Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (21 page)

“You miss the dance?” he guessed.

“You don’t ever get it out of your blood.”

“Why did you not continue?”

“I wasn’t good enough. Not for the Imperial Court, with its pick of the best from hundreds and hundreds of systems. Oh…I fought it, but in the long run, you accept the decision of the Arbiter.”

“Arbiter?”

“The Arbiters of the Arts, who judge who gets into the artistic professions.”

“That is important?”

“Dear Envoy, for an artist, it’s everything. If you aren’t accepted by one of the Arbiters for the arts or for a profession, you’ve got two choices—emigrate or join one of the services.”

“I see. And you?”

“Foreign Service…barely.” The undercurrent of bitterness was there.

“Why did you not emigrate to where you could dance?”

“It doesn’t work that way. Emigration is randomly assigned. Otherwise the children of the well-connected would all end up on places like Calleria and Einstein, and the unknowns and those out of favor would be out on the worlds of the Alparta. The one thing that’s been kept absolutely fair is the emigration lottery.”

Nathaniel doubted that, but kept his mouth shut. How the Empire kept order on New Augusta was becoming much clearer. He changed the subject.

“Do you still dance?”

“As a hobby, a spare-time pursuit, but enough of that, dear Envoy.”

He patted her shoulder, not sure exactly what else he could do.

She walked out from underneath his second pat, touched his hand, and was on her way to the next exhibit.

The rest of the Hall of Sculpture was a blur. His thoughts kept going back to the statues of the man emerging from Terra and to the dancer.

As they emerged from the Gallery, Sylvia halted in mid-skip, and pointed to the miniature garden they had passed on the way into the main hall.

“Are the flowers on Accord much like that?”

“Those few we have are from Terra, but there aren’t that many except for the fruit trees.”

He hoped she would let the statement go, knowing at the same time she wouldn’t. How was he going to explain, without lapsing into pedantry, that while Accord was a product of parallel evolution, the principal plant families were more like the year around, nonflowering gymnosperms than the deciduous trees of Terra. After two millennia, the imported Terran stock was beginning to predominate over much of the Accord native flora. The hardier breeds and the crosses developed by the Institute could hold their own against the Terran plants, and, in some cases, were reversing the trend.

The drier high steppes were totally indigenous and would remain that way since Terran cacti and plains grasses had not been among the original imports.

“No flowers? Except on fruit trees? We’re limited because of ecological problems. You’re free to walk your planet, but there’s nothing bright to see?”

“Not exactly. The finger tree, with green and yellow striped fronds, can be spectacular in the dry seasons.”

“But what about flowers? Just plain old flowers beautiful to look at?”

Nathaniel shrugged. While he enjoyed the finger trees and the spring greenbursts of the corran forests as much as anyone, he hadn’t placed the need for a large variety of flowers at the center of his aesthetics.

“Maybe that’s why,” she mused.

“Why what?” He was annoyed, not knowing why.

“Why you don’t understand the starkness you present, why the black and the dark forest green you wear so often fit you so well. Flowers and dance go together with sunshine and open air. You have the open air but not the flowers. We have the flowers.” She looked down at the blooms. “Now’s not the time for any more philosophy. You need to see more before you go, and I can’t imagine you’ll be the one to stay and sightsee once your talks are complete. And it won’t be all that long now.”

She started off, with more a brisk walk than a skip.

“Next, you ought to see the Maze of Traitors.”

He repressed the urge to ask her how she knew the talks wouldn’t last too long and clamped down on his tongue. Sylvia seemed to flit from point to point and subject to subject with annoying rapidity, not ever quite finishing anything.

Maze of Traitors? he wondered.

Sylvia was still moving quickly, and he had to quick-step to catch her.

“Can tell your military background, dear Envoy, you know?”

“Military?”

“You don’t ever amble or skip or run. You march or quick-step, and if you really got behind, I’d bet on a military jog or a flat-out sprint.”

“Maze of Traitors?” he asked, not wanting to touch on the question of his background.

