by Chris Bunch
The Kelly and the Gamble had been attempting to plot a meteor stream's track. Lieutenant Sekka had insisted that the meteors came from a single exploded planet. Sten had argued that merely because the boulders were somewhat oversize didn't necessarily indicate anything. But, in amusement, he had authorized a backplot on those rocks.
Every alarm siren in the universe brought the fun and games to an end. Alex and Sten, on the Gamble's command deck, and Lieutenant Sekka, on the Kelly, stared at the screen.
"Wha’ we hae here,” Kilgour finally said, “is the biggest clottin’ battlewagon Ah hae ever seen. Imperial or Tahn. An’ tha's nae entry in Jane's f'r it."
"Stand by, emergency power,” Sten said. He checked their position. They were supposedly in a neutral sector, although Sten had a fair idea that if the Tahn were feeling feisty, that wouldn't help.
There was a com blast that sent the readings into the red. “Foreign ship. Identify or be blasted."
"Impolite clots,” Kilgour muttered.
Sten went to the closed circuit to Sekka. “Kelly, if the shooting starts, get out of it."
"But—"
"Orders."
He changed channels.
"Imperial Tacship Gamble receiving."
The screen cleared. It took Sten a moment to recognize the Tahn officer, in full-dress uniform, standing behind the communications specialist. But he did.
"Captain Deska. You've gotten a promotion."
Deska, too, was puzzled—and then he remembered. He did not seem pleased at the memory. He covered nicely. “Imperial ship ... we are not receiving your transmissions. This is the Tahn Battleship Forez. You have intruded into a Tahn sector. Stand by to be boarded. You are subject to internment."
"I wish,” Sten said to Alex, “we had Ida with us."
Alex grinned. Their gypsy pilot in Mantis Section had once hoisted her skirts, with nothing underneath, after hearing a similar command.
Sten, not being good at repartee, shut down communication. “Kelly. Return to Cavite at full power. Fullreport. Keep it under seal for forty-eight E-hours or until my return, whichever comes first."
"I did not accept command in order to—yessir."That got one worry out of the way—the Kelly was several light-minutes behind Sten's ship, and Sten figured there was no way that Sekka could get caught.
He thought for a moment. “Mr. Kilgour."
"Sir."
"I would like a collision course set for this Forez."
"Sir."
"Three-quarters power."
Someone on the Forez must have computed Sten's trajectory. The emergency circuit yammered at him.
Sten ignored it.
"Lad, thae hae a great ploy. But hae y’ consider't we may be ae war already? Tha’ Tahn'd know afore we did."
Sten, as a matter of fact, had not. It was a little late to add that into the equation, however.
"New orbit ... get me a light-minute away from that clot ... on count ... three ... two ... now!"
An observer with systemwide vision would have seen the Gamble veer.
"Tahn ship appears to have weapons systems tracking,” Foss said.
"Far clottin’ out. Foss, I want that random orbit of yours ... on count ... two ... one ... now!"
Foss had come up with a random-choice attack pattern that Sten had used to train the Fox antimissile crews. Foss swore it was impossible for anyone, even linked to a supercomputer, to track a missile using such an orbit. There were two considerations: The Gamble, no matter how agile, could not compare to a missile. Also, its effects on the crew, despite the McLean generators, were unsettling.
Sten took it as long as he could. Then he had a slight inspiration. “New trajectory ... stand by ... I want a boarding trajectory!"
"Sir?"
"Goddammit, you heard me!"
"Boarding trajectory. Aye, sir."
The two ships bore toward each other again.
"Mr. Kilgour, what honors do you render a Tahn ship?"
"Clot if Ah know't, Skipper. Stab ‘em in tha’ back ae tha’ be a Campbell?"
Sten swore to himself. It would have been a great jape. He had never worried about the Forez. At least not that much. First, he thought that if war had been declared—or had even begun sans declaration—Admiral Deska would have ground Sten's nose in it. Second, he assumed that the Forez's missiles were probably larger than the Gamble herself. And third, tacships do not attack, let alone reattack, battleships.
