Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“Move aside, Bousie,” ordered Muerotte.

  The redheaded second pilot glanced from the captain to the Ecolitan in greens, then eased aside.

  “Over there,” suggested Nathaniel. He didn’t want anyone behind him. Bousie complied, if with a slight frown.

  “If I might…” offered Muerotte.

  “Go ahead.” Nathaniel slid into the second pilot’s seat, scanning the instruments and holding the input set, watching both the second and the engineer.

  Two other figures entered the cockpit, Sylvia the last, stunner still in hand. The cockpit hatch closed with a dull thunnkk.

  “The Ecolitan discovered a rather elaborate set of devices in the drive chambers. They could not have been placed there since he boarded at Artos. I suspect the maintenance crew, but that is not the question. He has suggested certain precautions. I agree, but I will cross-check his implementation of those precautions.” The captain raised his eyebrows. “I am presuming neither you nor Faquar had any part in this, since you would have been in the cockpit when we lost all atmosphere and shields.”

  Bousie swallowed. Faquar shook his head. Behind them, Sylvia kept the stunner pointed at the second pilot.

  “Now that we have it understood,” Nathaniel said, “I’d like to start on getting us to New Avalon.” He slipped on the online input set. The ship scanned clean.

  The jump calculations took another ten units and five for Muerotte to confirm with a brusque nod.

  “Would you announce to the passengers that they should strap in for low grav and jump?”

  “Bousie,” ordered the captain. “From the engineer’s station.”

  The second bent toward the small console behind the captain’s position.

  “We will be approaching the first jump point in less than five units. We will be going to low-gravity just before jump. Passengers should be firmly strapped in at this time. Passengers should be firmly strapped in at this time.”

  “Good,” murmured Muerotte.

  “Cutting gravs…brace yourself. Five to jump.” As his guts floated into his throat as the gravity dropped to near nothing, Nathaniel kept talking. “We can do this in two jumps…instead of three…and we’ll arrive two stans plus ahead of schedule. That should also offset any welcoming arrangements.”

  Muerotte nodded, slowly. So did Sylvia, braced against the closed hatch that led to the passenger section, her stunner still on Bousie.

  “Let’s do it.” The Ecolitan swallowed. “Countdown to jump…four, three, two, one…jump.”

  As he touched the jump stud and sent the impulse through the input set, the entire ship turned inside out, and white was black, and black white…for that eternal moment that seemed endless and yet was over before it began.

  A slight shiver, and the Gallia was back in norm space.

  The screens showed a solar system, with the normal EDI indications of a technological and populated area.

  “Czechos?”

  “It checks.” Nathaniel avoided wincing at the inadvertent pun, and began inputting the figures for the second jump while the power built up.

  “EDI buildup at two eight zero,” noted Muerotte.

  “Class two patroller, insystem only. Probably a lot of power with a fusactor system.” That meant no jumpshifting systems and a lot of torps. He checked the range and closure. “We’ll be clear.”

  “The Union…alliance…” the low words came from either Bousie or Faquar.

  “Alliances are only for brief periods of convenience,” said Sylvia dryly from where she was tucked against the closed hatch.

  Nathaniel wiped his sweating forehead with the overlarge kerchief, since the dampness beaded all over his face in null-gee, then rechecked the systems and power buildup. “Better announce another jump, so that some passenger doesn’t start wandering around.”

  “Bousie, go ahead,” ordered Muerotte. “Less than five units.”

  “We will be approaching the second jump point in less than five units. We will remain in low-gravity until after all jumps are complete. Passengers should remain firmly strapped in at this time. Passengers should remain firmly strapped in at this time. Do not unstrap until ship gravity returns to normal. Do not unstrap until ship gravity returns to normal.”

  “Good,” said Muerotte. “Log that, too. Heavens forbid, if there’s a claim, the warning will help.”

  Nathaniel nodded, then rescanned the systems as he waited for the sequence to run.

  “Countdown to jump…four, three, two, one…jump!”

  Reentry was normal, and Nathaniel eased the drives to full, ensuring they were stabilized, before restoring ship grav.

