Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The steering jets kicked in with nearly full power with less than fifty meters remaining between the Accord transport and the orbit control station.

  “Roosveldt…delta vee on curve…”

  Clung…

  At the sound of the locks matching, the modified cargo hatch slid open a mere meter. Jimjoy was the first out, riding a beefed-up broomstick, with Arnault and Keswen right behind him.

  “OpCon, Roosveldt. We are setting out a maintenance party. Need to check the steering jets. Too much lag between control and response.”

  “Stet, Roosveldt. Maintenance party cleared. Next time, find out before you try to lock…if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Sorry about that, OpCon. We poor colonials have to make do.”

  “Don’t take it out on us hapless Imperial functionaries.”

  Jimjoy aimed the broomstick toward the fusactor umbilical, touching the squirter controls, first to steady his heading and then to ease the speed up.

  Glancing back, he could see that the last two Ecolitans, the two behind Arnault, were straying too far from the station hull. He motioned once. Nothing. “Hades.” Touching the squirter, he slowed just enough to let Arnault ease up beside him.

  Tap.

  Arnault looked over. Jimjoy motioned again, gesturing for the two broomstick riders behind Arnault to move closer to the hull plates. This time Arnault nodded and dropped back to pass the word. The two offenders closed with the station, and all four broomsticks glided along in the shadows.

  “OpCon, interrogative time between call for backburst and response.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Come off it, Hensley. I know what our instruments show. When I called increased backburst, that’s what the tape shows…”

  “Hades…wait—we’ll see if there’s a visual…”

  The Roosveldt was locked in on delta three, the closest main lock to the southern tip of orbit control. Five needleboats lay dead, shrouded, in a hundred-kay semicircle around the control station. The only ships locked in at the station belonged to Accord.

  So far, so good. Jimjoy gave a hand signal and flared the squirters to slow the broomstick.

  The umbilical to the fusactor was less than fifty meters away.

  After another set of hand signals, Jimjoy brought the broomstick to a halt, suspended at a wide black band that separated the station junction plug from the silvery gray of the umbilical.

  As Jimjoy took the tools and began to remove the collar, Arnault eased the tank into position while Keswen set up the laser. Marcer took control of the broomsticks and watched the nearby locks.

  “Roosveldt—”

  EEEEeeeeeiiiii…

  The commscrambler crew had managed to get their equipment installed and operating, which meant that the station crew had no internal/external transmission capability—except for torps.

  Now, if the ventilation crew had managed as well…

  Jimjoy grinned and chin-toggled down the helmet’s receiver volume as he pulled the collar away from the plug, carefully tethering it. He would need it later, once the station was theirs.

  He put the thought aside as Keswen moved the laser into position.

  Four quick slices and the heavy bolts were severed. The laser was also out of power.

  Jimjoy eased himself up to the connecting points and began the business of manually separating the connectors, making sure that he touched nothing except each connector.

  Eeeeeeee…The scrambled sound of the jammer died away as the station lost all power except for the reserves. He would have liked to maintain scrambling longer, but his team needed communications, and the mass of a self-powered jammer would have been difficult to handle for his crash-trained crew.

  Jimjoy toggled up the comm volume. “Interrogative status project green.” Back on the broomstick, he guided himself toward the Accordan ship.

  “Project green is go. Project green is go.”

  Jimjoy nodded at the sound of Paralt’s voice.

  “Roosveldt, are you crazy? This is an Imperial station.”

  The ship did not answer.

  “Roosveldt, answer me!”

  “OpCon, this is Commander Black. The Roosveldt is not responsible for this effort. We are.”

  “Who the hades are you?”

  Jimjoy did not answer, instead checking behind him and motioning Arnault and Keswen closer to the station hull plates. Hensley, assuming he was the senior officer in OpCon, still had two operating lasers, two torp ports, and twenty-four hours of emergency power.

  “Commander Black, energy concentration in beta three. Energy concentration in beta three.”

