The Defenders

CHAPTER 8

If...

"Admiral Calhoun's Residence," drawled the pretentious voice at the other end of the connection.

The HoloScreen before Brim was blank, as he expected. "My name is Brim and I want to speak to the Admiral," he said.

'"'Who are you?" the lofty voice inquired. "And what is your business?"

"My name is Brim," he repeated, "as in Wilf Brim. I know the Admiral's in because I spoke to him this afternoon during the officers' meetings."

"And your business, Mr. Brim?"

"Captain Brim, Imperial Fleet."

"Your business Captain?" the voice repeated, clearly unimpressed by a mere Captain.

Brim fought his tempter to a draw, then laughed to himself. The man was only doing his job—and a damned good one at that. "Listen, mister," he said, "my business concerns Baxter Calhoun and myself.

Just go tell him that Wilf Brim needs the Vereker Square apartment—tonight. Got that?"

"The Vereker Square apartment?" the voice said with an immediate change in inflection. "One moment, please."

As he waited, Brim could imagine a very efficient servant scanning a list of personal contacts on an information outlet. "Ah, yes," the voice said presently, this time in almost friendly inflection. "Captain Brim, Imperial Fleet, lately of the IVG. Very good, Captain. I shall connect you with the Admiral directly."

Moments later, the display came on and filled with Calhoun's ruggedly handsome visage. He was comfortably dressed in an ancient-looking athletic suit and grinning from ear to ear. In the background, someone who was a dead ringer for one of Avalon's most celebrated actresses reclined on a plush sofa.

She was mostly dressed. "Weel, m'boy," the powerful Carescrian exclaimed. "What's this aboot usin' the Vereker Square apartment, noo? Sounds like an important tryst to me."

Brim grinned. "It is that, Cal," he said simply.

Calhoun narrowed his eyes for a moment. " 'Tis a guid thing, too, young Brim," he said. "You've waited much too lang findin' yourself someone to take your mind from your work. Quite a few o' us hae been afraid you'd eventually go to pieces."

"I think this lady will take my mind off the war for a few metacycles," Brim said, feeling his cheeks burn.

"Guid!" Calhoun said energetically. "I shall na' keep you, then, but you maun know that I'm pleased for you—an' a wee relieved, too." He looked off to his left. "Barnat," he ordered, "the apartment on Vereker Square. Is it ready?"

"I have already informed the lock of Captain Brim's identity card," his voice said calmly.

Calhoun looked back into the display, " 'Tis done, young Brim," he said. "The apartment's yours anytime you need it—subject, of course, to prior availability. Just ring up Barnat." He grinned again.

"Noo go recharge yourself. Universe knows you need it." He then threw the perfect parody of an Imperial salute—and the display went abruptly dark.

"Sorry I took so long," Brim said, returning to Cartier and their table. "I hope you haven't changed your mind."

She smiled shyly. "Not on your life, Wilf Brim," she said. "Who knows how long I might have to search for someone who's willin' to help me."

"Don't bother—I'm your man," he promised, helping her from her chair. They picked up their Fleet Cloaks in the lobby, then walked arm-in-arm to the curb where a cab was waiting. They started to board when Cartier shook her head and suggested they walk. " 'Tis only a short way to Vereker Square," she whispered, putting her nose gently against his. " 'An' part of a very beautiful night ha' already passed much too speedily. If we walk, perhaps we can stretch our pleasure..."

In spite of the walk, long pauses they made in the shadows fanned their desire to a point that was almost unbearable. By the time they reached the apartment, they were both quite ready for making love.

No sooner were they inside the door than Cartier slipped out of her Fleet Cloak and stepped to the middle of the floor. There, she turned and faced him with lowered eyes and a little smile. "Now, Mr. Wilf Brim," she said in her gentle voice, "I should be very honored if you would take off my clothes. A lang time, noo, I've been wonderin' if you'll like what you see, an' I'm anxious for m' answer..."

Afterward, their first coupling happened almost too quickly—two people desperate to thrust away the horror of war if only for a few short moments. At first Brim struggled to pace himself to the slower tempo of her sex, but by the time they stumbled into bed, Cartier had been almost as frantic as he.

They made love fiercely—almost violently—before they both exploded in a blinding, thrusting frenzy of passion. Afterward, she lay rigid in his arms, literally soaking the bedclothes and wracked by tremors that shook her whole body. A long time passed before she subsided in quiet sobbing.

"Are you... all right?" he asked when he was able to force his own breathing under control.

"Y-yes," she whispered, her face wet against his chest. But almost immediately, her body was again wracked by violent tremors. After what seemed like a long time, he felt them ease. "Eve?" he whispered.

"Sweet mother of Voot," she whispered after a long time, tightening her leg over his waist as if she were holding on to a life jacket. "I g-guess I wanted you a lot mair than I realized."

Brim felt damp hair against his cheek and savored the erotic scents of her body—he could never remember her wearing any kind of artificial perfume. He had needed her pretty badly himself!

After a long, comfortable silence, she turned her head toward him and opened her eyes a little.

"Do Princesses make as much noise as I did?" she asked softly.

"I don't remember," Brim whispered tactfully. "I tend to be awfully noisy myself when it's that good."

"Mmm," she murmured, burrowing her nose into his chest. "It was guid for you, too, then?"

"Yeah, It was very guid," he whispered. In a few moments, Cartier's breathing came long and regular, and little by little he felt her body relax. Carefully reaching toward the nightstand, he waved the room into darkness, then drew the bedclothes over them both...

Twice during the night, they awoke with most compelling needs that they compulsively satisfied—though each time they came together their exertions took on considerably more character.

Brim found his shy Carescrian lover to be astonishingly inventive, and wound up with great admiration for her former lovers. "Some 'simple country maiden' you are," he whispered, attempting to catch his breath after one of her more astonishing efforts. "Where in the Universe did you learn to do that?"

" 'Tis none of your business." She laughed, rolling her hips slowly while she straddled his waist.

She was absolutely gorgeous—in the very prime of her life. He wondered why it was that middle-aged men chased young girls when there were real women like this who could even carry on a witty conversation! Small, pale-nippled breasts hung full-bellied and ripe against an almost painfully slim chest, and her slight belly met the thick, black thatch of her crotch in a glorious swelling of smooth, soft flesh. As he'd slowly disrobed her, he'd been literally dazzled by the sight of her long, slim legs and gently pouting buttocks.

