THE ETHOS EFFECT

L E. Modesitt, Jr.

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE ETHOS EFFECT Copyright © 2003 by L. E. Modesitt. Jr.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Edited by David G. Hartwell A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates. LLC.

ISBN 0-765-34712-1 EAN 978-0765-34712-1

First edition: October 2003

First mass market edition: December 2004

Printed in the United States of America 0987654321

In memoriam For Eric Maier, who always understood the eternal nature of the struggle shown in life and in this story, with both heart and mind

COMMANDER

Chapter 1

Two officers sat side by side in the cramped command couches of the RSFS Fergus as the light cruiser accelerated away from the Galway system. The younger officer, a dark-haired woman with blue eyes and pale white skin, wore the double silver bars of a first lieutenant on the collar of her green shipsuit and the embroidered antique silver wings of a junior pilot on its chest. The older officer, a green-eyed, black-haired, sharp-featured man with skin the color of aged fine oak, wore the silver leaves of a commander, with the command star, and the wings of a senior pilot Below the wings were the faded characters of his name—Van C. Albert.

"Dust density?" asked Van.

"Point three and steady.

Commander."

"What does that mean, Lieutenant Moran?" Van's implant continued to show minute fluctuations in the density readings, fluctuations that came from the ship systems, not the dust beyond the hull and shields. While the gravs could theoretically handle accelerations as high as eight while maintaining a steady one gee within the ship, Van kept the acceleration at three solid gees. Anything more created unnecessary strain on the systems for a vessel as old as the Fergus. Then, the RSFS Fergus should have been retired or rebuilt decades earlier, he reflected, not that she hadn't been a good cruiser for her time, but the newer Argenti cruisers wouldn't take that long to turn her shields to shreds, and even some of the recently commissioned Revenant cruisers were getting to that point. The Eco-Tech ships were roughly equivalent to those of the Argentis, but no one wanted to fight an Eco-Tech pilot, not the way they were modified, trained, and linked to their ships.

"We could fold nets and jump, ser. The coordinates for Leynstyr are set."

"Would you recommend that, now?"

"No, ser."

"Why not?"

"If we wait until the density drops below three, we can make the jump with twenty percent less power."

"How do you know it will drop that far?" pursued Van.

"It does in most systems, ser."

"How long would you wait to see?"

"That would depend, ser. If we needed to jump, I wouldn't wait. Now... the collectors are running in the green ... another ten minutes."

Standing wave message for you, ser. The words burned across the shipnet to Van from the comm officer, Sub-major Parnell.

I'll take it, now. While still monitoring the Fergus's telltales. Van shifted his concentration to focus on the incoming message. It was short Given the enormous power requirements, even with compressions, all standing wave messages were short—and urgent. Nothing short of urgency could justify their use and cost.

Proceed soonest to Gotland, Scandya system, to replace RSFS Collyns, FFA. Orders arriving Gotland via courier...

The authentication codes indicated that the message had come directly from the Chief of Space Operations at Republic Space Force headquarters on Tara. Van had no idea why the CSO was rerouting the Fergus to Gotland, right in the middle of transit from Galway to their assigned picket station off Leynstyr. The Muir had already been on station off Leynstyr for all too long.

"Lieutenant..." Van shifted his attention back to the junior pilot. "What are the accumulator reserves right now? What will they be in ten and fifteen minutes, assuming a standard density drop-off?"

"Ser... let me check."

Van waited, still trying to figure out the reasons for the change in orders, then flashing back to Parnell. Did you double-check the authentications?

Yes, ser. They were red over green priority, ser.

Van tightened his lips. Red over green meant trouble. At least, it always had. But why send the Fergus, old and creaky as she was?

"Ser... I see what you mean," offered Moran from the second pilot's couch.

"Tell me. Don't just tell me that you understand."

Moran stiffened, then spoke. "The accumulators aren't fully charged. It will take about eight minutes from now. We'd come out of jump with less than full power for shields or acceleration. In a combat situation—"

"Good!" Van forced a smile. "You've got it. The way things are now, you don't ever want to come out of a jump underpowered—not if you can help it. I'd like to spend more time on that, but we've got to make some adjustments, Lieutenant. We've had a change in orders. Reconfigure for a jump transit to the Scandya system. Then, let me check the setup and coordinates."

"Ah... yes, ser."

"We just received a standing wave message from the CSO, ordering us to Gotland with all due haste."

"Yes, ser." Moran paused. "Gotland, ser? Scandya system?"

"That's affirm."

While Lieutenant Moran calculated, Van called up what background the shipnet had on Scandya, skimming through the data as quickly as he could.

Scandya system ... orange five, plus six, trailing arm [011145 Rel Galactic Center]... two planets with significant population: Gotland @ .93 Tellurian norm, 1.02 G at sea level... atmospherics within acceptability for nonmods ... Malmot @ .72 Tellurian norm, .65 G ... atmospherics at limit of acceptability [basic terraforming completed 1104 N.E.]...

Government... modified rep. republic, universal adult suffrage. Nonstandard meritocracy overrides ... continent-based, single-house, parliamentary assembly, planetary executive with veto power, all executive functions operated and executed at planetary level, limited bureaucracy ... two principal political parties, the Liberal Commons (LC) and the Conservative Democrats (CD)... considerable unrest, with local riots, for the past half century, until the election of the present premier [Erik Gustofsen (CD)]... skilled at mediating conflicts...

What in Moll Magee was a "nonstandard meritocracy override"? Van had never seen that terminology in a background section. And what had been the sources of the past unrest? Most planetary systems were well beyond that kind of dissent.

Economic ... postextractive, belt-mining, and low nanoformulation technology ... also large natural food sector...

Military ... universal military service [unisex]... ground and planetary defense rated superior... in-system space defense limited capability ... ten corvettes [equiv. Robartes class] and two cruisers [equiv. Gregory class]. No dreadnoughts or battle cruisers. No outspace fixed emplacements ...

Van paused and rescanned the military data. Effectively, the Scandyans had no real defenses against out-system attacks. The universal military service meant that Gotland and Malmot could be destroyed, or, rather life on both planets could be, but that neither could be conquered—if the Scandyans maintained their resolve.

Political... Scandya system is the closest nonaligned inhabited system to Tymuri [orange five point five, plus six, trailing arm (011157 Rel Galactic Center)]... Revenant "missionary" training base...

Van called up the multidimensional image of Orange sector, then zeroed in on Scandya system, as depicted in the shipnet representation. As he had suspected, Gotland and Malmot were the last nonaligned planets between the "outer" inspin systems affiliated with the Taran Republic and the Revenant systems. "Below" and "inward" of both lay the far larger Argenti Commonocracy, although the Argentis were really oligarchs of the old style.

... at present, during the government headed by Gustofsen, Scandyans are maintaining open trade and have requested that other systems respect their neutrality by maintaining no military presence in the Scandya system. "No military presence" has been defined as one military vessel and one courier...

The Collyns was a full battle cruiser, the first of the latest class. So why was the Fergus, antiquated by comparison, being sent to Scandya? Had something happened to the Collyns? Or had the Collyns been ordered out into some action against the Revenants, and the RSF needed a presence off Gotland?

The standing wave hadn't said, for the obvious reason that standing wave was open to anyone, and, even with encryption, there was the possibility of the message being decoded. That meant that one Commander Van Albert had to read between the words of the message.

"Calculations complete and on the net, ser," reported Lieutenant Moran.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Van scanned, then checked her work. "Good. As soon as the accumulators are fully charged, you may begin the countdown for jump."

"Yes, ser."

The Fergus replacing a full battle cruiser in a pivot system at a time of increasing interstellar tensions? Van kept his frown to himself. While a full battle cruiser carried a crew of fifteen, the Fergus carried but ten—the commander, two other pilots, the comm officer, the engineer, two system techs, the weapons officer, and two weapons techs—and all were loaded down with auxiliary duties, most of which revolved around some aspect of maintenance on the aging Fergus.

"All hands, stow all loose items. Batten down all equipment. One minute to zero gee. One minute to zero gee. Three minutes to jump." Lieutenant Moran's voice filled both the shipnet and the ship's speakers.

After scanning the prejump checklist, and the shipnet reports from each station, the lieutenant glanced at the commander. "All stations secure for zero gee, ser. Ready to collapse photon nets."

"Commence zero gee. Collapse photon nets."

Eeeeeee! The piercing wail of the zero-gee alarm filled the Fergus, then cut off.

"Entering zero gee," Moran announced. "All hands remain secured. Two minutes to jump. I say again. Two minutes to jump."

Van checked the screens, extending himself into the webs that drew in all the Energy Distortion Indications from the entire Galway system, trying to see if he could detect any EDI sources. There should not have been any, except for the single orbit station around Galway three, the one conducting and monitoring the terraforming project that, in a few hundred years, might yield another habitable water world for the Taran Republic. Even with the detectors set at full gain, he could find nothing, and closed them down.

"All detectors null, Lieutenant."

"Detectors null, ser. Photon nets null."

"Proceed to countdown. Lieutenant."

"All hands. One minute to jump. I say again. One minute to jump." Moran's voice echoed through the Fergus.

Van watched as she shut down every operating system, one right after the other. Gravity had already gone. Ventilators and purifiers shut down.

At ten seconds before translation, Moran made the final announcement. "All hands. Ten seconds to jump." Then she cut off the remaining systems, including the shipnet, except for the jump generator and the accumulators.

"Ready to jump, ser."

"Proceed, Lieutenant."

Moran pressed the large red stud—the one operation that was always manual.

Everything turned inside out. The blackness of the control area turned white. Van felt as though he'd been twisted inside out, or at least into some strange dimension, for that instant that seemed endless, yet remained unmeasurable by any device ever invented.

A searing flash of light and darkness, darkness and light, flared through the Fergus, and the jump was complete.

"Powering up, ser." Moran's fingers brought up the ship-net, and then her net commands brought all the systems back on-line, beginning with shields and nets.

The moment the detectors were back on-line, and the comparators verified that they were indeed on the fringes of Scandya system, with less than two hours of translation error, Van began to search the detector screens, wondering what he might find.

One scan and Van stiffened. Less than fifty emkay—out-system and "behind" them—was the EDI track of something bearing down on the Fergus.

"I have the conn!" Van triggered the emergency siren and diverted power from all nonvital systems into the photon nets, the drives, and shields, immediately turning the Fergus into the oncoming ship—a heavy cruiser of some sort with distorted EDI tracks. Or an EDI of some type he'd never seen.

Torps inbound! came from Weapons.

Van caught four on the net monitors and put full power into the shields, letting the photon nets fade. Standard shields were supposed to hold against three. Not against four, and certainly not the old shields of the Fergus.

"Desensitizing."

All the screens and detectors went blank.

Even so, Van could feel the wash of energy against the shipnet. As it subsided, he opened the detectors, shifted power to the nets, and continued to build acceleration toward the unknown cruiser.

More torps!

Got them! There were two.

Van shifted power to the shields, but left enough for nets and screens to keep building speed and collecting hydrogen and dust—or before long he wouldn't have any mass for the fusactor at the rate of power he was using.

Again, he waited until milliseconds before the expected impact before desensitizing, then shifted full power to the nets for a long moment. What he planned was a gamble, but the Fergus couldn't stand too many more torp impacts against its weaker screens—certainly what the attacker was counting on.

The courses weren't collision-based, but close enough for Van's purposes, especially against a newer vessel, and the Fergus continued to accelerate outward, the photon nets growing and gathering hydrogen and other various bits of dust that would become reaction mass for the fusactor.

Any ID on bogey?

No, ser.

With less than a minute before CPA, Van watched and waited, feeling the sweat pouring from his forehead despite the chill in the cockpit.

Then, even as Weapons announced, Torps!, Van diverted full power to the nets, squeezing them forward and hurling dust and hydrogen at the oncoming cruiser. Nearly simultaneously, he released two torps, and then a second set of two, even as he slewed the Fergus across the path of the attacker, and then cut all power to everything and diverted all power to the shields, desensitizing the ship as well.

Eeeeeeee! The EMP bled in over the damped equipment, and the Fergus actually rocked for an instant.

Van smiled, coldly.

After another five hundred milliseconds, he extended the screens and detectors.

They revealed a hot and rapidly expanding ball of gas, and several irregular fragments of metal.

Comm... any indications of who that was?

No, ser. Didn't match any profile. EDI could have been off-tuned rev. Shields were close to Keltyr...

Van opened the photon nets to let them rebuild mass, then swung the Fergus back in-system, slowly and sluggishly on what power and mass remained to the Fergus.

He scanned what lay inward. The EDI traces from in-system—well in-system—indicated a battle cruiser orbiting Gotland, next to a large orbital station, and the colors suggested strongly that the vessel was Revenant. A smaller EDI came in shortly, a Taran courier, probably the one with detailed orders from the CSO for the Fergus. There were two other light cruisers stationed where they could open fire on the Revenant cruiser, and the EDI traces suggested they were the Scandyan cruisers. The only other non-Scandyan vessel was a frigate—Argenti from what Van could tell—also orbiting Gotland.

There was no sign of the Collyns.

Van blotted his forehead and turned to Moran. "You have the conn, Lieutenant. Take her for now. Maintain half shields."

"Yes, ser. I have it. Maintaining half shields."

Van cleared his throat, then began to speak, also forming the message for the shipnet, for those linked there. "All hands. This is the commander. We just fought off an attack by an unknown cruiser, and we are entering the Scandyan system. Just before jump we received urgent orders to divert here, then proceed to Gotland, the fourth planet, where we are to receive more detailed orders. We are replacing the battle cruiser Collyns. Right now, that's all I know, but we'll keep you informed as we can. That is all."

Weapons status? Van snapped across the shipnet to Lieutenant Mitchel.

Twenty-one torps left, ser.

Thanks, Weapons. Engineer?

Fusactor's close to the heat limit, ser. Port rear quadrant shield is almost amber. Starboard converter is running at eighty.

Thanks.

"Ser?" asked Moran. "Who... was that a Rev ship? Or Argenti? And why did they come after us? It's not like we're trying to take over anyone else's systems."

"I don't know, Lieutenant None of the IDs match. The drive EDIs were altered—or they belong to a system we've never heard of, and the torp traces were so standard that it could have been anyone. And they didn't bother to tell us who they were."

"Ser... I'd heard of... what you did..."

"But how did I know how to do it?" Van laughed, harshly. "That's what commanders are for. You learn your ship, what she can do, what she can't. The Fergus doesn't have shields like the newer cruisers, but the photon nets and the collectors were overengineered. That was because of the inefficiency of converters when she was built. They didn't bother to change the nets when she was refitted ten years back. That's why there's an intake governor."

"I've never seen anyone squeeze the nets that way."

"Except for something like that you don't want to. We lost close to twenty percent of one converter and nearly overheated the fusactor. I'll probably have to answer for that as well. But it was the only way ... what I did was use all the matter in the nets to overload their shields. Shields don't care whether what's corning at them is gas and dust or a torp. The total mass load is what matters. Mass times velocity. I accelerated the mass in the nets, then let the torps punch through." Van paused. "It won't work in a fight against more than one, maybe two ships, because you're basically limited to the power in the accumulators and mass tanks until you can deploy the nets again, and your shields are likely to fail before you can."

"Oh..."

Commander Van Cassius Albert leaned back in the command couch. In less than an elapsed standard hour, he and the Fergus had gone from heading to a routine picket station in the quietest part of the Taran Republic into a battle in a pivot system. They'd been attacked by an unknown heavy cruiser, almost as if they'd been expected. The Fergus was headed inward to a system that its commander didn't know for a purpose he also didn't know, and orders he could only guess at. Van studied the detectors once more, then ran a check on all the ship systems once more, although he doubted he'd find more than the engineer and weapons officer had found.

Still... he'd have to draft a battle report and dispatch it by message torp back to RSF headquarters. He could do that in the twenty-odd hours it would take them to reach Gotland.

His lips curled into an ironic smile. After all the years in service, he still found it amusing that ships could jump between systems near-instantaneously, and yet getting to the jump corridors took hours, if not days. Then, jumps avoided the light-speed limits, which even the most powerful photon drive systems could not.

He took a slow and deep breath before beginning to use the shipnet to draft his report.

Chapter 2

While much has been written about so-called crises of faith in the life cycle of individuals, what is seldom recognized, and even when so recognized, usually dismissed, is that societies also undergo crises of faith.

A societal crisis of faith occurs when the values that produced a particular incarnation of a society no longer correspond to the values held by the individuals and organizations holding economic, political, and social power in that society.

Paradoxically, these value changes seem to occur first on a social level. In reality the changes are already far advanced by the time they appear, because in most societies social standing and mobility lag behind economic and political power. Those with economic power seldom wish to flaunt values at variance with social norms, and those in the political arena prefer a protective coloration that in fact straddles the perceived range of values, while ostensibly preferring the most popular of values….

Although all stable societies rest firmly on a consensus of values, invariably the individuals in those societies prefer not to discuss those values, except in glittering generalities, not because they are unimportant, but because they are so important that to discuss them seriously might open them to question and reinterpretation. Thus, the very protections of a society's values preclude any wide-scale and public reevaluation of those values and any recognition of a potential crisis of values.

Since "morality" is the sum total of those values, the first public symptom of a crisis of values is usually a series of comments about the growing immorality of society—almost always directed at the young of a society who have absorbed what their elders are in fact doing, rather than professing….

Values, Ethics, and Society Exton Land New Oisin, Tara 1117 S.E.

Chapter 3

The messroom was an oblong box, barely four meters in length and three in width, the bulkheads covered with a permaplast finish that was supposed to resemble walnut, with a table and benches that, in a pinch, might seat all of the crew. The overhead was an off-white that imitated plaster poorly and gave an impression of dinginess, no matter how often it was cleaned. The deck was covered with a permaplast supposed to resemble gray ceramic tile in a diamond pattern. All the furnishings were anchored firmly to the deck.

Van sat at the head of the table, in the sole chair, sipping the strong black café he favored from a dull black mug. On his right was Sub-commander Forgael, the executive officer and chief pilot, dark circles under her eyes. On Van's left was Sub-major Driscoll, the engineer.

Driscoll had just finished reading the hard copy draft of the battle report, and he slid it back across the table. "It's accurate, Commander."

