Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (16 page)

He shrugged.

“Can I tell the Empire, with thousands of ships, that little Accord can sow such vast death? Who believes? Can I tell our House of Delegates, who know they can sow such death, that the Empire does not believe? To prove our power, must millions die? And so, I sit and talk, sit and hope. Hope they have not forgotten.”

He looked blankly out the window.

The room was silent. The clouds swirled outside, and Nathaniel watched. Watched, hoping the snoops had gotten it all, hoping that Mydra had understood it all, and hoping that both thought he wasn’t playing to the unseen audience.

“Lord Whaler,” Mydra asked softly, “may I go?”

He nodded.

The waiting was the worst, whether it was waiting in the darkness of space, in a full-blanked needle-boat, knowing that another needle-boat waited, knowing that whoever moved first was dead, or whether it was lying flat in the jungle outback of Trezenia, listening for the slight change in pitch of the treehoppers’ song to signify someone, something, was out there moving, or whether it was sitting behind a modernistic console waiting, debating whether to take stronger action, when too strong an action might unleash the disaster that needed to be contained.

He leaned further back in the swivel, half noting that the clouds were clearing, that the westernmost towers were glistening in the jacket of moisture lit by the noon sun.

The signs were there—the overt absence of military influence coupled with the continuing references to the “Eagles” and the large military bureaucracy; the gentle and total control of the population; the small stories about the use of the Fleets in pressuring out-systems; the dedication of the new flagship of the new Eleventh Fleet; the routine acceptance of the dispatch of the Fifth Fleet to intimidate Orknarli; and, of course, the example of Haversol.

The Imperials liked to play the diplomatic game as politely as possible, without overt violence, and using the threat of the immense force of the Empire as the major tool. The use of violence in New Augusta didn’t fit, not unless Accord was a real threat to something being planned, not unless the conditioned fear of Accord ran deeper than he thought.

The intercom buzzed. He ignored it, trying to pin down the elusive angle of the bombings.

The intercom buzzed twice.

He wondered if Marcella had anything to do with the explosions. Why her warnings? Or Courtney’s veiled references? And Sylvia…With that thought he wondered if he detected the faintest trace of orange blossoms in the office.

He shook his head.

His fingers headed for the console control studs as he swung back to face the bank of plates and lights. Finally, he touched the plates and tapped out the codes.

“Senator Helmsworth’s office.”

“Nathaniel Whaler for Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Whaler, but she and Ms. Corwin-Smathers are on the floor with the Senator.”

Floor? Floor of what?

Charles caught the confusion on Nathaniel’s face and flashed his professionally engaging smile at the Envoy.

“The floor of the Senate. The debate on the ad valorem tax changes has just begun.” The receptionist paused.

“Would you like to leave word that you called?”

“No…not right now. Thank you.”

Nathaniel absently looked down at the console where the intercom plate still flashed.

Of course the lady was busy. Weren’t they all? He shook his head again.

The intercom buzzed twice more, and this time he decided against ignoring it.

“Lord Whaler, the repair crews are here.”

“Fine.”

“They’re likely to make a great deal of noise.”

“Noise? Ah, yes, noise.”

“Perhaps now would be a good time for you to eat?”

Nathaniel scratched his head, then nodded.

“Lunch, I suppose, I will have now.”

He stood and looked out at the hills, now beginning to show a golden tinge. He wondered if the color shift were seasonal or merely the result of little rain.

“H
E’S A DANGER
for two reasons.”

“Two? The first is obvious. If he succeeds in getting that trade agreement, we lose the most favorable chance in generations to remove the Accord influence. But what’s the second?”

Three officers sat in the small sound-and snoop-blanked room, and the special construction absorbed each word even before the next was uttered.

“His success fuels the myth of Accord’s invincibility.”

The third officer, a woman wearing the uniform of a Vice Admiral, frowned, tapped her fingers on the soft top of the table. “Can you honestly say that the average citizen knows, or cares, about whether Accord can hold us off? Who cares? When you get to that level of argument, it’s a leadership discussion. The whole universe knows Accord is not an aggressive force. The more subtle danger is overlooked.”

“Subtleties yet,” snapped the First Fleet Commander. “How subtle is it that our traders are effectively blocked from the entire Rift? How subtle is it that fifty systems followed Accord into rebellion and still look to the black and green for leadership?”

