“What was wrong with my grant policy?”
“Too conservative. Need to take changes. We’ll lose credits. Know that, but best chances lie with the researchers and professors outside the clear mainstream. Someone not tied to orthodoxy. The kind oth-ers say, ‘He’s brilliant . . . strange . . . never know where he’s going.’ That sort of thing.”
“How do I tell who’s unorthodox and who’s fractured?”
“Design a questionnaire, as a condition of grant application. Make it simple. ‘How do you propose to solve your problem, Honored Scientist?’ ‘What science or evidence do you have to support your theorem?’ If you make it too complicated, too orthodox, the really creative types won’t play, and you’ll get lots of second-raters who are first-rate at filling out forms.”
“I think I get the idea. How do I know, with a limited scientific background, what’s good?”
“After you’ve read several hundred, you’ll know.”
“Are you willing to waste all those creds while I learn?”
“Won’t be wasted. Not if you learn. Some things can’t be done any other way.”
“The foundation . . . you really are looking for a pure research solution, aren’t you?”
“No. Looking to support research that will lead to practical solutions. Simple ones.”
“How simple?”
“Spores that break down chlorinated organics. Plants that reclaim poisoned land. Biological solutions that primitive or resource-poor cultures could use.”
“Primitive cultures haven’t poisoned their lands,” Lyr objected.
“Not yet. Not in the Empire. Foundation has to look forward and back. Could use Marduk, if we could reclaim it.”
“Don’t tell me—“
“No. No one knows how long ago that was.”
Lyr rested her head in her hands. Her legs were shaking as the muscles contracted involuntarily, trying to rid themselves of the paralysis imposed by the stunner.
“Nothing makes any sense. You don’t make sense. I can’t even ask questions that make sense. You won’t answer the ones that would help me understand.”
“Such as?”
“Who are you?”
“How about starting with what I am?”
“That’s a start.”
“Mid-grade officer in Imperial Service. Technically, I can serve as a trustee of an Imperial chartered foundation, but cannot permanently administer a trust.”
“How can you keep who you are a secret?”
“I don’t. Same star in the sky principle. My name is on the foundation charter. Charter lists are not subject to public search. The bureaucrats who monitor foundations and trusts are not the same bureaucrats who monitor officers of Imperial Service.”
Lyr wanted to turn and grab him, shake him, or stamp her foot . . . or something. The more he answered, the less she knew.
“So why shouldn’t I see who you are?”
“Decision is in your hands. Finished asking all your questions?”
“What questions have I missed?”
“Is there a danger to you from knowing who I am? Do you really want to know, or are you angry that you’ve been kept in the dark?”
“I am, but that won’t be why I decide. Is there a danger to me?”
“Thought there was. Not so sure now. Probably more danger to me than you.”
“Why?”
The trustee did not answer. Finally she could hear him take a deep breath.
“Because I’m out to change the galaxy.”
“You sound too sensible to be that crazy.”
“Wish I were. If the foundation is successful, could change popular perception enough to upset the Empire’s economy, perceptions, and power base. Might not, but it could.”
“How? Even if we publicized grants, who would care about reclaiming a poisoned spot here and there with plants instead of machines? That’s assuming we get these grants to a workable state.”
“Look beyond the near orbit. Techniques that let you clean up chemicals are the same techniques that can be used to make them.
Bio techniques, when they work, are usually cheaper, less energy intensive. Right now, less efficient. But we could change that.”
Lyr frowned. He seemed to be assuming that the foundation would be successful, as if there were no doubt at all.
“You’re assuming a great deal.”
“Could be.” He laughed. “Maybe the fact that the foundation is the only one supporting biological technology means we’re the only crazy ones. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”
Lyr frowned again, but said nothing.
“Any other questions?”
“I’m sure I have dozens. I just can’t think of them.” Her leg twitched involuntarily and threw her off balance.
His hand touched her shoulder as if to keep her from pitching sideways.
“Thank you.”
“Any last questions?”
“No.” Her lips were dry, and she licked them once, then again. “I’m probably wrong, but I just don’t think I could stay here, not unless I have some better idea of who and what you are, what you look like.”
“All right. Will you consider staying, then?”
“I’ll consider it.”
His hand squeezed her shoulder gently, and he stepped around the swivel and stood before her, next to the screen.
She looked up.
The familiar hawk-yellow eyes caught her attention first, that and the hint of darkness behind them, a darkness that hinted at a man far older than the one who faced her. She studied his face, the sharpish nose, the unlined and smooth skin, thin lips, and the short and blond curly hair cut military-style. He had neither beard nor mustache.
While his chin was not pointed, it narrowed in a way that almost gave him an elfin look, had it not been for the penetrating power of his eyes and the strength of his nose.
Once more, she tried to focus on his body, but the black of the formfitting singlesuit he wore kept pushing her eyes away from his form and toward the floor or his face.
He noted her confusion. “It’s a full-fade combat suit.”
“You aren’t. . .”
