“Thought it was because I was too direct. Hersnik implied I was being punished for undermining the Halstani Militarists and allowing the Matriarchy to take control.”
Jimjoy noted Marlen’s mouth drop open, but it seemed unimportant. It was crystal clear to him, and the Ecolitans ought to be bright enough to figure that one out.
“How did you undermine the Militarists? Did you do that because you believed that the historical picture you received showed them as undesirable?” pressed Sergel.
“How?” fumbled Jimjoy. “Not hard. Redid the controls on the main fusactor system. Set a delay constriction for the mag bottle. Created a critical mass. Then used the EMP to trigger some loose tacheads they weren’t supposed to have. They couldn’t complain because they were already breaking the Concordat.”
“But why did you do it? Just because you were ordered to?”
“Mostly. You either believe in a system or you don’t. You believe, and you obey. You don’t…you run like hades.”
Jimjoy could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, but the clearheaded feeling seemed to come and go.
“Do you still believe in the Empire?”
“No.” Jimjoy wanted to shiver at the matter-of-fact way his damning admission had slipped out.
“Do you really think anyone here believes in the Empire?”
“No. Not unless someone’s a spy.”
Sergel nodded at Temmilan, who asked the next question.
“But aren’t you a spy?”
“Yes. You know that.”
“Are you here to destroy something like you did on Halston?”
“No. Forbidden to destroy. Just observe.”
“You no longer believe,” interjected Sergel, “and now you doubt. Doesn’t that show how what you are taught affects your own philosophy?”
“Not sure about that.”
“We are,” continued Sergel. “That is why we feel that philosophy and history should not be separated. Do you see why?”
Jimjoy could feel the clearheaded feeling leaving him. He wiped his forehead, took a deep breath, then shivered. But he found himself answering. “I think so. You argue…philosophy controls…both what is taught and how it is taught.”
“Exactly,” added Temmilan brightly. “If you understand philosophy, you can understand why history is written the way it is or was. More important, you can analyze today’s events and see why they become the type of history that they do.”
“But people are still people. Deaths still happen, and the dead are just as dead,” responded Jimjoy, wondering why he bothered. With all the admissions he had just made, he was probably as dead as the history they were discussing.
“We are not certain all those deaths have to happen, Major. Philosophical analysis of history can be a projective tool as well. One can project the impacts of a culture’s interpretation of history into the future. A culture that blames the rest of the world or the rest of the galaxy for its ills is likely to stoop to anything. One which is obsessed with explaining legalities will have to justify itself before acting, which could provide some restraint.
“Those, of course, are gross examples…”
“Does that apply to individual behavior?” asked Jimjoy. He was getting a headache and afraid he knew exactly why.
“Not really,” answered Marlen, an edge to her voice. “An individual can be a contradiction—honorable and a trained killer. Or dishonest, but compelled to act honorably.”
“And individuals change,” added Temmilan, “which seldom happens with established cultures—except through force.”
“I’m not sure that individuals are any different,” reflected the Imperial Major. “They do react more quickly to the threat of force.” He wiped his forehead with the napkin. This time his skin stayed dry.
Jimjoy looked around the dining area. No one remained except those at his table and a man and a woman at a corner table. He glanced away from the pair as he recognized their function.
“Do the practitioners of moral philosophy and history have any overriding ethical obligations?” he asked almost casually, not wanting to acknowledge overtly the effectiveness of whatever they had slipped into his liftea, but wanting to twist some of their supposed ethic back at them.
“I would suppose so,” responded Sergel. “They should live in accord with their moral code, if at all possible. But in any culture, survival transcends morality, or there is no culture. The danger there, of course, is that if one stoops to anything for survival, one may become one’s own greatest danger.”
Jimjoy laughed, once, harshly. “As if man is not always his own worst enemy?”
Sergel nodded slowly.
“Some merely have to worry about their place in the Empire…” murmured Marlen.
“That’s true,” offered Jimjoy evenly, fixing her eyes with his. “Especially those of us who have to return.”
He stood abruptly. “I appreciate the education, both practical and theoretical. I do not doubt that you all have given me a great deal to consider.” He scooped up the orientation manual and tucked it back under his arm. Then, half bowing, he smiled quickly and falsely at the three before turning and walking quickly toward the doors that opened onto the main garden.
As he passed by the pair in the corner, he half waved, half saluted, then continued onward.
“What else can you do?” he asked himself. “What else could you do?”
He hoped that the three were not a problem, but the rule of three probably held.
Where there are three rebels, one is a spy for the government.
The question was which one. He would have picked Marlen, but he knew his judgment of character in women was suspect. Why else would he keep hoping to attract Thelina Andruz?
“Check…and mate.” He shook his head as he stepped into the garden.
He glanced around and had to smile. The Institute and its gardeners had a way with plants. That he could not deny.
XXI
THROUGH THE PREDAWN mists of the upland valley slipped Jimjoy, his long and even strides silent as he moved through the parklike forests west of the Institute.
