Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (42 page)

“You the fellow who called?”

“That’s me. The Guest House.”

“The Guest House—the one on the highway to the shuttle port?”

Nathaniel slipped into the plastic-covered rear seat. “That’s it.”

“That’s five.”

“Fine.”

“You’re the chief.” That was all the driver said, and the Ecolitan left the window open, out of self-defense against the odor of rancid spices emanating from the driver and ill-burned hydrocarbons from the engine.

Back at the Guest House, for a time he sat in his room, going back over the figures from the conversion plant, then taking those from Karl-Abbe and running some correlations and drafting some rough tables.

He rubbed his forehead and studied the hand-drawn tables again. He’d have Sylvia look at them, to make sure, but even from the outdated published figures on Artos, from the plant numbers, from the Bank’s financial assessment, and from what they’d seen, the ConOne hydrocarbon facility not only had the capacity to process double its current output, but current output was somewhere well above current Artosan fuel needs—unless the ag sector on the outcontinents were disproportionately large—and the facility on ConTrio was supposed to handle such needs.

He shrugged. Right now, the figures were too rough to be absolutely conclusive in the economists’ sense. But no manager/owner anywhere ever overstated capacity or output—especially to government overseers. So that meant that the numbers were conservative, that they had been exaggerated for other reasons, or that he and Sylvia had gotten cooked numbers.

The banking figures were worse. Free credit balances were building, even as average wages were almost stagnating. And where had Karl-Abbe gotten the import duty figures? Was the bank the holder? Someone was importing a lot of something, but the aggregations didn’t say what.

He blinked and rubbed his forehead. He’d seen enough. Every number looked worse, and they all felt like they were in the right sector—and that gave him a uneasy feeling. All of Artos gave him a very uneasy feeling.

He snorted. How much of that was because someone had tried to kill them three times? He stood and checked the time. Fifteen hundred.

Sylvia should have been back earlier.

Finally, he stacked up folders and papers and went down to the empty foyer. No Sylvia. No messages on the comm unit. He called Detsen Oconnor at the New Avalon Monitoring Laboratory and got his assistant, but managed to set up an appointment for the next morning. After he broke the connection, he wanted to shake his head. He should have done that earlier. He should have tried to understand Sylvia earlier. It was hard to remember that she came from a far more repressed background than he did, and one where everything was involuted and convoluted. Add to that his own reserve. He shook his head. He should have done a lot of things earlier—that seemed to be life.

After pacing the foyer for a good fifteen units, he went outside under the portico and watched the misting clouds drift land-ward over Lanceville. Still no Sylvia.

When studying the rain palled, he went back and checked the comm unit. No messages.

He went back outside and watched more rain and clouds, until the rain dropped out to a trace of mist, and even less, and the clouds thinned.

A distant purr-rumble pricked his ears. Finally, out of the mist rising from the permacrete, the green groundcar lumbered in under the portico.

Sylvia smiled as he opened the door for her.

“I was getting a little worried.”

“I’m fine. Keiffer DeSain is talkative.”

Nathaniel nodded and stepped up to the groundcar window. “Bagot?”

“Sir?”

“Where’s a good place to eat? Not as fancy as Elizabeth’s and not as crowded as the Blue Lion? Someplace you’d like to go.”

“Well…there aren’t many places. The Old Tower used to be my favorite, but old lady Tuer died last spring, and they closed. Jerry’s is all right for lunch, but they close early. Faro’s, I’d guess.”

“Well…you’re our guest for dinner, and, if you like, you can invite a friend, as well.”

“Sir…I wouldn’t…”

“You’ve been very kind, and very helpful, and it’s the least we can do.”

The driver looked toward Sylvia. She smiled. “It’s little enough.”

“And you can tell the chief that we insisted.”

“Sir…”

“Anyone you’d like—brother, friend, lady—and we’ll see you at eighteen forty.”

“Yes, sir.” Bagot grinned. “Yes, sir.”

“A walk?” Nathaniel asked as the groundcar roared off and as they stood before the Guest House doors.

