Empire & Ecolitan (47 page)

T
HE
A
DMIRAL PURSED
his lips as he reread the screen for the second time, although his memory was good enough that he could remember the salient points without any reinforcement.

After taking a sip of water, he replaced the glass on the replica wooden desk with which all admirals were furnished. He stood. His long steps carried him into the open space between the desk, with its concealed console, and the empty briefing table.

First, the loss of Haversol SysCon. The loss of Cubera SysCon. The loss of Fonderal SysCon. Haversol
could
have been an accident, or more probably the work of a terrorist or small group. Three in a row meant organization, like something the Fuards would cook up. Then, of all things, across in Sector Four, the destruction of Sligo SysCon with an asteroid barrage.

Now, a report from his last agent on Accord that the first three SysCon destructions had been engineered by some unknown professor, with an equally unknown background, and a small “tactics” team.

The Admiral rubbed his forehead. Either the agent was lying…how could one small group from an obscure if brilliant ecological college possibly have the materials and expertise to destroy three stations, capture an orbit control installation without a warning going out, and annihilate fifteen-odd ships, including two cruisers? Especially without the knowledge or support of the college head or the Planetary Council?

His steps carried him back in front of the desk. He stopped and took another sip from the glass. His headache was definitely returning.

The comparator didn't help either, insisting that the closest match to the methodology was that of Imperial Special Operatives. Great help there—the death of every single operative over the past decade had resulted in a body and a complete DNA match. The Service was very thorough in ensuring its dead operatives were indeed dead.

He glanced at the holo of the Academy at Alphane. The view that overlooked his desk was the view of the Spire, its facets glittering in the gold-white light of noon.

Some days he just wanted to go back there and teach, make it all sound so simple, instead of trying to figure out what information meant what and why.

He took another sip from the glass.

How could anybody be building another team of Special Operatives? Especially in a nutty place like Accord? A system supposedly in revolt, and yet the Planetary Council had yet to decide what to do. He shook his head again, wincing at the stab of pain across his forehead.

J
IMJOY TOOK ANOTHER
deep breath, looking up at the five steps to the front deck. The unseasonable warmth of the day, combined with the moist odor of decaying needles and leaves, made him think of the spring that was not yet due, not until the suffering of a winter not begun had been endured. Weak but warm sunlight beat through the patchy clouds. Part of his walk had been chilled by their shadows.

On each side of the stairs, at the top, was a carved bird—a ferrahawk on the right and a jaymar on the left. Geoff's handiwork. The jaymar was golden, with black feathers of a different wood. The ferrahawk was clearly black oak, almost glittering in the midmorning light.

He swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat. Hades, why hadn't he taken the Fonderal mission himself? Or the negotiations off Tinhorn? Or let someone else come here? But after the meeting with Harlinn, he had practically run here. He couldn't let anyone else bring the news.

Finally, he started up the stairs.

Peering at him through the window on the stair landing was a small dark head. Shera and Jorje, wasn't it? The boy had to be the younger, then, the one with the serious expression watching the stranger climb the steps to the front deck. A stranger who should not have been a stranger, and who regretted again never having taken Geoff's invitations to stop by.

He paused by the wooden jaymar, taken by the delicate sturdiness of the carving. On some planets, the single bird would have been worth a month's earnings of an advocate or a systems engineer. Here—it was there because a man had loved to create beauty.

Jimjoy swallowed again and stepped up to the door. On the wooden plate was a hand-carved scroll:
Geoffrey & Carill Aspan
.

He hadn't known they had shared names in a time when that was the exception, not the rule. But he kept finding out there was a lot he didn't know. He raised his hand to the knocker beneath the carving.

Thrappp…thrappp
…

The door opened. A dark-haired girl, broad-shouldered, with blue eyes, whose head reached perhaps the middle of his chest, held the door.

“Good morning, Professor Whaler.”

“Good morning, Shera.”

A tentative smile played around her mouth. “How did you know my name?”

“Your father told me.” Before she could ask, he added, “Is your mother in? I'd like to talk with her.”

“Who is it, dear?” a woman's husky voice called from the landing.

Jimjoy could see that the house's internal arrangement was similar to his, except that it seemed to have a larger upstairs—probably three bedrooms.

“It's Professor Whaler, mother!”

“I'll be right down. Show him in, and then come up here. I have an errand for you and Jorje.”

“Mother!”

Jimjoy almost smiled.

“Please, Shera. I need your help.”

