Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  While there were plastic knives in his belt, he did not intend to use them, not unless the false nature of his orders was detected.

  “Captain Wheile?”

  “Yes, Technician?”

  “You are cleared to Inprocessing. Have you been on Haversol SysCon before?”

  “No.”

  “Take the corridor to the right. First hatch on the left…. Next.”

  Jimjoy picked up his orders and databloc, then his bag, and followed the directions he had been given, not that he needed them.

  He took a deep breath as he started toward the designated hatch. As always, but particularly after his time outdoors at the Institute, the air smelled more mechanical and oily than ever.

  Snnniffff…His nose was beginning to run, letting him know that it was displeased with the general atmosphere inside the system control station.

  Ummmmmm…Clearing his throat didn’t help. In any case, one way or another, he wouldn’t be on board terribly long. After another deep breath, he stepped into the personnel section.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  The personnel technician looked vaguely interested, in a polite way, in the overweight officer.

  “Wheile, Erlin, Technical Specialist, reporting as ordered.” He handed her the orders and the databloc.

  A puzzled look crossed her face as she looked at the orders, then back at him, then at the databloc. “Don’t recall any inposting on you, Captain.”

  Jimjoy sighed. “I certainly didn’t ask to be shuttled from Demetris.”

  “Demetris?”

  “Yes, Demetris.” Jimjoy’s voice took on a slightly irritated tone. “Back-to-back tours like this, after all these years…”

  “I understand, Captain, but…there’s no advance on you. Let me check.”

  “The databloc should show my posting.”

  The technician looked at the heavyset officer, then at the databloc, and shrugged. “That doesn’t—”

  “At least check it—make sure I’m real.”

  The woman smiled faintly as she took the databloc and inserted it into the scanner. She waited.

  Jimjoy could see the green light flick on from its reflection on her badge.

  “It says you’re real, Captain, but that still doesn’t tell us what we’re supposed to do with you.”

  “Wonderful. So what do I do? Get back on the shuttle? Return to Demetris and tell the Admiral it was all a mistake? Or will they say there’s no place for me there, either?”

  The technician looked apologetic. “These things do happen, Captain. Much as we try to avoid them, sometimes personnel on Alphane fouls up.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “I’ll book you into the transient officers’ quarters for the moment. We’ll process what we can and request your inposting. Have a good meal and some sleep, and check back in tomorrow morning.”

  Jimjoy shrugged. “Anything else I can do?”

  “Not really, Captain.”

  “So…point me in the right direction…would you?”

  “Third level north, second spoke. We’re on the mid-level, just inside the first spoke…”

  Arcane as the directions sounded, Jimjoy understood them. He nodded.

  “Here’s your temporary badge, Captain. It’s good for everywhere except comm and ops.” The technician handed him the coded square bearing the resemblance of his present appearance. “It’s coded to your stateroom…number three delta.”

  “The proverbial closet, I take it?”

  “A bit larger, sir.”

  Jimjoy clipped the badge to his tunic, then hoisted his bag. “Thank you.” He turned away, then turned back. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Around 0900. There’s no reason to get here earlier.”

  He turned back toward the hatch and started for the transient officers’ quarters, trying to bring a hint of a waddle into his walk.

  “Technician Smerglia…?”

  Since he had managed to get the databloc read by the station personnel system, he had less than two standard hours to get ready. The bag over his shoulder, he continued toward the access shaft that would lead to the north, or upper, side of the station. Even with his waddle walk, it didn’t take him more than five standard minutes to arrive at his temporary quarters.

  Three delta made a closet look spacious, reflected the Ecolitan. Just a bunk with a reading light, a narrow hanging closet, and a locker under the bunk. He shook his head as he slid the doorway shut behind him.

  Clunk…He shook his head again as he edged the bag inside the sliding door it had not cleared. “Not even enough space to get the kit inside.”

  With a sigh louder than he felt, he slid the doorway shut and levered the bag onto the bunk, looking around the closet stateroom. Despite the standardization of the system control stations, some provided small consoles for visiting officers. He had not been provided with one, which meant a little more work in finding a vacant console where no one would complain.

  In quick motions, he shoveled out the uniforms and clothing and placed them in the open locker—except for a standard shipsuit, which he draped over a hook in the narrow closet. The two belts he laid aside, as well as the toiletries kit and the spare pair of boots.

  The bag empty, he flexed its fabric side, half twisting, until the seam opened. Removing the plastic stiffeners one at a time, he stacked them on the bunk. Then he repeated the process with the bottom. The stiffeners on the bottom were noticeably thicker and went into a second pile.

  Off came his boots and the undress travel uniform. The uniform went into the locker, and on went the shipsuit. He placed the stiffeners in the pockets where they temporarily belonged. Next he reclaimed the small plastic-composite tools from the bootheels, before separating out a dozen centimeter-square cubes from the remainder of the heels. One he set aside. The rest and the tools went into the shipsuit’s belt pouch. Finally, he put on the real boots and transferred insignia and badges from the travel uniform.

