Modesitt, L.E. - The Forever Hero 2 -The Silent Warrior

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file:///F|/rah/L.%20E.%20Modesitt/Modesitt,%20L%20E%20-%20Forever%20Hero%2002%20-%20The%20Silent%20Warrior.txt
THE FOREVER HERO 2:
THE SILENT WARRIOR
L.E. MODESITT, Jr.
v1.0
Scanned and Proofed
by Neugaia (#Bookz)
[17/03/2002]
I
TECHNICALLY, THE ROOM was not supposed to exist, for it appeared neither on the official floor
plans of the Admiralty, nor in any of the references, nor even in the classified briefing
materials provided to the Admiral of the Fleets.
The Admiral of the Fleets knew of the room with its unique equipment, as did the man called
Eye. That they did was obvious from their presence within.
The interior walls were not walls, but an arrangement of polygons upon which other
equipment remained focused. The soft flooring was designed as well to resist echoes and any
duplication or recording of the proceedings.
The admiral wore dress blacks, as he often did. The three others around the table were
garbed in black full fade cloaks with privacy hoods. The man called Eye was distinguished only by
the seat he had taken at the head of the five sided table.
"You called the meeting, Admiral." The scratchy tone of the voice indicated that Eye
employed a voice distorter.
"I did. I have a commission. The file is there." He pointed to the blank cover of the
folder on the table in front of Eye.
No one said a word as the Intelligence chief read the material, then passed it to the
figure on the right, who in turn scanned the contents before passing it back to the last
Intelligence controller.
"We have some questions," began Eye. The hooded heads of the other two nodded in agreement.
"Questions yet?"
Eye said nothing, and with the face lost in the shadows of the hooded cloak, the admiral
wondered if he had pushed too far.
Finally, Eye cleared his throat, and his distorted voice, low and even, responded.
"We probably know more about the subject than you do. We considered him as a candidate for
Corpus. We chose not to pursue the matter, and based on your material, I would agree that choice
was probably wise.
"For many of the same reasons, we are concerned about reopening any possible involvement
here, and question the advantage to the Service of doing so."
"Would you feel free to explain?" the admiral asked, not pleading, but with his tone making
the other aware that he was asking so far, not demanding.
"His personality is stable, except under extreme stress. Under such stress, he will lose
all sense of restraint, common morality, and go for the jugular. His level of stress is higher
than anyone ever tested, however, which offers us all protection. His reflexes are naturally
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better than any single agent, possibly by a factor of two or three, and he has spent at least the
last fifty stans teaching himself virtually every single personal weapon known.
"He is adept at circuit design, is probably a goodjourneyman systems breaker, and is one of
the best pilots in Service history. We checked the drives of the Sanducar after she was returned.
Although they tested normally, indications were that the grav governors had been reset to a higher
tolerance, then returned to normal. Given any amount of time, he could do the same to any ship. We
do not know what level of acceleration he could tolerate and still function at peak efficiency,
but it is high enough to give him an insurmountable edge over any ship fast enough to pursue . .
."
The admiral nodded, not quite impatiently.
". . . also has contacts within the Court able to gain him an open portal to any
installation. With his skills, only access would be necessary."
"But the man sleeps, doesn't he?"
"He may. Remember there are at least eight other so called devilkids fully trained, most of
whom have similar skills, who remain within Recorps. All are fanatically loyal to him, and he has
charged them with carrying out the reclamation effort on Old Earth. That means that they are
effectively neutralized at this time."
Eye's hood lifted, and although the admiral could not see the man's eyes, he felt a chill
in spite of himself.
"Don't you see, Admiral," asked the Intelligence head, "where this all leads? Do you
understand why I am reluctant to take on a commission that could lead to eight totally
unrestrained fanatics declaring war on us? It could take a full battle group to catch and subdue
each. And for what? Because your subject made you look silly? His actions are centered on one
planet. Those actions are considered idealistic by the majority of the Imperial citizenry, by the
majority of the Court, and probably by the majority of the I.S.S. officer corps. Farther, he has
removed himself from the scene in order to prevent any reprisals at him from affecting the
reclamation effort. With all that, you ask that we stir up the mess by trying to remove him?"
"Yes. No individual should be bigger than the Empire. No individual should be able to
manipulate public sentiment to break Imperial laws with impunity."
