The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  As she said, it would take time.

  But time . . . that he still had.

  Time—while the devilkids struggled half a sector away at the mechanically impossible task of restoring Old Earth. Time—while Eye and Service headquarters watched him and wondered how soon he would begin to age and die. Time—while the ghosts of Caroljoy and Martin nibbled at the warmth provided by Allison and Corson.

  Yes. He had time. For now.

  XXI

  HIS STEPS WERE measured as he came through the stone archway. His black boots, not quite polished to the sheen expected of the lmperial Marine he was not, barely sounded on the stone steps of the rear entrance to the quarters.

  “Good evening, Commander.” Ramieres nodded at the senior officer respectfully, but did not leave the cooktop.

  Gerswin sniffed lightly, appreciating the delicate odor of the scampig. “Evening, Ramieres. Smells good. As usual.”

  “Thank you, Commander. I do my best.”

  The commander smiled. The rating was the best Service cook he had run across in his entire career, and better than a score of the so-called chefs whose dishes he had sampled over the years.

  He knew he would miss Ramieres when the younger man finished his tour in less than three months.

  “How long before dinner’s ready?”

  “For the best results, I’d rather not hold it more than another thirty minutes, ser.”

  “Try to make it before that. See how the upstairs crew is doing.”

  Ramieres did not comment, instead merely nodded before returning his full attention to the range of’ dishes and ingredients before him.

  Gerswin swung out of the huge kitchen through the formal pantry and took the wide steps of the grand staircase two at a time.

  From the faint scent of perfume to the additional humidity in the upstairs hall, he could tell that Allison had just gotten out of the antique fresher that resembled a shower more than a cleaner.

  She was sitting in the rocking chair—another antique that he had found and refinished for her—with Corson at her breast. His sort’s eyes widened at the sound of the door and his footsteps, but the three month old did not stop his suckling.

  Allison wore a soft purple robe that complimented her fair complexion and blonde hair.

  “Interrupted your dressing?”

  She nodded with a faint smile. “I always dress for dinner like this.”

  Grinning back at her, he sat on the side of the bed next to the chair.

  “Are you going to stay home tonight? Or go out and play with your new toy?” Her voice was gentle.

  He forced the grin to stay in place. “Thought I’d spend the time with you and Corson.”

  “That would be nice. He’s had a late nap, and I think that he will have to have dinner with us.”

  “He about done?”

  “In a minute. He’s like you. There’s not much in between. When he’s hungry, he’s hungry. And when he’s not, he’s ready to tackle the world.” Allison brushed a strand of long hair back over her left ear.

  Since she was no longer on high-acceleration duty, she had let her hair grow far longer than when they had met, during the refit of the Dybyykk.

  He watched as her eyes studied the greedy man-child as he fed.

  “Hungry?”

  “I am. He eats so much that I can eat just about anything.”

  “Corson?” he asked quietly.

  She laughed a soft laugh. “Why ask? You know he’s always hungry, the greedy little pig.” She paused. “Like his father.”

  Gerswin quirked his lips.

  Abruptly the baby’s mouth left his mother’s nipple. He turned his head and eyes toward Gerswin.

  “See? When he’s done, he’s done.”

  The mother, who had been and remained an I.S.S. pilot, swung her son onto her shoulder and began to pat his back gently.

  “I’ll do that. You get dressed.”

  “You don’t want me dining in my finery here?”

  “You’d shock Ramieres.”

  “I doubt that. The fact that you might let me appear in anything this revealing might shock him.”

  Gerswin leaned forward and extended his arms.

  In turn, edging forward from the rocking chair, Allison eased Corson into his father’s arms.

  The commander stood and inched the boy baby farther up onto his left shoulder, holding him in place with his left hand and patting his back with his right hand.

  A gentle “brrrp” rewarded his efforts.

  “You do that so easily. It amazes me that he’s your first.”

  Gerswin did not make the correction. He had never held Martin, had never even known Martin had existed until well after his first son’s death. And perhaps he had had other sons or daughters—that was not impossible, although he did not know of any.

  His lips tightened, and he was glad he was looking out the win-dow, facing away from Allison.

  How would he know? Much as he attracted women, he also drove them away. How would Allison feel two months, two years from now?

  Gerswin repressed a shiver. She had already picked up that he had intended to work on the old scout after dinner. Now . . . how could he?

  She had obviously come back to the quarters after a full day in the operations office, determined to look good for him and to spend the time with both Corson and him. So how could he leave?

  He forced his face to relax as he turned toward the dressing area where Allison was pulling on a long and decidedly nonuniform low-cut gown.

  He could feel Corson’s fingers digging into his shoulder, could feel the small body’s heat against his, and the smoothness of his son’s skin as he bent his head to let his cheek rest against Corson’s.

  Gerswin let the sigh come out gently, silently enough that Allison would not hear.

  “How do I look?”

  “Exquisite.”

  She frowned. “You make me sound like a piece of rare porcelain.”

