The ethos effect, p.15
The Ethos Effect, page 15
“You look deep in thought.” Emily Clifton reappeared, trailed by Sean Bulben.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Van replied after a quick swallow of the Edauer pale ale. “I was just thinking that I ought to be thinking.”
“About what?”
“That was what I was thinking about.”
Emily shook her head, but Sean just looked bewildered.
A flurry of energy pulses—comm pulses—seemed to flash around Van, although the sense of flashing was more of an illusion created by his RSF implant to provide a semivisible signal to him. “Isn’t the Scandyan premier due to arrive at any time?”
“I think he just did,” Emily replied. “I can see some more Scandyan security by the doors to the main reception area.”
“It won’t be long before they start the fireworks and flareshow,” Sean said, glancing from Emily to Van. “We should go out into the side garden. The ambassadors are going out there. They’ve got places on that stand. We’ll have to peer over everyone...”
“I suppose we should,” replied Emily, a hint of resignation in her voice. “The ambassador always asks how their show compares to our last one.”
The three moved slowly, with the sluggish flow of bodies toward the doors that had been opened out onto the south lawn. It took almost fifteen minutes before they were out into the cooler night air.
The sky had finally darkened into the deep green-tinged purple close to black that was full night on Scandya. In the west, halfway between the horizon and the zenith, Van picked out the unwinking disc-point that had to be Malmot. Despite the growing crowd on the stretch of lawn just to the south of the embassy building, Van could smell the fragrance of lilacs and roses, two of the more durable remnants of the flora of Old Earth. Farther from the embassy, stretches of grass and garden were still without more than isolated clumps of functiongoers, as if most wished to remain close to the embassy.
Van turned and looked across the dais where the ambassadors and, in some cases, their spouses, had settled in. Then, he realized something. The comm pulses he’d felt on and off all evening had faded almost entirely away. That bothered him, although he couldn’t say why.
At one end of the dais, a server was offering various drinks upon a tray.
Van could sense something ... something about the tall blond server, and he eased away from Emily and toward the server. Despite his garb and demeanor, the young man looked and felt more like a Marine—and yet he didn’t Van looked toward the other end of the platform where the ambassadors were seated, and then back to the middle, where the premier sat. Two security types in white and green stood behind him, and another pair were stationed on the ground behind the dais. The Scandyan security guards— three men and a woman—were carrying sidearms in throw-holsters, but Van couldn’t tell what the sidearms might be—wide-angle stunners, slug throwers, or tanglers. On the far end of the dais was another server, also tallish and blond.
Van began to feel very uneasy, and began to work his way through the crowds to a point closer to the dais, through diplomatic staff in groups, closely bunched, but not jammed in tight “Excuse me... please... excuse me...”
He got more than a few glares, but the uniform helped—he thought.
A single green beam of tight flared upward, corruscatingly brilliant the green a perfect match with the green of the Scandyan flag, and the green in the uniforms of the Scandyan security guards. Two more lines of light crossed the first two. Then a blazing image of the Scandyan banner—an evergreen set between two irregular halves of a golden globe— appeared as a projection on the point where the three beams of green light appeared.
From somewhere, came the sounds of a band playing a stirring melody Van had not heard, but which he presumed was either the Scandyan anthem or a well-loved piece with ties to the revolution and Scandya. He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the dais.
The two servers had moved closer to the center of the dais, still carrying their trays with several drinks remaining on them. The server on the left end straightened, and, before moving to the next diplomat, glanced out across the lawn, if but for an instant.
Van followed the glance, seeing another server offering a tray to a couple beside a small fountain—the only pair in that entire section of the lawn. He swept the lawn, noting a fourth server well to the west, where there were but three people, who had to have been unable to truly see the lights because they were directly under them. The three were moving back toward the main area, glancing upward, but the server did not move.
But Van did, even before the positioning of the four truly registered. He wasn’t quite running, when he leapt onto the dais, moving toward the nearest server.
The man turned, took in Van’s uniform, and threw the entire tray at the Taran commander.
Van ducked and kept moving, ignoring the exclamations and curses.
The two Scandyan security guards stepped in front of the premier, and the other two on the ground vaulted onto the dais. Lines of light flashed from everywhere—that was the way it seemed to Van—and the server who had thrown the tray pitched forward across the dais. So did two of the premier’s guards.
More lines of light flashed around Van, and then a series of cracks from a slug-throwing rifle echoed across the lawn and the stunned diplomats. Several of the ambassadors had scrambled off the dais, and chairs were scattered everywhere.
Van kicked one out of the way as he saw the server on the other end take a shot with blood welling across the arm of his white jacket. That didn’t stop the man, who staggered, then drew a pistol of some sort Another of the Scandyan guards went down, and Van lost sight of the premier, who had dropped behind the dais with a cover of Kelt security. But the single server kept moving toward Van. He was less than three meters away and turning the pistol toward Van.
Van bent and picked up one of the overturned chairs by its back, then charged.