"But too blunt?"

"No, it's not," replied Forgael. "Everything in there is factual. HQ won't like the fact that an unknown battle cruiser attacked a Taran ship, and they'll send a raft of queries that will suggest that it can't be unknown and that either you aren't interpreting the systems data correctly, or that you've neglected updating the recognition parameters."

"So I need to point out that I.S. updated both just before we left Sligo Station?" Van laughed. "Then they'll find some other way to suggest I screwed up."

"You did, ser," Driscoll replied dryly. "The only thing worse than losing a ship to an attack is to destroy the attacker, especially with an older cruiser that shouldn't win. It's worse if we need repairs, because they'll have to fund them." Forgael winced.

Van took another swallow of café and nodded. "The Home party will claim that it shows we don't need more and newer ships, and the Liberals will insist that it demonstrates that RSF officers are bloodthirsty rock apes who torp innocents on sight. And the Marshal's Council won't be happy either way." Especially not with Commander Van Cassius Albert "I don't see who had anything to gain." Forgael smiled. "I didn't express that quite correctly. Who didn't have something to gain, I meant."

The three officers nodded, almost simultaneously, although none spoke.

Everyone would have gained something with the loss of the Fergus—except the commander and crew. The Taran Republic would have gotten rid of a near-obsolete ship and a difficult commander, as well as have obtained a demonstration of why newer and better ships were needed. Both the Argentis and the Revenants could have blamed each other for escalating border tensions, and gained political and popular support. The Eco-Tech Coalition could have breathed a sigh of relief that they wouldn't have to fight another war against the Revenants. Scandya could have played everyone off against each other.

But... with the success of the Fergus, the whole situation merely degenerated into a problem and embarrassment for everyone. The RSF would be blamed for having a torp-happy commander going off uncontrolled, and all the others risked either embarrassment for incompetence or for lack of knowledge about the situation. Even the Scandyans wouldn't be happy, not when an obsolete cruiser potted an intruder outside their own system, suggesting that one antique cruiser was more effective than the entire Scandyan space force.

Van rose. "Thank you both. I'll need to make some changes before I send this off." He took the cup to the adjoining galley, where he emptied it, racked it in its place, turned and left the galley, then the mess. As he eased into the main passageway fore and aft, behind him, he could just catch the whispers.

"You don't think it was an accident..."

"With the commander... after the Regneri incident? ... planned as potted palms..."

That was what Van thought as well, but he said nothing as he walked the few meters forward to the cubicle he rated as commander. There he revised the battle report, then fed it into the message torp.

He accessed the shipnet, linking to Lieutenant Moran. Lieutenant?

Yes, Commander?

I'm about to release a message torp to RSF Depot. Report on our encounter entering the system. Just wanted you to know. Yes, ser. I'll log it.

Van keyed the release, then monitored the torp from the shipnet until it jumped and translated back toward the depot off Sligo Station.

Then he stretched out on the narrow bunk. He hoped he could sleep before he had to relieve Lieutenant Moran on the controls.

They had another eighteen hours before they reached Gotland. By then, the message torp would have reached the RSF Depot, and the marshal and his council would begin to decide what to do with the Fergus and her commander.

Chapter 4

In the darkness of the damped cockpit, Van continued to scan the passive inputs from the detectors, waiting, watching. The lieutenant in the couch beside him said nothing.

A line of light, merely a representation of a lase-search, swept across the virtual repscreen toward Van and the ship.

Detection probable. Detection probable.

"I know that," muttered Van to himself. "It's what they think we are that counts, not that we're here." Detection probability at unity.

Van ignored the shipnet warning. His shields were down. Playing like an inert hunk of metallic asteroid was far safer than broadcasting his presence with their energy field. The converted terraforming vessel—a ship that amounted to a heavy cruiser—could crush his shields as if they didn't exist with its particle beams and torps. He still had no idea what the renegade Vetachi was doing where it was—or why. But he had to do something because it was bearing down on the colony ship that lay in-system of Van.

Detection probability at unity.

Waiting in the darkened and damped cockpit, sweating, Van took in all the data as the larger vessel swept toward him.

Then, in the moment when his ship was between the inner and outer shields of the attacker, he triggered off his torps, in sets of two, as fast as he could—then lifted shields and accelerated.

The huge ship, seemingly looming over the corvette in the out-system darkness, shuddered as the third and fourth torps actually penetrated the hull.

Then... torps and debris flared everywhere.

Van watched, openmouthed, as an errant torp flared toward the Regneri, and as the colony ship split into fragments...

"NOOO!!!"

Van bolted upright in his bunk, almost cracking his head against the low overhead. His heart was racing, and his body was covered with sweat.

Ten years, and he still had nightmares about it. The Board of Inquiry had exonerated him, even recommended him for a commendation in taking out the raider, probably a Revenant "black" ship, but the commendation hadn't happened. No one wanted to commend a corvette jockey whose actions had cost the lives of three hundred highly trained colonists—even if it had been a freak accident that couldn't have been duplicated if the situation had been replicated a hundred times.

From then on he'd received one difficult assignment after another. After the Inquiry, it had been the Gortforge, the last of the Niamh class, with an entirely new and green crew because the former officers and crew had been court-martialed for refusing to fire on the Keltyr merchanter carrying the escaping rebels of Coole. After reading the report, Van had sympathized with the crew, since more than three-quarters of those on board the Bonnie Prince had been women and children. The Marshal's Council doubtless hadn't seen it that way, because the rebels had been Keltyr sympathizers who had destabilized Coole so much that riots still occasionally broke out.

After he'd completed two tours on the old Gort, and after RSF had decided to retire the ultralight cruiser, he'd been given command of the Fergus, yet another ship plagued with problems. Except there hadn't been any in the two years he'd been commander.

Sitting in his bunk, still sweating. Van blotted himself dry, then stretched back out, hoping he could sleep. After a while he did doze off, without nightmares, but with disturbing dreams he couldn't quite remember when he woke.

He climbed back up into the cockpit, after a small meal— breakfast, he supposed—bolstered with the evil-tasting Sustain.

Forgael slipped out of the command couch with a grace that Van had always admired and envied. Her smile was as ironic as ever, but then, given that she was a good ten years older than Van, with a solid record that had never been adequately rewarded, the irony was more than understandable to him.

"Nothing new, Commander. The Rev cruiser hasn't moved. EDI suggests stand-down. The Argentis are headed out-system, but not along our corridor. They're pushing it, looks like a solid two-gee acceleration."

"You think they had something to do with that cruiser?" Van eased into the command couch and took over the screens and net "No. I'd bet either Rev or Keltyr. Kelts would still like to make us pay, and the Revs want Scandya system."

"The Argentis are heading home to spread the word? Or bailing out before they get embroiled?"

"Both," she replied.

Van nodded.

"I'd estimate another thirty minutes to switchover. Not enough to get any sleep."

"No. Not much."

Thirty-seven minutes passed before the Fergus neared the restricted area off Gotland. By then, Lieutenant Moran had taken her place in the second couch, since two pilots were required prior to and after translation and when nearing restricted spaces.

"Switchover checklist," Van ordered.

"Nets and collectors to ten percent," Moran stated.

"Stet."

"Detectors to full sensitivity..."

Once the checklist was complete, Van swept the area in-system before the Fergus, one last time, because once the Fergus shut down her nets in so close to Scandya's sun, he'd be limited to the power in the accumulators. He was also limited to the fractional gee power of the unaugmented ionjets. The detectors only showed the Scandyan ships, the Rev battle cruiser, still in stand-down, and the RSF courier.

Van checked the ship systems again. The starboard converter was still only at eighty-five, a trace better than after the encounter out-system, but not good enough for another fight or sustained high-speed in-system operations. The port rear quadrant shield was out of the amber, but by so little that it might as well have been amber. Any significant strain—even a small chunk of space debris—would probably blow the shield.

"Switching over," Van announced.

The Fergus continued to creep—or so it seemed—toward Gotland orbit control.

"Gotland orbit control, this is RSFS Fergus, inbound from Galway. Request orbit clearance."

"Stet, Fergus. Request duration of orbit."

Van thought for a moment That was hard to say, but he'd never been parked anywhere for more than a standard week. On the other hand, he didn't know how long it would take Sub-major Driscoll to repair the damaged converter and shield generator—if he and his techs even could.

"Orbit control, estimate three weeks. Maintenance required."

"Fergus, request purpose of visit, and payment method for services."

"Orbit control, purpose is maintenance, port call, and message pickup. Payment method is intersystem credit transfer, Taran military subset"

"Stet, Fergus." The slightest pause followed. "Interrogative excessive EMP in outer system."

"Orbit control... source of excessive EMP noted, but Fergus was unable to determine source." That much was true.

"Fergus... Scandyan System Defense Force requests any additional data you have on source. At your convenience."

"Stet, orbit control. If we have any data, will send." He wasn't about to give the Scandyans the data and report he'd dispatched to RSF HQ. "Request lock assignment"

"Fergus, your lock is Orange three."

"Orbit control, understand Orange three. We have the beacon."

It was almost an hour later when the Fergus slipped into the dampers.

"Orbit control, Fergus is secure. Request power changeover."

"Lock crew has it, Fergus. Welcome to Gotland."

"Orbit control, thank you." Van wasn't so certain he'd be welcome. He took the fusactors off-line. The cockpit lights dimmed, then brightened as station power—and full one-gee gravity—filled the Fergus. Van eased out of the command couch. The back of his shipsuit was damp, as it always was. And now, he'd have to deny having any data. The Scandyans couldn't force it from him, and RSF certainly didn't want him to provide it to anyone.

Chapter 5

After the Fergus had locked in to Gotland orbit station, Van had undertaken a thorough post-flight and systems check. That had taken hours. After that, he'd approved the crew rotation for both maintenance duties and release time aboard the orbit control station. Then, back in his cabin, he'd written up his notes on maintenance requirements.

With those in hand, he and Major Driscoll had met and decided on what actually could be done—such as repairing the converter and the ailing shield generator—while they were at Gotland orbit control, and as they waited for whatever orders might be headed their way. No such orders had arrived during the next day, but it had taken them almost the entire day to track down the contract maintenance chief of the orbit station, and another half day to work out the arrangements.

Then, once those details had been settled, he and Driscoll had returned to the Fergus, and Van had begun writing the maintenance request report that he was required to dispatch back to RSF HQ. HQ would be less than pleased with the projected costs of the repairs, but they'd have no choice but to approve them, since, if anything happened to the Fergus, no one would want to explain that maintenance had been denied.

He'd worked on that less than an hour when he was interrupted again.

Commander, there's a Commander Baile here to see you, ser. RSF commander, I mean, ser, came from Shennen, the female head comm tech, standing quarterdeck watch.

I'll be right there. Van closed off the small console in the corner of the cubicle that served as cabin and office and stood, moving toward the midships lock.

I'll tell him, ser. Shennen's net presence seemed melodic, unlike that of Parnell, who always seemed nasal, or Driscoll, who rumbled.

Thanks. What did the commander want? Van wasn't even aware that there was an RSF commander in Scandya system, unless he happened to be the military attaché to the Taran embassy. He certainly couldn't be the commanding officer of the RSFS Aherne—the courier that had just locked at the station, presumably with orders for the Fergus. Courier pilots were always either senior lieutenants or sub-majors, usually women, because couriers were two-person ships, pilot and tech, with cramped space for no more than two passengers. They were ships built around beefed-up propulsion systems for high acceleration in-system and precision jump translations. Compact female pilots generally handled the acceleration and the cramped quarters better than men.

Van slipped from his cabin and dropped back along the ten meters of the main fore and aft passageway past the mess and galley to the two-meter-square quarterdeck—essentially the space inboard of the crew docking lock.

The commander who waited with Shennen was trim, half a head shorter than Van, and with lustrous gray hair. While his face was thin, he bore no wrinkles, and his eyes looked almost youthful.

"Commander," offered Van.

"Commander James Baile." He inclined his head to Van. "We need to talk."

"My cabin."

Baile nodded. "That would be fine." As they walked forward, Baile added, "I just arrived on the Aherne."

A cold feeling settled in Van's gut. "Then you know what happened here?"

"I read your battle report on the way out. The marshal thought I should be fully briefed."

Van liked the sound of that even less, and said nothing until he closed the hatch to his cabin. He didn't bother to offer a chair, since there was only one. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm the one CSO tasked to deliver your orders."

"Orders?" Van had orders being delivered personally? Why? Because he'd destroyed the unknown cruiser? How could anyone have even known about that at RSF headquarters before his torp arrived? How could they have even found a replacement in something like forty-eight standard hours?

Baile extended a dark gray envelope. "You ought to read them before we talk."

Van took the envelope, eased open the seal, and began to read. Then he read them again, finally focusing in on the key words.

... temporary duty as RSF liaison to ambassador of Tara to Scandya on Gotland... detached immediately... estimated duration of duty not to exceed twelve standard months...

Van finally looked up at the older commander. "Do you have any idea—"

"Why the CSO is sending a junior commander as a military liaison to the ambassador while a senior commander takes over his command?" Baile laughed ruefully. "It ought to be the other way around. Right?"

"I don't know what to think." Van had thought a great deal, and quickly, but none of it was anything he wanted to express. "Can you give me any idea what this is all about?"

"I also have a briefing cube for you. I don't know its contents. What I think is only an educated guess..." Baile quirked his lips. "Tensions have been high in this sector. The Fergus was attacked. We can't afford to station a squadron near Scandya, and the Scandyans won't let us base one here. Because there wasn't any evidence, except through the detector screens of the Fergus and the torp message you sent, what happens if the Revs or the Argentis or the Kelts claim that you attacked them?"

The whole idea of the antiquated Fergus attacking anything seemed ludicrous to Van, but what seemed absurd in the cockpit wasn't always seen as such by the various Arm governments.

"They could claim that you attacked a merchanter or a corvette on a peaceful approach."

"So I've been relieved by a more experienced officer?"

"Actually, my presence sends two messages, Commander. First, it's a way of saying, between the words, that New Oisin thinks you were right, and second, by putting a more senior officer in charge of the Fergus, that the RSF has no intention of backing down."

"And the marshal can also claim that the RSF certainly doesn't want to escalate matters, and that's why a more senior commander has taken over command of the Fergus."

"Exactly."

"Why am I being detached as a liaison officer here?"

"Again, I would have to guess..."

Van doubted that there was any guessing at all, but "guessing" allowed deniability.

"First, because you come from Sulyn, you speak Old Anglo, and Revenant and Kelt are both variants of Old Anglo. You also speak Hispyn fluently. Second, you're not known outside of the RSF. Both the Revs and the Argentis keep dossiers on officers likely to command capital ships or be posted to diplomatic assignments. Third, you look younger than you are. Fourth, you're black Taran."

Outside of the first reason, Van couldn't see that any of the others made sense, and that bothered him even more. "And you? You don't speak Old Anglo?" That was a rhetorical question, because all RSF officers did, as did most of the Republic. The question was more to express Van's irritation.

"Oh, I do. I'm from Weathe, and you can't get more Old Anglo than that." Baile's words were matter-of-fact.

"I assume they sent you with operating orders, Commander?" asked Van.

"I have those orders. They're sealed. I won't know what they are until after I relieve you."

Van nodded slowly, trying to conceal his surprise. Usually, an officer taking command was fully briefed.

"I was fully briefed on the tactical, technical, and strategic considerations of operating in and around Scandya system,"

Baile explained, "but I was told that my orders are included in the command cube."

"I see," Van replied. What that meant was that the CSO didn't want the orders known to anyone until Baile took command—even to Baile.

Baile cleared his throat.

"Yes, Commander?" asked Van.

"There is a down-shuttle to Valborg, leaving in four standard hours."

Detached immediately meant exactly that. Van nodded. "I'll be ready."

"I'll be back in about two hours. You can brief me on anything urgent then."

"Yes, ser."

After Commander Baile left the cabin, Van began to gather his gear. He still needed to tell Forgael and the rest of the crew.

Chapter 6

In less than twenty minutes. Van had changed into a set of travel greens and packed up his gear—two duffels' worth, plus a shoulder bag. Then he slipped the briefing cube into the console on the small desk that would shortly no longer be his, placing his hand in the authenticator until the console stated, "Accepted."

The holo image that appeared in the middle of the small cabin was that of a commodore whom Van did not recognize.

"Commander Van, I'm Commodore Wadding, senior advisor to the Chief of Space operations. I'm sure that you're puzzled at the suddenness of your reassignment to the embassy of the Republic in Valborg. I'd like to assure you that the marshal is not displeased with your actions. A quick analysis of the data you enclosed with your battle report suggests that the vessel was of Revenant construction, but that is all that can be said at present. Your assignment to the embassy in Valborg should not be regarded as a demotion. Successful completion of that duty will put you in line for a major command..."

Van frowned. A major command meant at least a battle cruiser, certainly a step up from the Fergus. But how could one measure successful completion of duty as a military liaison?

"... Commander Cruachan was the previous military attaché in Valborg. He was missing for several weeks, and his body was found just a short time ago. The official report was that he had been knocked overboard while sailing alone just outside the Valborg harbor and drowned... You are junior for such a post, admittedly, but you are known to be quick-thinking and physically well endowed..."

Van tried not to bristle at the words "physically well endowed," knowing them as a code phrase.

"Normally, attachés have already had some diplomatic exposure, but we need an immediate replacement to assist Ambassador Rogh. As you may have noted from the briefing materials in the Fergus's netsystem, Scandya is volatile politically, and has been held on a moderate course by the extraordinary political talents of Premier Gustofsen. It would seem that we now need an officer such as you in this post, and since you are already there in Scandya... Your task is both simple and difficult. You are to supervise what few intelligence activities we already have in place, and you are to report any information that might be of use to the CSO, particularly information concerning the intentions, capabilities, and actions of the Revenants, the Argentis, and especially the Keltyr..."

Van continued to listen to the commodore's specific charges to him, stiffening after more than several minutes of redundancies.

"You are to commit to personal internal netlink the following codes, authentications, and contacts. They will be fed only from a commander's console, so, if you are using another, please stop here, and only continue at the command console of an RSF vessel."

