The Forever Hero (36 page)

For the fourth time the Commodore frowned at the senior commander across the wardroom table that had been covered temporarily with the red felt that signified a Board of Inquiry.

“Let me get this clear. You felt that accepting a single combat challenge would make life
easier
for the Empire? By setting a precedent where every time the Ursans feel like it, they could challenge an Imperial ship on a man-to-man basis?”

The senior commander shook his head. “No, Commodore. The point was much simpler. They lost on their own terms, on their own territory, with their own weapons, to an outlander who had no experience in their rituals. The next step is to demonstrate that they are so outmatched in weapons and technology that they have to join the Empire on our terms.”

“What about the risk? How did you know you could win?”

“I didn't. Good guess. Based on several factors. Had to be a unified planetary culture. Also had to be based on individual combat.”

The commodore waved vaguely at the sheet before him. “I know it's in the staff report, and the ethnologists have supplied sheet after sheet of ethnology equations that support your guesses. But how could you subject the Empire to that kind of risk through mere guesses?”

“Commodore, ser. Considerable risk for me. None for the Empire. Also considerable risk for the Ursans.”

The commodore motioned for the senior commander to continue.

Gerswin cleared his throat. “If I had been defeated, then the Empire still could have blasted chunks out of Ursa IV, and with even greater justification. Done what most commanders would have done in the first place. Ursans have no heavy screens, only for debris, and have avoided developing long range weapons. That's why they have to have developed a workable planetary culture.”

“How does that follow?” The commodore's puzzled expression indicated his lack of understanding.

“Nationalism always puts the culture above the individual. Culture based on individual prowess almost always loses to one based on nationalism. In the crunch, nationalist cultures use whatever they have to, no matter what the consequences. What nearly destroyed Old Earth the first time.

“In an individualist culture, some things you will not do. If you do, the culture will destroy you. So…Ursans couldn't have space travel, advanced technology,
and
individual prowess tests unless they had unified planetary culture.”

The commander was still shaking his head. He could not understand, and Gerswin understood why.

Finally the commodore asked another question. “Why did you say there was considerable risk to the Ursans?”

“Simple. If I lost, the Empire would have blasted the planet, or at least the space-going ships. Would have claimed that the Ursans were
barbarians who demanded that their leaders solve disputes through personal combat. Incompatible with civilization and decency.”

“Barbarians indeed,” confirmed the commodore. “One last question, Commander. Why didn't you just ignore their boarding parties?”

“Thought about that. Problem was that it would take years to undo the image. If we didn't at least meet them face to face, then the Empire would be regarded as bullies and cowards rolled into one. Ursans might knuckle under to brute force, but would begin relation with the Empire from a basis of contempt. Leads to unrest, maybe revolution. So we'd be back on a conflict basis within a decade. This way, we bought some time.”

“How much?”

“A good century, my guess, if you get a couple of good Corpus Corps types to act as champions every once in a while.”

The commodore nodded, then tapped the stud on the control box by his right hand.

“Now, Commander,” growled the commodore, “the question is what to do with you.”

“Nothing,” suggested Gerswin.

“Commander—”

“I'm not being flippant, Commodore, ser. Your experts have begun the real work with the Ursans. I made the entry easier. Take credit for the peaceful contact. If I had failed, you would have taken the blame.”

The commodore reflected, pursing his lips. “And what about Major Strackna? Your Executive Officer? She recommends your court-martial.”

“That's because she wanted to blast the Ursans out of existence. Wouldn't let her. Her specialty was alien relations. She had an attack of acute xenophobia and tried to blow the Ursan boarding parties into dust, after I ordered her not to. Not for her distrust of my decision that I recommended her court-martial and dismissal. Because she disobeyed a direct order when the ship was not in danger.”

“Wasn't your report rather harsh?”

“Don't think so, Commodore,” answered Gerswin, ignoring the implied suggestion that he change his recommendation that Strackna be cashiered from the Service. “Major Strackna did not act to override me from a well reasoned difference of opinion or knowledge, nor to save the ship. Just because she hated aliens she hadn't seen. Aliens couldn't hurt the
Fleurdilis
.

“Preliminary evidence showed they had no projective weapons,
no screens to stop our weapons. She kept trying to destroy them against evidence, against orders.” Gerswin shook his head. “No captain should ever have to tolerate that, and no subordinate should have his or her life risked by such an attitude.”

