The ethos effect, p.4
The Ethos Effect, page 4
The control officer smiled sadly. Within moments, another gray-uniformed woman appeared from somewhere inboard with a pallet-sled, and the two Scandyans loaded the inert form on the pallet. The woman eased the pallet toward the back of the entry control office.
Even without complete access to the station’s protocol’s and systems, Van could sense the nanite barrier that held in the sleep gas. He wanted to shake his head. Some people never understood that invisible controls were no less effective than obvious armed guards and weapons. In fact, for most people they were more effective, because when they operated people got the impression that such controls were everywhere—and that was a physical impossibility.
Van stepped to the empty console from where a tall blonde beckoned. He set down the duffels.
“Yes, ser?”
“Commander Van Albert. You requested I stop by here before taking the shuttle to Valborg.” Van extended the thin datacard that doubled as his RSF ID, and also held all his public clearances and qualifications. “It’s in GalStan format.”
The woman took it. “Thank you, ser.” She inserted the datacard in the reader, then handed it back to Van. “It should only be a moment, Commander.”
Less than a minute later, she looked up, then extended a thin green card. “You’re cleared. Give this to the control officer at the shuttle. You might not need it, but we never know if they always remember to update their systems when they lock in. You shouldn’t need to check with us after this. I hope you enjoy your tour in Valborg.” She smiled warmly. “Most officers do.”
“Thank you.” Van picked up his gear, turned, and left the entry control office, turning left and walking another hundred meters to shuttleport two. There, a handful of men and women sat in the synthwood straight-backed chairs in the bay outside the lock.
Van walked up to the slender man standing behind a chest-high console. “Is this where I check in for the Valborg shuttle?”
“Yes, ser. You’ve been through personnel?”
Van showed both datacard and the thin green card.
“I’ll need those for a moment, and also an authorization of some sort for the shuttle charge.”
“I can code that in,” Van said, handing over the two cards.
“Right there.” The shuttle clerk nodded toward the miniature console to Van’s left.
Van touched the pad, then used his implant to input the authorization codes from his orders.
“You’re cleared and paid for, ser. We’ll be boarding in about half an hour.”
“Thank you.” Van nodded and picked up his gear once more, heading for one of the straight-backed chairs. There he sat down and studied those waiting, one after another, picking out several Argentis, a Kelt trader, a good dozen Scandyans of both genders and varied occupations, and four male Revenant missionaries.
After the Eco-Tech-Revenant War, and the settlement reached only because the Revenants had been visited by another prophet, most of the tech worlds had followed the Eco-Tech Coalition’s example and allowed a handful of Revenant missionaries. Van had his doubts about prophets, either Taran or Revenant, but it didn’t make much sense to express those doubts. He’d heard that the Revs had actually had some success in the Argenti and Keltyr systems. They’d been less successful in the Taran systems.
Finally, he settled back to wait for the boarding call.
Chapter 7
After turning his duffels and shoulder bag over to the shuttle cargo clerk. Van stepped into the windowless passenger cabin of the Valborg shuttle, taking in the center aisle, the two-by-two seating, and the relatively compact couches. Those all indicated a magshuttle, and that Gotland had a relatively strong magnetic field, meaning that it had not been terraformed—or not extensively. He checked his seat number and slipped into the couch in the third row, the one against the wall, fastening his harness and restraints.
Shortly, a junior officer in shimmering whites appeared. He paused, studied the assignments, and finally took the aisle seat beside Van.
As he took in the Revenant lieutenant, Van repressed a smile, then waited for a time.
The Rev officer did not look toward Van.
“They do put us in close together,” Van offered in Old Anglo.
“It happens on magshuttles,” replied the Rev. “You on planetside leave?” Van asked politely. “No. Duty.”
Van studied the white uniform, then nodded. “Guard detachment at the embassy? Or are you a courier?”
The Rev frowned. “If you don’t mind...”
“It doesn’t matter,” Van said. “I was only making conversation. I’ve never been planetside here. Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Anything of particular note you’d recommend seeing?”
The Rev forced a smile. “The coastline north of Valborg is spectacular, especially from the crater rim of Haakon. Also, everyone says that the purple surf of Eschen is not to be believed, but I have not seen it.” The Rev paused, then added, “If you will excuse me, ser, I am not much in the mood for conversation.”
Van didn’t push the issue. He’d made enough of a point.
