Modesitt, L.E. - The Ecolitan Institute 01 - Ecologic Envoy

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L.E. Modesitt, JR.
The Ecologic Envoy
12/7/02 - V1.0
...I...
The needle-boat blinked out into norm-space. Both high and low wave detector plates flared.
“Flame!” The pilot scanned the board, jabbed a series of control studs to put all energy radiating equipment into a
passive mode, and waited for the picture to build on his screens.
Energy concentrations peaked around the fourth planet, Haversol, then spread to a standard picket line and deep
warning net typical of an Empire operation.
Whaler's fingers flickered over the control studs as he took in the information flowing from his receptors. While all
the material would stay on tap for the Institute to dissect after his return, his own survival might depend on a nearly
instantaneous understanding of the tactical pattern.
“Ten stans, max.” he muttered to the controls, eyes darting from screen to screen. The needle-boat itself was a
single pilot craft, jammed with sophisticated sensors and communications equipment, and made possible only through
a combination of thin hull, minimal support and backup systems, and overpowered drives.
At the upper left of the board in front of Whaler, a flat panel flashed amber twice, then settled into a steady glow. He
touched the panel and listened to the direct feed of the Imperial comm net through his own implant.
“Seven ...clear on grid november five ...interrogative ...”
“That's negative.”
“Angel four ...negative on survivors ...send the junkman.”
“Hawkstrike! Hawkstrike! Gremlin, Arthur class, vector zero eight five, radian one three three, ecliptic plus two.”
“Hawkstrike, gremlin acquisition, closing.” The Imperial Fourth Fleet was obviously mopping up the scattered
remnants of the Haversolan system defense forces.
“Class four on radian two five seven. Hotspot three. Interrogative waster. Interrogative waster.”
“Waster's down. Negative.” Screeeee!!!!
“Unscramble, Northwave. Unscramble.”
“Gremlin secured, Hawkstrike. Repeat, Gremlin secured. “ The needle-boat pilot shook his head and touched the pale
green panel to start the power-up for nullspace reentry.
The return coordinates for his out-space base flashed across the display. The Institute maintained its own forces
independent of the Coordinate. So independently, thought the Ecolitan who was the needle-boat's pilot, captain, and
crew, that the government itself had no idea of the Institute's strength.
“Sooner or later, they'll need us again,” murmured the pilot. “Sooner, if this is any indication. Much sooner.”
Nathaniel Firstborne Whaler, sometime scholar and full-time practicing Ecolitan, automatically squared himself
within his seat cocoon and cleared the board readouts, returning all the data to the coded master disc in the center of
the boat.
As the bell chime sounded in his ears. Whaler tapped the sequencing plate, and the needle-boat vanished from the
norm-space where the Imperial detectors had failed to notice the discrepancy in the energy levels that had been the
only sign of its presence.
...II...
The Admiral glared around the conference table that circled an empty space, then tapped the flat control panel.
The panel flashed twice before settling into a steady amber glow to signify that the full security screens were on-line
and functioning.
A tap on another panel stud brought the holo star map into being in the once-vacant center of the encircling table.
The Admiral lifted the light pointer from the console and rapped the table. Once. The low murmur from the dozen
senior officers died.
Guiding the pointer into the holo map, the Admiral focused the tip on a G-type system on the far side of the Rift.
“Accord. You can see how it controls the trade lines. Particularly since the Secession.”
The pointer tip moved from the holo and jabbed at the Commodore.
“Let's have your isolation strategy report.” The Commodore stood stiffly and gestured at the blank wall to the right of
the senior officer. A segment of the holo, blown to larger dimensions, appeared. On the inner edge of the Rift, the
Imperial side, three stars appeared in red. .
