Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (3 page)

T
HE TALL WOMAN
was the Special Assistant. Although the meeting was in her office, she waited for the Admiral.

“The Admiral, Ms. Ku-Smythe.”

The Special Assistant acknowledged the faxscreen with a curt nod and stood to await her visitor.

“You look very professional, Marcella.”

“Thank you.” She gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk.

The Admiral sat, erect with the military bearing that could only have come from years of training.

“Have you reconsidered your position on the Coordinate issue?” The Admiral’s gray hair glinted in the indirect light. Although, as Defense chief, the space officer could have obtained the best of rejuve treatments, the gray added yet another touch of authority.

“Commerce will support the Emperor. That has always been our position.”

“I know that. You know that. What other official position could you have? Why all the reservations?”

Marcella shifted her weight before answering, then coughed softly to clear her throat.

“Sooner or later, you’ll push Accord to the point where the Institute will gain control of the situation. That point is closer than anyone on your staff is willing to admit. It’s almost as if they’re pushing you toward military action. On the other hand, we’ve worked to make trade the tool for expansion. Without the right kind of legal background and the impression that Imperial commerce is jeopardized, you’re taking the unnecessary risk of pushing the independent out-systems to support Accord.

“And that’s totally unnecessary. None of them really like the Coordinate. You want to act before we can neutralize Accord, and right now Halston and the Fuards, at the very least, will regard your plans as a danger to all the out-systems—”

“Since we’re being candid,” interrupted the Admiral, “aren’t they?”

“Why broadcast it? If we can get Accord to agree to a trade agreement with Commerce, that becomes a legal document admitting greater Imperial sovereignty—the very sort of legal sham that the out-systems will buy.” The Special Assistant frowned, pursed her lips, and waited for the Defense chief to reply.

“Why did you support our action on Haversol?”

“Because we had a previous trade agreement and because Haversol was stalling on renegotiating to avoid complying with the terms. That provided the justification the Emperor needed.”

“What’s the difference for Accord?”

“You know the difference very well. We don’t have a trade agreement with Accord, and, currently, we recognize the Coordinate’s full independence. Unlike Haversol, they’ve the means to fight, possibly to cost you a great deal more than you expect.”

“With what? Three small fleets that don’t total the Fourth Fleet?”

“Remember how we lost the Rift in the first place?”

“That was nearly four hundred years ago.”

“After four hundred years, we still haven’t repaired the damage to Terra, and we still don’t have all those systems back. You have ten major fleets and are building another. With all those ships, we only get systems back through the combination of trade and force. And here you are, trying sheer force again. It hasn’t worked before, and it won’t work now.”

“Marcella, we’ve discussed this before.”

“You asked—”

“I know. I know. I asked. You still feel that the urgency of the situation is not great enough?”

“Not nearly great enough.”

The silence grew as both looked away from each other.

“Well…” began the Admiral. “I do value your opinion.”

“I understand.” The Special Assistant’s voice lowered, softened. “Enough so you make your staff wait outside. You’ve always listened, ever since…” She paused, then continued, “but you do your job the way you see it, and you’re usually right. Not always, but usually. And we’ll support you, whatever you decide.”

“I know. I wish I had your personal support as well.” The Admiral stood and turned to leave, then half faced the woman again. “Take care, Marcella.”

“Thank you.”

The Special Assistant looked across the wide and empty office at the closed portal for a long time before returning to her console, where the panels flashed, each light clamoring for her attention.

B
EST SIMULATION RESULTS
indicate forty percent probability of successful trade negotiations; twenty percent probability of failure; ten percent probability of direct armed conflict; thirty percent unquantifiable.” Despite the pleasant sound of the terminal, the evenness of the word spacing rendered the report mechanical.

The Director turned to the three people at the conference table. “Forty percent chance that the situation can be resolved without war. If we can come up with these figures, so can the Admiral’s staff. What’s the chance of success if the present Envoy is removed?”

“Personality profile not a major component of success probability. Personality profile is a major component of unquantifiable component.”

The Director frowned.

“What that means,” offered the dark-haired woman across the table from the Director, “is that the personality of the Accord Envoy will shift the unquantifiable component into other areas. The current success probability is based on the structural situation. In short, we could still get a peaceful solution, though that could change at any time.”

“What would happen if Defense could assassinate the Envoy?”

“Probability of war rises to fifty-five percent,” answered the computer.

