Empire & Ecolitan (5 page)

The others?

The second man and his female companion were sprawled facedown against the table, while a set of cubes sputtered and sparked on the floor under the table. The second woman edged away from the table, as if the cubes were about to explode.

Jimjoy wanted to touch his injured arm, but just looked down at the narrow slit in his sleeve as he slipped away from his table. He tried to implement the relaxation techniques he had learned years earlier as he moved. His concentration was unequal to the task, and besides, he needed to finish getting out of the way before someone focused on him rather than on the devastation he had inadvertently created.

“Screamers!”

WWHHHEEEEeeeeeee
!

Belatedly, the saloon alarm had gone off, and two blocky men carrying riot sticks and tangleweb guns burst through the tables to level their equipment at the table where the four agents had been.

Jimjoy eased himself into a vacant stool at the long bar.

The woman with the fake red hair had disappeared, but the riot police grabbed the man with the injured arms from a corner table after gestures from several patrons and a nod from the bartender.

“See that?” asked the man on the adjoining stool. “Weren't you sitting there?”

“Next table. Place exploded when I got up.” Jimjoy shook his head. “Needed to use the facilities. Just lost my samburg steak.”

“Didn't miss much. Should have ordered the grilled colpork. What happened anyway? They say anything?”

Jimjoy ignored half the questions.

“Thanks for the tip on the steak. She doesn't find me, and I'll have the colpork instead.”

The Imperial Special Operative shook his head again, doing his best to look confused, which wasn't difficult, since he was anyway. He still couldn't understand how the Fuards had found him so quickly. Or been able to arrange the table next to him on such short notice.

“Buster…you ordered samburg?”

Jimjoy repressed a rueful smile at the efficiency of the tired-looking waitress, who didn't wait for his reply to start setting his order on the bar.

“That's fine. No way I'm going back there.”

“Can't say I blame you…Say, you're bleeding…What happened?”

“Flame!” Jimjoy looked at his arm. He could see some blood, and the tunic sleeve was darker above the cut on his upper arm. The wound still burned. “Must have been cut by all the flying glass.” He eased the fabric away from the skin. From what he could see, the wound looked like a combination between a razor knife cut and a tangler burn, but was little more than skin deep. It would probably leave a bruise covering most of his upper arm within a few days.

“Just a cut. Got some spray?”

“Cost you…”

“If it's just a few creds, fine. Otherwise, I'll just bleed until I finish eating.”

“Five credits.”

“Spray it.”

“Cryl, spray here.” The waitress's voice was low, but carried to the bartender.

Jimjoy realized that the saloon had quieted as the two men with the riot gear had been joined by three other men in dark black uniforms.

The waitress took the thin can from the bartender and sprayed the heal/seal solution through the slit sleeve and right over the threads of blood running down his arm. Jimjoy bit his tongue to repress a shudder at the pain. Definitely a nerve scrambler of some sort.

“So what happened?” asked the waitress in the same low voice.

Jimjoy did not look back over his shoulder at the methodical cleanup he knew had to be going on, but anticipated a tap on the shoulder at any second. He took a bite of the samburg steak, managing to choke it down. Colpork couldn't have been any worse. He looked for the El Parma and swallowed more than he should have. Between a steak that made sawdust taste good and the bruise and burning in his arm, not to mention his being a target for who knew how many agents, things were definitely headed downhill, if not farther.

He managed to clear his throat and recall the woman's question.

“Oh…hadesfire if I know. Got up…to use the facilities, and the big guy grabbed at my table. Then there was water everywhere. Somebody screamed, and the guy let go of me…ducked away…”

“All right…cart them off…” The voice of one of the men in the dark uniforms stilled the room.

Jimjoy realized that the local authorities had not attempted more than a perfunctory questioning of the people at the few adjoining tables, and were basically just cleaning up the mess.

The two blocky men tossed the two bodies on a stretcher which was quickly covered with a stained gray cloth. One of the dark-uniformed men escorted out the man with the injured arms. And no one even looked for the missing redhead.

“…swear there were four there…” he muttered, trying to see if the waitress would comment.

“One of the women's gone. Havvies don't care…so long as types like that don't cause more trouble…”

“Don't care?”

