Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (26 page)

T
HE
F
UARDIAN OFFICER
wearing crimson-trimmed formal grays and a silver hawk on his shoulder tabs stepped inside the spacious office. “Ser?”

“I don’t have time to read forty-page reports, colonel. Answer me simply. Are your operations going as planned?” asked the gray-clad officer behind the desk.

“Ah, sub-marshal…yes. We had not foreseen the Accord trade negotiations, but the Coordinate’s conduct there has sharpened the Grand Admiral’s concerns. The use of an Ecolitan as a trade negotiator has definitely put the laser on the Rift. The devastation of the synde bean plague on Heraculon has reinforced those Imperial concerns…”

“How strongly?”

“The death toll is over four million so far. The Empire has had to divert most of its spare cargo capacity for food concentrates. They’ve even sent in military power systems from reserve units.”

“Good. And?”

“There are still murmurs about Accord. We don’t have the analysis yet, but those could be pushed by the trideo initiative. Either way, the laser points directly at Harmony. We’ve taken some additional steps there as well to point back at the Admiral…or others. We had to divert a fast courier, but…”

“That’s secondary, though, for now. Do we have enough seed stock for the next phase?”

“Yes, ser, and the next phase will target both the anchovies and the algae. Anarra, the Matriarchy, then Imperial Sector Four. We’ve established the probable secondary vectors if it were a natural plague, and those will be planted over the next few weeks, using the commercial trade system.”

The sub-marshal nodded curtly.

“What about the transfer arrangements?” asked the colonel. “Our contacts have asked about that.”

“We do not have to deliver anything—especially warcraft—until the Ninth and Eleventh fleets are transferred to the Rift, or two other fleets in the sectors bordering the Three System Bulge are shifted along the Limber line.” The senior officer smiled. “When that occurs, the general staff will be more than happy to approve the transfer. More than happy. After we occupy the systems, particularly…shall we say…those of the priggish Avalonians.”

“Yes, ser.”

“And colonel?”

“Ser?”

“Next time, send a summary with the report. It will save us both time.”

N
ATHANIEL LOOKED FROM
his bed at the dark-haired dancer, her left arm in a sling and covered with a nerve regeneration sheathe. “I didn’t expect…such a welcome here in Harmony.”

“Neither did I.” Sylvia offered a wry smile. “It was even more dramatic than your welcome to New Augusta.”

“No one seems to want me to go anywhere, even home.” He swallowed. “Are you all right?” As close as Sylvia sat on the straight-backed wooden chair, he couldn’t miss the dark circles under her eyes. Behind her, through the wide window, he could see the low hills to the west of the Institute, their treed lower slopes a deep green.

“You’re asking how
I
am?”

“I know how I’m doing. I’ll live, and nothing permanent’s damaged.”

“On Old Earth, you’d be dead, I think.” She frowned. “I knew the Institute had good medical techniques, but knowing…and experiencing…”

“This is Accord.” He forced a soft laugh, ignoring the wave of pain that the sound sent down his side. “But I wish you hadn’t gotten the experience firsthand.”

“You are impossible.”

“How are—” he asked.

“I’m fine. The arm hurts, and the nerves burn all the way to my neck sometimes, but the medtechs say that’s normal and there’s no lasting damage.”

“Good.” Nathaniel offered a smile. The last thing he wanted was for her to arrive on Accord and be crippled…or worse. But why had someone been after them?

“Has anyone—” He had trouble concentrating, his thoughts skittering from one image to another, reinforced by the tightness in his stomach that kept insisting that something was very wrong.

“Your Prime Ecolitan talked to me, while they were still working on you.” Sylvia smiled. “He was more forthright than anyone from the Empire would have been.”

“And?” Nathaniel tried to bring up the relaxation techniques to reduce muscular tension and pain, and eased himself back against the pale green sheets—sheets, soft as they were, that felt like hundreds of pins where his bare skin brushed them.

“The needles were Imperial military issue—the ones they use for Special Ops. They’re transparent to everything. They found a dead Coordinate trooper, minus his uniform and equipment, just off the Dehar base—”

“DeHihns,” corrected Nathaniel. “Named after the first planetary chairman.”

“They think he’d only been killed a few hours before.”

