Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Unless there’s someone I don’t know about. You certainly can invite anyone to share your hospitality.” Mera turned and grinned at him. It was not quite an invitation.

  “That tired of Institute quarters?” He grinned back.

  “Not yet, Professor. But try in a year.”

  He started to shake his head, then remembered and pulled at his chin. “Remind me of that, would you?”

  “I just might, Professor. I just might.” She bounced from her seat.

  Jimjoy moved more carefully, still not quite certain which movements triggered which pains. As he stepped out, he surveyed the area, from the neatly groomed bushes and short grass to the rows of low silver blooms growing beside the slate gray of the stone walks and steps.

  Click…clunk…

  “Ready?” asked the student.

  “I can take that!” protested Jimjoy, realizing she had retrieved his bag.

  “No problem, Professor. Suares would have my head if she learned I’d let you carry anything.”

  He cut his shrug short as his shoulders protested and followed her up the wooden steps. A cold breeze carried the scent of firs and the promise of rain. Overhead, the haze had thickened into light clouds. Toward the west, behind the lower clouds, lurked a darker presence.

  Thrummmmmm…The thunder, faint as a half-played beat on a child’s drum, whispered through the afternoon.

  Stopping at the doorway that Mera had opened but not stepped through, Jimjoy followed her eyes. Beside the blond wooden squared arches of the front doorway was a plaque. J. J. Whaler, S.F.I.

  “You first, Professor.”

  Jimjoy stepped into a small foyer, floored in narrow planks of close-grained golden wood. The walls—all the walls—were wooden. Well finished and satin-lacquered. Although the wood had been refinished for him, a few dents and rounded edges showed that there had been previous occupants.

  Past the foyer, with its narrow closet for coats, cloaks, or whatever, and through another squared arch, this one without doors, Jimjoy stood in a single long room running from one side of the dwelling to the other—perhaps eight to nine meters. The center of the room was open to the beamed ceiling. The entire southwest wall was comprised of wood and glass with just enough wood to hold the glass. Each window on the upper level could swivel open, and sliding glass doors framed in wood ran in multiple tracks the width of the room.

  To his right, a railed but open staircase rose to the second story, where it opened onto a loft. From what he could see, the loft joined two rooms, one at each side of the house.

  He walked left, toward the open kitchen area and the dark bronze wooden table and wooden chairs—the only dark objects in the entire room. On the table was an oblong white card.

  He forced himself to pick it up slowly. The message was neatly inscribed on the stiff card with a green triangle in the upper left corner: “Welcome home, Professor. Sam.”

  Home? That remained to be seen. White Mountain had been home once, too. And so had Alphane. Neither had been, though he had thought of each that way.

  He set the card back on the table.

  “Don’t you want to see the rest?” Mera was smiling, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, still holding his single kit bag in her left hand.

  Jimjoy repressed a frown. “Of course.”

  “Besides the deck, there’s the upstairs.”

  Jimjoy took the staircase, his steps heavy on the carpeted runner.

  “Your room is the one at the far end.”

  “My room?”

  “The main suite?”

  “Suite?”

  “Well…maybe not a suite, but…you’ll see.”

  He did. The room, with an oversized bed, a dresser, a bedside table with a lamp, and a table desk with a console and matching chair, had enough open floor space to look uncrowded. All the furniture was a light bronzed wood. The only fabrics in evidence were the forest blue of the quilt, the matching curtains on the two windows that flanked the bed, and the two throw pillows—cream—on the bed. Above the sliding glass door that opened onto the upper deck was a wood-slat shade that rolled down for darkness or privacy, or both. A spacious fresher/bathroom was visible to his left through an open archway.

  His eyes strayed back to the forest-blue quilt. He swallowed. Once, twice.

  “Like it?” Mera had set the kit bag next to the closet door.

  “It’s very…very coordinated.”

  “The Prime thought you would like the color.”

  “You picked out the furniture?”