“Please check your harnesses. The shuttle is separating from orbit station at this time.”
The shuttle ride down from orbit station was smooth and uneventful—and quiet.
The Rev officer did not even look at Van, but kept his eyes closed all the way down until the shuttle was down and gliding toward the terminal. Then he flashed a brief smile. “I wish you well in Valborg, ser.”
Before Van could reply, the Rev had turned and was hurrying off the shuttle.
“Please do not forget your baggage.” The voice from the hidden speakers was female. “You will be scanned as you disembark. If there are any questions, you will be met by a port official. At times, the scanners are not as accurate as we would like. At other times, passengers may have misunderstood what is allowed onto Gotland...”
Van reclaimed his baggage, neither hurrying nor dawdling, and left the shuttle. He walked through the disembarkation tube, carrying his gear. After twenty meters, his implants registered scanning activity. He kept walking. He couldn’t imagine that what he carried would be considered a problem. The disembarkation tube opened onto a windowless corridor ten meters wide, but less than ten meters ahead it widened into a space a good twenty meters wide, but only ten deep, fronting the automatic exit gates. The walls were of a blue-tinted marble, without carvings, pillars, or adornment of any kind.
In the last few meters before the corridor widened, a single Scandyan port official stepped forward out of the booth on the left side and beckoned to the stocky and mustached man in front of Van. “Ser, one moment, please.”
“Might I ask why?” inquired the man, who wore a dark blue singlesuit the kind favored for intersystem travel by both functionaries and the few commercial tech-travelers.
“Disembarkation scanning revealed what might be contraband in your bag, ser. We’d like to check.”
“The only things I have are professional samples, and I declared those at the orbit station.”
“That may be, ser. If they’re on the approved list, you’ll be on your way in a moment.”
“I was told they were.” The stocky man sighed as he offered the shoulder bag.
Neither man looked at Van as the Taran officer slipped to the left and around the pair, and then up to one of the automatic exit gates, which scanned Van, then opened.
Outside, under a covered portico supported by square pillars of the same bluish marble, a line of groundcars waited, each bearing a single silvery triangle on the roof directly above the windscreen. Each one sported a shimmering metallic finish of a different shade. The midday sunlight beyond the portico was so bright that even in the shade of the portico, the groundcars glimmered as though they had been lit from within.
Van stepped forward, behind a lithe woman in a dark gray business singlesuit. She stepped toward the first groundcar, and Van moved to the second, one with a metallic green sheen. A side bin door opened, and Van set the duffels inside, but kept the shoulder bag when he slid into the rear seat “Where to, ser?” asked the woman driver, not turning to look at Van.
“The embassy of the Republic of Tara. On Knutt Boulevard.”
“Taran embassy, it is.” The groundcar swept away from the shuttleport. Within minutes, the vehicle was gliding noiselessly along the guideway downhill from the shuttleport toward Valborg, spread out to the east of the green hills and against the blue bay. The city itself seemed a patchwork of green areas and white stone buildings, except for the harbor, which looked to be entirely of white stone—warehouses, buildings, and piers. Even the oceangoing vessels appeared white in the brilliant sunlight.
“This is my first time in Valborg. What should I know that no one will think to tell me?”
The driver laughed. “You don’t have enough time for that.”
“You could start,” Van suggested.
The driver nodded. After a moment, she spoke. “First thing... there’s no place that serves authentic Scandyan food... and if there is, you don’t want to try it. Most authentic Scandyan fare was fish bleached with chlorine, then slathered with salt and a paste that tastes like bad plaster.”
“Is there any good seafood?”
“The ice crabs are good, and some places fix the giant clams pretty well. Otherwise, stick with fowl or meat. The hill quail are good.”
“Anything specially worth seeing?”
“The purple surf up at Eschen, but it’s best at dawn. I personally think the Cliff Spire at Kiruna is more impressive.”
“Is that...?” Van let the words trail off.
“That was the personal residence of Baron Byrnedot—he was the last commissioner before Scandya declared its independence from the Argentis. It’s been kept exactly the way he left it on the morning that the Argenti snipers assassinated him.” The driver didn’t speak for a moment.
With his implants, Van could sense the incoming transmission, but not the content—just the energy flow. He glanced out of the groundcar. Immediately beyond the guideway—on each side—was a landscaped park, with winding stone walks, tall evergreens, and sculpted junipers and pfitzers. Van did not see any deciduous trees, nor any bushes. He saw only a handful of people, at widely separated intervals.
