Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Because you may not be able to support yourself as an unofficial immigrant, you must post a bond equivalent to the passage cost to the nearest system which will employ you. In your case, that is relatively low, since Haversol needs both pilots and electronics types.”

  Jimjoy sighed.

  “How much? With whom?”

  “Five thousand Imperial credits.”

  “That’s incredible.” This time he did shake his head.

  “Can you post it or not? Do you choose to?”

  “You don’t take immigrants?”

  “Unless or until you take the immigrant aptitude tests, Accord takes no responsibility for your employability. Anyone who does not have verified long-term current employment must either post bond or take the tests.”

  “You can’t win, Major,” added the woman checker.

  After a moment of shock, barely managing to keep his jaw in place, Jimjoy laughed. She was right.

  “I’ll post the bond.”

  “Since you’re being reasonable, Ser…White…by being relatively direct, in turn, we’ll spare you any delusions about our lack of vigilance.”

  The thin red-haired woman’s eyes went back and forth in puzzlement as she watched the byplay between Jimjoy and the ship’s officers.

  “Assuming I am what you think I am, I’d be interested in the basis for your statement.”

  The checker grinned before answering.

  “We test all immigrants for skills and aptitudes. The profile would tell us what your passcard shows, and a great deal more. That would go on the record, of course, which is periodically inspected by the various Imperial services, since Accord is a dutiful colony, fully aware of its indebtedness to the Empire.”

  Jimjoy refrained from grinning in return and shrugged. “What next?”

  The man responded this time, nodding at the woman. “Cerla is the third officer. Doubles as purser, customs, immigration, and tourism. Technically, once you post bond, you’re a tourist, although we don’t stop anyone who wants to from working. But you’re a tourist even if you stay your whole life, with no local citizenship rights unless you officially change your mind and go through testing.” He added, “Cerla will guide you through the formalities in her office.”

  Cerla, her short brown hair bouncing slightly, turned and headed through the inner ship lock into the Accord vessel, assuming he would follow.

  He did, but not before overhearing the beginning of the conversation between the man and the red-haired woman.

  “Sher Masdra, you have no skills beyond the commerce…shall we say…of your own person…”

  When it came right down to it, reflected Jimjoy absently as he followed the purser, neither did he or anyone else. Especially, it appeared, on Accord. He hurried in pursuit of Cerla.

  By the time he had caught up with the quick-moving purser, she had stopped by a portal that was beginning to open.

  “My office, quarters, and general place of business.” The woman gestured for him to enter.

  Jimjoy slipped inside, ready for anything—except for the four-by-four-meter room, tastefully accented in shades of blue and cream, with a console and four small screens on one wall, a recessed double bunk on the opposite wall, a small table and two chairs. His eyes lighted on the built-in beverage dispenser, then flicked to the overhead lighting strips.

  “Everything from business to pleasure,” he noted dryly.

  “Have a seat.” Her tone ignored his sarcasm.

  The Special Operative looked over the choice. Either the luxurious and padded sink chair or the utilitarian swivel before the console.

  He settled into the sink chair, since he knew she would not sit down if he took the swivel. As he eased himself into the chair, he inadvertently put his weight on his right arm, and was rewarded with a renewed throb from the muscle all the way into his shoulder.

  “You looked like you were sitting for an execution, Major.”

  “What’s the Major bit? The name’s White.”

  Cerla raised an eyebrow. “I thought we’d gone through that already. No charades, as I recall.”

  Jimjoy smiled expansively from the depths of the padded sink chair, designed clearly to keep upstart passengers from leaping at the purser/government agent. “Only admitted I wasn’t an immigrant. Didn’t deny I had Imperial ties. You said that I was a Major…or whatever.”

  Cerla shook her head, and her bobbed brown hair bounced away from her round face and suddenly flat brown eyes.

  “All right. You are Major Jimjoy Earle Wright the Third, Imperial Space Service, Special Operative, Intelligence Service, on special detail for reconnaissance of Accord. Your cover name is Hale Vale White. You have orders limiting you to strict observation, without any specific time limits.

  “You graduated from Malestra College with an I.S.S. scholarship, completed pilot training at Saskan during the ’43 emergency, served one tour as junior second pilot on the courier Rimbaud before being transferred to Headquarters staff for independent assignments. You are qualified to pilot virtually every class of atmospheric and space vehicle. You are persona non grata to the Fuards, the Halstanis, the Orknarlians. You are the tempter incarnate on IFoundlt! And your profile has been circulated to every non-Imperial world by the Comsis Co-Op.

  “Besides, even if you aren’t exactly who we think you are, there’s absolutely no doubt about what you are.”

  Jimjoy frowned. “Care to explain that?”

  Cerla smiled faintly. “I probably shouldn’t, but you’ve obviously been set up. That means that the Empire either wants you dead or to create an incident. It also means that the Empire won’t listen to anything beyond an in-depth factual report, if that. Something as ossified as the Empire cannot afford to change, not beyond the cosmetic.”

