Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Why?” asked Thelina.

  “Because there are good ways and bad ways to get there. Some ways would leave a planet destroyed forever. Others will have just as devastating short-term impacts, but relatively insignificant long-term environmental effects—besides mass starvation.” His last words dropped like acid rain.

  “Do you have an alternative?” asked Jimjoy quietly.

  “Do you?”

  “I’d try to build that planetbuster and destroy Alphane.”

  “You mean it.” Stilsen’s voice was matter-of-fact, unquestioning. He turned to Thelina. “Could he do it? Personally?”

  “Yes. He’s already done worse—at least in some ways.”

  Stilsen’s pale complexion grew paler as he glanced from one Ecolitan to the other. “And if I go to the Prime?”

  “You know as well as I do, Doctor. Harlinn will dither, call three committee meetings, and put it out for study. The study completion date will be considerably after our demise under the Fourth Battle Group—or whatever they call the Fleet reeducation team. There is absolutely no pressure I can bring upon you to help us out. At any time, you can call a halt to this…starting right now.” Jimjoy stood up. “I appreciate your patience. After you have a chance to think it over, one of us will be in touch with you.”

  Thelina rose. “Thank you, Doctor. This puts you in an impossible position, I realize. Too many evils in history have been justified in the name of survival. Perhaps this would be one of them.”

  Jimjoy added, “You don’t know whether we are trying to preserve something unique against an implacable opponent or whether we are trying to bring down a great civilization for personal gain or vengeance.”

  Stilsen stood up. “I don’t know whether any end justifies such means.”

  Jimjoy handed him a folder. “Before you decide, you might read through these. Then check with some sources you trust to see how true the stories are. We’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m sure you will be. I’m sure you will be.” Stilsen inclined his head. “And now…”

  “Good day, Professor.”

  “Good day.”

  The door closed with a firm click.

  The two Ecolitans walked unmolested down the corridor and out through the research station doors. The station rested in a meadow. The meadow, clearly artificial with its green T-type grasses and flower beds beside the building, was surrounded by the darker native conifers, with a scattering of corran trees.

  The Institute flitter waited on a section of the narrow stone-paved road that arrowed for a break in the trees.

  Jimjoy pre-flighted the flitter, more to ensure lack of tampering than for concern that the aircraft had become less airworthy in the short time they had spent with the research station staff.

  “What do you think?” asked Thelina as she watched him strap in.

  “What do I think? Why ask me? You understand people far better than I do.” He clicked the straps in place and began the checklist. “What do you think?”

  “He wants to help, but he won’t, not unless the Institute encourages him.”

  Jimjoy nodded as he continued the checklist. “We’ve avoided Harlinn as long as possible. Probably can’t be avoided any longer. Won’t be pretty.”

  “Ha!” Thelina’s laugh was short and sarcastic. “When you say that…”

  “Hold on.” The whine of the turbines through the open side windows cut off the rest of her comments. “Close the side ports. We’ll need to plan strategy.”

  Though she frowned as she strained to hear his words, Thelina nodded.

  XXXVI

  “YOU ASKED FOR the meeting, Ecolitan Whaler,” said Harlinn, acting as Prime.

  Jimjoy reflected. Trying to express what he had in mind would be hard. “I did.” He looked around the office. Thelina would listen. So would Kerin Sommerlee. The history philosophy types were out, as were the pure scientists. He wished he knew Althelm better—the economist could be the key. “It’s time to put all the cubes on the screen. All of you know some of the pieces. First, most of you should know that the tactics group has taken over the control and actual operations of Accord orbit control. Some may have wondered why an Imperial Battle Group hasn’t tried to take it back.

  “Unless we act together they will. Right now they can’t. The tactics group has managed to destroy two more Imperial SysCons—”

  “SysCons?” asked someone from the corner.

  “Imperial System Control Stations—fleet repowering and restaging bases, usually placed in a stable orbit around an outer planet gas giant.” Jimjoy cleared his throat and continued. “Anyway, we’ve destroyed the two along the Arm. After the accident at Haversol, that means the Impies can’t attack us with a full fleet unless they replace the SysCons. Right now they can’t commit the resources, not so long as their problems with the Fuards continue. But they can gradually replace those stations, or slowly shift resources toward us. And that they will do, until they’ve built a fleet out here.” He looked around the Prime’s office—he still thought of it as Sam’s.

  “Are you telling us that you’ve single-handedly declared war on the Empire on behalf of Accord—whether we and the Institute like it or not?” Harlinn’s face had become paler with each moment.

  “I could say I’ve just speeded the process. After all, the Empire already has doubled the imposts and declared that it will control every bit of research the Institute will ever do. That’s just for starters.” Jimjoy held up his hand to still the mumbling. “But I won’t insult your intelligence.

  “Yes. For all practical purposes, I declared war on the Empire. No mealymouthed apology will stop the Imperial Forces. Only good strategy and applied force. You can help me, or you can wait for the citybusters and the reeducation teams. Those are your options.” Jimjoy waited for the outburst.

  “What!”

