Ensign Flandry Page 5

  “Uh … nobody’s committing lèse majesté, sir.”

  “The hell they aren’t. But I guess you can’t tell me so right out. In this case, though, you boys are mistaken.” Abrams jabbed his cigar at Flandry. “Think, son. We’re here for a political purpose. So we need political support. We won’t get it by antagonizing courtiers who take champagne and lullaby beds for granted. Tell your friends that silly-looking hotel is an investment.”

  Here’s where I find out.

  A scanner checked Flandry and opened the door. The lobby beyond was warm! It was also full of armed guards. They saluted and let him by with envious glances. But as he went up the gravshaft, his self-confidence grew thinner. Rather than making him bouncy, the graduated shift to Terran weight gave a sense of unfirmness.

  “Offhand,” Abrams had said when he learned about the invitation, “milord seems to want you for a novelty. You’ve a good yarn and you’re a talented spinner. Nu, entertain him. But watch yourself. Hauksberg’s no fool. Nor any idler. In fact, I gather that every one of his little soirées has served some business purpose—off-the-record information, impressions of what we really expect will happen and expect to do and how we really feel about the whole schtick.”

  By that time, Flandry knew him well enough to venture a grin. “How do we really feel, sir? I’d like to know.”

  “What’s your opinion? Your own, down inside? I haven’t got any recorder turned on.”

  Flandry frowned and sought words. “Sir, I only work here, as they say. But … indoctrination said our unselfish purpose is to save the land civilizations from ruin; islanders depend on the sea almost as much as the fishfolk. And our Imperial purpose is to contain Merseian expansionism whereever it occurs. But I can’t help wondering why anybody wants this planet.”

  “Confidentially,” Abrams said, “my main task is to find the answer to that. I haven’t succeeded yet.”

  —A liveried servant announced Flandry. He stepped into a suite of iridescent walls, comfortable loungers, an animation showing a low-gee production of Ondine. Behind a buffet table poised another couple of servants, and three more circulated. A dozen men stood conversing: officers of the mission in dress uniform, Hauksberg’s staff in colorful mufti. Only one girl was present. Flandry was a little too nervous for disappointment. It was a relief to see Abrams’ square figure.

  “Ah. Our gallant ensign, eh?” A yellow-haired man set down his glass—a waiter with a tray was there before he had completed the motion—and sauntered forth. His garments were conservatively purple and gray, but they fitted like another skin and showed him to be in better physical shape than most nobles. “Welcome. Hauksberg.”

  Flandry saluted. “My lord.”

  “At ease, at ease.” Hauksberg made a negligent gesture. “No rank or ceremony tonight. Hate ’em, really.” He took Flandry’s elbow. “C’mon and be introduced.”

  The boy’s superiors greeted him with more interest than hitherto. They were men whom Starkad had darkened and leaned; honors sat burnished on their tunics; they could be seen to resent how patronizingly the Terran staffers addressed one of their own. “—and my concubine, the right honorable Persis d’Io.”

  “I am privileged to meet you, Ensign,” she said as if she meant it.

  Flandry decided she was an adequate substitute for L’Etoile, at least in ornamental function. She was equipped almost as sumptuously as Dragoika, and her shimmerlyn gown emphasized the fact. Otherwise she wore a fire ruby at her throat and a tiara on high-piled crow’s-wing tresses. Her features were either her own or shaped by an imaginative biosculptor: big green eyes, delicately arched nose, generous mouth, uncommon vivacity. “Please get yourself a drink and a smoke,” she said. “You’ll need a soothed larynx. I intend to make you talk a lot.”

  “Uh … um—” Flandry barely stopped his toes from digging in the carpet. The hand he closed on a proffered wine glass was damp. “Little to talk about, Donna. Lots of men have, uh, had more exciting things happen to them.”

  “Hardly so romantic, though,” Hauksberg said. “Sailin” with a pirate crew, et cet’ra.”

  “They’re not pirates, my lord,” Flandry blurted. “Merchants … Pardon me.”

  Hauksberg studied him. “You like ’em, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Flandry said. “Very much.” He weighed his words, but they were honest. “Before I got to know the Tigeries well, my mission here was only a duty. Now I want to help them.”