“How could they? You want to be a target of every system's sneaks?” With that, the waitress was gone, heading for the table where the four agents had been sitting. She picked up a battered pitcher from beside the table and handed it contemptuously to the youth in the singlesuit who was cleaning up the rest of the mess around the table, waiting for the two Havvies to finish.

“…water…who threw it…”

Jimjoy had seen the pitcher, had felt the water. But who had thrown it? And why?

His forehead furrowed as he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the area. The table where the silver-haired woman and her two companions had been sitting was vacant, without a water pitcher. More interesting was the service station next to the table, without any water pitchers either.

The remaining two uniformed men were gingerly collecting the two fused cubes of metal. They ignored a second battered water pitcher on the floor.

He returned his glance to the plate in front of him.

“…be even worse if you don't eat it warm,” offered the talkative man.

“Thanks,” mumbled Jimjoy as he took a mouthful, though he failed to see how the samburg could be any worse cold.

The threesome had been the only ones close enough to have reached the water pitchers, but why had they bothered? Were they somehow tracking the Fuards?

He shook his head again as he methodically chewed the so-called steak. The advice had been correct. The cooler the samburg got, the more it tasted like oily sawdust, as opposed to hot sawdust.

The two Haversol officials completed their cleanup, scooped up their equipment, and left. The waitress and the busboy finished resetting the table, and the green-haired hostess showed a threesome to the smeared tabletop.

The conversations around the room returned to normal chaotic volume, as if the scene had happened before and would again.

Jimjoy was becoming more aware, minute by minute, of his aching right arm. Within another hour, it would be virtually useless for at least a day. And that meant he would have to be even more careful when returning to his room. At the same time he doubted that more than two pairs of agents would be tracking him in such an out-of-the-way place as Haversol.

The silver-haired woman's group had wanted either him alive or the Fuards out of the picture, for which he was grateful, if puzzled. The remaining Fuard was in no shape to want anything, and by the time he could summon much aid, Jimjoy would be on Accord. That left the Havvies themselves, and from what he could tell they didn't take sides.

He pushed aside the inedible remnants of samburg and took a series of swallows from the bottle of El Parma. Then he tried the vegetables, which were far better than the samburg. He finished them all, then swigged the last of the local brew.

He forced himself to use his right hand in signaling the waitress, who never seemed to look his way.

“Here.” Still without more than a sidelong glance, she slapped the bill on the counter.

Jimjoy could feel her apprehension, but he ignored it and turned to the bartender.

“You or her.”

“Either. Leave her hers.”

Jimjoy handed the rail-thin man the Imperial twenty-credit note, waited for the change, and left two small notes on the counter. He did not look back as he headed for the still-open portals.

He found the effort to keep from wincing increasingly difficult as he climbed the stairs to his room. The arm was like a series of knives ripping at his shoulder, although the heal/seal had stopped the blood from the thin parallel cuts.

Slamming the door open, Jimjoy staggered in, ready to use his left hand, and the palm weapon it held, if necessary.

His room was empty, dust showing it as untouched as when he had left. Either that or the lightest footed or fingered of intruders had come and gone. He was scarcely up to analyzing the situation as he bolted the door and swallowed one of the emergency painkillers from his kit…before sinking into the valley in the center of the too soft bed.

H
E WAS RUNNING
, arms pumping, chest heaving, sweat streaming from his forehead down his face, blurring his vision, burning the corners of his eyes.

His right arm dangled useless, broken in two places, and each step jarred it, sending a fresh wave of pain into his shoulder.

Thrummmm!

The stunner bolt hummed past him, close enough to spur his already flagging steps.

He could feel the pair of Imperial Special Operatives closing in as he tried to reach the tube train station from the Grand Park.

Thrummmm!

His right leg buckled with the stunner paralysis, and he pitched forward, headfirst down the ramp toward the platform, trying to tuck himself into the approved combat roll, but hampered by the broken arm and unresponsive leg.

Thrummmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Another stunner bolt chased him, the sound rolling like thunder after him as he tumbled helplessly toward the stone wall where the ramp made a half circle down and around toward the tube train platform.

Crack!

A projectile ricocheted off the stone.

Crackkkk
…

The sweat was still running off his face, and the throbbing in his arm continued to send waves of pain into and up through his shoulder, but Jimjoy realized he was lying on his back.

On his back? Where? Had Hersnik caught him?

Crack. Tap
.

“Room cleaning.”

