Empires end, p.22
Empire's End, page 22
“Now I can see it was even worse for them when the Emperor came back. Sure, he strung them along. Sending me, for instance. But it was easier—and cheaper—to cut them loose. And let them die quietly.”
“Thae’re no goin’t quiet int’ th’ night noo,” Alex said.
“Remember,” Rykor warned, “Sr. Ecu said this was far from a sure thing. We still have some convincing to do.”
Sten nodded. “He said put on a show. A big show. Trouble is, when you look around, there isn’t much to boast about. We don’t have legions of troops to inspect or fleets to do flybys. Anyone with half a brain can see the Emperor only has to breathe a gentle puff and we’d be blown away.”
Senn scrambled off his chair and thumped to the floor. “No difficulty at all,” he said. “First off, they’re here to see you. Not troops and fleets.”
Marr dropped to the floor beside his lover. “The Emperor has all the troops and fleets that exist,” he said, “Our friends know what that got them. A great big screwing.”
“Without even a kiss first,” Senn said.
Rykor heaved in her tank, water sloshing against the side. “The furry ones are making several major points,” she said to Sten. “I would listen if I were you.”
“I’m listening, dammit,” Sten said. He looked down at the odd little pair. “What do you have in mind?”
“If we want them to climb into bed with us,” Marr said, “we’re going to have to set the mood.”
“In other words, a little foreplay.” Senn giggled. “Which has been sadly lacking in their love lives.”
“And you, Sten dear, are going to help us,” Marr said.
“Me? How?”
“It’s time, O Great Leader of the Revolution, to give your gray cells a rest,” Senn said.
“You need to climb down from those lofty heights of leadership,” Marr said in mock high drama, “and mingle with common folk.”
Sten eyed them suspiciously. “Doing what?”
“Oh. Fetching and carrying,” Marr said.
Senn giggled. “And scrubbing pots.”
“Now, why would 1 volunteer to do something like that?” Sten said.
“Because in this case, Sten dear,” Marr said, “diplomacy begins in the kitchen.”
“We’re going to throw a little dinner party,” Senn elaborated. “For two hundred and sixty plus lovelorn beings.”
“By the time we’re through with the Zaginows,” Marr said, “they’ll be down on their knees begging for your hand in matrimony.”
“Or, at least in lust,” Senn said.
Sten wanted to object. Not to the idea of a dinner party. That was wonderful—especially with the Empire’s greatest caterers staging it. But much as he’d like to learn some of their secrets, he just wasn’t into scrubbing pots to earn a look.
Then he saw the grin on Kilgour’s face. Otho practically had a paw stuffed into his mouth to keep from laughing. Rykor was studiously avoiding looking at him, but the violent trembling of her girth gave her away.
Sten sighed. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get started.”
Off he marched. Sten. The Most Wanted Being in the Empire. AKA Hero of the Revolution.
Now promoted to Chief Pot Scrubber of the Cause.
* * * *
Sten wiped chicken gore on his apron and took the message from the runner. He scanned it.
“It’s official,” he said. “The Zaginows will be here tomorrow night.”
Senn fretted. “Not much time.”
“It’ll do, Senn, dear,” Marr soothed. “Otho’s pantry is far better stocked than I imagined. We shouldn’t have to cheat too much.”
Sten hoisted a cleaver and resumed whacking chicken into parts. “Not that I doubt your abilities,” he said, “but I don’t see how you plan a menu for something like this.”
“Well…We want them to be impressed,” Marr said. “So the dinner should reflect on your success. However, we want to do business with these people…”
A claw taloned out of the exquisite softness of Marr’s fur. It speared a tomato and plunged it into boiling water. “We want them to like us. We don’t want them to think we believe we’re better than they are, for heaven’s sakes.”
Marr lifted the tomato from its hot bath—spun it toward the opposite paw. Where another claw whisked away the skin. Snip. Slide. Just like that. Sten’s jaw dropped.
On automatic, Marr speared another tomato and repeated the process. And another tomato was peeled.
Snip. Slide. Just like that. “Haute cuisine is definitely out, out, out,” he said.