“It’s a little damp, but we don’t have much choice, do we?”

“Not really.”

As they stepped out from the covered portico, a light breeze ruffled the summer-weight greens.

“It won’t be bad.” He glanced toward the west, where the heavier clouds that had passed the Guest House earlier had almost reached the horizon.

“That was nice of you, to ask Bagot, even if your motives aren’t totally altruistic.”

“Thank you. But they’re partly altruistic.”

“And the rest?”

“I just want to hear him talk. Sometimes, we don’t listen to the right people.”

Sylvia nodded. “You still surprise me.”

“Me?”

“You.” She leaned closer, then kissed his cheek, before stepping aside and into the row between the lines of bean plants.

He bent to check the ground at the edge of the field—barely damp despite the earlier light rain—and looked at the plants more closely. “Most of the young ones are this variety.” He straightened. “But I wouldn’t know why they’d grow one variety as opposed to another.”

“Such an Ecolitan.”

“I’m an economist, not an agronomist. What did you find out from the piping magnate?”

“DeSain seems like a likeable enough person, and he works hard, I think. He showed me the facility. It’s pretty simple. They’ve got a small tech-template module that can turn the synde bean feedstock into a couple of different plastics. They’re all handled by a small continuous extrusion mill, which is adjustable for pipe diameter. Simply sophisticated, I guess I’d call it.”

“See anything interesting?”

“They’ve expanded recently. He showed me the addition. It’s not that big.”

“So…some growth, but not of the magnitude you’d expect at this stage of postplanoforming, if he’s as good a businessman as he seems and you think.”

“My thoughts as well.” Sylvia brushed a strand of dark hair back off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “He’s worried. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell, and I don’t think it’s about business.”

“Did he mention our good friend Kennis?”

“No. Why?”

“The good businessman has what looks like a fortified headquarters on the south side of Lanceville, and more than a handful of those blue-uniformed guards. I ate lunch at their hangout. One mentioned heavy weapons and intensive training and got hushed up.”

“Private army—that confirms what Vivienne was telling us.” Sylvia frowned. “Have you heard anything more about George Reeves-Kenn?”

“No. I didn’t talk to Walkerson. The people at the monitoring laboratory—we’re going to see them tomorrow morning—didn’t say anything. There’s not a vidfax at the Guest House.”

“Karl-Abbe was right about the minimal amenities. I wonder if that’s to keep official visitors isolated?”

“Could be. I don’t like Reeves-Kenn’s death, either, not that I like any death, but right now, I don’t know what to do…or what we could do. There’s a lot boiling around under the placid surface of Artos. Too much.”

“You think that’s why we were sent?”

“Probably—but I still can’t figure why the House of Delegates has any interest in what’s beginning to look like civil unrest on a colony planet three sectors away. I can see everyone else’s potential interests…and there are so many.”

“Too many,” Sylvia said wryly.

“Then, the piers were empty, but there are marks there, heavy black marks. A lot of heavy stuff has been loaded or unloaded recently.” Nathaniel shook his head. “Did you find out anything else?”

She lifted the datacase. “I’ve got some numbers on piping. You might be able to fit them into the puzzle. I also got him to say a few words about your other friend—Durward Hailsham.”

“And?”

“Durward is as dense as he seems. The business was founded by his father. The older Hailsham made a lot building the road system, and he built well enough and big enough that his son is struggling and doesn’t know why. Basically, Hailsham Enterprises is doing private surfacing, mostly for R-K Enterprises, and for some others.”

“He probably built the LN building—or the armory beneath it.” Nathaniel cleared his throat. “I’m guessing about the armory.”

“LN building?”

“Kennis’s headquarters.”

“Oh…anything else?”

“Ever hear of an outfit called SAI?” He unfolded the red-and-white sheeting and handed it to her. “The chime’s familiar, but I can’t identify the melody.”

“SAI…I should know that.” She frowned.

“That’s shrinkwrap for heavy equipment. I couldn’t say what. It could be tech-transfer machinery, ocean processing gear, armaments, or just tanks of hydrocarbon feedstock.”

