Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Time to go with it.” He glanced at the cover, scanning the title, The Economic Infrastructure of Artos, Analysis and Recommendations, then set it on the low table. “I’m hungry.”

  He stretched, then touched his cheek. It still hurt, and his legs and feet ached slightly as well. No matter what anyone said, sprinting in boots on hard pavement did nasty things to human tissue.

  “You’re going to have quite a bruise there. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m quite happy to be alive, thank you.” And angry, angry at his own stupidity, angry that she could have been killed because he hadn’t paid enough attention to De Vylerion. Had he missed anything else? He hoped not. He sincerely hoped not.

  He glanced at the two folder wallets on the table. “False Coordinate passports. I still can’t believe it.”

  Sylvia stifled a yawn. “I can.”

  “So can I. They can’t lose. If the assassins get us, then Accord gets in the trideo or print news. If we get them, then two dead bodies with Coordinate identification are discovered. I just wish I knew who.”

  “It probably isn’t the Union.”

  “It could be almost anyone else.”

  “Or everyone,” she suggested.

  “That possibility had crossed my mind. I almost feel like the rest of the Galaxy, including some of our own people, is running after us to pin our dead bodies on someone else’s door step.” He shook his head. “We’ve speculated and speculated, and we still don’t know. All we can do is play the game.” He lifted the draft report. “Let’s go downstairs and finish this off. Then, all we have to do, once we get the corrections made, is worry about how we get this out of here and to your friends over at the Imperial legation.”

  “We don’t, because that’s one giveaway. They’re looking for two of us.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll do it, and I know how.”

  “How, my more effective operative?”

  “Status. I’ll leave with the cleaning crew in a dingy singlesuit in the morning. Ecolitan professors don’t look like maintenance types.”

  “I could…”

  “No,” said Sylvia. “You’re too big. You can’t disguise all that muscle. You’re almost a head taller than most men here. That’s one reason why they could follow us so easily.”

  “We could also post a meeting on the Legation schedule for both of us with Clerigg for tomorrow morning,” he suggested.

  “That wouldn’t hurt, especially since there’s clearly a leak somewhere here.”

  “A leak? I doubt there’s just one.” He shook his head. “Let’s get this fixed. We’ll need to hurry if we want to eat before the mess closes. And I’m hungry.” He almost touched the bruised cheek again, but dropped his hand.

  “You have the keyblocs Clerigg left?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll be glad to get this done.”

  So would Nathaniel, except he had the feeling that completing the study was only the beginning of the end, if that.

  He also didn’t like the fact that the Legate had sent them into ambush. Either someone had set up Spamgall or the receptionist, and that meant infiltration of the Legation, or Spamgall himself was involved in the mess. Right now, there was no way to tell which, but they’d have to assume both alternatives were possible.

  XXXV

  NATHANIEL PACED TO the front of the economic section office, then back to the console. He glanced up at the high windows and the gray clouds of winter that oozed across the permaglass.

  She’d been gone four hours. Surely it didn’t take that long, did it? But the Legations didn’t open that early, did they? Probably not on New Avalon. Even the Accord Legation wasn’t open to the public until zero eight thirty.

  Clerigg glanced at Whaler. “I thought Ecolitan Ferro-Maine was supposed to be here.”

  “So did I.”

  Clerigg went back to his console, then looked up. “When can we send—”

  “As soon as she shows up.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry, Clerigg. It’s been a strain. I know it’s been a strain on you, too.”

  The Ecolitan’s eyes went to the door, but it was only the messenger, who delivered several envelopes to the economic section chief.

  Sylvia…how long could they keep it up? Sooner or later…He shook his head, his hand going to the bruise on his shoulder where she’d slammed him into the permacreate to save his life. He hadn’t even felt that one until later. Twice so far, she’d saved his neck, and that probably didn’t count the times her knowledge had averted danger. She hadn’t trusted the second pilot on the Frankan ship—not at all. Nor Kennis.

