The ethos effect, p.22
The Ethos Effect, page 22
“That never mattered to you. Dad Cicero worried that you wanted to flout convention too much, just for the sake of it.”
“I wasn’t that bad. I saw things. I still see things, and when you see things, and you’re young, you want to make a statement Sometimes, Cicero told me, you shouldn’t” Sappho laughed. “Sometimes, he was right. Sometimes, he wasn’t. He wasn’t that thrilled with Aelsya, you know?”
“You’ve been together for more than fifteen years.”
“Sixteen next month. I’ve never regretted it. But I couldn’t have explained it then, and I’d still have a hard time.”
Van nodded.
“In the end, big brother, you’re going to have to do what you feel. And you won’t have the comfort of cold logic.” Van was afraid she was right
Chapter 37
Van sat in the ancient leather-covered chair in Dad Cicero’s home study, looking out the side window at the bonsai garden. He had continued to think over what Sappho had said the night before. Why was he so concerned? After a moment, Van forced his thoughts back to IIS. The foundation was no newcomer. In fact it was older than some of the outfits he’d already approached for a job. Was it just the Coalition tie? Or a feeling? Why did he feel that way?
Incoming from Ashley Marson, the home net announced.
Accept. Van let the full projection fill Dad Cicero’s home study.
Ashley’s face filled the projection, the boyish grin still as engaging as it had been when they’d both been at Shennon Academy. “Van, you asked me to see what we had on the IIS outfit. It’s not much. It’s a private foundation, headquartered in the Coalition. It’s an old operation, more than a century, but our records don’t go back any farther. They do info studies. Last one here in the Republic... well... they did it for Salyrien, about thirty years back. Whatever it was, it must have worked. Salyrien was number three formulator on Sulyn, and about to go under. Within five years they were number two, and you know where they are today. Not much went public, except that at one annual meeting—that’s what our files show—the director general was attacked for the fee, and he pointed out that, based on the IIS recommendations and findings, Salyrien’s profits, revenues, and market share were way up....”
Van nodded for Ashley to continue.
“They have a small office in Domigua, and they publish a confidential data report for client subscribers only, but we don’t know of anything else ... Never been a complaint or legal action against them...”
An office in Domigua, but Desoll had given him codes for a standing wave reply? Was that so the response wouldn’t have to be forwarded? Or because Desoll wanted to bypass the local office? If so, why?
“There’s an old note in the files, but I can’t verify it. It just said something to the effect that IIS delivers ... but they’re not a multi to mess with.”
“I thought they were a foundation.”
“They are. I’m just telling you what I found.” Ashley smiled. “They look a lot better than STA for you, but don’t tell anyone I said so.”
“What about the Fergus?”
“There were a couple of stories, one on a relay from New Oisin. Not much more than you told me. Hold on. I’m sending it.”
“Thanks. It’s just... well, I was the commander, and I didn’t find out until months later.”
“I understand. Sometimes it helps to see it holoed out.” Ashley’s smile was understanding. Then he stiffened. “I’ve got to run. Someone’s claiming that Councilwoman Styrns has channeled district business to her niece’s firm, and it’s coming up at the council meeting.”
“Thanks, Ashley.”
“Let me know.”
“I will.”
Van sat forward at the console setup, then called up the story on the Fergus. As Ashley had said, there was nothing he didn’t know. The story didn’t even mention any of the officers or techs, or what the ship had been doing, just a vague reference to its disappearance, and the statement that the RSF had concluded that the ship had been lost to unknown causes.
He read it twice. Finally, he called up the results of his previous inquiry and printed out two hard copies. He looked at the first copy, scanning through the results once again, his eyes catching the key sentences and phrases.
Integrated Information Systems ... Proprietary Foundation, HQ, Cambria, Perdya, Eco-Tech Coalition... Managing Director “I. Desoll... approx. 150 planetary offices in the Arm ... total employees, unknown, estimated @ 400-700. Primary focus is information acquisition, process, and analysis. Secondary focus, secure interstellar transport... Total assets, estimated @ 4 b. credits [Taran Republic equiv.]...”
A listing of known clients followed.
Van read through it again. He’d probably end up calling IIS, but he’d still run it by his fathers to see if he’d missed anything. Van thought about trying to make dinner, then shook his head. Instead, he donned an old singlesuit and went out and weeded the herb garden, then pruned the lemon-and-lime tree, collecting the too-fragrant fallen and rotting lemons.
By the time he had finished, and cleaned up, Dad Almaviva had returned and was already puttering in the kitchen. Van slipped in and acted as sous-chef. Before Almaviva had the chicken iscalantia on the table, Cicero arrived and settled on one of the stools to watch, commenting, “Always good to have a son who knows his place when he gets home, even if he is a commodore ... He’s neat. You have to give him that, Almaviva. Would have made a great advocate...”
Van laughed and shot back. “You would have made a great critic.”
“Except he confuses pitch with timbre and everything else,” charged Almaviva. Eventually, they ate.
Afterward, as he took a last bite of the chicken, Van glanced to the dining room sideboard and the printouts there.
