THE FOREVER HERO 2:
THE SILENT WARRIOR
L.E. MODESITT, Jr.
v1.0
Scanned and Proofed
by Neugaia (#Bookz)
[17/03/2002]
I
TECHNICALLY, THE ROOM was not supposed to exist, for it appeared neither on the official floor plans of the Admiralty, nor in any of the references, nor even in the classified briefing materials provided to the Admiral of the Fleets.
The Admiral of the Fleets knew of the room with its unique equipment, as did the man called Eye. That they did was obvious from their presence within.
The interior walls were not walls, but an arrangement of polygons upon which other equipment remained focused. The soft flooring was designed as well to resist echoes and any duplication or recording of the proceedings.
The admiral wore dress blacks, as he often did. The three others around the table were garbed in black full fade cloaks with privacy hoods. The man called Eye was distinguished only by the seat he had taken at the head of the five sided table.
"You called the meeting, Admiral." The scratchy tone of the voice indicated that Eye employed a voice distorter.
"I did. I have a commission. The file is there." He pointed to the blank cover of the folder on the table in front of Eye.
No one said a word as the Intelligence chief read the material, then passed it to the figure on the right, who in turn scanned the contents before passing it back to the last Intelligence controller.
"We have some questions," began Eye. The hooded heads of the other two nodded in agreement.
"Questions yet?"
Eye said nothing, and with the face lost in the shadows of the hooded cloak, the admiral wondered if he had pushed too far.
Finally, Eye cleared his throat, and his distorted voice, low and even, responded.
"We probably know more about the subject than you do. We considered him as a candidate for Corpus. We chose not to pursue the matter, and based on your material, I would agree that choice was probably wise.
"For many of the same reasons, we are concerned about reopening any possible involvement here, and question the advantage to the Service of doing so."
"Would you feel free to explain?" the admiral asked, not pleading, but with his tone making the other aware that he was asking so far, not demanding.
"His personality is stable, except under extreme stress. Under such stress, he will lose all sense of restraint, common morality, and go for the jugular. His level of stress is higher than anyone ever tested, however, which offers us all protection. His reflexes are naturally better than any single agent, possibly by a factor of two or three, and he has spent at least the last fifty stans teaching himself virtually every single personal weapon known.
"He is adept at circuit design, is probably a goodjourneyman systems breaker, and is one of the best pilots in Service history. We checked the drives of the Sanducar after she was returned. Although they tested normally, indications were that the grav governors had been reset to a higher tolerance, then returned to normal. Given any amount of time, he could do the same to any ship. We do not know what level of acceleration he could tolerate and still function at peak efficiency, but it is high enough to give him an insurmountable edge over any ship fast enough to pursue . . ."
The admiral nodded, not quite impatiently.
". . . also has contacts within the Court able to gain him an open portal to any installation. With his skills, only access would be necessary."
"But the man sleeps, doesn't he?"
"He may. Remember there are at least eight other so called devilkids fully trained, most of whom have similar skills, who remain within Recorps. All are fanatically loyal to him, and he has charged them with carrying out the reclamation effort on Old Earth. That means that they are effectively neutralized at this time."
Eye's hood lifted, and although the admiral could not see the man's eyes, he felt a chill in spite of himself.
"Don't you see, Admiral," asked the Intelligence head, "where this all leads? Do you understand why I am reluctant to take on a commission that could lead to eight totally unrestrained fanatics declaring war on us? It could take a full battle group to catch and subdue each. And for what? Because your subject made you look silly? His actions are centered on one planet. Those actions are considered idealistic by the majority of the Imperial citizenry, by the majority of the Court, and probably by the majority of the I.S.S. officer corps. Farther, he has removed himself from the scene in order to prevent any reprisals at him from affecting the reclamation effort. With all that, you ask that we stir up the mess by trying to remove him?"
"Yes. No individual should be bigger than the Empire. No individual should be able to manipulate public sentiment to break Imperial laws with impunity."
"He didn't, Admiral," added Eye, his voice even softer. "He renounced any claim to return to his planet, even in death. For someone that dedicated, that is punishment. Perhaps not what you wish, but punishment nonetheless. More important, it is regarded as punishment by the majority of the older devilkids. Some of the more recently commissioned officers, as you know, still opted for the Service, and I seriously hope you rereview their records and expunge the Board of Inquiry findings."
The last sentence was nearly a command, and the admiral stiffened. "Are you telling me what to do?"
Eye shook his hooded head. "No. Just hoping you would understand all the factors Intelligence must consider. The man wants to restore his planet. He used force only when necessary and went to elaborate lengths to avoid injury to Imperial personnel. He willingly gave all tile credit to the Emperor, and I might add that such news was worth a plus ten week rate for nearly a month. The Emperor knows that and appreciates it."
