The ethos effect, p.38
The Ethos Effect, page 38
Van paused. He had transfer access, even on Weathe. “Just a moment.” He went to the office systems once more, accessing Cambrian Holdings, and making the transaction. “You’ll find that there’s an immediate fifty-thousand-credit bonus in your account. Until we see where everything is going, I can’t promise more, although I will recommend more. But you deserve immediate recognition for honesty and hard work.”
For a moment, Pettridge just stood there.
“Go ahead, you can check it, if you don’t believe me.”
Hesitantly, Pettridge accessed his account. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to. We appreciate your work.” Van stood. “Keep doing the best you can. That’s all we can ask.” Pettridge smiled, broadly. “What about your assistant?” Van asked. “Annabel? She works very hard.”
“Say ... five thousand?” Van asked. “She would be pleased.”
“Tell her that we took your recommendation for her bonus.” Van made the second transfer, then picked up his case and opened the office door.
Back in the front office, he turned to Pettridge. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your willingness to come in on such short notice. As I said before, you’ve done an excellent job under difficult conditions.” He looked at the assistant. “Good day, Annabel. Keep up the good work.”
The woman smiled, but Van could sense the puzzlement behind the professional expression.
Once outside the building and out in the late afternoon sunlight, Van accessed the publicnet and called for a ground-car. He waited less than three minutes before a green ground-car appeared. He slipped into the car.
“Where to?” asked the woman driving.
“Is there a good restaurant near the shuttle terminal?”
“Alkady’s isn’t bad.”
“We’ll try it.”
“Alkady’s it is.”
As the driver eased away from the building, Van noted a dark gray vehicle pull out, but it dropped back, then turned. Was he becoming paranoid, looking at every shadow?
Alkady’s had a green-and-white-striped awning, covering outside tables that were not being used in the coolish fall evening. That was one aspect of interstellar travel that had always fascinated Van—that he could go from summer to winter or spring in days.
The host escorted him to an inside booth, paneled in dark-varnished rough wood. There, Van studied the menu, quickly, and was ready when the server appeared.
“What’s the best meal you have that isn’t fish?” Van asked.
“The golden pheasant,” replied the server.
“I’ll have it, with a pale ale.”
“O’Reilly’s all right?”
“Fine.” Van had never heard of O’Reilly’s, but he wasn’t a connoisseur, either.
The O’Reilly’s was an undistinguished pale ale, but not objectionable, and he was thirsty, and hungry. The pheasant was better, although he pushed aside much of the fruit compote, and the red potatoes were excellent.
Later, when Van stepped from Alkady’s into the twilight, he glanced around. Parked down the side street was a dark gray groundcar. He wasn’t certain, but he thought it was the same one.
Quickly, he stepped back into the restaurant, where he motioned to the host. “Is there a tube train that goes from the shuttle terminal?”
“Of course, ser.”
“Where’s the nearest station that’s not at the terminal?”
“That’d be eight blocks north, off Pearse. Pearse and Celebration, rightly.”
“Thank you.”
Van called for another groundcar, waiting inside until a beige vehicle appeared. Then he stepped outside and into the vehicle.
“Where to, ser?”
Van could tell immediately that the groundcar was operated by some security service, with the overlaid coram systems. Immediately, he began to cough, leaning forward for a moment, while trying with his implant to disable the comm-transmitting nodes. Then he straightened. “Sorry. Up Pearse, north, probably six or seven blocks. I’ll recognize the place.”
“You’re in charge, ser.”
Heading up Pearse. Says he’ll say when to stop...
Van smiled to himself, noting that the driver had no idea his transmission had not gone out. He began to explore the comm system, through his implant, and after less than a block, disabled the link between the receiver and the repeater.
The driver concealed a worried expression as the car passed one cross street, then another. Van saw the sign for Celebration and said. “Here.”
“Ah... ten creds.”
Van pulsed the credits to the machine, then counterfeited the acceptance, which unlocked the doors, and stepped out. He walked briskly to the archway and down the ramp, amid a handful of others. No one seemed to be following. Whether his maneuver would work, he had no idea, but he had time to spare. No one looking suspicious—or registering a security-type link—neared him on the platform or on the short ride back to the station serving the terminal. There he walked up to the departure consoles. He had no doubts that they were alerted.
So, standing behind two other travelers, a tallish man and a squarish woman in brilliant green, he began to probe the nets. “Ser?”
Van stepped forward, speaking in Hispyn, “The shuttle to orbit one, and then, a passage to Lanford on the first shuttle in the morning.”
The clerk officer looked blankly at him.
Van repeated his request, again in Hispyn, still probing the console.
She shrugged helplessly.
Van spoke in Old Anglo, slowly, and haltingly. “I would like... one passage ... to orbit one. The next shuttle. Then I would like... one passage... for the shuttle ... down ... to Lanford ... in the morning...”
“Your datacard, ser.”
Van extended it, the one with the identity of Viano Alberto, knowing he couldn’t block the outgoing, but that he could block any hold coming back in. But, so far as he could tell, there wasn’t any alarm.
