The Forever Hero (50 page)

“We've identified the cause.”

Eye inclined his hooded head, but said nothing.

“Class two hellburner. Surface burst.”

“Where did they get it?”

“Who got it?”

“Got what?”

At the commotion, Eye raised one hand. The noise died down.

“Please summarize from the beginning, Commodore.”

“We're not entirely certain, but it appears as though the Iredesium Red Pleasure Dome was the site of the Guild's Five Year Conference. We usually find out several months afterward, although they try to keep it hushed.

“The so-called Merhlin group had apparently threatened the Guild with virtual extinction. We don't know what the Guild position was, but they didn't take the threat seriously enough. Class two hell-burner went up ten minutes after the conference started, the part that everyone was required to attend. Casualties over six thousand. Probably only five hundred official Guild delegates; another two, three hundred might have been lower grade assassins….”

The commodore waited for a moment, but there were no questions or interruptions.

“Definitely an I.S.S. weapon. Media faxers are already saying that it was. Delivery method unknown, but the tracked velocity was compatible with warship launch. It could have come from a private yacht, but the Iredesium complex has been choked with them this season—more than a hundred registered, and that's half of all the Imperial private ships.

“There were also three Service ships present in system
—Bismarck, Saladin
, and
Martel
. All their weaponry is fully accounted for.”

The Admiral of the Fleet, to Eye's right, coughed.

“Are any of the media suggesting that it was an Imperial effort to destroy the Guild?”

“No. The
Free Fax
is implying that the destruction of Guild leadership with I.S.S. weapons implies either tacit Service agreement or extremely loose controls on nuclear equipment by the Service. In either case, a full-fledged investigation is necessary.”

“Just what we need.” The sotto voce comment came from the corner of the room farthest from Eye, but neither the Intelligence Chief nor the Admiral of the Fleet acknowledged the truth of the remark or the speaker.

“Any favorable commentary?”

“The
RadRight
had an ed-blip. They said they wished the Imperial Government had acted with such dispatch years ago.”

“Wonderful.”

“What is the real probability that this was accomplished by the Merhlin group?”

“One, we don't know if Merhlin represents a group or an individual with vast resources. Two, while Merhlin threatened to destroy the Guild and is reputed to have carried out close to a hundred assassinations of Guild agents in past years, we have no proof, even indirect or heresay, that the attack was in fact carried out by Merhlin. Three, if it was, I doubt that we will hear of Merhlin again. Nor will we if it was not. Four, now that the Guild has been reduced to several hundred scattered agents, the Imperial Government will face extraordinary criticism if we fail to finish the job. Five, this will result in greater economic stability within the Empire and probably short-term expansion of Imperial spheres of influence.”

“In short,” finished Eye, “we have no choice but to turn this terrible tragedy into an Imperial benefit. That solves one problem and leaves two. While we may never hear the name Merhlin again, whoever Merhlin is has the capability to find out information we don't. He or she also has no compunctions about acting when necessary. And no conscience. What do we intend to do about it?

“Second, we need someone to blame, and it can't be Merhlin. How could we admit that some unknown power can do what we can't, that they knew what we couldn't guess? So whom do we blame to get on with the job?”

“No one, ser. We will blame the anarchists and claim that the Guild and the anarchists collided. We have taken steps to round up the necessary accessories, and we will. And, in the future, enemies of the government can be tagged as anarchists, like those who murdered six thousand people at Iredesium.”

“It might work,” reflected Eye. “It might at that. But don't collect too many dissidents. We can't have this seen as a pretext to tighter social control.”

“What about Merhlin?” asked the Admiral of the Fleet.

“We keep looking, quietly. I don't think we'll find him or her. Merhlin got what he or she or they wanted. But people forget. Espe
cially, they forget faceless tragedies. Who got seared at Iredesium? Assassins, cold-blooded killers, and playboys and joy-girls. Who's going to feel sorry for them for long? How can you create outrage about them?”

Click. Click. Click.

The single set of footsteps echoed in the sub-zero chill of what would have been dawn, had the sun not been lost behind clouds that filtered fine snow over the hills and frozen lakes.