  “I had some help from Kirsten—she was my second-year roommate. We worked with the woodcrafters to get it right. The downstairs was left here, but the Prime thought this should be new for you.”

  Jimjoy did shake his head. How had Sam Hall known about the forest blue of White Mountain? A lucky guess? Not likely. The room was more to his taste than he dared to admit.

  “It’s…I like it,” he finally admitted.

  “Thank you. We hoped you would. Kirsten and I, I mean.”

  “You did a very nice job.”

  “I know, but it’s more important that you like it. We wanted you to feel at home.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Thank you. Really don’t know what else to say…”

  “You don’t have to. You’re pleased…but I think it brings back old memories.”

  “It does,” he admitted, “but that’s not necessarily bad. I still think I’m going to like living here very much.”

  “We hope so.”

  “So do I. So do I.”

  “If you need anything else…”

  “No…I’ll be fine.”

  “There’s a package on the counter downstairs. It has directions to everywhere and the times everything is open. Just ask anyone around.”

  Jimjoy followed her down the railed and open stairs, watching from the open door until the pale green of the electrocar had purred from sight.

  Then he sank onto the couch, staring out at the gathering thunderclouds, listening to the winds of his own thoughts.

  IX

  27 Janus 3646

  New Augusta

  Dear Mort:

  I’m sorry about my slowness in getting back to you, but for some reason, I just got your screen. Deeptrans is backed up again.

  You’re probably back out on-station now, but I’ll torp this off anyway while I’ve got a moment. I managed to win an argument with Tech and pull new drives away from a station-keep in Sector Five and get them routed to you. The Rift hasn’t been a problem, and nothing’s happened in Five for a couple of decades, but robbing Peter to pay Paul will catch up with us all someday.

  You guessed right on the study thing. When the cost of the FC came in, Senator N’Trosia blew quarks, and they weren’t charmed, either. He yelled about two hundred years of peace and cooperation, and about how we had managed to keep the peace through diplomacy, and how there was no need for a Fast Corvette when the Attack Corvettes were still perfectly functional. Politics!

  So we got a study. In the meantime, the Admiral—do you remember Hewitt Graylin, the guy who was a dec up on us, the one that set the flic records that are still standing? He’s the new Fleet Admiral for Development, and he just briefed us on the Fuards’ new destroyer. Why they call them destroyers and we call them corvettes escapes me. The mission’s the same. Except they’re more honest in their nomenclature, and their new ones are really something. Supposedly, they have instantaneous postjump acceleration, and the ability to rejump without repositioning, plus a few other things best not gone into here. We’ve discussed the possibilities, so you know what I mean.

  We’ll keep pitching, and you try to keep the old Halley together. Congratulations on the not-so-recent new arrival! Don’t know how I missed her or how you managed it, but that’s a touch of envy. We (I) failed the gene screen. Guess that’s another price for being on Old Earth. Looks like adoption if we want another. I don’t know. Sandy has to think it over.


  Blaine

  X

  “PROFESSOR, ACCORDING TO Kashin, Theories of Warfare, a government fully backed by a people with an ideology has an advantage over a pragmatic system. What you said seems to contradict that.” The youngster with the barely concealed smile waited.

  Jimjoy quirked his lips before replying. “Mr. Frenzill, Kashin included a number of qualifying statements. Do you, perhaps, remember them?”

  “All other political conditions being equal…including real and not apparent resources…” Student third class Frenzill’s smile had vanished.

  Jimjoy studied the class. All twenty looked awake. Roughly one-third appeared to understand the argument.

  “Before we go on, for the benefit of Ms. Vaerolt, Mr. Yusseff, and the remainder of the third row, I’d like to repeat the point to which he has taken polite exception. Ideology does not win wars or battles. Fanatics or even true believers have won wars, and they have lost an even greater number.” Jimjoy paused. Three other heads showed mild interest, although Gero Yusseff was still asleep with his eyes open.

