3
"Anything?" Haakogard asked Perzda as she came from the bunker. Afternoon had faded into evening, the monitors posted around the perimeter of their zone had been doubled, and so far they had no trouble. The Other Colonists had withdrawn into the mountains, though their scouts appeared near the Katanas frequently. For the time being, things were quiet.
"More of the same," she said with an eloquent lift to her shoulders. "Until the Twelve are satisfied that the Grands are cleaned up, we'd better keep our heads down. We don't want to give them any excuses to drag us into their mess. Just remember what we're supposed to be doing here and leave the rest for later." She faltered, and continued awkwardly, "There's something I probably shouldn't tell you. It came in double code. Without the brain implants it can't be read."
"What did it say?" Haakogard asked, feeling the beginnings of real apprehension; information sent in codes only brain-implanted spies could read always worried him. "Why do you think I ought to know?"
"Well, it's completely secret, but I can talk about it, so there wasn't a brain block in the code." She looked down at her feet. "Apparently a company of Grands are being sent to the capital here."
"Here?" Haakogard felt his innards go cold. "Already? Neo Biscay?"
"Neo Biscay; Bilau," she said, in case there was any doubt.
"But . . . Why?" He stared at her as if she might show him the answer in a single, encompassing gesture. "We can't do what we're supposed to be doing here as it is," said Haakogard. "And now they're bringing the Grands in on the other side of the continent. I'd heard they might come here, but I didn't think they'd arrive yet. Why? What do they need the Grands for? We're confused enough as it is. If they put their men in . . . It doesn't make any sense, not at this time." He was rested now and he no longer felt as if he were moving about a step behind himself.
"It's pressure," said Perzda. "The Grands putting it on the Petits. They probably want a way to throw attention off what happened with their Marshal-in-Chief. What better way than to show up here a little early, before everything's settled? If we bungle the mission, the Grands can point at us while their Marshal slips off to Hathaway without fuss." She looked directly at Haakogard. "They're making us a target."
Little as he wanted to, he realized she was right. "There's got to be a way," he said, speaking as much to himself as to her. "There's got to be a way to change it around so that it doesn't blow up with us in the middle of it." He locked his hands together, then gave her a quick, quirky smile. "I'm open to suggestions."
"I wish I had some to give," he said. "If I think of anything . . ."
"No matter how zany," he said.
"Yeah. Just like the rest of the mission," said Perzda fatalistically. "Is there anything you want to do, Line Commander? Right now?"
He considered, then shook his head. "What can I do? I'm not supposed to know about the Grands. We were told to support the Comes Riton, but it's anyone's guess which of the clones is entitled to the position. If we could figure that out, maybe we'd have the answer to it all." He took a deep breath; somehow, he thought, there had to be a way. There had to be a solution that did not end in war and did not make his mission scapegoats for the Grands. He was damned if he would sacrifice his mission and poMoend to a Grand diversionary tactic. "Any other observations you want to make?"
"Not yet," she said. "It's too . . . confused."
"Meaning crazy," he suggested.
"That, too."
By midnight the soldiers and officers of the Comes Riton were back and camped around the four Katanas. Their signal fires blazed at the top of every hillock and outcropping while the army drilled long into the night, gongs and trumpets sounding at unfamiliar intervals, and drums rolling incessantly.
"How many?" Haakogard asked as he came into the control room. He had spent the last hour with the Mromrosi and was eager to catch up on any changes in the poMoend camp.
"Two thousand four hundred seventy-six," said Communications Leader Alrou Malise. "According to the monitors."
"Close enough estimate," said Haakogard, his humor forced. He was at his seat but remained standing, restless. "The Mromrosi says that our position here is crucial. He doesn't elaborate." Another complicated fanfare blared.
"I don't know that I don't prefer the ballistas—they're quieter and less continuous. At least the First Colonists didn't have the bagpipe. How many hours of this do we have to put up with? Are they trying to wear us down?"
"What do you reckon? Are they going to attack?" asked Executive Officer Tallis, his youthful features bright with the promise of conflict.
"I don't know," said Haakogard as he watched the surveills. "We're ready to repel them, but the Comes Riton won't like it. We have no business standing against them, that's the trouble. We ought to be prepared to fight beside them, not . . . this." He turned away from his seat and paced the length of the conference room. He never liked waiting, and waiting for someone to fight was worst of all.
"We could take off, go make a dozen passes over Civuto poMoend, nice and low. We could drop something harmless so they'd figure out we could hurt them if we wanted to. They can't keep the Katanas grounded with their flyers, so why not?" suggested Section Leader Jarrick Riven. "That would give them something to think about. Make them aware of how exposed they are."
"We're not supposed to strike first, and we're not supposed to provoke attack, especially not from the Comes Riton. Taunting them won't work. We're here to defend him. He asked for our help, remember?" said Alrou Malise with an annoyed chuckle for emphasis. "Those are our allies out there."
"The Comes Riton," said Haakogard, and he could have knocked his head into the wall for having taken so long to think of it. "That's it. That's it! That's what— It's been there the whole time. The Comes Riton." He sat down. "How could I miss it?"
"That's what?" asked Mawson Tallis suspiciously.
"The way to keep them from fighting; to settle this whole mess," said Haakogard, his mind working very rapidly now that he had a direction to pursue. It felt so good to know what to do. "And to get us off the hook. I've been blind and stupid. It's so obvious!"
"Not to us," said Tallis, hoping Haakogard would explain.
"It will be." He pressed his private communications nodule and said, "Please ask Navigator Zim and Colonist Tenre to meet me in my quarters in five minutes." With that he waved to the others. "Get into class five dress uniforms. All of you. Bunter-perfect. We're going to need to fancy up. No jewels, but a lot of ribbon and brass. Put on every medal and award you have." He grinned as he pushed out of the conference room and hastened along to his quarters, rapping out a few sharp orders to his Bunter as he came through the door. "Class five dress. And find something in the music tapes, something loud and impressive, lots of roulades and explosions. Put it on all the exterior hailers on all four Katanas."
"At once?" asked his Bunter.
"At once," said Haakogard as he stripped off his standard work uniform and reached for his shiny class five.
By the time Zim and Tenre showed up, he was adjusting the red horse-head tags on his collar, positioning the four rosettes of his rank at the proper places around the horse's head. He welcomed them perfunctorily, saying, "I have an idea how to work this, but I'll have to get your help. I mean of both of you. It's risky, but I think it'll do the trick. Will that be acceptable to you?"
"It depends on what you want us to do," said Zim, not allowing Tenre to answer. "I want to know how risky it is. If it's reasonable, fine." The response was daunting, just as she intended it to be. She held her head higher than usual and the tone of her voice was defiant.
