From the New Augusta directory, he got the numbers for Galactafax and Faxstellar.
“Greetings. I am the Accord Trade Envoy, Nathaniel Whaler. And a statement to make on the bombing of our Legation I have.”
“The what?” asked the duty faxer at Galactafax.
“The bombing of our Legation by forces opposing the talks on trade—”
“Hold it! Hold it! Let me catch it all on flux. First, who are you? For the record?”
“Envoy Nathaniel Whaler, Acting Legate and Trade Envoy for the Legation of Accord.”
He paused and cleared his throat.
“This very afternoon, my office was bombed. Two devices. Bystanders, several were hurt. Good faith we came in, but the Imperial Senate and Imperial Ministries respond not, but question who has jurisdiction. No one pays attention.”
“Hang on there, Lord Whaler. Let me see if I have this straight. You were invited here for trade talks. The Imperial Senate and the Ministries are arguing over jurisdiction, and this afternoon your Legation was bombed, and people were injured. Is that the idea?”
“Essentially correct, that is. Diplomatic Police come, say they will look. Nothing happens.”
“You mentioned a jurisdiction problem…”
“External Affairs should have control, but has done nothing. Commerce Ministry presses for answers but has no jurisdiction. Most confusing. Senate External Relations Committee staff is also interested, and Senator Helmsworth and the S.I.I. are involved somehow, I am told.”
The Ecolitan wondered if he were carrying it all too far, but the young man on the other end was drinking it all in.
“The S.I.I…. S.I.I.? You mean the I.I.S., the Imperial Intelligence Service?
“That is what I understand.”
“Lord Whaler, where can we reach you?”
“At the Accord Legation is where.”
He gave the office and the private line, not wanting Mydra blocking the calls if the faxers waited until morning.
He repeated the process with the young woman who answered for Faxstellar. Her reaction was much the same.
Within twenty minutes, a distinguished-looking woman from Galactafax had gotten back to Nathaniel.
“Marjoy Far-Nova, Lord Whaler. I’ve seen the tape of your announcement, but I wondered if you could possibly supply a few more details for us about the trade talks and any possible connection this might have with the bombing.”
“Connection I know not. Here I am, poor Envoy, wanting to ease relations with Empire. Here am I, empowered by my government to reduce some tariffs and eliminate others. But for this, right after we circulate proposals, my office is bombed. The situation is strange, but whom should I tell?”
“Let me get this down. After you circulated your trade proposals, your office was bombed. At the same time, no one in the Empire seems willing to act except those who you think should not be involved. Is that it?”
Nathaniel could only shrug and gesture to the bulging wall to his right.
Shortly thereafter, he went through a similar performance with the call back from Faxstellar, declining to speculate beyond the facts.
Once again, he headed to the deserted staff office and Mydra’s console, this time not banging his knees as he sat down.
He set it for a voice scrambled tape and began to speak.
“To Scandalous Sam, the Gossip Man of New Augusta…Have you heard about the awful runaround they’re giving that poor Envoy from Accord? They bombed his office, not once, but twice. And none of the Ministries will talk. His staff has been profiteered…and you should listen in on the snoop network, like Sylvia, Marcella, Alia, Courtney, and a few others do. One even we dare not name. His calls are blocked by his own staff. Call him, and they tell you he’s behind in returning his screens. He doesn’t know it yet. More to follow…”
Nathaniel wound it up and sent it off into the local faxdelivery.
A similar set of faxes went to other sources, as well as a scholarly letter under his own name to the pure print media.
That done, he closed down Mydra’s console, trying to leave it exactly as he found it.
He was hungry, and officially and unofficially, all he had to do for a while was wait and play dumb.
He locked the portal into his private quarters and headed for the hygienarium, where he stripped and took a steaming fresher. He dressed slowly, choosing a dress green outfit and a rich, matching green cloak.
According to the belt multitector, the clothes weren’t snooped or tagged, but the snoops outside his private entrance were fully functioning.