“It couldn’t have been an Imperial Special Op.” Nathaniel shook his head momentarily, then stopped as a line of fire slashed up his left side. He closed his eyes against the light from the window. Even that seemed to glare.

“I’d agree.” Sylvia smiled ironically. “I’d like to know why you think that, though.”

“First,” he said slowly, “it’s unlikely one could pass the screens, but if he or she did, they’d be good enough that one or both of us would be dead. Second, they’d have had a better opportunity on Old Earth. There, the timing would have been far better…easier…” He took a slow deep breath, letting the relaxation techniques blunt the pain.

Sylvia nodded.

After all, Nathaniel reflected silently, for an Imperial Special Operative to get to Accord before they had in time to set up an assassination attempt meant that it had to have been planned almost before Nathaniel had completed his trade negotiations. “Third…it’s too obvious.”

“It was meant to be obvious.”

But why? That was the question. His vision blurred.

Sylvia stood quickly and stepped up beside the bed, touching his forehead with her good hand, with fingers that were cool and soothing. “Just relax…you need to rest.”

He tried to smile, but found blackness looming over him.

A
S HE HAD
the last time he had visited the Institute, Delegate Minister of Interstellar Commerce Restinal paused outside the open door.

“Come on in, Werlin,” called the Prime Ecolitan’s cheerful voice. “Remember, we don’t stand on ceremony. We don’t even sit on it.”

Restinal forced a genial smile and carried his datacase into the lorkin-paneled office, bowing to the silver-haired man who stood by the wide table that served as his desk.

“Take a seat.” Without waiting for Restinal to follow the suggestion, Gairloch Pittsway, Prime of the Ecolitan Institute, sat down in the hand-carved armchair behind the table.

Restinal eased into the chair closest to the door, his datacase on his lap. “I wished to convey personally my thanks to you and to the Institute for its willingness to relinquish Ecolitan Whaler to the Ministry. His efforts as Trade Legate to New Augusta were most effective.” Restinal smiled again. “Most effective.”

“I’m glad you recognize that.”

“I was sorry to hear that the Empire rather belatedly also recognized his expertise and effectiveness.”

“Professor Whaler will be incapacitated for a short while, no longer, and I am sure he will appreciate your concern, Werlin. Even if I did have to force him on you.” The Prime’s smile was faint.

“I bowed to your wisdom then, and I still do.”

“Werlin, you only bow to superior force of one type or another, and we both know it.” There was a slight pause. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to offer congratulations and condolences. What did you have in mind?”

Restinal shifted his weight on the chair, already hard. “I understand that Professor Whaler is a highly regarded expert on development economics, and especially economic infrastructures.”

“That is his specialty,” acknowledged Pittsway.

“We understand that New Avalon may be requesting our assistance with such a matter on Artos.” Restinal kept his voice even. “We are to prepare a report on the economic development structure and possibilities of Artos…”

“We? The Coordinate government doesn’t have either the expertise or the impartiality. Why did you agree to this before talking with the Institute?” asked Pittsway, his voice equally level.

“We are well aware of the Institute’s capabilities, as are the Avalonians.”

“Minister Restinal…for whom did you agree to do this report, and why?”

“Officially, the report will be prepared for submission to the Commerce Ministries of both New Avalon and the Coordinate.”

“I see. And what…emphasis…do you expect this report to highlight, Werlin?”

“I would like to see the report as factual and impartial as possible,” Restinal answered earnestly.

“You’re aiming this toward Whaler like a point-tailed retriever. Why? The poor bastard deserves a rest. We do have other experts in the Institute.”

“The Ministry has gained a great appreciation of Professor Whaler’s skills, even in dealing with our own bureaucratic structures, and, alas, even we have those…”

“Oh?”

“You may not have heard, but he was successful in…encouraging a young…professional, from the External Affairs Committee staff of the Imperial Senate to return to Accord with him. In some fashion, he obtained clearance from both governments, or documents which represent such a clearance. Especially those endorsed, even indirectly, by the Prime Ecolitan.” Restinal shrugged. “It’s not exactly politic to question successful Legates, especially those who have outmaneuvered the Empire, on such a relatively minor matter.”

“I’m well aware of Ms. Ferro-Maine, and you knew that before you headed out here. You wouldn’t be bringing it up, Werlin, if you weren’t angling for something. What mess have you got stewing with New Avalon? Is this some involuted scheme Torine designed?”