“Sorry,” the driver apologized. “Just got routing for after I drop you off.”
“I understand.” Van paused. “I hadn’t known about the assassination. Is that something that is still a problem... with the Argentis, I mean?”
“Not for most people. That was nearly two hundred fifty years back. Most folks worry more about the Revs these days. Not that there’s been any problem, but with the Argentis in-Arm, and the Revenants out-Arm, and the two not caring for each other that much ... well... you’d have to be blind and deaf not to worry some.”
“There’s always someone,” Van temporized.
“It’s been said that you Tarans don’t care much for the Revs, either.”
“We worry, too,” Van admitted. “It’s not as bad as the war years between the Eco-Techs and the Revs ... but... you never know.”
The driver eased the groundcar off the guideway and through a scanning gate, then onto a wide boulevard. “This is Knutt Boulevard, but the embassy is another two klicks north.”
“Are there other embassies along here?”
“All of them are within a klick of the boulevard, except the Rev embassy. Theirs is at the front of their enclave to the south.” She gestured at a gold-and-green building with extravagant and sweeping curves. “That’s the Keltyr embassy and consulate there.”
The structure certainly reflected the Kelt flamboyance, Van thought.
“Is it true?” asked the driver.
“Is what true?”
“You’re a pretty senior officer, aren’t you?”
“I’m a commander.”
“There was another Taran commander here. He was an ocean sailor. The newstabs said he was a good one. But he drowned, didn’t he?”
“That was what was reported.”
“Funny that a man drowned on the calmest day of the spring.”
“That wasn’t reported,” Van replied.
The driver shrugged. “I only know what I hear.”
“What else have you heard?”
“Well... the Hulsfred Blues are going to win the korfball title...”
Van could sense a smile in her voice. “Who will come in second?” he asked.
“Who knows? Does anyone care? That’s like coming in second in a war, and no one really likes that.”
“No. That’s true.”
“Here we are.” The groundcar came to a stop before a long and low white stone structure that reminded Van of the regional parliament building in Kerry. “That’ll be fifteen, ser.”
Van mentally fumbled with the local net access for a moment before transferring the funds. “Thank you.” The door opened.
Van stepped onto the smooth permacrete sidewalk beside the groundcar, extracting his duffels from the side bin behind the passenger section.
As he lifted his gear, the driver’s window slid down. She smiled pleasantly.
“Have a good day, Commander Albert.”
Van managed to smile as he stepped back. “Thank you. I appreciated the information about Valborg.”
“It was nothing. You keep your eyes open, and you’ll learn more in a day. There’s a lot happening if you look closely.” The driver closed the window and slipped away from the entry to the embassy.
“Ser?” asked the guard in the uniform of the Taran Marines.
“Commander Albert, reporting for duty.” Van looked at the long structure.
“Second archway, ser,” the corporal suggested.
“Thank you.” Van didn’t look back as he entered the embassy. He hoped that the groundcar driver worked for Scandyan intelligence. Whoever she worked for, he’d gotten the messages. Before Van had even taken his second step into the main foyer of what was clearly the consular section of the embassy, a fresh-faced and red-haired younger man, wearing a dark gray singlesuit with narrow green pinstripes, appeared.
“Commander Albert, ser?”
“That’s me.”
“Sean Bulben, ser. I’m fourth secretary here.” He grinned. “That means I run errands and handle grunt work for everyone. Dr. Hannigan sent me to escort you.”
“Lead on, Sean.” Van laughed.
“This way, ser.”
Van followed Bulben past another pair of Marines and down a corridor to a ramp leading upward to a landing, where it reversed its way back to the second level. Halfway up, Van could feel the security screens, but Bulben pulsed a code, and the screens let them pass.
At the top, Bulben stopped, gesturing to his left. “All the offices of important people are up here. Yours is, too. The ambassador’s is on the south end, and yours and the first secretary’s are on each side. You’re on the west, and he’s on the east.” The young diplomat turned and walked along the corridor until they reached the next-to-last doorway on the left.
Bulben opened the door, holding it as if he expected Van to enter first.
Van did, stepping into a sitting room with a couch and several armchairs.
“You can leave your things here for the moment.” Bulben rapped on the inner door. “Dr. Hannigan? Commander Albert is here.”
“Have him come in. You can head back down to your duties, Sean.”