“It wouldn’t do,” Senn agreed. “Not at all.” His wickedly sharp claws were blazing through a stack of yellow onions. Skinning and chopping so deftly, Sten didn’t feel the slightest sting in his eyes.
“We’ve decided on native dishes,” Marr said. “Food one might imagine came from an ordinary being’s kitchen. But still a little exotic and daring because it is from someplace else.”
“Also, it gives us a theme,” Senn said, disposing of another onion. “A Flag of All Nations sort of theme. It fits with the jumble of beings that make up the Zaginows.”
“We like themes,” Marr said. Sten was only half-listening. He was busy gaping at the Milchens’ skills. They were living kitchen machines. Full of all kinds of little tricks.
“Great. Great. Themes and all,” Sten said. “But, before you go any further, I have to ask you a question.”
“Question away, dear,” Marr said, thunking down the last peeled tomato.
“I can’t do onions like Senn…” he said, pointing at the furry little whirlwind, chopping up big mounds of the stuff. “I’m not built for it. But that trick with the tomatoes…Every time I have to peel tomatoes, I mutilate the suckers. One pound of peel for every ounce of tomato.”
“Poor thing,” Marr said.
“You only have to dip them in boiling water,” Senn said in a small—I really, really, don’t think you’re stupid—voice.
“And he’s the leader of us all,” Marr said.
“I did read about it, once,” Sten said, weak. “But I never got around to testing it out.”
“There, there, dear,” Senn said. “Of course you didn’t.”
The kitchen was filled with the delicious odor of tomatoes, garlic, and onions sizzling in olive oil. Marr tasted, adjusted the paprika, stirred some more, then nodded to Senn, who poured in fresh chicken stock.
Marr clamped a lid on the pot and set it to simmer. “When dinner is served,” he told Sten, “you might want to go easy on the soup.”
Sten eyed the big pot. “Sure looks like enough to go around to me.”
Senn laughed. “Oh, there’s plenty, all right. But this is a special recipe. A guaranteed first-course tension-breaker. For the guests, that is. Not the host. Hosts should beware of this dish.”
“You see,” Marr elaborated, “after we strain it through a sieve, we’re going to stir in some flour and sour cream. Just enough to make it smooth.
“Then…a moment before we serve it…we add vodka. Lots of vodka! And…voila,” Senn said. “We give you…Hungarian tomato vodka soup! It’s quite potent, too.”
“A tongue loosener, huh?” Sten said, dry. “Did you guys ever consider a career as Mantis interrogators?”
“Amateurs,” Senn sniffed.
“No challenge at all,” Marr said.
“After we get the Zaginow delegation nice and soothed,” Senn said, “we need to work on their courage.”
He was dusting chunks of meat with flour, spiked with lots of salt and pepper.
Marr was assembling chopped-up onions, bell peppers, and crushed garlic. “Build them up for a firm commitment,” he said.
Senn giggled. “So to speak.”
“Don’t be dirty,” Marr said, putting on a pan doused with olive oil to heat. “
I can’t help it,” Senn said, the giggles building. “My mind just works that way. Especially when we’re cooking mountain oysters.”
Sten frowned. He picked up a chunk of the floured meat. Sniffed it. “Don’t smell like oysters to me.”
“They’re calf testicles, dear,” Marr explained. “Cut from the little dickens before they’re old enough to know what’s missing.”
“We’re going to do them Basque style,” Senn said. “The image is so sexy. Muscular brutes with large libidos.”
“Makes you want to fry balls all day,” Marr said.
Sten looked at the meat he held in his hand. “Sorry, boys,” he said. “I hope you know they went for a good cause.”
“Now, we need to engage their minds,” Marr said.
Sten looked doubtfully at the large heap of bird parts he’d carved up with his cleaver. “Brain power through a clottin’ chicken? You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“Stupid animals, yes,” Senn said. “But they’re so willing. Especially plucked and dressed out. See how patiently they await their marinade?”
“Like the Zaginows?” Sten guessed.
“Excellent, Sten, dear. You’re beginning to get the idea,” Marr said. “At this point we should have our new friends primed and ready for fresh approaches…Alert them through their taste buds there are endless possibilities once an alliance has been achieved.”
