The Defenders

CHAPTER 3

A Last Glimpse of Effer'wyck

As it turned out, Brim never did return to FleetPort 30 that evening. Shortly after the briefing, he and his two companions found themselves "invited" to a wardroom party aboard the Imperial battlecruiser Benwell. And it was quite clear that "regrets" were definitely not in order—even for two officers who had just flown halfway across a galaxy and were dressed more for conning starships than joining their colleagues for an evening of relaxation. Brim especially was outraged; he'd been looking forward to getting a fast start in his new command that same day. But, as ever in the politics-charged military arena of Avalon, social duties were often considered as important as one's actual job. The League would soon put a stop to that, he grumped to himself. However, until an actual attack came, Avalon evenings were meant for entertaining—and political posturing....

Benwell had come off the stocks more than twenty years ago, if Brim's memory served. She'd been built to replace Nimue, the great battlecruiser—whose destruction during an unequal battle with powerful League forces near the historic battlefield of Zarnathor had also resulted in loss of Admiral Merlin Emrys. As the skimmer drew to a halt at the majestic battlecruiser's entry port, he remembered his own youthful worship for Emrys and the three great battlecruisers, Nimue, Iaith. Galad, and Oddeon.

Before the war, the Admiral and his majestic squadron had ghosted in and out of harbors all over the galaxy, showing the colors—and the power—of Greyffin IV's Galactic Empire. Loss of both Emrys and his flagship had been devastating at the time, mourned throughout the galaxy. The former's near-miraculous reappearance after six years of "exile" on a primitive planet and his influence (secret, at the time) on the Battle of Atalanta were more than enough to establish him as a legend in his own time.

"Universe," Moulding whispered as they stepped to the pavement and looked up at the colossal machine before them. "No matter how often I see the old girl, I always find myself surprised at how big she really is."

"And beautiful," seconded Brim. Along a thousand-odd irals of her length, not a single light glowed; moreover the system of mooring beams that secured her had been damped against all but local radiation. Even blacked out, however, the ship's famous silhouette could be clearly seen against the starry firmament of the galactic center. Early on, the big Nimues gained a reputation as the best-looking warships of their day, with none to match their perfect balance of design. Benwell was no exception.

Fore and aft, her sleek, low-set hull was surmounted by three sets of superfiring disrupters placed into graceful turrets that literally melted into the gentle curve of her decks, A frowning bridge surmounted her raked superstructure and afforded the big ship a malevolent countenance that naturally bespoke her deadly purpose. And if the great ship had never completely replaced the original Nimue in the hearts of old-guard Imperial starsailors, she was perhaps even more beautiful than her predecessor by a dint of the many improvements incorporated into her design.

As Brim and his two companions approached the ship's prodigious gravity pool, thunder from what must have been at least fifty heavy-duty repulsion generators filled the night air and made further conversation virtually impossible until all three had identified themselves to a large— very thorough— security detachment and were well along the great brow that carried into the ship's spacious boarding lobby. "Voot's beard," Aram commented, making a little frown. "With all that, you'd think they'd invited the Emperor."

Moulding laughed. "Benwell's a bloody important ship, and her skipper, Admiral Dugan, is a most influential man in the Admiralty. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he had invited Onrad tonight."

"Nor would I be surprised if he showed up," Brim chuckled half seriously. The Onrad he'd known as a Crown Prince enjoyed a good party as much as anyone else.

Benwell's wardroom was already teeming with Blue Capes by the time Brim and his companions stepped over the coaming. Lighted for the party by dimmed sidelights only, the large, dark-paneled room was close with the spicy fragrance of camarge cigarettes, meem, perfume, and Sodeskayan Zempa pipes. One quick scan through the haze made Brim thankful for the clean uniform Barbousse had packed for him. A year in relatively primitive Fluvanna had clearly little affected the big man's penchant for working miracles or his inclination to discover events that were about to happen long before other mortals knew about them.

Checking his Fleet Cloak with a white-gloved rating, Brim led the way through the crowd toward the bar. The very atmosphere was charged with a cozy hum of animated conversation, musical clinking of fine crystal, and soft, elegant music played on a quintet of stringed instruments. And whoever had laid on the meem did a superb job. Elegantly Logish and aged to perfection, the fine old meem was a tribute to Admiral Dugan's meem chambers—and clearly his purse strings as well. If this were a true sample of the libations to come, Dugan was indeed a wealthy man or expected wealthy guests—or (most probably) both. Brim had just touched his goblet to Aram's and Moulding's in salute to A'zurn when his glance met a familiar pair of gentle perspicacious eyes greeting him from the other side of the room. These were set into a heartshaped face along with a sensuous mouth, wide forehead, and prominent nose, all framed by long black hair cut severely straight at the shoulders and across the forehead. Eve Cartier! She was smiling now that he'd recognized her, and he grinned back, inexplicably filled with delight. Less than a year previously, her unexpected arrival—leading three powerful attack ships— had literally saved his ship and his life following the battle of Zonga'ar. And, of all things, she was a fellow Carescrian. To Brim's eternal consternation, she was clearly proud of her heritage, even going so far as to retain the Carescrian burr that he had worked so diligently to erase during his years in the Helmsman's Academy.

"I say, Wilf," Moulding commented, "your mind certainly seems to have wondered."

Blinking, Brim raised his glass once more and nodded assent, "That is has, my friend," he said, nodding toward Cartier who apparently had also been resummoned to a previous conversation. "If you two will excuse me...?"