"Naturally," Haakogard assured her, smiling at his own reflection and hers behind him. If he could convince these two, he told himself, he would be able to persuade Thunghalis as well, and poMoend. One hurdle at a time, he warned himself inwardly. He tweaked the points of his collar and turned to face Zim and Tenre. "Correct me if I am in error, but the soldiers of poMoend will not attack the Comes Riton in any phase, will they?"
"It is dishonorable to do it," said Tenre, looking toward Zim for the reason for this question. He had not been prepared to answer, by the look of him, and now that he had, he feared he had done the wrong thing, or handled it badly.
Haakogard nodded. "And you are a clone of the Comes Riton just as legitimately as the current Comes is, am I right about that?" He could hardly help grinning.
Zim's eyes narrowed as she watched Haakogard beam at them. "You know the answers to your questions. We established that already. Genetically the Comes and Tenre are interchangeable. So what are you up to, Line Commander? And don't say you aren't up to something, because you are. If there's anything incorrect about—"
"Navigator, let me finish. You can upbraid me then if you still want to," he said, more convinced than ever that he had made a very clever decision. "I think we've found a way out of this mess. For all of us. You are a clone of the Comes Riton, that's what counts. You're the same phase as the current Comes Riton."
"Yes," said Tenre suspiciously.
Haakogard looked from Zim to Tenre, his excitement making him want to chuckle, though he controlled it. "Suppose you claimed your position as Comes Riton?"
"What?" demanded Tenre.
"Goren!" objected Zim at the same time. It was evidence of serious shock on her part to use Haakogard's first name that way.
"Well?" Haakogard inquired directly of Tenre, his eyes open and candid as a child's. "Couldn't you do that? Aren't you entitled to it? Couldn't your authenticity be demonstrated? Aren't you qualified?"
Tenre scowled and stepped back a little. "If I were despicable enough to want it, to disown my mother and her people, I suppose I am qualified."
"Ah, but that's just the point: strictly speaking she wasn't your mother, was she? You're a clone and she kidnapped you," said Haakogard, pressing what little advantage he hoped he had with Tenre. "Isn't that what happened?"
"What are you getting at, Line Commander?" Zim asked pointedly. "What are you up to?"
"I'm not up to anything, not the way you're implying at least," Haakogard insisted. "I have a plan, that's all." He regarded Tenre evenly, trying to convince the Comes Riton's clone by restating his case. "Are you willing to help us resolve this conflict? It can be done peaceably, if you're willing to make a few accommodations."
"Is that why you're dressed up?" Zim asked, more convinced than ever that Haakogard was manipulating her and Tenre.
"Yes; and I'd appreciate it if you'd get into your class fives, too. Or something that's the civilian equivalent. You've got some such clothes in your wardrobe, haven't you? I've given the order to the other Katanas for the crews to be ready in a quarter of an hour. I'll want a short Harrier drill done in the center of the ships, for starters." He grinned again. "That ought to get their attention. They seem to like drills."
"And what then?" Zim insisted. "You might as well tell us, if you expect any cooperation." She did not sound encouraging but Haakogard explained as if she had been wholeheartedly enthusiastic.
"Then we present them with the Comes Riton. Tenre." He looked from Zim to Tenre and back again. "In full regalia, or as close as we can come with the Bunters working on it. Since the officers and soldiers will not attack him, the other Comes Riton will have to negotiate. We will not hurt Tenre, and neither will the men of poMoend. Even the Mromrosi would have to like a plan like this." He pretended he had not noticed the look of repugnance on Tenre's face, or the wildness in Zim's eyes. "We can work out terms that are honorable but won't leave anyone dead. That's the most honorable of all, no matter what Thunghalis thinks."
Tenre shook his head. "Death is preferable to claiming that vile title," he announced vehemently to the air, his voice glorious.
Haakogard crossed his arms. "Is it?" He waited briefly. "Truly?" He waited again. "Is Navigator Zim supposed to agree with you? And how honorable is it for the men who follow you now and who will die to no purpose because you will not end this dispute? If you were not the alternate clone of the Comes Riton, he would have been able to crush you and your fighters long ago. It would have been a simple civil war. There would have been no need to bring the Petit Harriers into it. The only reason we were brought in is that it is dishonorable to attack you—you, the clone of the Comes Riton—directly. If you were not who you are, there would be no dishonor for poMoend in wiping all the First Colonists off Neo Biscay. What little protection the First Colonists have had is because of you." He swung around to face Zim. "Not one word, Nola. For once, you listen."
"But—" she began.
"Listen," said Haakogard in a light, conversational manner that silenced Zim more quickly than a command would have done. He gave his attention to Tenre again. "Will you make that claim? For the sake of your followers? Or do you all have to die?"
"No one does not die," said Tenre, lifting his head. "No man escapes."
Haakogard did not permit himself to be pulled off track. "Better old and happy than young and terrified," he said and resumed his argument. "Will you at least attempt to be recognized?"
Tenre coughed once, twice. "I have sworn never to—"
He got no further. The door to Haakogard's quarters opened and the Mromrosi scuttled in. He bounced in the direction of Haakogard and Zim in the most perfunctory courtesy, then moved purposefully toward Tenre, his frizzy locks mercurochrome-red. As he reached Tenre, he was shaking, his curls in greater disorder than usual. "You!" the Mromrosi howled directly at Tenre. "You do not emerge! You do not come forth. You are bound in losses. You have contempt where growth waits and you embrace your downfall." He jounced himself indignantly.
Tenre backed away from the Mromrosi until he was against a tall case containing Haakogard's personal weapons. His sand-colored eyes were enormous and he held his arms in defense posture. "What is this all about?" he kept repeating while the Mromrosi quivered at him.
Haakogard watched with some amusement as Tenre tried to avoid the aggravated Mromrosi. At last he said, "Our alien observer doesn't approve of your decision, Tenre. Maybe you'd better reconsider." He motioned to Zim. "That goes for you, too."
Her smile was sardonic and quick, but it was there. "Class five dress uniform, I believe that's what you said, Line Commander? Or its civilian equivalent?"
"That's what I said," Haakogard agreed, filled with relief.
The crews of the Yngmoto, Freyama, Sigjima, and Ubehoff had just completed the second part of their three-part drill when the stern military music that had accompanied them ceased abruptly, only to be replaced with a large, exuberant fanfare; the monitors around the zone brightened all their lights and the four Katanas added their own lights to the dazzle. The soldiers of the Comes Riton who had been watching the drill now came nearer, curious and determined at once.
"Good enough. All halt," said Executive Officer Mawson Tallis, indicating where the crews were to draw up in ranks.
