The complete disrespect for the Fleet shown by the poster shocked Sab. It fed the Commando-Fleet rivalry in a very unhealthy way. The posters had appeared on some buildings, but mostly they had been propagated through computer viruses that were damnably hard to eradicate.
“Now a new one has surfaced, Tlorth: The Hunt.”
Sab looked up to the viewscreen as Tlomega punched in a command. Her ears wanted to flatten, but though sheer will she forced them to remain at a cautiously interested angle. The new poster was divided into three sections under the one caption: And Tlar spoke, saying, ‘Never abandon the Hunt, for it quickens the senses and tests the soul.’
In one panel several warships engaged each other in battle; in the second, heavily armed and armored commandos fired on a defensive position. But the third drew Sab’s eye. In the third a solitary Tox, her claws extended, stalked a small herd of tlenfel. It was masterfully done. One could almost taste the breeze which blew the grasses; feel the warmth of the sun which shone down; experience the thrill of knowing only your own skill and strength would bring victory or defeat. Tlenfel did not fall easily to single unarmed Tox. It spoke to every Tox of their dreams. A comparison with the battle scenes left them drab by comparison. The composers knew exactly what they did.
“It’s that sewer-rat they call ‘The Master,’” Tlomega growled. “But Miz closes in. I’ll have his fur to carpet my deck.” Tlomega shook herself out of her rage.
“What can we do about it?” Sab asked.
Tlomega bared her teeth in a way that Sab didn’t like. “It is strikingly simple. This ‘Master’ tries to distract with dreams. We shall give them reality: Tlartox victorious! Take out their outposts, Star Admiral.”
“I’ll give the order immediately, Fleet Admiral.” Sab heard Tlomega’s quiet purr as she exited the cabin.
CAPITAL CITY, ADIA
In the waiting room, Lieutenant-Commander Britlot paced back and forth. It had happened! The thing he had longed for, yet not really expected. After several weeks with no hint of possible relatives, the appearance of the Industry Minister had stunned him. Another Britlot. He was not the last of his line. Here, other Britlots lived. Family.
Britlot pushed the thought away. He had a job to do. He had a duty as a Confederation naval officer. And there he owed his allegiance. The other could wait.
What was going on back in the Council Chamber? Was it good or bad that he’d been asked to leave? He frowned.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant-Commander, but if you don’t mind my intrusion, you need not worry. This is a regular occurrence,” the usher told him.
“Thank you, sir.” It never hurt to ‘sir’ anyone, Britlot had realized early on. “And thank you for your assistance earlier. It helped me greatly.” He paused as the man nodded acknowledgement. “If it is not privileged information, what is going on now?”
“Oh, the Council and Members’ Assembly will discuss what you have brought up, and decide what further questions need to be asked and what their probable course of action might be. When they are prepared to meet you as a solid front, they’ll call you back. You might be back and forth several times. Purely routine.”
“Thank you. That’s a relief.” He was about to ask another question when a light above the door attracted the usher’s attention.
“Ah, they are ready to speak with you again.” The usher led Britlot back into the Chamber.
Foreign Minister Jalketh resumed the questioning as soon as Britlot had taken his place.
“Lieutenant-Commander, you said that if the Confederation were to fall, the victors would eventually find us. Have you reason to believe that the Confederation might fall?” Britlot didn’t want to answer that question. He wasn’t a diplomat.
“Council, Gentlemen, Ladies, since the Tlartox Treaty was signed three hundred years ago, we and the Tlartox Empire have maintained approximately equal naval strength.” Touchy, bringing up the Treaty. “Our subsequent state of war with the Combine has made it necessary for us to increase our strength. The Tlartox demanded, as was their right under the treaty, to match our new shipbuilding.
“We have lost ships to the Combine. The Tlartox have not. Their advantage increases. With the Tlartox voting against the continuation of the treaty, we began putting Class-B Mothballs back in service. When I left the Confederation on this mission, orders had just been received to reactivate Class-C Mothballs.” Britlot paused to allow his audience to gather the implications.
