Empire & Ecolitan (3 page)

C
LING
.

At the sound of the console chime, the officer in dress grays stiffened, though he did not leave the straight-backed chair.

“Yes, Commander. Yes, sir.”

The orderly's voice, soft as it was, carried through the outer office, a room empty except for the orderly and a Major in a gray uniform and recently cut black hair.

“Major Wright?”

“Yes.” The Major stood, flexing his broad shoulders, shoulders that did not seem as broad as they were in view of his equally broad torso and muscular lower body. He looked through the orderly, who avoided looking in the direction of his eyes.

“You may go in, sir. Commander Hersnik is ready to see you…sir.”

“Thank you.” The Major's voice was expressionless.

The orderly continued avoiding any eye-to-eye contact with the Major until the Special Operative had passed him and was stepping through the security portal to the Commander's office.

The security portal flashed green, signifying that the Major carried neither weapons nor energy concentrations on his body, not that he would have required either to deal with the single senior Commander who awaited him.

Major Wright stepped from the portal ramp onto the deep gray carpet and halted, coming to attention before the Commander. The Commander sat behind a wide wooden console with an inset screen.

To the Major's right was a wide-screen reproduction of New Augusta, as seen from the air, distant as it was from the Intelligence Service station, showing the broad boulevards and clear golden sunlight of the Imperial City on a cloudless summer day.

The Major repressed a cynical smile. The view had been carefully chosen to avoid showing the blighted areas that remained on Old Earth, whose ecology still remained fragile.

“Major Jimjoy Earle Wright, Special Operations, reporting as ordered.”

“Commander Hersnik, Major Wright. Have a seat.” The Commander, black-haired, black-eyed, olive-skinned, neat, and proper, did not leave his swivel, and presumably the energy-defense screens mounted in the console, but gestured toward a straight-backed armchair across the console from him.

“Thank you, sir.” Once again, the Major's tone was politely expressionless as he took the proffered seat.

“You are wondering, no doubt, Major, why you were diverted from your scheduled leave to report to Intelligence Headquarters.” Commander Hersnik, elbows on the arms of his swivel, steepled his fingers together, then rested his chin on them as he waited for the Special Operative's answer.

“Figured it had to be important, to risk my cover. Did wonder about it…sir…Especially when your…security forces…delayed an entire civilian ship and insisted on my immediate return. Seemed…unusual.”

“Unusual. Yes, that would be one way of putting it.” The Commander paused. “Tell me, Major, your own evaluation of your last mission, the Halston mission.”

Jimjoy Wright shrugged. “Instructions were clear-cut. Halstani Military was ready to annex the Gilbi systems. Need to immobilize them to give us time to deal with the situation appropriately.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “My efforts along the immobilization line never got far. Once they had those accidents outside the capital, it didn't seem there was much else I could do.”

“Uhhh…accidents?”

“They had to be accidents, didn't they, Commander? Who would possibly conceive of deliberately turning a fusion power system into a nuclear mishap on purpose? And coincidental detonation of tactical nuclear weapons followed the power failure, according to the fax reports. Attempting to create that kind of EMP-induced accident would have been awfully chancy, even if it had been deliberate.”

“I see…” The Commander frowned. “Assuming these accidents…they were rather unfortunate accidents from the viewpoint of the Halstani
Military
, wouldn't you say?”

The Major ignored the emphasized word, shifted his weight in the straight-backed chair, and looked straight into the Commander's eyes. His own eyes were flat and expressionless. “Most large-scale accidents with fatalities are unfortunate, sir. Some have minor consequences, except for the casualties themselves. Others have major impacts.”

“If such an accident had not occurred, then, Major, I take it that you had a plan that would have been more targeted?”

The Major smiled widely, seemingly enjoying the falsity of his expression. “Can't say that I did, Commander. That's the problem with trying to stop a government's war machine. You remove the top admiral, the marshal, whoever…and someone else takes up the gauntlet. And they have a martyr to make it even easier. Even if I could have destroyed a goodly section of their fleets, why…they'd rebuild.

“So the accidents were rather fortunate, at least from Intelligence's point of view. And from mine, I'd guess. Looked like an impossible job for any conventional approach.”