The girl turned back to Jimjoy. “Would you come in, Professor?”

“Thank you, Shera. How old are you?”

“Ten standard.” She held the door more widely and stepped back.

Jimjoy nodded, visually measuring the girl. She would be a tall girl, and she was already striking. Geoff was proud of them—had been proud of them. He moistened his lips and swallowed.

He stepped inside. A mirror with a hand-carved light oak frame hung over a small table. His face, somber and cold, stared back at him from the center of the oval glass.

“Professor?” Carill Aspan had black hair past her shoulders, loosely bound with a red band at the base of her neck, skin darker than Jimjoy's bronzed complexion, and brown eyes. A hint of tears hovered in her eyes. Almost as tall as Thelina, she wore a faded green tunic and trousers. Her feet were bare.

“Jimjoy Whaler…” he didn't know what to call her. “Carill” sounded too informal.

“Carill Aspan.”

For a moment, neither moved.

“Did you have an errand you were going to send Shera and Jorje on?”

“Oh…I forgot.” Her eyes said she had forgotten nothing. “Shera? Jorje?” As she spoke, she walked into the living area and pulled a slip of paper from the simple secretary that stood against the wall. Writing quickly, she jotted down several sentences and folded the paper over.

“Yes, mother? Jorje's still on the landing.”

“I need both of you to take this to Cerla. Jorje!”

“Coming…”

Jimjoy and Carill stood in the space between the foyer and the living room, waiting as Jorje took one slow step after another down the wooden stairs.

Shera glared up at her brother even as she struggled with a light jacket. “Come on.”

“Rather not.”

“Jorje…please?”

“I'm coming.” His last step took him to the main floor, where his mother extended a dark blue jacket. He did not protest as she eased him into it. Neither did he help, with arms as limp as overcooked pasta.

“Would you both take this to Cerla? If she's not home, ask Treil or Gera if they know when she will be back.” Carill glanced from Jorje, who remained under her arm, to Shera. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother. We take the letter to Cerla. If she's not there, we check with the neighbors to see when she will be back. Then we come tell you. What if Cerla's home?”

“Then you come back with her. All right?” Carill had her hands clasped tightly together.

“All right. We won't be long.” Shera extended her hand to Jorje. “Come on, slowpoke.”

Jorje looked back at his mother, dark eyes almost liquid, before his sister opened the door and tugged his arm.

Carill looked at her son. “Go on, Jorje. I'll be here when you get back.”

The boy slowly transferred his eyes from his mother to the floor.

“Come on.”

Jimjoy kept his face relaxed, wanting somehow to hold both children, feeling like his silence lied to them both, as he and Carill watched them march down the steps.

Jorje glanced back once, twice, three times, until the walk took them out of the open door's direct line of sight.

Click
. Carill shut the door. “Shall we go into the main room?”

Jimjoy nodded.

“Would you like any liftea? Geoff said…”

“No thank you. Not right now.”

She stood, then waved vaguely. “Sit anywhere you like.”

He waited for her to take a chair. Not surprisingly, she sat in one of the wooden armchairs, perched on the edge. Jimjoy took the one across from her.

“It's about…Geoff…”

“Yes. The recovery boat arrived this morning—”

“No…”

“Geoff did what he had to…but they didn't make it back.” The words felt like lead in his mouth. “I'd asked him not to volunteer…”

“He told me.” The tears seeped from her eyes. “He was afraid he wouldn't come back. He left a letter…told me not to blame you…if it happened.”

Jimjoy felt his own eyes sting. Geoff had never mentioned it, not that he would have. “He didn't tell me. He wouldn't have.”

“No…he wouldn't.”

“I'm sorry. It's not enough…nothing is…”

“If it weren't for Geoff, I could hate you, Professor.”

“If it's easier that way,” he offered.

“We talked about it.” She sniffed, pulling a faded handkerchief from somewhere, blotting her cheeks. “You talk, but you never think…it's always someone else…”

He nodded, hoping she would keep talking, wishing he had brought someone else, someone whose warmth would have eased the pain. His eyes burned.

“…Geoff…he didn't want to go…he said he had to…that too many people would die if the missions failed…was he right…did it make any difference? Don't lie to me.”

Jimjoy swallowed. “He was right. His mission succeeded. He brought us the time to hold off the Empire.” He hated the pompous sound of his last words. “He gave up everything just to give us hope…just hope.” He swallowed again, his mouth dry.

