The sand garden was a perfect bowl with a radius of about a half a kilometer. In this area were laid exactly ten stones, ranging in size from five meters down to a third of a meter. Each stone was of a different color: earth colors varying from deep black to a tinge of orange. They had all been mathematically placed the proper distance apart. It was the coldest work of art that Sr. Ecu had seen in his hundred-plus years. During the two hours of waiting he had considered what may have been in Lord Fehrle's mind when he created it.
The thinking was not comfortable. If one stone had been ever so slightly out of place or if a patch of sand had not been as perfect as the rest, he would have felt much better.
He had tried to change the shape of it all with his own presence.
Sr. Ecu's body was black with a hint of red just under the wing tips. His tail snaked out three meters, narrowing to a point that had once held a sting in his race's ancestral past. He had tried moving himself around from point to point, hovering for long minutes as he tried physically to break up the cold perfection that was the garden. Somehow he kept finding himself back in the same place. If nothing more, his physical presence in the perfect spot added to the psychological ugliness of the place.
Even for a Tahn, on a scale of one to ten, Lord Fehrle rated below zero as a diplomat. This was an estimation that Sr. Ecu could make with authority. His own race was noted for its diplomatic bearing—which was the reason Fehrle had requested his presence.
In any other circumstances Sr. Ecu would have left in a diplomatic huff after the first half hour. Anger at insult can be a valuable tool in intrasystem relations. But not in these circumstances. He was not sure that the Manabi could preserve their traditional neutrality, much less a future, if the Tahn and the Empire continued on their collision course.
So he would wait and talk and see in this obscenity of a garden that perfectly illustrated the Tahn mind.
It was another half hour before Lord Fehrle appeared. He was polite but abrupt, acting as if he had been kept waiting instead of the Manabi. Fehrle had sketched in the current status of relations between the Empire and the Tahn. All of this, except for smaller details, the Manabi knew. He dared Fehrle's impatience by saying so.
"This is a textbook summation of the situation, my lord," he said. "Most admirable. Almost elegant in its sparseness. But I fail to see my role."
"To be frank," Fehrle said, "we intend to launch a full-out attack."
All three of Sr. Ecu's stomachs lurched. Their linings had been sorely tested in the past, to the point where he had been sure he would never be able to digest his favorite microorganisms again. This, however, was true disaster.
"I beg you to reconsider, my lord," he said. "Are your positions really so far apart? Is it really too late to talk? In my experience..."
"That's why I asked you here," Fehrle said. "There is a way out. A way to avoid total war."
Sr. Ecu knew the man was lying through his gleaming teeth. However, he could hardly say so. "I'm delighted to hear that," he said. "I suppose you have some new demands. Compromises, perhaps? Areas of concern to be traded for firm agreements?"
Fehrle snorted. "Not at all," he said. "We will settle for nothing less than total capitulation."
"If I may say so, that is not a very good way to resume negotiations, my lord," Sr. Ecu murmured.
"But that is where I intend to begin, just the same," Fehrle said. "I have a fiche outlining our position. It will be delivered to you before you leave for Prime World."
"And how much time shall I tell the Emperor's emissaries they have to respond?"
"Seventy-two E-hours," Lord Fehrle said flatly, almost in a monotone.
"But, my lord, that's impossible. It would take a miracle for me to even reach Prime World in that time, much less to set up the proper channels."
"It's seventy-two hours just the same."
"You must listen to reason, my lord!"
"Then you refuse?"
Now Sr. Ecu understood. Fehrle wanted a refusal. Later he could say that he had done his best to avert full war but that the Manabi would not undertake the mission. He had to admire the plan, as in a way he admired how perfectly ugly the man's garden was. Because there was no way in his race's coda that Sr. Ecu could undertake the mission.
"Yes, my lord. I'm afraid I must refuse."
"Very well, then."
Lord Fehrle turned without another word and stalked off across the white sand. Sr. Ecu rippled his wings and in a moment was soaring away, his own self-esteem and his race's neutrality shattered.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The weather report for Empire Day was disappointing: overcast with occasional rain, heavy at times. Rotten weather for a holiday—but it would save the lives of several thousands of beings on Cavite and, perhaps, be responsible for Sten's survival on that day.
Sten had restricted his crews to the flotilla area twenty-four hours beforehand. There had been grumbles—Empire Day for the 23rd Fleet was not only show-and-tell day but a rationale for some serious partying. Not that there was much time for bitching—they were too busy loading and resupplying the ships. And quickly the crew members, seeing live missiles and ammunition being not only loaded but racked and mounted, figured that something very much out of the ordinary was going on.
The ships were ready to launch at 1900 hours. Sten was amused to see that the final load actually was fireworks, acquired by Sutton from some of his black-market contacts. Sten put everyone under light hypno sleep and tried for a little rest himself—without result.
Wearing a slicker against the occasional spatters of rain, he spent the middle hours of the night pacing around his ships and wondering why he had ever wanted to be the man in charge of anything.
He roused his people at 0100.
The Kelly, Claggett, Gamble, and Richards lifted near-silently on Yukawa drive at 0230. Dawn would be at 0445. Admiral van Doorman would open the ceremonies at 0800.
The Tahn, too, had their timetable. It was based around that of the 23rd Fleet.
A month earlier, a Tahn working inside fleet headquarters had copied the Empire Day schedule fiche, and it had been immediately relayed offworld. The fiche occupied a small screen on one side of the Forez's bridge. Neither Lady Atago nor Admiral Deska needed to consult it.
Nearby hung a second, newly completed battleship—the Kiso—of the same class as the Forez. The Tahn battlefleet waited just on the edge of Cavite's stellar system. Nearly numberless cruisers, destroyers, attack ships, and troopships filled out the fleet.
Other battlefleets, equally massive, had been assigned other targets in the Fringe Worlds. Lady Atago was to destroy the 23rd Fleet and its base on Cavite.
On the tick, Atago ordered the attack.
Remote sensors scattered offworld were destroyed, jammed, or given false data to transmit. To make sure there was no alert, at 0500 five squads of commando Tahn, some of whom had been trained on Frehda's farm, hit the 23rd Fleet's Siglnt center. Other Tahn, correctly uniformed as Imperial sailors, took over the center.
At 0730, the main elements of Atago's battlefleet were just out-atmosphere. The two picket boats, their crew members hung over and their screens focused, against orders, on the display field below, barely had time to see the incoming Tahn destroyers before they were destroyed.
On the field, Admiral van Doorman, flanked by Brijit and his wife, checked the time—ten minutes—and then started up the steps of the reviewing stand.