Crack! The first shot missed. At least, Van didn’t feel it, and he rammed the chair into the server.
Crack!
Green light flared around Van, and it felt as though lines of fire were flaying him.
Black and green flared around him, and then he saw nothing.
After a time—how long he didn’t know—he looked up from where he lay on his back. There were people, medtechs, around him, but the sky was still dark.
A face swam into view—Commander Salucar’s face. She looked down at him.
Van tried to speak, but all that came out was a mumble.
Salucar looked down at him. “Who did it? How did you know? How?”
Van blinked, holding back the darkness by sheer force of will. “... too ... many ... scapegoats ...”
The darkness rolled over him, submerging him, carrying away the rest of the words he might have said.
Chapter 23
Over the past three millennia, social scientists, historians, and ethicists have all debated the history, purpose, and reason for the development and subsequent failure of ethical systems in society after society. From these endless studies, several facts appear obvious, yet ignored.
First, the ancient Judeo-Christian concept of “original sin” as defined in basic prediaspora Catholic/Christian theology was and remains an extremely useful tool for social indoctrination, because (1) it provides a reason for evil while also allowing people to accept that evil is not the fault of the given individual; (2) supplies a rationale for why people need to be taught ethics and manners; and (3) still requires that people adhere to an acceptable moral code.
Second, genetic studies have since revealed that only a small minority of human beings have a strong genetic predilection toward either “morality” or “immorality.” This has historically posed a problem for any civil society based on purely secular rule because (1) society in the end is based on some form of self-restraint; and (2) the impetus to require self-discipline and to learn greater awareness of what is evil and unacceptable lacks the religious underpinnings present in a theocracy or a society with a strong theocratic presence. Likewise, history has also demonstrated most clearly that the majority of individuals are uncomfortable in accepting a moral code that is not based on the “revelation” of a divine being, because in matters of personal ethics, each believes his or her ethics are superior to any not of “divine” origin.
As transparently fallacious as this widely accepted personal belief may be, equally transparent and fallacious—and even more widely accepted—are the ethical and moral systems accepted as created by divinities—and merely revealed to the prophets of each deity for dissemination to the “faithful.” Throughout history, this has been a useful but transparent fiction because the “divine” origin of moral codes obviates the need for deciding between various human codes. Humans being humans, however, the conflict then escalates into a struggle over whose god or whose interpretation of god is superior, rather than focusing on the values of the codes themselves...
Values, Ethics, and Society Exton Land New Oisin, Tara 1117 S.E.
Chapter 24
Van wasn’t certain, but he thought he was being carried on a stasis stretcher to a flitter. Then the darkness came in over him like the blackness of space between galaxies, dark and cold and empty, with the occasional pinlight of something that didn’t belong there in the deeps, like a rogue star.
Every time that the darkness lifted, waves of heat and pain surged over him, burning his arm and his leg once more, seemingly in even greater fire and agony. In the brief intervals between darkness and pain, Van caught a vision of lines of energy around and through him, and sheets of light that he could only have called translucent flowing down on both sides of wherever he lay.
He tried to concentrate, to bring the images into greater focus, but each time he attempted such intensity, the misty cool darkness surged back over him, and he dropped into the endless blackness.
Then ... he woke. For the first time, he could feel specific pain—not a wash of agony, but areas of pain. His left arm was on fire, and so was his right leg. His lower rib cage throbbed, even as shallowly as he was breathing, and his lower abdomen felt as if it had been cut into small pieces with an ancient sword, then sewed back together with a large and dull needle.
A thin medtech or doctor stood beside the medcradle. “Commander? Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” Van had to struggle to croak out the word.
“Good.” The woman nodded. “I’m Dr. Calyen. I’ve been working with you for some time now, not that you’ve been fully aware of it. We need to run some tests on you. These are of the kind that require you to be awake. It’s likely to get somewhat painful before it’s over, but the longer you can remain alert, the more we can do for you.”
“Go... ahead.” Van’s throat was so dry, or so unused to talking, that he half gagged on the second word. He could hear a low rumbling, then saw another tech pushing a cart toward the medcrib.
“Once the equipment is set up, I’m going to ask you some questions. Some you can answer with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Others may take a short sentence. I may also ask you to think about something—or to try to visualize an object or a color.” The doctor’s tone became sharper with her next words. “This is important. The harder you work on this test, the better your recovery will be.” There was a pause. “Do you understand that?”
“Yes... going to be... a struggle. If I don’t... work hard... I’ll be hurting more... later...”
“Exactly.”
“Doctor... how long... have I... been here?” Van struggled to get the words out.
“You’ve been in the crib for almost six months.”
“Six... months... “I Van couldn’t keep the amazement from his rusty voice.
“You’re fortunate to be alive. You had severe injuries and systemic trauma. You took laser wounds, disc-gun slashes, and a heavy explosive slug through one shoulder, another through the side of your abdomen, and a third through your leg. Even so, we could have dealt with all that in a few weeks, no more than three months. But you also were shot with what we believe was an outlawed biotech slug. It contained a number of SAD nanites...”
