"We've been in kitchens," Marr said, "where we've encountered all three."
"And in one dinner rush as well," Senn said.
"I have to accept Sr. Ecu's word for it," Sten said. "But I still think it was a helluva gamble for the Zaginows to take. What if they were wrong? They might as well have flung themselves into the Emperor's arms and shouted, ‘Take me, I'm a traitor."
"Very kinky," Marr said. "I like it."
"Shush. We're being serious, here," Senn said.
"So was I, dear." He patted Senn's knee. "I'll explain it to you some night."
"When you really think about it," Rykor said, easing her bulk in the tank, "their actions make an odd sort of sense."
"Good," Sten said. "I've been short that lately. Spell it out for me. And don't use any big words. Like ‘the' or ‘and.'"
"I believe it's the nature of the Zaginows, Sten," Rykor said. "They are all economic refugees. Refugees have always been willing to take great risks for tenuous gain. When you have very little, the act of gambling sometimes makes you feel empowered. As if you have finally taken control of your own fate."
Sten nodded. Good sense, indeed. He had dealt with the Zaginow region before. Almost all of the many billions of beings inhabiting the area were descendants of poor working stock—human and ET alike—who had followed scarce work opportunities across the Empire. The slightest tilt in the economy impoverished them.
Like Sten's own family, they had little but dreams and strong backs to sustain them. Some ended up in slave factories like Vulcan. The lucky ones—that word, again!—drifted into the jumble of star clusters that made up the Zaginows. There the wandering ended. The refugees took root.
A strange sort of unity and common view persisted in the Zaginows. Although there was no dominant species, or race, folks were considered folks. Whether they were black, white, or green. Solid-formed, or jellied. Skin or scales.
Sten remembered the enormous gamble his father had taken in a get-rich-quick scheme involving Xypaca fights. The fact that he'd promptly lost—adding years to his work contract—had not dissuaded him from further risk. If anything, it only made his father more willing to gamble everything—anything—to escape the grind of Vulcan.
Yeah. He understood.
"P'raps i's a gamble, wee Sten," Alex said, "but thae dinnae hae much't‘ lose, y' ken."
This was also true. Shortly before the debacle in the Altaics, the Emperor had sent Sten to the Zaginows to do some basic diplomatic stroking. The mission had been a success, he supposed. At least he'd been able to patch some kind of agreement together without too much lying.
"When I saw them last," Sten said, "they were in a helluva mess. Not of their making. The Zaginows had a fairly self-sufficient and prosperous region before the Tahn war.
"They had a healthy agricultural base. Some heavy industry. Mining. Big population to do the work. And mostly well-educated."
Otho's heavy brow beetled forward. "I was unaware of that background," he said. "I thought the Zaginows were known for their weapons industry."
"Like I said... that was before the Tahn war. Then old Tanz Sullamora showed up with the Emperor's money and the Emper-or's clout. Before you knew it, he'd transformed the entire region into an immense defense industry."
"Then... when the war was over..."
"Ah ha," Alex said "Th‘ bad luck Ah was mentionin'."
"You can't eat guns," Marr said.
"Exactly. The factories were idled and their economy collapsed."
"But... my mother's beard... Why didn't they change back?‘
"It wasn't possible," Sten said. "Not without a major investment for retooling and so forth. When the money dried up, the privy council couldn't dump them off the sleigh fast enough.
"Now I can see it was even worse for them when the Emperor came back. Sure, he strung them along. Sending me, for instance. But it was easier—and cheaper—to cut them loose. And let them die quietly."
"Thae're no goin't quiet int‘ th' night noo," Alex said.
"Remember," Rykor warned, "Sr. Ecu said this was far from a sure thing. We still have some convincing to do."
Sten nodded. "He said put on a show. A big show. Trouble is, when you look around, there isn't much to boast about. We don't have legions of troops to inspect or fleets to do flybys. Anyone with half a brain can see the Emperor only has to breathe a gentle puff and we'd be blown away."
Senn scrambled off his chair and thumped to the floor. "No difficulty at all," he said. "First off, they're here to see you. Not troops and fleets."
Marr dropped to the floor beside his lover. "The Emperor has all the troops and fleets that exist," he said, "Our friends know what that got them. A great big screwing."
"Without even a kiss first," Senn said.
Rykor heaved in her tank, water sloshing against the side. "The furry ones are making several major points," she said to Sten. "I would listen if I were you."
"I'm listening, dammit." Sten said. He looked down at the odd little pair. "What do you have in mind?"
"If we want them to climb into bed with us," Marr said, "we're going to have to set the mood."
"In other words, a little foreplay." Senn giggled. "Which has been sadly lacking in their love lives."
"And you, Sten dear, are going to help us," Marr said.
"Me? How?"
"It's time, O Great Leader of the Revolution, to give your gray cells a rest," Senn said.
"You need to climb down from those lofty heights of leadership," Marr said in mock high drama, "and mingle with common folk."
Sten eyed them suspiciously. "Doing what?"
"Oh. Fetching and carrying," Marr said.
Senn giggled. "And scrubbing pots."
"Now, why would 1 volunteer to do something like that?" Sten said.
"Because in this case, Sten, dear," Marr said, "diplomacy begins in the kitchen."
"We're going to throw a little dinner party," Senn elaborated. "For two hundred and sixty plus lovelorn beings."
"By the time we're through with the Zaginows," Marr said, "they'll be down on their knees begging for your hand in matrimony."
"Or, at least in lust," Senn said.
Sten wanted to object. Not to the idea of a dinner party. That was wonderful—especially with the Empire's greatest caterers staging it. But much as he'd like to learn some of their secrets, he just wasn't into scrubbing pots to earn a look.
Then he saw the grin on Kilgour's face. Otho practically had a paw stuffed into his mouth to keep from laughing. Rykor was studiously avoiding looking at him, but the violent trembling of her girth gave her away.
Sten sighed. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get started."
Off he marched. Sten. The Most Wanted Being in the Empire. AKA Hero of the Revolution.
Now promoted to Chief Pot Scrubber of the Cause.
Sten wiped chicken gore on his apron and took the message from the runner. He scanned it.
"It's official," he said. "The Zaginows will be here tomorrow night."
Senn fretted. "Not much time."
"It'll do, Senn, dear," Marr soothed. "Otho's pantry is far better stocked than I imagined. We shouldn't have to cheat too much."
Sten hoisted a cleaver and resumed whacking chicken into parts. "Not that I doubt your abilities," he said, "but I don't see how you plan a menu for something like this."
"Well... We want them to be impressed" Marr said. "So the dinner should reflect on your success. However, we want to do business with these people..."
A claw taloned out of the exquisite softness of Marr's fur. It speared a tomato and plunged it into boiling water. "We want them to like us. We don't want them to think we believe we're better than they are, for heaven's sakes."