"What next?" Hotsco asked.
"W hae twa choices," Alex said. "First, an‘ most palatable, i' w‘ hunt doon th' two lassies ae th‘ Lovedance ae th' Merkins. Thae'll noo blanch ae th‘ sight ae a couple ae young lovers comin't't‘ them ae th' Laird made them. An‘ we c'n continue whae we barely—sorry, lass—begun't till th' heat dies doon. I‘ y' hae their card?"
"I left it back there," Hotsco said. Her shock had died away, and quite suddenly she found this whole situation funny. "In the hotel. You want me to go back for it?"
Alex considered.
"Nae," he said, straight-facedly. "Twas nae but a passin‘ fancy. Option two. We'll work our way't' th‘ docks, an' either steal a curragh, or else swim oot't‘ thae island ae th' big-jawed birds. Alcatruss?"
"Swim. I can't swim."
"Nae problem, lass. Ah'll need but one arm't‘ be bashin't th' sharks away. Ah'll hae y‘ wi' th‘ other, an' th‘ bangstick between m' fangs. A braw measure ae a Scotsman.
"Kickin't wi‘ m' feet an‘ steerin' wi‘ th' rudder th‘ Laird provided. It canna be more'n a klick 'r twa awa‘. Brisk, refreshin' dawn swim. Ah hae a strong desire't‘ gie back't' th‘ wee game y' w're teachin‘ me wi' a minimum ae time loss. Shall we?"
He bowed formally, took her arm, and they started south, toward the fishing village.
Fleet Admiral Anders, the Imperial Chief of Naval Operations, looked at the progs on the five wallscreens, then at the sixteen fiches projected across his desk. His face was impassive, just as he had learned a proper war leader should look in his moment of decision.
He was not sure what he thought, since he was, or so his Intel chief had assured him, the first to see, let alone have the chance to analyze, this data. After all, there was just the possibility, his mind thought vaguely, that the Eternal Emperor had not been jesting when he said some time ago that when the Sten problem was over, Anders would find himself in command of two rowboats and a tidal bank on some forgotten planet. He really didn't want to make another mistake.
He decided to start with skepticism. Because he was a man of lists, that was the way he worded his doubts.
"Give me," he said, "three reasons why I should believe that this system—Ystrn—will be the jumping-off point for the traitor Sten's next raid? And why, in fact, does your intelligence suggest that Al-Sufi is, in fact, the target?"
Anders's Two, Sheffries, wondered whether she was supposed to come up with three reasons or six, considering that he had asked two separate questions. In either case, she was disappointed in her clot of a boss. She had three threes ready.
"One: Al-Sufi is one of the three largest AM2 distribution centers in the Empire. Two: Sten has already hit one such depot. Three: Revolutionaries with limited means, such as Sten—"
"That should be the traitor Sten," Anders interjected.
"Beg pardon. Traitors like Sten, who have little in the way of combat ships and troops, normally become enamored of spectacular targets. Particularly if those targets appear to provide the maximum damage to the enemy, sorry, the home worlds, they're rebelling against. The term is ‘panacea targets.' In other words—"
"In other words," Anders went on, "he somehow had a small measure of success against Dusable, which is why he'll hit Al-Sufi next."
"Thank you, sir. You summarized my thinking admirably. Four The Al-Sufi/Durer battle, commonly called Durer by the masses, was one of the Emperor's biggest victories during the Tahn war. Therefore it makes perfect sense that the traitor Sten would want to ruin this image.
"Five. Since Sten was evidently, although we still have incomplete data, not serving with the Imperial forces during the Al-Sufi/Durer battle—"
Anders waved Sheffries to silence. "Very well," he said. "You have convinced me.
"Three fleets will be required for this operation. Alert my staff. I shall brief them on what the oplan shall consist of."
"Three fleets, sir?"
"Exactly. I propose to obliterate, at one stroke, this rebellion. So I shall wish all of my sailors to be aware of their participation in this moment of destiny."
"Sir. My plus/minus of accuracy on the prog is only eighty percent. And I haven't run any progs as to whether Sten—I mean, the traitor Sten—would be personally in charge of the raid."
"Of course he would," Anders said impatiently. "I would. You would." He smiled. "The Eternal Emperor will be very glad of this news. When the traitor Sten is finished, Sheffries, I shall personally see that you are rewarded with flag rank."
Sheffries managed to express delight, saluted, and was gone. Wonderful, she thought glumly. And if anything goes wrong, it'll be, Commander Sheffries, would you mind crossing your legs? We only have three nails...
Sten was plotting the "raid of Al-Sufi," and just how the rendezvous point in the Ystrn system should appear, when the EYES ONLY message from Sr. Ecu, on Seilichi, was hand-carried up from the message center.
He swore, found a decoding machine, and keyed in pore pattern, retina flash, personal code, and all the rest.
Then he scanned the covering message and that appeal from Marr and Senn.
Clot. He knew who the other being was. Haines, of course. Yes, he remembered only too well, his body stirring, the party and the garden and the black ball against the moon.
It made sense that the madman who called himself the Eternal Emperor would be rounding up anyone who knew Sten for brainscan.
He was glad that somehow Haines had escaped the net. Then he wondered if the Emperor and his satrap Poyndex had cast again, and gotten her. Or if they had widened their quest and gone after Marr and Senn, after they had sent the "flier." Yet a third and even more likely possibility was that Poyndex's IS elements had discovered Marr and Senn's amateur attempt at cryptography and had laid an ambush.
First response. Saddle up and go for a rescue.
Stopped cold in its adrenaline rush.
Like hell. You are beyond that, now. You have had the gall to stand up and declare yourself outlaw and rebel against the Empire. Which is fine. Any being is entitled to find his own suicide.
But there are others who've joined you. You're responsible for them, aren't you? So you sure as hell can't head out on some forlorn hope, can you? You've got to worry about the bigger things.
Besides, this wouldn't be the first time that you've had to abandon a friend or even a lover to accomplish the mission, right?
Of course.
The com buzzed. Sten slugged the contact switch.
"GA."
"Mister Kilgour," the com officer reported. "Inbound. ETA one E-hour. Mission accomplished. I have him onbeam now."
Sten started to say that he would talk to Alex when he grounded, then stopped.
"Sealed?"
"Of course, sir."
"Patch it through."
The screen cleared. Onscreen was Alex; to one side of him was a demurely smiling woman. Oh yes, Sten thought. That must be the smuggler captain who volunteered to insert Kilgour onto Earth. Sten looked at his friend.
"Welcome home," he said.
"Thanks, boss."
"No offense. But you look like slok."
"Lad, i‘ wae a noisesome task Ah set myself."
"You were blown?"
"Aye. But noo by th‘ Emp, thoo Ah hae an in'trestin' run in wi‘ India Sierra as we w're runnin't th' mission. An‘ noo on Earth. An Ah'll noo 'splain. But Ah hae traces ae whae Ah wen‘ lookin't for, which Ah'll noo 'splain till we face-t‘-face.
"Whae's been th‘ haps i' m‘ absence?"
And Sten found himself briefing Alex. Further, telling him about the com from Ecu/Marr/Senn. He stopped short, without mentioning his decision.