"But he stood the Service on end."
"That I doubt. He did upset the High Command. The Service is alive and well." Eye cleared his throat. "Do you want its to deal with the problem?"
"Yes."
Eye turned to the figure on his left.
"Clause five," suggested the cloaked figure, and even with the voice distorter, the softness of tone suggested that the speaker was a woman.
Eye returned his attention to the admiral, whose fingers drummed on the table with scarcely concealed impatience.
"We will solve the problem in our own way. subject to clause fine of our charter."
"That means . . . ?"
"We undertake to solve the problem, either within or without the solution suggested, subject to the Emperor's personal review."
"Which means?" asked the admiral again.
"It means, Admiral, that I will not undertake an ill advised removal action surely geared to cause severe casualties to both Eye section and the Service, as well as public relations and public opinion reversals of the first order, just to soothe the wounded pride of the High Command. Because you feel so strongly, however, I will take action to insure that the Emperor is protected. If my decision is incorrect, I will be removed. Removed, not replaced."
Eye nodded to the figures who flanked him. The admiral’s eyes widened, trying to focus on all three figures simultaneously, on the way the two at Eye’s sides lifted their robed hands, with the strange devices.
"No—"
The admiral could feel the sudden constriction in his chest, feel the alternative waves of red and black washing up over him.
"Get him back to his office, and call a medical tech. I believe the admiral is suffering a massive heart seizure, poor man."
Clause five. That was the admiral’s last thought.
Clause five.
II
There was in those times a prophet, and when the people asked his name, he answered not, saying instead, what I do should be remembered, for in deeds there is truth, and that truth should be remembered and live, even as men die.
A man from Denv asked the prophet this question.
If a mountain is called a mountain, men call that a fact, for the mountain is, and they can see it is. Likewise a wilderness. Likewise the stars. But when a man calls his deeds truth, are they?
When he calls a mountain the ocean, all can tell he is mistaken. But when he calls himself a prophet, or allows others to call him a prophet, no man can prove or disprove his naming.
Should the prophet walk on water and heal the sick and raise the dead, no one can say whether he is prophet or no, whether he is sent by the angels or the devils, or whether he is master or slave.
Goodness may be done by the evil to ensnare the unwary, and evil by the good to test the worthiness of the people. So by what measure can any person weigh the truth of another’s deeds?
The Book of Deeds
Authorized Version (First Revision)
Old Earth, 3788 N.E.C.
III
GRIM—THAT WAS the appearance of the gardens in the central courtyard of the senior officers quarters, reflected Gerswin.
Heavy gray clouds poured out of the eastern hills and down over New Augusta, scudding across the sky so swiftly that their motion was apparent with even a single glance through the narrow windows of his room.
No rain dropped from the mass of gray, and the air beneath was preternaturally clear, as if the sky held its breath.
The senior commander turned and glanced toward the vidscreen.
“Seems like you’ve done this before,” he said quietly, but neither the screen nor the room answered him.
High Command had not expected him to choose the Service over the newly created Recorps, and now the admirals didn’t know what to do with him.
Gerswin could understand their dilemma. A deskjob in New Augusta might give him access to influence or to make more trouble. At the same time, his rank would guarantee him a job with access to people and resources at any out-base. At the moment, there were no handy combat or high risk assignments for commanders where he could be placed with the hope of his not returning.
Although Corpus Corps involvement in shortening his life span was a possibility, Gerswin hoped that no one in their right mind would seriously consider assassination or removal. The subsequent inquiry would prove too unsettling and would expose too many weaknesses in both the Empire and the Service, not to mention the possibility that the devilkids might feel compelled to take on the Empire because they would regard the Empire’s commitments as worthless.
But ego was a touchy subject, and Gerswin would not trust rationality to prevail, not for a time at least. For that reason were the throwing knives concealed behind his artificially stiffened waistband, the sling leathers in place. He also was devoting increased attention to his surroundings, especially when he went out.
In the interim, while the admirals decided, he reported to the detail section every morning, was updated on how no new assignments were yet available, and asked to check back the next morning. Three days earlier, he’d spent the day taking a battery of tests, and the first thing after he’d arrived had been a three day physical.
The fact that they were still looking for somewhere to put him told him that he was disgustingly healthy, and as sane as anyone could test out.
He paced back from the portal toward the window and stopped, staring out at the grayness. Still holding back rain, the heavy clouds continued their race across the central city.
Buzz!
Making an effort not to charge the screen, he took three slow steps and acknowledged the call.
An unfamiliar face filled the screen—a tech of some indeterminate rank.
“Senior Commander Gerswin?”
“Yes?”
“This is Curvilis at the orderly’s console. There is a messenger here for you.”
“Set. This is very unusual. It is from the Duke of Triandna, and his person insists upon handing it directly to you.”
