The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The alien’s slashes, seemingly awkward, wbistled by Gerswin’s legs or arms.

  Gerswin leaned in, back, forward, occasionally deflecting the other’s slashes, but carefully avoided taking the full brunt of the other’s attack.

  Almost as suddenly as the rushes had begun, the Ursan circled backward and began a circling stalk, as if to get behind Gerswin.

  The Ursan’s breathing deepened into an odd wheezing sound.

  Gerswin moved toward the Ursan, bringing the heavy blade around.

  The Ursan countered, trying to catch Gerswin’s blade edge on. Gerswin twisted the borrowed blade, letting it slide off, and ducking inside the other’s sweep, tapped the alien on the chest with the Bullish point. There was no penetration of the solid bone plate under the reddish fur and muscles.

  “Wheeze!”

  Rolling hard left, Gerswin could feel the other’s sword crossing where he had just been.

  Once more, the Ursan began a furious attack of criss-crossing sword sweeps that would have been awkward were it not for the speed of the blade.

  “All right, friend. Play for keeps.”

  Again, after the mad and sustained fury of the attack, the Ursan backed off and wheezed; almost as if pumping up his system with oxygen.

  The Ursan tactics were becoming painfully obvious. Whichever fighter could last longer in the high effort attacks, whichever fighter needed less of a recharge would inexorably force the other into an ever increasing oxygen debt—unless the less conditioned fighter was far better with the pair of blades.

  Already Gerswin’s arms were feeling the strain, and he’d been careful not to take any blows directly. So much for conditioning.

  Thud! Thud! Hiss! Hiss!

  The Ursan was back at it, throwing quick stroke after quick stroke at the I.S.S. Commander.

  Gerswin continued to duck or deflect the other’s blows, watching the pattern of cuts.

  This time the Ursan kept at it nearly twice as long, as if he sensed the human’s tiredness, before retreating to the circling and defensive stalk.

  As soon as the Ursan dropped beyond quick thrust range, Gerswin switched the long blade into his right hand and the short thrusting blade into his left hand.

  With a flowing motion, he threw the thrusting blade, rifling it straight at the right-side junction between the Ursan’s shoulder and head.

  The sharp-edged blade went half its length into the heavy muscles and stopped with a clunk. Maroon fountained darkly down the Ursan’s chest for an instant before the alien dropped both knife and long sword and collapsed in a heap, still clawing at the embedded weapon.

  “Hsssssssss!”

  The disapproval of the crowd was deafening, but Gerswin marched forward and extracted the short knife, picked up the deceased dignitary’s weapons, and marched through the square of Ursans toward the black rimmed box from where he hoped the powers-that-be had watched.

  He located an Ursan wearing a black-rimmed silver harness, bowed, and placed all four weapons on the clay between him and the senior Ursan.

  “All right, fellows or ladies, I’d like to go home.”

  The Ursan looked undecided. At least, he did nothing.

  Gerswin took a deep breath and pulled one of the throwing knives from his belt, displayed it, then let it rest on his palm. He studied the crowd, looking for a suitable target. The arena was plain, with a straight metal railing and no statues. Gerswin shrugged.

  Finally, he took his foot and scratched an X in the clay, then turned and walked five, six, seven, eight paces, then whirled, throwing the knife as he turned.

  The heavy blade buried itself to the hilt at the crossed lines of the X.

  Another “Hssssss” roared from the crowd.

  Gerswin continued his steps and stooped, pulled the knife from the clay, wiped it clean on his tunic, and replaced it in his belt.

  Then he walked the last steps to the laid-out weapons, picked up the Ursan knife he had used, raised it as a salute, and plunged it into the clay so it stood like a cross between him and the Ursan leader.

  The Ursan stood, and in turn raised his arms, claws extended, then lowered them, retracting the claws and turning his hands upward, so that they remained empty and weaponless.

  Gerswin repeated the gesture, minus claws, since he had none.

  “Ummmmmmhhhhh.”

  Gerswin could sympathize with the disappointment of having to acknowledge the loss of the local hero, but when they learned the real score, he suspected the Ursans would be much happier that the local hero had lost to the outlander who had cheated by, stars forbid, throwing a short sword.

  Already the guards who had escorted him were reforming, but this time he noticed with a scarcely concealed grin, the leader was offering, by gesture, the place of honor.

  He followed the guards back to one of the Ursan shuttles for the ride up to the Fleurdilis and a sure-to-be-disappointed Major Strackna.

  VIII

  FOR THE FOURTH time the Commodore frowned at the senior commander across the wardroom table that had been covered temporarily with the red felt that signified a Board of Inquiry.

  “Let me get this clear. You felt that accepting a single combat challenge would make life easier for the Empire? By setting a precedent where every time the Ursans feel like it, they could challenge an Imperial ship on a man-to-man basis?”

  The senior commander shook his head. “No, Commodore. The point was much simpler. They lost on their own terms, on their own territory, with their own weapons, to an outlander who had no experience in their rituals. The next step is to demonstrate that they are so outmatched in weapons and technology that they have to join the Empire on our terms.”