"That's Commander Eve Cartier over there, isn't it?" Moulding remarked offhandedly.

"Either Eve or somebody who looks a lot like her," Brim said over his shoulder as he began pushing his way through the throng of Blue Capes.

With a grin, Moulding raised his goblet once more. Brim heard him say, "To Carescrians..." Then he was engulfed in a babbling sea of faces as he struggled toward the other side of the room.

Cartier was one of those exquisite women whose beauty was so completely natural that Brim found it difficult to characterize. Each time he saw her, he had the delicious pleasure of rediscovering her all over again. Tonight was no exception. A small-busted, statuesque woman of middling age, she wore a uniform clearly tailored to reveal her long, shapely legs to their best advantage. "Stunning" was a good description so far as Brim was concerned. Just as she had been the first day he set eyes on her aboard Baxter Calhoun's space yacht Patriot.

Presently, she was talking to a tall, athletic-looking Captain whose bull neck and massive physique Brim imagined might start hormones flowing in a granite sprite. And the studied manner in which he ignored Brim's determined approach through the crowd revealed that either he and Cartier had come as a pair or he had staked her out as his personal conquest of the evening.

The encouraging glances Brim was receiving from her were a good indication, however, that she might not entirely share the same feelings. "Eve," he exclaimed as he pushed his way through a last gaggle of Blue Capes. "How good it is to see you again,"

"Faith, Wilf Brim," she said, looking deeply into his eyes, " 'tis a ge'at pleasure to see your face again, too. I did'na know you war here in Avalon."

"I wasn't," Brim explained with a grin, "until the middle of this morning when I arrived from Gimmas."

"I suppose I had heard that you were coming," she said, her eyes dropping to the floor shyly.

Then suddenly she remembered the man with whom she had previously been talking. "Oh, er... yes.

Captain Brim," she stammered, "I should like to present Captain, er...?"

"Cavindish," the man announced with studied ennui. "Kingsly Cavindish, First Officer of His Majesty's battlecruiser I.F.S. Benwell. I, ah, didn't catch your ship, Brim."

Smiling evenly, Brim turned to face the man whose campaign he had just badly interrupted.

"Pleased to meet you, Cavindish," he said, extending his hand, "and I didn't give the name of my ship because she doesn't have one."

"A pity," the man said disparagingly as he grandly shook Brim's hand, "but then if we gave names to all the small ones, we'd soon run out, wouldn't we?"

"I never thought of that," Brim replied, fighting back a sudden desire to alter the shape of the man's handsome nose. Instead, he turned to Cartier. "What news of Baxter Calhoun?" he asked.

Cartier smiled. "The Govern... er, Admiral Calhoun seems to be settlin' into his new job directin'

Defense Command. I see him noo and again."

"And you, Eve?" he asked, attempting to ignore the angry scowl that was beginning to cloud Cavindish's handsome countenance. "They say you're heading up 617 Squadron."

"Tis true," she said with a proud little blush. "I've even got my own Starfury noo. The 1Cs started comin' thro' twa' weeks ago."

"And Patriot?'' he asked.

"I turned her over to the Admiralty," she said with a shrug. "She's a fine auld ship—they'll mak'

good use o' her somewhere."

"Yes, well," Cavindish interrupted with a most pointed little cough. Brim guessed the man had little interest either in Carrier's career or the ships she commanded. "I had invited the Commander for a tour of the ship. I'm certain that you will excuse us, Brim."

Brim gave a little bow. "By all means, Cavindish," he said with a smile. It was perfect. If he and the lovely Cartier were indeed a pair, this gave both of them an opportunity to be easily rid of him. On the other hand, if Cartier were merely the target of an evening's dalliance, then she would be free to return (or not return) as she wished. He turned and took her hand for a moment. "Eve," he said, "I look forward to seeing you again soon."

"I look forward to the same thing, Wilf," she said with an enigmatic little smile, "soon."

For the next half metacycle, Brim found that he knew a number of the guests aboard Benwell.

During twenty-odd years of HyperSpace activity, one tends to collect acquaintances from all over the galaxy. He even encountered a member of his graduating class at the Helmsman's Academy, noting wryly how things had changed over the intervening decades. During those days, Carescrians had been looked down upon to the point of subjugation. Amazing how Captain's stripes changed people's opinions!

Moulding and Aram appeared to have blended into the party well, too, especially the latter. The young, red-haired A'zurnian clearly had winning ways, especially with a number of A'zurnian ladies from the Embassy. He thanked the Universe Aram's gregariousness seemed to have also worked on the prima-donna Helmsmen of 32 Squadron, It made things easier all the way around.

He had just accepted a fresh goblet of excellent Logish Meem when a hush suddenly came over the room as if someone had thrown a switch. Turning with a frown, he was just in time to watch Admiral Dugan himself step into the room followed immediately by the hefty bulk of a man whose visage now hung in the wardroom of every ship in the Imperial Fleet: Onrad V, Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens.

Dressed in the uniform of a Vice Admiral (a rank he earned by his brilliant command of Task Group 16 during the Battle of Atalanta), Onrad was slightly taller than Brim and considerably heavier. A comfortable man of obvious royalty, he had dark brown hair and wore a short, pointed beard with perfectly trimmed mustaches. And even halfway across a room, the man's eyes clearly set him apart. As he greeted the high-ranking guests who immediately surrounded him, he had a way of looking at them that bespoke genuine honesty. Not the kind of bumpkin morality that attempts to please everyone, everywhere. Onrad's mien promised only that he would make the best decisions for his Empire, and if you happened to think you could help, so be it.

