when they weren't shooting hopeful glances Tybalt's way,
He read each report, storing the salient points in his mind. Outside of the petty interdepartmental mud slinging, the picture of the Empire's condition mirrored his own evaluation. The various agencies Defense, Economics, Internal Affairs, Treasury and Internal Security — Ily's proxy — were all at odds about how to handle the situation.
So, you have played into my hands once again. How ancient is the truth that a committee is a multi-stomached animal with no brain?
Tybalt leaned back and rested his cheek on his right palm, fingers tapping the side of his nose as he thought. No, nothing new at all. He sighed and glanced down at the rows of eyes watching him pensively, eagerly, some apprehensively. From their expressions and the darting looks, he could follow their thoughts as they prepared for his decision. Those whose recommendations were ignored would unleash acid recriminations against their rivals. Those whom Tybalt sided with would preen arrogantly, patting themselves on the back for winning this round, rubbing it in the faces of the others.
And to hell with the good of the Empire Is this what we've come to? For the chance to stab a rival in the back, they'd let the entire Empire drown in blood.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said wearily. "The resolution of policy regarding the Sassans, the Companions, and Targa will be as follows. Defense: You will immediately land another five Divisions on Targa — the best you have. Put Rysta in charge. I want that revolt stopped and the miners
back at work. Crush them without ruining the economy;
we'll need the metals for the war industry."
"And this upstart, Sinklar Fist?" The Minister of Defense's blocky expression soured. "What about him?"
"Relieve him of his command and place that imbecile Mykroft in charge of the First. We can't have these novel ideas of Fist's loose to stir up the troops before the empire's final struggle against Sassan aggression."
Sorry, Ify, but that's the way of it here. If your Fist is worth further consideration, we can always bring him back.
Defense cleared his throat uneasily. "First Mykroft already tried to relieve him of command." He paused uneasily. "It may be harder than we think to move Fist out of his position."
Tybalt slapped an angry palm to the hard foam-steel arm of his chair. "You mean to tell me you can't handle your own forces? By the Rotted Gods, if he rebels, arrest him.
Defense swallowed uneasily, his face taking on an ashen hue. "His Division may back him."
A gasp of indrawn breath was followed by an awkward silence, and seconds later, by hushed whispers of disbelief.
"I trust," Tybalt added dryly, "that five veteran Divisions can handle Fist — and the Targans. That's all the strength you get. The rest of the military will begin preparations for a preemptive strike at the Sassan border worlds. I want you to bend your minds to the task of rendering each and every Sassan frontier world unfit for the purposes of staging an invasion of our territory. The fleet will support that strike, then adopt defensive patrol strategies to parry Sassan counteroffensives against our advance worlds."
More shocked looks.
Tybalt nodded soberly. "I don't like it any more than you. We're ill-prepared. But, from the intelligence we get, the Sassans are in even worse straits. If we have any chance, the time is now."
"But the Companions, as I understand, refused any—"
He interrupted Economics with a raised hand. "Internal Security has confirmed Staffa has been bound by contract to the Sassans since the beginning. I'm afraid our defense is our own. Rega stands alone… the Companions against us. Ladies and gentlemen, I presume you know what that means. I hate to think,
even as we sit here, how much time
we've lost. Speed is our only ally and, by all that is Blessed, should we fail, the Rotted Gods will chew our flesh throughout eternity."
Horrified glances shot back and forth across the table as the Councillors sat in stunned silence.
Tybalt's measured voice added soberly, "I trust you can see my reasons for this emergency meeting. Our future lies in your hands. Let's pray we can stop the Targan trouble, take the punch out of the Sassans, and deal with the Companions when they come to break our defenses."
Defense winced as he asked: "What about a preliminary strike against the Itreatic Asteroids?"
Tybalt pursed his lips and turned his hand in a questioning movement. "My Lord Minister, would you like to stir that hornet's nest sooner than necessary? You know what losses we would suffer against their defenses. Can you see any way to stop the Sassans with that much of our military capability turned to plasma? No, if we can cripple Sassa first, then, and only then, do we have a chance."
Tybalt stood slowly. "I hereby proclaim the Regan Empire to be in a state of war with Sassa. You will attend to your duties, Councillors, and for once you had better look beyond your squabbles to the good of the Empire. I hope — nay, I pray — we will be able to meet again someday in peace." He stood and nodded, flipping his long golden robe over his shoulder as he walked out. It was so unusual to leave the Council so deadly quiet.
Sinklar cradled an elbow against his chest as he considered the information coming in. Had the Targans finally massed for a big push?
He glanced around at the intricate artwork hanging on the walls of the ops room in his commandeered penthouse. What a curious contrast: The furniture — instead of the zerog foam-molded stuff — had been handcrafted from native woods inlaid with copper and silver filigree. White star blazes accented the thick ceramic-blue carpet that gave like a sponge underfoot. The battle computers that had been stacked to the ceiling along one wall destroyed the whole effect — as did the illuminated situation board that made a
divider in the middle of the room. Power cables slithered here and there across the floor, and from the number of times people had tripped over them, might almost have been alive. The large vaulted windows had been carefully masked with polarized optical sheeting that passed none of the room's light but allowed a startling view of the battle raging beyond the city. The result was that the building appeared dark from the outside.
Gretta looked up from her post at the glowing situation board. "Rebel contact reported in the foothills. Seventh Section has Groups all through there. Mayz reports skirmishing. She thinks it's infiltration. They're closing."
"Rotted Gods! Why won't Fleet give us orbital recon?" Sinklar balled a fist as he looked up at the situation board: an orthographic holophoto depicting terrain, elevation, structures, and troop positions. Sink turned, staring through the polarized windows to see streaks of blaster fire beyond the city limits.
Gretta gave him an acid smile. "I think, Sink, that considering the wonderful support Fleet and Defense have given us in the past weeks, you know exactly why."
"Still the sacrificial First," he punned. "All right, so be it. We don't have any more information than the Rebels. We ought to be able to hold our own. "
Gretta frowned at the information coming into her headset. "Second Section reports contact along the northern defensive perimeter. Sergeant Kitmon is pulling back in a tactical retreat."
"This is it," he said softly as the realization ran through his mind. I've bet Targa-and the future-on this attack. Will they fall for the trap? Please, dear Blessed Gods, may it be so. If not… well, death will be hard on the heels of mis rtune.
f0 Sink took a deep breath to still the uncertainty pumping with his very blood. In moments, he'd know whether they'd won or lost. "If they have any sense, they'll be hitting Mac next. "
"Mac!" Gretta's voice rang out as she accessed comm. "Have your advance Groups ready. They're coming." Sink punched the button that accessed the room speakers