Admirals and generals did not have to endure the usual waiting and decontamination procedures getting into Luna Command. The security checks were abbreviated. No staff-grade officer had gone sour since Admiral McGraw had turned freebooter following the peace with Ulant. Admiral Beckhart entered his office just three hours after his personal shuttle berthed a little south of the Sea of Tranquility.
He had not spared the horses, in the vernacular of another age. The mother had dropped hyper midway between Luna and L-5. The first message he had received had been code-tagged, “Personal presence required immediately. Critical.”
Either the bottom had dropped off of the universe or McClennon and Storm had come home with their saddlebags dripping delicious little secrets.
The Crew, as he called his hand-picked brain-trust, were in the office when he arrived.
He raised a hand. “As you were. What have we got?”
Jones asked, “You don’t want to shower and change?”
Beckhart looked ragged. Almost seedy. Like a derelict costumed as an Admiral.
“You clowns sent a Personal Presence, Critical. If I’ve got time to shit, shower, and shave, you should’ve said it was urgent.”
“Maybe we were hasty,” Namaguchi admitted. “We’d just scanned the crypto breakdown. We were a little excited.”
“Breakdown? What the hell’s going on?” Beckhart tumbled into a huge chair behind a vast, gleaming wood desk. “Get to the point, Akido.”
Namaguchi jerked out of his seat, flipped a square of manila across the gleaming desk.
“Numbers. Your handwriting hasn’t improved.”
“The Section’s doing up a printout. That, sir, is what Storm had for us.”
“Well?”
“Morgan Standard Coordinate Data, sir. A stellar designation. Took us two days to convert it from the Sangaree system.”
“Sangaree? . . . Holy Christ! Is it? . . . ”
“What we’ve been waiting for all our lives. Where to find their home star.”
“Ah, god. Ah. It can’t be. Two hundred years we’ve been looking. Cutting and dying and generally carrying on like a gang of fascist assholes. So it paid off. I bet my butt on a long shot and it paid off. Give me the comm. Somebody give me the goddamn comm.”
Jones eased it across the desk. Beckhart punched furiously. “Beckhart. Priority. Hey! I don’t give a damn if he’s banging the Queen of Sheba. Personal, Critical, and I’m going to have your ass for breakfast if you don’t . . . Excuse me, sir.” His manners improved dramatically.
“Yes, sir, it is. I want a confirmation of our position on Memorandum of Permanent Policy and Procedure Number Four. Specifically, Paragraph Six.”
A long silence ensued. Beckhart’s cronies leaned closer and closer to their chief. The man on the other end finally said something.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. I have the data in my hand, sir. Just decoded. Give me von Drachau and the First Fleet . . . Yes, sir. What I want is a blank check for a while. I can get started tomorrow.”
More silence.
Then, “Yes, sir. I thought so, sir. I understand, sir. Thank you, sir.” Beckhart broke the connection. “He wants to take it up with the Chiefs of Staff.”
“They’re going to back down now? After all the lives we’ve spent?”
“Commander Jones. Do you realize the enormity of what I just dumped on him? Let me draw you a picture. I interrupted him while von Staufenberg was briefing him on what we saw centerward. Which was about what we expected to see, and as pretty as a barge loaded with dead babies. Some psychopathic race is doing its damnedest to kill off anything sentient it can find. Then I horn in and ask for a confirm on Memo Four slash Six. Which is a vow to exterminate the Sangaree whenever we find out where the hell they’re hiding their homeworld. We’re supposed to be the good guys, Jones. The things he’s looking at right now kind of tend to put the damper on the fires of that good old-time anti-Sangaree righteousness.”
“I don’t see the problem, sir.”
“Pragmatically it doesn’t exist. Having seen what’s going on centerward, I’d say Four slash Six is a strategic imperative. We’ve got to get those bloodsuckers off our backs fast. They ate us alive during the wars with Ulant and Toke. Any time there’s a dust-up between non-Confederation worlds they come on like jackals. Raidships in swarms . . . Not to mention the price we pay in stardust addiction. Hell, half the fleet is tied up protecting shipping. Four slash Six would free those ships. And if we burned the Sangaree, the McGraws would close up shop. Those are the arguments in favor. Akido. Take the Devil’s advocate.”
It was an old game. Namaguchi knew his commander well. “Sir. How in God’s name can we go to the people of Confederation—not to mention our allies—with the news that we’ve destroyed a whole race? Just when we’re about to pump them up with moral indignation so we can justify a preemptive strike against a species we claim is guilty of the identical sin? Let me understate, sir, and say that the positions are inconsistent. Let me say, sir, that we’re on a quick slide down into a moral cesspool. We would, quite simply, be the biggest hypocrites this universe has ever seen.”
