The Defenders

CHAPTER 2

CIGAs Again

On 213/52011—little more than three Standard Months following Brim's arrival on Gimmas—the League began its long-impending attack on the Empire, ending the period of "Sham War" that had extended since their defeat the previous year at Zonga'ar. In a stunning onslaught across nearly 500 light-years of arc, armadas numbering more than 1,880 starships, 570,000 jackbooted Controllers, and 2000 giant land crawlers mounted a colossal offensive. The Imperial dominions of Lamintir, Korbu, and Gannat fell within two Standard Days, their planetary legislatures so weakened from within by CIGAs that their armed forces could offer only token resistance. The flighted people of courageous little A'zurn capitulated only after a bloody struggle—and a wild naval melee during which three gallant A'zurnian destroyers nearly demolished a Leaguer battleship before they, themselves, were wiped out by the big ship's surviving disruptors.

With astonishing speed, Triannic's seemingly invincible fleets and land armies conquered all before them until before long they were poised before the affluent collection of stars and habitable planets called Effer'wyck, a proud and powerful dominion with more than ten thousand Standard Years of history. Once this was subjugated, only the 'Wyckean Void, a narrow emptiness at the origin of a galactic arm, would separate the Leaguers from the great triple star called Triad of Asterious. Collectively known throughout the galaxy as "Greater Avalon," this triple star and its five planets—jointly capital of Onrad V's Grand Galactic Empire—were preeminent among the League's targets of conquest.

A month earlier, in the face of violent CIGA protests, powerful units of the Imperial Expeditionary Forces under Major General (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z'Hagbut had been rushed across the Void to bolster Effer'wyckean Defense Forces. But by the time these forces could be brought to bear, the League juggernaut had already gained tremendous momentum—as well as vast stores of materiel from its new conquests.

On Gimmas itself, Brim was viewing the latest dispatches— all bad news—when Master Chief Petty Officer Utrillo Barbousse stuck his bald head inside the temporary office Brim had designated Headquarters, 30 Wing. "An old friend o' yours, Cap'm," the big rating announced with a great smile.

Brim looked up with a frown. Hadn't Barbousse been out by the gravity pools overseeing a repair detail? Why was he here making the announcement... ? He'd always instructed the orderlies to let "special" friends simply walk in on him. "Send him in, Chief," he replied warily.

Immediately, a grand, prominentorial nose burst into the room, followed by a pair of humorous blue eyes with a droll, confident sort of smile that fairly shouted old, well-established wealth. Only one person Brim knew looked like that....

"Toby Moulding!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Great suffering Universe, I'd nearly forgotten you were due here today from Fluvanna." Leaping around the desk, he returned a brief salute, then grabbed the man's out-thrust hand.

Commander Tobias Moulding, I.F., was tall, blond, and essentially the same age as Brim. He was also immaculately attired in an Imperial Fleet uniform that looked as if it had been delivered that morning direct from one of the exclusive shops along Avalon's fabled Crispin Row. Like Brim, he wore the discreet red-on-blue insignia of the Imperial High-Speed Starflight team, and presently held the galactic speed record of 111.97M LightSpeed. He'd set that record in the same Valerian-designed M-6 Beta racing starship in which Brim retired the galaxy-famous Mitchell Trophy two years earlier. "I say, Captain," Moulding drawled, "so long as you're going to call in your friends to help with this new assignment, couldn't you at least locate yourself somewhere in a more temperate climate?"

Brim grinned and shook his head. "Can't blame me for this frozen mess, Toby. I just came here following orders."

"Sounds like a Leaguer's excuse from here," Moulding chuckled, "but it's good enough for me—as are you, old friend. I've missed you since we served together, if for no other reason than I've not had to fight for my life in almost four months now."

Brim settled into one of two battered armchairs in front of his desk, indicating the other with a nod of his head. "I think we'll change that soon enough," he said.

"Bloody well," Moulding chuckled. "Seems as if someone's been after my hide constantly since I met you."

"Commanding 610 Squadron won't seem much of a change, then," Brim said.

"Why am I not surprised?" Moulding asked with a grin. "Where's it to be?"

"Avalon."

"Well," Moulding said, brightening. "Quite an improvement. From a dominion barely awakened to starflight we're now assigned to the very center of galactic civilization."

" 'Very center of a huge target,' is more like it." Brim laughed. "My take is that anybody even remotely near Avalon will shortly be a recipient of the League's finest efforts."

"We saw some fine efforts in Fluvanna," Moulding observed soberly. "Let's hope these aren't too much better, or we may not survive the show."

Brim nodded. "I can't say that hasn't entered my mind...."

"Nobody lives forever," Moulding said, a smile breaking across his face.

"Probably won't have to worry about that," Brim assured him darkly, "We've already lost Karen Rumsey—your counterpart who was commanding Squadron 32 back at FleetPort 30. I just heard about it this morning; only got a chance to meet her a couple of times in person. She'd been running things pretty much on her own while I started the Starfury operation."

"I knew her in school," Moulding said. "A real expert in formation flying. How'd it happen?"

"Ferried some Effer'wyckean bigwig back to the capital," Brim explained. "League bastards caught her on the ground during their first raid on Luculent."

"Mmm," Moulding observed. "Well, if the night life over there was anything like I remember, the poor woman probably went out with a smile on her face."

Brim nodded. Luculent, the capital of Effer'wyck, was famed not only for a heroic overdose of pretentious architecture but also for its libertine way of living. "I'll bet things are a lot more subdued right now," he observed.

"You never know," Moulding replied. "People over there probably have a lot they'd like to forget these days."

"Yeah," Brim agreed. It was years since his own family had been wiped out in a single League raid from space, yet his mind's eye could see his tiny sister dying in his arms as if it had happened five minutes ago. "I wish them a lot of luck doing that...." Then he shrugged. "Enough," he said, forcing himself to relax. "There's ample bad news coming from Effer'wyck without dredging up the past—and I'll bet you'd like to hear about the new assignment."

Moulding laughed. "Well," he said, crossing his legs, "I already knew it's dangerous. Otherwise, you wouldn't be involved. But do let me in on the other details. Squadron Commander is it? Daresay that ought to prove interesting. Where might the crews be coming from?"

"That's probably the biggest problem we've got right now," Brim said. "The xaxtdamned CIGAs have been more successful than I ever dreamed. They drove so many people from the Fleet over the last ten years that trained crews are almost as scarce as ships. We're recruiting anywhere we can."

"Hmm," Moulding said, scratching his chin. "Somehow I was afraid that might be the case."