The Forez and the Gamble passed each other barely three light-seconds apart. It was not close enough, in spite of Kilgour's claims, to chip the antipickup anodizing on the Gamble's hull.
A ship in space, with its McLean generators on, had no true up or down, so the Forez's response to the close pass would have been known only to the officers and men on its bridge and navcenter. But Sten, watching in a rear screen, was most pleased to see the huge Tahn battleship end-over-end-over-end three times before it recovered.
"Emergency power, Mr. Kilgour,” he said, and was unashamed of a bit of smugness.
"Lad,” Alex managed. “Y're thinki't y're entirely too cute't’ be one ae us humans."
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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
STEN, HEELS LOCKED and fingers correctly curled at the seams of his uniform, wondered which of his multifarious sins van Doorman had discovered. For some reason, however, van Doorman seemed almost cheerful. Sten guessed that it was caused by the maze of painters and carpenters he had threaded his way through entering the admiral's suite at the Carlton Hotel.
"Commander, I realize that ceremony evidently means little to you. But are you aware that Empire Day is less than seventy-two hours from now?"
Sten was. Empire Day was a personal creation of the Eternal Emperor. Once every E-year, all Imperial Forces not engaged in combat threw an open house. It was a combination of public relations and a way of showing the lethality of the usually sheathed Imperial saber. “I am, sir."
"And I am mildly surprised. I wanted to issue instructions for the proper display of your ships and men."
"Display, sir?"
"Of course,” van Doorman said, a trace irritably. “The entire 23rd Fleet will be open to visitors, as usual."
"Uh ... I'm sorry, sir. We can't do it."
Van Doorman scowled, then brightened. Perhaps this might be the excuse he needed to gulag Sten. “That was not a request. Commander. You may take it as a direct order."
"Sir, that's an order I can't obey.” Sten sort of wanted to see how purple his admiral would get before he explained but thought better of it. “Sir, according to Imperial Order R-278-XN-FICHE: BULKELEY, all of my ships are under a security edict. From Prime World, sir. There's a copy in your operations files, sir.” Sten was making up the order number—but such an order did exist.
Van Doorman sat back in his chair after probably rejecting several comebacks. “So you and your crew of thugs will just frowst about on Empire Day. Most convenient."
And then Sten had his idea, inspired by the thought of Empire Day—and the Emperor, who loved a double-blind plan. “Nossir. We'd rather not, sir, unless that's your orders."
Before van Doorman could answer, Sten went on. “Actually, Admiral, I had planned to set an appointment with your flag secretary today, to offer a suggestion."
Van Doorman waited.
"Sir, while we can't allow anyone close to our ships, there's no reason that they can't be seen. Everyone on Cavite's seen us take off and land."
"You have an idea,” van Doorman said.
"Yessir. Is there any reason that we could not do a flyby? Perhaps after you deliver the opening remarks?"
"Hmm,” van Doorman mused. “I have watched your operations. Quite spectacular—although as I have said before, I see little combat value in your craft. But they are very, very showy."
"Yessir. And my officers are experienced in in-atmosphere aerobatics."
Van Doorman actually smiled. “Perhaps, Commander, I have been jud
ging you too harshly. I felt that you really did not have the interests of our navy at heart. I could have been mistaken."
"Thank you, sir. But I'm not quite finished."
"Go ahead."
"If you would be willing to issue authorization, we could provide quite a fireworks display as part of the flyby."
"Fireworks aren't exactly part of our ordnance."
"I know that, sir. But we could draw blanks for the chainguns and remove the warheads on some of the obsolete missiles we have in storage."
"You are thinking. That would be very exciting. And it would enable us to get rid of some of those clunkers, before we get gigged for having them at the next IG."
Sten realized that van Doorman was making a joke. He laughed.
"Very well. Very well indeed. I'll issue the authorization today. Commander, I think you and I are starting to think in the same lines."
God help me if we are, Sten thought. “One more thing, sir."
"Another idea?"
"Nossir. A question. You said the entire fleet will be on display?"
