Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “That’s what we need to change.”

  Just forward of the paired thrusters was what he needed—the control module. He glanced at the boat drive controls, calling up the images he had memorized so many weeks—had it only been weeks—before and comparing them to the controls.

  Why had he ever thought he could convert a drive into what amounted to a large-scale message-torp drive?

  Because you have the Ecolitan complex—we can do anything, convert any machinery at hand to the dirty job necessary. The unspoken words sounded bitter, and they were. Who was he to determine which planets and people lived? Except…if he didn’t, then millions of others would continue to die as the Fuards set the Galaxy aflame. But why were politicians so stupid?

  “They aren’t. They want to stay in power, and that means catering to popular prejudices will mean war between the Empire and Accord.”

  “What?” asked Swersa.

  “Sorry. I was muttering about politicians instead of getting to work.”

  With a sigh, he picked up the long-handled miniature hex wrench and began to remove the cover to the drive controls. “Can you loosen the other side?”

  “That I can do.”

  Removing the override governors was simple enough—at least in theory and comparatively, since the boats were meant to be foolproof, and the governors were hardware with circuit blocs. He had to lay and bond a strip of silver between the contacts, probably overly wide, but it didn’t matter that much, not for the remaining single flight of the boat.

  Still, his hands were trembling after that effort, even with Swersa’s help, and they had to sit on the boat hatch ramp in the clammy boat bay and rest for a moment before they went back and replaced the drive control cover. Next came disabling the power lines to the grav-field generators and the habitability module. That would allow the firin cells’ power to be concentrated where it counted—drives and shields, mostly shields.

  “Four adjustments…nearly a standard hour.”

  “That doesn’t seem bad.”

  “With eight more to go?” he asked. “Hope we can do better.”

  They did do better. It only took half that for the next boat.

  He tried not to think about the program changes to the guidance systems, so that the boats would home on a signal besides that of the Smith and hold course, even if the signal were eliminated.

  Between drive and power reconfigurations, and the slight modifications to the homers, it was nearly a full day later, including much needed sleep, before the three settled themselves back in the bridge-cockpit.

  “Everyone ready?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Stet,” offered Sylvia.

  “Stet.”

  Nathaniel began to ease power to the thrusters, very, very gently. Even so, the big ship shivered, and he kept scanning the boards and the systems until he had the Smith on a clear outbound corridor.

  Then he took a deep breath.

  “I still wonder. This is insane.” Swersa shook her head. “Attacking the center of the Conglomerate.”

  “No. That’s what everyone says when you break the rules. But there’s never been a good defense against attack from space—except lots of ships—and that’s expensive. And if you put all your ships around your home system, then that leaves others unprotected, and you can’t maintain a large multi-system government without projecting force.”

  “But, why hasn’t this come up before?” asked Sylvia.

  Swersa just winced.

  “Who said it hasn’t?” Nathaniel shook his head. “Both sides tried it in the Secession, except the Coordinate was more successful. It’s been four centuries, and people forget because they’d rather not understand how high the stakes are and how vulnerable populations are. And no military figure or politician is about to remind them.”

  With that, he went back to checking the Smith and all the systems, conscious of just how close he’d loaded the ship to its margins. While he trusted everything was braced and solid, or more than that, there wasn’t any point in not being cautious.

  They reached the Sligo outsystem jump point without incident—and without any stray EDI traces.

  “Ready for jump…mark, four, three, two, one…jump.”

  The universe turned inside out once more, black to white, and back again, for the endless and instantaneous transition between congruency points.

  “We’re at less than thirty percent, thanks to all that mass,” pointed out LuAn.

  “That’s why we’re headed in system here. It’s as short a jump as possible from a non-Conglomerate system. We might have seventy percent when we emerge beyond Tinhorn.” Nathaniel frowned, then added, “LuAn, Sylvia…can you two get out the power cables and make sure every one of the boats is fully charged? And the courier.”

  “You want that done before we repower.”

  “Every margin possible,” he admitted.

  The two dragged themselves aft, not to return until they were approaching their interim destination.

  “A couple—three and seven—are bleeding power,” announced Swersa.

  “How much?”

  “Two, three percent. That’s in just three days.”

  “We can handle that. Thank you both.”

  He waited until they were back in position, not that it mattered, before transmitting.

  “Galatea one, this is Coordinate ship Adam Smith, inbound station this time.”

  “Where did you come up with that name?” asked Sylvia as they waited for the Frankan outpost’s response.

  “He was an ancient economist who believed in the invisible hand of economics, or something like that. It’s better than calling us The Invisible Hand, I thought.”

  “Coordinate vessel Smith, interrogative intentions. Interrogative intentions.”

  “Intentions are repowering and transit. I say again, repowering and transit.”

  “Thank you, Smith. Cleared to beacon one three. One three.”

  “We’re reaching the end of the easy part,” he announced.

  “If this has been the easy part, can I get off?” asked Sylvia, straight-faced.

  “Of course. As soon as we finish the hard part.”

  “Somehow, I was afraid you’d say that.”

