Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (8 page)

As he brought himself back to meet Sylvia’s eyes, he realized he had not even touched the food on the plate before him. Nor had Sylvia.

He gestured.

“Perhaps you’d like a bite or two before you begin…”

Looking down, then lifting his fork, he raised his eyebrows, asking an unspoken question.

“No…I didn’t drop anything in the food, suspicious man. Did you?”

“No, suspicious lady.”

Surprisingly, the fish was still warm, and the sweet-sour sauce and a spice he failed to recognize added pungency to the white meat’s delicate flavor. The side dish, some sort of vegetable, was soggy, bland, and smelled like overdone seaweed.

It also tasted like seaweed, though Sylvia ate her portion with scarcely a shiver.

He finished nearly all of what was on his plate before realizing she had done the same, and neither had said a word.

“You know…Sylvia…I wonder if anyone will really believe what I’ve said after you walk out and tell them.”

“Dear Envoy, it’s a relief to hear I will walk out.” Her smile was teasing.

“Unlike Imperials,” he returned, “we don’t tease and obfuscate issues, which often leaves us at a great disadvantage.”

“The Service already believes you.” Her face smoothed into a professional mask. “For various reasons, no one else wants to. In that sense, we’re allies. But we can’t lift a hand in any direct way to help you make your case.”

“Why not?”

“Since I don’t seem compelled to answer that, I won’t, although I will point out that no military bureaucracy has ever lost the opportunity to destroy rival intelligence sources.”

“The Institute faces some of the same problems, and I would guess the same problem occurs in more cultures than not.” He cleared his throat. “What else can you, or will you, reveal?”

“You probably won’t get much help from the Ministry of External Affairs…we feel that Commerce will try to take control.”

“You paint a less than optimistic picture.”

“Should I distort it, Lord Whaler? No one really likes Accord. Even the Service only supports the idea of a completed agreement because we like the alternatives even less.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “What can I say?”

“That you’re sorry for the underhanded tactics you use…” suggested Sylvia with a twinkle in her eye.

“When I am not…when the tactics hurt no one, except the pride…?”

“Touché!”

“After all, Lady, my pride also was damaged.” Nathaniel managed to keep a straight face despite the outrageous statement.

The Ecolitan looked down at his empty plate, wondering why he was regretting that the lunch was nearly over.

“Why the frown?”

“Oh…nothing. Things are never quite as they seem, but why that should surprise me I can’t quite say.”

Sylvia pushed back her chair and stood, catching Nathaniel with the quickness of the movement, although he was standing next to her within instants.

“You recover quickly,” she observed, still bantering.

“One tries.”

Inclining her head to the right, she gave him a quizzical look, her gray eyes clouding momentarily. “Like you, I find things are not quite what they seem. Nor are you.”

“I am what I am.”

She was already departing. As the portal irised, she turned back toward him.

“Time is running against you, you know, particularly if you have to react to others.” She paused, then continued with a brief smile, “But I did enjoy the lunch.”

With that, she was gone.

Nathaniel shook his head as the portal closed behind her.

Only a faint scent, similar to the orange blossoms of his father’s orchards, hung in the air to remind him that Sylvia had been there.

N
ATHANIEL STUDIED HIS
reflection in the mirror. The shimmering tan of the semiformal tunic was not all that flattering, made him look even a bit beefy.

“Can’t have everything,” he muttered as he tapped the plate to dim the quarters’ lights.

Was it wise to go out the way he was?

Probably not.

Instead of leaving by the private exit, he decided on going through the Legation. The staff offices were deserted except for the duty desk, captained by Hillary West-Coven, the lady whose purpose he had yet to discover.

“Oh, Lord Whaler. You surprised me.”

Several emotions flashed across her face, one of which Nathaniel thought might be guilt.

“That I did not mean,” he pontificated. “Just departing am I.”

With that, he hurried out, checking the area outside the portal.

The corridor was nearly deserted, but the faint shadow along the far side corridor piqued his curiosity. He eased himself against the wall and slipped toward the side branch, the one that would eventually lead to the private entrance to his personal quarters.

After dropping into a crouch, he darted a look around the corner, in time to see three plain-suited figures heading crisply toward the exit portal from his quarters.

Nathaniel straightened, checking behind himself instinctively, and frowned.