  “Commendable. Still, the sea dwellers are also sentient bein’s, what? And the Merseians, for that matter. Pity everyone’s at loggerheads.”

  Flandry’s ears burned. Abrams spoke what he dared not: “My lord, those fellow beings of the ensign’s did their level best to kill him.”

  “And in retaliation, after he reported, an attack was made on a squadron of theirs,” Hauksberg said sharply. “Three Merseians were killed, plus a human. I was bein’ received by Commandant Runei at the time. Embarrassin’.”

  “I don’t doubt the Fodaich stayed courteous to the Emperor’s representative,” Abrams said. “He’s a charming scoundrel when he cares to be. But my lord, we have an authorized, announced policy of paying back any attacks on our mission.” His tone grew sardonic. “It’s a peaceful, advisory mission, in a territory claimed by neither empire. So it’s entitled to protection. Which means that bushwhacking its personnel has got to be made expensive.”

  “And if Runei ordered a return raid?” Hauksberg challenged.

  “He didn’t, my lord.”

  “Not yet. Bit of evidence for Merseia’s conciliatory attitude, what? Or could be my presence influenced Runei. One day soon, though, if these skirmishes continue, a real escalation will set in. Then everybody’ll have the devil’s personal job controllin’ the degree of escalation. Might fail. The time to stop was yesterday.”

  “Seems to me Merseia’s escalated quite a big hunk, starting operations this near our main base.”

  “The seafolk have done so. They had Merseian help, no doubt, but it’s their war and the landfolk’s. No one else’s.”

  Abrams savaged a cold cigar. “My lord,” he growled, “sea-folk and landfolk alike are divided into thousands of communities, scores of civilizations. Many never heard of each other before. The dwellers in the Zletovar were nothing but a nuisance to the Kursovikians, till now. So who gave them the idea of mounting a concerted attack? Who’s gradually changing what was a stable situation into a planet-wide war of race against race? Merseia!”

  “You overreach yourself, Commander,” said Captain Abd-es-Salem reluctantly. The viscount’s aides looked appalled.

  “No, no.” Hauksberg smiled into the angry brown face confronting him. “I appreciate frankness. Terra’s got quite enough sycophants without exportin’ ’em. How can I find facts as I’m s’posed to without listenin’? Waiter, refill—Commander Abrams’ glass.”

  “Just what are the, ah, opposition doing in local waters?” inquired a civilian.

  Abrams shrugged. “We don’t know. Kursovikian ships have naturally begun avoiding that area. We could try sending divers, but we’re holding off. You see, Ensign Flandry did more than have an adventure. More, yet, than win a degree of respect and good will among the Tigeries that’ll prove useful to us. He’s gathered information about them we never had before, details that escaped the professional xenologists, and given me the data as tightly organized as a limerick. Above the lot, he delivered a live Seatroll prisoner.”

  Hauksberg lit a cheroot. “I gather that’s unusual?”

  “Yes, sir, for obvious environmental reasons as well as because the Tigeries normally barbecue any they take.”

  Persis d’Io grimaced. “Did you say you like them?” she scolded Flandry.

  “Might be hard for a civilized being to understand, Donna,” Abrams drawled. “We prefer nuclear weapons that can barbecue entire planets. Point is, though, our lad here thought up gadgets to
keep that Seatroll in health, things a smith and carpenter could make aboard ship. I better not get too specific, but I’ve got hopes about the interrogation.”

  “Why not tell us?” Hauksberg asked. “Surely you don’t think anyone here is a Merseian in disguise.”

  “Probably not,” Abrams said. “However, you people are bound on to the enemy’s home planet. Diplomatic mission or no, I can’t impose the risk on you of carrying knowledge they’d like to have.”

  Hauksberg laughed. “I’ve never been called a blabbermouth more tactfully.”

  Persis interrupted. “No arguments, please, darling. I’m too anxious to hear Ensign Flandry.”

  “You’re on, son,” Abrams said.

  They took loungers. Flandry received a goldleaf-tipped cigaret from Persis’ own fingers. Wine and excitement bubbled in him. He made the tale somewhat better than true: sufficient to drive Abrams into a coughing fit.

  “—and so, one day out of Ujanka, we met a ship that could put in a call for us. A flier took me and the prisoner off.”