“Dates from the First Foundation. Legend has it the Directorate built it under Alregord. He called the fallen oligarchs rats, but any rat who could run the maze could emigrate. We can get there from the Concourse at the Ministry of Defense.”

The history of New Augusta hadn’t mentioned the Maze of Traitors, and the rise of the Directorate under Alregord had merited two brief paragraphs.

Sylvia flung herself into the drop shaft and assumed he would follow, which he did but without the same reckless abandon.

The Maze of Traitors had been sanitized and covered with permaglass, on which tourists could walk and trace the paths beneath the transparent flooring. The Maze was deserted, only a man and two children wandered ahead of them.

Each of the hazards beneath was marked with a plaque and announcing stand.

“Station six,” declared a disembodied voice as Nathaniel approached. “This is the delayed drop trap, which was counterweighted so that it did not drop until the body weight was a full meter onto the surface. According to the records, less than twenty percent of the criminal victims ever escaped this section.

“Station nine. As you can see, this appears to be a gentle incline which leads to a cul-de-sac, but the surface is specially treated to be directionally friction sensitive, making a return climb back up the ramp impossible for all but the fastest.”

Nathaniel did not ask what happened to those who could not make the climb. The two paragraphs about Alregord had been specific enough.

“Station thirty-six. This is the false exit, identical to the real exit except for the seal of the Directorate beneath the lettering. Each victim was shown a picture of the real exit before being placed in the entry area, but no special emphasis was placed on the need for absolute identity. As a precaution, the incinerator units in the walls, like the other weapons in the Maze, were disconnected when it was restored by the Emperor H’taillen.”

Fast as he’d been in touring the maze, Sylvia had gone ahead and was waiting.

“Why did you think I should see this?”

“Just did. Call it for my own reasons. No more questions, dear Envoy, please. Now, how about the observation platform at Tower Center?”

He’d heard of that—the circular permaglass platform on the tallest tower in the center of New Augusta where it was rumored that you could see three hundred kilometers. Unless the towers were taller than he suspected, three hundred kilometers seemed a bit far. He supposed he could have figured out the math, but assuming that the earth was flat, technically a two-kilometer tower would have allowed a look at flat ground more than six hundred kilometers away, although the angle would be so flat as to be useless. Probably the maximum distance would be closer to one hundred kilos. In any case, the view might be worth it.

As at the Maze of Traitors, he and Sylvia found few tourists or others on the observation platform, even though there were no restrictions on entry, no cost for entering the high speed lift shaft, and plenty of space atop the tower.

As the morning had promised, the sky was clear. In the growing dusk of the late afternoon, the shadows of the towers spilled over the Imperial Palace to the east. The western mountains were black, the sun behind them, with sparkles of light flashing from behind them.

“You can see the glitter from the ice,” he observed.

“I like to see the shadows across the plains grass,” Sylvia answered.

He eased his way around the absolutely clear walkway to the eastern side and looked at the Imperial Palace again. Seen from the tower, it was a low mound of lusterless gray metal anchored by five squat golden towers, none of which reached half as far into the sky as the lowest tower of the city.

Somehow, Nathaniel would have expected the highest tower of all to have belonged to the Emperor.

“On stormy days, you can see the plains grasses dancing with the wind, and the patterns change as the winds play through the towers.”

Sylvia must have used a scope. Either that or she watched from a lower vantage point. His vision was supposed to be excellent, but he could only make out the general bending of the grasses from his office.

“After the Ecologic Rebellion, all of this had to be restored square by square. Just a hundred years ago, my mother said, there were bare patches you could see from the towers.”

Sylvia twirled and looked up at him. “I’m hungry. What are you in the mood for?”

“Something simple…something you like…something…somewhere an Envoy would not discover.”

She grinned, and there was a hint of wildness in the gray eyes.

“But not too dangerous,” he added quickly. “Food and danger don’t mix. Not without poor digestion.”

As they dropped down the shaft, he wondered if he had let himself in for more than he should.

