The ethos effect, p.21
The Ethos Effect, page 21
“What does this have to do with your article?” Van interrupted as gently as he could.
“It should be obvious. We’re seeing the beginning of the same thing here. The law becomes more and more of a tool for influencing economic and political events, rather than an arbitrator between conflicting parties. The more it becomes a tool, the less people want to take personal responsibility, and the more power is concentrated in the hands of the few... and that leads to more problems ... like the rise of old-time simplistic and intolerant faiths ... and an emphasis on simple answers that create even more injustice...”
“Cicero’s always been a crusader at heart,” suggested Almaviva. “You know that, Van.”
Van smiled. “Crusading won’t get me a job, though.”
“Do you need one, really?” asked Almaviva. “Retiring as a full commodore? You always had a good voice and presence. You could get involved in theater here, like you did in school...”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Van replied.
“You could still try STA,” said Dad Almaviva. “You might not be that happy with them, but they’re the only possibility for transstellar pilots. In-system, there are a couple of others.” He looked to Cicero.
“CCA is usually looking for pilots,” Dad Cicero added. “That’s all in-system, but they go all the way out. Do a lot of work steering ice comets.”
“Have they made any real progress with the Aeylen project?”
Both older men laughed, almost simultaneously, and once again, Van felt the warmth that had surrounded him for the years of his youth.
Chapter 35
For the first week in Bannon, Van concentrated on his family, rest, and his fitness program. He enjoyed the quiet dinners especially, and Dad Almaviva’s tales of his voice students and current opera production. But he also enjoyed Dad Cicero’s succinct observations about law and life.
Van had already begun to see some results from his early workouts in New Oisin and the continuing efforts on the hill trails around the villa, and found his stamina improving rapidly. When he ran the trails, he still wondered if someone were watching, not that he could tell, either from listening, or from the limited functions left to his implant.
After ten days of family and exercise, he returned to investigating piloting possibilities. As Dad Cicero had prophesied, Van never even talked to anyone beyond the netsystem at STA, but after another week, shortly after eleven hundred, Van was sitting in the office of Farris Macks, assistant director of personnel for CCA. Van felt a little strange in the new gray business singlesuit, but since he was no longer on active duty, the uniform wouldn’t have been appropriate.
Macks was a thin man younger than Arturo, and Arturo was ten years younger than Van. Macks never quite looked at Van as he ushered him into his office and settled behind a desk that was little more than an overgrown console. The office itself was a windowless cube, with a flickering holo of the hills to the north of Bannon, a poor substitute for a window.
“You have an impressive service record... Commodore Albert. Most impressive. It is not that often that someone from Bannon is both a flag officer and a hero.” Macks chuckled dryly. “And returns to tell of it.”
“CCA has an open invitation for experienced pilots,” Van offered. “I think I qualify on the experience.”
“That you do. That you do. You know we only work in-system. Not one of our ships has a jumpdrive in it. Not one.”
“I know. Before I became an RSF officer, I’d looked into becoming a commercial pilot” Van smiled. “Back then, CCA was one of the multis that told me I needed military experience.”
“Oh, we like that experience. We still do.” Macks smiled wanly. “I’ve never met a commodore before. What is it like? Being a commodore, I mean, with all those people ready to obey your every order?”
Van laughed gently. “It’s not like that, at all. It’s much more like being an executive in a multi. All officers have to do what their superiors want. A commodore just has a little more freedom in accomplishing those objectives. Of course, you’ve also got more responsibility and accountability.” Van felt as though he were fudging over the issue, true as he knew his response to be, because he’d never been a real commodore.
“Yes, yes... that must be so. It’s just... I think this is the first time we’ve ever seen so senior an officer seeking a piloting position.”
“A good pilot is a good pilot,” Van suggested.
“A good pilot is a good pilot. I’ll have to remember that. It’s a good way of putting it.”
“CCA has a good reputation for the ability of its pilots,” Van added. “I’d like to think I could add to that reputation.”
“I’m sure you could, Commodore. I’m sure you could.”
Van decided not to press, but to wait.
Macks finally cleared his throat and managed to look at Van. “Ah ... actually, Commodore... how can I put this ... properly?” He glanced down, then back at Van. “I guess ... really ... there isn’t an easy way to put it. You’re too good and too experienced for us. It... well, it hasn’t happened this way before, but... you see, if we paid you what you’re worth... and then there’s the problem of who could train you to our methods, and... no ... I’m so sorry, but it just wouldn’t work out. I really am ... so sorry, I mean.”
Van almost felt sorry for Macks. The job of refusing Van had clearly been delegated, and for that alone, Van had a much lower opinion of CCA and its management. Quasar had at least handled him with a certain amount of class. Macks was doing his best, but his best wasn’t reflecting well on the multilateral.
“I think I understand.” Van stood. “I appreciate your honesty and forthrightness. Director Macks.” Hard as it was, he smiled. “The best of luck to you.”
