“Murder—that’s not—even for this.”
“No.” Nathaniel said. “The darts have a mild nerve toxin—mimics some forms of influenza, the violent ones. You may recall these. She’ll have seizures and a pretty significant memory loss for today and maybe yesterday.”
“This isn’t another case of ‘trust me,’ is it?”
He winced. “I deserve that. No. All the ones I used darts on while I was on New Augusta recovered—except for several days of memories.” He paused. “We must be close to something. I just wish I could see it.”
“We really still haven’t discovered anything. We don’t know for sure who’s behind the attempts on our lives, or why everyone’s so threatened by this stupid study, or why there’s an arms buildup and civil unrest on a planet with nothing on it.”
For a moment, he just sat there, thinking about four attempts on their lives. Thinking about the fact that he’d walked around Lanceville totally exposed, that he’d been exposed when he’d gone to find Sylvia just before he’d left New Augusta, thinking about the dark-metalled slug-thrower on the table.
“Oh…no.” How could he have missed it? How could he have been so self-centered? He wanted to pound his head. He swallowed and looked at Sylvia. While he knew she wasn’t, that she was tougher in many ways than he was, she looked somehow…vulnerable.
“What?” Her eyebrows lifted in a gesture of annoyance and amusement.
“I’m sorry.”
“If you’re going to apologize for last night again…I told you—”
He shook his head. “I think you and I have misjudged all of this. Or I have. I really did. Kennis What’s-his-name was the key, but I should have seen it sooner.”
“Seen what?”
“Someone’s after you. They have been all along, but I was included so that we wouldn’t realize that. Ecolitans like me are dangerous, but we don’t really know anything. You’re knowledgeable, and you still presumably have access to Imperial sources, and someone definitely doesn’t want you to use them. I’m just a target to cover the fact that they’re after you.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I don’t know that much.”
“You do. You have to, because…I can’t explain it totally logically, but they’re after you. That’s why the stunner. A message for you wouldn’t have been plausible.”
“Maybe it does make sense.”
“It makes very good sense, and so many people could want us out of the way that it’ll be hard to eliminate suspects. We need to get out of here even faster. Confined as it is, orbit control would be better because whoever it is won’t want to take out a whole station…yet.”
He lifted the dart gun and fired into the slumped figure.
“What…?”
“I’ve been telling you my speculations, and I don’t want her remembering it, even subconsciously. I’ll tell you as we pack.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.” Trying to ignore the throbbing in his arm, as well as the voice in his head that kept reminding him that he’d been stupid, he managed to lay out his field pack on the bed and slowly fold his clothes.
Sylvia dumped all her clothing on the other side of his bed, then brought in her own field pack and the datacase.
“Oooohh…” The serving woman moaned, and then twitched.
Sylvia glanced down.
“I didn’t say it was painless, but neither is my arm.”
“You can move it?”
“It hurts.”
She shook her head. “Most people couldn’t function with that kind of nerve pain.”
“I don’t have much choice.” He rubbed his forehead—damp—and then resumed folding his clothes, slowly.
“What’s the event horizon?” Sylvia asked. “The real issue?”
“It’s got to be the Three System Bulge. It belonged to the Empire until the Secession, and then the Fuards took it and fortified it, but it’s a dagger at the side of the Empire. If Artos falls to the Empire, then that flanks the bulge, and the Fuards are paranoid anyway. Artos is on the end of the Avalonian drift, and not much use to Camelot, but would strengthen either the Hegemony’s position or the Union’s. And to complicate matters more, the Empire doesn’t want any of the three to have Artos, I’m sure. So…if our study and investigations reveal that Camelot is effectively capital-starving Artos, the ArchTories—or someone, because I’m guessing at the internal politics—are going to suffer because the Empire will put the screws on New Avalon to beef up Artos to keep it strong and inside New Avalon. That’s where you come in. You could ensure the report gets to the right people, and that they believe it. More important, from your point of view and safety, someone believes you’re here to ensure the Empire’s interests.”
