Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “THEREFORE, be it resolved by the Senate, in accord with the Charter, and under the powers invested in this Body, that:

  “The presence or use of offensive weapons upon any aerial or off-planet self-powered craft or fixed emplacement, other than those operated directly by duly constituted Imperial Forces, is hereby forbidden;

  “An additional ad valorem tax of five per centum on the assessed value of all production or sale of raw materials, semifinished or full finished goods shall be paid to the Revenue Collection Service, excepting those goods produced within any planetary system which has accepted full voting membership in the Council of Systems;

  “The revenue raised from such ad valorem tax shall be devoted in total to the maintenance and enhancement of Imperial interstellar capabilities in the areas of colonization, exploration, and colonial protection, including, but not limited to, shipbuilding, research, development, and training of personnel;

  “The results of all research efforts funded directly or indirectly, or arising from an Imperial colonization effort, shall also be made available to the Consortium of Advanced Studies;

  “And, finally, the enforcement of these provisions shall be the duty and obligation of His Imperial Majesty, as delegated under the Charter and set forth herein, modified as necessary with the further consent of the Senate for full implementation.”

  “Debate is now open on the measure,” intoned the clerk in black.

  By the lowered benches behind the rostrum, two individuals nodded to each other.

  “So we spent all this money, and the little buggers aren’t grateful. They want to do things their way? What else could you expect, Stentor?” His voice was nearly a whisper, designed not to be heard above the formal debate taking place behind them.

  “Are we speaking candidly?”

  “Don’t we always?”

  “Nothing. I expect nothing from the colonists. They are not the issue at all. The armed forces, the Service in particular, and the Fuards are…”

  “You think a display of resolution by the great and glorious Imperial Senate will pacify the eagles and the Fuards?”

  “I’m not really that ambitious. I merely wish to raise the issue early, to preempt the firestorm it will become later. To provide a focus so that something more extreme is not adopted.”

  “You think that this is the most moderate of approaches possible, then?”

  “It may be still too moderate. Admiral KeRiker has proposed militarizing all orbital and space travel facilities serving colony planets, even those with locally elected governments and independently and locally supported off-planet facilities. As for the Fuards…nothing will pacify them.”

  “You may be too late.”

  “I may. But may I count on your voice?”

  “My voice? By all means. But my vote is the will of the people’s.”

  “I understand…”

  XIX

  JIMJOY FROWNED AT the console. Doing was so much easier than planning, especially when he had relied so much upon instinct, rather than trying to chart out all the possible variables.

  Chrrrupppp…Outside, another of the local birds called out a greeting.

  Letting his hands rest below the keyboard, he looked out at the bare limbs of the T-type maple. Through the branches he could see the native gray oak, not properly an oak at all, which did not shed leaves seasonally but throughout the year, although the leaves looked like gray leather in the cold of winter and early spring.

  On the maple’s top branch roosted a purplish jaymar, one of the few Accord avians he recognized. Not that recognition was difficult. Jaymars had a call more raucous than a crow’s, manners less acceptable than a pigeon’s, and an appetite less discriminating than a sea gull’s. Only their striking purpled-black feathers were pleasing—and, according to the ecological purists, their singular ability to remove carrion and/or wastes.

  Chuuurrrrppppp…

  With a drawn-out breath, he flexed his right hand, trying to loosen the stiffness of skin and muscles. Now the pain in his shoulder had diminished, using the console was no longer a chore. Returning to teaching Theories of Warfare had been almost a relief—except for Yusseff’s sleeping in class.

  Because Ecolitans had the odd habit of disappearing and reappearing—injured and otherwise—no one had asked him about the bulky regen dressing. But they had sighed at the return of his logical argument papers and his insistence on questioning fundamental assumptions. Several Ecolitans had covered for him, including Thelina, who had left him notes—most impersonal—on the two sessions she had taught on tactics under the military dictatorship of Halston—pre-Matriarchy.

