Empire & Ecolitan (37 page)

“…control…intermittent power…interrogative…”

“OpCon, interrogative status. Interrogative…”

“…lost slush on tank one…lost slush…strains…three epsilon…”

Jimjoy smiled faintly and goosed up the broomstick another notch, heading toward the fusactor module. Now, within minutes, no one would have standard commlinks, thanks to his efforts in the library. And the maintenance crews would have their hands more than full.

“…MAYDAY…DAY…spoke five…”

“…spoke six…uncontrolled lock cycles…”

Still scooting along in the shadows within an arm span of the hull, he could see assorted vapor puffs and flashing lights. Ahead, the umbilical to the fusactor grew larger.

“Raider six, OpCon…omega black…black…”

Jimjoy shivered at the last broken transmission. Although the power cycles had disrupted the scramblers, the operations center had clearly decided they wanted him very dead. They didn't know who he was, or where—yet.

He glanced around again. So far, so good. In a few moments he would have to leave the shadows and cross the open gap paralleling the umbilical.

Crump…whhhsttt
…The sounds of destruction filtered through the headset momentarily. He shook his head, thinking, idiotically, that he should be trying to pull at his chin.

Even in the sunlight no one pursued him, as the puffs of vapor continued to spill into the void.

Clunk
…The impact nearly flattened him against the plates surrounding the fusactor assembly. Surprisingly, the broomstick had not bent. He checked the squirters. Less than fifty percent.

He inserted the I.D. code card into the scanner slot. For several moments, nothing happened. Then the access light winked green and the codeboard lit.

With a sigh, Jimjoy tapped out a code, altered but based on an older, valid entry code, and waited with a small probe.

The entry light flickered amber, and Jimjoy pressed the tip of the probe against the edge of the I.D. slot, triggering the modified pulse current. The light turned red, then green, and the hatch irised half open.

With the opening just wide enough for Jimjoy to scramble through, he barely got his left boot clear of the edge before the lock slid shut. The inner door was unguarded, opening at his touch as he floated in null-gee. The grav-fields had been shut down by the power fluctuations, but the power sections were engineered to work without grav-fields, since they provided the power for and had to precede the fields.

Inside, he pulled himself hand over hand around toward the section he wanted. Once there, he withdrew several tools from his pouch, taking off his gauntlets but leaving his helmet in place.

The adjustments were minor, and their immediate effect would scarcely be noticed amidst the power surges already racking the station. He hoped to be clear of the station before the final impact.

After replacing the panels he had removed for access, as well as his gauntlets, the Ecolitan pulled himself back to the lock, where he made two more adjustments, ensuring the outer lock would open once, and only once—to let him out, along with the extra broomstick he had unlatched from the lock wall.

It did, closing quickly enough that, again, he almost lost a foot.

“Charlie three, leak on delta five. Class three.”

“Stet. Delta five with a four patch.”

“Blowout in supply two…”

“Hades…get that sucker…”

Overhead, in his present orientation, the SysCon station presented an array of flashing lights, some hints of what appeared to be mist, and a handful of space-armored figures.

Jimjoy checked his orientation again, slowly swinging the first broomstick about. The second was tethered to him. Then he lined up the pocket EDI, trying not to think about the next step.

“If…if…”

He pressed the squirter control, letting the broomstick carry him out toward the station-keeping area. According to the postings, two couriers, a scout, and three corvettes stood off-station. The corvettes were useless.

The EDI needle seemed to match his vector.

He took a deep breath, then another, then held it and listened, as he chin-toggled from frequency to frequency.

“…section four beta…secure…”

“…blowout uncontained in supply two…”

“…kill the frigger…whole section…”

“…ExOps…no sign of intruder…”

With a last deep breath, he touched the squirter controls. The broomstick carried him into the shadows and toward the stationkeeping area, directly toward the dimmest of the EDI readings.

He forced himself to let up on the squirter. He'd need all the power he could muster at the other end, and he had more air than power.

Turning his head, he watched the SysCon slowly recede, its gray-and-silver bulk blotting out less and less of the stars, lock lights still flashing intermittently, puffs of vacated atmosphere still jerking forth.