“It could look that way.” Sylvia paused. “If they think that we’re a joint Imperial/Accord team…”
“They want us removed. Exactly.”
“You’re convinced that most Avalonian politicians would quietly let Artos go?” Sylvia closed her pack, and then stepped up beside Nathaniel, folding his remaining set of greens. “I can do this faster.”
“No. They’d wail and wring their hands and moan and complain loudly—but can you imagine them going to war over a single colony outsystem against the Hegemony, the Conglomerate, or even the Frankan Union? So…unless I’m missing something and unless we can be very successful on New Avalon, there’s going to be a disaster here. Invasion, starvation, plague, rebellion, a declaration of ‘independence’ backed by Kennis’s private army, or all of the above.”
“And we can’t do anything here?”
He shook his head. “With what? Either of us could assassinate Kennis. That would just allow Sebastion to do the same thing, and he would, and then the small growers would really revolt. If we removed Sebastion, then…”
“Kennis takes over with his private army and fights it out with them, and then the Federated Hegemony, the Union, or the Fuards bring in fleets and light up the sky.”
“And what will the Grand Admiral do at that point?”
Sylvia winced.
“Add to that two dead Ecolitans, one tied to the I.I.S., and the Empire is effectively neutralized—at least long enough for Artos to fall.”
“It could be worse than that,” mused Sylvia as Nathaniel closed his field pack.
“Oh?” He rubbed his forehead, then reached out and pocketed the ignition placard for the groundcar.
“The fish kills and the synde bean plague—that screams to the Galaxy that Accord is trying to weaken the Empire on all fronts, even using an economic study to foment rebellion in another area that would weaken the Empire. Without you and me around to get the real message across, what will the Senate do? What can they do but bring some sort of force against Accord?”
“Which means they won’t have forces near New Avalon and Artos.”
“Which will make an outside takeover of Artos rather easy.” Sylvia gestured toward the door. “I suppose we’re going to steal a groundcar?”
“I prefer the term ‘borrow.’” The sandy-haired Ecolitan shouldered his field pack. “Anyway, all this leaves one nagging question. Why in creation did the Institute and Accord ever get sucked into doing the study? What did New Avalon promise the House of Delegates? Or vice versa?”
“That’s one reason—”
“We’re going to Camelot. You’ve got it.” He paused. “I’m sorry. Do you know why? I cut you off.”
“No…and thank you.” She leaned closer to him and kissed his cheek.
Nathaniel opened the door gingerly. The corridor was empty, but his pack was over his right shoulder, and the dart gun back in his left hand. Sometimes it was a real advantage to be left-handed, although he was as close to ambidextrous as training could make him.
“You’re going to leave her?” Sylvia glanced back at the slightly twitching figure on the rug. “And the slug-thrower?”
“Why not? Even if no one finds her, she’ll be all right. Besides, my arm h
urts. And we couldn’t get a metal weapon through the detectors.”
As they passed the foyer, Nathaniel nodded to the room to the left. “Would you duck in there and call Vivienne? Suggest that the weather’s likely to be cold and that she and Geoffrey should consider a short vacation at some warm place—off Artos—without saying it directly? Would you mind?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind, and that makes sense. Just a moment.”
Nathaniel scanned the area, ears alert as well, but no one appeared until Sylvia popped out of the small office.
“She was most gracious, and said that they had considered such a vacation, perhaps on one of the tropical islands on Altours.” Sylvia opened the front Guest House door for Nathaniel.
“Frankan…that figures. The groundcar ought to be on the side. Can you drive?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
The mottled gray groundcar tucked up beside a nondescript bush made Pyotr’s taxi look like a luxury model.
“You can pick transport.” Sylvia laughed.
“At least we’re driving, or you are.”
