Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Therefore, the Intelligence Service strongly recommends against overt military action against Accord.”

  The Admiral rubbed his forehead and looked over his final recommendation again. “Damn you, Hewitt…”

  With a sigh, he tapped the stud releasing his hold on the recommendation, then touched the comm settings. “Darkman…put our recommendations in final…send a copy to Planning…and leak it to the usual sources.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  The Admiral did not respond. His temples were throbbing, and it would be another four hours before he could take any more of the green capsules.

  “Damn you, Hewitt…”

  LXXIV

  OUTSIDE, ON THE bedroom deck, a light covering of snow swirled in the gray morning. The sliding door rattled in its frame.

  Jimjoy sat on the edge of the bed, formal greens on, kit bag by the door.

  “I know. You have to go.” Thelina sat beside him, silver hair tousled, wearing a faded green sweatsuit.

  Jimjoy looked down. “I shouldn’t have come at all, but…” His hand gripped hers too tightly.

  “You were here only one day.”

  He grinned. “It was a good day.”

  She punched his arm. “You’re impossible.”

  “I know. Takes that to stand up to you.”

  “You’re really impossible.”

  Shaking his head, he stood up, not letting go of her hand and lifting her to her feet as well, drawing her to him, bringing her lips to his.

  “Mmm…”

  Finally he let her speak, not that she was struggling that hard.

  “Jimjoy…”

  He waited, her head on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the shifting clouds, not wanting to let go of her.

  “Don’t be a hero…we need you.”

  “Try not to do anything stupid,” he whispered.

  She stepped back, forcing his arms from her, and met his eyes. “Listen to me, will you? We need you. Not just me. Not just our child. All of us need you. The only reason I have to let you go is that your little fleet needs you to protect us. But every one of them would lay down their lives for you. If it comes to that, let them!”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, you big dumb hero!” Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes. “You’re what holds it all together. You have to come back. Don’t forget it.”

  For a time that seemed forever and all too short, the two of them clung to each other.

  “You’d better go…or I won’t let you.”

  “Suppose so.” He ignored the burning in his eyes, touched her lips with his a last time, and stepped back. Then he picked up the kit bag.

  They went down the stairs side by side.

  LXXV

  “BREAK OUT IN corridor two,” announced the pilot, her low voice crisp.

  “Stet.” Jimjoy wished he, and not Analitta, were at the controls of the Adams instead of overseeing the operation. But he was the closest thing the Coordinate had to an admiral, and the last thing he needed was to worry about the details. That alone was enough to make him shiver.

  “EDI registers multiple breakouts,” continued Analitta.

  Jimjoy’s combat screen confirmed her announcement. Three reddish lights pulsed, followed by a second set of even more intense lights. He recognized the formation. “Green forces, plan Beta blue. Plan Beta blue.”

  “Interrogative timing, Commander.”

  “Move it. Now!”

  As the faint whine of the overhauled drivers began to build, the reengineered and renamed Adams swept toward the preselected position behind Donagir, the largest satellite of the system’s sixth planet. Jimjoy began keying instructions for the five torps waiting in the ex-Fuardian destroyer’s message tubes.

  “Gilman?” Jimjoy’s voice did not rise. His fingers completed the instructions and sent them to the five torps. He swallowed as he continued to track the EDI traces on the screen.

  “Yes, ser.” The apprentice’s voice wavered.

  The representational screen showed the five green sparks streaking from the Adams toward five separate points surrounding corridor two.

  “Send a message torp—regular torp—to Thalos control. Tell Imri the Impies have sent a full-fleet battle group. Down corridor two.” He rechecked the screen. Eighteen red dots paraded down entry corridor two in a general V shape, aimed straight at Accord. Three were scouts, from the EDI profiles, followed by twelve corvettes and three battle cruisers.

  Destroying the three capital ships was imperative. If necessary, Accord could survive anything the corvettes could throw. They weren’t big enough to carry planet-busters. “Tell her to use evacuation plan two. Evacuation plan two.”