How many had died? He tried not to think about it. Maybe Thelina was right—that he was nothing better than a coldblooded killer who justified his actions with simplistic principles. Had the young library tech deserved to die? He certainly had had nothing to do with wanting to crush Accord. Nor had the medical tech absorbed in her redloc game.

“…slush two frozen…tank three…whole system's shot…”

“…blowout…four epsilon…”

“…power pulses from fusactor…”

He shivered and turned to watch the blackness before him, straining for the glint of metal or the dullness of composite plates, continuing to check the EDI for the slightest twitch. The broomstick carried him onward into the darkness, outward toward where he hoped to find escape—one way or another.

W
AS THERE A
glimmer ahead? Just off the left of the broomstick's heading? With all Imperial hulls designed as nonreflective, the dim sunlight from Haversol had not proved much help in locating the off-station ships.

Jimjoy checked the EDI, uncertain whether the needle leaned off-center.

Buzzzzzzz
…

The alarm sounded, and the EDI display vanished simultaneously.

“Hades…” muttered Jimjoy, careful not to trigger the suit's transceiver. Without turning, he began to pull in the spare broomstick that had trailed behind him until he held the narrow frame in his hands, his knees still holding him on the exhausted composite-metal structure. As quickly as carefully possible, he positioned the unused broomstick next to the one he had ridden and eased from the one to the other. Only after he was in place did he release the tether and transfer it to the spent vehicle.

The mass of the used stick, however insignificant, might be necessary, and since it currently had the same momentum as he did, there was no point in letting it go…yet.

Then he touched the activator stud, watching the EDI display light up. The needle was definitely moving leftward, toward the glint he had seen, or thought he had seen.

The problem was his limited fuel. If he ended up heading toward a corvette, he was as good as dead. He needed a courier or scout, preferably a courier, and ideally one in a stand-down status.

“…blowout patch gone…four delta…”

“…power surges…continuing…non-SysCon origin…”

“…frigging designs! Clamp…”

A vague outline appeared ahead to the left, visible as a dark patch against the stars. To the right was the darkness of the Rift, against which no hull shadow would be visible until he was nearly upon it.

He glanced down at the EDI as the broomstick coasted outward. The outline looked too solid for the kind of ship he needed, but if he didn't have some other hint before long…He shivered inside the suit, although he was not cold.

Twitch. The EDI needle shivered, but remained fixed. Jimjoy watched as the needle and the shadow edged ten degrees leftward off his heading. Then he studied the area to the right more intently as the EDI shivered again. Was that a small fuzzy black patch?

He almost shrugged as he touched the squirter controls, beginning a gentle curve away from the corvette and toward what seemed to be a smaller spacecraft.

“…damned power surges…fusactor…interrogative…umbilical…”

“…OpCon…negative…negative…work party…for fusactor…”

Jimjoy swallowed. His timing was finer that he would have liked, and he hadn't been able to modify any of the ship or station tacheads. So EMP detonations were going to be minimal.

The EDI needle suddenly flicked rightward. Jimjoy couldn't help smiling as the needle centered on the darkness ahead.

“…OpCon…access blocked…lock inoperative…”

“ExOps, OpCon, imperative immediate access to fusactor…umbilical…interrogative release…”

“…sabotage…interrogative…say again, ExOps…”

Jimjoy peered ahead at the darkness within the darkness, then triggered the squirters for a short burst. The EDI remained locked on the ship ahead, whose shadow loomed larger.

He keyed in the squirters for full forward thrust, trying to kill off his outbound momentum before he either flattened himself against the hull plates or went flying by and into an orbit which might be of interest to astronomers or future archaeologists, but would cease to be of much urgency to one Jimjoy Whaler. Even now the name sounded foreign.

“…cutting laser…op immediate…laser…ExOps…do you read me…”

Jimjoy pursed his lips at the frantic sounds of the transmissions from behind him, even as he concentrated on guiding the broomstick to the courier ahead. He had too much velocity, careful as he had thought he had been, for the squirters to kill. He had to hit the courier—squarely—and hope the collapsible frame would function as designed.

“…frig…regs…need that cutter…NOW!!!”