"Looks as if I was right," Moulding chuckled, joining Brim at the bar. "No wonder security was so tight at the brow."

Brim nodded, sipping his meem. Somehow, the unannounced appearance was just like Onrad—or at least the Onrad that he had come to know over the years. Pragmatic as well as human, the young Emperor would clearly have seen tonight's party as an opportunity to be with the people who would soon be protecting the very skies over his head and a much-needed personal diversion. He was an active man who must surely find his own royalty stultifying at times.

With all the high-ranking brass about, Brim expected he wouldn't get within ten irals of the new Emperor, so he found himself considerably surprised when he responded to a tap on the back....

"It's been a bloody long time, Brim," Onrad said, offering his hand. "I'm sure you think I've forgotten all about you."

Brim grinned and took the Emperor's hand. "Your Majesty," he said, "I think that you've probably been busier than you can remember. And, er, congratulations, I think."

Onrad gave a private little laugh. "Save your congratulations for my father," Onrad joked. "He's the one who really benefited from his abdication."

"I'm glad I'm not running this war," Brim said.

"You'd better be running it," Onrad chuckled, "and the people who work for you, right down to the lowest-level feather merchant civilians. Because the higher I climb, the less I can see. And at my level, all I get is policy, with an occasional fillip of actual happenings."

"In that case, Your Majesty, I'll do my best," Brim joked.

Onrad put a hand on Brim's shoulder. "I know that, Brim," he said. "Don't ever forget that I know. You're not a squeaking wheel, so I won't often get around to personally making a fuss about your exploits—like when you managed to delay the whole bloody war for more than half a year. And you have already been awarded your second Imperial Comet for that, even if it may be a long time before either of us has sufficient time to accomplish the ceremony that awards the medal to you publicly."

Brim shook his head. "I don't particularly need medals," he said. "I'm certain you must realize how much better off I am right now than ninety-nine percent of all the Carescrians ever born."

"Medals make promotions easier, Brim," Onrad said, reaching inside his trousers pocket to retrieve a small leather pouch. "That's why I brought you this." Handing the pouch to Brim, he next drew a thick ribbon from within his formal jacket. "You'll have to wear this without ceremony until bloody Nergol Triannic provides us with enough breathing room to lay on a proper celebration."

Brim emptied the pouch into the palm of his hand. It contained an eight-pointed starburst in silver and dark blue enamel, inscribed with a single word at its center: valor.

"Here," Onrad said, handing the sash to Brim. "Slip this on right now—you should have been wearing it months ago. I awarded the bloody thing to you as one of my very first official acts as Emperor."

Brim unrolled the heavy loop of ribbon and clipped the gold disk to a catch sewn into its lower hem. "Onrad V, Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens," he read aloud. "You know I'm terribly proud of this, Your Highness," he said, slipping the ribbon over his left shoulder to rest beside a similar ribbon and disk awarded by the previous Emperor.

"Well," Onrad said, "I suppose I feel rather proud of it myself. It's not that often that someone gets two of these things. I feel pretty good about awarding it."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Brim said, sensing his face burn. "I'll do my best to make sure I continue to deserve the honor."

Onrad laughed quietly. "That's just like you, Brim," he said, grabbing the Carescrian's shoulder for a moment. "Anybody else would be breaking his arm in an attempt to pat his own back."

"I've got to fly with that arm tomorrow," Brim said with a grin. "Otherwise... I'd probably end up with a sling myself."

"Save it till we win the thraggling war." Onrad chuckled under his breath. "By the Universe, I'll proclaim a Wilf Brim Appreciation Day."

"I'll change my name, Your Majesty," Brim joked.

"We'll find you, Carescrian," Onrad returned. "I don't have Secret Police for nothing, you know."

Then he frowned for a moment. "Wilf," he asked quietly, "do you remember the night years ago when Father awarded you your first Order of the Imperial Comet?"

Brim nodded. "Aye, Your Majesty," he swore earnestly. "It's a night I'll never forget so long as I live."

"Turns out, Father found it hard to forget, too," Onrad said. "I talked with him about it the next morning. He wanted to do something for Carescria; seems he'd promised you he'd try to make things better there."

"Yes," Brim agreed, closing his eyes for a moment while his mind whirled backward in time to a wartime night in Avalon when he'd been decorated by Greyffin IV.

"You may or may not know it, my friend," Onrad said, looking Brim directly in the eye, "but those new Carescrian starship factories turning out Starfury 1Cs and other warships are a direct result of that evening."

Speechless, Brim could only shake his head in wonderment.

"Thought you'd like to know that," Onrad said softly, putting his hand on Brim's shoulder again.

"Keep up the good work, then. We won't have much of a chance of ceremonies until we've won the war."

Brim nodded as he struggled to recover his senses. "Until we win the war, Your Majesty," he said.

"Meanwhile," Onrad said, "keep your ears and eyes open. You'll be in the thick of things once the zukeed Leaguers get around to having a go at us. When I need to know what's going on in Defense Command, I'll be around to see things through your eyes."

"I shall be ready, Your Majesty," Brim said.

"Good." Onrad turned to leave but stopped in his tracks. "Oh, Brim," he said, frowning over his shoulder.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Brim answered.

"Try to keep yourself and your friend Barbousse out of trouble for a while. All right?"

"Absolutely not. Your Majesty," Brim said with a smile.

Onrad grinned. "In that case," he said, "I'll start making plans for the victory celebration."

