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

the room wondered the same thing. What could he tell them? Why did the Tripes have to be discovered just as he took command? Why couldn’t they have been friendly, or at least less belligerent? His thoughts ran in tightening circles.
    “A review of the situation will help clarify my decisions,” Meier stalled, wishing he had some decisions to be clarified. His only thought had been to scream for help and that had been refused.
    “The first contact with the Tripes ... er ... Tripean Visualate was made while I was actually in transit to McCauley.” He hesitated, that sounded too much like an excuse. “As the Alliance expands it is not unusual to find races, including some formerly unknown, which have carved out their own petty empires. The Tripeans, based upon First Empire records, had an animal power level of culture when the Dark Millennium began. Since then they seem to have learned quite a bit. I have been studying all of the intelligence reports. What we do know comes entirely from independent merchants and one official, uh, encounter with one of their merchant vessels.”
    By the mother of all, what was he going to say? Even to himself Meier sounded as if he was rambling. Then he remembered one of the first rules of command: If things are going badly, pass the responsibility.
    “Harlan, you head sector intelligence. A few of these officers have just arrived. Please brief all of us on what we do know about the Tripeans.”
    The intelligence chief had a reputation for telling everyone more than they needed or wanted to know. An admirable trait considering his job, but a bit annoying on so small a base. He was obviously happy to oblige, took a self-important breath and began.
    “McCauley was primarily a scout base until a year ago. Then it was decided the sector needed a Class E repair facility. This was before the Khalian action drew off so many ships to the far side of the Alliance. We are then left with a half-completed repair facility and enough general stores for a full fleet. Before he left Admiral Duane ordered that the remaining scouts explore those areas outward from the sector. Less than a week after the 197th Squadron and about half of the base personnel left to join Admiral Esplendadore, we found the Tripes.”
    Harlan Kramer paused here, savoring the attention. When the silence became noticeable, Meier smiled encouragingly and asked him to continue.
    “The Tripes appear to have been a non-spacegoing culture until a hundred years ago. Now understand. This is mostly hearsay from a few tramp captains we found who had been dealing with them.”
    “Sellin’ guns and ships, I’ll bet,” a voice inserted bitterly from the back of the room. Several more officers murmured their agreement. There was little love lost between the Fleet and most indies.
    Trying to look as if he didn’t hear the interruption, the intelligence officer continued. “The Tripean Visualate consists of six planets, ruled by a Council of Families. There are nine or ten main families, each of which maintains its own fleet. Intimes of war they appoint a military leader who assumes overall control. They currently seem to be in the process of electing one. We know nothing about him at this time, not even his name.”
    At this point two waiters entered, one carrying two pitchers of the green liquor and the other a tray of glasses. They began distributing them, and Harlan hesitated until they had finished. As they left, several of the younger officers in the back of the Mess had already emptied their glasses and gestured for refills. The intelligence officer glared at the hapless waiter until he abandoned the pitcher and fled the room. When he resumed speaking there was at first a touch of annoyance in the officer’s voice.
    “We know that there is a peace faction in the council, but have not been able to contact any of them directly. We also have the location of their home planet, though Fleet policy restricts us from attacking it