II “Haversol, Fonderal, and Cubera. Until the success of our recent operation, Haversol was the largest out-Rift
trade staging point on the Imperial side dealing with the Coordinate traders. The economics dictated that we hit
Fonderal first, and that was completed before we even planned the Haversol campaign. The embargo on Fonderal was
a simpler matter, of course, because of its lack of an internally supported infrastructure. Even they couldn't tackle that
kind of rebuilding job, not in the short run, and especially with Haversol still open.
“Next came the flanking movement. We managed to get adequate support to the statist insurgents, who, in turn,
were able to topple the monarchy. Of course, the new provisional government asked for Imperial assistance, and the
Fourth Fleet was close enough to provide the necessary support.” .
“That left Hernando and Haversol along this corridor, and we've just about completed the establishment of the
military support agreement with the new government of Haversol.”
Another system on the holo blowup began to alternate flashing white and red. “That leaves Hernando.”
The Commodore coughed twice, reached down, and took a sip from the tumbler before returning to the presentation.
“Obviously, this is all just a sketch, but the next step will be harder. Hernando is considerably more stable than the
other systems. Still. . .if we can get a more favorable government in the upcoming elections or, failing that, generate
enough civil unrest to demonstrate a certifiable lack of control, we would have the basis for another control action,
citing the threat to Imperial commerce. That would just about close down Accord's access to the Limber line.”
The Commodore looked back at the Admiral. “Any questions, Admiral?”
“What's the best possible time line?”
“The midterm elections on Hernando are more than a standard year off, and to generate any real results will be hard in
such a short frame, but we intend to try. Certainly, by the next elections after the midterms—”
“Aim for the midterms. Giving Accord time to react could put us on the defensive.”
The Commodore nodded. “Full speed ahead on Hernando it is. Admiral.”
...III...
Tipsy, that the man definitely was. Otherwise he would not have staggered down the hallway and elbowed his way
through the heavy wooden door into the private party in the second dining room of the Golden Charthouse.
Twenty people, fourteen men and six women, sat around the two rectangular tables, enjoying the first course of
dorle soup and the thin and genuine wheat crackers and anticipating the days of power to come. Only six weeks
remained before the upper chamber elections.
A tall man, clean shaven and attired in a formal, deep blue tunic and contrasting cream sash, was standing to make
the first toast.
“To the people of Hernando and to the Popular Front, the government to be.”
The drunk, a sandy-bailed fellow, lurched inside the room.
“Sir, this is a private party.” The guard moved away from the curtained archway to block the intruder. His partner
approached from the other side.
Neither thought to reach for the illegal freezers in the belt holsters they flaunted.
“So...want to join the celebration. . , see the new masters...see what kind of government the Empire bought...how
much the sellout cost ... “
The sandy-haired man stood almost as tall as the two guards. All three were nearly half a head taller than the men
seated around the tables, even than the toastmaster. “Sir! “protested the lead guard, stiffening. The interloper
stumbled backwards, then kicked the heavy door shut. The toastmaster jerked his head toward the noise. “Sorry,
friends!”
With his right hand, the intruder launched an aerosol into the space between the tables. Simultaneously, a backhand
slash casually broke the neck of the guard on his left.
The right-hand guard grabbed for his freezer, too late, and had no second chance as he doubled with a crumpled
windpipe and a smashed kneecap.
Even before the aerosol had landed and come to a full stop, the Ecolitan had returned his full attention to the diners,
with a small dart pistol in each hand.
The toastmaster in blue was dragging a stunner from his waistband when the first dart caught him in the throat.
“Help!”
“Security!”
“Flamed greenie!”
“Get him!”
“You do!”
A black man with flaming golden hair dove from the top of the nearest table but fell short of reaching the attacker,
and was rewarded with a dart in the neck and a kick snapping his collarbone.
The shouts and sounds, ahead muffled by the private dining room's heavy insulation and rich hangings, began to
dwindle under the effects of the darts and the aerosol.
The Ecolitan calmly continued to shoot anyone trying to reach him or to escape until there were no living figures in the
room. None had escaped. Then he checked the bodies, methodically studying each face and comparing it against his
memory, and insuring that every member of the Popular Front present was indeed dead.