  Jimjoy sighed and pulled the red bloc from his equipment belt, thumbing the release.

  One hundred keys out, five needleboats powered up, screens searching for the commtorp the station was about to launch.

  “You friggin’ Fuards…”

  “We’re—”

  “SILENCE!” boomed Jimjoy, cutting off the incautious rebuttal of some outraged Ecolitan. Right now they were better off if the station thought that it was the victim of a Fuard sabotage effort.

  “Captain Green,” continued Jimjoy, back to a normal voice, “status of nutcracker.” His feet touched the personnel lock still beside the ship lock. One Ecolitan looked him over, stunner lowering in recognition of his identity.

  Jimjoy thumbed the entry stud, and the light began to blink.

  “Commander Black, nutcracker is beta green.”

  “Stet.”

  Inside the lock another apprentice, too close, looked him over. Jimjoy made a mental note. Too many people where they couldn’t do any good. Then he entered the station, heading toward the armored and self-contained operations center.

  So far as he could see, only green-suited Ecolitans were moving. In the main corridor he stepped over two unconscious figures—one male, one female.

  “Commander Black, green team, station is secure except delta five, and OpCon.”

  “Status delta five?” Jimjoy concentrated. Delta five? Electronics shop? Of course, the clean rooms probably had self-contained atmospheres.

  “Delta five blocked, with power cut. Two holdouts, without suits.”

  “Drill it. Use the cutter from red team with a power adaptor, and punch a half-dozen holes in the side bulkheads.”

  “Stet, Commander Black.”

  Jimjoy stopped at the heavy metal emergency doors to the Operations Center. Four young green-team members turned as one to look at him.

  “Slate?”

  Even as Paralt handed him the square of plastic and the stylus, Jimjoy was jotting a question he didn’t want OpCon hearing, since he was certain that the OIC had already put the automatic frequency band monitors into full operation.

  “Welds on torp ports three/five?”

  Paralt shrugged, then took the slate back. “Blue team. Reported start.”

  “Blue team, Commander Black. Interrogative status. AFFIRMATIVE OR NEGATIVE ONLY.”

  “Prime affirmative. Secondary negative this time.”

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee…

  Jimjoy winced as the white noise jolted through his helmet receiver. Some had realized that the communications benefited the invaders more than the invaded.

  After chin-toggling down the helmet communicator volume, he wrote on the slate: “Send messenger. Report when all torp ports sealed.”

  Paralt read it and nodded, handing the slate to the Ecolitan next to him. With a start, as her helmet turned toward him, Jimjoy realized the messenger was Mera.

  He took the slate back. “Casualties?” he wrote.

  “One—Nerat. Sliced own suit. Blew,” was the reply.

  Jimjoy shook his head. Carelessness was the greatest enemy. Wiping the slate, he jotted out the next steps for Paralt:

  “Swivel joint—plan 1. Force gas through line one. Min. 140.”

  Paralt shrugged as though questioning.

  Jimjoy scrawled below his command
: “OpCon hold out forever. Bring up main cutters after torp ports. Have to cut through. Reconnect direct supercon line from fusactor to laser. Ten hours!!!”

  Taking a station was so damned much harder than destroying it. He hoped they had ten hours without an Imperial ship arriving unannounced, although he had planned on that possibility. Even a courier would require three-plus hours to make it from system jump entry to Accord orbit control.

  He gestured to the young Ecolitan, signifying he was leaving. Next he had to gather the red team back and install a direct power line from the fusactor to the laser cutters needed to open the Operations Center. All that getting the gas into Operations Control would do would be to reduce the possibility that someone else got killed.

  In the meantime, he needed to ensure that the blue team was securing the station and removing all the Imperial personnel.

  With another sigh, he stepped up the pace toward the lock, chin-toggling down yet another notch the noise generated by the OpCon signal converter.

  So…no one took an Imperial station?

