Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Then she tapped out two instructions on her console.

  If the fax had been correct, Accord not only possessed the ability to infect the most secure structure in New Augusta, but also to modify a disease in two separate aspects, a modification currently beyond Imperial medical technology.

  Only time would tell, but at least for that time, any more of the attacks against the Ecolitan Envoy would have to be postponed. The risk was too great, even for her, particularly if the Emperor had a copy of the fax. If the Ecolitans had her codes, she had no doubt they had the Emperor’s.

  She repressed a shiver and turned back to the view of the plains, leaning back in the swivel. For a time she regarded the grass and the distant line of clouds above the horizon.

  At last, she tapped a code, waiting…

  “Marcella?”

  XXXI

  NATHANIEL STRAIGHTENED HIS tunic in mid-stride, not pausing in his steps but matching his pace to Sylvia’s.

  “I’m still not sure why this has to be done,” said Sylvia in a tone that was half statement, half question.

  The Ecolitan inhaled deeply. The air in the corridor was still, with a metallic trace scent to it, the first hint of oil and machine he had smelled since he arrived in the indoor world of New Augusta.

  “Metallic smell,” he commented.

  “The filters and recyclers are about ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent effective. The circulation here in the deeper parts of the tower isn’t quite as effective as elsewhere.”

  “That’s why we need to stroll through as much of the Defense Tower as possible. The relatively accessible corridors will do.”

  Sylvia straightened her own military tunic and frowned.

  “You still haven’t elaborated. But not now.”

  Nathaniel sighed. “Have I asked you all your secrets?”

  She laughed, a short gentle sound, “Touché.”

  The first security gate was staffed by a single guard, enclosed in a permaglass booth.

  Nathaniel ran his eyes over the enclosure—guarded against energy weapons and projectiles, but not airtight.

  “Let’s see your passes.” The woman’s bored tone echoed in the emptiness of the deep corridor. Despite the standard lighting, the lack of ornamentation and the metallic edge to the air gave the area a tomblike feeling.

  Sylvia placed two square cards facedown on the scanner.

  “And your I.D.s and thumbprints,” added the Defense sentry.

  The three waited momentarily in the silence.

  Nathaniel caught the green flash reflecting in the permaglass behind the sentry and almost shook his head. Bad design. A really alert intruder could take advantage of the warning.

  “You’re cleared.”

  The gate swung wide enough to let them pass through one at a time, then clunked shut. The sound reminded Nathaniel of a coffin lid falling shut.

  He wondered whose coffin—Accord’s or the Empire’s?

  “This way.” The corridor branched, and Sylvia touched his hand, led him to the left.

  Signs of greater activity began to appear as well as portals in the sides of the corridor and a military figure or two heading in one direction or another, some in uniforms similar to those he and Sylvia wore and some in the plain jumpsuits he had earlier suspected of being of military origin.

  He nodded to himself.

  Wheels within wheels…but all he had to do was to walk through the tower.

  True—he could have planted the dispersers on Sylvia and asked her to do it, but that option bothered him. If Accord had dirty work, then he should be the one doing it. He knew his decision was irrational, and he hoped the Coordinate and the Institute didn’t end up paying for it.

  To be discovered as the Envoy from Accord within the top-secret sections of the Ministry of Defense might be more than embarrassing. It might prove fatal.

  He almost laughed, and had he done so, the sound would have been grim. Were he to be discovered, he wouldn’t ever be found. The last thing the Empire could afford would be an admission that Accord could breach Imperial security at will.

  After three more turns, the corridor, now more of a thoroughfare, widened further into a lift/drop shaft concourse.

  “We’re ordered to the fifth level,” Sylvia said in a tight and controlled voice.

  He nodded and followed, presuming, although she had said nothing on the subject, that every word within the Defense perimeters was monitored or at least computer scanned.

  He straightened automatically, keying in a military posture, and let himself follow Sylvia. They had a lot of corridor left to cover.

  XXXII

  HIS FEET HURT. He had walked further, hiked through the high plains of Trezenia, through the Parundan Rain Forests of Accord, and done it all with a standard field pack. He had forgotten how many extended marches he had led his trainees through, whether in rain, snow, or blistering sun. But now his feet hurt. And the muscles in his right arm still ached.

  Nathaniel looked down at the omnipresent permaplast floor tiles. While they gave slightly under foot, they were hard, and he and Sylvia had walked more than ten kilos through the Defense Towers and the caverns beneath.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see the portal to the Legation, and the pair of Imperial sentries.

  “Here’s where I leave you, dear Envoy. I hope things turn out the way you hoped.”

  “So do I.” So do I, he added mentally.

  Sylvia was gone even as he watched her melt into the passersby. He shook his head and trudged toward the portal, flinging back the film cloak to reveal his diplomatic blacks.

  “Lord Whaler…we’ve been—”

  “The same,” he responded to the Marine with a smile, and he marched into the Legation.

  “Lord Whaler, we’ve been a bit worried…what with the power failure and the disappearance of the man who attacked you. Then you dismissed your guards and went off by yourself.” Heather Tew-Hawkes had moved around the reception console to greet him.