Then afterward... What she didn't know about making love wasn't worth consideration; there seemed to be nothing she didn't enjoy...

When morning came, they found they had slept till well past dawn—a rarity for squadron officers during this war, at least.

"I feel so rested, I can na' believe it," she said, stretching luxuriously on the stained bed sheets.

"Especially wi' the wee sleep I've managed."

Brim laughed dreamily. "Should I perhaps apologize for your loss of sleep?" he asked.

Following a great yawn, she hunched her shoulders with obvious pleasure and grinned from ear to ear. "Na' when you've made me feel so wonderful," she said.

"Most happy to assist in any way," Brim said in his most flowery voice. "Besides, my most seductive Carescrian beauty," he added, "you have made me feel pretty wonderful yourself."

"Your 'Carescrian beauty' " Cartier mused, peering at the ceiling for a moment. "That's what you just said, isn't it?"

"You are a beautiful woman, Eve," he replied earnestly. "Perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever met."

"I thank you for that, Wilf Brim," she said soberly, "You have indeed made me feel beautiful tonight. But you also called me Carescrian." she said. "Does that perhaps make me different to you?"

Brim thought about that for a moment. "Funny," he said presently. "I wonder if it does. I have seldom felt so close to anybody as I do right now. But then, it might also be a reaction to the kind of intense passion you seem to be able to arouse in me. I don't think I have ever been so worked up in my life—and that is no exaggeration."

"Do you think it might also be that we share so much in the way of our essentials?" she asked.

"Because we're both from Carescria?" he asked.

"Weel, my good lover," she said, "in its own way, Carescria gave us beginnings that are rather exceptional." She looked him in the eyes. "Have you given any thought to who you are since last we talked on it?"

Brim crossed his legs and sat beside her on the bed, "I was wondering when you'd get to that,"

he said, more seriously than he'd intended.

"Were you noo?" she asked with raised eyebrows. "I knew I maun regret tellin' you wha' I was thinkin' at the time," she said.

"Nothing to regret," Brim said, shaking his head. "It made me give some real consideration to myself."

"About who you are?"

He smiled. "Some," he said. "But more about my being independent—and lonesome."

"They all go hand-in-hand, the way I see them," she said. "Tell me first aboot who you are, then.

I want to know."

"All right," he agreed. "But it isn't going to answer your question—it's only brought about more questions for me."

"And?"

"And crazy—or stupid—as it may sound, I guess since I joined the Fleet, I've gone through life pretty well defining myself as who I'm not."

"Then, who are you not. Wilf Brim?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "first and foremost, I'm not a Carescrian."

"Oh? So you really do deny Carescria, Wilf Brim?" she asked.

"Er, yes..." Brim started, shrugging uncomfortably. "Yes, I do. I certainly brought nothing out of there but the clothes on my back."

"Hmm," she said with a smile. "An' here I thought you learned to fly starships at the asteroid mines luik I did." She giggled for a moment. "I learned a lot mare than that there, too." she added.

This time, it was Brim's turn to grin. "I thought so!" he said, placing his hand gently on her stomach. "I learned a lot about life there, too. But I never knew you could do what you did in gravity."

"Noo you do," she said with a little smile.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess we both took a few things with us when we left home, didn't we?"

"Mair than you luik to admit, Wilf," she said. "An' you just called it 'home'—as you should."

"But I'm an Imperial," he protested.

"Ane way or anither, we're all of us Imperials," she said. "There's a lot good aboot the old Empire, much as we complain. But ask yourself this, Wilf, are you as much an Imperial as your good friend Toby Moulding, for example?"

He had to think about that for a few moments, but at last he nodded. "I think I am," he replied, frowning—the woman might be beautiful, but could ask the damndest questions.

"In truth, you are," she said. Then, opening her legs slightly, she took his hand and placed it on the tangled dampness of her crotch. "But would you say the Emperor thinks so?" she asked.

Somewhat nettled by her implications, Brim withdrew his hand. "I think so," he said. "I'm damned certain Toby Moulding doesn't have two Imperial Comets."

"Hoot, mon," she said, gently touching her fingertips on his forearm, "I'm not talking onythin' like medals an' awards. I'm not even talkin' friendship. Pshaw, Wilf, the whole fleet gossips aboot the friendship that exists between you and the Emperor. It's real."

"Then?..."

"Does the Emperor think o' you as his Imperial friend or his Carescrian friend," she said.

He thought about that, trying to remember how Onrad usually addressed him. "I suppose he still thinks of me as a Carescrian," he admitted, "in spite of everything I do to discourage it."

"What do you mean by 'in spite of'?" she asked.

"Like losing my accent—which was damned hard—and, well, you know, I'm an Imperial. Not a Carescrian. What the xaxt's wrong with me?"

"In my eyes, 'tis that very negation of Carescria you ha' wrong wi' you, Wilf," she said. "Look what havin' somethin' in common did for both o' us when we war' doin' somethin' basic like makin' love.

You're missin' that throughout your life. You're denyin' your home."

"My home's anywhere I happen to be," he said. "Right here, for example."

She looked around the room with mock appreciation. "Nice place you've got, Brim," she said with an outrageous look.

"Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

"It was just a way to make you see that somethin' like what you're tryin' doesn't really work."

"Tell me about 'doesn't work,' " he growled, finally losing his temper completely. "It's all right for you to love Carescria and keep your damned sexy accent and even brag about the place. Xaxt, Baxter Calhoun heads up all of Defense Command, and Starfuries from the new Carescrian plants are what's saving Avalon from the Leaguers. People love Carescrians these days! Why, we're almost as popular as Sodeskayan Bears who have been saving the Empire's bacon for centuries. But when I started out nearly twenty years ago, it was a xaxtdamn different story, let me tell you. You don't have any idea what I went through just to be the first Carescrian graduate from the Helmsman's Academy, I had to put up with Gorksroar from people who still can't fly a starship as well as I did my first day as a cadet."

"An' who do you blame for all this, Wilf Brim?" she asked earnestly. "Tell me?"

"I blame the Xaxtdamn..." He stopped in midsentence, staring her in the face. "Sweet Mother of the Universe," he whispered, as if he couldn't believe his own words, "I blame Carescria." He shook his head again and again and again. "That's what you've been trying to tell me, isn't it?" he said dazedly.