  “Not what I had in mind.” He grinned, not having to force the expression as much as he feared.

  “I know what you had in mind. But I’m hungry, and Corson won’t be sleepy until after dinner. Well after dinner.”

  “Then we shouldn’t keep Ramieres waiting.”

  “No. Not tonight, at least.”

  Gerswin ignored the hint of bitterness and reached out to brush his fingertips across Allison’s cheek.

  She grasped them, pressed them to her lips, and smiled her soft smile.

  “Shall we go, Commander dear?”

  He nodded, and the three of them made their way down the grand staircase toward the dining room, which would dwarf them.

  XXII

  LYR TABBED THE portal. Halfway into the foundation office, she realized that someone was sitting before her console.

  Without breaking stride, she grabbed the pocket stunner and raised it with her right hand, coming to a halt as she squeezed the firing stud.

  Thrummm!

  Thud.

  The console recliner spun into the console as the intruder flashed to the left before she could readjust her aim.

  Thrummm!

  Crack!

  The stunner flew out of her hand as the intruder, clad in some sort of black that twisted her eyes away from him, swung her around and caught her in a grip that felt unbreakable. She tried to catch a glimpse of his eyes, but he kept her firmly turned away from him.

  She attempted to shift her weight, to stamp his feet, to get her elbows into play . . . anything. But none of her self-defense tactics seemed to work. Screaming was useless within the total soundproofing of the office.

  Thrummm!

  This time the stunner bolt hit her legs, and she felt them collapse under her, although the intruder continued to support her weight. She decided to stop the pointless struggle and see what developed as her assailant, who scarcely seemed any taller than she was, bound her hands behind her and set her on the single settee.

  “Stop being ridiculo
us.” The light baritone voice sent a chill through her. She had met him before. The question was when, or where.

  “Ridiculous? When there’s an intruder using my console?”

  She tried to twist her body to catch sight of his face, but he had kept one hand on her shoulder, and without any control of her legs she could not override his light grip.

  “Exactly. Are you the only one empowered to use the console? Do you shoot and then ask questions?”

  “Only the trustee has the right to use this equipment. And he’s never—“

  “Ah, Lyr. I interviewed you, give you instructions, and you don’t even recognize my voice. Even if it has been a few years, I expected better.”

  She shivered. Had he been the interviewer? And had the interviewer actually been the anonymous trustee?

  “You never said you were the trustee. Am I supposed to ask every common thief, ‘Oh, pardon me, are you supposed to be here?”’

  She tried to squirm around to face him, but he had not let go of her shoulder.

  “Ha!” The single harsh bark resembled a laugh. “Point. Point for you.”

  “I would like a bit more than points.”

  “Who else could have given you the access codes?” His voice softened. “And how could anyone have gotten through your defenses without a trace unless they knew the system?”

  She was silent for a moment. Finally she responded. “You honestly expected me to think about that when I saw an intruder?”

  “Perhaps that was expecting too much.”

  His tone made her feel guilty, and then angry as she rejected the guilt for being human in her reactions.

  “I quit! Right now!”

  “If you wish . . . but I won’t accept your resignation until we’re through talking.”

  “I told you. I quit.”

  “Fine. But we’re still going to talk. You’re not going anywhere under your own power for a few minutes, at least.”

  Lyr said nothing.

  “While your financial management has been excellent, outstanding in fact, I have not been as pleased with your grant policy. Came to suggest some changes.”

  “I followed the guidelines, exactly as outlined.”

  “Lyr,” answered the soft voice with the hint of iron behind it, “what is past is past. No time to argue. Only to change.”

  “I’m not arguing.” She worried her lower lip. “What were you doing here?”

  “My job. I have access here whenever I want. Access built into the system. If you changed that, which would be most difficult, your own employment would have been automatically terminated.”

  The hard sound of his last sentence gave her the impression that more than her employment would have been terminated.

  She could smell him, like the faint scent of wild grass, although only his hand rested lightly on her shoulder. She ignored the scent, pleasant though she found it.

  “You never did say what you were doing here.”

  Instead of answering, he picked her up from behind as if she weighed no more than a small child and carried her the half a dozen steps across the antique carpet to the swivel chair. He placed her in the seat in front of the console. His arm reached across her and tapped the keyboard, his fingers even faster than hers would have been.

  “Revised Grant Guidelines”—that was the title that lit up on the screen.

  “If you hadn’t decided to work in the middle of the night—“

  “It was only 2110.”

  “—you would have found them waiting for you in the morning. As you have on a few other occasions.”

  “That was you?”

  “None other.”

  “Why all the secrecy? Who are you? Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?”

  By now Lyr was not angry, but furious. She’d nearly stunned her real employer because he’d believed in sneaking around with cloak and stunner, and she could have risked her job and life if she’d toyed around with the wrong parameters in the foundation’s information and control network. To top it off, he had handled her—her!—as if she were a child, mentally and physically.

