip of the flap. The three initials were MKS.

  Before opening the envelope, Nathaniel looked up at the back of the driver’s head as the limousine dropped down into the tunnel. Nothing he could tell.

  Holding the envelope gingerly, feeling stupid about his qualms, he used his belt knife to flick it open. He turned the envelope, and a small card fluttered out onto the seat cushion.

  A single word appeared on the blank card, handwritten: CAREFULLY.

  He resealed the envelope and card and put them in his belt pouch.

 
; The writing might be Marcella’s, but since he’d never seen it, how would he know?

  And for Cloud’s sake, what specifically was he supposed to be careful about? He was already too cautious.

  The more he found out, the more he didn’t know.

  XXIII

  ALERT TO THE possibility of another tunnel cab incident, Nathaniel spent the ride back to the Diplomatic Tower fully ready for anything. The Commerce Ministry electro-cougar delivered him to the Diplomatic Tower without mishap.

  “Your destination, sir.”

  “My thanks.”

  Despite all his suspicions, he made it up the lift shaft and to the Legation’s front entrance without an obvious tail, and without anyone else attempting to take any potshots at him.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Whaler. Were your meetings successful?” asked Heather as he walked past.

  “Everything went as expected.”

  He didn’t recall telling anyone he had a single meeting, let alone two. He sighed audibly. In New Augusta, if more than one person knew a secret, it wasn’t a secret.

  “Greetings, Lord Whaler,” added Mydra, as he paused outside his office.

  “Any calls for me?”

  “No. Things are relatively quiet here. Have you seen the faxnews?”

  “Too busy have I been. Why?”

  “I wondered if anyone else from Accord was in New Augusta. The afternoon casts reported a strange man in black assaulted an Imperial Intelligence agent in a tunnel, broke her leg, stunned her, and escaped. The Imperial Intelligence Service is denying the report. No one has seen anyone in black in the area.”

  Mydra was giving him a calculated look.

  “You know, Mydra, after days like today, sometimes one would wish to be more violent. But professors, we are not known as such. Today I have talked to too many who say, ‘Maybe yes. Maybe no. Let us think about it.’”

  He went on. “I do not think I should like to meet such an Imperial Intelligence agent. I hear most competent they are.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Lord Whaler. After the report hit the fax, I called a friend of mine. She’s an office manager at I.I.S. I asked her about it. She couldn’t say much, but the agent who was allegedly attacked was one of the best. The next time they go after that fellow, they’ll go with lethal weapons, I understand.”