Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Listening for a moment at the door, he heard steps.

  “Silzir, get on with it. They’ve had their fun. Make a last sweep and collect whatever we’ve got. Lieutenant wants the place cleared.”

  Jimjoy stepped behind the door and waited.

  Thrum! Thrum!

  The senior Marine tech died before he saw Jimjoy. The other’s mouth opened.

  Thrum!

  The Special Operative laid the two technicians beside the other bodies. Four Impies and one female rebel. Back at the doorway, he could hear no other sounds close by. The former pumping control station sounded as it must have once before, with only the sounds of ventilation and lighting, scattered voices muffled by partitions and closed doors. The air seemed to thicken around him, and he put his head down and took a deep breath.

  At his end of the corridor, the only room he had not checked was the one behind the closed door directly across from him. With a quick study of the still-empty corridor and a shrug, he slipped across the few meters between the doors, pausing outside the closed room.

  He could hear two voices, both low-pitched, punctuated with silence.

  He eased the door opened, saw two sets of eyes widen at his strangeness.

  Wwwhhhsttt!

  Thrum! Thrum!

  Whhsstt!

  Jimjoy was already diving away from the path of the laser cutter that left a clean slice diagonally across the door—a door left quickly behind him as he dove sideways.

  Thrum!

  Abruptly, the room was silent except for Jimjoy’s heavy breathing, the only breathing in the room.

  The Special Operative’s eyes flashed across the gouged plastone flooring that bore the imprints of long-removed equipment. The laser rifle lay an arm’s length from the man who had trained it on him—belatedly.

  Jimjoy would have shaken his head, but he was still breathing too heavily as he moved back toward the slashed doorway, wondering how he had ever managed to avoid the laser, especially since he had heard the lethal weapon before he had fired, even before he had started to dive out of the way.

  His eyes lifted to the silent figure in the straight-backed chair.

  This time, he could not keep the contents of his stomach in place, could not avoid seeing in full the use to which the laser had been put by the dead Marine, before depositing the remnants of his last sustain bar on the gouged and already brownish tiles.

  The last blast from the laser, the one that had cut the white-haired rebel in two, had not been sufficient to destroy the evidence of selective dismemberment. What had saved Jimjoy had been the Marine’s need to refocus the laser. Even so, the dead Imperial Marine information specialist had nearly been quick enough to get Jimjoy.

  Information specialist—his stomach turned again. While he had recognized the obscure rating patch, he had not realized that the duties were quite so hands-on brutal. His missions had been clean by comparison.

  Jimjoy slumped back against the wall, forcing himself to take a series of measured breaths along with a short set of muscular readiness/relaxation exercises to put himself back together. His already dubious beliefs and his stomach were taking some severe punishment, and he hoped that he had a few moments before any more Marines showed up.

  After wiping his dripping forehead with his arm, smelling his own stink—part animal, part filth, and part fear—he tried to center his attention on the next job at hand, which had to be getting out in one piece with the two remaining rebels.

  “Hope—” He cut off the mumbled words. He had no time left for soliloquies, maybe not even for action.

  With a last deep breath, he edged up to the scored and sliced doorway. The footsteps he heard were getting fainter, as if a two-man patrol were heading to the end of the other corridor at right angles to where he stood. He went through the doorway as quickly as he could and down the corridor, trying to maintain the high-speed glide step that was supposed to be virtually silent. He could hear his own steps as a faint scuffle.

  Passing the room where he had left the woman and Kordel without a pause or checking at the closed door, he stopped short of the cross corridor and listened again.

  “…check…Silzir…ready to toss…”

  He nodded as he could hear the pair headed back his way. Dropping low, he hugged the edge of the wall just behind the counter and kept listening.

  “…Commander…pull out…bring…out…”

  “…casualties heavier…”

  “Not bad, not for just three squads and the battle cutter…”

  “Lucky, if you ask me.”

  “No luck. We get wiped, and the Commander rams a tachead in. So sorry.”