Van swallowed and stepped closer to the console, putting on the headset that mirrored those in the cockpit.

The data flowed into and through him, as he routed it into personal storage—as ordered.

The image of the commodore reappeared.

"If you did not commit the data, please reset and do so immediately. You have exactly twenty seconds."

Van checked the data. So far as he could tell, he had committed everything, not that he knew what it all meant. The twenty seconds passed.

"The cube is now blank," said the holo image. "The CSO and I wish you well."

After the image faded, Van tried the cube again.

"The cube has failed," the console announced. "No information can be obtained."

Van linked into the speakers and the shipnet. "All hands. This is the commander. There will be a briefing in ten minutes in the mess. All officers and techs are requested to be personally present. During the briefing, the quarterdeck watch will secure the lock door to orbit station."

By the time he entered the mess, the nine other members of the Fergus's crew had all gathered there.

"Please be seated." Van took the chair at the head of the mess table, knowing it was for the last time. Before he began his speech, he ran his eyes over each of the nine, starting with Driscoll and ending with Forgael. "Some of you have probably guessed what I'm going to tell you, but I'd prefer to make it official. I've been transferred—immediately—to become the military attaché to the Taran embassy on Gotland. Commander Baile will be arriving in a few minutes to assume command. Neither he nor I know all the details, but apparently the previous RSF attaché in Valborg died unexpectedly in a boating accident, and the CSO needed an officer with command experience." Van shrugged. "I had the fortune or misfortune to be convenient."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the 'incident' out-system, would it, ser?" asked Sub-major Driscoll.

"Commander Cruachan died sometime back," Van pointed out "The CSO only found out a week ago. I suspect that when we were diverted here to take over for the Collyns, they decided that the simplest solution was to transfer me ahead of schedule." That was partly true, at least.

"Do you know what we'll be doing, ser?" asked Forgael.

"No. Commander Baile has sealed operating orders for the Fergus."

"Starscut..." muttered someone at the end of the table.

Shennen's lips tightened, but she said nothing.

A Commander Baile is at the lock, announced the shipnet.

Someone will be right there, Van link-replied.

"The commander is here," Van said. "Any last questions?"

The mess was silent Van rose and left them, leaving the mess and reaching the quarterdeck in a few strides. There, he opened the lock.

Baile stood there with one slim duffel and a shoulder bag.

"Welcome aboard, Commander. I was briefing everyone on the change of command."

"You finished that?"

"Just as you arrived." Through the net, Van could sense Forgael, and he half turned. "Commander Baile, this is Sub-commander Forgael."

"Pleased to meet you, ser," replied Forgael pleasantly.

"I'm looking forward to working with all of you." Baile's words and smile were both warm and youthful-sounding.

Van envied the warmth, for he'd never had that quality. After a moment, he said, "We'd better get on with the change in command."

"Lead on, Commander," Baile said.

Van did, turning left off the quarterdeck and making his way forward to his cabin.

The two stepped inside, and Baile set down the duffel, looking to Van. Van stepped to the console and placed his hand in the authenticator. Change of command.

Insert new CO's cube.

Commander Baile inserted his cube into the commander's console.

Accepted, subject to approval of Commander Van, the shipnet announced.

Van linked with the net, running down the protocols, the codes, and the command accession protocol. All was in order.

Approved, Van stated, keying in his approval as well.

Command transferred.

Van felt suddenly isolated, as his access to the command protocols dropped away, and he could only access the shipnet in a general sense, not even so much as the most junior tech aboard the Fergus. "She's all yours, Commander."

"Thank you, Commander. I wish you well in Valborg." Baile smiled, professionally.

"We'll do what we can." Van slipped the shoulder bag in place, then lifted both duffels and stepped from the cabin that had been what home he had for the last two years.

The new commander of the Fergus followed him.

As Van neared the small quarterdeck, Forgael stepped forward. Her smile was sad. "We'll miss you, ser."

Ser—no longer commander. Despite the vague assurances of Commodore Wadding, he wondered if he would ever command another ship.

"I'll miss all of you." And he would, Forgael especially.

Then, with a salute, he stepped from the quarterdeck out into Gotland orbit station.

He had not taken three steps away from the lock when the station system intercepted him.

Inquiry? Name, destination? The stationnet "sounded" officious and obnoxious.

Van supposed that was necessary to get attention, but he politely replied with his identity, and immediate destination—shuttleport two to Valborg. He kept walking along the main corridor.

Purpose of trip to Valborg?

Take up duties at Taran embassy.

The feel of the net changed. Commander Van... would you please explain?

The previous military attaché died in a boating accident several weeks ago. I'm being transferred to take his place.

For several minutes, as Van walked by two empty lock ports, the stationnet was silent Please report to the out-system personnel office opposite shuttleport lock one before embarking on the Valborg shuttle. It should only take a moment, Commander.

Stet, station.

There was no response from the stationnet not that Van had expected one.

The corridor—or thoroughfare—that linked all the lock ports was a good ten meters wide and five high. The corridor bulkheads provided planetside vistas that changed in real time, presumably scenes from Gotland, although Van did not know that. He walked down a projected street that ran between gray stone buildings, with rust-colored tile roofs. The lighting suggested early morning, with long shadows.

He passed a replica of a café of some sort, but only two women in uniforms he did not recognize were seated at a table under a holo umbrella. By the time Van had walked another two hundred meters along the gently curving corridor, less than a twentieth the circumference of the station, the scene had changed. Ahead, on the bulkhead to his right was a vista that looked seaward across a small fishing harbor. To his left were warehouses set back from piers.

When he left the locking areas, the scenes vanished, replaced by arches containing various establishments—a cantina whose flashing holo sign advertised every legal beverage in the Galaxy, a bookseller whose far more discreet sign claimed the ability to load any published work into any reader used in the tech worlds, a clothing shop that suggested the traveler stop and obtain the proper wear for the culture ahead.

Van smiled. Military shipsuits and uniforms were standard enough anywhere, and accepted as such.

Another three hundred meters finally brought him to the section of the station devoted to the planetary shuttles—just three locks, as opposed to the number available at an orbit station for a larger system such as Tara, where there were eight locks, half busy at once.

His destination was clearly marked by the flashing red banner above the inboard archway opposite shuttle lock one: employment clearance—out-system origin. With a smile in place, Van stepped through the archway. His implants easily picked up the scan from the concealed detectors. To his right, a burly man was gesturing at the gray-clad Scandyan entry control officer. "I tell you, I do have an exim permit!"

"Just come this way, ser. If you please. We'll straighten this out in no time." The Scandyan entry control officer smiled pleasantly.

"You're not putting me away in some back room to rot! I know your kind." The man started to turn, then, abruptly, sagged where he stood.

The control officer smiled sadly. Within moments, another gray-uniformed woman appeared from somewhere inboard with a pallet-sled, and the two Scandyans loaded the inert form on the pallet. The woman eased the pallet toward the back of the entry control office.

Even without complete access to the station's protocol's and systems, Van could sense the nanite barrier that held in the sleep gas. He wanted to shake his head. Some people never understood that invisible controls were no less effective than obvious armed guards and weapons. In fact, for most people they were more effective, because when they operated people got the impression that such controls were everywhere—and that was a physical impossibility.

Van stepped to the empty console from where a tall blonde beckoned. He set down the duffels.

"Yes, ser?"

"Commander Van Albert. You requested I stop by here before taking the shuttle to Valborg." Van extended the thin datacard that doubled as his RSF ID, and also held all his public clearances and qualifications. "It's in GalStan format."

The woman took it. "Thank you, ser." She inserted the datacard in the reader, then handed it back to Van. "It should only be a moment, Commander."

Less than a minute later, she looked up, then extended a thin green card. "You're cleared. Give this to the control officer at the shuttle. You might not need it, but we never know if they always remember to update their systems when they lock in. You shouldn't need to check with us after this. I hope you enjoy your tour in Valborg." She smiled warmly. "Most officers do."

"Thank you." Van picked up his gear, turned, and left the entry control office, turning left and walking another hundred meters to shuttleport two. There, a handful of men and women sat in the synthwood straight-backed chairs in the bay outside the lock.

Van walked up to the slender man standing behind a chest-high console. "Is this where I check in for the Valborg shuttle?"

"Yes, ser. You've been through personnel?"

Van showed both datacard and the thin green card.

"I'll need those for a moment, and also an authorization of some sort for the shuttle charge."

"I can code that in," Van said, handing over the two cards.

"Right there." The shuttle clerk nodded toward the miniature console to Van's left.

Van touched the pad, then used his implant to input the authorization codes from his orders.

"You're cleared and paid for, ser. We'll be boarding in about half an hour."

"Thank you." Van nodded and picked up his gear once more, heading for one of the straight-backed chairs. There he sat down and studied those waiting, one after another, picking out several Argentis, a Kelt trader, a good dozen Scandyans of both genders and varied occupations, and four male Revenant missionaries.

After the Eco-Tech-Revenant War, and the settlement reached only because the Revenants had been visited by another prophet, most of the tech worlds had followed the Eco-Tech Coalition's example and allowed a handful of Revenant missionaries. Van had his doubts about prophets, either Taran or Revenant, but it didn't make much sense to express those doubts. He'd heard that the Revs had actually had some success in the Argenti and Keltyr systems. They'd been less successful in the Taran systems.

Finally, he settled back to wait for the boarding call.

Chapter 7

After turning his duffels and shoulder bag over to the shuttle cargo clerk. Van stepped into the windowless passenger cabin of the Valborg shuttle, taking in the center aisle, the two-by-two seating, and the relatively compact couches. Those all indicated a magshuttle, and that Gotland had a relatively strong magnetic field, meaning that it had not been terraformed—or not extensively. He checked his seat number and slipped into the couch in the third row, the one against the wall, fastening his harness and restraints.

Shortly, a junior officer in shimmering whites appeared. He paused, studied the assignments, and finally took the aisle seat beside Van.

As he took in the Revenant lieutenant, Van repressed a smile, then waited for a time.

The Rev officer did not look toward Van.

"They do put us in close together," Van offered in Old Anglo.

"It happens on magshuttles," replied the Rev. "You on planetside leave?" Van asked politely. "No. Duty."

Van studied the white uniform, then nodded. "Guard detachment at the embassy? Or are you a courier?"

The Rev frowned. "If you don't mind..."

"It doesn't matter," Van said. "I was only making conversation. I've never been planetside here. Have you?"

"Yes."

"Anything of particular note you'd recommend seeing?"

The Rev forced a smile. "The coastline north of Valborg is spectacular, especially from the crater rim of Haakon. Also, everyone says that the purple surf of Eschen is not to be believed, but I have not seen it." The Rev paused, then added, "If you will excuse me, ser, I am not much in the mood for conversation."

Van didn't push the issue. He'd made enough of a point.

"Please check your harnesses. The shuttle is separating from orbit station at this time."

The shuttle ride down from orbit station was smooth and uneventful—and quiet.

The Rev officer did not even look at Van, but kept his eyes closed all the way down until the shuttle was down and gliding toward the terminal. Then he flashed a brief smile. "I wish you well in Valborg, ser."

Before Van could reply, the Rev had turned and was hurrying off the shuttle.

"Please do not forget your baggage." The voice from the hidden speakers was female. "You will be scanned as you disembark. If there are any questions, you will be met by a port official. At times, the scanners are not as accurate as we would like. At other times, passengers may have misunderstood what is allowed onto Gotland..."

Van reclaimed his baggage, neither hurrying nor dawdling, and left the shuttle. He walked through the disembarkation tube, carrying his gear. After twenty meters, his implants registered scanning activity. He kept walking. He couldn't imagine that what he carried would be considered a problem. The disembarkation tube opened onto a windowless corridor ten meters wide, but less than ten meters ahead it widened into a space a good twenty meters wide, but only ten deep, fronting the automatic exit gates. The walls were of a blue-tinted marble, without carvings, pillars, or adornment of any kind.

In the last few meters before the corridor widened, a single Scandyan port official stepped forward out of the booth on the left side and beckoned to the stocky and mustached man in front of Van. "Ser, one moment, please."

"Might I ask why?" inquired the man, who wore a dark blue singlesuit the kind favored for intersystem travel by both functionaries and the few commercial tech-travelers.

"Disembarkation scanning revealed what might be contraband in your bag, ser. We'd like to check."

"The only things I have are professional samples, and I declared those at the orbit station."

"That may be, ser. If they're on the approved list, you'll be on your way in a moment."

"I was told they were." The stocky man sighed as he offered the shoulder bag.

Neither man looked at Van as the Taran officer slipped to the left and around the pair, and then up to one of the automatic exit gates, which scanned Van, then opened.

Outside, under a covered portico supported by square pillars of the same bluish marble, a line of groundcars waited, each bearing a single silvery triangle on the roof directly above the windscreen. Each one sported a shimmering metallic finish of a different shade. The midday sunlight beyond the portico was so bright that even in the shade of the portico, the groundcars glimmered as though they had been lit from within.

Van stepped forward, behind a lithe woman in a dark gray business singlesuit. She stepped toward the first groundcar, and Van moved to the second, one with a metallic green sheen. A side bin door opened, and Van set the duffels inside, but kept the shoulder bag when he slid into the rear seat "Where to, ser?" asked the woman driver, not turning to look at Van.

"The embassy of the Republic of Tara. On Knutt Boulevard."

"Taran embassy, it is." The groundcar swept away from the shuttleport. Within minutes, the vehicle was gliding noiselessly along the guideway downhill from the shuttleport toward Valborg, spread out to the east of the green hills and against the blue bay. The city itself seemed a patchwork of green areas and white stone buildings, except for the harbor, which looked to be entirely of white stone—warehouses, buildings, and piers. Even the oceangoing vessels appeared white in the brilliant sunlight.

"This is my first time in Valborg. What should I know that no one will think to tell me?"

The driver laughed. "You don't have enough time for that."

"You could start," Van suggested.

The driver nodded. After a moment, she spoke. "First thing... there's no place that serves authentic Scandyan food... and if there is, you don't want to try it. Most authentic Scandyan fare was fish bleached with chlorine, then slathered with salt and a paste that tastes like bad plaster."

"Is there any good seafood?"

"The ice crabs are good, and some places fix the giant clams pretty well. Otherwise, stick with fowl or meat. The hill quail are good."

"Anything specially worth seeing?"

"The purple surf up at Eschen, but it's best at dawn. I personally think the Cliff Spire at Kiruna is more impressive."

"Is that...?" Van let the words trail off.

"That was the personal residence of Baron Byrnedot—he was the last commissioner before Scandya declared its independence from the Argentis. It's been kept exactly the way he left it on the morning that the Argenti snipers assassinated him." The driver didn't speak for a moment.

With his implants, Van could sense the incoming transmission, but not the content—just the energy flow. He glanced out of the groundcar. Immediately beyond the guideway—on each side—was a landscaped park, with winding stone walks, tall evergreens, and sculpted junipers and pfitzers. Van did not see any deciduous trees, nor any bushes. He saw only a handful of people, at widely separated intervals.

"Sorry," the driver apologized. "Just got routing for after I drop you off."

"I understand." Van paused. "I hadn't known about the assassination. Is that something that is still a problem... with the Argentis, I mean?"

"Not for most people. That was nearly two hundred fifty years back. Most folks worry more about the Revs these days. Not that there's been any problem, but with the Argentis in-Arm, and the Revenants out-Arm, and the two not caring for each other that much ... well... you'd have to be blind and deaf not to worry some."

"There's always someone," Van temporized.

"It's been said that you Tarans don't care much for the Revs, either."

"We worry, too," Van admitted. "It's not as bad as the war years between the Eco-Techs and the Revs ... but... you never know."

The driver eased the groundcar off the guideway and through a scanning gate, then onto a wide boulevard. "This is Knutt Boulevard, but the embassy is another two klicks north."

"Are there other embassies along here?"

"All of them are within a klick of the boulevard, except the Rev embassy. Theirs is at the front of their enclave to the south." She gestured at a gold-and-green building with extravagant and sweeping curves. "That's the Keltyr embassy and consulate there."

The structure certainly reflected the Kelt flamboyance, Van thought.

"Is it true?" asked the driver.

"Is what true?"

"You're a pretty senior officer, aren't you?"

"I'm a commander."

"There was another Taran commander here. He was an ocean sailor. The newstabs said he was a good one. But he drowned, didn't he?"

"That was what was reported."

"Funny that a man drowned on the calmest day of the spring."

"That wasn't reported," Van replied.

The driver shrugged. "I only know what I hear."

"What else have you heard?"

"Well... the Hulsfred Blues are going to win the korfball title..."

Van could sense a smile in her voice. "Who will come in second?" he asked.

"Who knows? Does anyone care? That's like coming in second in a war, and no one really likes that."

"No. That's true."

"Here we are." The groundcar came to a stop before a long and low white stone structure that reminded Van of the regional parliament building in Kerry. "That'll be fifteen, ser."

Van mentally fumbled with the local net access for a moment before transferring the funds. "Thank you." The door opened.

Van stepped onto the smooth permacrete sidewalk beside the groundcar, extracting his duffels from the side bin behind the passenger section.

As he lifted his gear, the driver's window slid down. She smiled pleasantly.

"Have a good day, Commander Albert."

Van managed to smile as he stepped back. "Thank you. I appreciated the information about Valborg."

"It was nothing. You keep your eyes open, and you'll learn more in a day. There's a lot happening if you look closely." The driver closed the window and slipped away from the entry to the embassy.

"Ser?" asked the guard in the uniform of the Taran Marines.

"Commander Albert, reporting for duty." Van looked at the long structure.

"Second archway, ser," the corporal suggested.

"Thank you." Van didn't look back as he entered the embassy. He hoped that the groundcar driver worked for Scandyan intelligence. Whoever she worked for, he'd gotten the messages. Before Van had even taken his second step into the main foyer of what was clearly the consular section of the embassy, a fresh-faced and red-haired younger man, wearing a dark gray singlesuit with narrow green pinstripes, appeared.

"Commander Albert, ser?"

"That's me."

"Sean Bulben, ser. I'm fourth secretary here." He grinned. "That means I run errands and handle grunt work for everyone. Dr. Hannigan sent me to escort you."

"Lead on, Sean." Van laughed.

