by Chris Bunch
Sr. Ecu drifted closer to the camera lens. "It's up to you, Sten. They're already leaning heavily in our direction. Otherwise they wouldn't be taking such a risk."
"So, what you are advising," Sten said, "is a little diplomatic razzle-dazzle so we can reel them the rest of the way in."
"Razzle-dazzle? I don't understand this term."
"A big show."
"Oh. Very descriptive. Yes. That's precisely what I advise. A very big show."
Sten hesitated. "Did you ask how they figured it out?"
"Yes. They said they added one plus one to a great deal of wishful thinking. They used the same nonlogic to pinpoint you in the Bhor worlds. Although, I certainly didn't confirm their belief. Actually, the Zaginows didn't even ask. When they left, they just kindly asked me to notify you they were on the way."
Sten sighed. "Okay. I'll do it. What the clot? If we're wrong, I'll be too damned dead to count how many ways I was played the fool."
"You won't be alone, Sten," Sr. Ecu said. Dry. "The afterlife, it is rumored, is mostly composed of fools like us."
"I feel a lot better already," Sten said with a grimace. "Thanks."
"You're quite welcome."
Sr. Ecu's image was gone.
Sten began pacing to work out his thoughts. But his mind was already crammed with so many odd details of the complex war he was waging against the Emperor that he soon found himself spinning about his own fundament.
He needed advice. Badly.
"So, Sr. Ecu claims it was mostly luck that led them to us?" Rykor said.
"That pretty well sums it up," Sten said.
"Ah dinnae believe i' luck," Alex said. " 'Cept when i's m' own wee hide time's beggin' f'r it."
"Of course there's luck," Otho insisted. "The Bhor know it well. It comes in three varieties. Blind, dumb, and bad."
"We've been in kitchens," Marr said, "where we've encountered all three."
"And in one dinner rush as well," Senn said.
"I have to accept Sr. Ecu's word for it," Sten said. "But I still think it was a helluva gamble for the Zaginows to take. What if they were wrong? They might as well have flung themselves into the Emperor's arms and shouted, 'Take me, I'm a traitor.' "
"Very kinky," Marr said. "I like it."
"Shush. We're being serious, here," Senn said.
"So was I, dear." He patted Senn's knee. "I'll explain it to you some night."
"When you really think about it," Rykor said, easing her bulk in the tank, "their actions make an odd sort of sense."
"Good," Sten said. "I've been short that lately. Spell it out for me. And don't use any big words. Like 'the' or 'and'."
"I believe it's the nature of the Zaginows, Sten," Rykor said. "They are all economic refugees. Refugees have always been willing to take great risks for tenuous gain. When you have very little, the act of gambling sometimes makes you feel empowered. As if you have finally taken control of your own fate."
Sten nodded. Good sense, indeed. He had dealt with the Zaginow region before. Almost all of the many billions of beings inhabiting the area were descendants of poor working stock—human and ET alike—who had followed scarce work opportunities across the Empire. The slightest tilt in the economy impoverished them.
Like Sten's own family, they had little but dreams and strong backs to sustain them. Some ended up in slave factories like Vulcan. The lucky ones—that word, again!—drifted into the jumble of star clusters that made up the Zaginows. There the wandering ended. The refugees took root.
A strange sort of unity and common view persisted in the Zaginows. Although there was no dominant species, or race, folks were considered folks. Whether they were black, white, or green. Solid-formed, or jellied. Skin or scales.
Sten remembered the enormous gamble his father had taken in a get-rich-quick scheme involving Xypaca fights. The fact that he'd promptly lost—adding years to his work contract—had not dissuaded him from further risk. If anything, it only made his father more willing to gamble everything—anything—to escape the grind of Vulcan.
Yeah. He understood.
"P'raps i's a gamble, wee Sten," Alex said, "but thae dinnae hae much't' lose, y' ken."
This was also true. Shortly before the debacle in the Altaics, the Emperor had sent Sten to the Zaginows to do some basic diplomatic stroking. The mission had been a success, he supposed. At least he'd been able to patch some kind of agreement together without too much lying.