The loading hatch of the Yngmoto was lowered to more peals of brazen joy. The Mromrosi emerged first, a series of bright clips attached to his curls. Behind him Line Commander Haakogard escorted the alternate Comes Riton.
Barbered and groomed, rigged out in the closest approximation to the dress uniform of the Comes Riton of poMoend, Tenre was disturbingly like his clone. This man was not quite as imperious, but his face showed more lines and therefore suggested age and experience beyond that of the other clone. He walked slowly because of the tight boots he wore, and he could not make himself smile. The stern line of his mouth was more impressive than he realized, and gained another notch of respect from the soldiers of poMoend.
Behind him, Navigator Zim came, not in uniform but in a reception dress of deep blue that shone black where the light struck it directly. She wore a wide sash decked with two jeweled orders and her splendid dark blue hair was dressed in the height of Hub fashion. The soldiers of poMoend were very still, very silent.
A longer, more majestic fanfare sounded; the Petit Harriers came to attention and saluted. Haakogard steeled himself for his gamble. He stepped forward and gave a short bow to Tenre. "We have been ordered by the Magnicate Alliance to assist the Comes Riton of PoMoend to end the conflict between the First and Second Colonizations. To that end, we give our assurances to you, as the continuing phase of the Comes Riton, to protect your claim to the leadership of poMoend." He could hear the translators repeating his words to the waiting soldiers and officers.
A Tydbar raised his hands in protest. "We serve the true Comes Riton, not this . . . interloper." He was echoed by several others, and a few of the Harriers exchanged uneasy glances. "We have sworn to defend the True First and all his phases."
"This is the true Comes Riton. You may authenticate him. He is as true as your version of him is," said Haakogard quietly, waiting for the translators to do their work. "He is as much the Comes Riton's clone as your leader is. They are the same. And you are honor-bound to serve this one as loyally as you serve the other." He turned so that he could stand at Tenre's side. "Say nothing yet," he warned in a whisper. He listened to the angry, soft words of the soldiers of poMoend, not wanting to rush them. It was foolish to press them now.
Navigator Zim came up next to Haakogard. "Do you really think this will work, Goren?"
"I hope it will," said Haakogard. "Otherwise . . ."
There was a sudden excitement in the poMoend ranks marked by shouting and a hurried attempt to stand in good order. Then an avenue of soldiers opened and the Comes Riton strode down it, his features thunderous.
"Do nothing," Haakogard ordered Tenre under his breath. "Just stand."
"I do not want to see the Comes Riton," said Tenre softly, and there was fright as well as hauteur in him.
"You're going to have to. He probably doesn't like it any better than you do," Haakogard declared, hoping that the Comes Riton was not armed. He palmed his stunner, just in case.
The Comes Riton stopped at the monitor line where a faint shimmer in the air revealed the deflection shields. "You betray me, Petit Harriers!" he shouted, the sound of it magnificent.
"How do we do that, Most Excellent Comes Riton?" Haakogard responded with great politeness. "We were asked to protect the clone of the Comes Riton: how have we failed to do that?"
"You have allied yourself with the alternate," accused the Comes Riton.
"Who is the clone of the Most Excellent Comes Riton just as you are," said Haakogard at his most reasonable. "We are following the orders given us by Fleet Commander Herd." He remained at attention while he spoke, so there would be no reason to claim he showed disrespect to the irate Comes Riton.
"He is the alternate!" the Comes Riton bellowed.
Haakogard closed his eyes an instant for respite, then took his single greatest chance. "Is he? Are you sure of that?" He felt Tenre stiffen with shock at his side; he continued persuasively, "Are you sure you were not the alternate, Most Excellent Comes? When Syclicis kidnapped the clone, would it not have made more sense for her to take the first, not the second clone? Think; wouldn't it?" He wanted to turn to Tenre in order to reassure him, but he dared not give up the advantage he had found with the Comes Riton. "What if you are the alternate, not this man? Isn't that what the alternate is for, to take the place of the clone of the Comes Riton if any mischance should keep him from reaching maturity?"
"I am the Comes Riton!" he screamed, and for the first time the sound of his voice was ugly. "I!"
"And so is this man," said Haakogard. He nudged Tenre so that he stepped forward one pace. "He is the Comes Riton, too."
The Comes Riton made a loud, furious noise and started to reach for his throwing axe, preparing to destroy Tenre with a single, decisive blow.
"Don't!" Zim yelled, bringing up her arm, her stunner aimed directly at the Comes Riton. "Don't," she repeated.
But the Comes Riton was already restrained by a dozen of his officers. "No one," said a lean Tydbar, "is permitted to attack the Comes Riton." He forced the Comes Riton to lower his hand and give up his weapon.
"I am the Comes Riton!" he bellowed. "I will have you flayed for what you have done, Tydbar."
"No," said another Tydbar. "That is not correct. You attacked a clone of the Comes Riton and we cannot permit that to happen." Then he abased himself. "I have done treason to thwart you. I want to end my disgrace by ending my life, Most Excellent Comes."
"I will kill you myself," said the Comes Riton grimly, showing his teeth without smiling.
Tenre took another step forward. "No!" His voice was as compelling as the other clone's. "I forbid it. These men have defended me. They deserve praise, not death."
"You forbid it? You?" the Comes Riton laughed ferociously. "You're something out of a bad dream. You have no right to forbid me anything." He kicked at the postrate Tydbar, whooping at every impact.
"Leave him alone," said Tenre, coming another step close. "He has done nothing wrong."
The Comes Riton started to protest but was suddenly restrained again by his own Tydbars. "If you do this, you are as guilty as Tydbar Grabt here, and you will answer with your lives."
"They will not," declared Tenre. He was almost at the barrier now, standing very straight; being half a head taller than his clone, he had a slight advantage. "Tydbar, get up. You have not dishonored yourself. You have tried to protect me, and that is your sworn duty."
"He is sworn to protect ME!" roared the Comes Riton.
"Precisely," said Haakogard, who had moved up behind Tenre. "Neither of you can attack the other or allow the other to be attacked. You have a stalemate here, and no way to change it that does not dishonor one or the other of you; any attempt at aggression brings both of you down, one way and another." He stepped back, murmuring, "Zim, for Loovrie's sake, put that stunner away."
"Don't wish any of your Grunhavn spooks on me," she whispered back, but returned the stunner to its hidden sheath.
The Tydbars standing around the Comes Riton regarded one another in confusion; a few helped Grabt to his feet and dusted off the front of his uniform for him. No one could think what was proper to do next.
