Empire & Ecolitan (45 page)

“O
F THOSE WHO
claim the Empire is necessary for survival, ask for whose survival—ours or the Empire's.

“Of those who assert that Imperial unity is necessary to prevent rebellions and wars, ask why the number of wars and rebellions remains constant century after century—even as the Empire has grown mightier and mightier.

“Of those who declare that the Empire is necessary for the wise allocation of resources, ask how allocation is possible when the cost of transport between systems makes it infeasible for all but the most precious of goods.

“Of those who fear aliens hidden in the stars, ask why the Empire has enslaved those few found with less effort than ruling us.

“Of those claiming peace as the reason for Empire, ask why the Empire maintains the mightiest fleets and forces of all time.

“Of those who claim the Empire promotes free movement of peoples, ask why the Empire conquers and enslaves those who would leave peacefully.”

Query I

Manifesto series

Circa 3640 O.E.E.

H
E GLANCED TOWARD
the small room's privacy lock, a small brass device on the narrow and golden plastic door. The Ecolitans hated plastic, but carrying wood to an off-planet station just wasn't practical—not to Thalos, and especially not to one of the smaller outspace research stations.

“What are you thinking about?” She lay next to him on the narrow bunk, her left hand massaging his too-tight shoulders, her strong fingers working across his bare skin.

“You.” He wanted to stretch. At the same time, he did not want to move away from the silkiness of her skin against his. With her beside him, the gray moon-rock walls seemed immaterial. They could have been back on Accord.

“Besides that…”

“You…yesterday…when you got here…and my heart…and I couldn't say anything.” He edged closer to her, drawing in the scent of trilia.

“You've come a long way. But besides me…what are you thinking? There's a corner of your mind somewhere else.” Her hand stopped, then traced a line from his shoulder to the back of his neck.

Jimjoy shivered, not saying anything, not really wanting to speak.

Thelina's hand rested lightly on his right shoulder.

Finally he stretched, shrugging his shoulders but letting himself drop back against her, hoping she would nibble his ear, or something equally pleasant. “What else is there as important as you?”

“You
are
planning a revolution…when you're not thinking licentious thoughts.” The warmth of her words tingled his neck.

He took a breath. “Try not to think about it sometimes. We're asking a lot…maybe far too much…trying to outtrain the Impies without enough time.”

Her hands kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck. “They did well with orbit control.”

“Not bad. But that was close to home. We had all the advantages, and we knew everyone's habits and schedules. We still lost one person and had three other casualties. That's a lot…under the circumstances.” He leaned back against her, savoring the feel of her skin, her uncovered breasts against his back.

“You're too tight. Roll over.” She pushed him away as he started to pull toward her, to move between her long legs. “The other way—onto your stomach.”

He sighed, louder than necessary, then took another breath, trying to relax with her warm legs straddling his, trying to enjoy her fingers probing and releasing the tightness in his lower back.

“You worry…about the SysCon expeditions?”

“Be a damned fool not to. Somewhere…someone…taken precautions…don't know what they are…pickups…problem…”

“What about the more experienced ones?”

“Geoff? Analitta? Kerin?” He grunted and stopped talking as her hands dropped to the backs of his legs.

“If you don't keep talking, I won't keep massaging.”

“And then…?” He made the question as suggestive as possible.

“I'll leave and inspect something else. This was
supposed
to be an inspection tour…Professor.” She leaned down and kissed his neck.

He shivered as her breasts brushed his bare back.

“The experienced ones…” she prompted.

“The way you do that…experience…” he gasped.

“That's not what we were talking about.” Her laugh was gentle. “What happened?”

“…made them…draw straws…couldn't risk them all…tried to persuade Kerin and Geoff not to go…small children…turned me down…”

“You're going to let them?”

He sighed again, withdrawing from the pleasure of her hands at her question. “Couldn't stop them. They made a scene. I rigged it the best I could, but they insisted—Geoff and Kerin did. Yelled about how I couldn't do everything dangerous. Palmed Kerin's straw—don't tell her! Geoff grabbed before I could do anything. Insisted I needed some experience on the Fonderal mission, since it was the last one.”

“Too many observers?” She leaned away from him, her back erect, moving beside his thighs, balancing on the narrow space between his legs and the edge of the bunk.

Jimjoy nodded, half turning toward her, feeling his eyes widen as he saw her body. “Too much observation for me…” His hands were greedy as he reached for her.

Thelina only put out her hands to his shoulders to break her fall toward him, and only for an instant before she drew his face and lips to hers.

T
O THE RIGHT
—that was what the map in his head said. But a map wasn't like
knowing
it. The broad-shouldered man in the counterfeit uniform needed to place the next charge by the connector lines servicing the recycling system.

The corridor was dim, especially for someone accustomed to field work planetside, and no short-term intensive training would change that. Gray steel and plastics of all shades, the corridor smelled of oil, sweat, and ozone.

His boots clicked faintly on the hard plastic underfoot, plastic that had lost its resilience years earlier. Only the minute fluctuations of his weight told him that his time was getting short.

How had anyone done it? Especially single-handedly.

He picked up the pace, then slowed as an officer emerged from the corridor junction in front of him.

“You! Technician! Your badge isn't current.”

“Sir?”

“You don't belong on this level.” The officer had a stunner in his hands, aimed squarely at him. “Move,
Technician
.”

The blocky man shrugged. “What can I say, sir? These new rigs…this new badge, that new badge…what difference does it make?”

“Your section chief will think it does. So will you after a week in confinement.” The officer gestured with the hand not holding the stunner, which remained trained squarely on the technician. “Past me and up the lift.”

“There's no lift that way, sir.” He knew that from the drills, as well as from the hidden challenge tests. “Do you want me to take the right branch or go back?” He kept moving slowly ahead, but as though he were still trying to follow the impossible instructions and avoid the stunner.

How much time? The Imperials were getting edgy, too security-conscious.

“That's right.” The officer gestured again. “Who's your section chief?”

Thud

Thrummm
.

The stocky man blocked a scream—his own—at the line of pain searing the edge of his shoulder. The Imperial officer lay in the intersection of the two lower-level corridors, his neck at a disjointed angle.

He scooped up the stunner from the gray plastic floor tiles with his good right hand, trying to flex the fingers of his left as he did so.

Time! So little left. He forced himself into the junction, checking both directions. Momentarily clear. Only the next charge was critical before he could break off and meet the rest of the team. He began to trot, fast enough to cover the remaining few hundred meters quickly, slowly enough that he might not seem too out of place. Total secrecy was out anyway. And the badge business had to be a reaction to Haversol.

Whhhp…thewwwp…whhhp
…

At the next junction he slowed, bringing the stunner up.

Thrum
.

Another officer toppled. The blocky man jumped the body, landing awkwardly and off-balance, mainly on his right foot.

One more turn, and the proper piping/angle configuration appeared. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that the corridor remained clear—for the moment. He laid down the stunner. One, two, three flat cards went into place. He pressed a small cube on the outermost and nicked the corner off, taking longer than he should because of the shaking in the fingers of his left hand.

After retrieving the stunner, he turned and scanned the main corridor. Still clear. He could make the fingers on his left hand work, but their control wasn't going to be very good for fine work for a while. He picked up his steps until he reached the next junction, where he slowed, easing the stunner up at the sound of boots, and holding back from the intersection.

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 dropped 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…