Eve Carrier never did reappear that evening; Brim was not particularly surprised by her disappearance, but somehow felt a tinge of disappointment. There was something special about the Carescrian beauty, although he couldn't somehow define just what that was. And it wasn't that he wanted to take her to bed, although he had to admit that he certainly would like to do that, too. Eve Cartier was an extremely attractive woman, in many different ways. And not the least of them was her love of the home he had utterly forsaken.

Eventually, Onrad departed. Soon after, Brim and Moulding called up a staff skimmer, said their own good-byes, and started for the boarding lobby. They left Aram in the company of a perfectly stunning flighted woman from the A'zurnian Embassy. The two were so deep in conversation that the young Squadron Leader failed to even notice Brim's new decoration, and the Carescrian felt rather guilty breaking in to say he was leaving.

"Daresay we won't see him for a while," Moulding commented as he and Brim walked along the brow.

Brim chuckled. "Aram won't need to be back until tomorrow morning's inspection," he said, "early, of course. There's a shuttle he can catch that ought to leave the two of them plenty of time for fun.

But he'd better be on time, though, or I'll leave feathers all over the satellite. And I mean it."

"Tough words, Wilf," Moulding commented with a raised eyebrow.

"Tough war coming up, as I see it," Brim replied thoughtfully. "We're not dealing with a bunch of hardened Imperial veterans like we did in Fluvanna. The gang we landed from Gimmas this morning is little more than a bunch of talented amateurs."

"A willing bunch, though," Moulding said defensively.

"Oh, they're willing enough," Brim agreed. "Universe knows they're all of that. But if we—you, Aram, and I—don't keep the pressure on them now, while the Leaguers aren't aiming their best punches directly at our chins, it'll be even harder on them when the blows do begin to fall. Universe, Toby, remember what it was like for us the first time we ran into the Leaguers, and we'd been fighting The Torond for more than a month."

"I remember," Moulding replied thoughtfully, "all too well. We certainly are not leading the ships full of veterans that we were in Fluvanna." He gave a sad little chuckle. "I hadn't wanted to say anything, Wilf," he sighed, "because you couldn't do anything more than I could about it, except work the poor sods harder. And I was already doing that." He looked down at the pavement for a moment. "I still am," he muttered.

Brim nodded as they flagged down a staff skimmer. "I know you are," he said. "And by doing it, you're also driving yourself. Doesn't take a medic to see how desperately tired you've become yourself."

"Speak for yourself, Wilf," Moulding said with a sage nod. "You didn't get those bloodshot eyes from too much rest, either." He laughed grimly. "If any of us are still around at the end of this next big scrap, then all the torment—for both the driver and the driven—will seem quite worthwhile, I should think. Especially if we win."

"When we win," Brim corrected. "Those Starfury drivers of yours are doing xaxtdamned well. They'll come through in the pinch. I know it."

"All right, 'when we win.' " Moulding laughed, punching the Carescrian on his forearm. "I'd almost forgot I was talking to Wilf Brim."

Brim grinned and punched his old friend back. "Keep up the good work, Toby," he said. "Don't give 'em even a moment of free time to think about what might happen. The more practice they get, the better they'll do when they've got real Leaguers to fight."

"They'll be ready," Moulding assured him.

Brim nodded and smiled. But inside, he wasn't so certain of anything. The only true test of a warrior's skill was actual war, and they hadn't had much of that—yet.

Brim got his own first taste of action the third morning after arriving over Avalon. He had taken Starfury R6595 on a lone-wolf mission to help calibrate one of the highly secret BKAEW tracking systems lofted to the five-hundred-c'lenyt level earlier in the year. The highly classified satellites—hardly more than four armored control rooms centered in a huge antenna system—were rumored to use KA'PPA instantaneous-communication waves for tracking starships at distances measured in hundreds of light-years, where mere light-speed-limited wavelengths were clearly impractical.

From the orbit of Avalon, he was instructed to set a course of 145:19, which would bring the ship to Galactic coordinates HK*452/-68:435, approximately thirty-five hundred c'lenyts off the occupied Effer'wyckean planet of Ellivuaeb. From there, he would slow through LightSpeed, change course, and fly as far as the Thias-Remo star system KA'PPAing his position in relation to several asteroid clusters along the way. Then, he and his crew could come home. At face value, it sounded like an easy run, in and out before breakfast—if they were lucky. However, the area literally swarmed with Leaguer starship bases, and in reality, their only chance of coming through without a donnybrook was to move as rapidly as possible, thereby minimizing the likelihood of interception by what would simply have to be vastly superior Leaguer forces....

Starfury R6595 cleared FleetPort 30 while the capital below was still in its dark period and passed into Hyperspeed shortly afterward. Looking aft, Brim could see the muted blaze of his Drive plume curving gently to port as he put the helm over and picked up his course for Effer'wyck. Forward through the Hyperscreens, the 'Wyckean Void extended to the Effer'wyckean coastal stars, while a tiny galaxy of glowing data flowed constantly across his readout panels. Not a hint of stray gravity marred their course as they hurtled through the majestic emptiness of interstellar space. A beautiful flight, in anybody's estimation.

They crossed the hundred or so light-years in no time at all. Ellivuaeb was large in the Hyperscreens when Brim's KA'PPA display suddenly chimed and filled with the old-fashioned language symbols transmitted by the system, "R6595 FROM KGL-32, ORBIT HYPOSPEED IN PLACE, PLEASE."

