Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (38 page)

N
ATHANIEL’S CHIN WAS
stubbly, and his greens smelled of smoke, oil, sweat, and the faintly medicinal odor of the Green Knight River. Sylvia didn’t smell much better. The two paused in the corridor of the Port Authority building outside the door with the sign saying Port Authority Office of the Chief of Port.

“Will the receptionist or whatever let you in?” Sylvia asked.

“I think so.”

They entered the main office, and Bagot looked up from the console, his jaw dropping slowly.

Nathaniel’s hand slashed across the console, knocking the man’s hands away, even as he moved around the console and yanked the driver back from the gear. “Easy, Bagot. I just want a word with the Port Chief.” Without looking at Sylvia, he asked, “Would you keep Bagot company, and ensure he stays quiet? I’d rather not be interrupted.”

“Don’t get too violent.” She grinned at Nathaniel.

“Me, violent?” Nathaniel picked up the smaller man and set him on one of the straight-backed plastic chairs.

“It has been known to happen.” Sylvia turned to Bagot, miniature dart gun in hand. “We’re not very happy at the moment. You’d better just sit there quietly.”

Bagot opened his mouth.

“No.” Sylvia’s single word was like liquid nitrogen, and Bagot seemed to shrivel in the seat.

Nathaniel nodded, then opened the door to the back office and stepped inside. “Good morning, Port Chief.”

Walkerson jerked upright at the console. “Whaler! Where…they said you were killed in the flitter crash.” His eyes narrowed at the small stunner in the Ecolitan’s hand. “Ah…”

“I’m not too trusting at the moment. I do hope you understand. And who said we were killed in the flitter crash? They weren’t very observant. We left ten kays of tracks across the Unformed Desert.” The Ecolitan leaned forward. “Just who are ‘they’? You seemed to have someone in mind.”

Walkerson’s hand wandered toward the console.

Thrum!

The Port Chief winced and looked down at his numb, temporarily lifeless hand. “Whaler…I don’t care who you are. You can’t do this sort of thing.”

The Ecolitan smiled. “I strongly suggest that you not tell any Ecolitan what he or she can or cannot do. Especially one who’s had a flitter sabotaged under him.”

“What?” Walkerson massaged his hand.

“Now…who are they?” pressed Whaler.

“Sabotage?”

“We’ll get to that later. Who are the people who suggested we were dead?”

“When you didn’t come back, Jersek took out the second flitter. The smoke was still obvious. He called Reeves-Kenn, and they sent a team out. This morning they confirmed that there appeared to be no survivors.”

“The reports of our death are somewhat exaggerated.” Nathaniel paused. “Jersek has a maintenance certificate, does he not?”

“He has to, but he inspects. He doesn’t do the repairs. You can’t do both. That’s for safety reasons.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“You aren’t suggesting…?”

“I suggest nothing. Deeds are the grain, words the chaff.”

“How did you get back?” Walkerson ventured.

“We had to take a boat ride to get back from the Reeves-Kenn spread. Much safer it was. Rivers run, even planoformed ones, as rivers run.”

“You didn’t have to do this.” The Port Chief kept massaging his hand. “I’m on your side.”

“Sorry. Wouldn’t you be a little jumpy? We had your groundcar explode on us and your flitter fail. That doesn’t count the processing plant explosion. That’s three attempts to murder us in four days.”

“The groundcar was a mechanical failure.”

“Enough of a failure to explode glass into the driver?”

“I’d have to say that is a trace strange, but it’s also getting a bit embarrassing, Whaler. First, the groundcar and now our best flitter. You said you were a qualified pilot.”

“I am. If I weren’t we’d be dead, which is what someone wanted.”

“I am willing to accept some things, but that seems a bit farfetched just to avoid…”

“Taking blame?” Nathaniel shook his head. “No. I’ve got some vidimager shots of the instruments. I thought they might come in handy. Show the EGT temps identical and equal at max. They also show a few other things.” He shrugged. “They’re not conclusive, but they’d be enough to convince most aero engineers. Now, I understand your problems, Port Chief, but I really don’t think that sabotage comes under pilot error.”

“There isn’t any way to prove that…”

“All you have to do is check the turbines. They’re spot welded in place. The crash fire won’t have changed that. It will have destroyed the liquid metal injector they used—or whatever.”

“You knew this and took the flitter?”

“No. I deduced what was happening when it had already started in the middle of the damned desert and after I blew the turbines to put us someplace besides where they wanted us to be.”

Walkerson cleared his throat. “Whaler. You have every right to be upset and, as you put it, chap, jumpy. But would you listen to some reason?”