“Armaments…SAI. Maybe…”

“Maybe what?” he asked.

“Sasaki Armaments, Interstellar…you’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

“They’re in the Nippon sector of the Orknarlian Union, I think.”

“And they’re the biggest manufacturer of armaments outside the Empire. They’ll supply anyone—but you have to supply the shipping.”

He took the fragment of shrinkwrap sheeting back from her and looked at it again. “SAI…could it be the same…or just coincidence, some other little outfit with the same acronym?”

“Unlikely, but it could be. I don’t know their logo or their design, but isn’t that the edge of a multipointed star?”

They both shrugged.

“We’ve got a little problem.”

“A little problem?” Sylvia raised her eyebrows.

T
HE SANDY-HAIRED SPECIAL
assistant pursed her lips tightly. Her green eyes were dark, and she waited for the blank screen to clear.

Cling!

The image of a uniformed admiral of the fleets filled the screen, square-faced, with dark-circled green eyes and black hair shot with silver.

“Yes, Marcella?”

“Thank you,” said the special assistant. “I had hoped you, or your staff, had a chance to review the materials we sent.”

“We reviewed the materials very closely, and I personally found them persuasive. So did the D.I. staff.”

“Yet you’re going to transfer the Eleventh Fleet out to Sector Five, as well as pull the Third Fleet from Sector Two?”

“I cannot comment on that, Marcella, even on a secure line.” The Grand Admiral met the special assistant’s eyes.

“I understand. Has it crossed anyone’s mind in the great and glorious Imperial Senate that Sector Two contains the Three System Bulge? And that, even though both the Conglomerate and the Hegemony have not increased their presence there, the total resource investment in defense has increased steadily over the past decade?”

“I have been informed that the First Fleet remains there, and that it has been some four centuries since there has been an armed conflict in Sector Two.”

“In short, the starvation, the fish kills, and the spread of the bean plague have pushed the Senate absolutely to require a show of force in the Rift? Or is it worse than that?”

“You know I can’t comment on that, Marcella.”

“I sent you a complete analysis of the economics. Accord isn’t gearing for war. They’re at the lowest level of war footing in centuries. The science analysis shows that the gene structures in the bean plague aren’t typical of Accord-structured types…”

“You are suggesting that the Imperial Senate is misguided?” The Grand Admiral’s tone was ironic. “Have you seen the latest polls about Accord? According to UGI’s latest survey, Accord is rated as an immediate and deadly danger to the Empire by fifty-one percent of the population.”

“That’s a trideo creation. Like those ridiculous shows that portray Ecolitans as green-coated evil monsters assisted by dancing fluffheads.”

“Those trideo viewers vote, Marcella, and those they elect control the Senate. And the Senate dictates where the eagles go, even over the Emperor.”

“You know it’s a mistake.”

“I am required to carry out the orders of the Senate. These fleet shifts are resource-intensive, as you know, however, and it may take several weeks, or longer. If matters should change, or some absolute documentation should arise in the meantime…”

The special assistant’s shoulder’s dropped. “I understand.”

“Until later, Marcella.”

The special assistant looked at the blank screen, her lips tightening.

T
HE DARK-HAIRED YOUNG
woman in the front seat turned as Nathaniel and Sylvia settled into the back of the groundcar.

“Anne-Leslie, these are the professors,” said Bagot, turning as well. “This is Anne-Leslie Hume.”

“Nathaniel Whaler, and this is Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” offered Sylvia.

“I saw you at Madame Evanston’s, but…I was busy, and I did want to make sure GB got something to eat.”

As Bagot eased the groundcar out onto the highway toward Lanceville, a groundlorry rumbled by in the twilight headed westward.

“He’s in a rush,” observed Bagot. “Probably wants to get home.”

Nathaniel wondered.

“What’s Faro’s like?” asked Sylvia.

“It’s nice.” Anne-Leslie wore a dark green jumpsuit and a white scarf. “I’ve been there once or twice—with the family. You can get things besides fish and algae, and Faro has his own still, where he makes his own stout and beer—his brother is a small grower way south. They say that he makes more by growing barley for Faro than what the big growers pay for beans.” She looked at Sylvia, almost asking if she’d said too much.