Brim nodded, slowing through LightSpeed and circling while they calibrated their instruments. It was very comfortable at the helm of a Starfury, and soon he began to feel drowsy as he repetitiously went on flying the same closed course again and again. The KA'PPA brought that to a quick end, however, as it began to chime and abruptly changed its display. "R6595 FROM KGL-32, IMMEDIATELY KA'PPA YOUR MEAN DISTANCE FROM ELLIVUAEB."

Brim frowned and turned to nod at the Navigating Officer. Something must be up; it was certainly not yet time for his broadcasts in the clear. "Send it," he said.

Only a few cycles passed before the KA'PPA display chimed in response. "R6595 FROM KGL-32, STEER 090:15 IMMEDIATELY."

Instantly, Brim came alert. If BKAEW really did work, a suspicious starship could be somewhere about, just outside the range of T6595's own proximity indicators. Perhaps the operators wanted to identify him on their readouts. He put the helm hard over and skidded onto the new course.

Then he looked around him, rolled left and right a few times to check on blind spots. Everything looked empty enough. He was below LightSpeed, so both he and any possible attackers would be leaving no Drive plume to track.

"LOOK OUT, R6595, AT A YELLOW-GREEN APEX," the KA'PPA chimed, "YOU ARE BEING SHADOWED BY ANOTHER STARSHIP."

Immediately, Brim turned his head in that direction and glimpsed a small, brilliant dot, slipping behind an asteroid shoal. It was too far away to identify, but if it were a Leaguer ship, he meant to keep a discreet eye on it. Turning onto his original course to make the other Helmsman commit himself, he called for action stations and gave permission to enable the ship's disrupters.

Within three cycles, the dot had become a chevron, one of the Gorn-Hoff 262E killer ships, most likely. The Leaguer cycled through a half-dozen banks, setting up his attack, clearly of the opinion that Brim and his Starfury had not yet detected him.

In a matter of moments, the Starfury was ready for battle. It was Brim's first action since he led a squadron of Starfuries at the great battle of Zonga'ar—and something in his warrior's psyche had been missing the rush of adrenaline that always preceded battle. He steeled himself and listened as the small bridge came alive with muted voices and running feet, switching extra gravity boost to the generators while summoning 115 percent from the power chambers. All right. Leaguer, he thought with a smile, let's see you try it!

"Here he comes," someone warned quietly from the rear of the bridge.

Brim looked up as the Leaguer angled into a gentle spiral, clearly designed to bring him in on R6595's tail. He was only a short distance away, relying on darkness to mask his movements and running slow to make certain of his kill.

"Hang on," Brim shouted, then punched the thrust dampers all the way forward, throwing the Starfury into a very deep turn away from the planet. Now, he could keep his eyes on the Leaguer and still maneuver.

Taken by surprise, the enemy gunners opened fired, but they were much too late, and the huge bursts of energy glowed harmlessly far astern of their intended target.

Brim leveled out and continued his right turn. The Gorn-Hoff tried to turn inside, but his steering engines had insufficient energy at that speed, and he flipped into a spin, caught in the planet's gravity.

Once again, Mark Valerian's superb design had triumphed, and for a moment, Brim could see the League markings—big crimson daggers outlined in white—on the pale blue undersurface of the enemy craft.

The Gorn-Hoff came out of its spin almost immediately, but Brim was already in position—and the Leaguer knew it, for he began hurling the big ship around in an effort to throw off Brim's gun layers.

However, his stunting availed him nothing. Alford, at the fire-control console, opened fire at about fifteen hundred irals, filling space with a blinding welter of tremendous explosions.

Even at a disadvantage, however, the enemy Helmsman flew his 262 with a certain familiar style—Brim wondered for a moment if they had tangled previously, perhaps in Fluvanna. Shifting his ship about and constantly varying the line of sight, the Leaguer obviously knew that the Starfury turned and accelerated better, so Brim guessed his only hope would be to dive. He was right!

Brim rolled the Starfury onto its back and followed, taking advantage of his quarry's regular trajectory while Alford opened fire again. They went down toward Ellivuaeb at blinding speed. As soon as Brim was just off the Leaguer's tail, Alford's firing correction became relatively simple, but the Imperials had to hurry. The Leaguer was slowly pulling away, luring them down toward the surface where other powerful weapons systems waited.

At Alford's next salvo, three flashes appeared along the Leaguer's starboard side near the edge of the rear chevron. The Imperial gunner fired again, this time hitting first on a level with the gravity generators and then working his way toward the bridge. For a fraction of a click, the ship seemed to hesitate in the middle of its dive.

The Drive doors suddenly popped open, only to disappear in a cloud of raw energy guttering out of the exhaust tubes. Then a more violent explosion at the base of the chevron and a thin black trail mingled with the energy gushing from his perforated energy chambers.

It was the end. A tongue of radiation fire appeared from the Gorn-Hoff's belly as the hullmetal began to uncollapse. It lengthened, licked at the trailing edge, and dispersed in incandescent shreds.

By this time, the two ships had plunged into the dark side of the planet. The Gorn-Hoff, however, was finished. Brim climbed up again in spirals, watching him. The enemy ship was nothing but a vague outline now, fluttering helplessly downward, shaken at regular intervals. An explosion. A black trail. A white trail. An explosion. A black trail. A white trail. Soon, it was no more than a ball of flames streaking toward the surface like a meteor that ultimately scattered into a shower of flaming debris and extinguished harmlessly before it hit the surface.

No lifeglobes had ejected; some sixty-odd Leaguers had smoked their last TimeWeed.

