Empire & Ecolitan (6 page)

“Sounds like psychosocial mumbo jumbo.”

“Think about it, Major. Compare my description to any Special Operatives you may know before you condemn the analysis.”

Jimjoy felt cold. If Accord had discovered such a readily apparent pattern, who else knew? His thoughts returned to the meeting with the retired spacer. Arto, had that been his name? Had he been an Accord operative? Or had he seen part of the pattern?

Jimjoy was brought back to the present by Cerla's next question.

“Now…do we continue the charade, or do you want to give me some idea of what you happen to be looking for?”

Jimjoy nodded. He'd been set up, at least to some degree, because his actions were a problem to the Empire…or the Service. It almost seemed as though no one wanted him to be successful. Every time he'd pulled off the difficult, they'd given him something tougher. The apparent ease of the Accord assignment should have been a signal, especially now, after the incident on Haversol.

The quiet of the cabin was punctuated only by the hissing of the ventilators, and by a dull
thunk
that echoed through the ship, indicating that the ship had unlocked from the Haversol orbit control station.

“While you're still deciding, would you like a drink?”

“I'll pass on the drink for now. How about a piece of information? I know your name. Period. You seem to know everything about me. Seems you'd have to be a part of colonial intelligence or armed forces…or that Institute…but why does anyone care?”

Cerla poured herself a goblet of a lime-green fluid and set the other glass back in the rack by the dispenser.

“Anything the Empire does affects us. How could anyone concerned not care?”

“Suppose you're right—”

“And you still haven't decided whether you're going to play it straight. What other options do you have? We know who and what you are. And…”

“And…?”

“…you're intelligent enough to see that.”

Jimjoy was positive she had been about to say something else, but there was no way to determine what.

“Reluctant to affirm or deny,” he said with a half smile. “If I deny I'm this Wright character, I have to spend forever proving I am who I am. And you won't believe me. If I lie outright, that's trouble. If I agree, that's a confession, and people have been known to disappear for less. This Wright character sounds like he's on everyone's hit list. Very popular man.”

“You make a good point. Good…but irrelevant.”

As she spoke, Jimjoy eased himself forward in the depths of the chair, trying to shift his weight in a way not to seem too obvious, yet ready for action if necessary. He doubted that he could escape untouched, but he had to try.

Cerla ignored his tension and sat in the anchored swivel less than a meter away. After speaking, she sipped from the goblet, swallowed, and cleared her throat.

“I will make one further observation which might help you decide. While Accord is not unknown for its ability to obtain intelligence, the background on you was there for the taking, laid out. This leads to certain disturbing conclusions, which is why you were warned on Haversol.”

“Warned?”

Cerla said nothing, but waited.

“I see,” temporized Jimjoy.

“Not totally, but we can always hope that you will.” She stood, swiftly, though so gracefully that Jimjoy did not move. “Are you sure you wouldn't like something?”

“How about some juice?”

The purser/agent filled the second goblet and tendered it to him before reseating herself on the swivel, one leg tucked under her.

Her posture reassured the Special Operative…slightly. The sink chair felt somehow sticky under him and he shifted his position again.

“So where does that leave us?” he asked.

“You refuse to admit anything, and we're forced to take you on faith, at least in part. Assuming you are who we think you are, Accord would like to see that your visit is successful and that you return safely from our poor colonial outpost to your headquarters.”

“And how much will you hide?” He didn't bother with questioning their assumption of his being an Imperial agent. That was probably all that was keeping him alive, even if he were being stubborn and not wanting to admit it outright.

“Nothing. We obviously will not volunteer anything, but should you find something or wish to observe something, we will certainly not hinder you in any way.”

“That bad?”

“Yes.”

“And who are ‘we'? You talk about some group, but you've never identified who you are.”

Jimjoy took a sip from the goblet. The green juice reminded him of a combination of orange and lime with a hint of cinnamon, except the combined taste was somehow whole and clean.

“We?” he prompted.

“Let us just say that most of Accord has a vested interest in your safe return, including the colonial forces, the local government, and the Institute.”

Jimjoy wanted to shake his head. The situation sounded far worse than Hersnik or the briefing tapes had portrayed, and he wasn't even on Accord yet. Instead of commenting, he chose the inane.

“Very good drink. What is it?”

“Lerrit. Native.”

She waited.

He waited.

“The
Carson
is approaching jump point. Approaching jump point.”