"We have plenty of warm bodies already, and a lot more on the way," Brim said. "A surprising lot of potentially good people—even Helmsmen, for all that. And individually, they're pretty well qualified for their positions. Universe, I've studied their records well enough and flown with some of them every day. But transforming groups of lone mavens into effective crews, then turning those crews into fighting squadrons isn't something that can be done in a few short weeks. At least, I don't know how."

"Combat," Moulding said.

"Combat?"

"Best instructor in the Universe—if a trifle short-tempered."

Brim nodded with a rueful grin.

"Let me get this straight," Moulding said. "All I have to do is whip a hodgepodge gaggle of independent space virtuosos into fighting teams good enough to compete with an experienced, highly organized, excellently trained and equipped enemy with high morale and absolutely no concept of compassion or fair play. Right?"

"No," Brim corrected, looking Moulding in the eye. "Competing isn't good enough. They've got to beat the zukeed bastards. And I don't mean in formation flying."

"Somehow, I didn't think you did," Moulding said with a little smile. "I suppose you want me to start immediately."

"Actually, no," Brim replied. "Not immediately."

"Oh?" Moulding asked with a cocked eyebrow.

"Yesterday," Brim answered. "Actually, last month would have been even better."

"In that case," Moulding chuckled, "I suppose I'd better be moving."

"Get yourself unpacked, old friend," Brim said, returning to his work. "I'll meet you at Pool Sector Twelve in three metacycles to introduce you around."

"I'll be there with my 'time rewinder,' " Moulding said on his way out the door.

"Better bring two," Brim replied over his shoulder. "The Leaguers aren't going to wait forever. ..."

The next evening, at the end of a frustrating day consisting mostly of useless paperwork, Brim wearily dropped into the Officers' Bar so late that even Borodov had called it a night more than a metacycle ago. However, due to increased traffic in and out of the great base, the bar was still crowded by transients keeping hours from any one of a thousand-odd planetary systems scattered across the galaxy. Colossal Gimmas Haefdon was coming back to life with each passing metacycle, no matter how slow the revival process seemed to impatient people like himself. Perched on a bar stool that was wedged between a huge Sodeskayan Drive Lieutenant and a morose-looking A'zurnian refugee, he was sipping a lonesome goblet of meem—and lamenting his wasted day—when he suddenly found his eyes covered from behind by a pair of warm hands scented by a familiar perfume.

"Guess who I am or you buy the meem," a disguised— obviously feminine—voice demanded.

"Hmm," Brim grumbled under his breath, "let's see. Nergol Triannic?"

"Wrong gender."

"Yeah, I thought so. Um... Zorfrieda, Queen of Halaci?"

"Universe, Captain, she's been dead a couple hundred years now."

"Oh," Brim agreed with a chuckle, "she was kind of boring. Ah... the Empress Mother Honorotha?"

"At least she's alive—now try somebody a few hundredweight lighter."

"Hmm. A few hundredweight lighter...." Now he remembered, or at least his nose did. The perfume! How could he have forgotten a hundred-odd receptions in the Fluvannian capital? "If I started moving my hands around back there," he asked with a grin, "would I touch anything familiar?"

The disguised voice laughed. "Unfortunately not, my ex-Skipper. But we can remedy that any time."

"Nadia Tissaurd!" Brim exclaimed, grabbing blindly behind him to capture a tiny, solid waist.

"Xaxtdamn," a lilting voice swore in mock rage as the hands covering Brim's eyes slid lower in an embrace of considerable affection, "I guess I buy the meem." At the same time, a pair of moist lips brushed his cheek, then retracted with a feminine grunt of dismay. "Voot's beard, Skipper, when did you last shave?"

"Early this morning," Brim replied, slipping off the bar stool to accept a hug that was—as always—a great deal more suggestive than friendly, "It's been a long day."

"You never let yourself go like that aboard Starfury," Tissaurd sniffed, accepting a boost onto the high stool.

"I never had to work so hard aboard Starfury," Brim groused. "And I'm not letting myself go!"

"If you say so, Skipper," she said, humor gleaming in her eyes. A tiny, prematurely graying Lieutenant Commander in her early forties, her round face, large eyes, pug nose, and full, sensuous lips gave a most pixielike countenance. She had a compact figure with large hands and feet—and prominent breasts that rarely failed to attract attention, even when mostly hidden by a Fleet Cloak. As Brim's First Lieutenant aboard I.F.S. Starfury in Fluvanna, she had proven herself to be a most competent Helmsman who could carry out a myriad of duties with the cheerful willingness of a saint. She was also frank and highly sensual. A strong bond had formed between the two officers, and occasionally they had been at pains to keep their relationship on the "safe" side of professionalism. "I assume you will join me in a Logish Meem," she said, signaling to the bartender.

"The goblet might be a little crowded, Number One," Brim chuckled, addressing her by the traditional Fleet nickname for a starship's First Lieutenant, "but with you, I'd try anything at least once."

"Good news, my ex-Skipper," she said, surreptitiously cupping his hand over her breast. "There's nothing in the regs about a little fun between friends who don't share the same ship. Bartender! The Skipper here wants a refill and I'll have one of the same."

A decidedly assertive sensation surged momentarily in Brim's loins as he withdrew his hand. Even as a joke, it had been a long time since... "Tissaurd," he said with a grin, "you could be a bad influence on me."

"Finish your drink, Wilf," she said with a mischievous grin. "I lift ship in two metacycles. When I do finally drag you to bed, I'll want to enjoy myself significantly longer than that,"

"Xaxtdamn," Brim mumbled through a grin. "Always at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Sooner or later," Tissaurd said over her shoulder while she paid the bartender. Then she turned and saluted with her goblet of meem. "Here's to a future evening of strict purience."

"To future purience," Brim answered, touching the lip of her goblet with his. "But what of Nadia Tissaurd right now? Last time I heard, you were commanding Starfury. I didn't know she was in port."

"She isn't," Tissaurd said. "Someone decided that such a famous prototype ought to be placed safely in a museum before she's blasted beyond repair. After all, we did put a few dents in the old girl last year."

"Dents and more," Brim agreed.

"So I drove her off to that remote storage yard in the thirty-fifth sector and now I'm flying I.F.S.

Nord. You've heard of her?"

Brim felt his eyebrows rise. "Universe," he exclaimed, " Nord's a bender, isn't she?"

"The latest bender," Tissaurd said, examining her manicured fingernails. "And you wouldn't believe where I've had her already."

"Probably, I'm not cleared to know anyway." Brim laughed. Perfected by the League during the last war, benders were special starships that could, in effect, "bend" the entire spectrum (except "heavy" N rays) around their hulls, thereby becoming virtually invisible.