The KA'PPA chimed. "R6595 FROM KGL-32, LONG TRANSMISSION, PLEASE. DID YOU GET THAT LEAGUER?"

Brim answered immediately. "KGL-32 FROM R6595 ANSWERING AND TRANSMITTING FOR FIX. GOT HIM ALL RIGHT. ONE... TWO... THREE... FOUR. "

Afterward, the BKAEW Controller ordered them back to port. The spot was going to get unhealthy in a very short time.

Brim agreed wholeheartedly; it was time to head for home. Immediately, he set course for Avalon.

The next few days were momentous ones both for Brim and the Empire itself. Nergol Triannic, the League Emperor, moved headquarters all the way from his capital on Tarrott to the little town of Pechte on the Effer'wyckean agri-planet of Nemel. The move had a chilling effect in the Imperial Admiralty, for it revealed—as no other action could—the Leaguer's confidence that Effer'wyck was all but subdued.

Had he planned for effect—and there were many who suspected the Tyrant actually did make his move for that reason—Triannic's action could not have come at a worse time for the Effer'wyckean government. From the very beginning, Effer'wyckeans had mounted a great hue and cry for aid for the Empire—and to a large extent, that aid had been forthcoming, even after the miracle-debacle of Aunkayr. Their pleas had a special effect upon Emperor Onrad, whose ties with the beleaguered province were both political and personal. Grand Baron Reynard, the dominion's titular leader, was Onrad's second cousin, twice removed, and the two had been close friends since early childhood.

Now, however, Baxter Calhoun was developing second thoughts about aid for Effer'wyck—serious ones. It was one thing to help a friendly neighbor defend against his enemies, but quite another when that neighbor appeared as if he would shortly lose everything he had been given.

Especially now that "everything" would come in very handy when the same enemy attacked Avalon! Brim was present at the conference when Calhoun rose and shocked a small confab of wing leaders by saying, "If the enemy developed a heavy space attack on us this very afternoon, I could na' guarantee superiority around the Triad for more than two Standard Days. An' tha's the truth."

In the end, Onrad demanded that Calhoun allocate four more squadrons of Defiants to the flagging Effer'wyckean campaign, and the Carescrian Admiral at last had to give in. Afterward, however, Calhoun prudently allotted the ships and crews with the proviso that they must operate from bases on one of the Triad's five planets.

Still the Empire waited. Intelligence from Sodeskayan spy masters indicated that the League High Command had been seriously considering an invasion of Avalon since before the turn of the Standard Year. After their recent victories, only the disastrous whipping they received at Zonga'ar had made the opportunistic Triannic hesitant. That and the fact he'd won so quickly that his Generals found themselves well ahead of their ability to plan. Too, he retained hopes that the CIGA movement he surreptitiously funded over the years would effect Imperial capitulation before he had to fire a disrupter. So the war continued, but only in and around the cringing dominion of Effer'wyck. The rest of civilization watched—waiting for what would happen next.

Two days following Brim's arrival at FleetPort 30, the watchers were rewarded—this time with an act of cowardice and treachery that shocked even the most cynical among them. At approximately Night:4:76, Standard Imperial Time, Grand Baron Rogan LaKarn of The Torond declared war on Effer'wyck, stealing advantage from the apparently inevitable victory his League allies would soon obtain in that dominion. To Brim, perhaps the most offensive part of LaKarn's act was not its rank cowardice so much as its intrinsic cynicism in regard to The Torond's Grand Baroness Margot, who was also "Princess of the Effer'wyck Dominions." And although the mysterious noblewoman had been missing from public view since Brim's destruction of the Leaguer space fort at Zonga'ar, she was, after all, LaKarn's wife—if indeed she was still alive....

With this move, the Effer'wyckean situation became extremely confused. Soon afterward.

General Hagbut gave way to Onrad's prodding and landed Imperial troops of the First Protean Division on the Effer'wyckean planet of Breyst at the same time that elements of Imperial Fifty-first were being evacuated from planets circling the huge binary star at Havre. A day earlier, other units of the same Fifty-first retreated onto the barren planet of Va'lery when they found themselves cut off from a main Effer'wyckean division by advancing Leaguers. Now they were calling for evacuation, too. Early the next evening, Brim received a top-secret message from the Admiralty: TNY 3346-1-A16E GROUP 445Y 216/52012

[TOP SECRET-IMPERIAL PALACE]

SORTIE ORDER

FROM:

BU FLEET OPERATIONS;

ADMIRALTY, AVALON

TO:

W. A. BRIM, CAPTAIN, I.F., FLEETPORT 30

SUBJECT: TRANSPORTATION

ARRANGEMENTS

TOMORROW AT DAWN:2:3I YOU WILL TRANSPORT EMPEROR ONRAD V,

TWO OTHERS, CLASSIFIED DESTINATION. H. MAJESTY PERSONALLY

CARRIES COORDINATES. INSURE STARSHIP FULLY ARMED. RETURN AT

H. MAJESTY'S DISCRETION.

NOTE; YOU WILL SORTIE WITHOUT ESCORT.

FOR THE EMPEROR

A. T. ZAPT, MAJOR GENERAL, I.F.

[END TOP SECRET IMPERIAL PALACE]

TNY 3346-1-A16E

Scant metacycles later—following an all-night session of frenzied cleaning, polishing, and scrubbing—P7350 and her deservedly tired crew were ready as Brim could make them. He had just changed into a clean uniform when the Crown Prince and his guests arrived without fanfare aboard a small, nondescript Fleet shuttle. Puffing from an all-out run halfway around the rim of the big, artificial satellite, Brim met them at the boarding hatch.