“Sad nanites?” Van had never heard of nanites being sad— or happy.
“Acronym,” Dr. Calyen explained. “Search and destroy nanites. The RSF believes that they were intended for the Scandyan premier, not for you. You were fortunate that we had just received and installed some advanced equipment from a Coalition manufacturer.” She smiled. “We were all fortunate. You were the test case, and the results were so good that we’ve been able to save a number of others with what we’ve learned.”
“How long before I’m up ... around?”
“That may be a while yet.”
“Permanent injuries?” Van had to wonder with all the areas of pain.
“It doesn’t look that way,” Dr. Calyen said cheerfully, “but your muscle tone is almost nonexistent, and you’ll need patterning to integrate your new arm and leg... possibly some biofeedback for your right ear. We need some baselines ... that’s what these tests are for...”
There was a period of silence while the equipment, whatever it might have been, was positioned beside Van’s medcrib.
“Say your full name,” the doctor requested.
“Van... Cassius... Albert.”
“When were you born?”
“Seventeen Novem, 1094 New Era.”
“Where were you born?”
“Bannon, Sulyn...”
“Would you try to picture a blue box?”
“... a yellow sphere?”
The questions and requests seemed to go on and on. Then they stopped. Van had no idea what sort of baseline the doctor had been trying to establish, and he was so tired that he wasn’t certain he cared.
“Commander...”
Van blinked his eyes open.
“Thank you. You did very well.”
Van hadn’t done much, but then, he wasn’t certain he could have done more, either.
“There are messages on the console beside the crib, and some handwritten missives as well. We’ve saved them until you were well enough to appreciate them”
“Thank you.” Van could see the doctor’s smile, but her words seemed to fade in and out “... you’re too tired now. Just rest. They’ll be there when you wake...”
The next time he woke, the pain was less—but it was still there, in the arm and shoulder, the leg, the ribs, the abdomen—and in his right ear and his “good” hand. He still didn’t recall all the wounds that Dr. Calyen had enumerated, but that could have been because he’d been in shock. Anyone with those wounds should have been in shock. Still... he wondered. He shivered. For some reason, he felt cold.
Even as he shivered, he could feel heat radiating into him from beneath and from above.
“That should help.”
Van turned his head slowly, his eyes focusing on a medtech, a man who looked too young to be either tech or doctor.
The young man consulted a screen before him. “Good. You’re doing very well. You’ll be on a regular schedule from now on. Your midday meal will be here in about a half hour. Dr. Calyen thought this would be a good time of day to bring you out.”
“Out? Out of... what?” Van realized his bed/crib had been inclined so that he was resting in almost a sitting position.
“You’ve been in a low-temp coma. You had some severe brain swelling... those bioweps, you know. But you don’t need to worry. Everything worked. Dr. Calyen said that she even cleaned up some other problems. Once you’re fully recovered, you’ll probably be just a touch sharper than before.” The tech consulted the small handscreen, then smiled, pointing to the hand console attached to the side of the crib. “A lot of people worried about you. You’ve got a batch of messages there. The handwritten ones are on the table.” With a last smile, he slipped out of the room.
For a moment, Van studied the medcenter room. Nothing special, just a space perhaps four meters wide and not quite four deep with smooth walls. The window to his left revealed a view of the hills to the west of Valborg, deep in snow, but from where he half lay, half sat, Van could not see much of the grounds around the medcenter, just the upper portions of evergreens, also covered in deep and powdery snow. The scene outside the window brought a different kind of chill. The last time he’d been truly awake, it had been midsummer.
His fingers felt simultaneously weak and stiff, but he fumbled with the handscreen, letting it project a holo image before him, one large enough that he didn’t have to strain eyes that still seemed to blur small objects and details.
The first few messages were from the ambassador and the embassy staff, all wishing him well. Those from Rogh and Hannigan were slightly warmer than perfunctory, but not much.
The third one was from Cordelia Gregory, and it was short. He read and reread the key words.
... your actions at the Keltyr embassy showed great courage, and that did not surprise me, for it has always been clear that you have never lacked courage. What wanned and surprised me was the way in which you drew fire and tried to save others. From your effort and example, I think that I can finally put the Regneri tragedy in perspective, and for that I thank you... I regret that I cannot tell you that personally, because I am being sent to Keshmar as second secretary...
Drawing fire? Van certainly hadn’t intended to draw fire. He’d just wanted to make sure that none of the ambassadors or the premier had been shot. He smiled bemusedly. Whatever.
Then, much farther down the queue, were the messages from his fathers. Dad Cicero had wished him well, said he was praying for Van’s full recovery and hoping he could come home before he was posted somewhere else, and concluded: ... As always, we love you, and worry for and about you. Also, as always, you have gone beyond duty, and that is an example that impresses your brother and sister, but I would hope that you have done so for reasons deeper than mere duty ... we look forward with great joy to your next visit, whenever that may be...
