The Defenders

CHAPTER 1

Back to Gimmas

ASHF234812-19E GROUP 198BA 113/52011

[TOP SECRET]

PERSONNEL ACTION MEMORANDUM, IMPERIAL FLEET,

PERSONAL COPY

FROM:

BU FLEET PERSONNEL;

ADMIRALTY, AVALON

TO:

W. A. BRIM, CAPTAIN, I.E. IVG

AVALON

<0893BVC-12-K2134MV/573250>

SUBJECT: DUTY ASSIGNMENT

(1) YOU ARE DETACHED PRESENT IVG DUTY AS OF 205/52012.

(2) PROCEED MOST EXPEDITIOUS TRANSPORT GIMMAS STARBASE,

HAEFDON. REPORT REAR ADM B. GALLS WORTHY, 11 GROUP, HOME

FLEET, DEFENSE COMMAND, AS WING COMMANDER.

(3) SUBMIT TRAVEL EXPENSE VOUCHERS DIRECT ADMIRALTY

C/O H. DRUMMOND, REAR ADMIRAL, I.E

FOR THE EMPEROR:

TANDOR K. KNORR, CAPTAIN, I.F.

[END TOP SECRET]

ASHF234812-19E

"Hands to landfall stations! All hands man your stations for landfall. Secure from HyperSpace operations...."

Frigid, cloud-swept Haefdon, third planet of the dying star Gimmas, filled the forward Hyperscreens as Imperial destroyer Jacques Schneider—eight days out from Avalon—shut down her interstellar Drive and thundered in toward landfall using gravity generators alone. On the cramped flight bridge, Captain Wilf Brim, I.F., leaned forward in a jump seat between the two Helmsmen, listening to sounds of thudding feet, the dull bang of airtight doors and hatches, starsailors hurrying to their stations, and the general cacophony associated with securing a starship from deep space. It was never easy for an active Helmsman to ride as a passenger, but at least he wasn't staring at a bulkhead as the powerful little warship settled purposefully toward the thick undercast—he hated riding that way.

The deck trembled slightly as stumpy Zinu Corbeil in the left seat turned up power in preparation for the roiling storms that were part and parcel of entry to the planet-girding Imperial Fleet base below.

Brim chuckled. Corbeil—a Lieutenant Commander—spoke with a Rhodorian dialect you could carry in a bucket. The man had a lot of rank for commanding a mere destroyer, and an elderly one at that. But drastic starship reductions in the past meant that often senior officers skippered the few ships that remained in service. Keeping an enemy at bay while rebuilding (and recrewing) a sadly neglected fleet was only one of a myriad of problems facing the Grand Galactic Empire of Emperor Onrad V after his recent declaration of war. And not all of those troubles came from his perennial adversary, the League of Dark Stars.

"Gimmas Tower Nineteen, Imperial V981 is with you out of twenty-four and a half for twenty-four," Sada Takanada broadcast to the Sector 19 Controller. Clearly younger than Corbeil, the diminutive Takanada looked as if she had recently graduated from the Helmsman's Academy—but she was probably nearer Brim's age of forty-seven than that of a cadet.

"Imperial V981:" the distant tower replied, "Sector Nineteen Control reads you. Continue descent and maintain one zero thousand. The altimeter nine two nine five."

Brim listened to the discourse with real interest. Approaches to Gimmas Haefdon were routinely difficult, even for old-timers like Corbeil. Storms kept Helmsmen busy with simple basics—like attempting to stay on course. Whenever traffic permitted, Controllers here kept close track of landing starships, especially little ones. And with very recent reactivation of the base, traffic was still light.

Certainly not the madhouse he remembered from the last war, more than eleven years ago. He shook his head sadly at that thought—what wouldn't the Admiralty give to have that madhouse of ships today!

"Imperial V981: suggest a heading of two five zero two five to join the Blue-10 zero one zero radial inbound."

Corbeil put the helm over. "Imperial V981 turning two five zero," he answered. Only clicks later, the flames of reentry died in their wake and the little starship shuddered as her trilon-shaped hull met the first of Gimmas's famous turbulence. Soon they were driving along through the first ragged cloud tatters.

At least four more layers of dirty-looking, wind-frayed clouds defined themselves below before perspective itself was swallowed in the murky undercast of the planet's dismal afternoon. As the starship descended into solid cloud, Corbeil and Takanada began their final checkout litany.

"Warning panel?"

"Check."

"Altimeters?"

"Verified."

"Landing lights..."

"Imperial V981: radio check," the distant Controller interrupted.

"Loud and clear," Takanada answered, "—and the lights are ON." Corbeil had now concentrated most of his considerable facilities on the helm. Jacques Schneider was tossing like a leaf in a millrace while rain and hail thundered against the forward Hyperscreens, instantly turning to steam on the outer layers of crystal still heated by their reentry.

Brim turned up the power on his seat restraints, then tightened his shoulder belts. He'd been through this particular soup a thousand times at least.

"Start the approach check, Sada."

"Ten degrees lift enhancers...."

"Ten degrees."

"Auto flight panels...."

"Imperial V981:" the tower Controller interrupted again, "reduce speed to one eight zero and descend to five thousand irals altitude."

"V981—speed to one eight zero and down to five thousand. Zinu, say again the auto flight panels."

"Checked."

The litany continued until, just short of two thousand irals altitude, little Jacques Schneider gamely plunged out of the overcast into a mounting gale and driving snow—ancient Gimmas was living up to her hard reputation for weather. Below in the gray afternoon murk, Brim could see ice-flecked rollers tossing wildly in column against slender causeways dotted with Karlsson lamps. Almost at the limit of his vision, a long goods train gave off tremendous sparks as it seemed to crawl across the arcing spans.

Relativity. Brim knew it was doing at least five hundred c'lenyts each metacycle.

"Imperial V981: you're six c'lenyts from the marker," the Tower announced. "Turn left to heading nine seven one and join the localizer at seventeen hundred. You are cleared for instrument approach one seven left."

"Fleet V981 acknowledges all of that," Corbeil answered. "Thank you...."

Ahead, a land mass was materializing out of the gloomy mists. Here and there, beacons flashed indistinctly, and reflected daylight—such as it was—defined a maze of canals. Massive, silver-domed reactor towers dotted the snow-covered landscape. Brim shook his head. It was almost as if eleven years had suddenly compressed to nothing. Little more than a year ago the great sector harbor had appeared to be completely abandoned—frozen over and lifeless. Now, as they approached, thousands of Karlsson lights glowed everywhere among a myriad of buildings and odd-shaped structures that had once been buried in a hundred irals of snow.

"Sector Tower One Nine to Imperial V981: you are cleared to land three-seven left, wind one nine zero at fifty, gust to one one twelve."

"Thank you, Tower...."

While Corbeil turned onto final, a point of ruby light burned through the mist at them—the landing vector. Moments later their own triangular shadow moved in beneath them and they were level, skimming just above the tops of the huge rollers. From long years of instinct, Brim glanced out the quarter window, judging their touchdown as if he were at the controls. The generators surged for a moment as the ship rotated slightly nose high, then great cascades of white water soared skyward on either side of the hull as Corbeil "plastered" the ship onto her "gravity foot," the hull-shaped depression in the water starships made when they were on the surface. Four orange lights appeared on the instrument panel as he shifted the generators into reverse, and a succession of graviton waves sent clouds of spray forward until the ship came to a halt a regulation twenty-five irals above her foot, pitching moderately in the ground swell.