"When I saw them last," Sten said, "they were in a helluva mess. Not of their making. The Zaginows had a fairly self-sufficient and prosperous region before the Tahn war."
"They had a healthy agricultural base. Some heavy industry. Mining. Big population to do the work. And mostly well-educated."
Otho's heavy brow beetled forward. "I was unaware of that background," he said. "I thought the Zaginows were known for their weapons industry."
"Like I said… that was before the Tahn war. Then old Tanz Sullamora showed up with the Emperor's money and the Emperor's clout. Before you knew it, he'd transformed the entire region into an immense defense industry."
"Then… when the war was over…"
"Ah ha," Alex said "Th' bad luck Ah was mentionin'."
"You can't eat guns," Marr said.
"Exactly. The factories were idled and their economy collapsed."
"But… my mother's beard… Why didn't they change back?'
"It wasn't possible," Sten said. "Not without a major investment for retooling and so forth. When the money dried up, the privy council couldn't dump them off the sleigh fast enough."
"Now I can see it was even worse for them when the Emperor came back. Sure, he strung them along. Sending me, for instance. But it was easier—and cheaper—to cut them loose. And let them die quietly."
"Thae're no goin't quiet int' th' night noo," Alex said.
"Remember," Rykor warned, "Sr. Ecu said this was far from a sure thing. We still have some convincing to do."
Sten nodded. "He said put on a show. A big show. Trouble is, when you look around, there isn't much to boast about. We don't have legions of troops to inspect or fleets to do flybys. Anyone with half a brain can see the Emperor only has to breathe a gentle puff and we'd be blown away."
Senn scrambled off his chair and thumped to the floor. "No difficulty at all," he said. "First off, they're here to see you. Not troops and fleets."
Marr dropped to the floor beside his lover. "The Emperor has all the troops and fleets that exist," he said, "Our friends know what that got them. A great big screwing."
"Without even a kiss first," Senn said.
Rykor heaved in her tank, water sloshing against the side. "The furry ones are making several major points," she said to Sten. "I would listen if I were you."
"I'm listening, dammit." Sten said. He looked down at the odd little pair. "What do you have in mind?"
"If we want them to climb into bed with us," Marr said, "we're going to have to set the mood."
"In other words, a little foreplay." Senn giggled. "Which has been sadly lacking in their love lives."
"And you, Sten dear, are going to help us," Marr said.
"Me? How?"
"It's time, O Great Leader of the Revolution, to give your gray cells a rest," Senn said.
"You need to climb down from those lofty heights of leadership," Marr said in mock high drama, "and mingle with common folk."
Sten eyed them suspiciously. "Doing what?"
"Oh. Fetching and carrying," Marr said.
Senn giggled. "And scrubbing pots."
"Now, why would I volunteer to do something like that?" Sten said.
"Because in this case, Sten, dear," Marr said, "diplomacy begins in the kitchen."
"We're going to throw a little dinner party," Senn elaborated. "For two hundred and sixty plus lovelorn beings."
"By the time we're through with the Zaginows," Marr said, "they'll be down on their knees begging for your hand in matrimony."
"Or
, at least in lust," Senn said.
Sten wanted to object. Not to the idea of a dinner party. That was wonderful—especially with the Empire's greatest caterers staging it. But much as he'd like to learn some of their secrets, he just wasn't into scrubbing pots to earn a look.
Then he saw the grin on Kilgour's face. Otho practically had a paw stuffed into his mouth to keep from laughing. Rykor was studiously avoiding looking at him, but the violent trembling of her girth gave her away.
Sten sighed. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get started."
Off he marched. Sten. The Most Wanted Being in the Empire. AKA Hero of the Revolution.
Now promoted to Chief Pot Scrubber of the Cause.
Sten wiped chicken gore on his apron and took the message from the runner. He scanned it.
"It's official," he said. "The Zaginows will be here tomorrow night."
Senn fretted. "Not much time."
"It'll do, Senn, dear," Marr soothed. "Otho's pantry is far better stocked than I imagined. We shouldn't have to cheat too much."
Sten hoisted a cleaver and resumed whacking chicken into parts. "Not that I doubt your abilities," he said, "but I don't see how you plan a menu for something like this."