The announcement from the hidden speaker was the first indication Jimjoy had of actual operation since the delocking maneuver. The crew was smooth…very smooth. And that brought up the question of why a ship's officer was spending so very much time with an apparent down-and-almost-out spacer—even one thought to be an Imperial operative.

Jimjoy had a momentary feeling of being into something over his head, very far over his head. He ignored it.

“So you fear the Empire—and my safe return, with whatever information I pick up, allows the Empire no pretexts, whereas my demise would allow them to blast two orbs with one bolt?”

“That's half of what the—what we had determined.”

“And the other half?”

“If you're such a headache to your own Service, we're certainly not out to do them any favors.” This time the smile was nearly malicious.

Jimjoy took a deep swallow of the lerrit, and waited again. “What about all that noise about the bond requirement?”

“Forget it. That was for public consumption. Besides, the Empire might not clear any credit line or voucher you wrote, and that would be just another problem for us.”

Jimjoy looked over at Cerla dubiously.

“We will, of course,” Cerla continued, as she shifted her weight in the swivel and placed her nearly empty goblet on the console, “claim that you did post bond, and customs records will show that it was posted and returned to you when you left.”

Jimjoy could see Hersnik causing problems over that transaction, but since it would be a while before he had to break that particular orbit, he said nothing about it. Instead he took another gulp of the lerrit, nearly finishing it.

“Would you like some more?”

“Not now.” He looked for some place to put the goblet down, but finding nowhere within arm's reach, retained it. “Aren't you afraid I'll find something?”

“We're certain you will. We just don't think it will do the Empire much good.”

“You obviously know it won't,” concluded Jimjoy. “That means you either intend—” He broke off his statement, not sure where his words might carry him.

“We think it won't. We don't know. What were you going to say?”

Her last question had been idly asked, but Jimjoy did not miss the sharpening of attention.

“Not sure. Except that when something is this clear, there's more than meets the eye.”

Cling!

“Standing by for jump.”

The announcement was delivered in a bored tone from the same unseen speaker.

Cling! Cling!

The ship's interior was flooded with the pitch blackness that accompanied every jump, a blackness that seemed instantaneous and eternal all at once.

Normal lighting returned just as instantaneously.

“The next jump shift will occur in approximately one half standard hour.”

Cerla picked up her goblet to drain the last half sip. Then she set it back on the console.

Thud
.

The sound echoed through the quietness of the cabin.

Jimjoy avoided looking at the woman and tilted the goblet back to drain the last drops out.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like some more?”

“No, thanks.” He extended the empty goblet with his left hand. His right arm was beginning to throb once more.

She took it and set it next to hers.

Thud
.

“So where do all of these orbits within orbits leave me?”

“You're cleared into Accord. Your papers are here.” She gestured vaguely at her console. “Once we arrive, the shuttle from orbit control will deposit you at the port outside Harmony. You're free to pursue your observations and inquiries. If you need special assistance or transportation to places not served by normal commercial channels, we suggest that you request such transportation through the Institute, rather than flying yourself in equipment of potentially dubious performance. If you prefer to be the pilot, the Institute will provide a flitter and a backup pilot.

“In return for this openness, Accord will know what you see, or at least have a good idea.”

“Being unduly generous?”

“Practical. Short of assassinating you, Major, which would be easy enough to do, no one could stop you. We'd rather you didn't expire on our watch.” She fixed his eyes with hers.

Jimjoy found their opacity disturbing in their intensity.

“We may also request that you actually observe other activities, from time to time, if we feel you may be missing information for your report.”

“Indoctrination now?”

“Hardly. We hope for a limited balance in your findings, and more information shouldn't exactly hurt you. Your report will need to be more than brilliant, in any case.”

Jimjoy smiled wryly. In that respect, Cerla was right. Dead right.

“That it?” He stood, ignoring the burning in his right arm.

“Almost.” She stood and turned back toward the console, where she picked up the folder from the flat top. She took two steps back toward Jimjoy and extended the documents. “Those are your clearances, as well as a list of fax numbers you may find helpful. At the end are the particulars circulated on you, which you may find of some interest.”

Cerla inclined her head toward the portal. “That's it, Major. Turn to the left as you leave. Your cabin is the last on the left. You won't need it that long, though. This is a short hop. Less than twenty-four hours before we swing orbit.” She paused again. “And, Major, you might consider that being a loner is not the same as being independent.”

