Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (22 page)

“That you ask of a diplomat? Or an Ecolitan?”

She just looked at him.

“It’s difficult to put the feelings of a lifetime into words, and not in my own language, but I will try.”

“Take your time. I’ll listen.”

“The Empire is different, so different. It’s large, always pressing at Accord. Some fear the Empire because it is big. Some wish it would go away. Some want to destroy it…”

“You?”

“The Empire is dead at heart, I fear, although no one, or few except the Emperor himself, knows it.”

He took another bite of the salad before going on.

“Dreams, aspirations, are the shadows of the future. Art, also. At the Hall of Sculpture, there were only a few people. You saw the dancer. I wondered at the man breaking free of the earth. But where were the other dreamers? The Emperor’s Palace does not soar to the skies but buries itself in the earth.”

“But what about the growth, the new systems, the explorations, the success in battles?”

“They are not from the heart of the Empire. The young of the outer systems bleed and strive. Like Accord, they will some day want to dream their own dreams. I hope the Empire is wise enough to understand when that time comes. But I doubt that.”

She shivered, though the air was warm.

“You paint a dark picture, and your words are compelling. I suppose that’s why—” She broke off as the waitress came through the hedge to remove the small plates.

He wondered where she’d been heading, but before he could ask, she threw another question at him.

“Why did you take the job?”

“I was asked by the House of Delegates.”

“Were you required to accept?” Her tone was dry, a slight curl at the corner of her mouth. In the dim light, he wasn’t sure if she was masking lightness, a mild skepticism, or out-and-out disbelief.

The slight breeze carried the faintest hint of orange toward him as he waited. Finally, he spoke. “No. But duty, responsibility…”

“Does everyone on Accord take duty so seriously?”

He laughed. With her put-on seriousness, it was impossible not to.

“Does everyone here take duty as seriously as you do?” he countered, hoping for a laugh in return.

He got it.

“Touché, dear Envoy. I suppose I deserved that.”

Another set of china plates appeared from the hands of the waitress, as if by some sort of magic.

The main course was equally simple, a single slice of meat under a golden sauce, and a side dish of long slice beans, sprinkled with nuts and a clear sauce.

“What is it?”

“My secret.”

He waited until she started before venturing a bite. Like the salad and the liqueur, the meat was excellent, with an almost cristnut flavor that lingered after each bite.

“Gentle men are the most dangerous, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“They give the impression of weakness, of confusion, and they often let themselves be pushed on minor matters because they’re only willing to fight for the most important things.”

“Perhaps. But is such a person gentle?”

“Would you consider yourself a gentle person, Lord Whaler?”

“In those terms, no. I would not.”

“I would, I think,” she mused, looking, but not really looking, at him with an unfocused expression.

He waited, not willing to commit himself.

“Why?” She paused. “Because power is only a means to an end, rather than the end.” Her eyes focused on him, but the seriousness was gone. “How do you like the food so far?”

The Ecolitan couldn’t answer, his mouth full, and finished the rather large bite he had taken.

“Delicious.”

“The dessert is heavier. But I do admit to a sweet tooth, and I’ve selected an old favorite.”

The dinner plates disappeared at the magic hands of the waitress and were replaced with crystal bowls filled with a brown pudding like substance topped with white fluff.

The taste was distantly familiar…chocolate. He’d had it once before, years ago when he and Raoul had done student drops on Fioren. A real luxury, chocolate, at fifty Imperial credits a gram. His estimation of the cost of the dinner rose further.

Whatever it cost, he was enjoying it.

The chocolate dessert was followed with two small snifters of Taxan brandy.

“Never have I been so royally treated.”

“I hope not. I hope not.”

Over the low hedge, he caught sight of sparkles in the air. Sylvia glanced in the same direction, then back at him.

“Marchelle can overdo it. Replica fireflies. Real ones can’t be brought into the tunnels.”

He sat there in quiet, the subdued hum of conversation from other tables barely audible, wondering why Sylvia had gone to such lengths. Wondering if she had set him up for a rude surprise.

“Time to depart,” she announced. “Time to get you back to your Legation and me back to my cubbyhole before I turn into a scull again. Ci’ella complex, you know.”

Not understanding a word, he nodded, his fingers dropping to his belt and still finding no energy fields, no snoops, no other devices in the vicinity.

Nathaniel left the grassy lawn, the hedges, and the tables with a feeling of regret, not sure why.

“Always hate to leave,” Sylvia murmured, “but there’s a purpose for every time.”

Pleasure or not, dinner or not, Nathaniel forced himself into combat alert, mentally ticking through the checklist. If ever there were a time to be alert, now was that time, when he didn’t feel the slightest bit like it.

