"Look out, Tempo," somebody shouted on the radio. Suddenly, two stinging shocks. Bang! Bang! The first, distant, smashed us sideways accompanied by agonized screaming on the intercom; must have been in the main hull. The second exploded right beside me. Raw energy roaring through the hullmetal plates, a sudden mist in the flight bridge that disappeared as our atmosphere escaped. Decompression! My faithful instruments were... gone. Smashed crystal and dark displays mocked me from the smashed panel. But it was my leg that caught my attention. Felt blood pumping in my left leg before my battlesuit sealed itself like a tourniquet just above the knee. This one was serious—hurt like fire! The screaming continued on the intercom; all I could do to keep from joining the poor devils. "Damage report!" I shouted through clenched teeth. "Give me a damage report!" THE DEFIANCE BILL BALDWIN If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book." WARNER BOOKS EDITION Copyright © 1996 by Merl Baldwin All rights reserved. Aspect® is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc. Cover design by Don Puckey Cover illustration by Chris Moore Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Visit our web site at http://pathfinder.com/twep A Time Warner Company Printed in the United States of America First Printing: November, 1996 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Prologue 13 Heptad, 52014 Interstellar Space: En Route from Braltar to Atalanta "General quarters!" I called into the blower—rather calmly under the circumstances, if I do say so. "All hands man your battle stations! General quarters! All hands man your battle stations!" For a moment, there was only shocked silence and the muted, pervasive thunder of the Drive, then the starship quickly filled with the discordant clamor of thudding boots and slamming airtight doors as our skeleton crew raced to man the few serviceable disrupter cannon we carried on board. I was flying lead helm in a convoy of sixteen Sherrington Mk V Starfury killer ships destined for the defense of Atalanta, the colossal Imperial Fleet Base on Hador-Haelic. Until moments ago—just short of the halfway point from Braltar, the Empire's space citadel in a neighboring sector of the galaxy—we'd faced little more than the boredom of an uneventful, three-day trip. Then the head and shoulders of Yin-Hardwyck, our Systems Officer, materialized in one of my globular displays with bad news. Other starships were approaching—and out here, they could hardly be from our side of the war. "Dampiers, Lieutenant?" I surmised. "Both proximity systems indicate the enemy ships are Dampier DA-79s, Admiral Brim," she replied. "Give me the whole thing." "Aye, sir. Eight DA-79s bearing two seventy-five degrees true, point nineteen light-years, on course three fifty-five degrees true; speed twenty-five M LightSpeed, and closing fast." "Got you," I said, absently scanning the flowing, constantly altering colors and hues of my readouts. Odors of a new starship everywhere: hot metal, sealants, logics, polish, food, people. Too new. We weren't ready to put up much of a fight today. Of course, the Dampiers over there didn't know that... maybe wouldn't—if I could be clever enough. In these perilous days, all of Emperor Onrad V's subjects needed to be clever—because cleverness was nearly all we had to fight with. Our ancient Empire stood defiant, but nearly alone and friendless in the Home Galaxy, with only the Great Federation of Sodeskayan States—herself under attack—to help counter the onslaught of Nergol Triannic's League of Dark Stars. One by one, I'd watched the great allied star domains capitulate before these lightning attacks: A'zurn, then Gannet, then Lamintir, then Korbu, then even powerful Effer'wyck, the latter in concert with a final, humiliating retreat from old Dankir by General Hagbut's Imperial Expeditionary Forces. Now, fully half the galaxy lay prostrate beneath Triannic's jackbooted feet. As the League advanced, other would-be tyrants followed its success with great interest. One, Grand Duke Rogan LaKarn of The Torond, had quickly determined he could likewise extend his own empire beyond certain portions of the Dominion of Fluvanna he had seized previously. But he would need help. To this end, he'd ingratiated himself with the dictator Triannic until, ultimately, he, too had declared war on the Empire, thus placing all remaining free Fluvannian planetary systems in deepest jeopardy, along with some of the Empire's most precious, and critical, resources. In my new assignment, I was supposed to do something about all that... somehow. Glanced through the forward Hyperscreens—after nearly half a standard day on the repair list, they were once more translating Hyperspeed-jumbled photons to comprehensible vision. Nothing yet. The Dampiers were still too far away. Nearer at hand, the other Starfuries had already opened from our normal, long-distance ferry formation into four groups of four ships—"quads," two-by-two combat formations on which we'd recently standardized. "Red" quad—the only four ships with activated disrupter cannon—was mine. "Red One from Blue One: got a visual on four unknowns at Blue Apex. Thirty c'lenyts and closing fast." Squinted through the Hyperscreens over my left shoulder. Gradually, a formation of faint sparks emerged in the distance high to port, moving at an angle to the stars rushing past in the "spaceman's tunnel". "Got them, Blue One, bogies at Blue Apex." I acknowledged, edging the ship right for a better tracking position while I considered my next move. Even though The Torond's fleets were mostly manned by ill-trained bullies drawn from the ranks of gangsters—talent at a helm wasn't necessarily linked to honesty: look at our own great Fleet—the ships they flew were good, very well armed. Underestimating their capabilities might well be fatal because it only took one lucky hit and... pfft, good-bye buttocks. Needed to face these ships down right away. "We'd better go see what they're up to," I said, turning our half-armed Starfuries to the attack. Made me nervous when I thought about it! But no more than a few clicks after we changed course, the six Dampiers abruptly set me at ease by veering away onto a parallel track with the convoy—well out of disrupter range. I could have cheered! Continued on course a few moments more to make them sweat. Then I, too, turned, aligning my quad on a course separating the two groups, relieved—but not at all surprised by the Toronders' reaction. Our tri-hulled Sherrington Starfuries were graceful, 330-iral-long killer ships that could top 75M LightSpeed and tussle with anything the galaxy could throw at them. They were reduced in size by nearly half from the Mark 1C Starfury "pocket battlecruisers" that were their immediate ancestors, yet they retained the identical main battery of twelve 406-mmi disruptor cannons and required a crew of only fifteen. In their intended role as short-range interceptors, they were renowned—and feared—throughout the galaxy. Most likely, the enemy commanders out there had no idea that twelve of our convoy were not armed. Or for that matter, that the four of us—the so-called escort—carried only a partial suite of disrupters. Our regrettable lack of firepower was a sad fact of life. The very success of these Sherrington interceptors was also an undoing—at least for some roles. In spite of the finest 'Grav and Drive systems in existence, their atmospheric-sleek, tri-hulled spaceframes and power generators had been optimized from the start for short missions of less than a Standard Day's duration. My sixteen ships had already been in continuous flight more than two Standard Days, and it had been necessary to disable numerous ancillary systems in order to make even that possible. The additional one and a half Standard Day's flight from our present position to Atalanta had required either disconnecting all the disrupters or many of the control systems. We'd come to a tricky compromise with the four ships that would be manned exclusively by Fleet personnel—six active disruptors (out of twelve) per ship and only the most basic control systems. Nobody, especially me, was very happy with the result, but the squadrons posted to Atalanta would need reinforcement within a very short time. So I'd agreed to lead a convoy; I was on my way there in any case. After this trip, however, replacements would have to come by transport, at least until someone on our side invented a good long-range interceptor. Decided to re-form into one unit. Increasing the size and apparent firepower of our little flotilla was nothing but pure fakery. but even looking more capable than we were could be worth something. Broadcast "join me" orders to the other Starfuries by KA'PPA communications—in the clear so the Toronders would read it aboard the Dampiers, too. KA'PPA transmitters instantaneously deliver information "packets" to all "listening" receiver nodes in the known Universe. In turn, the receivers ordinarily ignore packets addressed elsewhere, but I knew the Toronders couldn't resist scanning everything that came their way. If nothing else, my little ruse might mean a moment's hesitation over an attack. And I'd been saved by a moment any number of times during my career as a combat Helmsman. As the others took up station, I kept a wary eye on the six Dampiers, imagining their messages to and from some Sector Headquarters as they KA'PPAed with Controllers. Not much for independent action, those Toronders. It was a flaw I intended to exploit, both now and during the battles that were certain to come, if, of course, I got to Atalanta in the first place. My new assignment: take command of the military base on Atalanta's Grand Harbor, including the Starfuries of 71 Group—primary Sector Space Defense for the planet Haelic. The present commander, Rear Admiral W. Groton Summers, a known Triannic sympathizer and member of the League-sponsored Congress for Intra-Galactic Accord (CIGA), had deliberately allowed the base to deteriorate. I'd been briefed that he was protected from indictment by powerful, League-leaning CIGA politicians in the Imperial Parliament. For a number of years now, Grand Harbor had been under dual management: a Military Commandment responsible for operation of the Fleet Base and a civilian Harbor Master who operated the commercial port. Both offices—in theory, if not in practice—reported to the largely ceremonial office of Port Governor, appointed directly from our distant Imperial capital on the planet Avalon. However, that tradition was about to change—at least for the duration. The last civilian Governor, Photius I. Grünwald, an elderly, disinterested academic, had passed away some weeks hence in office. He would not be replaced. Instead, the Military Commandant and Harbor Master would both report directly to Avalon. In this manner, the Admiralty would be more directly in charge of both civilian and military operations during this rather difficult interval in history. My first task: restore the base to a wartime state of affairs in the shortest possible time. Summers has let things reach an exceptionally miserable state there, they'd told me, chuckling—all of them chuckling—so it's not going to be a plum assignment. But then, you've never had a plum assignment, Brim, so you're more or less the best man for the job, eh? They'd relented after that—only for a moment. We think you'll like the second part of the job a lot better, they'd added, even though it will be infinitely more difficult—and dangerous. But until I got the first one accomplished, they'd refused me any more information about it—only something about a rapidly ticking clock and the code word Sapphire.... It was food for a lot of thought. So far, Negrol Triannic's plans for his League of Dark Stars had been focused on a largely unsuccessful attack against our five Imperial capital planets—now known as the Battle of Avalon—followed by his invasion of Sodeskaya, an enterprise that was also slowly running into trouble as the Great Sodeskayan Bears, commanded by my old friend Marshal Nikolas Yanuarievich Ursis, gained the necessary strength and confidence to defend their homeland. Meanwhile, half a galaxy distant, the sprawling base at Atalanta—despite its tremendous size and strategic location—had been allowed to become little more than a backwater in the fast-expanding Second Great War. It wasn't as if our War Cabinet in Avalon considered Atalanta unimportant; but Imperial resources were low after years of League-backed opposition to defense spending by powerful CIGA interest groups. Until home production caught up with demand, our limited forces would necessarily be concentrated in locations that were under active attack. According to our best intelligence, the planet of Hador-Haelic was next on Triannic's schedule of conquest, although no one had yet been able to determine precisely when. I personally suspected this dearth of information wasn't so much a failing of our intelligence services as the fact that Triannic had assigned this particular enterprise to his flunky from The Torond, Grand Duke Rogan LaKarn and the slipshod, unprofessional military organization he had put in place since his ascension to—call it "theft of"—The Torond's throne. Peering out the Hyperscreens, I was about to risk another feint with all sixteen ships, when the Dampiers suddenly turned tail and disappeared among the stars. Probably, they were heading to The Torond's big Fleet base at Otnar'at, less than half a day distant from Atalanta. I shrugged, my little deception had worked well enough, but the xaxtdamned Toronders could easily guess where we were going. It was a foregone conclusion that—sooner or later—I would encounter them again... and again and again. Chapter 1 Entirely New Management 15-l6 Heptad, 52014 Interplanetary Space, near Hador-Haelic The star Hador had grown from a flickering pinpoint of light to the dazzling jasmine star presently looming in the blackness