The ethos effect, p.14
The Ethos Effect, page 14
Van looked up, used his implant, and said, “You can come in, Emily.”
Emily Clifton slipped into the chair across the desk from Van. “It’s about your report.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m sorry. With all the arrangements for the past week, I was swamped. But I finally read your report.” She looked at him. “If I’m right about where you’re headed, it’s frightening.”
“Do you think I’m wrong?” he asked.
She frowned, and the expression made her face look more severe than usual. “I’d worry that it makes too much sense. People usually do what they feel like doing, and then rationalize what they’ve done afterward. They think they’re logical, but they’re not. You’re suggesting a logical pattern on the part of both the Argentis and the Revenants.”
It was Van’s turn to frown. “No. Just on the part of the Revenants. The Argentis seem to be following a long-held cultural pattern, almost instinctive. That’s the way they’ve approached most of their colonies and former colonies.”
“Do you think the Revenants are that logical—logical enough to plot this kind of takeover?”
“I don’t know. I do know that they have a superiority complex of some sort. Commander Cruachan didn’t have any problem meeting with their military attaché, but the same attaché won’t even return my calls. Their ambassador practically called me a lower-class citizen at our reception, and their junior officers avoid talking to me, almost to the point of rudeness. Colonel Marti suggested, indirectly, that the Argentis are mostly the wrong color for dealing with the Revenants. Commander Salucar also noted that the Revenants tend to minimize or deny access to women. I got a similar set of observations from the Coalition consulate.”
“With all that ideological prejudice, you think that the Revs can be logical?” Emily smiled.
“If they’re not being logical,” Van returned, “we’ve got a pattern that’s been in place for decades, if not centuries, and we’ve got even bigger problems, because it controls everyone.”
“Could they have two patterns—one for dealing with outsiders and one inside?”
“They could, but that would cause other problems.”
“Such as?” asked the third secretary.
Van shrugged, helplessly. “I can’t answer that. It’s just a feeling on my part.”
Emily smiled slowly. “I’d trust your feelings more than your analysis.”
Van was still amazed at how much the smile transformed her, and it took him a moment before he replied. “That may be, but the ambassador, Dr. Hannigan, and Dr. Gregory won’t.”
“What did Cordelia say?” asked Emily.
“She has problems with my methodology, and with the lack of statistical rigor in my samples. She thinks that I can’t prove conclusively that the investment patterns are actually planned, rather than a coincidental random walk created by two separate and disinterested classes of investors.” Van smiled sardonically. “She did applaud my comparatively open-ended conclusions.”
“And Dr. Hannigan?”
“I haven’t gotten back anything from him,” Van replied. “I’m not certain that I will.”
“What will you do?”
“Incorporate your observations and Dr. Gregory’s and send it to the ambassador—and everyone else. What else can I do?” He paused. “Oh, and make sure my full dress uniform is ready for the big Keltyr reception to celebrate Scandyan Independence Day.” Van stood.
“You are more cynical than I am,” replied Emily, also standing.
“We make a good pair that way.”
She looked down, ever so slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’d hate to be paired up merely for my cynicism.”
“So would I... but... sometimes cynicism is the last refuge of the idealist.”
She looked up, almost abruptly. “You mean that, don’t you?”
Van shrugged helplessly, and then they both laughed.
It was the best moment of the day for Van.
Chapter 22
On sevenday evening, at nineteen-forty. Van waited in the Taran embassy’s front foyer. In front of him was Cordelia Gregory, standing with a tall redheaded man whom Van felt he should know. To his left was Sean Bulben, and to his right was Ian Hannigan with a woman who looked to be his wife.
Ambassador Rogh stood before the small group. For several moments, he said nothing, waiting for silence. The murmurs died away, and the ambassador shifted his weight from one foot to the other, cleared his throat, then spoke. “I know you’ve all seen my memo about this evening, but I wanted to make it very clear. We will all leave in the embassy cars together after this. When the fireworks are over, sometime around ten-thirty, Madame Rogh and I will return. You may stay later, as you choose, and there will be an embassy car shuttling back and forth until somewhat after midnight.
“I must remind you that no weapons, not even dress daggers, or bootknives ... anything at all, are to be worn for the function at the Keltyr embassy.” Ambassador’s Rogh’s eyes were chill as he surveyed Van, then each of the embassy secretaries in turn. Only Sean Bulben fidgeted. “This is an important function, and you are to represent Tara as I know you can. Premier Gustofsen will even be there briefly, sometime before and during the fireworks and flareshow. I would request that you not approach him, and if approached by him, keep the conversation on tight matters or good wishes for another celebration of his system’s independence... As always, your behavior reflects on Tara.”
Van wondered about the ambassador’s cautions. Did the man know something Van should, or was he just fussy about ceremonial occasions?
As the ambassador turned and was joined by his wife on the way from the foyer toward the cars outside, Sean murmured, “Every time there’s a big function, he gives us the talk.”
“His predecessor did, too,” added Emily from behind them. “It must be in the ambassadorial how-to manual that they don’t show us.”
