Alector's Choice

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Dainyl had gone home to Lystrana—most gratefully— for a more than pleasant evening.

  Although the spring snow had all melted, the streets had still been damp and the air raw. The rawness had persisted into Quinti, when Dainyl had arrived early at headquarters to prepare to meet Colonel Dhenyr, although it was likely that the new colonel would not be flying in until midday. The marshal was not in, and, perhaps would not be. Before he began his own projects for Quinti, Dainyl stopped to talk to Undercaptain Ghanyr at the duty desk.

  “Submarshal, sir, what can we do for you?”

  “Is first squad up to strength?”

  “Yes, sir. Weather’s clear, and we’ve got a dispatch run to Ludar. Nothing else, yet.”

  “How did things go in Iron Stem?”

  Ghanvr shook his head “Wouldn’t have been a oroble‘ 1

  if anyone talked to anyone. The local trade director claimed he’d sent three messages about cutting the timber, because he’d been turned down on his requisition for stone and bricks. The regional alector never saw any of the messages or the requisitions, and the trade director produced a dispatch that gave him authority to cut. It was forged, but not by him. Cadmian majer claimed he’d been ordered to do what was necessary. Some hothead blew the shaft because he was tired of living in a tent with all the wind. They were all trading dispatches, and half of them were false—“

  “How did that happen? Do you know?”

  “Marshal didn’t say.” Ghanyr looked down the corridor toward the Submarshal’s study.

  “That’s interesting,” mused Dainyl. “I didn’t even know about Iron Stem until after the miners blew the shaft.”

  “No, sir. Most didn’t. Just the marshal and the submar-shal, that’s what I heard Marshal Shastylt was telling the regional alector.” Ghanyr was telling the truth, and still doing his best to convey that the blame would fall on the dead Tyanylt. It was also a warning.

  “I’m glad everyone’s back safe.” Dainyl smiled warmly.

  “Yes, sir. Yuasylt didn’t have it so easy out in Hyalt.”

  “I heard. That’s why it’s important to watch for wild Talents before they get established.”

  Ghanyr nodded. “Heard you found one of those places of the ancients down in Dramur.”

  “We did. We circled and watched, but neither Falyna nor Quelyt ever saw anything there. Some indigen rebels took a shot at us, though.”

  “Strange times, sir.”

  “The strange happenings come in groups. They always have, and now is no different. Then they settle down.” Dainyl paused, but briefly. “Anything else I should know about?”

  “No, sir. There’s nothing new, no special dispatches.”

  Ghanyr did not quite look at Dainyl as he asked, “Are there going to be any more deployment orders, sir?”

  “Quelyt and Falyna will be heading back to Dramur with me tomorrow, as things stand now. That’s the only deployment, if you can call it that.”

  “Lucky them. It’s warm there.”

  “It’s getting wanner here.” Dainyl offered a parting smile before heading for his study, thinking about the false dispatches. Why had Shastylt fomented the problems at Iron Stem… and in Dramur? What possible reason could the marshal have had? Yet, when Shastylt had talked to Dainyl on Tridi, the marshal had been most clear on wanting Dainyl to resolve the problems in Dramur. That had not been the case before. What had changed? And why?

  Dainyl settled behind his desk, thinking. After a quarter glass, he shook his head. There was doubtless some simple reason, but he couldn’t figure it out. Shastylt was loyal to the High Alector of Justice, and to the Duarchy. Dainyl had been able to sense that, and so far, he’d never been mistaken. Could he be now? Was Shastylt that much stronger with his shields, strong enough not only to hide lies but to actively project untruths? Dainyl didn’t think so, but he no longer knew, not for certain.

  He lined up all the reports, and all the background files, that Dhenyr would need to read and review and carried them to the study that had once been his, placing them on the corner of the desk. Gathering and arranging all that material took less than half a glass.

  After that, he turned to the side table in his own study, and the ledgers stacked there—the consolidated supply accounts for all the Myrmidon companies. He started looking for something to prove or disprove his suspicions. Midday came and went, and Dainyl only took a short break to eat before returning to his review of the ledgers.

  Four months back, he found the only irregularity—if he could call it that. A page in the ledger had been replaced, and there were two fewer lines of entries on the page than on any other page. That was all. Nothing much, except that in scores of pages, all were the same length and the pages had not been touched. The figures all balanced. Dainyl put the ledgers aside. He suspected that someone had made a mistake, and it had been covered up, but what had been covered up he wasn’t about to find in the official records, and it couldn’t have been just a bookkeeping error. That could safely have been corrected.

  He stood and stretched, then took a walk down the corridor toward the duty desk, only to find Ghanyr walking toward him.

  “Viosyna just reported two pteridons inbound from the east, sir,” the undercaptain said. “It must be the new colonel.”

  “I’ll go out and meet him.” Dainyl did not put on his flying jacket, but as he stood, looking to the south and east, he began to wish he had. The wind was light, out of the north, but still raw. He stood well back and to the east of the landing stage, watching as the two pteridons circled to the south, then made their final approaches into the wind. The first pteridon settled, then the second. Colonel Dhenyr was in the second saddle of the trailing pteridon. Within moments, he had vaulted off the flight stage and walked toward Dainyl.