off to port. Ahead, Haelic's planetary disk occupied most of the forward Hyperscreens as my haggard ferry crew prepared the Starfury for landfall, KA'PPA channels were filled with traffic from ships entering and leaving the colossal port of Atalanta and its sprawling Fleet Base. "All hands to stations for landfall! All hands man your landfall stations." I called into the blower. "Secure from HyperLight Operations...." From below, the Starfury's cramped navigation bridge filled again with the distant thuds of airtight doors and hatches, crewmen dashing to their stations, and the semi-ordered confusion associated with securing a starship from deep space. Waiting for the Transition, I glanced forward as the ship slowed toward LightSpeed. Presently, all 'Screens were still projecting their HyperLight simulation of the view outside. But there... even as I watched, they got more and more transparent while our big Wizard 60 Drives fought the terrific momentum that had taken us a quarter of the way across the galaxy from the great Imperial space citadel of Braltar. As we passed through LightSpeed, I switched to the six powerful Admiralty-391 gravity generators the ship used when flying HypoLight, then shut down the Drive. Presently, photons began to arrive at speeds my human eyes could translate, and the 'Screens came over to full transparent, revealing an ocher planet with overtones of ultramarine cloaked here and there by filmy white cloud banks. I'd first seen that panorama something like a thousand eons ago, it seemed—during an altogether different war. Tried to force the past aside while I went through the rigmarole of securing approach clearance from Planetary Center. Got the clearance; the other didn't work. A woman with long brown hair I'd known then—face had never gone completely from my memory. She was still there—I'd made it my business to check. Would she remember me after all these years? Or would she even care to? Shouldn't think about her just now, but... I'd always found Atalanta fascinating, and not just because of her. The city had been a vital anchorage of one sort or another since time immemorial—long before the Age of Star Flight, when only seaborne ships called at her already age-blackened stone jetties and piers. HyperLight travel changed the very warp and woof of civilization on Haelic, and gradually, Atalanta's identity merged with that of the whole planet. Advent of the militant Gradgroat-Norchelite Order and, later, their huge, hilltop monastery with its orbital forts gave the city-planet yet another identity—one that would ultimately save the Empire itself during the final battle of the First Great War. That clash effectively destroyed much of the ancient city as well as the League's fleet, the latter causing Emperor Nergol Triannic to sue for amity with his double-dealing armistice and subsequent Treaty of Garak. Now: another war had come, with Atalanta once more slated for the pain and misery associated with a major strategic role. Ahead—actually, below, now—Haelic had taken on added dimension. My Starfuries were descending through ever-thickening atmosphere like meteors while they beamed directed-energy plasma torches out ahead to shield their hulls from the heat of reentry. At the edge of vision, I checked my other quads—all keeping perfect station in echelon to port. Down we swept toward shapeless, smoothed-over cloud banks that quickly became moving, grayish masses fringed with color as the horizon lost its curve and I made my personal transition from navigating the vast emptiness of deep space to flying in crowded, controlled airspace. Glancing at an altimeter, I keyed the radio, "Atalanta Center," I sent, "Fleet ST-337F with Convoy ART-19 requests approach clearance." "Fleet ST-337F," a civilian controller responded promptly, "Convoy ART-19 is cleared to Orbital Buoy nine nine one, Frequency seven eight four three. On arrival, continue descent to two five zero c'lenyts and decelerate to velocity twenty-five zero zero." "Fleet FA-337 acknowledges direct routing to HoverBuoy nine nine one. Convoy is presently at five fifty c'lenyts and thirty-one zero zero velocity. Decelerating to velocity of two five five zero." Within twenty cycles, I had the HoverBuoy in sight to starboard, radiating a coded pattern in flashes of ruby light. We were now well within Haelic's atmosphere and measuring altitude in irals rather than c'lenyts. Out ahead, a departing merchantman crossed our path on the way to outer space. As the Starfury bounced through its churning gravity wakes, the head and shoulders of a young woman appeared in a globular display over my right-hand console. "Fleet FA-337," she said, "Convoy ART-19 may descend and maintain flight level three hundred." "Convoy ART-19 will continue descent to flight level three hundred," I acknowledged, checking the Hyperscreens for local traffic. From long experience, I understood that the Center's traffic controllers were severely overworked—and used equipment that was rarely uprated. Been around long enough to understand that one of the first items to be rationed during wartime was safety, with every commander on both sides—including myself—deceitfully preaching some brand of safety gospel as if we actually believed a word of it. Came through a solid bank of clouds nearly as large as the continent it covered. Only a few hundred irals below, I picked out at least four more layers of dirty, gray-looking clouds—detritus of a frontal system moving slowly down from the polar regions of the planet. "Fleet FA-337 with Convoy ART-19, descend and maintain one zero thousand irals with a heading of three one five to join the Blue-five radial inbound," a new controller directed. She had pretty blue eyes. "Many thanks," I replied. "Convoy ART-19 descending to one thousand irals and a heading of three one five for radial Blue." I listened to the steady beat of the 'Gravs thundering in the Starfury's lower two hulls—"pontoons" was the builder's term—on either side of the Starfury's main fuselage. Thought about the ferry crew, at least as anxious to be down as I was. I set the lift augmenters, listening to the 'Gravs spooling up as they shouldered the extra load. Clicks later, the ship trembled as finned cooling radiators deployed from either side of the main fuselage and roared in the slipstream. "Fleet FA-337 with Convoy ART-19: proceed direct to intercept Blue beacon on the three nine three radial," the blue-eyed controller intoned. "Cross the threshold at eight five thousand and maintain altitude." "Convoy ART-19 flying direct to Blue radial three nine three to cross threshold at eight five thousand and maintain altitude." Eyeballed the altimeters and turned on the landing lights just as the autopilot disconnected. It was the only automatic system still online in the Starfury; actually I often flew with the automatic systems disconnected, especially during lift-offs and landfalls. Wasn't alone, either, at least among the better Helmsmen.... During the next minutes, the controller reduced our speed to 200 cpm (c'lenyts per metacycle), then 150 before turning us onto an instrument vector for landing. Silhouetted ahead in the evening light was an unmistakable cityscape and glowing harbor—Atalanta! My eyes followed the great upsweep of City Mount Hill as fading daylight illuminated the Gradgroat-Norchelite's reconstruction of their colossal monastery. In spite of myself, I felt a growing sense of excitement. Twice before this legendary city had assumed critical importance in my life. It was clear a third instance had already commenced.... A different controller appeared in my globular display: this time a young man with short, fiery red hair. "Fleet FA-337 with Convoy ART-19," he advised, "your ships are cleared for landfall by quads line abeam; vector ninety-eight left. Wind from three hundred at four six with gusts to five nine." "Thank you, Atalanta Tower," I replied. "Convoy ART-19 is cleared for landfall by quads line abeam: vector ninety-eight left." He switched to the convoy frequency. "Quad leaders—you noted all that?" "Affirmative, Admiral," three voices replied in unison. "Good," I said. "I'll take my four ships in first. Harris, you make a circuit and follow with Blue quad, next Kimple with Yellow, and finally Bell with Green. Any questions?" "None, Admiral." "See you on the surface," I said as a solid ruby light flashed out of the evening magenta ahead. A gust of wind pushed the ship to port, and the light began to dissociate into horizontal lines. As I corrected to starboard, the ruby lines converged, then separated again, this time to vertical lines. One last correction and they coalesced again—on centerline. Increased the lift augmenters and fed in ten degrees more power to take up the load. More landing checklist. Continuous boost ON; radio nav switches set on RADIOS; flight panels checked. The other three ships in my quad had now moved into line-ahead formation behind me, each ship slightly offset to the left. It was time I got everyone belowdecks down in their seats. "All hands secure personal stations. All hands secure personal stations..." Altimeter, flight, and nav instruments set and crosschecked; airspeed EPR bugs reduced to one thirty nine and cross-checked, speed brake levers LOCKED. The starship began to sink as I reined in the power. Off to starboard, a virtual forest of shipyard cranes slid by my Hyperscreens, then huge rounded towers, darkened globes, and a maze of tall crystalline structures catching the last of Hador's failing light. Three thousand irals to my left a veritable city of darkened goods houses and wharves materialized out of the night, most of the latter occupied by one sort of starship or another. Only a hundred irals' altitude, now—the part that separates Helmsmen from wannabes. Walked the steering engines carefully, concentrating on the ranks of waves glittering out ahead in the landing lights. Glide path... descent rate... speed... angle of attack. None perfect, but close enough at this altitude, especially with a human at the helm. Called up a little more thrust—should be 3-4 cpms fast—then eased off the steering engines. The bow swung to windward, then I slanted the deck a little for drift. Nose up ever so slightly. Judging the wave troughs... held her off... deftly leveling the tri-hull only an instant before cascades of dark water shot skyward past the side Hyperscreens, diminished as we slid through a trough, then shot skyward once more as I gently plastered the pontoons to the surface. We sliced through two more of the big rollers before I pulsed the gravity brakes gently, sending long streams of gravitons out ahead to flatten the waves and slow the ship. Moments later, we were stopped, rolling gently on the surface of Grand Harbor while I switched to local gravity (as always, nearly losing the contents of my stomach), then configured the controls for surface running. In the overhead 'Screens, the clouds had passed, and stars from the galactic center shimmered like a great canopy of lights to set the water glittering with a million-odd colors and hues. After a number of momentous years, I had again returned to Hador-Haelic's Atalanta—and perhaps a middle-aged woman with long brown hair who had never been far from my mind during thirteen long years. Focused on the ship again—no time to think about her now! * * * We'd scarcely cleared the landing vector when a harbor controller with an anxious look appeared in my globular display. "Harbor Control to all quads of Convoy ART-19... Harbor Control to all quads of Convoy ART-19," she said. "Slave your ships to individual blue taxi vectors with all haste. I repeat—with all haste. Enemy raids are imminent." "Red quad scanning for vectors," I responded—not at all surprised. The zukeeds had us nailed! Configured for surface running, our Starfuries were much too far behind the energy curve for quick lift-offs—especially in the face of an attack. As I spoke, Red Four turned hard to port, followed by Red Three, then Red Two. Abruptly, a blue harbor vector gleamed in my own port Hyperscreen. Pointed an acquisition tube at it until three blue lights converged in my nav panel, then it was up to the Starfury. Now, remotely steered from somewhere in the darkness ahead, we headed straight for the vector. Rising from the helm, I peered aft through the darkness, where Blue quad was skimming to a landing in clouds of spray no more than a thousand irals behind us. By the time Yellow quad reported they were down, I could sense rather than see a large opening in the massive seawall ahead, where the water's reflection ended in the darkness. My taxi vector was beamed from it. "Docking and mooring details to stations," I ordered on the blower. Moments later, hatches popped open atop the pontoons and soon crews of starsailors dressed in attractor boots, sea slickers, and big insulated mittens were scurrying along the wet, dimly lighted surfaces to open our optical mooring cleats. As our four ships approached the massive entrance, a searing flash lighted the sky and dimmed the Hyperscreens, almost as if a nearby star had exploded. Startled, I jumped in my seat, then steadied myself. Of course—the Gradgroat-Norchelite orbital forts! They'd be the first to fire on an attack from space. Another blinding flash. Then another, and another until the darkness was turned to a throbbing, toneless blue-white daylight. Then... darkness again—darker still for the contrast. I knew the attackers were now either past the forts or destroyed as I listened to the ships of Green quad report their landing runs, then make an abrupt turn shoreward. Breathed a little easier. All of Convoy ART-19 was at least safely down—if not yet safely sheltered. Suddenly our four ships were safe inside the darkened cavern, running four abreast along what appeared to be a wide canal. From her position at the extreme right of the quad, my Starfury seemed to be speeding along only a few irals from a very solid-looking seawall—with