  “Smooth,” observed Muerotte, “but we’re plus five on the ecliptic.”

  “Right. We’ll angle down. The dust buildup will be greater at the end, but we’ll get there faster, and not by the normal route.” The Ecolitan pointed to a signal on the EDI screen. “I wonder who that might be. The drive tuning would say either Hegemony or Fuard—maybe Orknarlian—but it’s not Imperial or Avalonian.”

  Muerotte swallowed.

  “Almost cruiser size, just outside the formal system bounds,” continued Nathaniel. “I’d say just about where we would have been. Justifies my faith in human nature.”

  “As if you had any left,” quipped Sylvia from the rear of the cockpit.

  Nathaniel eased from the seat. “Your ship, Captain. We would like to remain here until you lock in—in case we can provide any additional assistance.” The Ecolitan smiled as Bousie slipped past him and into her couch. “Although we all hope it’s totally unnecessary.”

  “Shipping headquarters won’t be happy.”

  “They’d have been a lot less happy with no ship at all,” pointed out Sylvia. “Remind them of that.”

  XXIX

  THE LEGATION OF the Coordinate of Accord in Camelot was not on Embassy Boulevard, but a block south, across a narrow street from an unnamed grassy square. The building itself was of gray stone, three stories high, with a green tile roof, and golden wood shutters that actually were hung on antique wrought-iron brackets and could be closed against the driving rains that still occasionally drenched the temperate capital city of New Avalon.

  The parquet-floored foyer held only a single console centered on a green patterned carpet. At the console was a thin-faced young woman. Her eyes widened fractionally at the sight of the pair in Ecolitan greens, but she only asked, “May I help you, Ecolitans?”

  “Yes. I’m Ecolitan Professor Whaler, and this is Professor Ferro-Maine. We’ve been conducting a study on Artos, and I’d like to set up some appointments with the commerce section chief and his staff. I’d also like to see Ecolitan Swersa as soon as possible.”

  “Let me contact Ecolitan Swersa, first.” The receptionist/screener touched the console, waiting momentarily. “Ecolitan Swersa, there’s an Ecolitan Whaler…yes, sir, I’ll send them right up.”

  The hint of a smile crossed Sylvia’s face.

  “You’re expected, sirs. Take the stairs there”—she gestured over her left shoulder—“to the next level. Ecolitan Swersa’s office is at the back. I’ll check with the economic section while you’re with the Ecolitan.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two Ecolitans lugged their field packs and the remaining datacase up the stairs.

  A trim but muscular white-haired woman in greens met them in the second-floor corridor. “I’m LuAn Swersa. It’s good to meet both of you.” A broad smile creased her face. “I understand the Avalonian bureau-rats actually let bonafide economists onto Artos. I’ll wager that Clerigg and his crew will want to spend hours grilling you. Come on in.” She stepped inside the corner office, holding the antique wooden six-paneled door.

  The office overlooked a small garden courtyard, but both large corner windows faced blank brick walls. “It’s got light, but not much of a view. Typical of our operation here.”

  Swersa closed the door, then stepped toward the console, where her hand flicked three switches. “All r
ight. We’re blocked, but I won’t guarantee that even with the random screens that it will hold for longer than a quarter stan. This place is almost as bad as I hear New Augusta is. So let me tell you what I know. Sit down.” She gestured toward the armchairs opposite the console.

  “That bad?” Nathaniel set down his pack and sat.

  “I could be exaggerating. It seems that way.” Swersa coughed once. “First, the Fuards have begun to pour men and materials into their Three System Bulge bases and developing staging areas. The Hegemony and the Union are beefing up their adjoining systems. Second, the Imperial Senate is almost certain to require the Eleventh Fleet to move to Sector Five adjacent to the Rift, and there’s talk of reassigning the Ninth and Third Fleets—”

  “I thought the trade talks…” said Sylvia.

  “There have been massive algae and anchovy kills on five water planets, including on Anarra. Squamish and Kaneihe inside Imperial Sector Four. The synde bean plague has spread to another dozen Imperial planets. That makes twenty affected now, all of them planoformed.”

