Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Fallen stones? He grinned.

  Next he studied the jumbled stones, looking for the telltale signs of traps, but could detect nothing. He sighed, and began the tedious job of removing the pile, stone by stone.

  Although it had been a long day, he forced himself not to hurry, to move each stone, each bit of rubble, carefully, and to study the remaining pile before proceeding.

  After he had removed the top layer, he could see the frame around the access hatch. Jimjoy nodded as he continued the methodical removal of stones blocking the hatchway.

  As he stripped away the last of the old building stones, he wiped his forehead. Despite the drier evening air, he was sweating from the effort, breathing more heavily than he would have liked, and plastered with fine ashes around his neck and forehead.

  The hatch cover, or doorway, was of a dark and heavy wood that, despite its plastic covering, had turned black from the heat of the jungle fires. The plastic had run and bubbled in places. Jimjoy first tapped the wood, then pushed against the blackest section. The hatchway held firm.

  He ignored the nagging thought that he was not as young or as well conditioned as he once had been, and turned to the small tool kit in his pack.

  Taking one deep breath, then another, he sat down and tried to relax. A few minutes more now wouldn’t matter, and once he had opened the hatchway, he well might need every bit of energy.

  The hatch itself was held by a simple lock and two heavy industrial hinges. With a deep breath, Jimjoy stood up and removed the short pointed rod with the shining tip from the tool kit. He began to look for a rock of appropriate size.

  Thud. Thud…thud…

  Clunk. Clunk.

  Whhssttt!

  After removing the shattered lock, he sprayed the hinges and waited. While thumps and scattered impact noises always occurred in underground retreats, squeaking hinges meant something else entirely to anyone who might be listening.

  He forced himself to wait longer than he wanted, though he worried about the growing possibility of satellite detection. In the meantime, he replaced all the tools in his pack, except the stunner, which he slipped into the left thigh pocket of his flight suit, the flash, which he held, and a small coil of cord, stronger than most ropes, which he put in his right thigh pocket. Then he reshouldered the pack.

  At last he eased open the hatchway, looking to see whether there were pickups attached to the hinges or the doorframe. There were none, only a rough circular tunnel which ended in less than two meters. At the end of the tunnel was a shaft. Both tunnel and shaft were unlighted.

  Stepping inside, Jimjoy eased the heavy wooden hatch door shut behind him but did not switch on the flash, instead listening for the sound of steps, breathing, reactions, or anything that might indicate his presence had been noted.

  Nothing.

  After a time that seemed much longer than it could have been, he flicked on the light and edged forward to the rim of the shaft. The light caught a shimmer of metal and glass as he studied the shaft area. He turned the beam on it. A lamp, bulb still intact, rested in a simple bracket, with a thin cable leading from it downward into the darkness.

  A series of looped metal ladder rungs, each step set directly in the laser-melted shaft wall, led downward into the blackness beyond the reach of the flash.

  Jimjoy studied the rungs, putting weight on the topmost with his boots. There was no give at all. He tried the set beneath. Also no give.

  Clipping the flash to his belt, he switched it off and began the descent, testing each rung.

  A dozen steps down, after anchoring himself with boots and one arm, he switched on the flash and studied the rungs beneath him. No break in the ladder and no sign of the bottom.

  He continued his careful and nearly silent descent, testing each rung and periodically using the flash. After half a dozen uses of the light, his arms were stiffening.

  Masking a sigh, he used the belt clip to anchor himself to a rung and let his arms dangle, shrugging his shoulders and trying to relax tired and tight muscles. By all rights, he should have been sleeping.

  Each movement echoed slightly, but the sound died quickly. Again he resumed the downward progress.

  Later, after another half-dozen more checks with the flash, his probing leg found nothing.

  Another check with the light, and he discovered a near circular opening in the shaft wall. The next ladder rung had been offset to his right. With a deep breath, Jimjoy eased himself down and into the cross tunnel, where he listened, sniffing the air as well.

  The atmosphere was dry, with a faint odor. His nose itched. At that, his back reasserted the need to be scratched.

  The Special Operative began scratching, as well as rubbing his nose. The ashes and cinders from the badlands had dispersed to the least accessible portions of his flight suit and anatomy.

  Even as he scratched, he continued to listen. The surface underfoot was flat, not curved as would be the case with a water tunnel. The tunnel had been built for maintenance or access purposes, presumably to the deep shaft which in turn accessed the old aqueduct beneath.

  The maintenance tunnel where he stood, assuming that the ladder had not gradually twisted ninety degrees, headed west, back toward the location of the original maintenance station, the one that the rebels used.

  Jimjoy sat down and pulled off his boots. He was tired, and in no shape to take on anyone. No one had used the tunnel recently, and he needed some rest before he tackled the three-kay walk back.

  Asleep almost as soon as he had pulled the pack under his head, he dismissed the thought that he might be reacting to an oxygen deficit.

  Waking with a start, he grabbed for the flash.

  He did not switch it on, listening instead for whatever had awakened him, looking for the faintest glimmer of light. But the tunnel before him and the shaft behind him both remained silent. He could feel the slightest of breezes, flowing down from the shaft and into the tunnel toward the maintenance station.

