Outside, the night wind whistled through the wooden railings whose outlines were concealed by the reflection of the room in the glass sheet of the door.
“Since before I first showed up, maybe since you left—”
“Leave it at that, please. We try to avoid bringing up your past. Grant me the same courtesy.” Thelina gave a half shrug and turned to face him.
He nodded. “No discourtesy meant. But I have a problem.”
“You do have a few.” She continued to look him straight in the eye. Her direct study reminded him of Clarissa; why, he wasn’t certain.
“Yes, Thelina, I do. Shall I start with the first?”
“Start wherever you like.”
The faintest tinge of trilia reached him, and he wanted to step forward and to back away, both at the same time. “Fine. My first problem is that—”—he swallowed—“that I love you, and you do your—”
“You can’t love me. You don’t know me. Loving someone who isn’t even in their real body means nothing. You’re infatuated with Dr. Hyrsa’s creation. I’m just a body to you.”
He couldn’t stop the sigh. “I know more about you than you think…but I don’t want to fight about it. I’ve told you how I feel. You want to dismiss it—fine. You want to continue to pick fights—fine. Just think about it.”
“I’ll think about it—if you think about—about something else.”
“Something else?”
“I shouldn’t have put it that way.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ll just ask directly. Why do you have to prove yourself to every woman?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t? What about your sister? Your mother? The Empire?”
“What about them? They’re dead.”
“That makes it worse. Now you can never prove to them that you, a mere male, deserved their approval.”
Jimjoy looked away from her steady green eyes, over her shoulder, out into the darkness through the reflected scene in the glass, trying to determine whether the fast-moving clouds from the west had yet arrived overhead.
“You don’t even want to face it, do you?” Her voice was so low he almost missed the words.
“Face what?”
She shook her head slowly.
“And where does the Empire fit in?”
“Empires are women…”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious, and you know I am. You just don’t want to hear.”
He took a long, deep breath. Then he took a second one. “I’m confused. I tell you I care for you.” He looked down and finally met her level glance. “That I love you…and you tell me that, first, I can’t possibly love you, and second, that I’m a slave to approval from women…and the Empire. I’ve opened myself up, and you use the opportunity to chop me up.”
“Professor…”
“And can’t you just call me Jimjoy?”
“No. That would make me a substitute for your mother, or your sister.”
“A substitute?” Jimjoy blinked, feeling like a man walking the edge of an unseen cliff.
“I’m just the last in a long series.”
“You think that my whole life is just trying to get approval? That nothing I have done is because it was worth doing?”
“You’ve tried to do the impossible. Time after time they tried to let you kill yourself. But you kept succeeding; you kept doing the impossible. They wouldn’t give you that approval. That’s why you left. I think that if they’d given you a great big medal with ‘Galactic Hero’ printed on it, you would have allowed yourself to be shot quietly. They wouldn’t. They kept insisting that you didn’t exist. So you’re going to force them to admit you do.
“Why did you insist on keeping your nickname? You keep telling everyone to use it, almost like advertising. Are you trying to commit suicide? The psyprofile indicated we had to let you keep the name, unless we wanted to try to rebuild your whole personality. If we did that, we’d have a nice, useless, well-muscled, and well-adjusted nothing.
“You used the same mission profile on Haversol. You just kept pressing to get more approval. Each time you push for recognition, you also are saying, ‘Go ahead and find me. Shoot me, if that’s what it takes.’ Don’t you understand?”
“Understand what?” He wanted to wipe his forehead, but then, that was the way he felt with Thelina about half the time.
“Women are approval mechanisms. I’m attractive, bright, and as close to your physical-ability level as any woman is likely to be. I’m smarter than you are, and I have the ability to reward you. That’s why you want me. If I love you, then I become the ultimate approval for you. And I won’t do it. I won’t.” Her voice was ragged.
He swallowed. His mouth was dry, and the swallow did not help much. “Because I want you to approve of me, you won’t…even…consider…”
“I didn’t say that. I said I won’t be your approval mechanism. You have to love me for what I am, not the image I fit in your twisted value scheme.”
“But I do.”
“You might…but you don’t. You don’t even try to learn who I am…as a person…what I like…what activities I enjoy…”
He stood there forever—that was how it seemed—balanced on that unseen cliff edge, teetering there between the unreal world reflected in the glass and the unreal world where he stood.
“I…never…thought of it…quite that way…”
“I know…that’s why I told you.” Her voice went from the gentle tone back to professional Ecolitan. “Your next problem…Professor?”
He wondered if he should have walked out then, but he was having trouble not shaking where he stood. So he put both hands behind his back, near parade-rest style, and took a slow, long breath. “Temmilan Danaan. She’s an Impie plant, and Dorfman’s her tool. He’s just about figured out who I am. Kerin Sommerlee and Geoff already know.”
“And since Harlinn’s close to the Dorfman clan and thinks we can wait out the Empire—based on his theory of historical inevitability—you think you’ll be targeted once she returns?” Thelina looked over his shoulder toward the front door, then back at him.