“Don’t be so stuffy,” Senn said. He waved a spice-dusted paw at Sten. “Ignore him. The dish is called jerk chicken, after all,” he said.
“I like it…mon,” Sten said.
Marr set down the bunch of scallions he was dicing up. “You’ve heard of it?” He seemed disappointed.
“From Jamaica, right?” Sten said. “One of the old Earth islands. A place where they smoke rope fibers and drink silly fruit drinks with little parasols on top.”
Marr sighed. “Aren’t we running out of clean pots yet?”
“Not a chance,” Sten said. “I’ve only heard of jerk chicken. I’m not moving until I see how this is done.”
“In a kitchen,” Marr said, “only the chef is permitted to be clever. Pot washers laugh at Chef’s cunning jokes. Pot washers peel potatoes. Pot washers are in a constant state of awe at Chef’s genius. Pot washers scrape slime from floors. Pot washers duck a lot when sharp objects are thrown at them when they make poor Chef mad. These are only some of the things pot washers do.”
Marr sniffed. “What they don’t do, is be clever. Pot washers are never, ever clever.”
“I promise it’ll never happen again,” Sten said.
“He really wasn’t that clever,” Senn said.
“Very well,” Marr said. “It can stay. But only if It promises to button Its lip.”
“Mmmmph,” Sten grunted, pointed at his zipped lip.
“Actually, this is a dish even a pot washer could master the first time,” Marr said. “It only tastes complex.”
He touched a switch under the chopping board and a metal processor revolved up. Pawfuls of chopped hot pepper and seal-lions went into the processor, along with a few bay leaves, some grated ginger, and diced garlic.
“Now the allspice,” Marr said. “That’s the anchor. You use about five tablespoons for every kilo of meat. Along with one teaspoon each of nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, and pepper.”
He dumped the spices into the processor and hit the button. As it whirred, he slowly poured in oil. “Peanut oil,” Marr said. “Just enough for it all to stick together.”
In two beats it was done. Sten peered at the goo. “Another thing pot washers get to do,” Marr said, “is smear goo over chicken.”
“This is true. Chefs never smear goo,” Senn said. “Especially when they’re furry.” Sten, the comparatively hairless pot washer, began spreading the marinade over the chicken. Actually, he didn’t really mind. It smelled wonderful. His mouth watered, imagining what it was all going to taste like when Marr and Senn tonged the chicken off the barbecue.
In the corner, he could hear Marr and Senn arguing over the relative merits of pine nuts in Lebanese pilaf.
All about him were the warm smells of a dozen dishes bubbling and simmering.
He felt relaxed…clear-minded.
On the whole, he thought, he’d much rather be a pot washer than a Hero of the Revolution.
Marr and Senn observed Sten’s beaming face as he slathered marinade over chicken.
“Do you think he’s ready?” Marr whispered.
“Absolutely,” Senn said. “I don’t like to pat myself on the back, but I think this is one the best jobs we’ve ever done.”
“Beings don’t realize,” Marr said, “that the first—and only—real secret of a dinner party is getting the host prepared first.”
“A little kitchen magic,” Senn said. “It works every time.”
* * * *
The Zaginow leader forked one more bite from the creamy pastry dish in front of her. She looked at it…as if not believing her body was capable of handling still more. The fork continued its journey and the pastry disappeared into her mouth.
She closed her eyes. Ebony features a portrait of bliss. Tasting. Mmmmm.
Her eyes snapped open to find Sten grinning at her.
“Oh, burp,” she said. “Oh, heaven. But, I just couldn’t eat anymore.”
“I think the chefs will forgive you, Ms. Sowazi, if you resign the field of battle,” Sten said. “You’ve certainly given it your best.”
He glanced around the banquet room. Marr and Senn had turned the drafty Bhor hall into a wonder of festooned flowers and subtle lights.
The other guests were as dazzled and replete as Sowazi.
For two hours, Marr and Senn had commanded convoy after convoy of deliciousness through the room.
