There were several hundred of these blivets stacked on the hangar deck.
On command, these were dumped, a few at a time, into space. They formed a stream, a divider of sorts, between the two fleets. Of course, they were still traveling at the same velocity as the Victory, but Sten planned to wreak his next move before his "mines" cleared the field of operations.
They had the immediate and desired effect.
The oncoming fleets went into modified panic mode as the Suzdal and Bogazi sensors picked up the "mines," and their commanders tried to figure out what these strange objects were that were emerging from the Imperial ship like so many bits of candy tossed to the crowds in a parade. On their screens they would have seen the Victory, its accompanying destroyer screen, possibly some tacships, and then the mines streaming across their screens.
Very good, very good, Sten thought. They're worried. Now we wait...
Shortly both fleets ordered destroyer squadrons forward to investigate.
Now we show them our dinner plates have bangs in them.
"Admiral Mason?"
"Yessir. All ships... all weapons stations," Mason ordered. "Targets... the destroyers. Mind your discriminators. One target per weapon. Any young officer disobeying that order will be relieved, court-martialed, and cashiered."
Mason, the gentle father figure.
Kalis homed at half speed, or else were told by their discriminators that another missile was swifter on the pickup. Close in, just before the Suzdal and Bogazi destroyers picked them up on their screens, the missiles went to full drive.
Screens on the Victory's bridge flared as the Kalis hit, then cleared to show open space where a destroyer had once been.
Three destroyers from the Suzdal and two from the Bogazi survived to return to their parent fleets.
Any analysis would have shown that these missiles were being launched by those strange-appearing "mines."
Sten nodded to Mason once more-and the tacships smashed in from the high elliptic they had held. Get in, launch, and get back out were their orders.
Two cruisers and five destroyers were killed.
Very good, Sten thought. I am sorry beings are dying, but they are not Imperial beings. And fewer are being killed than if battle were joined between the two fleets. Let alone if the Suzdal fleet was allowed to complete its attack on the Bogazi home world.
Now for the coup de, Sten thought. Again, we start by setting the stage.
Ambassador Sten made another broadcast, once more ordering both fleets to break action and return to their home worlds.
But evidently his 'cast was poorly shielded from other com links. These were being made by the Victory, and tight-beamed "back" in the direction the Victory had come from.
They were coded, of course. But both computer and staff analysis determined that the Victory was linked to other ships, ships out of detector range. And it appeared as if it were an entire Imperial fleet, and the Victory was but the scout-a monstrously large and well-armed scout, but still a scout-for the real heavies. Minutes later their prog must have worsened, as the Victory changed frequencies and code and began broadcasting to another, equally "unseen" war fleet.
The Bogazi and Suzdal may have been less than sane in their approach to civil rights, but in military matters they were quite capable.
Without acknowledging Sten's orders, both fleets broke contact and, at full power, fled home.
Sten whoofed air and plumped down into a chair. "Damn," he said honestly, probably blowing his command-cool faзade, "I really didn't think that would work."
"It will only work once," Mason said softly, so that his officers could not hear.
"Once is more than enough. We'll blanket their butts with every straight-fact 'cast we can come up with and hope they come to what passes in the Altaics for senses. And if they try again, we'll come up with something stinkier and whomp them again! Hell, Admiral, a clot like you should always be able to think of something.
"Now. Return course. For once we're ahead of their clottin' schemes. Let's see if we can stay that way."
Gatchin Fortress had been built to be both impregnable and terrifying. It had never been intended for use as a real fortress, but as a final prison for anyone opposing the Khaqan. It sat, solitary, on a tiny islet nearly a kilometer out at sea. Great stone walls rose straight up from the tiny island's cliffs. There were no beaches, no flat ground outside those walls. And there was no ground access to the island.
Alex and Cind sprawled near the cliff face on the mainland, watching.
They had prepped for their mission far more thoroughly than just throwing a set of warm undies into a ditty bag. They lay under a carefully positioned phototropic camouflage sheet that now shone a white that matched the snowbanks and dirty rocks around them. Each of them had a tripod-mounted high-power set of amplified-light binocs, plus passive heat sensors and motion detectors focused on Gatchin's ramparts and the causeway.
"Damn, but I'm cold," Cind swore.
"Woman, dinnae be complainin't. Ah been on y' world, an' thae's a summer place compared t'it."
"No kidding," Cind said. "And now you know why so many of us live off-world. Besides, didn't you tell me your home world was ice, snow, and such?"
"Aye, but th' ice's gentler, somehow. An' th' snoo comi't driftin' doon like flower petals."
"You see anything?"
"Negative. Which is beginnin't t' make me think you're right.''
"We'll know for sure before nightfall. I hope."
"Aye. An' while y're waitin', Ah'll narrate a wee story, thae's got an obvious bearin't ae our present, froze-arsed predic'ment.
"Hae Ah e'er told y' ae th' time Ah entered a limerick contest? Y' ken whae lim'ricks are, aye?"
"We're not totally uncivilized."
"Thae's bonnie.'Twas whae Ah was a wee striplin't, assigned t' a honor guard on Earth. Th' tabs announc'd thae contest. Large credits f r th' prize. Who c'd come up wi' thae dirtiest, filthiest, lim'rick?
"Well, Ah hae braw experience when it com t't' dirty, filthy lim'ricks."
"I've never questioned that."
"Ah'm payin't nae heed nor reck t' thae cheap one, Major. So Ah ship't m' filthy poem away, an aye, 'twas so filthy e'en a striplin't like m'self blushed a bit, thinkin't m' name wae attach't.
"But thae credits wae bonny, as Ah've said. An' lord know't a puir wee ranker needs a' th' coin he can secure. So time pass't an' time pass't, an' then one day Ah sees th' tab, an' Ah'm thunderstrick!
"Ah'm noo th' winner! Ah hae nothin'! Th' winner's some clot nam'd McGuire. D. M. McGuire, ae' th' wee isle ae Eire, they name't it, frae th' city ae Dublin. An' th' lim'rick's so dirty thae cannae e'en run thae own prizewinner!
"An a'ter Ah recover frae m' heartbroke, it starts gnawin't ae me. I mean, thae cannae be a filthier lim'rick thae whae Ah submitt'd.
"So Ah taki't a wee bit ae leave, an Ah moseys t' Eire, an' thae cap'tal ae Dublin, an' Ah begins lookin't frae D. M. McGuire. Days an' weeks pass, aye, but finally Ah trackit doon th' last McGuire i' Dublin.
"She's a wee gran lady. Sweet, wi' a twinkle i' her eye, an' a smile ae her lips, an' y' jus' know she's goin t't' church ever' day, twice't, an' thae's nae been a foul word cross her lips.
"This cannae be th' D. M. McGuire ae the contest, but Ah'm des'prate. So I screws m' courage t' th' stickity point, an' asks.
"Dam't near crap m' kilt, when she says, 'Aye. Ah am.'