“You are confirmed, ser. Thank you. You go through the portals there.” She pointed.
“Thank you.” Van nodded politely.
He watched the portals. Again, no one stopped him.
Whoever had been following and watching him had either been thrown off the trail, or was just watching, or did not want to act in the open. That was clear... for the moment.
He also knew two other things. He wasn’t about to return to Republic space and control under anything close to his own name. But he was going to return—he knew he had to— regardless of the folly of it, to get answers to questions he had let go for too long, because nowhere else could he discover what had truly happened to the Fergus.
And he couldn’t spend the rest of his life fighting nightmares or consider himself even halfway ethical unless and until he found that out.
Chapter 62
For all his impatience, Van did not take the Joyau straight to Tara, but instead made a jump to another system—one only numbered as Y-3134U—a binary system with uninhabited planets and complex orbitals. There he parked the Joyau just outside the no-jump zone.
He’d checked the comparators and made some calculations. Had he made an immediate jump, he would have arrived in New Oisin on a threeday, and that would have meant spending too much time on Tara before he could act. He needed to time his arrival for about noon on a fiveday. New Oisin planetary time. That way he could take down an afternoon or evening shuttle, spend sixday making his preparations, then act over the enddays.
He also needed some time to think.
Sitting in his stateroom, he read over the hard copy of Baile’s obituary. The commander had been reported dead a month before he relieved Van, but the “Baile” who had relieved Van had had official orders. Further, the RSF had effectively acknowledged his command, and the fact that the Fergus had remained off Scandya orbit station for nearly a month being repaired indicated to Van that “Baile” had not been acting contrary to RSF directives. And Van had even talked to the man. Whatever else it signified, it was clear to Van that “Baile” had been acting under the orders and direction of the RSF, or of someone highly placed in the RSF—or both.
Then, there was the Founder’s Day massacre of the Republic government. The general methodology had been similar to that used by the Revenants on Scandya. Van didn’t believe that the Revenants had done it, but who besides the RSF in Tara had known that much about the methodology?
Add to that the fact that Van was the only survivor of the Fergus’s encounter off Scandya and that the Fergus itself was lost or destroyed, or both. He had to wonder. Had someone in the RSF just wanted the Fergus lost in order to get support for more modem ships? If so, what did that say about the RSF? And what about the attempts to murder Van himself?
Had Trystin played any role in it all?
Van considered.
He doubted it. There were too many aspects of the mess that Trystin didn’t know, and couldn’t have known, things that Van alone knew and had never mentioned. Trystin had his own agenda, and part of that was using Van’s troubles with the RSF to get Van into IIS and into the clandestine war—and it was a war—against the Revenants. But IIS had offices in many Republic systems, and Trystin hadn’t talked or acted against the Republic in the way he had against the Revenants.
Van still worried about Trystin’s obsession—or near obsession with ethics, but after dealing with both Morgan Henry and Jameson Pettridge. Van had to admit that he definitely preferred ethics over unbridled self-interest, or what Trystin might have called the personal big kill.
The more Van thought, though, the more he realized that he still didn’t know quite enough, no matter what he suspected, and that meant, in the end, he would have to go through with the plan that he only had half-formulated.
He walked back to Eri’s stateroom, knocking on the door. “Eri...”
“Yes, ser?”
“Tell me again what we have in the way of personal gadgets, weapons, tools, and dirty tricks...”
Van hoped some of them would fit into his plans.
Chapter 63
Van straightened in the command couch. He had to concentrate on the approach and docking. What came afterward would be more difficult and nerve-wracking than any space combat he’d been in—at least for him.
Tara orbit control two, Hyndji commercial ship Daiphur, on approach. Request locking assignment.
Daiphur, stand by, continue low-power approach.
Control two, Daiphur continuing approach this time. Was there traffic he couldn’t see, shielded by the bulk of the station, or a ship delocking? Van knew he was being oversensitive, but it was hard to avoid such feelings.
Several minutes passed.
Daiphur, sorry for the delay. Cleared to charlie five this time. Maintain low-power approach. Standing by for authorization transfer at your convenience.
Control, Daiphur. Authorization follows. Van pulsed the credit authorization, this one drawn on the Dhyli Trust.
Authorization received. Thank you. You are cleared to lock, charlie five. Report depowering and switch to station power.
Control, Daiphur, will do.
Van guided the ship around the station and into position off lock charlie five, then slowly eased the Daiphur/Joyau into the dampers. The faintest clunk echoed through the hull. Van winced. He’d touched in a little hard.
After scanning the indicators, he activated the ship’s damper receptors, then dropped the ship gravity to nil.
Control, Daiphur, ship gravity is nil. Switching to station power this time.
Daiphur, thank you. Have a pleasant stay.
Van brought up the ship gravity to one gee on station power. He unfastened his harness and looked at Eri. “I have a few things to do before I head out”
“Then you had better do them.” The impish expression followed the words.
“I love you, too.”