  “What about the risk? How did you know you could win?”

  “I didn’t. Good guess. Based on several factors. Had to be a unified planetary culture. Also had to be based on individual combat.”

  The commodore waved vaguely at the sheet before him. “I know it’s in the staff report, and the ethnologists have supplied sheet after sheet of ethnology equations that support your guesses. But how could you subject the Empire to that kind of risk through mere guesses?”

  “Commodore, set Considerable risk for me. None for the Empire. Also considerable risk for the Ursans.”

  The commodore motioned for the senior commander to continue.

  Gerswin cleared his throat “If I had been defeated, then the Empire still could have blasted chunks out of Ursa IV, and with even greater justification. Done what most commanders would have done in the first place. Ursans have no heavy screens, only for debris, and have avoided developing long range weapons. That’s why they have to have developed a workable planetary culture.”

  “How does that follow?” The commodore’s puzzled expression indicated his lack of understanding.

  “Nationalism always puts the culture above the individual. Culture based on individual prowess almost always loses to one based on nationalism. In the crunch, nationalist cultures use whatever they have to, no matter what the consequences. What nearly destroyed Old Earth the first time.

  “In an individualist culture, some things you will not do. If you do, the culture will destroy you. So . . . Ursans couldn’t have space travel, advanced technology, and individual prowess tests unless they had unified planetary culture.”

  The commander was still shaking his head. He could not understand, and Gerswin understood why.

  Finally the commodore asked another question. “Why did you say there was considerable risk to the Ursans?”

  “Simple. If I lost, the Empire would have blasted the planet, or at least the space-going ships. Would have claimed that the Ursans were barbarians who demanded that their leaders solve disputes through personal combat. Incompatible with civilization and decency.”

  “Barbarians indeed,” confirmed the commodore. “One last question, Commander. Why didn’t you just ignore their boarding parties?”

  “Thought about that. Problem was that it would ta
ke years to undo the image. If we didn’t at least meet them face to face, then the Empire would be regarded as bullies and cowards rolled into one. Ursans might knuckle under to brute force, but would begin relation with the Empire from a basis of contempt. Leads to unrest, maybe revolution. So we’d be back on a conflict basis within a decade. This way, we bought some time.”

  “How much?”

  “A good century, my guess, if you get a couple of good Corpus Corps types to act as champions every once in a wile.”

  The commodore nodded, then tapped the stud on the control box by his right hand.

  “Now, Commander,” growled the commodore, “the question is what to do with you.”

  “Nothing,” suggested Gerswin.

  “Commander—“

  “I’m not being flippant, Commodore, ser. Your experts have begun the real work with the Ursans. I made the entry easier. Take credit for the peaceful contact. If I had failed, you would have taken the blame.”

  The commodore reflected, pursing his lips. “And what about Major Strackna? Your Executive Officer? She recommends your court-martial.”

  “That’s because she wanted to blast the Ursans out of existence. Wouldn’t let her. Her specialty was alien relations. She had an attack of acute xenophobia and tried to blow the Ursan boarding parties into dust, after I ordered her not to. Not for her distrust of my decision that I recommended her court-martial and dismissal. Because she disobeyed a direct order when the ship was not in danger.”

  “Wasn’t your report rather harsh?”

  “Don’t think so, Commodore,” answered Gerswin, ignoring the implied suggestion that he change his recommendation that Strackna be cashiered from the Service. “Major Strackna did not act to override me from a well reasoned difference of opinion or knowledge, nor to save the ship. Just because she hated aliens she hadn’t seen. Aliens couldn’t hurt the Fleurdilis.

  “Preliminary evidence showed they had no projective weapons, no screens to stop our weapons. She kept trying to destroy them against evidence, against orders.” Gerswin shook his head. “No captain should ever have to tolerate that, and no subordinate should have his or her life risked by such an attitude.”

  “How should we handle you?” The commodore’s glance was direct.

  “Don’t. Ships survive because they act as a team. Think you should give the entire ship a letter of commendation, outlining the contribution the whole crew made.”

  “Commending them for what?”

  “For handling a delicate situation with the care that reflects favorably upon the Service and the Empire. The Ursans are learning who’s boss, and it only cost one tachead and not one casualty for us. Only cost them one casualty.”

  The commodore worried his thin lips, darted a look at the closed portal before speaking again.

  “Assuming your analysis is correct, and the experts seem to feel it is, you deserve the commendation, not the ship.”

  “Commodore, the crew deserves the commendation for not going off half-blasted and trying to pull their C.O. out of a mess. I blasted it. Nearly failed. Didn’t because the Ursans have some common sense, and because their leader’s sharp.”

  The commodore sighed. “Everything is more complicated than it seems. Would you mind explaining, since I don’t seem to understand the logic here?”

  “Ursans don’t fight to kill. Probably only have a few flesh wounds. We’re not built like them. I had to kill him—her—because I couldn’t figure out the rituals. That’s why the Ursan crowd was so upset. Don’t like unnecessary killing.”

  A wintry smile crossed the commodore’s leathery face.

