Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Black control, estimate closure in point two five stans.” Broward’s voice was as gravelly as usual.

  Jimjoy had offered to let the senior civilian captain take the lead in the operation, but Broward had declined, politely, insisting that military operations be run by military types.

  Jimjoy had not pressed, and neither had mentioned the exchange again.

  “Stet. Changing course to destination line. Maintaining current inbound vee until closure.”

  “Understand current vee, new course direct to destination.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Stet, black control. Estimate closure in point two stans.”

  Jimjoy nodded and continued to scan the screens, hoping they would remain empty. If anyone else showed, the Fuards were capable of anything. While they clearly wanted to provide the ships, the transfer location and method were designed to keep the ships’ origin as quiet as possible for as long as possible.

  “System clear, except for target,” announced Athos from the small console tucked into the space behind Mera. Swersa, behind Jimjoy, coughed but said nothing. She was there to bring back the oversized needleboat.

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” muttered Jimjoy.

  “It’s Fuardian territory, Professor,” offered Mera.

  “Nominally, but you’ll note it sits on a big area of uninhabitable systems with Halstani and Imperial systems nearby. They want us out of here in one jump. Even want to be able to claim we strayed here.”

  Cling.

  Jimjoy checked the screens. A faint line of dashed blue ran from the bright blue dot—an outgoing message torp, probably reporting to Fuard HQ the arrival of the great Coordinate armada, reflected Jimjoy. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to release the tension.

  “Black control, estimate closure in point one.”

  “Stet.”

  Still no traces of Impies or Halstanis, but Jimjoy kept scanning the screens, watching, and hoping they stayed clear. And, for Mera’s sake, trying not to tap his fingers too much.

  Finally, the Accord transport crossed the dashed green line on the representational screen.

  “Bellwar one reporting closure.”

  “Stet, accelerating at point five this time.”

  “Accelerating at point five.”

  Swersa coughed softly behind Jimjoy. Mera glanced from the pilot to the Roosveldt’s second pilot. Athos said nothing.

  Not quite three-quarters of a standard hour later, screens still clear, except for the two Accord ships and the five blips that represented the Fuard contingent, Jimjoy began deceleration.

  “Commencing decel at point five five this time.”

  “Understand commencing decel at point five five.”

  “That’s affirmative,” responded Jimjoy.

  “Killing inbound jump carryover?” asked Mera.

  Jimjoy nodded. His eyes burned slightly, probably from too much concentration on the screens. But neither the Causto nor the Roosveldt carried any offensive weapons, and flight would be their only defense should an unfriendly armed vessel appear.

  He sighed and began another wait, watching as he waited, again hoping that the system would stay clear. He could see Athos stretching out, but Mera continued to track the screens as the two Accord ships crept toward their rendezvous off the fifth planet.

  After yet another interval, the screens indicated lock-on of the Fuard cruiser’s EDI trace.

  “Confirmation matches Fuard light cruiser parameters with a probability of ninety-five percent,” the console scripted.

  “Bellwar one, decel at point two.”

  “Black control, decel at point two this time.” Broward’s voice seemed even more filled with gravel than usual.

  “Stet.” Jimjoy fingered the comm controls, setting standard Fuard frequencies. Then he tapped in the message—all burst-sent copy.

  “Green are the orchards of Jericho, and yet the walls have tumbled.”

  The receiving screen lit almost immediately.

  “Loud are the trumpets in the name of righteousness and the host of the mighty.”

  Jimjoy nodded and tapped in the plain-language message. “Standing by for salvage operations.”

  This time, there was no immediate answer.

  Mera looked at Jimjoy, who concentrated on the screens.

  He sighed. All four faint dots vanished from the representational screen, leaving only a blue dotted ghost for each. “Screens down on the salvage ships. Probably disembarking crew.”

  As if to confirm his observation, a small blue dot separated from the bright dot that was a cruiser and merged with the first ghost dot on the representational screen.