  But who was following them closely enough to strike in New Avalon? Was it the Imperial military? Despite Sylvia’s statements, Nathaniel had no doubts that the eagles were cold enough to use sympathetic death blocs. But so were the Fuards and the Hegemony. And, where men were concerned, so was the Matriarchy.

  And who had infiltrated the Legation? And, if it weren’t infiltration, why was the Legate working with an outside power? Spamgall was a political creature, and that type, contrary to popular opinion, wasn’t usually open to venality or bribery. Their vices were linked to power, not credits.

  Nathaniel paced back to the front of the office. Clerigg glanced up, then looked away.

  He kept pacing, and Clerigg kept looking at the time readout on his console.

  Click.

  He turned.

  “It’s done.” A damp-haired Sylvia stood in the door in a maroon singlesuit.

  For a long moment, he just looked, and his knees felt rubbery. Then he stepped forward and hugged her…hard.

  For a moment, she hugged him back, then eased away. “It’s no great accomplishment.” She shook her head. “Not at all.”

  “It’s a fine study,” protested Clerigg.

  “The study is good,” Sylvia admitted, offering the staff economist a brief smile. “And you made it possible.”

  Nathaniel nodded to Clerigg. “Send them all out, regular courier, as if it were totally routine distribution.”

  “Just routine?”

  “The fireworks come later, Clerigg. We discussed this. If we call attention to it, then we’ll be accused of sensationalism.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to change,” said Sylvia, “and we have something to discuss.”

  “I thought—” began the economist.

  “We’ll get to it,” temporized Nathaniel. “Thank you for everything.” He followed Sylvia outside into the corridor.

  “Up to our room,” suggested Sylvia. “There’s a trideo set there.”

  “A trideo set?”

  “Yes, a frigging trideo set.”

  He winced and followed her.

  Even before heading to the fresher or the closet, she went to the set and slipped in a cube she extracted from a pocket. “This and a few other items were waiting for me. They knew! Frig it! They knew, and they were waiting. That report is probably headed for orbit already. Not that it’ll do much good.”

  Nathaniel watched the holo images that rose in the center of the room, a series of people in uniforms and formal dress around a raised throne, the scene showing a vague resemblance to that of the Imperial receiving hall where he had presented his credentials as an envoy.

  “That’s him—the evil envoy,” said the trim and handsome woman in an Imperial uniform, pointing to another figure at the far side of a huge reception hall. Then the images shifted to reveal a blocky, hard-faced figure in a caricature of Ecolitan greens, with a smooth smile and cold eyes.

  “He can make the smartest people think black is white…or that green is beautiful…”

  Nathaniel wanted to retch, but he kept watching.

  After several units, Sylvia cut off the images. “There’s three hours of cuts like this. That’s what Berea said. There’s even one that shows the evil envoy’s traitor aide—she’s a former exotic dancer who seduced her way into an Imperial bureaucracy to get the information to sell out to the ev
il envoy. Slander is the sincerest form of flattery, I suppose.” Sylvia’s voice was bitter.

  “I’m sorry. It wasn’t…I didn’t.”

  “Don’t apologize. I know all that, but it still hurts. It shouldn’t, but it does.”

  “But why would the Empire—”

  “It’s not the Empire. These are all commercial productions, sponsored by TTG. That’s Tech-Transfer Galactic, and one of TTG’s subsidiaries is an outfit called AgriTech. It operates in the Empire, the Frankan Union, the Hegemony, and the Conglomerate. Supposedly, it’s headquartered on Tinhorn.”

  “So Accord is getting an incredibly bad image through all these trideo dramas?” Nathaniel still wondered who would watch the dramas…and accept them as real…except he was afraid he knew.

  “You’ve got it. And what will one economic study do to combat all the biases being raised and fanned by the entertainment industry? One excellent, factual, and dry economic study? And that’s not all.”

  “Oh?”