“Shit,” Jones responded with no great force. “There isn’t one in a thousand of them would ever see the inconsistency. They’ll cheer about the Sangaree going down, then go sign up for the war against these centerward creeps. Akido, you’re giving Mr. Average Man too much credit. He can’t even follow his credit balance, let alone weigh a moral one.”
“Charlie, that attitude is going to destroy Luna Command. And when we go, Confederation goes. When Confederation goes, the barbarians come in. In the words of the Roman Centurion Publius Minutius, speaking of the legions, ‘We are the Empire.’ ”
“Just a minute,” Beckhart interjected. “Akido. Come over here.” He pushed the comm across the desk. “Punch up the library and get me an abstract on this Minutius.”
“Uh . . . ”
“I thought so. Another one of your out-of-the-dark authorities.”
Namaguchi chuckled. It was a favorite trick. His boss was the only man who caught him every time. “Actually, old Publius probably said something more like, ‘Which way to the nearest whorehouse, buddy?’ But I’ll stake my reputation on the fact that some Roman soldier said it somewhere along the way. It was true. The army was the Empire.”
“You don’t have any reputation to stake, Akido,” Jones quipped.
“The army got a lot of help from the fact that everybody in the provinces went along with a lot of tacit rules, Akido,” Beckhart remarked. “We’re getting off the subject. What about McClennon’s report?”
“They’re still working on it. First abstracts should be up any time now. The key thing we’ve gotten is that the Starfishers did go after Stars’ End. So you guessed right on that one, too.”
“I didn’t guess. I had inside information.”
“Whatever. That’s where Storm came up with the Sangaree data. Raidships hit the harvestfleet there. They came out on the short end. The point is, the Seiners were sure they could pull it off. The battering the Sangaree gave them is what kept them from trying.”
“How soon will those boys be done de-briefing? I want to see them.”
Silence hit that room like a cat jumping on a mouse. It stretched till it became an embarrassment.
“Well?”
“Uh . . . ”
“Not one of your more endearing traits, Akido. I don’t need protecting. Out with it. Who got hurt? How bad was it?”
“It’s not that. Sir, they didn’t come back.”
“They’re dead? How did they? . . . ”
“They’re alive. But they crossed over.”
“They what?”
“Remember, McClennon was programed for it.”
“I know that. It was my idea. But he wasn’t supposed to make a career out of it. He didn’t de-program? What the hell was wrong with Storm? What’s his story? Why didn’t he bring Thomas out?”
“We’re working on it, sir. Interrogating returnees. When we can lay hands on them. They scattered after they hit Carson’s, before we knew we had a problem. Near as we can tell, Storm stayed behind because he didn’t want to leave McClennon there alone. The programming must have broken down. McClennon asked to stay. They kept Storm from bringing him out.”
“I see. That would be like Mouse. Don’t leave your wounded behind. He’s too much like his father. I knew Gneaus Storm. When you get to the bottom line, it was his sense of honor that got him killed. Well, I’ve got my honor too, even if it’s a little discolored around the edges. I don’t leave my wounded behind either. Akido, I want those boys brought out.”
Jones snorted.
“Charles? What’s biting your ass?”
“I was just thinking that anybody who cared as much about his troops as you put on wouldn’t have thrown them back in the furnace before they’d cooled off from The Broken Wings. And you hit them with that one before they’d cooled off from . . . ”
“Hey! Charlie, it’s my conscience. I’m the one who’s got to live with it.”
“Storm could handle it. He didn’t get the deep Psych-briefings. But McClennon . . . You probably overloaded the poor bastard. He was goofy at his best times.”
“That’s enough. Right now, right here, we finish crying about Storm and McClennon. That understood? We start figuring out how to get them back. And in our spare time we worry about the Four slash Six. And come bedtime, if you get tempted to waste time sleeping, start figuring how we’re going to get a hammerlock on the Starfishers before they get their hands on Stars’ End.”
“Sir?” Namaguchi inquired.
“One of you clowns told me they were sure they could get in. You know what happens if they do?”
“Sir?”
“We bend over and kiss our asses good-bye. Because we’re dead. We can hope, but we’ll still be in the line to the showers.”
“I don’t follow your reasoning this time.”
“You’re not looking at the whole picture, that’s why. The gestalt, if that’s the right word. Look. If they get those weapons before we do, they can tell us to go pound sand and make it stick. We won’t get control of ambergris production, meaning the Fleet will have to do without adequate instel communications, meaning its chances against those centerward things will go down to zit. They aren’t your candy-ass Ulantonids, planning to give us a fair shake after they whip us.”