The sometime Ecolitian professor who bore the unlikely name of Nathaniel Whaler disliked the necessity of the
assignment but continued to move with measured and deliberate speed, touching nothing except with his gloved
hands as he turned each still form. Last, he replaced the aerosol in his tunic, concealed the dart guns in his boot
sheaths, and opened the heavy wooden door, staggering out as be closed it behind him. Weaving back and forth, he
stumbled back down the hallway and out into the main corridor from the hidden Charthouse.
Three levels down, he disappeared into a public fresher stall. In time, a blond man in a dark blue business tunic
crisply strode out.
After descending yet another level to the open square, the Ecolitan/businessman sat down beside a fountain on an
empty pseudo stone bench, apparently admiring the interplay of the golden water with the crimson spray curtains.
In time, a young woman, low-cut blouse revealing her profession and assets, sat down next to him, thrusting her
chest at him with an artificially inviting smile. “Complete?”
“All but Zeroga,” answered Whaler. “Not at the dinner. You try the firm. I'll hit his quarters.”
As he spoke. Whaler let his eyes range over the woman, as if appraising what she offered. She rolled her eyes in
exasperation. Whaler shook his head vigorously, and the woman pouted publicly before standing with a flourish and
mincing her way from him and the fountain. The Ecolitan shook his head again and stood. Finally, with a last look at
the fountain, the blond man who had been sandy haired and would be again walked down the corridor to the flitter
stand, where he dialed for public transportation.
...IV...
The Commodore stood more stiffly than usual, waiting to report to the Admiral and the other members of the
Ministry's strategy board.
“I understand we've run into some difficulties on Hernando, Commodore.”
“Yes, Admiral. A major stumbling block, though you will recall that my last report to the board indicated the lack of
time facing us.”
“I recall that. However, would you please provide a fuller explanation for the record.” The tone of the request sent
shivers down the back of the senior Commanders in the briefing section. Several others shifted their weight quietly.
The Commodore turned to face neither the audience nor the Admiral and pointed at the lit screen, which displayed a
chart.
“As you can see, the Conservative Democrats, with the help of the seven seats held by the Socialist Republicans,
control the Upper Chamber, and thus, the executive branch of Hernando's government. The Popular Front, with some
outside technical support, had identified the most vulnerable Conservative Democrats and targeted them. We also
targeted those strong opinion leaders opposed to a greater Imperial presence along the Limber line.” The chart shifted.
“This indicates the probable election outcome, including deaths and retirements, which we had predicted last
month.”
“That doesn't look like a problem,” commented a junior Admiral to the Commodore's right.
“It wasn't...until some mutant form of A-damp virus wiped out the entire Popular Front planning group and the ten
leading candidates—all on the same night ten days ago.”
“ACCORD?”
“The Institute. No way to prove it, but the signs all point that way.”
“Such as?”
“First, both security guards were taken out by hand. One had a broken neck and the other a crushed windpipe.”
The Commodore cleared his throat before continuing. “Second, it was done quietly. No guns, blaster bolts, slug
throwers. And virtually no traces left.”
The Admiral studied the faces around the conference table. Several expressed open doubt.
“Why do you think those are enough to point at Accord and at the Ecolitan Institute, Commodore?”
“Well...we don't deal with biological weapons, especially tailored ones. Imperial intelligence, as well as the
Ministry's teams, indicates that only Accord has a capability sophisticated enough to develop and deploy
individualized weapons—”
“Was this really a weapon?” snapped a senior Fleet Admiral.
“Admiral,” answered the Commodore, “have you ever run across a swamp fever virus that killed an entire room full
of people within a unit or two, simultaneously? At the same time when two armed security guards were killed by
hand?”
The silence dragged out. Finally, the Commodore turned back to the Grand Admiral.