  “No natural hydrocarbons,” ventured Nathaniel.

  “Exactly, and Heraculon has already lost more than five million people to starvation. That’s in the latest briefing files.”

  “Five million?” whispered Sylvia, paling.

  “There are resistant strains, aren’t there?”

  “Of course, but most produce less, and it will be two years before they’re mature. The lag time, you know. And everyone believes it’s our doing,” Swersa said. “As if we were that stupid. Or cruel.”

  “We didn’t. I talked to the Prime about it. He wished, and I do now, that I’d made that clear when I was on Old Earth.” Nathaniel shrugged. “But I didn’t know.” His shoulders slumped slightly. “And I wanted to use every tool possible.”

  Sylvia gave a low whistle.

  “So the Empire is convinced that the trade talks were a cover while we undermined them ecologically?” asked Nathaniel.

  “It’s more political than that,” suggested Sylvia. “D.I. and the I.I.S. have to know better, but the Senate reacts to public perception, and the eagles have always wanted an excuse to go after Accord.”

  “That’s the way I’d read it,” affirmed Swersa. “Is Artos as bad as I’d guess?”

  “Worse,” suggested Nathaniel. “It’s fragile ecologically and worse economically…” He quickly sketched out their findings, the varied assassination attempts, and their trip to Camelot. Sylvia added what he forgot.

  “Whew,” murmured Swersa. “Worse than we’d guessed. Your thoughts about the politics here are pretty much right on. The system’s teetering on bankruptcy or economic collapse, and they’ve got their heads tucked inside wormholes to avoid seeing that they’re going to lose half the Commonwealth systems if they don’t finish what they started—but they don’t have the capital or the drive.”

  “Who’s the Legate here?” His briefing documents had noted that the position was being filled. “Has one been appointed?”

  “The honorable Morton Spamgall. He was the temporary Legate, and the House of Delegates confirmed him about the time you went to Artos.”

  “That bad?”

  “He’s a political type. Brand-new and placed by Verlingetti, or so I’ve been led to believe. After we’re done here, I’ll take you up and introduce you.”

  “Who is Verlingetti?” asked Sylvia. “Remember…”

  “Sorry,” said Swersa. “He’s the deputy minority leader in the House of Delegates—the one who handles all of Elder Quaestor’s dirty work. And the Orthodoxists have been known for less than spotless political tactics and techniques.”

  “How does the minority get to place people?”

  “It’s a complex rotating system. Actually, all appointments are worked out by both parties on a consensus basis. New Avalon’s not considered important, compared to other places, so…”

  “That’s where the minority’s choices go?” suggested Sylvia.

  “Here, Orknarli, maybe Olympia.”

  A series of red lights played across the console.

  “Here they go. I’d guess another ten units,” said Swersa. “What else?”

  “We have another problem. We need to finish and release our report, and we’ll need some quantitative backup, and lots of impressive-looking graphs and tables. I can set them up, but we’ve only got a few days. Do you think Clerigg and his team can handle it—both technically and from a security point of view?”

  “Is this study that hot?”

  “Not on the surface,” said Nathaniel. “But it’s critical that it be finished before we leave Camelot, and we’ll have to leave in the next week, maybe sooner.”

  A faint frown crinkled Sylvia’s forehead, but vanished.

  “If you’re that pressed,” added Swersa, “you probably ought to be staying here. We’ve got some guest suites on the fourth level…not huge, but more secure.”

  “More secure sounds wonderful.” He frowned “How secure is the Legation?”

  “Physical security—as good as anywhere in Camelot except a Defence installation. Snooping? I wouldn’t yell, but the guest suites don’t have any powered equipment, and they’re centered. Stay away from the windows, and it’s pretty good.”

  “Do you have two with adjoining bedrooms?” asked Sylvia.

  “The main suite is free. That’s got a center sitting room with bedrooms on each side. Separate freshers.” Swersa glanced from Nathaniel to Sylvia.

  “That’s fine,” said Sylvia. “Especially the separate freshers.”

  More red lights flicked across the console. Swersa rose and tapped a series of studs. “Let me call Farlen, and tell him to get the Legate ready for you.” Nathaniel looked toward the two field packs by the door.