“How should we handle you?” The commodore's glance was direct.

“Don't. Ships survive because they act as a team. Think you should give the entire ship a letter of commendation, outlining the contribution the whole crew made.”

“Commending them for what?”

“For handling a delicate situation with the care that reflects favorably upon the Service and the Empire. The Ursans are learning who's boss, and it only cost one tachead and not one casualty for us. Only cost them one casualty.”

The commodore worried his thin lips, darted a look at the closed portal before speaking again.

“Assuming your analysis is correct, and the experts seem to feel it is,
you
deserve the commendation, not the ship.”

“Commodore, the crew deserves the commendation for not going off half-blasted and trying to pull their C.O. out of a mess. I blasted it. Nearly failed. Didn't because the Ursans have some common sense, and because their leader's sharp.”

The commodore sighed. “Everything is more complicated than it seems. Would you mind explaining, since I don't seem to understand the logic here?”

“Ursans don't fight to kill. Probably only have a few flesh wounds. We're not built like them. I had to kill him—her—because I couldn't figure out the rituals. That's why the Ursan crowd was so upset. Don't like unnecessary killing.”

A wintry smile crossed the commodore's leathery face.

“The implications are obvious, and far-reaching, Commander.” He looked down, then at the red felt covering the table, picked up the sheet before him, and looked up. “Your talents are underestimated, and I wish we could afford to promote you to the General Staff. In any case, I'm taking your recommendation, with a slight upgrading. The
Fleurdilis
will be recommended for a distinguished service medal for all crew, and you will receive a polite letter of personal commendation. Enough to make it clear that you did a good job and that the letter is
not
a formality.”

“Thank you, Commodore. The crew will appreciate the honor, and they do deserve it.” The senior commander waited, eyes meeting the commodore's.

“That will be all, Commander Gerswin.”

Gerswin rose. “Yes, ser. By your leave, ser?”

The commodore nodded. “I'll have the announcement made shortly.” He gestured toward the portal.

Gerswin saluted, then turned and left.

The young woman arrived at the suite portal, which did not open automatically at her approach. With a frown, she stepped aside and tapped the contract button beneath the small screen set into the left portal support panel.

The light under the screen flashed amber and settled into the green, but the screen remained blank.

“Yes?” The disembodied voice was a male, youthful sounding baritone, with a slight edge.

“I am Lyr D'Meryon. I had an appointment for 1430.”

“Your pardon, Ms. D'Meryon, but a previous interview has not been completed. If you would be so kind as to wait for just a moment. When the light flashes again, please enter.”

With that, the green light went out.

“What…what are you getting yourself into?” she asked herself. Then she shrugged and stepped back.

Should she walk to the other end of the corridor? Or stand and wait? What if the light flashed while she was turned in another direction?

If only the specs for the position hadn't been so intriguing…but the independence that had been spelled out between the lines was rare for any foundation, much less for the smaller ones of the type who would consider relatively junior administrators.

She glanced down at the reddish glimmers of the corridor glow tiles, then back at the screen. The light remained dark.

Next she hitched up her portfolio under her left arm and walked to the other side of the portal. The panels on the right were featureless, and she looked back at the screen on the left side. Still dark.

She bit her lower lip.

Even before the interview, she'd put hours of effort into filling out the application, which had arrived after she had expressed an interest in the position.

The original display had been simple. She recalled that clearly enough.

Foundation Administrator

Both hard and biological sciences, that had been the interesting point. Most foundations headquartered on New Augusta were either involved in the arts or with very specific pursuits.

Her musing almost distracted her from the flashes of the portal screen.

She hoisted the portfolio under her arm and approached the portal. This time it irised open as she walked toward it.

Once inside, she understood the reason for her wait. The small area was but a single room, served by two portals at opposite ends,
presumably on different corridors. The narrow office contained two consoles, three severe straight-backed chairs, one console recliner, and a small loveseat.

Standing by the console recliner was a slender figure garbed in a black privacy cloak with a peaked hood and a black mask.

“You'll pardon the privacy, Ms. D'Meryon, but the need for a continued confidentiality is one of the reasons for our search and one of the principal reasons for specifying the qualifications we need.”

Gesturing vaguely toward the arrangement of chairs and the loveseat, the man sat down.