"True," Tissaurd agreed. "But one of the places I will tell you about—in spite of the thraggling regulations—is A'zurn. I had Nord there when the dominion fell, and I was able to bring out a number of A'zurnian officials. Including a friend of yours. He's actually the second reason I stopped in to see you during my layover."

"The second reason?" Brim asked.

"Well, of course," Tissaurd said. "The first reason was to make certain you were still interested in a little erotic fun some time in the future."

Brim chuckled, "Were I to back away from the bar stool right now," he bantered, "you'd have a visual answer to that little question."

"Too bad I'm leaving so soon, then, Captain. But someday..." She grinned and sipped her meem.

"I do have important business to discuss tonight, though—like the replacement Commander you need for 32 Squadron."

Brim frowned. "How in xaxt did you hear about that?" he demanded. "I just found out yesterday myself."

"Oh, I have my methods," Tissaurd said impishly, "and I also have the replacement you need."

"For 32 Squadron?"

"Landed him today in my bender," Tissaurd asserted.

"But they haven't even assigned anybody yet," Brim protested.

"That's the best part," Tissaurd said. "They won't need to, now."

"Wait a cycle." Brim said. "How could you have a replacement? Didn't you say you just came in from combat duty?"

"That's right," Tissaurd assured him. "From A'zurn."

"Then how in Voot's greasy beard could you have..."

"Does the name Aram of Nahshon ring a bell, Wilf Brim?" Tissaurd interrupted. "That's the old friend I picked up."

Brim felt his eyebrows go orbital. "Aram of Nahshon?" he asked. "I heard he'd been killed commanding the group of destroyers that almost got the Leaguer battleship off Magalla'ana."

"He's here—at the sector hospital," she said. "I picked up his lifeglobe on the way back. Pure luck. He's a bit the worse for wear, but full of Fight as ever—and plenty ready to command a squadron of killer ships, I'd say. Even if he weren't a natural, think how it would help post-war relations with A'zurn."

"Universe," Brim agreed. "You're right on both counts. But he's not an Imperial. How would I go about getting him assigned?"

" You wouldn't. I thought about that on the way here," Tissaurd said with a smile. "But your old friend and mentor Baxter Calhoun could. Vice Admirals can do nearly anything, especially ones assigned directly to the Admiralty."

"Nadia," Brim asked fervently, "did I ever tell you you're wonderful...."

"A number of times, ex-Skipper of mine. But I'm always ripe for more bouquets."

"You're wonderful."

Tissaurd fluttered her eyelids. "I know," she said, preening facetiously. "You needn't tell me."

Brim rolled his eyes. "I've changed my mind," he grumped.

"Bet I could change it back if we were in bed," Tissaurd said impishly.

"Not before you lift ship." Brim chuckled. "But I'll take a promise in the meantime."

"I've already promised, Skipper," she replied with a serious little smile. "Count on it."

"I shall," Brim said, suddenly aware of the fact that something very fundamental had changed between them.

"Wilf Brim," she said, looking him directly in the eye, "you are far and away the best Commander I've ever had—but I'm glad I don't work for you anymore. We've had a professional relationship much too long." Then she glanced at her timepiece and drained her goblet. "Time to go," she said.

Brim pressed her hand gently. "May stars light all thy paths," he said in the age-old salute between starsailors.

"And thy path, Star Traveler," she pronounced in return. Then she pressed his hand and slipped from the bar stool, disappearing quickly into the crowd.

When she was gone, Brim found himself surprised at how noisy the room had suddenly become.

He and Tissaurd had a lot in common, now that he thought about. She too had never mentioned a home—but then again, she never seemed lonely, either....

In the morning, or the grayness that passed for "morning" on Gimmas Haefdon, Brim dispatched a KA'PPA message to the Admiralty in Avalon, then battled his way through a raging snowstorm to the sprawling hospital compound that served Sector 19. Portions of the huge receiving gallery were obviously under restoration from years of neglect, and a few dark corridors still led off into the darkness of abandonment, but the room teemed with evacuated refugees and Imperial casualties flown in from Effer'wyck. Both served as urgent reminders that many important allies of the Empire had already fallen—and little time remained before the League would launch its next offensive, probably against Avalon herself.

A small knot of flighted civilians had gathered outside one of the main corridors and were talking quietly among themselves. Though dressed in battered remains of what once must have been opulent civilian clothes, each held a new Fleet Cloak over his arm; clearly they had been evacuated during a season of warmth and were being issued temporary clothing until they could be resettled elsewhere.

After all these years, Brim had never gotten over a sense of wonder when he encountered A'zurnians in real life. Men and women alike were tall and barrel-chested, normal-enough humanoids except for great folded wings—really a very specialized second set of arms—that arched upward like golden cowls trailing long flight feathers in alabaster cascades that reached all the way to the floor. These extended from "tensils," or down-covered, pillow-sized lumps growing midway between their shoulders.

The protrusions, manifesting themselves at puberty, covered an outgrowth of the reflexive nervous system that automatically coordinated complex motions of feather and flesh that resulted in flight.

Peering around the huge lobby, Brim could see that the two clearly harried clerks who manned the administrative desk were already mobbed by at least twenty white-suited technicians, so he made his way directly to the A'zurnians themselves. Raising his hands palms to his chest in the Universal sign of peace and respect, he half mumbled one of the few formal A'zurnian salutations he knew. "O' collo sol ammi. Do any of you speak Avalonian?"

"I do, Captain Brim," replied a gray-haired individual— clearly patriarch of the group. His massive forehead and great hooked nose gave him a distinctly fierce demeanor, but his huge green eyes were filled with the gentle wisdom that characterized A'zurnian people wherever they settled. Even stooped by age, the old man stood taller than Brim by at least half an iral. "How may I serve you?" he asked with no trace of an accent.

"You know my name, sir?" Brim asked in surprise.

The elder decorously placed a long, slim finger on the green-and-gold ribbon Brim wore among his decorations. "In all of our long history," he said with great dignity, "only one nonflighted individual has ever worn that ribbon. Your name is well know among A'zurnians."

Brim felt his cheeks flush. It had been more than fifteen Standard Years since he—a mere Sub-lieutenant at the time—led a small party of Imperials on a perilous raid against the Leaguers who occupied much of the little domain at the time. For his heroism, he'd been personally awarded the Order of Cloudless Flight by A'zurn's Crown Prince, now King Leopold XVIII. "I am most honored that you remember me, er..." he stumbled.

"At home, I was known as Knorr the Elder," the A'zurnian replied. "I served Leopold's father as Grand Ambassador to Avalon for many years."

"Then I am doubly honored, Your Excellency," Brim said.

"And so am I, Captain," Knorr replied modestly. "Now, how may I help you?"