Click. Click
.

The footsteps halted on the smooth stone before a marble wall. On the wall were rows of gray metal plaques, each the color of gun metal glinting in the dim light.

The man's eyes centered on the last three plaques, picking out the names.

He repeated the names to himself silently, then continued to stand, looking at the three names, ignoring the long rows of plaques above them, ignoring the blank space of the stone below them.

An occasional flake of snow drifted in from his left, under the flat marble roof and between the square and smooth columns that up-held the stone edifice, but he paid the weather no attention.

The wind whispered, ruffling and shuffling the snow that covered the grass and walks around the lone structure.

The gray of his jacket and the gray of his trousers gave the impression of a ghost visiting other ghosts, a spirit paying his respects to other spirits.

Outside, the fine snow falling from the dawn began to thicken, until the hills surrounding the family memorial were less than white shadows, though they lurked but a kilometer from the mount on which the mausoleum stood.

The visitor glanced toward the brighter light of the east and sur
veyed the falling snow and the shrouded hills, his eyes seeming to burn through the white veil to see the slopes beyond the trees, and the lakes beyond the rocks. Then, as if dismissing the winter, he returned his attention to the wall, and to the three last plaques upon it.

Finally he turned, and his shoulders dropped momentarily, and he faced west, staring out over the line of footprints nearly filled in by the drifting and dropping snow, footprints that would lead him back to another shadow of the past, a ship that belonged to a time predating even the construction of the centuries-old monument and mausoleum within which he stood.

Click. Click. Click
.

Without a word, without a gesture, the visitor walked back across the stone slabs of the floor, down two wide marble steps, and into the snow, into the snow that cloaked him, that hid him and the hills toward which he walked.

The admiral shifted his weight in the chair, waiting for his ultimate superior to appear behind the antique desk. His eyes took in the single Corpus Corps guard, as well as the sparkle to the air between him and the desk that indicated an energy barrier.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

Click, click, click
.

The man whose steps preceded him eased his tall and lanky but stooped frame through the portal and into the recliner behind the ancient artifact that had no screen.

“You requested this meeting, Admiral.”

“Yes, sire, I did.”

“Begin.”

The admiral cleared his throat as quietly as possible. “I requested a private meeting because I cannot support my concerns with hard evidence, and because I cannot trust those who would normally provide such hard evidence.”

“You do not seem to trust our Eye Corps.”

“No, ser.”

His Imperial Majesty Keil N'Troya Ryrce Bartoleme IV waited for the Admiral of the Fleet to continue.

“You know that a Service hellburner was employed on Iredesium. What you may not know was that a single weapons pack of nuclear torps was diverted from New Glascow nearly twenty years ago. That represents the only loss of nuclear weaponry in the entire history of the Service. I have no choice but to believe that the hellburner used on Iredesium had to come from New Glascow. I also find it rather difficult to believe that a private group, or even a planetary system, would keep such weaponry either unused or unadvertised for nearly twenty years.

“Further, sire, I have to ask what group is the single group that has challenged successfully the Eye Corps over the past century.” The admiral shrugged. “I have no answers, sire, and my surmises cannot be verified, or probably even asked as questions, but I thought you should know.”

“We appreciate your concern, and your candor. That is an issue in which the Prince has expressed some interest. I would appreciate it, Admiral, if you would contact Ryrce directly in the future, should you have further inspirations or any factual support for your theory.”

The admiral wanted to wipe his steaming forehead, but did not. Instead he waited.

The Emperor stood.

“We are not displeased. We also appreciate your sense of tact. Therefore, your effrontery will not be punished, and we urge you to continue your direction of the Service with the same sense of dedication you have so far shown.”

With an obvious effort, the elderly ruler turned and departed, his feet clicking as he made his way across the tiles toward the exit portal.

The admiral let his breath out slowly, as evenly as he could.

Gerswin leaned forward on the control couch and checked the results displayed on the data screen again. According to every conceivable test, the plant produced a thread stronger and finer than any synthetic, needed no special fertilizers, and thrived in a wide range of climate and soil conditions.