" 'Tis helped make you a lonely man, Wilf Brim," she said, sitting up to take his hands gently in hers. "But, 'tis also like you, for I've ne'er once heard you blame the people who actually made you suffer. You haen't, you know."

Brim shrugged. "No sense blaming them," he said. "They couldn't help how they felt. In those days, that was simply 'the way.' "

" 'Twas probably tha' very attitude tha' gave you power to change as much of the auld system as you did all by yourself," she said. "But now—perhaps 'tis time to change Wilf Brim a bit. Do you suppose you might? I think you'd be much happier."

Brim blinked and looked at the beautiful—wise—woman sitting naked before him on the bed.

"With some help from you, Eve," he said seriously. "I actually think I could."

"Wilf Brim, you'll find me very available," she said. "E'en if I didna' find you a most excellent lover and friend, wi'out the sacrifices you made then, I'd ne'er ha' gotten where I am today."

"That's not true," Brim said, feeling his face begin to flush. "Even without me, the last war killed so many of the aristocrats that they had to recruit from the 'lower classes,' as they used to call us."

"Many still do call us tha'," she laughed. "But 'tis endin', Wilf. I can tell—an' you broke the ice for us all."

"Surely you give friend Calhoun a bit of credit for your rapid commissioning," he said.

"O' course I do," she said. "But I've often heard the Governor tell aboot how you 'took the heat,' e'en for him."

Brim opened his mouth to speak, but she placed a finger on his lips. Lying back on the bed, she drew up her knees and placed his hand between her legs again. "Sh-h-h," she whispered. "Eneugh talk for this time. We've just time for a quick go before we maun catch our shuttles. Can you do it once mair, my most Imperial lover?''

Brim gently bathed his fingers in her warm moistness and almost immediately experienced a familiar sensation in his loins.

"Ooo," she exclaimed, lifting her head slightly to peer into his lap. "I guess you can, can't you?"

He did....

Somehow, they both arrived back at their bases on time—but later, neither could explain how that happened.

The Leaguers' inactivity around Asterious ended abruptly at midday on Octad thirty second as the gravity storms of the past few days began to move out toward the galactic rim. Minor feints by Leaguer ships caused several Defense Command squadrons to be sent out, but nothing major developed, at first. Then, shortly after midday, BKAEW stations reported two massive buildups—Orgoth's normal strategy—and all of Brim's ships were scrambled. While they were out on patrol, however, a number of GA 88A formations reached FleetPort 30 almost unimpeded. And although the starbase suffered extensive damage from nearly flawless Leaguer marksmanship, Brim received communiqués assuring him that work crews had already begun space wharf repairs, even while the raid was still under way. This in spite of N-ray mains that had been repeatedly broken by enemy disrupters. Between battles, the Carescrian paused to wonder why FleetPort 30 in particular was so specially honored, but had little time to ponder arcana like the frenetic workings of Leaguer minds.

For almost two Standard metacycles, Leaguer attacks kept the Imperial defenders at battle stations. Eleven Group starships flew nearly one hundred sorties alone, but most were fruitless, Once slowed below LightSpeed, the Leaguers turned either way along the planetary orbits, patrolling this way and that in an obvious attempt to lure out Imperial killer ships. Then fifty some heavy cruisers again attacked the starbases themselves. On the heels of this assault, another large raid took place.

Abruptly, still another huge raid was unleashed on Melia, again concentrating on all the known Intelligence laboratories. Speeding in to the defense, Brim could see an impressive barrage from orbital forts erupt over the planet before he even spotted the raiders. His squadron has been placed where it could do little for the present, so he watched helplessly while the Leaguers unleashed terrible destruction on the sprawling complexes below. And from snatches of KA'PPA traffic below, he could tell they were operating with all their new found accuracy. How had they improved themselves so?

As the day continued, more civilian targets were attacked— everywhere—including Avalon itself, in spite of the defender's best efforts. On one of a seemingly endless succession of patrols, Brim watched in an aft-view display as a long line of Starfuries followed him down and swept around at terrific speed to strike right into the heart of a huge Leaguer formation. But with only two squadrons, his wing was hopelessly outnumbered, and the majority of raiders got through. Even in the heat of battle. Brim found himself amazed by the accuracy by which the Leaguers were firing their huge, single-shot bombardment disrupters. If something weren't done to combat this extraordinary improvement, the Empire was going to find itself in real trouble, no matter how many Leaguers Defense Command managed to destroy.

Finally, the raiders left off and he led his squadrons home to FleetPort 30 with the daunting realization that Imperial forces were probably stretched well beyond the breaking point—on many fronts.

Gravity storms soon returned to Asterious, but feints and small raids nevertheless kept Defense Command under considerable pressure. A total of thirty-eight Leaguer ships had been destroyed the previous day, but twenty-two Imperial ships were also lost, and the number of serviceable starships in Defense Command dropped from 740 to 727. Considering the intensity of the fighting, however, remarkably few Imperial casualties had been incurred. Only two full crews were lost, although seven remained on the missing list. Defense Command was clearly holding its own, even though the new Leaguer accuracy caused considerable apprehension—coupled with renewed attacks on civilian targets that made it difficult for the defenders to fire from above for fear of blasting the very targets they were bound to protect.

In late afternoon, the gravity storms began to clear and a Leaguer force estimated at two hundred plus starships was reported to be heading for Avalon City. In moments, all available starships in Brim's area were scrambled. The report, however, was inaccurate, and within a metacycle, the large force of attack ships and escorts turned up actually speeding toward the science planet and its nearby BKAEW orbiters. Similar attacks continued for most of the day with the usual Leaguer accuracy, but Orgoth's raiders paid a heavy price for the damage they inflicted, losing twenty attack craft compared to sixteen Imperial killer ships. And only one Imperial crew was lost; none were reported missing.

As the day ground to an end, Brim was heartened to hear the Imperial Attack Command had taken retaliatory steps at last—for the first time, a number of Imperial battleships and heavy cruisers had been dispatched to attack Tarrott, itself. However, the news was tempered by reports from Fluvanna, where an increasingly bloody battle for Magor continued unabated. As the tired crews of Defense Command crawled into their bunks for a few moments' critically needed rest, the whole Universe around them seemed to have fallen into a whirling paroxysm of war.