The military bearing of two of the three was obvious, despite their civilian attire. But who was the third figure? Somehow the gait had been familiar, almost like an Ecolitan…

“Whew!” A soft whistle escaped his lips.

If he’d seen what he thought he’d seen, he was headed for real trouble. The next question was how to defuse the trap without letting onto the deception.

If the three didn’t discover one Nathaniel Whaler exiting his quarters shortly, they would go searching, as well as alert their superiors at the Ministry of Defense.

Nathaniel weighed the options, and as he weighed, checked the few items he always carried.

From the inside of his belt he pulled a thin, golden film cloak and a filmy golden privacy mask. While such masks were not normally worn on New Augusta, his real purpose was to confuse his identity for a few individuals for a limited period of time.

Next came the wooden dart pistol with which he had attempted to persuade Sergel. In addition to the lethal darts were those that sent the victims into a delirium and effectively scrambled their memories from several minutes before they were shot until several days later. The Ecolitan opted for the nonlethal variety.

An unseen attack would be best, but if that couldn’t be arranged, surprise would substitute nearly as well.

The corridors narrowed as they approached his private quarters, but Nathaniel trailed the three until it was certain they were staking out his quarters’ exit.

From the corner behind which he waited, the range to the nearest “sentry,” a blond man perhaps six centimeters shorter than the Ecolitan, was roughly eight meters. The other military operative was stationed to guard the cross corridor, and the third, the one who also wore a privacy cloak, the one whose face and bearing resembled the Ecolitan himself, stood by the exit portal with a drawn stunner.

Nathaniel eased the dart pistol around the corner and fired.

“Thwick!”

“Thwick!”

The nearer sentry pulled at his neck, twice, before dropping his hand to look at the dissolving residue of the dart.

His left arm twitched, followed by his right leg.

The further sentry, the dark-haired and taller woman, had already snapped her head around.

“Thwick!”

“Thwick!”

The first victim began to thrash on the corridor tiles, dull thuds echoing down the long and otherwise empty passageways.

Nathaniel wondered at the man’s self-control. By now, most would have been raving wildly.

The woman looked at the disintegrating splinters of the dart which rested in her hand, her eyes widening. Before she could analyze the pattern, in turn, she shuddered as the neural disruptor began to take effect.

Four shots to hit two sentries. Lousy shooting, Nathaniel thought as he reloaded the dart thrower.

The remaining Imperial, the bogus Ecolitan, turned his head from one side to the other as if to determine from which of the two intersecting corridors the shots had come.

Finally, the man made the right decision and dashed for the corridor where the woman lay thrashing, the one farthest from Nathaniel.

The Ecolitan snapped the dart gun together, waited until the other had cleared the corner, and sprinted nearly noiselessly after the man.

As he came around the corner, he saw the fleeing Imperial collide with a passerby, a mid-aged man, and knock him to the tiles. Nathaniel didn’t hesitate but used a single dart on the bystander as he passed at full sprint.

The Imperial stopped at the next intersection, the one perhaps thirty meters from the main corridor leading to the lift/drop shaft, and turned to level his stunner at the oncoming Ecolitan.

“Thwick!”
Nathaniel triggered the dart pistol, knowing the distance was too great but anticipating the other would flinch. He did.

“Thrummm!”

The stunner bolt passed over the Ecolitan’s left shoulder.

Nathaniel dove to the right and into a roll. He came out still running.

His right hand went dead, but that didn’t stop him from firing the dart thrower.

Another advantage to being left-handed, he noted absently as he closed on the Imperial.

“Thwick!”

The dart caught the Imperial agent full in the throat, the only area unshielded by clothing. The man staggered momentarily, just long enough for Nathaniel to slash away the stunner and follow through with a quick elbow across the man’s jaw.

Without hesitating, Nathaniel pocketed the dart pistol, retrieved the stunner, and hoisted the unconscious but twitching form of the other over his shoulder. In less than a minute he had stowed the man in the public call booth near the lift shaft.

Only one passing couple caught his transit, the woman quickly turning her head, the man still peering back as the two descended the drop shaft.

As he tapped out the codes he wanted, Nathaniel stood to shield the body from full public view.

“Senator Helmsworth’s Office.”

The respondent was not the urbane male receptionist, but a woman, dark haired and slightly disheveled, in a pale blue tunic.