  “The synde bean thing. You were right. Something very funny happened here in Camelot. An Avalonian trade factor was almost killed—a hit—with Imperial style needles. It’s coincidental, of course, but he had some dealings with the Conglomerate and the Federated Hegemony—and with R-K Enterprises. Several months ago, some new strains of beans went to Artos, and to George Reeves-Kenn. Berea flagged it because it made no sense. The value was minimal, but you have to log those to a planoformed system—ecological imbalance.”

  “The plague…the different beans…” mused Nathaniel. “There’s no way to prove that, but…”

  “It looks that way. George found out about the plague and wanted to protect himself, but that left a trail. Smack—no trade factor, and no George. Someone wanted to cover their tracks.”

  “And make sure the laser stayed focused on Accord.”

  “That’s how I see it.” Sylvia’s voice turned edged as she added, “And there’s nothing we can really prove. Berea suspects, and she’s reported those suspicions, but how can the I.I.S. tell the Imperial Senate that they suspect this without proof—especially when the entire Empire knows Accord is out to poison it. How many millions have already died from starvation or power losses? Five, ten million so far?”

  “I guess we’ll have to do more to put a stop to it.”

  “What? Destroy half the Galaxy? That’s what it would take. And we’d have to do it before the Empire destroys the other half.”

  “With my luck, I’d choose the wrong half,” mused Nathaniel.

  “I don’t know. I’m soaked. I’m cold, and I need to change.” Sylvia stripped off the singlesuit. “Then we’ll get something to eat, and talk. Although what we can come up with, I don’t know.” She draped the damp suit over her arm and walked to the fresher, seemingly unaware, or uncaring, that Nathaniel watched. “A frigging exotic dancer! That crap…how can people…?”

  XXXVI

  “DO YOU THINK you can go back to the Imperial Legation?” Nathaniel asked as he closed the door to the suite, wishing he’d eaten less of the heavy crepe. He burped quietly, he hoped, still wondering how a crepe could have been so heavy. “I worry that going back again…they might…not be so helpful.”

  “Berea was encouraging…and told me that they’d take anything else I could bring…but I don’t think it’s going to help enough. This whole thing has gotten beyond reason. Then, I suppose it always was.” Sylvia stood and looked at the silent trideo projector. “An exotic dancer…that’s hard to believe. A frigging exotic dancer…”

  “I find you very exotic.”

  “You won’t find me doing that kind of dance.” She smiled briefly. “Not in public.”

  “Does that mean I have something to look forward to?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A very permanent arrangement,” he blurted, not believing that he’d said what he had.

  “If we get through all this…”

  “Promise?”

  She kissed his cheek. “First things first…like survival.”

  “Survival isn’t enough.”

  Sylvia looked at him directly, her gray eyes deep, for a long time before she answered. “No, it isn’t, and that’s the problem. We both want more than mere existence.” She sighed. “We all do. But most people’s desires are modest on an individual basis—and totally unreasonable for an entire society. Maybe that’s why reason doesn’t work in government.”

  “Reason can work on those in power…if you use it to appeal to greed, fear, and prejudice,” suggested Nathaniel.

  “I don’t like that.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “That’s what you did in New Augusta, wasn’t it? And that’s why you didn’t tell me, either?”

  “I wasn’t that noble.” He snorted. “I wish I had been, but I didn’t want you hurt if things went wrong.”

  “Please don’t protect me that way anymore.”

  Nathaniel looked at the numbers on the borrowed hand calculator, wishing he’d understood them before, but the trideo shows and the little information about the beans had been the key…those and the Artos study, once he’d really had a chance to investigate the data. “I won’t, but it’s hard.”

  “Go ahead.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

  He took a deep breath.

  “All right. Who’s behind all of this? Let’s take it step by step. Forget about hard proof for the moment.”

  “Do we really want to know?” Sylvia took a long swallow from the glass of water she held. “It’s dry in here.”