Dad Cicero lifted his glass of water. “You’ve been holding back something. What is it?”
“I have.” Van stood and reclaimed the printouts from the sideboard. He handed one to each man. “I’d like your opinions. I have an idea, but I’d like to see if I’ve missed anything.”
Cicero read through his printout quickly, then read it again. The third time, he took out a stylus and jotted down some notes. Almaviva read more slowly, and just once.
Van waited.
“I take it that they’ve offered you a position,” began Cicero.
“Senior director and chief pilot of a new interstellar ship.”
The advocate’s eyebrows rose. “You’re being more cautious than when you joined the RSF. You told us after you’d done it.” He lifted the printout. “They seem reputable enough. Why are you so concerned? Or are you being diplomatic and letting us see all this before you actually do it?”
“He’s a few years older and more cautious,” suggested Almaviva. “That’s not always better. Sometimes, it’s best just to take a healthy bite out of life.”
“Ah, yes,” returned Cicero, “the healthy bite. A wonderful metaphor, you know. Except... that’s truer than Almaviva would like. The problem is that human beings are creatures of appetite, and the tools we have to conquer that appetite are all flawed. Gluttony sates one, but only momentarily, and abstinence reduces consumption, but not appetite. One of the tools most employed is logic. But the great fault of logic is that it seems so reasonable, even when it is not, and thus, unless used wisely, logic becomes the master and the individual the slave.”
“I can’t believe you, the advocate, are saying that,” Van managed.
“When my son, the hero and commodore asks for my opinion, all logic is confounded.” Cicero laughed. “Besides, there are times, believe it or not, when too much logic is wrong. Almaviva always reminds me when I take logic too far.”
“It’s not that often anymore,” added the singer. “At first... well, I’d sing some ridiculous soprano aria, like a countertenor, rather than argue. Then he’d laugh, and we’d talk it out. It works well when you can combine feeling and logic.”
“And if they conflict?” asked Van, dryly. “Can you sing or reason your way clear?”
Cicero shrugged. “You have to make a choice, and refusing to make one is also a choice.”
“Oh, it’s simple enough,” commented Almaviva. “Van, you gave your best for the RSF, and you feel that you were never appreciated fully. That was even with the decorations and the promotions. You don’t want to be disappointed again. So you’ve been talking to second-rate outfits, knowing that they can’t disappoint you because you don’t expect anything. That’s no way to approach life. We all get disappointed. That’s not the point. You have to be what you are and let the disappointments fall where they will. That’s poor Arturo’s problem. He’s never discovered what he is—only what his talents are, and he’s been letting them define him.”
Cicero nodded slowly. “People are more than the sum of their talents.”
“Is Arturo unhappy, then?”
“Let’s just say that he’s less happy than he could be. He tries too hard to fit in. I’ve warned him about where that can lead, but...”
“He knows better,” said Almaviva with a laugh. “Trying to fit in can make a man a slave to whoever’s in power, but he won’t see that. Not yet.”
“It’s hard for anyone,” mused Cicero, as if he did not want to continue with the subject of Arturo.
Van didn’t press.
Later, after his fathers went to bed, Van took out the plastic card, and used the data to send a standing wave message to IIS. He might have been making a mistake, but he was certain that remaining on Sulyn—or anywhere within the Republic— was a bigger one, and he couldn’t afford to keep looking back.
Chapter 38
Three days had passed since he’d sent off the standing wave message, and Van had heard nothing. Not that he’d expected an immediate response, not given interstellar distances, but he had finally made his decision, and he wanted to get on with it.
Vehicle in drive, the house system announced.
Van walked from the study where he’d been using Cicero’s accesses to see if he could find out more information on the interstellar information market. If he were going to join IIS, he might as well see what he could find. He stopped beside the door and looked out through the long window. An electrolorry had pulled up into the circular drive, and a tall, dark-haired man hopped out, carrying a small package in his left hand. He marched to the door of the house. The logo on the side of the lorry was a winged emblem with the initials SFD inside, and Van belatedly recognized the personal courier service.
He opened the door, assuming that the package was for one of his fathers.
Thrummm.
The deliveryman sprawled across the tiles of the portico, the package bouncing lightly away from the door. A weaponshaped device followed, clattering dully. Instinctively, Van ducked and simultaneously swept the weapon away from the fallen figure, glancing toward the lorry.
From behind the Norfolk pine bordering the neighbor’s wall—the house where his biological mother had once lived—emerged a figure in a nondescript tannish singlesuit.
Van frowned, but there was something about the newcomer. He smiled ruefully as he recognized Trystin Desoll.
A second figure appeared from the garden on the right, wearing a sight-blurring camouflage suit, and carrying a long-barreled stunner. It was an effort for Van to look at that figure.
“You’re all right, aren’t you?” asked Desoll, as he neared Van.
“Surprised.”
“I thought they might try something like that”
“You actually waited for them” Van said. “You just waited.”