“Nathaniel Whaler for Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

“Let me check.”

The screen blanked, only to be replaced with Sylvia’s slate gray eyes and dark hair. She still wore the green and gray she had worn to lunch.

“Lord Whaler…what a surprise.”

“Not so much as what I have for you.” He stepped aside and dragged the unconscious Imperial agent into the focus of the screen.

“Oh…and why are you faxing me?”

“I had thought that some of your friends might want to have a chat with this gentleman before he wakes up. You’ll note his remarkable similarity to me. That is, your friends might enjoy the conversation if they could pick him up before his dispatcher does.”

“Where on earth are you?”

“In the main corridor pubcomm station, right beyond the lift shaft, where you had lunch.”

“In that case, something might be arranged. Will you be there?”

“Not for long. I’ll call you later. I’ve probably been available all too long in any case.”

“I understand.”

The screen blanked.

Nathaniel shook his head. As quick as he thought he was, she was even quicker.

He let the agent slump into a heap in the back corner of the booth, hardly noticeable from outside, and strolled out and toward the drop shaft and his dinner engagement with Marcella, hoping the I.I.S. could retrieve the imitation “Nathaniel” before the military could.

A
FTER THE QUICK
drop the public shaft to the tunnel concourse, Nathaniel summoned a public tunnel cab to take him to the Plaza D’Artin, the Golden Nova, and Marcella.

As he sat in the back of the cab, he flexed his right hand, squeezing it with his left. Some of the feeling was beginning to return.

Was the lady responsible for his recent reception committee? If not, why the coincidence?

He shrugged and took a deep breath, shaking himself slightly to relax muscles that were too tight.

Despite its name, the Golden Nova occupied a quiet corner of the multileveled plaza. Nathaniel was amused to note that his choice of dinner wear, while commonplace among the younger men, was definitely in style.

“I see you found it without trouble.” Marcella Ku-Smythe was waiting for him in the restaurant’s anteroom.

She wore an amber outfit with a high neck, narrow waist, and slightly flared pants. Much more becoming to her light skin than the maroon of the Imperial Commerce Ministry, he reflected. He didn’t miss the bulge of the stunner tucked into the waist folds of her jacket.

A waiter materialized and led them to a corner table. The dining area was filled, obviously with wealthy souls. The use of waiters alone attested to the price levels. So Marcella was well-off in her own right. Or the government was picking up the tab. Or both.

After they were seated, he asked that question.

“You’re too forthright even for me. Let us poor Imperials have a few secrets.”

“You’re more of a mystery to us,” he protested. “So many things puzzle me. Terra is the center of the Empire but few live here. You build towers into the sky, but seal them off and travel underground.”

“You should know.” It was the first trace of hostility he’d heard in her voice. “Or have they forgotten to teach all the history on Accord? Or don’t you recall why the war was called the Ecologic Rebellion…pardon me, the Ecologic Secession?”

“Forest Lord! Still?” he asked apologetically. The history tapes mentioned the use of ecological weapons against Terra itself by the Institute, and the techniques were still taught. But Accord had long since recovered from the war’s effects.

She waved his apology aside.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have any reason to understand the lasting impact. Terran ecology was so fragile at the time. We never really recovered from the Age of Waste and the first planetary wars. Yes, we could go outside, and some are allowed, but we’re erring on the side of caution. If you notice, all the towers—a necessary requirement of Empire—are within New Augusta. Elsewhere we try to minimize any adverse impact on the environment.”

After that exchange, he was more on edge.

“For a man so intelligent, so ostensibly open, you reveal little of what you are.”

He spread his hands. “My life is an open book.”

“Of blank pages,” she added with a wry laugh, “or pages written in an ancient and unknown language.”

He looked around the dining area from his position against the wall. Something about the seating arrangements bothered him, but he couldn’t pin it down.

“Marcella, you are a witty and brilliant lady, and you entertain me marvelously. Can you entertain me further and tell me how and what I need to do to follow through on the trade agreement talks?”

The smile disappeared from her face.

“Not here. Come see me tomorrow. Say around 1400.”

Question asked; question answered.

“I bow to your superior wisdom, and speaking of wisdom, can you enlighten me on what should be ordered.”

