Should the prophet walk on water and heal the sick and raise the dead, no one can say whether he is prophet or no, whether he is sent by the angels or the devils, or whether he is master or slave.
Goodness may be done by the evil to ensnare the unwary, and evil by the good to test the worthiness of the people. So by what measure can any person weigh the truth of another’s deeds?
The Book of Deeds
Authorized Version (First Revision)
Old Earth, 3788 N.E.C.
III
Grim—that was the appearance of the gardens in the central courtyard of the senior officers quarters, reflected Gerswin.
Heavy gray clouds poured out of the eastern hills and down over New Augusta, scudding across the sky so swiftly that their motion was apparent with even a single glance through the narrow windows of his room.
No rain dropped from the mass of gray, and the air beneath was preternaturally clear, as if the sky held its breath.
The senior commander turned and glanced toward the vidscreen.
“Seems like you’ve done this before,” he said quietly, but neither the screen nor the room answered him.
High Command had not expected him to choose the Service over the newly created Recorps, and now the admirals didn’t know what to do with him.
Gerswin could understand their dilemma. A desk job in New Augusta might give him access to influence or to make more trouble. At the same time, his rank would guarantee him a job with access to people and resources at any out-base. At the moment, there were no handy combat or high risk assignments for commanders where he could be placed with the hope of his not returning.
Although Corpus Corps involvement in shortening his life span was a possibility, Gerswin hoped that no one in their right mind would seriously consider assassination or removal. The subsequent inquiry would prove too unsettling and would expose too many weaknesses in both the Empire and the Service, not to mention the possibility that the devilkids might feel compelled to take on the Empire because they would regard the Empire’s commitments as worthless.
But ego was a touchy subject, and Gerswin would not trust rationality to prevail, not for a time at least. For that reason were the throwing knives concealed behind his artificially stiffened waistband, the sling leathers in place. He also was devoting increased attention to his surroundings, especially when he went out.
In the interim, while the admirals decided, he reported to the detail section every morning, was updated on how no new assignments were yet available, and asked to check back the next morning. Three days earlier, he’d spent the day taking a battery of tests, and the first thing after he’d arrived had been a three-day physical.
The fact that they were still looking for somewhere to put him told him that he was disgustingly healthy, and as sane as anyone could test out.
He paced back from the portal toward the window and stopped, staring out at the grayness. Still holding back rain, the heavy clouds continued their race across the central city.
Buzz!
Making an effort not to charge the screen, he took three slow steps and acknowledged the call.
An unfamiliar face filled the screen—a tech of some indeterminate rank.
“Senior Commander Gerswin?”
“Yes?”
“This is Curvilis at the orderly’s console. There is a messenger here for you.”
“Yes?”
“Ser. This is very unusual. It is from the Duke of Triandna, and his person insists upon handing it directly to you.”
Gerswin shook his head, then stopped as he realized that meant exactly the opposite of what the orderly expected.
“I’ll be right down.”
Was it Caroljoy or the Corpus Corps?
He tapped off the screen image before checking his knives. Then he palmed a miniature stunner and slipped it into the special pocket in his left sleeve.
As he departed he pulled the privacy cloak from the locker and swirled it around him. He didn’t need the privacy, but the material was supposedly designed to block low energy projectiles and lasers. He let the hood fall back on his shoulders.
The corridor was empty, but rather than taking the passenger drop shaft, he turned left and headed for the freight shaft.
In quick and quiet steps from the back of the exit on the main floor, he slipped toward the main entry and the orderly’s console. From the archway that separated the triangular entry hall from the back corridor where he stood in the shadows, Gerswin could see the “messenger” from the Duke, or most probably from the Duchess.
The messenger was none other than the retired I.S.S. pilot who had taken him to the Duke’s estate the last time he had been in New Augusta.
No one else entered the area, nor was anyone else in evidence besides the pilot and the orderly.
“Commander?” Gerswin offered as he stepped out boldly toward the lavender-clad pilot.
“Senior Commander Gerswin, a pleasure to see you again, ser.” The older man bowed slightly from the waist and straightened, handing the I.S.S. officer a sealed package that weighed close to a kilo. “Those are the papers the Duchess wanted you to have.”
Gerswin covered his confusion by bowing in return. What papers?
“My thanks, Commander,” Gerswin responded. “Her Grace…?”
“Perhaps you should read them before…”
The pilot did not meet Gerswin’s eyes.
“Appreciate your bringing them.”
“No problem at all.”
With that, the Duke’s pilot was gone, leaving Gerswin holding the sealed package.
This time Gerswin took the passenger lift to his third floor room. The corridors were deserted, unsurprisingly, since most of the senior officers billeted there were undergoing full-day briefings at the Octagon, or were stationed there.
Once inside his quarters, he used some makeshift extender tools to open the package, still unwilling to stand over it and unseal the tape.