  After a last look around the cubicle, he picked up the small black cube and placed it within the pile of clothes he had never worn, nor intended to. Although he could have worn them, doing so would have been mentally and physically uncomfortable, especially around stray voltages or eddy currents.

  He opened the sliding door and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him. A junior officer had just passed, heading back toward the shafts leading up or down station.

  He followed the woman, since the station library was usually somewhere off the main deck. No one gave him even a passing glance during the transit of three decks and a quarter spoke.

  The library was empty, except for one duty technician.

  “New here,” he explained to the young technician, who looked blankly at him. “Arrived before all of the inposting materials. So…personnel suggested I come here and spend some time learning about the station. Is there a standard information package?”

  “Sure, Captain, but you don’t need to—oh—”

  Jimjoy nodded. “Right. The woman I’m replacing hasn’t left yet. So I’m stuck in one of the TOQ closets. No console, no access…”

  The technician shook his head sympathetically, then ran his hand over short, stubbly red hair. “We don’t have much privacy, sir. Just the three terminals there.” He pointed to three utilitarian gray consoles on the wall.

  “No problem. Better than my present closet.” Jimjoy offered his badge.

  “Don’t need that, sir. Those are open access, the control is right here.”

  “Oh…fine…” The Ecolitan tried to sound bored. “Any special codes to call up the briefing package?”

  “No, sir. We’re all plain language here, not like the older stations. Just ask what you need.”

  “Thank you.” He waddled toward the group of consoles.

  “Take either of those on the left, sir. The keys stick on the right one.”

  “Thanks,” grunted Jimjoy as he sat before the console, studying the setup and waiting fo
r the technician to unblock access.

  He almost nodded when he saw the standard databloc access port. Although it wasn’t needed here, the Empire hated to make differing console models. He could have inputted his commands from memory, but that would have taken longer, and there was always the chance that he would key something wrong.

  The screen swirled, and the face of a pleasant-looking woman appeared. “I’m LISA—Library Information System Applications. What would you like to know? You may use the menu or request other information directly by using the keyboard.”

  Jimjoy tapped the keys, adjusting the volume downward and calling up the standard systems orientation.

  “This is Haversol System Control Station. Located three point eight standard A.U. from Haversol primary, it has been in operation in its present configuration for thirty-five standard years…”

  The screen displayed a three-dimensional cutaway of the station.

  As it did so, Jimjoy palmed a databloc from his thigh pouch and slipped it into the almost dusty scanner slot.

  “…powered by a fusactor class three, with class two screen capabilities…including a full aquatic exercise facility on the main deck…”

  Now that the technician was back into whatever clandestine viewing he had interrupted to help Jimjoy, the Ecolitan smiled ruefully and touched the keys, calling up the second screen momentarily.

  “Read data A…enscore…delay twenty sm…ex-score…”

  “Accepted.”

  Then he flicked back to the briefing, using the time to locate and reconfirm the locations of his next targets. Whether or not he made it through, he’d left behind, where Thelina and Mardian would find it, an outline of the strategy he’d employed. He hadn’t liked leaving a data trail, but he owed her that much, since he hadn’t dared to brief them, and they probably wouldn’t be all that happy about his “borrowing” the beefed-up needleboat.

  He checked the time, then forced himself to wait through another series of briefing bits until he was certain that his departure wouldn’t be viewed as too abrupt. He left the databloc in the scanner. It would take care of itself in another standard hour or so, or sooner if anyone tried to remove it.

  Finally, he stood up.

  “That’s about all I can take for now.”

  “Huhh?” The technician looked up so guiltily that Jimjoy had a hard time smothering a smile.

  “That’s about all I can take for now,” he repeated.

  “Pretty boring, sir?”

  “I’ve seen supply manuals more interesting,” admitted the pseudo-supply technical specialist.

  The technician nodded.

  “But I’ll probably be back later to see the rest.”

  “All right, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  But the technician had already returned to whatever he had called up on his own screen.

  Jimjoy waddled back to his closet, aware that he was right on schedule, as if he were heading back just before the first mess, when transients were expected in the wardroom. The door to his stateroom/closet opened to his badge, more easily this time.

  Once inside, he stripped to the waist and pulled out the bottle of “fragrance.” Off came the spare tire around the middle, which he then let resume its prearranged shape as a small datacase. The flat stiffener cards from his kit bag went into the equipment belt.

  He reached over and nicked the corner of the black cube in the pile of clothes that were not clothes, and then stepped into the corridor carrying the datacase.

  Three corridors, five salutes, and two changes of directions later, he placed the datacase into the proper fire control recess next to a heavily armored conduit. After checking the cubic detonator, he twisted the corner. Too bad he couldn’t place the charge exactly where he wanted, but when the time came, it would create a large enough hole along one set of command/control axes to compound the confusion, not to mention the loss of atmosphere.

  Jimjoy continued onward, glancing at the corridor lights—still glowing steadily. The ventilators pumped forth in their regular rhythm the same oily air that he had disliked for years, recirculating it through the kays of vents and filters and scrubbers.

  With almost a sigh, he extended a card toward the air-lock access scanner.