  “You can leave your luggage here for the moment. Farlen…the Ecolitans are ready. We’ll be right up.” Swersa broke the screen link as fast as she had established it.

  The Legate’s office was on the top level, and looked out through wide sliding glass doorways on a roof garden. The entire decor was Ecolog Secession, proving a sense of spareness that seemed to clash with the slightly pudgy man in a dark blue tunic and trousers who waddled forward to meet them.

  “Welcome, Ecolitan Whaler, Ecolitan Ferro-Maine. You have no idea how marvelous it is to see faces from home. No idea how marvelous.” Morton Spamgall offered a broad and charming smile under short, wispy blond hair. His blue eyes remained distant.

  “It’s a pleasure to be here,” Sylvia offered.

  Nathaniel just bowed.

  “It is too bad you could not have come earlier in the fall. Simply marvelous, and the Landing Fest is something you must experience to believe.” Spamgall extended his hand toward the roof garden, pointing toward the shimmering building on the hill. “If you have the chance, you should visit the Commons Hall. Such tradition there.” He offered another smile. “Farlen tells me that you have come from Artos. You have been doing a study there. Economics of some sort?”

  “Infrastructure economics. A contract from the Avalonian Ministry of Commerce.”

  “Good. It’s about time they brought in some experts. Clerigg has been urging that for years, I understand. You haven’t met Clerigg yet, have you?”

  “No,” offered Sylvia.

  “Good man.” Spamgall gestured toward the table, set with two tea services. “Some tea—or liftea?”

  “That would be good,” said Nathaniel.

  Swersa nodded, as did Sylvia.

  “Oh, help yourself, and take a seat. We’re not much on ceremony here. Certainly not the way the Avalonians are. I’ve never seen a people with so many ceremonies.”

  Nathaniel waited for Sylvia and Swersa to pour their tea, then offered to pour for the Legate.

  “No. I’ll get mine. I mix them, you know. The Avalonians think it’s a terrible thing. It almost would make me want to do it, even if I didn’t like it that way.” Spamgall laughed, a deep booming sound. “How did you find Ar
tos?”

  “It’s a recently planoformed planet,” Nathaniel said. “Backward in some ways, but you expect that.”

  “And you, charming professor, what did you think?”

  Sylvia finished a sip of her liftea before answering. “I enjoyed seeing the open land and meeting the people. Some of them were very nice.”

  “And the others?” asked the Legate with yet another laugh.

  “The others were like people everywhere.”

  “Like people everywhere…ha, ha, ha! You should be the diplomat. Yes, you should.” Spamgall lifted his cup. “To the successful conclusion of your study!”

  “Thank you.”

  “You aren’t the Whaler who worked out that trade agreement with the Empire, are you?” asked the Legate, as though the thought had belatedly crossed his mind.

  “Yes. They needed an economist there. The issues were somewhat…intricate.”

  “You do get around. Then, I guess that’s the business of Ecolitans…getting around, that is.”

  By the time the tea was over, Nathaniel felt wrung out.

  “The Legate can be overpowering,” said Swersa as they headed back down the stairs. “His personality is formidable.”

  Nathaniel suspected that Spamgall’s political cunning was also formidable, but that the intellect was somewhat less impressive, although assuming that might be decidedly dangerous.

  “I take it he concentrates on impressions,” said Sylvia, “so that others forget his intelligence.”

  “His personality obscures a keen mind,” confirmed Swersa.

  Nathaniel decided to bury his observations, as well as to change the structure of the study somewhat.

  “Here we are—third floor, possession of the substantive folk.” The white-haired Ecolitan turned toward the front of the Legation, leading them into a long narrow room with high windows. A balding, stocky man with a brush mustache stood up.

  “Clerigg, Professors Whaler and Ferro-Maine.”

  “Delighted to meet you both.” Clerigg smiled broadly as he stepped forward and bowed, then inclined his head to Nathaniel. “It’s not my area, but I did enjoy your piece on the external diseconomies of deep space mining. I’m not sure outsiders would have understood it all.”