  “Hope you’re going to explain,” Jimjoy pursued. He was annoyed by the woman’s patronizing attitude—even as attractive and friendly as she projected herself. Even if what she said made a certain disturbing kind of sense. He took a breath slightly deeper than normal and tried to relax.

  “Yes…although I am tempted not to.”

  “Appreciate it if you would. I’m too Imperial not to be put off by your rather patronizing attitude toward the Empire. Even if you turn out to be right.”

  This time the purser smiled more than faintly, pursed her lips, and cleared her throat. “It’s really very simple, so simple that anyone could use the technique, not that we had to in your case. First is the question of identity.” She paused. “I’m getting there, Major. Believe me, I am. But there are a lot of pieces of information you need, and it’s not exactly easy to blurt out these things, even though it’s necessary now.” Her smile was broad, but somehow forced.

  While he appreciated the effort, and the smile, Jimjoy was leaning forward, wondering what came next, a cold chill settling inside him, reinforced by the hot throbbing of his still-unhealed arm.

  “Every Imperial Special Operative falls within certain clearly defined parameters—male, with an optimum muscle, fat, and bone ratio that never varies by more than five percent; never less than one hundred eighty-one centimeters nor more than one hundred ninety-five centimeters; primarily Caucasian genetic background; strong technical education and mechanical skills; generally between twenty-eight and forty-five standard years; and always with a surface carriage index of between seven and eight.”

  Jimjoy looked at the purser blankly.

  She said nothing more.

  Finally, he spoke. “I understood everything until you got to the last item.”

  “I thought everyone knew about surface carriage indices.” He could see the steel in her eyes and repressed a shudder, not quite sure how he had thought she might be friendly. Or was she just being mischievous?

  “Afraid I’m rather uninformed.”

  “Surface carriage index is a measure of underlying muscular tension and emotional stability. It was originally developed by Alregord’s psychiatrists as an attempt to provide a long-range visu
al indication of intentions. For that, it was a failure, because the only thing the index is really good for is showing the unconscious attitude of the individual toward humanity in general. The higher the number, the less socially oriented the individual. This gets complicated because the index varies with some individuals depending on their surroundings. For our purposes it doesn’t make much difference, because the variations are generally less toward either end of the scale. Above ten, and a person is sociopathic or psychopathic. Below two, and there’s almost no individual identity. The seven-to-eight range indicates a loner with little or no interest in permanent attachments to people.”

  “Sounds like psychosocial mumbo jumbo.”

  “Think about it, Major. Compare my description to any Special Operatives you may know before you condemn the analysis.”

  Jimjoy felt cold. If Accord had discovered such a readily apparent pattern, who else knew? His thoughts returned to the meeting with the retired spacer. Arto, had that been his name? Had he been an Accord operative? Or had he seen part of the pattern?

  Jimjoy was brought back to the present by Cerla’s next question.

  “Now…do we continue the charade, or do you want to give me some idea of what you happen to be looking for?”

  Jimjoy nodded. He’d been set up, at least to some degree, because his actions were a problem to the Empire…or the Service. It almost seemed as though no one wanted him to be successful. Every time he’d pulled off the difficult, they’d given him something tougher. The apparent ease of the Accord assignment should have been a signal, especially now, after the incident on Haversol.

  The quiet of the cabin was punctuated only by the hissing of the ventilators, and by a dull thunk that echoed through the ship, indicating that the ship had unlocked from the Haversol orbit control station.

  “While you’re still deciding, would you like a drink?”

  “I’ll pass on the drink for now. How about a piece of information? I know your name. Period. You seem to know everything about me. Seems you’d have to be a part of colonial intelligence or armed forces…or that Institute…but why does anyone care?”

  Cerla poured herself a goblet of a lime-green fluid and set the other glass back in the rack by the dispenser.

  “Anything the Empire does affects us. How could anyone concerned not care?”

  “Suppose you’re right—”

  “And you still haven’t decided whether you’re going to play it straight. What other options do you have? We know who and what you are. And…”

  “And…?”

  “…you’re intelligent enough to see that.”

  Jimjoy was positive she had been about to say something else, but there was no way to determine what.

  “Reluctant to affirm or deny,” he said with a half smile. “If I deny I’m this Wright character, I have to spend forever proving I am who I am. And you won’t believe me. If I lie outright, that’s trouble. If I agree, that’s a confession, and people have been known to disappear for less. This Wright character sounds like he’s on everyone’s hit list. Very popular man.”

  “You make a good point. Good…but irrelevant.”

  As she spoke, Jimjoy eased himself forward in the depths of the chair, trying to shift his weight in a way not to seem too obvious, yet ready for action if necessary. He doubted that he could escape untouched, but he had to try.

  Cerla ignored his tension and sat in the anchored swivel less than a meter away. After speaking, she sipped from the goblet, swallowed, and cleared her throat.

  “I will make one further observation which might help you decide. While Accord is not unknown for its ability to obtain intelligence, the background on you was there for the taking, laid out. This leads to certain disturbing conclusions, which is why you were warned on Haversol.”