Roused after only a short respite, Brim found himself summoned to Avalon for a surprise command meeting. His muzzle-headed attempts to leave for the surface resulted in his missing the shuttle, and for long moments, he wearily sat in at the empty boarding port fighting back an irrational rage borne of intense frustration. Grinding his teeth, he forced himself back under control and with an effort focused his mind on the desperate need to remain level-headed. He had a war to wage, and ending up in the psychiatric bay—as were so many these days—was no way to win it.

Pulling himself to his feet, he started for his office so he could arrange for other transportation, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted the little Gorn-Hoff 219 moored lonesomely off in one protected corner of docking portal 44. From its placement at the brow, it was probably invisible from nearly anywhere else in the station—and certainly from space itself. He supposed in the madness of the past few days, the speedy little transport had simply been forgotten. He'd ordered someone to paint Imperial Comets over the League's crimson daggers. But aside from that, the 219 looked as if hadn't been touched since he and Aram docked it.

It also looked like a quick ride to the Admiralty...

Grabbing a HoloPhone at the door, he called Operations. "Carnaby," he shouted, watching in the HoloScreen as a young operator roused herself from a stolen sleep, slumped at her console.

"A-aye, sir." she stammered with a frightened look in her eyes. "I was just studyin' the... er...regulations 'ere, Captain."

Biting his lip. Brim turned a blind eye to the infraction of the Watchkeeper's Ordinance. The poor moppet had to be dead tired; he'd seen her on at least five patch crews in the last two days. "Good girl," he said, attempting to speak with the utmost gravity. "Be sure you pay particular attention to the parts about sleeping at a duty station. Those are serious violations."

"T-thank you, Captain," she said, blushing to a deep crimson.

"Carnaby," he said without further comment, "I want you to call up and schedule a parking place for me at the Fleet Base on Lake Mersin immediately. Can you do that?"

"I can, sir," she said, eager to please. "Immediately. When do you want it, please?"

Brim nearly fell victim of the grin that had been working its way to his face. "In about a metacycle," he said, finally abandoning all attempts to appear solemn. "It'll take me about that long to get there."

"Aye, sir," she said, placing her hand on one of the alarm systems. "An' shall I call up one of the Starfuries on alert status?"

Brim grimaced. "No," he said hurriedly, "don't do that. Just tell the people below to expect a captured Gorn-Hoff—the 219 we seem to have permanently acquired as the base hack. It's got hull number"—he stood on tiptoe to read the little starship's hull number—"319-JE."

"Right, sir," Carnaby answered, "Imperial Gorn-Hoff 319-JE. Will you need a gravity pool, then, or will she fit on a grav pad?"

"A grav pad will be fine," Brim chuckled. With that, he strode across the wide deck of the mooring tube and into the brow. An "Imperial" Gorn-Hoff, no less. Even Valentin would get a kick out of that!

This time, he started both spin-gravs in short order and was about to cast off for the surface when for no apparent reason the mysterious crystal mounted on his readout panel began to flash excitedly. He frowned, scanning the panels for some ancillary information. Now what?

Abruptly, alarms sounded in the COMM channel, and the sector Controller's emotionless voice filled the headphones of his battlesuit, "610 Squadron, lift off and patrol base; you will receive further instructions in the air. 610 Squadron lift off quickly as possible, please. This is an emergency!"

Brim reached to switch off the 219, when the Controller broadcast again. "Large enemy attack formation approaching FleetPort 30. All personnel not engaged in active duty take cover immediately."

There was no time to get to his Starfury; it was on the far side of the big satellite. He was out of options—it was either head for the surface or helplessly play target again as he had done with Onrad a few days previously. Reclosing the helmet of his battlesuit, he turned in his seat and backed the little starship away from the brow. Starfuries were speeding away in all directions like insects whose hive is threatened. As he swung the nose out into space, he glanced up and saw the Leaguers—about a dozen GA 87B Zachtwagers—gleaming in the brilliant light of the Triad and coming straight on. Instinctively, he shrugged up his shoulders and ducked his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three more Starfuries head spaceward in close formation—just as the Leaguers opened fire with their great single-shot disrupters.

One moment the Starfuries were racing along in close formation; the next, they were catapulted apart by a tremendous explosion—the Leaguers and their astonishing precision. How did they do it?

They sure didn't have a xaxtdamned crystal strobing in the middle of their Hyperscreens like this little Gorn-Hoff did or they wouldn't have been able to hit a thing!

Or would they?

At that moment it hit him! The crystal. It was part of the aiming system Ursis was working on. It explained a lot of things that had happened since he'd helped steal the little Gorn-Hoff. The Leaguers who had been hunting for a "Weg'wysershmook crystal" ship... Valentin's desperate attempt to recapture him... the attempt to destroy a whole Intelligence complex (where logic dictated a captured ship would be stored). Before him in his captured transport was the key to their whole new aiming system!

He curved off and flew recklessly through the battle to test his theory. Wherever his crystal flashed, he slowed and circled the location at a circumspect distance until a Leaguer ship showed up—as invariably one would—and fired its big, single-shot disrupters as it flew through. He had it!

Suddenly an approaching Gorn-Hoff veered toward him, ignoring the point in space where the crystal flashed. He'd been spotted! He jinked, only to find another Leaguer curving in on him. Then another—and still another.

Putting the helm over hard, he headed for the surface at full acceleration as space erupted in a bedlam of monstrous explosions, each bouncing the 219 in a different direction until its sturdy spaceframe creaked in protest. Thank Voot their "unassisted" marksmanship was no better than ever! Reentry flames coursed along the little starship's flanks and every protrusion on the hull glowed with white heat, while cabin temperature began to rise ominously. For an eternity of clicks the tumult of confused disrupter fire continued, then fell away aft, as the Leaguers were engaged by avenging Starfuries, then he began to draw back on his power settings as the surface rapidly came up to meet him.

Some ten thousand irals above the cloud tops, he wrestled the now-incandescent starship out of its headlong plunge and peered around him. He was alone in the sky. And even though his battlesuit was putting out full refrigeration, he was sweating profusely in the heat. He checked the readouts and... The crystal. It was dark again.

