Empire & Ecolitan

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  A technician eased into the intersection, holding a stunner, but checking the far side first.

  Thrummm.

  Thud.

  The real technician dropped into a heap without another sound, except for the muffled clunk of his weapon hitting the tiles.

  Beyond the junction, to the right, lay the maintenance lock that was his immediate goal. He slapped the glowing green stud, which blinked amber as the inner door opened.

  Three suits. He checked the air supplies and took the center one, belatedly remembering to touch the panel to close the lock behind him, violating two safety precautions simultaneously. After setting aside his equipment pouch and tool belt and extracting the remaining explosive cards, he fumbled forth the all-plastic arrow gun and set it aside also. With the quick motions he had practiced so often on Thalos, he donned the suit, double-checking each connection. Finally he secured the suit and adjusted the equipment belt and retrieved the cards and tool pouch. Two of the cards he placed against the thinnest plating on the inner wall of the station, nicking the detonator cube.

  Both broomsticks came out of their bulkhead brackets. He touched the red stud, which flashed. An alarm began to howl, although the hissing and sound loss told him that the lock pressure was dropping. As the outer-door iris widened, he slipped two more cards and a detonator into the plate interstices.

  The suddenness of stepping from the low grav of the lock into nullgrav off the hull plates brought his stomach up into his throat. He swallowed, wondering how much time remained. Again he remembered the procedures and chin-toggled the helmet communicator.

  He tethered one broomstick to his belt and brought the other broomstick to him and himself to it, awkwardly settling into the seat. Then he touched the squirters.

  “OpCon—emergency! Intruder, level three delta. Casualties.”

  Time? How much longer? Three delta? Who had that been? He corrected his drift to remain within elbow length of the station hull plates. Who?

  You, he answered.

  “ExOps, interrogative exterior maintenance this time.”

  “OpCon, that’s a negative.”

  “Open lock, four delta.”

  “That’s our bandit. Squad beta on target.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing but the regular exterior station lights and continuing to guide the broomstick toward the fusactor tether. He touched the arrow gun at his belt.

  “…friggin’ Fuards…their asses…”

  “Silence on the net. Silence on the net.”

  “OpCon…power…inter…say…surges…interrogative…”

  A faint smile crossed the suited man’s lips as he curved around the remaining quarter of the station’s southern end—only to catch sight of two figures in marauder suits broomsticking toward the fusactor.

  Marauder suits meant trouble. While he edged his own stick deeper into the hull shadows, he followed the Marines toward his and their destination. His left hand still trembling within the suit gauntlet, he left the arrow gun hooked to his belt. Against armor, he had to be closer, much closer.

  “OpCon on emergency power. All hands! All hands! SysCon red omega. Red omega!”

  Hades. This would be the last SysCon taken from within. If they could take it. Time? How much? He gave another touch to the squirters, closing more quickly on the Marines before him.

  “Bandits on the southland! Bandits on the southland, OpCon.”

  “Stet. Omega measures. Omega measures.”

  The blocky man in the maintenance suit fumbled with the arrow pistol. Before him, one of the marauder suits balanced a laser rifle. Unless he stopped the pair, they would stop Niklos and Keswen, and none of them would make it to the pickup. Unless they took out the station, the modified needleboat wouldn’t be able to make the pickup.

  Another squirt, and he could see the distance narrow. Almost close enough. He raised the pistol, squeezed the wide trigger.

  The first shot missed. At least nothing happened, and the plastic missile continued unseen into the darkness. He steadied himself and squeezed again.

  “Frig—”

  “Beta under fire.”

  One marauder broomstick veered. Stick and figure split and bounced separately and slowly against the station hull. The laser and power pack proceeded on a gradually diverging course, tumbling end over end toward the SysCon fusactor.

  The other broomstick and its rider turned.

  “Idiot,” murmured the man with the arrow pistol as he squeezed the trigger again.

  No sound—but the second Marine jerked as the plastic explosive blew open the front of his suit.

  Tasting sudden bile in his throat, the survivor guided himself past the faint mist and tumbling body and toward the fusactor tether, where he could make out two figures.

  He retrieved the green light/reflector square from the tool pouch, attached it to his shoulder, adjusted the position, and touched the stud to illuminate the light badge. He didn’t need his own team turning an arrow gun on him. The two others triggered their badges, the green lights winking from their shoulders as they continued to work on the base of the fusactor tether.

  That they were targeting separation meant real problems.

  “ExOps, OpCon. Interrogative status squad beta.”

  “Negative status. Negative status. Have dispatched follow-up squads.”

  He touched the controls for the broomstick’s forward squirters, coming to a near dead stop by the others. He gestured, not wanting to use the helmet comm.

  Keswen gave him a quick series of motions, indicating a lock problem and the need to cut off power to the station.

  The solo Ecolitan nodded and gestured toward the lock.

  Keswen shrugged and returned to working on the connectors.

  The single man touched the controls on the squirter, easing himself toward the bulbous end of the fusactor module, where he found that the standard entrance control plates had been replaced with an armored key and combination plate.