The field tests, limited as they were, supported Professor Fyrio's
research and contentions, as did the limited evaluations Gerswin had commissioned from the University at New Avalon.

Gerswin shook his head. The problem wasn't the biology, nor the data, but that none of the commercial enterprises or agricultural interests contacted quietly had shown any interest in what was principally an agricultural product suitable only for nonfoodstuff uses.

The damned plant would make someone a fortune, and no one was interested because there was “no real money” in agriculture.

The man in black stared at the data screen of the small ship, ignoring the larger pilot displays above and before him.

“What else can you do?”

“Inquiry imprecise. Please reformulate,” answered the AI in its clinically impersonal but feminine tones.

Gerswin ignored the standard request, then tapped the keyboard, his fingers flying across the arrayed studs.

“Set for blind torp. Route beta three. Code Delta with databloc trailer. Lyr D'Meryon.”

“Blind torp in position to receive. Ready to bloc feed.”

The pilot squared his shoulders and faced the scanner.

“Lyr. Need some basic information. Details are in the databloc attached. Need recommended corporate type business structure with voting control removed from the system where the business operates. Also need a list of systems permitting absentee ownership. Suspect it would include systems like Byzantia, El Lido, and Dorlian. Send a copy of the systems you come up with to Infonet, my code, and request full background on them. I'll pick up the final from my drop there.”

He paused, pursing his lips.

“Doesn't make much sense, I know, but looks like we need demonstration ventures to prove profitability of biological products and solutions. The commercial types accept biotech for medicine and raw materials, but not for finished or semifinished products.

“Enough said for now.”

He tapped the closure, and hoped that she would read between the words.

With a sigh, he called up the information in the Fyrio files and began to reformat what he needed for the compressed databloc to accompany his transmission.

When he was finished, he coded it to the torp message.

“Torp pack complete. Send at max two.”

“Readying torp for max two path.”

Nodding, Gerswin indexed the research files for the information
on protein. Somewhere, somewhere, he recalled a project on replicating animal protein structure with a common plant, a weed nearly, that had used Amardian/T-type genetic fusion.

“Torp released on max two path.”

“Amardian genetics,” he tapped into the keyboard.

Three cross-references appeared on screen five, the data screen.

“In-system contact. Two eight five at one point five, plus three radians. CPA two hundred kays, plus or minus twenty.”

“Interrogative classification.”

“Tentative identification in-system ore tug, class three. Low power orbit recovery.”

“Stet. File and report deviations.”

He returned his attention to the screen, and to the background on Amardian genetics research.

Wondering whether he could have been more efficient with a fixed headquarters, Gerswin paused, then shook his head. He'd have long since drowned in the reports, and who else could have tracked down what was important in the long run? This way, he could make decisions, request information, and move enough to avoid terminal boredom while, he hoped, the research grants began to generate the biological techniques needed so desperately by Old Earth.

In the interim, poor Lyr drowned in the reports.

Once he finished tracking down what he needed on the meat substitute possibility, it would be time to head for Aswan to reenergize and to take a break before returning to the tedious tracing and verifying that seemed to follow inevitably from each possible lead that his own research in the grant files showed up. For each hundred approved grants, perhaps ten held some promise, and of those with promise, one or two showed either commercial or technical possibilities.

On the other hand, after nearly forty years since he had insisted on innovative grants, the research product totals had become impressive. The foundation already had an impressive and growing income from some of those developments, nothing that yet matched the income generated by Lyr's skillful manipulations of income and assets, but he could see when that had to come, perhaps sooner than Lyr expected.

His own thread venture, if it worked out, could conceivably add a great deal, since the potential was enormous, and since the license fees belonged to the foundation.

“Energy reserves below ten stans.”

He shook his head again. Might as well head for Aswan before fin
ishing up. While the times were currently peaceful, he hated to let the ship drop into a low energy state, or to purchase power commercially. The fewer the records about unknown yachts or the
Caroljoy
that showed for Imperial Intelligence or other interested parties to pick up, the better. And the cheaper as well.

“Plot course line for jump points,” he ordered as he returned the genetics research to the files and centered himself in the control couch.