by Bill Baldwin
Amherst glared at Brim for a moment, clutching the lapels of his tunic. "Grand Imperial CIGA Dominator," he snarled, his face now crimson with rage.
"Traitor," Brim corrected with an assured smile.
"Arrogant Carescrian zukeed," Amherst gasped, as if he were short of breath. "You have no more respect for the uniform of your dominion than does that perfectly awful countryman of yours, Baxter Calhoun."
"It's not the uniform we discredit, Amherst," Brim amended with a grin, "just the wearer. Nothing stupid about Carescrians."
Only a reddening face betrayed the effect of Brim's retort. "So you will become a Fluvannian thrall with your reprehensible mentor, will you?" Amherst growled. Then he laughed arrogantly . " Nothing that you or your warmongering associates carry out escapes my purview."
Brim shrugged with equanimity and kept his silence.
"Warmonger," the CIGA snapped after long moments of silence. "You will yet bring disaster down on our heads, in spite of our labors to preserve the peace."
Brim shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, Amherst," he said, locking glances with his old shipmate. "We talked about that a year ago in your office. I don't want war any more than you do—or any of your CIGAs. In fact, I work toward peace every bit as desperately as anyone else, yourself included. The difference is that I want an honorable peace: one that preserves our Imperial heritage with all the very mortal faults that make it habitable. And that can only be done with strength, like a powerful fleet. You and your CIGAs would preserve the peace by capitulation. But in that way, we become slaves to Nergol Triannic's League of Dark Stars, under the yoke of his TimeWeed-soaked Controllers. And no matter how imperfect our old Empire has become over the years, it is a thousandfold better than anything like that."
"You would still sacrifice men and women to the insatiable maw of war," Amherst demanded, "when you have seen firsthand—as well as I have—how horrible that is?"
"Now that defines a principal difference between you and me," Brim replied steadily. "Battle was shattering to you. I saw that in person while we shipped together aboard old Truculent. It was so frightening that your father used his influence to remove you from all further combat assignments.'' He narrowed his eyes. "The rest of us, on the other hand, went on fighting—and do so today—because the loss of our freedom frightens us a lot worse than the loss of our lives! Without freedom, life doesn't have much value for most of us. Believe me, Amherst, I've seen that on every planet we've had to liberate from your good friends, the Leaguers."
Amherst's eyes narrowed in dark anger. "Are you," he asked with a quivering voice, "suggesting that I am a coward?"
"No accusation at all, Amherst," Brim stated calmly. "It's a statement of fact. You are a coward, pure and simple. And so are the rest of your craven CIGAs."
Amherst went completely rigid, his hands trembling as he drew his fingers into fists. "I shall make you pay dearly for that, Brim," he spat through colorless lips stretched over clenched teeth.
"We'll see, Amherst," Brim replied calmly. "But you'd better keep an eye on your own back, or you'll eventually lose the chance. If the League wins, the first Imperials they'll use for target practice are you CIGAs. They always get rid of unstable elements first. Makes places easier to rule." He laughed grimly as he held the man's gaze with his own. "And if the League doesn't win after it restarts the war," he added, "then likely as not, you'll gasp out your life swinging at the end of a rope, because lynch mobs don't wait for legal justice."
A momentary shadow of fear clouded Amherst's proud visage, but he recovered swiftly and again grasped his lapels in a pose of high dudgeon. "Were you in uniform, Brim, I should have you thrown in Avalon's darkest prison for that sort of presumptive insolence."
"But you can't," Brim replied with a smile. "In the first place, you don't have a witness. And besides, zukeed, you implied it yourself: I am now an officer in the Fluvannian Red. Throwing me in prison would cause an international incident."
"Low-life Carescrian slime," Amherst swore under his breath. "Then I was right!" His face became a mask of ghastly anger. "You will know my power someday, mark those words well." With that, he whirled around and stormed away from the table—directly into a busboy laden with a large tray of dirty dishes. The clattering avalanche of disintegrating plates and silverware focused every eye on the CIGA leader.
In the shocked silence that followed, Brim whispered over his shoulder, "Psst! Commodore...."