Lyr was convinced that the man, although soft-spoken, had some sort of military background from the alertness of his carriage. She seated herself in one of the straight-backed chairs.

“While the foundation has a worthy purpose, it would not be appropriate for some of the anonymous backers to become known. Others do not wish public recognition of any sort.”

“Might I ask the goals of the foundation? And its name?”

“The foundation's title is the OER Foundation, and the founders have never seen fit to disclose what the initials represent. The goals are modest, basically to endow research in certain biologic and ecologic fields. Center primarily on development of self-perpetuating reclamation, biological stabilization processes.”

The black-cloaked man's masked face remained shadowed as he cleared his throat softly and continued. “Why were you interested in this particular position?”

“For a number of reasons…”

The standard questions about her background, her qualifications, her interest in science, all took nearly a standard hour.

Every question was politely phrased by the inquiring figure, and while the light was soft, by the time that first hour had passed, Lyr felt as though the interview was approaching an inquisition.

Finally, too late, she suspected, she interrupted.

“What does that have to do with the job? You have obviously verified all my qualifications, my references, and my background. Is this intensive reexamination merely to verify my interest or my ability to endure? What is there about this foundation that requires such painstaking evaluation of its possible administrator?”

“Are you sure you want to know that?”

“That's an odd response. My first reaction is that you're up to something illegal or exceedingly unpopular. Are you?”

“No. Popular reaction right now would probably be boredom. Intellectual reaction would probably be positive. But we're an odd foun
dation. Not interested in publicity. Not interested in glory, or space in the faxnews. Don't want an administrator who is. Need someone who shares our goals, someone who will pursue them and who doesn't need public acclaim to be happy on the job.”

“Can you assure me that what you are pursuing is legal?”

“I can assure you that it is legal on New Augusta and throughout the Empire. Wouldn't want to speculate about other legal codes or mores.”

“Fair enough.” She paused, then hurried on before the man in black could speak. “The publicity angle is strange. I'll admit, because most foundations want publicity either to gain contributions or to reflect favorably on the founder. But it's not strange enough for all this secrecy. As for the goals, other than some very general guidelines, which would be impossible to follow without more detailed information, you haven't really stated a single concrete objective that an administrator would find usable. So what do you want? What are you really pushing for?”

“Before I answer that, and I will, what do you want from this job? Not the polite phrases. We're beyond that. What do you really want?”

Lyr took a deep breath.

“In one word—meaning. In two words—responsibility. And if I get three—money.”

“We can deliver all three, in greater quantities than you expect. But there is a price, a high price. Perhaps higher than you would pay.”

“My life?” She pursed her lips. “You can't be that melodramatic.”

The interviewer laughed once, a short harsh sound. “Scarcely. Not in the sense you meant. The position could easily be a lifetime position. That's one reason for the in-depth nature of the application, the interview, and the reference checks. We also have done a background check.”

Lyr's mouth opened in a small “o.”

The interviewer continued, politely ignoring her surprise. “The administrator will have sole operating authority. That authority may not be delegated, although you may hire administrative assistance and other services as necessary and financially responsible.”

“You are asking for a bond slave, not an administrator.”

“The starting salary is sixty thousand Imperial credits annually, plus expenses and living quarters.”

Lyr didn't bother to keep her mouth from dropping open.

“What unpaid other ‘services' do you want? Is this offer open only to attractive young women?”

“The sarcasm doesn't become you.” The gentleness of the reproach disarmed her angry cynicism.

“I don't understand. That's more than the administrators of the Emperor's Trust get paid, and they don't get quarters.”

“You'll have a bigger job, and one without the overt acclaim and prestige. It may be more important in the long run.”

“How big?”

“Big enough that if we go beyond this point in the conversation, and you decline, you will not walk out of here with any memory of what was discussed.”

“You couldn't! You wouldn't!”

“Said it was a big job, job that requires a big person. Stakes are as idealistic as you are. More so, perhaps. Less risk from a memory blanking than from disclosure. Besides, who would you complain about? This isn't the foundation office, but rented for the interviews.”

Lyr moistened her lips with her tongue.

“My head says to walk out. My heart wants to hear your offer.”

“What do you know about ecologic reclamation? About the impact of organic chemical poisonings?”