After a quick walk to the lift shaft, he took the slow outside lane all fifty levels up to the Legate’s private dining rooms.
The head waiter was ready, this time.
“Lord Whaler…a pleasure to see you. Table in the main dining room or the portico?”
“The portico, if you please.”
Through the wide expanse of unbroken permaglass he could see the shadows of the towers, their lights like beacons, and the dark outlines of the hills beyond. He was seated at a table for two at one end of the windowside tables.
Not much on the silver printed menu appealed to him, but he finally settled on the scampig with a salad, and liftea.
The liftea arrived immediately. Either he looked tired or the staff had been briefed on the fact that liftea came first on Accord, not last.
He sipped the tea, watched the lights glitter, took in the occasional shuttle flare in the evening sky.
“I beg your pardon.” The man’s voice was lightly accented Panglais. Nathaniel pegged the speaker as Frankan.
He looked up to see a man standing by the table.
The Ecolitan rose, half bowing.
“At your service,” he responded in Frankan.
“You honor me,” replied the other diplomat in his own tongue. “Not many would immediately recognize my background or make the effort. But none of the formal nonsense. May I introduce myself?” He presented a diplomatic I.D. and miniature credentials identifying himself as Gerard De Vylerion, Legate of Frank. “Gerard De Vylerion, soon to be returning to Wryere.”
Nathaniel sat and gestured to the seat across from him.
“Nathaniel Whaler, Envoy from Accord and acting Legate,” he continued in Frankan.
“You do know Frankan. I must confess I knew who you were. After this afternoon, everyone wanted to talk to you, but your Legation indicated you were out of touch.”
Nathaniel motioned for De Vylerion to go on.
“I’ve been here five standard years, full tour, and I’ve never heard of violence against a Legation. There aren’t even any records. What did you do? Was it an accident?”
“Accident? No, I doubt it was an accident. I was leaving my office when they exploded. Two, one right after the other. We informed the Diplomatic Police, who came and went.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Nothing so mysterious was happening. We circulated preliminary proposals, and I felt that everyone who was interested should be informed. I did not want to say much about the explosions until I had a chance to think.”
“I could not be that calm,” answered the Frankan Legate, sipping from the glass he had brought with him.
“I waited to see if there were any reaction. But I will wait only so long.”
“And?”
“I finally told the faxcasters. Was that how you found out?”
“No. My staff told me of an explosion on the three hundredth level, and I asked a friend of a friend. He told me an accident had occurred in the Accord Legation.”
“No. Not an accident. Someone does not like what I am doing. Someone does not want, apparently, a peaceful trade treaty.”
“Lord Whaler—a friend of mine, Lord Naguti, from Orknarli, is also interested.” The Frankan gestured to his larger table where two others, a man and a woman, sat. “We could join you, but…”
“Alas, I see my table is too small.”
The Ecolitan got up, beckoned to the waiter. As the man ap
proached, he turned to De Vylerion, “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but we would be honored. Have the waiter serve you at our table.”
Probably a breach of etiquette, thought Nathaniel, but the chance to spread a little distrust of the Empire was too much to resist.
“Tables I will be changing,” he told the waiter in Panglais, “and there would I like to be served.”
The waiter nodded and retreated to his post.
The other two stood as the Ecolitan approached.
“Lord Naguti, acting Legate from Orknarli, and Lady Persis-Dyann. This is Lord Whaler, Envoy from Accord.”
“I speak no Orknarlian,” Nathaniel explained in Panglais, “but more fluent am I in Frankan, Old American, or Fuardian.”
“We all understand Frankan,” clipped Lady Persis-Dyann, who seemed too young and too sharp-featured to be an Imperial Lady.
“Then I will continue in Frankan,” observed Nathaniel, switching languages with relief. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Persis-Dyann, and you, Lord Naguti, although under somewhat surprising circumstances:”
“Lord Whaler has just informed me,” added De Vylerion smoothly, “that not only was his Legation bombed, but that no one seemed terribly interested. He called the faxcasters himself.”