When he had seen her earlier on the vidfax screen and in person at the Commerce Ministry, she had worn her hair up and more severely. Now, with the swirl of sandy hair across her shoulder, with the light tan of her skin and the dark amber of her outfit, he tabbed her more as a golden girl, mature woman or not. Her green eyes were a shade less intense than in full daylight, but she still missed nothing.

“Their specials are always good, but I’m fond of the flaming spicetails.”

“Then I’ll have the flaming spicetails.”

“You’ll actually take the word of a hard, hard, Imperial bureaucrat?”

“On this small matter, at least.”

A brief shadow flickered across her face, so fleeting the Ecolitan wondered if she were aware of it, but it brought him back from the edge of relaxation. Marcella Ku-Smythe was not used to having her word doubted—on anything.

“How did you find your way into the bureaucracy?” Nathaniel figured it for a safe question.

“In the same way as any other bright student of applied political theory from a nonnoble family. Took the Emperor’s exams, passed with distinction, and was placed in the Commerce Ministry.” Marcella furrowed her brows briefly, as if the beginning of a career which had led her to becoming one of the top assistants in the Imperial bureaucracy was nothing unusual.

“Your family?”

“My mother was pleased, although she’s from the Eagles and would have preferred me to take a commission. My father, well, he just wanted me to do what I wanted. Nothing any different about me from any other aspiring assistant.

“You, on the other hand, embody romance, mystery, and a hint or so of danger.”

“Why? Because I’m from the nasty planet of Accord?”

Marcella was spared an answer by the arrival of a purple clad waiter.

Nathaniel nodded at Marcella.

“Two of the flaming spicetails, Imperial salads with Maccean nuts, and a carafe of Kremmling.” She looked at the Ecolitan. “Do you want anything else?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

“The cheeses as a mid-course,” she added to the waiter.

“Honored guest…” she started, with an appealing lilt in her mocking tone.

“Damn it! I’m Nathaniel. Always was. Always will be. None of this ‘honored’ this or ‘honored’ that. Honors never did the work.”

“Nathaniel, then. You still haven’t answered the question you haven’t let me ask.”

“Which was?”

“Why you seem to personify the whole concept of mystery.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”

“Oh?”

“I’m thirty-eight standard years old, sandy haired, and I’ve been employed in some capacity by the benevolent Institute for the past fifteen years.”

“Ah, yes. Combat arm of the Institute, but a renowned economist. Highly rated scout pilot, but a teacher. You’re pulled out of the Institute and thrown to head a trade delegation at the last minute. That’s not mysterious?”

Nathaniel was impressed with Marcella’s ability to tap into the pipeline, particularly since the information existed in written form only on Accord.

He shrugged.

“What can I say?” He forced a grin. “I thought you weren’t going to mix business with socializing.”

She had the grace to smile back, and the coldness left her eyes for a moment.

“You win.”

Nathaniel opted for generosity.

“Not that it’s not a good observation, Marcella. But I could say the same about you. All I know is that you are extraordinarily talented and that you work for Lord Rotoller, and that…”

“And what else?”

“That I’m perilously close to mixing business and socializing. No sense in drawing a second reprimand.”

He took a sip of the Kremmling, a light white wine with a hint of a sparkle, and waited for Marcella to taste the salad which had just appeared.

Was she waiting for him to take the first bite? Style be damned. He picked up the fork.

After the first three bites, Nathaniel decided there was a solid reason why the salad was termed “Imperial.” It was too rich for anyone but an Imperial.

“What do you really think of New Augusta?”

An innocently loaded question, but Nathaniel decided to be as truthful as possible under the circumstances.

“I haven’t had a chance to see a great deal, but already I feel cramped by not being able to get outside. I suppose that’s one reason why you’ve made the effort toward high-ceilinged architecture.”

“You’d have to confirm that with the Imperial architect, but it’s as good a reason as any. We just accept it because that’s the way it is.”

“What happens if someone doesn’t accept things?”

Marcella shrugged. “Every society has some who don’t fit in.”

“I can’t say that I’ve noticed an overt police system, but I have the impression that things are definitely under control.”

“As well as could be expected.”

“Do the unhappy ones get mental treatment or what?”

“Not necessarily. That’s the beauty of having an Empire. If they don’t like it on New Augusta or elsewhere on Earth, they can outship to a good hundred planets.”

“And you encourage that migration?”

“Yes…since we’re being frank. The fewer bodies here, the less strain on the ecology and the lower the population dissatisfaction critical point.”