nobody at the helm! Abruptly, we came to an halt with the 'Gravs idling, and I glanced aft again—Just in time to hear the ships of Blue quad report themselves safely through the entrance, four dim white wakes against the near darkness. Then the unmistakable flashing of disruptors lighted the sky outside of the hangar, bathing Yellow quad in brilliant strobes of light as the four ships raced for shelter through a veritable forest of glowing, yellow-green waterspouts just short of the entrance. I watched—horrified—as the rightmost Starfury lifted from the water atop a glowing, coruscating eruption of greenish energy and water. While its luckless Helmsman struggled with the controls, the Starfury's nose reared higher and higher, then fell off sharply to starboard—Just as it managed to reach the hangar entrance. Next moment, the speeding ship slammed broadside against a solid-rock column, then broke in two and exploded, spewing glittering clouds of hullmetal sparks as it sideswiped its closest neighbor. More disruptor flashes outside, these much brighter. The Fleet Base was finally shooting back—just as the doors began to close, But where was Green quad? Another tremendous explosion—followed by an angular-looking starship tumbling into the mouth of the hangar, aflame from stern to Drive tubes. One of The Torond's new Dampiers! The stricken ship erupted in a blinding sheet of pure energy while the massive doors continued to slide shut. Without warning, a Starfury burst through the incandescent rubble, followed by a second... then a third, only just squeezing through the narrow opening that remained. Then a secondary explosion and the doors finally slammed together. Moments later, when the hangar's internal lighting came on, a glance around revealed that we were in a huge, arched tunnel carved from solid rock—at least two hundred irals high and perhaps five times that in width. The "canal" I'd sensed in the darkness was actually the ends of piers lining either side of the underground passage, which appeared to extend for nearly a quarter c'lenyt in either direction. Wreckage from the downed Dampier still smoldered just inside the massive doors, and the six survivors from Yellow and Green quads were idling in two ranks behind the four ships of Blue quad—all apparently undamaged, as were my own Starfury and the three other ships of Red quad. I'd lost two of the sixteen Starfuries in my charge—better than twelve percent. Not a record to be proud of, especially since the ships had come all that way safely. They'd be missed; no doubt about that. From my position on the canal, I could count twenty-nine other Starfuries moored in three groups along the tunnel. Fifteen older Defiant-class attack ships were clustered into two additional groups. The remainder of the occupied wharves nearby were taken up by various utility and transport starships as well as three bizarre-looking "benders" that could "bend" nearly all radiation around their hulls, rendering them virtually invisible to all known receptors. Clearly, the defending squadrons of 71 Group had been caught with their collective pants down. Why? With the sophisticated, late-model KA'PPA-based BKAEW early-warning systems that had been shipped here only Standard Months earlier, they should easily have been spaceborne in plenty of time to blunt—or even completely foil—the assault that had destroyed two brand-new attack ships and their crews. Yet none of the ships appeared even to be manned, although a few maintenance crews could be seen working on their hulls. Well, by Voot, I'd been warned. What a state of affairs! With a fast-growing sense of indignation, I promised myself that tomorrow—first thing—I would start rooting out the bastards who were responsible, starting with the present, outgoing commander, one Rear Admiral (the Hon.) W. Groton Summers, who would soon be on his way to a comfortable staff job in Avalon. My angry musings were interrupted by a surface-traffic controller who appeared in his globular display with a mooring assignment at one of the empty piers.... * * * I was roused at Dawn plus one twenty-five by a chime from my timepiece. Frowning, I sat up in the bunk and glanced around. The message screen on the wall of my temporary cubicle in the Bachelor Officer's Quarters indicated three messages waiting. I hadn't even checked the previous night; I'd been too ragged out from the trip for anything but a desperately needed shower, immediately followed by a bed. Shrugging, I took a battered Remote from the night table and displayed the first message: 14 Heptad 52014, Brightness: 3:30 TO: Wilf A Brim, RADM, I.F. From: Hathaway Cottshall, Administrator For: W. Groton Summers, RADM, I.F. Admiral Brim: RADM Summers sends compliments, and directs me to convey that it will be his pleasure to receive you in his private Headquarters office at Morning:00:00 sharp for Transfer of Command Ceremonies to be held promptly at noon. Formal uniform recommended. Formal uniform, eh? So that's the sort of thing that concerned Summers. Certainly didn't seem worried much about his base being attacked—or about safe arrival for badly needed reinforcements to its defense. Except for a few dock-side mooring squads, no one had even bothered to meet my tired ferry crews as they stiffly piled out of their Starfuries at pierside. And it couldn't be that they'd mistaken our arrival time; the message had been forwarded here to the VOQ late yesterday afternoon. Later yesterday, when I'd personally inquired about what sort of defenses had been aloft when the Dampiers arrived for their attacker, I was informed that only the orbiting space forts and the harbor's fixed disruptor batteries had been put on full alert. Yet even in worst case, many of those twenty-nine Starfuries I counted had to be operational. So where in xaxt were their thraggling crews? And why hadn't at least a few of the zukeeds been flying a Combat Space Patrol? Maybe Summers was a CIGA, but he certainly couldn't have effected damage on this scale without a lot of help. The Ops Officer was responsible for much of the way the base appeared. But first responsibility lay with Summers and his Executive Officer; that's where I'd start. After that, I'd root out the decay so that this kind of treason would never happen again—ever. The next message was from Master Chief Petty Officer Utrillo Barbousse, highest-ranking noncom in the Imperial Fleet and a trusted personal associate since our days together aboard I.F.S. Truculent during the First Great War. Barbousse and I had formed such an effective team that for years Emperor Onrad insisted the two of us be stationed together. According to the him, it was the most damaging thing he could do to the League. WO9FGU7BVJW405967HGJQ0W9E8RG [TOP SECRET] FROM: U. BARBOUSSE, MCPO, VPOQ, IFB, AVALON, AVALON-ASTERIOUS TO: WILF A BRIM, RADM, VOQ, IFB, ATALANTA, HADOR-HAELIC HAVE TRANSPORTATION ORDERS IN HAND FOR I.S.S. SWANNBRLAND DEPARTING HERE 26 HEPTAD AND ARRIVING ATALANTA 32 HEPTAD. ALREADY PACKED NUMEROUS CASES OF VINTAGE LOGISH MEEM YOU MAY FIND INTERESTING AS WELL AS DELICIOUS. KA'PPA OTHER "NECESSITIES" I SHOULD PICK UP FOR YOU IN AVALON. SEEN MUCH OF YOUR DAUGHTER, HOPE, IN LAST FEW DAYS. SHE IS ABUNDANTLY HEALTHY AND FILLED WITH THE SAME WONDERFUL SUNSHINE AS HER LATE MOTHER. SHE CONSTANTLY ASKS ABOUT YOU, IN SPITE OF NEARLY PERPETUAL OVERINDULGENCE BY EMPEROR ONRAD—WHO SENDS PERSONAL REGARDS, AS DOES NURSE COSA TUTTI. HAVE LATEST HOLOPICS IN HAND SO YOU CAN SHOW HER OFF TO EVERYONE IN ATALANTA. [END TOP SECRET] WO9FGU7BVJW405967HGJQ0W9E8RG I grinned. My tiny daughter Hope did seem to have some internal source of sunshine—on those all-too-few occasions I got to see her. Officially, the little girl's father was Mustafa Eyren, the Nabob of Fluvanna; her mother, Raddisma, a singularly gifted and beautiful woman as well as Eyren's most favored courtesan. But I was the little girl's actual father—after a single, extraordinary night with the beautiful courtesan aboard a crippled starship. Sadly, we saw each other only twice more after that. Little Hope had come a long, treacherous route to her present fortuitous state of affairs. Just before the fall of Fluvanna, Emperor Onrad granted asylum in Avalon to the Fluvannian court—including Raddisma., who delivered little Hope shortly after her arrival in Avalon. And, upon Raddisma's death from a stray disruptor burst during the Battle of Avalon, Onrad further made the little girl his personal ward—-some whispered as a courtesy to me when he accidentally discovered her actual derivation. At all events, Hope now resided in the Imperial Palace, cared for by Raddisma's faithful retainer, Cosa Tutti, although elderly Nabob Eyren still visited faithfully in the belief that the little girl was his true daughter. My third message was from the Base Housing Office, informing me in the most incoherent bureaucratese possible that my base housing authorization was denied because a form had been misfiled in Atalanta. Shrugging phlegmatically, I made a note to let Barbousse handle that item, then fetched my tote bag from the shelf over my bunk. Clearly, I had plenty of work in store—and very little time to do it. At Dawn plus two, roughly five metacycles remained until my "ceremony" with Summers; I resolved to use it productively. I dressed from my duffel bag in worn blue flight overalls, soft leather boots, a battered black leather Helmsman's jacket, and a garrison cap with two small stars as the only indication of my flag rank. Then—just in case—I buckled on my Wenning .985 blaster in its leather holster. Grabbed a steaming, sweet cup of cvceese' on my way through the VOQ lobby, then strode out into the early morning duskiness—where the star Hador was already clearing Atalanta's spinward horizon with a swollen streak of burnt orange—and caught a grimy freight tram to the underground hangar. Below, I found the vast gloomy cavern much the way I had left it the previous evening, redolent of seawater, overheated logics, solvents, hot metals, sealants, lubricants, and the other smells common to a starship anchorage. It was also still mostly unpopulated, with only a minimum of activity going on—although a few more vehicles were moving within my purview. Here and there, I could hear the staccato t-zaapt of collapsium welders, reflecting their wobbling glare on the jagged rock of the ceiling. An overhead crane hummed along a track over the main canal carrying a crated Drive crystal, and from somewhere far inside came the lonely chime of a communicator. But the giant facility was virtually abandoned. Where in the name of Voot was everybody? Behind me, the doors to the harbor had been rolled open again while a floating crane noisily dredged up the tangled wreckage of the Dampier and my Yellow-quad Starfury that had crashed during the previous evening's attack. Farther out in the harbor, a second salvage crane had just turned off its working lights, raising, I assumed, the wreckage of the missing Starfury from Green quad. I ground my teeth. Neither Starfury needed to have been lost—certainly not pissed away without opposition as they had been. Without even a fight. Starfuries themselves were hard enough to replace; but their crews could never be replaced—either aboard ship or among their families. Especially the civilians. Bad enough to sacrifice starsailors; possible death was written into their job descriptions. But the civilians—that was murder. I strode along a section of the broad concourse that paralleled the left-hand wall of the tunnel. The surface was littered and stained by puddles of spilled lubricant slippery enough to cause an accident. Yet I could see no sign of a maintenance detail anywhere. Many of the stains looked as if they had been around for a long time. I checked one of the piers that jutted out from that side of the great subterranean hangar. Hardly a Karlssohn lamp was burning with a full array of illuminators. Dockside gear was carelessly adrift everywhere; some even blocking access to the N-ray mains—in spite of flashing fire-lane indicators built into the surface. On the second pier, a number of optical bollards were weak and clearly out of adjustment, allowing both Starfuries moored there to drift dangerously close to the piers. Except for the ships I'd delivered myself, the Starfuries and the Defiants I could see appeared to be anything but ready for battle, or even flight. Especially the more complex Starfuries. Many had access hatches open as if they were waiting for maintenance of one kind or another. Thick cables fed into them here and there, but nobody seemed to be doing much work—at least nobody in a hurry. Here and there crews of mechanics stood in little groups talking and smoking the spicy local mu'occo cigarettes. None of them one paid me the slightest attention as I strode along the concourse—a complete stranger. Where in the name of Voot was Security? Where was thraggling anybody? I grew more disgusted with each pier I passed, especially when I remember how things had once been at this magnificent Fleet Base—even during peacetime. But in those days, some of the best minds in the Empire had been in charge, Clearly, that had changed drastically. I stopped for a moment to take stock. Things were deeply wrong in the Ops, Engineering, and even the Space Divisions of the base. I checked my timepiece. Still three metacycles until my appointment with Summers. Used a portable HoloPhone to pass a few quick orders to the three quad leaders who'd flown in with me, then caught a nearby lift to the surface and cadged a ride to the transport pool. More smells of lubricants and solvents as I opened the door to the office, but with a strong overtone of... polish. Nothing wrong with that! Peered through an open door into the main garage; spied a lone rating energetically shining a large, elegant limousine skimmer. The last time I'd been stationed in Atalanta, the base didn't even have a limousine skimmer. "Can I help you, sir?" the young StarSailor