Empire & Ecolitan (55 page)

“Eight or nine, depending on the mission.” He leaned over the board and tapped two studs in sequence. “Thirty percent. Not too bad, if the others are like that. Might not even use all the surplus from the
Roosveldt
.” Pulling himself into the rough approximation of a sitting position—as well as possible in null-gee without actually strapping in—he began to run through the analysis programs, nodding or shaking his head as the outputs appeared on the small screen on the board itself.

He ignored the look that passed between Mera and Athos as they noted his familiarity with the controls. The older Fuard systems clearly didn't allow the flexibility of detailed split screens, instead tracking outputs to predetermined screens. “Rigid and idiot-proof…” he mumbled.

Mera and Athos exchanged looks a second time before Mera began to try to puzzle out the board in front of the copilot's couch.

Abruptly, Jimjoy tapped several controls and sat up. “It works. For now, at least. Let's see what it looks like below.” He eased around Mera and pulled himself back into the central fore-aft corridor.

Floating just off the plastic-coated metal desk in the destroyer's stale air to inspect the hatch to the lower deck, Jimjoy used the suit's belt light to supplement the dim emergency lights. Around the squarish hatch were heavy scratch marks in the dark purple plastic finish. The hatch itself was a single piece of metal which slid into a recess under the deck, unlike the irised double hatches of Imperial ships.

He nodded. The Fuards used steel, probably asteroid-smelted, and far less composite and plastic than Imperial ships.

“What do you think?” asked Mera and Athos nearly simultaneously.

“Don't know. Let's see.” He used the manual control wheel to crank open the hatch on a solid steel ladder leading to the deck below, and the drives, and screen, grav-field, and jump generators. Then he pulled himself into the narrow space at the foot of the ladder among the equipment.

Every single unit was at least a third again as big as the comparable Imperial equipment.

He shook his head ruefully, but he couldn't keep a smile from his lips. With all that power…But that led to the next question. He disconnected the light from the equipment belt and focused it on the thin line of silver that ran from the converter to the jump generator. He repeated the tracing process with the screen generator and the grav-field equipment.

“No cross-connects,” he murmured. Not that he had expected anything else. The Fuards were known for their straightforward, brute-force, energy-intensive approach.

“Cross-connects?” asked Mera.

“Not the time for an explanation, but I needed to see these to make sure. Power flows run straight from the converter to each separate system. Probably has a tiered logic in the converter distributor…drives, jump accumulator, screens, and grav-fields. Logic system is based on normal loads. Ship is overpowered, but the logic fields act as a governor. No reason we couldn't cross-connect and shunt power from screens or grav-fields to drives.”

Athos, floating down the ladder, shook his head. “You've lost me, ser.”

Jimjoy finished his inspection and clipped the light to his belt. “Just a matter of expectations. Change the performance envelope of the ship…probably have to make it automatic…most of our pilots couldn't handle it without more training time than we have, but it could throw off the Impies.”

Mera nodded. “What's the standard deviation on a fire control system?”

“Depends on distance. Call it an average of less than five percent max on a deep-space solution.”

“So a variation in acceleration/deceleration…”

“Right.”

“You two,” muttered Athos. “It's like an abbreviated code.” He shoved himself back to the main deck of the former Fuard destroyer.

“How long will it take?” asked Mera.

Jimjoy shrugged and turned back toward the ladder, waiting for Mera to head up. “First we've got to get these home—looks like they'll make the jumps. But we'll do it in full suits. Screens are generally first to go. Once we're at Orbit Dark, we'll need to check out all the equipment, see what needs to be replaced. Then, if we have time, you can start on the modifications.”

“Hold it. Can't we fix some things here?”

Jimjoy snorted. “Terms of transfer were
immediate
removal. The Fuards don't want anyone to prove that they're supporting a revolution that just
happens
to keep Imperial Forces tied up half a quadrant away from the Empire/Fuard border systems.”

Mera sighed. “Nothing—”

“I know. Nothing we get into is simple. We did get four ships, and they're better than I'd really hoped for. Even if it will take some work.”

“How much work?”

“Depends. First on the checkout of the existing gear. After that, mostly on how much supercon line we need and whether you can round up enough and if we have someone who can change the converter logic without blowing the entire system.”

“Me? You keep saying ‘me,'” observed Mera, her voice rising slightly. “I'm not even officially even a graduate.”

“You will be. Who else? Thelina says I can't do everything. I'll give you a written set of performance requirements, and you'll have to figure out how all four ships can meet them. In the meantime, you're going to learn how to pilot this on the way back. Now…up you go.”