  “How’s Hillary?”

  “They got her to the health center in time. It was close, but she should be back in a few days. She rambled a lot and kept insisting that there were two of you, and how she wasn’t sure which one you really were.” Heather smiled a tight smile, one obviously put on, and waited a moment before going on, as if to see whether Nathaniel would respond.

  He didn’t, just stood there, meeting her gaze levelly.

  “She seemed more worried about you, but she’s going to be fine.”

  “I’m glad of that.” And he was. At the same time, the guilt and sadness rose within him.

  Shortly, thousands of relatively innocent individuals would sicken, and some of them would die. Had there been a better way? Had he missed it?

  He shook his head, forgetting where he was. How long, how long…?

  “Lord Whaler, are you all right?”

  Heather’s voice lost its tightness. Her tone of concern brought him back to the small Legation reception room with its mismatched lorkin wood furniture.

  “Yes, Heather,” he said slowly. “I’m all right. Tired, but all right.” As right as can be, now.

  He straightened.

  “By the way, Heather, would you get someone to clean up my office. If I had an intact office, I might actually stay in it. Especially now, I might stay there.”

  A puzzled look flitted across the redhead’s face, but she answered without questioning. “Mydra has already made the necessary arrangements. Maintenance has just about finished the repairs. They should be complete tonight, and your office will be ready in the morning.”

  The Ecolitan shifted his weight from one sore foot to the other. Perhaps it had been the weight of the special heels on his boots. They might have changed the pattern of his stride just enough.

  Shaking his head again, he turned toward the portal that led to his office and to his quarters.

  “Lord Whaler?”

  He turned back to the tentative sound of He
ather’s voice.

  “Would you like me to order something for you to eat?”

  “No, thank you, Heather. I appreciate it, but I’m not hungry right now. Perhaps later, perhaps later.”

  He gave her a short smile that felt false, then went through the portal and down the hallway toward the staff office.

  Mydra was standing by her console.

  “The maintenance staff is finishing up the repairs to your office.”

  “That’s fine. I won’t be using it tonight anyway. Where are the guards?”

  “They’re stationed outside the Legation and outside your private doorway.”

  He nodded an acknowledgment.

  “Lord Whaler, you look tired.”

  “I am tired. Tired beyond…” He broke off. Who would really understand?

  Instead, he took a deep breath, inhaling the odor of wall solvent, and gathered himself together.

  “You’re right. I am tired, and I need a good night’s rest. I will see you in the morning, Mydra.” He paused, then finished in a softer tone. “And thank you for getting this mess cleaned up.”

  He had turned even as she said, “That’s only my job.”

  The crew of three women and two men did not look up as he passed through his office. Thin blue plastic sheeting covered the carpet, the console, and the furniture. His boots left a line of tracks through the whitish powder that lifted at each step.

  His quarters were empty—and clean. Even the private entryway tiles had been repolished to a beige glaze, with all the scuffs and bootmarks removed.

  He took out the two probes from his belt and began to work on the portal controls. After several minutes, he stopped. The newly replaced control units were more complicated than the originals. His right hand was trembling too much to finish the alignment he needed.

  Putting down the probes, he sat cross-legged on the tile next to the wall portal, concentrating on holding back the waves of fatigue, while trying to let his arm and finger muscles relax.

  At last, he got back on his knees and completed the changes.

  With a sigh, he closed the access panel, leaned to his feet, and trudged back through the quarters to the exit portal between the private study and the office.

  Again, he changed the fields to lock totally the portal. This time he had to stop twice to rest.

  Finally, with another deep breath and a sigh, he headed to the sleeping quarters, forcing himself to take off his clothing piece by piece before collapsing onto the bed.

  Just before the darkness washed over him, he wondered if he had smelled orange blossoms.

  XXXIII

  THE CONSOLE BUZZED.

  “Admiral, there’s some disturbing news you ought to know.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well…it’s hard to explain,” stammered the Commander on the other end of the screen. “It looks like an epidemic, but there hasn’t been one…here…in ages…not with the air recirculators and purifiers.” Her eyes dropped along with her voice.

  “What sort of epidemic? How widespread? New Augusta? Planetwide?”

  “Not exactly, Admiral. Not exactly. So far ninety percent or more of those reported cases are Defense Ministry personnel.”

  The Admiral looked squarely into the screen. The indirect lighting of her office had gradually brightened as the day had waned. The touches of gray in her dark hair looked silver, simultaneously gave her a harder appearance.

  “Let me know if anything changes or if the outbreak should spread.”

  She broke the connection.

  The most senior officer of the Ministry of Defense of the Empire of Light stood away from her console, away from the five banners fanned on the inner wall, away from the gilt-framed honors on the side wall, and turned to look at the horizon to the east.

  She wondered if Accord’s sun, invisible to the best of Terran optical telescopes, including the orbital observatory, would be above or below the visual horizon, were it visible.

  “Accord…one man,” she whispered softly. “One man.”