  For a long moment he studied the arrangement, reflecting that the changes did not extend from the plate area itself, which indicated the possibility that the underlying circuitry had not been replaced. With a half shrug, he went to the carryall pocket in the maintenance suit.

  Two squares, one cube, to begin with. He placed all three, nicked the cube, and climbed far enough around the bulb not to get punctured by the shrapnel from the explosion. The plates seemed to twist ever so slightly just before he put his feet down.

  He waited until he felt the slightest shudder in the plates under his boots.

  “Bandits! Detached the southland. Detached the southland.”

  “Friggers! Blast…”

  At least twenty broomsticks aimed toward the bottom end of the fusactor tether as he scrambled for the lock.

  Forcing himself not to hurry, and ignoring the dampness on his forehead, he carefully picked away the remaining shards of plastic and plate to uncover the exposed circuit lines. There were three, each of which he pulled from a shattered circuit bloc. He trimmed the ends to expose bare metal.

  He touched the black and red together. Nothing. The red and green. Nothing. Finally, the black and the green. The outer fusactor lock irised, jerkily. He staggered inside, dropping to one knee on his return to artificial gravity. On his feet, he slapped the interior controls to close the outer lock behind him. The inner lock door had no security combination, just a standard plate, which he pressed.

  He wasn’t supposed to be the one working the fusactor. That was Keswen, but Keswen was at the tether, and if—but Keswen wasn’t going to make it in time. He glanced over the standard control board arrangement, trying to recall the backup briefings at the Institute and, later, on Thalos.

  The bottle controls were in the third panel…was it from the right? They roughly matched the control layout. So he should count from the left. He stepped around the locked control board. Among the tools in his pouch was a long-bladed screwdriver. Two quick twists and the panel dr
opped off, bouncing off his suit boot.

  His forehead was sweaty and clammy all at once, and he wanted to wipe it, but the only option he had wearing a suit was to press his forehead against the helmet pad.

  “Ha—” He hadn’t even considered that the fusactor was pressurized, but it had to be. Off came the helmet and the gloves. After wiping his forehead and taking several deep breaths of the stale power-section air, he began methodically to check the connections. A series of increasing magnetic bottle constrictions—that was the goal—each one building up the residual force within the bottle.

  Three-quarters of the blocs uncovered were useless, clearly serving other functions. Attaching the program probe to one bloc, he pulsed it, leaning back to watch the power boards. There was a flicker on the output monitor. He pulsed it again. A larger flicker, a brief output drop before the return to normal. But the field size remained constant.

  “Hades…never said it would be this hard or take so long…” Outside, he knew, the Marines were wearing down Keswen and Niklos. Against twenty what could they do?

  He tried another bloc. Nothing. And another. Still no reaction. A fourth. The field strength monitor edged down.

  He took a deep breath before looking around the control room. Fine—except he hadn’t the faintest idea of how to program the parameters.

  His stomach felt like lead.

  “Carill…don’t want to do this…”

  Clank.

  He hadn’t locked the outer lock door.

  Clung.

  After scrambling over and around the control board, he threw himself into the lock and began to twist the manual locks into place.

  Clang…hummmm…buzz…

  “Hades…”

  The Marines were outside. He was inside, and unless…His heart was as cold as his guts as he walked back to the panel and the power probe.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about Carill. Don’t think about Shera…Jorje…

  Pulse bloc two. Adjust.

  Pulse bloc four. Constrict the field.

  Pulse…

  Constrict…

  Pulse…

  Constrict…

  XXXIV

  23 Decem 3646

  New Augusta

  Dear Mort:

  I’ll have to be quicker than I planned. First comes the good news. I was selected below zone for Admiral, and that means a boost to the Planning Staff. I’m looking forward to it, or think I am. With the situation out in your sector, I may not be as enthusiastic once I’ve moved and been briefed, although it’s likely to be another month or so at the earliest.

  There’s more of the bad news. The FC has definitely been scrubbed. We did put the CX out for review, costing, and tech evaluation. We didn’t lose totally, because a lot of the better features of the FC are incorporated in the CX, plus we’ve got the high-speed jump entry-exit thing licked—at least in theory. That ought to help a lot, if the Senate will approve it. The problem is we’d still be six, seven years away from deployment. What are we—you especially—supposed to do in the meantime?

  With all the Fuard efforts, some of the “colonies” that really aren’t colonies are trying to get actual independent-member status. Because of the higher imposts for colonies, the Senate hasn’t wanted to grant them actual independent status. The honorable Senators finally did act, though. They passed a law making it so punitive for any colony that they have to rebel.

  So a bunch have already started making noises—or worse. Worst is Accord—you know the place—combination free enterprise/ecological nut system out on the Parthanian Rift. The idiots took over their own orbit control station. No problem—except that there have been a few more Haversol-type “incidents” out there, and there’s no convenient repowering for a full battle group. The Fuards have been really rattling their sabers. Anyway, you can figure out the logistics of that one! None of the politicos understand why you can’t just dispatch a battle cruiser with a planetbuster. They also haven’t figured out how you get that far without SysCons to repower—or, if we actually succeeded, how you collect revenues from assorted dust and debris.

