The Forever Hero (43 page)

Senior weapons technician Heimar scanned the list on the screen again. Shipment four—standard heavy cruiser replacement pack—was listed as having been picked up by the
Bernadotte
's tender.

Heimar checked the orbit schedule and frowned. According to New Glascow orbit control, the
Bernadotte
had closed orbit less than
four standard hours ago. The pick up time had been more than ten hours earlier.

The technician compared the screen list to the hard copy receipt. Then he called up the code section. The authentications were identical.

Finally he turned to the impatient major.

“Your shipment is listed as already having been picked up. It's not here, either. That rules out screen error.”

“How could it have been picked up?”

“That's what we'd like to know.”

Heimar tried not to show the shaking he felt inside. A standard weapons pack for a heavy cruiser consisted of a dozen tacheads and four hellburners.

One pack was apparently missing, properly logged out, apparently properly picked up by a cruiser tender with the right identifications, the right codes, and loaded by Heimar's own crews.

The only problem was that the tender couldn't have belonged to the
Bernadotte
.

Would the commander be upset? Would he? Heimar shuddered. Although it had not happened in his watch, his men had obviously been the ones suckered, and Heimar did not want to be the one to notify the commander.

He reached out and slapped the red stud on the console. Then he waited, but only for a few seconds.

“Commander, this is Heimar, at off-load. The weapons officer of the
Bernadotte
has some information that you should know.”

Heimar stepped back and motioned the major to the screen.

He stared at the dome above, thinking about the murky atmosphere outside, the nearly unbreathable air, wishing he were anywhere, even there, besides on-duty and in reach of the commander. It had never happened before, not that he knew. Sixteen nuclear warheads gone—disappearing from a tightly guarded Imperial system, disappearing without even an alarm being raised or anyone being the wiser.

Heimar had heard the rumors about the great dozer theft of a half century earlier, or whenever it had been, but that had happened in orbit, not planetside.

But twelve tacheads, and four hellburners? He bit his lips. It wouldn't be as bad for him as it would be for the commander, but that wouldn't make it any easier.

“HEIMAR!”

He stepped back to the screen to explain what he had discovered.

The man stepped inside the building's foyer. Although the wind whipped snow with the force of needles along the broad expanse that would be a boulevard in the short summer, he wore but a light gray jacket and black, calf-high boots. Hatless, he showed blond hair, like the majority of Scandians. Unlike theirs, his was short and tight-curled to his skull.

Once inside, he shook himself, and the light dusting of snow fell onto the wide entry mat. Three steps took him to the directory block, where he confirmed a suite number before taking the low stairs behind it two at a time to the second story of the three-floored building.

The office he wanted was at the rear northern side, and, as he walked through the open archway he could immediately see a panorama of the lake at the base of the hill on which the building stood. Below swirled drifts, and frozen white covered the lake. The wind-sculpted drifts ran from the stone wharves and the docks of the town on the right, and from the treed slopes of the park on the left out into the indistinctness of the white north.

“May we help you?”

The young man who spoke was black-haired—the single dark one of the five in the office—and clean-shaven.

Before answering, the visitor studied the other four, two men and two women. All five wore collarless tunics, trousers, and slippers. He glanced to the rack at the side, where parkas and heavy trousers hung above thick boots.

“Looking for Mark Ingmarr.”

“That's me,” laughed the darker man, who stood more than a head taller than the slender visitor. “You are—?”

“Corson…MacGregor Corson.”

“You mean Gerswin?”

“Said Corson. Meant Corson.”

The two women exchanged glances, but said nothing.

“If that's the way you want it…”

“That's the way I want it.”

“You called earlier.” The tall man's tone was flat.

“That's correct. You are an advocate…an attorney?”

“I told you that.”

“Satisfactory. Need your professional ability.”

“What if I don't want to give it?”

The visitor looked up at the heavily muscled young advocate. “You don't have to. Find someone else. You would be better.”

Ingmarr stared down at the other, found his eyes caught by the hawk-yellow intensity of the smaller man's stare. For an instant, it seemed as though he were trapped in blackness. He dropped his eyes, breaking the contact.

“I'll talk about it,” the attorney conceded.

He pointed to a console and two chairs in the far corner, half concealed behind a bank of indoor plants.

The man in gray took the right-hand chair, the one farther from the console.

“What do you want?” asked the advocate.

“A modest trust. Designed to receive funds from a blind account in the Scandian Bank. Should include certain provisions for education, an alternate to the trustee, and a termination and succession clause.”

“That's rather general.”

“The beneficiary is about seven standard years old. I'm acting for his father's family. His mother felt that his father was not the most stable of individuals. Mother left with son when the boy was less than a year old. Father couldn't do much. Family feels son should be provided for, particularly education. Half the trust would be his ten standard years after he reaches statutory majority. The other half goes to his mother, ten years after he reaches majority, or after he would have. Should he not reach majority, his half would be used to endow scholarships in his name at the university.”