"All hands secure from landfall operations. All hands secure from landfall operations," the blower announced. "Go to your stations, all landing parties. Stand by mooring and fender beams...."

"Nice landing, Commander," Brim said. The words were no mere courtesy. Corbeil had actually made the whole thing seem easy—which was, after all, a good bit of what Helmsmanship was all about.

But nothing was particularly easy on Gimmas Haefdon. He knew. Years ago, he'd called the huge, frigid base "home."

Corbeil turned and grinned. "Thanks, Captain Brim," he said. "I watched you bring in those tricky little Mitchell Trophy racers a couple o' years back—so I take those words as quite a compliment."

Brim nodded, feeling his face flush. "I never had to land a racer on Gimmas," he returned as Corbeil taxied the little ship past a glowing buoy tossing in the swell and headed toward two age-blackened monoliths that marked the entrance to Sector 17's harbor. The horrible weather was what made the frozen planet such a perfect Fleet base. Nobody else but starsailors could be persuaded to go there.

Negotiating a maze of wide, stone-walled canals lined by rows of gravity pools—many occupied by huge freighters from all over the Empire—they headed through driving snow for a forest of massive shipyard cranes and a huge structure of ancient, age-blackened brick that Brim recognized as a finishing bay where recently completed starships were fitted out in preparation for Fleet duty. Clearly, this part of the great base would soon be in the business of building a fleet again. On either side of the canal, causeways were alive with scurrying vehicles of all kinds and shapes. Past a sharp curve, beacons began to strobe astride one of the gravity-pool ramps curving up from the water. Through the snow, he could make out two bundled figures on a corner of the old stone seawall, holding their ears against the noise as the starship approached. The taller was clearly a Sodeskayan Bear, splendidly dressed in his country's distinctive papakha (a tall black hat shaped like a woolly pillbox), high boots made of black leather so soft they bagged at the ankles, and a long, deep maroon Fleet Cloak cut on the lines of its Imperial counterpart. The other figure, dressed in the dark blue greatcloak of the Imperial Fleet wore an officer's cap and significant bands of gold above his cuffs. Both waved as Corbeil applied the gravity brakes and swung the starship's nose over a glowing Becton tube that led up the curving stone ramp to a gravity pool.

Outside on the obsidian hull, parties of deck hands in magnetic boots and clumsy-looking antiradiation mittens were already racing here and there to open hatches to activate the mooring systems.

Generators surged for a moment as the ship's mass transferred from its gravity foot, and moments later, they were coasting onto the pool. Below, on the age-stained cobblestones, six spool-shaped repulsion generators filled the great, open cell with a reassuring yellow glow. Corbeil eased the ship into reverse for a moment while mooring beams leaped out to optical bollards along the pool's walls, surging and flashing as Jacques Schneider settled to her moorings. Then he glanced at Takanada, who grinned and nodded in return while a weathered brow clanked into place abaft the bridge and connected to the boarding port with a great rush of air.

"All hands stand by for local gravity," she announced as six jewels in an overhead panel switched from red to orange. "All hands stand by for local gravity."

Brim braced himself, watching Takanada reach up and touch each jewel in turn, turning it from orange to green. A momentary wave of nausea savaged his gut and he fought his gorge to a draw. During all his years in space, he'd never quite gotten used to The Switchover—just the momentary discomfort it brought. He shook his head wryly as the feeling rapidly passed. A lot of people never had any problems at all....

"Finished with generators," Corbeil announced to the bearded visage of an Engineering Officer that appeared in a globular display.

"Aye, Captain."

Simultaneously, the background rumble of gravity generators died to the first silence Brim had encountered since the ship lifted off seven days previously.

They were down.

Brim had departed Avalon in such a hurry he had little in the way of baggage as he descended through the brow, dodging busy crewmen running past in both directions. He pulled his Fleet Cloak tighter around his neck and turned up the heat against blasts of cold air surging up from below. As he stepped outside into the snowy air, two figures resembling the pair he had spied on the seawall stepped forward. He recognized them almost immediately. "Dr. Borodov!" he exclaimed, first saluting the Sodeskayan officer, who returned the salute, then immediately engulfed him in a traditional Bear hug.

"Wilfooshka!" the Bear replied. "Seems like year of special holidays since I last laid eyes on you."

Grand Duke (Doctor) Anastas Alexi Borodov was master of vast baronial estates in the deeply wooded lake country outside Holy Gromcow on the G.F.S.S. "Mother" planet of Sodeskaya itself, and—for Brim—as close to family as anyone alive. He was also perhaps the greatest Drive scientist in the known Universe. Both collars of his maroon Fleet Cloak were tipped in the black leather of the Sodeskayan Engineers and bore three stars, denoting a Colonel General. Graying fur on his great muzzle would have been chestnut-colored in his youth but was now as much silver as brown. Somewhat bowed by the years, he stood only a little taller than Brim's six-iral height, but his tiny eyes sparkled with youthful humor and prodigious intellect behind a pair of old-fashioned horn-rimmed spectacles. Enormous sideburns provided him with a most profoundly academic countenance despite a huge, wet nose of the sort that gave most Bears a slightly comic look in humans' eyes—until they'd seen one angry. They were the only warm-blooded beings in the galaxy who could enjoy Gimmas's weather. If anything, the original seed planets of the Great Federation were often colder.

Grinning, Brim emerged from the Bear's embrace only to encounter another old friend and mentor, now a Rear Admiral with a broad and a narrow gold band above the cuffs of his dark blue Imperial Fleet Cloak. Bosporus Gallsworthy—no one else in the Universe had that combination of dark complexion, thin, dry lips, pockmarked jowls, and eyes that could drill holes in hullmetal. Though Brim had long since surpassed the man's skills at the controls of a starship, he still considered Gallsworthy the greatest Helmsman of all times. An astounding Atalantan who had started out as a ground soldier, fighting in the first Imperio-Leaguer Wars at Ilepillag (947th Sector), Gallsworthy was wounded at the Emmos Confrontation, and then, by purposely losing his own medical records, transferred to the Fleet and became a Helmsman who helped destroy twenty Leaguer starships. "Hmm," he joked, returning Brim's salute. "Seems to me Alexi and I once shipped out with somebody who looks a lot like you."

The three starsailors originally met aboard the old T-class destroyer I.F.S. Truculent at the beginning of Brim's first tour of duty. "Interesting, Admiral," Brim replied, wrinkling his brow in mock recollection. "I believe I've heard of somebody like that. A real troublemaker, if memory serves."

Gallsworthy laughed. "A real troublemaker indeed!"

"Couldn't have been me, then," Brim continued, rolling his eyes heavenward. "I never make trouble."

"That's good to know," Gallsworthy said. "The fellow was about twenty years younger than you, now that I think about it."

"Nineteen, to be exact, Admiral," Brim chuckled. "But who's counting?"

"And here we are, still fighting a xaxtdamned war," Borodov growled. "Except this one we call Second Great War, and we've given ten-year rest period to Leaguer zukeeds."