Whether the dish was meant for a human or an ET, each was greeted and devoured with great enthusiasm.
Beings had their elbows—or equivalent parts—on the tables now. Chatting warmly away with Sten’s colleagues as if they were all long-lost friends.
As a capper, Marr and Senn had printed up souvenir menus for each member of the Zaginow delegation.
“We always do it,” Marr said. “Beings like to show the folks at home what a good time they had. It’s wonderful advertising for us, as well.”
“Not ‘advertising,’ dear,” Senn said. “Not in this case, at any rate. Remember, we’re revolutionaries now. The military term is ‘propaganda’.”
“Same thing,” Marr sniffed.
“True. But ‘propaganda’ is much more romantic.”
Sten had to admit that the souvenir menus fit the bill perfectly as propaganda.
On the back was a picture of himself, flanked by the master caterers, Marr and Senn. On the front, Senn got his theme:
“A FEAST FOR ALL BEINGS.”
This was the menu for the humans:
SOUP
Hungarian Tomato Vodka
Miso
Saki
Shrimp
SALAD
Cambodian Raw Fish Tomato Cucumber Raita
APPETIZERS
Basque Mountain Oysters
Russian Blinis and
Caviar Armenian Stuffed Mushrooms
ENTREES
Jamaican Jerk Chicken
Moroccan Roast Lamb
Broiled Salmon Steaks
Mesquite Broiled Vegetable Kabob
SIDE DISHES
Lebanese Rice Pilaf
Rosemary Potatoes
Cuban Black Beans & Rice
DESSERT
New York Style Cheesecake
Swedish Pancakes With Lingonberries
The items listed on the menus for the ETs were equally impressive.
Sten saw Marr peering from a doorway. He spotted Sten and waved. It was time.
Sten turned to Sowazi. “I think we’re being called for coffee and brandy,” he said.
She laughed, deep and pleasurable. “Cigars, too?”
“Cigars, too,” Sten promised.
“Lead on, Sr. Sten.”
As he rose to do her bidding, Sten made a furtive thumbs-up motion to Marr. Everything was going according to plan.
“Here’s our position,” Moshi-Kamal said. He was the second member of the troika that ruled the Zaginows. “We’re willing to come on board. But we need some assurances.”
“I can’t give you any,” Sten said. “Remember, I started the conversation by saying the odds are decidedly against us. If you join us…it may be an act of suicide.”
“But your own behavior does not bear that statement out, Sr. Sten.” This was from Truiz, the ET member of the troika. “You fight well. Logically. Certainly not like a suicidal being. You also have had many successes.”
“They look good,” Sten said, “but they’re not near enough. The Emperor has had a lot of bad days. He can afford to. If I have one…it’s over.”
“Why are you being so candid?” Sowazi wondered. “I would think you’d be pointing up the positive. The fleets you command. The victories. The growing number of allies.”
She waved at the cozy paneled den Marr and Senn had converted an old weapons room into for this conversation. “You sit here at ease, dining luxuriously, thumbing your nose at the Emperor and his hellhounds. Why aren’t you boasting of these things to win us to your side?”
“I could,” Sten agreed. “But the trouble is…Once I’d won you over, I wouldn’t be able to count on you. When something terrible happened—and I promise you it will—you’d see that I’d lied. And desert me.
“There can be no mistake about this,” Sten said. “This is a fight to the finish. The Emperor will never give us quarter. We lose—we die.”
“I can understand this,” Truiz said. The little tendrils wriggling beneath her eyes were red with frustration. “But the picture you paint is so bleak. Give us some hope.”
Sten leaned forward. “Right now, I have the Emperor’s forces strung across the map. What I don’t have pinned down…I have chasing its own tail. But I can only keep this going for a little longer.
“I need two things right now. Reserves. And an opening. Without the first, it will be difficult to support the other.”
“Do you think you will get this opening?” Moshi-Kamal asked.
Sten paused, as if giving serious thought. Then he nodded. “Without a doubt,” he lied. “No matter how we read the progs, they keep on coming up with the same thing. The thrust of the fight is with us. Sooner or later, we’re going to have a breakthrough.”
