The Ecologic Envoy

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I realize you don’t understand what I’m jabbering on about, Werlin, but don’t worry about it. If you don’t understand it instinctively, it would take more time than either of us has for me to explain what I mean. Power is the question now.

  “Neither the Orthodoxists nor the Normists have the power to force their choice for Trade Envoy to New Augusta upon the other. The Supreme Justiciary passed the choice back to the House, ruling that the selection has to be made by the political arm of the government. You’re stuck. And you don’t like the Institute all that much, since we are the sole remaining traditional structure still respected by the masses you professional politicians cultivate so assiduously. Both you and the Orthodoxists would like to reduce the influence of the Institute more than the passage of time and the ravages of peace have already done.

  “Forcing a choice upon the Institute, with the attendant publicity, solves all your problems. Neither party has to take responsibility for the choice. If our selection succeeds, then you will take credit, and if he fails, we take the blame.”

  “That is conjecture, respected Prime,” responded Restinal.

  “Gairloch or Prime. None of that ‘respected’ hypocrisy, please.” The Ecolitan smiled, the open smile of a man at peace with himself or as if at a child’s joke, before he went on. “The Institute attempts to minimize dealing with speculations or conjectures. I doubt that my analysis is anything but factual. I respect, however, the position in which you have been placed by the operation of the political machinery.”

  The Prime Ecolitan stood and walked from behind the table toward the still-standing Restinal.

  “Please sit down. I forget that politicians all too often stand on ceremony.”

  Restinal’s knees felt rubbery, and he eased himself into one of the carved high-backed chairs. Although the chair was not upholstered, the flowing curves of the wood seemed to welcome him.

  The Prime poured a cup of water from a crystal pitcher and placed it on the table next to Restinal before he returned to his chair behind the desk.

  Restinal picked up his case, placed it on his lap, opened it, and pulled out the carefully drawn list the Elders Quaestor and Torine had hammered out in the short hours before he had been dispatched.

  “Keep the list. The names on it are predictable. They begin with Tormel, Reerden, and Silven.”

  Restinal kept his mouth shut. The list began with Tormel, Reerden, and Silven. But there were only two copies of the list—the one he had and the one Torine had kept. He, Restinal, had handwritten both.

  “I can see you haven’t had that much contact with the Institute, Werlin, and I’m afraid that will make your acceptance of your role that much more difficult.

  “In answer to your unspoken question, none of us has seen the list, but we do know the personalities of the individuals who made the choices and the parameters for selection. I’ll admit, in candor, that I would be hard-pressed to name the next person in order on the list, although we could probably pick eight out of ten.”

  Restinal allowed his features to express mild interest. “Perhaps you have already made a choice, then?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. But the name is not one on your list.”

  The Minister for Interstellar Commerce suddenly felt sticky in his formal Macks, as if he had been placed squarely in the Parundan Peninsula rain forests. “If you would explain—”

  “Werlin, the Institute is not obligated to explain anything, but since you are intelligent and informed, I will put it in simple terms. The same reason why the House of Delegates cannot select any Envoy is why anyone chosen from that list will not succeed.”

  “I fail to see that. Most governments select their Envoys.” Restinal was beginning to see why Elder Torine had delegated the job to him and why few of the older Delegates cared much for the Institute.

  “Most Envoys fail. We do not care to be associated with failure. The question is not political. The question is power. Politics is a system of using non-overt force to work out an agreeable compromise that does not lead to violence. The more equal the base of power, the more political the means of agreement can be.” Restinal was lost, and he knew his face showed it. The Prime shook his head.

  “Let me attempt to explain by analogy. When two torkrams contest for superiority, do they fight for blood? Of course not. They fight until one loses his footing. In fact, the amount of violence is minimal. If a prairie wolf should wander into the hills, however, the torkram becomes a merciless attacker. The first is an example of near equality of force, as well as an example of similar social behavior which allows what might be called a negotiated settlement. The second is a struggle for survival.

