Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He, as the most recently arrived technician, accessed a series of files, profiling physical examinations. The senior duty tech noted the screen coming on line, nodded, and returned his attention to the problem before him, the question of how to schedule the senior Commander performance review-board interviews within the operational and deployment requirements.

  The senior technician did not notice the subfile called up by the technician, nor the immediate split screen, since he was supervising from three cubicles away. Not that he really knew any of the horde of personnel technicians other than by their files and his reviews of their data-handling capabilities.

  The graying rating with the youngish face accessed another file, this time adding an item on various positions, subtracting others. He checked the cycle times, the times at which current masters would be updated with present file information. At that point, the changes would be relatively permanent.

  He returned the second file to storage, then called up five files consecutively, nodding minutely as he did, and as the supporting information was added to each.

  In time he returned to the tedious business of transferring and editing, satisfied that Commander Allen’s records now showed all his physical examinations as having been performed by the same physician in the same Intelligence clinic.

  That had been the hard part, reflected Jimjoy, finding a good Service physician at Headquarters who had recently died of sudden causes. But he had had three options—debriefing officers, dental officers, or medical officers. Finally he had located a medical officer, and, not surprisingly, the late Major Kelb had actually examined Commander Allen after one mission.

  Getting to the actual medical records had been the easy part, for him.

  The major difficulty had been finding the people to impersonate.

  He shrugged, touched the console again, and forced a frown.

  “System four beta inoperative.”

  He tapped another access code, and was rewarded with another set of files. He glanced around to see if the senior technician were nearby. But the senior tech remained locked in his own cubicle, still wrestling with the promotion board schedules.

  Jimjoy stood, eased back the swivel, and headed down the corridor toward the fresher facilities, leaving his dress beret beside the screen. Once around the first corner, he took the left-hand corridor back to the security desk, pulling another beret from beneath his belt.

  “Leaving a bit early, aren’t you?”

  “Not leaving,” he mumbled. “Beta four’s down. Need to get a debugger from Tech-Ops.”

  “Personally?”

  “Syndar says I have to explain personally. The authorization is on the screen.”

  The thin-faced Marine at the shielded console nodded sympatheticcally at the thought of one personnel technician’s having to explain how he had scrambled an entire system.

  “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. Let’s see your card.”

  Jimjoy handed over the plastic oblong.

  The guard checked the screen codes and inserted the card into the verifier.

  “Handprint.”

  The verifier, after a moment, flashed green. The Imperial Marine did not remark on the slight hesitation, which could not have been avoided, but handed back the card and touched the portal release, opening the barrier that separated the closed personnel section from the rest of the facility.

  “See you later. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ll need it.”

  Jimjoy nodded as he stepped through the portal, then continued his even pace until he was around the next corner, where he entered the public men’s fresher.

  Shortly, a heavyset Major of Supply waddled forth, proceeding toward the main security gate.

  The pair of Marines at the main gate, male and female, passed the Major with bored looks, logging the screen pass into the console and dismissing his average muddy looks and brown hair as soon as his waddling gait had carried him out of sight.

  XXXIII

  THE WHITE-HAIRED Commodore bustled down the corridor, the tightness of the tunic and trousers indicating either vanity or a recent weight gain. The gold sleeve slashes glittered, indicating a recent promotion, in contrast to the row of faded ribbons across a heavy chest.

  He passed a junior officer in exercise shorts and shirt, sweat streaming from his forehead, who stared at the sight of a Commodore in full-dress uniform hurrying through the Intelligence sector’s physical training and demonstration facilities.

  The Commodore felt the look and withered the unfortunate with a single steely glance, continuing his short quick steps until he arrived at the locked portal. His fingers proffered the entry card, danced over the console to enter a code, and presented a full handprint to the screen.

  Bleep.

  The portal irised open, and the senior officer hurried through, immediately turning left toward the combat simulation sector.

  The multiple-target simulator was behind the third portal on the right side.

  Taking a small plate from his belt, the Commodore deftly made two adjustments to the entry log console, then stepped through the portal. The small anteroom was empty, two chairs vacant for users who might have to wait their turn. Two additional closed portals confronted the older-looking officer.

  Without hesitation, he took the one on the left, and bounded up the two steps into the simulator control room.

  “What…Commodore? This—”

  Thrummm!

  Even before the young technician had collapsed over the console, the Commodore had reached her and pulled her and the swivel in which she had slumped away from the board.

  His fingers tapped three studs, and light flooded the simulator below and back up through the armaglass window. He tapped another stud and spoke into the directional cone. “Maintenance problem. The system seems to have dropped the lighting parameters. We should be able to bring the backup on line. Do you want to begin the sequence again, or to continue from where it broke?”

  “Hades! Can’t you techs ever run anything right?”

