The Forever Hero (45 page)

The OER Foundation administrator checked the itemization from the Special Operations Account again.

“Unique power source (obsolete) for nontech planet—C/r 1.5 million. Special equipment transport (one time charge)—C/r 4.5 million.”

No explanation on the official accounts, just the figures. The commander, and she thought of him as the commander despite his preretirement promotion to commodore, had spent more than a third of his annual operations budget on just two items. If they were audited by the Imperial Revenue Service, she'd better know what they represented.

On the off-chance that he had had an explanation, but didn't know how to code it, or wanted to leave that to her, she checked the “notes” section, which was sealed except to her personal key.

Wonder of wonders, she thought. There was an explanation.

“The unique power source is an obsolete atmospheric pulse tap. Couldn't buy an equivalent source for less than ten times this, but gadget is good only on a planet with an atmosphere and without intelligent life with a metal based technology. Somewhat limited, but fine for my outspace operations. Even have a place to put it. Will reduce the power costs for the ship. Could be as much as eighty percent less.”

Lyr nodded. It sounded crazy, but if he was right, and about equipment he had always been right, the cost would be absorbed in less then a standard month. His energy bills ran nearly C/r 10 million annually, and that was what he drew from the foundation. From his private sources, who knew what he was paying?

“The one-time transport charge is what it cost for a oneway disposable jump hull to carry that and some other equipment to base. Didn't want to charter a freighter, though it would have cost half as much, for obvious reasons. Hope you can figure out a way to explain this.”

She worried at her lower lip once more.

Some things he was so secretive about, as if the Empire really cared about the doings of a foundation promoting biologics research and use. The secrecy, she was sometimes convinced, might cause more problems than the mission.

She frowned, but finally settled on the standard classification of equipment freight charges, with a few codes and supporting figures that should get her through all but the most thorough of audits, if one were even requested.

In more than twenty years, she had been requested to appear before the Imperial Revenue Service twice. Once had been for a grant to Sadukis University, which had been diverted to support the candidacy of the University Chancellor for delegate—unknown to the OER Foundation.

The second time had been because the receipts to and assets of the Forward Fund had exceeded, for a two month period, the thirty percent maximum requirement. That had been her fault, because of a rather spectacular increase in the value of some Torinian bonds that the banking community had written off as worthless.

Still worrying at her lower lip, which was always chapped despite the moisture shield cream she used religiously every night, she began to input the information.

If the commander, in his capacity as trustee, were not so obviously committed to the foundation and its aims, she would have been more worried. At times, his single-minded pursuit of improved biologics scared her, and now that he was pushing the implementation of the basic research and research into actual applications…

She shook her head. If she knew more, she would only worry more, and there was more than enough to worry about with the research grants and the accounting legalities.

“The assignment is a standard one—the father and the son. The baron, if one could call him that, and the heir. That means the timing must coincide.”

“Explain.”

“The father has his own yacht, and can pilot it himself. He is surmised to have a hidden base, probably in an uninhabited system. The son lives with the mother and her clan, separated from the father. But he remains the only heir.”

“Then there is a preferred order.”

“Exactly. Father, then son. The client did not specify the order,
but preliminary investigations indicate that the father is the more formidable of the two, and would be even more so if alerted by—”

“The action against the son.”

The woman nodded. “You understand.”

“If the man travels so freely, how can one predict where he will be?”

“That takes patience. He does have a philanthropic connection in New Augusta and must travel there occasionally. That is the sole predictable factor in an extremely irregular and unpredictable schedule. He has never made less than a trip a year, often two or three. We have taps on the torp center and on the clearance sector in Imperial control. Those should give us advance notice, but you will have to take up residence in New Augusta.

“From there, it should be routine. Routine, but not easy.”

“On New Augusta?”

The woman lifted her shoulders. “It cannot be avoided. The commission was large, and not to be turned down.”

“How much of a bonus?”

“Double your normal.”

“I assume the rules for actions on New Augusta have not been changed by the Guild.”

“They have not.”

“Then energy and projectile weapons remain forbidden?”

“Correct.”

The heavyset man glanced at the floor. “You are sure this is the best way to accomplish this contract.”

