Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (2 page)

T
HE
A
DMIRAL GLARED
around the conference table that circled an empty space, then tapped the flat control panel.

The panel flashed twice before settling into a steady amber glow to signify that the full security screens were on-line and functioning.

A tap on another panel stud brought the holo star map into being in the once-vacant center of the encircling table.

The Admiral lifted the light pointer from the console and rapped the table. Once. The low murmur from the dozen senior officers died.

Guiding the pointer into the holo map, the Admiral focused the tip on a G-type system on the far side of the Rift.

“Accord. You can see how it controls the trade lines. Particularly since the Secession.”

The pointer tip moved from the holo and jabbed at the Commodore.

“Let’s have your isolation strategy report.”

The Commodore stood stiffly and gestured at the blank wall to the right of the senior officer. A segment of the holo, blown to larger dimensions, appeared. On the inner edge of the Rift, the Imperial side, three stars appeared in red.

“Haversol, Fonderal, and Cubera. Until the success of our recent operation, Haversol was the largest out-Rift trade staging point on the Imperial side dealing with the Coordinate traders. The economics dictated that we hit Fonderal first, and that was completed before we even planned the Haversol campaign. The embargo on Fonderal was a simpler matter, of course, because of its lack of an internally supported infrastructure. Even
they
couldn’t tackle that kind of rebuilding job, not in the short run, and especially with Haversol still open.

“Next came the flanking movement. We managed to get adequate support to the statist insurgents, who, in turn, were able to topple the monarchy. Of course, the new provisional government asked for Imperial assistance, and the Fourth Fleet was close enough to provide the necessary support.”

“That left Hernando and Haversol along this corridor, and we’ve just about completed the establishment of the military support agreement with the new government of Haversol.”

Another system on the holo blowup began to alternate flashing white and red.

“That leaves Hernando.”

The Commodore coughed twice, reached down, and took a sip from the tumbler before returning to the presentation.

“Obviously, this is all just a sketch, but the next step will be harder. Hernando is considerably more stable than the other systems. Still…if we can get a more favorable government in the upcoming elections or, failing that, generate enough civil unrest to demonstrate a certifiable lack of control, we would have the basis for another control action, citing the threat to Imperial commerce. That would just about close down Accord’s access to the Limber line.”

The Commodore looked back at the Admiral.

“Any questions, Admiral?”

“What’s the best possible time line?”

“The midterm elections on Hernando are more than a standard year off, and to generate any real results will be hard in such a short frame, but we intend to try. Certainly, by the next elections after the midterms—”

“Aim for the midterms. Giving Accord time to react could put us on the defensive.”

The Commodore nodded. “Full speed ahead on Hernando it is, Admiral.”

T
IPSY, THAT THE
man definitely was.

Otherwise he would not have staggered down the hallway and elbowed his way through the heavy wooden door into the private party in the second dining room of the Golden Charthouse.

Twenty people, fourteen men and six women, sat around the two rectangular tables, enjoying the first course of dorle soup and the thin and genuine wheat crackers and anticipating the days of power to come. Only six weeks remained before the upper chamber elections.

A tall man, clean shaven and attired in a formal, deep blue tunic and contrasting cream sash, was standing to make the first toast.

“To the people of Hernando and to the Popular Front, the government to be.”

The drunk, a sandy-haired fellow, lurched inside the room.

“Sir, this is a private party.” The guard moved away from the curtained archway to block the intruder. His partner approached from the other side.

Neither thought to reach for the illegal freezers in the belt holsters they flaunted.

“So…want to join the celebration…see the new masters…see what kind of government the Empire bought…how much the sellout cost…”

The sandy-haired man stood almost as tall as the two guards. All three were nearly half a head taller than the men seated around the tables, even than the toastmaster.

“Sir!” protested the lead guard, stiffening.

The interloper stumbled backwards, then kicked the heavy door shut. The toastmaster jerked his head toward the noise.

“Sorry, friends!”

With his right hand, the intruder launched an aerosol into the space between the tables. Simultaneously, a backhand slash casually broke the neck of the guard on his left.

The right-hand guard grabbed for his freezer, too late, and had no second chance as he doubled with a crumpled windpipe and a smashed kneecap.

Even before the aerosol had landed and come to a full stop, the Ecolitan had returned his full attention to the diners, with a small dart pistol in each hand.

The toastmaster in blue was dragging a stunner from his waistband when the first dart caught him in the throat.

