To this day, Sten was not sure whether he had missed the shot out of cowardice or lost an opportunity. As he watched her, he cursed himself for both. It did not matter which side of the coin came down. Both were losers. And he could not help wondering what would have happened if he had succeeded. Who would be standing on the stage now? Wichman? Pastour? Anyone at all?
On the stage, Lady Atago had lowered her arms and let the cheers wash over her. Then she raised them again, asking for silence. She got it.
"Thank you, my fellow Tahn," she began, "for joining us in this celebration."
Sten saw not a flicker among the rapt faces around him. To the crowd there was no incongruity in the fact that they had not joined anything voluntarily. And what was there to celebrate?
"These are trying times for us, my people," Atago continued. "Our resolve is being tested more than in any other era after the Great Shame. And it is this resolve of ours—this dedication to victory basic to our Tahn way of life—that we celebrate today.
"But there is more than just resolve that makes up the Tahn genetic code. There is also the absolute willingness to sacrifice all to preserve—"
She waited, and then the final word snapped out of the speakers like a metal-tipped whip.
"Honor!"
" Honor!" the crowd screamed back. "Honor!"
"Yes, honor," Lady Atago said. "Let no outlander mistake the meaning of this word to the Tahn. To us it is not just a phrase requiring sacrifice for the future of our children and their children's children. Because we would sacrifice all for honor. And we are willing to die to the last Tahn lest our honor be fouled."
Again she held the moment, bowing her head.
"For without honor there can be no future," she went on. "Without honor the Tahn are extinct as a race. And if we all die to fulfill this unique and holy vision of ourselves, what does it matter? We may all be gone, but we still will have left our mark on history.
"And a thousand years from now—and a thousand after that—beings will read of us and marvel at the standard for honor we set. And they will curse themselves for their weaknesses and damn themselves as cowards because no living thing will ever achieve that mark again. But they all died, their children may protest. And their parents will nod, yes. But they died for... honor!
It took a half hour for the crowd to calm down before Lady Atago could go on. They shouted and wept and hugged one another and passed children from shoulder to shoulder so they could reach out and touch history.
Lady Atago kept very still during that time, letting the wave of sound wash over her, seemingly unaffected. Her face was stern—and waiting.
"And so, my fellow Tahn," she continued when the time was right. "I have called you here to celebrate. To celebrate and to rededicate ourselves to honor.
"It will not be easy. We face a formidable foe. A foe who will not be satisfied until the last of us has been ground up for his bread and meat. We have won great victories against this foe, and we have suffered great losses.
"But it does not matter. I welcome this foe. As you all should. Because we are fortunate to live in a time of our ultimate test. This foe has forced us to confront our own weaknesses. And when it is over, we will be strong and pure and good. Or all of us will be dead...
"... for honor." The last words came softly, like a prayer. The crowd was silent, as if sensing what was to come.
Lady Atago slowly raised her hands to the clear Tahn skies. The odd thought crossed Sten's mind that not once had Lady Atago mentioned the Eternal Emperor by name. It was a speechmaking tactic that he immediately mentally wrote down in his little Mantis book of propaganda tricks.
"I pledge to you this, my fellow Tahn. I will hurl at our foe every bolt you build me. I will track him to the
Fringe Worlds. I will hunt him out of his coward's lair in Cavite. And then I will follow him wherever he flees to.
"I pledge you battle, my fellow Tahn. I pledge you victory. Swift and sweet. But I may not be up to your measure. Some weakness in me may make my aim go astray.
"And so... if in the end I fail you... If I cannot give you the victory you deserve..."
There was a long, last wait...
"I pledge you honor!"
Sten barely noticed the tumult around him. The crowd was insane, but that did not matter. Because he was witnessing a rare thing: a leader who was addressing her people—and believing every word she said.
Since Sten had set off for Koldyeze, the K'ton Klub had closed, reopened, and then closed again. In a few hours it would reopen once more, and Alex and St. Clair and L'n were waiting anxiously at a table in the empty nightclub.
To cover their anxiety, they were doing what soldiers have been doing ever since beings had picked up a rock and learned to throw it at others. In short, they were grousing and wondering what foolishness they would be asked to do next.
"Look, I don't mean to complain," St. Clair was saying. "Business is great, and I'm also enjoying beating the snake-snot out of the Tahn. But I'm a bottom-line kind of a person."
"True," L'n said. She said it a little too quickly but presented a guileless pink furry face to St. Clair's quick questioning look.
"Whae be y'r wee problem, lass?" Alex asked.
"Lately I don't feel like we're getting anywhere. We're wrecking their money. Fine and good. We're fouling up production. Messing with their morale. Stealing their secrets. And being a general pain in the tush. This is great. As it should be. We're hurting them bad."
"I don't see what your problem is," L'n said. "What more do you want?"
"I want to hear them yell ouch," St. Clair said. "I mean, how bad are we really hurting them?"
"Aye," Alex said, tapping the table thoughtfully. "Ah ken whae y' mean."
"You do?" asked the unsuspecting L'n, who still had a few innocent bits left in her.
Alex nodded wisely. " Tis ae old malady," he said. "How much hurt hurts. Aye. An old tale, lass. Let Kilgour tell y' how old."
And Alex settled back to tell a suspicious St. Clair and an intrigued L'n his story.
"Ae gran'sire ae mine wae trappin't. Ae Eart'. Bleakit an' cold an' a'. Been oot ae th' wilderness aye weeks an' months.
"An' one day, thae was a wee town. Nae, no e'en a town. A village. Thae see't thae great pourit ae snow comin't toward them. An' thae thinki't ae's a bear or some'at.
"M' grandsire, 'twere.
"Lookin't f'r ae dentist.
"Turns oot, thae's a diploma-mill quack ae thae village. An' m' gran'sire sits doon ae th' chair, an' thae dentist lookit ae' his teeth an' say, 'Aye, thae's got to coom oot. But ae nae hae anesthesia.'
"M' grandsire say, 'Dinnae fash. Pull it.'
"An so, wi' great gruntin' ae groanin't, thae dentist yankit thae tooth. An' he's sweatin', an m' grandsire's sweatin't.
"An' thae quack say't, 'Dinnae thae be th' greatest pain y've ever felt?'
"M' grandsire says, 'Nae. Thae's naught.'
"Wi' considerable astonishment, thae dentist say, 'Whae's worse?'
"M' grandsire, explain't. 'Last week, Ah come down wi' th' runs. S' bad, Ah canne mak't oot m' cabin't' thae backhouse. So, Ah drap m' trews ae th' snowbank, right outside m' door. An' Ah forget Ah was cleanin't m' bear traps before thae snow fell, an' Ah left a wee trap set right where't Ah be crouchin't.
" 'Which Ah'm remindit aboot when thae trap closit.
" 'Snapit closit on m' balls.'
" 'Good Lord,' thae dentist sae. 'Y'r right. Thae's th' biggest pain ae all.'
" 'Nae, nae, lad,' m' grandsire say. 'Th' biggest pain ae all wae when Ah come to the end ae th' chain...' "