  Persis sighed. “You make it sound such fun. Have you seen your friends again since?”

  “Not yet, Donna. I’ve been too busy working with Commander Abrams.” In point of fact, he had done the detail chores of data correlation on a considerably lower level. “I’ve been temporarily assigned to his section. I do have an invitation to visit down in Ujanka, and imagine I’ll be ordered to accept.”

  “Right,” Captain Menotti said. “One of our problems has been that, while the Sisterhood accepts our equipment and some of our advice, they’ve remained wary of us. Understandable, when we’re so foreign to them, and when their own Seatroll neighbors were never a real menace. We’ve achieved better liaison with less developed Starkadian cultures. Kursoviki is too proud, too jealous of its privacies, I might say too sophisticated, to take us as seriously as we’d like. Here we may have an entering wedge.”

  “And also in your prisoner,” Hauksberg said thoughtfully. “Want to see him.”

  “What?” Abrams barked. “Impossible!”

  “Why?”

  “Why—that is—”

  “Wouldn’t fulfill my commission if I didn’t,” Hauksberg said. “I must insist.” He leaned forward. “You see, could be this is a wedge toward somethin’ still more important. Peace.”

  “How so … my lord?”

  “If you pump him as dry’s I imagine you plan, you’ll find out a lot about his culture. They won’t be the faceless enemy, they’ll be real bein’s with real needs and desires. He can accompany an envoy of ours to his people. We can—not unthinkable, y’ know—we can p’rhaps head off this latest local war. Negotiate a peace between the Kursovikians and their neighbors.”

  “Or between lions and lambs?” Abrams snapped. “How do you start? They’d never come near any submarine of ours.”

  “Go out in native ships, then.”

  “We haven’t the men for it. Damn few humans know how to operate a windjammer these days, and sailing on Starkad is a different art anyhow. We should get Kursovikians to take us on a peace mission? Ha!”

  “What if their chum here asked ’em? Don’t you think that might be worth a try?”

  “Oh!” Persis, who sat beside him, laid a hand over Flandry’s. “If you could—”

  Under those eyes, he glowed happily and said he would be delighted. Abrams gave him a bleak look. “If ordered, of course,” he added in a hurry.

  “I’ll discuss the question with your superiors,” Hauksberg said. “But gentlemen, this is s’posed to be a social evenin’. Forget business and have another drink or ten, eh?”

  His gossip from Terra was scandalous and comical. “Darling,” Persis said, “you mustn’t cynicize our guest of honor. Let’s go talk more politely, Ensign.”

  “W-w-with joy, Donna.”

  The suite was interior, but a viewscreen gave on the scene outside. Snowfall had stopped; mountaintops lay gaunt and white beneath the moons. Persis shivered. “What a dreadful place. I pray we can bring you home soon.”

  He was emboldened to say, “I never expected a, uh, highborn and, uh, lovely lady to come this long, dull, dangerous way.”

  She laughed. “I highborn? But thanks. You’re sweet.” Her lashes fluttered. “If I can help my lord by traveling with him … how could I refuse? He’s working for Terra. So are you. So should I. All of us together, wouldn’t that be best?” She laughed again. “I’m sorry to be the only girl here. Would your officers mind if we danced a little?”

  He went back to quarters with his head afloat. Nonetheless, next day he gave Jan van Zuyl a good bottle’s worth.

  At the center of a soundproofed room, whose fluoros glared with Saxo light, the Siravo floated in a vitryl tank surrounded by machines.

  He was big, 210 centimeters in length and thick of body. His skin was glabrous, deep blue on the back, paler greenish blue on the stomach, opalescent on the gillcovers. In shape he suggested a cross between dolphin, seal, and man. But the flukes, and the two flippers near his middle, were marvels of musculature with some prehensile capability. A fleshy dorsal fin grew above. Not far behind the head were two short, strong arms; except for vestigial webs, the hands were startlingly humanlike. The head was big and golden of eyes, blunt of snout, with quivering cilia flanking a mouth that had lips.

  Abrams, Hauksberg, and Flandry entered. (“You come too,” the commander had said to the ensign. “You’re in this thing ass deep.”) The four marines on guard presented arms. The technicians straightened from their instruments.