"This way, ser."

Van followed Bulben past another pair of Marines and down a corridor to a ramp leading upward to a landing, where it reversed its way back to the second level. Halfway up, Van could feel the security screens, but Bulben pulsed a code, and the screens let them pass.

At the top, Bulben stopped, gesturing to his left. "All the offices of important people are up here. Yours is, too. The ambassador's is on the south end, and yours and the first secretary's are on each side. You're on the west, and he's on the east." The young diplomat turned and walked along the corridor until they reached the next-to-last doorway on the left.

Bulben opened the door, holding it as if he expected Van to enter first.

Van did, stepping into a sitting room with a couch and several armchairs.

"You can leave your things here for the moment." Bulben rapped on the inner door. "Dr. Hannigan? Commander Albert is here."

"Have him come in. You can head back down to your duties, Sean."

Bulben looked to Van, then nodded and slipped away.

In turn, Van left the duffels in the outer office, but kept the shoulder bag as he opened the inner door and stepped through the dark wooden doorway. The office beyond was no more than four meters square. The innermost wall was entirely filled with shelves containing antique printed books. The outer wall held a window more than three meters wide and two high. The wall away from the door was paneled in the same dark oak as the doorframe, the bookshelves, and the window casements, but held only a single picture—a holo of the main parliament building in New Oisin.

The bronze nameplate on the old-style table desk read— Ian Hannigan. The man who stood behind the desk was a good six centimeters shorter than Van's hundred and ninety, with black hair, a long and narrow nose between two bright blue eyes incongruously alive and cheerful in an otherwise sad and thin face.

Van closed the door, leaving his gear behind in the outer office.

"Commander Albert... welcome." Hannigan gestured to the chairs across from him, then sat down exactly as Van did. "Ambassador Rogh wanted to see you as soon as you arrived and after I gave you a quick briefing on the situation here." Hannigan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the polished cherry of the desk, steepling his fingers. "How much do you know about what's happening here in Scandya system?"

"Only bits and pieces," Van replied. "I was ordered to bring the Fergus here, and I assumed that was because the Collyns was dispatched elsewhere. I'd heard that the previous military attaché drowned while sailing."

"That was the official story and report. I have my doubts it was true," Hannigan said. "I don't think he ever understood how dangerous Gotland can be."

"Do you have any reason for those doubts?" asked Van.

Hannigan leaned back slightly. A wry smile appeared, then vanished. "Not a one. The commander was most cautious. It seemed unlikely, but sometimes the unlikely happens."

"If it was not an accident, who might have wanted to kill him ... and why?"

"There's no shortage of possible perpetrators. The Revs don't like our presence here. Neither do the Keltyr. The local isolationists don't want any inside or outside military presence, and the Conservative Democrats want to arm Scandya to at least parity with us, and there's a demonstration by the partisans of one party or the other practically every month. The Argentis still believe that Scandya ought to be theirs, and that's after over two hundred years of Scandyan independence. The Eco-Tech Coalition looks down its collective nose at anyone who doesn't practice strict conservation and population control." Hannigan paused. "That's just the briefest of summaries. I have a set of datablocs for you with more detailed information."

"Are any of them angry or determined enough to assassinate a military attaché?"

"They all are. Whether they would, that's another question. Except for the Keltyr—and, of course, Scandya system itself—we're the weakest of those affected by what happens here. I've suggested to the ambassador that Commander Cruachan's death was a message."

"Or an attempt to raise tensions so that someone makes a mistake?" asked Van.

"That's another unfortunate possibility." Hannigan frowned. "I have to say that your posting here worries me. The marshal understands the ministry's concerns about an officer... of your inclination..."

Van managed to smile, hard as it was. "My reputed inclination, perhaps?"

"Unfortunately, Commander, your reputation is why you are here, and your reputation may be far more critical than your actual and present inclinations."

"Should I ask who you want destroyed?" Van let an edge creep into his voice.

Hannigan laughed, warmly. "We don't want anyone destroyed. Also, the senior military attaché ranks as a first secretary. So I couldn't order you to do anything, especially anything like that, and that would be the last thing Ambassador Rogh would want He believes that any problem can and should be solved diplomatically."

Van nodded. Hannigan had delivered another very clear message.

"You won't have much time to get abreast of the situation, because the summer social season is about to begin."

"Summer social season?"

"In most systems, things get social in the winter. Here, the winters were so brutal that the opposite social customs evolved. Summers are most pleasant here, you'll find, if warmer than one would think from the winter."

Van nodded.

"We don't have an intelligence network here, as such, except for you, and the rest of the professional staff, but there's an in-net where those who are inclined can post data and observations."

That didn't match the background information Van had studied, but he did not say anything.

"Let's go see the ambassador." Hannigan rose.

So did Van.

"Once he's seen you, I'll have your briefing materials, and have Sean show you to your quarters in the north wing. They're quite nice."

"And yours are where?"

"In the north wing on the opposite end." Hannigan laughed, then opened the door. Van picked up his gear once more and followed.

The ambassador had an actual assistant in his outer office, an older blonde who smiled as the two men entered.

"You must be Commander Albert. I'm Meg MacDonagh, the ambassador's personal assistant."

"Ah... that means you're the one who runs everything?" Van replied with a smile. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"She runs everything except the ambassador," Hannigan added.

"Just this little office," she demurred. "The ambassador is waiting for you, Commander. He said he'd see you at fifteen hundred, Doctor."

Hannigan nodded, then slipped out, closing the door behind him.

Once more, Van set aside his duffels and followed Mac-

Donagh, who opened the inner door without even knocking. "Commander Albert, Ambassador."

The ambassador's office was far larger than that of the first secretary—a space a good ten meters from side to side and eight in depth. The desk was faced out from the east wall, so that the ambassador could look to the door on the north wall or the wide window overlooking the formal garden below. Closer to the door, on the west wall, was a replica hearth with two armchairs, upholstered in green leather, facing it, a low table between them.

"I'm very glad to see you, Commander." Ambassador Rogh had faded red hair, a cheerful smile, green eyes, and a deep and reassuring voice, the kind that suggested that he was eminently trustworthy.

Van distrusted the voice and the man, but that wasn't new. After the Regneri incident, he'd come to realize that trusting any politician, civilian or military, was foolhardy and dangerous, if not usually occupationally fatal. "I'm here, Ambassador Rogh. Dr. Hannigan has indicated that we may be in for most interesting times."

As Meg MacDonagh stepped back, slipping out and closing the door, Ambassador Rogh nodded to the chairs before the hearth, with its replicated fire. "We need to chat, Commander."

Van waited until the older man eased into the chair facing the closed door before be seated himself.

"Your ultimate superior—the marshal," the ambassador began, "he believes that the best remedy for the uncertain situation here in the Scandya system would be a full RSF squadron orbiting Gotland and another orbiting Malmot. He doesn't have one squadron to send. So he sent you." A wintry smile crossed Rogh's face. "Just by arriving here, you delivered a message. The only problem is that we don't know who the recipient is."

"Message, ser?" asked Van politely.

"I know all about the unidentified cruiser you took out. Doubtless every embassy in Valborg knows, and certainly Marshal Kenaal does. Kenaal won't be displeased, because you did what he'd like to have done but doesn't have the resources for. Making you the senior military attaché sends a second message, but it's one we can't back up. That leaves you—and me—in a very exposed position. Commander."

"Can you tell me what happened to the Collyns, ser?"

Rogh frowned, an expression of considerable annoyance.

Van continued to smile, politely, waiting.

"I would... if I could. The marshal has not seen fit to inform me. Not so far. I had thought you might know."

"The Fergus was ordered here to replace the Collyns, but we received no information beyond that."

"We're in the same ship, then, Commander." Rogh laughed again, but the laugh faded quickly. After an interval of silence, he spoke again. "I'm sure that Ian told you about my preference for diplomatic solutions, or solutions that involve methods other than military might."

"He did."

"Part of that reflects Ian's own preferences. I feel we must avoid a military approach, not because I am philosophically opposed, but because a military solution is impractical for two reasons. First, it could only destabilize an already polarized local government. Second, we cannot raise forces anywhere close to the size of the Revenant and Argenti forces that could be brought to bear here—or against us. That means we must tread with care, using your expertise... and reputation ... as an implied statement of position, and not as a direct threat or confrontation..."

Van nodded.

"You will be working more closely with Cordelia Gregory than with the other secretaries. She is the second secretary, and she is an expert in trade and economics. Unlike poor Ian, she understands both the military capabilities and limitations. I will warn you, however, that she is not the greatest supporter of the RSF."

"Oh? Why would that be?"

"It would be better if she told you." Rogh stood. "It's good that you're here. We'll need to chat in more detail, in a day or so, once you've struggled through all the briefing materials and have a better understanding of the situation. But I did want to see you as soon as you arrived."

Sean Bulben was once more waiting for Van in the outer office, although Van had not sensed any messages being sent to the fourth secretary.

"I'll show you your office... then we'll set up your security codes and passes... and do the same for your quarters.... Once you're settled, of course, you'll take control of the embassy security systems and codes. I had to do it, because ... well... no one else wanted to." Sean smiled apologetically.

Van had no doubts that the afternoon would be very long, as would the days that followed.

Chapter 8

By the end of eightday, four days after his arrival in Valborg, Van's head was splitting. Learning the procedures and systems on a new ship was simple compared to all the economic, local military, and related cultural and political information he'd been expected to assimilate. He'd reset the embassy security systems and made some changes to the operating parameters. Those changes had been met with amused tolerance by the professional staff—and he hadn't told anyone about the overrides that only he could use. The worst part was that so much of what he'd had to study contained equivocations and qualifications that made him cringe.

He also doubted that anyone truly understood the conflicts and the seesaw balance of power between the two political parties of Gotland—except perhaps Premier Gustofsen.

He glanced around his office—almost a mirror duplicate of Hannigan's, even to the placement of the table desk and chairs and the built-in wall bookcase, although there were far fewer volumes, and some shelves were totally bare. After taking a momentary break, he looked back at the words on his office console screen....

... while ostensibly an open society, the Scandya system planets have consistently denied access to alien species. Most puzzling was the immediate and adamant denial of relations with the Farhkan Colloquy following independence, since the Farhkans have had a long history of disinterested study and noninvolvement in human societies... later analyses suggested that Scandyan leaders were concerned that the observational program agreed to by the Eco-Tech Coalition during the war between the Coalition and the Community of the Revealed had resulted in fundamental and undesirable impacts upon Eco-Tech culture and that Scandya did not wish to suffer a similar fate. This tentative conclusion remains unproven, but whether unproven or not, the position of Scandya with regard to nonhuman aliens remains unchanged, although the Farhkans have not made any effort to reopen the question...

Van rubbed his forehead. Could the ship that had attacked the Fergus been Farhkan? No ... the observed characteristics had been human. Also, no human ship had ever successfully survived an armed confrontation with a Farhkan vessel. While every one of those confrontations had been far earlier and begun by a human vessel, human arms technology still did not appear to have attained the same level as that of the Farhkans.

So ... who had been directing the attacking cruiser? And why?

In some ways, the "why" was simpler. Whoever controlled the Scandya system gained a strategic staging point and leverage. If the Revs controlled it, they nearly encircled the "lower" systems in the Argenti sphere. If the Argentis did, they had a straight jumpshot at two of the major Rev military missionary/staging bases. If the Keltyr gained control of Scandya, they'd have enough of a technological base to challenge Tara. The RSF was in a position where whatever it did in Scandya, it couldn't gain—only lose. And that didn't help.

Van continued reading for another half hour, when there was a discreet tap on his door. "Yes?"

Sean Bulben opened the door and peered in. "Commander? You asked me to let you know when Dr. Gregory returned. She's in her office now. It's the one right off the ramp."

"Thank you, Sean."

As Hannigan had intimated, Cordelia Gregory had made a point of avoiding Van, and for several days, he had let her. Enough was enough, however. Van used his implant to flick off the console, then stood, making his way out through his empty outer office and into the main corridor. The second and third secretaries did not have outer offices or sitting rooms. So Van knocked on the door.

"Come in." The woman's voice was firm, resonant with only the slightest hint of the melodic.

He opened the door and stepped inside, bowing slightly as he did.

Dr. Cordelia Gregory was dark-haired, with pale white skin and deep, dark green eyes. Her lips and eyebrows were thin. She rose from behind her desk.

"Dr. Gregory, I'm Van Albert. Dr. Hannigan had indicated that it was likely we'd be working together, and I thought I should introduce myself. I'd left several messages, but it seemed as though we were always missing each other."

"It is most likely that we will be working together." Her words were polite, even, and without the slightest hint of warmth. "There is often a correlation between economic and military data and their implications."

"I fear that you have far more experience in such correlations than do I."

"That is to be expected. The RSF usually considers economic and social concerns as of far less import than military ones."

"And the diplomatic corps is often known for the reverse," Van pointed out. "Which might be why it would be advantageous to work together." He wondered why she was clearly so hostile to him. He'd never even met the woman before.

"I'm certain that is what is expected, and I'll offer any professional assistance you may find necessary, Commander."

Van didn't know what to say. He'd effectively been dismissed by someone subordinate to him, but he wasn't in a military situation, and a quiet reminder or reprimand wasn't appropriate. Yet, accepting such an attitude from the doctor wasn't wise, either. "Without more than your passive assistance, Doctor, I doubt that we will meet anyone's expectations, and that would not be advantageous for you, for me, or for the Republic."

"I stand corrected, Commander." Gregory's tone was even more chill.

Van offered a smile, rueful and as warm as he could make it. "I wasn't offering a correction, just an observation." He paused. "I'm not a diplomat, trained in the observation of human nature to read entire motivations from subtle gestures. It's clear even to me that either who or what I am displeases you. Yet unless I'm hopelessly mistaken, we've never met"

"You're correct, Commander. We have not met" Gregory offered a tight smile. "And I'm sorry to say that who and what you are is hard for me."

"A commander in the RSF?"

"Not just a commander."

"Then what?" Van could sense the tension in both her posture and her words. "My older sister was on the Regneri."

"I'm sorry."

"I am most certain you are. At least, as sorry as any officer devoted to violence could be."

What could he say to that? After a moment he bowed his head slightly. "I also stopped eating babies a good twenty years ago, Doctor."

Her face paled, and she stiffened.

Before she could speak, he added, softly. "I am sorry for your loss. I'm also sorry for all those who lost loved ones on the Regneri. No one could have predicted what happened, and nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, such a freakish event would not have occurred. That doesn't make it any less painful for you, or your family. I am not sorry for those who died aboard the Vetachi, and, faced with that situation again, I would still have to try to stop the Vetachi. The renegades who commanded that ship had already killed over a thousand innocents on Freya and on Culain. They would have killed more, had I let them escape."

"You've obviously rehearsed that answer."

"No. I've thought about it, and for what it's worth, I still have nightmares about it, Doctor. But you might recall that the Vetachi was effectively a cruiser, and I had a corvette, far smaller, with shields easily crushed by such a large ship in any protracted fight. Either way, the situation was far from optimal. I knew there was a good chance that my corvette might not survive, but I had to take that chance. That was what we were there for, although none of us on the Eochaid was undertaking a suicide mission. No one ever could have anticipated that a successful attack would release a torp that would home in on the Regneri. The Board of Inquiry established that such an event could and did happen only because of improper weapons control on the renegade, and even so, the odds of something like that happening were infinitesimal."

"That's the problem with force and violence, Commander."

"I agree, Doctor. It is a problem. It has always been a problem. The concomitant problem is that sometimes the other answers are worse. Letting the Vetachi escape would only have condemned more innocents to die, perhaps many more."

"I know that my sister died. You don't know that letting the Vetachi go would have led to more deaths."

"No. I don't." Van refrained from noting that the doctor didn't know the opposite, either. "Not with absolute certainty. But ships from three separate Arm governments had been looking for the Vetachi for two years. During that time, they plundered a colony ship and three orbital outposts and killed over four hundred people."

"Commander... I don't think that you will ever convince me, and it's probably even less likely that I'll convince you. You have convinced me of one thing, and that I can live with."

Van waited.

"You're not entirely the monster I envisioned. I think you were wrong. I always will, but it's clear you made a reasoned decision under stress and tried to do the best you could. It's also clear from every word you've said, and in the way that you've said it, that it will always remain with you. I'm glad for that. It's not something that should be forgotten."

"No. And I won't." Not with nightmares for ten years.

"I sincerely hope that is so, and I hope that you still have occasional nightmares. I do."

Van wasn't quite certain what to say to that.

"I will work with you, Commander. I cannot say I will ever be more than cordial. I loved my sister."

"That... would be helpful."

"Did you have something in mind?" she asked.

"Not yet. No ... there is something. Could you do a rough analysis of the cost and resource commitment of maintaining a cruiser on station in the Scandya system for a month without access to any local orbit facilities?"

"Such as the unknown cruiser that attacked the Fergus? I can do that." Gregory nodded, a curt movement.

Van hadn't told anyone, but Gregory knew. "The ambassador told you?"

"Just me and the first secretary."

"The ship didn't match any profile in the RSF databanks. I just wondered if there might be any sort of social or economic analysis that might help with identification."

She pursed her lips. "Just in a general sense. Building and operating that large a deep-space vessel would show in the stats of any of the smaller systems, even in the Republic's stats, and in the Keltyr stats. But the economies of the major Arm governments—the Argenti, the Revenants, the Coalition—are large enough that even a multilateral could build or convert such a ship without its showing up."

"And piracy from farther away is also a possibility," mused Van.

"You don't think so."

"No. Someone had to have a reason to attack the Fergus. You don't attack an armed vessel except for a very good reason. The Fergus would show up on any EDI detector as a warship. I'm inclined to doubt the attack was because they mistook the Fergus for another ship."

"I'm not military, but I would agree."

"You have any problems where my expertise might help?" asked Van.

"Actually ... yes." Gregory lifted a databloc. "I've laid them out here."

As he took the databloc, Van wondered if everywhere he went people would recall his past and act as suspiciously. Still... by confronting the issue with the doctor, he'd turned open and cold anger into something less, and anything less was better than where they had started.

"I'll look into them I might have to check back with you."

"That's fine, Commander. I'm not going anywhere this week."