  Mardian, the other tactics professor, had handled the majority of the classes and had left a note. “Too bad you didn’t opt for teaching years ago!”

  Jimjoy stroked his chin at the thought. Without the mistakes he had made…but that wouldn’t help him with the next phase. He needed an entire set of manuals for the crew he had yet to assemble.

  “Datablocs,” he mumbled. “Use of coding…access to Imperial datanets…” All of the loopholes and techniques he had developed needed to be reduced to simplified procedures for others without the benefit of his experience. At times, he was amazed at how much he had learned.

  “Right…good for the ego…” He almost grinned.

  Chrrrupppp…churuppppp…With a double raspberry, the jaymar flicked its tail and launched itself into the late fall drizzle.

  A wisp of woodsmoke swirled above the bare branches, and Jimjoy sniffed for the welcome acridness. The closed door blocked any scent, and he turned back to the screen.

  “…system access codes…classified by type of system…”

  He leaned back and tried to catalog mentally the types of systems, finally pulling at his chin before listing each one that came to mind, following each with a brief description and the probable types of access codes. By the time he finished his rough listings, the hardness of the wooden chair had numbed his buttocks, in spite of the pillow he had placed on the seat.

  “…someone’s going to buy it…” He addressed the closed sliding door that would have been open to the upper deck of his bedroom on a warmer day. “How can you tell them everything…?”

  Even as he tried to outline what he knew in detail, he was beginning to gain a healthy admiration for Sam Hall. For some reason, that admiration did not extend to his former superiors in Special Operations.

  Why? Because Imperial Special Operations only told you the minimum necessary, on a need-to-know basis. Why he had survived so long—besides being near suicidally fatalistic, or worse, according to Thelina—was because he had tried to learn more. As much as possible, whenever possible.

  He touched the console and flipped back to the beginning of the latest document, adding a caveat on the fact that the information presented did not represent everything necessary, only what was available.

  “Even that’s cheating.” He sighed again, looking out the wide sliding glass door. The wooden decking was now thoroughly wet, and the raindrops were splashing up against the glass.

  Chhhurrrppppp…The jaymar sat on the railing, looking directly at him, as if to ask where the scraps were.

  After making sure his latest changes were incorporated into the document, Jimjoy stood up from the console, stretching gingerly, but leaving the equipment running. Then he headed downstairs.

  A faint odor of woodsmoke had drifted in, probably through the thin crack he had left in the kitchen window.

  The main floor was gloomy, dampish, and he stopped by the cold woodstove. Finally he slipped the kindling in place and lit it, waiting to make sure that the pencil wood had caught before adding the wood he had split months earlier. Had it been last fall?

  After closing the stove, he walked over and opened the pantry shelf. As he had recalled, there was indeed a box of stale crackers, from which he extracted a handful. He glanced at the woodstove, where a glow flickered through the micaglass. The shrouded flames made the
long room seem warmer already.

  Crackers in hand, his right hand, he walked to the sliding glass door onto the main deck. “Ummhhhh…” He managed to get the recalcitrant slider open enough to toss the crackers to the far side of the deck.

  Chhurrrpppp…

  Even before he had closed the glass, the jaymar was swooping down.

  Jimjoy smiled. Some brashness ought to be rewarded.

  He retrieved a pearapple from the fruit bowl. Fruit wasn’t his favorite, but eating the starch and sugars he naturally preferred would have left him with the rotund profile of the gray ceramic woodstove.

  Chhhurrruuupppp…

  “No, you don’t get more…shouldn’t have given you that.”

  Chhurrupppp…With another flick of the tail, the jaymar disappeared.

  Standing by the kitchen counter—dustier than he liked, but not enough to encourage him to clean quite yet—Jimjoy took small and slow bites from the pearapple. Later in the afternoon he needed to walk to the physical-training center for another round of exercise and therapy. Exercise and therapy—he hadn’t expected nearly so much of either.

  Thrapp! Thrapp!