  The Commodore smiled a wintry smile through the one-way glass as he saw the man in the camouflage suit stand up in the far corner. Another man moved on the far side of the now large and empty room that had been filled with holographic projections not moments before.

  “We do our best, sir.” The Commodore paused, then continued. “While we’re getting back on line, there’s a Commodore Thrukma here. He says he needs a moment with Commander Allen, if one of you is Commander Allen.”

  “Thrukma? Never heard of him. What does he want?” The leaner and older man holstered the needler and turned toward the portal that would lead him back to the anteroom.

  “He says that you already know.”

  Commander Allen frowned, but said nothing as he palmed the portal release. “Be back in a minute, Forstmann. Try the sequence yourself.”

  The Commodore obliged by rekeying the holotrack and tapping the “resume” stud. Then he turned to the portal through which he had entered, his own needler in hand.

  Thring.

  Thud.

  The man who wore the name Thrukma on his tunic shook his head slowly as he looked at the body sprawled halfway through the portal.

  Commander Allen wore the same frown with which he had left the simulator. Not even the neat hole through his forehead had erased all the lines on his face.

  The Commodore checked the body, to ensure that the good Commander was as deceased as he looked, to slip several items into the Commander’s equipment belt, and to make the changes and adjustments to the two needlers.

  Then, moving quickly, he ran his fingers over the console. Next he dragged the body all the way into the control room before locking the control room portal behind him.

  Finally, he locked the portal into the simulator, making it difficult, if not impossible, for Lieutenant Forstmann to leave the simulator without outside assistance. That would ensure Forstmann raised no alarm until either so
meone finally broke into the simulator or the technician recovered.

  With a last look around, the Commodore palmed the portal to the main corridor, stepping outside. Without seeming to, he scanned the corridor and, seeing no one, made a final entry on the console portal controls, an entry that effectively locked them to all comers. While the tampering would be recorded under Commodore Thrukma’s name, the Commodore would long since have vanished by the time it mattered.

  The white-haired man turned from the portal and picked up his short steps toward the less secured section of the Intelligence physical training facility.

  With the same deft manipulations, he logged himself out of the secure section and into the regular training area.

  He began to bustle toward the main exit.

  “Commodore?”

  The voice came from a senior Commander, wearing, unfortunately, the Intelligence Service insignia on his collar.

  “Yes, Commander.” The Commodore’s voice was neutral, yet condescending at the same time.

  “I do not believe we have met, and your name is not posted to Headquarters…”

  “Thrukma, Commander. If you check the most recent listing, I believe you will find it. It’s spelled T-H-R-U-K-M-A. From Tierna, Fifth Fleet. Had the Alaric.”

  “Alaric? That the one—”

  “Exactly. The same one, for better or worse.” The Commodore’s dark gray eyes focused on the Commander. “And you, Commander Persnal, if I recall correctly, were the watch officer on the Challenger at Landrik.”

  A slow flush crept over the collar of the dark-haired Commander, and his jaw tightened.

  “Your pass, please, Commodore.”

  “Of course, Persnal. Of course. You always were a stickler for the rules, and I see you haven’t changed at all.” The Commodore flashed a purple oblong and nodded toward the main exit. “I believe the nearest verification console is there.”

  Persnal swallowed, but said nothing, standing well aside from the senior officer. The flush had subsided, and his sallow complexion had become even paler as he trailed the quick-stepping Commodore.

  Two Imperial Marines and a duty technician waited behind the shielded consoles, bored looks on all three faces.

  “Problems, Commander?”

  “Problems, Commodore?”

  The Marines had addressed the Commodore. The duty technician had addressed the Commander.

  “No,” answered the Commodore. “Just posted here, and the Commander does not know me personally. He has suggested, as ranking Intelligence officer, that I verify my clearance and identity.” The Commodore stepped up to the console and inserted the purple card, tapped in his codes, and presented his hand to the scanner.

  Bleep. The console flashed green, after an almost undetectable pause, and displayed an authorization code. All three ratings scanned it and nodded, virtually simultaneously.

  The Commander frowned, studied the screen, studied the Commodore, then checked the screen again.

  “Now,” suggested the Commodore, “how about verifying who you are?”

  “But…I’m the duty officer…”

  “I don’t know that…and I don’t think you look like the Major, I mean Commander Persnal who was…on the Challenger. So be a good officer and oblige me, Persnal.”

  The Commander looked at the suddenly blank-faced technician and the impassive Marines, then back at the Commodore. The flush returned to his face, but he extracted a purple card seemingly identical to the one that Commodore had proffered and placed it on the console, adding his own keycode and placing his hand on the scanner.

  Bleep.

  “Good,” noted the Commodore. “Good day, Commander. A pleasure to meet you again and to know you still regard the rules as paramount. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.” He palmed the portal release and stepped through, out into the afternoon sunshine.