“What have you eaten there that you liked?” asked Sylvia. “Is there anything especially good?”

“I don’t know as there’s…well…they say that the pork changa is good, and I liked it.”

Nathaniel laughed good-naturedly. “I cannot say I’ve ever heard of pork changa. This sounds like an adventure. Might you enlighten me?”

“Stop sounding like an economist,” teased Sylvia.

“But that is what—”

“Not tonight.” Sylvia smiled indulgently and looked at Anne-Leslie. “I haven’t heard of it either, but it sounds good.”

“It is. It’s all wrapped up in a crust, covered with real cream sauce, and filled with just about everything—peppers and seasoned pork and onions…”

As they entered Lanceville, a second lorry roared by, once more shivering the old groundcar.

“Can you drive by the piers on the way to Faro’s?” asked Nathaniel. “Not stop. Just drive by?”

“Sure, professor. That will only take an extra couple of units. Lanceville’s not exactly huge.” After a moment, Bagot added, “If I might ask, sir…?”

“I wonder whether something’s being unloaded at the port.”

The two in the front exchanged glances, but neither spoke.

“Can’t you ever stop the economics?” asked Sylvia, squeezing Nathaniel’s hand reassuringly, even as she let out a long sigh.

“I will try. After the harbor, I will try.”

“Try harder,” suggested Sylvia in a wry tone.

A faint smile creased Anne-Leslie’s lips.

“How about desserts?” asked Sylvia.

“I like their chocolate rum tort,” said Bagot.

Anne-Leslie shook her head. “You would.”

“That means it is strong and large,” suggested Nathaniel.

The young woman in the front seat nodded emphatically.

Bagot turned onto the harbor drive and slowed the groundcar. “Do you need me to stop?”

All three harbor piers were lit, and two held tugs and barges. A third tug, pushing a high-riding barge, appeared to be steaming seaward. On the two piers, loaders lifted a variety of crates onto waiting groundlorries. Four other lorries waited at the foot of the empty center pier.

“No. That will do. They do what they do, and—”

“Enough,” said Sylvia firmly, a glint in her eye.

“Thank you, Bagot. Let’s go eat.”

“Thank you, honored economist and professor,” said Sylvia.

Faro’s was less than a kilo from the harbor—in what looked to be a converted store. The windows were blocked with dark, louvered interior shutters, and the floor was a polished gray stone.

After stepping into an atmosphere of muted incense, spices, and cooking oil, the four waited a moment. Most of the nearly twenty tables were taken.

A heavyset woman wearing a floor-length full maroon skirt and an orange blouse scurried toward them. “Four? We have a large booth…”

“That’s fine,” said Nathaniel.

The booth was lit, dimly, by a hanging ceramic oil lamp that shed almost as much smoke as light. The two Ecolitans took the seats with their backs to the wall.

After checking the menu, and tentatively deciding on the pork changa, Nathaniel turned to Bagot. “You grew up here, and your father worked for the Port Authority. My father was a datamanager, and the last thing I ever wanted to do was manage data. How did you end up at the same place?”

“I guess I never thought about it that way.”

“What would you gentles like to drink?” asked the server, a slightly thinner version of the hostess.

“A glass of Kenward,” said Sylvia.

“I’ll try that,” added Anne-Leslie.

“Stout,” said Bagot.

“Grawer.”

“Soon as I get those, I’ll take your order.” With a snap of her head she was gone.

“That’s…you know…?” offered Anne-Leslie.

Bagot frowned.

“Susanna…the one…”

“Right oh. I didn’t recognize her.”

“I’ll bet you were one of those boys who drooled after her.”

Bagot flushed.

“Be easy on him,” said Nathaniel. “We all make mistakes.”

“Like that blond one in New Augusta?” asked Sylvia with a broad smile.

Nathaniel winced.

Anne-Leslie and Bagot laughed.

