Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Jimjoy laughed softly. “Point well taken, Doctor.”

  “That means some other place.”

  Jimjoy pulled at his chin. “What sort of environment do you need?”

  Stilsen looked from the blank console to the orange-and-brown rug, then at the wall. “Really…nowhere is suitable….”

  Jimjoy understood. Stilsen was agoraphobic, spacephobic, or both. “I’m not sure we’re talking about the same need. A production or test facility doesn’t need someone of your caliber. Besides, we can’t have you isolated—”

  “Isolated?” Stilsen’s thin face expressed puzzlement.

  Jimjoy shrugged. “Sorry. Thought it was obvious. We need to build several isolated, full-grav, asteroid-type outposts—only two-and three-person stations where you do the testing and production. If something goes, you lose one station and three people, not a town or a continent.”

  Stilsen looked down again. “I can’t ask anyone to do what I wouldn’t do.”

  Jimjoy took a deep breath, almost sighing. “I don’t think you understand, Doctor. The odds for survival are probably better on one of those stations than here on Accord, particularly if the Empire ever figures out what you’re doing.” His eyes caught those of the genetic engineer. “If your design and preliminary work are as good as you think, the people on those stations will be fine. Besides, you’re going to pay your own price, and we both know it.”

  Stilsen’s smile was brief. “Odd you should say that. I was thinking that about you.”

  “Me?” protested Jimjoy. “I’m just doing what has to be done.”

  “Sometimes…sometimes that’s the hardest thing of all.”

  Jimjoy pulled at his chin, then glanced at the closed door. “The Institute can probably supply some of the production station personnel.”

  “Anyone but Kordel Pesano.”

  Jimjoy frowned. The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Why? Who is she?”

  “He. He’s a refugee from some Imperial colony, just recently, the past year or two. He is a first-class plant geneticist and molecular level engineer. I would recommend that he become my backup, assuming he is willing. Since he is at the Institute, would that really be a problem? Also, I was told he suffered space trauma, and going back into space so soon might not be wise.”

  Kordel…space trauma? That Kordel?

  “I see the name is familiar.”

  “Sorry. At first it just didn’t register.” Jimjoy tried to keep his face moderately concerned. He’d been the one to rescue Kordel from the fall of New Kansaw, and the one who had given Kordel space trauma. Luren—the other refugee—was in field training, insisting she would be a needleboat pilot. With her determination, she might, even though she was a shade old for it.

  Jimjoy almost laughed as the irony touched him. Late? Here he was, probably a decade older than Luren, starting a third career.

  “You find something amusing?” Stilsen’s voice was suddenly chilly.

  “Only my own limitations, Doctor. Only my own failings.”

  “Professor Whaler, you are a strange man. I saw your address to the delegates. You manipulate people, and yet you act as if you do not want to. You are a leader who has appeared from nowhere, with rumors of a bloody past, yet you have obvious concern and compassion.” Stilsen shrugged and picked up his mug. “At a time when we need a leader, you arrive. Very strange.”

  Jimjoy cleared his throat. “I can have the first stations within the next three tendays. Can you have the personnel ready? If you can get me the specs and the type of equipment you need, I’ll also get to work on that.”

  Stilsen laughed softly. “You can’t work miracles that easily, Professor. All this is custom-designed.” His arm swept around the office, gesturing more to the entire research station beyond the office walls.

  “Tell me what raw materials and components you need to duplicate it, and we’ll start there.”

  “You’ll have a first list tomorrow.”

  Jimjoy stood up. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I won’t thank you, since there really isn’t much choice, is there?”

  Jimjoy met the genetic engineer’s gray eyes. “No. There isn’t.”

  XLVII

  A WHITENED “L” from the air, the marine research station overlooked a near-circular bay carved from the solid cliff line that divided sea and land.

  Thwop…thwop, thwop, thwop…thwop, thwop…The sound of the rotors echoed through the half-open flitter window.