  “Yes, ser. Evacuation plan two for Thalos Station.”

  Jimjoy concentrated on the screen, wishing he were closer, without the data lag, but knowing that the four destroyers had to be saved for a better shot at the cruisers. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, waiting.

  “On course to control point beta, Commander.”

  “Stet.”

  The first two green blips dropped from in-system jumps nearly on top of the lead scout. A third blip did not appear.

  Jimjoy pulled at his chin. One needleboat down to the dust buildup—despite jumping in from above the ecliptic. The two green dots, half the size and intensity of the scout, closed on the Imperial ship. Abruptly, one green dot flared and vanished. The remaining needleboat continued to close.

  This time the red dot flared and disappeared. The needleboat jumped off the screen.

  Three more green dots appeared abreast of the corvette at the tip of the right wing of the Imperial formation, one appearing almost on the Imperial ship.

  Jimjoy nodded, wondering how really close the needleboat had been.

  “Time to station twelve plus.”

  “Thanks, Analitta.”

  All three of the green dots on the screen flared, as did the corvette they had bracketed.

  “Hades…” Jimjoy wiped his forehead.

  Beside him, Gilman took a noisy and deep breath as he calculated vectors and closures.

  “Enemy continues to accelerate, Commander,” the apprentice said.

  Jimjoy smiled. If the Imperial commander continued that tactic…He pulled at his chin. Nothing was certain.

  The Imperial battle group edged inside the dotted blue arc on the screen that signified the orbit of Rachelcars—planet eight.

  Three more needleboats flicked out of the ecliptic at another corvette on the Imperial formation’s left wing. A second corvette seemed to crawl toward the ship under attack to bolster the defense.

  One needleboat disappeared—without the flare of destruction. Then a corvette toward the middle of the Imperial formation flared and vanished. At the same time both remaining needleboats flared and disintegrated under the fire of the two wing corvettes.

  “What happened?” asked Gilman.

  “Our boy jumped into the formation. Blind suicide shot. Took a corvette.”

  The seven pilots and their needleboats, and their hard-won electronics, from the Accord forces had cost the Imperials two corvettes and a scout.

  At that rate, calculated Jimjoy, use of all sixty-one needleboats would still leave the three battle cruisers and three or four corvettes—more than enough to deliver the planetbusters carried by the cruisers.

  “Gilman, forget the vectors. Get on the scramblers and see if you can find out their tactical wave freqs. They may not be using them yet. I’d be using tight-beam lasers.”

  “On the scramblers, ser.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jimjoy wished he could do it himself, but trying to anticipate what the Imperial fleet did next was more important. The relatively tight formation indicated their knowledge that Accord had no capital ships to speak of.

  On the screen another pair of green dots materialized, back on the right flank of the Imperial fleet, this time each releasing a pair of torps, torps which flash
ed heavy dotted lines on the screen toward the rearguard corvette.

  Jimjoy held his breath. Each of the special torps carried double tacheads and a few associated leftovers from obsolete technology—a modification of the old X-ray laser. Jason had thought it might work once or twice—at least until the corvettes overlapped screens.

  The blue dotted lines converged on the corvette.

  The Imperial ship did not so much flash as fade off the screen.

  Jimjoy exhaled.

  A single needleboat appeared above the Imperial right wing, the bluish tint on the screen indicating relative elevation, only long enough to launch another pair of torps before jumping.

  “Negative on standing wave frequencies, ser.”

  “Keep at it, Gilman. Try and find a carrier near the orange.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Jimjoy’s eyes watched the special torps, realizing that the needleboat pilot had launched one toward the lead battle cruiser, on an angle between the guard corvettes. He shook his head. The cruiser’s screens should be able to take that punishment.

  The first torp flashed into another corvette, which glimmered, flashed on and off, then faded from the screen.

  “Estimate three plus to station, Commander.”

  “Stet.” Jimjoy watched as the second torp flashed against the lead cruiser’s screens. The cruiser remained on the screen, but the dot image shifted from red to amber.