  “You’re angry”

  “I am angry. You’re right. This time you understand. I am very angry.” She forced herself to space out the words, to keep her voice low and even.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “You owe me nothing except back pay. I quit. Remember?”

  “Didn’t accept your resignation. Yet.” He paused. “Offered an apology. What else will it take to get you to listen with an open mind? To remember that the foundation is not your private fiefdom?” He laughed softly. “You’ve already reminded me that it’s not mine.”

  “How about some honesty? I know. You’ve never lied. But there’s too much hiding, especially now. Anonymous calls over the screen I can take, but not anonymous intruders sneaking around my office. I’ll think, think, about reconsidering once you’ve shown me who and what you are.”

  “Still better you don’t know. For you. For the foundation.”

  “I’m beyond someone else deciding what’s better.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure enough to quit on the spot.”

  “You’re right about one thing. I haven’t been totally fair.”

  “No. You haven’t. You expect me to guess what you want or what the founders of the foundation want, then you change the rules with-out even telling me why.” She sighed, once, twice. “But you’re right in a way, too. You know I don’t want to quit. But I will.”

  “Unless?”

  “First, untie me. Then we’ll talk. Then I’ll decide.”

  He said nothing, but she could feel him bending over her, and his hands touched hers. His were warm against the coldness of hers, with their impaired circulation. The bonds fell away.

  She gripped the arms of the swivel and straightened herself. She did not turn around.

  “I would like to see you, face to face, but I don’t want to jeopar-dize my life or my future by doing so.”

  “Let’s talk first. I’ll try to answer your questions, and leave the de-cision in your hands when we’re done.”

  “In my hands?”

  “After I’ve answered your questions, you decide. Fair?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Your first question. Why the secrecy?” He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “Most important. The fewer people know the foundation exists and what it does, the better the chances for its success with-out interference. Two people is about the maximum for keeping a secret. You and me. Second, in my own obscure way I am extremely controversial. So controversial I believe considered as possible Cor-pus Corps target. Third, what you do not know, you cannot reveal. More important, cannot be hurt for it.”

  Again he paused. “There are other reasons. Those are the most important.”

  “Secrecy implies that there is opposition. That indicates there is a purpose behind the avowed goals. What is it?”

  Lyr could sense him behind her, but kept her eyes in front of her.

  “The purpose behind the goals? I may have one, but that’s not the same as the foundation. The foundation is set up to do exactly what it is doing. To try to develop biological techniques for improv-ing or reclaiming the environment. Low cost ones. Not that the re-search has to be low cost, just the eventual techniques.”

  “You’re convinced about that?”

  “I know that. I wrote the goals.”

  “What about you? You said your goals weren’t the same as the foundation’s. What are they?”

  “My goals? Not sure they affect what you do.” He sighed. “But you’ll claim that they do. And the foundation needs you. So . . .”

  The silence drew out.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you were right. I am interested in your goals for the foundation.”

  “In a nutshell, I have a strong personal and vested interest in the successful application of the foundation’s techniques. Call it, if you will,
the only way I can reclaim my heritage.”

  “Sounds rather dramatic.”

  “No. Just truthful.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it. The foundation has to be successful. That, or some other entity, or me personally. Need bio reclamation techniques. Believe me or not, that’s it.”

  Lyr could sense the exasperation behind the words, an exasperation that indicated truth, if not the whole truth.

  “Did you set up the foundation?”

  “No. I know . . . knew . . . one of the founders.”

  “Would you tell me who?”

  “No. Condition of being trustee. Not to tell anyone.”

  “Where does the incoming funding in our blind account come from?”

  “It’s an account which channels dividends, interest, from a large portfolio. Totally legitimate.”

  “How would I know?”

  “The firm handling the account is Halsie-Vyr.”

  “The Halsie-Vyr?”

  “Yes. Think about it. The Imperial Treasury verifies our receipt of funding by matching our blind account number against the one to which Halsie-Vyr deposits. Treasury insures that to make certain taxes are paid. Information stays confidential.”

  “How could it?”

  He laughed. “What I asked. Star in the sky principle. Last time there was a public report, five years ago, Treasury reported 100,000 blind trusts with assets over ten million credits. Safety in numbers. Who could match? Depository bank only knows that Halsie-Vyr deposits and that deposits are posted to another account number in another bank. Treasury doesn’t care, so long as they get their cut.”

  “Cynical, aren’t you?”

  “No. Creating the foundation wasn’t my idea. Presented to me as sort of legacy. Came unasked and unanticipated.”

  “You have another occupation, then.” Her statement was more seeking verification than inquiring.

  “Yes. That’s why the foundation needs an administrator of independence and nerve.”

  She almost turned to catch a look at him, but stopped herself, looking instead at the knotted Targan wall hanging in the right corner, just beyond the portal. Its curves seemed to fade into oblivion, yet twisted back upon each other with abrupt changes in the thread colors.