  With a frown and a last bite, he straightened, tossing the fruit core into the composter slot.

  “Coming!”

  A blocky man with the muscles of a powerlifter stood on the front deck. Rain glistened on the dull green waterproof he wore.

  “Professor…”

  “Geoff. Come on in.” He stepped back from the door.

  Geoff Aspan stopped on the tiles and shut the door behind him, glancing toward the stove. “See you’ve got a fire going.”

  “No so much for the heat—just wanted to get rid of the damp. Right now I’m a little stiff…let me take that.” Jimjoy took the jacket and hung it in the otherwise empty closet. “Can I get you anything? Have some redberry juice, a couple of bottles of Hspall…”

  “Actually, even though I’m not begging, the Hspall sounds good. Can’t stay too long. I promised Carill I’d be back before the kids came home. She’s taking the late shift with the field team.”

  Jimjoy had not even considered whether Geoff was contracted—or had children—even though the other Ecolitan had helped him occasionally by suggesting additional exercise or therapy for particular problems after the laser damage.

  Jimjoy pulled the bottle from the back shelf of the keeper. Cold—but it should have been. It had been a housewarming gift. Had it been from Mera and her friend? So it had been there for close to a year.

  “It’s cold.” He laughed as he opened it. “Glass or bottle?”

  “Bottle’s fine.” Geoff had turned one of the straight-backed wooden chairs around, sitting on it with one forearm resting on the low back and looking out at the rain.

  Churrrppppp…

  “You got one of those pests.”

  “Made the mistake of letting him, maybe it’s a her, have some scraps.” He extended the bottle to Geoff.

  “Sort of like them,” mused the dark-haired man as he took the ale. “Thanks.”

  Jimjoy eased onto the other straight-backed wooden chair. “I like their brashness.”

  “I suspected you would…Major…”

  Jimjoy nodded. He wondered how long before the handful of Ecolitans with whom he had worked would recognize him. “How many of you…? Think it’s going to be a problem?”

  “Kerin and I figured it out right after you started exercising when you first came back. None of the students, except maybe Jerrite, would recognize you from techniques. Your posture is a bit different, you’re physically bigger, your voice is lower, and your entire complexion is different.”

  “Techniques?”

  “Right. You’re too good to be anyone else. The problem is that Dorfman has been asking questions about where you came from. He’s close to Harlinn, and he’s under Temmilan’s thumb.”

  “Temmilan…had worried about that.”

  “So did Sam. That’s why he had her posted to Parundia. Her tour is up in about two tendays, and Harlinn’s sweet on her.”

  “I’ve got trouble.” Jimjoy pulled on his chin and looked out the window. “More than I already thought. What’s Kerin think?”

  “If you weren’t hooked on Thelina, it wouldn’t matter what she thought.” Geoff snorted. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She says body postures don’t lie, and you’re honest. Don’t know that I believe the posture bit, but I agree with her.” He shifted his own posture as he took a quick swig from the bottle.

  Jimjoy wished he were holding a bottle, or something. “Sometimes—hades, lots of times—I wish I weren’t.” He wondered why he was telling a near stranger. “She’s attracted—Thelina, I mean—but she has no intention of ever letting me know that.”

  “Have you told her how you feel?”

  Have you told her how you feel? The question echoed in his thoughts, and he glanced outside, where the rain was pelting heavily again, puddling on the deck and splashing against the glass. Jimjoy pursed his lips, swallowed. “No. I’ve thought about it, but every time I get close, she picks a fight.”

  “Hmmm…makes it hard…glad Carill’s more relaxed.”

  “She from Accord—originally?”

  “We both are. Sometimes she works under Thelina. You know, Thelina’s only been here four, five years…and she’s almost as good as Kerin…better than me…on the hand-to-hand…”

  Jimjoy, trying to keep from frowning, got up and pulled another stove log from the short stack by the stove. He slipped on the insulated leather glove, opened the stove, and dropped in the log. The three split pieces he had used to start the stove were mainly glowing ashes.