  “Hades!” Jimjoy’s hands flicked across the message torp controls, then to the command control. “Greenpax blue, target bulldog lead. Wedge one. Wedge one. Mark! Target bulldog lead. Immediate target. Immediate target.”

  “Targeting bulldog lead this time. Targeting lead.”

  Jimjoy’s fingers clenched, then tapped the edge of the tactical screen as he watched the Imperial cruiser’s image flicker from red to amber and back, clearly struggling to maintain screen integrity. Two Imperial corvettes began to move forward from the area of the trailing battle cruiser, as if to ward off further attacks.

  Six green dots appeared in a wedge above the uppermost corvette on the leading right edge. The green wedge angled toward the struggling cruiser.

  “On station, ser.”

  “Stet.”

  The lead needleboat launched two standard torps toward the single corvette between the wedge and the cruiser, then flared into oblivion.

  The two needleboats now in the lead launched torps—standard torps—toward the corvette, whose screens flicked red-amber but held.

  The leftward needleboat disintegrated under the return torps from the corvette, while a trailing needleboat launched a single special torp toward the corvette.

  Jimjoy watched, his fingers tight around the edge of the screen controls, as the pair of Imperial corvettes continued to move forward to intercept the Accord wedge.

  Abruptly, the single corvette between the wedge and the ailing cruiser faded from the screen under the impact of the special torp, but not before knocking out the needleboat which had launched it.

  The four remaining needleboats in the wedge kept accelerating toward the battle cruiser, whose screens continued to flicker.

  “Locked on carrier wave, ser. No transmissions.”

  “Put it on audio, Gilman.” Jimjoy’s eyes were locked on the screen as he began to calculate. Assuming the Imperial fleet commander realized Accord’s apparent desperation and the Impies’ limitations shortly…The figures appeared on the second screen.

  He stopped for a moment to watch as two more needleboats vanished under the concentrated forces from the cruiser and one of the approaching corvettes. Then the two trailing needleboats launched four special torps—all at the cruiser—and jumped.

  Jimjoy hoped they made it out as he watched the torps converge on the cruiser. He pulled at his chin momentarily. So far, Accord had lost at least twelve needleboats, possibly three more to dust/jump destruction. If he had counted correctly, only a handful of the beefed-up special torps remained.

  “Ssssssssssssss…” The low hum of the Imperial standing wave frequency punctuated the sudden silence as Jimjoy and his crew watched the Imperial battle cruiser flare into sudden oblivion.

  “Greenpax blue, stand by for red charlie. Stand by for red charlie.” Jimjoy was calling off the pick-off attempts, knowing the Imperial commander had realized he could not afford the losses of a standard approach.

  “Hammerstrike, Hammerstrike, this is Radian Mace. Commence Omega Delta. Commence Omega Delta.”

  Jimjoy nodded, watching as the Imperial Forces drew closer together and began to accelerate, shifting slightly toward Accord itself, crossing the faint dotted line on the screen that represented the orbit of Eyres, the gas giant seventh planet. Eyres itself was on the other side of the sun.

  The close-in screen showed the battle group around him—three other destroyers and ten needleboats.

  Shortly, it would be their turn.

  “Commander, status check. Thirty-four needleboats operational, four destroyers.”

  Jimjoy winced. The dust had done more damage than the Impies. But the needleboats couldn’t stand and fight. That left in-system jumps.

  He checked the screens. “Commence red charlie. Commence red charlie.”

  The Coordinate squadron slipped from behind Donagir and into an intercept course with the Imperial fleet.

  Jimjoy continued to calculate, measuring the vectors and comparing the possible errors.

  Then he began to reset the last set of sharp-stone drive control programs.

  “Commander, Accord forces, this is Radian Mace. This is Radian Mace. Request your surrender to lawful Imperial authority. Request your surrender to lawful Imperial authority.”

  Jimjoy sighed.

  “Saying anything, Commander?” asked Analitta conversationally.