Before the younger man could react, Van turned and left the office, making his way out and down the ramps to the walkway.
The CCA building was on the west side of Bannon Park. Van walked to one of the benches set opposite a flower bed filled with carmine and yellow sunflowers, almost ready to fade, but not quite. He looked back toward the CCA building, then accessed his personal link account. The only message was from Sappho, reminding him that he was having dinner with Aelsya and her on sevenday.
After a time of looking at the flowers, he again linked into the pubcomm and found TransMedia. Ashley Marson, please.
Surprisingly, after all his efforts without results, there was a response.
Marson, here.
Ashley? Van Albert. Are you free for a bite to eat shortly? Van? Hold one... I’ll see what I can do. Van waited.
I can do it. Café Metropole in fifteen? See you there.
Café Metropole was actually set inside the old Twin Winters Hotel, long the staple for luxurious accommodations for travelers, and the last place where he and Ashley had eaten, nearly twenty years before. Trust Ashley to have remembered. The Twin Winters was on the east side of Bannon Park, only a short walk. Van rose and started off.
He reached the café first, and asked if Ashley had a table. The table was ready, and Van took it, but didn’t even have a chance to order something to drink before the newsie appeared.
“Same old punctual Van. It’s good to see you in less official clothes.” Ashley dropped into the chair across the table with a sigh. “I begged off a luncheon seminar on the need for a bottom-line approach to media success.”
Van winced. “I thought most of the media nets were fairly profitable.”
“They want us to stay that way.” Ashley looked up to the server—a human server was one of the amenities of the antique café. “Red Bandito Stout.”
“Whatever’s the best pale ale,” added Van, before turning back to Ashley. “You were saying?”
“Oh, I read the annual reports. TransMedia was only running a thirty percent profit last year. Only. You get the feeling that nothing is ever enough. I’m still an idealistic kid at heart.”
“If you’re so idealistic,” asked Van, grinning, “why did you go along with the returning hero story, anyway?”
“Still the same direct Van, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
“First, because I am idealistic. Second, because AI asked me to. Third, because you damned well deserved it And fourth, because you and your family never asked for anything.” Ashley shrugged. “Good enough?”
Van laughed.
“We ran it for three straight casts. That ought to help. You want to tell me about it?” Ashley paused as the server set the drinks on the polished teak surface. “Just a moment.”
Both Van and Ashley glanced over the discreetly projected holo menus.
“I’ll have the quail special, with the house salad.”
“The same, but with the small fruit plate,” Van added.
Ashley looked at Van. “What exactly did you do to upset the RSF enough to get you honored and retired almost on a pretext?”
“The injuries were real. Very real.”
“So it was a real pretext.” Ashley’s words curled with irony.
“I think they’ve always wanted to get rid of me, but with the commendations, and the way the Board of Inquiry on the Regneri affair backfired ... they couldn’t ever find a reason that would pass the laugh test Not until this came along. Then, they could get me out on a medical, and by promoting and commending me, how could anyone say it was unfair?”
“Makes sense. As far as it goes. You want to talk about that?”
“There’s not much to say. I’ve been looking for piloting jobs...”
“You won’t get one. The RSF has contracts with most of the outfits. Those who aren’t under contract have major clients or suppliers who do.”
“What have you heard?”
“Nothing.” The newsie took another swallow of the stout “That’s the problem. When you see things happen, and no one knows anything, when you don’t hear things, and you can’t find out why, that’s when there’s a problem.”
“Can you tell me what’s really happening here?” asked Van.
“Outside of a resurgence of the Christos Revivos? Or the new Temple of the Community of the Revealed?”
“They’ve built a temple here in Bannon?”
“Out to the southwest. On a hill where you can see it for klicks. They’re getting converts, too. I guess it’s the times. Everyone wants certainty, and the old faiths provide it. God sets the only rules. Men ran things, and women follow. Marriage is only between man and woman...”
Van winced.
Ashley laughed, the sound deep with irony. “You see. Everything’s the same as it’s always been, except more so. Thought that was why you left.” He paused. “And the worst of it is that it’s better here than on Tara or in most of the other Taran systems. We’ve still got some local perquisites. Of course, that puts us on the bottom of the list for any sort of support from the Taran Parliament”
Van sipped the pale ale. It tasted flat, but he wasn’t sure it was the ale. “That was one of the reasons. Also, I’m not logical enough to be an advocate, and not gifted enough for singing or the arts, and not tactful enough for business or anything else. I’m not exactly a multi man. That doesn’t leave much.”
“Yet you came back.”
“My family’s here.”
Ashley just looked at Van.
Finally, Van shrugged. “I guess I had to see if things had changed.”
“Have they?”
“I appreciate my fathers more, and the family, but I’m not sure anything else has changed.”
