Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I haven’t studied uniforms and heraldry, but since the…Secession—”

  “You almost said ‘rebellion.’”

  “I’m working on it,” she whispered back.

  “The piers are short, but there are three. Why not one long one?”

  “You think that they’re sending military equipment to different locales?” Sylvia asked.

  “I don’t know why. It had crossed my mind.”

  “Private armies?”

  “That could make it nasty.”

  “Nastier,” she added.

  Nathaniel feared she was right.

  “I did have one question,” she whispered in his ear, after a silence.

  “Yes?”

  “Where did you get that ridiculous kerchief?”

  Nathaniel almost choked. “It gives a certain effect.”

  “You might pull it off here, even. But I don’t believe it. Even with those damned proverbs.” Sylvia pursed her lips, and shook, holding in what Nathaniel suspected were giggles.

  “A professor I am and remain.”

  “Oh…please,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, swallowing his laughter.

  “Sweetheart,” Sylvia said loudly enough for any possible eavesdropper, “you are sweet, but I’m just too tired. I’m sorry.”

  Slowly, slowly Nathaniel swung himself out of the bed. “Good night.” He bent over the bed, as if to kiss her a last time, although there hadn’t been a first time.

  Her arms went around his neck, and her lips were on his, warm and soft. After a moment, she eased her lips away just enough to whisper, “You are sweet…and I appreciate it more than you know.” She gave him a last kiss. He tried not to be too enthusiastic in his response.

  Nathaniel shook his head as he left the door between rooms slightly ajar and headed for his own cool sheets. He was missing more than a few things, both with Sylvia and their ever-stranger consulting assignment, but he was having trouble focusing on anything more than how warm Sylvia’s kiss had been. He’d been around the Galaxy, and more than a handful of women had found him attractive—in and out of bed—yet he was almost trembling, not a good sign. Definitely not a good sign.

  XI

  AT THE FAINT beep, the Grand Admiral touched the stud. An image formed on the small shielded screen, an image coming over a secure Defense Ministry scrambled line. “You called?” The screen held the image of a sandy-haired woman.

  “I did. How do you feel about Accord now, Marcella?”

  “You mean the algae and anchovy kills on Squamish? Why would they change anything?” asked the Special Assistant to the Imperial Minister of Commerce.

  “They’ve also appeared on Anarra. The Matriarch sent a query to us and to the Coordinate. Of course, the Coordinate denied everything…but who else has that kind of biological capability?”

  “It’s too obvious, especially this soon after the trade talks. Accord isn’t stupid.”

  “Unless they’re counting on everyone thinking that,” pointed out the Grand Admiral.

  “They’ve shown a better grasp of politics than that.” The Special Assistant’s eyes narrowed. “They also have issued a warning every time before they’ve employed ecological tactics.”

  “That may be, but the Senate is already debating investigating and sending the Eleventh Fleet to Sector Five.” The Admiral’s voice was almost flat. “They also haven’t shown that courtesy when they’ve undertaken more conventional covert action.”

  “Is the Senate really that stupid?” The Special Assistant shook her head. “Are you going along with it?”

  “Politics, Marcella. Politics. If half the Empire wants to blame Accord, and wants action, that’s where the eagles have to go. I can’t oppose the wishes of the Senate.”

  “Even if they’re based on images in cheap trideo that show Ecolitans as devils without horns. Even if half the human Galaxy ends up an ecologic or radioactive or nova-seared waste? Is your position worth that?”

  “It shouldn’t come to that.” The Grand Admiral smiled.

  “It shouldn’t?”

  “Accord might be persuaded to stand aside on Hernando.”

  “You’ve already lost Hernando.”

  “No loss is permanent.”

  “What are you really planning?” asked the Special Assistant. “What do you want?”

  “You’ve already provided it. You’ve confirmed that you don’t believe Accord is behind this covert ecological warfare.”

  “Couldn’t you have just asked? They aren’t.”

  “Then who is, Marcella? According to both Defense intelligence and the I.I.S., no one else in the human Galaxy has that kind of capability.”