He ignored the look, concentrating on her. He had heard nothing. “No. I am targeted. You know that. Except I’m dead. Temmilan will reveal I’m not, and that the Institute has more abilities than the Empire realizes. She doesn’t understand that just uncovering me will get the Empire to act immediately.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Simple. Once I’m found alive, Special Ops statistics will show that Accord engineered the suspected Fuard destruction of Haversol SysCon, that other agents have been gathered by Accord, and that Accord biotech is good enough to infiltrate anywhere in the Empire. That enough for starters?”
She nodded. “There’s more, I presume.”
“Third, I had started the manifesto operation—”
“You?”
“Yes, me. I started writing the things to stir up some popular support, but outside of a handful of people, it wasn’t generating enough support. At first Sam didn’t know it was me. He used the manifestos to build the Freedom Now Party. Except he’s dead, and I don’t know who followed up. Someone has—and I would have guessed you—except it didn’t quite fit…”
Thelina tilted her head, then turned toward the shining black of the closed sliding glass door. The door shivered from the wind. Reflecting the lights in the room against the darkness outside, the image of the room moved once, twice, before settling, and revealing a figure by the stairs.
Jimjoy said nothing about the newcomer who waited behind him, although he could feel his shoulders wanting to tense.
“Occasionally, Professor—occasionally—you surprise me. Some of your manifestos are surprisingly well written.”
Determined not to rise to her baiting, Jimjoy swallowed. “Thank you.”
“Your reasoning is close. Meryl is the one who worked with Sam.”
&
nbsp; Jimjoy nodded. “So that was why she came to the hospital.”
Thelina frowned; then her face cleared. “After Haversol, you mean.”
“After Haversol, yes.” He cleared his throat. “We need to increase the pressure.”
“We? Exactly what do you mean?” asked a new voice, as cool as Thelina’s.
Jimjoy turned toward Meryl. “Does the average person here really care? I doubt it. Most people just want to live their lives in peace. They fight when there’s no choice, and sometimes not even then. From what you’ve said, people here are different, but I haven’t seen that much difference. I’m not counting the Institute and the leadership here.
“Take your capital—Harmony doesn’t feel that different from a dozen other semi-independent colonies or dependencies. You’ve been so successful in developing your way of life that most people truly don’t understand how antithetical it is to the Empire. Or how much the Empire might come to fear Accord.”
“What sort of pressure did you have in mind?” Meryl had walked over to one of the wooden chairs beside Thelina.
“A few follow-up stories on Imperial reeducation teams. Like the story they refused to cast or print on Luren…”
“Why would they print it now?”
“They won’t, not for several tendays. Then the situation will have changed.”
“You realize, Professor, that your confidence verges on total arrogance?” asked Thelina.
“There’s my last problem,” Jimjoy said.
“Well, don’t spare us that one, either.”
Meryl winced at the tone in which Thelina’s response was delivered.
Jimjoy took another deep breath. “How and where do I train a team to take over orbit control?”
Meryl nodded. Thelina shook her head, not in negation, but not in approval. Outside, the wind whistled through the railing of the deck.
Finally Meryl looked at Thelina, then back at Jimjoy. “Carefully, and without the knowledge and approval of the Institute.”
“I take it there’s more than one Temmilan.”
“Your brilliance continues to astound me.” Thelina’s tone was dry.
Meryl almost winced—again.
Jimjoy ignored both. “How do I get a group of Ecolitans together under the imprimatur of the Institute without the Institute’s support?”
Meryl looked at Thelina, who looked back at Meryl.
“The same way we always do.”
Jimjoy grinned wryly. “More explanation, please.”
The two exchanged glances. “We ask for volunteers.”
“Look, I’m talking about training a group that will eventually be the Accord variety of Special Operative.”
“You can’t call it that,” observed Thelina mildly.
“I know. They ought to be more broadly trained.” He cleared his throat.
Both women waited politely.
“How about calling it something like ‘applied ecologic management’?”
“You also have a way with euphemisms.”
“Any better ideas, Ecolitan Andruz? Like how we get the Institute to allow us to develop an accepted new discipline with apprentice and journeyman status?”
“That part’s easy. We just make it a sub-branch of the field training. You’re already listed as a qualified master in field training, and with the approval of the majority of Senior Fellows in a major discipline, any master can develop a more specialized sub-branch.”
“I take it security, or whatever euphemism you use, is also a sub-branch.”
Both women nodded solemnly, a solemnity that could have concealed laughter.
Jimjoy wanted to shake his head, instead remembered to pull at his chin. “And nobody says anything? What about budgets? Supplies?”
“If it goes beyond the department’s budget, you have to get the Prime’s approval, except for security, and that budget is approved as a whole a year in advance, with the ability to commit up to fifty percent more. But you have to answer for the overrun personally to the Prime.”
Jimjoy took a deep breath. “When do you want the plan?”
“Tomorrow at the latest. You don’t have much time.”
“We don’t have much time,” added Meryl.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed, looking out into the darkness. “Tomorrow.”