At last Haakogard spoke again. "Why don't you go back to Civuto poMoend and think about this? Talk it over. Consider your position. All right? When you decide how you want to handle having two Comes Ritons, you let us know."
"There cannot be two Comes Ritons," said the Comes Riton, his voice growling with emotion.
"Well, there are," said Haakogard, and addressed Tydbar Grabt. "We have Pangbar Thunghalis with us. You can work through him, if that makes it less difficult for you." He saluted Tydbar Grabt, then the Comes Riton. "There's got to be a reasonable answer to this problem, gentlemen." Very deliberately he put his hand on Tenre's shoulder. "We will expect to hear from you by dawn tomorrow. If you haven't sent word by then, we will come to Civuto poMoend. If you make it necessary, we will come armed, though we would much rather not." This warning was delivered with a pleasant smile to take away its bitterness.
"You will invade!" shouted the Comes Riton.
"We will negotiate," said Haakogard. "Be sensible. We haven't a large enough crew here to invade, even if we wished to, which we do not." He took two steps back, saluted one more time for good measure, then turned on his heel and started back toward the Yngmoto. He could hear Zim hurrying up behind him.
As she caught up with him, she said, "Tenre's still at the barrier."
"Fine," said Haakogard as he ducked into the shadow of the Katana's double wing. "The more of the poMoend soldiers who see him, the better." He watched as the rest of the Petit Harriers executed a quick herringbone drill and then went back to their Katanas. "Zim," he said when the Harriers were gone and the martial music was silent, "What is it? You're . . . not yourself. What's going on with you?"
"You mean Tenre? Oh, high empathy index, according to the psycher," she said with a little diffident shrug. "Disenfranchised nobility, underdogs, powerful personalities: it's all part of the pattern." Her laughter was harsh with self-mockery. "Don't worry. It's fleeting. It's not even very intense, just involved. If he weren't so oppressed, I wouldn't pay any attention to him at all."
"If you say so." Haakogard's left eyebrow rose.
"Don't worry—really," she assured him. "Because when all's said and done, he's boring, and only the situation is novel, and this planet is a prison, like all planets." Impulsively she kissed his cheek. "But thanks for watching out for me."
"Part of my job," he told her, adding, "Now go in and get out of that rig before Tenre decides it means something."
She gave him a wide, jeering smile before hurrying into the port of the Yngmoto, leaving Haakogard to serve as an escort for Tenre.
Tydbar Grabt was one of the four officers who approached the Katanas shortly after sunrise the next morning. They all carried their weapons reversed, a sign of peaceful intention, and two of them carried large jars of oil and wine, the traditional gifts for allies.
"And that sheaf of arrows without points, that's the most significant," said Thunghalis as he watched the gifts set out right at the edge of the shimmering barrier. "More than the wine and oil."
"Why?" asked Haakogard. "What makes it so special?"
"It's from the founding of Civuto poMoend. This was supposed to be the central city of the north coast. It is, but the coast itself here is not like the coast to the south. We were not able to build on the cliffs and rocks, and so the city was built inland. The idea was that we would manage the development of trade but . . . Look around you. We do not trade very much in this part of Neo Biscay." He indicated the surveills and their barren setting. "So Bilau, on the other side of the continent, thrives and the south coast is filled with cities and towns while poMoend remains isolated with Other Colonists around it." He pointed to the arrows. "To give up arrows this way is to show you they are willing to go without food because you cannot hunt without arrows, and all for the sake of peace between us. They will do nothing harmful."
"All right," said Haakogard, faintly perplexed at this explanation, though he had long since become accustomed to odd traditions in out-of-the-way places. "What do we do, to let them know we'll cooperate?"
"Send out three or four officers, carrying no weapons. Two of them should bring some recognizable kind of food, and one should have a token like the arrows. That way you will do them honor and they will not be disgraced by the decisions you reach together." Thunghalis made a sweeping gesture that Haakogard suspected was intended to encompass the entire Petit Harrier mission on Neo Biscay. "If their offerings are dishonored—"
"I can imagine," said Haakogard. "All right," he announced to the control room and the communications nodule. "Bunters, I need two large sacks of simple foodstuffs. Take it from the shipwreck locker—that looks more like food than most of what we carry—and include a medium-sized container of Standby Hooch. I need them at the loading hatch in five minutes."
Communications Leader Alrou Malise was the only other crew member in the control room, and he was startled by these orders. "Isn't that getting a little generous?" he asked Haakogard, his long face seeming to grow longer with disapproval.
"Better than getting into more trouble," said Haakogard philosophically. "Besides, look at this place. A little extra food is going to gain us a lot more goodwill. We're near enough to the Semper Arcturus. We won't need those stores before we get back to her. And if we do, a few handfuls of protein isn't going to make that much difference."
"You think so?" Malise asked, trying to affect the same light-handed cynicism as Haakogard, and failing.
Haakogard shook his head. "I'll want Dachnor and Fennin and Chaliz with me. And Pangbar Thunghalis. Make sure you're in top kit. That way we won't get bogged down as much." He looked at the poMoend officer. "Is there any need for special dress for the rest of us for these negotiations, or will our standard uniforms do?"
"Why do you ask? You are the ones who may decide these matters, for you are the ones of superior strength," said Thunghalis.
"You know what sticklers these out-of-the-way planets can be for dress codes. And cities like poMoend are the worst. We had better use the tunics with the braid and bright buttons," Haakogard decided aloud. "The Senior Bunter approved it."
"Done," said Malise, knowing that there was little point in arguing with the Senior Bunter on such points. He was about to go change when he asked, "Do you think your ploy is working?"
"Is this nothing more than a ploy?" Thunghalis demanded, shocked.
"More of a gamble than a ploy," said Haakogard. "We'll find out." He hoped it would: the most recent zaps had warned him that a shipful of Grands could be coming his way before sunset tomorrow. The whole dispute of the clones would have to be resolved by then or the Grands might well use it to create a scandal and a war. His lips set in a grim line as he went to put on his braided tunic.
Tydbar Grabt offered salutation to the four Harriers and Thunghalis. The poMoend company examined the food they were offered and pronounced it most acceptable, and pretended to understand the use of the target-locking boomerangs which Chanliz had taken from her shipwreck stores. At last the Tydbar put the two sets of gifts aside and sat down on the elaborate carpets spread on the ground for the occasion. "We have come to offer you a proposal to end this conflict. It is the only one acceptable to the Comes Riton, and therefore it is the only one we may endorse."
"Which Comes Riton?" Haakogard could not resist asking.
"The Comes Riton who rules in poMoend," said Tydbar Jeshalest, the only one with a scar on his face: it ran from the outer corner of his eye to the lobe of his ear. "We must protect him or be dishonored."