He stayed next to Sylvia, through the curves and lift shafts back to the tunnel train, alert for any deviation from the route by which they had come.

The train was almost empty, and that worried Nathaniel.

Sylvia wore an amused smile but said nothing.

“Few use the train,” he commented halfway back toward the Diplomatic Tower, feeling the silence weigh on him.

“Right now. Too late for most and too early for the real carousers. Aren’t many of them any longer.”

With his newfound understanding of the Imperial population control techniques, he understood why.

He lapsed back into silence. Never had he mastered the art of small talk while keeping thoroughly alert. That was for espionage types, not Ecolitans.

A few souls were in the concourse of the Diplomatic Tower when the two of them swung off the train, but, again, he could find no trace of either tails or energy concentrations.

Finally, they reached the portal to the Legation, which was opened by the duty officer as they approached.

“Here’s where we part company, dear Envoy.” She took his hands in hers.

He stiffened, unsure of what to do.

“You’re expecting the worst, have been all afternoon. You’re too ethical. Even when you play dirty, you play fair.”

Turning to face him full on, Sylvia stood on her tiptoes, brushed her lips across his forehead and stepped back, still holding his hands.

“Good night.”

She was gone, gliding toward the drop shaft before he could open his mouth. When he did, he left it open because there was nothing to say.

What could he say? Obviously, he was more transparent than he thought.

He closed his mouth and turned toward the still-open portal.

Heather stood inside behind the console.

“Still here, Heather?”

“All day, Lord Whaler. I trust you had an enjoyable outing.”

“Enjoyable but puzzling. Most puzzling.” He shook his head as he started toward his private quarters, still alert, still checking.

Neither his office nor his quarters had been touched, further snooped, or otherwise tampered with so far as he could tell.

He was still shaking his head when he finally climbed into bed. Another social encounter with the women of the Empire was unlikely, for a while at least. Another might well undo him totally.

The faintest hint of orange blossoms drifted into the room as he closed his eyes, but when he looked, the space was empty. He turned over and willed himself to sleep.

E
VEN AFTER A
full day more of studying the history and development of New Augusta from the viewpoint of the Imperial historians, followed by another night’s sleep, Nathaniel felt he had only a slightly more than superficial grasp of the motivations of the people with whom he was dealing. He understood better some of the phobias of the Imperial citizenry, such as the dislike of the color black, which, interestingly enough, had been the color adopted by the Directorate after Alregord.

Perhaps Accord had been wrong to let the Institute choose the combination of military expert/scholar. Were his well-intentioned machinations leading the way to disaster?

Despite his elementary precautions, Sylvia could have set him up for assassination or an incident which could have totally embarrassed him or reduced his credibility. Instead, she had treated him to a charming afternoon and evening, while making clear she knew exactly what he was up to. But she hadn’t explained her reasons. Maybe they were supposed to be obvious, but to him they certainly weren’t.

He shrugged as he donned his blacks. The week ahead was going to be interesting enough without adding worry on top of worry.

Should he get into his office early? Too early, and Mydra would be suspicious. Too late, and she’d glare.

He laughed at himself for the thoughts. Like the generally unseen Imperial men, he was reacting to the pleasure and displeasure of the Imperial women.

The hell with it! Forest Lord take the foremost. He liked being at work early, and he was going to enjoy it.

He took a cup of liftea in his tiny kitchen and eased through the apartment quarters into his office. The shadows of the westernmost towers reached the foothills below the mountains, but the rational side of his mind questioned what his eyes told him. Were the towers that tall?

The sky was cloudless, as it was so often, and he enjoyed the blue heights. The skies over the Institute displayed clouds more often, in keeping with the generally wetter weather he was used to.

He leaned back in the swivel, debated whether he should try to finish the Imperial version of the history of New Augusta or enjoy the view.

The view won.

“Lord Whaler?”

Mydra stood in the open portal from the staff office.

“Beautiful morning, Mydra, is it not?”

“If you say so.” She looked at his console. “I’ll be feeding some communications which need authorizations into your console. If you could take care of them this morning, I’d certainly appreciate it.”

“Fine. Will do them as soon as they’re ready.”

So much for the history of New Augusta and the view. Duty called. He drained the lukewarm remainder of the tea.

With a touch on the power stud, the second faxscreen lit and projected the first communications.

Most were either letters back to students, supplying information or referring them to the Institute for more detailed studies. Another batch was composed of routine denials of emigration requests from Terra to Accord.

He found himself amused that the facsimile of his signature remained as the principal validation of communications after centuries of electronic transmission methods.