His quick steps took him toward the taller hill he had noted earlier, and as he progressed, he glanced overhead. The mist, swirling and green-gray, was already thinning as if anticipating the sun.
Before him, the ground changed from spongy green turf into a sparser grass barely covering the rocky and dark red clay that slanted upward in a progressively steeper incline.
Terwhit…terwhitttt…
The gentle call whispered from the woods behind him. He halted for a moment to pinpoint the direction, but the call was not repeated.
Sccrrrttt…
The scraping sound was distant, but clear in the muted time before sunrise. Jimjoy shook his head and continued the climb. Let whoever it was follow as they wished. He hoped that his followers would be more careful, and this time he would not run.
He stepped up his pace again, to a walk that bordered upon the speed of a trot. His breathing quickened, yet remained regular at an effort that would have prostrated most others.
Crunnch…
This time the sound paralleled his course.
He nodded without breaking stride. As he had suspected, there was a trail up to the hilltop. He hoped that the view from the overlook shown on the contours map was as good as the map indicated. Still…the hike was good exercise, if nothing more.
He grinned and broke into a trot. That shouldn’t push anyone into a careless mistake. Trail or no trail, he intended to be there before his shadow. Either of his shadows, the one that presently trailed him or the one that would arrive with the sunrise.
The faint sounds dropped back, although he knew his own progress was certainly no longer silent. But that was usually the case. Difficult as hades to be both quick and quiet, whether on foot or in a courier or a scout.
Jimjoy could feel the hillside steepen further, then after fifty meters flatten out as he neared the cl
ump of trees that seemed to begin just short of the hill crest.
He was now panting slightly as he entered the copse of trees with the blue-black trunks, irregular and heavy branches, and needle-pointed green leaves. Then, all the trees on Accord had blue-green or yellow-green leaves—never just plain green—except for the obvious Terran imports, which didn’t seem to be that widespread.
His shoulder itched, and he absentmindedly rubbed it. The trees.
The hard clay of the lower slope had become a softer humus under the trees, easier on his booted feet. A stickiness seemed to ooze from the branches, like a fine mist parted by his passage.
Ahead, he could see where the trees ended, and between the gaps at the edges of the grove before him, the swirling mist. Through the mist he could see the outlines of the lower hills on the eastern side of the Institute. The gap of the Grand Highway was partly visible to the right.
Terwhit…
He looked for the source of the soft call, nearer than the earlier one, but saw nothing, not that he expected to.
As he stepped out from under the last trees, he nodded. In front of him, the turf inclined gently to the drop-off. In spite of himself, he frowned and bent down to check the grass. Another piece of the puzzle.
With slow steps he ambled toward the drop-off, toward the rustic but sturdy black-wood rails and posts planted securely short of the rocky cliff edge. The trail he had surmised was indeed present, but approached the overlook from his right, as if it wound around the crest of the hill, avoiding the trees.
His shoulder itched, and he absentmindedly rubbed it. The fabric parted under his touch. He checked the skin under the disintegrating greens and saw no redness or irritation, then laughed softly.
Live and learn. He checked the rest of his tunic and trousers. Whatever the trees exuded hadn’t seemed to hurt his skin, but the greens he wore wouldn’t be good for much besides rags.
The sky brightened as he looked eastward, watching yellow streaks fan from the horizon above the mist, then fade into green. Directly above the horizon the purple-misted sky lightened toward its normal green-blue. But the mists in the valleys swirled like golden flames above the tree-cloaked hills as the sun reached them.
He looked down at the low and spread-out buildings of the Institute, still shrouded and shadowed, then back at the flamedance on the horizon.
Light footsteps crinkled toward him from the trail, but he did not turn. Before long the sunrise glory would fade into day, and he wanted to remember it without interruption, without conversation.
The flames faded from the mists, which, ghostlike, dropped back into the distant trees like druids seeking refuge from the light. Slowly, the rising sun bleached the gold from the horizon, and the skies lightened into full dawn.
Finally, the first shafts of sunlight began to fall across the Institute below, striking the lake, casting long shadows from even the single-story buildings.
With a deep breath, he turned.
“Good morning, Ecolitan Andruz.”
Thelina studied his face without saying a word, then looked toward the white-gold orb that hung just above the eastern hills. She glanced back at him, but said nothing.
In turn, he only nodded, then turned and began to walk down the trail and back toward the Institute and the day ahead.
Thelina walked beside him. Both were silent, even as the queries began their soft morning calls from the meadow grass.
Again his long strides were noiseless, despite the heavy boots on his feet.
XXII
JIMJOY STEPPED OUT of the flitter wearing an unmarked green tunic and trousers whose cut and quality were those of a dress uniform. Even before he had taken a dozen steps, the flitter lifted off.
Ahead of him was a set of wide stone steps leading down from the elevated flitter pad into the hotel garden. On the far side of the garden was the entrance to the Regency.
After he had taken the last step, he stopped, as if he had not even realized the garden was there until he came upon it. Bending over, he studied the single pink flower, from the dewdrops still not lifted by the early morning sun to the thorns on the stalk beneath flower and leaves.