“What if the boy's mother doesn't want the money?”

“We can't prevent her from not using it, but the funds would be his at some point regardless.”

“You seem rather determined.”

“It is both the least and the most that can and should be done under the circumstances.”

“Rather a strange way to put it.”

The shorter man shrugged. “Strange situation.”

“Why didn't you have the bank set it up? You wouldn't even have had to make a long trip. They could, you know.”

“Some things require a personal touch.” He handed Ingmarr a sheet. “This contains the securities that will compose the trust, as well as the specified asset composition for incoming cash flows.”

“I'd have to advise against too much inflexibility.”

“Only the investment parameters are inflexible. The categories, not specific choices.”

“You said a modest trust…this looks to be more than that.”

“In addition to the listed securities, the initial credit transfer will be fifty thousand credits. Annual payments will be in the neighborhood of about five thousand credits for roughly the next ten years. After that, the trust will be expected to be self-sustaining.”

Ingmarr looked at the list and touched his console, his eyes darting back and forth between the information he called up and the securities listed.

The man who called himself Corson watched in silence.

“For Scandia, this is much more than a modest trust, much more, ser…Corson. This would set…the boy…up comfortably for life.”

“Not wise without conditions. Mentioned those earlier. First, may not collect even any of the interest unless he finishes primary studies. Second, not more than half the interest until he finishes graduate level. Third, he may not
ever
acquire control of the principal capital until he is commissioned as an I.S.S. officer
or
completes the full Nord Afriq survival course.”

“But if he cannot collect without the schooling—”

“Sorry. Should have made that clear. Trust pays school expenses directly, as necessary. Any excess income is reinvested, unless he needs it for living expenses, but he or his mother must submit records, like an expense account, to the trustee.”

“I think I understand your interest and reasoning, ser…Corson.”

“One final stipulation. He is not to be informed of the trust until he completes primary studies, or until ten years after majority, whichever comes first.”

“At that time, do you want him to know the source of the trust?”

“I would leave that to the trustee and his mother. She could also tell him that the money was left for him by a distant relative. An eccentric old Imperial officer. That might be best, but that would be her choice.”

Ingmarr frowned. “Any other conditions?”

“Not unless you think there should be.”

“All right. Let me get started on this, if you don't mind. We'd all feel better if it were completed and you could get on with…could get on with…whatever…”

“I understand.”

The outsider leaned back in the chair and transferred his sharp glance to the snow-drifted lake and the gray-clouded skies and the fine sheeting snow that appeared more like fog.

He could tell the taller of the two women kept looking at him, although he did not need to turn to check, and his keen hearing could pick out some of the phrases.

“…same eyes, same curly hair…”

“…but her brother?”

“…scary…when you think how old…”

“…fascinating though…”

Ingmarr continued to work with the legal terminology on the console, apparently oblivious to either his client or the rest of the office.

After a time, the stranger straightened in his seat and removed a thin folder from inside his light jacket, which he had opened but not removed. He checked the contents, then left it in his lap and returned his attention to a line of skiers moving smoothly across the lake toward the town with practiced strides.

“Ser Corson…if you would like to check this out…and fill in the necessary names and details.”

“Fine.”

The outsider slipped into the seat in front of the console, eyes running over the displayed text.

Ingmarr noted the ease with which he operated the equipment, changing pages, cross-indexing, checking references.

“No problem…except here. Think you should add something about ‘with the approval of the mother, Allison Ingmarr.'”

The man in gray stood back from the console, still holding the folder that he had brought.

“All right.” Ingmarr sat back down and made the changes, scanning through the text to insure that his client had supplied all the necessary information.

The smaller man stepped up as Ingmarr looked up from the screen.

“You'll need these.”

“Which are?”

“The portfolio securities. In Corson's name.”

Ingmarr took the folder without opening it.

“Let me run out the copies of this for authentication and registration.”

The stranger nodded and half-turned toward the winter scene outside.

As Ingmarr touched the last stud on the console, he stood, laying the folder on the flat top of the equipment. He moved away from the console. Looming over the stranger, he cleared his throat and flexed his shoulders as if to assure himself that his muscles were loose.

“Who are you, anyway? As if I didn't know.”

“I told you, MacGregor Corson.”

“I don't believe that for an instant.” The Scandian reached out for the smaller man with a huge right hand and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Let go.” The words were quiet.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

Thud
.

Ingmarr stared up from the carpeted floor into a yellow, hawkeyed glare. He appeared stunned.

“Doing my best to hold to her wishes. Without disinheriting him. No more questions.”

Each word, though whispered, seared. Ingmarr stiffened, but did not get off the floor.

“You!…never believed…”

“Get the trust finished. Sooner the better.” The stranger's light baritone voice was calm.