“Isn’t that merely a mythical assumption, that population densities and comfort levels really have a bearing on civic harmony?”

“The original Living Space Riots, the work of your own scholar Vonderjogt, and the experiments of Kliemersol all would indicate otherwise. Practically speaking, no government could ever let the situation deteriorate that far, not and retain any pretense of civil liberty.”

“Isn’t dealing with such theoretical matters ranging a bit out of your field?”

“Not really.”

He dropped the questioning to concentrate on the flamed spicetails.

“Very good.”

“You haven’t tasted them before?”

“No. Our fare is much simpler.”

“What’s Accord really like? I don’t mean to ask for a travelogue. We’ve seen the standard reference works, the tapes, and the footage from back to the Secession, but what is Accord today? What are your candid impressions of the differences between the Empire and Accord?”

“I’m not sure I can answer with any great accuracy.”

“I’ll take an inaccurate impression.” She laughed and her voice relaxed. “You know, you’re very careful. I can’t blame you, but let go a little.”

“First, then, I’ll say that you can see the sky. It’s a shade greener than yours and our sun is whiter…” Nathaniel turned up his hands. “…but all the comparisons are conjectures. I see your sun through permaglass, and I see mine in my gardens and in the woods. I know everyone in the town where I grew up, and here I don’t see how anyone knows anyone. On Accord, everyone produces something. Even our bureaucrats grow their own vegetables, or write, or compose, or sing…”

“You make it sound like utopia.”

“Far from it. We’re a young society. People have to work hard at two or three jobs. It’s only been in the last generation or so that we’ve been able to afford career politicians and bureaucrats. I’m not convinced that change has been good.”

Marcella frowned.

“You picture Accord as a young society. Nearly four hundred years ago, which is a long time for a small political and social system like Accord, Accord was advanced enough to foment, direct, and successfully coordinate a multisystem revolution which cost the Empire all chance of immediate expansion into the Rift area. In addition,” she added drily, “roughly fifty systems discovered they would rather not pay levies to the Empire. I’m not sure how you can describe any society that effective as young.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “What can I say? You asked for my impressions. Compared to the Empire, we’re mere babes.”

“You still haven’t written much on those blank pages, Nathaniel.”

“What blank pages?”

“The ones that compose the open book of your life.”

The Ecolitan finished off the last spicetail rather than attempt an answer. The lady knew far more than any mere assistant to the Deputy Minister should. The question was why.

“Is everyone from Accord so reserved?”

“No.”

“What’s an Ecolitan?”

That was one question he definitely didn’t want to answer. It sounded so simple, but trying to give any real answer would create more problems.

“I really don’t know how to answer that one.”

“You can’t be serious.” A touch of sharpness crept into her voice.

“We Ecolitans keep pretty much to ourselves. So it’s hard to make comparisons. Originally, we were a totally separate and unified force which represented the bulk of Accord’s military capability. That is no longer true, although we do keep a number of ships. We are still totally independent of the Coordinate government and don’t have all that much to do with them. Call us scholars with the power to remain independent of any government.”

“Scholars are usually considered peaceful, and somehow I don’t see the Institute as a peaceful force or the selection of an Ecolitan as a peaceful move.”

“Scholars shouldn’t necessarily be regarded as pacifists. You also have to remember that I was a compromise selection, since neither the Normists nor the Orthodox opposition could agree on one of their own candidates for the position. Besides, any compromise reached by an Ecolitan could not possibly be questioned by even the most fanatical Orthodoxist.”

Marcella nodded slightly.

“Put in that light, your position becomes clearer. Only slightly clearer, I might add.”

“Whereas yours is still totally unclear.”

“What kind of art is most popular on Accord?”

Nathaniel accepted the abrupt changes in subject matter as an indication that Marcella had found out what she wanted to know…at least for the moment.

The only other awkward moment came after dinner.

“Excellent dinner, Marcella. May I see you to your quarters?”

“Perhaps it would be better if I did the escorting.”

“Is that the Terran custom?”

“Usually,” she noted, “but with diplomats, one can adjust to almost anything.”

“How about a compromise?”

“Leave as we came?”

“Just this time.”

“All right. But I promise I’ll hold you to your word.”

“In the meantime,” Nathaniel concluded, as he turned to go, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”