“After all this thinking machinery, someone still has to read and authorize this junk.”

Midway through the program stack, the intercom buzzed.

“Lord Jansen for you.”

Moderately surprised that a call through the main office was actually being routed to him, he jabbed the stud.

“Lord Whaler.”

“Alexi Jansen, Lord Whaler.”

“Good it is to hear from you.”

“We’ve had a chance to go over your proposal, Ms. Du-Plessis and I, and I was wondering if you and your staff could talk over some of the points raised.”

“Most happy to do so.”

Jansen cleared his throat and waited.

Nathaniel waited also, then realized that Jansen was in a difficult position. The Minister couldn’t really demand that they meet over at the Ministry of External Affairs, nor did he want to talk in the leaky confines of the Accord Legation.

Nathaniel cleared his throat in return, gestured around his office. “Alas, not terribly suited are my spaces, but pleased would I be if no other space is available.”

The Ecolitan could see the relief on the Deputy Minister’s face.

“Our offices are not that much more spacious, but if you would like to come here, I would be more than pleased to send Ms. Du-Plessis and put a tunnel limousine at your service.”

“That would be most gracious. I regret our situation, but you know the damage we have suffered.”

“I understand, Lord Whaler. I certainly understand.”

“A time we have not agreed upon.”

“There is a saying about striking while the iron is hot,” responded Jansen.

“Cancelled my appointments because of the damage, since I knew not when it would be repaired. I am free today.”

“Right after midday? We could meet and settle some of the points.”

“That would be fine.”

After another ten minutes of phrases within phrases, it was agreed that at 1230 Janis Du-Plessis would arrive to whisk one Nathaniel Whaler off to the tower housing the Ministry of External Affairs.

The Ecolitan leaned back in the swivel momentarily. Then he leaned forward and began to rummage through the remaining datacase, the one that hadn’t been blasted to shreds by Sergel and his friends. Enough files and holo slides remained for his purposes.

He went back to the authentication of student comms, obviously foisted off on him by Mydra. Envoys weren’t supposed to look out windows and enjoy the views.

A standard hour later, he’d finished and turned the screen back to his history studies of New Augusta. Before he reached the last few centuries of the glorious and stupendous history of the capital of the Empire of Light, the intercom buzzed.

Nathaniel shook his head. The closer to the present the text got, the preachier it became.

“Ms. Du-Plessis has arrived.”

Nathaniel did not acknowledge the announcement but picked up the datacase and marched to the portal door.

“Where is she?” he asked Mydra.

“At…the main desk.”

“See you somewhat later.”

He interrupted a conversation between Heather Tew-Hawkes and Janis Du-Plessis at the front desk with his sudden appearance.

“Ready to go?”

“Uh…is anyone else coming?”

“Not immediately,” lied Nathaniel.

“Later?”

“Later,” lied the Ecolitan, “and shall we go?”

“Yes, Lord Whaler.”

As he left for the drop shaft with Janis, he could see the puzzled look on Heather’s face from the corner of his eye.

Janis Du-Plessis did not make a single comment during the drop to the concourse level or on the way to the External Affairs electrocar, except a curt, “This way.”

The driver was not the black youngster he’d had before, Nathaniel observed with regret, but an older woman with short cut black hair flecked with silver.

He couldn’t tell whether the color was natural or applied.

Janis sat on the far side of the rear seat of the limousine and pointedly stared out the window at the murals as the electrocougar dipped into the tunnel.

“Amazing it is how things are governed by impressions and appearances,” mused Nathaniel. “Sometimes, the slave is the master, and sometimes the master is the slave, and sometimes both master and slave think they are the master.”

He wasn’t getting a reaction and didn’t expect one. He just waited.

“How did you get selected as Envoy, Lord Whaler?”

“That is a rather long story. An authority on trade was required, but one not indebted to the bureaucracy or to either political party. I was available. The Empire indicated the matter was urgent, and I was sent.”

The Assistant shifted her weight and turned to face him, her face pale in the dim light of the electrocar.

“Always, it seems as if Accord is cloaked in mystery.”

“It is not that mysterious. I am concerned. One of my staff has been mind-wiped. I have been attacked and bombed.”

Nathaniel cleared his throat, pulled at his chin, and said nothing further.

The car hummed onward through the tunnel.

“You indicated your staff would meet us. How can we finalize the agreements?” Her voice rose slightly as she finished.

“Staff is a luxury.”

“A luxury?”

“Does the lion tell the owl his business? Does the star-diver instruct the glide-ringer?”