Brim nodded. "Looks like they've made the most of it, too. Doctor."

"So we have heard," Gallsworthy replied. "And of course you were among the first to sample their new fighting skills, Wilf. Alexi and I are most anxious to hear about your adventures as a mercenary in Fluvanna."

Snow stung Brim's face and he grinned. "As I am anxious to hear about this assignment of mine, Admiral," he said. "And rumors of a new ship, General."

"Aha!" Borodov exclaimed to Gallsworthy, a huge grin baring his gem-inlaid fangs. "If you are no longer troublemaker, you have at least lost none of your curiosity." He peered over his glasses and nodded to a Fleet-blue staff skimmer hovering nearby in the passenger parking area. "Come, Wilf Ansorivich," he said. "We will first drop you at the Visiting Officers Quarters so you can freshen up.

Later, over goblet of Logish Meem in Officers Bar, Bosporus and I will introduce you to many new things—some you may even want to hear about."

"We'll soon be needing all the 'things' we can get our hands on," Brim said, starting off for the waiting skimmer. "Because from what I've seen of the Leaguers and their Second Great War so far, they're going to be tougher to deal with than ever before...."

The period of time Brim and many of his contemporaries already were referring to as the Second Great War existed only as a name. In reality, it was no more than a logical extension of a larger struggle that entered temporary hiatus eleven years previously during Standard Year 52000 with the abdication of Emperor Nergol Triannic, the League-proposed Treaty of Garak, and a concomitant armistice until the treaty could be approved.

Shortly after these three critical events, the Empire found itself divided into hostile camps of war-weary reconciliationist groups and equally war-weary militants. Most reconciliationists coalesced rapidly into the politically powerful Congress for IntraGalactic Accord (CIGA). Militants, however—comprising various military and veteran organizations—were still required to concentrate the bulk of their efforts on such workaday tasks as securing the farflung bulwarks of Empire. They therefore steadily lost political influence at all levels, and subsequently, after furious debate throughout the Imperial Parliament, the League's treaty—already signed by League Emperor Nergol Triannic—was pushed through by CIGA Chief Puvis Amherst. It was formally ratified by (then) Emperor Greyffin IV two days prior to the Year's End holiday in Avalon, 52000.

Amid vociferous Admiralty protests and resignations, Imperial Fleet reductions (with resultant base closings) began promptly in 52001 to rigid schedules set forth in the new treaty. Each of the ex-antagonists chose referees to oversee the other's disarmament progress. After two successive Imperial Fleet reductions in 52002 and 52003, out-of-work veterans gathered for a "March on Avalon."

Most departed peacefully after Parliament vetoed cash bonuses recommended by Greyffin IV; however, other, more adamant veterans were forcibly expelled by special detachments of Imperial Marines wearing the special CIGA flash on their uniforms and lead by CIGA-aligned officers.

A further reduction in Fleet strength during 52004 completed Imperial disarmament requirements and resulted in the smallest Fleet in the Empire's history. Half a galaxy away in Tarrott, Puvis Amherst personally confirmed similar reductions in League strength, but the scattering of starsailors who remained loyal to the Empire knew the League's claims were little more than fabrications. Unfortunately, a clamor of pacifist emotion sweeping the Empire—though ultimately emotional and uninformed—was nevertheless politically unassailable. And while the League secretly built a new and much more powerful fleet, the Empire continued to sink into impotency.

In 52005, culmination of a three-year study by the blue-ribbon Interdominion Reparations Committee resulted in a report fixing League war liability at 132 billion credits, to be indemnified during the next ten Standard Years. Zoguard Grobermann, League Minister of State, promised that the Chancellery would, "take the sum under advisement," but no further action was forthcoming.

In 52006, the anti-League president of Beta Jago, Konrad Igno, was assassinated by an unknown murderer during the traditional midyear holiday interval in that dominion. League Minister for Public Consensus Hanna Notrom denied any knowledge of the act, and soon afterward, the League's Supreme Council even enacted laws forbidding assassination to prove once and for all their peaceful intentions.

Early in 52007, exiled Nergol Triannic published his semibiographical Ughast Niefft as a formal declaration of proper League objectives. By Avalonian midsummer, League sympathizers annexed all planets of the Gammil'lt star system at the request of openly League-endorsing Chancellor, I. B. Groenlj.

At year's end, CIGA elements in the Imperial Parliament itself passed the Cavir-Wilvo Bill posing stringent limits on Imperial starship manufacture.

Soon after Standard Year 52008 began, exiled Nergol Triannic returned in triumph to Tarrott and resumed the reins of League government wearing the outlawed black uniform of a Controller. Less than one month later, Conrad Zorn, prominent intragalactic traveler and industrialist, was found murdered after accusing the League of secretly expanding its Deep Space Fleet. By midyear, Triannic repudiated the League's reparations debt and reintroduced compulsory military service for all League citizens. At the end of the League's Festival of Conquest holidays (Imperial Standard Date; 2 Nonad. 52008), Controller forces entered and occupied planets of The Torond, enthroned League-sympathizer Rogan LaKarn as ruler, and proclaimed the "eternal" political union of League and Torond.

Midway through 52009, Zoguard Grobermann and Hanna Notrom jointly announced League incorporation of the Zathian planetary system, as result of a plebiscite. Soon afterward, Nergol Triannic issued a stern warning to the dominion of Fluvanna concerning treatment of League citizens dwelling on its planets.

Early in 52010, after CIGA-inspired frustration of numerous Imperial attempts to defend the important Dominion of Fluvanna (supplier of nearly one hundred percent of the Empire's Drive crystals), Emperor Greyffin IV formed the Imperial Volunteer Group (IVG) from the first eleven Starfury starcruisers delivered, "leasing" not only the warships but their crews to Fluvanna for a year. Shortly thereafter. League forces invaded and occupied the Dominion of Beta Jago, ignoring protests from throughout the galaxy. Two months later—on trumped-up charges, Triannic also declared war on Fluvanna, thus supplying a spark that would eventually reignite war itself.

Until well into 52011, CIGAs throughout the Imperial Parliament prevented implementation of the Empire's mutual-assistance treaty with Fluvanna. However, with the abdication of Greyffin IV, Onrad V became Emperor and declared war on the League even as IVG forces destroyed huge League space fortifications at Zonga'ar and set Triannic's timetable for conquest back nearly a Standard Year. Within a month, the new Imperial Emperor dissolved the IVG, ordering his battle-proven crews back to a newly expanding Imperial Fleet, where the veterans would be spread throughout the Home Fleet in preparation for the inevitable Battle of Avalon. Wilf Brim—commander of the Zonga'ar raid—formed the vanguard of this historic migration.

Later, after a luxuriously long shower and shave in a washroom large enough to turn around in, Brim donned the only clean uniform he had with him and headed for the lobby. A hodgepodge of officers in military dress from all over the Empire relaxed here and there in the low-ceilinged room, some dozing in battered couches, others puffing on spice-filled pipes while they idly sifted the news on global displays.

Like lobbies of the other thousand-odd VOQs Brim had seen—all painted in the same two tones of wearisome green—it was one of two escapes from the ultimate boredom of a lonely transient's cubicle.

