A Talent for War Page 9

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I don’t remember anymore. At a party, I think. Why? Why do you care?”

  “No reason,” I said.

  That brought a lovely, rueful smile. And then she surprised me: “I mean, why do you care about Scott?”

  I told my cover story, and she sympathized that I’d missed him. “When I see him again,” she said, “I’ll tell him you were here.”

  We drank some more, and walked some more. The night had a bite to it, and I was conscious of her hips as we strolled along the skyway. “He’s become very strange,” she said again. It was an observation she made several times during the evening. “You wouldn’t know him.”

  “Since the Tenandrome?”

  “Yes.” We stopped, and she leaned against the rail, looking out to sea. She looked lost. The wind whipped at her jacket, and she pulled it tightly about herself. “It’s lovely out here.” Fishbowl has no satellite; but on clear nights the sky is dominated by the Veiled Lady, which is far more luminous—and intoxicating—than Rimway’s full moon. “They brought something back. The Tenandrome. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Nobody seems to know what it was. But there was something. Nobody wanted to talk about it. Not even McIras.”

  “The captain?”

  “Yes. A cold-blooded bitch if I’ve ever seen one.” Her eyes hardened. “They were in, and then they were gone again. Out on another long mission. The crew was gone almost before anyone knew they were here.”

  “How about the research team?”

  “They went home. Usually they go home and then come back here for a debriefing. Not this time. We never saw any of them again. Except, of course, Hugh.”

  We were walking again. Pellinor’s waterfront was brilliant and inviting, its dazzling lights floating on the water. “In a sense, he never really came home. At least not to stay. He’s always away somewhere. Like now.”

  “You say he goes to battle sites. Where, for example?”

  “The City on the Crag last time. Ilyanda. Randin’hal. Grand Salinas.”

  It was a roll call of celebrated names from the Resistance.

  “Yes,” she said, reading my reaction. “He’s got a fixation about the Sims. I don’t know what it is, but he’s looking for something. He comes home after weeks or months away somewhere, and he comes back to Survey for a couple of days, and then next thing we know he’s gone again. He was never like that before.” Her voice shook. “I don’t understand it.”

  Lest anyone think I wasn’t making a serious effort, I have to tell you I also tried a direct approach. Toward the end, after my informal inquiries had taken me as far as they could, I walked through the front doors of the administration building, which they call the Annex, and asked to see the Director of Special Operations. His name was Jemumba.

  I was referred to a secretary. State your business please, we’ll get back to you, maybe six months. I was eventually able to talk to one of his flunkies, who denied that anything unusual had happened. Yes, he’d heard the rumors, but in this business there were always rumors. He could assure me, unequivocally, that no aliens existed out there, at least not on or around any of the worlds Survey had visited. Also, the notion that there had been any casualties of any sort on the Tenandrome was simply untrue.

  He explained that withholding the log and other information regarding the flight was standard operating procedure when litigation was involved. And there was a great deal of litigation over Tenandrome XVII. “The failure of a major drive unit is no small matter, Mr. Benedict,” he explained pointedly, and not without passion. “The Service has incurred considerable expense, and the liability position is quite tangled. Nevertheless, we anticipate that everything will be settled within a year or so. When that happens, you may have access to whatever information on the flight you wish, other than crew and research team data, which of course is never made public. Privacy considerations, you understand.

  “Please leave your name and code. We’ll get back to you.”

  So I had no choice but to go to Hrinwhar. There are no regular flights, of course. I leased a Centaur and hired Chase to pilot the damned thing. The jump is even tougher in a small craft, and I got sicker than usual going out and coming back, and I swore again that that was the end.

  There was no need to land. Hrinwhar was a cratered, airless, nickel-iron rock located just inside the rings of a gas giant, which I suppose is why the Ashiyyur thought it would make a good naval base. Some say the assault against it was Sim’s finest moment. The Dellacondans lured off the defenders, and literally took the base apart. They left here with some of the enemy’s most closely guarded secrets.