The Rear Admiral shook her head. “For you, it’s not subtle. But who in the Imperial Court really follows the trade flow on the Imperial borders? Who understands that Accord’s example will leave us boxed on all borders? Or that stagnation is bound to follow? N’troya understands that. He should, since he’s the Emperor, but he also claims that the use of force begets force, and that force will lead to the Empire’s downfall.”

“The Grand Admiral hasn’t bought that.”

“Not yet. That’s the position her daughter is staking out at Commerce, and a successful trade treaty with Accord could bolster both the Emperor and young Ku-Smythe. Not incidentally, it would further strengthen Accord.”

The Vice Commander spoke up.

“For generations, they’ve bluffed us, claiming their Institute could poison all the worlds of the Empire. It’s just not possible, but everyone goes along with the blackmail bluff and nods.”

The Rear Admiral looked at the two younger officers, the Fleet Commander and her Vice Commander.

“Bluff it might be, but if we get the go-ahead from the Grand Admiral, you’ll have literally only standard hours in which to bake the entire system. Who knows what they have hidden on the outer planets, on asteroids, parked in orbit…”

“That can’t be done, unless—”

“That’s right. Even so, the nova front would take hours to get to the outer orbits, which means that you’d have to maintain a picket line until nearly the last minute.”

Silence, deeper than before.

“But no one would ever challenge the Empire for generations…would they?”

“M
YDRA, COME WITH
me.”

“Lord Whaler, I couldn’t.”

“No?”

Mydra looked around the staff office as if for moral support, but Hillary had scurried out toward the front desk.

“I do have a great deal of work,” she protested.

“Which can wait, can it not? Besides, the repair crews will make a great deal of noise, will they not?”

She almost smiled but managed to keep a straight face.

“Let me get my cloak.”

He nodded, knowing she was surely going to do more than that, wondering whether the stops were for cosmetic touch-ups, snooper equipment, or to report to whomever she reported to, or all three.

Ten minutes later, she reappeared, wearing a deep brown cloak trimmed in cream, and with every dark brown hair in perfect place.

At the Legate’s dining room, Nathaniel announced “the portico” and was rewarded with the same table he had had the night before.

“Have you dined here before?”

“Once or twice with Legate Witherspoon.”

“A drink?” inquired the waiter.

Nathaniel inclined his head toward Mydra.

“Sperlin.”

“Liftea.”

“Do all Accordans like liftea?”

“A planetary vice it is, I fear.” He gestured to the sweep of the windows and the towers. “Never would I tire of such a picture.”

“I never do, either. You know. These are the only towers left on Terra.”

“So was I told by someone.”

“Tourists come from the underground cities all around the globe to see the views.” There was an edge to her voice.

“They do?”

“The war with Accord, you know,” she explained, “drove us underground. It’s only been in the past century that any real aboveground excursions have been permitted.”

“Not well liked are we, then?”

“I wouldn’t say that, Lord Whaler, but Accord isn’t the most popular system outside the Empire, either.”

“That will affect trade talks, doubtless.”

“It may, but that’s your field, and I certainly wouldn’t presume to guess.”

The liftea and the white wine Mydra had ordered arrived with the menus.

As if to cover his confusion, Nathaniel immediately buried himself in the printed selections.

He’d already decided on a light salad after having checked his weight that morning. New Augusta was definitely too rich for Ecolitans, both in the complexity of the political systems and in the caloric content of the food.

He put down the menu and looked out the window, knowing as he did so that he was looking out windows far too much just in order to avoid talking.

“Lord Whaler?”

“Hmmm…”

“Earlier, you mentioned something about Accord and your worries. Are you still that worried?”

“Yes, Lady dear. Worried and a little tired. What can I do but wait? Terms have been suggested.”

“I know that, but…”

The Ecolitan beckoned to the waiter.

“Yes, sir?”

Nathaniel waited for Mydra.

“I’ll have the flamed shrimp, with the fruit salad.”

“This salad here,” added the Envoy as he pointed to the entree.

“Saying you were…” he prompted.

“I was wondering,” she said slowly, “about what you said. You seemed so…weary…tired…and so sure that Accord and the Empire would end up destroying each other.”

The Ecolitan let his shoulders sag slightly, then took a sip of the liftea.

“You know what I am. A professor of trade, an Ecolitan, and someone who is not a politician. Complicated diplomacy that seems separate from what I know to be true I have trouble with. A large Empire also needs many Ministries and people, but I understand not why they do not have the same purposes. But you have them and we, small system that we are, must deal as we can.”

Mydra’s right eyebrow twitched slightly.

As he paused, he could see the portico was beginning to fill with other diplomats and their guests.

