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
"How 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."