  The physical evidence of the raid remains: a few holed domes, a gaping shaft which had once been a recovery area for warships, and chunks of metal and plastic strewn across the surface. Probably exactly as it looked when Christopher Sim and his men withdrew two centuries ago.

  Chase didn’t say much. I got the impression she was watching me more than the moonscape. “Enough?” she asked after we’d made several passes.

  “He couldn’t be down there,” I said.

  “No. There’s no one here.”

  “Why would he come out to this barren place?”

  VI.

  Call forth the fire—!

  —The Condor-ni, II, 1

  Sim is a son of a bitch: fourteen thousand years of history to learn from, and it’s still the same old blood and bluster.

  —Leisha Tanner,

  Notebooks

  WHO HAD GABE’S traveling companion been on the Capella?

  Sixty-three others had boarded the vessel from the Rimway shuttle, of whom twenty were bound for Saraglia Station. (The big interstellars, of course, never actually stop at ports of call. Too much time and energy would be wasted fighting inertia, so they skim planetary systems at high velocity. Passengers and cargo are transferred in flight from local vehicles.) It seemed likely that his companion had been among the twenty.

  I scanned their death notices looking for a likely prospect. The group included elderly vacationers, naval personnel on leave, three sets of newlyweds, a sprinkling of businessmen. Four were from Andiquar: a pair of import/export brokers, a child being shuttled between relatives, and a retired law enforcement officer. Nothing very promising, but I got lucky right away with John Khyber, the law enforcement guy.

  I secured the code of his next of kin from the announcement, and linked in. “I’m Alex Benedict,” I said. “May I speak with Mrs. Khyber?”

  “I’m Jana Khyber.” I waited for her to materialize, but nothing happened.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. My uncle was on the Capella. I believe he was traveling with your husband.”

  “Oh?” There was a sea change in the voice: softer, interested, pained. “I’m sorry about your uncle.” I heard Jacob’s projector switch on. There was a flutter of color in the air, and she appeared: dignified, a trifle matronly, attentive. Perhaps irritated, though with me, or Gabe, or her husband, I could not tell. “I’m glad to have a chance to talk to someone about it. Where were they going?”

  “You don’t know, Jana?”

  “How would I know? Trust me, he said.”

  Son of a bitch. “Did you know Gabe Benedict?”

  “No,” she said, after a pause. “I didn’t know my husband was traveling with anybody.” She frowned, and her bosom, which was substantial, rose and fell. “I didn’t know he was traveling at all. I mean off-world.”

  “Had he ever been to Saraglia before?”

  “No.” She crossed her arms. “He’d never been off Rimway before. At least not that I know of. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “But you knew he was going to be away for a while?”

  “Yes. I knew.”

  “No explanation?”

  “None,” she said, biting off a sob. “My God, we’ve never had a problem of any kind, Mr. Benedict. Not really. He told me he was sorry, that he couldn’t expla
in, that he’d be away six months.”

  “Six months? You must have questioned him.”

  “Of course I did. They’ve called me back, he said. They need me, and I’ve got to go.”

  “Who were they?”

  “The Agency. He was a security officer. Retired, but it didn’t really make any difference. He’s still a consultant.” She hesitated over the statement, but didn’t correct herself. “He specialized in commercial fraud, and you know how much of that there is these days.” She sounded close to tears. “I just don’t know what it was about, and that’s what hurts so much. He’s dead and I don’t know why.”

  “Did you check with his agency?”

  “They claim they don’t know anything about it.” She stared at me. “Mr. Benedict, he never gave me any reason to distrust him. We had a lot of years together, and it’s the only time he’s ever lied to me.”

  That you know of, I thought. But I said: “Did he have any interest in archeology?”

  “I don’t think so. No. Is this Gabriel an archeologist?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t imagine any kind of connection.”

  Nor could I.