  “That’s not quite true. No one else has ever demonstrated that kind of capability, and they certainly wouldn’t, not while they can keep the laser aimed at Accord and the Empire.”

  “Fine. Who is it? The Fuards? Olympia? Halstan? The Federated Hegemony? Orknarli? The Frankan League? New Avalon? Every one of them would like to see Accord and the Empire at each other’s throats again.”

  “The Franks probably wouldn’t, and New Avalon is too…traditional…to keep anything like that secret.”

  “That leaves quite a few—and you’re assuming Accord is innocent.” The Grand Admiral frowned. “Most senators will quickly point out that only Accord has ever employed large-scale ecological warfare.”

  “That argument cuts both ways. It makes a perfect case of why it wouldn’t be Accord. Also, as I pointed out, they’ve always delivered a warning, and it’s been after we’ve done something. We haven’t acted against them, and there’s been no warning.”

  “You may be right, but I cannot oppose the Imperial Senate, not if it decides to send the eagles against the Coordinate. Not without any proof. Do you have any?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Then contact your tame envoy and ask him…if you can find him. You might also ask why he barely returned to Harmony before they sent him off to Artos—that’s a colony of New Avalon, recently planoformed.” The Admiral smiled politely. “I’d appreciate it if you would think about it.”

  “I will. I always do.”

  “I know.”

  The Admiral’s smile did not vanish until the screen blanked. Then she frowned, pursing her lips.

  XII

  “YOUR FLITTER CHECK-OUT was uneventful?” Sylvia’s gaze crossed the expanse of blue that was the dining room of the Blue Lion—blue table cloths, blue carpet, and blue-tinted light from the blued glass windows. The linens and the carpet were new; the blue-upholstered chairs were not. The china was also new, as was the blue fabric covering the interior walls, but images seen through the facade panes had the slightly indistinct appearance created by aged glass.

  “Very uneventful—thankfully. It must have been one of the first Welk-Symmons built, and from its pristine condition, it was shipped by slow-cargo asteroid in a high sublight transit.” Nathaniel took a sip of the vinegar that passed for wine, then cleared his throat. “Jesting I am not.” He pulled forth the big kerchief and blotted his brow.

  Sylvia winced. “How many of those do you have?”

  “Enough, dear lady. Enough. One even matches my formal greens.”

  Sylvia winced again. “Why do you like to play the eccentric professor, the buffoon, almost?”

  “I am eccentric. That you should know. Besides, eccentric is regarded as dense, and that helps. I need all the assistance I can get.” He cleared his throat. “I also tried to get a tour of the R-K marine establishments. I used the comm units in Port Chief Walkerson’s offices.”

  “And?”

  “‘Most regretfully, professor, we are undergoing rebuilding and maintenance, and such a tour will not be possible for at least several months. I will send you the documentary background we have supplied to Camelot and to all interested parties.’” Nathaniel smiled wryly. “That was the honorable Sebastion Reeves-Kenn himself.”

  “You pointed out you were
from Accord?”

  “He was still politely firm.”

  “Interesting…” mused Sylvia.

  “Very interesting, I thought. I wonder if Chief Walkerson has any orbit photos or scans. We’ll have to ask about some.”

  “I wonder what they’re hiding.”

  “Anything and everything.” With a glance around the half-filled dining room of the Blue Lion—and the three dozen or so other diners—Nathaniel glanced at the antique paper check again, less than six pounds for lunch for the two of them. He showed it to Sylvia.

  “I know why Stapleson-Mares sent us to Elizabeth’s,” she said with a laugh.

  “Why? Because it’s the most expensive restaurant in Lanceville, and because he thought Ecolitan economists had to be stingy?”

  “It might be. It does shows a restrained sense of humor…or something.”

  “You’re probably right.” The sandy-haired Ecolitan raised his hand as the short-haired, graying waiter passed, then pressed eight pounds into the man’s hand. “A good day to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The waiter bowed just slightly, then continued on past the table.

