"We have learned this, at least," Vakka finally replied. "If they have an advantage it is in their depth, their web of alliances with half a dozen races, the sheer number of worlds they have colonized. Such a depth of organization could be of infinite help if the challenge from within the core is to one day be met. We lack that depth. We annihilate or enslave everyone on the worlds we take."
"So?" the Crown Prince replied, his tone obviously conveying total confusion over the intent of Vakka's statement.
"Yes, we have a fleet, the best in the galaxy, but we don't have the infrastructure, the web of commerce. We conquer, destroy, populate a new world like a fiefdom, placing a few tens of thousands of our own blood where billions once existed. Those whom we suffer to live, labor in our factories as slaves, not allies. Then we expand yet again. We are like a hollow shell, the Confederation is a solid mass."
"That is why we must attack now," the Crown Prince snarled. "We are the superior. One fierce blow will smash that solid mass, a blow from which they will never recover. Even if, as in your worst projections as presented earlier, they somehow survive the first blow, they will be so weakened that we shall hold what we have taken, then finally push the blade into their heart."
"Better to take it and use it in our own way," the Crown Prince cried, turning to face the other clan leaders. "We can see this truth. If our places were reversed, we would laugh at such an alliance, and simply use the Confederation as a buffer to absorb the first blow of the enemy, as they would do to us. And besides, the point is meaningless. It will be at least eight times eight years before the darkness even begins to approach our outer borders."
Vakka looked about the room for support and saw only blank stares. He knew those clan leaders whose realms bordered in towards the galactic core might see his side, but the promise of war, immediate war, rather than long boring years of preparation for a threat that might never actually come, superseded all other concerns.
"The war will train a new generation such as my son," the Crown Prince pressed. "For all our sons this fight will be their blooding and their chance to rise in honor and gain glory for their clan names. And this war, I predict that it will be finished before it has even started. After the first hammer blows, we will pluck the flesh off the bones of the Confederation at our leisure."
"As for the rumor that they are preparing to declare war upon us-" and he chuckled softly, " — let them. We shall use the classic maneuver of the Haggin."
Laughter erupted at the reference to an old hunting trick, of sending a lone warrior out and letting him feign injury to draw the prey in. The prey would then be so focused on the Haggin that they would not notice that they in turn were being encircled.
"We will show weakness and confusion in the opening days, even pull back. Then will come the killing blow."
Vakka turned and looked back at his own son, Jukaga, the same age as the ignorant whelp, Ratha. Jukaga was eager for the fight, that was obvious by the pained, embarrassed expression in his eyes at his father's display. Would Jukaga survive this war? He scanned the rest of the assembly. All visible support was gone. Some were already looking towards the door into the feasting hall, the immediate needs of their stomachs far more important than this last hope for turning the decision back.
As he gazed upon them he did see one clear truth. They needed war, perpetual war, for if they did not have it the Empire would turn upon itself in bloody civil conflict, to satiate the need for combat, for glory, for blood. If for no other reason than that, the Emperor, in his cunning, would demand an attack upon the Confederation in order to insure his own place upon the throne.
So it would be the Jak-tu, the war of surprise. It was, of course, the way, for only a fool would warn his prey of intent. Picking up his dagger, he walked to the ceremonial circle in the center of the room. Raising the blade high he closed his eyes, hesitating, a dark warning of fear rippling in his heart. But there was now no other way, short of provoking a civil war, a breaking of the clans… he flung the blade so that it stood quivering beside the knives of the other clan leaders and the golden blade of the Emperor. A roar of approval erupted and Vakka looked back towards the dais. There was a rustling behind the curtains, the Emperor was standing… a howling roar erupted from behind the screen, the first cry of the hunt, joined an instant later by those assembled in the room, a mad ululation of abandon and joy, for the scent of blood was in the air. Vakka could feel it overcoming him as well, the primal instinct of the pride, the vast steppes filled with game, the hot sun overhead, the air thick with the smell of blood… and now it was the vastness of space, the cold silence, the swooping dive and the shudder of guns… it was still the same, the hunt. The spirit finally seized his soul even in its torment and, tilting his head back, the scream erupted from him, mingling with those who were of the blood of Empire.
Confederation Service Academy-Houston
"Admiral, hell of a good speech, the kids ate it up."
Admiral «Skip» Banbridge turned to see his old comrade, Commander Winston Turner, coming towards him, hand extended and holding a drink. Banbridge smiled sarcastically as he accepted the heavy crystal glass and took a long, grateful sip of well-aged single malt Scotch.
"Bullshit, Turner, same damn speech as last year, same damn speech as the year before…"
"And the same damn speech old Horatio gave us when we graduated thirty years ago," Turner interjected with a smile.
Banbridge looked around the reception room, filled to overflowing with Academy personnel, the hundreds of freshly-minted ensigns and their gushing parents, along with a sprinkling of politicians, hangers-on, lobbyists, and the ever-present news services, which were still salivating over the cheating scandal of the previous semester and the fact that this might very well be the last graduating class if the Senate Appropriations Committee voted next week to close the school down.