“No. Just something useful.”
She licked her lips again. His face, even with the hawk-eyes, looked familiar, but she could not say why. She had never met him, outside of the interview years ago, that and the scattered screen contacts. That she knew; yet he seemed familiar.
“No horns. No black cloud.” He smiled.
“No recognition, either,” she countered.
“Didn’t say you’d recognize me. Said the ability to recognize me might be dangerous.”
Lyr cocked her head to one side. For all the clipped sentences, the shortened words, his speech pattern had a touch of a lilt, an odd tone that she had never heard before. She wondered why she had not picked it up earlier, even though there was no doubt now that he was the man who had interviewed her. The unique hawk-eyes were enough to confirm that. Perhaps the screen speakers did not reproduce the lilt, underlying his speech as it did.
“Shall we dive for the event horizon?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows in inquiry, but said nothing.
“Who are you?”
He shrugged. “If you insist . . . MacGregor Gerswin, at your service.”
“I don’t recognize the name, either.”
“Never said I was famous. Glad to know I’m not.” He took a step to the side. “How are your legs?”
Lyr tried to lift her right foot, could feel the effort, but the leg did not move. “Better, but I still can’t move them.”
“Shouldn’t be too long.” He spread his hands. “Now that you’ve unmasked me . . . what next?”
“I don’t know.”
“Still want to quit?”
“Common sense screams that I should, but I wouldn’t want to force anyone else to go through one of your employee searches, Ser Gerswin.”
“What can I say?”
“Don�
��t. Just be thankful I’m as crazy as you are. But,” and her voice hardened, “don’t sneak in again and change the files without at least warning me that you might be in the area. And fax me directly without that damned hood and mask.”
He laughed. “I’ll do both, unless I can’t reach you. Promise me you’ll look before pulling your stunner.”
“I promise.”
A frown crossed his face. “I should have left some time ago.”
“Another woman. I knew it.”
He shook his head. “Duty, so to speak. I have . . . other obligations. I will stay in touch. How is your leg?”
“The feeling’s back.”
“Good.” He nodded, bent, and picked up a small case from beside the base of the console, a case she had never seen, for all the time it had apparently lain there.
With a salute, he turned and was gone.
So quickly had he departed that Lyr shook her head to make sure he had indeed gone. What else had she missed? Besides everything?
MacGregor Gerswin? Was he in any of the lists?
She bent over the console, nearly losing her balance again as her legs twitched. Feeling had returned to both, along with the faint sensation of needles jabbing at her skin.
“Might as well search while you wait,” she said softly to herself. She did not trust her legs to bear her weight yet.
No MacGregor Gerswin appeared in any of the New Augustan Imperial Government directories, not even an M. Gerswin.
Imperial Service? Which one?
She tried the Marine Directory.
Nothing.
Aeorspace Defense?
Nothing.
Retirees?
No such listing.
Interstellar Survey Service?
“Individual names and assignments are not available for security reasons. An alphabetical listing of names is available with rank and communications locator code. Do you wish to continue search?”
She tapped in “Yes.”
“Gerswin, MacGregor Corson, Senior Commander, 455 NC 466/OS.”
That was all.
Lyr shook her head tiredly, conscious of the fatigue in her legs as the stunner wore off. It had been a long day before the evening’s events.
“Just a senior commander. Not even a commodore?
“But he never claimed anything,” she answered her own question.
She tapped the screen and erased the inquiries. She’d have the time. Cursing and damning herself for a fool, she knew she would have the time.
XXIII
What forecast the fall of the Empire?
Was it the increasing development and resource requirements of the associated systems, pushing inevitably as they did for use of those resources for more local needs? Was it merely a turning away from the Imperialist nature of the Empire? Was it a repudiation of the growing corruption manifested in New Augusta?
Was it the development of the totally impartial Galactic Communications Network by the fanatically honest Ydrisians, whose peaceful intentions were never doubted and with whose fairness the biases of the Empire contrasted so unfavorably?.
Was it the growing awareness of social change, manifested Empire-wide in such movements as the Ateys, the Droblocs, the Aghomers? Or was the Empire merely one of those accidents of history that lasted so long as it did because it took fifteen centuries for its peoples to discover that it had really never lived?
The Last Great Empire
Ptior Petral, IV
New Avalon, 5467 N.E.C.
XXIV
LYR D’MERYON STEPPED out of the electrocab and into the warmlights of the entry tunnel.
To her right was a towering figure—a doorman—whose weight and bulk might have qualified him for the Imperial Marines’ Front Force.
She hesitated, then began a series of quick steps toward the portal, where she presented the card that Commander Gerswin had left for her. Was he the trustee or the commander to her?
She didn’t know, but apparently the invitation was his apology. At least she hoped that was all it was.
The portal accepted the card, but did not return it as it opened for her.
