Fleet of the Damned (20 page)

"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. Full report. 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."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

S
ten, 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 very experienced in in-atmosphere aerobatics."

Van Doorman actually smiled. "Perhaps, Commander, I have been judging 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."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

S
r. 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."