“He carried Elias all the way from the meadow.” Mariabeth’s soft voice cut off both Jimjoy and Elias.
“That’s nearly a kilo…”
“That’s right. And that was after he’d sprinted more than a kilo already,” added Elias.
Jimjoy managed to keep from frowning, not certain where the two students were going.
“Well, young man, you certainly aren’t going to be doing too much with that leg for a while.” The doctor looked back at Jimjoy and Mariabeth. “Either of you coming?”
“I am. Elias is my partner.”
“Major?”
“He’s in good hands with you two. Not much I can add now. Just wanted to get him here. Stay with him, Mariabeth.” Jimjoy didn’t know why he had added the last words, but he did not retract them.
“I will, Major. I will.”
“Thanks, Major. For…just thanks.”
Jimjoy did not turn until the three disappeared into the corridor down to the treatment center. Then he took three deep breaths.
He slowly turned, walked to the door, and opened it, listening before stepping outside. The path was quiet, deathly silent, and he took another deep breath, another step, flexing his shoulders, trying to loosen the muscles. His steps kept him in the center of the three-meter-wide pavement as he directed himself back toward his own small room.
Three minutes—that was the minimum he needed for night vision adaptation, even forcing it, and he wondered if he would get that much.
Stopping for a moment, he rubbed his chin, then shrugged his shoulders once again. The slightest hiss behind him indicated a foot set down gently, but not quite silently, in the grass to the side of the walkway.
He continued walking, slowly, breathing evenly.
After a time, he looked up briefly, scanning the midnight skies. The afternoon clouds never lasted into late night. By now the stars of the Arm were low in the western sky. Above the Arm was the Rift, a jagged half-heaven width of starless black running overhead north to south. In the east shimmered a few double handfuls of stars.
He lowered his eyes. Someone was waiting, ready to follow. The muted sounds of the local insects told him that much.
Jimjoy shrugged again, glancing down the empty path ahead to his room. Whether he liked it or not, if the Institute itself wanted him dead, he was dead. Which meant that his big worry was the amateurs, assuming he could tell the difference.
He picked up his pace abruptly, straining for the sound of steps, but he heard no sounds at all.
He stopped nearly in mid-stride, but still heard nothing.
With a wry smile, he resumed his strategic withdrawal toward his room, and perhaps sleep.
Just before he stepped inside the quarters building, he looked back at the night sky overhead, at the wide sleeve of sooty darkness that comprised the Rift, and then at the Arm. Rift and Arm. Arm and Rift.
He shook his head and opened the door. The inside corridor was as empty as the stone walk behind him, as empty as the Rift overhead.
As empty as the future before him.
XIX
FOR A MOMENT Jimjoy did not move. Finally he squinted, yawned, and dragged himself upright, at last swinging his feet from the narrow bed and onto the dark green of the rug.
“Hades…”
He did not shake his head, but glanced at the partly open window. The small room held a hint of chill. Flexing his shoulders to relieve some soreness, he sat for a moment longer, then stood swiftly.
A glance at the white square of paper half underneath his door told him that his suggested daily schedule had been silently delivered, as usual. Some poor student or junior faculty member delivered it sometime after midnight, but well before the time he woke, even on the few mornings he had risen before the summer sun.
Jimjoy, bare-chested, hairy, wore only briefs. His unshaven black beard imparted a faintly sinister look. His forced smile as he reached for the heavy shower robe did nothing to dispel the sinister impression. He bent down and retrieved the schedule.
“Microcellular biologics—permanent genetic alterations…theory of unified ecological balances…practical analysis of the Imperial political structure…linguistics as a predicate for cultural analysis…field training briefing…”
He paused at the last item.
“Field training briefing…instructor…Regulis…too bad it isn’t Andruz…”
After laying the schedule on the desk, he pulled his shaving kit off the shelf and draped the heavy towel over his shoulder. With a tuneless whistle, he opened the door onto the empty corridor and trudged, barefoot, down toward the washroom and showers.
How much of the biology he would understand was uncertain, but try he would, if only to see what the Ecolitans seemed to be able to do.
He shrugged his shoulders again.
XX
AS THE CHIMES rang the second time, Jimjoy put down the orientation manual he had coerced from the librarian and stood, watching the student Ecolitans flow quietly from the library carrels and the frozen data screens toward the open double doors of the main corridor.
The silence amazed him. Although he had not been an Academy graduate, he had visited the Alphane Academy, with its iron discipline, and the Imperial cadets resembled rowdy toughs compared with the student Ecolitans. Yet the Accord students appeared to be in at least as good a physical condition, and they certainly did not hesitate in questioning their instructors. Politely phrased as those questions were, many constituted direct challenges to the instructors’ beliefs or conclusions.
He glanced at the orientation manual, one of the few hard documents on the Institute itself, then at the dwindling stream of young men and women in greens.
Shrugging, he tucked the manual under his arm and headed for the doors himself.
“Major,” called the librarian, a stocky man with silver hair, “please feel free to keep that as long as you need it.” There was no sarcasm in his voice.