Room cleaning?

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. The Imperiale…was he still there?

Glancing around the darkened room, he noted the still-open metal closet doors, his pack on the floor.

“You want your room cleaned?” repeated the voice through the closed door.

“No,” he croaked. “Not now.”

“No later. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” he responded through his all-too-dry throat.

Thrummmmmmmmmmmmmmm
. The muted roar of the cleaning machine continued down the corridor away from his room.

Slowly, he eased himself into a sitting position, using his good arm. Then he eased off the tunic, blinking back the involuntary tears when the fabric ripped away from the cuts and the heal/seal.

Surprisingly, his upper right arm appeared only slightly swollen. Although the throbbing intensified when he moved his arm or fingers, he could move them, a good sign so soon after the injury.

He shifted his weight and let his legs dangle over the side of the bed, taking one deep breath, then another.

The nightmare memory of the chase was clear, terribly clear, although he had never been on either end of such a pursuit in real life.

He started to shrug, then aborted the motion as he felt the pain from his arm increase. Instead, he gingerly slid from the bed to a standing position, then took a step toward the dingy bathroom. He needed to feel clean.

T
HE NARROW SCREEN
beside the lock port flickered, then changed from a blank gray to a fuzzy image of the Accordan ship as it edged in toward the lock.

With its bulbous shape and plasteen plates, the Accordan vessel had certainly not been designed for anything besides full space work, or much beyond service as a transport. Jimjoy doubted that the structure could have taken much more than a full gee under any circumstances.

As his eyes surveyed the screen image beside the inner lock portal, he could not help but note the symmetry and the smooth plate joints that proclaimed a level of workmanship higher than technically or practically necessary.

“Stand by for locking.” The metallic voice rasped through the compartment where he stood with two dozen others, including the silver-haired woman with the enigmatic smile. He had noticed that she also had green eyes, eyes which seemed to bore into his back when he wasn't able to check whether she was looking at him or not. Then again, it could have been his imagination.

He turned suddenly as a flutter of white in the corner of his eye caught his attention…and wished he hadn't made the motion quite so abruptly as a sharp ache in his right arm reminded him again of his first night on Haversol.

The second night had been far less eventful, if more painful. But he had not seen any of the characters from his first dinner, including the silver lady, since then. Not until he had gotten off the shuttle and caught a glimpse of her hair in the corridor of the small orbit station. But while the pain of whatever stunner or nervetangler that had raked his arm had subsided, it was far from gone, particularly when he used his right arm or moved suddenly.

Whunnnkkk
.

The dull thudding sound echoed through the closed space, and the floor vibrated, but not enough to cause any of the travelers even to have to shift their footing.

“Locks linked,” the unseen speaker announced unnecessarily. “Have your passcards ready for boarding.”

Jimjoy took a deep breath and fumbled with the thin folder he carried, turning to his left just enough to catch sight of the silver-haired woman—the young silver-haired woman, he corrected himself. This time he caught her eyes momentarily before she looked past him without a glint of recognition. She had her passcard ready as well.

“Please enter the portal in single file. Your passcard will be taken once you are in the lock.” The voice from the overhead speaker was a new one, a voice with an accent, as if the speaker used Panglais as a second language.

After all the polite jostling, Jimjoy Wright discovered that the silver-haired woman, as well as a number of others, had ended up in front of him. His bemused smile faded as he began to wonder.

He was assuming that she was the woman from the Imperiale. What was the likelihood of her being in both places, en route to Accord, merely by chance? If not by circumstance, then for whom did she work? Hersnik? The Matriarchy? Was she a contract agent for Hersnik?

He nearly shook his head, but repressed the gesture. After all, he was merely an itinerant pilot and technician—that was all he was.

The short line moved quickly. The dozen-odd people before him had disappeared through the inner lock portal so swiftly that he had to take three long steps to close the gap before stepping inside.

He held up his card.

“White?”

“Yes?”

The ship's officer ignored his response, instead waiting for an answer from a second official, who stood behind and to the right of the card checker.

“Have him stand aside.”

“Would you please stand here, Ser White?” asked the checker with a polite smile on her lips. “We need to discuss several matters with you before you embark.”

“What matters?” responded Jimjoy, equally as formally.

“Nothing wrong. We just would prefer you understand your options on Accord before the fact.” With that she gestured for Jimjoy to move to the side, even as she took the next pass.