Bulben looked to Van, then nodded and slipped away.
In turn, Van left the duffels in the outer office, but kept the shoulder bag as he opened the inner door and stepped through the dark wooden doorway. The office beyond was no more than four meters square. The innermost wall was entirely filled with shelves containing antique printed books. The outer wall held a window more than three meters wide and two high. The wall away from the door was paneled in the same dark oak as the doorframe, the bookshelves, and the window casements, but held only a single picture—a holo of the main parliament building in New Oisin.
The bronze nameplate on the old-style table desk read— Ian Hannigan. The man who stood behind the desk was a good six centimeters shorter than Van’s hundred and ninety, with black hair, a long and narrow nose between two bright blue eyes incongruously alive and cheerful in an otherwise sad and thin face.
Van closed the door, leaving his gear behind in the outer office.
“Commander Albert... welcome.” Hannigan gestured to the chairs across from him, then sat down exactly as Van did. “Ambassador Rogh wanted to see you as soon as you arrived and after I gave you a quick briefing on the situation here.” Hannigan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the polished cherry of the desk, steepling his fingers. “How much do you know about what’s happening here in Scandya system?”
“Only bits and pieces,” Van replied. “I was ordered to bring the Fergus here, and I assumed that was because the Collyns was dispatched elsewhere. I’d heard that the previous military attaché drowned while sailing.”
“That was the official story and report. I have my doubts it was true,” Hannigan said. “I don’t think he ever understood how dangerous Gotland can be.”
“Do you have any reason for those doubts?” asked Van.
Hannigan leaned back slightly. A wry smile appeared, then vanished. “Not a one. The commander was most cautious. It seemed unlikely, but sometimes the unlikely happens.”
“If it was not an accident, who might have wanted to kill him ... and why?”
“There’s no shortage of possible perpetrators. The Revs don’t like our presence here. Neither do the Keltyr. The local isolationists don’t want any inside or outside military presence, and the Conservative Democrats want to arm Scandya to at least parity with us, and there’s a demonstration by the partisans of one party or the other practically every month. The Argentis still believe that Scandya ought to be theirs, and that’s after over two hundred years of Scandyan independence. The Eco-Tech Coalition looks down its collective nose at anyone who doesn’t practice strict conservation and population control.” Hannigan paused. “That’s just the briefest of summaries. I have a set of datablocs for you with more detailed information.”
Even without complete access to the station’s protocol’s and systems, Van could sense the nanite barrier that held in the sleep gas. He wanted to shake his head. Some people never understood that invisible controls were no less effective than obvious armed guards and weapons. In fact, for most people they were more effective, because when they operated people got the impression that such controls were everywhere—and that was a physical impossibility.
Van stepped to the empty console from where a tall blonde beckoned. He set down the duffels.
“Yes, ser?”
“Commander Van Albert. You requested I stop by here before taking the shuttle to Valborg.” Van extended the thin datacard that doubled as his RSF ID, and also held all his public clearances and qualifications. “It’s in GalStan format.”
The woman took it. “Thank you, ser.” She inserted the datacard in the reader, then handed it back to Van. “It should only be a moment, Commander.”
Less than a minute later, she looked up, then extended a thin green card. “You’re cleared. Give this to the control officer at the shuttle. You might not need it, but we never know if they always remember to update their systems when they lock in. You shouldn’t need to check with us after this. I hope you enjoy your tour in Valborg.” She smiled warmly. “Most officers do.”
“Thank you.” Van picked up his gear, turned, and left the entry control office, turning left and walking another hundred meters to shuttleport two. There, a handful of men and women sat in the synthwood straight-backed chairs in the bay outside the lock.
Van walked up to the slender man standing behind a chest-high console. “Is this where I check in for the Valborg shuttle?”
“Yes, ser. You’ve been through personnel?”
Van showed both datacard and the thin green card.
“I’ll need those for a moment, and also an authorization of some sort for the shuttle charge.”
“I can code that in,” Van said, handing over the two cards.
“Right there.” The shuttle clerk nodded toward the miniature console to Van’s left.
Van touched the pad, then used his implant to input the authorization codes from his orders.
“You’re cleared and paid for, ser. We’ll be boarding in about half an hour.”
“Thank you.” Van nodded and picked up his gear once more, heading for one of the straight-backed chairs. There he sat down and studied those waiting, one after another, picking out several Argentis, a Kelt trader, a good dozen Scandyans of both genders and varied occupations, and four male Revenant missionaries.