"True," said Thunghalis. "But you must protect the alternate clone as well—and we are not in agreement which of the clones is the alternate, are we? —since he was not devivified at the proper time. To do otherwise would also dishonor us." He kept his head lowered as he spoke.
"It would," agreed Tydbar Grabt. "And we have spent the night hoping to reach an acceptable way to resolve this to our mutual advantage."
"Yes," chimed in the third officer, a Tsambar in a metallic surplice. "At first it was thought that the clones must fight, but we cannot permit that to happen, for we are sworn to protect the Comes Riton in any phase and if they were to fight, we would have to prevent it or die for disgrace."
"Naturally," said Haakogard softly.
Tydbar Grabt gestured emotionally. "That was the one thing we could not change. We cannot stand by and see the Comes Riton exposed to any danger. So such a contest between clones could not be acceptable. We were agreed on that. But . . ." He let the hopeful word hang.
"But we decided on a way that would preserve the lives of the Comes Riton yet would not imperil our honor," said Tsambar Foethwis with pride. "We have hit upon the means to settle the whole."
The poMoend officers gestured their agreement and support, and Tydbar Grabt addressed Haakogard. "It is entirely acceptable to us, and we will gladly abide by the results, no matter what they are, of a combat between appointed champions of the Comes Riton and his alternate. That way neither clone need lift his hand against the other and we need not—"
Haakogard broke into this. "You're assuming that whichever champion wins, the losing clone will submit to . . . would not disgrace you. Have I got that right?"
"Most certainly. What Comes Riton could live when his champion was dead? It would be a more dishonorable thing than lifting his hand against his clone." Tydbar Jeshalest spoke as if Haakogard were slightly deaf. "It is entirely appropriate and exposes no one to disgrace. You can see why this is so worthy a plan."
"Of course," said Haakogard, who could see nothing of the sort. He had set his mind to resolving the whole problem through negotiation, and here the officers of Civuto poMoend were advocating trial by combat. He decided to give basic sense another try. "Perhaps it might be wise to delay before taking so . . . so extreme an action? The two clones might discover a way to rule as partners?"
All four of the poMoend officers laughed, and Thunghalis joined in. Tydbar Grabt was the first to stop. "How entertaining you are. I was told you had a droll wit, and surely it is true." He slapped the carpet twice, and explained. "How could that be possible? We would have to obey both clones equally, and that could easily lead to disgrace and dishonor if the clones were not always in perfect agreement. To say nothing of the confusion when the next phase clone is activated. At whose orders would that occur? How would the clonery know that the wishes were those of the Comes Riton and not the whim of the alternate?"
"Champion?" said Haakogard quietly, hating the sound of the word.
"An ideal way to settle the matter," concurred Thunghalis, who supposed that Haakogard was in accord with the rest of them. "When it is over there will be no question of who is entitled to rule, and all confusion about the next phases will be ended." He made himself overcome his shame and looked directly at Tydbar Grabt. "Excellent, Most Excellent Tydbar."
Tydbar Grabt clearly knew it was not completely correct to acknowledge the praise of an officer who was so compromised as Thunghalis, but he lowered his head, and let Thunghalis decide if that was a response or not. "We are prepared to undertake the contest as soon as the alternate of the Comes Riton appoints someone to fight for him, providing that person is honorable and of fighting age, so that the match is a fair and honorable one." He got to his feet and made two graceful, confusing gestures. "By midafternoon?"
"That isn't a suggestion," said Dachnor, knowing an order when he heard it. His manner continued unruffled. "We'd better find someone."
"But by midafternoon?" Haakogard wanted to argue, to make the officers of Civuto poMoend give up their ridiculous notion; but he could see that was not going to be possible. He rose, motioning to his officers to do the same. "We will consult with the Comes Riton called Tenre, and if he is willing to be defended in this way, and chooses to appoint a champion, we will be here at midafternoon." He bit down hard on the last word, his jaw tightening.
"Most worthy Petit Harriers," said Tydbar Grabt, lacing his enormous hands together in a gesture of short-term farewell.
As the three Tydbars and the Tsambar marched away from the Katanas, Group Chief Ower Fennin shook his head. He attempted to laugh but it sounded rusty. "You don't suppose they mean it, do you?"
"Oh, yeah," said Haakogard, weary and irritated. "Yeah, they mean it."
Thunghalis stood straighter. "It is the honorable thing to do."
To Haakogard's dismay—though not to his surprise—Tenre endorsed the plan with alacrity. "Yes!" he declared in a tone like golden thunder. "That is the perfect way!" He looked over at Navigator Zim. "What a superb idea they have. I have never thought well of poMoend, but they have shown that they are not entirely fools. How pleased I am that my honor will be preserved. I cannot thank you enough."
"Why is the idea superb?" Zim asked, her smile definitely strained.
"There will be no question of who has the right, and no one will have to sacrifice his honor to end the matter." He shook his fists in the direction of Civuto poMoend. "They will not be able to claim that the First Colonists were reprehensible in their conduct, as they have in the past."
"Why reprehensible?" asked Haakogard, puzzled by what Tenre said.
"Because we did not attack as they would," said Tenre simply. "We do not have their weapons, nor do we have their city, so we must fight them as the chance presents itself, without the proper form and music." He beamed at Zim. "No one can dispute the outcome of a battle of champions."
"Why do you say that?" Zim wanted to know, curious as much for Haakogard's sake as for her own.
"Because who shall say that a Petit Harrier is not an honest champion?" answered Tenre, his smile so beatific that he looked ten years younger.
"What?" Zim demanded.
"Wait a minute!" Haakogard ordered at the same time. "You leave her out of your arguments, Tenre. She has no part of it."
Tenre's grin widened. "You are certainly right," he said, his eyes moving from Zim to Haakogard. "It is not Nola Zim who will defend my claim. It is you." He slapped his palm hard against his chest. "You are the leader of this mission; therefore I make you my champion, Line Commander Goren Haakogard."
Haakogard was already moving toward Tenre, distress making him clumsy. "No. Wait. Tenre, no." He planted himself two steps in front of the Comes Riton's clone. "Don't do this. It doesn't make sense. I can't be your champion; no one in my command can. We are Petit Harriers, sworn to the Magnicate Alliance, not mercenaries for you to hire at will. Come on, Tenre. Be reasonable."
"Yes," said Tenre with a vigorous nod. "Yes, that is what I must be, and why I must choose you. None of my followers could be my champion without that choice being an unforgivable insult to the rest. Therefore I must select another, and who better than you, who has brought me to this place and put my case before the men of poMoend?" He still smiled but there was grim purpose in his sand-colored eyes.