“You liked Geoff.”

Jimjoy nodded, not having the words.

“He liked you, respected you…one reason why he went…”

Her words were like knives, even though she meant them as a kindness to him. A kindness to him? His eyes focused on the floor, picking out the lines of the planks.

“Professor…?”

He looked up at Carill's tear-streaked face, knowing his own looked as streaked.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” He wanted to bite out the words. For what? For killing your lover, your husband, and the father of your children? For destroying the one man who might have been my friend? For leaving Shera and Jorje fatherless? Instead, he repeated the words more gently. “For what?”

“For caring. For being the one to tell me…and for hurting.”

Jimjoy shook his head. “I didn't want to come.”

She wiped her eyes again. “But you did. Geoff said…if anything happened…you would…saw you on the steps…I knew…” She put her face in her hands.

Jimjoy stood up and walked the three steps toward Carill. Each step felt like he was moving in high gravity through syrup. Finally, he stood behind the chair and put both hands on her shoulders.

Neither said anything as a shadow from the overhead clouds darkened the deck behind Jimjoy, cutting the light that had poured into the room. Nor did either say a word as the small cloud released the sun and the light resumed.

Thrap!

“Mom! We're back. Cerla was home.”

“Carill?” asked a woman's voice.

Jimjoy straightened and walked toward the doorway, toward the red-haired and petite woman in a blue blouse and old-fashioned skirt, toward Shera and, hiding behind his sister, Jorje.

Swallowing, Jimjoy stopped short of Cerla. Carill was almost step for step with him, although he had not heard her leave the chair.

“This is Professor Whaler…Geoff's friend. Cerla McWinter…she's an old friend of mine.”

Cerla's blue eyes raked over Jimjoy, took in his face, and looked to Carill. “I told Brice I'd be staying here tonight.”

“Thank you.”

Jimjoy felt out of place, invisible in a private communion occurring around him. He glanced at Jorje, saw the coldness, the stony expression.

“Jorje…?”

The boy looked at the floor.

Jimjoy knelt until his eyes were level with the dark brown ones. Shera stepped aside. “Your father asked if I would be your friend.”

“Daddy's not ever coming back.”

“No, he's not. But before he left, he asked—”

Without a word, Jorje turned and began to run—out through the front door, down the steps.

“Jorje!”

Jimjoy stood, then sprinted after the child, just trying to keep him in sight. As he ran he felt like pounding his own head. Why couldn't he have said something softer? More appropriate?

By the time he took the stairs two at a time and vaulted the corner flower box, he had caught up enough to see Jorje take the path toward the gardens.

Jimjoy slowed his steps, attempting to keep them light.

The sky darkened again, and a gust of wind ruffled his hair. Ahead, the path narrowed and twisted through a saplar grove, where the tangled and leafless branches twisted back on one another.

Sciff…sciff…sciff, sciff, sciff
… Only the sound of the boy's shoes and Jimjoy's boots on the gravel path filled the grove.

Sciff…sciff…sciff
…

Jorje ignored the polished oylwood jungle gym and plodded past the bedded-down flower gardens toward the soccer field.

Sciff…sciff
…

Jorje circled the south end of the field and took the path that led upward into the preserve. Underfoot the gravel became clay and wood chips, and both sets of steps, cushioned by the dampness, subsided into near silence.

Halfway to the gazebo that overlooked the south end of the Institute, Jimjoy slowed his steps to match the boy's tiredness.

Jorje continued to plod upward, one step at a time.

Jimjoy followed, also one step at a time, trying to give the boy as much space as possible, but not wanting to lose sight of him.

At the top, Jorje slumped to the ground, not at the gazebo, but leaning against a railing post at the overlook. He did not look back, but down at the Institute.

Jimjoy waited at the edge of the clearing, at the top of the path.

The clouds began to thicken, and the wind to rise.

Jorje did not move, slumped, watching sightlessly.

Jimjoy shifted position but stayed, letting the boy keep his space, checking the weather, wondering about the coming chill that would signify the end of the brief spring interlude in winter, hoping the entire Institute wasn't out looking for the two of them.

As the wind began to whine, Jorje straightened up, but did not leave his post.

Jimjoy waited.

As the sky turned darker gray, Jorje stood and turned. He walked straight for the path where Jimjoy stood.

The boy's steps took him to the tall Ecolitan. He looked up at Jimjoy and then down the path.

The two of them walked back down toward the Institute, not hand in hand, but side by side.