  The two Ecolitans rose, and Nathaniel said, “I think he expected more than twenty percent.”

  “Probably.”

  “The service wasn’t worth it.” Nathaniel stepped out of the Blue Room into the main lobby—also blue, from the recently ground and re-polished blue synthstone floor to the glittering blue vaulted ceiling to the pale blue lion that crouched in the frieze above the concierge’s semikiosk.

  “More power lines?” asked Sylvia.

  He nodded, his eyes going to the pair of security guards by the door, each in smart, brilliant blue uniforms, each short-haired, and each with a holstered stunner.

  “You got all those power figures from the manager at the fusactor station, but you still feel we have to travel every road on ConOne?”

  “Not every road—but enough to get a feel.” Were the Security Guard uniforms the same as the one he had seen the other day near Elizabeth’s?

  “A feel?”

  “If you just rely on numbers you’ll get it wrong. You need…well…I need a feel, and numbers alone don’t provide that. Besides, using numbers assumes a certain accuracy, and I’m not sure about local figures. Our informal survey should either confirm the figures or suggest we look further,” Nathaniel added as they stepped back into the midday, midsummer heat. “Even so, you’re right. The fusactor plant figures are probably far more accurate than any rough estimates we could come up with.”

  “But you worry?” she pressed.

  “I couldn’t even tell you why,” he admitted. “I just feel that way.”

  “You’re not particularly trusting.” The gray-eyed woman smiled.

  “From what you’ve seen, should we be?”

  “They don’t look any less trustworthy than anyone else.”

  “That means I should be skeptical.”

  Sylvia laughed.

  Glubb Bagot stood beside the groundcar in the carpark, a resigned smile fixed upon his face.

  Nathaniel wondered if the resignation were because of all the synde bean fields, the power relay units, and the highway measurements they’d taken after his check-out stint at the shuttleport. The Ecolitan shook his head, not wanting to think about all the other quantifications they had left to do.

  “Where to, sirs?”

  “To the piers, and then we will follow the south highway for a time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nathaniel closed the door for Sylvia and circled the ground-car as Bagot started the engine and the exhaust belched partly burned hydrocarbons. The Ecolitan could hardly wait to tally more power lines and highways and industrial facilities.

  XIII

  “BACK INTO THE blue world,” said Nathaniel as they crossed the lobby of the Blue Lion.

  “People used to write songs about blue; the ancients did,” answered Sylvia.

  “They must have been awful.”

  “They were.”

  As the two Ecolitans stepped toward the open door, above which was a synthstone frieze of a blue unicorn, Robert Walkerson stepped forward, his bald spot glistening in the light and the short jacket and formal shorts making him appear even more squat.

  “You look stunning, Professor Ferro-Maine.” Walkerson bowed to both Ecolitans, but his eyes were on Sylvia.

  “Thank you. A uniform is a uniform, formal or not.”

  “It becomes you.”

  “It does indeed,” added Nathaniel. “I’ve said so, but the opinion of a colleague counts for less than that of someone less involved in such matters.”

  “Your colleague is correct,” responded Walkerson. “But let me introduce you to a few people who had hoped to meet you.” He gestured toward the door, leading them inside the Unicorn Room, where perhaps two dozen people stood talking in small groups. Half turned as the Ecolitans entered.

  On the left wall was a long table, covered in white linen, and bearing trays of various foodstuffs.

  “The wine table is on the other side. Local—but I’d recommend the Kenward. It’s rather like Sperlin, if sweeter.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Sylvia, as Nathaniel nodded.

  “You may recall Mr. Evanston.”

  Nathaniel inclined his head slightly.

  “Good to see you,” offered Geoffrey Evanston, lifting a wineglass. He wore black shoes and long formal socks and shorts. The short evening jacket was white with green piping, and a green bow tie matched the piping. “Might I present my wife? This is Ecolitan Whaler, Vivienne, and this is Ecolitan Professor Ferro-Maine. Hard to believe, isn’t it, but they’re economists.”

