"It's the mines," he muttered, wheeling abruptly from the tank. He folded his arms behind him, frowning at the deck. "The mines. You could deal with the fortresses with enough SBMHAWKs."
"True." Antonov watched the Theban pace. He could almost feel the intensity of Lantu's thoughts, and when he glanced at Kthaara he saw the glimmer of what might someday become sympathy in the Orion's eyes. "If it were an open warp point-if we had even the smallest space to deploy free of mine attack-" He stopped himself with a Slavic shrug.
"I know." Lantu paced faster on his stumpy legs, then stopped dead. His head came up, eyes unfocused, and then he whirled back to the display, and amber fire flickered in his stare.
"If you could break through the mines, Admiral Antonov," he asked slowly, "how long would it take you to prepare your assault?"
"Three months for repairs and to absorb and train new construction already en route from Galloway's World," Antonov rumbled, watching the Theban alertly. "But it will take at least a month longer for sufficient new SBMHAWKs to reach us. I would estimate four months. Commodore?"
He glanced at Tsuchevsky, and the chief of staff nodded. He was watching Lantu just as closely as his admiral.
"I see." Lantu rocked on his broad feet, nodding to himself. Then he looked up into Antonov's gaze. "In that case, Admiral Antonov, I think I've found a way to get you into the system."
Ivan Antonov sat before the pickup, recording his message, and his eyes were intent.
"I trust him, Howard," he rumbled. "I have to. No one who meant to betray us would have given us the data he has, and certainly he wouldn't have come up with an idea like this. It's not one we could afford to use often, but it's brilliant-and so simple I don't understand why we never thought of it.
"I know you're no longer Minister of War Production, but I need you to send me every tramp freighter you can find. Get them here as quickly as you can, even if you have to tow them on tractors between warp points. They don't have to be much-just big enough to be warp-capable. With them and enough SBMHAWKs, I am confident of our ability to break into Thebes.
"I recognize the stakes, and I will do my best, but even with the freighters and SBMHAWKs, Second Fleet will require at least four months to prepare the assault. It simply is not humanly possible to do it more quickly, and you must restrain the Assembly while we do. I don't know how-I'm no politician, thank God-but you have to."
He stared into the pickup, and his broad, powerful face was granite.
"Buy me some time, Howard. Do it any way you can, but buy me some time!"
Caitrin MacDougall walked slowly down the hall, wondering how her mother had survived five pregnancies. Her own was well advanced, and she hated what it was doing to her figure almost as much as she loved feeling the unborn infant stir. Knowing a new life was taking form within her was worth every backache, every swollen ankle, every moment of totally unanticipated yet seemingly inescapable morning sickness . . . but that didn't mean she liked those other things.
"Hello, Caitrin," a wistful voice greeted her as the door at the end of the hall opened.
"Hi, Hanat."
Hanat held the old-fashioned door for her, and Caitrin sank gratefully into an over-stuffed chair. It was going to be hell to climb out of, but she chose to enjoy its comfort rather than think about that.
The slender Theban woman sat in a chair sized to her tiny stature, like a child sitting at Caitrin's feet, but Caitrin no longer felt like a kindergarten teacher. She'd come to know-and like-Hanat, and though Hanat tried to hide it, Caitrin knew how it hurt to spend her time under virtual house arrest. Yet there was no choice, for Hanat had been Lantu's personal secretary. Her fellow Thebans would have torn her limb from limb-literally-for his "treason," and she would have fared equally badly at the hands of any number of New Hebridans. Virtually every family had deaths to mourn, and the population as a whole had yet to learn how Lantu had fought to reduce the death toll. Even many of those who knew didn't really believe it. And so, in superb if bitter irony, Hanat's only true friend on New Hebrides was not merely a human but the Resistance's second in command!
"How are you, Caitrin?" Hanat asked, folding her hands in her lap with the calm dignity which was like a physical extension of her personality.
"Fine . . . I think. This little monster"-Caitrin rubbed her swollen abdomen gently-"has excellent potential as a soccer star, judging by last night's antics. But aside from that, I'm doing fine."
"Good." Hanat's inner lids lowered, and her voice was soft. "I envy you."
Caitrin nibbled on an index finger, studying the top of Hanat's cranial carapace as she bowed over her hands.
"I got a message chip from Angus last night," she said after a moment. "A long one, for him. I think there were at least ten complete sentences." Hanat laughed, and Caitrin grinned. She loved the sound of Hanat's laughter. It was very human and yet utterly alien, a silver sound totally in keeping with the Theban's elfin appearance.
"He says the admiral is fine. In fact"-Hanat looked up quickly-"he and Colonel Fraymak are working with Admiral Antonov's planning staff."
"Oh, dear," Hanat said softly, folded hands twisting about one another in distress.
"Hanat." Caitrin leaned forward, capturing one of the slender hands despite a half-hearted attempt to escape. "You know he has to."
"Yes." Hanat looked down at the five-fingered hand clasping hers. "But I know what it's costing him, too."
"Just tell me if it's none of my business," Caitrin said gently, "but why don't you ever write him?"
"Because he hasn't written me. It's not seemly for a Theban woman to write a man who hasn't written her."
"Somehow I don't see you as overly burdened by tradition, Hanat."
"I suppose not." Hanat laughed again, sadly, at Caitrin's wry tone. "But he hasn't written on purpose . . . that's why I can't write him."
"Why not? If I'd waited for Angus to say something, we'd've died of old age! Of course, he's not exactly the verbal type, but the principle's the same."
"No, it isn't." Hanat's voice was so soft Caitrin had to strain to hear her. "Lantu loves me-I know he does, and he knows I know-but he won't admit it. Because-" she looked up, and tears spilled slowly down her cheeks "-he doesn't think he's coming back to me, Caitrin. He thinks he's going to die. Perhaps he even wants to. That's why I envy you and Angus so."
Caitrin bit her lip, staring into that tear-streaked alien face. Then she opened her arms . . . and Hanat burrowed into them and wept convulsively.
" . . . outrage, Madam Speaker! This wanton bloodshed-this slaughter wreaked against helpless civilians-sets the Thebans beyond the pale! Fanaticism must not be allowed to cloak butchery with any semblance of excuse."
Yevgeny Owens paused, and a soft rumble of agreement filled in the space. It was strongest from the LibProgs, Anderson noted-not surprisingly, since Owens was Waldeck's handpicked hatchet man-but a disturbing amount of it came from Erika Van Smitt's Liberal Democrats. And, he admitted unhappily, from his own Conservatives. He made himself sit still, folded hands resting on the head of his cane, and waited.
"Madam Speaker," Owens resumed more quietly, "this isn't the first time humanity has met racial insanity, nor the first time we've paid a price for meeting it. I remind this Assembly that few political leaders of the time could believe the truth about the Rigelians, either. We are told the Thebans have committed these unspeakable atrocities-have resorted to torture, to the murder of parents in order to steal and 'convert' their children, to the cold-blooded execution of entire towns and villages as 'reprisals' against men and women fighting only to protect their world and people-in the name of religion. Of a religion, Madam Speaker, which deifies the very planet upon which we stand. And, we are told, that religion was concocted by humans in direct violation of the Edict of 2097.