Van couldn’t help but smile at the dryness of her tone.
“Roger,” Cordelia Gregory said firmly to the redheaded man, “the second groundcar.”
Van lagged behind Dr. Hannigan and his wife, and Dr. Gregory and her escort, and ended up—by choice—in the rear seat of the third and last embassy groundcar with Sean Bulben and Emily. He glanced at Sean. “Who was that with Dr. Gregory?”
“Oh... that was her husband. Roger Cromwell.”
“The tech staff manager?”
“The same one. She ranks him, and that’s the way she likes it”
Emily—sitting in the middle—glanced to her right at Sean, but did not speak.
Sean flushed and looked out the window as the groundcar turned out onto Knutt Boulevard and left the embassy. “Well... it is. She orders him around just like she does me.”
Van couldn’t help but smile faintly. “How many people will be at this function?” He looked sideways at Emily, taking in her profile and noting the high cheekbones and the clean lines of her nose, perfectly in harmony with her face, neither small and pert nor large and dominating.
She did not turn. “Over a hundred from the diplomatic community, another hundred or so from the Scandyan political and military communities, and probably a scattering of others. Some Scandyan media types will find a way to inveigle invitations, also, trying to see if they can get anything on the premier. They don’t care much for him.”
“And half of them look down on you, and the other half don’t bother,” Sean added. “Least, that’s always how it is if you’re a fourth secretary.”
“It’s not that bad,” Emily said.
“Almost” Sean’s tone was morose. “You’re not a fourth secretary.”
Both Emily and Van laughed. A long moment passed before Sean also laughed.
When the groundcar pulled to a stop a good ten minutes later, the moment Van stepped from the embassy car, sliding out and holding the door for Emily, he could sense the sweep of a surveillance system—and then another.
Van and Emily followed Dr. and Mrs. Hannigan and Dr. Gregory and her husband into the Keltyr embassy, past the four Kelt guards—in dress blue-green uniforms, but with long-barreled, high-charge stunners at hand.
Once inside, Emily smiled and slipped away, and Van decided to pay his respects to Commander Salucar first. He began to make his way through the crowd in the main reception room, looking from side to side as he did. Although the Taran contingent had arrived punctually, the foyer and the first reception room of the Keltyr embassy were already half-filled with people.
Van started to ease past the older blond officer in resplendent whites adorned with braid and metals, who was talking to a willowy woman—also blonde, with skin almost as white as the officer’s uniform. Then Van stopped, smothering a cynical smile. “Sub-marshal Taylor. It’s good to see you.”
The sub-marshal looked up from his tete-a-tete with the woman, a fleeting expression of annoyance crossing his face. “Yes? I don’t believe—”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t. Commander Van Albert, Taran RSF. I’m Commander Cruachan’s replacement at the embassy.” Van raised his voice to carry, but only to the point where it would seem that he was trying to make himself heard over the crowd. “I’ve attempted to set up a courtesy call several times, but you’ve obviously been more than a little occupied.” Van emphasized the last phrase slightly, then inclined his head politely toward the woman before turning back to face the sub-marshal, and lowering his voice a trace. “I won’t trouble you further this evening, but I do hope we can get together before too long.”
“Ah ... yes ... we should do that, Commander.”
“I’ll be in touch, Sub-marshal.” Van nodded once more, and then slipped along the wall.
“That was nasty.”
Van turned to see Emily Clifton standing beside an ornate and polished antique acoustical piano that was so spotless that Van wondered if it had been played in the last century. Beside her was a slender man in a white formal jacket “You caught me.” Van shrugged helplessly.
“The marshal wasn’t too happy. His look at your back was like a laser,” she said, before gesturing to the man. “Raoul, this is Commander Van Albert our RSF attaché. Commander, this is Raoul deLevain, my counterpart here at the Keltyr embassy.”
Van bowed slightly. “I’m pleased to meet you, Raoul.”
Raoul smiled humorously. “After what you did to the marshal, I’m glad that you are pleased to meet me.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” Van replied. He detected an accent in the man’s old Anglo, but couldn’t place it. It certainly wasn’t anything like that of Commander Salucar. “As for the sub-marshal, I occasionally forgive, but I never forget” He smiled as he finished the words.
“They do neither,” Raoul observed.
“So I understand.”
Emily raised her eyebrows. “This is supposed to be a friendly reception, not the starting locale of the next interstellar war.”
Van bowed slightly. “I understand. I’ll attempt to remember that all is serene and peaceful here in the Galactic Arm.”
“Commander...” Emily shook her head in mock-despair.
Raoul bent toward Emily, whispered a few words, then bowed to Van. “I must go, but it has been a pleasure meeting you, Commander. A pleasure indeed.”
Once the Kelt had moved away, Van eased closer to Emily, respectfully closer. “What was the parting comment, if I might ask?”
Emily smiled, then leaned and whispered into his ear. “He said you are a refreshingly honest change from your predecessor.”