"He didn't, Admiral," added Eye, his voice even softer. "He renounced any claim to return
to his planet, even in death. For someone that dedicated, that is punishment. Perhaps not what you
wish, but punishment nonetheless. More important, it is regarded as punishment by the majority of
the older devilkids. Some of the more recently commissioned officers, as you know, still opted for
the Service, and I seriously hope you rereview their records and expunge the Board of Inquiry
findings."
The last sentence was nearly a command, and the admiral stiffened. "Are you telling me what
to do?"
Eye shook his hooded head. "No. Just hoping you would understand all the factors
Intelligence must consider. The man wants to restore his planet. He used force only when necessary
and went to elaborate lengths to avoid injury to Imperial personnel. He willingly gave all tile
credit to the Emperor, and I might add that such news was worth a plus ten week rate for nearly a
month. The Emperor knows that and appreciates it."
"But he stood the Service on end."
"That I doubt. He did upset the High Command. The Service is alive and well." Eye cleared
his throat. "Do you want its to deal with the problem?"
"Yes."
Eye turned to the figure on his left.
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"Clause five," suggested the cloaked figure, and even with the voice distorter, the
softness of tone suggested that the speaker was a woman.
Eye returned his attention to the admiral, whose fingers drummed on the table with scarcely
concealed impatience.
"We will solve the problem in our own way. subject to clause fine of our charter."
"That means . . . ?"
"We undertake to solve the problem, either within or without the solution suggested,
subject to the Emperor's personal review."
"Which means?" asked the admiral again.
"It means, Admiral, that I will not undertake an ill advised removal action surely geared
to cause severe casualties to both Eye section and the Service, as well as public relations and
public opinion reversals of the first order, just to soothe the wounded pride of the High Command.
Because you feel so strongly, however, I will take action to insure that the Emperor is protected.
If my decision is incorrect, I will be removed. Removed, not replaced."
Eye nodded to the figures who flanked him. The admiral’s eyes widened, trying to focus on
all three figures simultaneously, on the way the two at Eye’s sides lifted their robed hands, with
the strange devices.
"No—"
The admiral could feel the sudden constriction in his chest, feel the alternative waves of
red and black washing up over him.
"Get him back to his office, and call a medical tech. I believe the admiral is suffering a
massive heart seizure, poor man."
Clause five. That was the admiral’s last thought.
Clause five.
II
There was in those times a prophet, and when the people asked his name, he answered not, saying
instead, what I do should be remembered, for in deeds there is truth, and that truth should be
remembered and live, even as men die.
A man from Denv asked the prophet this question.
If a mountain is called a mountain, men call that a fact, for the mountain is, and they
can see it is. Likewise a wilderness. Likewise the stars. But when a man calls his deeds truth,
are they?
When he calls a mountain the ocean, all can tell he is mistaken. But when he calls himself
a prophet, or allows others to call him a prophet, no man can prove or disprove his naming.
Should the prophet walk on water and heal the sick and raise the dead, no one can say
whether he is prophet or no, whether he is sent by the angels or the devils, or whether he is
master or slave.
Goodness may be done by the evil to ensnare the unwary, and evil by the good to test the
worthiness of the people. So by what measure can any person weigh the truth of another’s deeds?
The Book of Deeds
Authorized Version (First Revision)
Old Earth, 3788 N.E.C.
III
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GRIM—THAT WAS the appearance of the gardens in the central courtyard of the senior officers
quarters, reflected Gerswin.
Heavy gray clouds poured out of the eastern hills and down over New Augusta, scudding
across the sky so swiftly that their motion was apparent with even a single glance through the
narrow windows of his room.
No rain dropped from the mass of gray, and the air beneath was preternaturally clear, as
if the sky held its breath.
The senior commander turned and glanced toward the vidscreen.
“Seems like you’ve done this before,” he said quietly, but neither the screen nor the room
answered him.
High Command had not expected him to choose the Service over the newly created Recorps,
and now the admirals didn’t know what to do with him.
Gerswin could understand their dilemma. A deskjob in New Augusta might give him access to
influence or to make more trouble. At the same time, his rank would guarantee him a job with
access to people and resources at any out-base. At the moment, there were no handy combat or high
risk assignments for commanders where he could be placed with the hope of his not returning.