"Well… We want them to be impressed." Marr said. "So the dinner should reflect on your success. However, we want to do business with these people…"
A claw taloned out of the exquisite softness of Marr's fur. It speared a tomato and plunged it into boiling water. "We want them to like us. We don't want them to think we believe we're better than they are, for heaven's sakes."
Marr lifted the tomato from its hot bath—spun it toward the opposite paw. Where another claw whisked away the skin. Snip. Slide. Just like that. Sten's jaw dropped.
On automatic, Marr speared another tomato and repeated the process. And another tomato was peeled. Snip. Slide. Just like that. "Haute cuisine is definitely out, out, out," he said.
"It wouldn't do," Senn agreed. "Not at all." His wickedly sharp claws were blazing through a stack of yellow onions. Skinning and chopping so deftly, Sten didn't feel the slightest sting in his eyes.
"We've decided on native dishes," Marr said. "Food one might imagine came from an ordinary being's kitchen. But still a little exotic and daring because it is from someplace else."
"Also, it gives us a theme," Senn said, disposing of another onion. "A Flag of All Nations sort of theme. It fits with the jumble of beings that make up the Zaginows."
"We like themes," Marr said.
Sten was only half-listening. He was busy gaping at the Milchens' skills. They were living kitchen machines. Full of all kinds of little tricks.
"Great. Great. Themes and all," Sten said. "But, before you go any further, I have to ask you a question."
"Question away, dear," Marr said, thunking down the last peeled tomato.
"I can't do onions like Senn…" he said, pointing at the furry little whirlwind, chopping up big mounds of the stuff. "I'm not built for it. But that trick with the tomatoes… Every time I have to peel tomatoes, I mutilate the suckers. One pound of peel for every ounce of tomato."
"Poor thing," Marr said.
"You only have to dip them in boiling water," Senn said in a small—I really, really, don't think you're stupid—voice.
"And he's the leader of us all," Marr said.
"I did read about it, once." Sten said, weak. "But I never got around to testing it out."
"There, there, dear," Senn said. "Of course you didn't."
* * *
The kitchen was filled with the delicious odor of tomatoes, garlic, and onions sizzling in olive oil. Marr tasted, adjusted the paprika, stirred some more, then nodded to Senn, who poured in fresh chicken stock.
Marr clamped a lid on the pot and set it to simmer. "When dinner is served," he told Sten, "you might want to go easy on the soup."
Sten eyed the big pot. "Sure looks like enough to go around to me."
Senn laughed. "Oh, there's plenty, all right. But this is a special recipe. A guaranteed first-course tension-breaker. For the guests, that is. Not the host. Hosts should beware of this dish."
"You see," Marr elaborated, "after we strain it through a sieve, we're going to stir in some flour and sour cream. Just enough to make it smooth.
"Then… a moment before we serve it… we add vodka. Lots of vodka! And… voila," Senn said. "We give you… Hungarian tomato vodka soup! It's quite potent, too."
"A tongue loosener, huh?" Sten said, dry. "Did you guys ever consider a career as Mantis interrogators?"
"Amateurs," Senn sniffed.
"No challenge at all," Marr said.
"After we get the Zaginow delegation nice and soothed," Senn said, "we need to work on their courage." He was dusting chunks of meat with flour, spiked with lots of salt and pepper.
Marr was assembling chopped-up onions, bell peppers, and crushed garlic. "Build them up for a firm commitment," he said.
Senn giggled. "So to speak."
"Don't be dirty," Marr said, putting on a pan doused with olive oil to heat.
"I can't help it," Senn said, the giggles building. "My mind just works that way. Especially when we're cooking mountain oysters."
Sten frowned. He picked up a chunk of the floured meat. Sniffed it. "Don't smell like oysters to me."
"They're calf testicles, dear," Marr explained. "Cut from the little dickens before they're old enough to know what's missing."
"We're going to do them Basque style," Senn said. "The image is so sexy. Muscular brutes with large libidos."
"Makes you want to fry balls all day," Marr said.
Sten looked at the meat he held in his hand. "Sorry, boys," he said. "I hope you know they went for a good cause."