  “Mr. Frenzill, what caused the fall of the Halstani Military detente?”

  “The rise of the Matriarchy, ser.”

  “Wrong, Mr. Frenzill. That is a tautology, a definition, if you will. The Matriarchy, despite the Hands of the Mother and a strong ideological hold on the populace of Halston, had been unsuccessful for more than a generation in even gathering seats in the popular assembly.” Jimjoy surveyed the faces.

  “Ms. Jarl?”

  “Wasn’t the Matriarchy successful after the Bles disaster?”

  “What was the Bles disaster, exactly?”

  “Professor…everyone knows that. It was news for weeks.”

  “Humor me, Ms. Jarl. Tell me what it was.”

  The blonde squirmed slightly in her seat, licking her lips. “Well…the fusion power station malfunctioned…and most of the military command was celebrating nearby…so no one was left to stop the Matriarchy…”

  “Very convenient, wasn’t it.” Jimjoy watched the students shifting their weight, realizing that he was leading somewhere. “Now, does anyone want to speculate on the probability of only the second power plant accident of this magnitude in recorded history occurring at a time when it would wipe out not only an entire planetary government but also the majority of the military High Command? Or the fact that the government which took over had been unable to do so through conventional means?”

  “Are you suggesting…it was deliberate?”

  “I’m not a great believer in coincidences. Are you? Would you stake your life on them, Ms. Jarl?”

  “Professor?” asked student third class Frenzill.

  “Yes, Mr. Frenzill? You were about to observe that I had said ideology did not win wars, and here is a case where the popular ideology won?”

  “Yes, ser…”

  “There is a significant difference between causality and apparent results. The cause of the Bles disaster is still unknown. What gained the Matriarchy power was not its popular ideology, but the annihilation of its opposition. To the degree ideology allows you to mobilize superior resources, tactics, or commitment, it will win battles or wars. But…the distinction is important…ideology does not win wars. Any comments? Questions?”

  There were still too many blank faces. He sighed. “All right. Your assignment, due five days from now, is a short essay. No more than one thousand words. Take a position. Give me a logical proof of why ideology wins wars or why it doesn’t. Any essay which does not support one position or the other will be failed. Any essay which repeats my argument blindly will also be failed.” Another look around the class, and he could see that at least three students glared at Frenzill.

  “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Now…beyond the question of ideology is the main point of today’s lesson. Mr. Yusseff? MR. YUSSEFF. Thank you.” He waited momentarily for the groggy Yusseff to realize he was the focus of attention. “Mr. Yusseff, you may get the assignment from either Ms. Jarl or Mr. Frenzill later. Since we are attempting to analyze the basis of military power, my question to you is: Do you agree with Kashin’s theorem of pragmatic causality? Explain why or why not.”

  More squirms around the classroom, Jimjoy noted. Despite the openness of the Institute, sometimes he wondered how much intellectual challenge the students actually got. Repressing a sigh, he waited. He liked the hand-to-hand better, but Sam had insisted on Jimjoy’s undertaking the warfare course. Jimjoy suspected a lot of others could have taught it better, but he owed everything to Sam…so…all he could do was his best.

  XI

  THE NAMEPLATE READ:

  Thelina X. Andruz, S.F.I.

  Meryl G. Laubon, S.F.I.

  With a shrug, he stepped up to the doorway.

  Tap…tap…The knocks on the heavy and dark-stained wooden door were even, almost precise. Jimjoy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wished he weren’t standing at the doorway, but Thelina had continued to avoid him, time after time. When she couldn’t, she was so politely professional that the planetary poles were warmer than the atmosphere surrounding her.

  The door opened silently. Jimjoy tried to keep his mouth shut. Thelina’s silver hair was cut short, barely longer than his own, which, although he was overdue for a haircut, was scarcely more than five centimeters long. “Come on in, Professor.” Thelina shrugged as she stepped back from the half-open doorway. Wearing pale green shorts and a short-sleeved blouse, she was barefoot.