  The goal of a lifetime was gone. Perhaps she had never had it. Perhaps her daughter had been right all along.

  She studied the plains grass below, then the darkening sky to the east.

  Finally, she squared her shoulders and turned back to the console.

  There was more to the Empire than the Rift, and more to the Ministry than the Eleventh Fleet.

  Her fingers unstacked the messages, and she began to scan them as they flashed across the screen.

  XXXIV

  THE ECOLITAN ENVOY stood by the swivel and studied the plush office for at least the tenth time in the last hour.

  The day had been long. No one had faxed. No messages on trade had arrived. No fax commentators had followed up on any previous events. Perhaps all the quiet had been for the best. Just in the past few hours had reports of a mysterious illness at the Ministry of Defense begun to surface.

  The fax commentators had announced the tower was closed until the entire structure could be totally sterilized, and that all victims were being treated in isolated facilities. So far, there had been nearly a hundred fatalities, out of ten thousand cases discovered.

  Nathaniel shook his head.

  It had been so easy, and the Empire had been so secure in its smugness…and would probably continue to be—except for the few who knew. Knowing the ways of empires, he wondered if that knowledge would die with its possessors, until a generation from now no one would remember and Accord would again be faced with the same dilemma. Why did it always take sheer power?

  Restraining power was always the hardest part. It would have taken far less effort to have decimated the entire population of New Augusta than it had to engineer the limited impact on the Ministry of Defense.

  The private line buzzed, interrupting his self-probing.

  He jabbed the accept stud.

  “Lord Whaler.” He hated using the “Lord,” and it was all he could do to refrain from the simple “Whaler” he would have preferred.

  The caller was Marcella Ku-Smythe. Nathaniel had never given her his private number, not that he recalled, at least.

  “Lord Whaler?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was wondering, upon reflection, how you saw the trade talks progressing.”

  He shrugged, wondering what she wanted. “I have done what I could do to persuade the Empire. I hope those who count are persuaded, but after the strangeness with Mr. Weintre…”

  “What strangeness?”

  “Mr. Weintre, the Information Specialist, disappeared some days ago. When he was recently found, his memories were gone.”

  “All of them?” Despite the question, her inquiry was matter-of-fact, as if she knew the answer and wanted to get to something else.

  “He thinks he is eighteen standard years.”

  Marcella’s always perfect hair was not, but slightly disarrayed, and a faint smudge showed beneath her left eye.

  “I see.” She stopped, and the tip of her tongue touched her upper lip. “Lord Whaler…”

  “Yes?”

  “I feel that there may have been some misunderstanding. In no way would the Ministry of Commerce wish anything but a speedy resolution to the trade talks, and one which would be of mutual benefit.”

  Nathaniel almost whistled. He was getting the closest thing to an apology possible from the always-efficient Marcella.

  “Dear Lady,” he lied, “no misunderstanding. Your position and your efforts toward meaningful trade agreement have always been recognized, and for that I thank you and wish you well.”

  While her face remained composed, the Ecolitan could sense her relief through the screen.

  “At the same time,” he continued, “so far have I not seen any movement from the Empire.” He shrugged again. “And without such movement…”

  “While I cannot promise anything personally, Lord Whaler, I would suspect that your terms are being studied carefully and that within a short time the Empire wi
ll respond positively and much along the lines you originally suggested. You have been most persuasive, I understand. Most persuasive.”

  “Dear Lady, I do appreciate your call and your courtesy in keeping me informed.”

  “Thank you, Lord Whaler.”

  The screen blanked.

  The Ecolitan frowned. Beneath the facade, the Lady had been upset. Upset indeed.

  Then it clicked. Obviously, her mother the Grand Admiral had briefed her on the warning and on the ensuing epidemic. Perhaps the information would last more than a generation. Perhaps…but all he could do was wait. Wait and hope.

  He decided against any more great debates, mentally filed the information, and locked up his office to retire to his private quarters.

  Dinner would be whatever he could get out of the tiny kitchen, followed by a full night’s sleep. Sleep he was shorter on than food.

  Still…after he finished the small salad and meat patty smothered in a too-sweet sauce, he sat and watched the tower lights from the small and private study, punctuated as they were by the occasional shuttle flare, until he was tired enough to head for his bed.

  He woke refreshed, despite the recurrence of the nightmares about the death ships and the Imperial fleet.

  This time, the Imperial Fleet Commander had been Marcella Ku-Smythe, except she’d been older and black haired. Doubtless, his subconscious was picturing her mother, Admiral Ku-Smythe.

  What was her father like?

  He dismissed the question as he got out of bed and staggered into the kitchen for a cup of liftea.

  A melon supplied by hidden means followed the liftea.

  Next came the hygienarium and a complete fresher.

  After dressing, he settled behind the small console in the private study of his quarters, turning to watch the early morning clouds scatter and the golden sun lift a silver dew off the towers. As he looked out through the wide window, he marveled at the fact that the day was basically his.

  No matter how he’d gotten steamed up about things, the Empire was on its weekend break, and negotiations would not be held. Period.