Empire & Ecolitan (33 page)

J
IMJOY SAT ON
the edge of the hospital bed, letting his bare feet touch the warm tile floor. As the nurse stripped the last of the pressure bandages from his face, he tried to keep his shoulders relaxed. They began to ache every time he tensed up, and he wondered if they always would.

“Just a moment, Professor Whaler, and we'll have these off. Then you can see how you look.” Her voice contained the professional brightness he had always associated with nurses. He didn't know which was worse, the false booming heartiness of the men or the blithe cheerfulness of the women.

“What I look like,” corrected Jimjoy.

“Dr. Hyrsa is very good, Professor. You look fine. A few small bruises, but that's all. Those heal quickly. No more than a week or two at most.”

Thud
. The wadded-up bandages echoed in the container set by his feet.

“Bruises?”

“Not exactly. They look like bruises, but they're not.”

Thud
. More bandages clunked into the container.

How many kilos of dressings had he been wearing on his face alone? The shoulder dressings had been disposed of several days earlier.

“You hair is coming in nicely.”

Scrttchhh
.

“Ooooohh…”

“That was a little sticky, but that was the last one…and Dr. Hyrsa did a nice job—as usual. I'll even bet you'll be pleased with the results.”

Jimjoy did not look at the proffered hand mirror, instead running his fingers across his face, tracing his cheekbones and his chin line. Under his fingertips he could feel the usual stubble of unshaven beard. He was supposed to have higher cheekbones, green eyes…

“Are you ready to look in the mirror, Professor?”

He sighed and took the lightweight mirror from the red-haired nurse, who held it practically in his face. He held the mirror without lifting it.

With another drawn-out breath, he brought up the mirror. The face was that of a stranger. Not even a near relative, but a total stranger.

He gripped the mirror tighter to keep his hand from trembling as he studied the reflected image. The face frowned at him.
His
face frowned at him.

His nose was sharper, finer, and more aquiline than his original nose. The cheekbones were clearly higher, and his chin was a touch more pointed, not nearly as squared off as he recalled. His eyes were a piercing green, much like he remembered Thelina's. But he had only a colorless stubble for eyebrows and eyelashes, and his scalp was a hairless bronze…or was it graying before his time? Bronze? His entire face was somehow bronzed.

Despite the itching of his scalp, he did not scratch it, but pressed the skin gently to try to relieve the sensation. He could feel the stubble of regrowing hair under his fingertips. Then he studied his hands before lifting his eyes to the mirror again. He was bronzed indeed, bronzed over every millimeter of his body.

“Are you all right, Professor?”

“Just thinking…”

He held the mirror closer to his eyebrows, angling it to catch their color.

“Silver…” His hair and eyebrows were going to be silver. Dr. Hyrsa had only told him that his hair would be lighter, much lighter. She had smiled when he had said he wouldn't mind being a blond, but she had not agreed with him.

“Silver…be an old man before my time.”

“I doubt that. With all your improvements, you'll outlive us all. Besides, you were in excellent shape to begin with.”

Despite her soft voice, her words and not just the professional tone in which they were delivered somehow bothered him. He ignored the red-haired nurse and turned the mirror up toward his scalp. Silver.

Hades! While he didn't look anything like he had, he'd certainly stand out in a crowd now. Taller, with bronze skin and silver hair…how could he ever do what he'd done before?

He put down the mirror on the rumpled sheet beside him. Thelina had silver hair, the same light bronze complexion, and could still disappear as effectively as any Special Operative.

Thelina? The pieces snapped together inside his skull. “Nurse—did you ever work with Ecolitan Andruz?”

“Professor, I couldn't rightly say which Ecolitans I've worked with.”

“Andruz. Silver-haired. Bronzed, with green eyes, a sharp tongue…”

“Now, Professor, no woman would like to be characterized by her tongue…”

Jimjoy waited. “Silver hair,” he finally prompted, trying to catch the nurse's eye as she bent to pick up the container holding the used bandages.

“You must think we have a fixation on silver hair. We deal with all kinds of hair color—brown, red, black, gray. Some have been women, perhaps with silver hair. I could be wrong. I don't remember names.”

“Here,” he said tiredly, picking the mirror up and handing it back.