“Probability of Imperial victory twenty-four percent. Probability of significant loss to Empire approaches unity; probability of destruction of Accord approaches unity.”

“Any other significant probabilities?”

“Probability of loss of Rift and Sammaran Sector approach unity; probability of survival of Ecolitan Institute approaches unity.”

The Director leaned back in her swivel.

“So…if Defense is allowed to force the issue, we’re all likely to get blackholed.”

The man in the group cleared his throat.

“That assumes one thing…that Defense can successfully operate a covert assassination. How likely is that if we oppose it, and if External Affairs is opposed, and if their Envoy is warned?”

The Director tapped the table to still the quick rustles.

“You forget that we cannot officially oppose Defense. Nor could we directly ever feed that kind of information to an Envoy from Accord. That sort of behavior would have even the Senate slapping riders onto our authorization, and we’ve avoided that for too long to go back to that sort of interference again.”

“Could I have an answer to the probability questions?”

“Yes. Let’s have the readout on those,” the Director agreed.

“Probability of successful assassination not quantifiable under first order assumptions. Under second order, probability twenty percent, with a standard deviation of not more than twenty percent.”

The Director smiled.

“All right,” she said. “You’ve got the verification that to warn their Envoy will alter the probabilities along the lines we think would be desirable. How can you warn him, clearly, and yet in a way that will convey the absolute seriousness of the situation?”

“That’s simple. We try to assassinate him first.”

N
ATHANIEL
W
HALER TOOK
another full step in front of the Imperial Marines to survey the entrance to his Legation.

The New Augusta tower corridor was nearly as wide as the average street back on Harmony but without the more elaborate facades that graced the capital of Accord. On New Augusta, each address within the towers or tunnels merely seemed to have a standard portal. The portal to the Accord Legation, aside from its green color and gold letters proclaiming the
LEGATION OF ACCORD
, differed little from the others he had passed.

As high as he was in the Diplomatic Tower, there was considerable foot traffic, along with numerous automated delivery carts.

Nathaniel half turned toward the bystanders who watched his honor guard with a mixture of boredom and indifferent curiosity. As he did, the sight of an all-too-familiar object coming to bear on him sent him into a diving roll behind the still-standing guards.

Scritttt!

The splinter gun fragments shattered across the portal facing and skittered along the corridor.

“Spread and search!” snapped the Marine Lieutenant.

“He’s gone already,” observed Nathaniel, dusting himself off.

The Marine officer ignored the Ecolitan’s observation and sprinted down the corridor. Two ratings closed up next to Nathaniel, each scanning the corridor in a different direction.

“Sir? Don’t you think you should get under cover?”

“Little late for that.”

Most of the bystanders had scuttled out of the path of the onrushing Marines or had found they had business elsewhere.

Nathaniel scanned the faces that remained. Two of the handful still in the corridor struck him as possibilities, and he committed their faces to memory before turning his full attention to the narrow scratch on the portal.

“Hmmm…” he murmured. The splinter had barely scratched the permaplast. He checked the corridor floor and tiles for nearly twenty meters but could find no trace of the splinter fragments he had heard.

What with the apparent attack and all the Imperial Marines, the Ecolitan felt more like he had been leading an expedition through Accord’s southern forests than arriving in New Augusta.

Finally, he touched the Legation entry plate, and the door slid open. The two Marines marched in and stationed themselves in front of the entry desk. Nathaniel followed.

The decor of the receiving area that was supposed to represent the decor and ambience of Harmony didn’t. The gargoyled lorkin wood hanging lamps were Secession Renaissance. The woven wheat grass entry mat was Early Settler. The inlaid blackash tea table was pre-Secession, and the likes of the long maroon and overupholstered couch had never been seen in Harmony or even in the depths of the Parundan Peninsula.

As Nathaniel refrained from staring at the mismatched furniture, three more Marines quick-stepped in with his field pack and datacases, deposited them next to the entry desk, and marched away to reform outside the Legation.

The Lieutenant stepped up and gave the Envoy a stiff salute.

“Further instructions, sir?”

“Dismissed,” Nathaniel responded in Panglais.

“Yes, sir. Thanks to you, Lord Whaler, sir.”

As the door noiselessly closed, the Ecolitan turned his attention to the woman at the desk. She wasn’t from Accord, and his change of attention caught her intently studying him.