  Her voice quivered. “The truth is,” she continued, struggling to maintain her composure, “I don’t know what he was doing on that damned ship, where he was going, or what he planned to do when he got there. And if you have any ideas, I’d be grateful to know what they are. What sort of man was he, your uncle?”

  I smiled, to assuage her fears. “One of the best I have ever known, Mrs. Khyber. He would not willingly have led your husband into danger. Or anything else that would have troubled you.” Why would a retired police officer have been along? Bodyguard, perhaps? That hardly seemed likely. “Was he a pilot?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. Khyber, did he have any interest in history? In the Resistance, particularly?”

  A puzzled expression flickered across her features. “Yes,” she said. “He was interested in anything that was old, Mr. Benedict. He collected antique books, was fascinated by old naval vessels, and he belonged to the Talino Society.”

  Bingo. “And what,” I asked eagerly, “is the Talino Society?”

  She looked steadily at me. “I don’t think this is getting us anywhere.”

  “Please,” I said. “You’ve already been of some help. Tell me about the Talino Society. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “A drinking club, really. They masquerade as historians, but mostly what they do is go down there—they meet on the final weeknight of each month at the Collandium—and they have a good time.” She looked very tired. “He was a member for twenty years.”

  “Did you belong?”

  “Yes, I usually went with him.”

  “Why was it called the ‘Talino’ Society?”

  She smiled. Finally. “Mr. Benedict, you’ll want to go down there and find out for yourself.”

  Two other things happened on the day I talked to Jana Khyber. Brimbury & Conn sent a statement of my assets. There was considerably more than I’d suspected, and I realized that I would never have to work again. Not ever. Oddly, I felt guilty about that. It was, after all, Gabe’s money. And I had been less than gentle with him.

  The other piece of news was that Jacob discovered a library halfway around the world that had a copy of Leisha Tanner’s Notebooks. He promptly requested a transmission, and it arrived by lunchtime.

  I’d been receiving calls all along from assorted thieves and bunkum artists purporting to have been business associates of my uncle, and wanting to “continue” rendering some high-priced service or other. There were wine brokers, realtors, an individual who described himself as a foundation attempting to erect monuments to prominent business executives, and several portfolio managers. And so on. I’d expected them to trail off, but they were becoming more, rather than less, frequent.

  “From now on,” I told Jacob, “they are yours. Put them off. Discourage them.”

  “How?”

  “Use your imagination. Tell them we’re contributing the money to a worthy cause, make one up, and that I’m retiring to a mountaintop. ”

  Then I settled in with Leisha Tanner.

  The Notebooks cover five years during which she was an instructor at the University of Khaja Luan on the world of that name. The first entries are dated from about the time she met the poet Walford Candles, and the last conclude with her resignation, in the third year of the Resistance. They were originally intended to be remarks on the progress of her students; but with the beginnings of tension on Imarios, the subsequent revolt, and Cormoral’s catastrophic intervention, they widen into a graphic portrayal of social and political upheaval on a small world which was struggling to maintain its neutrality, and thereby its survival, at a time when Christopher Sim and his band of heroes needed every assistance.

  Some of the portraits are unsettling. We’re accustomed to thinking of those who actively opposed the onslaught of the Ashiyyur as patriots: valiant men and women who risked life and fortune across a hundred worlds to persuade reluctant governments to intervene during the crisis. But here is Tanner on the reaction to the mute assault against the City on the Crag:

  Downtown today, speaker after speaker blasted the government and urged immediate intervention. There were some from the University, even old Angus Markham, whom I’ve never before seen angry. They were joined by some out-of-power politicians, and some entertainers, who seriously believe we ought to send off the entire fleet to make war on the Ashiyyur. I read yesterday that the “fleet” consists of two destroyers and one frigate. One of the destroyers is undergoing major repairs, and all three vessels are obsolete.