“Fliereo?”

“Clear.”

“Simones?”

“Clear.”

When the remaining ten men and women and the sole child, a boy of perhaps ten standard years, had been passed on by the officials, Jimjoy found himself standing with the two Accordan ship personnel and a thin and red-haired woman.

“Ser White. You first. Your credentials sheet indicates background and experience in various piloting duties, including flitters, skitters, and even space scout craft. You also claim experience as a journeyman electronics technician. We'll pass on the obvious Imperial connection and take you at face value.” The checker pursed her thin lips and nodded her head at the man who had first suggested that he step aside.

“Afraid I don't understand,” interrupted Jimjoy.

“It's not a question of understanding. Accord is a new planet with colonization started less than two centuries ago. The current and potential food supply system, and the entire economy, are geared to that development level. The native hydrocarbons and metals are on the light side. That means that there isn't much industry, except in the satellite community off Four. So there isn't much demand for pilots or electronics types, and that job market is rather tight right now. That makes you category three—useful but not in high demand.”

“So how does that affect me?”

“There's a bond requirement…”

“Bond?” Jimjoy frowned. This didn't sound like the happy-go-lucky, back-to-the-trees bunch that rumors had portrayed or that all the Havvies had been talking about. They sounded much more like the hardened and practical would-be rebels that Headquarters feared—and that he had discounted. “Still don't understand.”

“Because you may not be able to support yourself as an unofficial immigrant, you must post a bond equivalent to the passage cost to the nearest system which will employ you. In your case, that is relatively low, since Haversol needs both pilots and electronics types.”

Jimjoy sighed.

“How much? With whom?”

“Five thousand Imperial credits.”

“That's incredible.” This time he did shake his head.

“Can you post it or not? Do you choose to?”

“You don't take immigrants?”

“Unless or until you take the immigrant aptitude tests, Accord takes no responsibility for your employability. Anyone who does not have verified long-term current employment must either post bond or take the tests.”

“You can't win, Major,” added the woman checker.

After a moment of shock, barely managing to keep his jaw in place, Jimjoy laughed. She was right.

“I'll post the bond.”

“Since you're being reasonable, Ser…White…by being relatively direct, in turn, we'll spare you any delusions about our lack of vigilance.”

The thin red-haired woman's eyes went back and forth in puzzlement as she watched the byplay between Jimjoy and the ship's officers.

“Assuming I am what you think I am, I'd be interested in the basis for your statement.”

The checker grinned before answering.

“We test all immigrants for skills and aptitudes. The profile would tell us what your passcard shows, and a great deal more. That would go on the record, of course, which is periodically inspected by the various Imperial services, since Accord is a dutiful colony, fully aware of its indebtedness to the Empire.”

Jimjoy refrained from grinning in return and shrugged. “What next?”

The man responded this time, nodding at the woman. “Cerla is the third officer. Doubles as purser, customs, immigration, and tourism. Technically, once you post bond, you're a tourist, although we don't stop anyone who wants to from working. But you're a tourist even if you stay your whole life, with no local citizenship rights unless you officially change your mind and go through testing.” He added, “Cerla will guide you through the formalities in her office.”

Cerla, her short brown hair bouncing slightly, turned and headed through the inner ship lock into the Accord vessel, assuming he would follow.

He did, but not before overhearing the beginning of the conversation between the man and the red-haired woman.

“Sher Masdra, you have no skills beyond the commerce…shall we say…of your own person…”

When it came right down to it, reflected Jimjoy absently as he followed the purser, neither did he or anyone else. Especially, it appeared, on Accord. He hurried in pursuit of Cerla.

By the time he had caught up with the quick-moving purser, she had stopped by a portal that was beginning to open.

“My office, quarters, and general place of business.” The woman gestured for him to enter.

Jimjoy slipped inside, ready for anything—except for the four-by-four-meter room, tastefully accented in shades of blue and cream, with a console and four small screens on one wall, a recessed double bunk on the opposite wall, a small table and two chairs. His eyes lighted on the built-in beverage dispenser, then flicked to the overhead lighting strips.

“Everything from business to pleasure,” he noted dryly.

“Have a seat.” Her tone ignored his sarcasm.

The Special Operative looked over the choice. Either the luxurious and padded sink chair or the utilitarian swivel before the console.