That was to be expected. The Empire supplied, without charge, space in the Diplomatic Tower and paid up to twenty assistants or technical specialists for each Legation. A planetary government, hegemony, federation, or what-have-you could send as many or as few nationals as it desired for Legation staff, and use any or none of those paid by the Empire.

The catch was the cost. If the Legation were located in the Diplomatic Tower, the Empire paid for the space, the power, and the Empire-supplied staff. If any out-system government chose to put its Legation elsewhere in New Augusta, then the Empire paid none of the costs. While the richer or more militaristic systems, such as Olympia or the Fuardian Conglomerate, had separate Legations staffed strictly by their own nationals, most non-Imperial governments availed themselves of at least the space in the Diplomatic Towers.

The House of Delegates of Accord, not known for its extravagance, had accepted quarters in the Diplomatic Tower and had sent only three people to New Augusta: the Legate, the Deputy Legate, and an Information Specialist.

Just prior to his arrival at the circumlunar station, the copilot of the
Muir
had handed Nathaniel a stellarfax.

The rest had been confirmation codes.

So now he was standing in the entry of a Legation he was in charge of, looking at a clerk/staffer/receptionist who had never seen him but who worked for him, theoretically, but who was paid by the Empire. And just before that, the message had been delivered by splinter gun that someone wanted him dead.

Hardly the most encouraging beginning.

Nathaniel drew out his credentials folder and presented it to the young woman.

She took it, with a hint of a smile, studied it briefly, then greeted him more officially with a gesture that was nearly a half bow, half curtsy.

“At your service, Lord Whaler.” Her greeting was in the old American of Accord, but with an accent and a stiffness that demonstrated practice, but not fluency.

“And I at yours, in the service of the Forest Lord and the Balance of Time,” he returned in the archaic format that was no longer used, even in the deepest forests of Accord. While he spoke, he studied the woman’s face. She did not understand.

“I don’t speak Old American as well as I should,” she admitted in Panglais, the standard tongue of the Empire. With her long red hair, freckles, and boyish figure, she might have reached his shoulder.

“I understand. You are called?” asked Whaler in the accented Panglais he had decided to use.

“Heather Tew-Hawkes, Lord Whaler. Would you like to see your quarters?”

“Shortly.”

He took another look around the entry hall. Small and crowded with the three hanging lamps, the long couch, an imitation strafe chair, the tea table with the faxmags on the lower shelf, and the entry desk itself before the closed interior portals which presumably opened onto the rest of the Legation.

“The rest of the staff I would like to encounter,” he announced.

“Yes, sir. You know that Legate Witherspoon has returned to Harmony. The Deputy Legate, Mr. Marlaan, had already taken leave. And Mr. Weintre is out for the day.”

Forest Lord! What was going on? All the natives from Accord were fleeing like troks at his arrival.

“I see. The rest here will I see…and my office…before I go to my quarters. Can you arrange for my…my…” Apparently struggling with the Panglais word, he pointed to the field packs.

“Yes, sir. We can take care of them.”

Heather gave him a questioning glance before speaking again, tossed her flowing red hair back over her shoulder with a flick of her head.

“Will you be having any assistants coming from Accord?”

Odd question right off the bat, reflected the Ecolitan.

“Final arrangements will I announce shortly,” he temporized.

Heather handed him a small folder.

“You might want to look through that first, Lord Whaler.”

The file was scripted in the Old American of Accord and outlined the names and functions of the staff. At the end was a map of the Legation spaces.

He glanced through it quickly, storing the information for full recall later.

“Read this later, I will. You may begin.”

Heather touched a stud on the console at her desk, and one of the doors behind her opened.

Nathaniel stepped through after memorizing the location of the panel stud that actuated the entry.

The Accord Legation occupied half the three hundredth level of the Diplomatic Tower.

Heather led the way through the spaces.

The tower was divided into four wings joined by the central lift/drop shafts. The official working spaces of the Legation were in the west wing of the tower. Nathaniel’s office and the trade talks section had been placed at the right, almost into the north wing of the tower. A spacious private suite adjoined his office, and both were on the outer edge of the tower, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the hills to the west.

In turn, the trade talks staff suite adjoined his office. His private quarters could be entered from his office or through a separate door, since the private apartment was actually in the north wing.

Because the tower was actually a square, the north, east, south and west designations really indicated onto which public corridor an office or private quarters opened. All the Accord natives from the Legation had their quarters on the three hundredth level, but the local staff lived elsewhere. Wherever they could or wherever they wanted? Which? wondered the Ecolitan without asking.