Brim smiled. The old man was a true A'zurnian. "You landed last night aboard the bender Nord, did you not?" he asked.

"Aye, Captain," Knorr replied. "All of us."

"I seek Aram of Nahshon who landed with you," Brim said. "Can you tell me where they have taken him?"

"I have just returned from Commander Nahshon's side," Knorr said, pointing across the lobby toward one of the lighted corridors. "Ward B-131. Almost to the end, on the right. His bed is the first past the entrance. I take it you met Aram during his racing days, Captain?"

"Earlier, we were once shipmates as well," Brim answered. "But everyone knows of his recent heroism. For a while we feared he had not survived. How is he?"

The old man shook his head. "Only youth and Lady Fortune saved his reckless feathers this time," he chuckled. "But aside from some painful burns and bruises, it appears that he needs only nourishment and liquids to assure his survival."

"Thank the Universe," Brim said with no little feeling; Aram had always been one of his favorites.

"I'm certain he will be glad to see you, Captain," Knorr said, clearly anxious to continue his talk with the other A'zurnians.

Touching his forehead in thanks, Brim set off across the lobby, through a new crush of wounded Imperial servicemen who must have just arrived at the base. He grimaced. The steady stream of casualties boded ill for the defense of Effer'wyck. Unless he missed his guess, it would soon be Avalon's turn.

Except for dark rings beneath the eyes and a large area of badly singed feathers atop his starboard wing, scarlet-haired Aram of Nahshon had changed very little since he and Brim competed in the Mitchell Trophy races. "Wilf!" he shouted, struggling to his feet in spite of clearly obvious discomfort.

"I thought you were still in Fluvanna," he added, throwing a plucky salute. "You look great!"

Returning the salute. Brim could only stare in awe at the young A'zurnian who had calmly set his tiny destroyer against a Leaguer battleship and nearly won—then survived nearly two weeks in a lifeglobe with supplies that should have lasted no more than ten Standard Days. "Aram," he said, offering his hand, "you look perfectly awful. What is it that keeps you alive in spite of Voot's best efforts?"

The A'zurnian thought for a moment in feigned concentration. "Maliciousness," he replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "I simply hate Leaguers so much that I can't die until I take a lot more of 'em with me."

Brim shook his head. "For xaxt's sake, sit down before you fall down, Aram," he chuckled.

"How do you feel?"

"About half, Wilf," the A'zurnian admitted, settling to the bed. "Not only have I got the grandfather of all headaches, I can't fly until I grow a lot of replacement feathers." He shook his head.

"The liquid in this glass will get rid of the headache by tomorrow, but feathers grow slowly and you know how I hate to walk."

"I believe I've heard about that," Brim said with a chuckle, pressing a locator button on his paging unit as it sent a mild tingling into his shoulder. The two friends soon fell to reminiscing as starsailors are wont to do throughout the galaxy, and had just finished a spirited conversation on the merits of Defiant-class attack ships when Barbousse burst into the room, carrying a briefcase and a large red envelope that he passed to Brim.

"Commander Aram!" the big rating said with a broad smile. "It's wondrous good to see you alive, sir."

Brim opened the envelope and studied its contents while the A'zurnian struggled to his feet again and gripped Barbousse's hand. "It's good to see you, too, Chief," he said, winking. "Sort of proves I'm still alive."

Barbousse laughed. "You A'zurnians are a tough lot, if you'll pardon m'sayin' it. I'd bet that singed wing pains ye some."

"It'll keep me from flying for a while." Aram said, ruefully peering up over his shoulder.

"Not necessarily," Brim interrupted. "The Chiefs brought a message from our old friend Baxter Calhoun that'll get you a lot of time in a starship if you want it."

Frowning, Aram turned. "Time in a starship?" he asked.

"Absolutely," Brim said, handing him a sheet of plastic hardcopy. "Read it for yourself."

As he read aloud, Aram's eyebrows rose in apparent surprise. "This gives you authority to...." he began. His voice suddenly trailed away, as if he didn't believe what he was reading.

"To commission you on the spot as a Commander in the Imperial Fleet," Brim finished for him.

"And to put you in charge of 32 Squadron. You sign up for the duration only; after we win. you stay in our Fleet at your own discretion."

"Working for you?" Aram said.

"Well," Brim said with a shrug, "there's a down side to everything, you know. But I'm not half as bad as the Chief here claims."

"I suppose the Cap'm's right, if the truth were known." Barbousse sniffed in mock resignation.

Aram rolled his eyes and lowered himself painfully to a sitting position again. "Chief, I know how much you hate working for the Captain." He chuckled, then looked at Brim with a serious mien. "How do you suppose a group of Imperials would feel taking orders from a foreigner?"

"I assume you'll take orders from me," Brim countered. "And I haven't noticed any wings on my back."

Aram grinned and shook his head. "You know what I mean," he said.

"Yeah," Brim said, "I've done a lot of thinking about it since I heard you arrived. And I can't say there mightn't be problems. People are people, whatever race they happen to be. Everybody's prejudiced to a degree. But overcoming that sort of thing, that's what galactic civilization's all about, isn't it?"

Aram nodded, although he continued to frown.

"You don't have to make your mind up right away," Brim said. "Think about it for a while. I'll be around the base all—"

"That won't be necessary," Aram interrupted, suddenly wide-eyed. "I mean, I want the job! I'm simply trying to think of something significant to say when I accept."

"How about, 'I'll do it.' "

"I'll do it, Skipper...."

"Chief, did you bring the Oath Taker along with you?"

"Aye, Cap'm," Barbousse said, taking a portable warrant board from his briefcase.

"Commander," he said, setting the small device beside Aram on the bed and activating its window. "Place your right hand on the window here and repeat after me...."

The next day, after a long night of briefings, Aram of Nahshon—Commander, I.F.—was on his way to Avalon and FleetPort 30, where he would assume command of 32 Squadron. As Brim sat in his office listening to the morning starpacket thunder overhead, he smiled. Almost miraculous, he considered, how the excitement of a new assignment could mask the aches and pains of a very dangerous war. And besides, Aram was, after all, an A'zurnian, with a real sense of identity from which he could draw strength. Probably, he thought, that would be more than enough....

Toward the end of the Standard Month Pentad, as Brim and Moulding prepared to move 610

Squadron to its new home at Fleetport 30, Imperial Expeditionary Forces under Major General (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z'Hagbut and remnants of the Effer'wyckean army were forced to retreat from the Torbean worlds toward the center of the galaxy. Hoping to link up with other Effer'wyckean forces, they made a stand on three watery planets orbiting Aunkayr, a fifth-class star on the edge of the 'Wyckean Void, only 160 light-years away from Asterious.