  Click…

  The lock opened nearly in his face.

  “You’re not—”

  Jimjoy’s hands flashed, and the technician crumpled into meat and cloth. Jimjoy grabbed the dead man’s badge from his tunic and, taking advantage of the opportunity presented, placed the badge into the scanner, tapping in a series of maintenance codes.

  “Cleared for exterior maintenance,” flashed the minute screen above the scanner.

  Even as the screen finished, the Ecolitan dragged the dead figure into the lock with him. Although he might have wished for marauder-type space armor, the old general-purpose baggy would have to do. It did have the belt for his tools and the flat plastic squares. And, initially, he would be less conspicuous.

  Once the helmet was in place, he slipped the first prepared card into the lock scanner. The light winked green. Jimjoy retrieved the card and tabbed the outer lock release, holding himself in place while the air puffed from the lock. Then he slapped the flat plastic against the thinner bulkhead membrane beside the hatch framing, breaking the seal on the thumb-sized detonator. He repeated the process on the outer wall. One down, and a minimum of twenty more to go.

  The broomstick came out of its brackets without even a hitch. Fuel? Three-quarters—enough for the moment.

  The interior lock lights, dim red for vision adjustment purposes, continued to provide steady illumination. The Ecolitan shook his head, wondering how effectively the virus would be able to infect the SysCon operations net. A gentle push-off with his booted feet carried him and the broomstick away from the station’s hull, but toward the northern end. The air lock’s outer door winked shut as the automatics triggered.

  A silent burst from the front squirter slowed the stick to a slow walk as Jimjoy aimed himself toward the next lock and its lights.

  “ExOps, this is OpCon. Interrogative maintenance from alpha center. Interrogative maintenance from alpha center.”

  Jimjoy winced inside the suit, taking in the approaching lock lights. They shed an unblinking light.

  “OpCon, ExOps. Negative on scheduled maintenance this time. Negative on scheduled maintenance this time. Interrogative your last.”

  Cluck…The vibration as the stick grazed the station hull translated into sound inside his helmet. He triggered the lock and waited until the outer hatch irised open. Inside, he slapped another plastic square in place and triggered the detonator. After repeating the process on the outer bulkhead, he pushed off again. Two down.

  “ExOps, OpCon. Lock sequencing indicates external operations ongoing this time. Interrogative source.”

  “OpCon, will check master log.”

  “Stet, ExOps.”

  The lock lights continued unblinking. Jimjoy passed the next lock without stopping, angling across to the second spoke. He’d hoped for a bit less time before the virus struck, and a more lethargic reaction from the station crew.

  Clunk…

  The third air lock was an emergency lock, as were most of the spoke locks, and Jimjoy had to practice contortions to place the charges. Another push-off, and he was headed back inward toward an equipment lock on the main frame between spokes two and three, northside.

  “ExOps, we have a lock entry spaceside on lock epsilon three gamma.”

  “Stet, OpCon. We are sending a recon team.”

  “ExOps, transfer Sigma Charlie. Transfer Sigma Charlie.” The comm frequency turned into a flat hiss.

  Scrambled communications meant someone was beginning to take things seriously. Jimjoy glanced around, calculating where the recon team would appear. ExOps was southside, about spoke four. And the damned lights still burned steadily.

  Clunk…

  No one was near the big equipment lock,
even after the double-sized hatch irised open. This time Jimjoy slapped three separate charges into place—on both exterior and interior bulkheads—before kicking free.

  The broomstick crept around the edge of the main hull, within an arm’s length of the composite plating. Now that the station was at least partly alerted, the last thing he needed was a radar or EDI reading.

  A glint of light off armaglass caught his attention, up near the southern tip of the station. Jimjoy calculated, then angled his broomstick more directly southside.

  Clunk…

  The secondary supply lock was vacant—as it always was except in emergencies. The Ecolitan slapped six more charges in place—three interior and three exterior—and triggered them.

  “OpCon, snowman on delta—”

  Jimjoy smiled at the broken transmission as he pushed away. Someone had touched the wrong control, then caught on.

  He angled past the heat transfer plates marking mid-station and onto the southern side, still less than an arm’s length away from the exterior plating. Balancing on the broomstick, he retrieved another charge from the almost depleted supply in the pouch. With a quick motion, he pressed it against the station plates, then used the squirter to keep him close to the hull.

  The idea had been to create enough chaos so that his entry into first the fusactor and then, if possible, the weapons storage bays in the armory would not be noticed. Once the security system was immobilized, or at least so erratic that no one in operations could believe it, and with the two dozen major leaks and half-dozen jammed air locks, the maintenance crews would have their hands full. Except that nothing had happened yet.

  “Blowout! Section two delta! Blowout in two delta!”

  Jimjoy eased the broomstick even closer to the hull in reaction to a pair riding their own sticks a quarter diameter away. They passed behind a stub spoke, number four, apparently without seeing him.

  “Blowout! Section three. Lock jammed…”

  The Ecolitan nodded, wishing that the main power system bugs had taken hold. He glanced over his shoulder.