  “Warned?”

  Cerla said nothing, but waited.

  “I see,” temporized Jimjoy.

  “Not totally, but we can always hope that you will.” She stood, swiftly, though so gracefully that Jimjoy did not move. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something?”

  “How about some juice?”

  The purser/agent filled the second goblet and tendered it to him before reseating herself on the swivel, one leg tucked under her.

  Her posture reassured the Special Operative…slightly. The sink chair felt somehow sticky under him and he shifted his position again.

  “So where does that leave us?” he asked.

  “You refuse to admit anything, and we’re forced to take you on faith, at least in part. Assuming you are who we think you are, Accord would like to see that your visit is successful and that you return safely from our poor colonial outpost to your headquarters.”

  “And how much will you hide?” He didn’t bother with questioning their assumption of his being an Imperial agent. That was probably all that was keeping him alive, even if he were being stubborn and not wanting to admit it outright.

  “Nothing. We obviously will not volunteer anything, but should you find something or wish to observe something, we will certainly not hinder you in any way.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who are ‘we’? You talk about some group, but you’ve never identified who you are.”

  Jimjoy took a sip from the goblet. The green juice reminded him of a combination of orange and lime with a hint of cinnamon, except the combined taste was somehow whole and clean.

  “We?” he prompted.

  “Let us just say that most of Accord has a vested interest in your safe return, including the colonial forces, the local government, and the Institute.”

  Jimjoy wanted to shake his head. The situation sounded far worse than Hersnik or the briefing tapes had portrayed, and he wasn’t even on Accord yet. Instead of commenting, he chose the inane.

  “Very good drink. What is it?”

  “Lerrit. Native.”

  She waited.

  He waited.

  “The Carson is approaching jump point. Approaching jump point.”

  The announcement from the hidden speaker was the first indication Jimjoy had of actual operation since the delocking maneuver. The crew was smooth…very smooth. And that brought up the question of why a ship’s officer was spending so very much time with an apparent down-and-almost-out spacer—even one thought to be an Imperial operative.

  Jimjoy had a momentary feeling of being into something over his head, very far over his head. He ignored it.

  “So you fear the Empire—and my safe return, with whatever information I pick up, allows the Empire no pretexts, whereas my demise would allow them to blast two orbs with one bolt?”

  “That’s half of what the—what we had determined.”

  “And the other half?”

  “If you’re such a headache to your own Service, we’re certainly not out to do them any favors.” This time the smile was nearly malicious.

  Jimjoy took a deep swallow of the lerrit, and waited again. “What about all that noise about the bond requirement?”

  “Forget it. That was for public consumption. Besides, the Empire might not clear any credit line or voucher you wrote, and that would be just another problem for us.”

  Jimjoy looked over at Cerla dubiously.

  “We will, of course,” Cerla continued, as she shifted her weight in the swivel and placed her nearly empty goblet on the console, “claim that you did post bond, and customs records will show that it was posted and returned to you when you left.”

  Jimjoy could see Hersnik causing problems over that transaction, but since it would be a while before he had to break that particular orbit, he said nothing about it. Instead he took another gulp of the lerrit, nearly finishing it.

  “Would you like some more?”

  “Not now.” He looked for some place to put the goblet down, but finding nowhere within arm’s reach, retained it. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll find something?”

  “We’re certain you will. We just don’t
think it will do the Empire much good.”

  “You obviously know it won’t,” concluded Jimjoy. “That means you either intend—” He broke off his statement, not sure where his words might carry him.

  “We think it won’t. We don’t know. What were you going to say?”

  Her last question had been idly asked, but Jimjoy did not miss the sharpening of attention.

  “Not sure. Except that when something is this clear, there’s more than meets the eye.”

  Cling!

  “Standing by for jump.”

  The announcement was delivered in a bored tone from the same unseen speaker.

  Cling! Cling!

  The ship’s interior was flooded with the pitch blackness that accompanied every jump, a blackness that seemed instantaneous and eternal all at once.

  Normal lighting returned just as instantaneously.

  “The next jump shift will occur in approximately one half standard hour.”

  Cerla picked up her goblet to drain the last half sip. Then she set it back on the console.

  Thud.

  The sound echoed through the quietness of the cabin.

  Jimjoy avoided looking at the woman and tilted the goblet back to drain the last drops out.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some more?”

  “No, thanks.” He extended the empty goblet with his left hand. His right arm was beginning to throb once more.

  She took it and set it next to hers.

  Thud.

  “So where do all of these orbits within orbits leave me?”

  “You’re cleared into Accord. Your papers are here.” She gestured vaguely at her console. “Once we arrive, the shuttle from orbit control will deposit you at the port outside Harmony. You’re free to pursue your observations and inquiries. If you need special assistance or transportation to places not served by normal commercial channels, we suggest that you request such transportation through the Institute, rather than flying yourself in equipment of potentially dubious performance. If you prefer to be the pilot, the Institute will provide a flitter and a backup pilot.