“Oh?” asked the Lady.
“Most interesting,” mused Lord Naguti.
Nathaniel took a sip of his tea.
“I’m puzzled,” he began slowly. “I arrived thinking progress would be slow but steady and that a trade agreement could be worked out. It’s not that big a problem. It deals with certain microtronics. But nothing happened. So I requested audiences and began direct contacts. Remember, the Empire requested us to come. I was perhaps too aggressive. Yesterday, it begins to appear someone does not want a treaty. Today, there is an explosion in my office.”
He looked around the table. Naguti was nodding. Persis-Dyann seemed bored, and De Vylerion wore an expression of mild interest. He stopped and waited.
“If the treaty’s so minor, why would anyone want to stall it?” asked Persis-Dyann.
“My thoughts exactly,” answered Nathaniel. “That leads to an interesting point. Haversol came to New Augusta to negotiate and had the same trouble. Now…the similarity I cannot prove, but…”
Naguti nodded again.
“You men all talk in mysteries,” observed the Lady.
“Not so mysterious, Lady Dyann,” responded Naguti. “The Imperial Fleet attacked and reduced Haversol because Haversol refused to negotiate with the Empire. If what Lord Whaler says is true, negotiations were stalled by the Empire to give the impression of Haversolian recalcitrance and to give the Empire the option of using force.”
“And because it was veiled in semilegality, the Federated Hegemony, the Accord Coordinate”—and there the Frankan De Vylerion inclined his head toward Nathaniel—“the Fuardian Conglomerate, and the other independent systems chose not to make an issue of a minor planet like Haversol.”
“That is true,” added Nathaniel, leaning back from the table as the waiter delivered his roast scampig. “Another disturbing thought occurs. Haversol was a minor system, and no one protested. Not even Accord, I admit, at least not beyond a simple protest. But Accord is not, shall I put it bluntly, the most admired of the smaller multisystem governments. And so, if the Empire creates a technicality on which to base the use of force against Accord, who will protest?”
Nathaniel cut into the roast scampig, wrinkling his nose as the steam escaped.
“Isn’t that basing a lot on assumptions?” cut in the Lady.
Nathaniel wondered which Ministry had bought her. Despite her sharp nose and piercing eyes, she was attractive and had a nice figure beneath the gold-trimmed brown tunic.
“Assumptions, yes,” he continued after swallowing, “but could you explain why there have been two attempts on my life, including exploding my office, and bribes to my staff?”
“Bribes to your staff?” Naguti asked.
“A minor official, but I caught him and actually got a written confession that an Imperial Ministry was paying him to spy. Not unusual, I would guess, although since the Empire supplies most of my staff, I would question why they would need to approach him.”
“What do you think, Neri?” De Vylerion asked.
“I think we may all have a problem. While I earnestly hope that the incidents which had befallen Accord and Lord Whaler are merely isolated coincidences, I have grave doubts that they are. You know, don’t you, that the Fifth Fleet was dispatched yesterday to reinforce the Sector Governor on our borders?”
Gerard took another sip from his near empty glass. Even Persis-Dyann was silent. Nathaniel took advantage of the lull to finish the scampig and salad.
“I regret my story has depressed you. Perhaps the lady is right. Certainly, there is no hard proof.”
“In our business, Whaler,” said Gerard softly, “and since you’re still young, you may not always remember it, motivation and past actions are more important than scraps of proof. Hard proof often arrives just before the warheads.”
“Our debt, Lord Whaler,” offered Naguti, rising, “but I must be heading back to my Legation. May I escort you, Lady Dyann?”
“So far as our paths coincide.”
Nathaniel struggled to his feet as the pair left.
“Very nicely done, Whaler, but do you believe it?” asked the Frankan as soon as they were alone.