"Morning, Brim," the Emperor said with a smile. "Shame to get you up so early, but I've scheduled a number of meetings at the other end, and I want to get them all finished in a single day."

Brim laughed inwardly. "Oh, you didn't get us up, Your Majesty," he said with a smile. "We're ready to lift ship anytime you are."

"Somehow, I had no doubts about that," Onrad said with a wink. "And by the way, I think you'll find that you've already met both your other passengers."

It was true. Brim recognized the next one out immediately. "Lord Jaiswal," he said, moving to help the small man steer a large grip-all through the hatch.

"Hello, Brim," Jaiswal said in a deep voice, straightening himself with a great smile. "Our paths haven't crossed since the Dytasburg Conference, have they?" Wearing the white satin coveralls, gray cape, and black velvet cap that seemed to be his personal trademark, the squat, muscular official had a massive, frowning brow, sharp nose, pointed mustache, and the cold eyes of a professional assassin. A wealthy man by dint of many activities—some reportedly legal—Jaiswal was patriotic nearly to the point of obsession and considered by many CIGAs as one of their most dangerous enemies in Avalon. Along with Brim's Carescrian mentor Baxter Calhoun, he had personally funded construction of the first Starfury, K5054, and during the years that followed exhibited a certain flair—perhaps genius was a better description—for directing production. Shortly after naming him Lord Jaiswal, Onrad V also appointed him Minister of Starship Production, and immediately, the smallish Jaiswal bent to his new set of tasks as if the whole Empire depended upon his efforts—which, in large measure, was true....

The third passenger to back out of the shuttle was a huge Sodeskayan.

"Nik?" Brim demanded, narrowing his eyes in amazement.

"Wilfooshka!" the Bear exclaimed, turning to lift Brim from his feet.

"Nik Ursis," Brim stammered. "What in the name of Voot are you doing here?"

"After Zonga'ar, how can they win war without us?" Ursis answered in mock seriousness. He stood at least a quarter again as tall as Brim with dark reddish-brown fur, a long, urbane muzzle that terminated in a huge, wet nose, and small gray eyes of enormous intensity. Like his colleague Borodov, he wore elegant fang gems at either side of his grin. Also like his old friend Borodov, he cut a dashing figure in his country's distinctive papakha, soft leather boots, and maroon Fleet Cloak. A highly respected theoretical physicist and Drive engineer in peacetime, Ursis served as Dean of the famous Dytasburg Academy on the G.F.S.S. planet of Zhiv'ot, However, he was also a warrior without peer, and like many of his Sodeskayan contemporaries, he had a natural proclivity for what they termed, simply, "The Hunt."

"Brim" Onrad chuckled, "you've got more friends and acquaintances than Horgroath has moons.

Everywhere you go, it seems like old home week for xaxt's sake."

"I've noticed that, Your Majesty." Brim laughed. "Probably I'm getting old—it takes a long time to run into so many people."

Onrad took a long look at Brim in feigned judgment. "Good thing the Leaguers haven't caught wind of this so-called aging of yours." He laughed, then checked his timepiece. "We'd better be on our way, then," he said. "We've a raft of important meetings and only a few metacycles to get through them.''

"By the way, Your Majesty," Brim interjected quietly, "the Navigator doesn't know where those meetings are to be held yet."

"Oh." Onrad pursed his lips. "That's right, Brim," he said, "after you lift off, set course for Gimmas. I'll give him the real coordinates once we're into space."

Brim paused a moment, then shrugged inwardly. It was Onrad's trip, after all. Actually, it was Onrad's ship as well— Emperors owned everything so far as the Fleet was concerned. Including, at least for this trip, destinations. "This way, Your Majesty," he said, and led the way into the corridor.

They arrived at P7350 after a short walk—passing a number of astonished faces—and boarded the ship through a full honor guard Barbousse had thoughtfully assembled at the head of the tube. Only a few irals into the boarding lobby, however, Onrad began to peer around and sniff the air. "What's in xaxt's name is that I smell?" he demanded. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear someone spilled a whole bucket of metal polish somewhere."

Opposite Brim—and behind the Emperor—a number of faces suddenly went to deep red, and it was obvious that the honor guard, all of whom had been a part of the spiff detail, were having serious difficulty stifling bellows of laughter, especially Barbousse, who had driven them like galley slaves.

"Um, yes, Your Majesty," Brim replied, having his own difficulties with nascent laughter. "We, er, try to keep the ship as clean as possible."

"Glad to hear that," Onrad said, breaking into his own grin. "And never get the idea that I don't appreciate the spiff work you've done on my behalf. It bloody well shows you've pride in your ship.

Spirit, that's what it is. And it's going to take all the spirit you can muster when you start meeting the Leaguers in force. Right, Brim? Ursis?"

"Aye, Your Majesty," Brim replied.

"Like dark ice caves and howling snow, as they say," Ursis agreed.

Onrad rolled his eyes. "As they say," he repeated helplessly, "Now, Brim, how do you find the bridge in this partially gutted bucket of bolts?"

"I'll take you there straightaway, Your Majesty," Brim replied. "Chief," he said, turning to Barbousse, "show Lord Jaiswal to the jump seat you rigged in the attack station. Nik, they'll find you a place in the Drive chambers." With that, he nodded to Onrad and started off for the bridge companionway.