“That brings up the hand-to-hand ability. We might have a dozen men with the ability to disable a pair of
two-meter-tall armed guards in seconds. Several other terrorist groups might have a handful spread across the Empire.
None of us have anyone with that ability also immune to swamp fever, mutated or not, or with the ability to walk
through a crowded restaurant into a private dining room and assassinate twenty people and then leave without even
being noticed.”
“Not even noticed?”
“Not so far as we can determine.” The Admiral surveyed the faces again. “You might ask why this all points to
Accord. I'll tell you. What the Commodore has not said is that all members of the Institute are either naturally immune
or immunized against swamp fever and a number of other fast-acting diseases. He also has not mentioned that the
Ecolitan Institute maintains the most intensive hand-to-hand combat training in the civilized worlds, along with a
special corps that is little more than a crack terrorist unit.” . “Can we prove any of this?”
“That's not the point. Accord wanted to send us a message. They sent it, and we've received it. It doesn't change a
thing. Single individuals, no matter how gifted, cannot stop the massed force of history that we will bring to bear.”
The Admiral frowned slightly after finishing the declaration, then touched the control console. The holo star map
and the wall charts vanished.
“We can't wait for another set of elections on Hernando, not with this kind of a challenge. How soon can we go with
Plan B?”
The Commodore cleared his throat. “That's already underway, but the flagship won't be ready for about three,
standard months—”
“See if you can make two.” The Commodore nodded.
The Admiral touched the amber stud, and the security screens winked off. “Adjourned.”
...V...
Restinal paused outside the open door. “Come in, Werlin. Come on in.” Restinal didn't recognize the voice, but it was
apparent from the cheerful tone of the invitation that the speaker. recognized him.
He shrugged, took a tighter grip on his datacase, and went in.
The room was paneled in lorkin wood. The desk and chairs were all carved from it as well. Restinal noted that the
furniture all matched, each piece done in the spare style termed Ecolog.
Behind the desk, which was really a wide table with a single drawer, sat a silver-haired man, laugh lines radiating
from the bright green eyes. Restinal mentally compared the face against the ones shown him by Delward before he'd
left Harmony. He struggled momentarily before realizing that the man was the Prime Ecolitan himself, Gairloch Pittsway.
For some reason, Restinal hadn't expected to be met by the Prime himself, much less in an empty office without aides.
“You wonder about the absence of subordinates?”
“Exactly,” responded the Delegate Minister for Interstellar Commerce.
“You shouldn't, not if you've followed the precepts of the Institute. Unnecessary subordinates are a sign of
weakness. Our fault that most no longer know the precepts, no doubt, since the Iron Rules are no longer popular in the
schools' curricula.”
Restinal didn't have the faintest idea what the Prime was talking about. He kept his face blank.
“I realize you don't understand what I'm jabbering on about, Werlin, but don't worry about it. If you don't
understand it instinctively, it would take more time than either of us has for me to explain what I mean. Power is the
question now.
“Neither the Orthodoxists nor the Normists have the power to force their choice for Trade Envoy to New Augusta
upon the other. The Supreme Justiciary passed the choice back to the House, ruling that the selection has to be made
by the political arm of the government. You're stuck. And you don't like the Institute all that much, since we are the
sole remaining traditional structure still respected by the masses you professional politicians cultivate so assiduously.
Both you and the Orthodoxists would like ' to reduce the influence of the Institute more than the passage of time and
the ravages of peace have already done.
“Forcing a choice upon the Institute, with the attendant publicity, solves all your problems. Neither party has to
take responsibility for the choice. If our selection succeeds, then you will take credit, and if he fails, we take the
blame.”
“That is conjecture, respected Prime,” responded Restinal.
“Gairloch or Prime. None of that 'respected' hypocrisy, please.” The Ecolitan smiled, the open smile of a man at
peace with himself or as if at a child's joke, before he went on. “The Institute attempts to minimize dealing with
speculations or conjectures. I doubt that my analysis is anything but factual. I respect, however, the position in which
you have been placed by the operation of the political machinery.”