  “I know. Can I have a sip?”

  She extended the glass, and he drank before answering.

  “Probably not, but it won’t go away, and things will just get worse.” He cleared his throat, glancing at the figures and phrases he’d scrawled out. “From what we do know, the overall effort to put the Empire and Accord at each other’s throats isn’t being caused by either the Coordinate or the Empire.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Nor New Avalon or the Frankan Union.”

  “Now, the attempts on Artos and here probably weren’t managed by Halstan or by Orknarli or Olympia—they’re too distant. Effectively, that leaves the Hegemony and the Conglomerate.”

  “It has to be the Conglomerate,” said Sylvia.

  “Why?” asked Nathaniel idly.

  “Take those trideo clips. They’re airing all over the Empire. Who else could afford them?”

  Nathaniel laughed.

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  He swallowed. “Let me point out something. Probably the shows paid for themselves. People like that sort of thing. But even if they didn’t, what was the total cost—production, sponsors, airtime, everything?”

  “I wouldn’t know, but a commercial slot on New Augusta might cost a quarter million a minute. It’d be less elsewhere.”

  “And the show is aired twice a week…three times a week? Eight minutes of dedicated commercial sponsor time.”

  She nodded.

  “All right, let’s assume that they sell the commercial spots for next to nothing, but the structure works. That means that, on Old Earth, each show costs four million, or twelve million a week. That’s six hundred million a year for intensive coverage. How many systems are there in the Empire?”

  “One hundred sixty seven, but only ninety-some with significant populations. Voting populations.”

  “There’s no other market that expensive. Let’s assume the average cost is twenty percent of that on Old Earth. A little over a hundred million a year a system. That works out to nine billion credits. Do you know what the cost of the HMS Black Prince was?”

  “No.” Sylvia frowned even as her mouth opened.

  “Eleven billion credits.”

  “But people don’t look at it that way.” She fingered the near-empty water glass.

  “They don’t. That’s the beauty of it. People don’t think in those terms, but
whoever is behind this is brilliant. This is a fullscale, low-budget war. The Empire is practically ready to launch an all-out assault on the Coordinate, and it’s cost the Fuards less than two capital ships, and probably less than a hundred million in bioresearch and bean plague dissemination efforts.”

  “You said it—”

  “You were right, but not because of the money, not exactly. It’s the commercial ties that counted, and the Hegemony doesn’t have enough. But my guess is that the two are working together, despite the Hegemony’s official alliance with Wryere.”

  “Sonderssen and his friend Fridrik?”

  “And Kennis was trying to get his section of the pie. He’d be able to keep it under either Fuard or Hegemony rule. So he wanted us out of the way as well.” Nathaniel nodded. “Another is Gerard De Vylerion. And there’s a feel to all of this.”

  Sylvia looked at him. “Fine. We know who, but what can we do? Our study will convince the I.I.S., but they’re already convinced. Oh, I had Berea make sure your friend the special assistant got a copy. She might be able to persuade her mother. Probably not, but it couldn’t hurt.”

  “She’s not exactly my friend.”

  “She tried hard.”

  “You are much superior.”

  “I’m glad you recognize that.” She offered a brief smile. “So? What do we do?”

  Nathaniel swallowed—twice. Was there any choice? Realistically, he couldn’t see any. Not with the little time they had left.

  “It’s the whole business of being an Ecolitan—the Prime calls it the Ecolitan Enigma. I told you that before, the interaction of power and ethics.”

  Sylvia waited.

  “It’s like a puzzle. If we wait until what we do is obvious and justified, then far more people are hurt, but we can claim justification. Or we can do what needs to be done as soon as possible.” He pursed his lips. “And then we’re arbitrary and enigmatic…puzzling…and always called overbearing and high-handed. I suppose it really ought to be called the Ecolitan Dilemma, but the Ecolitan Enigma sounds better. And isn’t that the way people do it anyway, picking whatever sounds better?”