Mera gave herself a gentle shove with her suit boot and drifted up along the ladder and through the hatch.

Jimjoy followed, slowing at the opening between the decks, then pulling himself to a stop in order to crank the hatch closed.

“Three more to go. Then we'll have to crank out the course lines, jump points, and get the hades out of here.” He headed for the main lock, not mentioning once again that he would feel happier, much happier, outside of Fuard-controlled space.

T
HE THIN BLOND
-and-silver-haired Admiral looked at his younger counterpart. “Hewitt, are you telling me that we can't win against those eco-freaks no matter how much money you get?”

“No.” The dark-haired Admiral smiled easily. “I'm saying N'Trosia can't afford to give me the funding, or the time, it will take.”

“And you think Intelligence can persuade him otherwise?”

“Not necessarily. I just thought you ought to have a full understanding of the situation. I came across an interesting report, two or three years old, from one of your Special Operatives…”

“Yes?”

“…on Accord. I thought you might have a continuing interest in the situation.” The younger Admiral smiled again, sitting comfortably in the leather-padded armchair.

“I can't say that I recall that report.”

“You probably have so many it's hard to keep track. This one was by a Major Wright. I tried to track him down, but your office indicated he was a casualty of his last assignment.”

“Major Wright? Can't say the name rings a bell.”

“That's odd. He was the one who handled the Halston HUMBLEPIE operation. I would have thought—”

“Hewitt, what do you want, really?” The older Admiral counterfeited a sigh and leaned forward in his swivel.

“Me? There's nothing I could possibly ask for. No amount of resources will really undo the damage in Sector Five. Most of that seems to have been caused by some group at least as effective as your Special Operatives, I might note. I can't plan actions in areas that have no support or operating SysCons. Hades, I can't even recommend them as a good return.

“If the first report by Major Wright—I did mention that there were two that showed up in my files, didn't I?—if that first report is correct, those eco-nuts could create a great deal of ecological damage on Imperial planets.”

The older Admiral nodded, still smiling. “I don't recall another report by a Major Wright, but supposing there were such a report, I'd be interested in what it had to do with Fleet Development.”

The younger Admiral shrugged. “As I was saying, the Senate can't commit adequate resources for Sector Five, no matter what. Sector Nine is another question—a purely military one, which is appropriate for military solutions.”

“You don't think that the Accord example won't cause problems throughout the Empire? What about the Sligo revolt?”

“Sligo is in Sector Four. Those hard-rock types have always been malcontents. If you want to make an example, do it there.”

“You would support such an example?”

“Me? I'm just a very junior member of the staff command. I was only making an observation.”

“And do you have any other observations, Hewitt?”

“I'd be very surprised if the late and unremembered Major Wright is as deceased as the files say.”

“That's an odd observation.”

“Perhaps. Leslie was the Comm Officer at Missou Base on New Kansaw. Call it slightly personal.”

“I see. You'd question a complete dead body with a total DNA match?”

“Only where Accord is concerned, but there's really nothing that can be done there. Might as well leave the Rift alone. That might not have happened if the Service had better equipment, if we hadn't been forced to rely too much on Intelligence operations, if we could have built the FC or the CX—but I ramble too much…. It is too bad that the Honorable Chairman of the Galaxy's most prestigious Committee continues to try to run all aspects of military policy. One of these days, who knows, he might even start in on Intelligence operations, revealing another set of sordid details.” The younger Admiral laughed. “It's so enjoyable testifying before him and that know-everything young staff of his. Just hope you never get that pleasure.”

“You do have some interesting ideas, Hewitt. Have you thought about retiring and writing them down? It might be a fascinating exercise in fiction.”

“Hardly. I have shared them with a few highly placed friends, but…what can I say? Our best bet would be if the Senator took up some hazardous sport like skim-gliding on Sierra, but he's far too devoted to his job. The only thing that would stop him would be a sudden stroke or an accident. Hardly likely these days, though it does happen.”

The older Admiral nodded. “Interesting speculation, but you still haven't told me the reason for your visit.”

“No real reason. I was over here and thought I'd stop in. Wondered if you had any thoughts on how we could concentrate on Sector Nine and our friends the Fuards. That's what we ought to be doing. Then they'd have to come to economic terms with the Matriarchy. If we'd done that to begin with, Accord wouldn't have dared…but I'm rambling again. What's done is done.” He stood up slowly, as if requesting permission to depart.

“Well, Hewitt, you do have some intriguing thoughts, and someday you might think about writing them down.”