“Help!”

“Security!”

“Flamed greenie!”

“Get him!”

“You do!”

A black man with flaming golden hair dove from the top of the nearest table but fell short of reaching the attacker, and was rewarded with a dart in the neck and a kick snapping his collarbone.

The shouts and sounds, already muffled by the private dining room’s heavy insulation and rich hangings, began to dwindle under the effects of the darts and the aerosol.

The Ecolitan calmly continued to shoot anyone trying to reach him or to escape until there were no living figures in the room. None had escaped. Then he checked the bodies, methodically studying each face and comparing it against his memory, and insuring that every member of the Popular Front present was indeed dead.

The sometime Ecolitan professor who bore the unlikely name of Nathaniel Whaler disliked the necessity of the assignment but continued to move with measured and deliberate speed, touching nothing except with his gloved hands as he turned each still form. Last, he replaced the aerosol in his tunic, concealed the dart guns in his boot sheaths, and opened the heavy wooden door, staggering out as he closed it behind him. Weaving back and forth, he stumbled back down the hallway and out into the main corridor from the hidden Charthouse.

Three levels down, he disappeared into a public fresher stall. In time, a blond man in a dark blue business tunic crisply strode out.

After descending yet another level to the open square, the Ecolitan/businessman sat down beside a fountain on an empty pseudo stone bench, apparently admiring the interplay of the golden water with the crimson spray curtains.

In time, a young woman, low-cut blouse revealing her profession and assets, sat down next to him, thrusting her chest at him with an artificially inviting smile.

“Complete?”

“All but Zeroga,” answered Whaler. “Not at the dinner. You try the firm. I’ll hit his quarters.”

As he spoke, Whaler let his eyes range over the woman, as if appraising what she offered.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

Whaler shook his head vigorously, and the woman pouted publicly before standing with a flourish and mincing her way from him and the fountain.

The Ecolitan shook his head again and stood.

Finally, with a last look at the fountain, the blond man who had been sandy haired and would be again walked down the corridor to the flitter stand, where he dialed for public transportation.

T
HE
C
OMMODORE STOOD
more stiffly than usual, waiting to report to the Admiral and the other members of the Ministry’s strategy board.

“I understand we’ve run into some difficulties on Hernando, Commodore.”

“Yes, Admiral. A major stumbling block, though you will recall that my last report to the board indicated the lack of time facing us.”

“I recall that. However, would you please provide a fuller explanation for the record.” The tone of the request sent shivers down the back of the senior Commanders in the briefing section. Several others shifted their weight quietly.

The Commodore turned to face neither the audience nor the Admiral and pointed at the lit screen, which displayed a chart.

“As you can see, the Conservative Democrats, with the help of the seven seats held by the Socialist Republicans, control the Upper Chamber, and thus, the executive branch of Hernando’s government. The Popular Front, with some outside technical support, had identified the most vulnerable Conservative Democrats and targeted them. We also targeted those strong opinion leaders opposed to a greater Imperial presence along the Limber line.”

The chart shifted.

“This indicates the probable election outcome, including deaths and retirements, which we had predicted last month.”

“That doesn’t look like a problem,” commented a junior Admiral to the Commodore’s right.

“It wasn’t…until some mutant form of A-damp virus wiped out the entire Popular Front planning group and the ten leading candidates—all on the same night ten days ago.”

“Accord?”

“The Institute. No way to prove it, but the signs all point that way.”

“Such as?”

“First, both security guards were taken out by hand. One had a broken neck and the other a crushed windpipe.” The Commodore cleared his throat before continuing. “Second, it was done quietly. No guns, blaster bolts, slug throwers. And virtually no traces left.”

The Admiral studied the faces around the conference table. Several expressed open doubt.

“Why do you think those are enough to point at Accord and at the Ecolitan Institute, Commodore?”

“Well…we don’t deal with biological weapons, especially tailored ones. Imperial intelligence, as well as the Ministry’s teams, indicates that only Accord has a capability sophisticated enough to develop and deploy individualized weapons—”

“Was this really a weapon?” snapped a senior Fleet Admiral.

“Admiral,” answered the Commodore, “have you ever run across a swamp fever virus that killed an entire room full of people within a unit or two, simultaneously? At the same time when two armed security guards were killed by hand?”

The silence dragged out. Finally, the Commodore turned back to the Grand Admiral.