Although Corpus Corps involvement in shortening his life span was a possibility, Gerswin
hoped that no one in their right mind would seriously consider assassination or removal. The
subsequent inquiry would prove too unsettling and would expose too many weaknesses in both the
Empire and the Service, not to mention the possibility that the devilkids might feel compelled to
take on the Empire because they would regard the Empire’s commitments as worthless.
But ego was a touchy subject, and Gerswin would not trust rationality to prevail, not for
a time at least. For that reason were the throwing knives concealed behind his artificially
stiffened waistband, the sling leathers in place. He also was devoting increased attention to his
surroundings, especially when he went out.
In the interim, while the admirals decided, he reported to the detail section every
morning, was updated on how no new assignments were yet available, and asked to check back the
next morning. Three days earlier, he’d spent the day taking a battery of tests, and the first
thing after he’d arrived had been a three day physical.
The fact that they were still looking for somewhere to put him told him that he was
disgustingly healthy, and as sane as anyone could test out.
He paced back from the portal toward the window and stopped, staring out at the grayness.
Still holding back rain, the heavy clouds continued their race across the central city.
Buzz!
Making an effort not to charge the screen, he took three slow steps and acknowledged the
call.
An unfamiliar face filled the screen—a tech of some indeterminate rank.
“Senior Commander Gerswin?”
“Yes?”
“This is Curvilis at the orderly’s console. There is a messenger here for you.”
“Yes?”
“Set. This is very unusual. It is from the Duke of Triandna, and his person insists upon
handing it directly to you.”
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Gerswin shook his head, then stopped as he realized that meant exactly the opposite of
what the orderly expected.
“I’ll be right down.”
Was it Caroljoy or the Corpus Corps?
He tapped off the screen image before checking his knives. Then he palmed a miniature
stunner and slipped it into the special pocket in his left sleeve.
As he departed he pulled the privacy cloak from the locker and swirled it around him. He
didn’t need the privacy, but the material was supposedly designed to block low energy projectiles
and lasers. He let the hood fall back on his shoulders.
The corridor was empty, but rather than taking the passenger drop shaft, he turned left
and headed for the freight shaft.
In quick and quiet steps from the back of the exit on the main floor, he slipped toward
the main entry and the orderly’s console. From the archway that separated the triangular entry
hall from the back corridor where he stood in the shadows, Gerswin could see the “messenger” from
the Duke, or most probably from the Duchess.
The messenger was none other than the retired I.S.S. pilot who had taken him to the Duke’s
estate the last time he had been in New Augusta.
No one else entered the area, nor was anyone else in evidence besides the pilot and the
orderly.
“Commander?” Gerswin offered as he stepped out boldly toward the lavender-clad pilot
“Senior Commander Gerswin, a pleasure to see you again, set.” The older man bowed slightly
from the waist and straightened, handing the I.S.S. officer a sealed package that weighed close to
a kilo. “Those are the papers the Duchess wanted you to have.”
Gerswin covered his confusion by bowing in return. What papers?
“My thanks, Commander,” Gerswin responded. “Her Grace . . . ?”
“Perhaps you should read them before. . .”
The pilot did not meet Gerswin’s eyes.
“Appreciate your bringing them.”
“No problem at all.”
With that, the Duke’s pilot was gone, leaving Gerswin holding the sealed package.
This time Gerswin took the passenger lift to his third floor room. The corridors were
deserted, unsurprisingly, since most of the senior officers billeted there were undergoing full-
day briefings at the Octagon, or were stationed there.
Once inside his quarters, he used some makeshift extender tools to open the package, still
unwilling to stand over it and unseal the tape.
His fears proved groundless, though he put a small slit in the cover of the loose leaf
book which had been enclosed within the wrappings. A small sealed envelope, with only the notation
“Lieutenant Gerswin” on it, was tucked inside the black leather covers, just in front of the title
page, which stated simply: “OER FOUNDATION.”
He opened the letter, setting the book on the top of the console.
Dear Lieutenant (please pardon my remembering you this way),
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I think it is fair to say that I understand you a little, and have helped you in the ways
that Merrel and I can. The book represents, in its own way, my only lasting gift of a material
nature. Jane, of course, is another gift, but it is rather unlikely you will cross paths.
You are trying to light a light in darkness, and may this help. Other than this note,
which for my own selfish reasons I cannot resist, there is no connection between the Foundation
and us, nor would His Grace wish it otherwise. The Foundation is yours, and you are the
Foundation. While it is modest by Imperial standards, it need not remain so, and used properly may
provide you the lever you need to reclaim your heritage, and Martin’s.