  As he sat up slowly in the darkness, he realized that he had a few bodily needs.

  After convincing himself that there was no one nearby, he switched on the flash. The walls of the maintenance tunnel formed a half circle. The top of the arc stood about three meters from the floor. The widest section of the tunnel was about a meter above the floor, roughly four meters wide. The floor was melted rock, as if the Engineers had laser-drilled a circular tunnel, but let some of the molten material fill up the bottom to form a roadway for personnel and equipment.

  Jimjoy pulled on his boots, then used the deep shaft to relieve himself. He doubted that there would be anyone below to object. Next he finished the very last of the water, scarcely more than a few drops, and checked the time. Four standard hours was all he had slept.

  As he ran his fingers over his chin and felt the stubble, he grinned, imagining the sight he must present. He shrugged and set out, keeping the flash beam low.

  Like the access shaft, the maintenance tunnel was lifeless. No insects skittered through it. There were no dragons in the dark. It smelled of long-departed moisture and ashes.

  Like death, reflected Jimjoy.

  Close to an hour later, he became aware of a faint glow ahead. Switching off the flash totally, he lightened his steps and continued forward, straining his ears.

  The tunnel ended abruptly, blocked by a rough plastic partition. The glow was caused by the light which seeped around the edges.

  Easing up to the partition, Jimjoy listened.

  Outside of the faint hum from what might be a ventilation system, and an even higher-pitched and fainter sound that came from either old-fashioned lighting or electronics, he could hear nothing.

  He used the flash to study the partition wall. With only minimal bracing and a thin layer of plastic overcoat, the partition had been constructed as a heat-and-light barrier, rather than as anything else.

  With the knife from his belt pouch, Jimjoy carved out a small triangular niche in the wall, about half a met
er off the floor, to scan the area on the other side.

  His caution was wasted, since the space beyond the partition was nothing more than a storeroom, generally empty, with a scattering of opened and unopened cartons. Another wall, far more solid-looking, with a metal hatch, marked the end of the tunnel ten meters farther eastward.

  Jimjoy used the knife to extend his viewing niche into three sides of a rectangle, creating a small “doorway” into the storeroom. After squeezing inside, he folded the thin plastic back into position, pressing the edges together. The cuts would not be that apparent to a casual observer.

  Glancing at the hatchway to the main section of the station, he checked the contents of the boxes, discovering several sets of unused Imperial field uniforms, two cases of combat sustain rations, camouflage netting, and two unopened boxes of office supplies.

  He shrugged. Everything so far had been merely preliminary. Now he had to tackle the main rebel base, preferably without too much chaos, in order to obtain his own passport off New Kansaw.

  XLIII

  JIMJOY TOOK ANOTHER look around the makeshift storeroom before approaching the hatch. Rather than a circular hatchway, the opening in the wall was more like an old-fashioned endurasteel pressure door set on massive hinges. The wall in which it was set was solid stone, fused to a smooth finish with no indication of joinings or mortar.

  Keeping close to the wall, Jimjoy eased toward the steel door, repressing a smile as he neared it and saw the sliver of light cast on the floor.

  Not terribly security-conscious, the rebels, he observed. Still, he stopped to listen again, right at the doorway, not that he learned anything from the silence on the other side. The air remained dry and musty, reminding him that both his nose and his back itched. He rubbed his nose and ignored his back.

  Then he slipped the stunner from his thigh pocket and gently edged the door a few millimeters. No reaction. He peered through into what seemed to be an air lock of sorts. Shaking his head, he stepped into the small room. Of course, the original Imperial Engineers would have provided both protection and access if the aqueduct had ever backed up. The storeroom had been added later.

  The next door was a bona fide watertight hatch with a wheel to open it, closed, with no indication of what lay on the other side.

  Jimjoy didn’t bother to shrug. Holding the stunner in one hand, he spun the wheel until the dogs were released. Then he cracked the door and listened once more. The heavy metal would shield him from anything likely to be inside the station.

  Other than a hum of lighting and a hiss from the ventilation system, the Special Operative heard nothing. This time he waited even longer. The rebels were probably not professionals, not at the waiting game.

  At last he swung the hatch wider, peered around the bottom edge of the door, and saw an overturned table, a reddish smear across it. The sour smell of death oozed toward him.

  The corners of his mouth turned down, and he bolted through the hatchway and across the room. The unitized and portable computer system with the map display still flashing indicated that the space had served as some sort of strategy or planning center.

  He avoided the pool of blood and the single dead man who wore a faded purple uniform and stopped by the half-open doorway, ears cocked for any possible sounds.

  This time he heard voices—male and female.

  Before he could make out more than a sense of strain in the one woman’s voice, the sound of closer footsteps echoed toward him. All he could do was stay close behind the doorway and wait, stunner ready.

  “Pick up the most incriminating stuff, Dieler.”

  “What?”

  “You know—maps with Imperial positions, anything with body counts, slots with data, anything to make Commander Moran happy. Nothing with blood on it.”

  Jimjoy smiled mirthlessly. Moran wanted bloodless extermination, like all Imperial tacticians. Like all too many modern tacticians, he thought.