“We’re both far from home.”
Then he straightened and began to walk through the garden toward the hotel, not quite so quickly as he had descended the steps from the flitter pad. His steps crunched on the fine white gravel.
He followed the winding path through the waist-high evergreen hedges, glancing first at a circular flower bed, watching as a silver night-bloomer entered its daily hibernation. Like all too many of the “flowers” on Accord, it was not technically a flower at all, but a form of green fungus that filled the flower niche.
He let his steps slow further to study a pair of thin, silver-trunked trees he did not recall seeing anywhere before.
The first polished wooden bench he passed, looking golden in the sunlight, was empty, and the drops left from the evening rain glittered like cheap jewels. The second bench was equally empty, but had obviously been used. No raindrops remained, and a silver lizard the size of his thumb scuttled into the bushes, abandoning the crumbs remaining from a breakfast roll.
He smiled, briefly, then continued onward from the garden’s white gravel path out of the last of the hedge borders and back onto a stone veranda. On the veranda stood several tables set for breakfast. Set, but without occupants.
After passing the tables, he turned under the colonnade and in through the open portal to a wide carpeted corridor leading through the lobby of the Regency.
“May I help you, ser?”
“No. Just passing through.”
The doorman stepped back with a puzzled look on his face, although the man had spoken in Anglish.
Without another word, Jimjoy, taller than the average Accordan, though not noticeably so, proceeded through the lobby and out onto the front walkway leading to the Avenue of Anselad. His steps picked up as he left the hotel. And upon reaching the avenue, he abruptly turned left, heading downhill toward the mastercraft shops.
From the near silence surrounding the hotel he walked into a gradually increasing number of Accordans, apparently on their way either to work or to transact some sort of business.
The first shop he passed bore a simple sign—“Waltar’s Implements.”
He half smiled as he looked in the wide window at the range of hand tools displayed, and at the limited power tools. But he did not stop, passing in succession an electronics emporium, a small cafe, and a decorator’s shop with paint, fabric, and paper wall coverings displayed in coordinated settings.
The next doorway opened into a bookstore, which was still closed, although he could see a man apparently getting ready to open for business.
Rather than wait on the street, he continued forward, studying the surroundings. Most of the buildings were built from a native stone, a grayish granite, and finished and framed with wood or timbers. The roofs uniformly bore pale green slate shingles. All the walks were finished stone, with central panels of the dark stone surrounded by a narrower border of a white-green similar in color to that of the shingles, all carefully fitted together with a minimum of mortar.
Flower boxes, as much greenery as flowers, were everywhere, and even the Avenue of Anselad itself, the central business-and-shopping area, was split by a central mall of trees, hedges, and grass—nearly twenty meters wide. All told, the avenue was nearly seventy meters wide.
Farther north, the central parkway widened into a square flanked by three imposing stone buildings. Jimjoy could see only their tops from where he stood, but it was clear that all three were considerably taller than anything else in Harmony.
The clean smell of baked goods wafted his way, reminding him that he had eaten little before catching the flitter from the Institute.
“Christina’s” was all the sign stated, but there were several cases heaped with breads, muffins, turnovers, ellars, and ghoshtis. He stepped inside, noting that although a number of people we
re waiting at the display cases, several small tables were vacant.
“Try the ellars, especially the greaseberry ones…”
“…have two loaves of the spicebread…”
“…told me that she would quit…Ansart will be furious…all he wants is for her to support him anyway…”
“…and one more turnover…”
“Can I eat it now, daddy?…”
“Yes, ser, may I help you?” The woman was light-haired, youngish, but with slight circles under her eyes and a pleasant smile. Like the two men helping her at the counter, she wore khaki trousers, a pale yellow shirt, and a wide black belt.
“Just wanted something warm and filling. Any possibility of getting some liftea with it?”
“The tea’s on the end of the counter there. Just help yourself. The nutbread muffins are the best, if you like nuts. If not, the berry ellars are good.” She pointed to a tray of lightly browned pastries. Each appeared to be tied in a knot, but the slight differences in each indicated their handmade origin.
“Two ellars and the tea.”
“Two creds fifty, ser.” She handed him an earthenware plate with the ellars on it. “Hope you like them.”
“Sure I will,” he answered, again in Anglish, handing her a five-credit piece.
“Don’t see many of these,” she observed, making change.
“The coins?”
“They only mint small coins here. Here’s your change.”
He nodded and made his way to one of the small empty tables, where he set down the plate before moving back to the counter to pour some liftea from the heavy crockery teapot into an equally heavy and large earthenware mug. The mug itself was bright yellow with a green sprout as decoration. He did not recognize the type of vegetation depicted.
“…must be from the Institute…but no stripe…”
“…don’t recognize him…”
“Mommy…want a turnie…now!”
“…and a loaf of the rye…”
He sat at the table and took a sip of the steaming tea, then another, savoring both the warmth and the taste, even though he had not been cold to begin with.
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