  “Bellwar one, close to standoff point.”

  “Following your lead, black control.”

  “Stet.”

  All three Ecolitans and Swersa watched as the shuttle moved from ghost dot to ghost dot and finally back to the cruiser.

  The comm screen flashed again. “Hulks cleared for salvage. Past owner disavows any responsibility.”

  Jimjoy added his own follow-up. “Approaching this time for salvage.”

  “Cleared to approach.”

  Jimjoy coughed softly, then triggered auditory communications with the Roosveldt. “Bellwar one, cleared for approach to salvage operations this time.”

  “Black control, following your lead.”

  “Stet.”

  The Fuard cruiser remained stationary, hanging off the four destroyer hulls, its heavy screens pulsing at full power, as the Causto and the Roosveldt eased to within broomstick distance of the “salvage.”

  Jimjoy’s fingers darted across the board, checking and cross-checking to ensure that the Causto was stationary with respect to the four hulls, particularly the nearest hull.

  “Bellwar one. Commencing salvage.”

  “Stet, control. Let me know when you’re ready for support crews.”

  “Will do.”

  Jimjoy unstrapped. “Swersa. She’s yours.”

  “Thanks, Professor.” The muscular second pilot of the Roosveldt had unstrapped and was stretching in place. “You do nice jumps. Better than Broward.”

  Jimjoy laughed softly. “His are safer.”

  “Could be. Could be.”

  The Ecolitan professor glanced at the other two Ecolitans. “Ready? Let’s suit up and get moving. Sooner we clear those hulls and get out of here, the happier we’ll all be.” He led the way to the needleboat’s lock.

  After a time, three broomsticks glided up to the nearest of the four obsolescent destroyers hanging in the darkness off the fifth planet of a gas giant system that had only a catalog number. Unlike the light-absorbing composite plates of Imperial ships, the destroyer’s hull was a softer, almost silvery dark gray. From a distance the color was as invisible as the darker plates of Imperial ships, but closer, it made broomstick navigation easier.

  Behind the trio of broomsticks rested two ships—the bulbous Accord transport and the needleboat from which the broomsticks had come. Beyond the “salvage” loomed a dark, sleeker shape with the silvery hull and faint crimson screen shimmer of a Fuardian cruiser nearly three times the size of the Accord transport.

  Jimjoy wanted to pull at his chin or shake his head. He still wished he had been able to see Thelina and to discover how she had engineered the ship transfer. But all he had received was a brief message outlining the details of the pickup and the cryptic notation that she was working on “Phase II.” Whatever Phase II was, even Meryl didn’t know.

  Clung…

  The lead broomstick touched the plates, and Jimjoy flicked the squirters to kill any recoil.

  “How do we get inside?” asked Athos.

  “Manually.” As Jimjoy suspected, the electronics to the main lock had been stripped away. After tethering his broomstick to a recessed ring, he slid back a cover plate covering a small wheel and began to crank. The crank turned easily, indicating that it had been used frequently.

  The slab air-lock d
oor eased open, revealing a lock wide enough to take all three figures. Even though the ship was in stand-down condition, without grav-fields, the three Ecolitans entered the lock oriented feet-to-deck.

  All the equipment brackets on the lock walls were empty. Mera opened the emergency locker—to find it empty as well.

  Once inside, Jimjoy twisted the inside crank to reverse the process. Although the interior wheel also turned easily, by the time he had finished, his forehead was damp and his arm muscles were tight. “Whew…little unplanned exercise…”

  “No electronics?” asked Athos.

  Mera had asked nothing so far, instead concentrating on the engineering details of the unfamiliar structure.

  “Probably as little as possible. We’ll have to do manual course and accel/decel calculations and inputs.” He turned toward the inner lock, thumbing a heavy button to flood the lock with ship’s air.

  …hhhhssssssss…

  A faint buildup of frost covered all three suits.