  “You and the other Delegates are assuming that in negotiating with the Empire the basis of force is equal and the social behaviors behind the political structures are alike. Both are questionable assumptions.”

  “Are they really?” questioned Restinal. What did torkrams have to do with the picking of Envoys anyway?

  “As a consequence,” continued the Prime, “we have picked our own nominee.”

  Restinal repressed a whistle. Elder Torine didn’t like being crossed, and neither did Elder Quaestor, and the Prime was blithely crossing them both. “Do you honestly think the Delegates will agree?”

  “Yes. They have no choice. They don’t want to take the blame if things go wrong. Elder Torine knows that. Did you ever ask yourself why you were chosen to present the list and bring back our reply?”

  Restinal had wondered but had dismissed it in the face of Torino’s encouragement and insistence. He nodded at the Ecolitan.

  “We are not unaware of the impact this could have on your career, Werlin,” continued the Prime. “But you should be able to surmount any difficulties. If not, it is doubtful your career would have lasted much longer.”

  Delegate Minister Werlin Restinal was getting the picture, and though the outlines were blurry, he didn’t like the view. The Delegate Minister for Interstellar Commerce was about to become Elder Torino’s scapegoat unless he could turn the announcement to his own advantage. “Who is your choice?” “Nathaniel Firstborne Whaler.” The name meant nothing to Restinal. The Prime lifted a thin folder from his desk and slid it across the flat surface to where the Delegate could reach it. Restinal opened it and scanned the background on Whaler. Nathaniel Firstborne Whaler—senior fellow of the Ecolitan Institute; 38 A. T. U.; 191 centimeters; fluent in the eight leading tongues of the Empire, plus Fuardian and ancient English; Class B scout pilot; combat master; Class C energy tech; noted economist and recognized authority on infrastructure economics. His single previous tour with the government had been as the Ecolitan Special Assistant to a previous Minister of Commerce.

  Restinal was impressed, in spite of his skepticism. “Are you sure he’s the best choice?”

  “Do you have anyone who can match half his qualifications?”

  Restinal repressed a sigh. There it was, in green and black. Take Whaler or go without the blessing of the Institute… and anyone to blame things on if the talks fell through.

  …VI…

  The tall woman was the Special Assistant. Although the meeting was in her office, she waited for the Admiral. “The Admiral, Ms. Ku-Smythe.” The Special Assistant acknowledged the faxscreen with a curt nod and stood to await her visitor.

  “You look very professional, Marcella.”

  “Thank you.” She gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk.

  The Admiral sat, erect with the military bearing that could only have come from years of training.

  “Have you reconsidered your position on the Coordinate issue?” The Admiral’s gray hair glinted in, the indirect light. Although, as Defense chief, the space officer could have obtained the best of rejuve treatments, the gray added yet another touch of authority.

  “Commerce will support the Emperor. That has always been our position.”

  “I know that. You know that. What other official position cou
ld you have? Why all the reservations?”

  Marcella shifted her weight before answering, then coughed softly to clear her throat. “Sooner or later, you’ll push Accord to the point where the Institute will gain control of the situation. That point is closer than anyone on your staff is willing to admit. It’s almost as if they’re pushing you toward military action. On the other hand, we’ve worked to make trade the tool for expansion. Without the right kind of legal background and the impression that Imperial commerce is jeopardized, you’re taking the unnecessary risk of pushing the independent out-systems to support Accord.

  “And that’s totally unnecessary. None of them really like the Coordinate. You want to act before we can neutralize Accord, and right now Halston and the Fuards, at the very least, will regard your plans as a danger to all the out-systems—”

  “Since we’re being candid,” interrupted the Admiral, “aren’t they?”

  “Why broadcast it? If we can get Accord to agree to a trade agreement with Commerce, that becomes a legal document admitting greater Imperial sovereignty—the very sort of legal sham that the out-systems will buy.” The Special Assistant frowned, pursed her lips, and waited for the Defense chief to reply. “Why did you support our action on Haversol?”