Momentarily stunned with embarrassment, Amherst turned. "What now, Brim?" he demanded.
"Watch your step, old man," Brim warned him with a straight face.
The enraged CIGA nearly lost his footing on the pile of shattered crockery, then retreated among the tables toward the door. As he exited, he was trailed by a beautiful blond man wearing the uniform of an ensign.
Brim took a deep breath as conversation resumed in the dining room, then shook his head in frustration. It was people like that who had doomed the comfortable civilization he lived in. With the Admiralty riddled by powerful CIGAs like him and the Fleet reduced to a shadow of its former self, the next war was going to be a lot more destructive than most Imperials could imagine. He'd just missed seeing the League's new Gorn-Hoff killer-cruiser in Fluvanna, but it promised to be a most destructive ship. It would have to be, if only to survive fights with Starfuries. He sipped his meem thoughtfully. Before the coming war was over, even Avalon itself would feel the power of ships like that just as the poor souls in the outskirts of the Empire—like Carescria—did at the beginning of the last war. People had no idea what was in store for them. As the Emperor had so aptly put it, a terrible darkness was settling rapidly over the whole galaxy, and everyone—without exception—would in one way or another be most devastatingly affected by it.
* * *
Only days later, Calhoun departed abruptly—and in mufti— for little Beta Jago, a small but wealthy dominion that had been high on Nergol Triannic's "want list" since before the previous war. Only great sacrifices on the part of the Imperial Fleet had saved the little star system then, and now the League clearly intended to finish the job they had started so many years previously.
When Brim saw him off from the Sodeskayan section of the Grand Imperial Terminal, he had real feelings of concern, not only for Calhoun who was knowingly putting himself at risk, but also for himself. Without question, if anything happened to the elder Carescrian, he would be forced to take on much more of the IVG's administrative and political tasks. And he did not feel he was ready to perform either of the duties, especially the political ones.
Precisely one week later, civilized dominions throughout the galaxy received their first electrifying shock of what many recognized to be the beginning of the next war: Nergol Triannic's League attacked and overrun the tiny dominion of Beta Jago, capturing all five populated planets in little more than three Standard Days. Almost immediately, news of atrocities began to leak from behind the little dominion's sealed borders. Brutal Controllers were quick to extract a frightful toll of the citizens, phlegmatically murdering thousands of the weak and elderly, as well as notable enemies, merely to satisfy the basic expedient of reducing occupation costs. Significantly many of the staunchest Leaguer proponents among the native Beta Jago populace were among the first to die. As the Bears always predicted, traitors were considered to be among the most inconsistent elements in a civilization. And inconsistency was a most notably difficult attribute to govern.
Messages from Calhoun, of course, ceased immediately. But by that time, Brim had no more time to squander on worries. He was caught up with preparations for transferring Starfury—and as many of her crew as possible—to a new base of operations in Fluvanna, Clearly, that strategic little dominion would be next on Triannic's list of conquests.
Chapter 6
Fluvanna
"Almost time, Cap'm," Barbousse warned.
Grimly, Brim checked his timepiece; it was. "Thanks, Chief," he said, straightening his Fleet Cloa
k. It was a job he found most difficult—notwithstanding years of practice. "Let's get it over with," he grunted.
Barbousse nodded and stepped out onto the stage, paused dramatically for a moment, then shouted, "THE CAP'M!"
Directly, Starfury's ninety-one officers and ratings jumped to their feet in a confusion of scrapes and coughs that belied any capacity whatsoever for running a starship.
When the room became still, Brim strode to the lectern, peering apprehensively out into the auditorium Drummond had reserved for him in the Admiralty Annex. He was going to considerably upset these people before much more of the morning had passed. "Seats," he ordered crisply.
After another round of shuffling and scraping, a semblance of quiet returned to the room.
"I have a strange announcement this afternoon," Brim continued abruptly, "as well as what may be the strangest proposition you've been offered this side of Voot's tangled beard."
Frowns of curiosity appeared everywhere.
"First," he continued briskly, "it is my bizarre duty to inform you that I.F.S, Starfury has been leased to the Fluvannian government for a period of at least a year. She will depart Avalon as soon as she can be prepared."