  With a glance at the senior officer quarters, he stepped toward the transportation center, where the dispatch records would indicate that Commodore Thrukma had requisitioned a flitter for Central City.

  XXXIV

  THE NONDESCRIPT BROWNISH groundcar rolled into the parking area behind the visiting officers’ quarters, swinging carefully into an unnumbered and unreserved spot.

  After a delay of several minutes, Jimjoy stepped out, wearing the rumpled working ship blues of a Service Captain and carrying a ship bag. He locked the car and stepped away, scanning the area, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  The cubelike building before him, three stories tall, with its greenish-white permacrete finish, looked like a smaller-scale transplant from Alphane City. The few straggly trees between the parking area and the quarters had managed to hang on to a few handfuls of yellow-green leaves, and the yellowish dust collected around the permacrete walk from the groundcar parking area to the side entrance to the quarters.

  Nearer the building were the reserved spaces, only one of which was filled, with an official-looking black car with tinted windows.

  Jimjoy smiled. That one had to belong to the Security duty officer. He walked across the spaces, stepping aside as a small blue electric runabout darted toward him. He waved, then waited, as the runabout screeched to a halt.

  Another officer, female, also in ship blues, popped out of the runabout.

  “Off early, Freres?”

  “Off late. Been on since 2400.”

  “Ooooo. That sounds like you’ve had a few problems.” The solid and pale-skinned Lieutenant shook her head. Her lacquered hair scarcely moved.

  Jimjoy grimaced. He didn’t have to act. The jungle-flower perfume was overpowering. “Who hasn’t, these days?”

  “I know what you mean. It seems as though everything is happening. All at once. And the Intelligence types…something really has them unglued.”

  “Can’t believe that. Nothing upsets that bunch. Deep-space ice in their hearts.”

  “Not today. Why, Captain…well, I shouldn’t say, but they are really turning the base upside down…and they won’t say a word.”

  “Still don’t think it sounds like them.” He turned and matched her shorter strides as they headed for the quarters.

  “I suppose they’re human. Something must upset them, at least sometimes.” She tossed her head again, but the lacquered blond hair under her uniform cap still remained immobile. “And what about you? You up for something later?”

  He grinned widely.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “You know it’s not.”

  Jimjoy grinned even more widely.

  “You’re impossible!”

  “That’s entirely possible.” He swung the bag over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, I have been on my feet—”

  “For once.”

  “—since 2400 this morning. And to be up for anything, possible or impossible…”

  “You need some sleep. I know. All you do is sleep off duty.”

  “Not all.” He grinned again.

  “Let’s avoid that. If you actually manage to rouse yourself after obtaining whatever rest is necessary, and are interested in something besides the impossible, you might think about calling me later.” She entered the quarters before him.

  “Kkkkchewwww…” He sneezed from the combination of the perfume in the enclosed area and from the drifting yellow dust that swirled around them as the portal swished behind them.

  “Maybe you do need some rest.”

  “Just dust.”

  “Think about it, Freres.” She smiled warmly as she took the right-hand corridor away from him.

  “I will…after I get some rest.”

  Jimjoy admired her spunk, though not necessarily the solidity of either her figure or her makeup. Without the over-abundance of artificial fragrance, it would have been even nicer to chat with her.

  He took the left-hand corridor, heading around the corner toward his own small, but adequate, room.

  Although he had hoped for a bit more time be
fore the Intelligence community began turning over stones, in some ways he was surprised to have gotten as far as he had before the reaction had become obvious. The fact that it was obvious indicated that they had no real leads—yet.

  Still, he let his steps slow as he neared the room where he had spent the last several weeks, on and off.

  Quiet. Far too quiet.

  “Shoooo…”

  He turned and moved back around the corner, wearing the disappointed expression of a man who has suddenly remembered that he forgot something. He maintained that disappointed look as he marched back up the hall and out to the small groundcar.

  Knowing that his current official identity as the good Captain Dunstan Freres could come under scrutiny at any time, he had left only a few uniforms in the officers’ quarters, and a few real and a few spurious papers and documents supporting the identity of one Dunstan Freres.

  The additional funds supplied by the Institute had come in very useful in procuring the range of uniforms and accessories necessary to his plans. He’d been more than a little surprised at Thelina’s insistence on his accepting the funds.

  But he certainly trusted her judgment, at times perhaps more than his own.

  His steps clicked lightly on the pavement as he headed back toward the groundcar, hoping that Prullen had not seen him, although she probably wouldn’t have thought of his mere return to the car as anything more than a personal rejection—he hoped.

  It was almost time for him to surface at Intelligence Headquarters, assuming that his information packages had reached their intended destinations—the key media, the Admiral, and Commander Hersnik.

  The media would probably attempt to verify the noncritical sections first, and that would blast a few more orbits, and another Intelligence crew would likely end up nosing around trying to discover who had leaked certain classified material.