called through the door with his sweaty back to the checkout counter. Young, in his early twenties, he was stripped to the waist and flexing muscles in the manner of someone who likes to keep himself in shape. "I need a gravcycle, Mister," I said, glad to see at least someone hard at work. "D' you mind just takin' one, sir?" he puffed over his shoulder, "I've got to have this thing shined for the big doings at Headquarters, and I don't have much more time." "What's going on at Headquarters?" I asked—as if I didn't know. "New military commander checkin' in, sir," the StarSailor explained, still with his back to me. "Guess they're going to show him around." "They need a limousine skimmer to show him around?" "I don't ask questions, sir," the StarSailor said, grunting as he reached across the top of the big machine to polish a recalcitrant spot, "I just take orders and spread wax." Grinned in spite of myself. "I see," I said, stepping through the doorway into the garage—which on first sight appeared to hold some of nearly every type of vehicle known to civilization. Toward the rear of the huge room, a group of mechanics were grouped around a heavy lorry, their tools and voices echoing distantly in the vastness, I turned to the rating. "Isn't anybody around to help you out?" I demanded. "Oh yes, sir," he replied, still not turning around. "But they're a bit late this mornin'. Usually I can handle it myself, but today Headquarters wanted the Admiral's limo all shined up—and nobody got around to tellin' me about it till I got here about Dawn plus two twenty-five." He shook his head. "Awful lucky I was early, or I'd be in a real pickle." "I see," I said. "Very well. How do I get myself a 'cycle?" "Just sign the tabulator back there on the office counter, sir, then go pick one out," the StarSailor said, pointing to a large collection of gravcycles nearby. He climbed down to move the ladder. "When you ride past, call out the number, and I'll note it down for you, er..." Suddenly, his gaze fell on my garrison cap. "Admiral, sir!" he said with a stricken look. "At ease, StarSailor," I answered, raising a hand to check him. "What's your name?" "Er, Russo, sir. Joe Russo, Petty Officer, Third Class—sir." "Who's your boss, Russo?" "Er, Chief Petty Officer Lorton Tambourne, sir." "Where is he?" "I, er, don't know, sir." I looked at him carefully. "Is he on leave, or something?" "No, sir." "He supposed to be here, then?" "Well, er.. " "Yes or no, Russo." "Yes, sir." "Who's his boss?" "Chief Tambourne works direct for the Base Transportation Officer, Commander Baily, sir." "I assume Baily reports to the Ops Officer?" "Yes, sir. Captain Harper." "All right, Russo," I said, making a quick decision. "Three items for you. First: park the limousine; it won't be needed today. Second: at Brightness on the dot, I take over from Admiral Summers as Base Commander and you're promoted to Petty Officer, First Class—call it a battlefield commission for obvious reasons. Third: at that moment, you're also in temporary command of the transport pool. Can you handle it?" "Command... me?" He only hesitated a moment. "You bet I can handle it, sir, b-but..." "The name's Brim, Mister. If anybody gives you trouble, refer him—or her—to me at the Base Commander's office. I'll take care of it personally." "Aye aye, Admiral Brim." "Good. Now stow that polish and go sign me out one of those gravcycles—a good one. On a permanent basis...." Cycles later, I was astride a powerful, deliciously balanced new RSB gravcycle, wind whistling past my helmet as I sped around the base making a quick private inspection. Didn't like much of what I saw. Some parts of the huge complex were immaculately kept—in certain cases, even better maintained than I remembered they were years ago. But these were maintained by the civilian Harbor Master's Office—except the Officer's Club, which appeared to be very crowded for this time of the morning. Warehouses, power networks, communications centers, buildings, supplies—all were clearly in order and to the book. Better than the book. They made the military portions look... neglected was an accurate term. Clearly, the Harbor Master had the situation well in hand. And she was just as clearly working without much help from her counterpart in uniform. Also, I knew who she was. Knew her well... The farther I went, the more my ire grew until—with still nearly a metacycle and a half before Summer's ceremony—neither I nor the base could wait any longer. Pulling up to the ostentatious new Fleet Headquarters Building (the original had been destroyed during the First Great War), I parked the gravcycle in an empty "RESERVED FOR COMMAND STAFF" slot near the door. All but two of the similarly marked slots were empty as I strode into the lobby, trying my damnedest to stay calm. What a lobby! I quickly took in the rich, polished-wood floors, the expensive lighting fixtures, the lavish furnishings, the theater-like entrance to the briefing auditorium—all a far cry from the squalid, unkempt operational zones I'd known during most of my career. True, it was important to keep up appearances at the Atalanta Fleet Base. Important people from all over the known Universe passed through this lobby. But this extravagantly furnished room would have served well in most houses of state—even embassies. The whole thing appeared empty, except for a lone Chief Petty Officer sitting engrossed in a HoloNews magazine behind an information counter. He didn't even look up as I came through the door. Took a moment to get my bearings, then strode to a wall directory and selected COMMANDER'S SUITE from the menu. The display changed to a three-dimensional holographic corridor map of the first floor with a path to the suite flowing in radiant green. Nice toy. I looked around, found the corridor, then started across the polished floor. "You're on course for the Commander's suite, sir," the Petty Officer observed without looking up. "Need some help?" I continued past without stopping. "Next time, Chief," I said. Two glass doors at the far end of the corridor; the great seal of the Imperial Fleet etched on the left door; "Commander, 71st Group, Imperial Fleet," in old-fashioned ciphers on the right. Keeping a close rein on my temper, I set course. "Hey, wait, sir!" someone called after me. "The Commander's Office is off-limits this morning. Admiral Summers's orders." "Not anymore," I said, continuing on without turning. Presently, there were footfalls behind me, "Just a cycle, sir," the Petty Officer called. "You can't go in there. It's off-limits!" I turned so he could see the two stars on my garrison cap. "I've placed it back on limits, Mister," I said. The Petty Officer stopped in his tracks. "Er, w-who are you... A-Admiral?" "Brim—Admiral Brim to you, Mister," I said. "I'm the new 71st Commander. And why didn't you ask that when I came in?" "I... ah..." the Petty Officer stammered. "Here's my ID," I said, handing over my card. "Check this at your lobby station, then return it to me in the Commander's office." "Y-yes, Admiral." "And Chief...." "Admiral?" "You are now a Petty Officer, First Class. I'll expect that rocker to be off your rating badge as soon as you've returned my ID. Understood?" "Er... y-yes, Admiral...." I continued along the corridor, then pushed open the right-hand glass door and strode into a second lobby, more lavish—if that were possible—than the first. Everything here laden with overstuffed pillows—all elegantly color-coordinated, in the most feminine of pastels. I'd learned a little about decoring years ago at this same base from one of the most stunning women I've ever encountered—but she kept it all at home, where things were supposed to be soft and color-coordinated. I ground my teeth, gazing from couch to couch. Voot's beard! Military people were supposed to kill people and break things, not lounge around on thraggling pastel pillows. "May I be of service?" a low-pitched, deferential voice demanded. Startled, I whirled around to confront a tall, gaunt civilian, elegantly dressed in an old-fashioned formal business suit. He was sitting behind a graceful antique rosewood desk, so placed to make entry impossible without crossing its enfilading field, much like a well-sited blaster nest. When his eyes fell on my two stars, he rose on long legs and held himself to what might be regarded as a civilian's version of attention. He had a long, aristocratic nose and large, puffy brown eyes that peered out from age-creased sockets above gaunt cheeks and hirsute brows. Funeral director. Wondered if he'd ever smiled—decided not often. "May I be of service, Admiral Brim?" he repeated. "Didn't catch the name," I said, offering my hand. "Hathaway Cottshall, the Commander's private secretary, Admiral," he said, taking my hand in a tentative grip. "You mean Summers's private secretary," I corrected, venting some of the anger that had been building within me—and instantly regretting it. "Er... yes," Cottshall replied, his eyes acknowledging my meaning. "Good," I said. "You can keep the job temporarily. We'll see what we can work out on a long-range basis later." I nodded toward the room's only other door. 'The Commander's suite?" "It is, Admiral." "Where's Summers?" "At the Officer's Club, Admiral," Cottshall replied. "A farewell breakfast with a few of his staff." "Get him here," I ordered, as the ex-Chief returned my ID card. "Admiral?" "I want that worthless son of a capcloth here within fifteen cycles—before I see anybody else. Understand?" "B-but, I c-can't summon Admiral..." "Tell him it's an emergency. You won't be lying, trust me." "Y-yes, Admiral," "I suppose the Executive Officer's at the Club, too?" "Er, no Admiral. He wasn't invited." Interesting. "Why not?" I asked. "I have no idea, Admiral?" I'll bet, I thought. "Where's his office?" "Captain Williams's office is on the next floor up." "After you've got Summers on his way, tell Williams I want him in here with me—in the Commander's office—exactly one cycle after Summers exits—whenever that might be. Understand?" "Er, yes, Admiral." "Oh yeah," I added, "and cancel any special base functions that might have been scheduled for this transfer of command—reviews, assemblies, and the like. I'll take care of them later, myself." "Yes, Admiral. No assemblies." "Get busy, then," I said, striding through the doors into Summers's office. It was so lavishly overfurished, I nearly gagged. More soft, overstuffed, understated furniture. I closed my eyes a moment. This was a place one might sleep in—better yet, make love in. But in no way was it a place from which to run a military operation. Turning on my heel, I stormed back into the lobby, just as Cottshall was breaking a HoloPhone connection. "Was that Summers?" I demanded. "Captain Williams, Admiral. He's standing by." "Very well. Is Summers on his way?" "The Admiral assured me he is, Admiral." "Good. Then I suggest you go get yourself a cup of cvceese' while he and I meet. Just don't be gone too long. I doubt if I'll need much time with Summers at all. Understand?" "I understand, Admiral." "Finally," I added, "before you go, bring up the month's Day Books on your display." "T-the Day Books, Admiral?" "The Day Books," I repeated. "Get 'em, then take your break." "Immediately, Admiral," he said, bringing to his primary display the rows of daily transactions that made up the base's Day Book. Then he silently exited the office like a tall, gray wraith. I sat at the ornate desk to concentrate on Ops, Engineering, and Space entries... while I waited. Nearly thirty cycles later, a heavyset Rear Admiral dressed in a white-and-gold formal uniform burst angrily through the doors, on course for the inner office. "What's the meaning of this, Cottshall?" he demanded over his shoulder. "Cottshall isn't here," I said, looking up from the console. Instantly, I knew it would take every measure of restraint I could bring to bear just speaking with the man. "And who in vargt are you?" "Brim's the name." Summers stopped in his tracks and turned while his eyes fastened on my garrison cap. I remembered those mean eyes from the Helmsman's Academy. He was a senior during that awful first year of mine—and quite active in the less-than-furtive activities to make me quit. Prior to the First Great War, the Fleet had been mostly a preserve for scions of the Empire's wealthy families—like Summers, heir to the giant Summers & Vincent, Ltd., Asteroid Mining Engineers. However, the tremendous slaughter had forced Training Command to open admissions to competition—after; of course, all political admissions had been satisfied. I'd managed to break into the first so-called open class—a dirt-poor Carescrian, and they'd hated me for it. Probably a major reason that I'd endured was just to prove to them that I could.... "Well, well," he said with cynical little smile. "Brim the guttersnipe Carescrian. And now Admiral Brim, of all things. How remarkable." "Better be Admiral Brim," I answered, frowning in spite of myself. "Otherwise, there are two people pretending to be Admirals in this room right now." "Why aren't you dressed as I ordered?" Summers demanded, then my words seemed to register "...And just what did you mean by that?" "What I do mean by that," I said, ignoring his remark about my uniform, "is that critical sections of this base look like hammered shit and don't function at all. If you're in charge—as I am led to believe—then you're only pretending to be an officer. Or a commander." Summers's eyes opened wide, showing a combination of anger and surprise. He started to speak, but I cut him off. "Where was the Combat Space Patrol last night when my ferry squadron arrived?" "What?" "Where was the thraggling CSP last night when my ferry squadron arrived?" I repeated, my ire increasing by the moment. "I don't have to answer any of your questions, Brim," Summers stated indignantly. "Is that right?" I asked, vaulting from behind the desk and striding rapidly across the floor until less than an iral