“We wouldn’t have waited much longer,” Desoll replied. “But I thought it might be better if you saw for yourself, rather than relying on my word. You’ve already taken a great deal on faith.” Desoll laughed. “Of course, we could have set this up, too, but I hope you can see why that wouldn’t exactly be to our benefit”
In the press of what had just happened, Van hadn’t even thought of that He frowned. In bringing it up, Desoll had made another point “You think I’m that skeptical?”
The older man just raised his eyebrows.
Van almost laughed. Instead, he nodded.
Without a word, the figure in camouflage scooped up the weapon lying on the tiles, a miniature stunner of some sort then dragged the limp figure of the courier back into the electrolorry. Even as Van watched, the electrolorry moved away, nearly silently.
“What will happen?”
“Nothing much. He’ll be out for a day or so, and he won’t remember much of what happened. People get excited about murders, but when no one’s injured, and nothing’s stolen, except a small chunk of someone’s memory, they can’t say too much publicly. Someone will find the lorry, and the unconscious man who isn’t a courier, but is dressed like one, and that will keep the RSF from saying too much. The RSF won’t like it, but they won’t find out for a few hours.”
“You knew. Back on Scandya, you knew,” Van stated.
Desoll shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t fit in. You’re the type that can’t go home, even when you do. Whether you’d admit it... that I didn’t know. And whether you’d signal in time was another question.”
“In time?”
“You know you’ve been watched, I’m sure.”
“Your people?”
Desoll smiled faintly. “No. I’ve had several local operatives—we have a list of people we can hire on most planets— watching the RSF agents who’ve been watching you.”
“Why?”
“I hate to lose good people. These days, they’re too hard to find.”
“In all of the Arm? I find that hard to believe.”
“You can believe it or not. Let’s try a little elementary mathematics. How many really good deep-space pilots are there in the RSF?”
“I’d say there might be five hundred pilots, all told, a thousand if you count former pilots.”
“How many are as good as you are? Be honest.”
“Twenty that I know.”
“I’d guess half that, but let’s say that works out to a hundred in the entire RSF. First, how many would consider leaving the RSF? Second, out of those, how many would you trust totally with your life—and an interstellar ship carrying millions in cargo value?”
Van hadn’t thought of those aspects.
“And how many of those have the intelligence and the ability to react in nonpiloting situations the way you did on Scandya? Then add in a few other characteristics, like maturity, a basic sense of fairness...” Desoll laughed. “There aren’t many of you.”
Van still wasn’t so sure.
“You’ll see,” Desoll promised.
That bothered Van even more, but he pushed the thought aside. “You said you had another ship? Who pilots that one?”
“I have to confess to a bit of nepotism there. It’s one of my younger relatives, much younger—Nynca. You’ll meet her sooner or later. That just depends on projects and schedules.”
“Am I the only nonrelative in IIS?”
“Hardly. We have a staff of almost five hundred in various posts. Nynca’s my only relative. It just happens that she happened to have the talents we needed. No one else in the family did—not when I got involved with IIS.”
Van caught the faintest trace of emotion, but Desoll smiled. “By the way, that little device that looks like a stunner wasn’t. It projects a different wave structure. Very effective at creating heart fillibration. You were retired for medical reasons, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You see? Retired commodore suffers fatal heart seizure. No one happened to be around to get you care. So sad.” Van shuddered.
“We need to be going. They will miss that operative before long. Can you pack and get out of here? I’d really recommend not using the net to tell your family, not until you’re on Sulyn orbit station. IIS will pay for the calls from there.”
“Traces, again?”
“We don’t know, but it’s likely that the nets of all your family are shadowed.” Desoll looked at Van. “I really would suggest that you pack quickly and leave a handwritten message for your family here. Tell them you’ll call them direct within a few hours. If you wait too long, it might be more difficult to leave.”
“Won’t they stop me? If this...”
“They still have to operate within limits. For now, anyway. I’ll bring up a groundcar and wait in the drive here. I would suggest that you wear your full dress uniform, miniature medals and all. We’ll be with you, but they’ve wanted to keep this quiet.”
“They?”
“The RSF. Who else?”
Who else indeed? Van nodded. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Chapter 39
Van packed only one duffel and his carry bag. The duffel wasn’t even full, but most of what he’d brought back from Scandya with him had been RSF uniforms, and he wouldn’t need those. The only uniforms he put in the duffel were shipsuits, because the insignia peeled off. He also kept his shipboots, and added the newer gray and black singlesuits. Then he scrawled out a quick note, saying that he’d followed up on the discussion that they had had several nights before and that he’d be calling shortly.
The beige groundcar was waiting in the drive, with a driver whom Van didn’t recognize. The groundcar’s boot was open, and Van put his gear there, then slipped into the back seat beside Desoll. The driver, a man of indeterminate age, eased the vehicle out of the circular drive. The electrolorry was nowhere in sight “I’m still puzzled as to why you’re so interested in me,” Van finally said, after he had ridden in silence for a good ten minutes.
“Think about it. IIS is taking delivery of a ship worth close to a billion credits. I shouldn’t be trying to get the very best commander for it?”
“That’s flattering, but... I don’t know that I’d fit that description.”