  “Because we had a previous trade agreement and because Haversol was stalling on renegotiating to avoid complying with the terms. That provided the justification the Emperor needed.”

  “What’s the difference for Accord?”

  “You know the difference very well. We don’t have a trade agreement with Accord, and, currently, we recognize the Coordinate’s full independence. Unlike Haversol, they’ve the means to fight, possibly to cost you a great deal more than you expect.”

  “With what? Three small fleets that don’t total the Fourth Fleet?”

  “Remember how we lost the Rift in the first place?”

  “That was nearly four hundred years ago.”

  “After four hundred years, we still haven’t repaired the damage to Terra, and we still don’t have all those systems back. You have ten major fleets and are building another. With all those ships, we only get systems back through the combination of trade and force. And here you are, trying sheer force again. It hasn’t worked before, and it won’t work now.”

  “Marcella, we’ve discussed this before.”

  “You asked—”

  “I know. I know. I asked. You still feel that the urgency of the situation is not great enough?”

  “Not nearly great enough.”

  The silence grew as both looked away from each other. “Well…” began the Admiral. “I do value your opinion.”

  “I understand.” The Special Assistant’s voice lowered, softened. “Enough so you make your staff wait outside. You’ve always listened, ever since…” She paused, then continued, “but you do your job the way you see it, and you’re usually right. Not always, but usually. And we’ll support you, whatever you decide.”

  “I know. I wish I had your personal support as well.” The Admiral stood and turned to leave, then half faced the woman again. “Take care, Marcella.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Special Assistant looked across the wide and empty office at the closed portal for a long time before returning to her console, where the panels flashed, each light clamoring for her attention.

  …VII…

  “Best simulation results indicate forty percent probability of successful trade negotiations; twenty percent probability of failure; ten percent probability of direct armed conflict; thirty percent unquantifiable.” Despite the pleasant sound of the terminal, the evenness of the word spacing rendered the report mechanical.

  The Director turned to the three people at the conference table. “Forty percent chance that the situation can be resolved without war. If we can come up with these figures, so can the Admiral’s staff. What’s the chance of success if the present Envoy is removed?”

  “Personality profile not a major component of success probability. Personality profile is a major component of unquantifiable component.” The Director frowned.

  “What that means,” offered the dark-haired woman across the table from the Director, “is that the personality of the Accord Envoy will shift the unquantifiable component into other areas. The current success probability is based on the structural situation. In short, we could still get a peaceful solution, though that could change at any time.”

  “What would happen if Defense could assassinate the Envoy?”

  “Probability of war rises to fifty-five percent,” answered the computer.

  “Probability of Imperial victory twenty-four percent. Probability of significant loss to Empire approaches unity; probability of destruction of Accord approaches unity.”

  “Any other significant probabilities?”

  “Probability of loss of Rift and Sammaran Sector approach unity; probability of survival of Ecolitan Institute approaches unity.” The Director leaned back in her swivel. “So… if Defense is allowed to force the issue, we’re all likely to get blackholed.” The man in the group cleared his throat. “That assumes one thing… that Defense can successfully operate a covert assassination. How likely is that if we oppose it, and if External Affairs is opposed, and if their Envoy is warned?”

  The Director tapped the table to still the quick rustles. “You forget that we cannot officially oppose Defense. Nor could we directly ever feed that kind of information to an Envoy from Accord. That sort of behavior would have even the Senate slapping riders onto our authorization, and we’ve avoided that for too long to go back to that sort of interference again.”

  “Could I have an answer to the probability questions?”

  “Yes. Let’s have the readout on those,” the Director agreed.

  “Probability of successful assassination not quantifiable under first order assumptions. Under second order, probability twenty percent, with a standard deviation of not more than twenty percent.” The Director smiled.