“On the other hand,” Namaguchi suggested, “if we get the Fishers under the gun in time, we’ll not only be able to equip the Fleet, we’ll have the potential of the Stars’ End weaponry. Assuming it’s adaptable.”
“There,” Beckhart told the others. “You see why Akido is the Crown Prince around here. You take a stick and whack on him long enough and he actually starts thinking. Let’s do a little brainstorming, gentlemen. Along the lines of turning our liabilities into assets.”
Jones suggested, “Regarding the Four slash Six paradox. The right leak of the right info at the right time at the right place might give Luna Command a public opinion base that would make the kill a matter of popular demand. There are some real pros in the Public Information Office. They’ve done a hell of a job creating a climate of trepidation with hints about trouble in the March. Suppose they let a little truth wriggle out now? Just enough so people start asking what kind of horror we’re covering up by giving our friends from Ulant a bad press. There isn’t anything the public won’t swallow quicker than a good conspiracy theory. Especially a cover-up conspiracy.”
Beckhart chuckled. “What is this? Two brains working in one room? At the same time? Gentlemen, that’s a first. So. We’ve got a couple of things to work on. Will they let us orchestrate the show?”
“Why don’t we just do it? It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But it could be the last. We’ve reached a crossroads. We—and I mean everybody in Luna Command—are going to have to fine-tune the Luna Command machine. It won’t have the internal tolerance for playing games with each other. We don’t have much time to get ready for this centerward race . . . That plan is simple. We’re going to hit them first, hit them hard, and keep hitting them with everything we’ve got.”
“The way Ulant did us?”
“Exactly. The Prime Defender’s General Staff is doing the planning, based on their intelligence. She’ll modify it daily, keeping as close to the realtime situation as she can. We come up with something, it’ll be programed in. If the centerward crowd do something unexpected, that’ll go in too. They’ve sent out a whole fleet of self-destruct equipped, instelled scout ships to keep track of what’s happening.”
“Sir, that strategy didn’t work for Ulant before.”
“It may not work this time, but it’s the best shot we’ve got. Ulant’s intelligence analyses paint a pretty grim picture. The numbers . . . You’ll see the tapes. While you’re watching, remember that you’re only seeing one battle fleet. Ulant has identified another four. They just seem to skip from star to star behind a swarm of scouts, coming out the Arm, scouring every inhabited world of any sentient life.” The comm hummed. Beckhart stabbed it with one finger. “Beckhart. Yes, sir.”
The sound was uni-directional, the picture flat-faced television. The others could not hear, nor could they identify the caller. After listening awhile, Beckhart said, “Very well, sir,” in an unhappy tone. He punched out.
“That was the C.S.N.. They’ve decided to go with Four slash Six. But they’re not going to let us run it. He said they’ll use von Drachau, but R and D will have operational control.”
“R and D? What the hell?”
“What have they got going over there? What don’t we know?”
The comm hummed again. Beckhart answered, said, “This one’s for you, Charlie.”
Jones sat on the edge of the vast desk, turned the comm his way. “Go ahead.” In a few seconds his tall, lean, black frame began quivering with excitement. “Good. All right. Thank you.”
“Well?” Beckhart growled.
“One of my Electronic Intercept people. They just picked up a message from the Starfisher Council to Confederation Senate. Routine request for clearance to hold an ambergris auction. They asked for The Broken Wings. Usual rules and mutual obligations. The same request they send whenever they hold auction on a Confederation world.”
“The Broken Wings is close to Stars’ End. Any other reason to be excited?”
“Payne’s Fleet is going to sponsor.”
Beckhart stared at his hands for more than a minute. When he looked up his expression had become beatific. “Gentlemen, the gods love us after all. Cancel all leaves. Cancel any computation capacity loans we have out. Pass the word that we’re going on overtime. Everybody, including the janitors and shredder operators. I’ve got a feeling we’ll find a rose in this dungheap yet.” He laughed demoniacally. “Eyes open and ears to the ground gentlemen. Everything that comes in from now on—and I mean everything—goes into the master program for correlation. And have the programming teams start working backward. I want the biggest and best goddamned model outside the High Command Strategic Analysis. Let’s see if we can’t do this all up in one big, pretty package.”
Beckhart departed his desk and unlocked his personal bar. He took out glasses and the half gallon of genuine Old Earth Scotch he saved for occasions of millennial significance. “A toast to successes and victories. Hopefully ours.” He poured doubles.