made one last major strike, overrunning the entire Belore system, at the expense of 93 days and 22,430 ships.
And still there was no response from the Oligarchy. “And yet, why should there be?'’ he mused, half to himself, at a conference aboard his flagship. “What were their losses? Absolutely minimal, compared to what they possess. Even with Altair and Belore in our pocket, I'll bet we're still so unimportant that no one's even bothered to tell the seven Oligarchs about us yet. The galaxy's so damned big and we're so damned little...” He looked up.
“Gentlemen, none of us is getting any younger. We've proved ourselves in battle, and I now propose that we go after a target so important that they'll
... It was protected by a fleet as large as their own, and was so deep into the Oligarchic empire that there
could be no clear, easy line of retreat in any direction. On the other hand, Spica VI was a ship-building world, and to continue the war (which, each acknowledged grimly, had not yet even been noticed, let alone joined, by the opposing side) they needed ships above all else. The Battle of Spica was the bloodiest ever fought in space, before or since. At long and weary last, Grath emerged with what the history books termed a victory. He knew better. It had cost him 495 days, and 360,450 ships. And it cost him more than that. He spent almost four years waiting while the huge plants on Spica VI rebuilt his fleet. In the meantime he returned to piracy, though his loot now consisted of weaponry and ships rather than credits and gemstones. His hair was streaked with gray now, the firm lines of his face more deeply emblazoned. Once again he held a conference of the various warlords, and once again found unity and the dream of Empire beyond them. His original master plan had called for a feint toward Earth while the main body of his forces attacked Sirius, but there was no need to feint. Earth was unguarded, sleeping sublimely as the business of the race to which it had given birth went on unbothered half a galaxy away. It was a totally bloodless coup, but it cost him 200 more days ... 150 to change the feint into a conquest, and 50 to reunite his armada for the attack on Sirius.
And finally it happened. Sirius was too vital to the Oligarchy, too close to the heart of things, to be lost. As the maneuvering and battling reached their sixth indecisive week, his scout ships reported that Oligarchic reinforcements were on the way, to the tune of at least three million vessels. Withdrawing as quickly as he could, he returned to the Spica system, a quarter of a million ships weaker than when he had left it.
For three more years he darted in and out of the main body of the Oligarchy, picking off a Navy fleet here, destroying a world there, replenishing his arms and his men. The Oligarchy, cold, aloof, uncaring, merely tolerated him. He waged some battles that would live long in the annals of warfare. Outnumbered by more than eight to one, he fought the Navy to a standoff in the Delphini system; with one flank demolished and another crippled, he led his forces to safety from an abortive raid on Balok XIV; and always, when the odds were equal, or nearly so, he emerged the unquestioned victor. When outworlders spoke of the Warlord, it meant Grath and no one else; and yet the Oligarchy paid him scant attention, and his deeds were considered so trivial in the scheme of things that they went unreported in the Deluros media. “Gentlemen,” he announced one night when his subordinates were gathered in his quarters, “behind me is a Tri-D chart of the galaxy. This'—and he pointed to a tiny spot on the Rim—'is where we began. And this'—he pointed to another—'is where we are now. What can be gleaned from that?” There was a momentary silence. Then a voice spoke out: “Well, we've come almost half of the way.” “Wrong!” snapped Grath. “We've done nothing. Nothing! What do we actually possess? A handful of worlds, no more than eight thousand of them, in a direct line of our military conquest. We have no spheres of influence, no buffer zones, no economic power. If you stood in the complex at Caliban and eliminated every system we own from the map, it could take years before anyone noticed the difference.
“This is no way to destroy the Oligarchy. Sure, we've cost them almost three million ships, but they've
probably replaced them tenfold by now. We've been going about it all wrong. It can't be done in a military campaign. No one man, no one group of men, can hope to conquer, step by step, what it's taken Man six millennia to assimilate. No wonder the Oligarchy doesn't bother with us; they expect us to die of old age long before we can pose a real threat to their security.” “Then what do you propose?”
“I suggest that we make a swift, sudden, all-or-nothing strike at the very heart of the Oligarchy—at Deluros. If we control Deluros, we control the Oligarchic empire. If not, then we're just a bunch of pirates, a little stronger and more successful than the others, but pirates nonetheless.” “That's a pretty tall order,” offered an aide. “What would you have us do? Hit Sirius again? If they protected it once they'll do so again, and they'll protect every planet, habitable or otherwise, between Sirius and Deluros. That will mean about one hundred and fifty thousand pitched battles before we get within striking distance.” “There is an alternative,” said another aide. “What?” asked Grath.
“Create our own empire, beginning on the Rim and assimilating as many worlds as we can, while always spreading toward the outskirts of the Oligarchy. In time, we'd be able to challenge them on far more even footing.”
“No,” said Grath adamantly. “First of all, we're soldiers, not administrators. Any empire we tried to build and nurture would crumble before it had fairly begun, whereas Deluros is already capable of administering an existing empire. We won't destroy the billions of tentacles that reach out from Deluros to the rest of the Oligarchy; we'll simply take control of them—which is far easier than creating those tentacles on a world of our own choosing. And second, I'm not so sure that future generations would hunger for the Oligarchy as we do. They haven't fought as we have for what we possess, and there's a strong possibility that they'd become complacent. I seek after empire; my sons may seek only comfort. Finally, we don't have a stable society here. We have a military unit, a living, breathing entity that can remain cohesive only as long as it is given military goals. No, gentlemen, our target is Deluros.” He, perhaps more than any other, knew the problems involved, the microscopic chance of victory. For almost a decade the Spica factories turned out ships and arms, while he kept his men busy with minor skirmishes and conquests. When at last he felt he was ready he organized his armada, some six million ships strong, and began his drive for Deluros. His hair was now white and his once- erect posture was a little stooped, but the brilliant mind and magnetic personality that had conceived and structured this final thrust were unimpaired. Such inviting targets as Binder and the Canphor Twins were bypassed as his fleet plunged straight toward the empire's jugular. No move was made against him as he passed Rigel and Emra and Terrazane and Zeta Cancri. It was almost as if the Oligarchy was watching, bemused, to see just how close this upstart really dared to come. They passed a million stars, five million, twenty million, and the light from the galactic core became more brilliant. And then, suddenly, came the Navy. Millions upon millions of ships descended upon him, so many that they blotted out the stars. They came from his sides, from above and below, they rushed forward to greet him with a barrage of firepower so great that half his armada was demolished in the first minutes of battle.
Calmly, coolly, he began issuing orders. A feint here, a quick engagement there, a minor sacrifice here, a
major bloodbath over there. And always, when he moved, it was toward Deluros. Within a day his fleet had dwindled down to half a million; by the end of a week, there were less than sixty thousand ... and still he drove toward Deluros. Eight days into the battle the computers could find no alternative to complete surrender, and so he directed his remaining handful of ships himself. At last, brilliant as his resistance had been, he was surrounded and englobed. His eyes darted to the viewscreen, trying to pick out the huge, shining star that was Deluros, but it was still too far away, totally lost amid the light of a million of its neighbors.
He stared dully at the screen. It was just too big, too much for one man to take, to even dream of taking. The only word that occurred to him was
...It was Admiral