The Ecolitan waited.

“First, we’ve got exactly two working flitters. It will be years before we get a replacement for the one that crashed.”

“It didn’t crash. I landed it in the Unformed Desert. It caught fire after that—and the fires were planned, and not by me.”

“Why would either Jersek or I make our own life even harder? I have to strain to make ends meet here, and everyone snipes at the Port Authority.”

“All right.” Nathaniel kept his voice even and the smile off his face. “Then who would benefit by hurting you—and saddling you with our deaths? If you’re right, that’s the game.”

“Unfortunately, a very great number of people.” Walkerson took a deep breath. “Could you point that somewhere else?”

“I’m listening. Who would benefit most?”

The Port Chief massaged his limp right hand with his left. “Sebastion Reeves-Kenn for one. He’d address three problems—his brother, me, and your study.”

“Go on.”

“Your study should show that his marine enterprises add very little to Artos. The Counter Tories would use that as an impartial analysis to cut the subsidies he’s been getting.” Walkerson licked his lips. “George has been reluctant to keep pouring credits into R-K Marine, but, if your murder were pinned on George—or the finger pointed in that direction, at the least, George would have other more pressing problems than Sebastion, and at the most, Sebastion would take over all of R-K.”

“And you?”

“We’re required to submit an annual report to Camelot, assessing the use of the port and the probabilities for growth and future utilization. The last report was quietly critical of R-K Marine, not, you understand, even in direct words, but in suggesting that the export of luxury goods would remain stable, and that significant future growth toward full self-sufficiency would have to be based on greater tech-transfer and industrial infrastructure.”

“So…essentially, we’re here to validate or refute your report?”

“I was never told. Only that I should provide all support and assistance within our abilities.” Walkerson touched his chin with his good hand. “I assume there is some connection.”

“Do you have orbit scan photos of Artos—recent ones?”

“The last set is a year old. Orbit control is in a geocentric station.”

“I’d like a set.”

“Ah…after this?”

“That”—Whaler pointed to the Port Chief’s limp hand—“wouldn’t have happened if you’d been a little more forthcoming. I apologize for the misunderstanding, but, as the saying goes, few days pass without clouds.”

“You Ecolitans aren’t the most likeable folks.”

“Probably not. But remember, your people wanted us to do something that was difficult and nasty. It’s hard to survive and be likeable after three attempts at murder.” Nathaniel forced a smile. “I mean, would you be in the best of moods?”

“I guess not,” admitted Walkerson.

“Now…who else would like to see us disappear?”

“Kennis Landis-Nicarchos. Your death would probably cause a lot of instability. Property values on Artos are already declining since the Commons decided to cut the colony subsidies, and more uncertainty would depress values.”

“Is that stretching? I don’t like the man, based on one meeting, but…”

“He’s a lizard.” Walkerson laughed. “He’d kill his mother, except he probably already has, to shave an additional five percent off the cost of a chunk of property. I’m assuming that your report would show that Artos has too many roads, too great an investment in marine development, but that it’s basically sound. Kennis wouldn’t like that. It would encourage people to bargain or hang on. Artos doesn’t have a bad trade location—it’s near the Three System Bulge, and we can trade with the Frankan Union, the Hegemony, the Empire, and the Conglomerate. That makes for a good long-term investment.” Walkerson rubbed his hand. “Some feeling coming back.”

“Who else?”

“Any number of outsystem reps—Sonderssen for one. They can live high here—the suites in the Blue Lion cost less than a small conapt on Nieustron. If Artos develops, they lose that luxury.”

“Rather petty motivation, I would think.”

“I was on Trezenia, Whaler, before your bloody Institute got involved, and I saw the locals sell their daughters—or little boys—for a whiff of Elysium, or for the price of a wooden hut. Don’t tell me that Sonderssen wouldn’t be above arranging a murder to keep living high on the steer. He’s in the Blue Room—or Elizabeth’s—every night.”

“And the Fuards?”

“Obvious, isn’t it? Tactically a good locale, but they’re not usually that devious. I’d expect them to show up with a small fleet and just annex us.”

The Ecolitan slipped the stunner into his belt. “So, what do you recommend?”

“Not stunning your allies.” Walkerson shook his hand. “Bloody hurts.”

“You hadn’t shown you were an ally. I won’t do it again.”

“I wish I had more confidence in that.”

“Oh, you do. How else can we get off-planet?”

Walkerson grinned, then laughed ruefully. “I see your point.” Then he frowned. “I can’t say much—except I’d be certain to have a talk with Karl-Abbe.”

“I’d planned on that. And how do we avoid more ‘accidents’?”

