Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The young woman flushed slightly.

  “How do you find working for the Evanstons?” asked Sylvia quickly.

  “Madame Evanston is easy to work for. She tells me what she wants, how she wants it done, and, if I don’t know, how to do it.” Anne-Leslie smiled. “The best parts are that unless I mess up, she leaves me alone, and the food is good and free, and there’s plenty. Sometimes, she’ll even send some home with me. And clothes for the little ones.”

  Sylvia looked at the younger woman inquiringly.

  “Martha-Elizabeth and Laura-Olivia…they’re the youngest. Clothes out of anything but synthcloth are still hard to come by.”

  “The big growers don’t like sheep. I heard tell that there’s a small herd on ConTrio, but that wool doesn’t get here.” Bagot took another swallow of the stout and finished the second glass, holding it up for a refill. “Nothing gets here.”

  “Another?” asked Susanna, sweeping by and taking the glass.

  “Another.”

  Anne-Leslie glanced at Bagot, but the younger man avoided her eyes.

  “It seems like things are improving somewhat,” began Nathaniel. “The Blue Lion is being redecorated and refurbished.”

  “It looks nice,” said Anne-Leslie, “but they don’t pay very well.”

  “Your stout,” announced the server, setting it in front of Bagot. “Would anyone like dessert?”

  “The rum cake,” said Bagot.

  “The nut cake,” added Anne-Leslie.

  “I think I’ll pass,” said Sylvia.

  “I also.” Nathaniel knew, again, that too much food was tightening his trousers.

  “I still can’t believe you drooled after her,” commented Anne-Leslie after the server disappeared into the kitchen area.

  “It was…a long time…ago.” Bagot took another hefty swallow of the warm stout.

  “You were saying that the Blue Lion does not pay well,” prompted Nathaniel, recalling the disappointed waiter there.

  “No. I looked there.”

  “No one pays well on Artos, ’cept the Port Authority,” added Bagot.

  “They only hire men.” Anne-Leslie’s eyes glinted.

  Bagot looked down into his half-full glass.

  Susanna dropped the two deserts before the two younger diners. “Need anything else?”

  “Just the bill, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Nathaniel quietly.

  The server nodded, then slipped the paper oblong onto the table.

  After she left, Nathaniel asked, “Did you know Helverson very well?”

  Bagot swallowed a large mouthful of the dark cake before answering. “Didn’t know him…mush…at all. The chief…said he was a former grenadier, special services…” Bagot looked up and offered a wide and sloppy grin. “Just for you…” The grin slowly faded.

  Anne-Leslie’s hand went to her mouth.

  “That’s all right,” said Sylvia. “We thought that might be the case. He’s one of the few not born here on Artos, right?”

  “Thass…right. You…win the prize, professor.” Bagot slowly ate another bite. “Good…cake…good…food…”

  Abruptly, Bagot grinned even wider, and then put his head on the table, right beside the remnants of the chocolate rum cake.

  “GB…oh, GB.”

  “Perhaps we should go.” Nathaniel rose.

  Sylvia nodded.

  After paying the check and including enough for a tip, Nathaniel simply lifted the slight form of Bagot right out of his chair and carted him to the groundcar.

  “What will happen to him?” asked Anne-Leslie as Whaler eased the limp figure into the backseat beside her.

  “Not a thing. Because he didn’t say anything at all. Not that I heard,” said Nathaniel.

  “You planned this.” The young woman looked from one Ecolitan to the other.

  “No. He only had three glasses of stout. I had no idea he was that sensitive to alcohol. The only thing we planned was to get him to talk about Artos.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, it does,” said Sylvia while Nathaniel shut the door and slipped behind the wheel. “People who live someplace take their world for granted. You need stories about friends, family, little things that happen to get a better view.”

  “That’s what Madame Evanston says…but you’re professors.”

  Nathaniel wanted to slam his forehead. The term “madame” finally registered, and he knew what his subconscious had been trying to tell him about Vivienne Evanston. She had to be Frankan.