“To us, we looked for simple negotiations. We proposed alternative terms—”

“I understand that, Lord Whaler. I do sympathize with the confusion which has occurred, and I suppose all Empires have problems with their bureaucracies, but that doesn’t seem to be what bothers you. You seem almost haunted.”

“Haunted?”

“Possessed. Bothered by an image of something terrible, as if the Empire were some ogre hanging over Accord.”

“Did you not say that Accord was not liked? Should I not worry? Should we not worry? Should the people of Haversol not worry? Should the people of Orknarli not worry?”

He took another sip of his liftea.

Mydra followed his example and sipped her wine. He could sense the frustration she was feeling at his avoiding the real thrust of her question.

“You think I do not understand what you ask?” He shook his head. “I understand. Simple questions do not always have simple answers. Let me answer your questions with questions.” He stopped to take another sip of the tea. “Is not the Empire more powerful now than before the Secession? Does not the Grand Admiral control more than ten fleets? Is not each of those fleets bigger than the entire Imperial Navy of the Secession time?” He waited.

“Yes. You said that already. You said that the Empire could destroy Accord. It was the other things you hinted at…”

“About the little people…about those who will not give in even though they would be destroyed?” He cleared his throat. “Accord did not win freedom with battlefleets, did we? Why does the Empire think we should turn to big ships and big fleets now? Why should we abandon our own ways of warfare? As the Empire has strengthened its weapons, would not poor Accord have done so as well?”

He shrugged, then finished in a lower tone. “Planets that cannot grow foods cannot support Empires. Any planet must support itself, except a very few, such as New Augusta. And to disrupt the balance necessary for such is not difficult for Accord, though the results would not be immediate. These weapons cannot be tested—not obviously—cannot be paraded through streets, cannot thunder through skies. Very quiet, and no one sees. The Emperor does not see the danger, nor does the Grand Admiral. And Accord does not understand that the Empire does not see. For me, it is dangerous even to hint at such, and dangerous not to.”

He forced a smile. “We cannot dwell on this, but do our best to work it out.”

“Work out?” stammered Mydra, her mind apparently fixed on the implications of what he’d said. “You’re not saying that Accord would literally wipe out life on hundreds of planets for better trade terms?”

“No. Accord does nothing first.” He spaced his words firmly and deliberately. “Remember. The Empire attacked Haversol over the terms of trade, not the other way. The Empire stalled trade talks, then used delay as an excuse. I see delay. I see me trying to get around that delay, and I see someone trying to kill me.”

He looked away from her and at the sunlit western hills. “I have done what I can. You should enjoy the shrimp and the view.”

Nathaniel plunged into the salad which had been delivered during his monologue, discovering he was hungrier than he’d thought.

Mydra ate silently.

After he’d finished the salad down to the last morsel, including the bitter garnish, he straightened and studied the other tables.

The spacing became apparent. What amounted to a circle of empty tables surrounded his. Was he persona non grata, or did no one want to consort with the next victim of Imperial expansionism?

Even as he debated, a tall woman dressed in yellow stood up at one of the far tables and swiftly crossed the dining area toward him. A matriarch of Halston, he identified her, probably the Legate from her bearing and age.

He rose.

“Envoy Whaler? Berthea of Carthos.” She spoke in Panglais.

With Mydra present, he decided against replying in Halstani.

“Your honor. May I present Ms. Mydra Da-Vios of the Legation staff?”

“My pleasure, and may I invite you both to join us?”

“Delighted we would be,” Nathaniel answered quickly.

Three women, all attired in some shade of yellow trimmed with dark brown, and one man, dressed in a similar yellow tunic and trousers piped with the same dark brown, all came to their feet when Nathaniel, Mydra, and Berthea returned.

The women were Carin, Lynea, and Deirdre. The man, younger than Sergel, trimmer, blond, clean shaven, and regular featured, was Arthos.

Berthea wasted no time.

“Understand you’re having trouble getting straight answers from the Empire.”

The Ecolitan launched into his whole explanation, starting with his arrival, his meetings, and the ensuing strange events.

“…and I am waiting, hoping that the situation can be resolved.”

All five of the Halstanians nodded.

“That’s the story we’d heard, but I wanted to get it direct from you,” snapped Berthea. “Sounds like a replay of the Haversol situation.”

From the corner of his eye, Nathaniel could see Mydra sitting on the edge of her chair.

“Have you had any pressure from the Eagles?” asked Carin.