After the Eco-Tech-Revenant War, and the settlement reached only because the Revenants had been visited by another prophet, most of the tech worlds had followed the Eco-Tech Coalition’s example and allowed a handful of Revenant missionaries. Van had his doubts about prophets, either Taran or Revenant, but it didn’t make much sense to express those doubts. He’d heard that the Revs had actually had some success in the Argenti and Keltyr systems. They’d been less successful in the Taran systems.
Finally, he settled back to wait for the boarding call.
Chapter 7
After turning his duffels and shoulder bag over to the shuttle cargo clerk. Van stepped into the windowless passenger cabin of the Valborg shuttle, taking in the center aisle, the two-by-two seating, and the relatively compact couches. Those all indicated a magshuttle, and that Gotland had a relatively strong magnetic field, meaning that it had not been terraformed—or not extensively. He checked his seat number and slipped into the couch in the third row, the one against the wall, fastening his harness and restraints.
Shortly, a junior officer in shimmering whites appeared. He paused, studied the assignments, and finally took the aisle seat beside Van.
As he took in the Revenant lieutenant, Van repressed a smile, then waited for a time.
The Rev officer did not look toward Van.
“They do put us in close together,” Van offered in Old Anglo.
“It happens on magshuttles,” replied the Rev. “You on planetside leave?” Van asked politely. “No. Duty.”
Van studied the white uniform, then nodded. “Guard detachment at the embassy? Or are you a courier?”
The Rev frowned. “If you don’t mind...”
“It doesn’t matter,” Van said. “I was only making conversation. I’ve never been planetside here. Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Anything of particular note you’d recommend seeing?”
The Rev forced a smile. “The coastline north of Valborg is spectacular, especially from the crater rim of Haakon. Also, everyone says that the purple surf of Eschen is not to be believed, but I have not seen it.” The Rev paused, then added, “If you will excuse me, ser, I am not much in the mood for conversation.”
Van didn’t push the issue. He’d made enough of a point.
“Please check your harnesses. The shuttle is separating from orbit station at this time.”
The shuttle ride down from orbit station was smooth and uneventful—and quiet.
The Rev officer did not even look at Van, but kept his eyes closed all the way down until the shuttle was down and gliding toward the terminal. Then he flashed a brief smile. “I wish you well in Valborg, ser.”
Before Van could reply, the Rev had turned and was hurrying off the shuttle.
“Please do not forget your baggage.” The voice from the hidden speakers was female. “You will be scanned as you disembark. If there are any questions, you will be met by a port official. At times, the scanners are not as accurate as we would like. At other times, passengers may have misunderstood what is allowed onto Gotland...”
Van reclaimed his baggage, neither hurrying nor dawdling, and left the shuttle. He walked through the disembarkation tube, carrying his gear. After twenty meters, his implants registered scanning activity. He kept walking. He couldn’t imagine that what he carried would be considered a problem. The disembarkation tube opened onto a windowless corridor ten meters wide, but less than ten meters ahead it widened into a space a good twenty meters wide, but only ten deep, fronting the automatic exit gates. The walls were of a blue-tinted marble, without carvings, pillars, or adornment of any kind.
In the last few meters before the corridor widened, a single Scandyan port official stepped forward out of the booth on the left side and beckoned to the stocky and mustached man in front of Van. “Ser, one moment, please.”
“Might I ask why?” inquired the man, who wore a dark blue singlesuit the kind favored for intersystem travel by both functionaries and the few commercial tech-travelers.
“Disembarkation scanning revealed what might be contraband in your bag, ser. We’d like to check.”
“The only things I have are professional samples, and I declared those at the orbit station.”
“That may be, ser. If they’re on the approved list, you’ll be on your way in a moment.”
“I was told they were.” The stocky man sighed as he offered the shoulder bag.
Neither man looked at Van as the Taran officer slipped to the left and around the pair, and then up to one of the automatic exit gates, which scanned Van, then opened.
Outside, under a covered portico supported by square pillars of the same bluish marble, a line of groundcars waited, each bearing a single silvery triangle on the roof directly above the windscreen. Each one sported a shimmering metallic finish of a different shade. The midday sunlight beyond the portico was so bright that even in the shade of the portico, the groundcars glimmered as though they had been lit from within.