The Commander's lips pursed, and he drew into himself, as if he were repressing a shiver.

“Are you disclaiming the credit for accomplishing your assignment, Major?”

“Not disclaiming, Commander. Wouldn't be true, either. Just suggesting that it continue to be classified as a regrettable accident, and one for which the Emperor sends his heartfelt condolences.”

“Then you take the responsibility for fifty thousand casualties, many of them civilians?”

“You know, Commander, you have a rather unusual approach to a poor Special Operative who managed to carry off an assignment that at least four others had failed to accomplish.”

“How did you—never mind. I asked you a question, Major. Do you take the responsibility for fifty thousand casualties?” Hersnik's chin was now off his hands, and he leaned intently toward the Major.

“My orders specifically required that I not consider casualties, Commander. Obviously, every Special Operative will be held accountable and responsible for his actions. War creates casualties. When a system supports a warlike government, the distinction between civilians and military personnel becomes semantic. Under the circumstances, we do what we can, sir.”

“Were I the strictest of military traditionalists, Major, I would find your attitude less than perfectly acceptable.”

Major Jimjoy Earle Wright said nothing, but retained the open and falsely expansive smile as he waited for the Commander to get to the main point.

Commander Hersnik coughed, steepled his fingers together again before looking at the captured panorama of New Augusta to his left. He kept his glance well above the broad shoulders of the not-quite-stocky Special Operative.

“The Fuardians have begun to annex Gilbi, Major. And there's nothing we can do about it. Not now.”

The Major's smile vanished. He shrugged, but did not comment.

“Would you like to say something now, Major, about the fortuitousness of your ‘accidents'? Would you?” Commander Hersnik's voice was soft, cultured.

“Not much to say, is there, Commander? Except that Special Operatives aren't theorists. We're operatives, and we solve the problems we're handed. Wasn't told I had to worry about being successful.”

“Major Wright,” continued the Commander even more softly, “it's worse than that. The Woman's Party has taken control of the Halstani government. Military Central was the only group strong enough to hold them off. Now there's no military presence to speak of, not with political expertise.”

Wright shrugged again. What could he say?

“The Woman's Party has made known in the past their extreme displeasure with the Empire. They are far more likely to take a hard line than Military Central did.”

“Why?”

“Because the Halstani military relied on hardware and did not have complete heavy-weapons design and manufacturing capability. The Woman's Party is more inclined, shall we say, toward more economic attacks.”

“So why didn't someone suggest to the former Halstani military leaders that they leave Gilbi alone?”

“It was suggested, I am told. On more than one occasion. The Halstani military refused to believe that the Empire was cold-blooded enough to act. Now the Woman's Party is claiming that we had a hand in the ‘accident' and that any further Imperial interference in the Gilbi area will be proof enough of that.”

“But you want me to single-handedly stop the Fuard annexation anyway?”

The Commander smiled a smile even more false than the early smiles of the Special Operative. “That is not a bad idea, and one which I enthusiastically supported, Major, since you and the Fuards seem tailor-made for each other. But High Command would like the real estate in the Gilbi sector to remain undamaged.

“That leaves us with the question of your next mission, Major Wright, and one which, given the circumstances of your…diversion…should be nonactive and relatively distant from your last episode. High Command has such a mission. Strictly reconnaissance.” The Commander paused again. “Does the name Accord mean anything to you?”

“The eco-freaks out on the Arm?”

“The very same. It has come to our attention that they are beginning to develop a rather nasty biotech system that could prove, shall we say, rather difficult. You are to determine whether that is in fact the case. You are to report back with your findings without taking
any
action. Any action at all. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Commander.” The Major's flat blue eyes were flatter than ever, as was his voice.

“Fine, Major. Fine. My orderly has your new orders and briefing package. You may go.”

The Special Operative slid from the chair to attention, waiting.

“You may go, Major. And let us hope that you are tougher than the eco-freaks, for our sake, if not for yours…”

Jimjoy Wright could follow the train of unspoken thoughts beyond the words, but did not comment, even in his expression, as he turned to leave the Intelligence Service officer.

“Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure, Major. My pleasure.”

“W
HAT ARE YOU
going to do about him?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” The one Commander shrugged to the other. “At least, not until he's on Accord. Then…”

“Perhaps, but will he make it that far?”

“With the new Matriarchy, the Fuards, and a few others all looking for him? I doubt it.”

“He's good.”

“At destruction, but not necessarily at the undercover business. You told me that yourself.”

“You're probably right, but I think we'll prepare. Just in case he turns out to be better than you think.”

“I think? That was your assessment.”

“That was then. After seeing the report on the New Avalon encounter, I wonder.”

“He turned himself in, didn't he?”

“Exactly…when he didn't have to. That bothers me, because he used the situation to dominate it.”

“You handle it, then.”

“I always do. I always do.”

“S
PACE
A
VAILABLE
P
ASSENGER
White…Space Available Passenger White…please report to control lock three. Please report to control lock three.”

A muscular man, no longer quite young yet not middle-aged, stood. He wore the too tight clothes affected mainly by graduate students aping the Slavonian muscle elite. Unlike most graduate students, he and his obviously exercised upper-body muscles would have passed on Slavonia as well.

Unfortunately, his cheap clothes would have marked him as nonelite, as did the muddy brown hair and the tightness around his eyes. The Slavonian elite wore only the finest in natural fabrics and leathers. Their oiled golden, or black, hair glistened above carefully relaxed expressions.

The man, easy on his feet, and the subject of not a few not-so-covert gazes by a handful of female passengers and by at least one interested male passenger, hefted a pair of crew bags and turned toward the counter waiting under a larger number three on the corridor wall.

As he turned, his eyes traversed the rows of seated passengers, all waiting to embark upon the
Morgan
, without stopping to study any single individual until he locked gazes with a woman who had shoulder-length black hair. He smiled faintly but, without waiting for a response, turned his concentration back toward the lock control counter he had almost reached.

The counter held only a screen, a speaker, and a scanner.

“White,” he said softly to the screen.

A face appeared on the formerly blank screen, the face of a pleasant young woman.

“May I help you, citizen?”

“You called me. Space Available Passenger White.”

“May I help you, citizen?” the screen repeated mindlessly, the carefully constructed female face showing the proper degree of abstracted concern, dark eyebrows rising with the words' inflection.

“Yes. My name is Hale White.” The man looked down at the keyboard, finally touching one of the studs.

“Yes, citizen White,” the computer persona answered. “There has been a late cancellation. If you will accept a minimal amenities cabin, Republic Interstellar can fulfill your request for transportation to Haversol on the
J. P. Morgan
. If you accept, please depress the lighted panel on the console and insert your credtab.”

The man called White tapped the “inquiry” stud instead.

“You have a further question?”

“Price. My funds are limited.” At the same time, he touched the “Cr” button, followed by another tap on the “inquiry” stud.

“The total price, including Imperial tax, Haversolian entry fees, pilotage surcharges, and minimal sustenance charges, will be Cr 1,087. If you accept, please insert your credtab.”

He reluctantly pulled the thin strip from his belt and inserted it into the slot.

“Your funds are sufficient, and your place on the
J. P. Morgan
is confirmed. Place your hand on the scanner.”

A flash followed, creating a combined record of handprint and picture, against which any passenger claiming to be Hale White could be compared at the actual lock entry control port.

“Thank you for choosing Republic Interstellar. The
J. P. Morgan
is currently disembarking passengers through lock three. We anticipate beginning boarding passengers within one standard hour. Your boarding time will be in approximately one and one half standard hours. Please be at lock port three by 1430 Imperial Standard time.”

The muscled man, who could have been a Solarian tough, an out-of-work steel-bending spacer, or someone even less reputable, turned away from the now blank screen and picked up the set of heavy bags, almost with contempt. Crossing the corridor back to the waiting area for lock port three, he ignored the scrutiny of women too young and too old, and another admirer of roughly the right age but the wrong sex.

From the handful of empty chairs, he picked one away from the single large wall screen displaying the planet below, and nearer the lock port itself, where shortly the departing passengers would be entering the station for either shuttle service planetside or transfer to another ship.