Whhhsssssstttt
…The vibration of the final squirter thrust killing the broomstick's velocity fed back through the framework and into his suit.

Clunnnnk
…Jimjoy winced at the sound. Anybody awake and on board the courier certainly wouldn't have missed his arrival.

As the broomstick absorbed the shock, he reached out and planted the sticky lock loop on a hull plate before any recoil could separate him. Even so, as he clicked the safety tether fast to the loop, he and the courier began to separate.

“
Ummmffff
…” The jolt of hitting the end of the safety line caused the involuntary exclamation.

After dragging himself back to the hull, hand over hand, he eased the first broomstick out of the tether loop and left it floating beside the courier hull. Then he began a careful scramble toward the main lock. Along the way, he checked to ensure his remaining knife was still available for use. While the stunner might be more useful, it was what any crew would be concentrating upon.

Finally, he floated outside the crew lock.

“Well….” With a deep breath, he touched the access stud, waiting to see if he needed to use his tools.

The red panel winked on as the outer door slid open.

Moistening his lips and swallowing, Jimjoy pulled himself inside, upright, to anticipate returning to ship gravity. His feet touched the deck, and he stepped fully inside, tapping the stud to close the lock.

“WHO…UNIDENTIFIED VISITOR, PLEASE IDENTIFY YOURSELF!”

Jimjoy winced at the volume of the inquiry.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELF!”

“Wheile, Erlin, Captain, I.S.S., Technical Specialist.”

“Likely story…” The metallic sound of the suit speaker still conveyed the skepticism of whoever was inside the courier.

“May I come aboard?”

“You already are, without invitation.” The speaker's tone was all too reminiscent of a passed-over courier skipper.

“May I come aboard?”

“Everything else is crazy—why not? Keep your hands in plain sight.”

Jimjoy released his breath and keyed the lock controls for the inner door, waiting for the release inside. Finally the panel blinked, then turned steady green. The inner door irised open, and he stepped through.

A baggy-suited figure stood two meters from him, a laser aimed straight at his midsection. “Again, who are you? How did you get here? Why?”

“Erlin Wheile, Captain, I.S.S., Technical Specialist.”

“Supposed to believe that?”

“Check with ExOps,” suggested Jimjoy. “Had an intruder. Hit me with a stunner from about a meter away. Suit helped, but I was headed outbound, without enough fuel to get back. Only hope was an off-station ship. Bent the hades out of the broomstick.”

“Likely story.”

The lock closed behind Jimjoy.

“Fine. Check your screens. Is there anything around here? You think anyone is crazy enough to deliberately take a broomstick ride in the middle of nowhere in hopes of finding a ship?”

“Point, but not much of one.” The speaker's voice was still muffled. “Take off the helmet—slowly. Keep your gauntlets on, and your hands in full view.”

Jimjoy almost sighed. Clearly an officer with some understanding of suits. He carefully loosened the maintenance-type helmet, following the other officer's directions. As he cracked the seals, he could hear only the ventilators hissing. At least there was but a single crewman aboard.

He began to lift off the helmet, watching the other's gun-hand gauntlet.

“Bast—”

Clang…clunk
…The helmet clanked off the Imperial's upper arm.

Whhssstttttt
.

Thud
.

“Hades.” Jimjoy managed to steady himself against the bulkhead, forcing himself to breathe, despite the fire in his right shoulder, as he looked at the fallen figure in the narrow passageway. The officer lay facedown, motionless. Although he could not see it, Jimjoy knew a heavy knife protruded from the chest of the woman. Sooner or later, it had to have happened.

Some gesture, some look, despite the disguise, had betrayed him. But Ladonna had always said she would recognize him anywhere. Especially after the
IFoundIt!
mission, when he had gotten Sashiel cashiered for incompetence.

Well, she had recognized him, or what he represented. It didn't matter which. And she was dead. And he wasn't in exactly wonderful condition. Despite the protection from the suit, his right arm didn't work. His nose protested the smell of burned flesh.

He took a deeper breath, ignoring the fire shooting across his chest, and concentrated on calling up the pain blocs, focusing on the bland but stale metallic odor of the recycled air. The effort it took made it clear he didn't have much time.