"Now, we need to engage their minds," Marr said.
Sten looked doubtfully at the large heap of bird parts he'd carved up with his cleaver. "Brain power through a clottin' chicken? You've gotta be kidding."
"Stupid animals, yes," Senn said. "But they're so willing. Especially plucked and dressed out. See how patiently they await their marinade?"
"Like the Zaginows?" Sten guessed.
"Excellent, Sten, dear. You're beginning to get the idea," Marr said. "At this point we should have our new friends primed and ready for fresh approaches… Alert them through their taste buds there are endless possibilities once an alliance has been achieved."
"Don't be so stuffy," Senn said. He waved a spice-dusted paw at Sten. "Ignore him. The dish is called jerk chicken, after all," he said.
"I like it… mon," Sten said.
Marr set down the bunch of scallions he was dicing up. "You've heard of it?" He seemed disappointed.
"From Jamaica, right?" Sten said. "One of the old Earth islands. A place where they smoke rope fibers and drink silly fruit drinks with little parasols on top."
Marr sighed. "Aren't we running out of clean pots yet?"
"Not a chance," Sten said. "I've only heard of jerk chicken. I'm not moving until I see how this is done."
"In a kitchen," Marr said, "only the chef is permitted to be clever. Pot washers laugh at Chef's cunning jokes. Pot washers peel potatoes. Pot washers are in a constant state of awe at Chef's genius. Pot washers scrape slime from floors. Pot washers duck a lot when sharp objects are thrown at them when they make poor Chef mad. These are only some of the things pot washers do."
Marr sniffed. "What they don't do, is be clever. Pot washers are never, ever clever."
"I promise it'll never happen again," Sten said.
"He really wasn't that clever," Senn said.
"Very well," Marr said. "It can stay. But only if It promises to button Its lip."
"Mmmmph," Sten grunted, pointed at his zipped lip.
"Actually, this is a dish even a pot washer could master the first time," Marr said. "It only tastes complex."
He touched a switch under the chopping board and a metal processor revolved up. Pawfuls of chopped hot pepper and seal-lions went into the pro
cessor, along with a few bay leaves, some grated ginger, and diced garlic.
"Now the allspice," Marr said. "That's the anchor. You use about five tablespoons for every kilo of meat. Along with one teaspoon each of nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, and pepper."
He dumped the spices into the processor and hit the button. As it whirred, he slowly poured in oil.
"Peanut oil," Marr said. "Just enough for it all to stick together."
In two beats it was done. Sten peered at the goo.
"Another thing pot washers get to do," Marr said, "is smear goo over chicken."
"This is true. Chefs never smear goo," Senn said. "Especially when they're furry."
Sten, the comparatively hairless pot washer, began spreading the marinade over the chicken. Actually, he didn't really mind. It smelled wonderful. His mouth watered imagining what it was all going to taste like when Marr and Senn longed the chicken off the barbecue.
In the corner, he could hear Marr and Senn arguing over the relative merits of pine nuts in Lebanese pilaf. All about him were the warm smells of a dozen dishes bubbling and simmering.
He felt relaxed… clear-minded.
On the whole, he thought, he'd much rather be a pot washer than a Hero of the Revolution.
Marr and Senn observed Sten's beaming face as he slathered marinade over chicken.
"Do you think he's ready?" Marr whispered.
"Absolutely," Senn said. "I don't like to pat myself on the back, but I think this is one the best jobs we've ever done."
"Beings don't realize," Marr said, "that the first—and only—real secret of a dinner party is getting the host prepared first."
"A little kitchen magic," Senn said. "It works every time."
The Zaginow leader forked one more bite from the creamy pastry dish in front of her. She looked at it… as if not believing her body was capable of handling still more. The fork continued its journey and the pastry disappeared into her mouth.
She closed her eyes. Ebony features a portrait of bliss. Tasting. Mmmmm.
Her eyes snapped open to find Sten grinning at her.
"Oh, burp," she said. "Oh, heaven. But, I just couldn't eat anymore."
"I think the chefs will forgive you, Ms. Sowazi, if you resign the field of battle," Sten said. "You've certainly given it your best."