  The Social Dems, N’Trosia’s boys and girls, are screaming about our procurement budget again. They want to put the credits into programs “socially” more valuable. They claim all our spending hasn’t stopped the colony unrest or the Fuards. Forget about the difficulty of handling either one with inadequate and obsolete equipment. The worst part is that all of the rhetoric’s bound to have an impact. How can it not when he’s the Chairman of the Defense Committee?

  I’ve got to get back to the work screens, trying to get caught up before I go over to Planning. Sorry about the bitching to you, but you always were a good listener. I’ll try to keep you posted. My best to all four of you.

  Blaine

  XXXV

  THE THIN MAN in the pale green laboratory coat looked up at the two visitors. His mouth twitched as he glanced from one to the other, from the man—two meters tall, silver-haired, bronze-skinned, and with green eyes that seemed to cut like a scalpel—to the woman, perhaps one hundred and eighty-five centimeters, just as silver-haired and bronze-skinned, with eyes as cold as the snows of Southbreak.

  “Professor Stilsen, Ecolitans Whaler and Andruz. From the Institute. Ecolitan Andruz heads field training, and Ecolitan Whaler is in charge of applied ecologic management tactics.” The young man in field greens inclined his head, then stepped back and closed the door.

  “Field training and tactics…seem a far field from micro-genetic management,” offered Stilsen, looking at the hard copy beside his console.

  “Not so far as you might imagine, Doctor,” offered Jimjoy. He gestured at the console and the hard copy. “Even though I understand a little about your work, I still found it hard not to expect a traditional laboratory setting.”

  “I’m sure you have a great deal to do, Ecolitan.”

  “And you’d like to know why we’re here.” Jimjoy laughed not caring if the laugh was false. “Fair enough.” He glanced toward the small table and four chairs in the corner. Papers dribbled from an untidy stack in the center of the table. “Do you mind if we have a seat? While it won’t take too long, we can’t be quite that brief.”

  Thelina smiled, and her eyes warmed momentarily.

  “I understand. I apologize for the disarray. My colleagues kindly refer to it as creative chaos. Would you like anything to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” answered Thelina in a low voice.

  “No, thank you,” added Jimjoy. He pulled out a chair for Thelina.

  She raised her eyebrows, and her eyes raked over him.

  “Simple courtesy,” he said softly.

  Stilsen swept the papers which threatened to drift from the stack and onto the brown-and-orange braided rug into a separate pile. Then he pulled out a chair for himself, the one closest to his console. He glanced at the image on his console screen, almost regretfully, and sighed. “How may I help you?”

  Thelina glanced at Jimjoy.

  He pulled his chin. “According to your last quarterly report, you have demonstrated some considerable success in bacterial ‘parasitism’…and I’d be interested in learning how applicable that technology is.”

  “Applicable? Rather an odd choice of words, Ecolitan Whaler.”

  Jimjoy looked at Stilsen, levelly, directly.

  The Professor looked away almost immediately. Then he coughed and cleared his throat. “I have to assume you are referring to my success in slowing down bacterial reproduction patterns by decreasing the internal tolerance to self-generated toxins and waste products.”

  “I did read about that…but I was more interested in the other ones. About replication of parasitic borer characteristics in a wide range of pests…and I was also interested in your references to spread vector distribution.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  A faint smile crossed Thelina’s lips at the scientist’s response.

  “Ethical concerns, doctor?”


  “Partly, and partly…” Stilsen shrugged.

  Jimjoy swallowed. “What do you know about Accord’s current situation vis-à-vis the Empire?”

  Stilsen smiled almost apologetically. “More than I would like, Ecolitan. Even with the careful management of news on both sides, it is clear that some sort of hostilities are imminent.”

  “Hostilities have already broken out, Doctor. We have been forced to take over Accord orbit control and quarantine all Imperial Forces in the system. The Empire is gathering a task group and a reeducation team to deploy here.”

  “I don’t see how I can help…not in that time frame.”

  “I think we can buy some more time.” Jimjoy shrugged. “But we need to deliver a message to the Empire that we can destroy the ecology on any planet we choose.”

  “We’re not in that class, Ecolitan.” Stilsen’s voice was cold.

  “If we’re not, Doctor, or if we can’t get there hades-fired quick, then you and I and most of Accord will be dead before the end of next year.”

  The scientist glanced down at a brownish-black spot on the orange section of the braided rug. “Are you the new centurions, then?”

  Thelina looked baffled.

  Jimjoy shook his head slowly. “No. We cannot compel anything. Came to request your help. But to keep the Empire from totally annihilating us, we need to demonstrate that we can destroy a planetary ecology. We could build a planetbuster. That won’t work. Everyone knows that poor little Accord couldn’t build the fleets to deliver enough of them to matter.

  “Ecological war is another thing. People believe that a handful of little bugs can multiply and divide and destroy an entire food chain, whether it’s true or not. They will believe that Accord can do that—whether we can or not.”

  Stilsen shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. There are at least four of us who can do what you want. I’d rather do it willingly.”