Scarcely a matter of days later, however, fresh Leaguer armadas overran most of the Effer'wyckean Sixth Fleet, and Hagbut swiftly concluded that even his new position was hopeless. To the General's everlasting credit, he immediately KA'PPAed for help—and in doing so triggered an event that bordered on the miraculous.

In no way could the beleaguered Imperial Admiralty muster sufficient transports to effect the withdrawal before oncoming Leaguers totally wiped out their trapped Allied quarry. So the Admirals put out a general call for help to anyone in the area who had an operational starship. And with panache that had saved the hoary old Empire literally hundreds of times in the past, Avalon's private citizens provided the miracle.

Barges, interstellar ferries, space yachts, HyperLaunches, salvage vessels, tramps, smugglers, space drifters, ore trawlers, even a beacon ship halfway through her overhaul, anything that could lift into HyperSpace—plus the Fleet—crossed the 'Wyckean Void to Aunkayr in mass. There, operating loosely under Admiralty supervision, the ragtag squadrons began what was soon called The Miracle of Aunkayr.

Each morning saw a shrinking perimeter around the beleaguered Allied forces, and the lakes that served as lift-off stations became more jammed by the metacycle as interplanetary barges full of soldiers and their gear arrived from the shrinking front. "The ground troops were hungry and thirsty and nearly dead," commented one volunteer with a small rescue craft. "A lot of 'em even wore ripped battlesuits.

But they kept in line. I was proud of the poor sods!" Leaguer warships fired viciously on them from every direction, in spite of dedicated efforts from every attack ship the Imperials could get into space. Yet volunteers in unknown hundreds of private starships ultimately rescued nearly 225,000 Imperial soldiers and an additional 113,000 Effer'wyckean troops, transporting them back to Avalon before the operation ended during the first metacycles of Standard date 2 Hexad 52012.

In the local darkness, General Hagbut packed his few items of equipment in a small spacecraft and made a final tour with the Senior Fleet Officer, Captain W. G. Landlord. When they were satisfied, as they remarked in their official communiqué, "that there were no more Imperial troops alive at the lift-off sites," they themselves left for Avalon aboard a destroyer. The operation would continue to lift off Effer'wyckean troops before the Admiralty declared an official termination at the end of 4 Hexad.

Brim, Moulding, and 610 Squadron arrived at FleetPort 30 just after midday on the fifth, as the last stragglers were still limping in from Aunkayr. The usually crowded sky over Avalon was mobbed, and since passing through LightSpeed the squadron of rakish Starfuries had been assigned vector after vector to avoid collisions with slower traffic. Lake Mersin was already reflecting light through the haze that obscured the far horizon when Brim contacted a FleetPort Controller in the midst of what promised to be tremendous confusion. "Imperial P7350 to FleetPort 30," he announced. "I am leading sixteen Starfuries inside your outer marker."

"Defiant N956," the Controller announced to someone else, "move into position and hold vector two four left. Traffic will cross downrange."

"Acknowledge two four left and hold, Defiant N956...."

Brim shrugged and held his course. Maybe they hadn't heard his call. However, with sixteen Starfuries immediately behind him—and only the barest experience in heavily crowded airspace—there wouldn't be a lot of time for course corrections. He opened his mouth to repeat his initial contact when ...

"AkroKahn 725 is ready in sequence," a deep Sodeskayan voice interrupted on the same frequency.

"AkroKahn 725: affirmative," the Controller announced, still completely ignoring Brim's fast-moving squadron, "Move up to vector two four left and hold short."

"Up to hold short, AkroKahn 725," the Sodeskayan confirmed.

Brim checked his instruments. "Sanders," he demanded, "is the radio working?"

"Checks out on this end, Skipper," the radio officer reported.

Still another voice came on the tower frequency with a burst of static. "Um, we're on frequency again. Changed radios. Sorry about that."

"5006: you're back with me?" the Controller asked in a voice dripping with irritation.

"Yeah, and we didn't mean to switch radios. We're now on...."

Concerned, Brim swung high to starboard, avoiding a battered interstellar ferry that suddenly lumbered into his path. The old ship was clearly off course, victim of worn-out navigational equipment or—more probably—damage from a near miss by League disrupters. Ahead, he could actually see FleetPort 30's long-range beacons against the darkness of space. Time was running out. Keying an arrival layout for the satellite to one of his displays, he chose his own inbound vector, one that at least seemed to be generally aligned with his present path. "Imperial P7350," he announced, as if she had already assigned the vector to him, "I am leading sixteen Starfuries for vector two four left. Do you read me?" he asked, his voice clearly indicating an end to his patience.

That brought the Controller to life. "Er... thank you," she said with more than a hint of surprise in her voice. "Imperial P7350 and sixteen Starfuries are cleared for arrival on vector two four left."

Brim shook his head; the huge satellite was now clearly visible ahead. He would soon have a word with that Controller. Drawing more power from the big Admiralty gravs, he banked into his final approach. "Cleared for arrival two four left. P7350," he acknowledged, and passed the message to the four groups of Starfuries following close in his wake.

Constructed in stationary orbit approximately 150 c'lenyts above spin ward Avalon, FleetPort 30 was shaped like a flattened glove nearly three quarters of a c'lenyt in diameter. It was ringed about the middle by a transparent mooring tube and pressurized to the standard atmosphere on the surface below.

Complex antenna fields on both "poles" of the huge structure furnished clear communications throughout the galaxy; the mooring tube provided forty-five docking portals spaced equally around its margin, each equipped with its own optical mooring system and retractable brow. When docked, Brim's killer ships would protrude bow first from thirty-two of these portals, with a few of the remainder occupied by surface shuttles and transient ships. Both the interior of the structure and its moored ships were supplied with locally generated gravity distributed evenly on every level with "down focus" toward the center of the planet itself.

Using the excellent docking systems provided, Brim had the whole squadron moored less than half a metacycle later. However, with fewer than ninety irals' width at the docking rim, he hated to think what it would be like to moor a full-sized cruiser—or a Starfury with shot-up opticals.... Unfortunately, he had little time to worry about such future problems, or even to inspect his new command and space anchorage. Only cycles after his arrival, he and Moulding were on their way to the surface in a high-speed shuttle piloted by Aram of Nahshon himself. Barbousse scarcely had time to pack spare uniforms for them.

"Admiral Calhoun said he didn't care what you looked like after a long ferry mission. Captain," the A'zurnian explained. "He simply made it clear that you were to be at the briefing—and it would be my neck if he didn't see you there."

"Any kind of a bloody friend would have offered his neck," Moulding grumped in feigned wrath.