He settled into the sink chair, since he knew she would not sit down if he took the swivel. As he eased himself into the chair, he inadvertently put his weight on his right arm, and was rewarded with a renewed throb from the muscle all the way into his shoulder.

“You looked like you were sitting for an execution, Major.”

“What's the Major bit? The name's White.”

Cerla raised an eyebrow. “I thought we'd gone through that already. No charades, as I recall.”

Jimjoy smiled expansively from the depths of the padded sink chair, designed clearly to keep upstart passengers from leaping at the purser/government agent. “Only admitted I wasn't an immigrant. Didn't deny I had Imperial ties. You said that I was a Major…or whatever.”

Cerla shook her head, and her bobbed brown hair bounced away from her round face and suddenly flat brown eyes.

“All right. You are Major Jimjoy Earle Wright the Third, Imperial Space Service, Special Operative, Intelligence Service, on special detail for reconnaissance of Accord. Your cover name is Hale Vale White. You have orders limiting you to strict observation, without any specific time limits.

“You graduated from Malestra College with an I.S.S. scholarship, completed pilot training at Saskan during the '43 emergency, served one tour as junior second pilot on the courier
Rimbaud
before being transferred to Headquarters staff for independent assignments. You are qualified to pilot virtually every class of atmospheric and space vehicle. You are persona non grata to the Fuards, the Halstanis, the Orknarlians. You are the tempter incarnate on
IFoundlt!
And your profile has been circulated to every non-Imperial world by the Comsis Co-Op.

“Besides, even if you aren't exactly
who
we think you are, there's absolutely no doubt about
what
you are.”

Jimjoy frowned. “Care to explain that?”

Cerla smiled faintly. “I probably shouldn't, but you've obviously been set up. That means that the Empire either wants you dead or to create an incident. It also means that the Empire won't listen to anything beyond an in-depth factual report, if that. Something as ossified as the Empire cannot afford to change, not beyond the cosmetic.”

“Hope you're going to explain,” Jimjoy pursued. He was annoyed by the woman's patronizing attitude—even as attractive and friendly as she projected herself. Even if what she said made a certain disturbing kind of sense. He took a breath slightly deeper than normal and tried to relax.

“Yes…although I am tempted not to.”

“Appreciate it if you would. I'm too Imperial not to be put off by your rather patronizing attitude toward the Empire. Even if you turn out to be right.”

This time the purser smiled more than faintly, pursed her lips, and cleared her throat. “It's really very simple, so simple that anyone could use the technique, not that we had to in your case. First is the question of identity.” She paused. “I'm getting there, Major. Believe me, I am. But there are a lot of pieces of information you need, and it's not exactly easy to blurt out these things, even though it's necessary now.” Her smile was broad, but somehow forced.

While he appreciated the effort, and the smile, Jimjoy was leaning forward, wondering what came next, a cold chill settling inside him, reinforced by the hot throbbing of his still-unhealed arm.

“Every Imperial Special Operative falls within certain clearly defined parameters—male, with an optimum muscle, fat, and bone ratio that never varies by more than five percent; never less than one hundred eighty-one centimeters nor more than one hundred ninety-five centimeters; primarily Caucasian genetic background; strong technical education and mechanical skills; generally between twenty-eight and forty-five standard years; and always with a surface carriage index of between seven and eight.”

Jimjoy looked at the purser blankly.

She said nothing more.

Finally, he spoke. “I understood everything until you got to the last item.”

“I thought everyone knew about surface carriage indices.” He could see the steel in her eyes and repressed a shudder, not quite sure how he had thought she might be friendly. Or was she just being mischievous?

“Afraid I'm rather uninformed.”

“Surface carriage index is a measure of underlying muscular tension and emotional stability. It was originally developed by Alregord's psychiatrists as an attempt to provide a long-range visual indication of intentions. For that, it was a failure, because the only thing the index is really good for is showing the unconscious attitude of the individual toward humanity in general. The higher the number, the less socially oriented the individual. This gets complicated because the index varies with some individuals depending on their surroundings. For our purposes it doesn't make much difference, because the variations are generally less toward either end of the scale. Above ten, and a person is sociopathic or psychopathic. Below two, and there's almost no individual identity. The seven-to-eight range indicates a loner with little or no interest in permanent attachments to people.”