  He grinned as he walked on. The grin faded as he thought about the next steps—including how to handle the first Imperial ship that docked and knew the station crew, or wanted to wander around.

  Taking the station wasn’t the biggest problem—keeping it might be.

  XXXI

  “OF THOSE WHO claim the Empire is necessary for survival, ask for whose survival—ours or the Empire’s.

  “Of those who assert that Imperial unity is necessary to prevent rebellions and wars, ask why the number of wars and rebellions remains constant century after century—even as the Empire has grown mightier and mightier.

  “Of those who declare that the Empire is necessary for the wise allocation of resources, ask how allocation is possible when the cost of transport between systems makes it infeasible for all but the most precious of goods.

  “Of those who fear aliens hidden in the stars, ask why the Empire has enslaved those few found with less effort than ruling us.

  “Of those claiming peace as the reason for Empire, ask why the Empire maintains the mightiest fleets and forces of all time.

  “Of those who claim the Empire promotes free movement of peoples, ask why the Empire conquers and enslaves those who would leave peacefully.”

  Query I

  Manifesto series

  Circa 3640 O.E.E.

  XXXII

  HE GLANCED TOWARD the small room’s privacy lock, a small brass device on the narrow and golden plastic door. The Ecolitans hated plastic, but carrying wood to an off-planet station just wasn’t practical—not to Thalos, and especially not to one of the smaller outspace research stations.

  “What are you thinking about?” She lay next to him on the narrow bunk, her left hand massaging his too-tight shoulders, her strong fingers working across his bare skin.

  “You.” He wanted to stretch. At the same time, he did not want to move away from the silkiness of her skin against his. With her beside him, the gray moon-rock walls seemed immaterial. They could have been back on Accord.

  “Besides that…”

  “You…yesterday…when you got here…and my heart…and I couldn’t say anything.” He edged closer to her, drawing in the scent of trilia.

  “You’ve come a long way. But besides me…what are you thinking? There’s a corner of your mind somewhere else.” Her hand stopped, then traced a line from his shoulder to the back of his neck.

  Jimjoy shivered, not saying anything, not really wanting to speak.

  Thelina’s hand rested lightly on his right shoulder.

  Finally he stretched, shrugging his shoulders but letting himself drop back against her, hoping she would nibble his ear, or something equally pleasant. “What else is there as important as you?”

  “You are planning a revolution…when you’re not thinking licentious thoughts.” The warmth of her words tingled his neck.

  He took a breath. “Try not to think about it sometimes. We’re asking a lot…maybe far too much…trying to outtrain the Impies without enough time.”

  Her hands kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck. “They did well with orbit control.”

  “Not bad. But that was close to home. We had all the advantages, and we knew everyone’s habits and schedules. We still lost one person and had three other casualties. That’s a lot…under the circumstances.” He leaned back against her, savoring the feel of her skin, her uncovered breasts against his back.

  “You’re too tight. Roll over.” She pushed him away as he started to pull toward her, to move between her long legs. “The other way—onto your stomach.”

  He sighed, louder than necessary, then took another breath, trying to relax with her warm legs straddling his, trying to enjoy her fingers probing and releasing the tightness in his lower back.

  “You worry…about the SysCon expeditions?”

  “Be a damned fool not to. Somewhere…someone…taken precautions…don’t know what they are…pickups…problem…”

  “What about the more experienced ones?”

  “Geoff? Analitta? Kerin?” He grunted and stopped talking as her hands dropped to the backs of his legs.

  “If you don’t keep talking, I won’t keep massaging.”

  “And then…?” He made the question as suggestive as possible.

  “I’ll leave and inspect something else. This was supposed to be an inspection tour…Professor.” She leaned down and kissed his neck.

  He shivered as her breasts brushed his bare back.

  “The experienced ones…” she prompted.

  “The way you do that…experience…” he gasped.

  “That’s not what we were talking about.” Her laugh was gentle. “What happened?”