A momentary stillness fell like a chill over the room, followed by an angry stir of bewildered dismay.
"Starfury?" someone asked. "Leased?"
"To Fluvanna... ?"
"Somebody sure sold us out to the CIGAs this time."
'"Oo 'av the bloody Wogs got to crew her, anyhow? She's no thraggling antique like the rest of their so-called Fleet!"
Brim held up his hand. "Before you say anything more," he enjoined, "let me offer that proposition I mentioned."
Grudgingly, order returned to the room.
"How many of you would like to sign up for the Fluvannian Fleet," he asked, "with no change in rank?"
This time, the room stayed silent for a few shocked moments. "Captain Brim," one of the Drive Room officers called out by and by, "have you joined the CIGAs, or something?"
"Yeah!" another joined in hotly. "Why in the Universe would any of us want to join the Fluvannian Fleet?"
"Well," Brim replied easily, "one reason might be to continue serving in Starfury, As Petty Officer Kenzie pointed out, someone's got to run her, and right now, we're the only ones in the known Universe with any practical experience."
"When you use the word 'we,' Captain Brim," one of Barbousse's assistants demanded warily, "does that include you, too?"
"You bet it does, Singleton," Brim replied. "I signed up more than a week ago, with Commodore Calhoun. They're fitting our new Fluvannian uniforms as I speak." Smiling, he held up his hand once more for silence—he definitely had their attention now. "Here's the whole story," he continued and launched into an abbreviated version of Calhoun's standard presentation—to which he added a description of Greyffin IV's guarantee. By the time he finished, the room had become very still indeed. "The deck is again open for questions," he offered, "this time, I'm accepting serious ones."
After a long time, a single hand went up. "What about the ones of us who might be killed in the line of duty?" a Gunnery Officer asked.
"Good for the estate, if nothing else," Brim answered grimly. "Death and disability benefits are separately paid by each government, giving you a one hundred percent increase, because both Services pay Admiralty scale."
"How about maintenance for the ship, Captain?" another asked.
"That," Brim answered truthfully, "will be a real challenge. You've seen Magor yourselves, and we're to be based at a place called Varnholm, nearly a thousand c'lenyts nearer the boreal pole—where facilities are described by the Fluvannians themselves as... he consulted his notes... 'somewhat deteriorated.' I've only seen HoloPictures, but I tend to agree with the descriptions."
"You're right, Captain," the officer agreed. "It sounds like a real challenge to me."
"Commander Brim," an expensively uniformed newcomer asked, "how long do we have to consider this, er, offer?"
"Until morning," Brim said. "We embark for Fluvanna as soon as the ship is prepared to lift."
"And if we decide we've had enough of that backwater, what then, Captain?"
"You get an instant transfer somewhere else in the Fleet," Brim replied. "That's why I've got to know your decision almost immediately. Replacements are difficult to find, and we're in a hurry."
"I'm ready now!" somebody shouted from the audience.
"Yeah, me, too," another seconded. "Where do we sign up?"
Half surprised by the response, Brim pointed to a work table that Barbousse and a Fluvannian representative had just plugged into a secure data outlet near the door. "You sign up with Mr. Barbousse at the table back there," he said. "He'll also help you transfer out, if you're of a mind to do that...."
Directly following the meeting, fifteen officers and seventy ratings had signed themselves into the Fluvannian Fleet, leaving one officer and five ordinary starsailors to be replaced the next day.
The following morning, however, pudgy Sublieutenant Vasil Huugo of the Communications Section, a native Avalonian, reported back aboard after consulting with his family during an all-night session. His signature completed wardroom staffing with no changes in personnel. But by midday, Barbousse appeared on the bridge with bad news. "It looks like none of the five refusing spacemen have shown a change of heart, Cap'm," he reported with a frown.
"Hmm," Brim muttered, looking up from a test sequence a Logics Mate was running on his power console. "Any of 'em going to be hard to replace?"
"Not if you know where to look, Cap'm," the big rating answered with a wink.