  “All right,” she said. “You’ve got the verification that to warn their Envoy will alter the probabilities along the lines we think would be desirable. How can you warn him, clearly, and yet in a way that will convey the absolute seriousness of the situation?”

  “That’s simple. We try to assassinate him first.”

  …VIII…

  Nathaniel Whaler took another full step in front of the Imperial Marines to survey the entrance to his Legation.

  The New Augusta tower corridor was nearly as wide as the average street back on Harmony but without the more elaborate facades that graced the capital of Accord. On New Augusta, each address within the towers or tunnels merely seemed to have a standard portal. The portal to the Accord Legation, aside from its green color and gold letters proclaiming the legation of Accord, differed little from the others he had passed.

  As high as he was in the Diplomatic Tower, there was considerable foot traffic, along with numerous automated delivery carts.

  Nathaniel half turned toward the bystanders who watched his honor guard with a mixture of boredom and indifferent curiosity. As he did, the sight of an all-too-familiar object coming to bear on him sent him into a diving roll behind the still-standing guards. Scritttt!

  The splinter gun fragments shattered across the portal facing and skittered along the corridor. “Spread and search!” snapped the Marine Lieutenant. “He’s gone already,” observed Nathaniel, dusting himself off.

  The Marine officer ignored the Ecolitan’s observation and sprinted down the corridor. Two ratings closed up next to Nathaniel, each scanning the corridor in a different direction.

  “Sir? Don’t you think you should get under cover?”

  “Little late for that.”

  Most of the bystanders had scuttled out of the path of the onrushing Marines or had found they had business elsewhere.

  Nathaniel scanned the faces that remained. Two of the handful still in the corridor struck him as possibilities, and he committed their fa
ces to memory before turning his full attention to the narrow scratch on the portal.

  “Hmmm…” he murmured. The splinter had barely scratched the permaplast. He checked the corridor flow and tiles for nearly twenty meters but could find no trace of the splinter fragments he had heard.

  What with the apparent attack and all the Imperial Marines, the Ecolitan felt more like he had been leading an expedition through Accord’s southern forests than arriving in New Augusta.

  Finally, he touched the Legation entry plate, and the door slid open. The two Marines marched in and stationed themselves in front of the entry desk. Nathaniel followed.

  The decor of the receiving area that was supposed to represent the decor and ambience of Harmony didn’t. The gargoyled lorkin wood hanging lamps were Secession Renaissance. The woven wheat grass entry mat was Early Settler. The inlaid blackash tea table was pre-Secession, and the likes of the long maroon and overupholstered couch had never been seen in Harmony or even in the depths of the Parundan Peninsula.

  As Nathaniel refrained from staring at the mismatched furniture, three more Marines quick-stepped in with his field pack and datacases, deposited them next to the entry desk, and marched away to reform outside the Legation.

  The Lieutenant stepped up and gave the Envoy a stiff salute. “Further instructions, sir?”

  “Dismissed,” Nathaniel responded in Panglais. “Yes, sir. Thanks to you. Lord Whaler, sir.” As the door noiselessly closed, the Ecolitan turned his attention to the woman at the desk. She wasn’t from Accord, and his change of attention caught her intently studying him.

  That was to be expected. The Empire supplied, without charge, space in the Diplomatic Tower and paid up to twenty assistants or technical specialists for each Legation. A planetary government, hegemony, federation, or what-have-you could send as many or as few nationals as it desired for Legation staff, and use any or none of those paid by the Empire.

  The catch was the cost. If the Legation were located in the Diplomatic Tower, the Empire paid for the space, the power, and the Empire-supplied staff. If any out-system government chose to put its Legation elsewhere in New Augusta, then the Empire paid none of the costs. While the richer or more militaristic systems, such as Olympia or the Fuardian Conglomerate, had separate Legations staffed strictly by their own nationals, most non-imperial governments availed themselves of at least the space in the Diplomatic Towers.