“Are you questioning the Secretariat?”

“No. But a man who could be called a baron and is not, who pilots his own space yacht, and all that implies, who is strong enough to have captivated, even for a time, a Scandian woman, that sort of man will be alert to such things as accidents, poisons. That means—”

“I know what that means. That is why you were assigned.”

The heavyset man's hands moved toward the long knife concealed in his trousers.

“He is said to have some familiarity with hand weapons, including knives.”

The man smiled. “Some familiarity with knives. How interesting.”

“The details are in the envelope.”

The man picked it up, but did not break the seal, knowing that exposure to air would destroy the material within minutes, as intended.

“Once you have begun, send the signal. The second upon completion.”

“Understood.” He nodded and turned to go.

As he stepped through the portal from the small office into the main corridor of the commerce clearing house, his face was composed into the look of boredom common to many small businessmen, a look perfectly within character, since eighty percent of the time he was in fact a small businessman specializing in the brokering of odd lots of obscure jellies. The twenty percent of his time devoted to the Guild, however, demanded one hundred percent loyalty and provided eighty percent of his not insubstantial income.

For all his bulk and blankness of expression, his boots scarcely sounded as they touched the corridor tiles and as he moved toward the central exchange.

Gerswin sipped the liftea slowly as his eyes traveled from one side of the small dining area to the other. While he did not fully appreciate the intricacies of all the varieties of teas, perhaps because to him all their tastes were strong, he found liftea the most pleasant, and far more enjoyable after a meal than the alternatives, particularly cafe.

After all the years since the
Torquina
, he still failed to appreciate cafe, and he knew he never would.

He shook his head wryly, thinking about it. Cafe had to have been invented by a failed chef, one who wanted all remembrance of food seared out of memory by its bitterness.

With the hour as late as it was, only the smallest dining area of the Aurelian Club was in use, but the staff was as helpful, as quick, and as alert as if the Duke of Burglan were in attendance.

Gerswin did not know what influence Caroljoy had employed—or had it been the Duke himself—to procure his membership in the club. Realistically, he assumed that it had been their influence, although that had never been confirmed one way or another.

He had just received the simple card, stating that he had been proposed for membership, and that, after consideration, his name had been accepted.

The rules were even stranger than the acceptance.

No member could ever invite more than three guests at once, and there were no bills or charges. Restraint in use of the dining facilities was expected, but no such restraints were necessary for the use of the library or the moderate exercise facilities. Extravagant use of the facilities constituted grounds for revocation of membership.

Members were expected to propose one or two qualified individuals for membership at some time, and such proposals were to be accompanied by the entire membership sponsor fee. If the individual proposed was found unsuitable, the club retained the fee, which would be applied to the first suitable individual recommended by the member. The sponsor fee was 250,000 credits.

As he took another sip of the liftea, Gerswin wondered how many people were willing to spend that for a friend or worthy citizen. At some point he probably would, but currently he had no candidate he thought suitable—except Lyr, and he shied away from the idea of proposing her for membership in his sole club. He might anyway, but not for a while.

Two other tables were occupied, the one directly across the open central parquet flooring from him and one two tables to his left. At the opposing table sat a woman, alone, in a severe dark purple tunic.

While he did not know her, she was either wealthy or powerful in her own right, since guests were not permitted without members, and spouses were considered guests.

At the table to his left were three individuals, two men and a woman. Their conversation was politely modulated, with neither whispers nor low jovialities, suggesting that the subject was whatever commercial interest they shared.

After more than twenty years of membership, Gerswin knew less than two dozen other members by sight, and he doubted that many knew him.

“More tea, ser?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He had asked Lyr if she wanted to accompany him after they had gone over the annual reports he was required to authenticate, but, despite the wistful look on her face, she had declined.

“Damon has been pressing me for months to go with him to the free fall ballet, and I agreed. Next time, do give me more notice, Commander. Please.”

Gerswin shook his head. For all his long range plans for the foundation and his own enterprises, his management of his own personal schedule and life had been less than exemplary.

Two sons, one dead long before he had even known he had a son, and the other as lost to him as if he scarcely existed.

