The ethos effect, p.6
The Ethos Effect, page 6
“And piracy from farther away is also a possibility,” mused Van.
“You don’t think so.”
“No. Someone had to have a reason to attack the Fergus. You don’t attack an armed vessel except for a very good reason. The Fergus would show up on any EDI detector as a warship. I’m inclined to doubt the attack was because they mistook the Fergus for another ship.”
“I’m not military, but I would agree.”
“You have any problems where my expertise might help?” asked Van.
“Actually ... yes.” Gregory lifted a databloc. “I’ve laid them out here.”
As he took the databloc, Van wondered if everywhere he went people would recall his past and act as suspiciously. Still... by confronting the issue with the doctor, he’d turned open and cold anger into something less, and anything less was better than where they had started.
“I’ll look into them I might have to check back with you.”
“That’s fine, Commander. I’m not going anywhere this week.”
Van bowed slightly as he left.
Chapter 9
At ten minutes past noon on twoday, Van sat in the embassy’s senior staff dining room at a table for four. Across from him was Ian Hannigan. To his right was Cordelia Gregory, and to his left Emily Clifton, the embassy’s third secretary. The other three tables were vacant.
Before seating himself, Hannigan had moved the purple-and-white orchid centerpiece to an adjoining table. “Better to have a senior staff meeting over lunch.” Hannigan looked at Van.
“Double duty,” Van agreed.
“And it’s easier to swallow your words with food,” added Emily Clifton, with a twinkle in the gray eyes that seemed at variance with the severe face and pulled-back blond hair.
The hint of a frown crossed Hannigan’s face, then vanished.
Van made a note to spend more time with Clifton, swamped as he felt in trying to learn a position for which he’d had neither training nor experience.
A squarish middle-aged servingwoman appeared with a tray from which she took four salads. Van used only the red vinegar on his greenery, skipping the oil. With the rich food provided by the embassy, he felt he should be skipping even more, much as his internal nanites balanced his metabolism. He took a sip of the café—hot enough, but weak and brownish.
“The first order of business,” began Hannigan, “is housekeeping. The ministry auditors have requested that we keep better track of personal use of embassy vehicles.” Once more, he looked to Van. “You probably won’t have much personal usage, but, because your personal reimbursements come from the RSF diplomatic account, and they’re always late, it’s very important that you log your personal usage immediately.”
“I can see that,” Van replied.
“The second item is the upcoming Scandyan independence celebration ... the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary. I’ve posted the details on the master schedule, with notes to each of you.”
“How will that affect us directly?” asked Van, not wanting to access the net in the middle of a conversation and also wanting to see what Hannigan had to say.
“The ambassador will have to be present at the ceremony. You’ll need to coordinate with the SDF to ensure security precautions are adequate. We’ll also be hosting several functions...”
“Over several weeks?”
“It’s a two-week celebration. We’ll have an opening night reception—that’s always been rotated, and this year it’s our turn. Then there will be the luncheon that the ambassador’s wife will host the following week, and the Boating Day Festival ... and the final reception...”
The servingwoman appeared with four plates. Van’s held the Circassian Beef with noodles. He took a bite, enjoying the taste of real food.
“The festivities the night before end with fireworks and a holo-laser display,” added Emily Clifton. “It’s quite spectacular—especially the first two or three times you see it.”
“Now... it is very important to the Scandyans,” said Hannigan.
“How do the Argentis feel about it?” asked Van.
“They participate, as do all the embassies. It was two hundred and fifty years ago, and times have changed.”
From what Van recalled, the Argentis never forgot anything, and he doubted that they’d forget a rebellion that had cost them both pride and strategic position—even after two hundred and fifty years.
“There’s also the embassy fund drive for the Byrnedot Home.” Hannigan looked to Clifton.
“Sean’s in charge of that, and he reported that all embassy staffers have contributed.”
Van had been cornered by the fourth secretary on the third day, and, discretion besting valor, had also agreed to a modest contribution.
“Then ... there’s the education initiative...”
Van repressed a yawn, listening and finishing off the remainder of his lunch.
“... and last, I’d like you all to think about your sections of the annual report. Those will be due in draft at the end of Septem, and both Commander Albert and I will be reviewing them, then circulating the drafts, including our own sections, for your comments.” Hannigan smiled broadly, then asked, perfunctorily, “Do any of you have any questions or comments?”
“Yes ... actually,” Van said quickly. “Was there any investigation of Commander Cruachan’s death? I can’t find any references to it on the netsystem.”
“Oh... there were two RSF security officers. There wasn’t really much to investigate about the commander’s death. They just went over the Scandyan constabulary’s reports, then checked his body to make sure that the reports were accurate. They also did a security check of the embassy netsystem. That’s standard anytime a senior staffer dies on duty, whatever the cause. They reported that the commander had drowned, as the Scandyan investigation had shown, and that there was no breach of security in the netsystem.” Hannigan shrugged. “That report would only have been on Cruachan’s access, mine, and the ambassador’s, but it wasn’t put on Cruachan’s, since he was dead. I’ll put a copy on yours, and you can read it yourself. Very dry.”