“You misunderstand me, Prime. It’s just that I would scarcely want to have the Institute embarrassed by the arrival of an Imperial citizen who might be linked to the I.I.S.”

“Restinal, you are behaving more and more like Torine every day. Or Quaestor and Verlingetti. I understand that Elder Torine has only a thin working majority, and that you Normists wish to retain power. That’s politics. The Institute doesn’t care for most of your games, but every society and government ends up with political intrigue. What we resent is your attempting to conceal that intrigue when you’re asking the Institute for something. So, if you don’t start thinking and leveling with the Institute, I’ll be forced to suggest that you take your portfolio and place it somewhere very private and very dark.”

Restinal felt himself flushing. He rose.

“Sit down. We, or Ecolitan Whaler, saved your precious posterior. For Torine to send you out here to insist on a dubious study with a clear second purpose and then to threaten either one of us shows little gratitude and less sense. That’s particularly true given what Whaler’s been through. Further, if I made public what you just implied, you and Torine would suffer more than the Institute, and you don’t have that many seats on your side of the aisle to spare. You’ll have even less if Elder Quaestor or Verlingetti or one of the Orthodoxist radicals hear this. Now, what do you really want and why?”

Restinal tried not to clamp his lips together too hard as he reseated himself.

The Prime waited, a half smile upon his lightly tanned and lined face.

“All I can say is that Artos is mentioned in some materials we are not supposed to have. There is also a strong possibility for some agricultural-technology transfer trade.”

“Werlin…”

“Honestly, respected Prime. That is all I can say because it’s all we know.”

“There has to be some context,” pointed out Pittsway.

“Artos appeared in some standard business communiques from a New Avalon factor with a less than savory reputation. We
think
the copies were sent to our woman in New Avalon by a Hand of the Mother. The context was merely a listing of cargos and agricultural techpaks destined there.”

“Since these are of themselves no value, I presume you brought copies,” said the Prime.

Restinal nodded slowly.

“But you don’t feel comfortable turning them over to me unless I agree to send Whaler on this fool’s errand?” The Prime Ecolitan glanced at the datacase in Restinal’s lap. “You know better than that. After we see the communiques, and after Professor Whaler is recovered enough to review the materials…if he’s interested, he can make that choice. He deserves that after saving your posterior. Agri-tech trade indeed. Do you think Artos is just a pretext? Have you any idea of where this insignificant system is?”

Restinal sat silently.

“Werlin?”

“It’s a fringe system of New Avalon.”

“And?”

“It’s the closest system to the Three System Bulge.”

“My…” Pittsway drew out the word. “What a coincidence. The Fuards hold the Three System Bulge, which they took from the Empire during our war of secession, and they’re flanked by Artos, held by New Avalon, by the Federated Hegemony, and by the Frankan Union, and by, of course, the Empire. And you blithely suggest that there’s nothing beyond some cargo manifests and an economic study?”

Restinal looked at the smoothly finished wood floor.

“Didn’t you learn anything from the last mess, Werlin? First, if you have those communiques, so does every intelligence service in the Galaxy. Second, whoever it was that leaked them to you knows you’ll have to go to the Institute, and they’ll be watching. That means someone wants us to do something they can’t do, won’t do, or want to blame us for. We still have to do this…study—and I presume it’s something you have worked out as a tacit cover that the entire Galaxy will know is a cover. And we’ll have to do it well, even while doing your dirty work. Our problem here at the Institute is that we live in the same system as you idiots do, that we have a fondness for Accord, and that, unlike some, we attempt to live up to all our codes—and that means we don’t play politics. Not your way.” Pittsway smiled. “So…do you trust us, or are you going to take your papers home and fold gliders out of them—which is about what they’ll be worth if you leave without giving them to us?”

Restinal held in a sigh. Why was Elder Torine always putting him in such impossible positions?

“Torine puts you in those positions, Werlin, because you’re basically honest, and no one else in the Delegate Ministries is both honest and intelligent. You’re also expendable because you got the portfolio through expertise and not political capital.”

Restinal did sigh as he opened the datacase.

“You’re handing us a mess, Werlin, but it’s not nearly that bad for you.”

Restinal was sure it was worse, far worse, and that his troubles were just beginning. He handed the flimsies across the desk.