between us and the Tahn.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
“First, I’m going to burn the clot out of this hen,” the Emperor said, turning to his range. “The whole trick is getting your pan hot enough.”
Mahoney leaned closer to watch, figuring that what was on the menu had everything to do with the Emperor’s plans for the Tahn.
The Emperor turned the flame up as high as it would go and then slammed on a heavy cast-iron pan. In a few moments, the pan began to smoke, and fans in the duct above the range whirred on. A few moments more, and the pan stopped smoking.
“Check the air just above the fan,” the Emperor said. “It’s getting wavery, right?”
“Right.”
“As the pan gets hotter, the air will wave faster and faster until the whole interior is a steady haze.”
The haze came right on schedule.
“So it’s ready now?” Mahoney asked.
“Almost. But not quite. This is the place most people foul up. In a minute or two, the haze will clear and the bottom of the pan should look like white ash.” As soon as the ashen look appeared, the Emperor motioned for Mahoney to duck back. Then he dipped out a big chunk of butter, dumped it into the pan, and moved out of the way. Mahoney could see why as flames flashed above the pan. As soon as they died down, the Emperor moved swiftly forward and poured the spices out of the bowl and into the pan. He gave the mixture a few stirs in one direction, then the other. Next he tossed in the Cornish game hen. A column of smoke steamed upward in a roar.
“I give it about five minutes each side,” the Emperor said. “Then I spread capers all over it and toss the hen into the oven for twenty minutes or so to finish it off.”
“I sort of get the idea,” Mahoney said, “that you’re in the process of heating up a pan for the Tahn.”
The Emperor thought that was pretty funny. He chuckled as he dumped the thoroughly blackened hen into a baking dish. On went the capers, and into the oven it went—at 350 degrees. He cranked the flames down on the range, shoved the pan of drippings back on the fire, and stirred in two Imperial glugs of vodka and a quarter glug of lime juice. He would use the mixture to glaze the hen when it came out of the oven.
“You’re right,” the Emperor finally said. “I’ve been playing the same game with them. On paper I’ve been moving forces from all over the map to the Al-Sufi region.”
“But actually, they’ll be waiting for the Tahn at Durer,” Mahoney said.
“That’s the plan,” the Emperor said.
Mahoney was silent for a moment.
“Question, boss. What if there really is a Tahn buildup at Al-Sufi? What if we’re wrong?”
The Emperor busied himself with some spears of asparagus. He planned to steam them in a little thyme butter and dry white wine.
“I’ve been wrong before,” he said.
“But can you afford to be wrong this time?”
“No,” the Eternal Emperor said, “I can’t. That’s why you’re here.”
He fished into his pocket and handed over a small black jewelry case. Mahoney opened it. Inside were two rank tabs—the rank tabs of a fleet marshal.
“When the attack comes,” the Emperor said, “I want you leading my fleets.”
Mahoney just stared at the stars resting on velvet. He could not help but remember the last time he had gotten his orders straight from the Emperor. Those had been the orders that had led him to Cavite.
“Will you do it for me?” the Emperor pressed.
Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney had difficulty finding his voice. He assumed command of the fleets at Durer with a simple nod.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE HUGE TAHN prison transport ship hissed down onto Heath, the capital world of the Tahn systems. After proper security was set, ports whined open and the prisoners debarked.
Sten and Alex marveled as they clanked down a gangway wearing heavy, archaic, and useless leg and arm irons, with weighted plas chains between them. They had expected to be unloaded onto the Tahn mining deathworld. Instead—
“W’ been here before,” Alex whispered, using that motionless mouth and jaw whisper that all professional prisoners learn.
“Yeah.”
Lord Pastour’s dictate might have come from the all-highest, but the Tahn bureaucrats still found a way to take their half kilo of flesh. A single Tahn transport was dispatched to all the prison worlds to pick up those incorrigible war prisoners who were to be purged into the new prison. It was a slow, filthy transport.
Therefore, when the transport unloaded, the best and the sneakiest did not appear such as they clanked out, smelling like drakh, unbathed, uncombed, surly, and snarling.
The only measure of respect they had, although none of the prisoners realized it, was that armed Tahn soldiers flanked their passage through the streets of Heath at five-meter intervals. Those guards were the combat element of an entire Tahn assault division whose deployment to a combat zone had been delayed by three weeks merely so that a motley 1,000 scruffy men, women, and beings could be led to their new prison.
Sten clanked forward, head down, hands down, shuffling as the chains clanked—the perfect picture of a properly programmed prisoner. But his eyes flicked from side to side, observing as subtly as Alex’s commentary had been delivered.
“Clottin’ Heath,” he whispered.
“Na,” Alex whispered back. “Th’ last time we bein’t on this world thae were gladdins an’ parties.”
“Try war, you clot.”
And Alex observed the city with new eyes.
The last—and only—time they had been on Heath had been under cover, with instructions to find a murderer and extract him. But that had been years before, and just as Sten had suggested, war had ground Heath into grayness.
There were few vehicles to be seen—fuel was restricted to necessary military movements. The streets were deserted. Shops were boarded up or, worse, had few items in their windows. The rare Tahn civilian they saw either disappeared quickly from the streets or, seeing the soldiery, raised one ragged, whining cheer into the cold air and then scurried on about his or her business.
Their route led them through narrow streets, the streets climbing upward.
Sten’s psywar mind analyzed: If you have the worst enemy scum in your hands, would you not arrange a triumphal parade? With all your citizens spitting and cheering because we have the barbarians in our hands? With full livie coverage? Of course you would. Why haven’t the Tahn done that?
Exploratory thinking: They don’t think like I do. Possible.
They can’t muster the citizens on call. Wrong—any totalitarian state can do that. Maybe they don’t want to show how badly the war is hurting them if they are presenting Heath as being the proud center of their culture and don’t want off-worlders to see the reality. Most interesting, and worth considering— Sten’s analysis was cut off as the column of prisoners was shouted to a halt and screaming Tahn soldiers ordered them to attention. Sten expected to see a float of combat cars move across the street in front of him. Instead, there was one cloaked officer, with flanking guards on foot, riding some kind of animal transport.
“What’s that?”
“Clottin’ hell,” Alex whispered. “A bleedin’t horse.”
“Horse?”
“Aye. A Earth critter, w’ nae th’