separated our noses. "One more time, Summers. Where was the CSP last night when ray ferry squadron arrived?" Though he was a large man, my sudden proximity seemed to deprive Summers of his aggression; years ago at the Academy, he'd been quite intimidating, especially to an habitually beggared underclassman. But his size was now gone to a fleshiness that transformed his bullying to little more than bluster. He hesitated for a split click, then got a look of defensiveness. "All ships were moored in the cavern, where they should have been," he declared. "Should have been?" I demanded in surprise. "During a thraggling attack?" "The GradyGroat orbital forts are quite sufficient protection from attack," he explained as if he were lecturing a first-year cadet. "Sufficient? What in xaxt's your definition of 'sufficient'?" "The forts accounted for six of the fifteen attackers last night—and our own ground batteries shot down two more." "I lost two ships and their crews to the remaining seven. That probably wouldn't have happened had even a few of our ships been out there," I growled. "Nonsense," Summers exclaimed indignantly. "The losses might even have been significantly higher, had there been dogfights. Besides, I had the city to consider, as well." "You weren't doing much to protect the city that I could see." "Shows how low the Fleet sank when it allowed trash commoners into the officer corps," Summers sniffed. "People like you never seem to understand the ways of peace—only war." He glowered and shook a finger at me—but came no closer. "Were I to project us as a more powerful, belligerent force here at the base, those Toronders might just begin to attack the city itself." "So, you simply let those zukeeds open fire on Imperial ships?" "Of course I did," Summers said defensively. "I didn't want to stir them up any more than I had to. They've been increasing their attacks for weeks now. Why should the Atalantans suffer for a war that we have already lost?" he demanded loftily. "What little remains of our—Onrad's—failing Empire stumbles along friendless in the Home Galaxy. Only the Great Federation of Sodeskayan States are disposed to help us these days, but the Sodeskayans themselves are under attack. How can we possibly hope to counter Nergol Triannic's League of Dark Stars?" "Mother of Voot," I growled in mock surprise. "So you've noticed there's a war's on, then, have you?" "Of course I've noticed, Brim. And I've handled things realistically—delicately, too. What can this base possibly do against a whole star domain like The Torond? They're not that far away, you know." "I've consulted a few HoloMaps," I growled. "Then, what did you expect me to do? Provoke a major attack on the base—and the city?" "I expected you to be Fleet commander, Summers. I expected you to protect my ships. If you kept in touch with your Intelligence Bulletins, you'd have seen that the war's hotting up on this side of the galaxy, no matter how much you try to cool it down. Nergol Triannic wants all of Fluvanna in the hands of his toady Rogan LaKarn—not just that part the bastard's managed to take so far. He wants to, needs to, cut off our last supply of Drive crystal seeds. And he'll have to put this base out of action to do it—city or no city. That's why I'm going to need every killer ship I can get my hands on. And soon. That's why I needed you to protect my ships last night!" "Well, I did protect them, so far as I can see," he said with the same arrogant laugh I'd so hated years ago. "In fact, your little convoy had quite substantial support, despite any misguided sentiments of dissatisfaction you may have experienced. Besides," he added haughtily, "what did those two particular ships mean to you? Your Starfury arrived in perfect safety, didn't it?" Those words were the last straw. In spite of his size, I grabbed him by his lapels and shook him the way a terrier shakes a rat. "Summers, you cowardly murderer," I growled, "I want you—and anything that might remind me of you—out of this office in the next metacycle. Do you understand?" "How dare you touch my uniform like that?" Summers demanded. "How dare you wear that uniform, traitor?" I growled, pushing him backward into his private suite. "Now, clear everything of yours from this office. You've got something less than a metacycle, at the moment." "You're mad," Summers said, diving for his HoloPhone. "Not mad—angry," I said, pulling the suddenly wide-eyed man back to the center of the room. "Now get busy." "And if I don't?" Summers asked, summoning up a few remaining shreds of affront. I calmly drew the big Wenning from its holster, "If you don't," I said, "I'm going to personally kill you for the cowardly murder of the men in my ferry squadron." "Y-you wouldn't!" Summers shrieked, diving for the HoloPhone once more. Before he could touch it, I fired the blaster four times in quick succession, melting the HoloPhone itself and a corner of the desk. Then—for effect—I transformed a trio of ornate chairs that faced the man's desk to charred matchsticks. In the swirling smoke, Summers shrank into a corner of the room as if he were facing a madman—which by this time, I suppose I was. "D-don't kill me, Brim," he whispered. I considered for a moment, then bolstered the blaster. "You've got what remains of your original metacycle to clear out of here," I said. "Every trace. I don't want anything left to remind me of you—and how low an officer can crawl." Then I strode into the hall, grinding my teeth in anger and looking for the cvceese' shop. I sat down at one of the tables with a mug of cvceese' but didn't drink it because my nerves were already in an uproar, and what I wanted to do was calm down. Especially if Summers decided to tough things out and was still in his office when I returned. I suspected that I probably would kill him as I'd threatened. And although I wanted him to think I would, actually doing so would cause all sorts of problems at a time when I really wanted only to get on with the job of revitalizing the base. Not only didn't I have much time to do that—a lot less time than they'd thought in Avalon when they'd briefed me—but I was presently working alone, with no idea of how deeply the CIGA rot had gone here nor to whom I could turn for help. A lot hinged on this man Williams, who was my Executive Officer. If, as I hoped, he and Summers had been at loggerheads, then—given the native ability he'd need to qualify for the job in the first place—I might rely on him for much of the operational work. Actually, if he were any good at all, I'd have to rely on him. Executive Officers are people who carry out the Commander's objectives through various division heads: Operations, Space Flight, Medicine, all the rest. If I went around him—for any reason at all—I'd seriously undermine his ability to get things done. And at the same time I'd tie myself in knots trying to do his work while I neglected my own. Watching the timepiece on the wall, I waited while two eons and an epoch passed in slow motion. Then it was time to go upstairs and face whatever the near future held in store. * * * To my utter delight, the zukeed Summers was nowhere to be seen and Cottshall was back at his desk with a small, muscular Fleet officer standing beside him. The latter was dressed in the traditional, workaday duty uniform: dark blue, double-breasted "money jacket," or reefer, matching trousers, white shirt, black necktie, and black space boots. Four gold rings on each cuff denoted his rank. Didn't tell me anything about him. "Captain Jim Williams, Executive Officer, reporting as ordered, Admiral," he said, coming to attention. "At ease, Captain," I said, staring into his eyes for some indication of who—what—he was. "Appreciate your coming at such short notice." Williams returned a humorless gaze from above round cheeks and a pug nose that was so offset from the center of his face that it must have been broken a hundred times over. He was a clearly a tough son of a capcloth, but the wrinkle lines around his eyes indicated a man whose customary aspect was a smile. It didn't take a Drive scientist to tell that the smile hadn't been exercised very much lately, "Wasn't much else to keep me in my office, Admiral," he replied. "I've been mostly out of the loop since I got here, as Cottshall may have told you." "Cottshall hasn't had a chance to say much about anything, Captain," I replied, "nor has he offered to. So let's you and me break in my new office while you catch me up with things." "You may not like what you'll hear," Williams warned as we strode toward the inner office. Then he hesitated and frowned. "Er, Admiral," he observed, "is that smoke I smell?" "Yeah," I said—casually as possible—as I ushered him through the door. "Nothing to worry about. Summers and I didn't much see eye-to-eye." "Er, I see," he said, following me through the door. The office looked as if a Sodeskayan land battle had recently been fought there. In addition to the three carbonized chairs and burned carpeting beneath them, the desk—with its blackened corner and melted HoloPhone—had been thoroughly rifled. Scraps of documents littered the floor everywhere, and most of the pictures were gone, leaving clean rectangles on the soot-blackened walls. "Mother of Voot," Williams commented under his breath, "I, ah, guess you and Summers didn't see eye-to-eye, did you?" I righted two chairs and set them facing one another. "Sit down, Number One," I said. "I've got a strong feeling that you aren't any happier than I about the condition of this base." "You've got that right, Admiral," he replied quietly, never taking his eyes from mine—a man who had come through some difficult times. "But I take full responsibility for everything you see here, because no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't able to countermand Summers's orders, not even behind his back." "I believe you," I said. "I'm going to ask a lot of hard questions—and I don't want you to pull any punches, 'cause I'm going to verify in person everything you tell me. After that, all I'm interested in hearing is how we're going to put things to rights in a minimum time frame—and what I can do to help." Williams watched me carefully, then closed his eyes for a moment. "I think," he said with a faint smile, "that I've finally been let out of the base sewer. All right. Admiral, here goes. I've been waiting a long time for this...." * * * Williams and I spent the remainder of the day in conference. Cottshall brought sandwiches for us about midday, then catered a heartier meal himself on wreckage of Summers's desk late in the evening. By the end of Twilight Watch, it was reasonably clear to me that Williams could stay as my Executive Officer as long as he wished. Not once had the man attempted to besmirch the reputation of his subordinates at division level; instead, I learned about hundreds of attempts, at all levels of rank, to circumvent Summers and his underlings—attempts that invariably resulted in punishments and even incarceration. Additionally, my questions corroborated a number of my earliest suspicions, especially about the Ops, Engineering, and Space Divisions, each dominated at their highest levels by close friends and onetime schoolmates of Rear Admiral W. Groton Summers, I. F. All of them, of course, had been deeply involved with the Congress for Intra-Galactic Accord. Ultimately, CIGA power had been on the wane since the Battle of Avalon, and most who still believed in the cause were now underground. But CIGA spirit still riddled portions of the Imperial military and—like Summers—posed a definite threat to the war effort through either naive incompetence or outright sedition. Ultimately—well into Dawn Watch—I looked at my tired Executive Officer and felt I understood him: where he'd been, where he wanted to go. I nodded. "So that's your strategy, eh?" "It is, Admiral," he said. "Pretty complete," I remarked, dividing the last of the cold cvceese' between our badly stained mugs. "You must have been working on it for a long time." "Since the day Summers put me in the brig for a week, Admiral," Williams said. "I figured nothing this bad could last forever—and when it was over, I'd be ready, just in case anybody was interested in hearing what I had to say about things afterward." I nodded. "Did I sound interested enough?" I asked. "Enough for me, Admiral," he replied. "Just say the word, and I'll put it all into action—immediately." "Going to surprise a lot of people," I commented. "You're sure those replacements you picked can handle their new jobs?" "You saw their files too, Admiral," Williams said. "Was there anything you didn't like." I shut up. "No," I said, "There wasn't." "Good," said Williams. "I spent a lot of time studyin' those folders, Admiral." He thumped a personal display Cottshall had brought in earlier. "I'm betting whatever career I have left on these people," he said. "And I'm nowhere near to being ready for retirement." Nodded. "What will you do about the people you plan to get rid of?" "They're powerful, those zukeeds," he said. "Best way to handle 'em is to offer a one-way trip home—if they go quietly. Otherwise, it's the brig for the duration." Sounded good to me. "And the rest," I asked, "—the ones who will have to mend their ways starting with Dawn Watch. How do you plan to handle them?" "Firmly, Admiral," Williams said. "Every one of us here at the base is ripe for a courts-martial because we couldn't—or didn't—do anything about Summers. And none of us was so stupid that he couldn't see what was going on. We're all responsible for the pickle we're in, and we're going to have to work our butts off to put things right. Either people are with us, or they're not part of the Fleet. It's as simple as giving and taking direct orders. Most of them are professionals—and just as unsatisfied about the place as you or I. When they know what sort of a job's expected of them, they'll do it. Voot's beard, Admiral, they'll exceed it. You know Blue Capes." That was