Also, Lord Wichman's supreme militancy—even for a Tahn—served as a counterbalance to Pastour. Wichman was one of Fehrle's master strokes. He was a man who had risen through the ranks of the military and could boast nearly every award for heroism that the Tahn Empire had to offer. More importantly, he had a way with the masses, and in his role as minister of the people, he seemed to be able to get any kind of sacrifice necessary from the working class. How he got that cooperation, no one cared to know.
In another time, the Tahn Council would have been most closely compared to a politburo system of government. Each member represented key areas of society. The various viewpoints were discussed and whenever possible added to the political stewpot. All decisions were unanimous and final. There was never a vote, never any public dissension. Each matter was thoroughly discussed in private, compromises made whenever necessary, and the plan agreed upon. A meeting of the council itself was a mere formality for the record.
And so it was with no trepidation at all that Fehrle addressed his fellow lords and ladies.
"Then, I assume we are all agreed," he said. "We proceed with the attack on the Emperor as planned?"
There were nods all around—except one.
"I'm not sure," Pastour said. "I still wonder if maybe we ought to wait until we are at full readiness. In two years, we'll have the Empire in the palm of our hand."
There was an instant hush in the room. Everyone looked at Fehrle to see how he would react.
Fehrle did his best to keep the impatience out of his voice. "This has all been discussed before, my lord," he said. "The longer we wait, the longer the Emperor has to build more ships. We cannot win a manufacturing war with the Eternal Emperor. You of all people should know that."
"Yes, yes. But what if this operation doesn't succeed? We are risking our entire fleet! Where will we be if we lose that? Back under the Emperor's thumb, that's where, I tell you!"
Wichman instantly shot to his feet, his eyes bulging and his face scarlet with anger. "I will not stay in the same room with a coward!" he shouted.
The room erupted as Wichman began to stalk out. Fehrle slammed his hand down on the table. Wichman froze in midstep. Silence reigned again in the room.
"My lords! My ladies! Do you forget where you are?"
Fehrle glared around at each member. They all squirmed in their seats uncomfortably. Then he turned to Pastour and gave him a frosty smile.
"I'm sure the good colonel misspoke. We all know from his reputation that he is no coward." He glanced over at Wichman. "Don't you agree, my lord?"
Wichman's shoulders slumped, and he walked silently back to his seat. "I apologize for my rudeness," he said to Pastour.
"And I for mine. You must forgive me. I have a great deal more to learn about the workings of the council."
The tension crept away, and Lord Fehrle brought the meeting back to order.
"It's settled, then. We attack immediately!"
Everyone shouted in agreement. Pastour's voice was the loudest of all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"MR. Kilgour," Foss said, wistfully looking at the display in front of him, "can I ask you something?"
"GA, lad." Kilgour checked the time. There was an hour and a half to go before the shift changed—and a little inconsequential conversation might help kill the boredom.
"Look at all those fat freighters down there. When you were young, did you ever want to be a pirate?"
Kilgour chuckled. "Lad, Ah hae input f' ye. When Ah was wee, Ah was a pirate. Come frae a long line a' rogues, Ah do."
Foss glanced at Kilgour. He was still not sure when his XO was extending his mandible. He turned back to the screen.
Sten's four ships had been assigned escort duty. Even though the increasing tension with the Tahn had reduced merchant traffic through the Fringe Worlds, there were still certain shipments that had to be routed through the area. The ships were now dispatched in convoys and given integral escort. In addition, during passage near the Tahn sector, Imperial ships were attached for support. Hanging "below" Sten's ships were five tubby merchants from Tanz Sullamora's fleet, one container link with four tugs, two hastily armed auxiliary cruisers, and one archaic destroyer, the Neosho, from van Doorman's fleet.
Sten couldn't figure out van Doorman's thinking—if, indeed, the admiral was ever guilty of that. He seemed more interested in keeping his ships on the ground than in space. Possibly, Sten hazarded, the admiral was worried that he would forget them if they weren't in plain sight. Van Doorman was, even though the term's origins were long-lost, a perfect bean counter.
This didn't apply to Sten's tiny flotilla. Van Doorman proved true to his word. He wanted Sten's butt on toast. He evidently thought the best way to crucify Sten was to keep him busy. The Claggett, Gamble, Kelly, and Richards were used as everything from dispatch runners to chartmakers to the present duty—high escort on this merchant run. Sten didn't think much of van Doorman's plot—if Sten had wanted to ruin someone's career, he would have kept the person underfoot at all times. Sten was also not upset that his ships were kept on the run—he was still shaking his somewhat motley crew down.
The only problem was the wear and tear factor on the delicate engines. If it weren't for Sutton's brilliance in conniving far more parts and even spare engines than authorized, all four tacships would have been redlined by now.
And so the four ships dozed on high escort. The skipper of the Neosho had cheerfully agreed with Sten's plan to keep his flotilla above the convoy proper, enabling the Bulkeley-class's superior electronics to umbrella the convoy. He had promptly stuck the Neosho at proud point and, as far as Sten could tell from intership transmissions, was spending most of his time on the lead merchantman.
Sten was slightly envious—rumor had it that Sullamora's ships were most plush, and their crews didn't believe in Spartan thinking—but not very.
Sten kept his crews on minimal watch—with one exception. The electronics suite was fully manned and watching. There had been entirely too many nonreports from ships passing through this sector. There were many possible explanations: Merchant ships were notoriously sloppy for transmitting sector-exit reports; accidents did happen; pirates; or Question Mark.
Pirates made no sense. In spite of the livie fantasies, it was impossible for a private individual, given the Imperial control of AM2, to operate a raider for very long. It was the Question Mark that intrigued Sten and Alex.
Four days into the assignment, their question was answered.
General quarters clanged Sten from his cubicle, where he was filling out another of van Doorman's interminable status reports, to the command deck.
The convoy was below and ahead of his ships—Sten noticed that, as always, one freighter was lagging to the rear of the formation. But on the monitor three unknown ships were coming in from "low rear." Sten checked the prediction screen. Their path would intersect that rear freighter in minutes.
Electronics does not necessarily simplify command: Sten, nearly simultaneously, ordered all weapons systems on the Gamble to standby; alerted his other three ships; cut to the supposedly open command link between ComEscort and ComConvoy, though he got no answer; braced himself and cut onto the assigned transmission band to all convoy ships; and turned away from the convoy screen.