A Talent for War (16 page)

"Pity when you think about it," a woman behind us said. "A man stays and gives his life while everyone else runs, and what does he get?" Her eyes misted briefly, and she shook her head.

Quinda was talking with a young man, her back toward me. It was her; I was sure of it. The grandfather had been Artis Llandman, one of Gabe's colleagues. I could not recall the girl's last name. I started in her direction, pushing past snatches of conversation that suggested everyone wasn't as affected by Wyler's remarks as I: ". . . Stripped him of his tenure, it's a damned shame, well I can tell you we won't stand for it—" and, ". . . Wish to hell they could get their act together before real estate values go into the toilet around here—"

"Quinda," I said, coming up behind her, "is that you?"

She swung around with that appearance of vague defensiveness people display when they encounter a familiar face but can't put a name to it. "Yes," she said tentatively, as though there might be some doubt as to the facts of the matter. "I thought I knew you."

"Alex Benedict."

She smiled politely, but gave no sign of recognition.

"You and I used to go down and look at the Melony. Remember? My uncle lived in Northgate, and you came sometimes to visit us with your grandfather."

Her brow furrowed briefly, and then I saw an ignition in her eyes. "Alex!" she breathed, discovering the name. "Is it really you?"

"You've grown up very nicely," I said. "You were mostly pixie last time I saw you."

"She still is," said her companion, whose name I've long since forgotten. He excused himself moments later, and we drifted into one of the clubrooms, and fell into reminiscences of other days.

"Arm," she said, when I asked about her last name. "Same as it was." Her eyes were cool and green; her hair was cut short, framing expressive features; and she owned a comfortable smile which formed readily and naturally. "I always enjoyed those visits," she said. "Because of you, mostly, I think."

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"That's nice to hear."

"I wouldn't have recognized you," she said.

"I've had a hard life."

"No, no. I don't mean that. You didn't have a beard then." She squeezed my arm. "I had a crush on you," she confided, with the slightest emphasis on the verb. "And then one time we went and you weren't there anymore."

"I went off to make my fortune."

"And did you?"

"Yes," I said. "In a way." And it was true: I'd enjoyed my work, and made a decent living from it.

She waited for me to elaborate. I let it pass. "What did you think of him?" she asked, noting my reticence and indicating Wyler, who was still lecturing a group of admirers.

"Of the speaker?"

"Of his notion."

"I don't know," I said. The fact that the audience had taken him seriously had left me off balance.

"At this distance, how can anyone really know what happened?"

"I suppose," she said doubtfully. "But I don't think you'll find anybody who'd buy his story."

"I've already found someone."

She canted her head and smiled mischievously. "I don't think you quite understand the nature of the Talino Society, Alex. And I'm not sure I should spoil all this for you, but I'd be very much surprised if Dr. Wyler believes any of his arguments himself!"

"You're not serious."

She looked quickly round the room, and fastened her attention on a stout, middle-aged woman in a white jacket. "That's Maryam Shough. She can demonstrate conclusively that the actor Kolm was in fact one of the Seven."

"You're right," I said. "I don't understand."

Quinda suppressed a giggle. "The true purpose of the Talino Society is never spoken of.

Never admitted."

I shook my head. "That can't be right. The Society's goal is clearly stated on the plate beside the doorway downstairs. To clear the name and establish a proper respect for the acts of Ludik Talino.' Or something to that effect."

" 'Faithful navigator of the Corsarius,'" she concluded, with mock solemnity.

"So what's the secret?"

"The secret, Alex, is that there's probably no one in the room, except perhaps you and one or two other first-time guests, who takes any of this seriously."

"Oh."

"Now, why don't you tell me about your uncle? How is Gabe? How long have you been back?"

"Gabe was on the Capella."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and then: "I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "The human condition," I said. I knew that her grandfather, Llandman, was also dead. Gabe had mentioned it years before. "Explain to me why people come here and listen to hoaxes."

It was several seconds before she recovered herself. "I liked Gabe," she said.

"Everybody did."

We drifted over to the bar, and got a couple of drinks. "I wouldn't know how to explain this exactly," she said. "It's a fantasy, a way to get away from bookkeeping, and stand on the bridge with Christopher Sim."

"But you can do that with the simulations!"