"Outside of two picket boats—that is my custom."
Sten saluted and left.
* * * *
The war council consisted of Sten, Alex, Sh'aarl't, Estill, Sekka, and Sutton and was held in one of the flotilla's engine yards.
"This is to be regarded as information-only, people,” Sten started. He relayed what had happened at the meeting with van Doorman. The other officers took a minute to absorb things, then put on their what-a-dumb-clottin'-idea-but-you're-the-skipper expressions.
"Maybe there's madness to my method. I got to thinking that if I were a Tahn, and I wanted a time to start things off with a bang, I could do a helluva lot worse than pick Empire Day.
"Every clotting ship our wonderful admiral has is gonna be sitting on line. Security will be two tacships and shore patrolmen on foot."
"Tha's noo bad thinkin',” Alex said. “Th’ Tahn dinna appear to me ‘t'be't standin't on ceremony like declarations of war or like that."
"And if they hit us,” Sh'aarl't added, “I'd just as soon not be sitting on the ground waiting."
"Maybe I'm slow, Commander,” Estill said. “But say you're right. And we're airborne when—and if—they come in. But with, pardon me, clotting fireworks?"
Alex looked at the lieutenant with admiration. It may have been the first time he had used the word “clot” since being commissioned. Being in the mosquito fleet was proving salutary for Estill's character.
"Exactly, Lieutenant,” Sten said. “We're going to have great fireworks. Goblin fireworks, Fox fireworks, and Kali fireworks. Van Doorman's given us permission to loot his armory—and we're going to take advantage."
Tapia laughed. “What happens if you're wrong—and ol’ Doormat calls for his fireworks?"
"It'd be a clottin’ major display, and we'll all be looking for new jobs.
"Vote?” Van Doorman would probably have relieved Sten on the spot just for running his flotilla with even a breath of democracy.
Kilgour, of course, was all for it. As was Tapia. Sekka and Sh'aarl't gave it a moment of thought, then concurred.
Estill smiled. “Paranoiacs together,” he said, and raised his hand.
"Fine. Get work crews together, Mr. Sutton, and some gravsleds."
"Yes, sir. By the way, would you have any objections if some of my boys happen to be terrible at mathematics and acquire some extra weaponry?"
"Mr. Sutton, I myself could never count above ten without taking my boots off. Now, move ‘em out."
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CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
SR. ECU FLOATED just above the sand, which had been sifted to a prism white—a white even purer than the minuscule sensors that whiskered from his wings. He settled closer to the garden floor, shuddered in disgust, and gave a faint flap to a winglet. A puff of dust rose from the sand, and he was in position again.
Lord Fehrle had kept him waiting for nearly two hours. The impatience he felt now had little to do with the length of the waiting. Sr. Ecu was a member of a race that treasured the subtle stretchings of time. But not now, and not in this environment.
He supposed that he had been ushered into the sand garden because the Lord Fehrle wanted to impress him with his sense of art and understanding. Besides patience, the Manabi were noted for their sensitivity to visual stimulation.
The sand garden was a perfect bowl with a radius of about a half a kilometer. In this area were laid exactly ten stones, ranging in size from five meters down to a third of a meter. Each stone was of a different color: earth colors varying from deep black to a tinge of orange. They had all been mathematically placed the proper distance apart. It was the coldest work of art that Sr. Ecu had seen in his hundred-plus years. During the two hours of waiting he had considered what may have been in Lord Fehrle's mind when he created it.
The thinking was not comfortable. If one stone had been ever so slightly out of place or if a patch of sand had not been as perfect as the rest, he would have felt much better.
He had tried to change the shape of it all with his own presence.
Sr. Ecu's body was black with a hint of red just under the wing tips. His tail snaked out three meters, narrowing to a point that had once held a sting in his race's ancestral past. He had tried moving himself around from point to point, hovering for long minutes as he tried physically to break up the cold perfection that was the garden. Somehow he kept finding himself back in the same place. If nothing more, his physical presence in the perfect spot added to the psychological ugliness of the place.