In his study of Adia he’d learned that the Council enjoyed doing its own thinking. He had also learned they resented it if some of them were made privy to information before others, which was why he’d refused to discuss his mission with anyone before meeting the Council entire.
“If pressed hard by the Empire, these vessels will be used for front-line duty. They are 150 years old and not a match for modern vessels of the Tlartox navy, or of our own.” There. He’d said it without saying it.
“Commander Britlot, Tremm Olintol, Defense Minister,” a middle-aged, stoutly-built man introduced himself. “Why come to us? We are relatively small in the greater scheme of things. Surely you do not believe that we have the strength to turn the tide all by ourselves?”
“Sir. Numbers and sheer strength do not always decide a conflict.” Here stood the man Britlot had to convince, above all others. The Adian Defense Minister would have considerable influence. “Although an additional Fleet would certainly go towards evening the odds against us, what is more important is the fleet itself.” He paused. “The 22nd.” His voice deepened, “The Vandoo. The Vandoo had—still has—a great reputation. Morale in the Confederation is sinking. Your presence would boost it, and that could be worth more than every ship you possess. It may be irrational, but people will believe that, with the Vandoo on our side, we will win. Believing we will win, winning becomes possible.”
“The Vandoo.” The Defense Minister rolled the words over his tongue as if they had a special taste. “Thank you, Commander. Allow us to deliberate further.”
“Of course, Minister.” Britlot turned and left once again. He tried to pick up the assembly’s attitude, but they simply sat and waited for him to leave. He found the whole task frustrating.
A half hour later usher returned.
“This way, sir.” The man led him down the hallway, but not towards the Chamber.
“Where are we going?” Britlot asked.
“The Council will see you again tomorrow. You will be made comfortable until that time.”
With nothing he could say to that, Britlot said nothing. He followed, and eventually found himself in a very comfortable, windowless room supplied with all the amenities. Unaccountably tired, he undressed and lay down on the bed. Moments later he slept.
Twice the next day the usher called him to the chamber to answer questions which he felt were of no consequence. The process frustrated. Was this what Admirals went through when dealing with government? Better to remain below flag rank, he decided.
CONFEDERATION FRIGATE TEMPEST
“Gentlemen, Ladies, welcome.” Taglini indicated the arrangements.
The five captains took their places around the table. Captain Neco of Typhoon gave the traditional toast, “The Confederation ... and confusion to the enemy!”
They sat. Taglini looked over his people. Good people all, he thought. A pity to waste them on a mission like this. He looked from face to face. Neco, the youngest of the lot, a go-getter with an open face and serious blue eyes; Llemartol, hero of the Restovine system, called out of retirement, looking ready to go, prosthetic leg and all, deep-set brown eyes jumping from one to the other to the star chart and back; Mesicsah of the slow smile and lovely curves—one-time lover back in the Academy days, grandmother now; Thugan, sharp as a lance, once dark brown hair twined with grey, wearing her Silver Moon at her collar; and his own captain, Fronel—an unknown.
During their training voyage, Fronel had done his job well, but Taglini had not yet seen the man behind the offic
er. Whatever Fronel felt, he kept it to himself.
“You all know our objective.” Sudden silence. Not the comfortable quiet that had been, but a silence of the dead. “Our priority is to survive and fight again,” he declared. “We’ve been given a tough nut, but even a tough nut will crack if you apply pressure at the right point.
“I have some ideas, but I’d like us to do a little brainstorming first. The floor is open.”
“Why not just drop in, comm them a dirty message and jump?” laughed Captain Thugan of Hurricane. The most senior of the captains, she understood that the mood had to be lightened immediately. Taglini flashed her a smile as the others chuckled.
“Why not do just as the Vice Admiral suggested?” asked Captain Neco. “Drop, fire and jump.”