His fears proved groundless, though he put a small slit in the cover of the loose-leaf book which had been enclosed within the wrappings. A small sealed envelope, with only the notation “Lieutenant Gerswin” on it, was tucked inside the black leather covers, just in front of the title page, which stated simply: “OER FOUNDATION.”
He opened the letter, setting the book on the top of the console.
Dear Lieutenant (please pardon my remembering you this way),
I think it is fair to say that I understand you a little, and have helped you in the ways that Merrel and I can. The book represents, in its own way, my only lasting gift of a material nature. Jane, of course, is another gift, but it is rather unlikely you will cross paths.
You are trying to light a light in darkness, and may this help. Other than this note, which for my own selfish reasons I cannot resist, there is no connection between the Foundation and us, nor would His Grace wish it otherwise. The Foundation is yours, and you are the Foundation. While it is modest by Imperial standards, it need not remain so, and used properly may provide you the lever you need to reclaim your heritage, and Martin’s.
You have a long future, or, as the ancients put it, “many miles to go before you sleep.” My rest will come soon, sooner than I had thought.
To that I am reconciled, my lieutenant, and with you go my thoughts, my memories, and what we have shared, and might have shared.
Farewell.
CJ
The scent of the note, like the clean scent of her, burned through him with the words as he stood staring, his eyes looking through the narrow window at the courtyard garden he did not see, his left hand clutching the note, his right the envelope.
Sooner than she thought?
OER Foundation?
Miles to go before you sleep?
Reconciled to what?
The questions swirled through his thoughts like the fringes of a landspout, ripping at his composure, tearing at his guts, until the tightness in his stomach matched the stabbing behind his
unfocused eyes.
Darkness, the darkness of youth, and the touch of lips under his, with the cool warmth of New Colora outside the louvered windows of a junior officer’s room. Darkness, and the cooling silence of rest after fire. Darkness, after the first time he had ever whistled his song of Old Earth for anyone.
Darkness…darkness…always the darkness.
A flash of light across the rain-damped gloom of the courtyard outside finally broke through the ebbing flow of his memories, and he looked up from the chair he found himself sitting in.
1534. That was what the readout on the screen indicated. Three hours…more than three standard hours he had wrestled with the past, a past he had not even known meant so much until he found himself losing it, piece by piece.
He stood, squinting, shrugging his shoulders to loosen the stiffness, and trying to repress the shivers that threatened.
He looked down. The envelope was on the flat section of the wall console, but the note itself was still clutched in his left hand.
Caroljoy. I never knew…
“Didn’t you?” he asked aloud. “Didn’t you?”
There was no answer from the dark green walls, nor from the blank screen, or from its flashing red light that indicated messages stored in the system.
He ignored the messages and turned to the book—only because the pilot had suggested he read it before reacting. Carefully refolding the note, he placed it in the pocket inside the front cover, though he would remove it shortly, as she had implied he should.
“OER FOUNDATION”—that was stamped in silver letters on the spine of the book and on the otherwise blank front cover.
He leafed through the pages, skimming the contents, still standing before the console.
The shakiness in his knees reminded him that he had some physical limits, and, flicking the room’s light level higher, he sat down in the single gray swivel.
After racing through the first ten pages, he shut the cover. The rest could wait until he could devote the right attitude to study and learn the contents.
Caroljoy had been right. He was the OER Foundation. Of course, she was right. She had designed it. While the Halsie-Vyr Group controlled the base assets, all income from the trust went to OER, to an account blind to Halsie-Vyr, and from which only one Senior Commander MacGregor Corson Gerswin could draw.
He shook his head. The details were overwhelming. In essence, the book was a personalized how-to manual for him…how to set up a double blind operation to protect himself…how to comply with the Imperial Tax Code—
“No!”
Caroljoy had been so thorough. She had personally picked out the offices—through an intermediary—and included a floor plan. So thorough, as if everything had to be done completely right the first time, as if there were no tomorrow. As if…
“Farewell?”
This time he could not stop the shivers. So he sat and trembled until they passed.
After a time he stood and went to the screen, tapping out the combination he had never used.
A woman’s face appeared in the screen—hair snow-starred in the latest pattern, but slightly askew, composed, but with the smudged circles of tiredness under her eyes, eyes from which radiated the fine lines of a middle-aged woman under stress.
“Commander Gerswin, I believe.”
“How did you know?” He could tell his voice was ragged.
“The Duchess left a solideo cube. She thought you would call. I think she hoped you would not accept a mere farewell note.”
“Could…I’d like to talk to her. Come and see her if at all possible.”
“It’s not possible, Commander, though we all wish it were. She has some pride, and forbade it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She left for H’Liero yesterday, for the Mern’tang Health Center.”
“Oh…” Another chill passed through him. The famous center accepted only cases diagnosed as terminal, and only patients who could afford the astronomical costs.