“Only that they sent a battlecruiser to escort me. Strange that none of the military have contacted the Legation.”

“That fits,” noted Berthea, gray eyes resting levelly on Mydra. “They stay in the background, just dispatch their fleets to do the talking. That Admiral Ku-Smythe, she’s a cool one.”

“Ku-Smythe? Special Assistant at Commerce, I thought.”

“That’s the daughter. Just as cold as the mother, I hear.” That was Lynea’s comment, who looked to be close to the same age as Marcella.

“Halston has had similar difficulties?”

“Not yet. We’d rather it didn’t get that far. Orknarli’s too close.”

“Divide and conquer,” chipped in Carin, who earned a frown from Berthea.

Nathaniel just nodded.

“For someone who’s sitting on top of flamewasps, Lord Whaler, you seem rather detached.”

“Not detached, just waiting, hoping that upon reflection the Empire will accept our very reasonable terms of trade.”

“If they don’t?”

“Then Accord will do what it must.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” the tall Legate said softly.

Lynea flashed a puzzled look at her Legate.

“Check your histories, Lynea. Only fools, idiots, or men pick fights with the…with Accord.”

The Ecolitan wondered how she had almost described Accord.

“My apologies, Ms. Da-Vios,” added Berthea in a cold tone, inclining her head toward Mydra.

Nathaniel spread his hands in a gesture of appeal.

“In this, if you would convey our situation to any whom you think could be of value…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Will do. Understand your position. Probably would have to handle it in much the same way. Hope the Empire understands. Good luck.”

Nathaniel understood as well and rose to his feet.

“Mydra, we need to return to the Legation.”

Three strangers were working in his office when he returned. In the two plus hours since he and Mydra had been gone, plastic sheeting had been laid over virtually all the furniture and the carpeting. The workers were beginning to cut out squares from the walls where the damage had been the heaviest.

In passing through to his own private study, Nathaniel saw enough to know the snooping equipment had been replaced and improved.

Back in his quarters, he dropped into the smaller study swivel and stared into space.

Finally, he turned to the screen on the comm unit and began twisting through the public channels but only picked up dramas, song and dance shows, music programs.

The fax channels had news somewhere. Was the two position switch to the right of the selector for such a distinction?

It was. The blue was for news and factual material, the red for lighter fare.

After fifteen minutes of flipping back and forth, he found one quick segment on the Accord-Empire situation.

A commentator in silver sat behind her console, green eyes somehow enhanced, silver hair flashing, both professional and alluring at the same time, in a way that reminded him, distantly, of Marcella.

“Newest developments on the Accord trade talks.”

Flash to a shot of the Accord seal on the Legation’s front portals, then to the tattered wall of Nathaniel’s office.

“Earlier today we showed you the bombing damage to the Accord Legation and an interview with the Envoy there, who insisted the Empire was stalling trade talks.”

The screen shifted back to the commentator for an instant before displaying another scene, this time of a slender, gray-haired woman in brilliant yellow.

“The Matriarch Princeps of Halston today requested that the Emperor favorably consider the terms of trade offered by Accord and stated that delay would not be in the best interests of either the Empire or other systems. No amplification was forthcoming. Neither the Ministry of Commerce nor the Ministry of External Affairs would comment.”

The screen flicked back to the commentator.

“In the meantime, Imperial Intelligence still denies one of its agents was injured while involved in the Accord case.

“Explanations are missing. The Accord Envoy has none, and no affected Imperial Ministries would comment.

“Next…a special report on the impact of the synde bean shortage—”

Nathaniel switched off the screen.

The media hadn’t forgotten…so far.

He tapped the intercom.

“Mydra! Any word on Sergel?”

“No, sir. He doesn’t answer, and he hasn’t called in.”

“Then please officially report that he is missing.”

“So soon?”

“No. So late.”

He cut Mydra off and accessed the Faxstellar number.

The receptionist was male, blond, regular featured, even if his chin was weak.

“Nathaniel Whaler, Envoy of Accord, this is. More interesting information have—”

“Yes, sir. Ms. Bar-Twyla said to put you straight through.”

“Kyra Bar-Twyla…Lord Whaler. What a surprise! How can I help you?”

“Perhaps we can each other help. A person from my staff is missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“Most serious. Mr. Sergel Weintre, my Information Specialist, is not in his quarters, has not reported to work, and was supposed to be here early this morning. Now is late afternoon and no Sergel. I would not worry about so trivial a matter, but after these past few days…” Nathaniel shrugged.