Captain Llemartol of Cyclone answered. He had the most battle experience of the lot, including Taglini. “Problem is where to drop, Captain. We want to drop close enough to fire at once.” He smiled to rob his words of any offense, “I noticed on the way over that we’re moving our emergence beacon. Who thinks the Tlartox stupid enough to leave theirs at its registered position? No, we’ll need to drop a probe to determine exactly where to drop our ships.”
“But then they’ll be ready,” objected Neco. “We’ll be fried as soon as we drop.” Although ready for battle, Taglini knew, possibly a little too ready, the idea of a fight against impossible odds didn’t sit well with Neco.
The brainstorming continued until Taglini perceived that more negatives than positives emerged and called a halt.
“Gentlemen, Ladies, thank you. Here’s what we will do. Captain Llemartol is correct. We need to drop a probe. This means that by the time we get the data we need and position ourselves for a drop, Tlenfro will be ready.” The assembled captains did not look happy. He didn’t blame them.
“But what will they be ready for?” asked Taglini. “An attack on their base, of course, which is just what our mission requires.” He paused, seeing the sudden alertness of his audience. “However, Cyclone, Hurricane and Tornado will drop not close to their base, which they will be expecting, but close to their moon. They have mining operations on that moon and a way-station in orbit. That will be your target. It will probably be lightly defended. If, however, there is an enemy warship there, you are to simply rake the station and then speed off—in normal space—drawing the ship and, hopefully, the squadron from Tlenfro, with you. Then Typhoon and Tempest will drop, rake the station, which will not be expecting it, and jump.” Taglini stopped. He looked around. “Comments?” His captains looked considerably relieved.
Llemartol spoke first. “Downside is they will be at action stations. However, unless we are extremely lucky, they will be there by the time we drop, whatever we do. Upside, we have a good chance of pulling it off with minimal damage to ourselves. I like it.” The others came onside quickly.
Taglini adjourned the meeting. “We go to hyperspace in two hours,” he told them. “I want you to go over the plan on our way to Tlenfro and we’ll have one more meeting when we drop to recalibrate just before we head in.”
TRENTH’S FANG
The entire Command stood together as Group Commander Scairnth strode up and down the lines. Close to one thousand commandos in full battle dress stood without moving a whisker. Scairnth’s gaze seemed to take in each one of her fighters. Her yellow eyes moved constantly, and whenever they stopped a hapless commando prayed that they’d move on again before her Squad Leader noted it.
Group Commander Scairnth’s left ear had been torn at some distant time and, shockingly, had not been repaired. That and the scar above her right eye lent her an aura that threw fear into those she commanded. She knew this and used it to good effect.
Sar Krinth, from a back row, watched her Group Commander with awe. Finally Scairnth, the inspection complete, moved to the front and activated her microphone.
“Sixth Command, Third Commandos,” her voice rang through the large room, “we have been honored.” Sar straightened up that little bit, noting others around her did the same. “Our Command will lead the assault on the Confederation Outpost Four.” Ears went forward. “As you know, the Confederation uses these outposts to launch spies into our space. They shall do so no longer!” Sar felt the Group Commander’s eyes on her for a moment, and a stab of excitement ran through her. “You have all familiarized yourselves with the layout of a Confederation Outpost, and your latest training has been dedicated to taking one. Your Group Leaders will give you the final relevant details.” She paused, looking up and down the files. “Bring honor to the Command!”
A great roar went up, and slowly died. Order returned, and the Groups split up and headed for their respective situation rooms. Sar felt a strangeness in her stomach. She wondered if others felt the same, but wasn’t foolish enough to ask.
Group Leader Rai Tlel stood in the center of the room, the holo beside her. She moved about it, pointing out the various defenses and important locations. “This is the computer room. Note it well. If we can obtain their memory bank before auto-erase, it may save the lives of many of the Tox in battles to come.”
Silence filled the room and one hundred pairs of eyes judged distances and routes. Squad Leaders made notes in their combat-readers.
Rai looked about, satisfied that her troops paid proper attention to the job at hand. She allowed them some time, then raised her arm again. Attention returned to her.