"I suppose." She grew thoughtful. "But it isn't really the same. Here in the Talino Society clubrooms, it's always 1206, and the Corsarius still leads the defenses. We exercise some control
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over history: we can change it, make it ours. Oh, hell, I don't know how to explain it in a way that would make any sense." She smiled up at me. "The point is, I suppose, that Wyler's idea might be right. It's possible. And that possibility gives us room to breathe and move about during

Resistance times. It's a way of becoming part of it, don't you see?" She watched me for a moment, and then shook her head with a flick of good humor. "It's okay, Alex. I doubt that any sensible person would."

I did not want to offend her. So I said of course I understood, and that I thought it was a fine idea.

If I'd been a stranger, she might have been irritated. As it was, I could see her decide to tolerate me. "It's okay," she said. "Listen, I have friends to attend to. Will you be coming back?"

"Yes," I said. "Probably." Meaning, of course, no.

She nodded, understanding.

"How about dinner instead?" I asked. "Maybe tomorrow evening?"

"Yes," she said. "I'd like that." We settled the details, and I moved on.

I found a few people who had known John Khyber. They liked him. But there seemed nothing extraordinary about the man, at least nothing that would have drawn Gabe's interest. Only one or two seemed to be aware that he was dead.

The Talino Society maintained a Trophy Room which was a permanent feature (and curiosity) of the Collandium. It opened off one of the conference areas, and was filled with visitors when I strolled into it.

It was dominated by exquisite matched portraits of Talino and Christopher Sim. Certificates and plaques were mounted on the walls. They were awards to persons whom I assumed were members, citing various achievements in scholarship: forays into naval tactics at Grand Salinas, analyses of Ashiyyurean psychology as it affected the attack on Point Edward, the publication of a collection of aphorisms attributed to Tarien Sim, and so on. I wondered how much was real, and how much was part of the illusion.

There were also photos of men and women in the light and dark blue uniforms of the early Confederacy; portraits of staid, middle-aged types who were among the founders of the Society; and a large platinum cup which had been awarded to a Society-sponsored kids' ramble team.

There were other trophies, some decorated with gleaming frigates or sunbursts. One particularly prominent silver plaque featured a black harridan. Some sixty names were engraved on it, outstanding members of the Talino Society, one chosen each year.

The Trophy Room included a data bank and two terminals. I waited until one became accessible, and then sat down. It was an offline system, of course, linked to data banks elsewhere in the building, but not tied in with the general net. Input was either verbal or by keyboard; responses were posted on the display. I brought up the menu, opened a channel to "Archives,"

entered "John Khyber," and requested available biographical information. There wasn't much: KHYBER, JOHN

CODE 367L441

His name, and the number by which he could be reached on the net. I asked for duties performed with the Talino Society. The unit responded:

CHAIRMAN, FINANCE COMMITTEE

1409-10

MEMBER, MEMBERSHIP COMMITTEE

1406-08

MEMBER, MATERIEL SURVEY COMMITTEE

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1411-12

NAVAL ADVISOR, SIMULGROUP, RIGEL

1407

MASTER OF CEREMONIES, NUMEROUS OCCASIONS, 1407-PRESENT

DO YOU WISH DETAILS?

"No. Has he ever spoken at the meetings?"

YES. DO YOU WISH DETAILS?

"Yes. Titles of addresses, please."

TRIAL AND ERROR AT IMARIOS: CORMORAL

REACTS

3I31I02

BATTLE CHARACTERISTICS OF CORMORAL'S

CRUISERS

4I27I04

THE TWILIGHT WAR: THE FRIGATE COMES OF AGE

13I30I07

ALCOHOL AND THE ASHIYYUR

5I29I08

THE DANCING GIRLS AT ABONAI LOSE THE WAR

8I33I11

SMALL FORCE TACTICS: SIM AT ESCHAT'ON

10I28I13

THE GUERRILLAS COME TO STAY: SIM AT SANUSAR

11I29I13

ROOTS OF VICTORY: DELLACONDAN CRYPTOLOGY

3I31I14

PRINT COPIES ARE AVAILABLE.

"Please provide copies of everything."

