Empire & Ecolitan (35 page)

“I'
D PREFER YOUR
permission,” stated the tall, silver-haired man.

“You have
my
permission and support, but not the Institute's. Right now the Board wouldn't support such an action.”

“Why not?”

“The Governor's on the Board.”

Jimjoy pulled at his chin. Nothing was straightforward. He paced around the end of the table, then back again. “That's the choke point. With the Haversol System Control gone, it would take the better part of six months to mount an attack. So long as it stays, they can have a squadron here in days.”

“They couldn't otherwise?”

“Oh, they could. But with no guarantee of power reserves…with no clear support trail…blocked by the Rift…there's not an admiral in the Service who would want to do that. Not with the Fuards looking for any weakness. Not with the Halstanis ready to use any Imperial military action as a lever to gain trade concessions from the other independents.”

“
If
what you say is right, what would keep the Empire from immediately associating the action with us?”

“We might have the best motive, but the ‘accident' would be staged not to have Accord's fingerprints. The Fuards would be as likely a set of suspects as anyone.” Jimjoy licked his lips, pursed them together, then waited.

“All the way out here?” The other's voice was amused.

“Right now they're everywhere.”

“That takes care of the military aspect, for a little while. But why won't they replace the station immediately?”

“Immediately means six or seven weeks—five tendays—”

“I understand both weeks and tendays.”

“—at the earliest. If nothing is happening elsewhere in Sector Five, and if they have a spare fusactor. That's what they need.”

“They couldn't just lift one from in-system?”

“No. Civilian systems aren't compatible without rework. It could be done, but it would probably take more time than bringing one halfway across the Empire.” The former Imperial Special Operative cleared his throat. “Then, if we could take out the five system control stations inward from there…”

“…you've effectively buffered us. Which is fine, except that there's limited political support.”

“I've been working on that, too.”

“The manifestos?”

“Some of them. Someone else seems to be publishing their own…and there's that new Freedom Now Party. They're so radical that mere independence seems conservative.”

The other man laughed softly.

“I thought so,” noted Jimjoy. “Is there anyone else?”

“No, but a number of us are using several other avenues.”

“Not enough people.”

“Not enough we can trust—at least until you take out orbit control. I assume that's the second step.”

“I need a team for that. Destruction's easy. Capture isn't. We need orbit control. Need it to act as if it were still Imperial under our control.”

“Buying time.”

“Exactly.”

“I can provide you with what you probably cannot obtain alone—for the first step. You may be on your own after that.”

Jimjoy looked into the shadowed eyes of the older man.

“You're telling me that if I act, you become the target.”

“Since you asked…yes.”

“After all you've done, I'm supposed to go ahead?”

“Do we have any choice? Really?”

Jimjoy stopped pacing. “What about Thelina? Can't she help?”

“She won't approve anything you do. Not now. Not anything that threatens me, even if it's for the long-term good. She has the resources to block you. She would. By the time you convinced her, we'd have a reeducation team here. She hates what you stand for, and you don't have time to change that.”

“I suppose not.”

“Gavin will get you what you need. Don't let anyone else know. You're having additional medical treatment.” His eyes twinkled.

Jimjoy nodded slowly. “Are you sure?”

“No. Are you?'

“No. I don't see any other alternative that will protect Accord.”

“Neither do I. Neither do I.”

“C
APTAIN
E
RLIN
W
HEILE
, Technical Specialist,” Jimjoy announced to the Imperial Marine at the military lock.

“Your orders, sir?”

Jimjoy handed over the folder to the Marine technician, along with the databloc that contained far more information than the folder. The folder was for people, the databloc for his ostensible destination's personnel control system—in more ways than officially intended.

“Have a seat over there, Captain.” The Marine handed back the orders and the cube and pointed to the black plastic seats through the gate to his left.

Buzz
. The gate opened to allow Jimjoy to enter.

“You're lucky,” added the Marine. “The next shuttle to SysCon will be locking in less than a standard hour.”

Jimjoy nodded politely. “Needed some luck after the transshipping…”

“Getting here isn't always easy.”

“Not from Demetris.” Once through the gate with his ship bag, Jimjoy hesitated briefly.

“You got all the luck, Captain.”

“Right.”

Jimjoy carried his baggage into the nearly empty waiting area. Both an older woman wearing the insignia of a medical tech and a young man in a general technician's uniform looked up. The medical tech immediately dropped her eyes from the chunky and aging junior officer to her portable console. The technician studied Jimjoy until Jimjoy caught his eyes and held them.

After a moment, the young tech looked away.

In turn, Jimjoy eased himself into one of the unyielding black plastic chairs, setting his ship bag at his feet.

The Council was going to be upset, very upset, when they discovered what he was doing, if they discovered. They hadn't seen an Imperial reeducation team. As for Thelina—he didn't want to think about that. She might not speak to him again, assuming he escaped from the mess he was about to create.

He shifted his weight on the hard seat, glancing over at the older technician, who was engaged in some activity with a pocket console—chess, redloc, or something more esoteric. She did not react to his scrutiny, but continued to touch the tiny keys with precise movements, far too quickly for chess, standard games, or data manipulation. If she were playing redloc at that speed, even against a pocket console's memory, she was good, very good.