“This is the travel/visa/quarantine/health section,” stated Heather without taking a breath.

A man and a woman, obviously high-paid professionals, looked up from their consoles.

“Harla, Derek, this is Lord Whaler, the Trade Envoy and Acting Legate in the absence of Legate Witherspoon. Lord Whaler, Harla Car-Hyten and Derek Per-Olav.”

“Pleased am I to meet you,” announced Nathaniel in Panglais.

“And I you,” the two chimed in ragged unison.

“How long for Accord have you worked?”

“Three standard years.”

“Just over a year.”

“Why for a foreign Legation do you work?”

“The Empire itself has a limit to the number of, if you will, travel generalist professionals that it can use,” answered the woman, Harla Car-Hyten, “and takes only the most experienced. Working for Accord provides a solid foundation. We have to work somewhere.”

“Accord is far enough out on the Rift,” added Derek, “that we get to learn more than with an inner system.”

And, thought Nathaniel, with the small number of tourists and the restrictive policies of the Delegates and of the Empire itself, the work couldn’t be all that demanding.

“I thank you,” he finished politely as he turned to continue the tour of the official spaces.

“Lord Whaler, Ms. Da-Vios.”

Mydra Da-Vios was the Empire-supplied and paid “office manager” who had been Witherspoon’s personal clerk and who would supervise the staff of his trade talks section, according to the briefing file which had been dictated by Witherspoon himself before he had left. That was the same folder Heather had handed Nathaniel right after he’d arrived.

Mydra looked up at him from her console openly but did not attempt to stand. Brown eyes so dark they verged on black, short dark brown hair, and a plain brown tunic piped with yellow, cloaked her with an air of competence.

“Any questions you might have?” he asked.

While his question was partly a pleasantry, her answer might give him a lead. So far everyone was acting as if he were to be humored, not that he’d done much to discourage the impression.

“Mr. Marlaan did not convey how the talks would be structured or staffed. While I have detailed another assistant, I do not know if this is the proper arrangement nor with whom I should coordinate further.”

Nathaniel kept his mouth shut, while nodding gently.

Heather’s question about staff made sense, too much sense. So did Marlaan’s position as Deputy Legate. The briefing officer at the Institute had concluded that Marlaan’s psy-profile wasn’t suited to being a mere executive officer type. Yet Marlaan had stayed in New Augusta through a second tour, against all odds.

Mydra was asking politely who was going to do the real work, implying that it couldn’t be Nathaniel.

“Lord Whaler?” prompted Mydra.

“The current arrangement is proper.” He smiled again.

“Would you like to see your office and quarters, Lord Whaler?” interrupted Heather softly.

“That would be pleasing.”

The corner office was bigger than he had expected from the plans in the folder Witherspoon had left, with a large reclining desk swivel surrounded by an impressive communications console. The recliner easily could have swallowed a man twice Nathaniel’s size.

On the inside wall of the office, away from the panoramic window, was a conference table flanked with upholstered chairs. The far interior corner contained cabinets and counters, including a fully equipped autobar.

The casements to the portals, one to the office, the other to the private quarters, were the heavy-duty type, indicating that the doors were likely to have endurasteel cores under the wood veneer.

Interesting, thought Nathaniel. Is that to keep someone out or me in?

Heather pointed to the far door.

“That’s to your private quarters. The locks will key to your palm print, if you’ll just touch each of them right now.”

Heather gave him a quick tour and explanation of the near-palatial quarters—separate private den/library with comm console, bedroom complete with oversized bed and sheensilk sheets, a guest room, a compact kitchen, two complete hygienariums, a dining room with space for eight at table, and a living room centered on a full wall window overlooking the lower towers of New Augusta.

“If you need anything, Lord Whaler, just let me or Mydra know. If I’m not on desk duty, whoever is will take care of you. If you want to eat here, just order up dinner from main service. The number is in the folder, but tower information can also provide it. If you feel more adventurous, you might try the Diplomat’s Club in the dining area. It’s reserved for Legates, Ambassadors, and Envoys.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“Tomorrow’s the last day of the week, and some of the staff had already arranged leave, since you weren’t expected until next week. But I’ll be in early if you need anything.”

“Too kind you are, but if I question, I will call.”

Heather left through his private office.

Really make you feel like some kind of idiot, don’t they? Are all Empire women like that?