“You don't like how you look?”

“I guess I liked the way I used to look more than I thought.”

She took the mirror. “Could I get you anything to drink?”

“No. No…” He looked down at the alternating ceramic triangular floor tiles of black, green, and gold. What else had the Ecolitan surgeon done? What other “improvements” had he blithely agreed to?

“
Whffffuuuugh
…” His sigh dragged out. Even his stomach muscles still ached. And the ache in his shoulders was threatening to return at any moment.

“You need to rest, Professor Whaler.”

“All I've done is lie around.”

“Just swing your feet up and think about it.”

“Ooohhh…” The involuntary exclamation as he twisted drew a quickly suppressed grin from the nurse. Although stretching out was scarcely painless, the rest of his movements were silent.

In time, so was the hospital room, except for the sound of breathing.

J
IMJOY LOOKED AROUND
the hospital room. One compact kit bag containing all of his current worldly possessions rested on the single chair. No flowers, no cards to take with him. Just the good wishes of Cerrol—the white-haired nurse—Verea, and Dr. Hyrsa.

Although Jimjoy had hoped that a silver-haired Ecolitan would visit him, Thelina had not shown up after she had introduced Dr. Militro. Instead, she had sent two heavy packages of instructional materials with cryptic notes implying that he learn virtually every word and concept before he would be truly fit to be classified as an Ecolitan.

Since the Institute did not provide personal fax terminals, he had not even been able to fax her. Nor did he know how or where to send a note, assuming he had been foolish enough to write down anything.

With a sigh, he picked up the kit bag. It was light enough not to strain his rebuilt shoulders, even before the weeks of rehab scheduled for him, and the weeks of conditioning necessary after that.

The room was ready for its next patient.

“Good luck, Professor,” called Verea from her console.

“Thanks, Verea.”

The junior medical tech with the coppery hair waved briefly.

Jimjoy pushed open the wide wooden door and stepped out into the open staircase, avoiding the elevators—the only ones he had seen on Accord.

His steps were easy. He was in terrible shape, and it would be months before he was back in the condition necessary for the events to come. But his muscles were still there, out of condition as they were.

Stepping through the doors at the foot of the stairs, he saw two people—a young man in tans at the hospital information/admissions/guard desk and a young woman in Ecolitan field greens by the front doorway. He had met the young woman—Mera—once before, in what he was coming to think of as his second life, his service as an Imperial Special Operative. She had been his driver.

Would she recognize him in this third life?

“Professor Whaler?” asked the black-haired woman.

“The same,” acknowledged Jimjoy. “And you are?”

“Mera Lilkovie, student third class.”

He inclined his head to her. “Appreciate your help, Mera.”

“That's what we're here for, Professor.”

He forced a laugh. “Not really. You're here to learn, not to transport partly disabled staff, but I appreciate it.” While he could hear the deeper timbre of his voice, would the change in pitch, combined with the physical and cosmetic differences, be sufficient to pass her scrutiny? Then again, she had only driven him once, and that had been well over a standard year earlier.

“The car is outside. Do you have anything else?” Her eyes flickered to his short silvery hair that was well beyond a stubble, but still too short for all but the strictest military organizations.

“No.”

“That makes it easy, then.”

She showed no sign of recognition, unless she had been instructed not to. He doubted that. She turned and held the door.

Jimjoy stepped out into the hazy noontime sunshine, still amazed at the informality of his departure. That morning, Gavin Thorson, Sam Hall's Deputy Prime, and the Ecolitan in charge of all staffing arrangements at the Institute, had appeared in his room and announced that Jimjoy had been assigned permanent senior staff quarters—at least as permanent as any such quarters were—and that he would be discharged for background briefings and rehabilitation. A car would pick him up at 1100 hours local and take him to his quarters, where a minimum of linens and furniture had been supplied. And a full set of Institute uniforms, plus a few items of leisure clothing.

Jimjoy could either eat in any one of the Institute dining facilities or, once he familiarized himself with the Institute's supply procedures, cook his own meals.