The Prime Ecolitan stood and walked from behind the table toward the still-standing Restinal.
“Please sit down. I forget that politicians all too often stand on ceremony.”
Restinal's knees felt rubbery, and he eased himself into one of the carved high-backed chairs. Although the chair
was not upholstered, the flowing curves of the wood seemed to welcome him.
The Prime poured a cup of water from a crystal pitcher and placed it on the table next to Restinal before he returned
to his chair behind the desk.
Restinal picked up his case, placed it on his lap, opened it, and pulled out the carefully drawn list the Elders
Quaestor and Torine had hammered out in the short hours before he had been dispatched.
“Keep the list. The names on it are predictable. They begin with Tormel, Reerden, and Silven.”
Restinal kept his mouth shut. The list began with Tormel, Reerden, and Silven. But there were only two copies of the
list—the one he had and the one Torine had kept. He, Restinal, had handwritten both.
“I can see you haven't had that much contact with the Institute, Werlin, and I'm afraid that will make your
acceptance of your role that much more difficult.
“In answer to your unspoken question, none of us has seen the list, but we do know the personalities of the
individuals who made the choices and the parameters for selection. I'll admit, in candor, that I would be hard-pressed
to name the next person in order on the list, although we could probably pick eight out of ten.”
Restinal allowed his features to express mild interest. “Perhaps you have already made a choice, then?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. But the name is not one on your list.”
The Minister for Interstellar Commerce suddenly felt sticky in his formal Macks, as if he had been placed squarely in
the Parundan Peninsula rain forests. “If you would explain—”
“Werlin, the Institute is not obligated to explain anything, but since you are intelligent and informed, I will put it in
simple terms. The same reason why the House of Delegates cannot select any Envoy is why anyone chosen from dial
list will not succeed.”
“I fail to see that. Most governments select their Envoys.” Restinal was beginning to see why Elder Torine had
delegated the job to him and why few of the older Delegates cared much for the Institute.
“Most Envoys fail. We do not care to be associated ~with failure. The question is not political. The question is
power. Politics is a system of using nonovert force to work out an agreeable compromise teat does not lead to
violence. The more equal the base of power, the more political the means of agreement can be.” Restinal was lost, and
he knew his face showed it. The Prime shook his head.
“Let me attempt to explain by analogy. When two torkrams contest for superiority, do they fight for blood? Of
course not. They fight until one loses his footing. In fact, the amount of violence is minimal. If a prairie wolf should
wander into the hills, however, the torkram becomes a merciless attacker. The first is an example of near equality of
force, as well as an example of similar social behavior which allows what might be called a negotiated settlement. The
second is a struggle for survival.
“You and the other Delegates are assuming that in negotiating with the Empire the basis of force is equal and the
social behaviors behind the political structures are alike. Both are questionable assumptions.”
“Are they really?” questioned Restinal. What did torkrams have to do with the picking of Envoys anyway?
“As a consequence,” continued the Prime, “we have picked our own nominee.”
Restinal repressed a whistle. Elder Torine didn't like being crossed, and neither did Elder Quaestor, and the Prime
was blithely crossing them both. “Do you honestly think the Delegates will agree?”
“Yes. They have no choice. They don't want to take the blame if things go wrong. Elder Torine knows that. Did you
ever ask yourself why you were chosen to present the list and bring back our reply?”
Restinal had wondered but had dismissed it in the face of Torino's encouragement and insistence. He nodded at the
Ecolitan.
“We are not unaware of the impact this could have on your career, Werlin,” continued the Prime. “But you should
be able to surmount any difficulties. If not, it is doubtful your career would have lasted much longer.”