Mingled in with the background chatter he could hear Senator Jamison More, head of that committee, being interviewed by one of the vultures of the press.
"Yes, very impressive ceremony, always is, a nice tradition. But there are other traditions far more important and I must ask, is the money we spend on this place really worth it? We have several hundred million homeless after the nova on Yorin, millions more addicted to Happy Death who need treatment, the need for expanding our Confederation cabinet level position on cultural sensitivity and of course the terraforming of a dozen planets which I'm deeply concerned about. This navy is a mighty expensive toy for some of the boys around here and I have to ask, what are we getting back in return?"
He chuckled softly and shook his head. "After all, there hasn't been a war in over a century. Isn't it time we realized those days are over?"
Banbridge started to turn, ready to wade in. The fact that he had shown up for the ceremony was a boorish display that had soured Banbridge's mood. At least he could have given the kids this one day to enjoy the honor of graduation without standing like the undertaker in the wings, ready to drive the final stake into a tradition that dated back hundreds of years.
Through the crowd he caught a momentary glimpse of More, holding forth, surrounded by reporters… and the bastard was looking straight at him and smiling.
"Not now, Skip," and he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. He looked back over at Turner.
"Bastard, think he'd at least let the kids have their day without all this crap about another cutback."
"He's baiting you, Skip, and you know he can outtalk you in front of the vids."
Damn it all, Skip thought coldly. Never did have that polish and never will. I'm a born gutter fighter from a godforsaken gutter world outpost who came up the hard way. Still an enlisted man at heart, and still speak that way. Funny, how did I ever get to be what I now am?
He looked over at his old roommate from the days when they were fleggies in this same Academy. Turner was the proper first son of an American East Coast family that felt it necessary for their lads to do a bit of service t
o the Confed. While he had been six years Turner's senior, an enlisted man of whom the fleet believed that spending money on an education would pay off as a sound investment… a friendship formed that first day that had held through thirty long years of service.
"So why the hell don't you go over there and say something, Turner?" Skip snapped. "You're the damn professor around here, you got the culture, let's go take the bastard."
"Not now, Skip. Anyhow, someone else already is in there."
Banbridge looked back and saw a newly-minted ensign stepping in front of the vids. He was a good looking lad, tall, slender, calm, gray-eyed, already wearing the wings of a basic fighter trainee over the left breast pocket. The lad had a respectful look. He was, after all, going up against a senator, but Banbridge could sense that the kid was a scrapper if need be.
"Senator, may I respectfully point something out, sir?" the boy interrupted.
Senator More paused and looked over at the ensign, and Banbridge was reminded of an ancient video actor, hundreds of years dead, and his line, "Go away, kid, yer botherin' me."
But one of the vid cam operators turned on the young ensign and the others turned as well. More smiled benevolently, but Skip could see the dart of his eyes to the boys name tag. The kid had just committed career suicide.
"Sir, with all due respect, I believe you are one of the representatives from Primus Three?"
The senator nodded as if indulging a child who had asked the most foolish of questions, that any idiot would know the answer to.
"You are exactly two jump points from the border with the Kilrathi."
"The Cats?" More replied with a laugh. "Third rate power. If we have to fight them, it will be a minor affair, a minor affair which the fleet can handle with ease."
"But if they should attack," the ensign pressed, "an attack could be at your world in under four days standard, sir. That is how thin the margin is and, given current appropriation levels, the defense is very thin indeed. One mistake, sir, and you would lose all of your voters in a single explosive flash."
"Son, don't lecture me about my voters," More snapped. "They're tired of the taxes imposed by the Confederation and the overpriced toys you fly around in, and it will come to a stop. The Wildcat fighter costs fifty million a piece, son, fifty million. I guess, though, a boy like you doesn't realize just how much that is?"
The young ensign stood silent, as if ready to withdraw, but the cameras turned back on him. Banbridge leaned forward to listen.
"I am fully aware of what that money can buy, sir. It's the price of freedom."
More snorted derisively.
"It buys a machine to justify you and your admirals."
"Sir, I am in training so I can one day fly a Wildcat. The good Lord willing, I'll make the grade. And when I get my wings, sir, I want to point out one thing."
He paused as if willing to let More interject, but then forged ahead.
"There is a one in three chance, sir, that within five years I'll be dead. The reason, sir, is that the fleet board begged your committee for the additional ten million for a Wildcat upgrade. The engines are outdated, stress flaws are becoming increasingly common. In short they're already five years past their design limits. The Wildcat is thirty years old and its replacement, thanks to cutbacks, won't be fully on-line for at least five more years. Therefore we are in a bind, sir. Since neither the upgrade facility for the Wildcat nor the main factory for its replacement went to your district, you turned on the plan and have locked it in committee for three and a half years, sir."
"Respectfully, sir, on behalf of my comrades who graduated today and will fly with me, we do hope that you get your political deal, sir, and that you force the Senate to build the facilities on your world, where I understand that several of your family members own the land the proposed facilities were to be built on. Your district will profit, and, sir, I will be able to look forward to living past the age of twenty-six."