  “Economists? How charming! That is so much more…appropriate than agricultural factors and scientists, or marine agronomists, or whatever they’re called.” The slender blond woman pursed her lips. “I do hope you are not agricultural economists.”

  “No,” said Nathaniel. “Infrastructure economists—transportation, power systems—those sorts of matters.”

  “You did not bring Madeline, Walker?” asked Evanston.

  “She is a little under the weather.”

  “Ah…terribly sorry. Perhaps next time. She has such a delicious wit.” Evanston nodded.

  “Indeed she does. And she is so forthright,” added Vivienne, turning toward Nathaniel. “An economist? You look more like an athlete, even with that slight graying at the temples.”

  “We do a great deal of walking in infrastructure economics, and in conducting studies, one must always walk before running, so to speak.”

  Sylvia looked at the blue carpet underfoot.

  “You are both in excellent condition, I see,” continued Vivienne.

  “We’re not quite adjusted to the atmosphere yet,” protested Nathaniel.

  “One would scarcely guess that.”

  “If you will excuse us, Geoffrey…Vivienne?” said Walkerson. “I’ll let them return shortly.”

  “But of course.”

  “I do hope we can talk,” said Vivienne, leaning slightly toward Sylvia.

  “I do, too.”

  Walkerson plowed toward a taller man—also in formal jacket and shorts who stood momentarily alone.

  “Governor General Eden-Danby. He’s my ultimate superior.” Walkerson nodded. “Governor General, might I present the Ecolitan professors? Nathaniel Whaler and Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

  “Delighted!” The round-faced official sported neatly trimmed gray hair. Almost as tall as Nathaniel’s 191 centimeters, he rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. “Delighted! We don’t get scholars from so far. I hear you’re studying our infrastructure. What have you found so far?”

  “A state-of-the-art hydrocarbon conversion facility and a great number of well-built transport highways,” offered Nathaniel cheerfully. “Also a good restaurant and an impressive harbor.”

  “A warm welcome,” added Sylvia.

  “With our summer, it is warm indeed, yes indeed.
” The Governor General coughed. “Well…I’m sure it will be a good study. It’s good to see you. I certainly hope you enjoy your stay on Artos. Don’t let me keep you.” With a chuckle and a vague gesture, General Eden-Danby dismissed the Ecolitans.

  “Is that the wine table?” Nathaniel turned to Sylvia. “Would you like some?”

  “Please.”

  The Ecolitan eased around two men in gray jackets talking in low voices.

  “…beastly heat—worse than last year…”

  “…still say that George is diverting too much of the runoff…”

  “…how else can he get the credits for tech-templates?”

  A blue-jacketed attendant turned to the Ecolitan. “Your pleasure, sir?”

  “Two glasses of the…is it Kendall?” Nathaniel tried to pick up the rest of the conversation between the two men in gray jackets.

  “Kenward? The sparkling white?”

  “That’s it.”

  “A moment.”

  The Ecolitan carried the two crystal wine glasses slowly, more slowly than necessary, toward Sylvia and Walkerson, easing behind the two men, who glanced toward Sylvia.

  “…more to Artos than beans, beef, and basking mods…”

  “You forgot algae.” A laugh followed.

  “…so I did…seen the guests?”

  “…she’s beautiful…other one…here somewhere…looks too military for my taste…”

  “Still think R-K would have…”

  An elbow in the ribs stopped the conversation.

  Nathaniel nodded politely and eased up to Sylvia, presenting her with a glass. “The Kenward.” He turned to Walkerson. “Might you know the two gentlemen in gray behind me?”

  “Ah…I believe the taller is one of the Hailshams—Durward, I think.”

  “Who are the Hailshams?” Sylvia sipped the sparkling white wine. “A trace sweet, but good.”

  Nathaniel took a sip of his own—far too sweet for his taste. Then Sylvia was probably being diplomatic.

  “Durward…hmmmm…I do believe he handles the permacrete business—mostly highway construction, that sort of thing.”