Inside, the lighting was brighter, though fractionally, and the tiles were replaced with carpeting. She looked again as her eyes took in the decor. The foyer where she stood was about the same size as her private office and was floored in dark wood, over which laid an individual carpet with a central design, in turn bordered by a more geometrical design, both woven in a harmonious blend of blue and maroons.
“Administrator D’Meryon?”
The voice came from a short, gray-haired man who stood by the tall wooden table flanking the exit from the foyer into the next room.
“Yes?”
“Your patron has arrived already and is expecting you. If you would follow me?”
Lyr inclined her head in assent and followed the man through the archway into a dining area, dimly lit, with the tables arranged in a circular pattern, each in its own paneled recess to create a sense of full privacy without closeness.
The dark and heavy carpeting, the wood paneling, and the crisp white linen all gave the impressions of a time from history, of a place removed from the here and now.
Commander Gerswin, in a formal gray tunic and trousers that resembled a uniform, stood as she neared.
She almost smiled, more in embarrassment than in pleasure, as his eyes came to rest on her. She wondered if he saw through people the way he seemed to when he looked at them.
“Lyr. Pleasure to see you.”
“I appreciate your asking me, Commander.” Her tone was as cool as she could politely make it.
He nodded in response, but said nothing until she was seated in the comfortable armchair opposite him at the square table.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Squierre and flame.”
Lyr did not see the waiter until the commander looked up over her head and repeated the order.
“Straight fizz,” he added.
She surveyed the room as well as she could from her chair without turning around, and waited.
He waited.
And the waiter returned with both drinks, set them down in the appropriate places, and departed without saying a word.
“Owe you an apology. Perhaps more. Start by saying I apologize.”
The directness of his words took her breath away. She took a sip of the squierre before answering.
“It’s not that simple, Commander. You don’t ask me to an obviously expensive private club, say, ‘I apologize,’ and assume that everything is forgotten and forgiven.”
“No. I know that. So do you.” He paused. “Have to start somewhere. Foundation needs you. I need you.”
“Fine. I’ll accept that. But it means more trust on your part. Why don’t you start by telling me who you really are?”
He shrugged. “You know a lot already. Broken-down and passed-over I.S.S. Commander. Pressed into public service in my off-duty time. One reason why I need you.” After sipping the nondrug, nonalcohlic drink, he waited for her response.
“That doesn’t compute. Broken-down commanders don’t end up as sole trustees of powerful foundations, unless they’re related to Court families or the Imperial family.”
“I’m not. I’m originally from an impoverished and forgotten outer system. Used the Service to improve myself, but, as ambitious officers will do, ran into difficulties with High Command. Finis to promotions.”
“It couldn’t have been too bad or you would have been cashiered or had to resign.”
“Delicate orbit. Some pushed for that. Public opinion ran my way, and High Command backed off.”
Lyr smiled wryly. “And you’re just a poor, broken-down commander? If they backed off because of the publicity, you must have had an extremely high profile.”
“Wasn’t like that at all. Would have been inconvenient for the Service to deal with me.”
“The more you say, the more mysterious it gets
. But you offer no substance. No glorious battles from years in the I.S.S. It sounds more like a series of screen-pushing assignments in headquarters.”
“Ha!”
The single barked laugh startled Lyr, and she set down her goblet too hard, hard enough for the liquid to splash and dribble down the outside of the crystal. She dabbed at it with the napkin.
“I take it you have done more than screen pushing.”
“A bit. Rated skitter and flitter pilot. Had command of a cruiser for two tours.”
“Which one?”
“Fleurdilis.”
“The Fleurdilis? The one that discovered the bearlike aliens? The . . . Ursans?”
“Same one. Yes.”
“Yes?” Lyr’s face screwed up into an inquiry. “Yes to what?”
“Was the C.O. at the time.”
“Oh . . .” A slow smile crossed her face. “I suppose I owe you a bit of an apology, Commander.”
“No.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve been thinking of you as more of an administrative officer, a man who postures more than acts.”
“All men posture,” snorted the commander.
“Some have reason. And I can see why High Command left you well enough alone for whatever else you did.”
The commander nodded with an odd expression on his face, one which Lyr could not place.
“Did you actually engage in hand-to-hand combat with an alien, the way the faxers showed?”
“Combat, one on one, but not so romantic as the newsies recreated. Pretty grubby. Should have been able to avoid killing him, her, it. Wasn’t good enough for that. Turned out all right in the end. Better than the Dismorph first contact.”
Lyr took a sip from the goblet.
“What about you?” the commander asked.
“Me?”
“Know your background, and you’re a good administrator. Can tell that from what you’ve done with the assets, new investments, even the protection of the few early research returns. Why do you do it? What do you want? More money? More time off? Or more knowledge about . . . anything in particular. . .”
She set down the goblet and frowned, then worried her lower lip.
“Think about it. We’ll come back to that. Time to pick out your dinner.”
“As your guest, Commander, I’ll defer to your taste. I’m not terribly fond of red meat. Other than that, anything is fine. Whatever you think best.”
The Silent Warrior Page 9