Van bowed slightly as he left.

Chapter 9

At ten minutes past noon on twoday, Van sat in the embassy's senior staff dining room at a table for four. Across from him was Ian Hannigan. To his right was Cordelia Gregory, and to his left Emily Clifton, the embassy's third secretary. The other three tables were vacant.

Before seating himself, Hannigan had moved the purple-and-white orchid centerpiece to an adjoining table. "Better to have a senior staff meeting over lunch." Hannigan looked at Van.

"Double duty," Van agreed.

"And it's easier to swallow your words with food," added Emily Clifton, with a twinkle in the gray eyes that seemed at variance with the severe face and pulled-back blond hair.

The hint of a frown crossed Hannigan's face, then vanished.

Van made a note to spend more time with Clifton, swamped as he felt in trying to learn a position for which he'd had neither training nor experience.

A squarish middle-aged servingwoman appeared with a tray from which she took four salads. Van used only the red vinegar on his greenery, skipping the oil. With the rich food provided by the embassy, he felt he should be skipping even more, much as his internal nanites balanced his metabolism. He took a sip of the café—hot enough, but weak and brownish.

"The first order of business," began Hannigan, "is housekeeping. The ministry auditors have requested that we keep better track of personal use of embassy vehicles." Once more, he looked to Van. "You probably won't have much personal usage, but, because your personal reimbursements come from the RSF diplomatic account, and they're always late, it's very important that you log your personal usage immediately."

"I can see that," Van replied.

"The second item is the upcoming Scandyan independence celebration ... the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary. I've posted the details on the master schedule, with notes to each of you."

"How will that affect us directly?" asked Van, not wanting to access the net in the middle of a conversation and also wanting to see what Hannigan had to say.

"The ambassador will have to be present at the ceremony. You'll need to coordinate with the SDF to ensure security precautions are adequate. We'll also be hosting several functions..."

"Over several weeks?"

"It's a two-week celebration. We'll have an opening night reception—that's always been rotated, and this year it's our turn. Then there will be the luncheon that the ambassador's wife will host the following week, and the Boating Day Festival ... and the final reception..."

The servingwoman appeared with four plates. Van's held the Circassian Beef with noodles. He took a bite, enjoying the taste of real food.

"The festivities the night before end with fireworks and a holo-laser display," added Emily Clifton. "It's quite spectacular—especially the first two or three times you see it."

"Now... it is very important to the Scandyans," said Hannigan.

"How do the Argentis feel about it?" asked Van.

"They participate, as do all the embassies. It was two hundred and fifty years ago, and times have changed."

From what Van recalled, the Argentis never forgot anything, and he doubted that they'd forget a rebellion that had cost them both pride and strategic position—even after two hundred and fifty years.

"There's also the embassy fund drive for the Byrnedot Home." Hannigan looked to Clifton.

"Sean's in charge of that, and he reported that all embassy staffers have contributed."

Van had been cornered by the fourth secretary on the third day, and, discretion besting valor, had also agreed to a modest contribution.

"Then ... there's the education initiative...

Van repressed a yawn, listening and finishing off the remainder of his lunch.

"... and last, I'd like you all to think about your sections of the annual report. Those will be due in draft at the end of Septem, and both Commander Albert and I will be reviewing them, then circulating the drafts, including our own sections, for your comments." Hannigan smiled broadly, then asked, perfunctorily, "Do any of you have any questions or comments?"

"Yes ... actually," Van said quickly. "Was there any investigation of Commander Cruachan's death? I can't find any references to it on the netsystem."

"Oh... there were two RSF security officers. There wasn't really much to investigate about the commander's death. They just went over the Scandyan constabulary's reports, then checked his body to make sure that the reports were accurate. They also did a security check of the embassy netsystem. That's standard anytime a senior staffer dies on duty, whatever the cause. They reported that the commander had drowned, as the Scandyan investigation had shown, and that there was no breach of security in the netsystem." Hannigan shrugged. "That report would only have been on Cruachan's access, mine, and the ambassador's, but it wasn't put on Cruachan's, since he was dead. I'll put a copy on yours, and you can read it yourself. Very dry."

"Thank you." Van nodded.

"Is there anything else? Good. We'll meet on fiveday next week." Hannigan smiled and pushed his chair back.

When Van returned to his office, he glanced out the window at the hills to the west, golden green in the early summer sun. He checked the netsystem. The report on Cruachan's death wasn't there yet. So he slipped out of his office and down the corridor to the doorway to the third secretary's office—slightly ajar.

"You can come in, Commander," Emily Clifton called. "Close the door after you."

Van closed the door and settled into the single chair across the standard desk from the third secretary. "I got your message."

"Message?"

Van let his face remain expressionless.

Abruptly, Clifton's severe face screwed up into laughter. Finally, she shook her head. "It's hard... to remember... that all uniforms aren't the same. Even after..."

"Commander Cruachan ... would he have sent a message of a most discreetly polite nature?"

"How did you know? Did you know him?"

"No. But I've read his reports, and you do get a feel for people by the way they write."

"You've been having a hard time with Cordelia, haven't you?"

"Let's say that we've established a working relationship. I doubt it will ever be more."

"I'd guess not. That was all Commander Cruachan managed, with all his gallant manners."

"I'm afraid I'm more direct than he was."

"I noticed." Clifton's voice was dryly ironic, but not cold.

"Since I am... what should I be doing that I haven't been—that affects you, that is?"

"You are direct."

"I learned a long time ago that I got into trouble trying to be subtle." He laughed softly. "Then I got into more trouble being direct."

"Sometimes, it's that way." After a moment she went on. "I can't say that I need any help with anything at this moment"

"I might," Van offered.

The thin blond eyebrows lifted, and the gray eyes fixed on him.

"You deal with the other embassies, right? And with the local media?"

She nodded. "The media here are very local. That's why we put out the summaries of the Arm news, the burst transmissions that come in on standing wave. The locals get it but you won't see much of it in the local casts or holos."

"Have you seen any shift in reporting in the last two months, or anything different in the attitudes or appearances of the other embassies?"

Clifton shook her head again. "That's one of the things I'm tasked with, and I can say I haven't seen any changes at all. After the commander's death, I wondered, and I went back and ran a whole series of analyses. The newscasts, the localnet content, everything. We got exactly the same results as the year before, and the year before that—going back almost a decade." Her face turned severe once more. "The commander's death bothers you. You wanted a reaction, didn't you? Otherwise, you would have asked Dr. Hannigan privately. Why?"

"Because it led to my being posted here, and I'm not that qualified for the post, if you haven't noticed already."

"You are direct"

"Better to be direct, and acknowledge the obvious, and get on with learning the job, than pretending you know more than you do."

That got another laugh before Clifton said, "You're acting as if you think that Commander Cruachan's death wasn't an accident."

"I don't know that" Van wasn't about to admit that was the only explanation that felt right and that he had absolutely no evidence, except the unlikelihood that a senior officer who had great experience sailing would drown on a calm day.

"Let me think about it," offered the third secretary.

"Thank you." Van smiled and rose. "And I will stop by more frequently."

For a moment her smile erased the severity of her face.

Chapter 10

By fiveday, Van was pacing back and forth in his office. Virtually all he had done for an eightday was read reports and papers, all necessary because he'd effectively known nothing about Scandya and even less about being a military attaché. He'd seen almost nothing of Valborg.

Abruptly, he walked out of his office and down the corridor. He paused outside Emily Clifton's door, then knocked.

"Come in."

Van slipped inside her office. "I have a favor to ask, if you're not terribly busy."

"I'm not that busy, not until tomorrow. After I turn in the revisions to the media plan for the Scandyan independence celebration, Ian will decide on all sorts of changes. Why? What is this favor?"

"A short guided tour of Valborg, especially the sights I should see."

"Sean could—"

"But Sean doesn't know as much as you do, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd guide me."

A faint smile crossed Emily's face. "I imagine Dr. Hannigan would not complain if you knew more about Valborg from the embassy's perspective." The smile broadened slightly. "And I would not mind a few hours away from the revised, revised, and rerevised media plan."

"Are you sure?"

"Let me see if we can get a car and driver."

Van stood and waited while Emily made the arrangements, and then the two of them walked out of her office and down the ramp to the main level.

A groundcar stood waiting outside the side staff door to the embassy. Emily walked ahead of Van and stopped by the open driver's window. "Sonya ... we're going to give Commander Albert a tour, starting with the Government Square, and then the harbor, and the multi district."

"Yes, ser," replied the woman. "Up Knutt to Independence and into the square off that?"

"That would be fine."

Van held the groundcar door for the third secretary.

"You don't have to do that, Commander."

"Old courtesies die hard," he replied, shutting her door and walking around to the other side, where he slipped into the rear seat beside her.

"Valborg was built on a plantation scale," Emily began, as the groundcar eased out of the gates and crossed the southbound lane of Knutt to turn north. "That's why the main streets are all divided boulevards, and why, except in the newer sections southwest of the city, all the houses are relatively far apart even the small ones. They had this illusion of equality, and that anyone could live anywhere, because the prices of the initial parcels were fixed, with the requirement that they not be subdivided. That's why you'll find small houses beside mansions in many places." She laughed. "The fixed prices didn't last, of course, but the size requirements did. Now this part of the city is one of the more exclusive ones."

Van took in the dwellings on each side. Immediately to the north of the embassy was a private residence half the size of the embassy—enormous for a single-family dwelling—with a gated groundcar entry, and beyond that was a much smaller house, perhaps half the size of the one in which Van had grown up. Both dwellings were stone-walled, with blackish green slate roofs. They passed several more smaller houses, on either side of Knutt, also of stone and slate, before Sonya guided the groundcar onto a curving ramp that led into an even wider boulevard heading eastward, in what Van knew to be the general direction of the harbor and government center.

"We're on Independence now," Emily explained.

Van glanced from one side of the boulevard to the other. On both sides were white permastone walks. "I don't see many people out."

"You won't, except on the enddays, and then you'll see a lot more, mostly running and jogging. Things are so spread out—except in the true center of Valborg or the southwest— that it's hard to get anywhere except by groundcar or guide-way tram."

"Doesn't seem that efficient..."

"That wasn't the goal of the original settlers—On your side, there, that's the old Kleborg mansion. It's a museum now, and it's been kept in its original state, except restored, of course."

Van looked, but behind the white stone walls could see only the upper stories of another sprawling stone-walled structure. "Everything's stone..."

"It took a while to get trees here. Most of them are less than a century old, something about a native root worm ... A lot of the older places are stone and synthwood."

"Not many groundcars for these boulevards," Van observed.

"Same problem... they built big and wide, and far apart. So, except in the morning or late afternoon, they look almost deserted."

"That's expensive..."

"The original settlers had the credits... brought in twice as much planoforming equipment as they needed. What they didn't bring in was much military capability. That's how the Argentis could take over so easily. On your left, across the median park there, that's the original opera house. It's still used today—only in the winter, and with the winters here, even you'll be going."

With his own background, Van would have gone anyway.

As they neared the gleaming buildings to the east, Emily continued to point out various landmarks. "... music conservatory ... post-Argenti... botanical institute... Up ahead, on the hill overlooking the lower city and the harbor, that rectangle of buildings is Government Square..."

Sonya turned right, off Independence Boulevard and into the first crowded street or avenue that Van had seen. They drove up a gentle incline, past an area of greenery set in ascending terraces. The park was surrounded by low white stone walls, and held more than a few people either walking or seated on white stone benches.

"That's the public garden, or rather the northern part. Beyond that is the square, and the Parliamentary Assembly Hall—the long, flat-walled building."

The groundcar slowed almost to a crawl in the heavier traffic.

The Assembly Hall was the most unpretentious government building Van had ever seen—literally a long white stone box with rectangular windows at irregular intervals, with a set of wide and low stone steps in the middle, leading to a squared entryway. The Scandyan flag flew on a single staff above the entryway, but there were no domes, cupolas, minarets—nothing rising above the level roof of the building. People actually walked across the square, and several groups were standing on the steps.

"The Liberal Commons party controlled the government when it was built, and they felt that government buildings in other systems were too grandiose..."

The Assembly Hall could never have been charged with that, Van reflected.

"The lawns that circle the building are considered part of the square ... and it overlooks the harbor... can see if you look left how it slopes down to the lower city and the harbor ... Any questions?" asked Emily.

"No, not about Government Square," Van replied. He did wonder why she did not seem to have any admirers—at least, not from what he could see. He knew that the first and second secretaries were married, but he hadn't seen their significant others.

But Emily had a subdued directness that attracted Van, although he wasn't quite sure why. That, he had to admit, even as he pushed away the thoughts of anything serious. Not when he had so much yet to learn and so many unresolved questions.

Chapter 11

What is "ethical" or moral? A general definition is that actions that conform to a "right set of principles" are ethical. Such a definition begs the question. Whose principles? On what are those principles based? Do those principles arise from reasoned development by rational scholars? Or from "divine" inspiration? Does it matter, so long as they inspire moral and ethical behavior?

For some, it does matter, as it did for the ancient author who claimed that without a deity, every action is permitted. In practice, with or without a deity, every action is permitted unless human social structures preclude it. Yet, on what principles are those social structures based? Ethics and morality?

Such questioning can quickly run in circles, especially since most individuals wish to think well of themselves, and it is difficult to think well of oneself if one defines one's own activities as immoral or unethical. For example, genocide can be rationalized as an ethical means to racial purity, or as a means for societal survival, and both purity and survival can easily be rationalized, and have been throughout history, as ethical.

Are values and behaviors that perpetuate a given society ethical per se? Are values handed down by prophets and religious figures as the word of a deity necessarily more ethical than those developed by ethicists and scholars?

Theocracies and other societies using religious motives, or pretexts, have undertaken genocide, torture, and war. Ideologues without the backing of formal religious doctrine or established theocratic organizations have done the same.

The obvious conclusion is that "moral" values must be ethical in and of themselves, and not through religious or secular authority or rationalized logic. This leads to the critical questions. How can one define what is ethical without resorting to authority, religious doctrine, or societal expediency? And whom will any society trust to make such a judgment, particularly one not based on authority, doctrine, or expediency?

Values, Ethics, and Society Exton Land New Oisin, Tara 1117 S.E.

Chapter 12

By twoday of his second week in Valborg, Van had learned as much as he could, without more context, from the records left by Commander Cruachan and from Doctors Hannigan and Gregory. The RSF Security report on Cruachan's death was both detailed and dry, and concluded that the commander had drowned after being struck from behind by the boom of his catamaran and that there had been no breach of embassy security. Emily Clifton had confirmed that media patterns of other embassies and local media had not varied after the commander's death.

Outside of a few inquiries from Hannigan and the ambassador and one briefing paper that the ambassador had requested on Keltyr military forces, Van had been left largely to his own devices. He had found the small exercise facility, and resumed his fitness program, something he hated almost as much as being reminded of the Regneri.

Dr. Gregory's reaction to the Regneri tragedy still bothered Van, almost as much as his own nightmares. Cordelia Gregory was an intelligent woman, and yet her entire focus had been on her sister. There had been little real understanding or compassion for the hundreds of others killed by the renegades—or for the additional deaths that would have followed if the Vetachi had escaped. Her reaction had also convinced Van that there would be little he could ever say in that regard, and that further discussions on the subject would only be fruitless.

On the strictly professional front, Van hadn't wanted to take on the Keltyr or the Revenant military attachés immediately, and he especially hadn't wanted to meet the Argenti attaché until he knew more about the local Scandyan situation. He was also surprised to find that the Eco-Tech Coalition did not have a full embassy, but only a liaison and consulate office.

As he'd worked through the files, Van had studied Cruachan's reports in greater detail. He could sense he was missing something, but he wasn't sure what. So he kept searching and discovered that the commander had often met with a Commodore Petrov of the Scandyan System Defense Force. There were no notes on the substance of the meetings. Van had decided to meet with Petrov.

Getting an appointment had been easy enough, and nine hundred on fourday found him in an embassy groundcar, headed northward toward the headquarters complex of the Scandyan SDF. Clouds loomed over the hills to the west, hinting at a late afternoon rain, and the air smelled faintly of dust and a scent somewhere between a sweet weedgrass and swamp roses.

Van's driver was a slender Scandyan named Stefan.

"Do you recall how often Commander Cruachan came out here?" Van asked.

"He used to come out here almost every eightday."

"I've gotten the impression that he was a very straightforward man."

Stefan cocked his head, as if thinking. "Honest... that he was. And honorable. He talked, once, about how much simpler life was as a ship commander."

"I've already discovered that. Did he say why?"

"I can't say that he did, ser. He didn't talk much, except about sailing and the weather, and sometimes about not understanding women."

Had Cruachan also had a run-in with Cordelia Gregory? "He liked sailing, didn't he?"

"He did, ser. He liked to sail by himself. He said it was a way to clear his thoughts."

"We can all use that at times."

"Yes, ser."

The Scandyan SDF headquarters was housed in a six-sided, two-level building constructed of the same bluish marble as the shuttle terminal. Stefan guided the groundcar up to the receiving gatehouse set forward of the eastern wing, where Van stepped out of the car and up to the booth before the single gate. The Scandyan tech in summer whites seated behind the nanite screen looked at him. Yes, ser?"

"Commander Van Albert, Taran embassy. I have an appointment at nine-thirty with Commodore Petrov." Van slid across his military datacard, and waited.

The sentry ran the datacard under the scanner, then handed it back, along with a thin white wand. "You're cleared to Commodore Petrov's office. It's on the first level in section three. The wand will guide you. If you go past the office, it turns red. If you go too far, it whistles. Then you'll find security all around you. Just keep the end of the wand green, and you'll get there."

"Thank you."

"That's what we're here for, ser." The young man smiled.

The gate opened as Van walked toward it. The building wings were larger inside than they had seemed from outside. His boots echoed in the stone corridors, and he passed but a handful of rankers and officers—no civilians—as he let the wand guide him. All in all, it was a good ten minutes before he reached the outer office of the commodore, with a small sign proclaiming, external affairs: commodore rafel petrov. The wand had remained green, and Van had not seen any sign of security, but his implant had registered more than four scans from various units.

As he entered, Van could sense another scan, triggered by the senior ranker stationed behind a console and screen just inside the doorway.