Before the astonished senator could muster a reply the young ensign came to attention, nodded politely and walked off. The vid operators turned their cameras back on More, but his back was already turned, half a dozen aides closing in around the senator and hustling him off. In the past there had been several incidents where More had blown in front of the cameras, especially after having several drinks, and his staff knew when to get him out. The senator's press flak stepped in front of the cameras with a smile and started to make some banal comment.
Banbridge had to turn away to hide his smile. Of course he'd have to chew the boy's ass off, but he couldn't help but admire his spunk. He saw one of More's aides trailing the lad, moving to intercept. Red-faced, the aide started to shout something, but the boy refused to rise to the bait, stepped around the aide and kept on going.
"Think we better run to windward." Turner chuckled. "More's heading this way and he wants a fight in front of the cameras."
Skip stole a sidelong glance and saw the red-faced senator pushing his way through the crowd, loaded for a head-on brawl, in spite of his aides trying to block his approach. Every fighter instinct told Skip to take the bastard on, but Turner was right. The senator would tear him to shreds in front of the vids. And besides, damn it all, this was suppose to be a day for the ensigns, and here this damned politico wanted to turn it into a brawl over appropriations, and most likely about service discipline as well.
Banbridge turned and followed Turner's lead out of the room and down a side corridor to his office. As they ducked around the corner he saw that they had thrown the stern chase off. Closing the door behind them, Turner opened a desk drawer, pulled out a half-empty bottle and slid it over to the admiral.
Skip looked around the room. Even though everything was arranged according to regulation-one desk, one holo display and comm unit, one office chair, arms padded, two chairs, no arms-there was a feel to the room that was decidedly not military and more like that of a professor's at some small, private college. Turner actually had bookcases, with old-fashioned traditional books, and one wall was covered with two-dimensional prints, one of them a wet water navy sea battle, next to it a photograph of a group of Confed assault marines in camouflage and full battle gear.
Skip walked up to the faded picture and smiled.
"We had some good ones in that team back then."
Winston nodded and then lowered his eyes. "No one remembers them now except you and me."
Skip said nothing, watching Winston as he poured himself a refill. Of the thirty men and women in Marine Commando Six, only half a dozen had returned from the mission Winston had once led against a terrorist stronghold. The wound which had almost killed Skip still ached at times, but as he studied the faded image he knew he would never trade the moment for anything, in spite of what had happened.
The mission was classified, the deaths listed as training accidents, and after it was all over Winston asked for reassignment. Both he and Winston had secretly been awarded the Fleet Cross. The reports had been glowing, but the loss of the team still haunted Winston. He had not led a combat unit since, asking instead for transfer out and an assignment to teach at the Academy.
Skip studied the photo.
"Hell, were we ever that young?"
Turner chuckled. "Don't think so."
"Just talked with Sergeant Ulandi few months back, when I was out at McAuliffe," Skip said, pointing at a rock-solid marine who towered over Winston in the photograph. "He asked me to pass along his regards."
"Old gunney. I'd have been dead if he hadn't pulled me out."
"We both would've been dead. Ulandi the Madman, remember?" And Skip laughed softly, raising his glass in a toast to the sergeant.
"How is he?"
"Retires in six months. Riding herd on Admiral Nagomo till then, making sure the admiral doesn't screw things up."
"Damn it all." Winston sighed. "How the hell do we have people like Nagomo running the most important base in the Confed?"
"Peacetime fleet, you know what it's like."
"Well, at least you're in the front seat."
Skip sighed. "I might be in the front seat, but the damn machine is programmed by others. Always thought when I got in the chair I could finally do something about the things you and I used to complain about back then," and he nodded towards the photo.
Skip's gaze shifted to the other print, of a naval battle, back when fleets still sailed on water.
"You had an ancestor in that one, didn't you?"
"Squadron Leader, Torpedo Eight," Turner said proudly, even though he was speaking of someone dead nearly three quarters of a millennium.
"And they all got shot down, but not one of them wavered from the attack on the Japanese carriers. Their heroic sacrifice pulled the fighters down to sea level, allowing the dive-bombers to slip through. Damn, what guts they had then," Skip said, looking back at Turner who arched an eyebrow in surprise that his friend remembered the story from the Battle of Midway.
"Remember when this used to be Schneid's office?" Skip said with a smile. "Lord knows how many times he had me in here, dressing me up and down, letting me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't pass Naval History 101, my ass would be back on some lower deck of some damn orbital base out beyond the Landreich until the day I died."
Skip chuckled at the memory, looking across the desk at his old friend, who'd most likely made the same threats to the latest generation of officers and gentlemen in training.
"Schneid always liked you though," he continued.
"But you got the A in his class, remember? I got an A minus."
"'Cause you were too busy tutoring me and not studying enough for yourself. I never would have gotten through this joint without you, Turner."
Winston smiled at the comment.
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