Fleet of the Damned (23 page)

"No!" the Emperor exclaimed, and the guns were lowered.

Floating toward the Emperor was a teardrop. Through its transparent nose, the Emperor recognized the black and tinted-red body of a Manabi. Given the circumstances, it could only be Sr. Ecu.

The teardrop hovered a diplomatic three meters away.

"You live." The observation was made calmly.

"I live," the Emperor agreed.

"My sorrows. Arundel was very beautiful."

"Palaces are easy to rebuild," the Emperor said flatly.

The teardrop shifted slightly in a breeze.

"Are you speaking for the Tahn?" the Emperor asked.

"That would have been their desire. I declined. They wished me to deliver an ultimatum—but without allowing me sufficient time to travel from Heath to Prime."

"That sounds like their style."

"I now speak both for the Manabi. And for myself."

Most interesting, the Emperor thought. The Manabi almost never spoke as a single culture. "May I ask some questions first?"

"You may ask. I may decline to answer."

"Of course."

Ecu shifted his suit so that he appeared to be looking at the Gurkhas.

"Never mind," the Emperor assured him. "They won't talk any more than you will."

That was most true—neither a Gurkha nor a Manabi would release any information unless specifically ordered. And both races were impervious to torture, drugs, or psychological interrogation.

"I have just arrived on Prime. What are your estimates of the situation?"

"Lousy," the Emperor said frankly. "I've lost at least half a dozen fleet elements; forty systems, minimum, have either fallen to the Tahn or are going to; my Guard divisions are being decimated; and it's going to get a lot worse."

Ecu considered. "And your allies?"

"They are," the Emperor said dryly, "still conferring about the situation. My estimates are that less than half of my supposed friends will declare war on the Tahn. The rest'll wait to see how things shake out."

"What are your ultimate predictions?"

The Emperor considered the ashen rose for long moments. "That question I shall not answer."

"I see. I now speak," Ecu said formally, "for my grand-sires, my fellows, and for those generations yet to be conceived and hatched."

The Emperor blinked. Ecu was indeed speaking for the entire Manabi.

"We are not a warlike species. However, in this struggle, we declare our support for the forces of the Empire. We shall strive to maintain an appearance of neutrality, but you shall be permitted access to any information we have gathered or shall gather."

The Emperor almost smiled. This was the only good news in an otherwise tragic universe.

"Why?" he asked. "It looks like the Tahn will win."

"Impossible," Ecu said flatly. "May we speak under the rose?"

"I already said—"

"I repeat my request."

The Emperor nodded. A metalloid rod slid from Sr. Ecu's suit—the Emperor again motioned down the Gurkhas' weapons—and touched the Emperor's helmet.

"I think," Ecu's voice echoed, "that even your most faithful should not hear the following.

"Would you agree that the Tahn believe that Anti-Matter Two is duplicatable or that, given a Tahn victory, they could learn the location of its source?"

Again there was long silence. Where and how AM2 had come into being was the most closely held secret of the Empire, since only AM2 held the Empire together, no matter how tenuously.

"That may be what they're thinking," the Emperor finally admitted.

"They are wrong. Do not bother responding. We believe that the only—and I mean only—source of AM2 is yourself. We have no knowledge or intelligence how this occurs, but this is our synthesis.

"For this reason, we predict there can only be two results from this war: either you shall be victorious, or the Tahn shall win. And their victory will mean the total destruction of what low level of civilization exists."

The probe collapsed, and its tip brushed the edge of the rose.

Dry, powdery ash dusted the Emperor's gauntlet.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

"H
ow completely are you willing to interpret Admiral van Doorman's orders, Commander?"

Sten waited for Sutton to elaborate. The four tacship skippers, plus Sutton and Kilgour, were attempting to plot their tactics for the weeks to come, although none of them believed the Tahn had any intentions of letting the ruins of the 23rd Fleet survive that long.

They were gathered in the crammed supply warehouse that Sutton had cozened for storing the division's supplies.

"I am… humph… growing most fond of these ships of ours," the spindar continued. "They remind me all too much of my species' own offspring. Even after they are no longer biologically connected to the pouch, they must remain within close range of it, or perish."