“I'll think about it. Sleep on it, in fact, since that's what I need most right now.”

Cerla raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. She continued to extend the documents.

Jimjoy took them, meeting her eyes. He nodded and stepped away, turning.

The portal opened before he approached and stepped through, heading to the left. He could feel the purser's eyes on his back as he departed, knew she was watching since he had not heard her close the portal. She was interested in him, but not in any romantic or sensual way.

Her parting comment bothered him, even more than the implications about Accord's use of the so-called surface carriage index. While Accord could have invented the concept just to fluster him, that didn't make sense either.

He found himself shaking his head again. Accord wasn't going to be any picnic, not if they were all as sharp as he'd seen so far. And that was scary for another reason. Accord wasn't even independent. Just a colony with a few scattered colonial forces, a colonial council, and a ragtag Institute pretending to be a university.

A
NY POWER WHICH
merely opposes its own destruction or the loss of its territory almost never wins the ensuing conflict unless it defines its objectives beyond survival or the perpetuation of the status quo.

In warfare, status never remains quo. All things change, and success for the defender rests on the ability to shift the fight from defense to offense, to place its attacker or attackers on the defensive.

Without such a de facto switch in positions, the most that can be gained is a stalemate, and the result of such a stalemate is inevitably a change in the actual governments of both attacker and defender, even if the outward forms remain apparently unaltered.

Thus, the eventual outcome of any war is a change in the government of at least one of the parties. For this reason, no war should be undertaken by any government interested in its survival without change, not unless the alternative is wide-scale death and destruction.

Patterns of Politics

Exton Land

Halston, 3123 N.E.

J
IMJOY STEPPED THROUGH
the shuttle portal and onto the open ramp that led down to the white tarmac below.

No impenetrable plastarmac, no lines of shuttles, and no throngs, either of officials or of welcomers. Just a handful of men and women. And, also unlike the central systems of the Empire, there was no baggage handling. Jimjoy carried both his hanging bag and the heavier and bulkier bag which contained equipment, folded clothes, and personal items.

“Excuse me…”

He looked back as he realized that his hesitation was blocking the other passengers.

The woman who had spoken was the silver-haired one, the one he suspected of lofting the water pitcher onto the Fuards to help him.

“You did a very nice job,” he said, trying not to let the sarcasm creep into his voice. “Thank you.”

“Just my job, Major. Now…if you will excuse me…”

“Sorry.” He stepped aside, gestured broadly for her to proceed, following quickly. By now the upper right arm only ached, although it would be days before the bruise disappeared.

“…about time…” Jimjoy ignored the whispered complaint from the heavyset man who had been standing behind the Accord agent. Except, he wondered, how could she be an agent? As an Imperial colony, Accord could not operate an intelligence service, nor any armed forces other than the domestic police forces.

Jimjoy had been operating outside the Empire too long and had totally missed that simple fact. Yet the woman, as well as the ship's purser and the other ship's officers, had acted as though she were representing
something
. Did the Ecologic Institute, or whatever it was called, actually run the colony? Was that what worried Hersnik?

He filed the thought and hurried to keep close to the silver-haired woman.

From the scattered group of people waiting a woman stepped forward, her tanned face and short-cropped blond hair giving her the appearance of an outdoor professional of some sort. “Thelina!”

“Meryl!”

The two women exchanged hugs, and Jimjoy fixed both faces in his mind as he skirted them and headed for the transportation terminal ahead. He could hear them talking as they followed in the same general direction, but he could not make out anything beyond pleasantries.

Thelina—that had been what the blond woman had called the Accord/Institute agent. He mentally noted the name. Then he took a deep breath and lengthened his stride, trying to ignore the tired feeling in his right arm.

The air was crisp, with a tang, not salty like the sea, but like a mountaintop above a fir forest. The shuttleport was west of Harmony, on a plateau of sorts, but certainly not one high enough to qualify as a mountain. Jimjoy looked up in front of him toward the west, where he could see a hint of clouds above the peaks on the horizon.

The gravity was a shade stronger than Terra-norm, but not enough to bother him, certainly not the way it would have on Mara or on the Fuard heavy planets.

He entered the transport terminal, glanced up at the high ceilings supported by arched wooden beams, and realized that the open area was both dimmer and cooler than he would have expected without climate control.

“Ser Wright?”

Jimjoy looked at the young man, scarcely more than a schoolboy, who wore a forest-green tunic and matching trousers.

