Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Is that order ready…for the Colonial Grande…?”

  “…shipped him off to Four for a research assignment of some sort…talks, but I never understand—yes, the mixed rye and the spicebread, please—so what can you do…”

  “…is that one over there? In the corner…”

  “The same uniform, I think…”

  “Here you are, ser. Will there be anything else?”

  The ellars were a mixture of two kinds of pastry, a light and flaky crust twisted together with a heavier and richer one, wrapped around the filling. He finished both and almost licked the crumbs off his fingers.

  “Pardon me, ser…if you’re through with the plate, I’ll take it.”

  “Are you Christina?”

  “No…I’m Laura. Christina’s my aunt.” She lifted the plate, then turned back to him. “You are from the Institute, aren’t you?”

  He thought for a moment before answering. “For now, at least. I’m classified as a visiting instructor.”

  “I didn’t know they had any outsider professors…”

  “May be the first…but that’s probably up to Sam…”

  “Sam?”

  “The Prime.”

  The sandy-blonde paused. “How long will you be here?”

  “In town? Just for the day. Hadn’t seen much of Harmony.”

  “You from Parundia?”

  “A bit farther than that, I’m afraid.”

  “Off-planet?”

  He nodded.

  “But you speak Anglish, not Panglais. That why I figured you were from one of the out-continents.”

  Her last statement seemed forced.

  He shrugged. “The Institute invited, and it seemed…so I accepted.”

  “Do you intend to stay at the Institute?”

  He laughed, gently. “Now, that is not my choice, one way or the other.”

  “I suppose not.” She paused again. “How did you like the ellars?”

  “Good. Quite good.”

  She nodded and headed back into the kitchen area, through a swinging door, still carrying the earthenware plate.

  The crowd at the display cases had diminished, and only a single man stood there.

  “Order for Waltar’s.”

  “The usual?”

  “Same as always.”

  “Here you go.”

  Aware as he was of the Ecolitan-style uniform, Jimjoy forced himself to sip the last of the liftea before slipping a fifty-unit piece next to the mug when he finally finished the liftea and stood. One youngster, also in khaki and yellow, waited behind the counter.

  “Quite good.”

  “Thank you, ser. Come again.”

  “I hope to.”

  Outside on the avenue, there were fewer people. The temperature was at least another five degrees warmer, and steamier than at the Institute. He shrugged and headed back to the bookstore.

  “Readables.” That was the name of the establishment, and despite the modest title, the shop was even bigger than the implement store, with shelf after shelf of bound hard-copy books. The disc-and-cube section comprised less than one-fifth of the floor space.

  Jimjoy began at one end of the hard-copy section, scanning the titles one after another, listening as he did to the half dozen people scattered throughout the shop.

  “Do you have…Politics and the Age of Power?”

  “Section three on the right, about the fourth shelf down.”

  “…can you believe he said that…to her, of all people…and right after she finished hand-to-hand…”

  “…mangle him?…”

  “…didn’t bother, but when he realized…should have seen his face…”

  “…all of them out there like that?…”

  “…guess so—oh, look over there…”

  “So how is the weather in Parundia?”

  He smiled as he continued with his survey of the bookshelves, noting a wide array of volumes openly displayed which were unavailable even in the restricted section of Alphane Academy library.

  He reached for a small volume. The Integrated Planetary Ecology, Samuel L. Hall, The Institute Press, Harmony, Accord. He scanned the title page. Eighth Printing.

  “Hmm.” He slipped the book under his arm as he continued his study.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” The young woman addressed him in Panglais.

  He repressed a smile and looked at her blankly.

  She repeated the question in Anglish.

  “No. Just looking.”

  “That’s fine. Let me know if you need help.” She returned to her position behind the counter by the door.

  A few moments later, an older man joined her. The two whispered.

  Jimjoy listened as he browsed.

  “…doesn’t acknowledge Panglais…Parundian accent in Anglish…but official dress tunic…”

  “One of their specialists?…Growing so big you don’t know them all anymore…”

  “…said that there’s even an Impie there now…”

  “Him?”

  “…speaks Anglish…”

  Cling!

  “Readables, this is Tracel. May I help you?…

  “No, we don’t have that right now. If we get the cubes on the next downship, we can have it bound and on the shelves by next week. If you have disc or cube, we’ll have that the day after…

  “That’s no problem. Let me take down your name…”

  Jimjoy moved across to the compact cube-and-disc section, checking off the titles. While the technical and professional titles seemed about the same, the hard-copy fictional and poetry sections, not to mention crafts and hobbies, were more extensive.

  He nodded to himself and stepped up to the counter, laying Sam Hall’s book on the counter, along with a twenty-credit note.

  Tracel finished entering something on the small terminal and looked up.

  “That’s an old one…seventeen-fifty, please.”

  “But still popular, I see.”

  “Is it still required reading at the Institute?”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Just a visiting lecturer. But it was recommended.”

  “My sister said it was pretty interesting. I never read it, though.” Tracel made change and handed him three coins. “Do you need a bag?”