  “At ease,” Abrams said. “Freely translated: get the hell back to work. How’s she coming, Leong?”

  “Encouraging, sir,” the scientific chief answered. “Computation from neurological and encéphalographie data shows he can definitely stand at least a half-intensity hypnoprobing without high probability of permanent lesion. We expect to have apparatus modified for underwater use in another couple of days.”

  Hauksberg went to the tank. The swimmer moved toward him. Look met look; those were beautiful eyes in there. Hauksberg was flushing as he turned about. “Do you mean to torture that bein’?” he demanded.

  “A light hypnoprobing isn’t painful, my lord,” Abrams said.

  “You know what I mean. Psychological torture. ’Specially when he’s in the hands of utter aliens. Ever occur to you to talk with him?”

  “That’s easy? My lord, the Kursovikians have tried for centuries. Our only advantages over them are that we have a developed theory of linguistics, and vocalizers to reproduce his kind of sounds more accurately. From the Tigeries and xenological records we have a trifle of his language. But only a trifle. The early expeditions investigated this race more thoroughly in the Kimraig area, where the Merseians are now, no doubt for just that reason. The cultural patterns of Charlie here are completely unknown to us. And he hasn’t been exactly cooperative.”

  “Would you be, in his place?”

  “Hope not. But my lord, we’re in a hurry too. His people may be planning a massive operation, like against settlements in the Chain. Or he may up and die on us. We think he has an adequate diet and such, but how can we be certain?” Hauksberg scowled. “You’ll destroy any chance of gettin’ his cooperation, let alone his trust.”

  “For negotiation purposes? So what have we lost? But we won’t necessarily alienate him forever. We don’t know his psyche. He may well figure ruthlessness is in the day’s work. God knows Tigeries in small boats get short shrift from any Seatrolls they meet. And—” The great blue shape glided off to the end of the tank—“he looks pretty, but he is no kin of you or me or the landfolk.”

  “He thinks. He feels.”

  “Thinks and feels what? I don’t know. I do know he isn’t even a fish. He’s homeothermic; his females give live birth and nurse their young. Under high atmospheric pressure, there’s enough oxygen dissolved in water to support an active metabol
ism and a good brain. That must be why intelligence evolved in the seas: biological competition like you hardly ever find in the seas of Terra-type planets. But the environment is almost as strange to us as Jupiter.”

  “The Merseians get along with his kind.”

  “Uh-huh. They took time to learn everything we haven’t. We’ve tried to xenologize ourselves, in regions the conflict hasn’t reached so far, but the Merseians have always found out and arranged trouble.”

  “Found out how?” Hauksberg pounced. “By spies?”

  “No, surveillance. ’Bout all that either side has available. If we could somehow get access to their undersea information—” Abrams snapped his mouth shut and pulled out a cigar.

  Hauksberg eased. He smiled. “Please don’t take me wrong, Commander. Assure you I’m not some weepin’ idealist. You can’t make an omelet, et cet’ra. I merely object to breakin’ every egg in sight. Rather messy, that.” He paused. “Won’t bother you more today. But I want a full report on this project to date, and regular bulletins. I don’t forbid hypnoprobin’ categorically, but I will not allow any form of torture. And I’ll be back.” He couldn’t quite suppress a moue of distaste. “No, no, thanks awf’lly but you needn’t escort me out. Good day, gentlemen.”

  The door closed on his elegance. Abrams went into a conference with Leong. They talked low. The hum, click, buzz of machines filled the room, which was cold. Flandry stood staring at the captive he had taken. “A millo for ’em,” Abrams said.

  Flandry started. The older man had joined him on cat feet. “Sir?”

  “Your thoughts. What’re you turning over in your mind, besides the fair d’Io?”

  Flandry blushed. “I was wondering, sir. Hau—milord was right. You are pushing ahead terribly fast, aren’t you?”

  “Got to.”

  “No,” said Flandry earnestly. “Pardon, sir, but we could use divers and subs and probes to scout the Zletovar. Charlie here has more value in the long run, for study. I’ve read what I could find about the Seatrolls. They are an unknown quantity. You need a lot more information before you can be sure that any given kind of questioning will show results.”