  While the conversation was getting more and more interesting, Jimjoy was running out of time. He dropped around the corner and fired.

  Thrum! Thrum!

  This time he dragged both bodies with him back to the closed door, which he opened from the side. He waited for the rebels to see the bodies.

  “That you?”

  “Dumb question,” he muttered, ducking and peering around the door at knee height. “All right, put down the stunners and drag these two in.”

  “Why?”

  “Do it.”

  Whether reacting to the sensibility in his voice or to the cold matter-of-factness, each rebel dragged a body inside. Jimjoy eased the door shut and began stripping off his bedraggled flight suit. He glanced over at the woman, whose eyes widened and who looked at the stunner she had laid down.

  “Forget it. If you want to get out of here, you’d better follow my example and find a uniform that halfway fits.”

  His eyes held hers for an instant, and he could see her face pale momentarily.

  “Yes. It’s that bad. Now move.”

  “And how bad is that, whatever your name is?” asked the man named Kordel.

  “Bad as you wish to believe, maybe worse. Three to five minutes, the remaining Marines will discover the trail of bodies. Quick HE charges, maybe a tachead, to take care of everything, including any of their own left behind. No more pump station, no more us.”

  “There is a way out…”

  “No. Came in that way. Couldn’t get far enough. Compression wave.” Jimjoy found that his conversation suffered while trying to keep his voice low and changing into the Marine uniform simultaneously. He had chosen a senior tech’s uniform, leaving the dead Captain untouched. Too many would know the Captain.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked as she pulled the Marine trousers over her legs.

  Jimjoy had not seen her shed her own trousers, but then his concentration had been on the closed door and his own problems in changing.

  “A former Imperial on the run. Did what worked. Not exactly what they wanted.”

  “So honorable yet.” Kordel’s voice was flat. He had begun to button the tunic, looser on him than Jimjoy would have liked, but they were running out of both time and luck.

  “Hardly. Didn’t happen to like unnecessary killing or killings for no real purpose. That and a few other things.”

  “You’re about halfway honest, then.” The brown-haired woman had a refreshing voice, and Jimjoy wished he could have spent more time listening. He folded back the Marine blouse in a standard tuck and reclaimed the beret.

  The woman shivered as she saw him in the uniform.

  “You look like you belong in it.”

  “I did…once. Ready?”

  “For what?”

  “To walk out to the outboard cargo flitter—the last one on the right-hand side. Keep the stunners holstered. If I yell ‘Run,’ follow me. Otherwise we march.” He shrugged. “No great battle plan, but it’s our only choice.”

  “At least we’ll be shot on our feet.”

  Jimjoy thought of the woman in the next room and the tortured and dead rebel leader across the corridor and nodded slowly.

  “The others?”

  “What’s your name?” Jimjoy asked as he put his hand on the door lever, ignoring her question.

 
“Luren. And yours?”

  “Wright. Jimjoy. Major. Ex. Special Operative.”

  He thought he could feel the chill settle behind him, but he touched the lever and eased the door open, stepping into the still-empty corridor.

  “March,” he said quietly. “Try to stay halfway in step with me, not like a parade, but as if your steps mean business.”

  He could hear another set of steps when they neared the corner of the corridor. He gauged the sounds, his hand withdrawing the latest stunner he had appropriated. One set of footsteps.

  “Tech—”

  Thrum!

  Almost without breaking stride, Jimjoy scooped up the falling figure and slid him around the corner and out of sight.

  The main portal lay straight ahead, with no sentries in sight on the inside. Those controlling the portal would be outside, weapons trained on the portal.

  With no one in sight, Jimjoy kept his steps quick and crisp, letting the old drill patterns take over while he sorted over the alternatives. He could tell from the orders he had overheard and from the desultory mop-up efforts, combined with the tail-end brutality, that the last step would be the total destruction of the former aqueduct control center, along with total destruction of its contents.

  No doubt Moran would claim the rebels had left a self-destruct system.