  “The implications are obvious, and far reaching, Commander.” He looked down, then at the red felt covering the table, picked up the sheet before him, and looked up. “Your talents are underestimated, and I wish we could afford to promote you to the General Staff. In any case, I’m taking your recommendation, with a slight upgrading. The Fleurdilis will be recommended for a distinguished service medal for all crew, and you will receive a polite letter of personal commendation. Enough to make it clear that you did a good job and that the letter is not a formality.”

  “Thank you, Commodore. The crew will appreciate the honor, and they do deserve it.” The senior commander waited, eyes meeting the commodore’s.

  “That will be all, Commander Gerswin.”

  Gerswin rose. “Yes, set. By your leave, set?”

  The commodore nodded. “I’ll have the announcement made shortly.” He gestured toward the portal.

  Gerswin saluted, then turned and left.

  IX

  Wars are fought because someone can generate the impression of loss, or the impression of gain. Take away that impression, and you make it that much harder to generate support for war.

  Wars can only be fought with popular support or with centralized government control. Centralized and strong governments arise because of the perception of unmet needs. They maintain power because they generate new perceptions of needs which are unmet or by fueling the impressions which lead to war—or both.

  Take away the perception of unmet needs, and strong governments find it increasingly difficult to maintain power without becoming ever more tyrannical.

  Politics in the Age of Power

  Exton Land

  2031 O.E.C.

  X

  THE YOUNG WOMAN arrived at the suite portal, which did not open automatically at her approach. With a frown, she stepped aside and tapped the contract button beneath the small screen set into the left portal support panel.

  The light under the screen flashed amber and settled into the green, but the screen remained blank.

  “Yes?” The disembodied voice was a male, youthful sounding baritone, with a slight edge.

  “I am Lyr D’Meryon. I had an appointment for 1430.”

  “Your pardon, Ms. D’Meryon, but a previous interview has slot been completed. If you would be so kind as to wait for just a moment. When the light flashes again, please enter.”

  With that, the green light went out.

  “What . . . what are you getting yourself into?” she asked herself. Then she shrugged and stepped back.

  Should she walk to the other end of the corridor? Or stand and wait? What if the light flashed while she was turned in another direction?

  If only the specs for the position hadn’t been so intriguing . . . but the independence that had been spelled out between the lines was rare for any foundation, much less for the smaller ones of the type who would consider relatively junior administrators.

  She glanced down at the reddish glimmers of the corridor glow tiles, then back at the screen. The light remained dark.

  Next she hitched up her portfolio under her left arm and walked to the other side of the portal. The panels on the right were featureless, and she looked back at the screen of thc left side. Still dark.

  She bit her lower lip.

  Even before the interview, she’d put hours of effort into filling out the application, which had arrived after she had expressed an interest in the position.

  The original display had been simple. She recalled that clearly enough.

  FOUNDATION ADMINISTRATOR

  Small and independent foundation seeks full-time administrator and research coordinator. Must have background in hard and bio sciences and interest in environmental pursuits. For further information and application, contact...

  Both hard and biological sciences, that had been the interesting point. Most foundations headquartered on New Augusta were eithcr involved in the arts or with very specific pursuits.

  Her musing almost distracted her from the flashes of the portal screen.

  She hoisted the portfolio under her arm and approached the portal. This time it irised open as she walked toward it.

  Once inside, she understood the reason for her wait. The small area was but a single room, served by two portals at opposite end, presumably on different corridors. The narrow office contained two consoles, t
hree severe straight-backed chairs, one console recliner, and a small loveseat.

  Standing by the console recliner was a slender figure garbed in a black privacy cloak with a peaked hood and a black mask.

  “You’ll pardon the privacy, Ms. D’Meryon, but the need for a continued confidentiality is one of the reasons for our search and one of the principal reasons for specifying the qualifications we need.”

  Gesturing vaguely toward the arrangement of chairs and the loveseat, the man sat down.

  Lyr was convinced that the man, although soft-spoken, had some sort of military background from the alertness of his carriage. She seated herself in one of the straight-backed chairs.

  “While the foundation has a worthy purpose, it would not be appropriate for some of the anonymous backers to become known. Others do not wish public recognition of any sort.”

  “Might I ask the goals of the foundation? And its name?”

  “The foundation’s title is the OER Foundation, and the founders have never seen fit to disclose what the initials represent. The goals are modest, basically to endow research in certain biologic and ecologic fields. Center primarily on development of self-perpetuating reclamation, biological stabilization processes.”

  The black-cloaked man’s masked face remained shadowed as he cleared his throat softly and continued. “Why were you interested in this particular position?”

  “For a number of reasons. . .”

  The standard questions about her background, her qualifications, her interest in science, all took nearly a standard hour.

  Every question was politely phrased by the inquiring figure, and while the light was soft, by the time that first hour had passed, Lyr felt as though the interview was approaching an inquisition.

  Finally, too late, she suspected, she interrupted.

  “What does that have to do with the job? You have obviously verified all my qualifications, my references, and my background. Is this intensive reexamination merely to verify my interest or my ability to endure? What is there about this foundation that requires such painstaking evaluation of its possible administrator?”