Walkerson took another deep breath. “I truly don’t know. Can you believe that I wanted to lose a groundcar and our best flitter?” He paused. “Or a driver. Do you know how much difficulty that will create for our operations and budget? Were I after you, likeable chap that you are, I would scarcely employ ways that slit my own gullet. And I had no intention of letting anyone else abuse our equipment. Jersek checked that flitter twice that morning. I looked once, and I do know something about them.”

“Well…I certainly don’t do emergency landings in the middle of unknown deserts for the joy of it.”

“All I can say, Professor Whaler, is that I will be careful, and you should be careful. And I will let you know anything that bears on this. I would hope you will do the same.”

“What about the small growers? I heard that they were getting upset with R-K Enterprises. Would they be desperate enough to try to frame George Kenn-Reeves?”

“Some of the younger hotheads might. I don’t know how they’d get access to the flitter…”

“Perhaps they didn’t. We’ve assumed that all of these were from the same person or group.”

“I do hope things are not that bad, Whaler. That is a horrifying thought.”

“Just crossed my mind. As the saying goes, it’s best not to look for a golden life in an iron age.” He looked down at his stained, rumpled greens. “Could we prevail upon Bagot to take us to the Guest House? We could use some cleaning up.”

“We?”

“Professor Ferro-Maine is outside, entertaining Bagot. She’s been with me every step of the way—often in front.”

“I see.” Walkerson shook his head slowly from side to side. “You two are rather formidable. Well…if Bagot is willing…”

“I think he should drive us everywhere. He is from Artos.”

“That wouldn’t stop some.”

“Any port in a storm…and I definitely sense heavy weather.”

“I still don’t think you’re all that likeable a fellow.”

“It’s hard to be likeable when people are trying to kill you.” Nathaniel offered a patently false smile and gestured for the Port Chief to rise. “Perhaps you should explain this to Bagot.”

“I suppose so.”

Bagot glanced up expectantly as Walkerson and Whaler entered the outer office. Sylvia stepped back so that she could use the dart gun on either Avalonian.

“Bagot…it appears as though we and the Ecolitans are on the same side, and the other fellows are getting rather rough. I’d like to have you serve as the permanent driver and aide to them until they leave.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you feel is best.” Bagot did not look extraordinarily pleased.

Then, reflected Nathaniel, he didn’t look horrified either.

“So…we’re friends and allies, now?” said Sylvia in a low voice as they followed Bagot out to the carpark.

“Allies, for now. He needs us, and our survey, and we need to finish and get out of here while he still does—before we release our results.” Nathaniel answered in a lower voice, then added, “I can’t wait to get cleaned up.”

“Me, too.”

“And then we need to visit a few people.”

Sylvia nodded.

“W
E NEED TO
talk to this banker, Karl-Abbe, and then maybe you can loosen up the piping magnate and that permacrete supplier.” Nathaniel reloaded the vidimager, then slipped it into the sleeve harness of his second pair of greens. The first was being washed by the Guest House staff, along with Sylvia’s. He touched his face, reddened and warm to the touch. “You’ve got a better touch with people.”

“I’m glad you find that useful.”

The Ecolitan frowned at the coolness of her voice. “Let me go downstairs and use the comm to see what I can arrange. Then I’ll see what we can fit in for the rest of the day.”

“All right. Let me know when you have everything arranged.” Sylvia eased to her feet from the straight-backed chair and slipped through the connecting door into her own room.

Nathaniel closed the datacase, then frowned again, and opened the connecting door to see Sylvia disappear into the corridor. He hurried after her, finally catching her at the top of the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” She did not turn, but continued down the steps, each foot precisely placed.

“Can I come?”

“I don’t know.” She jerked her head toward the side of the foyer, where Bagot had risen expectantly. “You’d better talk to Bagot.”

Nathaniel turned to the driver. “It’s going to be a little while, Bagot. Something’s come up.”

The driver’s eyes followed Sylvia through the front door, and his face blanked. “Sir?”

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting…”

“No, sir. It’s cool here.” Bagot looked toward the door as a puff of warm air drifted into the foyer.

“Thank you.” Nathaniel nodded and walked quickly through the door and after Sylvia, his eyes watering against the bright sun. He stumbled on the edge of the drive before his vision adjusted to the afternoon sun.

Sylvia had reached the edge of the fields behind the Guest House and was striding up one of the wider rows between the low synde bean plants by the time Nathaniel again caught up.

She did not turn.

“You’re angry.”

“How did you ever guess?”

“What did I do?”

That got no answer, except for Sylvia to increase her pace. Both were breathing hard.

