The Endless Twilight

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Thwip.

  The softer sound of a ten percenter barely edged into his hearing. The AI was releasing the shells at a much faster rate, but they were so small he could not detect the individual releases.

  Gerswin shifted his weight, waiting as the scout/yacht called Caroljoy continued to deliver the cargo he had promised so long before.

  Thwip.

  “Beta, section one, complete. Commencing pattern section two.” “Stet.”

  Gerswin split the far left screen and tapped a code. The homer signal, tight and far off-band, was clear. He should not have been surprised, but he was. The north coast refuge he had built so many years before was still there, still functioning, still apparently undiscovered.

  Thwip.

  “Get me a broad band sample.”

  He listened, trying to pick out intelligible phrases from the transmissions, most of them made a quarter of a planet away .

  “. . . Dragon two . . . tracs . . . home plate . . .”

  “. . . negative . . . is negative this time . . .”

  “Outrider three . . . vector on . . . scout bearing . . .”

  “. . . have Amstar hold . . .”

  “. . . ScotiaOps . . . Dragon two . . . return . . . say again . . . return . . .”

  For a time, static alone filled the speakers.

  Thwip.

  Thump!

  “Completing Beta, section two. Commencing pattern section three.”

  “Stet.”

  Gerswin shook his head.

  So anticlimactic. No guards, no armed flitters, no fanfares. Just blanketing wastelands with spores and seeds.

  “What did you expect?”

  “Query imprecise,” answered the AI.

  He ignored the artificial intelligence.

  “Query imprecise.”

  “Withdrawn,” he snapped.

  Thwip. Another ten-percent torp launched.

  The pilot massaged his forehead, rubbing his temples with the fingers and thumb of his right hand.

  “What next, great reclaimer?”

  “Pattern section four is the next section of the Beta pattern,” chimed the cool and impersonal tones of the AI.

  Gerswin wanted to shake his head, but just kept rubbing his temples. Usually, he tried to avoid asking himself questions when the AI was operational. He was slipping.

  Slipping in more ways than one. Each year, it was harder to separate the memories, harder to keep them all in order, to remember the differences between Caroljoy and Constanza, between Faith and Allison, between Lerwin and Lostwin, between beta- and delta-class flitters.

  And it was harder to think things through, harder to separate the dreams from hard plans for the future.

  He let his hand drop and looked up at the screen, the blackness showing the plot, the Caroljoy’s position and the distant blip that represented the ground-scanning monitor.

  What next?

  Shaking his head slowly, he let his eyes drop.

  He had stepped up his physical training, in hopes that it would help his mental sharpness. The physical reflexes were still as good as ever, perhaps better, automatic and maintained with practice. But the mental abilities . . .

  Soon he would have to face that question. That and the future. Would a single-focused project help? Give him time to sort things out while not juggling a thousand variables?

  He couldn’t think that through yet. Not yet. Not until the last shell, the last torps, until all had spread their cargo across the desolated spaces of Old Earth. But that would only be a few dozen hours away.

  Thwip.

  “Completing Beta, section three. Commencing pattern section four.”

  “Stet.”

  Thump!

  XXV

  THE PILOT SAT back in the control couch, staring at the blank main screen.

  “Now what?”

  “Query imprecise.”

  “The query is not for you.”

  “Stet,” responded the AI.

  The refuges, north European coast and western continental mountain, were both waiting, apparently undiscovered. And he had done what he had promised them all, promised young Corwin, assuming the boy had survived and returned to Old Earth, and Kiedra and Lerwin and Caroljoy. He had carried out his trust, hadn’t he?

  Even now, the ecological torps were beginning their work, beginning the biological processes that would do what all the dozers he had stolen and begged and pleaded for so long ago could not.

  Even now, people were reclaiming the planet of their birth, having children, slowly spreading from the reclaimed high plains and from the Scotia highlands. And soon, soon, they would have help from the biological agents he had seeded.

  That aid would take longer on Noram because he had only been able to seed the outlying areas without too high a risk of detection. But he was done. Finished. Completed.

  He had carried out his trust, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Query imprecise.”

  “Withdrawn.”

  He tried to ignore the AI, still staring at the blank screen before him. The Imperial Intelligence Service, not to mention more than a few barons of the Empire, would soon be looking for retired Commodore Gerswin, Shaik Corso, and all the other names and identities he had used. They would turn up the Caroljoy, if the search were as diligent as he foresaw, as diligent as it was bound to be silent.

  And what about the foundation?

  What about Lyr, sitting dutifully and quietly within minutes of the Intelligence headquarters?

  He slowly shook his head. Caroljoy had been right. He had more miles to go, many more, than he had thought.

  “Interrogative power requirements and parameters for Aswan.”

  “Double jump from thirty plus ecliptic possible with point five power reserves remaining. Power to jump will require point one of reserves. Power from reentry jump will require estimated point three from reserves.”

  Not much leeway, either for the jumps or himself. But there wouldn’t be, not in the days and years, hopefully, ahead.

  “Break orbit for jump point.”

  “Breaking for jump point.”