You have a long future, or, as the ancients put it, “many miles to go before you sleep.”
My rest will come soon, sooner than I had thought.
To that I am reconciled, my lieutenant, and with you go my thoughts, my memories, and what
we have shared, and might have shared.
Farewell.
CJ
The scent of the note, like the clean scent of her, burned through him with the words as
he stood staring, his eyes looking through the narrow window at the courtyard garden he did not
see, his left hand clutching the note, his right the envelope.
Sooner than she thought?
OER Foundation?
Miles to go before you sleep?
Reconciled to what?
The questions swirled through his thoughts like the fringes of a landspout, ripping at his
composure, tearing at his guts, until the tightness in his stomach matched the stabbing behind his
unfocused eyes.
Darkness, the darkness of youth, and the touch of lips under his, with the cool warmth of
New Colora outside the louvered windows of ajunior officer’s room. Darkness, and the cooling
silence of rest after fire. Darkness, after the first time he had ever whistled his song of Old
Earth for anyone.
Darkness . . . darkness . . . always the darkness.
A flash of light across the rain damped gloom of the courtyard outside finally broke
through the ebbing flow of his memories, and he looked up from the chair he found himself sitting
in.
1534. That was what the readout on the screen indicated. Three hours . . . more than three
standard hours he had wrestled with the past, a past he had not even known meant so much until he
found himself losing it, piece by piece.
He stood, squinting, shrugging his shoulders to loosen the stiffness, and trying to
repress the shivers that threatened.
He looked down. The envelope was on the flat section of the wall console, but the note
itself was still clutched in his left hand.
Caroljoy. I never knew . . .
“Didn’t you?” he asked aloud. “Didn’t you?”
There was no answer from the dark green walls, nor from the blank screen, or from its
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flashing red light that indicated messages stored in the system.
He ignored the messages and turned to the book only because the pilot had suggested he
read it before reacting. Carefully refolding the note, he placed it in the pocket inside the front
cover, though he would remove it shortly, as she had implied he should.
“OER FOUNDATION”—that was stamped in silver letters on the spine of the book and on the
otherwise blank front cover.
He leafed through the pages, skimming the contents, still standing before the console.
The shakiness in his knees reminded him that he had some physical limits, and, flicking
the room’s light level higher, he sat down in the single gray swivel.
After racing through the first ten pages, he shut the cover. The rest could wait until be
could devote the right attitude to study and learn the contents.
Caroljoy had been right. He was the OER Foundation. Of course, she was right. She had
designed it. While the Halsie-Vyr Group controlled the base assets, all income from the trust went
to OER, to an account blind to Halsie-Vyr, and from which only one Senior Commander MacGregor
Corson Gerswin could draw.
He shook his head. The details were overwhelming. In essence, the book was a personalized
how to manual for him . . . how to set up a double blind operation to protect himself . . . how to
comply with the Imperial Tax Code—
“No!”
Caroljoy had been so thorough. She had personally picked out the offices through an
intermediary and included a floor plan. So thorough, as if everything had to be done completely
right the first time, as if there were no tomorrow. As if . . .
“Farewell?”
This time he could not stop the shivers. So he sat and trembled until they passed.
After a time he stood and went to the screen, tapping out the combination he had never
used.
A woman’s face appeared in the screen—hair snow-starred in the latest pattern, but
slightly askew, composed, but with the smudged circles of tiredness under her eyes, eyes from
which radiated the fine lines of a middle aged woman under stress.
“Commander Gerswin, I believe.”
“How did you know?” He could tell his voice was ragged.
“The Duchess left a solideo cube. She thought you would call. I think she hoped you would
not accept a mere farewell note.”
“Could . . . I’d like to talk to her. Come and see her if at all possible.”
“It’s not possible, Commander, though we all wish it were. She has some pride, and forbade
it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She left for H’Liero yesterday, for the Mern’tang Health Center.”
“Oh . . .” Another chill passed through him. The famous center accepted only cases
diagnosed as terminal, and only patients who could afford the astronomical costs.
“Her mother and grandmother both died of Byclero’s Syndrome. His Grace had hoped that
continual treatment would lessen the chances . . .” The woman’s voice died off.
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Gerswin shook his head again, and again, his eyes unable to focus on the screen.
He reached out to break the connection.
“Commander.” Her level tone reached him.
