McCormac clenched his fists and looked back at Satan. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m being childish.”
“ ’Tis forgivable,” Oliphant said. “Two of your boys in combat—”
“And how many other people’s boys? Human or xeno, they die, they’re maimed … Well.” McCormac leaned over the balcony rail and studied the big display tank on the deck beneath him. Its colored lights gave only a hint of the information — itself partial and often unreliable — that flowed through the computers. But such three-dimensional pictures occasionally stimulated the spark of genius which no known civilization has succeeded in evoking from an electronic brain.
According to the pattern, his tactics were proving out. He had postulated that destruction of the factories on Satan would be too great an economic disaster for cautious Dave Pickens to hazard. Therefore the Josipists would be strictly enjoined not to come near the planet. Therefore McCormac’s forces would have a privileged sanctuary. That would make actions possible to them which otherwise were madness. Of course, Pickens might charge straight in anyway; that contingency must be provided against. But if so, McCormac need have no compunctions about using Satan for shield and backstop. Whether it was destroyed or only held by his fleet, its products were denied the enemy. In time, that was sure to bring disaffection and weakness.
But it looked as if Pickens was playing safe — -and getting mauled in consequence.
’ S’pose we win,” Oliphant said. “What next?”
It had been discussed for hours on end, but McCormac seized the chance to think past this battle. “Depends on what power the opposition has left. We want to take over as large a volume of space as possible without overextending ourselves. Supply and logistics are worse problems for us than combat, actually. We aren’t yet organized to replace losses or even normal consumption.”
“Should we attack Ifri?”
“No. Too formidable. If we can cut it off, the same purpose is better served. Besides, eventually we’ll need it ourselves.”
“Llynathawr, though? I mean … well, we do have information that your lady was removed by some government agent—” Oliphant stopped, seeing what his well-meant speech had done.
McCormac stood alone, as if naked on Satan, for a while. Finally he could say: “No. They’re bound to defend it with everything they have. Catawrayannis would be wiped out. Never mind Kathryn. There’re too many other Kathryns around.”
Can an Emperor afford such thoughts?
A visiscreen chimed and lit. A jubilant countenance looked forth. “Sir — Your Majesty — we’ve won!”
“What?” McCormac needed a second to understand.
“Positive, Your Majesty. Reports are pouring in, all at once. Still being evaluated, but, well, we haven’t any doubt. It’s almost like reading their codes.”
A piece of McCormac’s splintering consciousness visualized that possibility. The reference was not to sophont-sophont but machine-machine communication. A code was more than changed; the key computers were instructed to devise a whole new language, which others were then instructed to learn and use. Because random factors determined basic elements of the language, decipherment was, if not totally impossible, too laborious a process to overtake any prudent frequency of innovation. Hence the talk across space between robots, which wove their ships into a fleet, was a virtually unbreakable riddle to foes, a nearly infallible recognition signal to friends. The chance of interpreting it had justified numerous attempts throughout history at boarding or hijacking a vessel, however rarely they succeeded and however promptly their success caused codes to be revised. If you could learn a language the hostile machines were still using—
No. A daydream. McCormac forced his attention back to the screen. “Loss of Zeta Orients probably decided him. They’re disengaging everywhere.” I must get busy. We should harry them while they retreat, though not too far. Tactical improvisations needed. “Uh, we’ve confirmed that Vixen is untouched.” John’s ship. “No report from New Phobos, but no positive reason to fear for her.” Colin’s ship. Bob’s with me. “A moment, please. Important datum … Sir, it’s confirmed. Aquilae suffered heavy damage. She’s almost certainly their flagship, you know. They won’t be meshing any too well. We can eat them one at a time!” Dave, are you alive?
“Very good, Captain,” McCormac said. “I’ll join you right away on the command deck.”
Aaron Snelund let the admiral stand, miserable in blue and gold, while he chose a cigaret from a jeweled case, rolled it in his fingers, sniffed the fragrance of genuine Terra-grown Crown grade marijuana, inhaled it into lighting, sat most gracefully down on his chair of state, and drank the smoke. No one else was in the room, save his motionless Gorzunians. The dynasculps were turned off. The animation was not, but its music was, so that masked lords and ladies danced without sound through a ballroom 200 light-years and half a century distant.
“Superb,” Snelund murmured when he had finished. He nodded at the big gray-haired man who waited. “At ease.”
Pickens did not relax noticeably. “Sir—” His voice was higher than before. Overnight he had become old.
Snelund interrupted him with a wave. “Don’t trouble, Admiral. I have studied the reports. I know the situation consequent on your defeat. One is not necessarily illiterate, even with respect to the Navy’s abominable prose, just because one is a governor. Is one?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
Snelund lounged back, cross-legged, eyelids drooping. “I did not call you here for a repetition viva voce of what I have read,” he continued mildly. “No, I wished for a chat that would be candid because private. Tell me, Admiral, what is your advice to me?”
“That’s … in my personal report … sir.”
Snelund arched his brows.
Sweat trickled down Pickens’ cheeks. “Well, sir,” he groped, “our total remaining power must be not greatly inferior to the, the enemy’s. If we count what did not go to Satan. We can consolidate a small volume of space, hold it, let him have the rest. The Merseian confrontation can’t go on forever. When we have heavy reinforcements, we can go out for a showdown battle.”
“Your last showdown was rather disappointing, Admiral.”
A tic vibrated one comer of Pickens’ mouth. “The governor has my resignation.”
“And has not accepted it. Nor will.”
“Sir!” Pickens’ mouth fell open.
“Be calm.” Snelund shifted his tone from delicate sarcasm to kindliness, his manner from idle humor to vigilance. “You didn’t disgrace yourself, Admiral. You just had the misfortune to clash with a better man. Were you less able, little would have been salvaged from your defeat. As matters went, you rescued half your force. You lack imagination, but you have competence: a jewel of high price in these degenerate times. No, I don’t want your resignation. I want you to continue in charge.”
Pickens trembled. Tears stood in his eyes. “Sit down,” Snelund invited. Pickens caved into a chair. Snelund kindled another cigaret, tobacco, and let him recover some equilibrium before saying:
“Competence, professionalism, sound organization and direction — you can supply those. I will supply the imagination. In other words, from here on I dictate policies for you to execute. Is that clear?”
His question lashed. Pickens gulped and croaked, “Yes, sir.” It had been a precision job for Snelund, these past days, making the officer malleable without destroying his usefulness — an exacting but enjoyable task.
“Good. Good. Oh, by the way, smoke if you wish,” the governor said. “Let me make clear what I plan.