He was headed for the other. ...

"Bar's down the road, Captain," a desk clerk said perspicaciously. "Shall I call a skimmer?"

"Thanks, starsailor," Brim answered, "but after a week in a destroyer..."

"Aye, sir," the rating said with a smile. "You'd rather walk. I know the feelin.' About a half c'lenyt to starboard on your left. Can't miss it."

Brim nodded and headed for the door. Unless you liked snow—a lot of snow—Gimmas Haefdon offered little else than vast amounts of work and drinking. Bars for all ranks tended to be large and crowded.

Outside, the wind had lost some of its intensity and the snow was falling less heavily. He returned the salute of a rating who was operating one of Gimmas's ubiquitous snow shovels—the little machine chirped and scurried off to the side of the parking lot as he passed—then he started down the dark street, boots crunching on the fresh powder. No odors on Gimmas Haefdon, he thought for the millionth time as he walked in the muffled stillness. Smells of all kinds been frozen solid for centuries.

Ahead, through gently falling snow, the street dwindled in perspective to diminishing circles of light cast by a long column of Karlsson lamps placed in military precision along the center divider.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of big gravity generators spooling up. Ancient, shadowed goods houses, one more massive than the next, loomed on either side, darkened reminders of past Imperial might. Here and there, however, lights appeared in odd windows. Onrad V's hoary old Imperial Fleet was once again on the upswing after more than ten years of intentional neglect, caused from within by a traitor's organization, the Congress for IntraGalactic Accord.

A starship thundered invisibly close overhead, its gravs at full lift-off power. It was already lost in Gimmas's swirling clouds. Brim laughed softly to himself, remembering his early days at the base as a green Sub-lieutenant, fresh from the Helmsman's Academy on balmy Ariel. Even discounting the miserable weather of Carescria, his homeland in one of the Empire's poorest sectors, after four Standard Years on balmy Ariel, he'd found himself quite unprepared for Gimmas's fulsome climate. Yet he'd eventually come to think of the great base as home. He certainly didn't consider his native Carescria as any kind of home. And besides, at the time, Margot was here....

He sighed wistfully as the snowy darkness merged through nearly seventeen years to the night he met Her Serene Majesty, Margot Effer'wyck, Princess of the Effer'wyck Dominions and first cousin to Onrad, the present Imperial ruler. It had been a routine wardroom party aboard little I.F.S. Truculent.

She was there as an ordinary Lieutenant—a hardworking one at that, he'd quickly discovered. And if the tall, amply built woman were not the most beautiful he'd ever encountered, she'd still appealed to him in a most fundamental manner. Even after all these years, he could picture her that night: artfully tousled golden curls and soft, expressive blue eyes, flashing with nimble intelligence. Skin almost painfully fair, brushed lightly with pink high in the cheeks. And when she smiled, her brow formed the most engaging frown he could imagine. Moist lips, long, shapely legs, small breasts, and... He bit his lip.

They'd become lovers long after they'd fallen in love. She a princess of Effer'wyck, the Empire's most influential dominion—he a commoner from the shabbiest sector imaginable. For a while, the desperate absurdity of galactic war had canceled out that awesome gap in status. But reality intervened soon enough, forcing a political marriage between Brim's Princess and Rogan LaKarn, Baron of the Torond—a union designated to cement the bond between his massive palatinate and the Empire.

Afterward, the two star-crossed lovers continued as best they could, carrying on a tawdry affair filled with endless stretches of longing punctuated by brilliant flashes of their own special passion. For a while it had worked—even after ersatz peace forced a return to "normal" canons of class and status. But eventually distance, a child, and Margot's growing addiction to the Leaguers' devastating narcotic TimeWeed ate away their ties until only longing remained, buried deep within Brim's psyche to mask the pain it brought. Now, he didn't know if she were even still alive.

Twin convoys of immense lorries droned past, loaded with massive shapes under billowing tarpaulins; their traction engines whipped the fresh snow into swirling eddies. The rushing columns were gone in a moment, swallowed up by the night and the snow as if it had never existed. Not even tracks in the snow marked the passage of the big gravity skimmers.

He snorted. The lorries were a lot like Margot and himself, he thought, wryly brushing snow from his face. As if they'd never met. Even the Emperor's sacrifice of their love had come to nothing, for in spite of a marriage linking LaKarn to the royal family itself, the preening bully eventually allied himself with the League of Dark Stars and took Margot to the side of the enemy—or so it sometimes seemed to those who kept track of such things. Until little more than a month ago, that is, when she'd laid her own life on the line to save his, then disappeared from the face of the Universe in the explosion of a giant space fortification.

Grinding his teeth, he put that from his mind. Much as he wished to the contrary, there was nothing he could do about Margot Effer'wyck-Lakarn at present, and he had a number of other pressing matters on his mind, not the least of which was his new assignment....

"Hoy! Brim! Only Bears walk on Gimmas when they can ride."

The voice yanked his mind back to the present. Beside him, a command car hovered at curbside with its door open. Inside, illuminated only by instrument lights, he could see a long, thin nose terminating in an enormous mustache. Behind it were the rheumy eyes and painfully thin physique of Mark Valerian, designer of I.F.S. Starfury, name ship for a whole class of light cruisers that had revolutionized space warfare. In Brim's estimation, the man was easily the premiere starship designer of his times. "Bears and Carescrians, Mark," he replied with a grin of pleasure. "We're both a little daft."

"I'll drink to that," Valerian said matter-of-factly. "Anybody who'd fly those racing starships I designed has to be a little daft."

Brim grinned as his mind went spinning backward in years. Probably he had been a little daft to fly Valerian's racers. It all seemed so long ago, but the whole thing had begun only a few years previously—in 52005, if he remembered correctly—when Sodeskayan physicist U.V. Popova theorized the Reflecting HyperLight Drive. Based upon Sheldon Travis's (then) obscure Special Theory Number Six, Popova's hypothesis foreshadowed a whole new generation of starships. Under normal circumstances, practical applications of such a radical new Drive would have required years of experimentation. Instead, the singular rise to intergalactic prominence of a yearly competition for starship speed, the Mitchell Trophy race, spurred Sodeskayan development of the reflecting Drive to such a pace that prototypes were available for use by Imperial racers within three years, permitting Imperial Helmsmen like Brim to win permanent possession of the trophy—while League Drive development continued along a more conventional path. This seemingly arcane technological achievement combined with simultaneous development by Designer Mark Valerian of the classic Sherrington Starfury produced historic results only a few Standard Years afterward.

And despite the Starfury's legendary reputation, there was really no mystique about Valerian's design. It was a straightforward merger of all the technical knowledge of the time into one composite unit of machinery, including its superb Krasni-Peych Drive, that, with the spaceframe, embodied every experience of high-speed starflight gathered from the Mitchell Trophy races. In the case of the Reflecting-Drive Starfury, everything came right at the psychological moment—a rare event in starship and Drive design....

"Daft or not, I'll drive you to the bar anyway," Valerian continued, snapping Brim from his reverie. "How about that for compassion?"

Brim relented; no exercise tonight—again. "You've got a deal," he said, climbing into the warmth of the passenger seat. "And speaking of daft, what kind of new starship brings you to Gimmas this time?" he asked. "Especially when it's summertime back home at the Sherrington labs on Lys."