Thorson had then handed Jimjoy his I.D., credit number, current account balance, and a folder containing his résumé, complete personal history, projected teaching load for the following quarter, his briefing schedule, and an accelerated follow-up course in ecologic and personal ethics for one James Joyson Whaler II. The material duplicated what Thelina had already provided.

James Joyson Whaler II—that was the first time he'd seen his new name in print. But why had the Institute delayed in identity conditioning?

Thorson had waited for him to absorb it. “Not that much of this should be a surprise to you, you understand, but we're asking a lot of you. Even so, the Prime and I welcome you back, Professor Whaler,” Thorson had said.

“Jimjoy, please.”

“Jimjoy it is.”

That had been it. Now he was walking toward a groundcar to begin a new life for real—for the third time. He almost shook his head. That was another mannerism he would have to eliminate—or limit. He tried pulling at his chin. In time, perhaps he could replace the one gesture with the other.

He also had to learn his own new personal history—cold—before he really appeared in public.

“Professor, our car is the one on the right.”

“Thank you.” Jimjoy angled his steps toward the pale green electrocar. After opening the rear door himself, he tossed the small kit bag onto the far side of the seat and eased in. The twinge in his shoulders as he bent forward reminded him that he had been in the hospital for a reason.

Clunk
. Mera shut the door behind him.

“You have not seen your quarters?”

“No, young lady, I have not. They were arranged while I was incapacitated.”

“You will be pleasantly surprised.” The car moved forward smoothly and turned to the right at the end of the semicircular drive. “All the new staff members are.”

He looked back, noticing that the building where he had stayed bore no indication it was a hospital. It was not the same building into which he had once carried an injured student less than two years earlier. Of that he was sure.

That led to other concerns, such as exactly how many medical facilities existed on the grounds of the Institute, and how little he knew about the people to whom he had entrusted his life. Not that he had had many options.

“Exactly where are the staff quarters?” He paused, wondering how much he was supposed to know. “I've studied the maps, but…”

“It's not quite the same thing?”

“Right.” Jimjoy nodded.

“Have you visited the Institute before, Professor?” Mera asked.

“Not in this particular life, at least.” He forced a short laugh.

“You know, you must be very special. The Institute doesn't grant many full fellowships or professor's chairs.”

“Especially not to former outsiders?” he asked.

“No. I think Professor Firion is one, and they said one of the senior field trainers was an outsider, but that's rumor.”

“I'm probably asking a stupid question, young lady, but could you enlighten me on the differences in meaning here at the Institute between professors, fellows, and Ecolitans?”

The electrocar purred up a narrow road and by a stone wall. Jimjoy kept his face impassive, although he recognized the orchard. He had wondered where the road led, and it appeared he was about to find out.

“Well…anyone who has graduated from the Institute or passed the equivalency tests and been accepted by the Prime or the examining Board as proficient in all the required skills is an Ecolitan. Most Ecolitans are Institute graduates, but you don't have to be.

“Fellow actually means Senior Fellow of the Institute, and that takes longer. Professors are Senior Fellows with specific responsibilities. That's what makes you unique.”

While Mera was practically begging for an explanation, Jimjoy let the not-quite-asked question pass him by. “And the quarters?” he prompted.

“Oh, just up the road here. You can actually take the footpath between the hills and along the brook and walk to the main grounds faster than going by car. That was to discourage groundcars when the last Institute plan was developed.”

“And did it? Discourage the use of groundcars?” he asked with a smile.

“Not really. No one used them anyway.”

The car swept between two massive pinelike trees flanking the narrow roadway, slowing to nearly a crawl as the pavement ended in a narrow stone-paved lot. The entire parking area was less than twenty meters long and not more than five meters wide. A vacant green groundcar was parked at the far end.

Terraced stone walkways paralleled the parking area and continued up the sloping terrain toward individual wooden structures set roughly ten meters apart. Each was two stories, with wide front and rear wooden decks, a sharply pitched roof, and large windows.

“You get the end unit, Professor.” Mera pointed as she brought the electrocar to a purring halt beside the empty green car.

“New kid on the block?” asked Jimjoy. He looked at his quarters-to-be again. Perhaps a shade narrower than those farther uphill, but still two stories, with both decks, and the same detailed workmanship and contrasting dark and light woods—all in all, quarters probably better than those offered to all but command-class officers in the Empire. “All to myself?”