  There were others present whom I took to be members of the Friends of the Confederacy. They stirred up the mob, which in turn clubbed a few people who didn’t share their point of view, and probably a couple who did but didn’t move quickly enough. Then they set off across town to march on the Council chambers. But Grenville Park is a long walk from Balister Avenue, and along the way they overturned some vehicles, attacked the police, and broke into a few bars.

  A patriot is someone who’s prepared to sacrifice anything, even other people’s children, for a just cause.

  Damn Sim anyhow! The war goes on and on, and everyone knows it’s futile. There’s a rumor that the Ashiyyur have asked us for the Amorda. For God’s sake, I hope the Council is wise enough to comply.

  I looked up Amorda. It was a guarantee of peace and autonomy to anyone who would accept Ashiyyurean suzerainty. I was surprised to discover that, for every human world that joined the Resistance, two remained neutral. A few even threw their support to the invaders.

  The Amorda. It was a simple offering: a few cubic centimeters of earth from one’s capital, encased in an urn of pure silver, signifying fidelity.

  I scrolled ahead: while the Council debated its action, the hour struck for the City on the Crag. The Ashiyyur destroyed her defenses, and her orbiting factories. That center of culture, the longtime symbol of literature, democracy, and progress along the Frontier, was occupied at leisure. It’s a blunder of incredible dimensions, wrote Tanner. One almost wonders whether the Ashiyyur are deliberately trying to create the conditions for Tarien Sim to complete his alliance against them. In any case, the moment for the government of Khaja Luan to declare its neutrality, if indeed it ever existed at all, has passed. We will join the war. The only issue now is when.

  The attack is a surprise to no one. The City on the Crag, and her small group of allies, was technically neutral, but it was no secret that her volunteers have been fighting actively with the Dellacondans. It’s also common knowledge that Sim has been getting strategic supplies from her orbiting factories. The Ashiyyur were justified; but I wish they could have shown some restraint. This may be enough to bring Earth or Rimway into the war. If that happens, God knows where it will end.

  Tanner had been conducting a comparative ethics class when the first reports arrived. Discussing th
e good and the beautiful, she comments sadly, while the children of Plato and Tulisofala cut one another’s throats. The target was assaulted by a force of several hundred ships that swept its hastily constructed defenses aside. Collapse had followed within hours. And that night, while most of us concentrated on our steak and wine, the damned fools compounded the felony by shooting some hostages. How can a race of telepaths misjudge so completely the nature of their enemy?

  Tanner’s images of the time are unbearably poignant: an enraged citizenry demanding war; a pompous university president leading a community prayer; an exchange student from the fallen world fighting back tears; and her own pangs of guilt at the perverse way of such things, in which those of us who argue for a rational course, appear so cowardly.

  Again and again, she put the question to her journal, and eventually, I suppose, to us: How does one account for the fact that a race can espouse the ideals of a Tulisofala, can compose great music, and create exquisite rock gardens, and still behave like barbarians?

  She doesn’t record an answer.

  Elsewhere in her journals, on a similar occasion (the collapse of the defenders at Randin’hal, I believe), she refers angrily to the Bogolyubov Principle.

  I looked that up too. Andrey Bogolyubov lived a thousand years ago on Toxicon. He was an historian, and he specialized in trying to convert history into an exact science, with the predictability that is the hallmark of all the exact sciences. He never succeeded, of course.

  His primary area of interest was the process by which reluctant powers become entangled in conflict. His thesis is that potential antagonists engage in a kind of diplomatic war dance, with specific articulable characteristics. The war dance phase creates a psychology which ultimately guarantees an armed clash, because it tends to take over the momentum of events. This is particularly true, he says, in democracies. This process, once begun, is not easily interrupted. Once the first blood is spilt, it becomes almost impossible to draw back. Original ambitions and objectives get lost, each side comes to believe its own propaganda, economies become dependent on the hostile environment, and political careers are built around the common danger. Consequently the cycle of war-making tightens and will not stop until one side or the other is exhausted.