“Agreed,” conceded Ingmarr, rubbing his hand and then his shoulder. The smaller man had handled him as if he were a doll, and for the first time, he was beginning to understand his sister, her tears, and her fears. And her reasons for having to trust the man.

Ingmarr stood up slowly and repeated himself. “Agreed.”

Both men ignored the whispers from the other side of the open office as they moved toward the printing station in the middle of the office.

“…like a child…”

“…so fast…”

“…has to be
him…
”

Outside, the wind picked up, and the snow fog thickened until the gray light resembled twilight rather than midafternoon.

Inside, two women shivered in thin tunics while a tall man continued to massage a sore shoulder, and a shorter blond man began to authenticate a legal document.

Gerswin looked over at the innocuous set of plasteel shipping containers that filled the small aft hold of the
Caroljoy
. Twelve bore labels indicating they were high-speed message torps, and four bore labels indicating long range torps.

Not that the labels were totally inaccurate, mused the commander. Someday they might have to be used to send a message of sorts, but he had obtained them now, when it was still possible, without too much difficulty.

The maiden voyage of the refurbished former scout had gone well, well indeed, although it would have proved difficult, if not impossible, to have traced the supposed private yacht through three separate identities, two military, and four systems, not including Scandia. That diversion, on the return trip, had been for other reasons, later than he would have wished, but accomplished nonetheless.

His eyes lost their sharp focus for a minute as he recalled the snow-covered firs of Scandia, and, more distantly, a pair of eyes as clear as a cloudless winter morning. He shook his head to bring himself back to the small hold.

Gerswin checked the hold locks once again before extricating himself from the hold and climbing back into the former crew room. Loading the shipping crates from outside through the exterior cargo lock, an armed tender lock converted for his purposes, had been far easier than inspecting them from inside the ship. Small as the aft hold was, the forward hold was even smaller, containing only emergency stores and an emergency generator and solar array.

There was less crew space under Gerswin's internal redesign than in the ship's original configuration. As a scout, the former
Farflung
had carried a four man crew under tight living conditions. Gerswin had reconfigured the newly and officially registered
Caroljoy
(IPS-452) as a single pilot ship, with emergency capacity for two passengers on short hauls.

The drives were not those of a scout, but of a small corvette, with total power cross-bleed between the corvette screens and gravitics. The extra power and range had come at the cost of habitability and because Gerswin had installed higher quality control and communi
cations systems—the lower weight and improved reliability offset by the considerably higher price.

The commander sealed the hatch beneath him, which resembled another tiled floor square of the cabinlike section of the ship, which contained the fresher, wall-galley, and bunk. He stood, surveying the trim and efficient interior.

“Stand down mode, full alert,” he ordered.

“Stand down mode, full alert.” A voice, feminine, but impersonal, answered the commander.

He sealed the locks behind him, and stepped out into the hangar, which, as he had rebuilt the
Caroljoy
from scratch, he had turned into a maintenance facility capable of handling all but the largest of private yachts. The equipment within the hangar could also have served virtually all Imperial scouts and corvettes, although that capability remained the secret of the commander.

He had not kept secret from his subordinates that, after Allison's departure, his sole vice was his “hobby”—building a private yacht from surplus scrap for his eventual retirement.

Some of his officers had even visited the hangar and the
Caroljoy—
at suitably arranged times when the disarray was maximized—and while all were impressed by the commandant's personal expertise, they shook their heads sadly behind his back at his tales of spending all his savings on his project.

None knew that the
Caroljoy
was already spaceworthy. He had not registered her until after he had returned from the maiden voyage. While the fact that his ship was spaceworthy would leak out sooner or later, both the registration date and his officers' memories would reflect a much later first launch than the reality.

Gerswin smiled wryly at the recollection of some of the looks as they had seen the scout in the graving cradle, looking as if it would be forever before she lifted.

His steps carried him across the hangar toward the outside lock and the groundcar that would carry him back to Standora Base, back to the empty quarters of the commandant. Back to a short night's sleep before another day of shuffling priorities, fleet repairs, and the fragile egos of ship captains who had heard that Standora Base could perform miracles and who all wanted to be first in line.

The commander shook his head as he thought of the sixteen slender missiles sealed in the
Caroljoy
's aft hold. Just as he hoped he would not need them, he knew he would, although he could not say for what. Not yet. But that time would come, had to come, as the Em
pire began to crumble and the commercial barons began to grab for more and more.

Not yet did he need them. But to reclaim Old Earth, he had no doubt he would need them, and that he would have little or no time to obtain them by the time he needed such power. By then, too, the source of the weapons might have been forgotten.

As he slipped from the hangar, he automatically scanned the area, but the private shuttle port was quiet, as usual.

He guided the official groundcar across the plastarmac and toward the south gate of Standora Base more than twenty kays away.