Van stepped forward, behind a lithe woman in a dark gray business singlesuit. She stepped toward the first groundcar, and Van moved to the second, one with a metallic green sheen. A side bin door opened, and Van set the duffels inside, but kept the shoulder bag when he slid into the rear seat “Where to, ser?” asked the woman driver, not turning to look at Van.
“The embassy of the Republic of Tara. On Knutt Boulevard.”
“Taran embassy, it is.” The groundcar swept away from the shuttleport. Within minutes, the vehicle was gliding noiselessly along the guideway downhill from the shuttleport toward Valborg, spread out to the east of the green hills and against the blue bay. The city itself seemed a patchwork of green areas and white stone buildings, except for the harbor, which looked to be entirely of white stone—warehouses, buildings, and piers. Even the oceangoing vessels appeared white in the brilliant sunlight.
“This is my first time in Valborg. What should I know that no one will think to tell me?”
The driver laughed. “You don’t have enough time for that.”
“You could start,” Van suggested.
The driver nodded. After a moment, she spoke. “First thing... there’s no place that serves authentic Scandyan food... and if there is, you don’t want to try it. Most authentic Scandyan fare was fish bleached with chlorine, then slathered with salt and a paste that tastes like bad plaster.”
“Is there any good seafood?”
“The ice crabs are good, and some places fix the giant clams pretty well. Otherwise, stick with fowl or meat. The hill quail are good.”
“Anything specially worth seeing?”
“The purple surf up at Eschen, but it’s best at dawn. I personally think the Cliff Spire at Kiruna is more impressive.”
“Is that...?” Van let the words trail off.
“That was the personal residence of Baron Byrnedot—he was the last commissioner before Scandya declared its independence from the Argentis. It’s been kept exactly the way he left it on the morning that the Argenti snipers assassinated him.” The driver didn’t speak for a moment.
With his implants, Van could sense the incoming transmission, but not the content—just the energy flow. He glanced out of the groundcar. Immediately beyond the guideway—on each side—was a landscaped park, with winding stone walks, tall evergreens, and sculpted junipers and pfitzers. Van did not see any deciduous trees, nor any bushes. He saw only a handful of people, at widely separated intervals.
“Sorry,” the driver apologized. “Just got routing for after I drop you off.”
“I understand.” Van paused. “I hadn’t known about the assassination. Is that something that is still a problem... with the Argentis, I mean?”
“Not for most people. That was nearly two hundred fifty years back. Most folks worry more about the Revs these days. Not that there’s been any problem, but with the Argentis in-Arm, and the Revenants out-Arm, and the two not caring for each other that much ... well... you’d have to be blind and deaf not to worry some.”
“There’s always someone,” Van temporized.
“It’s been said that you Tarans don’t care much for the Revs, either.”
“We worry, too,” Van admitted. “It’s not as bad as the war years between the Eco-Techs and the Revs ... but... you never know.”
The driver eased the groundcar off the guideway and through a scanning gate, then onto a wide boulevard. “This is Knutt Boulevard, but the embassy is another two klicks north.”
“Are there other embassies along here?”
“All of them are within a klick of the boulevard, except the Rev embassy. Theirs is at the front of their enclave to the south.” She gestured at a gold-and-green building with extravagant and sweeping curves. “That’s the Keltyr embassy and consulate there.”
The structure certainly reflected the Kelt flamboyance, Van thought.
“Is it true?” asked the driver.
“Is what true?”
“You’re a pretty senior officer, aren’t you?”
“I’m a commander.”
“There was another Taran commander here. He was an ocean sailor. The newstabs said he was a good one. But he drowned, didn’t he?”
“That was what was reported.”
“Funny that a man drowned on the calmest day of the spring.”
“That wasn’t reported,” Van replied.
The driver shrugged. “I only know what I hear.”
“What else have you heard?”
“Well... the Hulsfred Blues are going to win the korfball title...”
Van could sense a smile in her voice. “Who will come in second?” he asked.
“Who knows? Does anyone care? That’s like coming in second in a war, and no one really likes that.”
“No. That’s true.”
“Here we are.” The groundcar came to a stop before a long and low white stone structure that reminded Van of the regional parliament building in Kerry. “That’ll be fifteen, ser.”
Van mentally fumbled with the local net access for a moment before transferring the funds. “Thank you.” The door opened.
Van stepped onto the smooth permacrete sidewalk beside the groundcar, extracting his duffels from the side bin behind the passenger section.