“Thank you.” Van nodded.
“Is there anything else? Good. We’ll meet on fiveday next week.” Hannigan smiled and pushed his chair back.
When Van returned to his office, he glanced out the window at the hills to the west, golden green in the early summer sun. He checked the netsystem. The report on Cruachan’s death wasn’t there yet. So he slipped out of his office and down the corridor to the doorway to the third secretary’s office—slightly ajar.
“You can come in, Commander,” Emily Clifton called. “Close the door after you.”
Van closed the door and settled into the single chair across the standard desk from the third secretary. “I got your message.”
“Message?”
Van let his face remain expressionless.
Abruptly, Clifton’s severe face screwed up into laughter. Finally, she shook her head. “It’s hard... to remember... that all uniforms aren’t the same. Even after...”
“Commander Cruachan ... would he have sent a message of a most discreetly polite nature?”
“How did you know? Did you know him?”
“No. But I’ve read his reports, and you do get a feel for people by the way they write.”
“You’ve been having a hard time with Cordelia, haven’t you?”
“Let’s say that we’ve established a working relationship. I doubt it will ever be more.”
“I’d guess not. That was all Commander Cruachan managed, with all his gallant manners.”
“I’m afraid I’m more direct than he was.”
“I noticed.” Clifton’s voice was dryly ironic, but not cold.
“Since I am... what should I be doing that I haven’t been—that affects you, that is?”
“You are direct.”
“I learned a long time ago that I got into trouble trying to be subtle.” He laughed softly. “Then I got into more trouble being direct.”
“Sometimes, it’s that way.” After a moment she went on. “I can’t say that I need any help with anything at this moment”
“I might,” Van offered.
The thin blond eyebrows lifted, and the gray eyes fixed on him.
“You deal with the other embassies, right? And with the local media?”
She nodded. “The media here are very local. That’s why we put out the summaries of the Arm news, the burst transmissions that come in on standing wave. The locals get it but you won’t see much of it in the local casts or holos.”
“Have you seen any shift in reporting in the last two months, or anything different in the attitudes or appearances of the other embassies?”
Clifton shook her head again. “That’s one of the things I’m tasked with, and I can say I haven’t seen any changes at all. After the commander’s death, I wondered, and I went back and ran a whole series of analyses. The newscasts, the localnet content, everything. We got exactly the same results as the year before, and the year before that—going back almost a decade.” Her face turned severe once more. “The commander’s death bothers you. You wanted a reaction, didn’t you? Otherwise, you would have asked Dr. Hannigan privately. Why?”
“Because it led to my being posted here, and I’m not that qualified for the post, if you haven’t noticed already.”
“You are direct”
“Better to be direct, and acknowledge the obvious, and get on with learning the job, than pretending you know more than you do.”
That got another laugh before Clifton said, “You’re acting as if you think that Commander Cruachan’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“I don’t know that” Van wasn’t about to admit that was the only explanation that felt right and that he had absolutely no evidence, except the unlikelihood that a senior officer who had great experience sailing would drown on a calm day.
“Let me think about it,” offered the third secretary.
“Thank you.” Van smiled and rose. “And I will stop by more frequently.”
For a moment her smile erased the severity of her face.
Chapter 10
By fiveday, Van was pacing back and forth in his office. Virtually all he had done for an eightday was read reports and papers, all necessary because he’d effectively known nothing about Scandya and even less about being a military attaché. He’d seen almost nothing of Valborg.
Abruptly, he walked out of his office and down the corridor. He paused outside Emily Clifton’s door, then knocked.
“Come in.”
Van slipped inside her office. “I have a favor to ask, if you’re not terribly busy.”
“I’m not that busy, not until tomorrow. After I turn in the revisions to the media plan for the Scandyan independence celebration, Ian will decide on all sorts of changes. Why? What is this favor?”
“A short guided tour of Valborg, especially the sights I should see.”
“Sean could—”
“But Sean doesn’t know as much as you do, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d guide me.”
A faint smile crossed Emily’s face. “I imagine Dr. Hannigan would not complain if you knew more about Valborg from the embassy’s perspective.” The smile broadened slightly. “And I would not mind a few hours away from the revised, revised, and rerevised media plan.”
“Are you sure?”
“Let me see if we can get a car and driver.”
Van stood and waited while Emily made the arrangements, and then the two of them walked out of her office and down the ramp to the main level.
A groundcar stood waiting outside the side staff door to the embassy. Emily walked ahead of Van and stopped by the open driver’s window. “Sonya ... we’re going to give Commander Albert a tour, starting with the Government Square, and then the harbor, and the multi district.”