  “We have a study to do,” said Sylvia. “In the end, economics is about people, and the numbers don’t make sense without knowing about people. Professor Whaler spent most of a day just walking through Lanceville, looking and listening.”

  “Oh…”

  Nathaniel eased the car into the street. “Where should we drop you off?”

  “No,” said Sylvia. “I think we should drop GB off first—if Anne-Leslie can show us where.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Fine. GB first.” That made sense, especially given how worried the young woman was.

  “We don’t live that far apart, really. GB still lives with his family. So do I.”

  “In town here?”

  “Yes. Three streets ahead, turn left.”

  “That’s a long bicycle ride out to Madame Evanston’s. I assume you ride,” said Nathaniel.

  “I do, but it’s flat and easy, and in the morning it’s cool. If they have a big party or something, I stay there for the night.”

  “It’s another five long blocks to his house.” Anne-Leslie turned in the seat and glanced down at Glubb Bagot. “Are you sure he’ll be all right?”

  “He’ll be fine.” Sylvia reached back and touched her shoulder. “Except for a splitting headache.”

  Nathaniel concentrated on driving the heavy antique, following Anne-Leslie’s intermittent directions.

  The small boxy house was like all the others on the street, brick with a red tile roof and a small stone stoop.

  Nathaniel lifted the snoring form from the rear seat and headed up the low step.

  “Oh…what happened? Is he all right?” The gray-haired woman with the lined face wore faded trousers and a shirt—clean—that was gray from too many washings.

  “He should be fine, except for a headache. He drank three glasses of stout too quickly,” explained Nathaniel, as he followed Bagot’s mother into the front room.

  “Best you put him on the sofa there.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry, but I’ll bring the groundcar to the Port Authority in the morning.”

  “The Port Authority in the morning?”

  The Ecolitan nodded, then stepped outside and walked swiftly back to the groundcar. “And now you, young woman.”

  “Turn left at the corner.”

  Bagot’s dinner partner lived just south of the main highway that bisected Lanceville.

  “Thank you for dinner,” said Anne-Leslie as Nathaniel pulled up outside another square brick dwelling. “I’m sorry…about GB. It’s just that…”

  “We’re sorry,” said Sylvia. “We certainly didn’t mean…”

  “No…you wouldn’t know. I didn’t know.” She flashed a warm smile. “I’ll check on him on the way to work.” With that, she slipped from the groundcar and walked swiftly to the darkened door of the house and inside.

  “So…what have we found out?” asked Sylvia as they pulled away from the boxy brick house where they had left Anne-Leslie.

  “Helverson was there to protect us, and Walkerson was probably ordered to ensure we finished our study. Walkerson’s ambivalent about it, because he’s worried that Helverson might be checking on him as well.”

  “Do we really know that?”

  “No. That’s a guess, but Walkerson was more upset about the lost equipment than about Helverson, and Helverson was one of the few recent arrivals from New Avalon—if not the only one.”

  “Sebastion’s moving heavy equipment out t
o the ranch—military stuff?” asked Sylvia.

  “That’s a guess, but it’s probably either that or construction equipment that could be used as such.” Nathaniel turned the groundcar back to the south at the next cross street.

  “Ah…”

  “I want to drive by Kennis’s armory. Or what I think is an armory.”

  “You are worried.”

  “Yes.”

  Nathaniel let his breath out slowly when he saw that, except for the entry, the LN building was dark. “We’ve got some time.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. Days at least. Maybe weeks.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Stop a Galactic war…somehow.”

  “From a backwater colony planet? With an economic study?”

  “Not just from here. Tomorrow we need to plan when to leave for New Avalon. We don’t want to be on an Avalonian ship or a Fuardian one, and I’d really not want to travel on a Halstani vessel either.”

  “My…aren’t we picky.”

  “Picky?” Nathaniel eased the groundcar back onto the main highway heading for the Guest House.