“There's too much to do, right now…”

“That's true.” The older Admiral stood. “I appreciate your stopping by. Give my best to the Chairman the next time you see him.”

“Oh, I'll leave that to you. Our hearings are over, for a while anyway.” He turned to go, then paused as if to add something, then stopped. He looked back. “Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

J
IMJOY TIGHTENED THE
straps holding him into the control couch in the weightlessness of the Ecolitan-designed and Thalos-built needleboat. He mentally reviewed the checklist, cataloging the items, occasionally stumbling at the not-quite-familiar order.

“You can start the checklist, Luren.” He glanced over at his temporary copilot.

While the needleboat's overall design was an improvement, for the Institute's needs, on standard I.S.S. configurations, the new checklist took a little extra time for someone trained on the older design.

Luren did not have that problem, since she had been trained on the new Institute design.

Jimjoy watched as she began.

Her once-long curling brown hair had been trimmed nearly as short as Thelina's, and, according to Kerin Sommerlee, she had a near-natural aptitude for the martial arts and hand-to-hand. Her piloting skills were adequate, but not nearly so natural. Her determination was the compensating factor. Jimjoy had watched her spend her limited free time helping build the new boats with Jason and his team, as if by knowing every structural and engineering detail she could increase her skills.

Jimjoy pulled at his chin, glancing from the boards to the representational screens, still wishing he were doing the piloting.

“Converter…stand by…”

“Screens…up…”

Her motions were deliberate and practiced, not yet automatic.

Jimjoy's eyes surveyed the cabin, where no essential item was beyond the pilot's reach. The forward display screen showed mostly the black of space, sprinkled with the white scattered stars of the Arm, contrasting with the formless dark of the Rift. In the right-hand corner of the screen lurked an indistinct gray object, PAA #32, the asteroid his team had just finished converting into a two-person biohazard research/production station.

“Checklist complete, ser.” Luren did not look at him, but continued to scan the controls and screens.

Jimjoy's fingers touched the small square of controls beneath his left hand. “VerComm, Jaymar two, departing Bold Harbor three this time.”

With the time lag, he didn't expect an answer, but VerComm needed to know he was en route to the last station setup. Mera and Jason had already left with the big transport, the lasers, and the remaining fusactor.

Behind him would come the
Roosveldt
, trundling in the supplies and the equipment required by Drs. Stilsen and Narlian.

Jimjoy smiled as he recalled the meeting between the two.

“Stilsen, we don't need all that junk. This isn't research; it's war. We
know
what to produce. After we win, then you put in for all the goodies, when everyone's grateful—or, in our case, scared stiff.” That was how Arlyn Narlian had attacked the cautious Dr. Stilsen.

He looked over at his copilot, still wondering if he should have switched the rotation. “It's all yours, Luren. Get us over to Bold Harbor four.”

“Yes, ser.”

He watched as her fingers flicked easily across the simplified board.

Waiting until the faint pressure pushed them back into the couches—this particular boat had yet to be fitted with grav-fields—he scanned the readouts on the board.

Then he triggered three studs. “Simulated emergency. Simulated emergency. Your decel is scheduled in three minutes.”

Jimjoy had blocked the transfer of power from the converter to the drives.

Luren froze the board, then began to unstrap.

Jimjoy smiled. “What do you plan to do?”

“Unless an instructor freezes power, the only thing that will produce that blockage is either a converter malfunction or a short supercon line. There's no way to tell the difference without looking.”

“Strap back in. How would you tell the difference?” Jimjoy unfroze the board. His actions had really been a trick to see if she would have tried to do
something
. Sometimes the best course was to do nothing, at least until you knew what to do. Luren had been right. Under the circumstances, she could have done nothing from the controls.

“I'd check the supercon line first, ser. Then the plug end from the converter…”

Jimjoy nodded. He still had another five requirements on which to test Luren.

“The board's open. Without any net increase in total power output or time of arrival, change our approach vector by at least ninety degrees. Don't hurry it. You have plenty of time.” He kept his voice even, wishing in some ways he didn't have to double as check pilot, but he needed to know the new pilots' capabilities, and the Institute was short on top-flight pilots, even after co-opting off-duty time from the Accord line people, like Swersa and even Broward.

He leaned back, pretending to relax, wondering if he looked as much at ease as he tried to project, watching and hoping Luren would be able to figure it out. Then he could drop the next one on her.

He almost pulled at his chin. Instead he cleared his throat and glanced at the representational screen, glad that the only EDI traces on the system board belonged to Accord. How long that would last was another question.