Within a metacycle, a sleek military van pulled up at the foot of the brow to disgorge five of the toughest-looking Petty Officers the Carescrian believed he had ever encountered: scars, eye patches, artificial limbs; collectively, they had them all. As the group stumped through the ship's hatch, each made a peculiar little bow to Barbousse, who stood quietly to one side with his arms folded, nodding in return. Brim wanted to know nothing about their backgrounds. Barbousse had picked them, and he was certain they would turn out to be the most reliable—and able—hands on the ship.
In a few days, all forms and contracts were duly signed while ninety-two sets of Fluvannian uniforms changed hands. Brim and his crew of "mercenaries" set course for Magor on 31/52011 aboard a completely reprovisioned R.F.S. Starfury, newest, most modern warship in the Fluvannian Fleet. They made landfall at Varnholm little more than six days later (after another "unofficial" record run), where they discovered to their dismay that conditions were far worse than the Fluvannians had led them to believe.
* * *
The age-blackened stone ruin of Varnholm Hall was very desolate, standing some distance from the scruffy village it once ruled on a barren, rocky slope that overlooked storm-tossed Penard Bay. Below, spoiling what little strand existed between the slope and the deep waters of the bay, lay two long rows of ancient stone gravity pools, remnant of a mining operation that had petered out more than a century in the past. Many of those on the seaward side had tumbled walls, victims of the storms frequenting that particularly depressing corner of the planet. As promised, however, four of the timeworn structures reported themselves to be operational when Starfury descended out of the overcast, and two of them appeared to be large enough for a cruiser.
Viewed from the air, the hall itself—or rather what remained of it—was a melancholy relic, tediously rectangular with crumbling stumps of towers at each comer and a half-ruined gate house on its landward end. A huge, central dome had rolled completely off the main foundations and lay to one side like some great shattered piece of crockery. Thick stone curtain walls between the tower stumps were reasonably complete, but any battlements on them had all but disappeared over the years.
"Not very promising," Brim commented bleakly as Tissaurd banked Starfury into a climbing turn and headed out to sea for a landing. He glanced back at the receding shoreline. "Especially the xaxtdamne
d gravity pools." In little more than one Standard Month, they would have to coax a minimum of fifteen into operation: eleven Starfuries and four ancient ED-4 freighters that Calhoun had managed to secure at the last moment. And that would allow no guests or—worse—spares when the century-old repulsion generators broke down, as they inevitably would, no matter how methodically they might be maintained.
Within cycles of their landfall, Tissaurd had taxied to the largest gravity pool, nudging Starfury's prow just over the seaward rim before she braked to a halt. ''Looks all right to me. Skipper," she said, peering over the nose through the Hyperscreens. "What do you think?"
Brim rubbed his chin. Below, six huge, extraordinarily old-looking repulsion generators were somehow filling the great pit with a reassuring amber glow. On top of the far wall, a number of villagers had gathered in small groups and were variously waving, jumping up and down, and holding their ears against the deafening rumble that would be coming from both the gravity pool and Starfury herself. Clearly, the semi-abandoned star anchorage relied on local residents when it was time to deploy the pool's optical mooring devices. "I guess I don't have any gems of wisdom for you, Number One," he admitted at length. "Maybe you ought to play it safe like you did in Magor and keep a little lift on the ship herself—just in case."
Tissaurd nodded agreement. "Strana'," she said, "how about maintaining about five percent hover on her for a while?"
"Five percent hover is now minimum," Zaftrak responded presently.
Tissaurd nodded and turned her attention to a small monitor between the Helmsmans' consoles. It displayed the visage of a bearded man with a large nose—and an even larger mustache —who wore typical Fluvannian apparel, including one of the ubiquitous crimson fezes. "Mr. Bogwa'zzi," she pronounced carefully, "I shall appreciate your assistance now."
The man nodded. "Switching I am the machine now to power," he said in Avalonian with a great toothy grin, clearly proud of this linguistic achievement. On the far wall of the gravity pool, a ruby light blazed out from what appeared to be a globe mounted on a tripod. The figure of a man beside it waved—at the same time Bogwa'zzi's head bobbed in the monitor. "Can you scrutinize this beam?" he asked.