Gerswin shook his head, then stopped as he realized that meant exactly the opposite of what the orderly expected.
“I’ll be right down.”
Was it Caroljoy or the Corpus Corps?
He tapped off the screen image before checking his knives. Then he palmed a miniature stunner and slipped it into the special pocket in his left sleeve.
As he departed he pulled the privacy cloak from the locker and swirled it around him. He didn’t need the privacy, but the material was supposedly designed to block low energy projectiles and lasers. He let the hood fall back on his shoulders.
The corridor was empty, but rather than taking the passenger drop shaft, he turned left and headed for the freight shaft.
In quick and quiet steps from the back of the exit on the main floor, he slipped toward the main entry and the orderly’s console. From the archway that separated the triangular entry hall from the back corridor where he stood in the shadows, Gerswin could see the “messenger” from the Duke, or most probably from the Duchess.
The messenger was none other than the retired I.S.S. pilot who had taken him to the Duke’s estate the last time he had been in New Augusta.
No one else entered the area, nor was anyone else in evidence besides the pilot and the orderly.
“Commander?” Gerswin offered as he stepped out boldly toward the lavender-clad pilot
“Senior Commander Gerswin, a pleasure to see you again, set.” The older man bowed slightly from the waist and straightened, handing the I.S.S. officer a sealed package that weighed close to a kilo. “Those are the papers the Duchess wanted you to have.”
Gerswin covered his confusion by bowing in return. What papers?
“My thanks, Commander,” Gerswin responded. “Her Grace . . . ?”
“Perhaps you should read them before. . .”
The pilot did not meet Gerswin’s eyes.
“Appreciate your bringing them.”
“No problem at all.”
With that, the Duke’s pilot was gone, leaving Gerswin holding the sealed package.
This time Gerswin took the passenger lift to his third floor room. The corridors were deserted, unsurprisingly, since most of the senior officers billeted there were undergoing full-day briefings at the Octagon, or were stationed there.
Once inside his quarters, he used some makeshift extender tools to open the package, still unwilling to stand over it and unseal the tape.
His fears proved groundless, though he put a small slit in the cover of the loose leaf book which had been enclosed within the wrappings. A small sealed envelope, with only the notation “Lieutenant Gerswin” on it, was tucked inside the black leather covers, just in front of the title page, which stated simply: “OER FOUNDATION.”
He opened the letter, setting the book on the top of the console.
Dear Lieutenant (please pardon my remembering you this way),
I think it is fair to say that I understand you a little, and have helped you in the ways that Merrel and I can. The book represents, in its own way, my only lasting gift of a material nature. Jane, of course, is another gift, but it is rather unlikely you will cross paths.
You are trying to light a light in darkness, and may this help. Other than this note, which for my own selfish reasons I cannot resist, there is no connection between the Foundation and us, nor would His Grace wish it otherwise. The Foundation is yours, and you are the Foundation. While it is modest by Imperial standards, it need not remain so, and used properly may provide you the lever you need to reclaim your heritage, and Martin’s.
You have a long future, or, as the ancients put it, “many miles to go before you sleep.” My rest will come soon, sooner than I had thought.
To that I am reconciled, my lieutenant, and with you go my thoughts, my memories, and what we have shared, and might have shared.
Farewell.
CJ
The scent of the note, like the clean scent of her, burned through him with the words as he stood staring, his eyes looking through the narrow window at the courtyard garden he did not see, his left hand clutching the note, his right the envelope.
Sooner than she thought?
OER Foundation?
Miles to go before you sleep?
Reconciled to what?
The questions swirled through his thoughts like the fringes of a landspout, ripping at his composure, tearing at his guts, until the tightness in his stomach matched the stabbing behind his unfocused eyes.
Darkness, the darkness of youth, and the touch of lips under his, with the cool warmth of New Colora outside the louvered windows of ajunior officer’s room. Darkness, and the cooling silence of rest after fire. Darkness, after the first time he had ever whistled his song of Old Earth for anyone.
Darkness . . . darkness . . . always the darkness.
A flash of light across the rain damped gloom of the courtyard outside finally broke through the ebbing flow of his memories, and he looked up from the chair he found himself sitting in.
1534. That was what the readout on the screen indicated. Three hours . . . more than three standard hours he had wrestled with the past, a past he had not even known meant so much until he found himself losing it, piece by piece.
He stood, squinting, shrugging his shoulders to loosen the stiffness, and trying to repress the shivers that threatened.
He looked down. The envelope was on the flat section of the wall console, but the note itself was still clutched in his left hand.
Caroljoy. I never knew . . .
“Didn’t you?” he asked aloud. “Didn’t you?”
There was no answer from the dark green walls, nor from the blank screen, or from its flashing red light that indicated me...
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