“The problems with Old Earth, Marduk, and even with New Glascow. That's why the really dangerous manufacturing processes are in deep space or on hell-planets.”

“How do you clean them up?”

“You don't. You'd have to scrub the soil, filter all of the groundwater, probably any oceans as well.”

“So you go along with the tacit Imperial policy of avoiding the questions?”

“Take Old Earth,” Lyr countered. “The government has devoted close to fifty billion creds over the last fifty years…maybe more. What do they have? A few thousand square kays of marginal land and a river or two that won't poison you on touching.” She paused. “What does this have to do with the job? Directly?”

“Everything. The sponsors feel that real cleanup is possible with biologic agents. Agree with your assessment so far as mechanical reclamation goes. Ancient records say biological reclamation was started once, even begun to terraform totally hostile planets, but it stopped with the Great Collapse. Old Earth and Marduk were avoided since there were better places to live. Federation, and then the Empire, tried to avoid the problem by avoiding organics on inhabited planets, manufacturing in space or on waste planets for materials they couldn't do without.”

The man in black stood up, his shadowed eyes looking at a point somewhere behind Lyr. “Now, the inhabited systems are growing, as well as the demand for more and more consumer goods. The Collapse is long past, and the commercial barons base their power on production. The trend is not obvious yet, but it is there.”

Lyr felt, for an instant, an impression of age coming from the young-looking figure who moved with such quickness and grace that he had to be her own contemporary.

“And the foundation is worried about that?”

“By the time anyone else is worried, just as happened on Old Earth, it will be too late to do anything.” The man laughed. “Even if we're wrong, biological cleanup methods will make those consumer goods cheaper.”

“Istvenn…,” she murmured. “You really do care…,”

“Some of the people who created the foundation do. They wanted to encourage the discovery, the development, and the use of biological processes to reclaim chemical wasted lands, self-perpetuating and benign biological systems to maintain the ecology under the worst of stresses, and to make these processes widely available once they have been developed and field tested.

“Your job will center on the first phase, since none of these processes are known. They may be out there in the Empire, but if so, they are buried and unrecognized. As you pointed out, no one can reclaim a wasted planet like Old Earth, not even with the resources of the Empire. And already, reports of space-based contamination drifting in-system are being reported. A number of the nastier organic by-products can withstand reentry heat, particularly if they're in dust form.

“More important, with the energy costs of space transport, virtually every industrialized system has some organic production somewhere, and as demand keeps increasing, so will possible sources of contamination.”

Lyr coughed to break the other's gloomy monologue. “You paint a depressing picture.”

“Don't all fanatics?” He laughed again, but the laugh was without humor, except in the self-deprecation.

“What sort of operation now exists?”

“Are you interested?”

“Yes. I couldn't say why. But I am.”

“Fine. The foundation has offices, plus financial resources, and an approved charter. You will not need to raise funds, but you will need to create the entire mechanism for reviewing and screening
grant and research proposals, the procedures for follow-up and field testing.”

“You're not serious?”

“Quite serious.”

“Handing this over to someone you scarcely know?”

“Do you want the job?”

Lyr paused.

The man in black said nothing, just waited.

“Yes.”

“Fine. You have it.”

“I do?” Lyr looked at the other blankly.

“You do.” He stretched and withdrew a card from his cloak, along with a small databloc. “The card has the foundation address. In those quarters are the basic information and equipment you will need, as well as access to the consoles. Currently, the master console is locked to your retinal prints. You can change that if you wish, but it was the safest way to begin.”

“My retinal prints? But…how…”

“From this point on, you control the day-to-day operations of the Foundation, its assets, investments, and its grants.”

“How did you know I would accept?”

“Didn't. But it was likely. I said we did a thorough background check on the most likely candidates. We did. Thorough. Even to the time you told your family you were going to Eltar for the summer, when instead you used the summer to raise your tuition for the university by entering that bond-contract with Farid El-Noursi. You used the name Noreen Al-Fatid…. Should I go on?”

Lyr could feel herself turning crimson on the exterior, and the fury building on the inside.

“Take your filthy job—”

“No.”

The single, quiet word, for some reason, deflated her anger.

“Purpose wasn't to embarrass or to push. But to let you know how thoroughly we screened you. What you do with your private life is for you. But you are trustworthy, totally trustworthy, whether you will admit it publicly or not.”