“Forest lord! What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know.” Her pace increased again, almost to a jog.

“Whatever I did…I’m sorry.”

Finally, at the end of the row, a good six hundred meters long, she stopped, almost panting, and turned.

“I said I was sorry. Even if I don’t know why.”

She took several deep breaths, then fixed his eyes with hers, cold and gray. “Nathaniel…I don’t know why you even asked me to come—except to be a decorative side piece. And I don’t know why I agreed. You’re used to doing things your way. Oh, occasionally I’m useful—for an insight, to cover your back. But that’s not my idea of either life or a relationship—personal or professional.” She shook her head. “I should have known. That was the way it started, and why would things change?”

Nathaniel looked at the low bean plants—still in the hot and windless air—and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He’d left the kerchief behind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“I’m not blaming you. Not much. In your line of work—this part of it anyway—you don’t have much time to think.”

He swallowed. “Maybe I should.”

She turned to him and smiled faintly. “Why? You’ve gotten results.”

“First, because you’ve saved my life and neck a couple of times. Second, because I want to, but have trouble figuring out how, and third, because what I’m doing hasn’t really gotten results.” He pursed his lips. “People are still trying to kill us, and we don’t know who or why.”

“You—we’re—still alive. Most people wouldn’t be. You’re good at surviving.”

“I want more than that.”

“So do I.”

For some reason, he thought of the scent of orange and trilia, and his throat and guts tightened, and he looked down at the dark ground between the plants. “What would you do next?” he finally asked.

“Don’t humor me.”

“I’m not. I’m at a loss. Oh, we need to talk to that banker, but even if he has every banking number on Artos, what will that tell us?” He waited.

“Do you honestly want an answer?”

“Yes.”

Sylvia was silent. She glanced out at the low bean plants for a time. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, and Nathaniel had to strain to hear.

“People aren’t numbers. I’m not an economist, but numbers can justify anything. We’ve looked at power plants and roads and harbors. We’ve looked at hydrocarbon production and conversion. We’ve been introduced to almost everyone who is anyone.” She shrugged. “What do we know about the people, beyond their positions and statistics?”

“Not much,” admitted Nathaniel.

“Where have we learned the most?”

“Probably from George Reeves-Kenn and FitzReilly, the boat pilot.”

Sylvia stopped and glanced out over the rows of beans. “Doesn’t that tell you something? People have dreams, desires. The only people whose dreams we know are George Reeves-Kenn and Anna-Marie. Why did I go with you to Accord?”

“Dreams…” Nathaniel nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“I should have talked to you. But, I’m not an agent…not this kind. I don’t know how to land an exploding flitter. Or drop onto a strange planet and pretend to know everything about its economy.”

“You know people, better than I do.”

“You’re just saying that. You did fine on Old Earth.”

“No, I made a lot of mistakes, and people died. I was lucky, and I found you. And now…now…I think I’m in over my head.”

“You…over?” Sylvia shook her head. “I was going to be unfair.”

“I’ve been the unfair one.”

“Nathaniel…we can’t fight. Not and get through this.”

“I…don’t want to fight.”

“Neither do I.”

“But you don’t…I think I understand.” He swallowed.

Sylvia touched his wrist. “It’s all right.”

After a moment, he swallowed again. “So we need to get people to talk more about who they are and what they want?”

“That’s one thing.” She turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder, lightly, before dropping it. “I’m overreacting. The numbers are important, too. It takes both. You can’t change things without resources, and the numbers should show where those are.”

“But,” Nathaniel said slowly, “if there’s no reason for change…”

“It doesn’t happen.”

“I think.” He took a deep breath. “I think it’s time you decided what we do next. I’ve managed to get people stirred up enough to try to kill us three times, and we don’t know much more than when we landed.”

“We do…except we don’t know what we know.” She paused. “No. We don’t know how what we do know fits.”

“Because we don’t know enough about people’s motivations…”

“Exactly.”

“So where should we start?”

“The banker, and Vivienne Evanston. She knows people.” Sylvia turned. “We ought to head back. Poor Bagot is probably confused.”

Not as confused as he’d been, thought Nathaniel, not nearly. He wanted to shake his head. Sylvia had every right to be upset. She was intelligent and competent…and he was far too used to operating alone. He needed to change, and that wasn’t going to be easy—not at all.

They walked back toward the Guest House slowly.

“I’ll try to do better,” he said in a low voice as they stepped into the shadows of the portico and up beside the empty groundcar.

“So will I.” She squeezed his hand momentarily. “You call the banker.”

“And you call Vivienne.”

They exchanged smiles.