  “Damn…”

  “No dehumidifiers,” stated Mera flatly.

  “Probably inoperative. Have to fix that.” Jimjoy checked the gauge he’d brought along with his tool pouch. “Pressure’s a touch low, but steady.” The inner lock controls—a heavy switch—were in place. He toggled the switch and waited as the inner door opened. The corridor was empty, as empty as the lock had been. Any movable equipment not essential to ship operations had been removed.

  As the three floated in the corridor, Jimjoy toggled the inside lock controls, then, after the lock had resealed, began to crack his helmet seal. “Stale, but all right.” He took off the helmet, but did not rack it or set it aside, instead fastening it to his shoulder strap. Not that he expected the ship’s hull to fail, but without the added protection of screens, he preferred to have the helmet close.

  The two others followed his example.

  Hand over hand, Jimjoy edged himself toward the control section without looking to see whether Mera or Athos followed.

  With the screens off, the control room was a steel-walled box, irregular gaps showing in the control board itself and in the equipment bulkhead behind the second row of consoles. Two control couches—pilot and copilot—faced the board. Behind the control couches were three smaller consoles, each with a couch.

  “How big a crew?” asked Athos.

  “Eight or nine, depending on the mission.” He leaned over the board and tapped two studs in sequence. “Thirty percent. Not too bad, if the others are like that. Might not even use all the surplus from the Roosveldt.” Pulling himself into the rough approximation of a sitting position—as well as possible in null-gee without actually strapping in—he began to run through the analysis programs, nodding or shaking his head as the outputs appeared on the small screen on the board itself.

  He ignored the look that passed between Mera and Athos as they noted his familiarity with the controls. The older Fuard systems clearly didn’t allow the flexibility of detailed split screens, instead tracking outputs to predetermined screens. “Rigid and idiot-proof…” he mumbled.

  Mera and Athos exchanged looks a second time before Mera began to try to puzzle out the board in front of the copilot’s couch.

  Abruptly, Jimjoy tapped several controls and sat up. “It works. For now, at least. Let’s see what it looks like below.” He eased around Mera and pulled himself back into the central fore-aft corridor.

  Floating just off the plastic-coated metal desk in the destroyer’s stale air to inspect the hatch to the lower deck, Jimjoy used the suit’s belt light to supplement the dim emergency lights. Around the squarish hatch were heavy scratch marks in the dark purple plastic finish. The hatch itself was a single piece of metal which slid into a recess under the deck, unlike the irised double hatches of Imperial ships.

  He nodded. The Fuards used steel, probably asteroid-smelted, and far less composite and plastic than Imperial ships.

  “What do you think?” asked Mera and Athos nearly simultaneously.

  “Don’t know. Let’s see.” He used the manual control wheel to crank open the hatch on a solid steel ladder leading to the deck below, and the drives, and screen, grav-field, and jump generators. Then he pulled himself into the narrow space at the foot of the ladder among the equipment.

  Every single unit was at least a third again as big as the comparable Imperial equipment.

  He shook his head ruefully, but he couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. With all that power…But that led to the next question. He disconnected the light from the equipment belt and focused it on the thin line of silver that ran from the converter to the jump generator. He repeated the tracing process with the screen generator and the grav-field equipment.

  “No cross-connects,” he murmured. Not that he had expected anything else. The Fuards were known for their straightforward, brute-force, energy-intensive approach.

  “Cross-connects?” asked Mera.

  “Not the time for an explanation, but I needed to see these to make sure. Power flows run straight from the converter to each separate system. Probably has a tiered logic in the converter distributor…drives, jump accumulator, screens, and grav-fields. Logic system is based on normal loads. Ship is overpowered, but the logic fields act as a governor. No reason we couldn’t cross-connect and shunt power from screens or grav-fields to drives.”

  Athos, floating down the ladder, shook his head. “You’ve lost me, ser.”