The field packs went in the flat space behind the front bench seat—there was no rear seat, just a flat slab of stained blue plastic.
Clouds of dark gray smoke billowed from the rattling engine as Sylvia eased the vehicle onto the lane out to the main highway, and the entire body of the groundcar shuddered.
Another heavy-cargo lorry rumbled past, empty and heading for Lanceville.
“More equipment being unloaded?” Sylvia turned right and headed west for the shuttle port.
“Probably.”
“You’re sure there’ll be a shuttle today?” asked Sylvia.
“There’s a Hegemony vessel due today, and a Frankan one late tomorrow. That’s a little strange, too. Bagot was talking about how few ships there usually are.”
“More than a few things are a little strange.”
“How true,” mused Nathaniel.
Sylvia stopped the borrowed groundcar right at the entrance to the Port Authority offices. “We can leave this here?”
“Of course. Chief Walkerson will certainly know what to do with it.”
They both laughed, even as their eyes scanned the area before they entered the building.
Bagot looked up as the two, field packs on shoulders, entered the outer office.
“Is Chief Walkerson in, Bagot?”
“Ah…yes.”
“Good. He put in a call for us, so I’m sure he’ll be expecting us.”
Furrowed brows revealed the driver’s puzzlement, but by then Nathaniel had his hand on the inner office door.
Sylvia bestowed a dazzling smile on the driver. “Take good care of Anne-Leslie, and listen to her. She has good judgment.” She entered the inner office and clicked the door closed behind her.
“What are—” began the Port Chief.
“We’re returning your call of this morning in person,” Nathaniel announced.
“Ah…my call?”
“Perhaps we were mistaken, but we got a message that you’d called. Then one of the staff started firing a stunner at me.” Nathaniel offered a broad and false smile. “So we decided to return the call in person.”
“Stunners? That’s preposterous.”
Sylvia held up the weapon. “It’s even Imperial issue. We left the slug-thrower behind on the table. I’d bet it’s Imperial issue, too.”
“It’s amazing,” added the other Ecolitan. “Artos is so tech-poor, can’t even manufacture its own groundcars, yet all these weapons keep showing up. And there’s not an Imperial on the planet, but all the weapons come from the Empire.”
“I’m quite afraid I don’t understand,” protested Walkerson.
“You don’t have to,” declared Sylvia. “We’re just going to keep you company for a time, Port Chief, at least until the next shuttle to orbit control arrives later this morning.”
“You’re leaving so soon?”
“Let’s just say that we’ve completed as much of the study research as we can while here on Artos,” replied Nathaniel. “The next phase will take place on New Avalon.”
“You’re going to Camelot?” asked Walkerson.
“That’s the idea,” said Sylvia sweetly.
“But why?”
“I think you know why.” Nathaniel smiled, ignoring the throbbing in his arm. “Why do you think we’re going?”
“I couldn’t say…after all, you are the Ecolitans.”
“In technical terms, then, you can tell everyone that too much of Artos’ infrastructure is tied up with that of New Avalon.” Nathaniel’s voice went cold. “While we can certainly point out areas where improvement is necessary, even vital, it makes no sense to recommend remedies that are mere technical exercises and cannot be implemented politically.” He smiled politely. “As you may recall, the Institute is known for its emphasis on practical solutions, and we are going to be working very hard for a practical solution. Not that there seems to be much interest on Artos in a practical solution, since everyone seems quietly bent on setting up to destroy the other fellow, in order to ensure that you all lose.”
“You’ve totally lost me, Whaler. You’ve gone absolutely batty.”
“Me? The infrastructure economist and diplomat selected for the high-profile fall? Dragging down Professor Ferro-Maine in the process?”
Walkerson turned to Sylvia.
Her gray eyes were like cold stone. “I don’t care much for men who declare they have a duty when they ignore what is really happening.”
“I do have work to do…” Walkerson looked helplessly at the office door.