“Unless there's someone I don't know about. You certainly can invite anyone to share your hospitality.” Mera turned and grinned at him. It was not quite an invitation.

“That tired of Institute quarters?” He grinned back.

“Not yet, Professor. But try in a year.”

He started to shake his head, then remembered and pulled at his chin. “Remind me of that, would you?”

“I just might, Professor. I just might.” She bounced from her seat.

Jimjoy moved more carefully, still not quite certain which movements triggered which pains. As he stepped out, he surveyed the area, from the neatly groomed bushes and short grass to the rows of low silver blooms growing beside the slate gray of the stone walks and steps.

Click…clunk
…

“Ready?” asked the student.

“I can take that!” protested Jimjoy, realizing she had retrieved his bag.

“No problem, Professor. Suares would have my head if she learned I'd let you carry anything.”

He cut his shrug short as his shoulders protested and followed her up the wooden steps. A cold breeze carried the scent of firs and the promise of rain. Overhead, the haze had thickened into light clouds. Toward the west, behind the lower clouds, lurked a darker presence.

Thrummmmmm
…The thunder, faint as a half-played beat on a child's drum, whispered through the afternoon.

Stopping at the doorway that Mera had opened but not stepped through, Jimjoy followed her eyes. Beside the blond wooden squared arches of the front doorway was a plaque.
J. J. Whaler, S.F.I.

“You first, Professor.”

Jimjoy stepped into a small foyer, floored in narrow planks of close-grained golden wood. The walls—all the walls—were wooden. Well finished and satin-lacquered. Although the wood had been refinished for him, a few dents and rounded edges showed that there had been previous occupants.

Past the foyer, with its narrow closet for coats, cloaks, or whatever, and through another squared arch, this one without doors, Jimjoy stood in a single long room running from one side of the dwelling to the other—perhaps eight to nine meters. The center of the room was open to the beamed ceiling. The entire southwest wall was comprised of wood and glass with just enough wood to hold the glass. Each window on the upper level could swivel open, and sliding glass doors framed in wood ran in multiple tracks the width of the room.

To his right, a railed but open staircase rose to the second story, where it opened onto a loft. From what he could see, the loft joined two rooms, one at each side of the house.

He walked left, toward the open kitchen area and the dark bronze wooden table and wooden chairs—the only dark objects in the entire room. On the table was an oblong white card.

He forced himself to pick it up slowly. The message was neatly inscribed on the stiff card with a green triangle in the upper left corner: “Welcome home, Professor. Sam.”

Home? That remained to be seen. White Mountain had been home once, too. And so had Alphane. Neither had been, though he had thought of each that way.

He set the card back on the table.

“Don't you want to see the rest?” Mera was smiling, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, still holding his single kit bag in her left hand.

Jimjoy repressed a frown. “Of course.”

“Besides the deck, there's the upstairs.”

Jimjoy took the staircase, his steps heavy on the carpeted runner.

“Your room is the one at the far end.”

“My room?”

“The main suite?”

“Suite?”

“Well…maybe not a suite, but…you'll see.”

He did. The room, with an oversized bed, a dresser, a bedside table with a lamp, and a table desk with a console and matching chair, had enough open floor space to look uncrowded. All the furniture was a light bronzed wood. The only fabrics in evidence were the forest blue of the quilt, the matching curtains on the two windows that flanked the bed, and the two throw pillows—cream—on the bed. Above the sliding glass door that opened onto the upper deck was a wood-slat shade that rolled down for darkness or privacy, or both. A spacious fresher/bathroom was visible to his left through an open archway.

His eyes strayed back to the forest-blue quilt. He swallowed. Once, twice.

“Like it?” Mera had set the kit bag next to the closet door.

“It's very…very coordinated.”

“The Prime thought you would like the color.”

“You picked out the furniture?”

“I had some help from Kirsten—she was my second-year roommate. We worked with the woodcrafters to get it right. The downstairs was left here, but the Prime thought this should be new for you.”

Jimjoy did shake his head. How had Sam Hall known about the forest blue of White Mountain? A lucky guess? Not likely. The room was more to his taste than he dared to admit.