  XLIII

  THE SPECIAL ASSISTANT waited for the secure link to unscramble and the image of the Grand Admiral to slip into place before she spoke.

  “Did you get my latest?”

  “Yes. I got the report from your tame Ecolitan—and the former I.I.S. agent. My analysts and D.I. both agree that it’s first rate, and probably on target, especially the apprendices. I took the liberty of sending a copy to the External Affairs Committee. They’ll have trouble with that message to Tinhorn, though. They won’t believe that it’s anything but rhetoric.”

  “Even now?” asked Marcella.

  “It’s been too long since the Secession, and they don’t want to remember. In time, it will make your life easier.” The Admiral shrugged.

  Marcella paused, then asked, “I assume that means there is no change in the plan to send the Eleventh Fleet along the Rift? Or to move the Third and Ninth Fleets?”

  “As I told you earlier, Marcella, I cannot comment on rumors, not even on a secure link. As you know, I must follow the directives of the Imperial Senate.” A faint smile crossed the Admiral’s lips. “And, as I indicated earlier, such repositionings do take time, and we have uncovered several logistical problems that may add to that.” A nod followed. “But, after a meeting called by the Senate Pro-Consul, I was able to assure them that the Ministry of Defense will indeed be able to carry out their directives, and stands ready to implement the wishes of the Senate…whatever they may be.”

  “Translated loosely, the idiots are convinced, despite all factual evidence to the contrary, that Accord is engaging ecological warfare on the Empire. That’s even after a clear statement with evidence from the Ecolitans that the Fuards are behind this?”

  “There isn’t enough evidence, Marc
ella, not the kind that they can parade before their constituencies. Nothing that will satisfy the Senator from Heraculon, who reports more than five million deaths from energy shortage-related starvation. Of course, he also won’t admit that he supported energy monoculture because of the contributions from the Agricultural Technology Alliance. Nothing will satisfy the Senator from Squamish, where deaths are nearing two million with the failure of the fisheries. Tell me. Can you transport that much food?”

  “You know we couldn’t, not even across a system, let alone transstellar distances. We’ve diverted everything we can, and it’s changed almost nothing.”

  “Then how can I brook the will of the Senate?” The Admiral shrugged a last time. “Unless something changes the political dynamic. Right now, it’s still easier to oppose Accord than the Conglomerate.”

  “They really would rather be reelected and see the Galaxy in flames.”

  “Hasn’t it always been that way? Do you really expect them to behave any other way?”

  “I could hope.”

  “Hope does not vote, Marcella. Remember that.” With a swirl of colors, the Admiral’s image disappeared, leaving a dark screen.

  XLIV

  THE SMITH DROPPED out of its jumpshift into normspace, and Swersa looked up from the screens before her to Nathaniel. “The screens are skewed. Where are we?”

  “We’re actually below Tinhorn’s ecliptic. No one looks out here. Or down here.”

  “Can you explain this in simple terms?” Sylvia twisted in the second pilot’s seat, but she kept her hands clear of the manual controls.

  “Application of the anthropomorphic principle number three.”

  Both looked at him blankly.

  “Nathaniel,” began Sylvia. “I know what you’re trying to do. That’s clear. And it’s clear that you’re worried. But there’s no one close to us—even I can see that on the screens. So, could you explain? Why are we trying to attack from here, when the system is up there—if up is the right word?”

  The pilot forced himself to take a deep breath, leaving his eyes and senses on screens and shipnets. “Everyone looks up, scans up…or out. But we’re coming in perpendicular to the ecliptic from below. By the time we register on the EDI screens, our TIV will be too high for them to have much time to react.” Nathaniel smiled grimly. “And even if they do, they won’t have more than a few ships with which to do it. No one puts big lasers in orbit around inhabited planets. Or large fleets. They can’t intimidate other systems there. Also, people are afraid of that much power too close to home.” He coughed, hoping he wasn’t getting something, or that there wasn’t some allergen in the ventilating system.

  “In theory, anyway, it’s very simple. Large and small objects at excessive rates of speed have a tendency to create large craters when they impact immovable objects. They also create great heat and climatic violence when they impact comparatively shallow bodies of water. The Fuard military command is on a planetoid which was laboriously dragged into orbit around Tinhorn. I have made some major modifications to the drives on the mining boats, and to the directionality of the shields. There are similar modifications to the drives on the Smith. The courier is for our departure.”

  “They won’t let you get that close,” pointed out Swersa.

  “That’s why we’re here. Down here—anthropomorphic principle number three. Nobody looks underfoot.”

  “Which you just made up,” quipped Sylvia.

  “Right. But I’ll stand by it.”

  “Economist and now anthropologist.”

  “No. Anthropomorphic principles were developed by cosmologists and physicists to explain what cold, hard science couldn’t. Something like that, anyway.” His eyes went to the EDI screens and the glitter of energy points surrounding Tinhorn…so many that, at the scale showing, the area around the planet was more of a glow than a sharp image.