He ground his teeth in anger as he listened to a status report on FleetPort 30. The mooring tube had a few more gaping holes that hadn't been specified by the original design charts and four men had been killed in a maintenance launch. But Barbousse estimated the base would be in full operation before the afternoon was over, so the Leaguers had very little to show for ten cycles or so of their confoundedly accurate shooting. Sad as it was to lose lives, the raid was further proof that try as they might, the Leaguers would never completely wipe out the Empire's system of FleetPort satellites. Shaking his head, he canceled the gravity pad he'd ordered, left word with Calhoun's office that he would be late for the meeting, and set course for the Intelligence laboratories on Proteus at top speed. His little Gorn-Hoff was about to cost Nik Ursis a whole case of Logish Meem.

Metacycles later, after cadging a ride back to Avalon and further mooching a staff skimmer to the admiralty, he noted a number of large HoloPosters on media kiosks exuberantly recounting the space battles around Asterious—and the losses inflicted on the Leaguers' vaunted Deep Space Fleet. Shops displayed stylish civilian battlesuits for both men and women, and street-corner displays demonstrated

"How to Lie Down When the City Is Attacked," advising citizens they should be flat on their stomachs, battlesuit visors down, mouths slightly open, and gloves covering the all-important neck interface. Near the palace, a nascent CIGA demonstration protesting the raid on Tarrott aborted nearly as soon as it began when angry crowds broke through obviously reluctant police barriers, scattering bruised and pummeled protesters throughout one of the large parks nearby.

Brim slipped into the meeting nearly two metacycles late, taking a seat beside Eve Cartier that just happened to be empty on the aisle toward the end of the rear of the assembly hall. He was in time to learn that the previous day's Imperial raid against Tarrott had been a complete success, with all attack ships returning safely to their bases. Moreover, the Leaguers had been stunned as their city erupted in the same great explosions they had wreaked on Avalon—during his early days of overconfidence, Admiral Hoth Orgoth had promised that Tarrott would never be attacked. The League media had immediately erupted with banner denouncements of the "Cowardly Imperial Attack," and editorial caterwauling against "Imperial air pirates over Tarrott!" But the Leaguers' protestations served only one purpose in Avalon—they cleared the way for even more raids in the future.

Additionally, the League had lost 41 starships that same day—and the number of operational Imperial killer ships remained level at 728. Clearly, from the Leager point of view, Imperial forces must appear to be a long way from capitulation. But Blue Capes like Brim who spent their lives on the front lines knew better. The granite-like Imperial facade was beginning to crack from overwork, stress, and fatigue.

Brim and Cartier dined exhaustedly after the meeting and afterward spent the night in the apartment on Vereker Square. But before they could make love, they fell contentedly asleep in each other's arms, and dozed so soundly—and so late—that Cartier had to make a mad dash for the shuttle carrying most of her underclothes in her kit bag. Grinning, Brim wondered if he could have spent the same kind of night with someone he didn't feel so close to. Maybe—just maybe—he thought, mere was more to this acceptance of his own origins than he initially estimated.

Attacks began early, with Brim, himself, reporting back to FleetPort 19 just under the wire—but more rested than he could remember. On patrol that afternoon, he mused that the strain on Defense Command was probably reaching some sort of a peak. In each of the past three weeks, the Imperials had flown more than four thousand sorties—and the previous week, nearly five thousand, a record. This compared with an average of one thousand per week not more than a month and a half previously. The latest Leaguer tactic of flying large numbers of small raids was wearing on men and machines both. But the fact that the valiant crews of Defense Command had not cracked—nor had retreated into self-pity—showed that the once-unseasoned Imperial defenders had ultimately evolved into a fighting force at least as good as—and often far better than—their so-called "professional" adversaries from the League.

During the next day, Attack Command launched another successful raid on the League capital of Tarrott before regional gravity became turbulent again, causing a welcome, two-day lull in the fighting.

According to Brim's TSIB, Laga'ard Testetta, Foreign Minister of the Torond—home following talks with Hanna Notrom—had informed Grand Baron LaKarn that "doubts now seem to hang over the Leaguer offensive against Avalon." Similarly, Zoguard Grobermann, League Minister of State, officially blamed the prolonged delay both on hazardous gravity storms and League forces diverted to assist The Torond in Fluvanna. Even Triannic was reported to have growled that at least two more weeks of calm gravity were necessary before he could hope to neutralize the Imperial Home Fleet.

If the Leaguers' invasion of Avalon had been temporarily postponed, however, their intent to destroy much of it continued unabated as soon as the regional gravity moderated. FleetPort 30 was attacked early on the third morning and damaged in spite of heavy losses inflicted on the enemy. Brim's Starfury was also hit during a dogfight during that same attack and just made it back to the base before the Drive power failed completely. Raids continued throughout the day, and a second attack on the FleetPort caught him without a ship to fight in.

Repairing in disgust to the tracking room, he quietly took a seat at the back of the low-ceilinged chamber and watched a group of Leaguer attack ships emerge out of Hyperspace, then speed directly for Proteus, the science-colony planet. Suddenly, a dozen or so swung off course and headed directly for FleetPort 30, arriving within firing distance while the clutter from the previous raid was still being cleared.

Starfuries immediately closed in and engaged the small squadron, but not in time to avert a second savage attack.

With alarms clanging stridently in his ears, Brim donned the helmet to his battlesuit—lately, he seemed to be living in it—then sprinted for Defense Central where Barbousse already would have taken command. But he was no more than halfway there when the deck buckled violently, throwing him from his feet as heavy disrupter fire again tore into the satellite. At either end of the corridor, airtight doors slid closed automatically, trapping him halfway through the big satellite's dormitory section. Before he could get up, the atmosphere filled with smoke—which cleared with a mighty roar as somewhere the damaged hull vented to open space. Simultaneously, the lights went out, replaced instantly by the dim glow of battle lanterns. Sealing his visor, he struggled to his feet and began to stumble blindly toward a wall phone when another savage blast took out the satellite's local gravity and launched him sideways through a cabin doorway where a wet and virtually naked woman struggled blindly to don a battlesuit—she'd obviously been showering when the raid began and had only heard the alarms when it was much too late. Heaving and gasping silently for air, she collapsed as he pulled himself to her side. Grabbing her battlesuit helmet, he jammed it over her staring, grimacing head and turned up the air—only clicks before a pitcher of liquid exploded beside her bunk and boiled in the vacuum of space.