His lips tightened as he pushed away the thoughts of Corson, of the boy no longer a boy, who had inherited, as indicated in the cubes he received and reviewed quietly, his mother's height and father's strength.

Was he right to have let Allison raise him alone?

“And what would you have done? Carted him all over the galaxy? Settled on Scandia?”

He took another sip of tea.

Just because he had answers to all the questions did not mean he could lay either questions or answers to rest.

The woman in purple had entered shortly after he had, but had sampled a salad of some type, two mugs of cafe, and now stood to leave. Her face was familiar, and the former commodore suspected she was a government minister of some portfolio, just from her carriage.

The conversation to his right continued, with a trace more intensity and a fractionally reduced volume, as if the trio was getting to a critical point in negotiations.

Gerswin sat back, decided that he might as well return to the shuttle port for the trip to the orbital station. New Augusta was one of the handful of systems prohibiting deep-space ships or, for that matter, any non-Imperial shuttles from entering the planetary envelope.

The
Caroljoy
was docked in a magnetolocked position off station three beta.

Gerswin frowned. At some point, he suspected, it was going to be far too dangerous to travel to New Augusta in person. The time was coming when he and Lyr would have to work out other arrangements. Either that or he was going to have to develop a series of alternative personas with enough depth to pass all Imperial screening.

When it became more obvious who he was and what he was doing, if he continued as successfully as recently, he would doubtless develop both government and commercial opponents. He hoped that point was years or decades away.

He almost laughed, but repressed it, knowing how mocking it would sound in the dignified confines of the aristocratic Aurelian Club.

Instead, he eased himself out of the comfortable chair and around the table, nodding to the waiter.

“Very good, Commodore. Hope we will see you more often.”

Surprisingly to him, the term “commodore” was not used with the condescension he had heard in the voices of even the staff of more than a few commercial barons.

“Never can tell, but thank you.”

He took a last look around the circular room of less than ten tables, and at the group of three at the single occupied one remaining. Neither the woman nor the two men looked up from their discussion.

“Would you like transportation, Commodore?” asked the submanager at the front desk.

“Yes. That would be fine.”

He might as well be heading back to the shuttle port.

While he waited for the electrocab, he studied the main foyer, pacing quietly from one side to the other.

Unlike many clubs, the Aurelian Club had no pictures of individuals anywhere, nor any listing of officers, nor any posting of rules. Gerswin wrinkled his forehead in concentration. Thinking about it, he could not recall any written captions anywhere within the club, except for the signatures on some of the paintings, a few of which he recognized as originals for which any number of collectors would have bid small fortunes.

“Transportation, Commodore.”

“Thank you.”

Gerswin went through the double portals quickly.

The electrocab was a shocking silver, radiating a light of its own bright enough to make Gerswin shake his head.

The outside doorman saw the gesture and smiled.

“Not exactly tasteful, ser, but at this time of evening, they're mostly out for the nighters. This is conservative for that crowd.”

Gerswin raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he stepped into the backseat.

“Destination?” The inquiry was mechanical.

Gerswin tapped the code for Shuttle Port Beta into the small screen.

“Thank you. Please authorize the sum of ten Imperial credits.”

Gerswin used the foundation card for the fare, since the purpose of the entire trip had been strictly for OERF reasons.

The electrocab hummed from the club portal and after less than a hundred meters dropped into the high speed tunnel that slashed diagonally under the city and toward the shuttle port.

He closed his eyes as he leaned back in the seat, but his thoughts did not come to a similar rest.

Should he continue his detailed tracing of the grants issued by the foundation? Was commercialization the only way to produce the products he needed on a wide enough scale? If so, how soon should he start trying to implement such projects?

What about Corson? Was there a way to channel some of his considerable income from his own investments over the years to his son? Was it wise, given the trust fund already created? Would too much money without a purpose leave the boy, the young man really, adrift? Or make him a target of the unscrupulous?

What about Lyr? Was he being fair to her in piling more and more upon her? Were additional salary and appreciation sufficient?

“Destination approaching.” The mechanical voice of the electrocab was almost a relief. Why was it that New Augusta triggered so many questions? Was it the memory of Caroljoy? Or was it that New Augusta symbolized what he must oppose and had not?