He stopped, blinked back the tears he did not know he had shed, wiped his eyes with the
back of his sleeve, and cleared his throat.
“Yes.”
“I wish she could have seen you, but you know the final stages of the disease break down
most of the body’s cartilage. She refused to have either you or His Grace accompany her. His Grace
would have had you go in his place, even. He did not want her alone—” The woman’s voice broke this
time, and Gerswin waited, swallowing hard. “You know how strong willed she was . . . she is.
“She insisted I wait for your call. She did not want to upset His Grace, but she knew her
lieutenant would call, and someone had to tell you . . . she knew her lieutenant would call . . .”
The woman with the snow starred hair looked down, saying nothing. Gerswin could see her
fists clenched, feeling his own knotted at his sides.
“She knew you would call . . . ,” repeated the woman helplessly.
“She knew,” repeated the senior commander. “She knew so much.” The silence fell on both
screens. “What can I do?”
“You have done all that you can . . . more than . . . many . . .” The woman visibly pulled
herself together. “I asked her what I could say to you—if, when, you called. She said you would
know, but that if I had to say anything, that she would see you at the end of time. That hers was
the shorter journey, and the easier.”
He said nothing, but nodded twice. Then he cleared his throat again. “Let me know. Let me
know.” He could say no more, and his hand lashed out at the screen controls. The image faded into
gray.
Forcing himself to unclinch his fists, he took four steps to the narrow oblong window and
peered at the smudged lights above the rain-damped garden.
“Hers was the shorter journey . . . Caroljoy . . . I never knew . . . never knew . . . But
you did . . . You always did.”
As he stood before the rain and storm, the darkness solidified within.
IV
THE FOREVER HERO
Call him hero after all heroes had died.
Call him champion when none else had tried.
Call him saviour of a land left burned.
Call him a destroyer of shambles unlearned.
Call him a name, a title, a force.
Call him devil, or the land’s source.
Call him soldier, pilot, or priest.
Call him the greatest, or term him beast.
But remember he stood, and stretched tall,
Where others crawled, or stood not at all.
Remember the captain, and call him Lord.
Remember the sheath is not the sword.
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Anonymous
Quoted in Ballads of the Captain
Edwina de Vlerio
New Augusta, 5133 N.E.C.
V
THE CAPTAIN OF the Fleurdilis frowned as he studied the hard copy of the schematic. He supposed he
could have used the screen, rather than having gone to the trouble of having the pages printed,
but he liked to be able to wander around the cabin with the diagrams, to be able to make notes at
odd times without having to code up the file, to puzzle through the codes and routings.
He still didn’t understand all the details represented in the diagrams, but he knew enough
to understand that the ship whose command he had just assumed was not configured according to her
own specifications, or that the ship’s own databanks did not register the differences.
Admittedly, the majority of discrepancies were minor, where conduit blocs had been shifted
less than a meter, in one case, to accommodate modifications to the forward launch tubes. But some
were scarcely minor. The Fleurdilis no longer carried the installed equipment for its own
emergency field recharging, nor did it carry the original energy capacitators, nor the original
drive field equipment.
The newer equipment was not only smaller, but, compared to the original specifications,
far less powerful.
In short, he was saddled with command of a nominal cruiser, but one with less real power
than an old style corvette. The lower power capability reduced range, screen defenses, and
survivability.
He touched the console, without looking at the image that formed on the screen.
“Yes, Commander?”
“Send up Senior Technician Relyea, if she’s available.”
“Yes, ser.”
The senior commander straightened his blacks, set down the schematics, and paced in a
narrow circle in the small stateroom as he waited.
“Technician Relyea, Commander.”
The woman was petite, scarcely even to his shoulder, with brown hair knotted into a neat
bun, black eyes, and new senior tech insignia on her collars.
“Sit down.” He pointed to the single guest chair.
She sat.
“Have you studied the basic schematics?” He pointed at the diagrams on the console.
She peered at them momentarily. “Not in detail. Those are really not much good.”
“Figured that out. Why weren’t they updated? Means that the information in the databanks
isn’t reliable.”
The senior tech pursed her lips. “Not exactly, Commander. The data entries are not all
they should be, but the correct information is there. Provided you know the keys. . .”
The Commander, still standing, turned and looked down at her.
“Go ahead.”
“When the downsizing orders came through, as each ship went through refit, new specs were
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