"Commander Albert, Commodore Petrov is expecting you. The center archway, if you please, ser."

Van nodded and headed for the center archway, another scanning station. As he passed through, the door at the other end opened, and he stepped into a spacious office. The wide southern windows looked out upon a paved courtyard. Standing beside a conference table was Commodore Petrov—who could have passed for either Scandyan or Revenant—blue-eyed, blond, tall, and impressive in immaculate summer white uniform.

"Greetings, Commander Albert." The older officer gestured toward the empty seats at the table, even as he reseated himself.

"I'm glad that we could get together," Van replied.

"So am I. When did you arrive in Valborg?"

"A little more than an eightday ago." Van offered what he hoped was a rueful smile. "My transfer was unexpected, and it's taken a little while to get caught up on what was waiting."

"I imagine. I'd heard that Ambassador Rogh had finally gotten a replacement for Commander Cruachan. Fine officer. One of the most honest officers I've met."

"I didn't know him, but everyone reported that he was most accomplished. And honest." Van laughed. "It's always a challenge replacing someone like that."

"What is life without challenges?" countered Petrov. "Would you care for something to drink?"

"Café ... strong, if you have it."

"Your predecessor liked it that way as well." Petrov's face blanked for just a fraction of a second as he accessed his net Through his own implant Van could feel the quick pulse, but could not decipher either the protocol or the message. "Could be a deepspace habit."

"It might well be." An amused smile followed Petrov's words. "I had hoped that you would follow the example of your predecessor. He was most diligent in informing me of the concerns of your RSF, and in turn, I was equally diligent in conveying our interests and concerns."

Van had to concentrate to follow Petrov's accented Old Anglo, although he hadn't had quite so much difficulty with the embassy service staff recruited from Scandya. "That could be mutually beneficial in these times."

"Information is useful in all times," Petrov replied. "You are correct that it is even more so in these times. We do share certain common interests..."

"I would think so."

Petrov did not speak for a moment and Van wondered if he had said something wrong. Then a side door slid open, and a ranker stepped though with a tray on which were two cups filled with steaming liquid. The ranker set the tray on the conference table midway between the two officers, then departed as silently as he had come.

"The café is closest to you," said Petrov. "The pitcher is heavy cream, a specialty here if you care to try it"

"And you?"

"Tea. I inherited the taste from my grandfather. It's an old Russe custom, and I found I liked tea far better than café or other beverages."

Van sipped the café. It was strong, but good, not oily or with the faintly burned taste that came from overroasted beans. "Good café."

"Commander Cruachan thought so." Petrov took a sip of his tea before continuing. "The interest most common to us both is the desire not to be perceived as a threat to the three major powers that surround Scandya. The next common interest is to maintain a stable government."

"I know that is a problem" Van said, "but not why."

"Simply put, Commander, for hundreds of years, Scandya has had an internal cultural conflict. The first settlers fled well ahead of the Old Earth diaspora, and they wanted nothing to do with anyone else. We were the first system settled in this region of the Arm. Then, about four hundred years ago, the Argentis arrived, with their fleets. We had none. As conquerors, their rein was comparatively light, and they upgraded and modernized our industry and technology. They were sensitive to our feelings about... our culture ... and most of those they resettled here came from similar cultural and racial heritages."

"Such as your family?" Van guessed.

"Exactly. Except those of us from that heritage knew that we could not remain free, even after the rebellion, unless we developed and maintained an armed force. The recidivists, who persist in calling themselves Liberals, have opposed that. In the few times when they have controlled the assembly, they have tried to reduce or eliminate the SDR."

Van nodded.

"So now we find ourselves between conflicting powers, and we have little interest in being allied to any of those. Your government is one of the least objectionable, but even your RSF wishes to enhance its position here and throughout the Arm so that the Taran Republic is considered close to an equal of the Coalition or the Revenant theocracy."

"Theocracy?"

Petrov shrugged. "That is what they are. It has been less than a year since they annexed Samarra, and already there are tales of what has happened...."

"Tales?" Van said, wondering how Petrov might respond.

"What one would expect from a theocracy. Those who protest excessively either have no jobs or exceedingly low-paid jobs for long hours. Professionals who do not convert find themselves slowly isolated. But... as I was saying, too often those in our line of work are forced to use political terms of little meaning. In private, I prefer to be more accurate."

Van laughed. "How would you describe the Taran Republic... accurately?"

"Do you wish to know?"

Van wasn't sure he wanted to. "It would be best if I did."

"Ah... an honest man. You do not particularly wish to know, but know you must. Very well... the Taran Republic is a system moving from controlled democratic anarchy to bureaucratic democracy, on its way to greater power and Byzantine complexity and ethical degeneration. There will be more unrest, and a possible military coup if the government does not seem to respond to the events perceived to threaten the Republic."

A coup? "Don't all governments risk ethical degeneration as the territory they control increases?"

"They do indeed. That is one reason why Scandya never sought more systems. The other was that by the time we regained an adequate technological basis to expand, all the systems around us were already controlled by others with larger fleets. We like to claim ethical reasons for our comparative weakness." Petrov laughed.

Van smiled. Petrov's directness was both refreshing and disarming, as it was certainly intended to be. "Don't we all like to claim we're acting ethically?"

Petrov did not answer that question, remaining silent for a moment before speaking again. "I understand you were commanding the Fergus, and that you ran into some... difficulty ... after you came out of jump. Our EDI records suggest it might even have been some sort of conflict. With a much larger vessel. You have more skill than your RSF will admit."

Van shrugged. "We noted some strange EMP activity. I'm sure you understand. You seem to have very competent personnel, and I imagine that they're usually quite accurate in their analyses of these sorts of things."

Petrov nodded. "They are indeed, and, I'm most glad to know that you feel that way as well. The EDI patterns could not have matched an Argenti or a Revenant ship, and it would have been highly unlikely that it could have been a Coalition vessel."

Van smiled. "You mean, if there had been a conflict, any Eco-Tech vessel of that size would have prevailed because it would have been worth twice its size in combat?"

"Sometimes three times. Coalition corvettes have destroyed battle cruisers." Petrov sipped his tea. "How are you finding Valborg?"

"I've seen very little, so far."

"You should see the Cliff Spire—the real home of Scandyan independence, you know, although you won't find it listed as such in the histories. And the purple surf at Eschen, and in the winter, the ice caves of Maloa."

"I'll see what I can do after I dig my way clear of all the reports." Van took another sip of the café. "Do you have any other suggestions?"

Petrov rested his forefinger against his temple for a moment "I will have to think about that I like to suggest things that appeal to each individual, and I fear I do not know you well enough to make further suggestions." He leaned back and lifted a datacube, which he extended to Van. "This contains all the public releases the SDF has made since the death of your predecessor. There is a great amount of information there, and I thought that you would find it helpful in this form. That way, when we meet again, we may be able to discuss any of those items about which you may have questions."

Van took the cube, slipping it into his jacket pocket "I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"Not at all. You need to know what we are doing, and I need to know how your government feels. That I cannot know unless you are well informed." Petrov pushed back his chair and stood. "Next time, we will have more to discuss, but it has been a pleasure."

"For me as well."

As Van rose, Petrov added. "You know that Commander Cruachan was not only a fine sailor, but he had once been an underwater operative? A most accomplished and amazing man, and I do miss him. It is a pleasure to see that you share some of his traits, and I do hope that we will have many more meetings where we can exchange information."

"So do I, Commodore. So do I."

Petrov remained standing and smiling as Van left the office.

As Van let the wand guide him back toward the front of the headquarters building, he considered Petrov's parting words. Cruachan had once been an underwater operative? That meant subconscious-level nanite breathing capacity. The man couldn't have drowned—not accidentally. How would Petrov have known? What did Petrov have to gain, either by revealing the truth, if that were what he did, or lying?

As he hurried toward the waiting groundcar, Van had the feeling that Petrov had told the truth. That in itself was chilling. And why had he offered Van a datacube rather than shooting a straight transmission to Van at the embassy? Until he studied the contents of the cube, Van couldn't even guess at that.

After reaching the embassy, on the way back to his office, he stopped at Emily Clifton's door, paused, then knocked. "Come in, Commander."

"Thank you." Van closed the old-fashioned wooden door behind him, but did not sit down.

Clifton had stood as he entered. "How can I help you?"

"It's an odd question, but... Have you ever been to Cliff Spire?"

Her expression turned quizzical. "No. Should I have been?"

"I don't know. Several people have recommended that I go see it."

"That's the historical site—the house of the last Argenti planetary governor, isn't it? I always wondered why the Scandyans made it a memorial."

"Perhaps we should go out there on one of the enddays and see why?"

"If that is an invitation, Commander, I will accept." Again, the smile smoothed out the severity of the third secretary's face.

"If you're accepting, it's an invitation." They both laughed. "How are things going?" she asked. "More slowly and in a more complex fashion than I'd hoped, but about as I had expected."

"You're a realist. I imagine you've had to be."

"Yes. One learns." She nodded.

Van cleared his throat. "That's all I had, but... thank you, and we'll work out the time for sevenday—if that's all right with you?"

"Sevenday will be good."

With a nod, Van ducked out of the third secretary's door.

Back in his own office, Van realized what had bothered him. Commander Cruachan had been on leave for a week before the "accident," and Van could have sworn that some of the reports were dated during that period. He used his implant to set up another netsystem search.

Search complete, announced the net after several moments.

Before reviewing those search results, Van checked the netsystem for any background on Commander Cruachan. As Van had suspected, all personnel details on the commander had been removed after his death, and there was no way to get to them, except through the headquarters personnel system at RSF HQ.

Van went through the commander's reports. Four of the reports, although dated before Cruachan's death, indicated that they had been changed more than a week after his reported death date. One had been dated "officially" six days before the commander's death, and there was no way to access the more secure levels of the embassy from outside the embassy—not unless Cruachan had been more than a mere attaché, and that raised even more questions.

Van called up the first of the reports with the altered dates, reading through it carefully.

... Local news sources have reported increased high-tech info-trades between Scandya and the Coalition and between Scandya and the Argentis. The Scandyan Trade Ministry has declined to provide details, citing the information as privileged...

The report went on to provide data on Scandyan microtronics production. Why would the commander have even bothered with a report dealing with standard microtronics? That area was Cordelia Gregory's.

Van called up the second report with the anomalous date. It was about local shellfish production. He'd wondered about it when he had first skimmed through Cruachan's reports. With a smile, he tried another inquiry against the complete planetary database.

Match found, the net announced.

The match was a local business story in an economic report, and the text was identical to that of Cruachan's report.

Van leaned back in his chair. Someone had replaced the original reports. But who? What had been in those reports? Was there any way to discover who had done so, and from where?

Van went back to work.

Two hours later, he was little wiser, if hungrier, having worked through the lunch. There was no record of who had made the changes, not even a link to an individual, a console, nothing but the change date. While it would have been easy to disguise or falsify the date on a personal console, trying that on a unified system would have left more traces than leaving the date alone—unless the falsifier were extremely skilled and had a great deal of access and time on the system.

That told Van that whoever had altered them had known the system better than most, but that whoever did hadn't had much time.

Commander? came the Meg MacDonagh's inquiry on the netsystem. The ambassador would like to see you and Dr. Hannigan. Are you free at the moment?

I'll be right there. Did he say what the meeting was about?

No, ser, and you'd best make it five minutes.

Van leaned back in his chair. What did the ambassador want?

He waited four minutes, then walked to the ambassador's outer office. Meg MacDonagh smiled, but it was a professional smile. Van smiled back. Hannigan appeared, and they both walked into the ambassador's office.

Rogh didn't say a word, but Van could sense the pulse from his implant. Then, after the privacy cone swirled into place around the three men, the ambassador looked at Van, then at Hannigan. "I've received a report from ministry headquarters that suggests something may take place during the Scandyan independence week celebration. The ministry doesn't offer any specific details, except to note that both the Revenant and Argenti fleets are in an increased state of readiness, and that the Coalition has dispatched three heavy cruisers to Mara—that's the closest Coalition system to Scandya."

"The same thing happened last year," Hannigan said mildly. "Nothing occurred."

Rogh looked at Van. "Have you come across anything that might shed light on this?"

"I just met with Commodore Petrov at the SDF I was still going over things when you called the meeting."

"What did he have to say?"

"He was very pleasant. He said he was dispatching all the material he would have given to Commander Cruachan. I haven't had a chance to go through it He did suggest that the ship that attacked the Fergus could not have been Argenti, according to the Scandyan SDF." Van studied Hannigan as he spoke, but the first secretary didn't seem at all surprised.

"Did you bring that up?" Rogh's voice sharpened ever so slightly.

"No, ser. But he knew. He said, fairly clearly, that the Fergus had apparently encountered a much larger vessel. I told him that we had encountered some excessive EMP activity, as I'd reported to orbit control when they asked, but that I hadn't been able to identify the source."

Rogh nodded. "All you could say, I imagine."

"I'd rather not lie outright at this point, not when they clearly know what happened." Van still wanted to know why the RSF had told the ambassador about the attack.

"That's interesting," mused Rogh. "The vessel couldn't have been Coalition or Farhkan. So they believe it was probably Revenant, but they don't want to say that, even in confidence. Of course, they could just be telling you that to see how we react."

"That's very possible," Van admitted. "He didn't seem terribly fond of the Revenants. He mentioned that there was already repression in Samarra. I don't know why he did. Perhaps to feel me out. It's the first time I've met with the commodore. He seems open, but some officers are very good at seeming that way."

Rogh raised his eyebrows, then, as if thinking the better of it, nodded. "That is true. What else did he say?"

"Very little beyond pleasantries. He said that Commander Cruachan had been a good officer and attaché and that he'd been sorry to learn of his drowning."

"No offense to you, Commander, but we all were." Rogh cleared his throat. "I'd like you to meet with all the other major attachés as soon as you can, and see what you can learn."

"Yes, ser."

Rogh turned to Hannigan. "Is there any way you and the second secretary can speed up that economic analysis of the changes in Scandyan defense capabilities?"

"I don't see how, ser, but we're close to the end." Rogh shook his head. "That's all, then." The grayish mist of the privacy cone vanished, and Van and Hannigan stood.

Chapter 13

Early on eightday morning, wearing a casual gray singlesuit, one of the few nonuniform garments he had, Van stepped out of the embassy for a walk. All he had done, with the exception of his sight-seeing tour with Emily Clifton, had been to work, see people in his office or in theirs, and write or research.

Once out into the low sunshine and the still-cool morning air, Van inhaled deeply, enjoying the mixed fragrances from the flower beds along the walks to the embassy—closed on the enddays, of course. Then, with a smile, he stretched and walked out to the wide stone path that flanked Knutt Boulevard. He turned south.

The property next to the embassy was a modest-sized dwelling, surrounded by a low stone wall, less than a meter high, but on the top of the stone wall was an ornate iron-grill fence that rose another three meters. Still, through the grill-work Van could appreciate the manicured lawn and the formal gardens on the north side of the house—which resembled an oversize stone cottage, except for the black-green slate roof. He saw no one outside.

Only a handful of groundcars glided down Knutt Boulevard, most of them on the far side of the parklike median, headed northward.

A couple jogged toward him. Both were fair-skinned and blond. Van nodded politely, but neither looked at him as they passed. Then, from behind him, he heard a bell.

"On your left."

With that, another couple rode past on bicycles, the first Van had seen in years. They were older, but both man and woman were also blond. Ahead, perhaps a hundred meters, Van saw three figures—man, woman, and child. They were walking in the same direction as he was, but more slowly.

Across the boulevard rose another imposing mansion, one with two long wings, a grape arbor, a stone gazebo overlooking a pond on which swam a pair of swans—a setting that might have belonged to one of the ascendancy on Old Earth. Van thought he saw a group being served a meal within the gazebo. While his parents would have appreciated the grounds and the setting, they certainly wouldn't have approved of the massive concentration of wealth required to obtain and maintain the estate, but then his home world of Sulyn had always been less traditional and less enamored of concentrations of either wealth or power.

His eyes drifted back to the central parkway—or median—dividing Knutt Boulevard. The squared-off boxwood hedges formed a waist-high border, and, roughly every ten meters, the hedge had been allowed to grow higher, then trimmed into some form of topiary. The one closest to Van was that of a peacock with a fanned tail. The next one appeared to be an eagle with outstretched wings.

As he neared the three walking toward him he nodded. "Good morning."

There was no reply from the man, perhaps five years younger than Van, slightly taller, and with sandy blond hair, just the curtest of nods. The woman did not bother to nod at all. After they had passed Van, they spoke in low voices.

"... looks like he belongs in the southwest..."

"... too well dressed... diplomat... Argenti, Hyndji... maybe... lots of embassies here..."

The voices faded behind Van as he increased his speed. Belongs in the southwest? Was that where those who weren't fair-skinned lived?

He picked up the speed of his walk. He did need more exercise.

Chapter 14

Van read the fiveday news summary carefully, trying to ensure that he understood not just what he read, but the implications behind the words before him. The lead item was clear enough.

Fifteen individuals were detained briefly after fourday's demonstration in Government Square, but were released later...

The Assembly must understand that technology transfer, no matter how noble the purpose, is a Trojan horse that can only lead to the subjugation of Scandya and all we hold dear," said Temra Piersen, speaking for the Activist Committee of the Liberal Commons.

"The Liberal Commons continue to behave like the extinct ostriches of Old Earth, unable to lift their heads out of the sand to see what exists in the Galaxy today," countered Alexi Bunaev...

In a brief speech to the Assembly, Premier Gustofsen urged "a meeting not only of minds, but of the emotions and passions behind those minds, passions that have served Scandya well in its quarter millennium of freedom..." Gustofsen later met in a closed meeting with both party leaders...

Although not so obvious, the third item on the projected holo screen stood out for Van.

Bishop Dane of the Community of the Revealed—more familiarly known as the Revenant ambassador to Scandya—offered the blessing for the public ceremony opening the new Tabernacle, a replica of the main Tabernacle in Wystuh on Orum...

The holo screen displayed a gleaming white octagonal structure, with another building in the background—one with eight glistening white stone towers soaring into a grayish blue sky under a brilliant sun. A caption appeared at the bottom—"Tabernacle and Temple—Wystuh, Orum." Then the image switched to a single structure, a smaller replica of the main Revenant Tabernacle.