  “I’m sorry. But you’re doing it again. This is like New Augusta. You spew forth all of this and expect me to follow along.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, but I suppose it sounds that way.” He took a deep breath. “All right. There’s a civil war—or a rebellion—brewing. Everything points that way. I can’t prove it, but I’d bet on it.” He laughed harshly. “In fact, I am. Our lives probably. Artos can’t produce the resources necessary to fight such a war, nor enough productive equipment, but I’d guess they’re here somewhere, and they didn’t come from New Avalon. They also have an oversized bean conversion facility that produces too much liquid fuel, but prices remain high, and that doesn’t happen if there’s a true surplus.”

  “Fuel and energy for combat vehicles?”

  “That’s another guess. And someone has been shipping them in, probably to both Kennis and the R-K bunch.”

  “I see.” Sylvia’s voice was low in the darkened car. “That means some outside interest wants to create a civil war, and then use it as a pretext to take Artos. New Avalon has been feeling the pinch for a long time and doesn’t want to plough any more capital investment into Artos, and because they don’t, that’s created the opportunity.”

  “I’m guessing, but that’s what I see. Oh…and I’d bet that Vivienne is Frankan, and that she’s still got ties there. That just dawned on me.”

  “You didn’t realize that?”

  “No.”

  “So who’s behind this civil war?”

  “I wish I knew. We’ve seen traces of the Federated Hegemony, the Frankan Union, and the Conglomerate.” Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d bet it isn’t the Franks, but I couldn’t say why. Then, my guesses aren’t doing that well now. I do know that we have to get to New Avalon before it blows. Am I being too obscure?”

  “No. Although, for an economist, dear, you certainly get involved in some interesting situations.”

  That wasn’t the half of it, not even half, he feared.

  XXIII

  NATHANIEL EASED THE groundcar away from the portico of the Guest House, then turned west toward the shuttle port. “Sebastion was transferring a lot of equipment and gear last night, and the more I think about it, the more I’d bet there are weapons involved, a great number of them.”

  “I wouldn’t bet.” Sylvia laughed softly, but not gently. “You think they’re building for a showdown with the small growers?”

  “I don’t know. That’s certainly what comes to mind first, especially after George’s murder. But the fact that Sebastion is moving equipment seems to mean that he has a lot to do to take over the establishment at the ranch. I wonder just what’s in those underground installations.”

  “Enough to make everyone unhappy,” predicted Sylvia. “Especially if it’s a setup by Kennis, to play the large and small growers off against each other.”

  “That’s true,” admitted the sandy-haired Ecolitan, “but I would have expected more activity around Kennis’s headquarters last night.”

  “Unless he’s really as devious as he seems,” pointed out Sylvia.

  “Or unless someone else has the same idea. This is at least a three-way power struggle.”

  “Did you have any luck with the transport center?” she asked.

  “There’s a Frankan ship due some time in the next few days—probably the day after tomorrow. The Fuard cargoboat has three spaces, and the Wendsor liner won’t be back for another week.”

  “You wanted a Frankan ship, anyway, didn’t you?” asked Sylvia.

  “Better than anything else, although an Orknarlian or an Imperial vessel would have been better.” Nathaniel eased the groundcar onto the drive to the shuttle port.

  “Imperial?”

  “Very tightly run.”

  “I’m glad you approve of something Imperial.”

  “I approve of other Imperial…items.” He grinned.

  “You’re still impossible.”

  “Absolutely.”

  As Nathaniel drove up to the Port Authority building, both Walkerson and Bagot came out to meet the Ecolitans.

  “Hoped we’d have a moment to chat,” said the Port Chief. “We can do that while Bagot gets the beast here serviced.”

  “We’re here,” said Nathaniel.

  Bagot didn’t look at either Ecolitan and kept his eyes averted as he slipped behind the wheel of the groundcar and eased it toward the maintenance building several hundred meters south of where the three stood.

  “It’s like this…” began Walkerson. “The hoops are getting tight. The constabulary, such as it is, has no idea who killed George Reeves-Kenn. We don’t either.” Walkerson’s eyes went from one Ecolitan to the other. “I suppose I should ask where you were on the afternoon of the day before yesterday.”