“I’ve made it a bit more clear-cut than it really is, but, in essence, it’s all true. True, but complicated, and the stakes are far higher.”
“I can guess why. Perhaps we are all fortunate Accord sent you and not another.” He rose. “I, too, must leave, but I appreciate your candor.”
The portico was nearly empty by then, with only two other tables occupied. The Ecolitan caught the eye of the waiter.
“All right is it if I return to my first table?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A Taxan brandy, please, and clear water.”
He sat down and stared out through the permaglass, watching the shuttle flares and the stars, so much thicker here than in the skies of the Rift planets, where an arm of blackness clove the center of the night heavens.
The brandy arrived, but he ignored it, still drawing in the stars.
It was like operating in a vacuum. Little or no feedback. Lord of the Forests! He didn’t know whether he’d touched the people he’d met or whether everything he did was blocked just outside his ability to observe.
Perhaps the faxcasts or the morning faxtabs would show something. If they didn’t, he wasn’t sure what other studs he could press, what other people he could try to manipulate.
Destruction was easy. It was the refraining from destruction that was hard.
He picked up the brandy and watched the stars till past midnight.
He was cold sober and holding an almost full glass of Taxan brandy when he stood again. Every other table besides his was set in morning gold. His was still in evening silver.
As he strode back to the drop shaft and fifty levels down, he wondered, idly, whether he would find anyone waiting by or inside his door—whether an assailant or a Lady.
Finding neither Sergel nor Sylvia, or their like, he locked up and slipped into the large bed alone, and into sleep.
XXV
NATHANIEL WOKE EARLY, and gratefully, out of a nightmare where Imperial battlecruisers fractured planets and where Ecolitans on black wings sowed death down the Milky Way, turning the stars dark as they stepped from sun to sun.
A hot fresher helped begin to burn away the depression, as did the cup of liftea which followed from the tiny kitchen.
He had not been standing in the shambles of the Envoy’s office, dressed in a set of crisp blacks he’d never worn before, for more than a few minutes before Hillary West-Coven scurried in from the front desk.
“Sir…Lord Whaler, there are two fax crews outside, and they say you personally called them. Ms. Da-Vios
isn’t here yet.” Her tone conveyed that he was personally responsible for some catastrophe and that Mydra could have avoided it had she been present.
“Why, I did call them. Let them in, so fax the damage to our Legation they can. Talk with them I even will.”
“Yes, sir. You will talk with them?”
“If they desire such.”
“But…but…” Seeing Nathaniel’s broad smile, she capitulated. “Yes, sir.”
Nathaniel left his console to place himself firmly in front of the damage. The three women and one man who represented the media walked in. The two well-groomed women, with the hand-held directional cones and belt paks, were the commentators. The other two wore shoulder mounted fax units.
“You’re Lord Whaler?” demanded the smaller of the two interviewers, who was dressed in a silver jumpsuit that flattered her slender figure and dark hair.
“Lord Whaler, I am.” He beamed.
“Fine. Please stand over there out of the first shots while we get a panover of the damage. Marse, start at the right and sweep up toward that hole.
“Check-shot. Canning, two, three, and go.”
The other interviewer nodded to her faxer, who followed the same pattern.
The once-over of the damage was followed with detailed close-ups of the two blast areas.
Nathaniel stood at one side, feeling somewhat neglected.
“Ms. West-Coven,” asked the smaller interviewer, “can you tell us what happened?”
“One instant we were working. The next there was an explosion, and Lord Whaler came flying from his portal there. I remember seeing him standing there just before the blast, and I guess he was lucky. He was walking out when it happened.”
“That was his office?”
“Yes.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat, but no one was paying any attention. Both faxers were training their units on Hillary.
“How did it happen?”
For the first time, Hillary looked bewildered. “You’d better ask the Envoy.”
“Lord Whaler. Stand right there.”
The Ecolitan complied meekly. The media commentators were more peremptory than the bureaucrats.
Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) Page 15