XXII
24 Quintus 3646
Demetris
Dear Blaine:
Just received your latest. Arrived here at home rather than station catch. Too bad we can’t receive torps, but they’d never know where to send them.
Sorry to hear about you and Sandy, but keep the stars, keep the stars. Wish I could say more, but what is there? Helen and I both care, wish you the best.
Some ways, I wish I hadn’t heard the latest rumors. Now there’s another one—about the courier that disappeared, a year ago, I guess. Was it the D’Armetier? Anyway, torp tissues said it showed up on a T-form planet where no one expected it and with a cargo of bodies—and no one can account for the missing time. That sort of thing doesn’t play well with the crews. Any way I can refute it?
Then there’s the continual battle against obsolescence. With old zipless cracking around the frames every other jump, the thought of being chased by something twice as big and twice as fast, with even better jump accuracy and exit speed, doesn’t exactly improve my outlook. Talked about it with Helen, and she’s asked me to consider putting in my papers after this tour.
Can you do anything? Sure, the FC isn’t the answer. But Halley’s older than half my crew. It’s still the latest we’ve got. Any hope of new development, like the CX concept? Understand you’ve put it out for costing and tech evaluation. That true?
New exec arrived. Querrat—Francie Querrat’s cousin, graduated six years behind me. Seems as sharp as Francie—miss her, and that’s another one I hold against Tinhorn—and he’ll work out. No-nonsense, but the crew respects him from the start.
Not much else new. Cindi’s growing like a sunplume, and Jock’s learning differentials. Demetris is nice enough, but it’s not home. Miss the winters. Once a Sierran, always a Sierran, I guess.
Mort
XXIII
THE WOMAN IN the faded blue trousers and gray sweater turned over the cream-colored oblong as she closed the door behind her.
“Thelina Andruz, S.F.I.” was written in old-fashioned black ink on the envelope. The envelope itself was lightly sealed. How long the envelope had been there she did not know, although the heavy paper was still crisp, and there had been a light rain the night before. The ink was unmarred.
Her lips pursed, and in the dimmer light of the wood-paneled foyer she squinted at the precise handwriting, almost a bold and thick-lined calligraphy.
Cocking her head to the side, ignoring some blond wisps of uncombed hair that framed her face, she grinned. Then she cleared her throat softly. Finally she called upstairs. “Thelina. You have an invitation.”
Silence.
“It’s impeccably correct,” she called again.
“I have a what?” Wearing a heavy terry-cloth robe and a towel over her hair, turban fashion, Thelina stood at the top of the stairs.
“I’d say it was an invitation of some sort…very formal…linen paper and black ink—like something that the Council—”
“Oh, Meryl, just open it.”
“I couldn’t do that. It’s sealed and addressed to you. Personally.”
“Is this a joke?”
Meryl turned the envelope over, holding it up so the calligraphy faced Thelina. “It doesn’t appear to be.”
“All right.” With a sigh, the taller woman made her way down the stairs, quickly yet precisely.
“Here you are, honored lady.” Meryl grinned.
“You know.”
“I know nothing, but I’m a pretty good guesser.”
“So?”
“Let’s see.”
Thelina shook her head, then flicked the flap of the envelope open with a short and well-trimmed th
umbnail. “A second envelope…very formal indeed.”
“How is it addressed? Just ‘Thelina,’ right?”
“You know.” Thelina glared at her housemate. “Is this some sort of game?”
“No. But it figures.”
“You aren’t saying.”
“I might be wrong.”
“Never mind.” The taller Ecolitan eased open the inner envelope, scanning the heavy linen card she held by the lower right corner. She read it once, then again.
Watching her friend, Meryl began to grin even more widely.
“This…he…this is impossible!”
“The good Professor Whaler?”
“You’ve seen his handwriting before?”
“No. How else could he address your charges? You claimed he knew nothing about the real you. You really asked for a formal courtship. He took you at your word.”
“I never said…”
“Not in words.”
“You’re impossible…you’re both impossible…”
Meryl held out her hand for the card.
Thelina handed it over brusquely. “You go.”
“No. You go.”
“I despise him.” Thelina tucked the inside envelope against the outside one, then placed the card under both flaps.
Meryl arched her left eyebrow, holding Thelina’s eyes.
“What should I wear?”
After grinning again, Meryl shrugged. “Something suitable and casually formal, in keeping with the tone of the invitation.”
Shaking her head slowly, Thelina handed the two envelopes and the card to Meryl. “Men.”
“Agreed.” Meryl read the card, with the letters written so precisely that they almost appeared typeset.
The honor of your presence is requested at an outdoor luncheon for two at 1315 H.S.T. on the fourteenth of Septem at the lookout on Quayle Point. Refreshments will be provided…suitable attire is suggested….
James Joyson Whaler II,
S.F.I.
The sandy-haired Ecolitan laid the card and envelopes on the small foyer table and followed her friend upstairs. Suitable attire, indeed, would be necessary. Especially if it looked like snow. But an outdoor luncheon?
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