“Here you are.” Susanna set two wineglasses, a tumbler, and a mug down on the brown synthcloth. “And what would you like tonight? The special’s sea-grilled baskmod.”

“Would you suggest the pork changa or the house pie?” asked Sylvia.

“They’re both good. Depends on how spicy you like things. The pork’s pretty spicy.”

“The house pie.”

“Pork changa” came from Anne-Leslie, and then Bagot.

“The same,” added Nathaniel.

“You were saying how you ended up at the Port Authority,” prompted Sylvia, after a moment of silence following the server’s departure.

“Jem wanted me to be a rover, said he could get me on at R-K. It never grabbed me. There was talk about opening a branch of the University of Camelot here, but it didn’t happen. Pa said the growers were against it…” The younger man looked at the glass of stout, then sipped it.

The Ecolitan refrained from wincing at the thought of drinking anything alcoholic and warm.

Susanna dropped a longish basket of bread on the table, barely hesitating as she passed, and Nathaniel offered it to Sylvia, then to Anne-Leslie.

“I imagine growing up here was difficult,” said Sylvia, looking toward the younger woman.

“We were pretty lucky, I guess. Better off than some.” Anne-Leslie sipped the Kenward. “It’s better now, a little anyway. I can remember the year everything came out of plasticpaks.”

“After the tox-rain?” Bagot shook his head and looked down at his stout, then took a quick swallow, almost draining it.

“I’m sorry,” apologized the younger woman.

“It happened. Can’t change that.”

Nathaniel and Sylvia exchanged quick glances.

“I walked by the school the other day. Was that the one you attended?” asked the older Ecolitan.

“Same one. Both Anne-Leslie and I went there. That’s the only one there is, really, here on ConOne. Never got away with much, not after Ma started working there.” Bagot laughed.

“It sounds like your mother didn’t let you get away with much anywhere.”

“She still works there, and she still doesn’t.”

“So…you went to school there, and then you went to work at the port.”

“They owed him that, what with his father,” interjected Anne-Leslie.

“How did your father end up with the Port Authority?” asked Sylvia gently.

Bagot looked at Anne-Leslie, then at Nathaniel, who sipped the too-strong Grawer.

“He was with the Fusiliers, the Green and Tans. That’s what Ma says, anywise. Pa never would talk about it. After New Avalon took Hibernia, they offered him…’ cause he was such a good pilot, I guess, they offered him a job anywhere he wanted except Hibernia.” Bagot hurried another swallow of stout.

Nathaniel had the feeling that someone other than Bagot would be driving the groundcar.

“Here you go, gentles, and a good go it is!” Susanna spread the plates around the table, then set a small dish at each plate filled with a scoop of something. “And there’s your pinko.” She looked at Bagot’s empty glass.

The younger man nodded.

“What might be pinko?” asked Nathaniel after the server left.

“It’s a kind of local sherbet, some mutated raspberries, and it tastes pretty good.” Bagot snorted. “One of the few things besides cattle that taste good, and pinko’s the only one that’s cheap.”

In the lull after Susanna provided another glass of stout to Bagot and as they began to eat, Nathaniel picked up fragments of conversation at the adjoining table.

“…sure he’s the young fellow from the port…other one might be his brother…”

“Too tall…Bagots are short…”

“…new to me…”

The pork changa was mild, and the Ecolitan wondered. “Is the house pie…lightly seasoned?”

“Bland,” murmured Sylvia.

He offered her some of the pork.

“That’s good,” she murmured after eating a mouthful.

He took a small spoonful of the pink sherbet and had another. “The changa’s quite good, and so is the pinko,” he announced loudly. “A good recommendation.” He nodded to Anne-Leslie. “A good recommendation.”

The young woman flushed slightly.

“How do you find working for the Evanstons?” asked Sylvia quickly.

“Madame Evanston is easy to work for. She tells me what she wants, how she wants it done, and, if I don’t know, how to do it.” Anne-Leslie smiled. “The best parts are that unless I mess up, she leaves me alone, and the food is good and free, and there’s plenty. Sometimes, she’ll even send some home with me. And clothes for the little ones.”