"Starfuries," Valerian said, easing the skimmer into forward. "At least for the present."

Brim turned and frowned. "But you designed Starfury years ago," he said. "Nothing new?"

"Oh, we're kickin' around a few new ideas on Lys, Brim," Valerian drawled with a little smile.

"But I didn't say Starfury; I said Starfuries." He winked as they pulled into a circular driveway lined by the twisted, skeletal forms of trees that had been dead for centuries. "New Starfuries, my friend," he added. "Like Starfury Mark 1C killer ships,"

"Killer ships? Mark, Starfuries are light cruisers, not short-range killer ships."

"One Cs are killer ships, Brim. Trust me," Valerian laughed. "All they share with normal Starfuries is hullmetal. Single helms. No provisions for long-range cruising at all. I've packed every cubic iral with amplification gear for the new disruptors."

"New disruptors, too?"

"You bet—425s."

"Four what?" Brim demanded, stepping out onto the snow. "I thought 406s were the biggest they make."

"Not anymore," Valerian said. "And the new 1Cs carry fourteen 425s in seven turrets.

Superfocused, no less; we brought the technology from Theobold Interspace in Lixor.''

Brim held the bar door for his friend as tides of familiar warm odors swept past him into the cold air outside. A thousand subtle flavors of camarge cigarettes mixed with Hogge'Poa, meem, perfume, and life itself. "The Great Neutrals," he laughed at the mention of Theobold Interspace. "Those Lixorian zukeeds manufacture—and peddle—more weapons than anybody else in the galaxy. Why, they're so peaceful, they almost make me sick."

"Yeah, you're right," Valerian admitted. "But at least they don't do much of the shooting."

"They leave that up to their clients," Brim said, handing his Fleet Cape to a shapely rating. "Like the xaxtdamned Leaguers."

"And us, now," Valerian reminded him. "From what I hear, you're gonna like the merchandise."

"If it kills Leaguer starships easier, I'll love it," Brim said grimly. "The bastards we fought in Fluvanna gave us quite a run for the money." Through an ancient wooden arch, he could see Borodov and Gallsworthy signaling from the crowded twilight and started into the room.

"Disrupters won't, be the only things you'll like about the 1C," Valerian assured him.

"Somehow I have little doubt about that," Brim called over his shoulder. "Like Logish Meem!

Thank you, Doctor," he said, taking a goblet from the old Bear. He sniffed its pungent contents.

"Excellent, excellent!" he exclaimed, examining the deep ruby liquid against light from an excellently counterfeited fireplace—firewood on dead Gimmas was worth a king's ransom.

"Tastes as good as it looks!" Valerian said, appreciatively sipping a goblet proffered by Gallsworthy. "It once again proves that Drive systems are not the only subjects on which Bears are born masters."

"Is good to be appreciated for truly important things," Borodov chuckled. "No Drive system can compare with excellent Logish Meem."

"And speaking of important things..." Gallsworthy interrupted.

"You going to talk about work already?" Valerian asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"War," Gallsworthy corrected.

"War's work enough for me," Brim observed bleakly, refilling his goblet from a fresh decanter silently placed on the table by a rating. After six Standard Days at Hyperspeed in a cramped destroyer, he was beginning to feel the trip.

"It's war's work we need to talk about, Brim," Gallsworthy said, turning abruptly serious. "All of us."

"Is calling meeting to official order," Borodov intoned, raising his goblet. "To His Majesty, Onrad the Fifth," he toasted.

"To Onrad the Fifth," the others chorused earnestly. "Long may he reign!"

"Now, Brim," Gallsworthy began, "all three of us are here tonight specifically to get you started in your new job. What do you want to hear about first?"

Brim sat back and considered. The meem was warm in his stomach and he was tired. If he really had his choice, he wanted to hear about how to get back to his room and some sack time. "Well," he chuckled, "Mark introduced me to the Starfury 1C on the way over. So I'm assuming I'll be flying one."

"You've got that right," Gallsworthy said with a smile. "But you'll be doing a lot more than flying."

"I was afraid of that," Brim said wryly. "The Wing Commander thing...."

"Yeah," Gallsworthy laughed, "the Wing Commander thing. You want to hear about that next?''

"I've got a choice?" Brim asked.

"Certainly," Gallsworthy answered. "We can also talk about your new job as Wing Commander. Which one?''

Brim grinned resignedly. "Well then, how about an introduction to my new job, Admiral?" he said.

"Ah! Perceptive choice, Wilf Ansor," Borodov rumbled.

"You always were lucky at thinks like that," Valerian observed with mock gravity.

"Things won't be as bad as you think, Brim," Gallsworthy promised. "You'll get plenty of time at the helm of a starship, believe me. It's just that you'll have a number of other duties, too—with the same importance as Helmsmanship. And you won't be doin' anything that you haven't already done setting up that IVG base at Varnholm Manor for our friend Baxter Calhoun. Mostly getting things done and keeping people out of trouble. It all came out pretty well on Fluvanna, didn't it, now?"

Brim shrugged. "The IVG was a pretty special outfit, Admiral," he said. "All veterans with years of experience. I think anybody could have set up the base at Varnholm—especially with Chief Barbousse to help."

"You'll have the Chief as soon as we can fly him out here," Gallsworthy asserted. "Emperor's personal orders on that."

"And that's all there is to being a Wing Commander?" Brim asked, cocking his head suspiciously.

"Just like Fluvanna?"

"A few differences," Gallsworthy said. "This time, for instance, you'll be doing all those 'commander' jobs officially."

"And...?"

"Well, you won't start with experienced crews like you did in Fluvanna, either. This time, you'll have to build an organization from the ground up—and see to their training. We'll get you the best people we can lay our hands on, but aside from being individually talented, they won't be a fighting force by anybody's definition. You'll have to turn 'em into that."

"And," Brim continued, wincing. He'd been waiting for something like that.

"And," Gallsworthy continued, "Baxter Calhoun won't be around to let you off the hook after you've got it all set up. It's a permanent assignment—at least as permanent as anything about the Fleet."

Brim nodded as Borodov refilled his goblet. "Where?" he asked. "Here?"

"Avalon."

"Avalon?" Brim exclaimed in relief. "You mean Avalon as in...?"

"As in the Imperial capital planet," Gallsworthy laughed, "—or at least orbiting above it. Now that's not hard to take, is it?

"Not hardly. Admiral," Brim agreed.

"I'd vote for that and lend a hand stuffin' the ballot box," Valerian put in.

Brim chuckled. "The 30 Defense Wing, Admiral?"

Gallsworthy nodded. "They called it 30 Wing during the last war," he said. "Got deactivated right after the Treaty of Garak. This time, it'll have two squadrons: 32 and 610. I've already got 32 Squadron set up in one of the new, orbiting FleetPort satellites under Commander Karen Rumsey. You two met in Atalanta during the Payless Operation years ago."

"Karen Rumsey," Brim said, nodding his head. "Yeah. I remember her. Fine Helmsman if memory serves."