“That brings up the hand-to-hand ability. We might have a dozen men with the ability to disable a pair of two-meter-tall armed guards in seconds. Several other terrorist groups might have a handful spread across the Empire. None of us have anyone with that ability also immune to swamp fever, mutated or not, or with the ability to walk through a crowded restaurant into a private dining room and assassinate twenty people and then leave without even being noticed.”

“Not even noticed?”

“Not so far as we can determine.”

The Admiral surveyed the faces again. “You might ask why this all points to Accord. I’ll tell you. What the Commodore has not said is that all members of the Institute are either naturally immune or immunized against swamp fever and a number of other fast-acting diseases. He also has not mentioned that the Ecolitan Institute maintains the most intensive hand-to-hand combat training in the civilized worlds, along with a special corps that is little more than a crack terrorist unit.”

“Can we prove any of this?”

“That’s not the point. Accord wanted to send us a message. They sent it, and we’ve received it. It doesn’t change a thing. Single individuals, no matter how gifted, cannot stop the massed force of history that we will bring to bear.”

The Admiral frowned slightly after finishing the declaration, then touched the control console. The holo star map and the wall charts vanished.

“We can’t wait for another set of elections on Hernando, not with this kind of a challenge. How soon can we go with Plan B?”

The Commodore cleared his throat. “That’s already underway, but the flagship won’t be ready for about three standard months—”

“See if you can make it two.”

The Commodore nodded.

The Admiral touched the amber stud, and the security screens winked off.

“Adjourned.”

R
ESTINAL PAUSED OUTSIDE
the open door.

“Come in, Werlin. Come on in.”

Restinal didn’t recognize the voice, but it was apparent from the cheerful tone of the invitation that the speaker recognized him.

He shrugged, took a tighter grip on his datacase, and went in.

The room was paneled in lorkin wood. The desk and chairs were all carved from it as well. Restinal noted that the furniture all matched, each piece done in the spare style termed Ecolog.

Behind the desk, which was really a wide table with a single drawer, sat a silver-haired man, laugh lines radiating from the bright green eyes. Restinal mentally compared the face against the ones shown him by Delward before he’d left Harmony. He struggled momentarily before realizing that the man was the Prime Ecolitan himself, Gairloch Pittsway. For some reason, Restinal hadn’t expected to be met by the Prime himself, much less in an empty office without aides.

“You wonder about the absence of subordinates?”

“Exactly,” responded the Delegate Minister for Interstellar Commerce.

“You shouldn’t, not if you’ve followed the precepts of the Institute. Unnecessary subordinates are a sign of weakness. Our fault that most no longer know the precepts, no doubt, since the Iron Rules are no longer popular in the schools’ curricula.”

Restinal didn’t have the faintest idea what the Prime was talking about. He kept his face blank.

“I realize you don’t understand what I’m jabbering on about, Werlin, but don’t worry about it. If you don’t understand it instinctively, it would take more time than either of us has for me to explain what I mean. Power is the question now.

“Neither the Orthodoxists nor the Normists have the power to force their choice for Trade Envoy to New Augusta upon the other. The Supreme Justiciary passed the choice back to the House, ruling that the selection has to be made by the political arm of the government. You’re stuck. And you don’t like the Institute all that much, since we are the sole remaining traditional structure still respected by the masses you professional politicians cultivate so assiduously. Both you and the Orthodoxists would like to reduce the influence of the Institute more than the passage of time and the ravages of peace have already done.

“Forcing a choice upon the Institute, with the attendant publicity, solves all your problems. Neither party has to take responsibility for the choice. If our selection succeeds, then you will take credit, and if he fails, we take the blame.”

“That is conjecture, respected Prime,” responded Restinal.

“Gairloch or Prime. None of that ‘respected’ hypocrisy, please.” The Ecolitan smiled, the open smile of a man at peace with himself or as if at a child’s joke, before he went on. “The Institute attempts to minimize dealing with speculations or conjectures. I doubt that my analysis is anything but factual. I respect, however, the position in which you have been placed by the operation of the political machinery.”

The Prime Ecolitan stood and walked from behind the table toward the still-standing Restinal.

“Please sit down. I forget that politicians all too often stand on ceremony.”

Restinal’s knees felt rubbery, and he eased himself into one of the carved high-backed chairs. Although the chair was not upholstered, the flowing curves of the wood seemed to welcome him.