Van couldn’t help but feel her momentary warmth close to him, but that feeling was gone almost as soon as she moved back after her words died away. “I suspect that means that I’m hopelessly direct and doomed to failure.”
“Only in the reception and drawing rooms, Commander.” Emily stiffened.
Van could sense the comm pulse, since it was embassy-linked, but not the content directed as it was to her.
“Dr. Hannigan needs something for the ambassador.” Emily offered a crooked smile and slipped away.
Van continued onward, eventually finding Ayrllis Salucar in the drawing room off the second reception area, talking to an older man in a formal white jacket. Easing back and waiting, Van studied the DeVelle print on the wall—a scene of ancient warriors in leather and bronze caught by the first light of the rising sun. Van could admire the artistry, but had to question whether an ancient warrior leader would have bothered with a formal dawn consultation with lesser chieftains right before a battle.
When the older man stepped away, Van moved toward Salucar. “Commander... I just wanted to pay my respects. I wouldn’t want to be accused of neglecting you.”
A smile crossed the dark-haired Kelt officer’s face. “Unlike some, you do listen.”
“I do try.” Van half turned and gestured toward the crowd. “This is quite a gathering.”
She nodded. “That’s why all the embassies are happy to rotate it. We’ve had to bring in some serving help, and screening them was another chore.”
“You’ve got extra surveillance in place, don’t you? And some of those servers are probably reporting to you?”
“Now... we shouldn’t get too professional at the moment, Commander.”
“Then I won’t. How long have you been with the embassy? I trust that’s not too professional?”
“Close, but acceptable. Two years and three months. I had the Martel before that.”
“Cruiser?”
“Old and very light cruiser,” Salucar replied.
“And they decommissioned the Martel after your tour?”
“They did. It doesn’t surprise you at all.”
“I wrote a book similar to that, once,” Van said dryly.
The barest hint of a quizzical look flashed across her face, then vanished. “Some patterns repeat themselves, I suppose.”
“Always. The trick is to discover which pattern and who benefits. I’ve always figured out the pattern, just too late to be as effective as I’d have liked to be.”
“You weren’t late in the Regneri affair,” she pointed out.
“I was in what came later,” he said.
Salucar nodded. “Those kinds of patterns.” She stiffened ever so slightly. “I must excuse myself. There are a few things to check before Premier Gustofsen arrives.”
After Salucar moved away, Van made his way toward one of the buffet tables, where he took one of the small blue-green china plates, edged in silver, and filled it with miniature sandwiches of various sorts, not one of which was more than a mouthful, two thin slices of melon topped with prosciutto, and a few anachad nuts. Then he waited at the table serving as a bar, until the tall blond bartender got to him.
“Ser?”
“Pale ale.”
“Aurelian or Edauer?”
“Edauer.”
Van took the ale and, with his plate, eased into a corner behind the antique piano, where he took a sip of the Edauer, a brew with a decidedly hopped edge, but an edge that was welcome after all the talking. Then he began on the sandwiches.
“Commander?”
Van turned to see an Argenti colonel standing almost beside him. He didn’t know the man, but replied in Hispyn. “Colonel? I am afraid we have not met.”
“No, we have not,” the officer replied. “I’m Colonel Ferdinando Casteneda, Colonel Marti’s replacement”
“I’m pleased to meet you.” Van inclined his head.
“And I, you.” The colonel smiled.
“When did you arrive in Valborg?”
“Yesterday.” Casteneda shrugged. “It was a most sudden transfer.”
“From where, might I ask?”
“You could, and I would be obliged to answer only generally. I was working in a certain information ... capacity.”
Van laughed. “That is either bureaucracy, senior command staff, or intelligence, but I won’t press the matter.” He’d already assessed the other’s reaction to each possibility and decided that Casteneda had been in intelligence—and he wanted Van to know it but without saying so directly. That was another troubling factor about the Scandyan situation—a high concentration of intelligence and potential scapegoats in the same place. “When did Colonel Marti leave?”
“The day before I arrived, I was told.”
“Is your ambassador due to be replaced soon?”
The colonel smiled faintly. “I would not be among the first to know that. Is yours?”
“Not that I know.”
“You see.”
“I appreciate your letting me know of your arrival. We should meet more formally once the Scandyan independence celebrations are over.”
“I would concur.” Colonel Casteneda bowed slightly. “I look forward to that. I will be contacting you once I am more settled.”
“The best of fortune in that,” Van replied.
“Thank you.” With a last bow, the Argenti colonel slipped away, as if he were almost relieved not to have spent too much time with Van.
Van finished the small sandwiches, then went back for seconds. As he ate what passed for his dinner, he noted that he had not seen Major Murikami, not that he had expected to find anyone from the Coalition consulate. He passed off the empty plate to a server, tall and blond, and, pale ale in hand, drifted through one room, then another.
Perhaps an hour passed before he returned to the bar, where he traded his half-drunk and warm pale ale for another. He had also observed some individuals he had not met, but who appeared to be from more distant systems, including one woman in traditional Hyndji garb. He wondered how many others there were, and whether they might play any role in the developing struggle over Scandya.