why William's plan sounded so promising. In the end, it was based on people and the professionalism that was the very basis of the Imperial Fleet. "Captain," I said, "you've a lot of dirt to move before the next Dawn Watch. Is there anything else you need from me." Williams grinned. "Only orders to get started, Admiral." "You've got 'em, Captain." "Then, Admiral, with your kind permission, I'll get back to m' office. I mean to start movin' that dirt immediately—middle of the night's best for some jobs. With a little luck, you'll see a few early improvements on your way to work in the morning." "I'll look for 'em," I said, ushering the man into the lobby... where Cottshall was sleeping, head on his arms, at his desk. "And it appears as if we're not the only ones putting in a late night," I added. "Old Hathaway's all right, Admiral," Williams replied, looking directly into my eyes. "Neither of us will ever know what he had to put up with working for Summers. The Admiral could be pretty hard on people when he had 'em in his power." "I never thought of that," I said with a wince. "Cottshall would never admit it," he said. "In his own civilian way, he's a tough son of a capcloth, too. And if anybody knows the ins and outs of this base—in all their subtleties—it's him." "Glad you told me that," I said, quietly kicking myself. "Figured you'd want to know," he replied. Then donning his peaked cap with its single row of gold oak leaves, he nodded. "I'll be available for anything—whenever you need it, Admiral." With that, he turned and strode quietly past Cottshall's desk into the hall. I returned to my inner office for nearly half a metacycle, again using a portable HoloPhone to check in with the three quad leaders—they were ready, just in case. Then I walked quietly to Cottshall's desk and touched him gently on the elbow. "S-sorry, Admiral," he said, raising himself groggily. "I must have dozed off." "Nothing to be sorry about that I can see," I said. "I'm mighty glad you stuck around. You didn't have to." Cottshall straightened his old-fashioned tie and shrugged. "No, Admiral, you're wrong there. I did have to: I just happened to make the call myself." Time for another quick decision—maybe too late for this one. "Mr. Cottshall," I asked, "is it possible that you'd overlook my statement about your being Admiral Summers's private secretary?" Cottshall smiled. "I should be most happy to do that, Admiral Brim." "Thank you," I said. "If you'll stay on, then, I'll attempt to minimize that kind of mistake—especially when I'm irritated, as I was this afternoon." "I shall be quite proud to stay on, Admiral," Cottshall replied. "Thanks twice, then," I said. "And call me Wilf." Cottshall's eyes lighted. "Thank you, er, Wilf," he said, grasping my hand in a warm, firm grip. "I shall do everything I can to make that decision worth your while." "You're already off to a good start," I replied. "Now let's wind things up around here for tonight. Before you leave, detail somebody to clean up the mess in my so-called office. Then I'll want to speak to all the base officers—no excuses. Make it Brightness three, on the dot in the main auditorium—coordinate it with Williams. After that, we'll see what happens next. Right?" "Excellent, Admiral, er, Wilf," he said. "It promises to be another busy day indeed. I shall look forward to every cycle...." "So will I," I said, but I wasn't certain I hadn't just told a lie.. Chapter 2 When You're Outnumbered... 16-31 Heptad, 52014 Imperial Fleet Base, Atalanta, Hador-Haelic Managed less than a metacycle of sleep that night—I was roused from my bunk just after Dawn Watch by alarms and sirens... and the deadened, ground-shaking thump-a thump-a of rapid-fire disrupters. Struggling into my battlesuit, I raced into the hall and fought my way to the front door against a half-panicked throng heading for assault shelters in the opposite direction. As I leapfrogged onto my gravcycle—wet with Atalanta's xaxtdamned COLD dew!—the attackers still appeared to be battling their way past the orbital forts. I rode off at top speed for the hangar elevator. In the cavern, I gunned the gravcycle from the lift through barely open doors and howled along a littered concourse, headed for the pier where our four, more-or-less-battleworthy Starfuries were moored; they hadn't been touched since we'd landed. As I'd arranged earlier with the other quad commanders, the ships were manned, the 'Gravs were running, and the mooring beams were already singled up. "Button her up!" I yelled at a rating as I dived into the lead Starfury, kicked away the brow, and pulled the hatch shut after me. "We're going to take 'em on, Admiral?" a grinning Gunners Mate called after me as I took the bridge companionway two rungs at a time. "You better believe it," Ishouted over my shoulder. "Everyone's at battle stations, Admiral, and ready for liftoff," Talbert reported from the gunnery console. At the helm, three globular displays had already materialized over my COMM console as I strapped on a LifeGlobe pack and climbed into the Helmsman's seat. "Red Two checking in, Admiral," Harris reported. "Red Three's ready, Admiral," Kimple said. "Red Four, Admiral." Bell never used more words than he absolutely had to. I strapped myself in and ran a quick console drill—it was all I had time for. Most of the indicators were green, and Voot knew I'd rarely had the pleasure of flying a perfectly operational Starfury during these early war years. "AH right," I radioed to the other three Helmsmen. "Red One's ready, too. Let's roll!" I switched to the internal blower. "Fore and aft mooring cupolas—cast off all mooring beams, now!" Instantly, four green tractor beams that secured the Starfury to optical bollards on the wharf winked out, and I used differential power on the 'Gravs to ease carefully around the end of the pier and into the portside canal—followed closely by the other three killer ships—all running dark. I could feel myself tense as adrenaline began to flow, my pulse rate elevated; it was always like that before a combat Lift-off. "Stand by for local gravity," I warned over the blower, then—as always—nearly threw up when I hit the switch. Forcing my sour, half-digested stomach contents back where they belonged, I focused on the next task at hand—ahead, the massive blast doors were still closed. I'd expected it; Williams couldn't change things that fast. Keyed the COMM unit to a Harbor Control band I remembered from the night before, then bellowed at a startled Commander who appeared in a display. "Open the harbor door, Commander!" I ordered, calmly as possible. "We're under attack!" "My orders say those doors remain closed during attacks," the Commander said firmly. "Orders from whom?" "Captain Harper, Operations," "The name Brim mean anything to you?" I asked, forcing myself to relax—at least outwardly. Everything was poised for combat; focused; all the hormones were in place—and I wanted to kill him! "Admiral Brim?" he asked. "The new base Commandant?" "That's right, Commander," I said. "As of now, Summers's operational directives are countermanded—and you, Mister, will open those doors immediately." "Sorry, Admiral. I'll need written orders to countermand an operational directive." I nodded—I'd see this bastard's testicles hanging over the base gate like mistletoe if Williams didn't get rid of him first. "Your decision, Commander," I growled. "I'll be forced to blast 'em out of the way on takeoff. You certain you want me to do that?" "How d-do I know you're Admiral Brim?" "You don't," I said, spying a small blockhouse to the right of the massive doors; a light shone from its single window. "But... is that your station down there to the right of the doors?" "It is," he said. "And coming here will do you no good. I simply won't let you in!" "Very well," I replied, keeping my galloping temper just under control—this misbegotten, effete zukeed was more child than professional StarSailor. "However," I added, "you may just want to leave that blockhouse on your own. I doubt if you'll want to be quite so close to the target area when we fire our 406s at the doors." "Your 406s?" he gasped. "You're planning to...?" "Fire them," I said gently. "At the doors. As I'm certain you know, 406s are meant for outer space use, and the concussion lobes they generate are pretty violent close in like this." I turned on the landing lights as if better illuminating the target. The Commander's face abruptly took on a strange look. "Holy mother of Voot!" he gasped in a suddenly high-pitched voice. "You wouldn't... would you?" "You've got three clicks to clear the area," I growled, advancing the thrust dampers. "Either open those doors yourself—or don't—it's up to you. One way or another, we're taking off!" I activated the blower again—without turning off the COMM. "Gunnery Officer," I called to Talbert. "Aye, Admiral Brim." "Talbert, you'll take out those doors at my command," I growled. Then I pushed the thrust dampers to takeoff power and the Starfury bellowed forward along the canal.... * * * I peered down through a completely cloudless sky at Atalanta, her magnificent harbor, and the ten circular canals that ringed City Mount Hill already c'lenyts below—an extraordinary picture in washed-out light and shadow from two of Haelic's brightest natural satellites, Moncrief and Laicour, Glanced at an altimeter: 280,000 irals and climbing. Even diminished by ferry rig, Starfuries were astonishing interceptors. "Tallyho!" Kimple's voice came over the helmet speakers. "Multiple ships approaching on bearing Blue Apex." "Got you," I replied, then turned to Talbert. "Rob," I said, "you are cleared to fire at will." From his console behind me, Talbert controlled a single disruptor in the belly turret and two in the ventral turret. Between the two of us, we still could use only half the Starfury's normal complement of twelve 406-mmi disrupters; it would have to do. But this time, I had a strong feeling we would need to use them. "Acknowledge clearance, Admiral," Talbert replied a little stiffly. I'd heard it was his first time in combat and hoped he'd get over his shakes quickly. Shorthanded as we were, everyone had to pull like a veteran. Switched power to my gunsight and initiated self-test routines on the three forward-firing disrupters I controlled from the helm. Each ran to TEST SUCCESSFUL. "Look out, Red ships," I sent, keeping an eye on the approaching enemy. "Prepare to break port." I went into a slightly left-handed turn and looked through the upper Hyperscreens. A mass of perhaps twenty ships was emerging from the GradyGroat barrage into Hador's light some 30,000 irals above my little pickup squadron. I couldn't identify particular types yet, but I assumed Dampier DA-79 Us or the newer Oiggaip 912s. Definitely Toronders—their formations were wobbling all over the sky. From instinct, I tightened the restraint beams for my seat, hunched down, and shifted the steering controls to EXTRA FINE. We were badly outnumbered, but I personally felt ready for them—at the very top of my form. When the GradyGroat barrage faded to nothing, excitement keyed my muscles to even a higher pitch than before—tonight's battle would be fought close to the surface at HypoLigbt speeds. It was the ultimate test of a combat Helmsman. Above Hyperspeed, a great deal more depended on the ship and its computing powers. Below, it was pretty much crew-to-crew combat. I grinned as latent nervousness evaporated into a flat, unemotional calm. I was ready. Out to port, Mat Harris had tucked his Starfury in close to my left pontoon. High and trailing to starboard, Kimple led Bell in the same manner. I began to climb in a wide, easy spiral. Now! The first group of some ten Toronders was fanning out and diving toward us. "Break port," I ordered, "climbing!" I eased the thrust dampers fully forward, and the Starfury responded like the thoroughbred she was—with a hefty kick in the seat back. The first attackers were Oiggaips, perhaps the best attack ships The Torond built—nearly good enough to be Leaguer ships, but not quite. My Starfury was climbing almost vertically, hoist on her own petard, as it were, when I intercepted the first group in the act of diving on Atalanta in line—evidently still unaware of our fast-approaching opposition. Didn't the idiots have proximity indicators—or did they even bother to look at them? Reminded myself they were still dangerous—and we were badly outgunned. When the first Oiggaips came into range, I managed to get in a burst on the leader, whose fuselage lighted up with hits. Surprise! As we hurtled past, Talbert further raked him with a turret shot, blowing off a number of panels and sending a thin tongue of radiation fire into his wake. Two more Oiggaips—finally alert—did a tight turn, bringing them head-on to me, their 326-mmi Breda-SAFATs making rapid-fire bursts that formed long, glittering tentacles snaking toward me and curling down just under my pontoons. From that point on, the sky was a whirling confusion of ships—mostly with Toronder insignia—black triangles edged with yellow—on their sides. At least there was no dearth of targets! So many, in fact, I relied on sensing them rather than actually seeing the presence of individual ships circling 'round—until suddenly my eyes would fix on one of them. Like now. This time, a Dampier, circling and wiggling while its Helmsman anxiously looked for a target. I felt myself grin; as I'd planned, surprise was clearly augmenting the apparent size of our tiny squadron and nervousness was already taking its toll of the Toronders. I framed the Dampier in my forward sights, but Talbert fired obliquely at another Oiggaips at the same time. Even a jumpy Toronder couldn't fail to notice that—and didn't. He fell off into a tight turn, then began a vertical climb straight out toward space. But in his haste, he'd clearly neglected all gravity management dicta, allowing his power chambers no time to build up to such a maneuver, and suddenly the big