The technician apprentice kept looking first at Jimjoy, then at the senior technician, and then down at the scuffed plastiles. His black hair barely covered his pale scalp, and the gray of his coverall, which retained its original creases, was still a distinct and recognizable color.

Jimjoy stretched and began to consider how he might have to modify his plans once on board the system control station. The theory was simple enough. The Empire would find it difficult, if not impossible, to maintain easy access to the systems leading to the Rift without at least some functioning system control stations for repowering and replenishment.

Since jump drives and functioning fusactors did not coexist—for more than milliseconds—system control stations became essential tools for conquest or control. They had the fusactors, the long-range lasers, and the overall fleet support ability. Removing the system control stations made invasions problematical and conquest impossibly expensive. Of course, removing an orbit control station wouldn't stop a cruiser with a sunburster or a planetbuster—just make it difficult. Besides, most of the time, destroying real estate eliminated the resources you needed to control in the first place.

He pulled at his chin, looking up as another Imperial technician, female and only a shade older than the recruit, plopped herself into one of the hard plastic seats midway between the two men.

“…friggin' screen jockey…cruddy bitch…”

Jimjoy took in the clear complexion and the angelic face with the less-than-heavenly language and stifled a grin, noting how the initially disgusted expression on the recruit's face was followed by a speculative look. The woman ignored both glances and bent down to yank her kit bag closer to her feet.

“SysCon shuttle now docking,” announced the overhead speakers.

Only the recruit stiffened. Jimjoy and the two women knew the delay before the process was completed, especially if cargo and equipment were involved.

Clunk
.

Wsssshhhhtttt
. The familiar sounds of docking and off-loading continued for a time.

“…glad to see some new faces…”

“Not like Vandagilt, you mean?…”

“…I could have
died
when I saw her there…”

Jimjoy smiled at the chatter of the two young Marines first off the shuttle. Behind them trooped a handful of technicians, most carrying full kits.

Cling
.

“Shuttle for SysCon now ready for boarding.”

Jimjoy straightened, but the young recruit was quicker, making it to the lock door even before the barrier had dropped away. The senior medical technician stowed her pocket screen and shook her head as she watched the youngster's haste. The physically attractive junior technician awkwardly hauled a bulging bag over her shoulder and followed Jimjoy.

No one else entered the shuttle.

Jimjoy looked around the windowless cabin with twenty utilitarian couches and strapped his kit into the locker under a couch.

“Prepare for departure for SysCon. Please strap in. Regulations require all passengers remain in their couches during the shuttle run. We anticipate locking at SysCon in less than two stans. Thank you.”

Jimjoy strapped in, then stretched out for whatever sleep he could get. He would be getting precious little of that after he reached SysCon. His eyes closed even before the shuttle had unlocked from Haversol orbit control.

“Approaching SysCon.”

He blinked, trying to reorient himself. Had he really slept almost two standard hours?

The medical technician was yawning as he looked her way. The recruit merely looked tired, and the other technician was still mumbling obscenities.

Clunk
.

“Locking complete.”

Jimjoy began to unstrap, thinking about his next steps.

To make an Empire work required standardization, and standardized equipment and installations led to standardized responses by standardized personnel. All of which made destruction easier. The technology, the patterns, and the weak points were always the same. Every SysCon station had the same in-depth defenses, with outlying sensors, remote lasers, and off-station patrol craft. All controls were centralized in the operations center.

Theoretically, the way to destroy a station's capability was to destroy the operations center. Unless you used planetbusters, or their equivalent, destroying the ops center meant suicide. Since he had decided against suicide on general principles, and since he had no planetbusters in his kit bag, he had developed an equivalent.

Cling
.

“Personnel may use the forward lock. Please exit in single file.”

Jimjoy retrieved his bag, letting the efficient-looking medical technician and the technician apprentice lead the way. The beautiful, if candid-tongued, technician rummaged through her oversized kit, looking for some last-minute item—like her orders or personnel databloc.

Swsssshhh
. The inner lock door irised open. Over the shoulders of the recruit and the medical technician, Jimjoy could see that the station lock was already open.

“Step up, please.”

Jimjoy eased forward as the medical technician dropped her kit back in front of the console and handed over her orders and databloc.

“Technician Meirosol?”

“Yes, Technician?”

“You're cleared to return to SysCon.”

“Thank you.”

“Next.”

Jimjoy waited while the sentry processed the recruit.

“Next.”

Jimjoy handed his orders and databloc to the sentry, a bored-looking woman seated behind a half-shielded console. Behind her, encased within a set of screens, sat a professionally intent Imperial Marine with a laser.

Jimjoy almost shook his head. The screens prevented use of projectile weapons, and the theory was that no one could get a laser power pack through the locks without triggering alarms. All true enough. But the kinetic velocity of an old-fashioned hand-thrown knife was below the threshold of the screens, and there was nothing to prevent an intruder from wearing ablative reflection thins under makeup to give himself the instants needed to disable both guards.

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.