Moments later, she ceased her wild struggles and her terror-goggled eyes clouded over.

Abruptly, he recognized her as one of the BKAEW operators, and wondered how many more of the satellite's occupants had just died similar deaths. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the helmet from her head, then gently closed her eyelids and finished pulling on her suit—a difficult task now that gases from boiling body fluids had swelled her body at least a third again in volume like some grotesque balloon.

When finally he stood, he reverently thanked Lady Fortune that the poor woman never regained consciousness while her blood was boiling. He'd seen that once: it was simply too horrible to contemplate.

After the attack subsided he activated the suit's voice communications system; his helmet immediately filled with groans and screams of those who survived. "Barbousse!" he demanded over the noise. "Barbousse! Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

"I hear you, Cap'm," said Barbousse's voice. "I'm safe. Where are you?"

Shaking his head in wonderment of yet another last-moment miracle, Brim gave Barbousse general instructions on where he could be found, after, he demanded, rescue crews first took care of the wounded. Then he sat back under a battle lantern and pondered on how he—Wilf Brim, Carescrian—had managed to stay alive for so long through so much trouble. He came up with no rational answers as he stared at the floating, bloated corpse for nearly two metacycles before Barbousse and a rescue team cut through the twisted wreckage to release him.

All told, more than sixty hits had scored on the satellite, each placed with an accuracy that Brim still found hard to believe. And even though he was certain he now knew part of how they were achieving it, the knowledge wasn't doing anybody much good until someone devised a way to counter it—or better still, to use it to the Empire's own best advantage. The Leaguers damaged workshops, repair hangars, stores, dormitories—even offices—ripping up service bays, severing service mains, and generally reducing the big satellite to a shambles. Sixty-five people had been killed or seriously injured—among them five flight crews. They'd finally destroyed the dock where he'd inadvertently concealed the Gorn-Hoff 219. But for all that, they didn't get what they were after. The little ship had been safely underground on Proteus for days.

At day's end. Defense Command crews had flown a record 1054 sorties—the previous record had stood only six Standard Days. Moreover, before the last watch was finished, 109 additional attack ships raided targets on Melia and Helios, in addition to smaller raids elsewhere. League losses totaled thirty-six starships to the Empire's twenty-five, but Brim and the other doughty Imperials were clearly approaching the limits of their strength and endurance as they struggled to sustain their part of Avalon's defense amid the twisted wreckage of FleetPort 30.

On the last day of Octad, Leaguer raids against Imperial starbases continued uninterrupted, with at least eight hundred starships of all types taking part. FleetPort 30 took even more punishment, but miraculously, the big satellite continued in operation, although none of the remaining Starfuries or Defiants based there remained completely serviceable. Brim often flew with reduced armament and propulsion, doing the best he could with what he had. From his all-too-infrequent rendezvous with an equally fatigued Eve Cartier, he knew that things were at least as bad in FleetPort 19—and, by inference, throughout Defense Command in general. His only comfort was the knowledge that the Leaguer crews were taking the same kind of punishment themselves.

One evening, a traveling company—brave souls all—put on a popular Laserta musicale in FleetPort 30's patched-up assembly hall. Brim and some 250 off-duty personnel formed a wildly appreciative audience. During one of the more popular ballads, raid alarms began to howl throughout the satellite. The troupe paused while audience and actors alike donned battlesuits, then the show went on, as if Hoth Orgoth and his Deep Space Fleet were just as unreal and innocuous as the clowns.

Less than a metacycle after the musicale, Brim found himself at the helm of a cobbled-together Starfury that was recently deemed more or less spaceworthy. Damage in the Drive crystal area made it incapable of faster-than-light flight, but it could still put up a good fight below the speed of light. He was just getting under way when yet another attack slammed into the base, this one much larger than the last.

In a welter of explosions, the Starfury to his left was flung 'round like a cartwheel, then continued out of control like a huge child's top until its starframe crumpled and all three hulls disintegrated in a roiling burst of energy. Nearby, a second Starfury whirled aimlessly, both pontoons broken off. Grinding his teeth and expecting to be the Leaguers' next victim, he fed the emergency energy to the ship's big gravs and got away—temporarily. Directly ahead were echelons of League attack ships, and his disrupter crews opened fire on two GA 88s in succession, but the Leaguers had already completed their attack and were racing off into Hyperspace, where Brim could not follow. Abandoning them to other crews, he returned to the damaged base in high dudgeon, where not even Barbousse could find words to claim his angry frustration.

During another series of the raging gravity storms indigenous to the galactic center, Brim was called to Avalon to make a situation report. At first, he angrily refused to leave the battle, but Calhoun insisted. So grudgingly he caught a shuttle for the surface. Within the metacycles, he landed on Lake Mersin—in the midst of a vicious raid. Sprinting off the brow toward a shelter, he paused to look toward the sound of a starship diving at high speed, Moments later, it broke through the high haze, heading straight for the lake. Its turrets were all askew, and for a moment he took it for a GA 87B. It was turning very slowly, in a lazy sort of spin, and as its full silhouette appeared, he recognized it as a Starfury. At about five hundred irals, the turrets swung a little, and then just before it reached the surface, its gravs seemed to blow up and disintegrate. The doomed starship disappeared into the lake as a cascade of individual waterspouts, leaving only a puff of colored smoke to mark the common grave of forty-odd Blue Capes, and even that was gone long before Brim reached the shelter...

Finally, the Leaguers departed. Brim's staff skimmer picked its way through rubble-strewn streets to the meeting, where briefers confirmed what he'd known all along: that Imperial starbases everywhere were suffering terrific damage. Before the meeting ended, however, all reported that they were back to nearly full operation—except his own, which was capable of reduced operations only by superhuman effort. Conditions at all the damaged starbases were miserable, especially at FleetPort 19. In answer to anxious questions by Calhoun and his staff officers, Brim expressed his thoughts that if Imperials like himself seemed stressed, the Leaguers must be equally so—perhaps even more. According to the reports he'd heard earlier in the meeting, the last two days had cost Hoth Orgoth seventy-seven starships. And while his fellow Imperials had themselves lost sixty-five, a much higher percentage of their crews had survived to fight again (although a number of Leaguers survived as Imperial prisoners).

Wearily trudging along an Admiralty corridor after the meeting, Brim noticed few CIGA buttons and discovered that Amherst's once-lavish office had quietly been converted to a much-needed main-floor snack bar.