Although the Gotland Tabernacle was constructed adjacent to the Revenant embassy, "our services and our way are open to all," according to the ambassador. He went on to say that the Tabernacle represented the vision of the prophet, and that all good people needed to look beyond the morality of convenience to live by the commandments of God and not the convenience of man...

Van wondered about how open the Samarrans felt the Revenant way might be.

Construction on the Tabernacle began last year, after Premier Gustofsen signed the bilateral technical trade agreement with the Revenant systems. Gustofsen had undertaken a long campaign to win over both the isolationist partisans within his own Conservative Democratic party, as well as the leftist greens of the Liberal Commons... Negotiations after the agreement led to the establishment of Trans-Scandyan Microtronics. The terms of the agreement were virtually identical to those of the earlier agreement with the Argenti Commonocracy that established SNI [Scandyan Nanitic Industries], which turned its first significant profit last year...

An ironic smile crossed Van's lips. Both the Revs and the Argentis were doing missionary work. The Revenants were more obvious, but most people, he'd discovered, found solid creds a better basis for faith than promises in the hereafter. Then... were those just the people he knew?

He frowned, recalling that his background briefing materials had mentioned riots and great unrest before Gustofsen had become premier. The article seemed to imply that those divisions still existed, and that Gustofsen remained adept at bridging them.

He switched to the in-net briefings sent to him from RSF HQ in New Oisin.

RSF commissions RSFS Mangan ... third in the new Addams class...

After repeated RSF requests, Keltyr authorities remove "scientific" expedition from nebula watch post near Corotake...

RSF officers return from exchange duties with Revealed Community units ... operational duties mutually beneficial...

Third fleet discovers abandoned installation near Sulyn...

The last item had personal interest for Van, and he focused on it ... the installation, concealed within a nickel-iron asteroid with an extremely eccentric orbit, had been recently abandoned... contained ion traces consistent with military propulsion systems and weapons... RSF experts are investigating...

Van frowned. Every asteroid capable of holding an installation of the size reported in the dispatch had long since been tracked, since Sulyn's iron deposits were generally deep and hard to mine. At least, he thought such asteroids had been well tracked.

He shut down the holo display and stood. He'd have to hurry not to be late for his meeting with the Argenti attaché. Fortunately, the Argenti embassy was only three klicks farther northward on Knutt Boulevard and half a klick to the west. Had it been less than two klicks, Van would have considered walking it, but he had a tendency to walk quickly and sweat heavily, and arriving soaked wouldn't have helped his personal presentation.

Again, Stefan was the one who drove him.

As the groundcar hummed northward, on near-empty streets, Van reviewed what he knew. Cruachan had left several reports on Colonel Marti, and those reports suggested a cool and calculating senior Argenti officer—one who revealed little, yet subtly pressed for every advantage and bit of information that he could extract.

Van had gone over all the material in the datacube from Commodore Petrov, and had been more than a little surprised to find that it had included the annual budget requests from the SDF to the Scandyan parliament, along with a narrative summary of the status of all the Scandyan armed forces, including the space forces, and the general budgetary and procurement plans for the next five years—all very modest.

Those figures Van had turned over to Cordelia Gregory, with a request for her to analyze them to see how accurate and possible they were.

"Ser, we're almost there," Stefan announced.

Van looked up. The footprint of the Argenti embassy complex was scarcely larger than that of the Taran embassy, but the building was three stories in height—a silvery metallic structure, rising on the north side of a courtyard that enclosed a garden of some sort. The building was taller and more angular than those they had passed so far.

Stefan guided the groundcar toward a gated entryway. The guard in the black-trimmed silvers of the Argenti forces recognized the Taran codes and waved Stefan onward as the gate swung open. Van still had to present his datacard at the main entry. He was not issued wand or guard, but merely told that Colonel Marti's office was on the second level in the north wing.

The embassy was not unguarded. As he walked the corridors that held but a mere handful of people, every ten meters, or less, Van could sense another pulse of energy from the security systems, and, with the aid of his implant, identified at least a dozen concealed autoweapons emplacements set high in the blue marble walls of the main corridors. While the Taran embassy also had such emplacements, they were far fewer and contained far less power.

Van found the office without difficulty. Colonel Jose Marie Marti—that was the holo banner outside the archway.

Inside, a young woman smiled warmly. "Commander Albert? Colonel Marti is expecting you. The open door." Her Anglo was but slightly accented, and her friendliness obvious.

"Thank you," Van replied in Hispyn.

Marti was brown-eyed, black-haired, olive-skinned, and a centimeter or two taller than Van. He was standing. Both his eyes and smile were warm as he half bowed. "Commander Albert, a pleasure to meet you." The colonel's Hispyn was eloquent and flowing—and also very clear.

"The pleasure is truly mine," Van replied, in Hispyn, "and I appreciate your kindness in seeing me with so little notice."

"You speak Hispyn with almost no accent, Commander, and that is most rare for a fighting officer." Marti smiled. "They all say that you are an accomplished battle commander."

"I am better described as competent and fortunate, and can only hope that the Lady Fortune continues to smile upon me."

Marti smiled broadly. "You know Cameros?"

"You have unmasked me. His words are better than mine," Van confessed.

The Argenti officer laughed. "You are indeed unlike your predecessor. He was a man of few words, and those were brief."

"He may have been wiser than I," Van suggested. "We Tarans have the weakness of loving words more than silence."

"Learning is sharing, and one cannot learn if one offers nothing to share, and words are the manner in which one must share knowledge." Marti stepped toward the doorway that opened onto a small terrace, more of a miniature garden. "I had thought we might enjoy the morning. In another few weeks, it will be too hot."

Van followed the colonel. The two settled into the chairs on each side of a white-enameled wrought-iron table in the shade of the wall. Even before they had fully seated themselves, the aide who had greeted Van appeared with a tray, on which were two steaming cups of café.

"Commodore Petrov had mentioned that you were a café drinker, like me, and so I took the liberty..." Marti offered, raising his own cup.

"Thank you." Van sipped. The café was good, with a slightly nutty taste. "This is good. Is it Argenti? It tastes close to what I have had..."

"Alas... no." Marti tilted his head slightly. "I should say it is not directly Argenti. It comes from a plantation begun by Baron Byrnedot. He was a most amazing man. He was actually Scandyan, but he became a member of the Argenti diplomatic corps. That was common then. Before his assassination he had established the café plantation near the old governor's residence. It is still there, and after matters settled down, we purchased the land back. The Scandyans were happy to receive cold credits for what they saw as close to worthless hillside land."

"It must have been sometime later."

"A mere hundred years."

Van laughed at the dry tone.

"The baron had also established an agreement with the Farhkans to trade observational details for certain technologies to be established on Gotland. After his assassination, the rebels repudiated the agreement." Marti smiled ironically and took a sip of café.

"He had set up an agreement with the Farhkans?" Van took another sip of café.

"I can assure you that it is accurate. The baron was not killed by Argenti agents, either. That would not have been in our interests."

"The Scandyans claim he suggested the rebellion. That was in your interests?"

"What is claimed and what occurred may not always be the same," Marti said. "You may be aware of this from your own experience." The hint of a twinkle appeared in his dark eyes.

"It has come to my attention that this happens," Van admitted. "So... why did you not attempt an agreement with the Farhkans directly after that?"

"The Farhkans were not interested. That is what the diplomatic archives say. We also know that the Farhkans have rebuffed all attempts since then. So far as we can determine, they have agreements only with the Coalition. Although those have become most limited in recent years, they have been a matter of long-standing concern." Marti shrugged. "Were those agreements with the Revenants, the concerns would have been far greater, you understand."

"That I do." The very thought of the Revenants with any advanced alien technology left Van feeling very cold. "Who were the rebels, then? You're suggesting that neither the Argenti government nor thoughtful Scandyans wanted a revolt"

"You wonder why I bring up history to an officer who has just become a military liaison?"

"I think I understand," Van replied, "but it might be better to hear it in your words."

"And wiser, no doubt Very well... Three hundred years ago, the Taran Republic was struggling to survive. The Keltyr had scarcely colonized four systems. The Coalition and the Revenants were locked in a tight to the death. In part, because we were aware that the raciogenetic background of the Scandyan colonists was somewhat different—"

"Is that a polite way of saying that they had lighter skins?" Van asked with a laugh.

"That, and a different cultural outlook," Marti admitted. "We made concession after concession here in Gotland. We even wrote off the planoforming costs of Malmot Taxes were lower here than in the central Argenti systems." Marti looked blandly at the Taran commander.

"It would certainly seem that the Scandyans had no real reason for a revolt, and the Argentis were clearly trying to avoid provoking one," Van concluded.

"Exactly my thoughts. They have been the thoughts of many over the years. Yet there was a revolt, and it was in someone's interests, and those perhaps only looked like they were Scandyan."

Van knew all too well what culture looked like the Scandyans—the Revenants.

"Ah ... but we should not dwell in too much detail upon the past," Marti said, his point made. "How are you finding Valborg?'

"Cooler than home. Sulyn. It's one of the warmer Taran planets."

"You prefer the warm?"

"I prefer reasonable cool, whenever possible."

"Gotland will be to your liking in the winter, but you will care little for the months ahead."

"So I have heard. How long have you been stationed here?"

"Three years. I arrived several months after Commander Cruachan. Did you know him?"

"I'd never met him. Had you run across him before?"

"No. We met for the first time here on Gotland. He was a most polite and courteous officer. Reserved, but most correct. We had little in common except our profession and our assignments. He liked to sail, and I have always preferred the heights. He was little interested in women—he said he had never married—and I brought my wife here at my own expense."

Van was impressed. That alone must have cost the colonel tens of thousands of credits. "That could not have been inexpensive."

"It was not, but life... it is fragile, and how could one not appreciate it to the fullest when one realizes that? One cannot hoard life. It still slips through the fingers."

"It does." Van smiled. "But hoarding is an old Taran habit, and one that dies hard."

"Even for one... such as you?"

"You mean... black Tarans? Our skins may be a bit darker or more bronzed, but we can be as bad as the others that way." Van finished the last of his café and set the cup down.

"I think not A man who borrows the words of Cameros cannot hoard all of his life."

From there, the conversation slipped into generalities, and various promises to keep each other informed, and, precisely fifty minutes after he arrived, Van stepped back out of the colonel's office and made his way back to the waiting groundcar.

He settled into the rear seat still thinking over what the colonel had implied. The Scandyan revolt actually created by Revenant agents? It made sense, in an obverse way, since it weakened the Argenti presence on the edge of Revenant territory, but if that were so, why was there no mention of the possibility in the histories and political analyses?

"Ser... something up ahead," Stefan said.

Van looked up. An electrolorry was angled across the road, blocking the right-hand side, not that it probably would tie up too much traffic, since, as usual, there wasn't much. From what he read and watched, the only traffic was in the center of Valborg and in the southwest As Stefan slowed to a stop a good five meters back, abruptly the side gate of the lorry—the one turned toward the embassy groundcar—gave way, and lengths of pipe rolled down and crashed onto the street. Some continued rolling toward the embassy vehicle, but Stefan could not move back, not with the large gray groundcar that had stopped less than a meter behind them, the only other groundcar in sight Van had a very chill feeling. Even before the last pipe rolled against the rough pile that built up against the front of the groundcar, he was out and moving, his implant and system tuned up to combat-ready.

The first man—blocky and young—had a vibroknife. Van slammed that aside and twisted the heel of his boot through the would-be attacker's knee. The crunch was sickening. Van twisted the man's wrist and upper arm, with another snap, and the vibroknife dropped to the stone walk.

Van dropped flat even before the wicked thwip! of a slashdisc flew through the space where he had been standing. His implant located the second man—no more than four meters to his left.

Van grasped one of the shorter lengths of pipe, then launched himself. The shorter pipe thudded into the bearded man's chest, and the hand holding the disc-gun flew back. Before the second attacker could bring it back forward, Van followed the pipe with a flurry of well-placed elbows and knees. The second man collapsed.

Van turned, and a line of fire slashed at his left shoulder. He moved toward the pain, quickly, and smashed his good arm and elbow into the third man's throat, following with a knee. The man dropped his disc-gun and sagged to the ground, trying to gasp for air. Van might have crushed his larynx enough for him to suffocate, although he didn't think so. He really didn't care.

Van surveyed the area, but could see no one else nearby. The gray groundcar behind the embassy vehicle was empty, presumably having been driven by one of the attackers, and several other groundcars were approaching from the west "Ser?" Stefan said, holding a dressing. "You are bleeding."

Van had noted the pain, but not the bleeding, and he looked almost stupidly at the slash in his left arm. "Yes... you'd better use that, and then notify the local authorities."

"I already called the constabulary, ser. They are on the way." Stefan ripped open the jacket sleeve more and applied the pressure dressing to the slash in Van's left arm.

"Good."

"The newsies have been saying that violence is up here in Valborg, but I've never seen anything like this." Stefan tightened the dressing. "That should do for now."

"I haven't either," Van admitted. He looked over the three fallen men. The one whose knee and arm he had broken was trying to crawl away. Van stepped toward the struggling man. "If you move another centimeter, I'll snap your other leg."

"Frig you..." The man fumbled toward his jacket with his good arm.

Van slammed a snap kick into the other's chin. A small stunner clanked onto the pavement, and the attacker collapsed forward. Van swept the stunner away with his foot. "If you wouldn't mind picking that up, Stefan... with a cloth or something."

"Ah... yes, sir."

The second man groaned, trying to stagger to his feet. Thrummm... Stefan had triggered the stunner. Van glanced at the driver. "It seemed wiser, ser."

Van held in a laugh. It had been wiser. In his present state of mind, Van might have done far worse, and Stefan had sensed that.

The groundcars that had been nearing stopped. One turned around. The other waited. Then, from overhead, came the sound of a flitter roaring down. The downwash from the ducted airflow whipped Van's uniform around him, but only for a moment, as the shimmering white craft settled into the open space in front of the angled electrolorry.

Two constables rushed out. One watched the three fallen attackers. The other hurried over to Van and Stefan.

"What happened, ser?" asked the fresh-faced constable.

"I don't know. The lorry stopped, and then pipes flew off it I got out to see what was happening, and one of them lunged at me with a vibroknife. I kicked at him, and I guess I was lucky. He fell down. The second fellow... the last pipe rolled down and smashed into him. The third one... his disc-gun slashed me in the arm, and we struggled." Van shrugged, and wished he hadn't as an arrow of fire slashed up his left arm. He winced.

"Lot of blood there, ser."

"It took a moment for me to find the dressing, Officer," Stefan volunteered. "I've contacted the embassy, and they have a doctor waiting."

"The embassy?"

Van extended his datacard. "I'm Commander Albert, military attaché to the Taran embassy. I'd had a meeting with my counterpart at the Argenti embassy, and we were headed back when this happened."

Despite his earlier concern about Van's injury, the young constable was most thorough in his questions, asking and reasking about the same details.

"... you say a pipe hit him. How hard might that have been?"

"... and you just kicked him?"

"... about that stunner once more. You say that the one with the shattered knee had that?"

Van kept his answers short and the same, and after what seemed a good hour, the two constables finally let Stefan and Van leave the scene—long after the three attackers had been carted away by a groundwagon.

As Stefan drove back toward the Republic embassy, Van thought over the attack.

Why would anyone attack him? Since he'd arrived on Gotland, he'd done almost nothing, except meet a few people and write reports and analyses for the ambassador. He'd probed into nothing except Commander Cruachan's reports. Could the attack have been mistaken identity?

It clearly hadn't been for theft. The three had wanted him, and no one else.

He'd have to think more, because at the moment he couldn't think of a single reason why anyone on Gotland would want him dead—or captured.

Then, too, the meeting with Colonel Marti had bothered him, not because it hadn't gone well, but because it had. From what Van could tell, Colonel Marti didn't at all fit the profile conveyed by Cruachan's reports, except in physical terms. Was that because Cruachan had not been that fluent in Hispyn? Or because Cruachan had seen more than Van had?

Van honestly couldn't tell. He just hoped that it wouldn't be too long before he could. And before he had some idea about why he'd been attacked.

Stefan's report to the embassy must have been circulated, because a number of people were waiting in the hallway on the upper level as Van came up the ramp after the doctor— whom he didn't know—checked the wound, sprayed it with nanites, and re-dressed it. Van carried the bloody outer jacket over his right arm.

Cordelia Gregory's mouth opened as she saw Van and the dark bloodstains across his lower sleeve. "Stefan said... what did they do... to you?"

"Three young fellows tried to rob us. They didn't much care if I survived the attempt." Van offered a twisted smile. "But they got a little too close."

"You didn't hurt them, did you?" asked the second secretary. Her eyes narrowed.

"Not too much. The local authorities have them in custody." Van wasn't about to explain.

Sean Bulben said nothing. Nor did either of the aides Van didn't know.

Van made his way to his office. He could have gone to his quarters, but all he would have done there was pace. He laid the uniform jacket on the corner of the table desk, thinking that he'd need a replacement, and settled into the chair behind the desk. Trying to ignore the muted throbbing in his arm, he considered about how to get the information he needed from the netsystem.

There was a knock on Van's door. He could sense a feminine presence. "Yes?"

"Commander... I heard..."

"You can come in, Emily."

Clifton eased into the inner office. Her eyes went to the bloody jacket on the corner of the desk, then to the dressing on Van's arm. "Are you all right?" She shook her head. "That's a stupid question. How badly are you hurt?"

"It's a glancing gash from a disc-gun—deep enough and long enough for a lot of blood. Almost no muscle damage."

"Stefan said you took on three toughs and disabled them all." She paused. "He said you almost killed two with your bare hands."

Van almost shrugged, but didn't, offering a sheepish expression. "I have a temper. I get angry when people I don't know try to ambush me."

"What if that's the point?" Emily asked wryly.

"To get me angry enough to commit murder?" Van took a deep breath. "I hadn't thought of that. It's possible... but I don't have any idea who would want to."

"Maybe it's not you. Did you ever think of that?"

"I'd thought about mistaken identity, but you think that it's more to discredit the embassy."