  They still had a long way to go, and they needed more velocity. He checked the power situation. Fifty-eight percent. Forest lord! The cargo carrier was definitely an energy guzzler, not that he’d expected anything much different, and close to sixty percent would be more than enough. More than enough, indeed.

  He eased more power into the thrusters, setting the acceleration on the high end of the expected commercial range, just slightly high. Then his senses dropped back to the shipnets to monitor the stresses on the Smith. Outside of a faint creaking, and increased pressure on aft retaining bulkheads—compensated for, he hoped, by the internal grav-fields—nothing seemed to have changed.

  Tinhorn remained a point of light, not measurably closer, nor did the EDI patterns around the Conglomerate Centre planet change as the Smith—the erstwhile Turner—lumbered “upwards” through the darkness toward the plane of the Tinhorn system. The three Ecolitans sat and watched, sat and watched.

  One Ecolitan occasionally made minor power and course adjustments as slowly, ever so slowly, the blue dot that was the Smith on the representational screen crept closer to the red dot that Nathaniel had placed over the planet.

  The nearer the Smith came, the more often he scanned through the frequencies, mentally regearing his mind to think in Fuardian, trying to match those on standing wave and those with direct radiation.

  After a time, the signals seemed to bounce through his thoughts, as well as through the net, none quite steady enough…yet. The Smith only seemed to creep toward Tinhorn and the metallic asteroid that was Tempte, and their target, but Nathaniel had no intention of boosting acceleration since that much of a power increase could trigger increased attention. He merely wanted to create the impression, were anyone even looking, that the cargo carrier was the victim of poor piloting or jump error, and struggling back toward the ecliptic on a standard power curve.

  Finally, he verified the signals he wanted, and locked them into the net. Then he turned in the pilot’s couch. “Swersa?”

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to maintain this heading. I’ll be aft. Let me know if anything strange occurs. Anything.” He slipped out of the couch, and started aft.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Sylvia before he reached the hatch.

  “Ah…actually, yes.”

  “How long will what you’re doing take?”

  “Half a stan, could be a little longer.”

  “I’ll have some of our class-one fare waiting. It’s one of the things I can do for you ship jockeys.” She smiled.

  “Thank you.” He smiled back. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right, but I want to learn how to pilot one of these. You aren’t doing this again.”

  “You will.”

  “Promise?” she asked.

  “Promise.”

  “Good.”

  Nathaniel paused, then turned to Swersa. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’ll be opening the boat ports. Leave them open.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He climbed back into his space armor and checked the tool set but left the face plate open. Again, he started with boat ten, the farthest aft.

  The drill was simple enough. Enter the boat, open the port, tune the homer, set the makeshift cutout to leave the autopilot on the last homer course, leave the boat.

  Nine boats and nearly a standard hour later he slumped onto the plastic chair in the crew lounge. His class-one fare—and Sylvia—were waiting.

  “Just eat. You’re turning white.”

  “Swersa all right?” He took a bite of yet another mystery protein swathed in a cheese sauce.

  “She’s worried. I can tell that.”

  “So am I.” Two more bites of mystery protein vanished.

  “Do we have any chance to get out of this?” Her gray eyes met his. “Straight talk.”

  “If things go as planned.”

  “If? How likely is that?”

  He swallowed some of the metallic lime drink. “You need to eat, too.”

  “I did already, while you were working. I took some to Swersa, also. How likely?” she asked again.


  “I don’t know. What I’ve rigged up ought to work. But like a lot of things we do, you can’t test them in advance. And I don’t have the experience for this sort of thing. No one does, these days.” He lifted his shoulders, then dropped them. “I’m hoping.”

  She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “We don’t have any choice, and I think you’re doing the only thing we can.”

  “It’s not the right thing,” he said slowly. “We did all the right things, and no one listened. So we have to do this. But it still bothers me. It bothers me that numbers don’t matter, that reason doesn’t matter, that only force matters. And I can’t tell Swersa that. I’ve pushed her too hard anyway.”

  “Greed and force—that’s all most people listen to,” Sylvia said.

  “This is definitely force.” He took the last bites of his class-one ship’s fare. “I have to keep telling myself that five million innocents have already died, and several million more will die, even if we succeed. If we don’t, the number goes to hundreds of millions.”

  “I know. Do you feel better?”

  “Close to human…for now. I guess we’d better get back up front. Before long, things are going to get messy.”

  “They’ve been that way all along.” She bent closer and kissed his cheek.

  He turned and held her, more tightly than he’d intended, despite the armor he wore. He just held on as if the moment would never end—as did Sylvia.

  Finally, he let go, reluctantly, and so did the gray-eyed woman. After a last kiss, they headed forward.

  He dropped into the first’s seat and donned the input set, setting the helmet in the holder to his left. All the boat doors remained open. Pressure leakage from the aft section had increased slightly, which probably meant the leak was in one of the boat ports, not that it would matter, not much longer.

  “Nothing new, sir,” reported Swersa. “Chatter, but that’s been it. Seems like a lot of in-system traffic.”

  “It is a military base, even if most of the ships are elsewhere.”