"Fine administrator, too," Gallsworthy added. "Unfortunately, she's not much of a Squadron Leader at the helm. She puts too much emphasis on formation flying—one of those damn-fool ideas the CIGAs pushed so well when they had everybody's ear. Form over function—looks great but doesn't do much for winning wars." He shrugged. "Your problem now. She's running sixteen Defiant-class cruisers in four flights of four and one in reserve. You and she will have to get together by KA'PPA for a while because you'll be too busy helpin' set up 610 Squadron from scratch."

"Who'll I have to command that squadron?" Brim demanded. "I've got a strong recommendation if you haven't assigned anybody yet,"

"How about Toby Moulding?" Gallsworthy asked with a grin.

Brim laughed. "Since Toby's my recommendation," he said, "I'm in violent agreement."

"He'll be tied up for a while helpin' to shut down the IVG," Gallsworthy said. "But I'll have him here as soon as Calhoun releases him." He laughed. "I used all my 'obs' with Calhoun gettin' you assigned directly."

" 'Obs'?" Brim asked.

"As in 'obligations'," Gallsworthy explained. "He owed me a few for supportin' his IVG in Fluvanna."

"Guess I owe you a couple of 'obs' myself, then," Brim acknowledged.

"You'll pay 'em," Gallsworthy said. "You'll take care of quite a few operating 610 Squadron all by yourself."

"We'll be flying 1Cs?" Brim asked.

"Fifteen of 'em," Gallsworthy assured him. "Three flights of four. That'll give you two in reserve."

Brim frowned. "By my count, Admiral," he said, "you're one Starfury short."

"You count well, Brim," Gallsworthy said with a sly smile. "But I think I'll let brother Valerian tell you about your third 'reserve ship'."

"P7350," the designer said. "Killer ships don't get names. She's the first production Starfury 1C off the lines—proved out the manufacture' plan. And she's here, not more than a c'lenyt away in a finishing shed. Skeleton crew from the factory brought her here. They've been checking her out for a week. We'll go have a look in the morning."

"P7350's yours, too, Wilf," Gallsworthy said. "She and her crew will be your personal responsibility while you're forming the new squadron, so you won't lack left-seat time here at Gimmas.

After you get to Avalon, though, you'll be expected to take any available ship into combat whenever you can."

Brim laughed. "Sounds good to me," he said trenchantly, "I become bored so easily...."

"Not much danger of that, Wilf Ansor," Borodov observed, "at least from what friend Nikolai Yanuarievich messages."

"What's Nik say?" Brim asked.

" 'Phony war' will last only so long as it takes Triannic to rebuild what you blew up with space fort at Zonga'ar. Then, Voof!"

"Doesn't take Nik Ursis and the Sodeskayan Intelligence Community to bet that ol' Wilf here is going to be a busy man back on Avalon," Valerian said. "The CIGAs are bound to make a stink about you blowing up one of our own battleships."

"Yeah, Brim," Gallsworthy said with a frown. "Things have been pretty quiet, considering that you destroyed I.F.S. Queen Elidian with every hand on board. Even if she was crewed by a bunch of CIGA traitors."

Brim grimaced. "Except for the CIGAs themselves," he said, "nobody felt worse than I did about those Imperial ships we destroyed at Zonga'ar. But..."

"But," Gallsworthy interrupted, "you weren't a member of the Imperial Fleet at the time. Right?"

"That's right, Admiral," Brim assured him. "At the time, I was working as a mercenary in the Fluvannian Fleet."

"An' all the zukeed CIGAs aboard the Queen were tryin' to keep you from the Leaguers' space fort," Valerian added.

"So the Queen had to go. Right, Wilf Ansor?" Borodov observed.

"Pretty much, that's it, Dr. Borodov," Brim said. "But it was still pretty awful." He shook his head.

"The old Queen.... For years, she was the largest, fastest, and most handsome warship anywhere. Why, she was the Fleet when I was a kid." He ground his teeth and stared into his goblet as if its dark liquid could hide him from the memories. After more than a month, his decision to destroy the historic battleship still bothered him. And it had little to do with the crew of traitors who died aboard her. When he looked up, the other three were still staring at him.

"Word is that Margot Effer'wyck had something to do with that battle, Wilf Ansor," Borodov said softly.

"The word's right, Doctor," Brim said. "Crazy as it sounds, she was aboard the fort through most of our attack. When we ruptured the doors where they were keeping her prisoner—with her zukeed husband's approval—she escaped to one of the fort's message rooms and began transmitting. Everybody on Starfury's bridge probably saw her in my global display. Nadia Tissaurd—my Number One on Starfury—was looking right at her when she told us where to plant the torpedoes."

"You mean Margot told you where to hit the fort?" Valerian demanded.

"None other," Brim answered.

"But... if the scuttlebutt's true, not a month earlier, she was also the big lure in a Leaguer attempt to ambush you in Magor City...."

"That's how it looks to a lot of people."

"Somehow I doubt if that's what you think, Wilf," Gallsworthy said.

Brim shrugged gloomily. The meem and exhaustion were beginning to get the best of him.

"Probably doesn't matter what anybody thinks," he replied with a weary, shrug. "It's not very likely she survived when the fort blew up." He shook his head. "That explosion xaxtdamned wrecked Starfury, and we were a long way off when the energy wave hit us. Close as she was to it... Well, unless she made it to the protection of that asteroid shoal, she's nothing but free ions now."

"Perhaps Lady Fortune was more kind to her than that," Borodov suggested.

"You've heard something?" Brim asked, feeling a surge of excitement in spite of his fatigue.

The older Bear nodded. "When word concerning the Princess first reached me," he said, "I caused certain... 'inquiries' to be made through Sodeskayan military intelligence organizations." He smiled.

"Sometimes, being Grand Duke has its rewards."

"And you found...?" Brim prodded, now completely alert.

"Almost nothing, at first, my friend," Borodov answered, "Not until last week did I receive any sort of word that held promise of her survival."

"What did you hear...?"

"Last week, Wilfooshka, rumors surfaced in remote part of galaxy concerning golden-haired 'princess' passing along some old trade routes a few Standard Weeks or so following your raid." He sighed. "Not much to go on, but enough to keep flame of hope alight, eh? Especially since some reports alleged that she was accompanied by a child."

" Anything's better than the certainty she's dead," Brim said earnestly. "At least there's a chance."

"A chance," Borodov said, staring off into another time. "Odd," he mused, "but I can remember evening you two-met as if it were yesterday. Nikolai Yanuarievich and I were there, in wardroom of old I.F.S. Truculent." He shook his head wistfully. "Somehow, I never dreamed Universe would allow such beauty to end up in such trouble...."

"Thanks," Brim said, refilling his goblet. Margot Effer'wyck was out of his life now, and he had to keep it that way, otherwise he'd spend the remainder of his days mooning after her memory. With an almost physical effort, he forced her from his mind. "And how is Nik getting along these days?" he asked.

"Ah, he has been inquiring after you," the old Bear said with a smile. "From correspondence, he seems to be having time of his life working on intelligence projects."

"Nik? In Intelligence?"

"Oh, yes," Borodov said with raised eyebrows. "You know how he loves theoretical work."

"What's his field now?" Brim asked. "I never attempted to keep track of his interests."