“Down on luck, spacer?” asked the white-haired and thin man in the flimsy chair next to him. His eyes were shielded behind heavy old-fashioned, black-lensed glasses.

“Not yet,” the younger muscular man grunted. “Actinic burns?”

“Laser.”

The younger man shifted in his seat carefully, as if he were worried that the thin tubes and stretched fabric would collapse under him. He noted the thin wires running from the mirrored glasses to the bioplugs behind the older man's ears.

“Scanner glasses? How do they work?”

“All right. Can't do color, and they blur clothes. Some places shut me down. Don't like broadcast energy, even low power. Hell on shapes, though. You look like ex-commando pilot type. Sort of like Dubnik.”

“Dubnik? Friend of yours?”

“Dubnik? That spineless musclehead? Hardly. When I was chief on the
Alvarado
, he gave me these scanners. Used to paint—old-fashioned watercolors. You know what these are…can I paint now? Sculpture, but it's not the same.

“No, that bastard had to use lasers, had to. The Serianese threw high-speed torps. Dubnik put the screens back up. Didn't tell the laser battery chief. That was me.”

In spite of himself, the younger man winced. “You still here?”

“You see me, spacer. But you don't. Half flesh, half synth. Better than not being here. Dubnik…he didn't make it. Still spineless musclehead. Torps never even brushed the screens. Serianese couldn't shoot then. Can't now. That's why they belong to the Fuards.”

The spacer did not look away, but had nothing to say.

The lock door had opened, and the first passenger out was a young woman in a Republic Interstellar glide chair guided by a man in the uniform of a steward, light gray, with green stripes down the sleeves and trouser seams.

“She's a grav-field para,” announced the ex-technician.

“Anything you don't see, chief?”

“Not much. Don't call me chief. Call me anything; call me Arto. Hell-fired pun, but it's my name.”

“What about that woman sitting on the end over there, with the case by her feet? She really that muscular?”

“Legs are. Shoulders, too, but she's got something wrapped around her middle. Not much density. Sort of like rope, I'd guess.”

“Cernadine rope. Ship scan will pick that up.”

“Won't do anything. Cernadine's legal on Haversol. Empire doesn't care much about it anyway.”

“Does seem that way.” A hint of bitterness tinged the spacer's words.

“For now, spacer.”

“Stow the spacer. Name's White. Flitter driver—till I told a Special Op suicide wasn't my department. His maybe.”

“And you're still here?” asked the older man ironically.

“He was easy on me. Lots of bruises, concussion, and a month in rehab. He didn't like suicide either. Went off and did it, though.”

“Him or you?”

“I was out cold. He went. Didn't come back. None of them did. Teryla two episode.”

“Heard about it. Two men cashiered. Rest dead; one casualty before the drop.”

“Me. Casualty. Career and respect.”

“Sounds like Haversol is just a transfer point.”

“Does, doesn't it?”

The last of the departing passengers left the
Morgan
. The door to the lock closed.

“Embarkation on the
J. P. Morgan
will begin in fifteen standard minutes. In fifteen minutes, those passengers holding gold status accommodations will be embarked.”

“Wonder how many of this group rates gold?” asked the younger spacer.

“To Haversol? Not many.”

“What about the blonde? Sorry…the thinnish woman in the middle of the second row, the one sitting taller than the others?”

“Built like a Special Operative herself, under all that fluff. Muscles like yours, just not quite as obvious. Has a plate in her shoulder, and some sort of metal behind her left eyes.”

“Probably is a Special Op with all that.”

“Not Imperial,” answered Arto. “Empire makes sure their boys got no metal anywhere. All plastics, if anything. Second, never saw a female Special Op. Fuards, Halstanis, Serianese—everyone else uses women. Best we do is commando corps. Should be the other way around. Bulk counts for commandos, doesn't count near as much for undercover sneak and thief.”

“Wonder who?”

“With all those muscles and height, probably Halstani. One of their flamed sisters.”

“Could be. Won't the lock scanners catch her?”