  Even with the side windows open and the airflow from the flitter’s descent, the heat and humidity had glued Jimjoy to the seat cushions. Below, the sea was nearly glassy in the midday sun. Jimjoy flipped up the helmet’s dark lens, squinting against the flood of light just long enough to wipe his steaming forehead with the back of his flight suit’s sleeve. Then the lens came down.

  “Equat Control, this is Greenpax four, commencing approach at marine two.” He lifted the nose to flare off more airspeed.

  “Stet, Greenpax four. Please advise on departure.”

  “Control, will do.”

  He lined up the flitter for touchdown on the pad farthest from the cliff edge. With the high-density altitude at the equatorial latitude, he at least wanted some ground cushion for lift-off. Half aware of the empty seat next to him, he wondered what Thelina was up to. Then he frowned. With Meryl and Thelina effectively running the Institute, anything was possible.

  He brought his attention back to the flitter, noting that the turbine EGTs were almost into the amber. After lowering the nose fractionally and easing back on the throttles, he let the airspeed rise another ten kays. The area around the bleached concrete pad was vacant. Even the tattered, fluorescent green wind sock hung limply in the glaring midday heat.

  As the flitter dropped toward touchdown, Jimjoy flared sharply, kicked in the turbines, and lowered the flitter onto its skids—all in a near-continuous maneuver to avoid any air-taxiing in the high-density altitude. The wind sock bounced in the rotor wash, shaking the thin wooden pole on which it was mounted.

  Jimjoy cut the turbines and began the shutdown checklist.

  Thwop…thwop…thwop…

  As the rotors slowed, a head peered from the nearest building—the first one Jimjoy had seen on Accord that was climate-controlled. Waves of heat reflected off the bleached white concrete—no plastarmac at remote outposts.

  After securing the rotors and the turbines, Jimjoy removed his helmet and unstrapped, stretching and peeling his damp flight suit from the pilot’s seat cushions. His back was soaked from the humidity, and his forehead was dripping again. As he stepped out onto the concrete, he felt the heat roll up from the hard whiteness underfoot.

  “Professor Whaler?” called a young man standing on the golden grass next to the landing pad.

  Jimjoy nodded and turned toward him.

  “Alvy Norton. I’m the junior marine biologist here, so I get sent out in the midday sun.” He wore sandals and shorts and a short-sleeved tunic, both items of clothing of an open-weave green fabric bleached to an off-white.

  “I see why you recommended an early morning arrival.”

  “It gets warm,” answered the marine biologist. “Unless you’ve been here, it’s hard to understand just how warm. Let’s get you inside. You’re not dressed for this.”

  “No,” agreed Jimjoy. White Mountain—even at the equator on the hottest of summer days—got nowhere near as warm. In recent years, only New Kansaw, with its dusty plains and ash wastelands, came close. “I’ve seen worse, but not on friendly terms. This is friendly territory, isn’t it?”

  “Usually. Unless you’re here to cut Dr. Narlian’s budget.” The marine biologist grinned briefly, then turned toward the door from which he had earlier watched Jimjoy land.

  “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I wanted to ask about some potential applications of the station’s research.” By the time the two men had covered the fifteen meters or so separating them from the doorway
, Jimjoy felt drenched, and the sweat was beginning to pour down his face. “Whew!”

  “It is a little more comfortable inside, but not exactly temperate either,” warned Norton as he eased open the door.

  Jimjoy stepped inside the station, aware of two things. First, the station temperature was a good ten degrees cooler. And second, the corridor in which he drooped was still as hot as a warm summer day on White Mountain. Initially, the interior seemed dimly lit, but after a moment of adjustment he realized the wide polarized glass windows on the right let in a surprising amount of light.

  “You see what I meant.”

  “I do,” agreed Jimjoy, looking around as he followed the biologist along the corridor, which stretched the entire length of the structure. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve again, more to keep the sweat out of his eyes than in any real hope of stemming the flow.