Sten caught the analogy. His tacships, due to their cramped quarters and limited ammunition/food/air supplies, were most short-ranged.

"The Tahn'll be hitting Cavite again," Sh'aarl't said. "Maybe just carpet bombing, maybe invasion. I'd rather not have our supplies just sitting here waiting."

"Not to mention," Sekka added, looking around at the mad assemblage of explosives, munitions, rations, and spare parts, "what would happen if one mite of a bomb happened to come through the roof."

"Quite exactly my point," the spindar chuffed. "Cavite Base is not my idea of a burrow/haven."

"First problem," Sten said. "No way will van Doorman approve us moving the boats, the supplies, and your support people offworld."

"Do you plan on telling him?"

"I don't think he'd even notice," Estill put in.

"Agreed. Second problem—how can we move all this drakh? We don't have enough cargo area as it is on the boats."

"I foresaw our dilemma," Sutton said. "It would seem that there is a certain civilian who owes me a favor. A very enormous favor."

"Of course he has a ship."

"Of course."

"How," Sh'aarl't asked skeptically, "has he been able to keep it from being requisitioned?"

"The ship in question is, harrumph, used to transport waste."

"A garbage scow?"

"Somewhat worse than that. Human waste."

Sten whistled tunelessly. "The swabbies are gonna love it when they find out they're traveling via crapper."

"Tha'll dinna mind, Skipper," Kilgour said. "Considerin't tha believ't tha're in't already."

"Very funny, Mr. Kilgour. I'll let you pass the word down."

"No problem, lad. One wee point. Does any hae an idea where we'll be hiein' twa?"

"Poor being," Sh'aarl't sympathized, patting Alex on the shoulder with a pedipalp. The heavy-worlder was so used to her by now that he didn't even flinch. "Where else would we go but among common thieves?"

"Ah'll be cursit! Y'r right, Sh'aarl't. M' mind's gon't."

"Romney!" Sten exclaimed.

"Exactly," Sh'aarl't said. "If anybody's able to stay invisible to the Tahn, it'll be the smugglers."

"Wild must've zigged when zaggin' wae th' answer," Alex said soberly.

Sten didn't answer. He was bringing the
Gamble
closer to Romney's shattered dome. The other three ships and the transporter waited a planetary diameter out.

"Negative elint, sir," Foss reported.

If the Tahn were waiting in ambush, Foss's instruments would have picked something up. Sten reduced Yukawa drive power, and the
Gamble
dropped slowly through the tear in the dome.

Romney was a graveyard.

Sten counted six—no, seven—smashed ships around the landing field. Where Wild's headquarters had been was only a crater. The other buildings—com, living quarters, hangars, and the enormous storage warehouses—were blasted ruins.

"Bring the other ships in," he ordered. "I want them dispersed around the field. I want all hands suited up and in front of that first hangar in one hour."

"Gather around, people," Sten said.

The formation broke and formed a ragged semicircle around their CO.

"Foss… Kilgour. What'd you find?"

"It looks," the electronics tech said cautiously, "like Wild and his smugglers did get hit by surprise."

"An' by th' Tahn," Alex added. "W' found' it three unblown't project'les."

"Bodies?"

"Na, there'd be th' weirdness. Noo a one. An th' warehouses be't emptied flat."

"Couldn't the Tahn have landed and looted the place?"

"Wi'oot takin't Wild's weaponry wi' 'em?" Kilgour pointed to where a seemingly untouched SA missile battery sat abandoned. Sten nodded. Foss's electronics analysis and Kilgour's Mantis-trained estimate agreed with his own.

"Fine. Troops, this is going to be our home away from home. Mr. Sutton, I want that transport unloaded ASAP. All hands. Second, full power back to Cavite. You'll have the
Richards
for escort. I want you to scrounge all the bubbleshelters you can find. Foss, let Mr. Sutton know what you'll need to set up a detection station from Cavite, and how much of Wild's electronics you can salvage.