As he lifted his gear, the driver’s window slid down. She smiled pleasantly.
“Have a good day, Commander Albert.”
Van managed to smile as he stepped back. “Thank you. I appreciated the information about Valborg.”
“It was nothing. You keep your eyes open, and you’ll learn more in a day. There’s a lot happening if you look closely.” The driver closed the window and slipped away from the entry to the embassy.
“Ser?” asked the guard in the uniform of the Taran Marines.
“Commander Albert, reporting for duty.” Van looked at the long structure.
“Second archway, ser,” the corporal suggested.
“Thank you.” Van didn’t look back as he entered the embassy. He hoped that the groundcar driver worked for Scandyan intelligence. Whoever she worked for, he’d gotten the messages. Before Van had even taken his second step into the main foyer of what was clearly the consular section of the embassy, a fresh-faced and red-haired younger man, wearing a dark gray singlesuit with narrow green pinstripes, appeared.
“Commander Albert, ser?”
“That’s me.”
“Sean Bulben, ser. I’m fourth secretary here.” He grinned. “That means I run errands and handle grunt work for everyone. Dr. Hannigan sent me to escort you.”
“Lead on, Sean.” Van laughed.
“This way, ser.”
Van followed Bulben past another pair of Marines and down a corridor to a ramp leading upward to a landing, where it reversed its way back to the second level. Halfway up, Van could feel the security screens, but Bulben pulsed a code, and the screens let them pass.
At the top, Bulben stopped, gesturing to his left. “All the offices of important people are up here. Yours is, too. The ambassador’s is on the south end, and yours and the first secretary’s are on each side. You’re on the west, and he’s on the east.” The young diplomat turned and walked along the corridor until they reached the next-to-last doorway on the left.
Bulben opened the door, holding it as if he expected Van to enter first.
Van did, stepping into a sitting room with a couch and several armchairs.
“You can leave your things here for the moment.” Bulben rapped on the inner door. “Dr. Hannigan? Commander Albert is here.”
“Have him come in. You can head back down to your duties, Sean.”
Bulben looked to Van, then nodded and slipped away.
In turn, Van left the duffels in the outer office, but kept the shoulder bag as he opened the inner door and stepped through the dark wooden doorway. The office beyond was no more than four meters square. The innermost wall was entirely filled with shelves containing antique printed books. The outer wall held a window more than three meters wide and two high. The wall away from the door was paneled in the same dark oak as the doorframe, the bookshelves, and the window casements, but held only a single picture—a holo of the main parliament building in New Oisin.
The bronze nameplate on the old-style table desk read— Ian Hannigan. The man who stood behind the desk was a good six centimeters shorter than Van’s hundred and ninety, with black hair, a long and narrow nose between two bright blue eyes incongruously alive and cheerful in an otherwise sad and thin face.
Van closed the door, leaving his gear behind in the outer office.
“Commander Albert... welcome.” Hannigan gestured to the chairs across from him, then sat down exactly as Van did. “Ambassador Rogh wanted to see you as soon as you arrived and after I gave you a quick briefing on the situation here.” Hannigan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the polished cherry of the desk, steepling his fingers. “How much do you know about what’s happening here in Scandya system?”
“Only bits and pieces,” Van replied. “I was ordered to bring the Fergus here, and I assumed that was because the Collyns was dispatched elsewhere. I’d heard that the previous military attaché drowned while sailing.”
“That was the official story and report. I have my doubts it was true,” Hannigan said. “I don’t think he ever understood how dangerous Gotland can be.”
“Do you have any reason for those doubts?” asked Van.
Hannigan leaned back slightly. A wry smile appeared, then vanished. “Not a one. The commander was most cautious. It seemed unlikely, but sometimes the unlikely happens.”
“If it was not an accident, who might have wanted to kill him ... and why?”
“There’s no shortage of possible perpetrators. The Revs don’t like our presence here. Neither do the Keltyr. The local isolationists don’t want any inside or outside military presence, and the Conservative Democrats want to arm Scandya to at least parity with us, and there’s a demonstration by the partisans of one party or the other practically every month. The Argentis still believe that Scandya ought to be theirs, and that’s after over two hundred years of Scandyan independence. The Eco-Tech Coalition looks down its collective nose at anyone who doesn’t practice strict conservation and population control.” Hannigan paused. “That’s just the briefest of summaries. I have a set of datablocs for you with more detailed information.”