Borodov frowned. "Curious," he said. "I do not know exactly what he does there. But you will remember his fascination with remote aiming systems. Last time he visited me at Manor house outside Gromcow, he talked at some length about KA'PPA COMM-based systems that could triangulate two or more beams at great distances with terrific accuracy. My guess is he is working on something like that.

But who knows?" He laughed. "As he said himself, 'If you want to keep something concealed from your enemy, you do not disclose it to your friends.' So we talked of other things...."

After that, conversation became a lot less structured as the four veteran warriors settled down to rare moments of peace and a chance to reminisce about old times and places. Emperor Nergol Triannic's League of Dark Stars was a fierce, remorseless enemy. Soon enough it would be on the march again through civilized portions of the galaxy. Then, there would be little time for anything but fighting. Tonight, a little repose yet remained in the Universe. A very little....

Brim awoke to the insistent chiming of a communicator from his nightstand. He could recall very little more of the evening— except that he'd collected a considerable meem hangover. Nudging the little device into operation, he heard Mark Valerian on the other end.

"Let's go see a starship, Wilf," the designer said.

"Mark," Brim groaned at the privacy darkened display, "it's got to be the middle of the night." No light emanated from the room's small window at all.

"On Gimmas, who can tell?" Valerian laughed.

"How come you don't have a hangover?" Brim complained.

"Oh, I do," Valerian assured him. "But they don't last long once you're outside in the cold."

Brim chuckled in spite of himself. "I can believe that," he said. "All right, I'll be down in a couple of cycles. You're in the lobby?"

"Not yet," Valerian said. "I'm still in my quarters. But by the time you drag yourself downstairs, I'll be there."

Less than a metacycle later, the two were hurtling along through driving snow in a rattle-packed staff skimmer that was clearly left over from early in the last war. The heater was nonoperative, and steam rose in clouds from the PyroMug of cvceese' Brim held in his gloves. Valerian sipped from a similar mug with one hand while he navigated with the other. Riding with the designer was always a thrill for Brim—much like being in a dogfight. He always came out of it with the adrenaline flowing and renewed appreciation for life.

"You say they flew the new 1C in from Bromwich only a week ago?" Brim asked.

"The 'week ago' part's right, Wilf," Valerian said, skidding around a corner at high speed—and just missing the all-too-solid-looking concrete base of a Karlsson lamp, "but they didn't bring her in from the factory at Bromwich. She was built 'way out in the asteroid mining sections of Carescria. In one of the shadow factories old Emperor Greyffin IV funded in secret a couple of years ago."

"Factories in Carescria?" Brim asked in amazement. "They don't make anything out there, except maybe poverty and too many children. I know. That was my sector of the Empire. At least it was until I managed to escape.

"Oh, yeah," Valerian said. "I'd almost forgotten. You are a Carescrian, even though you don't talk like one." He frowned. "Anyway, Greyffin got something in his craw about the place, 'cause from what I understand, he started a number of secret complexes there to build military starships." With no hands on the tiller, he brushed ice from the windshield as they passed the rusting, snow-covered remains of a crashed starship—one of hundreds that dotted the landscape around Gimmas's great starship wharves. The wrecks—both Imperial and enemy—were left over from one of thousand-odd failed attempts by the League to put the base out of business.

Brim sipped his cvceese', the hot, sweet liquid searing his tongue as it came from the PyroMug.

"Carescria," he mused, thinking back through what seemed like centuries to his youth in that depressed region—before his family had been wiped out by one of the Leaguers' surprise attacks that heralded the beginning of the last war. Then, the only Carescrian industry had been asteroid mining. Brim had learned to fly starships by piloting the infamously dangerous Carescrian ore barges—worn-out military space barges with huge Drive chambers and oversize gravity generators that could race to the smoke-belching hullmetal smelters that polluted the natural beauty of nearly all (so-called) "habitable" Carescrian planets.

He'd been one of the lucky ones who managed to escape—and only because he'd been blessed at birth with extraordinarily keen vision and the quick reflexes of a rothcat.... But had he really escaped Carescria? Not if one judged by what other people said. It was always "you are a Carescrian," not "you were." After years of trying to distance himself from anything even slightly Carescrian, his impoverished youth still seemed to taint him.

"That shut you up, Wilf," Valerian commented as he pulled of the highway, across five sets of glowing, tube-shaped tram tracks, and through the gates of a parking lot beside a gigantic finishing bay—probably the one he'd spotted from Jacques Schneider. The mammoth brick structure was surrounded on three sides by rows of huge, roaring generators and squat, finned towers that flashed alternatively in deep blue and reddish orange. Overhead, fat cables arced from great conduits in the surface to connect with dozens of shimmering globes mounted on the building's roof.

Brim smiled distantly. "Memories," he explained. "Some go pretty deep."

Valerian nodded. "I think I understand," he said. "I visited Carescria a couple years ago...."

"You had to live there, Mark," Brim muttered, wondering for the ten billionth time what it was that made him love the Empire in spite of what hundreds of years of heartless-but-legal plundering had made of his native dominion.

"Yeah," Valerian replied after a pause, pulling to a halt near two sets of doors under a small canopy, "I'll be glad to take your word for it...."

Inside, the cavernous building was divided into four huge chambers, each capable of housing at least three cruiser-sized starships. For the most part, two of the mammoth rooms were cold and empty—as they had existed since the great base was shut down by the CIGAs in the first years of "peace" after the disastrous Treaty of Garak. Rusting donkey engines rested ghostlike on darkened tracks beneath old-fashioned gantry cranes that could still lift whole Drive sections from their chambers.

Brim and Valerian passed through these rooms aboard a clanking little tram that echoed in the emptiness like some noisy insect caught in the Catacombs of Savnie'er. But long before passing through the door to the third chamber, they could hear the bustle that emanated from the other side. Glare from hundreds of ceiling-mounted Karlsson lamps was almost painful as they emerged from tomblike stillness to the noisy commotion of an active finishing bay.

Two of the room's thundering gravity pools were occupied by what were unmistakably Sherrington Starfury-class starships, attached to an army of monitoring instruments through what looked like thousands of glittering cables. Handsome vessels in obsidian hullmetal, the cruisers were designed to enhance high-speed atmospheric maneuvering by extremely clean exterior configurations. They were tri-hulled, in the Valerian tradition: a main fuselage complemented on either side by "pontoon" units mounted slightly below the centerline. These housed three Admiralty A876 gravity generators each and were connected to the main hull through "trouser" structures characteristic of the racing starships produced earlier by Sherrington HyperSpace Works. Raked, low-set bridge/deckhouse units protruded some way back from their sharply tapered bows, and except for blisters housing the main battery, these constituted the only slipstream disturbances anywhere. The turrets were also the most visible difference between Mk1s and Mk1Cs, for the latter carried two twin-mount turrets atop the main fuselage instead of one. Of course!—new superfocused disrupter pairs emanating from the sheered-off turrets were slightly thicker. They'd have to be if the big weapons were to house a boost path close enough to the main feeds for efficient cooling. And... yes, the forward Hyperscreens were raked even further. He nodded. That ought to clear up the ship's nasty bent toward overheat during high-speed landfall operations. By Voot, she was a bit longer, too. Had to be. On Mk1 models, the Drive-chamber hatch line ran just past center on the trousers. This one made it only midway along the fillet. And what else...?