“Yes.” His voice was noncommittal.

“I am apprentice Dorfman, from the Institute. Your flitter is waiting to take you either to your hotel or to quarters at the Institute, if you prefer.”

“The Ecologic or Ecolitan Institute?”

“Yes, ser.”

“I plan to visit the Institute later, but I think I will take commercial transport to my hotel.”

“Very good, ser. I hope we will see you later. The commercial transport sector is to your left.”

With that, the apprentice turned and left.

Had there been a certain relief in the young man's expression? Had the Institute hoped he would refuse its offer? He shook his head and continued toward the ground-transport gates before him.

Once through the four-meter-wide polished wood gates that looked as though they were never closed, he put down both bags with relief, shrugging his shoulders, particularly the right one. Although he wanted to rub the still-tender muscles, he did not, instead leaning down as if to check the heavy squat bag.

Although he had been the first passenger from the shuttle through the gates, he waited until several others, in groups of twos and threes, began to appear and line up for transportation. He inserted himself third in line, watching to see whether any prearranged groundcar pulled into line to pick him up. None did.

He got the third car in the lineup. As the driver, a slender, white-haired man, opened the door, Jimjoy swung the bags into the rear seat with him.

“Your destination, ser?”

“Colonial Grande.”

“Colonial Grande it is.”

The electrocar hummed as it slowly built up speed leaving the shuttleport, turning right on the first boulevard, which contained a center parkway lined on each side with ten-meter-high trees. Each tree was the same, with a thick black trunk that rose five meters before branching out into stubby black branches. Along each branch, particularly at the end, sprouted long and thin fronds of yellow and green, enormous narrow leaves that swayed in the gentle breeze.

“The trees?” asked the Imperial Operative.

“Corran. They almost look T-type until you study them up close. They shimmer in the sun after a good rain, like they had a light of their own.”

From the first boulevard the driver made another right turn onto a second, less expansive boulevard with a narrower center parkway that held but a single line of the corran trees.

Gray stone slabs, finely cut, composed the walks on the edge of the boulevard, and the grass was emerald green and neatly trimmed. For all the careful design of the streets, the dwellings abutting them were modest, muted in color, and generally of one story.

Almost as if it were a scene from the past, reflected the Special Operative, without metals, synthetics, and plastarmac, when people built with wood and stone and brick.

He asked no more questions as the car hummed through the morning quiet of Harmony, instead concentrating on gathering impressions of Accord. He could see the people, could even see an occasional small child, too young to be in school. Although he saw one or two individuals in a hurry, the general impression he received was of a peaceful town. Too peaceful?

There was none of the haste and self-importance of Tinhorn, or Madeira, or New Washton, or even of New Avalon. Certainly none of the lurking impression of power conveyed by New Augusta, or even the hidden fantaticism of smaller capitals—such as
IFoundlt!

“Colonial Grande coming up on the left, ser.”

Jimjoy recalled himself from his dreaming mood and took a deep breath.

As the groundcar hummed up to the Colonial Grande, which, with its plank-and-stone facing and heavy walls, resembled a lodge more than a hotel, Jimjoy surveyed the circular entry driveway, more from habit than from any feeling of need.

His eyes swept past the thin man working on the wide flower bed beside the main entry, then halted and looked back. No reason for a gardener not to be working on a nice morning, but something about the man bothered Jimjoy.

Instinctively, he checked the concealed belt knife, whose plastics would trigger no detectors, and the small stunner the Accord officials had pointedly ignored and probably should not have let him keep.

The electrocar purred to a stop.

Jimjoy watched the gardener, who had arranged his weeding chores so that he faced the entry canopy.

“The Colonial Grande, ser.”

“Oh…yes. Thank you. How much?”

“Nineteen credits, ser.”

Jimjoy fumbled a twenty note and a five-credit piece from his belt while still watching the gardener. Finally, he opened the door with his right hand, his left poised to use whatever might be necessary.

As the morning sun struck his face, Jimjoy caught the look of recognition on the gardener's face.

Zing!

Thrummm!

Even while flying toward the turf on the right-hand side of the entry pillar, Jimjoy fired one charge from the stunner.

A quick look around the base of the pillar reassured him that, while the other agent's needler had missed, he had not. Scrambling to his feet, ignoring the scrapes that his knees had taken even through his trousers, he scanned the area, checking the roofline.

“Hades…and…”

He launched himself back behind the next pillar.