  “Right.”

  Two men stepped inside the rebel strategy center, not even looking backward.

  Jimjoy let the first man pass and broke the neck of the second before the tech knew what hit him.

  “Uhnnn—”

  “Tech—”

  Thrummmm!

  Hoping that the high-pitched hum of the stunner had been less obvious than a shout would have been, Jimjoy listened intently as he dragged the figures, one dead, the other unconscious, behind the overturned table. He debated switching into one of the Marine’s uniforms, but decided he didn’t have the time before someone else showed up.

  Moran had been smarter, much smarter, than Jimjoy had given him credit for. Jimjoy also wondered how Moran had kept track of him, what Herrol had planted on him. They had lost track of him once he had gone underground, but following his trail had clearly been enough. More than enough to lead them to the rebels and to assault the base.

  He edged the door farther open, but could hear only the voices coming from the hallway to the right.

  Slipping out into the corridor, he darted toward the sounds. The first ancient doorway on the left was hanging on one hinge, and two bodies were sprawled inside, one sliced nearly in half.

  Jimjoy swallowed hard and kept moving. Why the use of such fatal weapons? In close quarters, stunners were more effective, and less likely to destroy your own troops in the event of a mistake. Not to mention more humane.

  Human soldiers, of course, always condemned inhumane weapons—except when necessary, which was usually.

  Jimjoy slowed as he neared the almost closed door from where the voices came. He tried to listen for steps behind him or nearby as well.

  “How many?” The tone was persistent, but assured.

  Smack!

  “How many were here?”

  Smack!

  Jimjoy stepped through the door, took in the two Marines and their Captain.

  Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!

  Only the Captain had had the time to look surprised.

  The room was filled with the stink of sweat and fear, and Jimjoy wrinkled his nose in distaste. He closed the door behind him, quietly.

  The woman tied to the chair did look surprised, her eyes widening as she took in the Imperial-issue flight suit…and the unsavory character wearing it. The other conscious figure was a man, gagged and bound to the other chair.

  Jimjoy pulled the knife from his belt and stooped—once, twice, three times. When he straightened the third time, the woman’s face was even whiter.

  “Sorry…what they did was totally unnecessary. Appreciate it if you didn’t scream. I intend to cut you loose.”

  She said nothing, but did not stop shivering. Her curly, shoulder-length brown hair rippled with the shivers.

  He kept the knife low, away from her body, as he sliced the cords from her hands and feet. Then he did the same for the man, glancing back toward the door as he did so, listening for further sounds.

  “How many are there? Impies, I mean.” His voice was low.

  “I…don’t know,” answered the woman. The man was still struggling with his gag. “We saw a lot, more than twenty, I guess, when they stormed through the portal.”

  “All wearing uniforms like these?” He gestured at the dead Marines as he moved back toward the heavy door, which he eased open a few centimeters.

  “I think so.” She rubbed her wrists to regain some circulation.

  The man still had not spoken, although he had finally removed the gag.

  Jimjoy nodded and smiled.

  The woman shivered, and the man paled.

  “Sorry. Have a few loose ends to tie up.” He eased the door closed and walked back to the three bodies. He reached down and removed two stunners from the Marine corpses, checking the settings. Lethal.

  He reset the stunners to the widest beam focus and to a heavy stun pattern—enough to drop the strongest Marine cold—and handed one to the woman and the other to the man. The man handed the stunner back.

  “It’s only on stun,” noted Jimjoy.


  “Kordel does not use weapons.”

  He realized that she had a strange pronunciation pattern when she spoke, almost a cross between Old Anglish and Panglais. “Then you use them both if anyone looks in.”

  “Looks in?”

  “If you see a face that isn’t mine, shoot. The next crew that shows up will probably kill on sight. Or you’ll wish they had.”

  “Like you?”

  Jimjoy ignored the edge in the woman’s voice.

  “They’ve already tried to kill me about four times.”

  “And that justifies murder on your part?” Kordel’s voice was soft, although the man looked trim and physically fit.

  “No time for philosophy, Kordel. Could debate ends and means forever. Violence did save your lives, at least temporarily. And, excuse me…I’m going to attempt to ensure that our salvation is more permanent.”

  He edged out the door and worked his way farther along the corridor toward the two doors ahead. He chose the one which was ajar.

  There were two Marines inside—one woman, one man. The woman Marine had a knife in her hand, wiping the blood off on the torn tunic of the dead woman on the cot.

  The male Marine was pulling his trousers back on.

  Jimjoy eased the stunner power level up to lethal.

  Thrum! Thrum!

  Even before the bodies dropped, he was inside the door, moving toward the dead Marines, forcing his stomach to stay calm, trying to keep his eyes away from the body on the cot, trying to ignore the retching feeling in his guts.

  “You’ve killed before, Wright,” he whispered as he checked the male Marine’s stunner. “You’ve killed thousands.”

  But it hadn’t been personal, and he hadn’t gloried in it. He hadn’t, had he? Pushing the questions away and leaving his nearly exhausted stunner, he took the stunners from both Marines, ignoring the laser rifle against the wall. He looked to see if both stunners were set on lethal. They were.