“Her mother and grandmother both died of Byclero’s Syndrome. His Grace had hoped that continual treatment would lessen the chances…” The woman’s voice died off.
Gerswin shook his head again, and again, his eyes unable to focus on the screen.
He reached out to break the connection.
“Commander.” Her level tone reached him.
He stopped, blinked back the tears he did not know he had shed, wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, and cleared his throat.
“Yes.”
“I wish she could have seen you, but you know the final stages of the disease break down most of the body’s cartilage. She refused to have either you or His Grace accompany her. His Grace would have had you go in his place, even. He did not want her alone—” The woman’s voice broke this time, and Gerswin waited, swallowing hard. “You know how strong-willed she was…she is.
“She insisted I wait for your call. She did not want to upset His Grace, but she knew her lieutenant would call, and someone had to tell you…she knew her lieutenant would call…”
The woman with the snow-starred hair looked down, saying nothing. Gerswin could see her fists clenched, feeling his own knotted at his sides.
“She knew you would call…,” repeated the woman helplessly.
“She knew,” repeated the senior commander. “She knew so much.” The silence fell on both screens. “What can I do?”
“You have done all that you can…more than…many…” The woman visibly pulled herself together. “I asked her what I could say to you—if, when, you called. She said you would know, but that if I had to say anything, that she would see you at the end of time. That hers was the shorter journey, and the easier.”
He said nothing, but nodded twice. Then he cleared his throat again. “Let me know. Let me know.” He could say no more, and his hand lashed out at the screen controls. The image faded into gray.
Forcing himself to unclinch his fists, he took four steps to the narrow oblong window and peered at the smudged lights above the rain-damped garden.
“Hers was the shorter journey…Caroljoy…I never knew…never knew…But you did…You always did.”
As he stood before the rain and storm, the darkness solidified within.
IV
The Forever Hero
Call him hero after all heroes had died.
Call him champion when none else had tried.
Call him saviour of a land left burned.
Call him a destroyer of shambles unlearned.
Call him a name, a title, a force.
Call him devil, or the land’s source.
Call him soldier, pilot, or priest.
Call him the greatest, or term him beast.
But remember he stood, and stretched tall,
Where others crawled, or stood not at all.
Remember the captain, and call him Lord.
Remember the sheath is not the sword.
Anonymous
Quoted in Ballads of the Captain
Edwina de Vlerio
New Augusta, 5133 N.E.C.
V
The captain of the Fleurdilis frowned as he studied the hard copy of the schematic. He supposed he could have used the screen, rather than having gone to the trouble of having the pages printed, but he liked to be able to wander around the cabin with the diagrams, to be able to make notes at odd times without having to code up the file, to puzzle through the codes and routings.
He still didn’t understand all the details represented in the diagrams, but he knew enough to understand that the ship whose command he had just assumed was not configured according to her own specifications, or that the ship’s own databanks did not register the differences.
Admittedly, the majority of discrepancies were minor, where conduit blocs had been shifted less than a meter, in one case, to accommodate modifications to the forward launch tubes. But some were scarcely minor. The Fleurdilis no longer carried the installed equipment for its own emerge
ncy field recharging, nor did it carry the original energy capacitators, nor the original drive field equipment.
The newer equipment was not only smaller, but, compared to the original specifications, far less powerful.
In short, he was saddled with command of a nominal cruiser, but one with less real power than an old-style corvette. The lower power capability reduced range, screen defenses, and survivability.
He touched the console, without looking at the image that formed on the screen.
“Yes, Commander?”
“Send up Senior Technician Relyea, if she’s available.”
“Yes, ser.”
The senior commander straightened his blacks, set down the schematics, and paced in a narrow circle in the small stateroom as he waited.
“Technician Relyea, Commander.”
The woman was petite, scarcely even to his shoulder, with brown hair knotted into a neat bun, black eyes, and new senior tech insignia on her collars.
“Sit down.” He pointed to the single guest chair.
She sat.
“Have you studied the basic schematics?” He pointed at the diagrams on the console.
She peered at them momentarily. “Not in detail. Those are really not much good.”
“Figured that out. Why weren’t they updated? Means that the information in the databanks isn’t reliable.”
The senior tech pursed her lips. “Not exactly, Commander. The data entries are not all they should be, but the correct information is there. Provided you know the keys…”
The Commander, still standing, turned and looked down at her.
“Go ahead.”
“When the downsizing orders came through, as each ship went through refit, new specs were added to the databanks. The originals were left.” She lifted her shoulders. “Just in case, I suppose.”
“Downsizing orders?”
“The CommFleet Order…about five years ago…the one that was to reduce fleet energy consumption by thirty percent, except for the First and Fifth fleets, and, of course, the scouts.”
“Did the rest of the galaxy downsize as well?” the commander snapped. “Forget that,” he added abruptly. “Planetside at the time.” He paused before continuing. “Was there any official explanation?”
The Forever Hero Page 35