  “As I am sure Bagot has told you, we visited Madame Evanston and then the Bank of Camelot.” Nathaniel smiled pleasantly.

  “I know. That’s a formality, but had to ask. Now…you’ve seen a number of people over the last few days, and some rather strange happenings have taken place. Do you have any ideas who might have murdered George?”

  “No,” said Nathaniel.

  Walkerson’s eyes shifted to Sylvia. “And you, professor?”

  Sylvia shook her head, then added. “From what little we have seen, a number of people would have some potential reasons. Isn’t that so?”

  Walkerson coughed and looked at the permacrete underfoot for a moment. “Unfortunately…you have the right of it. I was hoping you might shed some light.”

  “Every light brings shadows, sometimes more shadow than illumination.”

  “That seems to be the case here.”

  “Tell me, Chief Walkerson,” continued Nathaniel, “everyone talks about the smaller growers, but never have we heard a name. We have heard about the larger growers by name, the bankers, the scientists, the traders…”

  “That’s another problem. We know all the small growers. There are maybe two hundred. But none of them are leaders. No one ever steps forward. They come to some meetings, and they all protest the tax levies.” Walkerson shrugged. “But I couldn’t call a single one a leader.”

  “Does that mean they have none, or that they protect whoever is their leader?”

  “If I could find that out…”

  “You’d know,” suggested Sylvia.

  “Exactly.” Walkerson smiled as the groundcar pulled up. “Thank you. I do hope that you’ll let me know if you should chance across something.”

  “Of course.” Both Ecolitans smiled politely.

  Walkerson watched impassively as they seated themselves in the rear seat of the groundcar. The Port Chief was still watching when Bagot drove by the main entry building and the groundcar passed out of Walkerson’s sight.

  “Bagot,” said Nathaniel, “don’t worry about last night. I do
n’t think Chief Walkerson’s that upset, and we aren’t.”

  “Don’t know what came over me, sirs.”

  “Good food, good drink, and good company,” suggested the sandy-haired Ecolitan. “And probably not a very high tolerance for alcohol. Some of us have to be careful.” He paused. “Anne-Leslie was worried about you. She seems like a nice young woman.”

  “She is. Came by early this morning.” The driver cleared his throat. “I’d forgotten how nice she is.”

  “I’d do something special for her,” suggested Nathaniel. “Special women are hard to find.” He squeezed Sylvia’s knee slightly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s not an order.” Nathaniel laughed.

  “Where to, sir?” Bagot slowed as the vehicle neared the main highway.

  “The biomonitoring station—Dr. Oconnor’s operation?”

  “That’ll be on the south side.” Bagot turned right and headed east.

  Even more ancient than the Bank of Camelot, the thick-walled biomonitoring laboratory squatted on the low bluff on the north side of where the river entered the ocean, scarcely a kilo south of the harbor piers.

  Bagot glanced at the Ecolitans. “I’ll just park on the shady side and take a nap, if you don’t mind.”

  Nathaniel suppressed a smile. “That’s fine.”

  Oconnor was waiting for them. “Professors, professors. Ah, let us use the lounge, such as it is.”

  The short corridor he led them down was plain brick and aged, and the stone floor bore thin traceries of cracks.

  “Sit down. Sit down.” Oconnor gestured to the threadbare couch under the two high narrow windows. Without waiting, he perched on the plastic stool opposite it. “What can I do for you? It seems silly to be asking that.”

  “I had hoped you could brief us on the ecologic status of Artos.”

  Oconnor pushed a longish lock of brown hair back off his forehead. “I don’t know as I could tell you anything you don’t already know. You Ecolitans wrote the books on ecology.”

  “Some Ecolitans did.” Nathaniel smiled. “We are economists, however, and we are investigating the interrelations between ecological development and the infrastructure of the economy of Artos.”

  “You are wise enough to see what you see,” said Oconnor.