Delegate Minister Werlin Restinal was getting the picture, and though the outlines were Hurry, he didn't like the
view. The Delegate Minister for Interstellar Commerce was about to become Elder Torino's scapegoat unless he could
turn the announcement to his own advantage. “Who is your choice?” 'Nathaniel Firstborne Whaler. “ The name
meant nothing to Restinal. The Prime lifted a thin folder from his desk and slid it across the flat surface to where the
Delegate could reach it. Restinal opened it and scanned the background on Whaler. Nathaniel Firstborne
Whaler—senior fellow of the Ecolitan Institute; 38 A. T. U.; 191 centimeters; fluent in the eight leading tongues of the
Empire, plus Fuardian and ancient English; Class B scout pilot; combat master; Class C energy tech; noted economist
and recognized authority on infrastructure economics. His single previous tour with the government had been as the
Ecolitan Special Assistant to a previous Minister of Commerce.
Restinal was impressed, in spite of his skepticism. “Are you sure he's the best choice?”
“Do you have anyone who can match half his qualifications?”
Restinal repressed a sigh. There it was, in green and black. Take Whaler or go without the blessing of the
Institute...and anyone to blame things on if the talks fell through.
…VI…
The tall woman was the Special Assistant. Although the meeting was in her office, she waited for the Admiral. “The
Admiral, Ms. Ku-Smythe.” The Special Assistant acknowledged the faxscreen with a curt nod and stood to await her
visitor.
“You look very professional, Marcella.”
“Thank you.” She gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk.
The Admiral sat, erect with the military bearing that could only have come from years of training.
“Have you reconsidered your position on the Coordinate issue?” The Admiral's gray hair glinted in, the indirect
light. Although, as Defense chief, the space officer could have obtained the best of rejuve treatments, the gray added
yet another touch of authority.
“Commerce will support the Emperor. That has always been our position.”
“I know that. You know that. What other official position could you have? Why all the reservations?”
Marcella shifted her weight before answering, then coughed softly to clear her throat. “Sooner or later, you'll push
Accord to the point where the Institute will gain control of the situation. That point is closer than anyone on your staff
is willing to admit. It's almost as if they're pushing you toward military action. On the other hand, we've worked to make
trade the tool for expansion. Without the right kind of legal background and the impression that Imperial commerce is
jeopardized, you're taking the unnecessary risk of pushing the independent out-systems to support Accord.
“And that's totally unnecessary. None of them really like the Coordinate. You want to act before we can neutralize
Accord, and right now Halston and the Fuards, at the very least, will regard your plans as a danger to all the
out-systems—”
“Since we're being candid,” interrupted the Admiral, “aren't they?”
“Why broadcast it? If we can get Accord to agree to a trade agreement with Commerce, that becomes a legal
document admitting greater Imperial sovereignty—the very sort of legal sham that the out-systems will buy.” The
Special Assistant frowned, pursed her lips, and waited for the Defense chief to reply. “Why did you support our
action on Haversol?”
“Because we had a previous trade agreement and because Haversol was stalling on renegotiating to avoid
complying with the terms. That provided the justification the Emperor needed.”
“What's the difference for Accord?”
“You know the difference very well. We don't have a trade agreement with Accord, and, currently, we recognize the
Coordinate's full independence. Unlike Haversol, they've the means to fight, possibly to cost you a great deal more
than you expect.”
“With what? Three small fleets that don't total the Fourth Fleet?”
“Remember how we lost the Rift in the first place?”
“That was nearly four hundred years ago.”
“After four hundred years, we still haven't repaired the damage to Terra, and we still don't have all those systems back.
You have ten major fleets and are building another. With all those ships, we only get systems back through the
combination of trade and force. And here you are, trying sheer force again. It hasn't worked before, and it won't work
now.”
“Marcella, we've discussed this before.”
“You asked— “
“I know. I know. I asked. You still feel that the urgency of the situation is not great enough?”
“Not nearly great enough.”