  Dhenyr was the image of the perfect Myrmidon—two and two-thirds yards in height, black hair so dark and straight that it seemed to reflect light while absorbing it, deep purple eyes, a well-formed oval face with black eyebrows neither too thin nor too bushy, and an alabaster skin whiter than the whitest marble or limestone. Even after two days of flight, he scarcely seemed to have anything out of place in either his bearing or his uniform.

  “Colonel Dhenyr… Submarshal Dainyl.” Dainyl offered a pleasant smile.

  Dhenyr inclined his head slightly before replying. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Marshal Shastylt has told me a great deal about you. You’re the first Myrmidon born on Acorus to become Submarshal. That’s quite something.”

  “It had to happen sometime,” Dainyl replied, smiling politely and keeping his shields locked and impermeable. Dhenyr’s warm and deep voice should have been reassuring. For some reason, it was not. “Let’s go inside. They can bring your gear to your study. Your personal furnishings are being sent overland?”

  “They left before I did.” Dhenyr laughed. “With my wife. She was fortunate that there was an opening for an assistant to the High Alector of Transport.”

  “You both were fortunate. There aren’t that many good positions.” Without saying more, Dainyl turned and led the way into headquarters and to his own study, where he gestured for Dhenyr to seat himself, then settled behind his own desk. “How were the flights?”

  “Long. There aren’t many that aren’t, anymore. We came straight, and that was cold, just below the Aerial Plateau.” Dhenyr waited, politely attentive.

  “I’ll be relatively brief with you… although there is a large stack of reports waiting for you to review. As operations and maintenance director of the Myrmidons, you’ll see, read, and review more reports than you knew existed…” Dainyl went on for close to a glass, outlining everything from the duty and dispatch system and structures to the general locations of what Dhenyr would need to know immediately. “… and that’s probably more than you want to hear.”

  “I hope I can explain it that clearly before long,” replied the newly promoted colonel.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage.” Dainyl leaned back in his
chair. “Now… I do have a few questions.”

  “If I can answer them, sir…”

  “First, I was hoping that you might’be able to explain how three—or is it four—skylances vanished from Fifth Company in less than two seasons. I read your reports with interest, but I’m afraid I never did get a good picture of what happened.”

  Dhenyr smiled, ruefully. “None of us did, either. The skylances were racked with the saddles, each in the square for that pteridon. The pteridons never left the squares, and no one could have gotten to the skylances without coming within a yard or two of the pteridons. I requested that the regional alector interview each ranker and officer. The interviews revealed nothing. Both the regional alector and the marshal were less than happy with the results.”

  “Do you have any ideas who took them—or how they managed?”

  “Well, sir, it is Dereka, and some of the locals said that it could have been the ancients, but there was no Talent-trace of anything—not alectors, not ancients, not anything else. The recorder used the Table, but it revealed nothing untoward, either. The last time, he used the Table within a glass of the disappearance, but there was no sign of anything. The regional alector sensed no Talent-use, either.”

  Paradoxically, that meant that Talent had to have been involved, Dainyl knew, but how had it been managed with no Talent-traces? “What do you think happened?”

  “I’m truly at a loss, sir. Dereka is an old city. Maybe it was the ancients.” Dhenyr shrugged.

  The colonel didn’t really believe that, Dainyl could tell, but seemed mystified by what had happened, and not all that upset. His reactions told Dainyl more than just what Dhenyr didn’t know, and that suggested Dainyl would learn little more from Dhenyr, about anything.

  All Dainyl really wanted to do was to go home to Lystrana.

  82

  All alectors who deal with steers each and every day must keep in mind that there are significant differences in outlook between alectors and steers. Some of these differences, while fundamental, are anything but obvious to casual observation. One of the most critical differences is that steers instinctively believe that there is an intrinsic worth to each and every person, no matter how useless or even destructive an individual may be. This is often expressed in terms such as, “every life is sacred” or “we are all worthy in the eyes of [whatever deity is fashionable].”

  As alectors, we understand the feelings behind such quaint phrases. All beings who can think, even those who do so on a rudimentary level, seek meaning in their lives. They wish to be appreciated, to be recognized, to be granted a place and position of some value. At the same time, the universe does not place any value on any life. Life is. It is the result of physical and chemical processes, and it arises in some places and not in others as a result of the interactions between the components of a world.

  What value an individual may have to the world or society is determined solely by his or her abilities and contributions. To say that a mature individual has an intrinsic worth, independent of acts, is mere wishful thought. Thus, a newborn child has no worth—only potential worth. That potential may be great indeed, but it is only potential until the child matures and demonstrates through abilities and acts what that value may be. History has shown that the worth of individuals is not the same, and yet the delusion persists that because individuals are created by the same process, they are equal. Anyone who has observed individuals knows they are not equal, and that their worth is anything but equal. While the laws of a society must assure that no one is treated inequitably, no society that has forced equality of worth upon its members has lasted long.