  No doubt the energy flows would be picked up by the lunar relays, but not analyzed until the questions were academic. Besides, there were no Impie ships in range to do anything.

  The pilot leaned back, wishing he could rub his aching forehead.

  Rationalization or not, he had a few things more to do. A few things more that might make the galaxy a bit safer for Old Earth, and a debt to one last other gracious lady.

  The refuges could wait. They’d waited more than a century already, and could wait another two if necessary, if he had that much time.

  He smiled mirthlessly.

  The Empire was slow, but scarcely that slow. His wait, the time until his last return home, one way or another, would not be that long.

  XXVI

  THE CONSUL AND Second Secretary of the Embassy of Barcelon touched the screen.

  “FREE HEIN WADRUP! FREE HEIN WADRUP! FREE HEIN WADRUP!”

  He grimaced and lowered the volume before turning to the political attaché.

  “What started this?”

  The attaché shrugged. “It started on the university grounds. You saw the briefing tape. Wadrup jumped bail. He was never seen again. There is no record of him leaving Barcelon. His body was never found.”

  “What really happened?”

  The taller man shrugged again. “The police say he jumped bail. Who really knows?”

  “FREE JAIME BEN! FREE JAIME BEN! FREE JAIME BEN!”

  The Consul winced at the new chant from the screen, showing the scene in the park across from the commercial complex.

  “This isn’t doing our talks much good. The Sunni government believes in civil rights.”

  “What can we do? Even if we wanted to, there’s nothing we could do. They’ve picked people who can’t be found or freed.”

  “Smart of them.”


  “Too smart for a bunch of students.”

  “Can you find out who’s behind them?”

  “No. We traced one of the leaders, the one who started the Hein Wadrup movement. Graduate student from New Glascow studying on New Avalon. He’s definitely from New Glascow. Even his voice patterns check out. He’s a real student, and someone else is funding him—liberally. Who? How can you trace double blind drops and fund transfers over three systems and through that Ydrisian commnet?”

  “That tells you one thing.”

  “Right. Whoever it is has money. Lots of it. Like several thousand commercial magnates in the Empire, and none of them are terribly fond of Barcelon.”

  The consul frowned and turned back to the screen, half listening to the words of the speakers .

  “. . . of Barcelon . . . designed to keep control of agriculture from the people . . . without food, no police state . . . no accident . . . Hein Wadrup knew agriculture policies . . . what did he know? What did they fear from Hein Wadrup? . . . nothing to fear, then free him . . . tell Barcelon . . . prove us wrong . . . PROVE US WRONG! PROVE US WRONG!! . . .”

  “Just a short media incident,” observed the political attaché.

  “It’s not the single incidents that bothers me. It’s the pattern, the continuing growth of such incidents. Always around the best universities. Almost as if targeted at the students, and the teachers. And those students will become teachers.”

  “Not on Barcelon!” protested the attaché.

  “No,” answered the consul, “on Barcelon, they’ll either be jailed or become revolutionaries.” He sighed. “I’d rather have the teachers, thank you.”

  He touched the screen, which blanked.

  XXVII

  THE GARDENER WHISTLED a low series of notes as he finished weeding the next-to-last row of his plot in the public garden. Already, the row of dark green plants had shed the first set of blossoms, and the nodules were darkening nearly to purple and beginning to take on the tubular shape of the fruit, if an organic product that tasted like the best hand-fed steak could be truly called a fruit.

  The second set of blossoms was another week from bursting into full flower, but the silver-haired gardener nodded as he checked each of the fifteen plants in the first row.

  The outside row was a hybrid bean common to Forsenia, with nearly the same dark leave as the bestmeat plant. The bean plants composed the third and fifth rows as well, while the second and fourth rows were filled with bestmeat plants.

  “How they coming, Martin?” questioned a lanky, pointed-chinned, and white-haired woman from the next plot, cordoned off from his by a meter-high snow fence pressed into alternative use as a plot-divider for the short summer growing season.

  “Growing. Growing fine.”

  “Next year, like to try whatever you got there with the beans. Looks interesting. Lots of buds already.”

  “Give you some seeds if it works.”

  “See then,” grunted the woman. “Got to finish before noon. Get my granddaughter. Long tube ride.” She straightened. “You’re always here mornings. Got creds. How’d you qual for public garden?”

  “Small pension. Impie service. Work nights at Simeons. No family. Make ends meet.”

  The older woman shivered. “Say lots of DomSecs at Simeons. Watch yourself.”

  The man with the short-curled silver hair blinked his dark eyes, trying to flick the gnat clear before the bug got under the tinted contact lenses. Finally, he waved the insect away and returned to his gardening, working his way on hands and knees down the fifth and last row.

  “See you, Martin. Off for Tricia.”

  “See you,” he answered without looking up.

  Seeing he was alone, he resumed his whistling, the doubled notes softly following his progress.

  After a time, he stood up and brushed the soil from the old flight suit he wore, a suit stripped of all insignia, although still with an equipment belt. Some of the original tools were obviously missing, and he had placed the hand hoe in the empty sidearm holster.