  “No, thank you.” He nodded politely and left.

  Outside, the temperature was even warmer, with correspondingly fewer people on the streets. With several hours before he was to meet the Institute flitter, he crossed the avenue between the infrequent groundcars and began to wander northward again, listening and taking in the shops.

  Sometimes, sometimes, just walking and listening taught as much as anything, if not more.

  XXIII

  “…TWO, THREE, FOUR…two, three, four…two, three, four…”

  Jimjoy whispered the cadences to himself as he wound up the exercise routine. Sweat poured down over his forehead, as much a consequence of the humidity and stillness of the air in the room as of any real heat.

  Outside, the rain poured down, more like a tropical storm on most T-type planets. On Accord, the storm qualified as the normal evening shower. The summer pattern was relatively constant—cool, crisp mornings, increasing warmth and humidity as the day unfolded until late afternoon or early evening, when the clouds piled up and poured over the low mountains to the west and saturated the Institute. Once in a while, there were days that remained clear into the night, and when that happened the temperature dropped another ten degrees.

  Not that the rains seemed to stop Institute activities. The only concession was the number of covered walkways between the major buildings. That and the solid construction, although Jimjoy wondered why all the buildings consisted solely of natural materials, either woods or stone. No synthetics, no metals, and no buildings of more than two stories.

  That had been true in Harmony as well. Only the buildings housing the Council, the Court, and the Governor had exceeded that height.


  He pushed away the delaying thoughts and squared himself for the next series of exercises, designed to exercise his combat training reflexes. They did little more than keep his skills from deteriorating too rapidly. Jimjoy needed practice with others, and used the Service facilities on Alphane or elsewhere to the maximum whenever possible. By himself, he found it hard to push hard enough to keep the edge he needed. Solitary exercises were neither fun, interesting, nor competitive. Only necessary.

  Outside the window, the even sound of the heavy rain lessened as the evening storm began to lift. Jimjoy noted the decreasing precipitation, but doggedly continued his regime, pausing briefly every so often to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the short sleeves of his exercise shirt.

  As the rainfall drizzled to a halt, so did the Special Operative, panting from a routine that should not have left him quite so exhausted, although his endurance had improved slightly since he had first arrived at the Institute. He hoped the better condition would balance somewhat his lack of combat practice.

  He swallowed, still finding it hard to accept that the marginally higher gravity of Accord should have made such a difference. It did not seem that much greater than T-norm, not enough to affect short bursts of exercise, but it still took a toll during prolonged exertion.

  “Wonder if it would make a difference in combat troops…”

  Shaking his head at the unconscious verbalization, he pulled off the soaked exercise gear and laid it on the rack in the closet. Then he pulled on the standard heavy cloth robe supplied by the Institute and draped a towel over his shoulder.

  He trudged out the door that had no lock and down the hall toward the showers, wondering once again why there were no showers attached to individual rooms.

  “No locks, no theft, no showers…”

  There was no theft at the Institute, or so he had been told. And he had lost nothing. As far as he could determine, no one had even entered his room while he was gone, not even for cleaning. Each resident was responsible for that.

  Jimjoy smiled. No Imperial officer ever had to clean his own base quarters. With his limited cleaning experience, Jimjoy doubted that his room matched the sparkling state of the student rooms, but neither was it obviously cluttered or grubby.

  The showers were empty, and Jimjoy sighed as he immersed himself in the stream of hot water. At least the ecological purists had not done away with the basic pleasures of a hot shower and soap.

  Unfortunately, each shower was vented with liberal quantities of cool fresh air coming from outside through angled louvers. The Special Operative decided he did not want to be showering there in winter.

  He shivered anyway as he cut off the water and began to towel himself dry—quickly. He wrapped the heavy robe around himself, grateful for the warmth of the thick cloth.

  Thlap, thlap, thlap.

  The shower clogs, also Institute supplied, were big and heavy, announcing his presence with every step back toward his room. Half the time, especially in the morning, he just went barefoot.

  Back inside his room, he stuffed his exercise clothes into the bag he used for laundry, estimating that he had another day before he had to take care of the mundane business of wash.

  Given his lack of previous experience, he was glad he was using the Institute-supplied uniforms rather than his own.

  He smiled faintly as he sat down on the narrow but comfortable bed, still wearing nothing but robe and clogs, and reflected on how sharp most of the senior Ecolitans looked in the same tunics he wore. He had watched some of them wash them right alongside Jimjoy, but somehow they didn’t look like the end of the day the first thing in the morning.

  With a sigh, he stood up and walked back to the closet, where he stripped off the robe and pulled on a pair of briefs. Even though he had been informed that most Ecolitans slept in the nude, with nothing but a sheet and a standard quilt, that was one accommodation Jimjoy found himself unable to make.

  By now, with the window completely open, both the temperature and the humidity in the room had dropped, and there was already a hint of night chill. The Imperial Major turned off the lights, wondering again at their concession to modernity, and settled into his bed, drawing the heavy comforter around him.