The Prime poured a cup of water from a crystal pitcher and placed it on the table next to Restinal before he returned to his chair behind the desk.

Restinal picked up his case, placed it on his lap, opened it, and pulled out the carefully drawn list the Elders Quaestor and Torine had hammered out in the short hours before he had been dispatched.

“Keep the list. The names on it are predictable. They begin with Tormel, Reerden, and Silven.”

Restinal kept his mouth shut. The list began with Tormel, Reerden, and Silven. But there were only two copies of the list—the one he had and the one Torine had kept. He, Restinal, had handwritten both.

“I can see you haven’t had that much contact with the Institute, Werlin, and I’m afraid that will make your acceptance of your role that much more difficult.

“In answer to your unspoken question, none of us has seen the list, but we do know the personalities of the individuals who made the choices and the parameters for selection. I’ll admit, in candor, that I would be hard-pressed to name the next person in order on the list, although we could probably pick eight out of ten.”

Restinal allowed his features to express mild interest. “Perhaps you have already made a choice, then?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. But the name is not one on your list.”

The Minister for Interstellar Commerce suddenly felt sticky in his formal blacks, as if he had been placed squarely in the Parundan Peninsula rain forests.

“If you would explain—”

“Werlin, the Institute is not obligated to explain anything, but since you are intelligent and informed, I will put it in simple terms. The same reason why the House of Delegates cannot select any Envoy is why anyone chosen from that list will not succeed.”

“I fail to see that. Most governments select their Envoys.” Restinal was beginning to see why Elder Torine had delegated the job to him and why few of the older Delegates cared much for the Institute.

“Most Envoys fail. We do not care to be associated with failure. The question is not political. The question is power. Politics is a system of using nonovert force to work out an agreeable compromise that does not lead to violence. The more equal the base of power, the more political the means of agreement can be.”

Restinal was lost, and he knew his face showed it.

The Prime shook his head.

“Let me attempt to explain by analogy. When two torkrams contest for superiority, do they fight for blood? Of course not. They fight until one loses his footing. In fact, the amount of violence is minimal. If a prairie wolf should wander into the hills, however, the torkram becomes a merciless attacker. The first is an example of near equality of force, as well as an example of similar social behavior which allows what might be called a negotiated settlement. The second is a struggle for survival.

“You and the other Delegates are assuming that in negotiating with the Empire the basis of force is equal and the social behaviors behind the political structures are alike. Both are questionable assumptions.”

“Are they really?” questioned Restinal. What did torkrams have to do with the picking of Envoys anyway?

“As a consequence,” continued the Prime, “we have picked our own nominee.”

Restinal repressed a whistle. Elder Torine didn’t like being crossed, and neither did Elder Quaestor, and the Prime was blithely crossing them both.

“Do you honestly think the Delegates will agree?”

“Yes. They have no choice. They don’t want to take the blame if things go wrong. Elder Torine knows that. Did you ever ask yourself why you were chosen to present the list and bring back our reply?”

Restinal had wondered but had dismissed it in the face of Torine’s encouragement and insistence. He nodded at the Ecolitan.

“We are not unaware of the impact this could have on your career, Werlin,” continued the Prime. “But you should be able to surmount any difficulties. If not, it is doubtful your career would have lasted much longer.”

Delegate Minister Werlin Restinal was getting the picture, and though the outlines were blurry, he didn’t like the view. The Delegate Minister for Interstellar Commerce was about to become Elder Torine’s scapegoat unless he could turn the announcement to his own advantage.

“Who is your choice?”

“Nathaniel Firstborne Whaler.”

The name meant nothing to Restinal.

The Prime lifted a thin folder from his desk and slid it across the flat surface to where the Delegate could reach it.

Restinal opened it and scanned the background on Whaler.

Nathaniel Firstborne Whaler—senior fellow of the Ecolitan Institute; 38 A.T.U.; 191 centimeters; fluent in the eight leading tongues of the Empire, plus Fuardian and ancient English; Class B scout pilot; combat master; Class C energy tech; noted economist and recognized authority on infrastructure economics.

His single previous tour with the government had been as the Ecolitan Special Assistant to a previous Minister of Commerce.

Restinal was impressed, in spite of his skepticism.

“Are you sure he’s the best choice?”

“Do you have anyone who can match half his qualifications?”

Restinal repressed a sigh. There it was, in green and black. Take Whaler or go without the blessing of the Institute…and anyone to blame things on if the talks fell through.