In the lobby, he was just about to reserve an after-supper skimmer-pool lift to the shuttle when he heard the musical lift of a familiar voice.

"Skipper, Hey, Skipper. Captain Brim!"

Tired almost beyond caring he turned—then in spite of his fatigue, he broke out in what felt like an ear-to-ear grin. He'd almost forgotten how. "Tissaurd!" he hooted to the diminutive officer. "What in Voot's name are you doing in the middle of this snakepit?" he demanded. "I thought bender people simply went invisible and stayed clear of trouble like we've got here."

Turning a few heads in the great domed lobby, she planted a long kiss on his lips before she stood back, grabbed his forearms, and shook her head. "Wilf Brim," she said, ignoring his banter, "you look absolutely terrible."

Brim stolidly maintained his grin—he didn't want to lose the sudden rush of pleasure he'd felt when he first saw her. "I'm all right, Nadia," he chuckled. "It's just that time has allowed you to forget how ugly I normally am."

"And how full of Gorksroar you are, Brim," she growled, looking up into his face, "You're killing yourself, pure and simple. You should see your eyes—maybe you shouldn't at that. There's more red in 'em than there is white."

"I'm not the only one who looks like that," he said. "Every Defense Command starsailor is the same way—at least the ones who are still alive."

"From the looks of you, Skipper..." she started. Then, biting her lip, she stopped in the middle of her sentence.

" 'From the looks of me,' what?" Brim demanded.

"Nothing," she said firmly. "How long's it been since you relaxed with a woman?" she asked.

"Naked, I mean."

He laughed. "The last time I tried something like that, we both fell asleep before we could get anything going. Since then... well, the Leaguers have kept everyone pretty busy."

"What are you doing tonight?" she asked.

"I'd planned to catch supper somewhere, then head back to FleetPort 30 in time to catch the Dawn Watch patrol. Only the toughest Leaguers fly when there's bad regional gravity."

"So you're not due back right away, are you?"

He made a sham leer from her chest to her legs. "Well," he said pointedly. "I ought to get back and..."

She shook her head phlegmatically. "We won't make those kind of plans for tonight, Skipper," she said. "When you and I finally get it on in bed, you're going to do a lot more than sleep," she laughed.

"What I'm talking about tonight is making sure you get a decent supper—with all your clothes on, or at least part of 'em."

Brim sighed theatrically. "Seems as if every time we get together, something always gets in the way," he said.

"Yeah," she chuckled. "It does seem that way." Then she smiled. "Well," she added with an impudent look, "if you're up to it, you can have a little after-dinner feel."

"First let's see if I last through supper," he said with a tired laugh. Actually, the thought of a few metacycles shared with the personable—and very attractive—middle-aged woman was, well, stimulating. He had greatly enjoyed their tour of duty together, and somehow the promise of an evening filled with spicy conversation seemed to be pumping energy into him from Voot knew where. "All right," he agreed. "You tell me where."

Her choice was the quiet, wood-paneled bar of a grand old hotel. Brim found himself immediately comfortable, and even alert, or relatively so. A single musician sat at the console of a massive looking instrument coaxing melodies from out of its depths that made him feel relaxed without being sleepy. "This is wonderful, Number One," he said. "My sincere compliments."

She grinned. "They have great rooms upstairs, too," she said.

"Somehow, I thought you might have seen one or two of them."

"Well," she joshed with a smile, "if I had to wait for you to take me up there, I might forget how to do it. And I don't mean climb stairs."

"Little danger in your forgetting that, I'd bet," Brim said.

"True," she admitted. "It's like riding a kid's gyrocycle, I guess."

"Only more fun."

"Yeah. Lots more..."

They shared a moderately expensive bottle of Logish Meem while they dined comfortably on fruits, chutney, cheeses, and yeasty, hard-crusted bread. Like all starsailors who once were shipmates, they shared a special kind of friendship forged in long watches, fierce gravity storms, and a deep, enigmatic love of space itself. Their conversation was reflective, often touching on old acquaintances and their fates. Had he heard any more concerning the fate of Margot Effer'wyck? Had some lucky woman finally stolen Toby Moulding's heart, or was there yet a chance for small, graying Commanders? Was Utrillo Barbousse still running everything?

"And who are you sleeping with these days, Wilf?" she demanded. "I don't mean that in a literal sense, either." She made a shy grin. "Has that leggy Carescrian woman—Eve Cartier, that's it—beaten me to bed with you?"

"None of your damned business," Brim replied defensively, but an inadvertent grin and burning cheeks gave him away.

"Aha!" Tissaurd gloated. "You don't have to tell me, I know." She smiled. "Wish I had long legs like that to wrap around a man."

"I'm certain you make up for it in other ways," Brim chuckled.

"Trust me," she said with a smile. Then she frowned. "Cartier's a real Carescrian, isn't she?" she said. "Understand she even used to fly one of Calhoun's, er, privateers I think he calls them."

"She did," Brim said. "That's where I met her. But what's this 'real Carescrian' business?"

Now it was Tissaurd who frowned. "I don't know," she said. "Just words that came to mind."

Cocking her head, she peered at him as if she were seeing something in him for the first time. Then she raised her eyebrows. "Maybe I do know," she said. "She's not like you. She's proud to be a Carescrian; I've never known you to even mention it."

"Well," he said, "I've been working on that."

"Oh?" she replied.

"Yes, xaxtdammit," he said. "I'm beginning to feel all right about being a Carescrian. But I'm also—probably foremost—an Imperial. One who just happens to come from Carescria, that's all.

Believe me, the two of us have talked about this a couple of times."

Tissaurd reached across the table and took his hand. "I'm glad to hear that, my future lover," she said. "I've never questioned your 'Imperiality,' if such a word exists, I can't think of anybody who does—except somebody like Puvis Amherst. For xaxt's sake, with two Imperial Comets to wear and connections all the way to the throne, you are unquestionably an Imperial, Wilf Brim. But there is still one big difference between the two of you—that has nothing to do with what you've got between your respective legs."

"And that is?"

"Eve Cartier is finally proud her home is Carescria."

"Who says I've got an exclusive on this 'no-home' business?" Brim demanded. "I can't remember you ever talking about your home."

She laughed softly and touched his arm. "It's because I've never left my home, Wilf Brim," she said.