“Thank you.” Jimjoy nodded and marched out the door after a pair of students, both male, as they silently marched toward the main servarium.
After slightly more than a week at the Institute, the Imperial Major still felt confused. The daily printout offered a choice of classes and activities to observe. Without its guidance, he would merely have been shooting blind. There were no class schedules printed anywhere. Everyone seemed to know where to go. Only notices for special activities appeared on the computer bulletin boards or the scattered public notice boards around the Institute.
Jimjoy had used the library terminals to access the main schedules, and all the abbreviations and schedules there matched those in the master course file. But like all university catalogs, the brief course descriptions told him little enough, particularly since he didn’t share the same cultural background.
So he had attended the majority of recommended classes, ranging from hand-to-hand combat, where he had observed but not participated, to an advanced seminar on techniques of cellular manipulation, where he understood only enough to come away fascinated and awed.
The Ecolitans were adequate in the martial arts, better than any other colonies or any of the independent systems, with the exception of the Fuard Commandos and the Halstani Hands of the Mother. While Jimjoy would have hated to deal with the Commandos or the Hands, he would have given the edge to most of the Imperial Marine Commandos and virtually all Special Operatives. Nonetheless, the Institute looked to have a large number of well-trained personnel, especially considering it wasn’t even supported, at least officially, by a planetary government.
Even more impressive were the apparent skills of the Ecolitans in ecology, biology, and all the related sciences. Though not a scientist himself, he would have bet that their understanding of the ecologically related fields would shame virtually all the top Imperials in the field.
He shook his head as the two junior students slipped into the servarium and into the quickly moving line of students on the right.
Jimjoy paused, as he
always seemed to do, then walked to the left, toward the shorter line reserved for Institute staff.
No menu was ever posted.
“Yes, Major Wright?”
Jimjoy grinned. Every last member of the Institute had to have been briefed on his appearance and presence, down to the lowest cook.
“Whatever’s good.”
“Both the parfish and the baked scampig are good.”
“Scampig.”
The cook handed him the heavy earthenware plate, pale green, and Jimjoy placed a salad and a glass of the iced liftea on the tray with the plate.
Surprisingly, every staff table had at least one occupant.
He studied the tables.
“Major Wright?”
The voice seemed familiar, and he turned to the right.
“Here, Major.”
Temmilan, one of the younger history instructors, motioned to him, pointed to a vacant seat.
He nearly shrugged, but moved easily through the widely spaced tables toward her. Smiling wryly, he reflected on the spaciousness of everything on Accord, from the city of Harmony to the table spacing at the Institute. Even his room was far more spacious than anything the Academy would have granted a visitor.
The spaciousness—and the grant of personal space without the chill of the Empire—still amazed him. The Accordans granted each other personal space without crowding or ignoring one another.
“You look bemused,” observed Temmilan, as Jimjoy pulled out the wooden chair.
“More like amazed.”
“Amazed…what an interesting choice of words.”
Jimjoy did not immediately answer, but set his dishes and glass on the polished wood and placed the tray, also wooden, in the rack in the middle of the table, which immediately sank slightly under the impact.
“Surprised, whatever,” he finally answered. “The business of friendly quiet.”
“Quiet isn’t exactly business.”
Jimjoy grinned. He wondered who the others were at the table, particularly the older redheaded man with the analytical appearance. Instead of asking, he took a sip of the liftea.
“And friendship certainly should have elements of quiet…” pursued the thin-faced instructor. Her straight black hair was cut short, and her eyes seemed to slant more than their natural inclination when she smiled.
Jimjoy frowned, then readjusted his chair.
Temmilan waited, then added in a low voice, “If you do not mind, I would like to introduce you to some other philosophy staff members.”
“Thought you were history…” mumbled Jimjoy, caught with a mouthful of bitterroot salad.
“You cannot separate history and philosophy. We try not to make such an artificial distinction. History inevitably reflects the philosophy of the historian.” She paused, with a sheepish look on her face. “But that makes us sound so pedantic.”
“But we are pedagogues,” added the older man.
“Next to you is Sergel Firion. He’s the head philosopher, so to speak.”
“Or the head historian,” chuckled the department head, “if you believe in the impartiality of historians.” His blue eyes twinkled under a short-cut thatch of red hair shot with silver.
“Across the table is Marlen Smyther, and you know who I am,” concluded Temmilan.
Jimjoy swallowed another mouthful of bitterroot salad. “Temmilan, also teaching history or philosophy or whatever.”
“We’ll make it complete, then, Major Wright.” The smile disappeared. “I m Temmilan Danaan, instructor in history and moral philosophy and practicing Ecolitan.”
At the words “practicing Ecolitan,” Jimjoy caught a trace of a frown on the face of the woman whom Temmilan had introduced as Marlen.
“I thought all Ecolitans practiced what you preach, or is there organized hypocrisy as well?” Jimjoy regretted the sarcasm as he spoke, but he still wanted to see any reaction.
“Practicing Ecolitans,” answered Sergel Firion, still with a hint of laughter in his voice, “take themselves much more seriously than the rest of the Institute. They like to extol the virtues of our little school to outsiders and to anyone else who will listen.”