"Here's the plan, friends. This is still going to be our forward base. We'll move bubbles
inside
the hangars and warehouses. We'll move some of those smaller buildings around, wreck 'em up a bit, and use them for overhead cover. Even if the Tahn decide to recheck Romney, they're still going to find a dead world."

Assuming, Sten continued mentally as he dismissed his unit, they go by visuals and self-confidence only. If they put sniffers or heat sensors inside the dome—that'll be all she scrolled.

But it was still better odds than they had on Cavite.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

T
he biggest question the beings of the 23rd Fleet kept asking themselves was why the Tahn hadn't hit Cavite again.

The damage done by Sten's tacships—the destruction of two cruisers and assorted in-atmosphere ships, plus the damage to the
Forez
and an assault ship—was hardly enough to discourage the Tahn. Probably only complete obliteration of Lady Atago's entire fleet would have done that.

Certainly the 23rd was no longer a threat. With the exception of Sten's tacdivision, van Doorman's shattered force was mainly impotent.

The same question was being asked by Atago's crew members as well.

The outsystem landings had been very successful. Atago and Admiral Deska had been restructuring their invasion plans for Cavite when orders arrived. Lady Atago was to report to the Tahn Council at once for further instructions. Her fleet was ordered to consolidate existing gains but to make no major attacks on Imperial forces.

Admiral Deska spent the time waiting for Atago's return driving the repair crews working on the
Forez
even harder and staring at a wallscreen that showed the extent of the Tahn victories—at least, those either the Empire or the Tahn had chosen to report.

On the screen Deska had assigned orange to the Tahn galaxies, blue to the Empire, and red for the Tahn conquests. On a time-sweep, it was most impressive, as the Tahn spread red tentacles out and out, sweeping deeply into Imperial space. Only a handful of systems still showed cerulean, and those at the base of Deska's screen—worlds yet to be attacked.

The blue glimmer that represented the Caltor System was shameful to Deska. He had failed. And the Tahn did not welcome failure of any sort.

A cursory examination of their language was adequate proof, as well as being an illustration of the problems that any nonmilitaristic culture faced in trying to deal with the Tahn. Since the Tahn "race" or "culture" was an assemblage of various warrior societies, their language was equally an assemblage of soldierly jargon and buzzwords. Still worse—the first Tahn Council had decided that their race needed a properly martial manner of communication. So skilled linguists had created what was known as a semivance tongue, in which the same word had multiple definitions. In this manner, an emotional connation was automatically given.

Three examples:

The verb
akomita
meant both "to surrender" and "to cease to exist"; the verb
meltah
was both "to destroy" and "to succeed"; the verb
verlach
was defined as "to conquer" and "to shame."

There was an excellent chance, Admiral Deska knew, that Lady Atago, in spite of Lord Fehrle's protection, might be ordered to expiate the disgrace of her fleet with ritual suicide. He doubted, given her rank, that any worse penalty could be assessed. In that event, Deska knew, he would share her fate.

He forced himself into a fourth-level dhyana state, no-mind, no-fear, no-doubt, as he waited for the battle cruiser that bore either Lady Atago or his new fleet commander to couple locks with the
Kiso
.

The lock irised, and Lady Atago boarded the
Kiso
.

Deska allowed himself a moment of hope. He enlarged the monitor pickup until Atago's face filled his screen. Of course there was no expression on her classic mask features. Deska snapped the monitor off. In her own time, Atago would tell him.

And in her own time, Atago did.

Indeed, the Tahn Council was not pleased with the failure. Other admirals who had failed to fully complete their instructions had already been cashiered, demoted, or removed. Atago, Deska surmised, had also been scheduled for relief. But the continued existence of the Imperial presence on the Caltor worlds suggested an alternative plan. Deska was surprised that the plan came not from Lord Fehrle, Atago's protector, but from Lord Pastour.

"This is not as we expected," the industrialist had said, though Lady Atago did not report the conversation to Admiral Deska, "but there may be harvest buds in this weed."

"Continue."

"I would think," Pastour went on, staring at the wall-screen that was a larger and more up-to-date version of what Deska had projected for himself, "that this Caltor System shines as much for the Emperor as for us."