The controls were only five steps away. He took one step, then stopped. Another long step, and he crossed Ladonna's body. Step and rest, step and rest, step and rest. In more than the one-third gee of the ship, he would not have made it. Step and rest…all for a mere five meters in low grav.

“…don't relax…don't relax…” Jimjoy did not realize he was vocalizing his thoughts until he recognized the voice as his own.

His right arm dangled, but his left swung the fingertip control pad—normally used for high-gee, outside-the-envelope maneuvering—into position.

Ignoring the checklist, he brought the board to life, checked the power, and began to preprogram the outsystem course, the jump sequence, and the inboard course to Thalos. If he collapsed, the pre-programming might get him close enough to be rescued. Otherwise, he would modify the course as the ship neared each decision point.

“AlCom, this is Haversol SysCon. Haversol…all units…imperative…stand…SysCon…”

“AlCom…negative…negative…”

“…Radian Throne…request…imperative…”

Jimjoy ignored the conflicting transmissions for SysCon evacuation and alternatively for station-ships to stand off, slowly completing his power-up and waiting for the board to wink green.

“Ready for departure,” announced the console.

Jimjoy did not wait for the completion of the courier's announcement before stabbing the stud to trigger the drive controls.

“Speedline four, interrogative action. Interrogative action.”

Jimjoy sighed. “Negative action. Negative action. Maintaining station.”

“Radian Throne, this is Courage three. Interrogative status SysCon.”

“Courage three, Radian Throne. Stand by. Clear this frequency.

“Speedline four, Radian Throne. Imperative you hold station this time.”

“Radian Throne, Speedline four,” rasped Jimjoy. “Interrogative your last. Interrogative your last.”

“Radian Throne, Hawkstrike one, standing off this time. Standing off this time.”

“Hawkstrike one, negative. Negative standoff. Hold your station…”

“Frig you…” muttered Jimjoy almost under his breath, but deliberately keying his transmitter.

“Interrogative last transmission. Interrogative last transmission.”

Jimjoy ignored the request from the station-keeping commander and edged up his drive velocity. Even the motion in his fingers sent twinges through his other shoulder. The laser should have cauterized the arm enough so that the blood loss was minimal, but there was no way to tell what internal bleeding might be occurring. He didn't want to think about the nerve damage.

“…standing by not advisable…AlCom…interrogative…”

“…OpCon…power…surges…”

“Speedline four, return to station. Return to station.”

“Stet. Returning to station,” Jimjoy answered, knowing that the courier needed every instant of acceleration possible, since he could not personally survive a high-gee run.

“Hawkstrike four, return to station. Return to station.”

“Negative, Radian Throne. That is negative this time. ImpOrd three point five beta forbids hazard of vessel in noncombat situation.”

“Hawkstrike four, I say again. Return to station.”

“Departing station this time.”

WHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
…

The scream of white noise—that and the EDI pegging off the register—told Jimjoy that Haversol SysCon was no longer a threat to Accord.

He could sense the control area turning gray around him, and wondered if he would be able to rouse himself for the jump…if he should try…but, damned if he wanted to give Thelina the satisfaction…

…cling…cling
…

As if from a distance, he could hear the chiming, the distant sounds of the morning bells on White Mountain, rebounding over fresh white snow…or was it the sounds of evening bells from the meeting house on Harmony…?

He pried one eye open, reached—and was rewarded with a searing line of pain down his right arm.

Haversol, Ladonna, the laser wound, and now the jump.

With an effort he used his left hand.

“Jump parameters outside acceptable envelope.”

He squinted at the readout. Once, twice. On the third try, he could read the numbers. The dust density was above acceptable levels.

His left hand tapped out the query.

“Probability of successful jump is ninety-eight point five.”

His fingers slashed the jump command stub, and instantaneous endless blackness flashed up around him. For that instant, the pain in his shoulder became a kind of pleasure, but only for that instant.

Back in real-space the searing continued, with each instant adding yet another needled blast.

Jimjoy took a breath and concentrated on rebuilding the pain blocs. After a while, the searing receded, and he could see the board clearly enough to realize he needed to reconfigure the small remaining jump. He did, one finger at a time, one calculation at a time, and touched the jump button.