"Tenre," Zim protested.
"There is nothing more to say," Tenre stated. "I have made up my mind that my honor and my claim will be defended by you, Haakogard, or it will not be defended at all and my cause will fail. I will die for dishonor." He folded his arms. "And the deaths of those who have fought with me and for me will be on your head, Line Commander."
"Why not Pangbar Thunghalis?" Zim recommended before Haakogard could mention him. "He has defended you already. Everyone knows that he will support your claim. He is one of yours."
"All the more reason not to use him. He is disgraced already, though he was disgraced for my sake. He cannot be made champion, for that would be a great betrayal of the honor of all the First Colonists. Only you, Line Commander, are appropriate."
"This isn't reasonable, Tenre," Haakogard warned him.
"Is it not?" Tenre inquired with feigned innocence. "Why does it seem so to me, then?" He glanced toward Zim. "You will watch with me and share my fate."
There was something unreadable in her face, an expression that was partly sardonic, partly deprecating, partly condemning. "And die with you if your champion does not prevail?" she suggested when the silence had lengthened enough. "Goren?"
Haakogard was still trying to summon arguments to end his obligation to Tenre, and so he gave her an answer without thought. "If that's what you want."
Her face clouded. "I guess it is."
"So you are going to fight?" said the Mromrosi as he gamboled along the hall at Haakogard's side.
"I don't know what else I can do," said Haakogard unhappily.
"You could always leave," said the Mromrosi, his mop of ringlets an incendiary orange.
"And leave Tenre in disgrace, facing a war and ready to kill himself because of some ludicrous code they use to gauge honor?" He stopped at the entrance to his quarters. "It's folly; the whole debate is farcical. But there are a lot of people who could get killed because of it, no matter how absurd the reason for it." He thumbed the latch.
"But you do not want to fight," said the Mromrosi.
"No, I don't," said Haakogard. "But I prefer it to a massacre." His Bunter had recommended a class two combat uniform for the contest, and Haakogard had put it on with an abiding sense of unreality. This could not possibly be happening, not in actuality. He had been allowed his choice of hand-to-hand weapons and had chosen the one with which he was most expert—which meant passably competent—the Shimbue bola. He hoped that no one on Neo Biscay had ever seen one of these tricky weapons that could be used to whip an opponent with three long, slightly stiffened thongs tipped with sharp metal stars, or be thrown to disable him. He hefted the bola and gave it an experimental swing, hearing the air whine as the thongs sliced by.
"Your mask, Line Commander," said his Bunter, presenting him with the protective head-and-face gear that was part of the class two combat uniform.
"Thanks," murmured Haakogard before he pulled this on.
"Let me wish you success, Line Commander," the Bunter said as he stood aside, permitting Haakogard to leave his quarters.
There were few things Haakogard wanted to do less. He let his breath out slowly, hoping it did not shake. "I'll be back in a while," he told his Bunter, doing his best to sound confident.
"Certainly, Line Commander."
He found Tenre and Zim waiting at the loading hatch, both of them in class three formal gear. If other crew members were watching, they were staying out of sight. Tenre looked over Haakogard, frowning with concentration. "How is it that you chose that weapon?"
"It's a Shimbue bola," said Haakogard curtly. "I like it. It's . . . unusual."
"So much the better," said Tenre, and nodded courteously to Zim. "It honors you as well as me."
"I suppose so," said Zim, her voice uncertain, her eyes haunted.
"They will be waiting," Tenre continued.
Haakogard wished he had had the chance for a last conversation with Viridis Perzda, just in case. Not that anything was going to happen to him, he went on at once, scolding himself silently for doubting his own abilities. "Let's get it over with," he said with more enthusiasm than he felt. He rested his hand on the Shimbue bola as if it might try to escape from its scabbard.
As the hatch opened, Zim stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stood as if gilded, then took Tenre's hand as he came out beside her. "Is everything ready?" she asked quietly.
Tenre indicated the soldiers of Civuto poMoend. "I believe so. Line Commander? If you will?"
Haakogard gave a single, exasperated snort, then stepped out beside them. He hated the day for being so beautiful, and the crew of his mission for obeying his orders not to interfere. If he did not feel so full of disbelief, he might become angry. "Who is the champion for the other side? Have you been informed?"
"They have sent word. Their champion is the Tsambar, of course," said Tenre as if the conclusion were obvious. "There is no higher-ranking officer who is permitted to bear arms in this way. Tydbars are not permitted to fight hand-to-hand."
"Let me guess," said Haakogard. "It isn't honorable." He wanted to tell everyone how comical the whole contest was, but the words would not come; he could read determination in all the faces around him, including, he suspected, in many of his own Petit Harriers. He tried to remain calm, to appear collected, as if he did this every day. Now that it was too late, he chided himself for neglecting his drill with the Shimbue bola and all the other hand weapons on the Yngmoto.
The Mromrosi came into the loading hatch and hunkered down, waiting. He said nothing, but he was intent on the poMoend officers. He said nothing to Haakogard or any of the other Petit Harriers.
The officers of poMoend—nine of them—were gathered around the Comes Riton, who all-but-visibly seethed with indignation. Tsambar Foethwis stood at the Comes Riton's side, a small, weighted net hanging from one hand, and a two-pronged pike in the other. He had on a light body armor, all flexible but the breastplate; it was very good protection for hand-to-hand combat. As Tenre and Zim approached, Haakogard behind them, the officers offered him half a bow, and the Comes Riton swore under his breath.
"My champion is Line Commander Goren Haakogard of the Petit Harriers," Tenre said formally, his words ringing with heroic purpose. "Whatever fate decrees for him I will endorse and embrace."
"I am champion for the Comes Riton," said Tsambar Foethwis, looking once at the Comes Riton, apprehension in his eyes as if he expected the Comes Riton to deny it. "My fate is his fate."
"As honor demands," said one of the poMoend officers, which did not surprise Haakogard at all.
"The fight," said Tydbar Grabt, "will be until one or the other is incapable of fighting any longer." He saw this acknowledged by those waiting for the contest. "All of us must observe and attest to what happens here, and bear accurate witness to the event. We will ensure absolute fairness and the true disposition of the case being decided here," he went on, warming to his subject. "Therefore we now ask the champions to trade weapons."
Haakogard stared at Tydbar Grabt. "What? Trade weapons?" he repeated, thinking he could not possibly have heard correctly. They could not actually require something so senseless as that. The contest was ridiculous to start with, and if it was expected that they would battle with unfamiliar weapons, it was worse than a joke. "Are you serious?"