The silence grew as both looked away from each other. “Well. . .” began the Admiral. “I do value your opinion.”
“I understand.” The Special Assistant's voice lowered, softened. “Enough so you make your staff wait outside.
You've always listened, ever since. . .” She paused, then continued, “but you do your job the way you see it, and
you're usually right. Not always, but usually. And we'll support you, whatever you decide.”
“I know. I wish I had your personal support as well.” The Admiral stood and turned to leave, then half faced the
woman again. “Take care, Marcella.”
“Thank you.”
The Special Assistant looked across the wide and empty office at the closed portal for a long time before returning to
her console, where the panels flashed, each light clamoring for her attention.
...VII...
“Best simulation results indicate forty percent probability of successful trade negotiations; twenty percent
probability of failure; ten percent probability of direct armed conflict; thirty percent unquantifiable.” Despite the
pleasant sound of the terminal, the evenness of the word spacing rendered the report mechanical.
The Director turned to the three people at the conference table. “Forty percent chance that the situation can be
resolved without war. If we can come up with these figures, so can the Admiral's staff. What's the chance of success if
the present Envoy is removed?”
“Personality profile not a major component of success probability. Personality profile is a major component of
unquantifiable component.” The Director frowned.
“What that means,” offered the dark-haired woman across the table from the Director, “is that the personality of the
Accord Envoy will shift the unquantifiable component into other areas. The current success probability is based on
the structural situation. In short, we could still get a peaceful solution, though that could change at any time.”
“What would happen if Defense could assassinate the Envoy?”
“Probability of war rises to fifty-five percent,” answered the computer.
“Probability of Imperial victory twenty-four percent. Probability of significant loss to Empire approaches unity;
probability of destruction of Accord approaches unity.”
“Any other significant probabilities?”
“Probability of loss of Rift and Sammaran Sector approach unity; probability of survival of Ecolitan Institute
approaches unity.” The Director leaned back in her swivel. “So...if Defense is allowed to force the issue, we're all likely
to get blackholed.” The man in the group cleared his throat. “That assumes one thing...that Defense can successfully
operate a covert assassination. How likely is that if we oppose it, and if External Affairs is opposed, and if their Envoy
is warned?”
The Director tapped the table to still the quick rustles. “You forget that we cannot officially oppose Defense. Nor
could we directly ever feed that kind of information to an Envoy from Accord. That sort of behavior would have even
the Senate slapping riders onto our authorization, and we've avoided that for too long to go back to that sort of
interference again.”
“Could I have an answer to the probability questions?”
“Yes. Let's have the readout on those,” the Director agreed.
“Probability of successful assassination not quantifiable under first order assumptions. Under second order,
probability twenty percent, with a standard deviation of not more than twenty percent.” The Director smiled.
“All right,” she said. “You've got the verification that to warn their Envoy will alter the probabilities along the fines we
think would be desirable. How can you warn him, clearly, and yet in a way that will convey the absolute seriousness of
the situation?”
“That's simple. We try to assassinate him first.”
.. . VIII. ..
Nathaniel Whaler took another full step in front of the Imperial Marines to survey the entrance to his Legation.
The New Augusta tower corridor was nearly as wide as the average street back on Harmony but without the more
elaborate facades that graced the capital of Accord. On' New Augusta, each address within the towers or tunnels
merely seemed to have a standard portal. The portal to the Accord Legation, aside from its green color and gold letters
proclaiming the LEGATION OF ACCORD, differed little from the others he had passed.
As high as he was in the Diplomatic Tower, there was considerable foot traffic, along with numerous automated
delivery carts.
Nathaniel half turned toward the bystanders who watched his honor guard with a mixture of boredom and indifferent
curiosity. As he did, the sight of an all-too-familiar object coming to bear on him sent him into a diving roll behind the
still-standing guards. Scritttt!
The splinter gun fragments shattered across the portal facing and skittered along the corridor. “Spread and search!”
snapped the Marine Lieutenant. “He's gone already,” observed Nathaniel, dusting himself off.