"Six days in a thraggling bus designed for nothing but day trips. Mark Valerian must be a closet Leaguer—maybe even a Controller. I haven't had a proper bath and shave since Gimmas."

Brim laughed in spite of his own discomfort. "Don't listen to him, Aram," he said. "Friend Moulding secretly hates to attend meetings, that's all."

From his seat at the little spaceship's helm, Aram grinned over his shoulder, "I think I know what Toby means," he said. "The way they've stripped down the Defiants we're using, you'd never recognize them—and I'd hate to take any of 'em more than a day's flight away."

"If anybody can tell the differences, you can," Brim said, remembering the days he and Aram had taken I.F.S. Defiant, the first Defiant MK1A, aloft back in the spring of 51998. It seemed like two hundred years ago. "How do they handle?" he asked.

"Rather nicely, now that you mention it," the A'zurnian replied with a nod of approval. "They're nowhere near as fast as your Starfuries, but they can turn on a ten-credit coin, and they'll accelerate with the best the League has put up yet. And," he added pointedly, "we've nearly twice the number of Defiants to face the Leaguers than you have Starfuries.,.."

That sort of half-joking braggado soon had Brim smiling with both pride and relief. It reflected the kind of positive outlook on life that could only come from a person who had little problem with his work. Now, maybe he could worry a little more about fighting a war....

As the shuttle swooped low over the capital, Brim could see that every gravity pool in the vicinity of Lake Mersin was filled with ships from the ragtag rescue fleet, and the overflow spread out hovering over the surface of the lake itself. Moulding summed the scene up accurately when he commented, "I think I could hike across the bay just by stepping from deck to deck...."

Aram set the little ship down on a vector that was kept open only by the hard work of a dozen police launches, then taxied quickly to wharf where they were flagged onto a gravity pad recently vacated by what could have only been an industrial barge, and a dilapidated one at that. It probably had been helping to ferry evacuees from an orbiting starship too old to qualify for surface license. As the clumsy spaceship lumbered out onto the lake, Brim shook his head. Every vehicle capable of spaceflight had helped in the evacuation. Little wonder the operation was called a "miracle."

Walking to the staff skimmer that would take them to the Admiralty, the trio passed between long lines of bedraggled soldiers who were giving their names to tired-looking officials with logic scribers, dropping what blast pikes and other weapons they'd managed to save into heaps, and climbing wearily onto hovering omnibuses. Nearby, steady streams of volunteers were bringing and sorting odd clothes, because many of the evacuees arrived with only blankets thrown around their tattered battlesuits. For the remainder of his days, Brim would remember a tall, blond woman heading for one of the buses in the badly scorched bottom half of a battlesuit and a man's formal jacket; the latter accomplishing little to cover a magnificent bust. For all her obvious fatigue, she somehow managed the panache to walk proudly, head up and alert, with the indescribable spirit that characterized Imperial military no matter where—or in what condition—they were to be found.

Probably the most amazing aspect of the operation, however—at least to Brim—was that he knew the scene was being duplicated in more than a hundred similar starports scattered over the Triad's Five planets. Most of the soldiers had lost their equipment, land crawlers, siege disruptors, and the like.

But equipment could be replaced quickly in comparison to how long it took to gain the experience of actual combat. These ragged professionals had faced the Leaguers in action—and had survived. They would teach new Imperial armies how to do the same thing. And—with a little help from Lady Fortune—new armies equipped with fresh equipment would depart from the same ports, this time headed for victory. If, Brim reminded himself, the Fleet could keep the Leaguers from the doors until the new Imperial forces were ready to march. Otherwise, today's inrush of refugees would only be rehearsal for what was to come. For a moment he shivered inside his Fleet Cape. It was a tall order indeed, and he knew it.

Brim got his first taste of the CIGA's new sense of assertiveness as his skimmer-pool driver followed a refugee bus through the front gates of the base. At least five hundred obviously well-dressed, pampered-looking men and women of all ages were shouting obscenities, hurling garbage, and waving placards as they strained against cordons of police in full battlesuits. Many carried animated placards proclaiming the CIGA motto, "Contemplate Galactic Peace." One—a fat, cherubic-faced woman with a bad complexion—was using hers to pummel an officer over the head while she screamed incomprehensible peace slogans through a mouth twisted by rage.

"Can't imagine that one 'contemplating' much of bloody anything," Moulding commented as the driver pulled around the slower omnibus and accelerated along the refuse-strewn boulevard.

At the same moment, the window beside Brim took a hit by something obscene-looking that landed with a dull splat and dribbled slowly along the curved surface of the crystal. The flying mass startled him, and he flinched, shaking his head the next moment in embarrassment. "Pretty ugly spectacle," he said lamely to Aram. "Try to remember that they're only a small percentage of our population."

"I understand," the A'zurnian said. "They're afraid. You can see it in their faces. They've got it in their minds that anything's better than fighting, so they're willing to make up with monsters like the Leaguers on the Leaguers' own terms. We had our own brand of CIGAs—did damnably well until the Leaguers showed their version of 'peace' for what it really was. The CIGAs changed their minds posthaste when the attacks came, but by that time, it was too late to reverse the damage they'd done to the military." He shook his head. "And— at least in the few days I was able to observe—many of those sorry zukeeds were the first the Leaguers executed."

Brim nodded, staring at the floor of the skimmer. "Makes sense," he said. "Leaguers conquer by gaining control—absolute control. You saw what they did to your countrymen in the last version of this war. They tore off people's wings so they'd be easier to keep track of."

"Yeah," Aram said bleakly. "I still have a bad time with that. The bastards really didn't do that out of any overt love of inflicting pain—although I'm certain some of 'em do. People who can't fly are simply easier to control than those who can."

By the time Brim looked up, they'd cleared the base entrance and were speeding along a broad highway that paralleled the shore of Lake Mersin, In the distance to spinward, a baroque clutter of towers and domes that was Avalon City dominated the horizon. Off to the right, a thousand-odd starships surrounded the great island structure of Grand Imperial Terminal, a galaxy of mooring beams glittering through the haze as the ships rode to optical anchoring devices. In a matter of cycles, the highway fed into Vereker Boulevard with its famous stands of kilgal trees and traffic began to pick up substantially. The three rode in silence, absorbed by their own thoughts—and the war. Brim settled back in the seat and watched as they passed parks, sparkling fountains, and rococo facades as if the deadly war bearing down on them had no existence at all. He'd seen the damage in Atalanta after the League's great raid there years back. This war would surely change the face of the great city, in spite of any efforts he could bring about to avoid it. But today, great black limousine skimmers decorated by embassy flags still sped by importantly in both directions. Many, he guessed, would be on their last trips in the Empire as one by one, the Leaguers' real allies declared for the enemy camp and departed into the darkness of war.