  The corridor walls were of local stone plastered over with a light green cement or stucco, the floor of polished gray stone. As they turned a corner at the end of the building, Jimjoy paused to look out at the glassy sea. A narrow ramp, not visible from the air, cut down through the rock and presumably toward the beach below, although Jimjoy could not see the end of the ramp.

  “Dr. Narlian’s office is this way.”

  “Oh…yes. I was just admiring the view.”

  “You really can’t see all that much from here. If you have time later, and if you are interested, I could show you the cliff observation stations.” Alvy Norton looked from Jimjoy toward the open doorway at the end of the corridor five meters ahead, then back at the senior Ecolitan. “Professor…”

  Jimjoy pulled himself away from his study of the ramp wall cuts. “Sorry.” He followed the sandy-haired junior biologist into the office ahead.

  Norton cleared his throat, looked respectfully at the petite woman seated between a pair of console screens, and announced, “Dr. Narlian, this is Professor Whaler. From the Institute.”

  The office contained the two consoles, a conference table with two chairs on one side and a single chair on the other, a pair of old-fashioned filing cabinets, and what appeared to be a drafting board. A worn dark green rug covered most of the floor, with perhaps ten centimeters of stone exposed between the rug and the green stuccoed walls.

  When Arlyn Narlian stood up, Jimjoy realized exactly how petite she was, since she barely would have reached the middle of his chest. Her face was elfin in shape, with olive-shaded and unlined skin. Her short hair was as much silver as black. The black eyes were sharper than the narrow and aquiline nose.

  “Greetings, Professor. Have a seat.” She nodded toward the pair of wooden armchairs—which looked even more uncomfortable than the ones Jimjoy had experienced at the Institute. “Thank you, Alvy.” The doctor’s voice was controlled, yet almost musical.

  The junior biologist closed the door on his departure.

  Jimjoy moved next to one of the chairs but did not sit down, waiting for the doctor to reseat herself or move.

  Arlyn Narlian did neither, instead surveyed the taller Ecolitan. Finally, she spoke again. “What weapon do you want from me?”

  Jimjoy smiled. “You’ve obviously thought it out. What makes sense?”

  “Good.” She smiled in return. “At least you’re more than a mere figurehead for that pair at the Institute. Your address to the Council actually said something, besides giving people someone to rally behind.” She pulled out the single chair on her side of the table. “Sit down.”

  Jimjoy followed her example, and the two ended up facing each other.

  “You upset Stilsen. He still shakes when he thinks about it.”

  Arlyn’s hands rested on the table, which, Jimjoy realized, was wider and lower than normal, clearly modified for the doctor’s needs. His legs did not quite feel cramped, but they would if he remained for any length of time.

  Jimjoy shrugged. “I couldn’t expect any less.”

  “Why did you start with him?”

  “As opposed to you?” Jimjoy met the hard dark eyes. “Most Imperial planets get their food supplies from land-based cultivation. Wanted a temporary impact, not total ecological destruction.”

  She nodded. “What about New Providence?”

  “Good example, but there’s only one.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I could be wrong. And you might have a better idea.”

  “I like you, Whaler. You don’t play games. You know what you want, and you’ll admit you aren’t infallible. And you’re actually pretty good-looking.”

  Jimjoy managed to avoid swallowing at the last remark.

  “I’m direct in everything, Whaler.”

  “I see.” He managed a laugh.

  “Are you committed?”

  “Yes. It’s hard enough to be honest in just one relationship.”

  “Fair enough.” She looked like she actually might sigh before the near-wistful expression vanished. “I have a list of potential ideas which might help on a range of planets within the Empire. Basically, they’re fresh water breaks in the food chain. You’re right about the ocean link.”

  The doctor leaned back and retrieved three pages of hard copy, which she then slid across the polished surface of the wide gray-oak table.

  Jimjoy scanned the list, which categorized each biohazard by target planet, the probable degree of success, the timetable, and any restrictions on delivery/application. “Most of these look good. A couple we can’t deliver under the parameters you’ve listed.” He inclined his head. “I’m impressed. Very impressed, especially considering I did not explicitly state my reasons or ask for assistance in advance.”