He sat up, eyes flicking toward the window to take in the increasing illumination as the vehicle slowed and completed the climb to the beta concourse.

As he stepped out into the even flow of bodies heading to or from the various shuttle gates, Gerswin wished he could have worn full-fade blacks. The sheer numbers handled by the Imperial shuttle ports always made him uneasy. Numbers could conceal so much.

His hands flicked to his belt, where the knives and sling leathers were still in place. He began to scan the crowd while his steps carried him toward the less crowded section of the port that served private ships and travelers.

Most of the crowd were commercial or in-system travelers, which was the case at most ports throughout the Empire. Few indeed could afford the high cost of either a private ship or interstellar passage.

The majority of travelers were human. He caught sight of a single Ursan, flanked by an Imperial Marine honor guard, and two Edelians, looking more like walking sunflowers than the sentient beings they were.

While he should have faxed ahead, he had not, assuming that the shuttle to station three beta would lift on a recurring and regular schedule. The departure portal was closed, with the message board flashing.

“Next shuttle to beta three in fifty-five standard minutes. Please insert your access card for your shuttle seat. Ten seats remain.”

Gerswin took his permanent squarish pass from his pouch and inserted it.

The message board changed to fifty-three minutes and nine seats remaining.

Satisfied that he could do no more for the moment, he turned to head back to the main terminal lounge for a place to sit down. His
steps clicked on the hard tiles, the sound echoing through the predawn lull of the nearly deserted section of the port terminal.

A scraping sound, barely a whisper, rustled ahead of him, as if someone had brushed the archway to the public fresher three meters ahead of him on his right. The clarity of the faint sound bothered Gerswin, and he edged his steps toward the far left-hand side of the five-meter-wide corridor.

As he drew abreast of the fresher entrance, he saw the shadow of a man, presumably about to leave, but the shadow did not move as the retired commodore continued onward.

Gerswin glanced over his shoulder as he entered the main lounge area, with its circles of padded seats mostly vacant. Behind him walked a heavyset businessman carrying a black sample case, his expression blank, as if his thoughts were systems away.

Gerswin sat down in the middle of a three-seat row, facing the direction from which the businessman had come. In turn, the heavy, brown-haired man slumped into a seat perhaps three meters away and to Gerswin's right. He did not look at Gerswin, but opened the case in his lap and pulled a folder from it.

A smile quirked the devilkid's lips.

For whatever reason, the man was looking for Gerswin. His build ruled him out as a Corpus Corps type, which meant he was either an intelligence operative for some out-system government, for an out-of-the-way Imperial bureaucracy, or a private operative contracted to find Gerswin.

Gerswin dismissed government intelligences immediately. Out-system governments would not send operatives into New Augusta, particularly after obscure and retired commodores, and all the Imperials had to do was to monitor his reservation on the shuttle and wait for him at the lock to his ship.

Since the man had required a clear look at Gerswin and a comparison of facial profiles, that further supported the fact that he was representing a nongovernment source. And since the operative was on New Augusta, whoever hired him had money.

Gerswin pursed his lips.

The Guild?

That meant trouble he had not anticipated this early.

The commodore sat relaxed, waiting, letting the minutes pass as he watched the watcher without obviously doing so.

Finally Gerswin stood and stretched, then ambled toward the still open dining area. Coincidentally, his path would take him by the seat occupied by his hunter.

The man unhurriedly closed his case and stood, adjusting his tunic, and fiddling with the case itself. He turned as Gerswin neared, and his face screwed up as if in recognition.

“Commander Gerswin?”

Gerswin looked puzzled in turn, but said nothing, although he stopped where he stood.

“Don't you remember me? Lazonbly, from the
Valeretta?
”

“Can't say I do. But what could I do for you?”

Gerswin wondered how far he could push before the operative panicked.

Lazonbly stepped closer and shook his head, as if he could not really believe it was Gerswin. “You haven't changed at all.”

Gerswin smiled. “Who's paying the Guild for this?”

Lazonbly blinked, but only once. “I don't believe I understand.”

“Lazonbly died in Feralta ten years ago. The Guild has accepted a contract on me. I'd like to know who your client is, not that you'd know.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand, Commander.”