  The missing insignia on several Marine uniforms also told another story—one confirmed by the Marines’ action after taking the rebel base. One way or another, Moran had raided the disciplinary battalion for his strike force.

  Jimjoy straightened as he stepped toward the open inner portal.

  “Keep it moving!” he snapped. “Captain wants us out.” Kordel stumbled.

  “Gorski! Pick up your feet!” Jimjoy had noted the name on the uniform earlier.

  Luren looked more military than Kordel did as the two marched out through the outer portal, each side of which stood jammed three-quarters open. The air reeked of ashes and blistered metal.

  A single sentry stood ten meters away, laser rifle dangling negligently.

  “How many more?”

  “Captain’s finishing up with the woman.”

  “How’s he finishing up?”

  “Told us to leave. Kept Dieler there.” Jimjoy shrugged, keeping moving toward the troop carrier on the right. “Move it!” Jimjoy snapped again as he turned away and gestured toward the two rebels wearing the Imperial uniforms. “You might give some of them another call. Don’t know how long the Commander’s going to wait.”

  “He’ll wait…” But the sentry looked back toward the portal.

  All four troop carriers had the loading ramps down. None had guards outside, for which Jimjoy was glad. But then, the rebel base had supposedly been mopped up hours earlier.

  His boots touched the bottom of the ramp, and he turned back toward the pair behind him, as much to shield his face from the copilot as to check on Luren and Kordel.

  With a jerk, he turned back and covered the ramp in three quick strides.

  Ummh.

  The cargo-master fell to the stiffened hand without understanding what had hit him.

  Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!

  Ugh.

  Thud.

  Jimjoy shook himself, half coughing at the ozone from the stunner. Five more bodies sprawled around, from the pilot and copilot dangling in their harness to the single crew chief and the two Marines. More carnage, but he still hadn’t seen any alternative. He had to keep moving faster than the reactions of the Impies.

  “Get in here!”

  Luren’s face turned even paler as she surveyed the mess. Kordel turned greenish and swallowed—once, twice.

  “Isn’t there any other way?” asked the woman as she stood inside the cargo space, one hand on the back of a troop seat.

  “Not if you want to live. And I won’t even guarantee that yet.”

  Jimjoy began stripping the pilot from his harness.

  “Anyone else shows up…let them inside and stun them.”

  “Inside?”

  “Inside. Don’t need bodies falling out. Besides, we’ve got enough lift here.” Jimjoy eased the dead pilot from his seat and into the cargo space. He unlatched the copilot’s harness and repeated the process. Then he turned to the pair of rebels. “Strap in.”

  “Why?” Again it was Luren, her brown eyes hard upon him.

  Kordel stood waiting, still swallowing to control his stomach, his face alternating between unthinking blankness and thinking nausea.

  “Because we’re getting out of here.”

  “Where?”

  “Accord.” Jimjoy sighed. Luren wasn’t going anywhere unless he explained. He had no time to act, let alone explain, and he was having to do both. “Look. Unless all three of us get off New Kansaw, we’re dead. The only place to get off-planet is at the Imperial Base. So I intend to borrow a shuttle and lift for orbit station.”

  Luren shook her head. “That’s insane!”

  “Right,” agreed Jimjoy. “Absolutely. Do you want to cooperate? Or do you want to get out, get tortured, raped, or worse? Like the ones I was too late to save. Do what I say or get the hades out. Your choice.”

  Kordel shuddered, but said nothing.

  Luren locked eyes with Jimjoy, then dropped her gaze and reached for the crew-seat straps.

  “No. Up here. Take the helmet, and don’t touch anything.” He pointed to the copilot’s seat.

  The Special Operative checked the ramp mechanism to ensure that all the safeties were unlocked, then donned the pilot’s helmet and seated himself at the controls.

  “…three…do you read…do you read?”

  “Cutlass two, can you see three?”

  “That’s a negative…you want me to send someone over?”

  Jimjoy sighed. He had no idea what the pilot of Cutlass three had sounded like. But he needed to say something. He mumbled instead.