  “…made them…draw straws…couldn’t risk them all…tried to persuade Kerin and Geoff not to go…small children…turned me down…”

  “You’re going to let them?”

  He sighed again, withdrawing from the pleasure of her hands at her question. “Couldn’t stop them. They made a scene. I rigged it the best I could, but they insisted—Geoff and Kerin did. Yelled about how I couldn’t do everything dangerous. Palmed Kerin’s straw—don’t tell her! Geoff grabbed before I could do anything. Insisted I needed some experience on the Fonderal mission, since it was the last one.”

  “Too many observers?” She leaned away from him, her back erect, moving beside his thighs, balancing on the narrow space between his legs and the edge of the bunk.

  Jimjoy nodded, half turning toward her, feeling his eyes widen as he saw her body. “Too much observation for me…” His hands were greedy as he reached for her.

  Thelina only put out her hands to his shoulders to break her fall toward him, and only for an instant before she drew his face and lips to hers.

  XXXIII

  TO THE RIGHT—that was what the map in his head said. But a map wasn’t like knowing it. The broad-shouldered man in the counterfeit uniform needed to place the next charge by the connector lines servicing the recycling system.

  The corridor was dim, especially for someone accustomed to field work planetside, and no short-term intensive training would change that. Gray steel and plastics of all shades, the corridor smelled of oil, sweat, and ozone.

  His boots clicked faintly on the hard plastic underfoot, plastic that had lost its resilience years earlier. Only the minute fluctuations of his weight told him that his time was getting short.

  How had anyone done it? Especially single-handedly.

  He picked up the pace, then slowed as an officer emerged from the corridor junction in front of him.

  “You! Technician! Your badge isn’t current.”

  “Sir?”

  “You don’t belong on this level.” The officer had a stunner in his hands, aimed squarely at him. “Move, Technician.”

  The blocky man shrugged. “What can I say, sir? These new rigs…this new badge, that new badge…what difference does it make?”

  “Your
section chief will think it does. So will you after a week in confinement.” The officer gestured with the hand not holding the stunner, which remained trained squarely on the technician. “Past me and up the lift.”

  “There’s no lift that way, sir.” He knew that from the drills, as well as from the hidden challenge tests. “Do you want me to take the right branch or go back?” He kept moving slowly ahead, but as though he were still trying to follow the impossible instructions and avoid the stunner.

  How much time? The Imperials were getting edgy, too security-conscious.

  “That’s right.” The officer gestured again. “Who’s your section chief?”

  Thud

  Thrummm.

  The stocky man blocked a scream—his own—at the line of pain searing the edge of his shoulder. The Imperial officer lay in the intersection of the two lower-level corridors, his neck at a disjointed angle.

  He scooped up the stunner from the gray plastic floor tiles with his good right hand, trying to flex the fingers of his left as he did so.

  Time! So little left. He forced himself into the junction, checking both directions. Momentarily clear. Only the next charge was critical before he could break off and meet the rest of the team. He began to trot, fast enough to cover the remaining few hundred meters quickly, slowly enough that he might not seem too out of place. Total secrecy was out anyway. And the badge business had to be a reaction to Haversol.

  Whhhp…thewwwp…whhhp…

  At the next junction he slowed, bringing the stunner up.

  Thrum.

  Another officer toppled. The blocky man jumped the body, landing awkwardly and off-balance, mainly on his right foot.

  One more turn, and the proper piping/angle configuration appeared. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that the corridor remained clear—for the moment. He laid down the stunner. One, two, three flat cards went into place. He pressed a small cube on the outermost and nicked the corner off, taking longer than he should because of the shaking in the fingers of his left hand.

  After retrieving the stunner, he turned and scanned the main corridor. Still clear. He could make the fingers on his left hand work, but their control wasn’t going to be very good for fine work for a while. He picked up his steps until he reached the next junction, where he slowed, easing the stunner up at the sound of boots, and holding back from the intersection.