“The most important business you have,” said Sylvia, “is to stay with us until the shuttle leaves. Otherwise…”
“Also, once we leave,” added Nathaniel, “you might want to check up on your help at the Guest House. They’ve gotten into rather nasty habits lately.”
Walkerson swallowed. His forehead dampened visibly.
“Now I know,” continued Nathaniel, “that our arrival placed everyone in a rather tense situation. After all, it would be most embarrassing to New Avalon to have a civil war—or was it going to be a war of independence—break out while we were here.”
“I am afraid I don’t understand, old chap.”
“You understand, Port Chief Walkerson,” said Sylvia. “That’s why we’re going to be very close together until the next shuttle lifts. Very close.” She smiled.
Walkerson swallowed.
XXVI
NATHANIEL WALKED ON Walkerson’s right, Sylvia on his left, as the three headed across the permacrete of the ramp to the waiting orbit shuttle.
“It has been an interesting time, Port Chief, especially for a place that you called quiet when we arrived.”
“So quiet that there have only been four attempts on our lives—just about one every other day.” This time Sylvia smiled. The smile was not pleasant.
“You had a little time to think.” Nathaniel studied the hangars to the south where the two remaining Port Authority flitters were hangared. “In view of everything that’s occurred, is there anyone you would suggest we contact while we are in Camelot?”
“I couldn’t tell you who would help with your study.”
“Walker!” snapped Whaler. “Can’t you get it through your thick Avalonian skull that your usefulness to just about everyone is limited? If New Avalon manages to hang onto Artos, you’ll be the scapegoat, along with us, probably, because we brought an unpleasant mess to everyone’s attention when they wished it would go away. If not, how many people are going to be happy with the lead representative of New Avalon’s Defence Ministry?”
“You really are serious, aren’t you, old chap?”
Nathaniel wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he glanced at Sylvia.
“Some men are particularly dense.” She emphasized “men” just slightly.
Walkerson swallowed. “Not that I believe you—I think you’re overreacting terribly
—but you might pay a call on Minister Spencer-Hawkes or his Deputy, that’s Alsion-Welles. Alsion-Welles might be better, really.”
“We will make the contact.” Whaler smiled. “Of course, there’s no guarantee they’ll want to take this seriously, either. But there are others that will.” I hope, he added mentally.
Nathaniel and Sylvia paused at the ramp to the orbit shuttle, where Nathaniel handed the two datablocs to the crewrep who waited.
“Well…professors, it has been…enlightening. I’d like to see a copy of your report when it’s finished. I would be quite interested to see your conclusions and recommendations.” Walkerson offered a nervous smile. “And the supporting documentation.”
“It has been enlightening.” Nathaniel nodded, taking the data-blocs back from the crewrep.
“And you’ll have a great deal of proof even before then, I think.” Sylvia offered a cold smile. “You’d better hope you don’t, but I’m not terribly optimistic, Port Chief.”
Both Ecolitans nodded, and then stepped up the ramp.
Walkerson looked dumbly after them, then shook his head, finally wiping his sweating forehead as he turned and walked back toward his office.
The ramp swung up, and the shuttle engines began to whine.
XXVII
“I JUST HOPE this Frankan ship arrives on time.” Sylvia lurched slightly with the gravity fluctuation as she stepped through the open reinforced arches that joined two sections of Artos orbit control, past the concealed pressure doors, and into section two, distinguished from section one by a darker gray shade of the plastic spray that coated the bulkheads.
Even alerted by Sylvia’s lurch, Nathaniel still found himself staggering through the slight change in gravity. He shook his head—just another example of slow decay. Grav-field generators were comparatively large, expensive, and needed constant maintenance, power, and tuning—and the closer they operated to a planetary field, the more they needed of all three, one reason why they weren’t practical for atmospheric use.
“We slept better—” he began.
“Safer, not better.” Sylvia rubbed her neck. “I still feel like a pretzel.”
Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) Page 46
