The Fleet 01 by David Drake (ed), Bill Fawcett (ed) Page A

honor guard with whom Meier had spent an hour explaining what he intended. Sworn to secrecy, the marine spent the rest of the week dodging his mates’ questions and chuckling to himself. Finally he took to hanging around the surface craft service area, where he busied himself modifying one of the smaller troop carriers.
    When Commodore Meier ordered every ship on the base to be repainted red, and in a new pattern, he earned himself the nickname among the enlisted men of “the Brush.” For three days they sweated, clinging to scaffolding hanging against the hulls as they scraped and repainted the ships. One scoutship pilot made the mistake of pointing out that it was against tradition for a ship to change colors while under the same command. His lone figure scraping the hundred yard long hull served as an object lesson. No other protests or awkward questions were voiced at the next Monthly Mess.
    When personnel received an order to make a search for one set of identical male triplets among the populations of worlds within a week’s travel time, it was simply done. They turned out, to everyone’s pleasure, to be three very attractive young ladies. They were members of a music act and several of the crewmen recognized them from Omni discs of their performances. The girls arrived the day before the Tripeans, confused as to what they could do, but willing to help.

    Councillor Ar’arnaas was a nervous shade of orange as they approached the enemy planet. More than anyone else in the council he had been the advocate of a quick and decisive attack on the Alliance. Because of this, no one was contesting his claim to act as coordinator in the upcoming war. His council speeches had invariably ended up as exhortations to attack this Alliance base without any further hesitation. Approaching in an unarmed ship the object of SQ much of his venom made him feel vulnerable. Spread out below them was a base large enough to hold ten times their entire fleet. He was relieved to notice barely a dozen ships, all trimmed in red, were visible below.
    “They must be fools to allow us to learn so much about them,” he announced confidently to the other councillors. “They even gave us the option of where to land, in any of the triangles. See how they are already trying to curry our favor.”
    “The ships which destroyed our advanced bases were green and they were in constant communications with unknown forces at the edge of the system,” one of the intelligence officers reminded him dryly. His skin was a neutral gray.
    “So they have two forces, neither is a tenth the size of ours. We can crush them in one attack. The war will be over by Plestinfing Fair,” Ar’anaas insisted.
    If asked in just the right way the councillor would admit he had always been driven by a lifelong need to dominate those around him. If this included a new race called humans, so much the better.
    “And will cost a fortune,” Krener‘n, leader of the peace faction protested. He too was tinted orange with anticipation.
    As they landed, the intelligence officer was busy memorizing the shapes of the hulls for later comparison. No one said anything until the whine of the grave turbines had faded. Rising from their pods, each delegate hurried to be first through the hatch.
    “I suggest we settle our colors,” Ar’arnaas commented loudly as they hurried down the corridor. As leader of the majority faction, he was to be spokesman for the delegation. The Tripean councillor had already noticed that the two intelligence officers had stayed a placid gray. In a few moments all of the politicians matched them and the hatch was opened.
    Two humans stood at the base of the stairs which had extended from the ship. One was recognizable from the recordings of the bombardment. He was the commander of the fleet that had bombarded their bases.
    “Welcome,” Commodore Meier intoned, bowing slightly in the absence of any idea what the proper Tripean protocol might be. The small