  “Madman…”

  “Sam was a fool…”

  “Wait…”

  “…historical inevitability…”

  “…give him a dose of his own medicine…”

  “…hire mercenaries, and this is the result…”

  “WAIT A MOMENT!” Kerin Sommerlee’s voice cut through the incipient arguments, and the grumbles died down as faces turned toward her. “Arguing over the past won’t solve anything. Even executing Ecolitan Whaler wouldn’t solve anything, and personally, I’d have to ask who would bell the cat. So we might as well hear what else he has to say. Then we can decide.” She turned to Jimjoy. “Before we hear anything else, what were the results of your attacks? No one here seems to know. You indicated success. How much success?” Her face was pale also, and once again Jimjoy wanted to hold her and tell her that everything would be all right. But he couldn’t lie.

  “You should know that the destruction of the Haversol SysCon was total, along with three or four ships. Accord suffered one slight casualty, but the Ecolitan involved recovered and is back on duty. The Cubera mission involved a three-person team, two of whom were wounded. One will require complete visual reconstruction from laser burns. The Cubera station was totaled. Five Imperial ships were also destroyed.” Jimjoy paused, hoping Kerin would not push.

  “You mentioned another mission?” Finally, Althelm asked a question.

  One look from Kerin to Althelm indicated that both wanted it on the table. Jimjoy had not told anyone but Thelina of the morning’s report from the Jaybank.

  He took a deep breath, conscious that Kerin was intent upon him. “The recovery needleboat for the Fonderal mission reported back just before this meeting. I do not have all the details of exactly what happened. The mission was successful in destroying the Fonderal SysCon.”

  “What about the team?” Kerin’s words were evenly spaced.

  “I’m sorry. The team did not make its rendezvous. The station fusactor approximated a very small nova. Six Imperial ships were destroyed. The Jaybank lost all screens and barely made it back. That was one reason for the delay.”

  Jimjoy m
et Kerin’s gaze, watching for the tears he knew she was holding.

  “Thank you, Professor Whaler. Is it fair to say that your missions have, with four Accord deaths and three other casualties, cost the Empire close to twenty ships, military control in three systems, four if you count Accord, and killed close to two thousand I.S.S. personnel?”

  “That’s a fair approximation.”

  The silence was absolute. The group in the Prime’s office looked from face to face, anywhere but at the tall bronze man with the silver hair.

  Jimjoy cleared his throat. “It’s like this. If you want freedom, then you want it more than anything else. That cuts two ways. You all understand that you can’t destroy freedom on Accord to fight the Empire. That way, you lose before you begin. That’s why I didn’t try to coopt the decision-making process or position the Institute for a coup. I just gathered enough people and resources to force the issue while there was still time.

  “Second part is harder. If freedom is important, then anything else is secondary. Anything—that means your life, your family, your children, politeness, decency, and restraint. The question the Institute faces is simple. How much are you willing to give up for freedom?”

  He held up a hand, as if to forestall a second set of objections, although no one seemed ready to raise any—yet. They were still in shock. “I’m not saying freedom at all costs. Some costs are too high. But we need to pare away the unnecessary restraints on our actions. We’re in a war, whether you want to call it that or not. Can we afford to say, as the philosophy types have been insisting, that we must restrict our attacks to purely military targets?

  “We’ll all be dead, and Accord will be a large pile of dust orbiting a G2 sun, if we follow that course. If we kill off the population of Imperial planets, the same thing will happen.”

  “So you’re saying we can’t win?”

  “I never said anything of the sort. In war, all targets are potentially military targets. What stops the other side from exterminating your civilians and innocents is the fear that you might do the same. You don’t have to strike at noncombatants, but it helps to have the capability.”

  “We don’t have enough weapons to hit military targets…”

  “What’s a weapon?” asked Jimjoy.

  “Needleboats, tacheads, lasers—you know better than I do.”

  Jimjoy nodded. “You’re right. I do. What about fusion power plants, hands and feet, rivers, meteors, rocks, sand, and forest fires?” He could see Thelina purse her lips. “What about disease, plague, and pestilence? Crop failures? Drought? Aren’t all these potential weapons?”

  Harlinn waved away the words. “Against the Empire?”

  Jimjoy stood, trying to bite back the words. “A weapon is something you use to damage your enemy. I’ll take an effective nuclear ‘accident’ any day over an outmanned needleboat. A series of crop failures over outnumbered recruits. The collapse of economically viable markets and the reduction in imposts at a time when the Empire is facing challenges from both the Fuards and the Matriarchy.”

  “I take it you are also willing to consider purely economic means?” asked Althelm.

  “No. Pure economic means never work in this sort of situation by themselves. They can give greater weight to military and biological weapons.”

  Althem merely nodded.

  “I’ve given you the current situation. Do you think the Empire will accept any surrender offer without prostrating us? Without wiping out Harmony and the Institute to the last man, woman, and child—unless we give them no choice?”

  “You haven’t given us much choice.”

  “You never had much choice,” countered Jimjoy. “If you thought you did, you were living in a dream world. To face the Fuards, the Empire has to change its entire internal political and social structure—or find other sources of knowledge, technology, and cannon fodder. Unless Accord and the brighter outsystems fight, the Empire will find increased exploitation far, far easier.”