  His eyes surveyed the small plot registered in the name of Martin deCorso, Interstellar Survey Service, technician third class, retired, and he nodded. Within weeks, the bestmeat plants would be producing, and within days of production he would be sharing his bounty with the other gardeners. Each of the long pods to come would also contain a central seed pod that would allow them to grow their own.

  He hoped the Forsenian DomSecs were as indifferent to the retired and elderly as first appearances indicated. If they weren’t, then he’d have to try something else.

  Fingering the seed packet within his belt, he started back down the plastreet pathway toward the checkout gate, where an older DomSec waited to ensure that no one but approved gardeners entered, and where, when the plants bore fruit, the amount produced was also entered, theoretically, he had been told, for record-keeping purposes.

  Since the bestmeats resembled giant cucumbers, Old Earth variety, he did not anticipate any problems to begin with. Forsenia was far enough from Shaik Corso’s enterprises and Westmark that the bestmeat furor was unknown to the Forsenian authorities, as were the house tree and a few other biological innovations.

  The man shook his head. He was not at all certain about the wisdom or the success of his venture, but he needed time to concentrate on one project at a time, to let things settle inside his own head. He’d told Lyr that he would be out of touch for some time, perhaps more than a standard year. Wise? Probably not. Necessary? No doubt of that.

  He glanced around. More than half the plots were being actively tended, even though the temperature was rapidly approaching its midday peak, close to 30°C. The temperature would stay near the high until midafternoon, when the thunderstorms would roll down from the highlands and drop both torrential rains and the temperature, leaving a steamy twilight and evening that would turn progressively drier as the night progressed.

  The slender gardener took his hands from his belt and slowed his steps as he neared the guard post.

  “ID?” growled the overjowled and near-retirement age DomSec. He peered over the gate at the silver-haired man.

  The gardener proferred an oblong card, covered with tamperproof plastic and bearing appropriate seals and a hologram picture.

  Creaakk. The gate swung open.

  “On your way, oldster.”

  “Thank you, officer.” He did not smile, but neither was his statement obsequious, merely a simple courtesy.

  “No thanks. Everything you grow means more for someone else.”

  The gardener refrained from a nearly automatic headshake and kept moving down the narrow steps toward the almost-deserted boulevard.

  The tight control of both urban land and of transportation had made one phase of his project more difficult than he had anticipated.

  Nowhere near the city was there any overgrown land. Any abandoned plots were cut regularly by the Forsenian equivalent of the chain gang—citizens required to spend nonworking hours in community service for their overuse of transportation, energy, or food.

  Halmia was, as a result, a clean city, a well-tended city. But there were no overgrown corners on which to plant bestmeats or house trees. And the nearest forests and farm areas were beyond easy reach of local public transit. The longer-range public transportation was monitored even more closely by ID scans through a centralized computer system. Private transportation, except for DomSec and military officers, was nonexistent.

  Not that such shortcomings had stopped him entirely, but he had experienced more blocks and delays than he had anticipated, and the bestmeats had not been spread nearly wide enough to ensure the success he needed.

  The public gardens were another avenue, and he’d passed out seeds quietly to gardeners to other areas, telling them that the seeds were a squash derivative whose fruits were best sliced and then boiled or fried. Once they tried them, he suspected, there would be a substantial increase in the growth of the “squash” derivatives.

/>   He’d also made stealthy forays to garden areas in several other cities, planting his seeds in other plots.

  He smiled briefly, before frowning as he remembered that a smile was an automatic invitation for a wandering DomSec to inquire as to one’s health and destination. He shivered, despite the heat, wondering why he was going to such lengths for a system like Forsenia.

  “Are you trying to establish places where you can’t create a revolution?” he whispered to himself under his breath, before pursing his lips as he recalled the use of directional pickups. Rapidly, rapidly, was he beginning to understand the paranoia generated in tightly controlled societies.

  He would probably need all three complete identities, if not more, by the time he was through, assuming he didn’t have to bail out before then.

  A DomSec guard stepped from a wall booth.

  “Your card, citizen?”

  The retired spacer handed over the oblong that entitled him to exist on the People’s Republic of Forsenia.

  “Where are you going, Citizen deCorso?”

  “Home from the gardens, to rest before I go to work this afternoon.

  “You work?” the guard asked as he dropped the card into the reader console.

  “At Simeons.”

  The guard looked at the screen, then at the silver-haired man, and handed the card back. He nodded for the man called deCorso to continue on his way, but said nothing.

  The slender man turned the corner with slow steps and even pace until he reached the three-story dwelling where he rented an attic room—a room too warm in this summer season, and probably too cold in the winter. With any luck, he would not be spending the winter in Halmia.

  He shook his head as he slipped through the heavy front doorway. Most private homes did not have portals, but old-fashioned hinged doors that the DomSecs rapped on far too frequently.

  “Long morning at the gardens, Martin?”

  His eyes flickered to the thin and pinched face of Madame Dalmian. She coughed twice, waiting for his response.

  He shrugged. “Warm. Two security checks. Always the security checks.”

  “We don’t have crime here anymore, not the way it was in my grandfather’s time.”