Eri laughed.
Van walked back to his stateroom. He’d need a shower and fresh clothes. But first he connected to the Taran net through the orbit control station. He made a down-shuttle reservation, then one for a return on eightday. Then he secured accommodations for S.V. Moorty at the Old Dubhlyner, the luxury accommodations closest to RSF headquarters.
He had decided against making any news or information requests from the ship, except for the most recent general news, the sort of request any ship or business might make. He wanted no trails back to the ship itself, nor did he want to alert RSF security in advance.
Before cleaning up, he scanned the planetary and local New Oisin news. There was little of interest, except for several articles on the increased income tax levies required for the buildup in the RSF—with close to twenty new ships being built over the next five years. Marshal Eamon cited “the threat to the Republic posed by those who would use any tool and any subterfuge to overthrow our way of life and our traditions.”
Van wasn’t honestly sure which threat was greater—the marshal or the Revenants. He suspected that the marshal was a more imminent threat, and perhaps greater in a way, because if the marshal succeeded in creating a more tightly controlled society, many people might well welcome a Revenant takeover—or just stand by.
He cleaned up and dressed, wearing a tan singlesuit with a deep brown jacket over it, then picked up the carry bag. In the bottom was Van’s uniform, under some other clothing and toiletries. Scanners wouldn’t show it as any different from other clothing, and he’d put the insignia in a small bag inside the underwear. He’d just have to chance explaining it if he were stopped for a hand inspection.
Also in his long wallet were several datacards, specially created through the ship’s capabilities and Eri’s skills. He had no weapons, although the carryall contained a nanite bodyshield, its components split into apparently innocent items. With what he planned, weapons would merely be a distraction and a certain way to get in trouble with orbit station security.
He glanced around the stateroom. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few days, but if he didn’t at least try, he’d regret it and be bothered with it—and the damned nightmares—for the rest of his life.
A rueful smile crossed his face. If he botched it, though, he wouldn’t have any life left in which to regret anything. The choices weren’t exactly wonderful. He stepped out of the stateroom that had been as much home as anything over the past several years.
Eri was standing by the ship lock. “Don’t force your way.”
Van smiled. “Not too much, anyway.”
She nodded somberly. “I will see you on eightday.”
“Eightday,” Van affirmed. “Or sooner.”
The moment he cleared the Joyau’s lock, he could sense the scanners. There was no feedback, and he kept walking along the corridor until he reached the immigration consoles, short of the shuttle area. There, without a word, he tendered the datacard and waited.
“Ser Moorty?” asked the official at the shuttle console.
“Yes?” Van replied.
“Where will you be staying in New Oisin?”
“Three days. I have a reservation at the Old Dubhlyner. That is satisfactory, is it not?” replied Van, using a stiffer form of Anglo, one appropriate to an educated outsider.
“Oh, yes, ser. It’s a fine place.”
Van bet the poor immigration officer couldn’t have afforded a single night there, but then, one of the purposes of spending the credits was to create the impression of a wealthy businessman. Then, in a way, Van reflected, he was, although he’d never thought of it that way before.
He had to wait almost an hour before boarding the shuttle, and once on board, he listened for most of the descent, his eyes closed, and his hearing implant-boosted.
“... can’t believe all the questions they asked...”
“... looking for someone, you think?”
“... more like they’re profiling ... anyone tall and fair, especially blond...”
“... anyone coming from a Revenant system, you think?”
“... not at war... can’t cut off travel, you know...”
Van wondered about that.
“... Sulynese... might revolt... spoiled people...”
“... bad as the Kelts...”
“... worse ... ask me ... never trust black Tarans...”
“... some are all right...”
“... name one...”
Van winced at the silence that followed.
Once the shuttle had grounded and glided to the disembarking point, Van moved decisively, but not hastily. When he left the disembarking corridor, he found himself opposite another line of consoles, each manned by another junior functionary. Overhead, there were remote arms emplacements, not visible except through Van’s implant. Both the remote stunners and the consoles had been added since Van’s last trip to New Oisin.
In a strictly logical fashion, neither made sense. But the additions made political and emotional sense, because Marshal Eamon could claim that the Republic was under attack and all steps were being taken to protect its citizens.
Van took the console with the shortest line, where he tendered, once more, the datacard.
“Ser? What is your purpose in visiting New Oisin?”
“It is business.” Van waited. “I am with Vishava Securities.”
“Are you carrying more than ten thousand credits or any convertible bonds in excess of that amount?”
“No. We operate through the standard clearinghouses.”
“Are you carrying any personal weapons? That includes knives, swords, anything with a blade longer than six centimeters...”
“No.”
The functionary scanned the low holo projection before him, then nodded. He handed Van back the card for S. V. Moorty. “Thank you, ser.”
“Thank you.” Van nodded politely and picked up the overnight bag, moving out through the portals to find a groundcar. Outside, the sun was beginning to set and he waited behind a couple and an RSF major. The next groundcar rolled past him, without stopping, as did the one following.