“Yes, ser,” replied the woman. “Up Knutt to Independence and into the square off that?”
“That would be fine.”
Van held the groundcar door for the third secretary.
“You don’t have to do that, Commander.”
“Old courtesies die hard,” he replied, shutting her door and walking around to the other side, where he slipped into the rear seat beside her.
“Valborg was built on a plantation scale,” Emily began, as the groundcar eased out of the gates and crossed the southbound lane of Knutt to turn north. “That’s why the main streets are all divided boulevards, and why, except in the newer sections southwest of the city, all the houses are relatively far apart even the small ones. They had this illusion of equality, and that anyone could live anywhere, because the prices of the initial parcels were fixed, with the requirement that they not be subdivided. That’s why you’ll find small houses beside mansions in many places.” She laughed. “The fixed prices didn’t last, of course, but the size requirements did. Now this part of the city is one of the more exclusive ones.”
Van took in the dwellings on each side. Immediately to the north of the embassy was a private residence half the size of the embassy—enormous for a single-family dwelling—with a gated groundcar entry, and beyond that was a much smaller house, perhaps half the size of the one in which Van had grown up. Both dwellings were stone-walled, with blackish green slate roofs. They passed several more smaller houses, on either side of Knutt, also of stone and slate, before Sonya guided the groundcar onto a curving ramp that led into an even wider boulevard heading eastward, in what Van knew to be the general direction of the harbor and government center.
“We’re on Independence now,” Emily explained.
Van glanced from one side of the boulevard to the other. On both sides were white permastone walks. “I don’t see many people out.”
“You won’t, except on the enddays, and then you’ll see a lot more, mostly running and jogging. Things are so spread out—except in the true center of Valborg or the southwest— that it’s hard to get anywhere except by groundcar or guide-way tram.”
“Doesn’t seem that efficient...”
“That wasn’t the goal of the original settlers—On your side, there, that’s the old Kleborg mansion. It’s a museum now, and it’s been kept in its original state, except restored, of course.”
Van looked, but behind the white stone walls could see only the upper stories of another sprawling stone-walled structure. “Everything’s stone...”
“It took a while to get trees here. Most of them are less than a century old, something about a native root worm ... A lot of the older places are stone and synthwood.”
“Not many groundcars for these boulevards,” Van observed.
“Same problem... they built big and wide, and far apart. So, except in the morning or late afternoon, they look almost deserted.”
“That’s expensive...”
“The original settlers had the credits... brought in twice as much planoforming equipment as they needed. What they didn’t bring in was much military capability. That’s how the Argentis could take over so easily. On your left, across the median park there, that’s the original opera house. It’s still used today—only in the winter, and with the winters here, even you’ll be going.”
With his own background, Van would have gone anyway.
As they neared the gleaming buildings to the east, Emily continued to point out various landmarks. “... music conservatory ... post-Argenti... botanical institute... Up ahead, on the hill overlooking the lower city and the harbor, that rectangle of buildings is Government Square...”
Sonya turned right, off Independence Boulevard and into the first crowded street or avenue that Van had seen. They drove up a gentle incline, past an area of greenery set in ascending terraces. The park was surrounded by low white stone walls, and held more than a few people either walking or seated on white stone benches.
“That’s the public garden, or rather the northern part. Beyond that is the square, and the Parliamentary Assembly Hall—the long, flat-walled building.”
The groundcar slowed almost to a crawl in the heavier traffic.
The Assembly Hall was the most unpretentious government building Van had ever seen—literally a long white stone box with rectangular windows at irregular intervals, with a set of wide and low stone steps in the middle, leading to a squared entryway. The Scandyan flag flew on a single staff above the entryway, but there were no domes, cupolas, minarets—nothing rising above the level roof of the building. People actually walked across the square, and several groups were standing on the steps.
“The Liberal Commons party controlled the government when it was built, and they felt that government buildings in other systems were too grandiose...”
The Assembly Hall could never have been charged with that, Van reflected.
“The lawns that circle the building are considered part of the square ... and it overlooks the harbor... can see if you look left how it slopes down to the lower city and the harbor ... Any questions?” asked Emily.
“No, not about Government Square,” Van replied. He did wonder why she did not seem to have any admirers—at least, not from what he could see. He knew that the first and second secretaries were married, but he hadn’t seen their significant others.
But Emily had a subdued directness that attracted Van, although he wasn’t quite sure why. That, he had to admit, even as he pushed away the thoughts of anything serious. Not when he had so much yet to learn and so many unresolved questions.
Chapter 11
What is “ethical” or moral? A general definition is that actions that conform to a “right set of principles” are ethical. Such a definition begs the question. Whose principles? On what are those principles based? Do those principles arise from reasoned development by rational scholars? Or from “divine” inspiration? Does it matter, so long as they inspire moral and ethical behavior?