“I always liked your fathers. Still do. Heard your Dad Almaviva in the BOP production of Cesare. Last year he did Daland in Der Fliegende Hollander again. He was incredible. In a way, he reminded me of you.”
“Because I’m always back on a ship? Because in three times seven years, I’ve never found the right woman?” Van shook his head. “I don’t know. Getting to stay a pilot doesn’t look that promising. My dads have been more successful in pursuing their careers to the end.”
“You’ll do fine,” Ashley said. “Does Almaviva still cook those fantastic meals?”
Van laughed. “He does. That’s another reason why I’ve had to keep working out.” After a moment, he asked, “How about Mairee and your kids?”
“Mairee ... she has her own dance studio now. She hung up the slippers about five years ago. Likes being her own boss. There’s a healthy waiting list. Marina is a junior at the Academy...”
As Ashley talked, Van listened, appreciating the moment... and still wondering why all that his friend mentioned seemed so distant. He took a long sip of the pale ale. It wasn’t flat, he decided, but it didn’t taste the way he recalled.
Was that the danger of trying to revisit the past? Was it ever as remembered?
Chapter 36
After the dinner, Aelsya had volunteered to do the dishes. Sappho and Van sat on the rear terrace of the couple’s hillside house, looking to the north at the badlands and feeling the swirling twilight breeze that mixed the hot air of the rocky wasteland with the cooler air sweeping down from the higher hills to the west.
“That was a good dinner,” Van said.
“Thank Aelsya,” Sappho replied. “I’m just the sous-chef when it comes to cooking. Our kids know that. Lesnym’s nice enough not to say anything. Farah complains if I’m cooking.”
“You’re better than you let on. You just don’t want to cook that much.”
“That just might be.” Sappho laughed softy. “Aelsya’s always said as much, but she likes to cook. So it works out— except those nights when she’s at the medcenter.”
The silence grew, punctuated by the squealing chirps of the badlands crickets that weren’t really crickets, but mutated miniature land arthropods that filled that niche.
“You still look like you’re somewhere deep in space, Van,” Sappho finally said.
“In a way, I am.” Van looked toward the apple trees, whose upper branches rose over the stone wall that separated the garden on the north side from the small orchard beyond. “I always knew what I wanted to be, and I’d never thought beyond that”
“Can’t you still be a pilot? I know there aren’t many positions, but... with your record...?”
“That’s the problem. They all know my record. They don’t want heroes, or people who look into problems. They want an interstellar shuttle driver, one who gets passengers and cargo from orbit control alpha off planet beta to orbit control delta off planet gamma exactly on schedule with the minimum use of energy and the minimum deviation from schedule. Or they want someone to push rocks and water comets around with the least use of energy and no complaints.”
“There must be someone...”
Van didn’t reply.
“There is, isn’t there?”
“There is... but... I just don’t know.”
“They’re not renegades, are they?”
Van shook his head. “No. They’re a Coalition outfit, something called IIS—Integrated Information Systems. I ran a track on them—as well as I could. Ashley’s also looking into it for me, but I haven’t heard back from him.” Van had also asked Ashley for stories or background about the Fergus, claiming that he hadn’t seen anything because he’d been in the medcenter. “From what I could dig up, it’s an old operation, but it’s never been very big.”
“Old? How old?”
“A hundred and fifty years old. Could be older.”
“It must be a large multilateral to have interstellar ships. It does, doesn’t it?”
“Three. But it’s a foundation.”
“A foundation with interstellar ships? I never heard of one that had ships.”
“I think there are a few. Not many.”
“What’s the problem?”
“They’re Coalition-based.”
“Do they have offices in the Republic?”
“Supposedly.”
“Would you get home more often than you did in the RSF?”
“Probably not.”
“What about pay? You don’t need the money, do you, not with a commodore’s pension?”
“The compensation is considerable,” Van admitted.
“You don’t think they’re reputable?”
“Anything that’s lasted more than a century has to be fairly reputable. There’s not a hint of anything wrong with them. Some odd things...”
“Odd ... wrong?”
“Not exactly. The managing director made an odd comment, though, one about being careful whom you rescue because you’ll be responsible for whatever happens.”
Sappho laughed. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“True enough; but why would he tell me that?”
“To see your reaction, of course. People are always asking weird things in interviews.”
“I suppose so. I liked him... no... I don’t know that I liked him, but I felt he was solid.”
“Then...?” Sappho left the word hanging. “You say you want to keep being a pilot...”
“I don’t know.”
“You do, too. You sound like you did when you were accepted for RSF training.”
“I do?” he asked, almost involuntarily.
“You get that way when you feel you ought to do something, but you can’t explain why. Especially if it takes you away from the family.” She laughed gently. “I think we all do. Dad Cicero always wanted us to be able to explain why we wanted to do things. But sometimes, there are things you just have to feel. That’s always been Arturo’s problem. He won’t let himself really feel. He’s always looking for approval, particularly for public approval.”