ship spun along its pitch axis, completely out of control while momentum bled off as if it were spilling from a bucket. This time, Talbert was watching; we fired at the same time, raking the enemy ship from stem to Drive with direct hits from all six disrupters. Abruptly, the Dampier's clear image shook, then began to crumble. Its bridge Hyperscreens burst into fragments. Moments later, the Drive section and power chambers disappeared in a roiling, flickering puffball—blindingly white in the center, dirty red toward the outside—filled with speeding, white-hot shrapnel. I had to put the helm hard over to get out of the way; and as he flicked past, I had a last vision of the Dampier trailing a long ribbon of radiation fire and diving like a comet toward the dark ocean below. No bobbing LifeGlobes floated down in its fiery wake. The whole thing had lasted no more than a couple of clicks—with lots more Toronders to go! To the right, a Starfury broke off and dived toward another Oiggaip, Quickly foiling several determined attacks, I went into a tight spiral dive to cover him. The Starfury fired: six throbbing, gleaming streams of disrupter energy—at the same time a shadow formed over my Hyperscreens. I glanced up—less than a hundred irals overhead, a Dampier's enormous, heat-streaked belly passed like a streak. He'd missed me, and was now getting ready to fire on a secondary target. Instinctively, I retarded the thrust dampers, pulled gently on the steering engine to align the Dampier in my sights, then opened fire with my three disrupters at point-blank range, obtaining direct hits just ahead of the power chambers. The Dampier staggered, skidded violently to the left while the fuselage broke cleanly in half with a shower of sparks, then whizzed past in a hail of fragments. I'd scarcely recovered from this surprise when six Dampiers appeared on my tail in perfect close echelon, each surrounded by a halo of white-hot graviton exhaust. Coming for me at top speed. While Talbot blasted away aft with his three turret-mounted 406s, I found myself maneuvering more from instinct than anything else. With one movement, I pushed the thrust damper all the way forward to FULL MILITARY, clicked it back into the RESTRICTED détente, then rammed forward again to EMERGENCY power. I had been forced to use this flight regime a number of times, yet the effect was still extraordinary—and it was immediate. My Starfury veritably leaped forward with a mighty roar from the 'Gravs that shook the very spaceframe and—in spite of the gravity system's best efforts—plastered me against the back of my recliner. Within clicks, I had doubled my speed and left my pursuers behind as if they'd suddenly run into a brick wall. Even so, it was still going to be close... Clang! The ship jumped violently, then swung left as if it had been sideswiped by a large meteor. I could hear a gargling scream on the intercom, cut off abruptly by—Wham!—a second hit. Blinding explosions just in front of my helmet threw me backward in my seat, breaking the restraint beams and nearly bursting my eardrums during the millisecond before the control bridge lost all atmosphere. The gravity system pulsed, and I let go everything, instinctively trying to cover my face with my arms... but my left shoulder wouldn't move, at least without a dazzling eruption of fiery pain, and I heard my battlesuit seal off a whistling leak that made a glittering red cloud of frozen blood crystals—mine! Tried to reach the controls, but the pain blazed up again— a fragment of hullmetal shrapnel had clearly lodged in my shoulder; there was no strength in my left arm—only the dripping sensation of blood draining inside my battlesuit and puddling in the glove. Wondered how long it would be until the bleeding started to affect me. Nothing I could do about it. Jostled about, heart in my mouth, hanging upside down in the wrecked gravity system, I ignored the pain and reached for the controls again—my left arm weighed a milston!—but I got them. Or what was left of them. One of the smashed instruments on the flight panel was hanging on the end of its wiring, and I could see blue sparks behind it while static crackled from my helmet earphones. Below, the 'Gravs were still running—some of them—but they were barely able to keep us aloft and didn't sound exactly right, either. Tried the controls—the Starfury responded, at least. Panting, I somehow got us righted, then glanced aft... everyone all right and staring back as if they'd seen a ghost. Primary intercom was out of whack, damage most likely localized in my panel. Needed decisions fast—with no information. Bad time to hesitate with the Toronders shooting at anything that moves. A bright light overhead, then a shower of fragments glowing with radiation fire and heading for the surface. Only two or three insubstantial-looking Life-Globes floating down in their wake—a lot of people died in that one, A Starfury or a Dampier? Fortuitously for us, the Toronders abruptly decided they'd had enough and began to fade into the starry sky. Time to make landfall while I could do so under my own power. Only Voot knew where the other three ships were. Cycles passed as I let down, scanning for a landmark, and periodically blacking out from loss of blood. At ten thousand irals, I had City Mount Hill on the horizon. Looked good... right up to the moment when what remained of the 'Gravs pulsed violently, and I noticed a shower of sparks blasting out into the wake from either side of our power chambers—followed by a long, thin tongue of radiation fire. The hullmetal collapsium was beginning to un-collapse again. Bad sign. I turned to engergize the N-ray generators there—a lot of them in that part of the ship because of the tremendous energy hazard. But before I could touch the switches, they turned yellow, flashing ENERGIZED. Karen Kelly, the Engineering Officer, had gotten to them first and was now on my secondary intercom. "Radiation Fire! Radiation Fire in power chambers one and two! Damage team three to the site on the double!" Presently, the blaze died back for a moment or two, then reappeared. At least one of the power chambers was clearly ruptured! Too much risk. I needed to get everyone out immediately. "Belay the damage team," I bellowed. "This is the captain—all hands abandon ship immediately! I repeat: all hands abandon ship immediately." I glanced at the pole indicator. "Nearest land bears directly Red, three hundred c'lentys." I looked back at the bridge crew—with my shoulder aflame. They were staring back in fright. "Out, xaxtdamnit!," I bellowed. "Everybody knows how to use a LifeGlobe. Somebody'll be by to pick you up within the metacycle." Nobody moved. "GO!" They got up and ran for the aft companionway. Soon, there were fourteen LifeGlobes bobbing down toward the ocean in my wake. Rang up Atalanta to summon a rescue flotilla; they gave me a true course to the base. Good... if I could make it. After ten anxious cycles, during which I swayed in and out of awareness and controllers from the base mothered my fast-settling Starfury like anxious hens, I finally made out a vector. Two green flares came snaking up almost immediately, clearing me all the way down with the base in emergency mode. Now I had a decision. Should I bail out and let the salvage people pick up the Starfury for scrap? Or should I try to ride her down. The latter case could result in a repairable Starfury, which was desperately needed. Unfortu nately, it could also result in scrap regardless—but with me as part of the scrap.... Bailing out appealed to my cringing inner self. But stronger than that was the old Helmsman's instinctive reluctance to sacrifice the machine—especially since I'd gone to all the trouble of bringing this one here in the first place. Took inventory as I continued to descend—the power system was certainly almost gone—that's where the fire was. And the 'Gravs were only partially operational. But we were moving with nearly a thousand irals under us—and the steering engine was still in fine shape. Passing over the base, I dithered only a moment when one of the controllers made up my mind for me. "Those flames are getting worse, Admiral. You've got to do something quick!" Yeah. On top of that, the 'Gravs were cutting out more and more frequently—and I couldn't do much about controlling anything because I had no working instruments. "Fleet FA 337 landing now," I assured them. Probably my voice didn't sound very steady—thank Voot the video was gone; I'd have scared them to death! Willing myself conscious in spite of what my head wanted to do, I made a very gentle approach, curving around until I got the vector, then fixed the emergency seat restraints in MAXIMUM and set the Starfury down—at the same moment the 'Gravs cut out for good. Lost control... terrific uproar! Towering geysers on either side... jerks, jolts... pandemonium. Certain the restraints would fail two or three times—once wished they would! After nearly a c'lenyt of skidding and bouncing, we stopped, bobbing in the gentle swell of the harbor and listing to the right, but safe—except for black, acrid smoke that was beginning to fill the bridge. I'd just switched off the restraints and climbed from my seat when the whole cabin seemed to turn upside down and I felt my helmet strike something hard—the deck. My last conscious thoughts were about our hurried lift-off and the amazing way massive hangar doors that size could open—a major engineering accomplishment, when one thought about it. But at the time, I hadn't been afforded much opportunity to consider technical details; my Starfury had been already more than forty irals off the surface as we streaked through the hangar entrance—followed in close order by three more killer ships on a direct heading in harm's way.... * * * Kneeling astride me naked, head back, long dark brown hair flowing to the waist—most beautiful woman ever—can't quite believe she's with me like this. Wide-set eyes, closed now—squeezed shut. Long eyelashes, pug nose, dauntless chin. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. Hands on hips—sucking her lower lip as she thrusts faster and faster... almost there. Both of us. Great rounded breasts bobbing, jerking up and down in spastic rhythm. Mouth opening now. Cheeks glowing. Panting. Animal sound starting deep in her belly. Throbbing.... "I think he's coming out of it now." Male voice? Throbbing. Fading.... "Bit of a close thing. Lost a lot of blood." Another male voice—Williams? Throbbing. Face fading.... "...tougher than any of you know. He'll make it." Her voice! Throbbing. "No! Don't go! Finish!" "What was that? He's trying to say something." First male voice. Throbbing. "I'd better be on my way." Her voice again. Throbbing. "For Voot's sake, don't go!" I yelled. "Not now!" "Are you in pain, Admiral?" First male voice again. Throbbing. "Where is she, xaxtdamnit?" "Admiral?" Throbbing. Gone.... Throbbing. Throbbing. Very fuzzy overhead—man looking like a doctor peering at me, wiping my brow. Sterile white ceiling, blinding lights. Smells of antiseptic. Hospital! Can't move anything. Throbbing beside me. Turn head slightly—burns! Move eyes. Healing machine, sure. Left shoulder engulfed in throbbing proto-tissues. "Nearly finished. How do you feel, Admiral?" "Just WON-der-ful, Doctor." "That good, eh, sir?" Terribly young and handsome, blond hair, blue yes, and the thin, narrow face and nose that fairly shouted aristocrat. Nervous, too. Wondered idly if he was one of Summers's cadre of CIGAs. "That good," I promised him. "What time is it?" "A little after Brightness two, Admiral," he replied. "Sixteenth Heptad?" "All day long, Admiral." Young smart-ass. But there was still time. "Thanks," I said. "You said this is almost finished?" Throbbing abruptly stopped. Felt the tissues withdraw. "As of right now, Admiral." "Good. Get me out of here. I've got to be in the Auditorium at Brightness plus three, Doctor—on the dot." "You must be kidding me, sir." "Let me assure you, Doctor: I am not." "But you can't. You're in no shape to..." "Open the thraggling machine, Doctor," I interrupted. "Admiral, that's against regulations. I simply won't be responsible for..." "I'll take responsibility, Doctor," that other voice said from across the room—definitely Williams! "B-but Captain." "How bad is it going to hurt him?" "Depends on how tough he is, sir." "You heard what she said, just like I did," Williams growled. She? "Er, yessir, Captain." Long, dark brown hair, I'd bet. Find out later. Got to pay attention now.... "Then you know as much as I do, Commander. Now open the machine or show me how to open it. If the Admiral can physically make it, he's going." "Y-you'll have to take responsibility for him, Captain Williams." "I'll thraggling take it. Admiral—you're really all right with this?" "Try me." "Doctor, I order you to open the machine." "Aye, Captain Williams." Wasn't all that much pain, but felt as if I weighed a milston or more. Struggled to sit up. Couldn't. Weak as a Halacian Rothkitten. "Help me up," I said. Hands at my right shoulder, back, pushing. Dizzy. Room whirling. Back down in the machine. "What did I tell you?" the smart-ass doctor asked. "Again," I said. Must have sounded like I meant it. This time, I could stay up—with a little help from Williams. The room was cold. Bright. Cleaner than clean. Smelled of antiseptics. Hated hospitals. "Anything hurt?" "Just the shoulder, Doctor. Thirsty, though." Got a drink. Gulped it down, "More." Another drink; paused for breath. "Jim, how long do we have?" Noticed he was dressed in fatigues, garrison cap, and brogans—he got the message. "About half a metacycle, sir." "Admiral, you're not going to make it!" The doctor's voice had a tenor of reprisal to it. "Gorksroar." Before he could do anything about it, I slipped my legs to the floor, but a table came up and hit me on the head. Soon, everything was on the floor. Instantly, Williams had his hands under my arms and set me on the bed