I listened to the barely audible whirr of the printer, which was concealed in a cabinet beneath the terminal. I'd come here hoping that somewhere I'd find the reason Khyber was riding with Gabe. But, in this morass of game-playing, what was it possible to believe? "Computer," I said,

"has Gabriel Benedict ever been here?" PLEASE BE AWARE THAT THE COMINGS AND

GOINGS OF THE GENERAL MEMBERSHIP, AND OF THEIR GUESTS, IS NOT

RECORDED. HOWEVER, THERE IS ONE KNOWN OCCASION ON WHICH

GABRIEL

BENEDICT ATTENDED A MONTHLY MEETING.

"When was that?"

THE FIRST MEETING OF THIS YEAR, PRIMA 30.

"Was he alone?" NO DATA.

"Was Khyber here the same night?" NO DATA.

I thought it over. What did I want to know? "Did Mr. Benedict speak? To the group, that is?"

NO.

There must have been something special about that one meeting. "May I see the program for the evening?"

403RD MEETING OF THE LUDIK TALINO SOCIETY

PRIMA 30, 1414

2000 HOURS

GUEST SPEAKER: LISA PAROT

"CONSPIRACY: WAS SIM MURDERED

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BY CONSPIRATORS

PRIOR TO RIGEL?"

FEATURED SPEAKER: DR. ARDMOR KAIL

"A PSYCHOLOGIST LOOKS

AT THE TALINO RECORDINGS."

DINNER: VEAL MARCHAND

TEMERE SALAD

VEGETABLES

Something I'd overlooked occurred to me. "You said that attendance at these sessions is not routinely recorded."

THAT IS CORRECT.

"How do you happen to know that Gabriel Benedict was here on Prima 30?"

BECAUSE HE CONSULTED ME.

Ah! "About what?"

TWO ITEMS. HE WISHED INFORMATION CONCERNING JOHN KHYBER'S

BACKGROUND.

"Did he see anything on that subject that you have not shown me?"

NO.

"What was the other item?"

HE REQUESTED A COPY OF AN ADDRESS GIVEN TWO AND A HALF YEARS

AGO.

"Please provide a copy of the address."

A single page dropped into the tray. I picked it up and read through it.

It was hard to see a reason for Gabe's interest. This one was little more than a diatribe.

"(Talino) has been betrayed by history," the speaker said, "and I am happy that there are still some who care about the truth. Time may prove you correct. Talino, and indeed his unfortunate comrades, are victims of a set of circumstances which took from them something far worse than their lives. I know of no similar miscarriage of justice in all the ages. And I wonder whether we'll ever succeed in correcting the record."

That was really the essence of the speaker's remarks. He said it several different ways, he laced it with redundancies, and he poured on the dramatics. Why was Gabe interested in it?

I stopped puzzling when I saw the name of the speaker. It was Hugh Scott.

IX.

(Human) interstellar polities are, by their nature, transitory. They are accidents, a kind of St.

Elmo's fire ignited by economic upheaval, outside threat, or perhaps the charisma of an ideologue. When the night has passed, and normal conditions return, they flicker and vanish. No civilization devised by us can hope to stretch across the stars.

—Anna Greenstein, The Urge to Empire

I'D NEVER READ Man and Olympian. Like probably every other kid in the Confederacy, I'd been exposed to it by the schools. And I can remember struggling through the chapter on Socrates for a college history class. But I'd never really read the book.

There was a bound copy on one of the shelves in Gabe's bedroom. (I didn't sleep there myself.

I was using a room in the back of the house on the second floor.) On the way home from the Talino Society meeting, I decided it was time to look at Sim's classic again.

It's one of the standard works, of course: a history of the Hellenic Age, from the Persian wars to the death of Alexander. My assumption had always been that it owed its reputation to the fame of its author rather than to any innate value; but that was a prejudice grounded on a child's collision with a serious book.

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I opened it approximately in the middle and read in both directions, expecting, I suppose, quiet excursions into Greek philosophy, and a tired rehashing of the Persian and Peloponnesian wars.

What I got instead was volcanic energy, sulphurous opinions, and sheer brilliance. One does not drift leisurely through a few political analyses, or stare at a few arrows on a battle map. Not with Sim. The statesmen in his book pound tables; one can smell the Mediterranean and the planks of the Athenian triremes. And the terrible issues of freedom and order, of mortality and the spirit, are achingly alive.

We are all Hellenes, he says in his introduction. Dellaconda and Rimway and Cormoral owe all that they are to the restless thinkers along the Aegean, who, in the most exquisite sense, took the first steps to the stars. Only the mind is sacred. That notion was a dazzling insight in its time.