P7350 was climbing out past flight level 800 before Onrad tapped Brim on the shoulder from his jump seat immediately behind the helm. "I'd imagine you're anxious to learn where we're going now, aren't you?" he chuckled.

Brim turned as the last orbiting buoy faded in the gloom. "Oh, no, Your Majesty," he said with a grin. "It's Falco, the Navigator, who's really curious."

"Smart Carescrian zukeed," Onrad chuckled. "I assume Valerian left the Nav station up here in this abbreviated bridge."

"The console directly behind your seat on the left, Your Majesty," Brim said. "Lieutenant Falco."

"Falco," he heard Onrad say a moment later, "they gave me these two disks—said you'd know what to do with 'em."

"Aye, Your Majesty," Falco replied, "I'll take care of them." Moments later, Brim's course-director panels came alive with a flood of colored directional vectors, all registering off course warnings of one sort or another. Effer'wyck! he grumped to himself. He should have known. Onrad would have to see how bad things were with his own eyes, no matter what the risks. All the security made sense, now, too. League forces would be little more than a few light-years distant from the conferences. Putting the helm over, he carefully but quickly set course for Luculent.

"Bloody embarrassing to keep everything from you people so long," Onrad continued from his jump seat. "It was the only way I could talk that staff of mine into letting me make this trip at all. Damned fools see spies and assassins around every corner."

"Beggin' the Emperor's pardon," Brim answered, "but I can't say as I blame them at all. You'd be quite a prize for the Leaguers to capture and parade about in front of their cameras. A disaster of that magnitude might just win them a whole war."

Onrad sighed, "I know, Brim," he said quietly. "It's one of the penalties one pays for being Emperor. One of the big ones."

Brim got a straight-in approach to the Effer'wyckean capital of Luculent the first time he asked for it. Clearly, someone on the surface knew who was aboard his Starfury, but all the same, it was evident that traffic—at least civilian traffic—in and out of space was nearly nonexistent. Probably, he surmised, everyone who had someplace off-planet to go—and a way to get there—was already long en route. But even so, the city's great network of avenues below looked characteristically busy as he overflew lofty old Legend Tower, asserting its own meaningless construction at the very center of town.

An afternoon of intermittent rain was waning on this part of the planet; to port, he could see great slabs of light among the showers. Farther out, the immense Effer'wyckean National Museum of Galactic Art gleamed soddenly, dominating a tiny forest completely surrounded by the ancient crystalline building. Off to the left rose the glistening towers of the grand Norchelite cé Effer'wyck (one of the great examples of Gradgroat cathedral architecture) begun nearly a thousand years in the past.

He recalled prowling the narrow streets nearby with Margot shortly after the first war, she disguised as one of the city's many prostitutes against discovery by her husband's secret police. They'd stopped at every third pastry shop for flaky, gooey, buttery sweets, eating them as they walked, getting sticky-faced as two children and licking their fingers. Afterward, in a little top-floor flat with a large window overlooking the city's famous lake, they made love again and again until they felt there was nothing more they needed to invent before they died. And then they went off for more pastries.

Almost a normal afternoon below in Luculent. But as he turned into final, Brim could see the great boulevards were not just busy, they were swarming with people. He bit his lip. The citizens were evacuating the city—in chaos. The great metropolis was vomiting out an almost pitiful collection of conveyances; shining, high-speed skimmers, ancient goods carriers covered with a half century of dust.

There were lorries, carry-alls, delivery vans, even construction carts. Had he seen a wheeled vehicle in the snarled traffic, if would not have astonished him at all. Every box that could hover and provide traction had been dug up and was now laden with treasures that had once spelled home to these panicked city-dwellers.

As he lined up on the ruby landing vector, he ground his teeth in compassion for the pitiable clutter of gravity machines below—they carried the people too insignificant to get off the planet. Most of them wouldn't even get very far out of town. Without spare parts, without mechanics, without energy resources, they formed long caravans of doom. How long would the older vehicles run before they failed? Braking, stopping, starting, turning in the midst of an inextricable jam. And the survivors would make no more than ten c'lenyts a day through the maze of disabled wrecks.

A lifetime of Helmsman ship forced Brim's mind back to the business of landfall. And if the city's roads had been jammed with refugees, Lake Doering that fronted the terminal district was uncharacteristically empty, for it led only to outer space, and those who could leave that way had already gone. He'd never seen the lake that way. Luculent was one of the largest, most cosmopolitan, and busiest cities in the known Universe, in many ways a rival of Avalon herself. Yet today, its once-teeming space harbor looked as it must appear during the national holidays. The pretentious old Dortmond Imperial Terminal itself was nearly deserted as he taxied up to one of the general-navigation gravity pools. It lent an unnatural character to everything in sight.

Once P7350 was moored—and special guards dressed in mufti were deployed around the ship—Onrad, Ursis, and Jaiswal were whisked away aboard a great, darkened limousine skimmer.

"Take in the city if you can," the Emperor confided to Brim just before his departure. "It may be the last chance you get for a long time, and the Effer'wyckean Secret Police will know where to find you when it's time to go home."

Brim smiled thanks and saluted wordlessly. But he did not take advantage of Onrad's kind offer, nor did he pass word to the others that the alternative was available. He and his crew were paid to chauffeur—and, if necessary, protect—the Emperor, not to enjoy the surroundings, tantalizing as they might be. He did take a few moments out to buy one of the country's fabled timepieces in a duty-free shop of the terminal block. At the going prices, he even had his name engraved on it. Aside from that, he remained within walking distance of the ship.