“Sure. But the Empire's not at war. So the crew just forgets she's there. Just like the Fuardian and the Halstani flag lines forget about our ops, unless there's trouble.”

“Makes sense, I guess. But why's she here?”

“Not here, White. Haversol. Haversol's a happy hunting ground for everyone—us, them, the outies, even see some of the Ursans once in a while. Good reason to be careful there.”

“Why are you headed there?”

“Not headed there. Headed to Accord. Understand they
might
be able to fix my eyes. Good biologies there.”

“Like the genetic wars under the Directorate?”

Arto shook his head. “No. Not quite the same, the way I understand it. The Directorate tried to create superkillers. Accord works with what already exists.”

“Not what I heard.” The younger man shrugged, and let his eyes check the still-closed lock port. “But I guess you hear what they want you to hear.”

“Isn't that the truth,” snorted Arto. “Never changes.”

In the lull in the conversation that followed, both men looked around the waiting area.

“Attention, please. Your attention, please. In just a few standard minutes, we will be embarking full status passengers on the
J. P. Morgan
through lock port three. Those passengers with gold status should be prepared to embark. Those passengers with gold status should be prepared to embark.”

Arto glanced from the far seats back at the man beside him. “Wouldn't mind that kind of status.”

“No. Beats the stand-up closet I got.”

“Bet you spend most of your time in the common lounges.”

“No bet.”

“Be careful, White. You look just enough like an Imperial agent to get in trouble, and you haven't got any metal plates in you. Every two-bit operator, like that sister, or like the fellow over on the end with the heavy boots—bet he's a Fuard with the steel tubes built into his forearms—will be angling to find you out. Doesn't matter that you're what you say you are. Because only an Impie agent could have cover that good.”

“Hades! That why everyone keeps looking at me? Thought it might be my good looks.”

“Just a guess, friend.” The scanner glasses, their mirrored surface impenetrable, looked away from the spacer and toward the lock.

“So who do you work for? Knowing all the agents and what makes them tick?”

“Me? I work for me, no one else. Couldn't afford it otherwise. One stun beam my way and I'm blind. Direct hit and I'm out for a week, with a headache for a month afterward.”

The spacer nodded, ignoring the evasion. “So what should I do? Act my normal dumb self? Hope someone doesn't decide I'm am Impie agent? Pretend I am? Pray?”

“Prayer won't help. Neither will playing the agent unless you can carry it off. Acting innocent might, particularly if you are. At least until you land on Haversol. Then all bets are off.”

“Wonderful.” The brown-haired man shook his head, lifted both shoulders as if trying to relax them.

“And that shielded personal kit in your bag would make anyone suspicious, at least anyone with a scanner.”

The other shook his head again. “That why I've opened the damned thing every time I've turned around?”

“Your attention, please,” interrupted the message system. “Your attention, please. Republic Interstellar is now embarking gold status passengers on the
J. P. Morgan
. Gold status passengers only. Through lock port three. Would those passengers with silver status please prepare to embark? Passengers with silver status prepare to embark.”

Arto reached down and pulled a single kit back toward his feet. “Time for us to separate, White.”

“Have a good trip. Good luck with the eyes.”

“Hope to, and thank you.” The older man stood, then leaned toward the younger spacer. “Someone's out for you, but it won't be me. Good luck.”

With that, Arto was up and in the waiting line of passengers, his bag in one hand.

The man called White did not shake his head, but studied the remaining passengers waiting to board the
Morgan
.

So someone was already looking for him? That was scarcely the most auspicious beginning he could have hoped for. Not at all.

He shrugged and brushed back his hair with his left hand, not that his hair was long enough or messed enough to require attention.

“Standard amenities passengers, please stand by for boarding. Standard amenities passengers, please stand by for boarding on the
Morgan
. Destination Haversol.”

The level of deference in the carefully controlled voice announcing the passenger boarding schedule was definitely declining.

The apparent Halstani Intelligence Operative glanced in his direction before standing. Her eyes passed over him, but he had no doubt that the woman already knew who he was. Her look was confirmation, not search.

He would have liked to sigh, but that wouldn't have been in character.

His supposedly uneventful trip to Haversol was looking less and less uneventful.