Where had they found Miranid—or, rather, and with much more apparent logic—where had Miranid been before he chose to reveal himself?
Point Number One: No officer in the fleet—and Henlo had checked thoroughly—had ever heard of any officer, Reserve or no, named L’ Miranid. Most of them had simply shrugged their ignorance off, and none of them were actively curious. This despite the fact that Henlo would have wagered heavily on the fleet’s containing so thorough a cross-section of all Fleet officers that, between them, they must have met or heard of everyone who had ever held a relatively minor post.
Point Number Two: The Fleet was Miranid’s, pin, stock, and barrel. Not one of the line Fleet officers would now dream of challenging his authority. Apparently, Henlo was the only one who still questioned its validity.
Point Number Three: The reason behind the sudden switch in the officers’ attitudes was painfully apparent— painfully because Henlo had to admit that it was also the cause of his own unaccustomed confusion. Miranid had over-awed them all.
In a society based on the supremacy of the strong over the weak, that had been an audacious maneuver. And Miranid had carried it off without a flaw.
What hurt was that Henlo was himself over-awed, a totally unfamiliar sensation, and one which sat badly on his stomach.
In the first place, Miranid had followed what was, in retrospect, the most logical and effective plan. He had acted in a manner so dramatically ruthless that he had made the Fleet understand that he was capable of besting it single-handed.
Now that he had seen the triumph demonstrated, and felt its effect, Henlo had to admire it. But he could never have initiated it, or, having thought of it, dared take the risk.
Miranid was a genius!
Well, he’d planned to learn from the man, hadn’t he? Apparently, Miranid was going to be his post-graduate course.
Henlo felt a surge of returning confidence. Of all the Fleet officers, only he had a powerful shield against Miranid’s awe-inspiring strength.
The strong man dies as easily as the weak, and Miranid’s life was in Henlo’s hand.
That, above all other things, was Henlo’s source of hidden—and therefore even stronger—strength.
Once again, D’ Henlo was not given his sleep. Once again, the Intervoice called him.
“Admiral’s request and wish: Captain D’ Henlo to report at once to Admiral’s cabin.”
Henlo stood up, grunted, “Complying,” and, his tail not quite bar-steady, walked down the companionway to Miranid’s cabin.
When he knocked, he heard Miranid pushing back a chair before his voice came through the door. “Will you enter?”
“With your permission,” Henlo replied, according to formula. Apparently, Miranid was going to maintain his advantage by standing in Henlo’s presence—which would, most probably, be a seated one.
“Granted,” came from beyond the door.
Henlo shrugged. He felt no qualms about the traditional position of inferiority. It meant nothing. But it might be advantageous to pretend otherwise.
He stepped in, and Miranid turned away from his desk. “Please stand,” he said briefly, spreading a star chart on the desk. “I’d like you to know my plans for the next few days.”
“Of course, Admiral,” Henlo said, moving forward to the chart and grimacing briefly behind Miranid’s back. The man was thoroughly unpredictable.
He comforted himself with the thought that persistent unpredictability was predictable.
“I assume, Captain, that you’ve had time to decide against opposing me,” Miranid said casually, touching the fleet’s present position with one point of his dividers.
Henlo’s whiskers quivered in the general ripple that crossed his facial fur.
“Therefore,” Miranid went on in the same tone, “here’s our plan for the time being.” The dividers twirled from point to point, like a dancer describing an involuted spiral, and one point sank into the chart at Ceroii, a Vilkan holding some light-years within their ragged frontier. “So. Three days under acceleration, two in braking. We come out of hyperspace three Standard hours before we reach there. Can you tell me why I’m giving them that much warning?”
Henlo had recovered by a considerable application of will. He decided to play Miranid’s game for the time being.
Moreover, the admiral was using substantially the same tactics he had himself planned, but never, of course, hoped to see executed.
“I would say, sir, that your plan is to make Ceroii a diversion. Three hours’ warning will permit them to call for help, but not to mount a substantial defense. I suggest, respectfully, that you then intend to move rapidly to some other sector—Ganelash, or Dira, either of which is liable to be left open by the Vilkan rush to defend at Ceroii—or perhaps even to split the fleet and attack both. Your subsequent maneuvers would depend on what sector would next be left vulnerable by the inevitable rushing-about which these tactics will produce among the enraged barbarians.”
Miranid nodded. “Quite correct, Captain. I congratulate you as an apt strategist. A quality which,” he added dryly, “seems to be rare in the Grand Farlan Starfleet.”
Henlo could not decide exactly how the remark was meant—whether as an observation that it was remarkable for anyone to be as good as Miranid, or simply as the normal Reserve officer’s opportunity to make some pointed observations.
Miranid held up a finger. “One correction. I will split the fleet after Ceoii—but into three parts. Some Vilkan sub-chief may just keep his head sufficiently to launch direct retaliation at Farla. We’ll need some ships to delay any such move until we can catch him from behind. I plan to use Vice-Admiral Y’ Gern. Does this agree with your estimation of him?”
“Your grasp of the characters of your officers is remarkable,” Henlo managed to say.
It was quite true. Gern was perhaps the one Vice-Admiral in the fleet who had any stomach to him, together with the strength to command such an action. But the important part of that last announcement had been Miranid’s revelation of his intention of attacking Ganelash and Dira with only one-third of a fleet at each vital point. It just might be done, but it would be hot work. And the casual manner in which the man had provided for the englobement of any possible retaliators was an even more astonishing indication of just how Miranid’s tactical mind worked.
It was the same basic principle which had given him the fleet within an hour of his first setting foot on his flagship. He out-thought his opponents completely, and then let their own efforts provide him with the means for unfolding his tactics.
Where, where had they found Miranid?
“I’ll ask you, as my aide, to draw up the detailed battle plan, Captain Henlo,” Miranid said.
“Yes, sir,” Henlo replied. It was a plain indication that their conference had ended. “With your permission?”
“You may leave.”
Henlo returned to his own cabin, and once more tried to find an hour’s time in which to sleep.
V
Ceroii was, effectively speaking, dust, and Ganelash flamed under Henlo’s guns. Four parsecs away, he knew, Larharis, temporarily carrying Miranid’s flag, was giving Dira the same breakfast.
Henlo’s original thesis—and Miranid’s, obviously—was being proved correct. The Vilkan horde was not a homogenous body, and the Vilk forces, though numerous, were not organized. They could roll up empires like a pack of sajaks stampeding cattle, but they were highly vulnerable to the rush-and-slash tactics that Miranid was using.