Even for a Tahn, on a scale of one to ten, Lord Fehrle rated below zero as a diplomat. This was an estimation that Sr. Ecu could make with authority. His own race was noted for its diplomatic bearing—which was the reason Fehrle had requested his presence.
In any other circumstances Sr. Ecu would have left in a diplomatic huff after the first half hour. Anger at insult can be a valuable tool in intrasystem relations. But not in these circumstances. He was not sure that the Manabi could preserve their traditional neutrality, much less a future, if the Tahn and the Empire continued on their collision course.
So he would wait and talk and see in this obscenity of a garden that perfectly illustrated the Tahn mind.
It was another half hour before Lord Fehrle appeared. He was polite but abrupt, acting as if he had been kept waiting instead of the Manabi. Fehrle had sketched in the current status of relations between the Empire and the Tahn. All of this, except for smaller details, the Manabi knew. He dared Fehrle's impatience by saying so.
"This is a textbook summation of the situation, my lord,” he said. “Most admirable. Almost elegant in its sparseness. But I fail to see my role."
"To be frank,” Fehrle said, “we intend to launch a full-out attack."
All three of Sr. Ecu's stomachs lurched. Their linings had been sorely tested in the past, to the point where he had been sure he would never be able to digest his favorite microorganisms again. This, however, was true disaster.
"I beg you to reconsider, my lord,” he said. “Are your positions really so far apart? Is it really too late to talk? In my experience..."
"That's why I asked you here,” Fehrle said. “There is a way out. A way to avoid total war."
Sr. Ecu knew the man was lying through his gleaming teeth. However, he could hardly say so. “I'm delighted to hear that,” he said. “I suppose you have some new demands. Compromises, perhaps? Areas of concern to be traded for firm agreements?"
Fehrle snorted. “Not at all,” he said. “We will settle for nothing less than total capitulation."
"If I may say so, that is not a very good way to resume negotiations, my lord,” Sr. Ecu murmured.
"But that is where I intend to begin, just the same,” Fehrle said. “I have a fiche outlining our position. It will be delivered to you before you leave for Prime World."
And how much time shall I tell the Emperor's emissaries they
have to respond?"
"Seventy-two E-hours,” Lord Fehrle said flatly, almost in a monotone."But, my lord, that's impossible. It would take a miracle for me to even reach Prime World in that time, much less to set up the proper channels."
"It's seventy-two hours just the same."
"You must listen to reason, my lord!"
"Then you refuse?"
Now Sr. Ecu understood. Fehrle wanted a refusal. Later he could say that he had done his best to avert full war but that the Manabi would not undertake the mission.
He had to admire the plan, as in a way he admired how perfectly ugly the man's garden was. Because there was no way in his race's coda that Sr. Ecu could undertake the mission.
"Yes, my lord. I'm afraid I must refuse."
"Very well, then."
Lord Fehrle turned without another word and stalked off across the white sand.
Sr. Ecu rippled his wings and in a moment was soaring away, his own self-esteem and his race's neutrality shattered.
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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE WEATHER REPORT for Empire Day was disappointing: overcast with occasional rain, heavy at times. Rotten weather for a holiday—but it would save the lives of several thousands of beings on Cavite and, perhaps, be responsible for Sten's survival on that day.
Sten had restricted his crews to the flotilla area twenty-four hours beforehand. There had been grumbles—Empire Day for the 23rd Fleet was not only show-and-tell day but a rationale for some serious partying. Not that there was much time for bitching—they were too busy loading and resupplying the ships. And quickly the crew members, seeing live missiles and ammunition being not only loaded but racked and mounted, figured that something very much out of the ordinary was going on.
The ships were ready to launch at 1900 hours. Sten was amused to see that the final load actually was fireworks, acquired by Sutton from some of his black-market contacts. Sten put everyone under light hypno sleep and tried for a little rest himself—without result.
Wearing a slicker against the occasional spatters of rain, he spent the middle hours of the night pacing around his ships and wondering why he had ever wanted to be the man in charge of anything.