"Tarans have a reputation for being hotheaded. Things are tense in this part of the Arm right now. What if the Revs or the Kelts wanted to discredit us?"

"The Kelts are as hotheaded—"

"Even better," she suggested.

Van nodded. "It's possible." And it was a better explanation than he had. That was certain. He smiled. "What time tomorrow?"

"Do you still want to go ... tomorrow?"

"I don't see why not. Walking around and looking at an old governor's palace isn't going to do much harm. The wound is more bloody and painful than really damaging. A long fairly shallow cut. It'll bother me more if all I do is sit around and think about it."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely. The place doesn't open until ten hundred. What if we leave the embassy at nine-thirty? Or is that too early?"

"Hardly. I'm a morning person."

"Then I'll see you then." Van offered a smile. He was actually looking forward to seeing Cliff Spire. "I'll be ready."

After Emily had left, Van eased back in his chair. She'd had a good point about his not being a target personally... and perhaps she was right. Yet... if she were, and he'd just happened to be in the wrong position at the wrong time, what was really going on in the Arm that had created tensions that high? They'd been high for a century. What was different now?

Chapter 15

Van did not sleep well, even with the pain-suppressants in the wound dressing. Nightmares about the Regneri combined with the attack by the unknown cruiser and assault by the three men, until his dreams were a pastiche of violence, underscored with puzzlement. At six hundred he finally got up, showered, and dressed in a casual dark green jumpsuit, since he certainly wasn't going anywhere on embassy business. He fixed himself café in his own quarters, along with a simple omelet—simple because he'd neglected to stock his larder with more than a few basics.

Then he settled into the one comfortable armchair in his compact sitting room, and tried to sort out what he knew. There were blatant hints that Cruachan's death had been murder, and Commodore Petrov had nearly stated as much. Someone had used the embassy system to alter some of Cruachan's reports after his death. Van would have bet on the RSF security experts investigating Cruachan's death. Whether they had altered those reports for security reasons or for more sinister ones was something that Van couldn't have proved one way or another.

Then, there was Cruachan himself. Everyone had thought him honorable and intelligent. He had worked well with Petrov, but he had not liked Colonel Marti. Yet Marti had been complimentary about the commander. Marti had also provided more insight in some areas than had all the RSF and Republic briefing documents. Add to that an unstable Scandyan political situation, so unstable that there were regular protests in front of the Parliament building. Finally, most important personally, someone seemed to have taken a dislike to Van.

Since his thoughts weren't providing much in the way of insight, Van used his implant to route his inquiry to the local constabulary, calling up a holo image before him. "Constable Ebbers."

"Constable, this is Commander Albert from the Taran embassy. Yesterday, you may recall, I was attacked by three men..."

"Yes, ser."

"Constable, have you found out anything from those young fellows who attacked me?"

The Scandyan officer's face blanked for a moment. "I regret... No... we have not."

"Are they still in custody?"

"Just a moment, ser."

Van found himself looking at a blank projection screen for several minutes, until the image of an older officer appeared. "Commander Albert?"

"Yes? I was just asking if you had found out anything—"

"We did find out one thing, ser."

"Yes?" Van didn't like the officer's tone, as if the man were probing. "Could you tell me what that might be—if it's possible?"

"We aren't likely to get much information from them."

"Why not?"

"All three died last night."

"What?" Van certainly hadn't expected that. "In custody? They weren't that badly hurt."

"No, ser. You aren't leaving Gotland anytime soon, are you?"

"I just was posted here."

"We'll be sending someone out to see you, probably on oneday. That's all I can say, ser."

"That's all?"

"Yes, ser. We'll be in touch."

Van was looking at a blank screen once more. He collapsed it looking out the window, but scarcely seeing the puffy white clouds over the hills to the northwest. Finally, he triggered his implant. Even through the embassy netsystem, even though he'd reserved the embassy groundcar the day before, it took almost half an hour to go through the forms required to check out the car for the day. He walked down to the vehicle area, and it took another quarter hour to locate the white groundcar and get the duty supervisor to release it.

Emily Clifton was waiting by the main entrance, even though he was ten minutes early. She wore a turquoise green blouse and matching trousers, with a small black belt pack on her left side. Her short blonde hair was swept back above her ears.

"You really want to get away from the embassy, don't you?" he asked, as she slid into the passenger side of the front seat.

"Just be careful, Commander... or I'll sit in the back and make you into a hired driver."

"Bad morning?"

"Bad evening. I spent three hours with Madame Rogh going over the protocol and arrangements for her independence week luncheon."

"I've never met the lady, but the subject sounds hard on everyone." Van eased the groundcar out through the embassy gate, past the duty Marine, and onto Knutt Boulevard.

"It is. It was so much easier when Mary Gonne was ambassador. Her partner was much more easygoing. Of course, the fact that her partner was female made the Revenants extraordinarily uncomfortable." Emily's laugh was almost a giggle of joy.

"I can imagine," Van said dryly.

"You don't approve?"

Van laughed. "I had two fathers."

"You?" After a moment, she added, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Mostly. My mother lived next door with her partner. But she was killed in a climbing accident after I joined the RSF. Her partner moved, didn't want to stay in the house."

"I never would have guessed..." Emily shook her head. "And you?" She added quickly. "I'm sorry. That's terribly rude. You certainly don't—"

Van brushed off her demurral. "That's all right. Although my fathers hoped, they never pressed, and, no, I don't take after them that way. I only hope I do in others, though."

Emily didn't say anything, but nodded encouragingly.

"Dad Cicero is one of the most honest men I know. He's also an exceedingly good advocate. Dad Almaviva is a singer... he can sing anything, and he's the head of the opera company associated with Sulyn University."

"They must be something."

"Why do you say that?" Van asked.

"They let you do what you wanted, not what they wanted."

"They did. There were a few cautions and hard questions. They pointed out that most of the Republic was far more conventional than Sulyn, and not terribly supportive of officers from a heritage of single-sex partners and darker skins, but, in the end, they let me chart my own course. Both of them still send me cubes, especially when they're worried about me."

"I can't say I hear from my family that much, not anymore."

"Oh?" Van didn't know what else to say.

"I left home early. Was an RSF tech for one tour. Liked the ships, but not... that doesn't matter. Got out and made my way through the university. My mother was killed in a flitter crash ten years ago, and my father had left years before. The only thing he left me, my mother said, was my middle name. Sometimes I hear from my brothers, but not often."

"That could be hard. I know I still have my family." Van paused. "Your middle name?"

"Senta, from some ancient opera. He said that there weren't enough good women in the Galaxy, but he never explained it. I finally looked it up, almost decided to have it changed, but then what would I have?"

Van nodded sympathetically.

"You know?"

"Yes. Der Fliegende Hollander. Dad Almaviva sang the captain's role." Van wanted to say something about how her middle name fit, because she did seem the good and faithful type, never fully understood ... but he scarcely knew her.

After a silence, Emily asked, cheerfully, "I should have asked earlier, but... do you know where we're going?"

"I did check the maps and directions. We're taking Knutt Boulevard north to the west guideway, and follow that to the Ridgeline Road exit. Then we go north for two klicks until we see the signs."

The sign was so small Van almost missed it—-just a golden oak oblong affixed to a wooden post with darker letters reading cliff spire carved into the wood. An arrow pointed down the lane barely wide enough for two groundcars to pass. The paving was ancient synthstone, flanked by a pfitzer hedge higher than the roof of the groundcar.

slightly more than a half klick northward, the lane turned east, and then, twenty yards later, the hedge and lane both ended. On the right was a carpark, with space for a good thirty vehicles. There were but three there.

"It's not exactly thronged," observed Emily.

"No." Van eased the embassy vehicle into one of the empty spaces, then got out and stretched. The hillside air was cooler, fresher, and the breeze was welcome.

To the north stood the former governor's mansion, a single-story structure of a dark green stone that seemed to blend into the walled terraces—also constructed of the same green stone—that rose up the hillside to meet it.

"Look," Emily said.

Van turned. He hadn't really been looking, but Cliff Spire had not been a fanciful name. The grounds to the east, overlooking the northern part of Valborg and the bay and ocean beyond, were literally peninsula-like—a good fifteen hectares of low gardens and flowers. The ground was flat, as if it had been cut out of the hillside. The gardens were in flower, and each section seemed to carry out a different color scheme. For a time, Van just stood at the beginning of the gray flagstone path that wound along the gardens on the southern side of the estate.

Emily stepped up beside him. "If this is what he created..."

"It's a spectacular view and setting."

They walked slowly along the path, stopping at the first flower bed. The borders were sculpted in scalloped curves, the curves outlined by a pale green permanite edging. Just inside the edging was a border of a low ground cover with pale blue flowers, each not much bigger than the tip of a stylus, but there were thousands, tiny blue starbursts against the dark bluish green leaves. Behind the ground cover were bushes roughly thirty centimeters high. Each bush had been grown and trimmed into the shape of a seven-pointed star.

Van counted several to make sure. All had seven points. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a seven-pointed star before. He looked to Emily. "Have you ever seen a seven-pointed star before?"

"Seven-pointed star?"

"The bushes." He pointed, then watched as she counted.

"You're right. Seven points. I haven't seen that before."

Van took another deep breath, taking in the perfume of the flowers, a mixture of scents that seemed to change with the light swirling breeze. One moment the odor was predominantly cinnamon mint the next a lavender rose, and then a pungent marigold-like musk.

"Was that obvious to you?" she asked, as they walked through the cool midmorning hill breeze to the second flower bed along the flagstone path.

"The star pattern? It stood out"

Emily nodded.

They stopped before the second assemblage of plants and flowers—clearly based on pinks, but the shapes, to Van, at least were ovals that looked most like spiral galaxies. He did not say so, and they moved to the next flower bed.

It took more than two hours, even for a cursory look at the flower beds, the turf maze, and the topiary arrangements in the gardens, before they climbed the wide green stone staircase that ran up the center of the terraces and reached the covered veranda—and a guide who stood there.

"The governor often sat here after his evening meal," offered the young man, who wore a uniform with which Van was unfamiliar. "He built Cliff Spire with his own funds.

That was why he could place it so far from the colonial assembly building. He'd planned to retire here, after his diplomatic service."

"Did he have any family?" asked Emily.

"He had both a daughter and a son. After his death, the daughter emigrated to Perdya—"

"She went Eco-Tech?"

"That's right. His son was already in the Argenti space forces, and he never returned to Gotland. His wife lived here another thirty years, then gifted Cliff Spire to the Spire Foundation and left Gotland."

"How sad," murmured Emily.

Van agreed, but didn't say so.

"You can get the best idea of what Cliff Spire is like if you go to the left after you enter," the young guide continued, "and move from the front sitting room to the formal dining area, and then along the front rooms. Just make a long oval, and you'll end up in the study on the right side of the foyer."

"Thank you."

The front sitting room appeared strangely modern, with a long couch, flanked by two dark wood end tables, facing the east windows. The only object obviously from the past was in the northeast corner of the sitting room—a concert-sized acoustical piano, cordoned off with green velvet ropes.

From the sitting room they entered the formal dining room, twenty-five meters long and ten in width, with a polished cherrywood table that stretched fifteen meters. Van counted fifteen matching chairs on each side, and two at the end, but another eight were set around the room, flanking the china cabinets and the two sideboards. The table was set as if for a formal dinner.

"Madame Rogh would love this," said Emily quietly.

"I'm sure."

From there they followed the hallway to the pantries, the kitchen, and the staff wing. It took another hour before they reached the last room of their tour—the study opposite the foyer where they had entered. A table desk faced the wide windows. The entire wall behind the desk was composed of built-in wooden bookcases, and every shelf was filled with the antique books. A book lay open on the desk.

"I don't think I've ever seen so many books in one place, not even in the museum in New Oisin," murmured Emily.

"It is a museum, and it looks as though they've re-created the way it was just before Byrnedot was killed."

"That's right. It's just as he left it when he went down to speak to the assembly," offered the guide from the doorway into the foyer. "His wife closed the room and never disturbed a thing." He turned away to greet another group that had entered the mansion from the front veranda. "You can get the best idea of what Cliff Spire is like if..."

Van walked over behind the desk, leaning forward over the velvet ropes, and straining to see the last entries in what had to be a diary or journal.

... 15 Sextus... there is nothing to be done, but to try once more to persuade them to look to the future, and not to the past. We must all live in the same Galaxy, no matter what our background and what our appearance. In the end, none will rule over those who do not wish it so. I have tried to make Gotland a world where there is less oppression and more justice than anywhere in the Argenti sphere ... and my success may be my undoing. We shall see.

The writing ended.

Van straightened, nodding to himself. He could see how what Byrnedot had written could have been interpreted to favor the cause of Scandyan secession, but, based on what Colonel Marti had said, the alternative made even more sense. Once more he was reminded how people saw what they wished to see.

Was he seeing what he wished to see? He didn't think so, because he really didn't have a bias about the past history of Gotland. His bias was just trying to make sense out of it all, but then, maybe that was an even greater prejudice than ideology.

"What are you thinking?" Emily's voice was quiet "About history. About how even the best and most able have difficulty in combating shortsightedness and greed... and how it never changes."

"That's... depressing."

"I'm sorry. I'll have to make it up to you somehow."

"That's a proposition. Is it decent or indecent?"

"It has to be decent," Van replied, as they stepped back into the entry foyer, momentarily empty. "We don't know each other well enough for it to be otherwise."

That brought a smile to Emily's eyes and mouth.

They began to walk down the green stone staircase toward the lower level path that would take them back to the carpark.

"What now, Commander?"

"A good meal. Do you have any suggestions?"

"One or two." A twinkle flashed in her gray eyes.

Van laughed. "I'll drive. You navigate."

"I'll accept that bargain."

For the first time in days, Van was enjoying himself.

Chapter 16

On oneday, after a thankfully quiet eightday, not much past midmorning, Van found himself with two Scandyan constables in his embassy office—Constable Lieutenant Rolfes and Constable Sergeant Bentssen. Technically, Van could have refused to have met with them, especially since he'd been the assaulted party, and diplomatic precedent was more than clear on the right of a diplomat to self-defense, a precedent hammered out over millennia of bad examples.

After almost an hour of questions from the lieutenant, Van was beginning to believe he should have refused to meet with the pair.

"... and you cannot think of any reason why these men of good background would have decided to behave as they did?" Rolfes asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea. I'd never met any of them. I've only been in Valborg for two weeks, and most of that time has been spent here at the embassy trying to catch up on what wasn't done after my predecessor's death. I was wondering... have you discovered anything new about the three?"

"So far there's been little progress on that front," Rolfes replied. "Now... about the third man... was it necessary to use the degree of force you employed on the third man?"

"I think I've answered that question about three times, Lieutenant," Van replied tiredly. "I was unarmed. They all had weapons. I was just trying to survive. I did not use lethal force." He paused, and then added, "It took your incarceration to kill them. I certainly had nothing to do with that. What I wanted to know, and what I still want to know, is any information about why those three had set up an attack on me. I've also asked that question at least three times, and you, unlike me, have given no information at all."

"We really don't know, ser," Rolfes replied politely.

"I think that translates into something along the tines of your having some information, not knowing what it means, and keeping it to yourselves until you can make sense of it."

Rolfes stiffened.

"I'm a military man, Lieutenant. I'm not a diplomat. I've been patient. I've answered all your questions to the best of my ability. I've answered all of them at least twice, sometimes even four times. You've answered almost none of mine. I'd like to point out, once again, that I was the one attacked. You have witnesses to that. You even have some street surveillance images that bear that out. Yet you seem to be acting as if I were the guilty party, as if it were my fault that I was attacked."

"Ser... I don't believe—"

"It's not what you said, Lieutenant It's the way you've proceeded. Might it just possibly be because my skin is a few shades more to the bronze? Or is it because the Taran Republic cannot bring as many cruisers into your section of the Arm?" Van could see the lieutenant begin to flush, and he laughed. "You see. You're getting upset because I even suggested you're proceeding in a biased fashion. Think about how I feel..."

"This is a most unusual situation, ser," Rolfes protested. "The last time a diplomat was assaulted was over a hundred years ago. This is not at all normal. We're just trying to discover why it happened."

"I suggest that you look into the background of the three men. You might talk to their families, their friends and associates."

"We have, ser. We've spent almost three days intensively questioning them, and there's nothing there."

Van forced a polite smile. "And what about their deaths?"

"The medical examiners can find no reason for their deaths. Their hearts just... stopped."

"That's an interesting datum in itself, I'd think."

For the first time, Rolfes looked both puzzled and interested.

"There are only three Arm powers with those kinds of abilities, and Scandya, the Keltyr, and the Taran Republic aren't among them."

"That's a serious charge—"

Van laughed again. "It's not a charge. It's an observation, and it doesn't mean that those three had anything to do with it directly. It does mean that the three had to have had contact—if indirectly—with someone with access to those technologies. It also means that someone didn't want you to discover what they're doing, and, if I were you... I'd think about the implications of that a lot more than whether I may have used slightly excessive vigor in defending myself against men who were obviously a far greater danger to Scandya than am I." Van stood. "I wish you the best in your investigation."

"But..." began Constable Sergeant Bentssen.

Rolfes rose smoothly. "The commander is right, Bentssen. There's not much that questioning him further will establish." He bowed to Van, excessively.

"You're right, Lieutenant But I didn't say it." Van refrained from suggesting that the lieutenant focus on the problem, rather than upon Van himself.

After the two had left, and after he'd spent a good ten minutes trying to cool down, he left his office and headed for the third secretary's spaces.

"Come on in, Commander." Emily studied Van as he stood there. "You're angry."

"It shows that much?"

"You don't hide strong feelings well."

"I'm not angry with you." Van shook his head. "I just spent the last hour with two very polite Scandyan constables... two very polite and obtuse constables..." He went on to summarize the meeting. "... so, as the embassy's media expert I thought you should know. I'll also have to send a memo to the ambassador, but I wanted you to know before I told him, because he'll probably come to you immediately."

"So will Ian."

"Rogh will tell him?"

"As soon as you walk out of his door—or as soon as he can fire off an implant message without giving it away." Emily frowned. "I still... that's disturbing ... I'd heard... but..."