They passed the shimmering Desterro Monument, still crowded by tourists, hurried over the Grand Achtite Canal just moments before a huge barge closed the ornate ruby span in what promised to be a snarl of traffic, and moments later pulled daredevil fashion into Locorno Square with its traffic charging wildly around the monumental statue of Admiral Gondor Bemus. With a mad series of starts and panic applications of the skimmer's gravity brakes, the driver plunged into a turnoff and stopped at a marble staircase leading to the imposing, ornate structure known simply as "the Admiralty" for millions of light-years in every direction.

"How'd you like to fly a killer ship?" Moulding jokingly asked the driver as he stepped onto the pavement. "That kind of navigation takes real fortitude, in my book."

The driver grinned. "Thank you, sir," he said, "but those of us wot can survive Locorno are needed right where we are. Otherwise, none o' you starship drivers would ever get to the Admiralty alive."

"You're right." Moulding chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at the noisy traffic careening around the square. "I'd rather face the Leaguers anyday."

Brim agreed wholeheartedly as he started up the great staircase beneath wheeling squadrons of dirty, noisy pidwings. The stair treads bore mute testimony to at least five centuries of open warfare between the Admiralty and the birds—which the former had clearly lost. "I take it you're an old hand with the guards by now," he said to Aram as they reached the top and strode toward the massive entrance.

"Watch me," the A'zurnian said, setting a purposeful course toward the ornate entrance. When he was precisely four paces from the center portal, two of the four guards snapped to attention and saluted while the other two yanked open the doors. Returning the salute, Aram led the way through the entrance without breaking stride, Moulding and Brim followed close in his wake. Only experienced Admiralty hands knew how to do that; invariably, everyone else stopped. "Just like downtown, as they say," he chuckled over his shoulder.

Brim winked to Moulding. "So much for picking up local customs," he said.

"You were worried?" Moulding asked.

"Who, me?" Brim answered with a chuckle. But inside, he had been worried. Much as he loved Moulding, his blue-blooded old friend was far too wealthy and insulated from the realities of Imperial social protocol even to recognize de facto discrimination when he saw it. Indeed, to a large extent, Brim had become that way over his years in the Fleet, too. But in the beginning, he'd been only a talented Helmsman from Carescria, the most backward, underdeveloped section of the Empire, where the sole industries were poverty and asteroid mining. He well knew what it was like to be on the outside looking into a society that—in truth—gave only lip service to the notion of classless integration. It was good to see that Aram had so far soared above these hurdles as if they didn't even exist. Mentally, he blew a kiss to Nadia Tissaurd, who from the beginning had manifested confidence in the young A'zurnian.

They were late for the briefing and—once they'd submitted to retinal-image and fingerprint checks—tiptoed to seats at the rear of the small auditorium. "Universe," Brim groaned under his breath before he even saw the speaker. The man's grating voice immediately set his teeth on edge and brought back a flood of memories. General (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z'Hagbut, Xce, N.B.E., and Q.O.C., had changed little since Brim first met him more than sixteen years previously during the famous raid on occupied A'zurn that ultimately led to the League's losing control of the small planetary system by guerrilla action alone. Hagbut would also forever bring Margot Effer'wyck to Brim's mind because of a wonderful evening in which she managed to so thoroughly embarrass the pompous officer that he nearly lost consciousness. As if it were yesterday, Brim could still see the buxom Princess costumed in the low-cut, virtually skirtless blue uniform of an Orenwald prostitute leading Hagbut across the dance floor of Avalon's ostentatious Golden Cockerel club.

"What's the matter?" Moulding whispered from Brim's side. "Your face has suddenly gone red."

Struggling to stifle the mirth that threatened to break loose from the pit of his stomach, Brim could only shake his head and mumble, "It's all right, Toby—just a stray memory."

Hagbut had made his share of military mistakes over the years—mainly through an inability to listen when he was offered advice. However, the blustery General had usually proven himself to be more than competent in dealing with Leaguers. A small, intense-looking superpatriotic man of undetermined years, he had a perpetually flushed face and spoke as if he disliked showing his teeth. As always, his uniform was perfectly tailored, although its wrinkled condition left little doubt that he had been intensely busy since his precipitous return to Avalon.

"We are now in the midst of a MISTAKE nearly as GRAVE as the DEFEAT we have just suffered at the hands of the Leaguers," he said in his most boisterous style of speaking. "I find myself DISGUSTED when I see Imperial soldiers walking about in Avalon and elsewhere with an embroidered flash on their sleeve reading 'Aunkayr.' " He took a deep breath, and his face became even redder.

Feelings of humor quickly drained from Brim's mind as he listened to the man's angry words.

"Those people THINK that they are HEROES!" Hagbut roared on. "And the civilian public thinks so, too. But they are ALL WRONG. They fail to understand that the Empire suffered a CRUSHING DEFEAT at Aunkayr, and that our five planets are now in immediate danger—as is the remainder of the Empire should we fail to save ourselves here." He pounded on the lectern. "I see no sense of urgency outside these walls— except perhaps in the ranks of the CIGAs—only relief." Glaring, he peered around the auditorium. "Of COURSE I look at Aunkayr as a deliverance," he continued. "In that sense, I feel a bit of relief myself. Like anybody else, I have no desire for a Leaguer prison camp—or death, which might well be preferable. But while this feeling of relief remains among the general public, it displaces the true reality that I have seen with my own eyes during a VERY AWKWARD retreat across the planets of Effer'wyck. And what is that? The hard, harsh fact to be realized this day is that the inconceivable might now be possible. Those jackbooted Controllers who stamped their way across Lamintir, Korbu, Gannat, and A'zurn—and who are now poised to finish off Effer'wyck—might soon be making landfall right here on our HOME PLANETS...!"

Later, after the long, impassioned speech, Brim and his two companions happened into the General in the Admiralty's great lobby. It was no surprise to the Carescrian that Hagbut met his eyes with no recognition whatsoever, even though it had been he who was largely responsible for preserving the man's military renown in the wake of the A'zurnian raid.

"You have met him, haven't you?" Moulding asked as the General and his party of staff-level appendages swept past. "I mean, it is rather well known that you saved his career during the A'zurnian raid a few years back."

Aram interrupted with a snort. "It was by no mistake that Captain Brim wears my domain's highest award," he said quietly. "For his pains, Hagbut received only the A'zurnian medal presented to all 'foreign' individuals who excel in the domain's service."

Brim felt himself blush. "I wouldn't expect him to remember me—especially with all he's got on his mind right now."