  He considered asking her what she wanted, then deferred. He knew what she wanted—the remarks about Stilsen had told him. “I can’t promise immediate control of the research programs, but I can obtain immediate independence from current research department budget constraints. Obviously, if our efforts are successful, the Institute will have to be completely reorganized.”

  “Can you promise that?”

  Jimjoy laughed. “In writing? No. But if you can produce what you have listed here, and especially if you can get Stilsen to act…Do you want to take a real chance?”

  “Try me.” Even though her hands remained on the table, her voice still musical, a touch of intensity edged her words.

  “How about running the outspace research production facilities?”

  “Fine. Send me the details, and I’ll be there.”

  “They’re not complete yet, but be at the Institute a tenday from now.” He pushed back the chair. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Whaler. My pleasure.” Arlyn Narlian stood as he did. “I’m sure Alvy would be more than pleased to show you around.”

  “I’d be pleased to see it as long as I don’t spend too much time outside.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. And now…”

  “I understand. You’ll be receiving a package shortly.”

  Tap.

  “Come on in.” The doctor addressed the door.

  The nervous smile of Alvy Norton filled the space between door and frame. “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Professor Whaler would like a short and cool tour…”

  “No problem, Doctor. It would be my pleasure.”

  Jimjoy inclined his head to her. “Thank you again.”

  “Thank you, Professor. I look forward to working with you.”

  Jimjoy turned and followed the junior marine biologist.

  XLVIII

  “CHECKLIST COMPLETE,” JIMJOY muttered. Although the cockpit was empty, he tried not to cut corners. Sloppy pilots ended up dead pilots. Slowly, he released the harnesses and pulled off the helmet, still damp from the bath he had taken in the equatorial humidity of Dr. Narlian’s marine research station.

  As he cracked the cockpit door, sliding it open, a gust of wind fluttered the sleeves of his flight suit. For an instant, The chill was welcome. Then, as his breath turned white in the late afternoon air, he
reached for the leather flight jacket, carrying it out of the flitter. He stood on the grass next to the aircraft, shrugging the jacket on over the thin flight suit.

  “Professor?”

  Two Ecolitans were headed toward him—Fervan, head of flitter maintenance, and Eddings Davis, who had inherited Gavin Thorson’s duties.

  “Professor?” said Davis again.

  Jimjoy turned and nodded. He didn’t feel like talking.

  “We have a problem with the sym—the refugees…”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised. Excuse me for a moment.” He turned to Fervan.

  “How was she?” asked the stocky white-haired man.

  “Smooth most of the way. Turbines tended to overheat more than the specs on approach, but they admitted at Equat that it was as hot as it ever is—more than ninety-five percent relative humidity. No wind. Might have been the conditions. DRI worked fine on Harmony. Couldn’t pick up the Equat beacon until the last one hundred kays. Might be beacon placement.” He paused, coughed. “Then again, maybe the crystals for some of the freq subs are off.”

  “We’ll look at them both. Any problem with rotor vibration?”

  “No. Smooth there. Blade path seemed sharp, none of that flutter like on the last flight.”

  “Thanks, Professor. Appreciate your taking this one.”

  “No problem.”

  Fervan waved to a woman in a green parka who was steering an electotrac toward the flitter.

  In turn, Jimjoy touched Eddings’ arm, nodding toward the path that led to the transients’ quarters and away from the maintenance line and its ramp into the underhill hangar.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Some of the refugees have been here nearly three tendays—”

  Jimjoy raised his eyebrows. “That’s a problem? They’re warm, fed, safe, and there’s medical care.”

  “Professor, do you know who most of them are?”

  Jimjoy could guess, unfortunately, after Jerold’s assassination attempt. “Probably rich Imperials, second children’s children…scared that they won’t make it on their own, with enough money to live anywhere.”