  Jimjoy finished his inspection and clipped the light to his belt. “Just a matter of expectations. Change the performance envelope of the ship…probably have to make it automatic…most of our pilots couldn’t handle it without more training time than we have, but it could throw off the Impies.”

  Mera nodded. “What’s the standard deviation on a fire control system?”

  “Depends on distance. Call it an average of less than five percent max on a deep-space solution.”

  “So a variation in acceleration/deceleration…”

  “Right.”

  “You two,” muttered Athos. “It’s like an abbreviated code.” He shoved himself back to the main deck of the former Fuard destroyer.

  “How long will it take?” asked Mera.

  Jimjoy shrugged and turned back toward the ladder, waiting for Mera to head up. “First we’ve got to get these home—looks like they’ll make the jumps. But we’ll do it in full suits. Screens are generally first to go. Once we’re at Orbit Dark, we’ll need to check out all the equipment, see what needs to be replaced. Then, if we have time, you can start on the modifications.”

  “Hold it. Can’t we fix some things here?”

  Jimjoy snorted. “Terms of transfer were immediate removal. The Fuards don’t want anyone to prove that they’re supporting a revolution that just happens to keep Imperial Forces tied up half a quadrant away from the Empire/Fuard border systems.”

  Mera sighed. “Nothing—”

  “I know. Nothing we get into is simple. We did get four ships, and they’re better than I’d really hoped for. Even if it will take some work.”

  “How much work?”

  “Depends. First on the checkout of the existing gear. After that, mostly on how much supercon line we need and whether you can round up enough and if we have someone who can change the converter logic without blowing the entire system.”

  “Me? You keep saying ‘me,’” observed Mera, her voice rising slightly. “I’m not even officially even a graduate.”

  “You will be. Who else? Thelina says I can’t do everything. I’ll give you a written set of performance requirements, and you’ll have to figure out how all four ships can meet them. In the meantime, you’re going to learn how to pilot this on the way back. Now…up you go.”

  Mera gave herself a gentle shove with her suit boot and drifted up along the ladder and through the hatch.

  Jimjoy followed, slowing at the opening between the decks, then pulling himself to a stop in order to crank the hatch closed.

  “Three more to go
. Then we’ll have to crank out the course lines, jump points, and get the hades out of here.” He headed for the main lock, not mentioning once again that he would feel happier, much happier, outside of Fuard-controlled space.

  LIII

  THE THIN BLOND-and-silver-haired Admiral looked at his younger counterpart. “Hewitt, are you telling me that we can’t win against those eco-freaks no matter how much money you get?”

  “No.” The dark-haired Admiral smiled easily. “I’m saying N’Trosia can’t afford to give me the funding, or the time, it will take.”

  “And you think Intelligence can persuade him otherwise?”

  “Not necessarily. I just thought you ought to have a full understanding of the situation. I came across an interesting report, two or three years old, from one of your Special Operatives…”

  “Yes?”

  “…on Accord. I thought you might have a continuing interest in the situation.” The younger Admiral smiled again, sitting comfortably in the leather-padded armchair.

  “I can’t say that I recall that report.”

  “You probably have so many it’s hard to keep track. This one was by a Major Wright. I tried to track him down, but your office indicated he was a casualty of his last assignment.”

  “Major Wright? Can’t say the name rings a bell.”

  “That’s odd. He was the one who handled the Halston HUMBLEPIE operation. I would have thought—”

  “Hewitt, what do you want, really?” The older Admiral counterfeited a sigh and leaned forward in his swivel.

  “Me? There’s nothing I could possibly ask for. No amount of resources will really undo the damage in Sector Five. Most of that seems to have been caused by some group at least as effective as your Special Operatives, I might note. I can’t plan actions in areas that have no support or operating SysCons. Hades, I can’t even recommend them as a good return.

  “If the first report by Major Wright—I did mention that there were two that showed up in my files, didn’t I?—if that first report is correct, those eco-nuts could create a great deal of ecological damage on Imperial planets.”