  Yet the delusion about intrinsic worth is necessary in steer societies because, without it, too many individuals would become excessively self-centered and spend their lives seeking only to gratify the most basic and base of instinctual drives, using all their resources against those with less strength or wealth. This reduces creativity, such as it is, and productivity, and is not acceptable, either in terms of maximizing higher lifeforce or in assuring fairness to others.

  As alectors, we understand that what value we may represent or attain comes solely from what we can create or produce of higher worth. Great art, soaring architecture, inspiring music, well-organized and functioning cities—all these and other like achievements are the manifestations of individual worth.

  We must recall, however, that such worth is as we deem it. The universe makes no judgments and bestows no awards for worth or merit. Because the universe does not, we must make such judgments. One of the most critical requirements of any society is to define “worth” fairly, accurately, and in a way that inspires all thinking members toward achievements that create such worth.

  This understanding, which is taught to and accepted by all discerning alectors, is seldom accepted by steers. Therefore, any alector who deals with them must always recall that it is the fashion and custom to act as though all individuals have worth, even the most worthless, and that, when a steer must be disciplined or terminated because the individual in question is truly a destructive and negative force on others and the world, such discipline must be administered with a show of regret that the worth of such a life has been wasted…

  Views of the Highest

  Illustra

  W.T. 1513

  83

  Mykel woke up on Quinti just before dawn, still worrying about Rachyla. He sat up on the hard and narrow bed. Why was he so concerned about her? It wasn’t as though there happened to be any romantic attraction between them. He had to admit she was beautiful—not just pretty—and he admired her intelligence and poise, but she was hardly likely to be interested in a Cadmian officer, and he couldn’t afford to get close to the daughter of a rebel leader, even a dead one. Besides, in her own way, she was as deadly as the dagger of the ancients he still carried.

  Still… he did worry.

  He forced himself out of bed and into washing up, then dressing. Even before he went to find the field rations that would be breakfast, he gathered Bhoral and the squad leaders outside the barracks under a slightly hazy sky.

  Mykel looked at the five squad leaders. “We’ll need to expect an attack here. Fifteenth Company is the only company at anywhere close to full strength, and we’ll bear the brunt of any attack until the others recover. I’d like you to have your men stand down, except for two on watch on each wall. Have them keep their weapons nearby. Bhoral will work out the watch arrangements, while I meet with the overcaptain.” He nodded to the senior squad leader.

  Bhoral stepped forward, and Mykel slipped away.

  Dohark was not in the study in headquarters, but at a table in the mess. Before joining him, Mykel served himself from the ration cases set on the table and tapped his own ale from the keg. A Cadmian ranker guarded both food and drink.

  As Mykel settled across the table from the overcaptain, Dohark looked up from the stale flat biscuits, hard yellow cheese, and dried apple slices before him. “Not much to choose from. Better than being poisoned.” Dohark took a bite of the biscuit. “Not much, though.”

  Mykel took a bite of the dry and crumbly biscuit, then a small sip of the ale. He didn’t care much for either. Both officers ate quietly for a time.

  “The men are getting better, those that survived,” Dohark finally said. “You think it had to do with the seltyr’s daughter?”

  “Whatever it was poisoned her as well,” replied Mykel. “She couldn’t even sit up last night. She was greener-looking than you were.”

  “What do you think they’ll do next?”

  “They’ll have to attack. We won’t be fortunate enough to see a siege.”

  “No. We’ve got enough supplies for months, and they’d have to know that. They also can’t count on the Myrmidons staying away forever.”

  “No, but it could be a while,” Mykel pointed out. “Is there anything that burns well?”

  Dohark raised his eyebrows.

  “Well… sir… if they have siege ladde
rs or ramps, maybe we could throw oil on them. Or is that something that the Myrmidons frown on, too?”

  “No. I’ve never heard anything about that, but there’s nothing like that in the armory.”

  “What about in the kitchens? Some cooking oils burn well.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll see what they have.”

  Dohark nodded. “Your men are still guarding the walls?”

  “I have some on watch. The others are standing down until there’s an attack.”

  “You’re optimistic. Not if there’s an attack, but when there is one.”

  “I hope I’m wrong, sir.”

  “You get very formal and very proper, Mykel, just before you predict something unpleasant, and then think up something even worse than the enemy has. If we get through this, I’d suggest you change that mannerism.” Dohark offered an off-center smile.

  “I’ll… see to it, sir. By your leave, sir?”

  “Go and do what you have to, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Mykel stood.

  After leaving the mess, he returned to the barracks and gathered up Chyndylt and half of third squad, waiting until the squad leader and the nine rankers stood before him in the southeast wind that warmed the courtyard.

  “We have a few tasks to attend to here in the compound. Just come with me.” That was the only explanation he offered.

  “Yes, sir.” Chyndylt smiled faintly.

  The first stop was the mess kitchen, which was cool because there had been no cooking. In the storeroom, Mykel found seven full casks of cooking oil, and one half cask. He tested some of the oil with a splinter of wood. It burned brightly. He turned to the head cook. “We’ll be borrowing these for a time.”

  “Borrowing, sir?”

  “If we’re fortunate, borrowing. If we’re not, then tell Ma-jerHerryf.”