"Perhaps," Moulding said, but he didn't look very convinced. Hagbut was not a popular man among large segments of the Imperial military establishment. Suddenly, the tall aristocrat glanced over Brim's shoulder and winced. "Don't look now," he said with an aspect of distaste, "but here comes somebody who seems to recognize you all too well—with the media, no less."

"Huh?" Brim asked, but before Moulding could reply, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder in a most unfriendly manner. Whirling around, ready to defend himself, he found himself confronting none other than Puvis Amherst—in mufti—and a number of his "progressive" journalists with HoloRecorders in hand.

"Well, Brim," the CIGA chief said, posing grandly. "I thought it might be you. War seems to attract your kind, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does," Brim replied evenly, eyeing the man's pin-stripe cloak, dress-gray business suit, and expensive shoes. "And it seems as if you have really gone the other way this time, wearing a civilian getup like that."

"This is not a 'getup,' Brim," Amherst sniffed in a disparaging voice. "In case you haven't heard, I resigned my commission a short time ago to protest the horrible war in which you and your ilk have embroiled us." He looked toward the HoloRecorders with a pained expression. "Have you seen the results of your futile struggles against the might of the League?" he demanded rhetorically. "How many innocent soldiers must suffer or die before callous brutes like you give peace the chance it deserves?"

Brim chuckled, ignoring the journalists and looking Amherst straight in the eye. "When I see some real peace come along, Puvis, you can be certain that I will be the first to give it a chance." Then he frowned. "But what's all this about your resigning your commission—you actually did something like that?"

"I most certainly did," Amherst said, hands on his hips in what he clearly expected was a heroic pose. "Someone had to do something about the hundreds of billions that Onrad V is appropriating for weapons and manpower now that he's become Emperor. Running wild, that's what. I had no influence with that dreadful man from within the Fleet, even in my capacity as the leading CIGA. But I certainly can use my position in government to cut off his funds. That will stop all of you war lovers. And then I shall go about earmarking those credits toward efforts to reestablish peace with the League."

"You have a position in government?" Brim demanded in amazement.

"Only a guttersnipe like you would be ignorant of that," Amherst replied venomously. "By right of birth, I am also the Earl of Amherst," he sniffed. "I received the title at the time of my beloved father's death."

"I see," Brim said—of course, the Imperial House of Nobles, holdover from a form of government that had outlived its usefulness a thousand years in the past. "And now you're going to start campaigning against military expenditures?" he demanded. " In the middle of a war?"

Amherst narrowed his eyes. "We are not in the middle of a war, Brim," he pronounced as if he were scolding a small child. "We are only at the beginning. There is still time to stop the horror you beasts have started. And one way to do it is to cut off the resources that fund your cursed war engines."

"You're already off to a good start on that project," Brim stated grimly. "You CIGAs all but stopped defense production years ago. We've been fighting this war at a disadvantage right from the start."

"And I thank the very Universe for it," Amherst intoned in a firm voice, carefully projecting a profile view toward the HoloRecorders. "If people like you had your way, there would be no chance at all for peace with the Emperor Triannic and his League."

Brim shook his head. "Puvis," he said earnestly, "if we weren't dealing with that tinhorn now, we'd be dealing with him later on when he's even stronger."

"Unlike you militants, I deal only in peace," Amherst intoned, gloating as if he had just made a terribly clever comeback.

"That's where you're dead wrong," Brim growled, "and you know it. I deal in peace, too, every bit as much as you."

Amherst opened his mouth to protest, but Brim cut him off with a look of utter contempt. "Even in its best light, Amherst," he growled, "your kind of pacifism is only a hothouse indulgence. And you know it. It's a cozy-comfy state of wishfulness where everybody assumes that the protective walls will stay up. But keeping those very important walls intact is a task for militants—among other hard jobs that nobody else wants. All through history, we militants—whether we slog in the mud, ride in land crawlers, or fly starships—have shielded pacifists like you from consequences of your own shortsighted sermons.

When evil beings like Nergol Triannic and his minions triumph, pacifists are among the first to be rounded up and herded off to the death camps. And don't try to tell me you haven't heard about such things. I've been warning you for years myself."

He glared at his ex-shipmate who had now drawn back a step and was listening with an anxious look on his face. "How many peace demonstrations do you hear about in Tarrott?" he demanded. " Zero.

That's how many. Nergol Triannic has preempted any debate about peace. In his League, he is the only 'right' permitted. No matter what the citizens of his empire may want to think, it is we who are wrong by decree. Except that by the more objective measure of civilization itself, it is we who are right, Puvis Amherst—in spite of the ignoble trash your CIGA cowards bleat during their squalid little demonstrations. Don't fool yourself," he said, pointing directly at the CIGA leader, "Leaguers are the real war lovers. They've turned down every chance for peace we've offered since their false Treaty of Garak.

The real responsibility for this war isn't with the militants here on Avalon, but with Nergol Triannic himself—and the misled traitors in our Empire who support him."

Brim paused for a moment, suddenly aware of what had just happened. The HoloRecorders were now concentrated entirely on him. He'd been outmaneuvered. This wasn't the bridge of a starship where he could fight with the best of them. He was now in the very center of CIGA territory—the slippery arena of media-swaying.

Then he looked into Amherst's eyes and saw.. . fear.

Of course! For once, he had an important advantage—people everywhere could see what was happening. The truth was out. He turned to face his old adversary, heart in his mouth. "The moment to decide on an Imperial course of action has long since passed," he said, "because the choice of fighting or acquiescing has already been made for us in Tarrott, not in Avalon. Now, it's high time that everyone—you included, Mr. Earl of Amherst—gets himself behind the people whose job it is to fight this war."

He took a deep breath, recalling a wise Gradgroat-Norchelite friar in the Juniper Street Mission of waterfront Atalanta who long ago taught him one of the ancient prayers peculiar to that venerable sect.

He peered meaningfully into the HoloRecorders and spoke with all the determination he could muster. "I am not a religious man," he said. "Nor am I certain that I shall ever comprehend anything deeper than the spiritual ties I have to my Empire. But long ago, I learned a few words from a wise man who lives halfway across the galaxy. They have served me well over the years, and I offer them to you, Puvis Amherst, Chief of the CIGAs, for your guidance as you begin your campaign to bring about our ultimate defeat."

He bowed his head. "O Universe," he invoked in a clear voice, his words echoing in the great, still lobby of the Admiralty, "stretch forth, we pray thee, thine almighty spirit to strengthen and protect the soldiers of this Empire. Support them in the day of battle... endow them with courage and loyalty, and grant that in all things they may serve without reproach...."

When he had finished, the HoloRecorders were still riveted solely on him. And Puvis Amherst was nowhere to be seen.