"I don't understand," he replied. "I thought you were born in the Lampson Provinces."

"I was," she said with a little grin.

"Then why is it I never hear you talk about them?"

"Because we left there before I was a year old," she explained—then frowned. "Wilf Brim," she said after a moment. "I don't think you spent much time with the personnel records when we served together or you'd know I'm a Fleet brat—both my mother and father were Blue Capes. The Fleet's my home, and I'm proud of it. You, on the other hand, act as if you have no home at all."

"That's damn near the same way Eve talks."

"Hmm. The more I hear about that woman, the more I like her—in spite of her damned long legs."

"I suppose that next you're going to tell me that I'm lonely," he said.

"No," she said. "I'll simply remind you that I said those words a year ago when we were off somewhere in space aboard old Starfury."

Brim nodded. "I guess I do remember that," he said.

"The more you ignore who you are, the more you're going to insulate yourself," she said. "You know, Carescria's pretty well thought of these days."

"When I started in the service, it was the other way 'round, believe you me," he said.

"Oh, I know all that," she said. "But years of war and people like you, Calhoun, and that damned long-legged Cartier have gone a long way toward changing that attitude forever."

"It's not been that easy to forget," he said, realizing immediately that he was being forced down the very same road he'd traveled recently with Eve Cartier. "You weren't mere at the Helmsman's Academy when I was. You didn't have to put up with a whole Fleet full of Puvis Amhersts who treated you like dirt no matter how well you did." He ground his teeth. "It wasn't easy to be a Carescrian those days, and now it's hard to forget."

"But denying Carescria, you direct the anger I just heard against the Carescrians themselves—not the people who made trouble for you."

"I know," he said. "She told me that, too."

"Did she also tell you it's that same anger that makes you lonely?" she asked.

"No," he admitted. "She didn't. But then, who's to say you're right? Maybe anger hasn't anything to do with it."

" 'It,' " she said, snatching at his word. "Then you admit that you're a lonely man, do you?"

Flustered, Brim shook his head and prudently decided to sidestep the whole thing. "No," he said.

"I admit to nothing except that I'll soon be too heavy-lidded to get myself back to the shuttle station." He grinned. "How about a lift to the Fleet base on Lake Mersin in that finagled skimmer of yours?"

"All right, Skipper," Tissaurd said in resignation, "I'll drop it for now. Hang on till I pay the bill and... stop off in the loo."

"I'll be the one snoozing in the lobby," Brim said, this time only half in jest. He had a rather deadly war waiting for him, and desperately needed at least a few metacycles sleep to ready himself for it.

It was late when they pulled up in a parking lot, some distance from a portable gravity pad where the Night Watch shuttle tested its mooring in the damp autumn breeze coming off Lake Mersin. Most of the other small craft had long since departed. As she set the gravity brake, she smiled at him and opened the door. "I'll walk you to your ship," she said, "I wouldn't want you to fall asleep in the lot here."

Brim smiled. "I'm sorry I wasn't better company on the ride out here," he said. "I'm simply worn out—physically and mentally."

"You're always good company, my ex-Skipper," she said, taking his hand and starting across the concrete apron. "Sometimes, you don't always need to talk."

"Thanks," he said simply. He appreciated her, too.

Halfway across, she paused for a moment to look around, then drew him into the shadow of a large tool crib. "About that dessert, Captain Brim," she said with an impish little smile. "Still interested?"

He frowned. "Dessert?" he asked, then he closed his eyes and smiled. "Oh, You mean?..."

Looking directly into his eyes, Tissaurd opened her Fleet cloak. Beneath, she wore only crimson briefs.

"Good grief," Brim muttered. He had often fantasized about the diminutive officer, who had once—jokingly?—revealed her bosom to him in a dim, crowded bar. But his imagination had done her little justice. She was absolutely gorgeous. Her prominent breasts stood out like those of a woman half her age, tipped with the tiny, dark brown nipples that had never really faded from his mind's eye. She had a chunky torso, and though her legs were certainly short compared to Eve Cartier's, they were perfectly proportioned to the rest of her—at least what he could see of them above her high-heeled boots.

Pushing aside the Fleet Cloak, he embraced her nakedness and—for the first time—kissed her as a woman. Instantly, an overpowering thrill pierced him to his very soul. Even her breath tasted of passion as she thrust her tongue again and again into his open mouth. "Nadia," he whispered after a time.

"You are magnificent."

"So are you, Wilf Brim," she gasped, pushing him to an arm's length. "And I definitely do want to keep you alive, so we are going to have to end this very quickly."

Brim nodded. Roused as he was, he knew fatigue would catch up with him all too soon.

"You haven't touched me, yet," she said, glancing down at her crimson briefs.

"Will you take those off for me?" he asked.

Without a word, she bent down and slid them to her ankles, stepping daintily out of each leg hole. Then she stood, waiting while she held her cloak open to reveal a great triangle of dark thatch.

"Now, my sexy Carescrian," she said. "So you don't forget that we have a date in bed someday..."

Dumbfounded, he stooped while she took his hand and, crouching slightly, slid it to her crotch where his fingers were immersed in a veritable puddle of thick, warm liquid.

She gasped for a moment as he explored more deeply, then once more covered his mouth with hers, gently probing with her tongue while her breathing became more and more strenuous. Abruptly, she stiffened and pushed him away. "No more!" she panted, drawing her legs together and rolling her pelvis almost violently. "Not until you are really in me."

Heart thundering in his ears, Brim ground his teeth while he fought his own near eruption to a standstill. "Sweet, Holy Mother of the Universe," he whispered in weak-kneed awe of the passion the tiny woman had managed to stoke within him.

After a while, she drew her Fleet Cloak closed and smiled again. "Just remember next time, Wilf Brim," she gulped, "that I prefer to take a lot longer getting this wet. Passion is like a fine old Logish Meem—to be savored, not downed in a single gulp."

"I'll remember," Brim said.

"I trust you will, Skipper," she said. Then she turned and pecked him on the cheek. "Now, just to be certain that we eventually do get to have our fun, I'm going to suggest that from here you walk directly to the shuttle." As she pushed him forward, she whispered, "one of these days, Skipper..."

He blew her a kiss as he started across the tarmac. "One of these days, Number One," he whispered back.

If he lived that long...