  Aside from a few murmurs, occasional light footsteps, and the calls of night insects, the Institute was still. So still that virtually every night the quiet left him thinking. Was it the architecture, with the solid walls and natural materials? Or were the Ecolitans all ghostlike and silent people?

  He turned over as the faint sound of footsteps came down the hallway from the shower rooms.

  He sat up as the footsteps stopped outside his door, swung his bare feet onto the rug as the door opened noiselessly. In the backlight from the hall he could see a figure in a robe sliding inside the doorway and the door closing as noiselessly as it had opened.

  Just as noiselessly, he hoped, Jimjoy slid to the foot of the bed, hoping to catch the intruder unaware.

  The robed figure moved toward the bed.

  Jimjoy jumped—to find himself holding all too closely the warm figure of a woman who was clearly wearing nothing beneath the robe.

  “Do you always attack so directly, Major?” The voice was low, almost breathless, with the hint of a laugh…somehow familiar to the Special Operative.

  Not Thelina. No…Jimjoy released his hold and stepped back, to find the woman close against his chest again, her arms going around his neck.

  “Are you always…this…direct?”

  “My secret…” Her voice was low in his left ear.

  “Temmilan—” he blurted.

  “It took you long enough.” Her lips brushed his earlobe.

  Jimjoy’s hands slid down to her waist and lifted her away and onto the bed. Sitting, not lying, he told himself. He sat down next to her, conscious now of her warmth and his chill. He stifled a shiver.

  Her arm went around him, her fingers digging into his right shoulder, drawing him closer.

  He disengaged himself and stood up, crossing the room to get his robe, knowing that if he had not immediately separated himself he never would, knowing how vulnerable he was to her softness and warmth. This time, as he reached for the robe, he did shiver.

  After momentarily debating whether to turn on the lights, he decided against it, but belted his robe firmly and sat down at the foot of the bed, keeping some distance between them.

  “You don’t accept gifts, Major? Even willing ones?”

  “I enjoy the packaging, Temmilan,” he answered, knowing that what he said was stupid, but trying to say something that would neither entice nor antagonize the Ecolitan. She could make his mission even more impossible if she chose.

  “Someone else, or someone left at home, then?”

  “Something like that.” He paused. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought…and the interest.”

  “Not enough, apparently.”

  He winced at the bitter edge to her voice, glad she could not see more than his profile, he hoped.

  “Too single-minded, I guess…”

  “Most men are.”

  Jimjoy had to repress a laugh at her attempt to insinuate that his rejection was tied to his lack of masculinity. He wondered what attack would be next.

  “I can only share the weaknesses of my sex,” he added.

  “You do have them, I’m sure.”

  “You know them already, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Perhaps you have more than I guessed.”

  Jimjoy stood, then walked over to the study table, where he turned on the small lamp.

  “Should I shed some light on the subject in question?” He turned back to the Ecolitan historian. “Assuming you would like to have some illumination.”

  “Puns, and erudition yet, and from a clandestine ki—source.”

  Jimjoy picked up the straight-backed wooden chair and twisted it. He sat down with his forearms resting on the back, facing Temmilan, who had let her robe fall open. He avoided the view
, instead looking her in the eyes.

  “Too many assumptions, Temmilan.”

  “Oh?”

  “Assume that because I’m clandestine, I’m inherently a killer. That because I’m alone, I’m vulnerable to the advances of an extraordinarily attractive woman. That because I don’t respond unthinkingly, I can’t.” He paused. “Shall I go on?”

  “You do reason well.” She pushed a stray lock of her jet-black hair back over her right ear. “You have obviously had to learn to rationalize on a grand scale. Not that it’s surprising.”

  “So…what do you really want?”

  “Haven’t I made that clear?” She lifted her weight and let the robe gape further.

  Jimjoy kept his expression bemused, struggling to keep his eyes well above her shoulders, and trying to figure out the strange contradiction between seduction and hostility.

  “I suppose so…though why is still a bit unclear…”

  “Perhaps I think you need conversation of a less violent nature, Major.”

  “That’s true. We Imperials eat children for breakfast. Raw, preferably, and then ravage the women.”

  “Major…”

  “And we go in for whips and chains as well, even while we remember the last books we read, perhaps a decade earlier…”

  “Major Wright…”

  “But I don’t understand…do I? One look from a lovely lady is supposed to turn me around. One promise of rapture…and this Imperial officer will be defenseless.”

  This time, Jimjoy waited for a response.

  “You want me to say you’re impossible. You know, that would be the standard feminine line—”

  “And if there’s something you can’t stand, it’s being predictably feminine.” His voice was soft. “Even if you’ve just set up a predictably feminine situation.”

  He was rewarded with a laugh, slightly ragged, but a laugh nonetheless.

  “Sometimes, Major, just sometimes, you show flashes of inspiration.”

  Temmilan’s right hand drew the robe close enough to cut off the most provocative angle of the too revealing view, as she straightened up and shifted her weight on the bed.

  Jimjoy tensed fractionally, wondering why Temmilan was dragging out the situation, rather than either throwing herself at him or withdrawing gracefully.