  “Should I?”

  “Tell them to do the anatomically impossible.”

  Jimjoy grinned. Only Analitta would paraphrase swearing and still have it sound worse than the vulgar original.

  “Radian Mace, this is Greenpax black. Request your departure from Coordinate space. Request your immediate departure from Coordinate space.”

  “Greenpax, this is Radian Mac. Without immediate and unconditional surrender, no terms are possible. I say again. Without immediate and unconditional surrender, no terms are possible.”

  “Radian Mace, Greenpax black. Concur. Without your immediate and unconditional surrender, no terms are possible.”

  For several long minutes, the Imperial frequency remained silent.

  “Did you mean that, Commander?” Gilman finally whispered.

  Jimjoy continued to watch and listen. He had more than meant it. Unless Accord could totally annihilate the Imperial Forces, their victory would not be convincing enough to persuade the Fuards of the Empire’s weakness and to allow the I.S.S. to recommend granting Accord’s independence.

  “Greenpax, this is Radian Mace. Your position is unacceptable. Accord remains an Imperial colony. Request your immediate and unconditional surrender.”

  “Radian Mace. We regret your last. So will you.” Jimjoy regretted the flipness of his last transmission even as he spoke it. He took a deep breath and triggered the drive control commands for the sharp stones, wondering what the Imperials would think when three EDI traces appeared, indicating ships larger than the largest Imperial battle cruisers.

  The screens indicated less than five minutes before his small fleet reached torp range to strike at the main body of the Impie fleet.

  Three needleboats bracketed the lead Impie scout. A coruscation of torps, screens, and energy concentrations flicked back and forth. The scout and two needleboats disappeared.

  Two more needleboats engaged the remaining scout. One needleboat and the scout vanished.

  “Red charlie one. Red charlie one.”

  Three of the remaining needleboats and two destroyers—the Dinvair and the Wett—created a wedge aimed at the rightmost of the battle cruisers.

  Between the smal
l Accord formation and the battle cruiser were four corvettes. One of the corvettes launched a series of torps. The Dinvair flicked its screens outward momentarily to deflect three of the torps. A single needleboat, unable to shake the remaining torp, jumped.

  Jimjoy shook his head. Too high a dust density.

  The Wett countered with two special torps. Both bypassed the corvettes, but dissolved against the battle cruiser’s pulsed screens.

  Jimjoy eyed the representational screen. The three large EDI tracks continued to close.

  The Imperial Forces edged closer, bringing together the interlocking screens necessary to resist the X-ray laser torps and to keep the needleboat jump tactics from picking off another corvette.

  “Target purple. Target purple.”

  One corvette lagged in joining the Imperial formation, and the Accord wedge curved away from the main body and toward the corvette.

  A hail of torps, several short-range laser pulses, and the isolated corvette’s screens failed. Then the corvette disintegrated.

  So did one more needleboat.

  “Green frank. Green frank,” ordered Jimjoy.

  The Accord forces eased into an in-system course—a rough wedge formation on each side and ahead of the advancing Imperials, whose force concentration made the needleboats almost useless.

  Only the two battle cruisers and six corvettes remained, but so long as they remained in the tight-globed formation, nothing short of suicide jumps from the destroyers was likely to penetrate the interlocked screens.

  Nothing conventional, corrected Jimjoy. He checked the massive EDI traces.

  “Twelve standard minutes until avalanche one,” he announced to his own crew, not daring to broadcast the timing to the Imperials.

  One of the wing corvettes showed some acceleration away from the center.

  “Greenpax blue, target straggler. Target straggler.”

  One of the needleboats darted closer and released a single torp. The corvette’s screens took care of the weapon, but the Imperial ship eased back into the interlocking screen protection.

  The Imperial formation eased across the imaginary orbit line of Reelee—planet six. Two EDI-seeking torps peeled away from the battle cruiser and toward Donagir, the moon behind which Jimjoy had staged the Accord forces. Jimjoy hoped the research personnel had evacuated the station proper.