“I trust that everyone has made their last record.” Her eyes went from one to the next.
Only then did Sar feel the full impact of the situation. This was no drill. Commandos would die this day, their final records later watched by friends and relatives. She wondered how Worent would react if he received her final record. Would he be stoic or would he become emotional. The former, she hoped ... in public. In private, she hoped that his love for her would overcome all barriers and that he would cry out to the stars.
Would she ever see his gentle face again? Would she ever touch that soft grey fur in the intimate way they shared? Sar wondered, then put it to the back of her mind. The time for such thoughts had passed. Now, she needed to concentrate. A lapse meant the death of friends.
She felt Squad Leader Rel Tjenor’s gaze on her and she raised her eyes to meet it. Unflinching she stood until Tjenor broke contact, the Squad Leader baring her teeth with satisfaction.
The In-Ship came to life. “The Fleet drops in thirty minutes. All designated commandos report to their pods.”
Third Group, Sixth Command stood ready. They filed out of the situation room and entered their pod.
ADIA
Britlot enjoyed his breakfast as much as possible in the windowless room. A knock interrupted him. He pulled on his duty jacket and opened the door.
“Industry Minister Britlot!”
“Lieutenant-Commander Britlot,” the familiar face answered him. “May we come inside?”
Britlot stepped back and extended his arm. “Of course, sir.”
The older man smiled engagingly. “You call me Tremm and I’ll call you Mart. Is that satisfactory?”
“Eminently ... Tremm.”
A woman and two children appeared behind the Minister. Mart’s eyebrows went up.
“This is my wife, Wyna, and two of our grandchildren, Ellien and Crell.”
“Hi, Uncle Mart,” Crell said as he held out his hand.
The youngster was about ten years old, Britlot estimated. He took his hand and shook it solemnly. “Hi, Uncle Mart.”
Ellien was perhaps a year younger than her sibling. She, too, held out her hand.
The emotion he felt as he shook hands with the children surprised Britlot. Uncle Mart!
“Tremm thought he could keep you to himself,” Wyna spoke, catching Britlot’s attention. “Shame on you, Tremm.”
“Ah, We’ve interrupted your breakfast. We could come back later.”
“No, no. I’m thrilled to meet you.”
“Is it true that you come from the Confederation?�
�� Ellien wanted to know.
“Yes, Ellien, it’s true.”
Having answered that question, he found himself besieged by a hundred others. He couldn’t remember when he’d had more fun. Finally, however, Wyna gathered the children up and took her leave.
“I know Tremm wants to talk with you. Perhaps we’ll have you over, sometime—if you’d like to visit.”
Mart’s eyes shone. “I’d like nothing better.” He accepted a hug from the older woman, holding her a little longer than politeness required.
“Good. Family is always welcome.”
Family. Then they were gone.
Mart retook his seat at the small table, and Tremm Britlot took the seat opposite. They sat and studied each other for a long moment. Mart saw traces of his father and grandfather in the older man’s face. His smile, when he turned on the charm, reminded Mart of himself. No wonder the face had seemed familiar.
“Yes, I can see bits of my son in you. You are indeed a Britlot,” Tremm confirmed, nodding his head.
Mart laughed. “I was just thinking the same about you.”
“So I could see.”
“Tremm, is this meeting business or personal?” Best to get that out in the open immediately, thought Mart.
“Oh, I’d say a bit of each,” Tremm spread his hands, palms up, raising and then lowering each in opposition to each other. “Difficult to say where one begins and the other ends. Do you mind?” Tremm asked as he reached for a small bunch of grapes.
“Be my guest.”
“Ah, bit of the old Britlot humor, too, I see.” Tremm snagged the grapes and popped one in his mouth. “You’ve done well with the Council, young man. They like you.” He held up his hand before Mart could say anything. “They don’t like the request you are carefully not making, but they like you.” He popped another grape and chewed it carefully. Then his blue eyes turned cold. “Do you understand exactly what you ask? We’ve been at peace here for three hundred years.”
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