In his utter fascination, he forgot all about Valerian until chuckling intruded....

"I take it you approve of how she looks," the designer said, softly nudging the Carescrian's elbow.

"Count on it, friend," Brim said, emerging slowly from his reverie. "You always did have a penchant for handsome starships."

"If they look good..." Valerian prompted, holding his hands palm outward in the manner of a popular children's game.

"They usually fly that way, too," Brim finished like a litany. It was the oldest aphorism in the engineering handbook—but it rarely failed. Sherrington Starfuries followed the dictum exactly. They were a pure, delicate pleasure to fly from lift-off to landfall, with a turn of speed that placed them among the fastest ships in the known Universe. And now, at least some of the phenomenal ships were being built in Carescrian yards.

Boarding through an open brow, Brim wandered through the ship with Valerian in tow, dodging busy workmen and engineers while taking in all the amazing changes he found within the hull.

Vastly—incredibly—different from normal Starfury-class warships, Mk1Cs existed on the basis of shooting, maneuverability, and speed alone—in that order. With full exploitation anywhere in the flight envelope. Gone were the comfortable wardrooms, messing facilities, sleeping quarters, and the rest of the facilities necessary for extended cruising. The only elements Brim could see that had been left untouched were the propulsion units. Even the primary plasma generators had been enlarged in the form of Krasni-Peych 2450 units fresh from research laboratories in Sodeskaya. This alone made it possible to slightly increase armor protection over the Drive chambers, a weak spot that had become glaringly apparent in Fluvanna during battles with the League's deadly new Gorn-Hoff 262s.

Toward late afternoon, they emerged back onto the noisy floor of the bay. "All right, Wilf," Valerian shouted over the roar of the pool generators, "what do you think?"

Brim grinned happily. "Well," he allowed, "they're certainly pure killer ships, now. I haven't seen enough room aboard for so much as a box lunch. What's the crew size again? With less than ten command stations—and I'll bet the enlisted complement is reduced by at least half."

"Pretty close, Wilf," Valerian said. "We've got it down to a single Helmsman, eight other officers, and thirty-one ratings. No support types at all—except for damage-control teams."

"Probably not a bad idea to keep them aboard," Brim agreed emphatically. Starfury had sustained considerable damage during her year in Fluvanna, and had even been shot down once with direct hits in a Drive chamber—an event that, he considered with no little misgiving, led directly to the fathering of his first child.

He'd only learned about that within the last week, and still found his new status difficult to comprehend. Especially since Raddisma of Magor, the unborn child's mother, was also the favorite consort of His Majesty, Mustafa Eyren, Nabob and absolute ruler of embattled Fluvanna.

He shrugged. Later.... He'd deal with that once he got all the other loose ends of his life sorted out—like setting up a whole new wing of the Home Fleet. The child's mother could provide her with a home, for he certainly had none. Anywhere but the fleet.

"Voot's beard, Wilf, that certainly took you afield," Valerian said with a curious smile, "I'd heard Starfury was shot down during one of her battles with the Leaguers, but I'd no idea it had affected you so. I'm sorry. Truly."

Brim laughed sardonically. "Mark," he said, placing a hand on the designer's shoulder. "Aside from killing a number of fine Imperials—and scaring the bevboots out of me—crash landing Starfury was no particularly big thing. I've been shot down a number of times before. It was what happened later that..." He stopped himself and laughed. "If I ever get it all sorted out myself, you'll be among the very first to know."

"Sounds like a deal to me," Valerian said—still frowning. Then he shrugged, checking the ancient timepiece he carried with him. "Probably time we hie ourselves off to meet Admiral Gallsworthy and Dr. Borodov. They'll be waiting at the Officers Mess. Both of 'em are anxious to hear what you think of the new 1Cs."

Laughing as they boarded the little tram for the parking lot, Brim nodded. "I'll tell everyone they're beautiful as ever, Mark," he promised.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Valerian said. "You didn't get to fly one."

"Well," the Carescrian said, "that would be nice."

"How about tomorrow morning?"

Brim consulted a pocket schedule he'd found in his lobby pickup box. "Yeah," he said, scanning the tiny globe as it displayed complex patterns of color in intricate rhythms and hues. He laughed. "After I finish at least four metacycles of appointments with a staff of temporary orderlies they've assigned to me." He shook his head. "Better plan on tomorrow afternoon, Mark. Late."

Valerian nodded. "Give me a call as soon as you have a firm schedule. The Sherrington crew has promised to have most of the cables off your ship by morning."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Brim said, blowing on his heated gloves as he followed the designer through bitterly cold darkness to the skimmer. He sighed to himself while Valerian coaxed the vehicle's tiny grav to life. Wing Commander, no less. An exalted title to be certain. The next step was certain to come with promotion to Commodore, or even Rear Admiral. Yet deep down he wondered if the new assignment was really right for a dyed-in-the-wool Helmsman like himself. Then he shrugged. With considerable assistance from his prodigious valet—and trusted friend—Master Chief Petty Officer Utrillo Barbousse, he'd survived the same sort of assignment when he set up the IVG's first headquarters during Baxter Calhoun's absence, and he hadn't been vetted any help there at all. This time, with real bean counters to take care of the details, maybe he could get even more time in space.

Then again maybe he couldn't....

Predictably, it took the long-anticipated arrival of Chief Barbousse to ultimately free Brim from his administrative shackles. But when he did finally slip away to fly his new Starfury 1C, the graceful ship was more than worth his wait. From the moment he taxied out onto Gimmas's tossing ocean for takeoff until he nudged her back onto a gravity pool, P7350 was everything Valerian had claimed—and a great deal more. With the new gravs, acceleration was phenomenal, and the extra speed only slightly affected maneuverability. Above the velocity of light, her characteristics were completely unchanged from the original Starfury he had flown in the Imperial Volunteer group.

Over the next three Standard Months, she was joined by others, as new ships began to arrive on a regular basis and crews assembled from all over the Empire in a gigantic training effort. Miraculously, the League of Dark Stars extended the interruption they had inaugurated after the Battle of Zonga'ar, still licking their wounds while they prepared for the next brutal attempt at conquest. And along with other unit commanders in the Imperial Fleet, Wilf Brim took every advantage of the hiatus, feverishly working to forge new organizations that could bear the terrible impact of renewed war when it inexorably came.

Through it all, CIGAs all over the Empire continued to press for peace with the League at any price, chanting their clever, empty slogans and heaping abuse on Emperor Onrad for provoking the war in the first place. But for all their sound and fury, the CIGAs had lost at least some of the popular support they once enjoyed. In the few months since Emperor Onrad's declaration of war over the League's attack on Fluvanna, counterdemonstrations had grown apace until the number of loyal citizens often matched the CIGAs they opposed. Occasionally, loyalist numbers were even larger.

Nevertheless, the CIGA protests made it doubly difficult to organize a workable system of home defense, even though devoted Imperials everywhere knuckled down and worked 'round the clock with whatever resources they could scrape together. Almost miraculously, new defense organizations began to function anyway—haltingly at first, but gaining form and momentum with every moment that passed.

Unfortunately, far too few moments remained....