"Trade weapons, the both of you," ordered Tydbar Grabt without a trace of humor. "Tsambar, present yours to me." He held out his hands and took the double pike and net. He inspected both and put them aside, turning to Haakogard for his.
Reluctantly Haakogard took his Shimbue bola from its scabbard. "Here you are," he said to Tydbar Grabt. "It is just what it appears to be. There are no tricks to it."
Tydbar Grabt gave the bola a cursory inspection. "Most interesting. I don't believe we have seen anything like it." He gave this to Tsambar Foethwis before presenting Haakogard with Foethwis' weapons. "Each of you may have a short time to familiarize yourselves with your new weapons."
"Good of you," said Haakogard sarcastically as he hefted the net. The weights gave it quite a satisfactory swing, and he thought that perhaps he would be able to use it without having to resort to the double-pronged pike, which was top-heavy, making it slow on the return. He shifted his grip on the net a little, finding a more secure hold. As he swung the net again, he flicked his wrist and was rewarded as the net spread wide. What in the name of the Fifty-Six was the purpose of all this? he demanded of himself. He brought the pike up and tried to use it for thrusting. It handled rather better that way than as a slicing blade. He took a shorter hold on the staff and tried once more. He was aware that Tsambar Foethwis was making a number of passes with the Shimbue bola.
"We have marked out your field," Tydbar Grabt went on. "You will see it there. It is flat and we have rid it of all pebbles and loose dust so that you will not have those disadvantages to consider. It is twenty strides long and twelve strides wide." He was clearly pleased with the effort that had gone into this preparation, and he waited to hear some approval of what he had accomplished.
"Very conscientious," said Tenre.
"Much appreciated," said the Comes Riton through tight teeth.
Haakogard wanted to add his opinion but knew it would not be welcome. He lowered his head, looking away from the place that had been prepared for the fight. He wondered if Perzda had got an answer to the most recent zap, the one explaining about this duel. They had waited for a reply but none had come, and Perzda had warned him that the Grands might be the reason. She had insisted that the Grands wanted to trap this mission, just so that their Marshal-in-Chief would not be revealed as the criminal he was. Haakogard was not sure he believed that, but he had to admit it was very tempting to blame the Grands for the mess he was in. It was typical of the Grands to shift attention this way. His uneasiness about their arrival grew more intense. How could this minor skirmish on this out-of-the-way planet save the Grands' Marshal-in-Chief from scandal? He realized that a question had been addressed to him. "I beg your pardon?"
"Are you ready to begin?" repeated Tydbar Grabt.
"Why not?" Haakogard answered. He looked at his opponent, deciding that they were a fairly even match: Tsambar Foethwis was not quite as tall as Haakogard but had a slightly longer reach.
They appeared to be about the same age. What neither man knew of the other was the kind of fighters they were. Haakogard gave the net a last practice swing. He might be able to throw it, but if he did, Tsambar Foethwis was likely to be able to turn that to advantage.
"Tell me," said the Comes Riton, addressing Haakogard directly, "do you truly think your honor is being preserved by doing this?"
"I don't know," said Haakogard honestly.
The Comes Riton frowned. "You have no excuse for what you do, Harrier. You are serving as an agent of disruption sent by the Magnicate Alliance to throw our planet into confusion and war as the means of gaining control over it. A despicable act."
Haakogard thought that there might be a grain of truth in the accusation, but it belonged to the Grands, not the Petits. "If that is what we Petit Harriers are doing, we have chosen a strange place to do it." He made a small, polite bow to the Comes Riton. "I am profoundly sorry it has come to this." Which was as candid as he dared to be.
Tydbar Grabt strolled to the edge of the cleared field. "You must confine your battle to this place, within these markers. If either of you leaves the boundaries except by accident, it will count against you. If either of you surrenders while he can still fight, it will count against you. The honor of the Comes Riton is in the balance, whichever clone of the Comes prevails." He stepped to the side and found a place to sit on the ground not far from the edge of the delineated field. The other poMoend officers joined him.
"They're watching from the ships," said Zim as she selected a patch of ground for herself. "If anything goes—"
"We have to play this all the way out, and fairly," said Haakogard, no longer caring how foolish it all was. "Make sure everyone remembers that." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Time to get to work, I guess."
"Good luck." Zim waited for Tenre to say something, but when he did not, she rose and kissed Haakogard's cheek, then settled down to watch.
His Bunter had insisted that Haakogard wear uneven terrain boots, and now Haakogard was grateful for them. He felt the grip and stability of the soles, and thought this might give him an edge. He brought the pike around and used it to protect his chest, for though his uniform would stop anything short of high-impact projectiles, he knew that a blow to the chest could be dangerous.
Tsambar Foethwis made the first move, rushing in suddenly, bending low, the Shimbue bola hissing as it lashed at Haakogard's legs.
Haakogard jumped back and swung the net overhead before trying to snag Foethwis' arm in the mesh. He called on three or four of the least friendly spirits of his home planet as he prepared to rush Foethwis with the pike.
Foethwis turned out to be very light on his feet, dancing back out of the way of the net, though it swiped a colored tag off his arm.
"They fight well," said Tydbar Grabt. He folded his arms and watched with a curious detachment, paying no heed to the Comes Riton, who paced behind him, doing his best to ignore the fight.
The third time Haakogard used the net, he swung it incorrectly and nearly pulled himself off his feet with the force and weight of it. He used the pike to steady himself enough to stay on his feet, and came very close to having the Shimbue bola claim some skin from his knuckles. He almost dropped the pike.
"Don't fail too quickly," Foethwis taunted, though he was beginning to pant.
"Don't be overconfident," Haakogard replied, changing his hold on the net so that he could drift it open rather than sling it like a clumsy lasso. There was a trick to keeping it spread; it was that flip of the wrist. If only he had had some time to study the weapon before now . . .
One of the three lashes of the bola cut at his shoulder; only the tough fibers of his uniform kept him from being hurt.
Foethwis seized the advantage, starting to drive Haakogard toward the edge of the field. His face glistened with sweat and his eyes were bright with anticipation of victory. The lashes fell again, their little metal stars pulling rents in Haakogard's tunic. One of the rents beaded with blood.
It was all so preposterous, thought Haakogard as he fended Foethwis off with the pike. He wanted to laugh, to throw the weapons in the air and walk away from the insanity. But he was bleeding at the shoulder, and the next blow from the Shimbue bola scraped his arms, hurting him more. He shook his head as if trying to awaken from a dream that was becoming a nightmare.
"Champion!" shouted the Comes Riton—at least Haakogard thought it was the Comes Riton; it was hard to tell—for encouragement. "Avenge the insult that has been given me."