Zing! Zing! Zing!

Chips from several needle darts sprayed around the pillar and into the area where he had first flung himself. They had come at an angle from behind the gardener.

Thrumm! Thrumm! Thrumm!

Several stunners responded to the needler, even before Jimjoy looked around the pillar to catch sight of a figure disappearing over the roofline. He pulled himself up, then lurched forward toward the inert form in the garden.

A small squad of men and women dressed in forest-green tunics and trousers, without insignia, had deployed across the entry area, appearing as if by magic. Their stunners had clearly been those responding to the rooftop sniper.

As Jimjoy finally reached the man, who was not breathing, so did a familiar figure, one with silver hair, but still wearing her traveling clothes.

“No warning from you this time.”

“You didn't seem to need it,” observed Thelina.

Jimjoy noted with amusement that Thelina had apparently made a dive similar to his and was now brushing the dirt and dust from her tunic.

Jimjoy took in the needle dart in the gardener's back, recognizing the dead man's facial structure through the disguise and changed hair color. He glanced back up at the roofline.

“Did you tell anyone where you were going?”

“Hardly.” He looked around. The groundcar was gone, his two bags lying in a heap. “Except the driver.”

“That wouldn't have counted,” responded the woman flatly. “That leaves exactly one possibility, Major. I suggest you think about it.”

Jimjoy didn't like that possibility at all, not at all. He looked away from the woman to see an armored groundcar purr into the circular entrance drive.

“Institute?”

“Yes.”

“All right if I change my mind about lodgings?” He wondered if he were making a mistake, but so far, his opposition was treating him much better than the Empire had.

“Took you long enough, Major.” His title was delivered almost in a tone of contempt.

“So I'm a slow learner.”

Thelina flipped her shoulder-length hair away from her thin face, mumbling under her breath.

“…damned hair…nuisance…”

“I rather like it, Thelina.”

“Ecolitan Andruz to you, Major Wright.”

“I rather like it, Ecolitan Andruz.” He stooped to check what he already knew. Commander Allen had disposed of another disposable partner. Some other lieutenant, since anyone with seniority avoided the Commander whenever possible. That meant either that the Service didn't want to reveal to the colonials the need to dispose of one Major Wright or that two Special Operatives were acting independently. The second possibility was laughable.

Jimjoy shivered, feeling lucky that he had never had to work with the Commander. Allen and Hersnik both after him—just what he needed.

“You know him?”

“No,” answered Jimjoy, “but I'd seen him before. That was enough.”

“Nice partner. That last needle wasn't exactly an accident.”

“Doesn't look like it, but you or I will take the blame. Do you think your people will find him?”

“No. Too professional, unless we did a total search, and that would leak out. Besides, that would lead to another embarrassment.”

“Embarrassment? Is that all you people think about?”

“Considering that you are relying on that same protection, Major, I wouldn't push too hard. You're here…”

Jimjoy shrugged. “Defer to your wisdom, Ecolitan Andruz.” He tried to keep his voice level. Clearly, the Institute had little love for any Imperials, or at least Thelina Andruz had little affection for either him or Commander Allen.

Jimjoy glanced back at the roof from which the Commander had disappeared, wondering when Allen would make another attempt. Probably not until Jimjoy left Accord, or until Allen had another expendable partner.

That left Jimjoy—and the Institute—some time.

He just hoped he was reading the situation right. It would be rather embarrassing, to say the least, if the Institute had set all the circumstances to encourage him to visit the Institute right off. On the other hand, maybe the good Commander did not want Jimjoy at the Institute.

He shook his head. No matter what, he was probably wrong.

“Head shaking won't help, Major. Here's your transport.” She gestured at a second groundcar purring into the drive.

With a last look at the dead man, Jimjoy straightened up and walked slowly back to where the commercial driver had dumped his bags. He picked up both to carry them to the second groundcar, now waiting behind the armored one.

“Are you coming, Ecolitan Andruz?”

“No. Someone has to clean up the Imperial messes, Major, even coming off leave.”

“Appreciate your efforts, Ecolitan Andruz, and I do like your hair, even if it's not fashionable to take compliments.”

“I do take compliments, Major. From friends…or good enemies.” She began to turn to face a younger man in the dark green uniform of the Institute. “Perhaps we can get around to clarifying your status as an enemy of sorts, at least by the next time we meet.”

Jimjoy wondered whether he had caught the hint of a smile, or if he were just imagining things.