  “So you made the choice for us.” Harlinn’s color had gone from white to red. “You single-handedly decided we would face down the Empire.”

  “No.” The iron in Jimjoy’s voice stilled the room. “The idea was Sam Hall’s. That’s why the Empire murdered him. And Gavin Thorson. That’s why you were proposed as acting Prime…you couldn’t decide to cross the room without a committee. I’m not a politician. I’ve talked to most of you personally, and nothing happened.

  “The Planetary Council has met and dithered, and dithered and met. In the past three years, six outsystems have been brutalized by Imperial reeducation teams. At least three members of the Institute have been targeted by Imperial agents, and two Imperial Special Operative teams have been assigned to report on and/or disrupt Institute operations. One former fellow was an Imperial agent reporting directly to the I.S.S. Special Operative section.”

  Jimjoy gave a theatrical shrug. “What do you want? Individually engraved invitations to a reeducation camp?” He made his way toward the door as the figures in green stepped aside from him. “It’s your decision. If you decide the Institute will support the independence effort, then I suggest you select someone to act as coordinator. In the meantime, I’m going after some volunteers who understand their lives and future are at stake.”

  The silence lasted well after he was outside the Administration building.

  XXXVII

  THE ADMIRAL PURSED his lips as he reread the screen for the second time, although his memory was good enough that he could remember the salient points without any reinforcement.

  After taking a sip of water, he replaced the glass on the replica wooden desk with which all admirals were furnished. He stood. His long steps carried him into the open space between the desk, with its concealed console, and the empty briefing table.

  First, the loss of Haversol SysCon. The loss of Cubera SysCon. The loss of Fonderal SysCon. Haversol could have been an accident, or more probably the work of a terrorist or small group. Three in a row meant organization, like something the Fuards would cook up. Then, of all things, across in Sector Four, the destruction of Sligo SysCon with an asteroid barrage.

  Now, a report from his last agent on Accord that the first three SysCon destructions had been engineered by some unknown professor, with an equally unknown background, and a small “tactics” team.

  The Admiral rubbed his forehead. Either the agent was lying…how could one small group from an obscure if brilliant ecological college possibly have the materials and expertise to destroy three stations, capture an orbit control installation without a warning going out, and annihilate fifteen-odd ships, including two cruisers? Especially without the knowledge or support of the college head or the Planetary Council?

  His steps carried him back in front of the desk. He stopped and took another sip from the glass. His headache was definitely returning.

  The comparator didn’t help either, insisting that the closest match to the methodology was that of Imperial Special Operatives. Great help there—the death of every single operative over the past decade had resulted in a body and a complete DNA match. The Service was very thorough in ensuring its dead operatives were indeed dead.

  He glanced at the holo of the Academy at Alphane. The view that overlooked his desk was the view of the Spire, its facets glittering in the gold-white light of noon.

  Some days he just wanted to go back there and teach, make it all sound so simple, instead of trying to figure out what information meant what and why.

  He took another sip from the glass.

  How could anybody be building another team of Special Operatives? Especially in a nutty place like Accord? A system supposedly in revolt, and yet the Planetary Council had yet to decide what to do. He shook his head again, wincing at the stab of pain across his forehead.

  XXXVIII

  JIMJOY TOOK ANOTHER deep breath, looking up at the five steps to the front deck. The unseasonable warmth of the day, combined with the moist odor of decaying needles and lea
ves, made him think of the spring that was not yet due, not until the suffering of a winter not begun had been endured. Weak but warm sunlight beat through the patchy clouds. Part of his walk had been chilled by their shadows.

  On each side of the stairs, at the top, was a carved bird—a ferrahawk on the right and a jaymar on the left. Geoff’s handiwork. The jaymar was golden, with black feathers of a different wood. The ferrahawk was clearly black oak, almost glittering in the midmorning light.

  He swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat. Hades, why hadn’t he taken the Fonderal mission himself? Or the negotiations off Tinhorn? Or let someone else come here? But after the meeting with Harlinn, he had practically run here. He couldn’t let anyone else bring the news.

  Finally, he started up the stairs.

  Peering at him through the window on the stair landing was a small dark head. Shera and Jorje, wasn’t it? The boy had to be the younger, then, the one with the serious expression watching the stranger climb the steps to the front deck. A stranger who should not have been a stranger, and who regretted again never having taken Geoff’s invitations to stop by.

  He paused by the wooden jaymar, taken by the delicate sturdiness of the carving. On some planets, the single bird would have been worth a month’s earnings of an advocate or a systems engineer. Here—it was there because a man had loved to create beauty.

  Jimjoy swallowed again and stepped up to the door. On the wooden plate was a hand-carved scroll: Geoffrey & Carill Aspan.

  He hadn’t known they had shared names in a time when that was the exception, not the rule. But he kept finding out there was a lot he didn’t know. He raised his hand to the knocker beneath the carving.

  Thrappp…thrappp…

  The door opened. A dark-haired girl, broad-shouldered, with blue eyes, whose head reached perhaps the middle of his chest, held the door.

  “Good morning, Professor Whaler.”

  “Good morning, Shera.”