Sylvia looked at the younger woman inquiringly.

“Martha-Elizabeth and Laura-Olivia…they’re the youngest. Clothes out of anything but synthcloth are still hard to come by.”

“The big growers don’t like sheep. I heard tell that there’s a small herd on ConTrio, but that wool doesn’t get here.” Bagot took another swallow of the stout and finished the second glass, holding it up for a refill. “Nothing gets here.”

“Another?” asked Susanna, sweeping by and taking the glass.

“Another.”

Anne-Leslie glanced at Bagot, but the younger man avoided her eyes.

“It seems like things are improving somewhat,” began Nathaniel. “The Blue Lion is being redecorated and refurbished.”

“It looks nice,” said Anne-Leslie, “but they don’t pay very well.”

“Your stout,” announced the server, setting it in front of Bagot. “Would anyone like dessert?”

“The rum cake,” said Bagot.

“The nut cake,” added Anne-Leslie.

“I think I’ll pass,” said Sylvia.

“I also.” Nathaniel knew, again, that too much food was tightening his trousers.

“I still can’t believe you drooled after her,” commented Anne-Leslie after the server disappeared into the kitchen area.

“It was…a long time…ago.” Bagot took another hefty swallow of the warm stout.

“You were saying that the Blue Lion does not pay well,” prompted Nathaniel, recalling the disappointed waiter there.

“No. I looked there.”

“No one pays well on Artos, ’cept the Port Authority,” added Bagot.

“They only hire men.” Anne-Leslie’s eyes glinted.

Bagot looked down into his half-full glass.

Susanna dropped the two deserts before the two younger diners. “Need anything else?”

“Just the bill, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Nathaniel quietly.

The server nodded, then slipped the paper oblong onto the table.

After she left, Nathaniel asked, “Did you know Helverson very well?”

Bagot swallowed a large mouthful of the dark cake before answering. “Didn’t know him…mush…at all. The chief…said he was a former grenadier, special services…” Bagot looked up and offered a wide and sloppy grin. “Just for you…” The grin slowly faded.

Anne-Leslie’s hand went to her mouth.

“That’s all right,” said Sylvia. “We thought that might be the case. He’s one of the few not born here on Artos, right?”

“Thass…right. You…win the prize, professor.” Bagot slowly ate another bite. “Good…cake…good…food…”

Abruptly, Bagot grinned even wider, and then put his head on the table, right beside the remnants of the chocolate rum cake.

“GB…oh, GB.”

“Perhaps we should go.” Nathaniel rose.

Sylvia nodded.

After paying the check and including enough for a tip, Nathaniel simply lifted the slight form of Bagot right out of his chair and carted him to the groundcar.

“What will happen to him?” asked Anne-Leslie as Whaler eased the limp figure into the backseat beside her.

“Not a thing. Because he didn’t say anything at all. Not that I heard,” said Nathaniel.

“You planned this.” The young woman looked from one Ecolitan to the other.

“No. He only had three glasses of stout. I had no idea he was that sensitive to alcohol. The only thing we planned was to get him to talk about Artos.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does,” said Sylvia while Nathaniel shut the door and slipped behind the wheel. “People who live someplace take their world for granted. You need stories about friends, family, little things that happen to get a better view.”

“That’s what Madame Evanston says…but you’re professors.”

Nathaniel wanted to slam his forehead. The term “madame” finally registered, and he knew what his subconscious had been trying to tell him about Vivienne Evanston. She had to be Frankan.

“We have a study to do,” said Sylvia. “In the end, economics is about people, and the numbers don’t make sense without knowing about people. Professor Whaler spent most of a day just walking through Lanceville, looking and listening.”

“Oh…”

Nathaniel eased the car into the street. “Where should we drop you off?”

“No,” said Sylvia. “I think we should drop GB off first—if Anne-Leslie can show us where.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Fine. GB first.” That made sense, especially given how worried the young woman was.

“We don’t live that far apart, really. GB still lives with his family. So do I.”