"Uh... "
"Not one of your more endearing traits, Akido. I don't need protecting. Out with it. Who got hurt? How bad was it?"
"It's not that. Sir, they didn't come back."
"They're dead? How did they?... "
"They're alive. But they crossed over."
"They what?"
"Remember, McClennon was programed for it."
"I know that. It was my idea. But he wasn't supposed to make a career out of it. He didn't de-program? What the hell was wrong with Storm? What's his story? Why didn't he bring Thomas out?"
"We're working on it, sir. Interrogating returnees. When we can lay hands on them. They scattered after they hit Carson's, before we knew we had a problem. Near as we can tell, Storm stayed behind because he didn't want to leave McClennon there alone. The programming must have broken down. McClennon asked to stay. They kept Storm from bringing him out."
"I see. That would be like Mouse. Don't leave your wounded behind. He's too much like his father. I knew Gneaus Storm. When you get to the bottom line, it was his sense of honor that got him killed. Well, I've got my honor too, even if it's a little discolored around the edges. I don't leave my wounded behind either. Akido, I want those boys brought out."
Jones snorted.
"Charles? What's biting your ass?"
"I was just thinking that anybody who cared as much about his troops as you put on wouldn't have thrown them back in the furnace before they'd cooled off from The Broken Wings. And you hit them with that one before they'd cooled off from... "
"Hey! Charlie, it's my conscience. I'm the one who's got to live with it."
"Storm could handle it. He didn't get the deep Psych-briefings. But McClennon... You probably overloaded the poor bastard. He was goofy at his best times."
"That's enough. Right now, right here, we finish crying about Storm and McClennon. That understood? We start figuring out how to get them back. And in our spare time we worry about the Four slash Six. And come bedtime, if you get tempted to waste time sleeping, start figuring how we're going to get a hammerlock on the Starfishers before they get their hands on Stars' End."
"Sir?" Namaguchi inquired.
"One of you clowns told me they were sure they could get in. You know what happens if they do?"
"Sir?"
"We bend over and kiss our asses good-bye. Because we're dead. We can hope, but we'll still be in the line to the showers."
"I don't follow your reasoning this time."
"You're not looking at the whole picture, that's why. The gestalt, if that's the right word. Look. If they get those weapons before we do, they can tell us to go pound sand and make it stick. We won't get control of ambergris production, meaning the Fleet will have to do without adequate instel communications, meaning its chances against those centerward things will go down to zit. They aren't your candy-ass Ulantonids, planning to give us a fair shake after they whip us."
"On the other hand," Namaguchi suggested, "if we get the Fishers under the gun in time, we'll not only be able to equip the Fleet, we'll have the potential of the Stars' End weaponry. Assuming it's adaptable."
"There," Beckhart told the others. "You see why Akido is the Crown Prince around here. You take a stick and whack on him long enough and he actually starts thinking. Let's do a little brainstorming, gentlemen. Along the lines of turning our liabilities into assets."
Jones suggested, "Regarding the Four slash Six paradox. The right leak of the right info at the right time at the right place might give Luna Command a public opinion base that would make the kill a matter of popular demand. There are some real pros in the Public Information Office. They've done a hell of a job creating a climate of trepidation with hints about trouble in the March. Suppose they let a little truth wriggle out now? Just enough so people start asking what kind of horror we're covering up by giving our friends from Ulant a bad press. There isn't anything the public won't swallow quicker than a good conspiracy theory. Especially a cover-up conspiracy."
Beckhart chuckled. "What is this? Two brains working in one room? At the same time? Gentlemen, that's a first. So. We've got a couple of things to work on. Will they let us orchestrate the show?"
"Why don't we just do it? It wouldn't be the first time."
"But it could be the last. We've reached a crossroads. We—and I mean everybody in Luna Command—are going to have to fine-tune the Luna Command machine. It won't have the internal tolerance for playing games with each other. We don't have much time to get ready for this centerward race... That plan is simple. We're going to hit them first, hit them hard, and keep hitting them with everything we've got."
"The way Ulant did us?"
"Exactly. The Prime Defender's General Staff is doing the planning, based on their intelligence. She'll modify it daily, keeping as close to the realtime situation as she can. We come up with something, it'll be programed in. If the centerward crowd do something unexpected, that'll go in too. They've sent out a whole fleet of self-destruct equipped, instelled scout ships to keep track of what's happening."
"Sir, that strategy didn't work for Ulant before."
"It may not work this time, but it's the best shot we've got. Ulant's intelligence analyses paint a pretty grim picture. The numbers... You'll see the tapes. While you're watching, remember that you're only seeing one battle fleet. Ulant has identified another four. They just seem to skip from star to star behind a swarm of scouts, coming out the Arm, scouring every inhabited world of any sentient life." The comm hummed. Beckhart stabbed it with one finger. "Beckhart. Yes, sir."
The sound was uni-directional, the picture flat-faced television. The others could not hear, nor could they identify the caller. After listening awhile, Beckhart said, "Very well, sir," in an unhappy tone. He punched out.
"That was the C.S.N.. They've decided to go with Four slash Six. But they're not going to let us run it. He said they'll use von Drachau, but R and D will have operational control."
"R and D? What the hell?"
"What have they got going over there? What don't we know?"
The comm hummed again. Beckhart answered, said, "This one's for you, Charlie."
Jones sat on the edge of the vast desk, turned the comm his way. "Go ahead." In a few seconds his tall, lean, black frame began quivering with excitement. "Good. All right. Thank you."
"Well?" Beckhart growled.
"One of my Electronic Intercept people. They just picked up a message from the Starfisher Council to Confederation Senate. Routine request for clearance to hold an ambergris auction. They asked for The Broken Wings. Usual rules and mutual obligations. The same request they send whenever they hold auction on a Confederation world."
"The Broken Wings is close to Stars' End. Any other reason to be excited?"
"Payne's Fleet is going to sponsor."
Beckhart stared at his hands for more than a minute. When he looked up his expression had become beatific. "Gentlemen, the gods love us after all. Cancel all leaves. Cancel any computation capacity loans we have out. Pass the word that we're going on overtime. Everybody, including the janitors and shredder operators. I've got a feeling we'll find a rose in this dungheap yet." He laughed demoniacally. "Eyes open and ears to the ground gentlemen. Everything that comes in from now on—and I mean everything—goes into the master program for correlation. And have the programming teams start working backward. I want the biggest and best goddamned model outside the High Command Strategic Analysis. Let's see if we can't do this all up in one big, pretty package."
Beckhart departed his desk and unlocked his personal bar. He took out glasses and the half gallon of genuine Old Earth Scotch he saved for occasions of millennial significance. "A toast to successes and victories. Hopefully ours." He poured doubles.