The Comes Riton, Haakogard was sure of it. He jumped aside as Foethwis charged him, and brought the net around to slam into the back of the man's knees, knocking him forward, but not quite off his feet. "Well done, Line Commander!" shouted Tenre, springing to his feet and coming nearer to the combat field.
"Sit down," Tydbar Grabt ordered. "Dignity and honor will be deserved."
Tenre took a couple steps back. "Continue! Continue!"
Was it better or worse, being encouraged, Haakogard asked himself in a remote part of his mind as he ducked under Foethwis' aggressive attack and moved to the center of the combat area. He skibbered backward, preparing for the new rush from Foethwis, his pike dragging on the earth. He had to get rid of it; it was more trouble than it was worth.
Foethwis swung twice with the bola, the second pulling at Haakogard's mask and leaving a track like a cat's claw behind. He shouted "Most Excellent Comes!" and drove his assault more vigorously.
Haakogard was driven backward. In disgust he took the pike and flung it away, far outside of their fighting area. Even as he dodged another furious blow from the Shimbue bola, he felt freer and more capable. He brought up the net and swung it, and succeeded in snagging the lashes of the bola in the tough fibers of his net.
"Goren!" shouted Nola Zim.
He tugged just once, very hard, and felt Tsambar Foethwis come off his feet. As Foethwis lost precious seconds wallowing in the embrace of the net, Haakogard moved quickly. This time it was simple to get behind him and push him forward, into the dust. As Foethwis struggled to get free of the net, Haakogard gave him a good push so that he was more thoroughly enmeshed in it.
"I will die!" screamed Foethwis as he tried—unsuccessfully—to rise. "I will reclaim my honor!"
"Stop it." Haakogard was breathing heavily, and under his uniform he could feel patches of sweat. He gave Foethwis another shove so that he would not be able to reach a weapon for suicide. Then he looked over at the officers of poMoend. "Well? What else do I have to do?"
Tenre came up to him beaming. "You won. You don't have to do anything else. It's over."
"Not yet," said Haakogard, because it did not feel over to him. "There's unanswered questions yet."
"You have prevailed," said Tydbar Grabt seriously. "And the Comes Riton is established for this phase." He motioned to some of the officers near him. "We will proceed with the devivification."
"Oh, leave it alone," said Haakogard, walking out of the combat area and approaching the poMoend officers. "There's been enough craziness about who's going to die. This has got to end." He did not realize until he said it how important it was to him, that the death for honor come to an end. "No one ought to die defending someone else's genetic code, and that's what killing a clone amounts to."
"It is right that I die," said the Comes Riton quietly, paying little attention to Haakogard. "I have been shown to be unworthy. I have not the right. It must be as you said: I am the alternate and he"—he pointed at Tenre—"he is the authentic phase of the Comes Riton. I must expiate my error."
The officers gave their endorsement to his intentions, a few of them shouting for the Comes Riton's death. "Yes," said a very young Pangbar who was completely in awe of his august company, "it is fitting that the Comes Riton be restored to honor."
"It's asinine," said Haakogard bluntly. "It's a waste of good men, it's a waste of resources and training." He was not panting any more, but his chest felt hot. "If you want to make the most of these clones, get them to cooperate. You don't seem to realize that each of them has something to teach the other, because they were not raised together. That's probably the best thing that's ever happened to any phase of the Comes Riton." He looked back at Tsambar Foethwis. "It goes for him, too."
"How do you mean?" demanded the Comes Riton.
"There's no reason for him to die because of this fight. He did his work and he did it well, and that ought to be honorable enough for anyone."
"And what will you do if we do not obey you?" asked Tydbar Grabt. "Will you enforce your edict with arms?"
Haakogard glared at him. "Of course we won't. It isn't our job to coerce you. This is your home, and your problem. You'll work it out. I mean it about Tsambar Foethwis. I don't want to find out he was allowed to slit his own throat, or whatever you usually do. I expect him to continue as an officer and an advisor to the Comes Ritons—both of them." He stood very straight. "And now, if all this is over, I want a shower."
Tenre clapped him on the shoulder, inadvertently squeezing one of the scratches left by the bola. "You must be acknowledged as my champion and given the respect your act deserves."
"It deserves a shower," said Haakogard, resigning himself to not getting it for some little while.
As the four Petit Harrier Katanas set down in the main landing port of Bilau, the Comes Riton stared at the surveills, fascinated by what was there. "So huge. And I have always thought that poMoend was enormous."
"PoMoend is rather small," said Zim, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp with her own brand of wit.
"You'll get used to it," said Haakogard. "You're better at cities than Tenre is, and you've got more practice at being the Comes Riton. You know how to behave, and what's due you." He started toward the main entryway where the Katanas had been directed to unload. "Tenre will manage poMoend very well so long as you make sure that you are no longer in isolation. You'll make a good partnership, if you work it right." He glanced at Perzda. "What about the Grands? Any of them around?"
"One Bombard-class still here," she said, "according to the most recent zap. But the Grands are doing demonstration maneuvers today, so we probably won't see them." Her smile was wicked with delight. "And they're supposed to lift off by sunrise tomorrow."
Near the largest surveill screen, the Mromrosi bounced contentedly and gave off a high, squeaky sound the crew had decided was the Mromrosi version of humming.
"Let's hear it for our Older Brothers," said Jarrick Riven, using the nickname for the Grands that was not wholly complimentary. There were low chuckles and a whistle or two in the control room; from the bridge, Executive Officer Mawson Tallis began to sing retreat.
"Anything about the Marshal-in-Chief of the Grands?" asked Haakogard, with a trace of satisfaction.
Communications Leader Alrou Malise answered. "There's been a bulletin sent around saying that he's retiring to Hathaway because of health. No mention of any scandal."
"So they found a way to cover it up without dragging us into it," said Tallis, his tone not entirely satisfied.
"Give thanks for small favors," said Malise.
The crew gave a ragged, unenthusiastic cheer.
"Ah," said Haakogard. "Don't be so cynical. We don't want to tempt the Grands to try again, do we?"
"Only if we get to choose the time and the place," said Tallis.
There were murmurs of satisfaction all around.
"But," said Malise, "we're ordered out to Mere Philomene to slow down a revolution. You know the kind of colonists they have on Mere Philomene. It's going to be nasty."
"It sounds like the Commodore felt that our return home right now might prove needlessly embarrassing to the retiring Marshal-in-Chief of the Grands, considering the situation at the time of his retirement." Tallis made a single, aggressive gesture with his right hand indicating what the Commodore could do about his decision.
Another, more genuine, cheer went up.
From his place by the surveills, the Mromrosi turned a brilliant shade of puce; it was all the comment he was prepared to make.