  “Three here…here…breaker problem…up in four…”

  “Gilberto…you always—”

  “Clear it, two. Interrogative up time, three. Interrogative up time.”

  “Stet. Up in four. Up in four.”

  Jimjoy rushed through the first part of the checklist, gesturing at Luren to complete strapping in, hoping that Kordel could at least get himself strapped down. He used the unapproved checklist used by Special Operatives to get a bird airborne in minimum time. With the carrier ready for instant light-off, he unplugged the helmet jacks and slipped from the pilot’s seat, heading toward the back of the combat carrier, looking for the emergency flare kit.

  There was no flare kit, but there was a squarish case.

  After twisting the seals off, he set to work, making the changes in one of the grenades, and clipping a small device to the side of the top one, and setting a timer loosely on top.

  As he carried the heavy case back through the cargo space, he glanced first at Kordel, then at Luren. She was looking back at the man, who stared blankly at the open ramp.

  Jimjoy set the case on the thruster console, then slipped back into the pilot’s seat, plugged in the helmet jacks, and let his fingers dance across the board, listening to the audio. He levered the case onto his lap, checking to ensure that there was room for him to use the stick.

  “Two. Gilberto back yet?”

  “He’s strapping in now, I think.”

  Jimjoy finished his preparations, sighed, and touched the studs.

  “Three up. Commencing power up. Commencing power up.”

  “Negative on power up, three. That is negative.”

  “‘Request power up. Losing aux system. Losing aux system.” Jimjoy intended to power up in any case, but talking about it might get him permission and would gain time.

  “That’s negative until strike team is fully returned. Negative this time.”

  Jimjoy brought the thrusters on line at eighty percent and started the ramp retraction sequence, not that anyone but the sentry could see the action. That had been one reason for choosing the outboard car
go flitter.

  “Gilberto! Shut down, or Nedos will have your hide.”

  “Stet. Will be shutting down. Need to break a shunt here.” Jimjoy brought all systems on line and released the rotor brakes.

  Thwop…thwop…thwop, thwop, thwop…

  “Gilberto, shut down! Merro, get your gunner trained on three.”

  Jimjoy poured turns to the rotors and began to lift, spraying ashes and dust over the three remaining carriers as the flitter rose into the late morning. The whine and roar through the open cockpit hatch window was almost deafening as he began to edge the flitter up and over toward Cutlass one, the command carrier.

  From the corner of his eye he could see a handful of figures streaming out from the shattered lock of the rebel base, but he ignored them as he locked the thruster lever in place with his knee and one-handedly levered the heavy grenade case toward the window, sucking in his stomach and barely keeping the carrier from pitching straight down into his target.

  The grenades were meant to be launched from a laser rifle with an adapter, but the fused timer should create about the same result. He hoped.

  “Merro. Once three clears, gun the flamer down. Must be Ferrill. Can’t be Gilberto.”

  “Ready to commence firing.”

  “Negative! Negative! He’ll drop on us.”

  Yanking the tab on the small detonator, he plastered it on the top grenade and levered the container out. Once both hands were free, he dropped the nose, fed full power into the thrusters and rotors, and began a sprint from the area.

  “Fire, Merro. Fire!”

  Crump! Crump!

  WHHUMMP!

  The troop carrier bucked twice with the shock wave, then settled down. Jimjoy did not look back at the greasy smoke that poured upward from the chaos behind him. He also ignored the smaller explosions that occurred when the fuel supplies of the three grounded flitters ignited.

  Now all he had to do was get landing clearance and steal a shuttle.

  Since the base always had a standby shuttle, finding the shuttle wouldn’t be the problem. Stealing it well might be. But then, what was another impossible problem?

  He glanced sideways at Luren, who refused to look at him, although she periodically glanced back at Kordel, who refused to look at either one of them.

  Jimjoy didn’t blame either one. Their chances were terrible and getting worse. But, as he had told her, there were no longer any alternatives. None. Moran would gladly destroy half the planet to get either Jimjoy or the remaining rebels, and Hersnik would be cheering him on.