After a long tunnel train ride, well past the Port of Entry, and a long walk, punctuated with a drop shaft, followed by another long walk through the first angled and jointed corridor he’d seen on Terra, he was certain of it.

He kept his fingers playing over the detectors in his belt, but no energy foci were registering.

At irregular intervals, hallways joined and branched from the main corridor, and a few local residents hurried on their ways, not bothering to look at either the Ecolitan or his escort.

The flooring was harder, and the sound of footsteps echoed more than in the tower corridors.

“This is one of the older residential areas. People who don’t like the towers, mainly. It dates back to right after the Rebellion.”

Sylvia led him off the main corridor and around a gentle curve in the hallway to a dead end, but it took him a moment to realize it.

At first glance, he thought it was a garden plopped into the middle of the rabbit warren they had scurried through. His second look took in the umbrellaed tables under the low trees and soft lighting. People were seated at most of the tables, but Sylvia led him along a gravelled path through a hedge and to a table for two, set by itself.

“Astounded…amazed…speechless…almost,” he muttered, “but not quite.”

“I hope so.” She laughed.

“Whatever you say, dear Lady. I am in your hands.”

And he was, because as flighty Sylvia had flitted through the afternoon he had lost sight of the fact that she was a perfectly competent intelligence agent.

She pointed to the table. “A seat?”

He sat, and she settled herself across from him, taking the napkin, real cloth, Nathaniel noted, and putting it in her lap.

“I would like to set the record straight, dear Envoy.” She looked squarely at him, and the scatterbrainedness was gone, her eyes cold like slate.

“One, I understand the impossible situation you face. Two, you have behaved like a perfect gentleman while being a total bastard. Three, you asked me to trust you, and I did, and a lot of people died. It was necessary, but I don’t like it. Four, I helped you do it, but I don’t want to talk about it. Five, I can’t help liking you. Six, dinner is my treat.”

The Ecolitan managed to keep his face nearly expressionless, even with the sinking feelings that settled in the pit of his stomach.

Sylvia smiled. The coldness was gone, as if turned off by a switch.

“This garden was planted blade by blade, stem by stem, by the owner. It’s unique in Noram, maybe anywhere on Terra. And the food is as good as the atmosphere.”

“May be the only one in the galaxy,” commented Nathaniel. “Never seen one like this with such flowers, paths, trees, especially totally indoors.”

A young woman, black-haired and black-eyed, edged through the hedge and looked at Sylvia, who nodded.

The waitress departed, to return with two slender crystal glasses filled with a golden liquid.

“Sniff it first,” urged Sylvia.

He did. He couldn’t place the bouquet, but the warmth of it recalled a summer’s evening and seemed to relax the tension in his back and legs.

Sylvia took a sip of hers. After a moment, he followed. The taste was stronger than the delicacy of the bouquet suggested, but the warmth of the trickle that eased down his throat was totally without a sting or hint of bitterness.

“Arranged everything, have you?”

“Absolutely everything. Memories are the most important thing you’ll take back to Accord. I want you to remember this dinner.”

“And the Empire, too?” he queried, teasing.

“Empires are people, as I think you once said, and we all share the same stars.”

“With such artistic interests and concerns, how did you get from the study of dance to the Foreign Service and to the Senator’s office?” And to the Intelligence Service along the way? he wondered as well.

“That’s a long story, and not one to tell tonight. Let’s just say I don’t like doing the same thing for very long, except dancing, which I can’t for reasons we’ve already discussed. So I change as I can. Maybe I’ll emigrate, but emigration is a one-way ticket. You don’t do that without a good reason.”

The waitress reappeared with two thin china plates, each containing a salad. Nathaniel touched the edge of the plate.

“Real china,” confirmed the dancer/intelligence agent/woman across the table from him.

The lighting dimmed in the garden, and the small lamp on the table came to life with a flame of its own.

Nathaniel took a last sip of the liqueur. Sylvia had already finished hers and started on the greenery. He followed her example. The small salad was as good in its way as the drink had been.

“Lord Whaler?”

He started.

“What do you really think of the Empire? In your heart of hearts?”