“If you’re teaching here, how?”
“Through example,” responded Temmilan. “We take sabbaticals on a regular basis and go where we are needed.” She smiled. “That’s not always where we would like to go, I assure you.”
Jimjoy speared another mouthful of salad. He could see that the majority of student Ecolitans were already finishing up, although he had barely started his meal.
“No need to hurry,” observed Temmilan. “None of us have a class right after lunch.”
The Special Operative managed not to shiver. He disliked espionage because he was so transparent in personal interactions. The history instructor’s comment reminded him all too clearly how out of his depth he was. Demolition, piloting, problem-solving—those he could handle. But not people problems, and he was sitting among the individuals comprising perhaps the biggest people problem facing the Empire with an assignment to do nothing. Just report. He did have to return first, and that might prove a problem.
KKCHHhhewww!!
Jimjoy started at the sneeze from Sergel.
“Excuse me. That shouldn’t have happened. I’ll have to check my antiallergen levels.”
“Some of us are still not fully adapted to a few of the local histamines,” added Temmilan.
Jimjoy nodded, although something about the comment bothered him, and took a bite of the scampig, which remained warm under a coating of tangy cheese. The meat was far tastier than the salad. He had tasted better weeds on some survival-level assignments.
Another odd fact tickled his brain with the third bite of scampig. He had not seen a single dessert in his stay at the Institute. Fruits, yes. Cheeses, yes. But no cakes or sugared pastries or the equivalent.
Perhaps because he avoided desserts, as a result of their all-too-positive impact on his waistline, he had not noted their absence earlier. The observation brought him up short. What else was he missing?
“Why the frown?” asked Temmilan.
“Not sure.” He shrugged as if to pass it off, then sipped the iced liftea. The taste was somewhat bitter, but remained as palate clearing and refreshing as usual.
“Are you really a member of the Imperial Intelligence Service?” blurted Temmilan.
Jimjoy debated whether he should even reply, then smiled. “I could deny it, but there’s probably not much point in that, since virtually everyone at the Institute seems to be convinced that I am.”
“You didn’t exactly answer the question.”
“The answer is sufficient, but I’ll amplify a bit. As the entire galaxy from Haversol to Accord apparently knows, I am a Major in something connected with the Empire. I did not graduate from the Academy on Alphane. I have seen service on a number of worlds, the latest of which is Accord.”
Jimjoy coughed to clear his throat, then inclined his head to Temmilan. “And what is the real reason why the Institute combines philosophy and history?”
He hoped she would answer at enough length so that he could finish more of his meal.
He waited, taking another mouthful of the scampig. She did not answer. So he took another bite, then another. The meat remained tasty, for all that it was now cool.
A nod, which Jimjoy ignored, passed from Sergel to Temmilan.
She finally spoke. “It may be as much tradition as it is anything, but Jimbank, the first Ecolitan on Old Earth before his corruption, is reputed to have said that without history, philosophy is meaningless, and without philosophy, history is irrelevant.
“Certainly, history is determined in large part by the philosophy of those who wrote it, and how it is recorded is determined in even larger measure by those who record it.”
“Victors write history,” mumbled Jimjoy through another and final mouthful of scampig. “Nothing new about that.”
“Not all history is written by the victo
rs, Major. And much history is rewritten once the losers later triumphed. And that rewrite may have been rewritten even later.”
Jimjoy held up a hand, swallowing quickly, to speak before the conversation moved further.
“All true,” he admitted. “But what’s the point? Does understanding the philosophy of the historian change what happened? What happened happened. Your historian can write all he wants about two hundred deaths in a battle, but if three thousand soldiers died, three thousand died. All the words and tapes around won’t change the real number of deaths. Or what power controls the territory in the end.”
“You’re absolutely right, Major,” interjected Sergel, “so far as your argument goes.”
For some reason, Jimjoy felt feverish, yet strangely clear headed. He blinked several times.
Marlen nodded to Temmilan.
“A moment yet,” said Sergel to no one in particular. “We may be able to integrate the entire proceeding.” He focused on the Special Operative.
“Major, is it not true that all successful governments, directly or indirectly, control the curriculum of public education? In fact, is it not true that one time-honored purpose of education is indoctrination in the system in which one lives?”
Jimjoy frowned, trying to grapple with the words.
“Yes…in some cases.” He felt he should say more, but he could only respond to questions.
“Don’t you feel, deep inside, that the Empire has changed the way it presents history to show itself in a more favorable light?”
Jimjoy nodded. It was easier than talking.
“Is not the Academy designed as much to instill loyalty as to educate? And is that not the reason why few Imperial officers who are not educated at the Academy ever make the most senior ranks?”
“Yes…probably…makes sense…”
“Do you think that your not being an Academy graduate made it easier for your superiors to send you to Accord?”
“Yes…maybe…not—not sure…” he stammered, wondering why he was answering the question at all.
“Then why were you sent here? And why was every outsystem intelligence service allowed to discover your posting?”
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