  Clunk. The stove lid dropped back into place.

  “Any suggestions, Geoff?”

  “Not telling her hasn’t worked, has it?”

  “No.” He didn’t quite have to force the short laugh.

  “So tell her.” The training expert took another swallow from the half-empty Hspall bottle.

  “That why you came over?”

  “Partly…but mostly to let you know about Temmilan.”

  “Thanks.” Jimjoy looked out the window, where the rain continued to lash the deck. “A lot to do, and not much time.”

  Geoff stood up. “That’s the definition of life, Professor.”

  “Jimjoy. Please, just Jimjoy.”

  “Fair enough. I need to get back. Shera and Jorje will be home any instant, but I appreciate the Hspall.”

  Jimjoy walked to the front closet, pulling the other’s jacket out. “Here you go. Still damp, I’m afraid.”

  “No problem. Let me know if I can help.”

  “I will. I will.”

  Jimjoy watched from the open doorway as the blocky man threaded his way off the deck and dashed uphill through the near-torrential rain. Finally he shut the door.

  Have you told her how you feel? Why not?

  “Because she’ll cut you to ribbons…”

  Shaking his head, he collected the empty Hspall bottle, rinsed it out, and set it with the rest of the glass remnants. Manual recycling was still not a habit.

  Upstairs, the console waited for him to finish the training manuals no one but Sam Hall wanted. And Sam wasn’t around to appreciate them.

  He took a deep breath, dried his hands on the rough towel, and started toward the stairs.

  XX

  15 Trius 3646

  New Augusta

  Dear Mort:

  Once again, I’ll have to apologize for being late in back-faxing. What with one thing and another, somehow I put it off.

  I don’t know whether to envy you or worry about your being out there where you can do something. You were right. N’trosia’s the new Chairman of the Defense Committee. They changed the name, too, from Military Affairs to Defense. We don’t want the Galaxy to think we’re warmongers, do we? Anyway, the distinguished Senator has another study in hand to show that even if we started plating the frames today, the FC wouldn’t be ready for fleet action for
five years, and the full force of one hundred couldn’t be deployed for ten. By that time, according to his study, the FC would be obsolete. So why bother to spend trillions of credits for a corvette that would be outdated before it spaced? So help me, not a single senator asked how outdated the ACs would be by then.

  Then the Haversol thing came up, and N’trosia even twisted that. He claimed that the FC wouldn’t do a thing against sabotage and that we needed more for Special Operations, not for ships that couldn’t prevent such disasters. Not that the two are related, of course.

  Looks like the Committee is buying N’trosia’s argument, and if they do, so will the entire Senate.

  I passed on your account of your encounter with the Fuard to Admiral Graylin. He’s had several reports like yours. His theory is that they’re testing us in every way they can. Last week we had a briefing on another new development. Pardon me if I’m sketchy, but you’ll have to fill in the details, and I’m sure you understand why.

  Rumor has it that the other fellows have come up with a way to use high-speed jump exits with a hull twice the size of their current destroyer hulls. Figure out what that means if they can build cruisers with the speed of corvettes, excuse me, destroyers. Enough said. Maybe too much said.

  The gene thing led from one thing to another, and Sandy and I decided it wasn’t going to work out. I understand she and Marie are on Haldane now.

  Keep in touch. I’ll try to be more regular in responding.

  Blaine

  XXI

  SINCE, BASED ON past experience, he didn’t have much time before Thelina cut him off or he stalked out unable to contain himself, he didn’t bother to sit down—in either the comfortable chair or one of the hard wooden ones. How the Accordans found those wooden chairs comfortable he still didn’t know.

  “You’re the head of Security.”

  “Since when?” She stood a meter away, her left hand on the handle of the sliding door. That close, he recalled how tall she was. Graceful and well proportioned, she didn’t seem large except next to someone else.