The Marine officer ignored the Ecolitan's observation and sprinted down the corridor. Two ratings closed up next to
Nathaniel, each scanning the corridor in a different direction.
“Sir? Don't you think you should get under cover?”
“Little late for that.”
Most of the bystanders had scuttled out of the path of the onrushing Marines or had found they had business
elsewhere.
Nathaniel scanned the faces that remained. Two of the handful still in the corridor struck him as possibilities, and he
committed their faces to memory before turning his full attention to the narrow scratch on the portal.
“Hmmm. . .” he murmured. The splinter had barely scratched the permaplast. He checked the corridor flow and tiles
for nearly twenty meters but could find no trace of the splinter fragments he had heard.
What with the apparent attack and all the Imperial Marines, the Ecolitan felt more like he had been leading an
expedition through Accord's southern forests than arriving in New Augusta.
Finally, he touched the Legation entry plate, and the door slid open. The two Marines marched in and stationed
themselves in front of the entry desk. Nathaniel followed.
The decor of the receiving area that was supposed to represent the decor and ambience of Harmony didn't. The
gargoyled lorkin wood hanging lamps were Secession Renaissance. The woven wheat grass entry mat was Early
Settler. The inlaid blackash tea table was pre-Secession, and the likes of the long maroon and overupholstered couch
had never been seen in Harmony or even in the depths of the Parundan Peninsula.
As Nathaniel refrained from staring at the mismatched furniture, three more Marines quick-stepped in with his field
pack and datacases, deposited them next to the entry desk, and marched away to reform outside the Legation.
The Lieutenant stepped up and gave the Envoy a stiff salute. “Further instructions, sir?”
“Dismissed,” Nathaniel responded in Panglais. “Yes, sir. Thanks to you. Lord Whaler, sir.” As the door noiselessly
closed, the Ecolitan turned his attention to the woman at the desk. She wasn't from Accord, and his change of
attention caught her intently studying him.
That was to be expected. The Empire supplied, without charge, space in the Diplomatic Tower and paid up to twenty
assistants or technical specialists for each Legation. A planetary government, hegemony, federation, or
what-have-you could send as many or as few nationals as it desired for Legation staff, and use any or none of those
paid by the Empire.
The catch was the cost. If the Legation were located in the Diplomatic Tower, the Empire paid for the space, the
power, and the Empire-supplied staff. If any out-system government chose to put its Legation elsewhere in New
Augusta, then the Empire paid none of the costs. While the richer or more militaristic systems, such as Olympia or the
Fuardian Conglomerate, had separate Legations staffed strictly by their own nationals, most non-imperial governments
availed themselves of at least the space in the Diplomatic Towers.
The House of Delegates of Accord, not known for its extravagance, had accepted quarters in the Diplomatic Tower
and had sent only three people to New Augusta: the Legate, the Deputy Legate, and an Information Specialist. Just
prior to his arrival at the circumlunar station, the copilot of the Muir had handed Nathaniel a stellarfax.
WTHERSPOON EN ROUTE ACCORD FOR CONSULTATIONS. WHALER CONFIRMED ACTING LEGATE
DURATION. Sgn. RESTINAL, DM, IC.
The rest had been confirmation codes. So now he was standing in the entry of a Legation he was in charge of, looking
at a cleric/staffer/receptionist who had never seen him but who worked for him, theoretically, but who was paid by the
摘要：

L.E.Modesitt,JR.TheEcologicEnvoy12/7/02-V1.0 ...I...Theneedle-boatblinkedoutintonorm-space.Bothhighandlowwavedetectorplatesflared.“Flame!”Thepilotscannedtheboard,jabbedaseriesofcontrolstudstoputallenergyradiatingequipmentintoapassivemode,andwaitedforthepicturetobuildonhisscreens.Energyconcentrations...

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