  “Professor?”

  “I’m happier with titles right now.”

  Jimjoy followed her through a single long room with kitchen facilities at one end, including a glass-topped table in a dark wood frame, and a sitting area with chairs, two low tables with matching lamps, and a couch arrayed around a small stove at the other end. Open and railed stairs rose from the right side of the entry door to the second level. The far wall was comprised of two floor-to-ceiling windows and a set of French doors in between. Jimjoy followed her out to the timbered rear deck. Three wooden chairs were spaced around a heavily varnished dark oak table. A single half-full mug sat on the table, and a book—Field Tactics—lay closed beside it.

  He glanced overhead, but, despite the mugginess and the overhanging clouds, he could see no rain to the west.

  “Have a seat. Would you like some cafe?”

  “No, thank you. A glass of water?” He took the chair opposite hers.

  “No problem.” Thelina slipped back through the louvered door.

  As he waited, he surveyed the deck. The pattern seemed similar to the house he had just been assigned, but he’d never been in any of the other senior staff homes before. His quarters—or Thelina’s and her colleagues’ quarters—seemed incredibly spacious for fellows of the Institute. He shook his head.

  “Your water, Professor.” Thelina placed a heavily tinted tumbler—no ice—on the table before him. He caught a scent of something, perhaps trilia, before she efficiently sat down at the other side of the table.

  “How about ‘Jimjoy’?”

  “It lacks distinction and the stature reflecting your deep and valuable experience, Professor Whaler.”

  He sighed. “What about…‘I’m sorry’?”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad start, Professor—if you really meant it.”

  “I might. If I could figure out what I said that was so offensive.”

  “After rewriting history? You really mean that, don’t you?” She took a sip from the dark green mug. “You are even denser than…there isn’t an apt comparison…” She kept shaking her head intermittently.

  Rewriting history? Jimjoy sipped the water, trying to keep from frowning. Rewriting history…she couldn’t mean that. Even if he had said something wrong or misleading in his warfare class, she had been cool to him before that. Cooler than the water in front of him. He took another sip.

  Thelina touched the book, turned it over, but left it on the t
able, saying nothing, not even looking his way.

  He took a third sip, concentrating on the taste of the water, a coolness he hadn’t thought about in a long time. Even without ice it was cold. Cold and fresh. Like a lake called Newfound, where he had stood beneath the firs sighing in the winds and listened to the steady lap, lap of the water.

  That had been a life, before…there, once, he had been happy. She had been as clear and beautiful and unspoiled as the lake itself. Christina—he wondered what might have been if he had accepted the life he had been born to instead of trying to escape. Yet here he was, trying for still another life…

  “Professor?”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Professor Whaler, I do believe you were kays away.”

  “I probably was, Ecolitan Andruz. I probably was.”

  “Probably?”

  “All right, Senior Fellow of the Institute, Ecolitan Andruz. You are, as usual, one hundred percent correct. My thoughts were elsewhere.”

  This time Thelina was the one to sigh. “Just about the time you start to act human, you revert to the standard Imperial protocols.”

  Jimjoy caught her green eyes and stared directly at her. “We’re too old for games, Thelina. And too much rides on us to have time for games.”

  She returned the gaze, so directly that he finally blinked. “Professor, that attitude is exactly what is wrong with the Empire and your thinking. First, we all die in the end. All we have is the trip through life. Without games, without spice, and without meaning and love along the way, life doesn’t offer much. It doesn’t help when you distort what really happened along the way. And second, no one is indispensable. Not me. Not you.”

  …thurummmm…Jimjoy looked over his shoulder, toward the west. The darkening clouds and the mist lines below the clouds spelled an oncoming storm.

  Whhhipppp…A gust of wind, with the scent of rain, flipped open the back cover of the book Thelina had turned over.

  “Do you want to wait for hard evidence, Professor Whaler, or shall we retire to the living room?’