Janis displayed the puzzled look he had seen all too often over the past few days. He wondered how she had gotten as far as she had. Was her mother a General of the Marines?

He let the silence draw out, wrapping the stillness around him like a blanket.

The official electrocar began the climb out of the tunnel and into the concourse area of the Ministry of External Affairs.

“What will I tell Lord Jansen?”

“That everything is under control. That you have the situation in hand. That is true…is it not? Of course it is.”

Four ceremonial guards in rust and tan, three women and one man, waited at the private concourse entrance.

Alexi Jansen stood by the door of the conference room on the one hundred forty-first level. Through the portal, Nathaniel could see a projecting faxscreen and two technicians.

“Greetings, Lord Whaler.”

Jansen looked at Janis, who returned the glance without expression, then back at Nathaniel.

“Will…uh…others…be joining us?”

“I fear that some misimpressions may have been conveyed. While others might wish to be here, I am indeed the expert on trade, and we can proceed, I assure you.”

Jansen raised both eyebrows.

“Do you think that wise…that is…without supporting technical staff?”

“Lord Jansen, I am empowered to act solely, if I so choose. Let us go ahead, and we shall see what we can work out.”

The Ecolitan marched around Jansen and into the conference room. Janis looked at Jansen with a look that said, Don’t blame me.

Nathaniel placed his case on the table in front of the chair that was his, letting the case push a green and black name placard into the middle of the polished wood surface. He opened the case and removed four of the files, snapped the case shut, and put the datacase on the carpet next to his chair.

“Shall we begin?”

Jansen, who had followed the Envoy into the room but still stood, opened his mouth, shut it, opened it. Finally, he closed it and nodded.

Janis Du-Plessis handed a card to Jansen and sat down.

“The first item,” she announced in a businesslike tone, “is the proposed schedule on microminibits.”

The technician fiddled with the controls of the projecting faxscreen, and a holo of the list appeared above the end of the table.

“That is the schedule as it presently exists. You will note the Imperial tariff is the highest on the combined minibits, though still very low under the circumstances—around eight percent of assessed valuation—and decreases with complexity to a low of four percent on the single minibit.”

The holo projection changed to show a second set of figures, displayed in green, next to the first set.

“The green figures represent the change suggested by the Coordinate of Accord. Those maintain the present rate of graduation, but increase the top rate to ten percent and the lowest rate to around six percent.”

The Ecolitan looked at his file and checked his figures against those on the screen. They matched. He’d known that immediately, but if he hadn’t made the overt comparison, his lack of response would have been misinterpreted as knowing the numbers inside out. He knew all the figures cold, and the real and allowable leeways, without consulting the folders, but Jansen and Du-Plessis wouldn’t have believed it. If they did, they would ask rather embarrassing questions.

“Correct those figures are,” he announced in a self-satisfied tone.

“External Affairs,” continued Janis Du-Plessis, “would like to suggest a further change, increasing the rate of graduation and raising the base scale to eight and a half percent so that the full rate of twelve percent is first assessed on quintuple units, as is now the case.”

The latest projection added a set of figures in red beside the green figures that had bordered the original tariff rates in black.

Nathaniel pointedly looked at the holo chart, then bent down and retrieved his datacase, from which he extracted a miniputer. He began entering figures into the instrument, either frowning or nodding as the results came up.

He stopped for a moment and let his eyes flick around the room, from the rust hangings to the nondescript tan fabric-covered walls to the rich dark wood of the conference table, then back across the faces around the table.

Lord Jansen wore a politely bored expression, sitting back with no real interest in the various projection figures.

Janis Du-Plessis twitched as his eyes crossed hers. Nathaniel realized she had been studying him. The other staffer, not the fax technician, was running numbers through a small console, which had to be linked with the main External Affairs data banks.

The projection tech’s expression matched Jansen’s, but on her the boredom looked contemptuous as well.

The Ecolitan glanced back at the figures. The Empire, or External Affairs, reasoned the more complex the minibit, the greater the advantage that Accord possessed, the reason underlying the graduation of the tariff schedule. A twelve percent tariff rate effectively meant a fifty percent increase in the rate.

“A twelve percent rate means, dear friends, an increase of fifty percent in the tariff rate.”

“These figures were developed after long consultations with the affected Imperial industries and with regard to the calculated rate of return to Accord’s suppliers.”

“A twelve percent rate will reduce many imports to nothing, and the purpose of the talks was to further trade, to make it fair, but not to stop it.”

Actually, Accord’s industry could make money so long as the top rate stayed below fifteen percent. In any case, the minibits were important but not the entire battle.

“Lord Whaler, here are the supplementary figures. Chart One B, please, Devon.”