again. "No. Gotta stand!" Back on my feet, Williams holding on as if he needed me for support. Knees trembling. "Let go." This time, one of the walls tumbled over, smacked me. Back on my feet. Closer to the wall, now. "Let go." When the wall came over to hit me, I was ready for it. Tried to push it back with my left arm. Mother of Boot! Searing pain in shoulder. No strength. Back on the floor. "Again!" Pushing the wall back with right arm now. Knees more steady. Gonna make it this time. Peer around room—a bloody pile of dead tissues in a kidney pan beside the healing machine. On top, a ragged fragment of hullmetal, bigger than my thumb, but not much. "That what got me?" "Yessir." Not very impressive. "Want it, Admiral?" "All yours, Doctor." "How much time now, Jim?" "About ten cycles, Admiral." "Gotta get going. Where's my battlesuit?" "It's gone, Admiral," the doctor said. "Shredded and full of blood." "I brought your duffel bag, Admiral," Williams said. "Figured you might need some clean duds." "Coveralls, Jim." "Got 'em." Gulped down a cup of warm protein mix while he brought my leather jacket, boots, and garrison cap, too. Good man. Helped me struggle into everything. Jacket hurt, but got it on—arm in a sling, only throbbing now. Boots. Cap. "How long, Jim?" "Got about six cycles, Admiral." "Let's go." Hung on to Williams; hobbled out to a skimmer—no limousine. "Go!" he ordered. "Aye, Captain!" Grinned: driver was Russo. Why was I not surprised? One cycle to go. Getting a little lift from the cup of protein. Thinking how lucky I'd been that the Base Rescue Service had been out and ready for me. The little cooling unit of my battlesuit had saved me from the radiation fire gnawing away at the Starfury right below the helm, but it was almost exhausted when they got me off the ship and raced me to the Base Hospital. Another few cycles and pfft—good-bye buttocks.... Russo drove right up the walk and through the doors into the lobby. "Give 'em heck, Admiral!" he whispered, as Williams helped me from the backseat. "Do my best. Chief," I assured him shakily. Moving slowly across lobby toward the center doors. Wall tried to hit me again. Williams grabbed right arm. Steadied. Started again. Head up. Look normal... no, look stern. Laughed to myself. Be lucky to look alive. A tall, blond captain I hadn't met saluted and stepped into the auditorium in front of us. "The Commander," she shouted. Sounds of shuffling feet, then silence. Leaned on Williams all the way down the aisle. Felt his hands tighten on the way up the two stairs to the stage. Got me to the podium. I grabbed and hung on tight as I started to black out again. "Want me here?" Williams whispered. Took a deep breath. "Don't go too far away," I mumbled from the side of my mouth. Felt his hands release my arm. "Give 'em hell, Admiral," he whispered, then stepped back. I switched on the microphone, "Seats," I said, feeling a bit stronger as the protein began kicking in. I paused to let the room quiet down—more energy coming on by the moment. Head clearing. Ready.... "The name's Brim," I began, "—Rear Admiral Brim. I'm the new Commander here, and for those of you who haven't heard, this base is under entirely new management." Undercurrent of hushed voices swept the room. "I don't much like speeches or assemblies," I continued presently, "—especially ceremonies like this. They take time away from the job we have to do—which, in case anyone doesn't quite have the picture yet, is waging war." More hushed undercurrent—longer, I paused again to let my words sink in. Some of those people out there wouldn't agree. It was they who would have to be rooted out and sent home during the next couple of weeks. "That means from this moment on, we have three basic tasks here at Atalanta," I continued, counting them off on my fingers, "—breaking things, killing people, and spending as much time as possible in harm's way. From this very moment, all base activity, at all levels, will center on promoting and supporting these tasks—in the most pragmatic, efficient manner possible, regardless of the consequences. I've got a rule I've always lived with—it'll be the basis for everything we do. And it's so simple, none of you should ever have trouble comprehending. Simply, put: when you're outnumbered, the only choice you have is to attack." This caused a big rustle in the crowded auditorium. I wondered how many of them were with me—and how many weren't. "For the few of you out there who have a problem with this," I continued when the noise had died down some, "I suggest you carefully reread the Imperial oath of allegiance you took when you were commissioned. Read it immediately following this assembly. If after that you still have a problem, you'll have until Darkness sharp to resign your commission in the Fleet and clear the base. We'll try to ship you home on a non-priority basis—when we can. Starting immediately, however, any dereliction of duty—in any form—will result in courts-martial and the heaviest penalties applicable during wartime." That got their attention; the room went stone quiet. But I was finished speaking; I'd said what I needed to say. Only one more point to make. "I'll try to get around to meeting each of you in person," I said, "soon as I'm able. Meantime, I suggest you all get to know Captain Williams, your Executive Officer. He'll be speaking for me, and can resolve most every problem you may have. If he can't—there'll be times when that happens—then you can always come talk to me. Each of you knows where my office is. But be warned. One of my primary jobs here is to be obstinate. And I intend to pursue that with everything I can muster." Getting weaker again. I turned to Williams and nodded. "Ten-HUT!" Williams boomed, then was at my side instantly. "You all right, Admiral?" Little weak, but I thought I could make it to the skimmer. "Just grab me if I start going over," I said. "Right behind you, Admiral." He was, and I made it—all the way to the skimmer under my own power. Spent the next few hours in sick bay getting more strength back. Then I was off to the office, with a hell of a lot of work to do. So much that Williams had already gone to his quarters before I thought to ask him who the woman was in the hospital. But by that time, I was so tired I wasn't even certain I'd heard a woman at all. * * * On the doctor's recommendation, took the morning off and allowed myself an extra metacycle of sleep—my timepiece read Dawn plus two and a half when it woke me. A lot of action going on in the hallway outside. Good! Action overhead, too. I'd been woken even earlier—middle of the Dawn Watch—by the sound of Admiralty 'Gravs overhead at takeoff power. Clearly, Williams had restored a CSP over the base and the city as his first priority. I shaved and pulled on a clean set of flight overalls, chuckling while I pictured Williams taking names and kicking rear ends. Truth to tell, I'd hate to be on the wrong side of Jim Williams, myself.... Outside, old Haelic was treating Atalanta to its most beautiful weather—deep blue skies, occasional puffy clouds, and perfect temperature. Hador was well along her morning climb from the Gulf of Atalanta, lighting a path of ocher flame across the calm water. Even the breeze was fragrant, coming from the land laden with the smells of conifer, flowers, herbs, and wet earth mixed with chance aromas of baking bread and hot cooking oils from the city itself. Only a sore shoulder suggested my little space battle scarcely more than a local day ago. And somehow, in the enchantment of the bright morning, those short moments of peril seemed relatively unimportant. Atalanta was storehouse for some of my most pleasant memories; I could no more stifle the great smile that escaped my lips than I could stop breathing. Completely taken by the moment, I strolled leisurely to my gravcycle, complying utterly with the doctor's instructions to stay out of skimmers and starships for at least a day or more, if possible. The RSB was, after all, not even faintly like a skimmer, and today it was recumbent beneath a beautifully fitted cover embroidered with "W.A. Brim, RADM, Base Commander." I simply had to look. A strong redolence of polish when I removed the cover—and stowed it in one of the custom saddlebags that had also miraculously appeared on the gleaming machine—made me strongly suspect Petty Officer First Class Russo. I nodded in appreciation. He'd had done it correctly, never showing his face for direct recognition, but anonymously returning favor for favor. It was a sign I'd made a right decision concerning the man. Back to the glorious morning! No more decisions until I'd escaped the base for a few metacycles on this beguiling gravcycle. If I were any good at all predicting the future, it would be the last free time for me in a long while. Hunkering beside the 'Grav compartment, I activated the powerful graviton generator, then peered through a tiny porthole into its ion chamber, while I listened for flaws in its silken growl. None. Unlike the ancient and often unreliable gravcycle I'd owned during my second stay in the city as a beggared laborer, this extraordinary machine had four plasma beams; all in pluperfect sync and looking as if they'd stay that way through a planetary explosion. Grinning like a little boy with a new plaything, I threw my leg over the purring 'cycle, eased into hover, and moved carefully into the kind of incoming morning traffic that told me Williams was making significant progress everywhere. While I cruised over the familiar stone arches of Harbor Causeway, the occupant of an open-air skimmer in the opposing lane beeped and waved as she passed. It happened so quickly, I nearly missed her, but in the rearview mirrors, I could see long brown hair streaming in the wind as the skimmer sped toward the base. Instinctively my heart leaped—I knew who she was, and clearly she recognized me. I almost turned in pursuit, but held back. Now was not the time to renew a relationship with that kind of potential for emotion. Until the base was solidly on its way to recovery, I'd need every ounce of concentration on the job I could muster. But once things were even a little bit under control, we'd meet—have to meet. And then I'd find out if hers was the voice in the hospital. Even though I already knew it was.... Approaching the main gate at the end of the causeway, I forced the half-seen woman and her long tresses back to where they'd dwelled in my mind for nearly thirteen years, then slowed and stopped at the guardhouse. Got a rather overdone salute there—and a carefully checked ID card. More evidence of Williams's efforts. Then I was on my way into the ancient city of Atalanta. On the mainland side of the causeway, the Grand Canal— outermost of ten concentric watercourses ringing City Mount Hill—was fronted by unending blocks of ancient government warehouses and office complexes—interrupted here and there by much newer buildings from the period of furious reconstruction at the end of the First Great War. I well recalled the great, foul-smelling mountains of fire-blackened debris they replaced. But in that section, I found little of more than passing interest and drove considerably faster along the wide thoroughfares, buzzing across canal after canal until the huge, faceless buildings grew smaller and began to thin in number. As I sped onward, the office precincts gave away to light industrial complexes, then to tall, ages-old bedroom neighborhoods built of stone, brick, and mortar. Just short of the final canal bridge, I skirted the port's gaudy pleasure district, its streets swarming with painted, raucous crowds even at this early hour. Presently, I bumped over the last, steep canal bridge and pulled to a stop at the gate to Atalanta's historic, walled Rocotzian Section. The long-haired woman once told me it was so named because the wall traced the uniquely suggestive outlines of a male rocotzio bud. It was here, she'd said—behind these very bulwarks—that this mighty city had actually seen its beginnings, tens of centuries in the past. Predictably, the course of civic evolution had been neither smooth nor peaceful. Long after the walls retained only symbolic meaning—Omot warriors from space had overrun Hador's entire planetary system, and for nearly three hundred years enslaved the civilization that had developed there. Only when warlike priests from the ancient Gradgroat-Norchelite order appealed to a newly confederated Galactic Empire for help were the Omotian conquerors ultimately overthrown. After which the priests mercilessly hunted them down throughout the Home Galaxy until it was certain that no living creature carried their genes. During subsequent years, the Gradgroat-Norchelites constructed a great monastery at the summit of City Mount Hill— and shortly afterward orbited their thirteen renowned forts. The latter insured against a threat of invasion from the warlike confederation of star-states that nearly half a millennium later coalesced into the League of Dark Stars under the ruthless leadership of their great chancellor, Kramsib'nov Otto. The invasion never came, but the forts' huge energy projectors endured as the most devastating defensive weapons ever devised. During the hundreds of intervening peaceful decades, however, they fell into disuse as the Order assumed a more serene purpose in the galaxy. Ultimately, even the external source of energy that once powered them was lost from memory, and the forts became mere objects of historic interest—tourist attractions. Nevertheless, the GradyGroats, as the Order was by now almost universally nicknamed, continued to maintain them in pristine condition as if they still housed first-line weapons systems. And as a result, the term GradyGroat became an analog for "ridiculous" in almost every galactic tongue—until the priests and their space forts actually saved the Empire from invasion at the end of the First Great War by destroying a large part of the League's battle fleet. The priests accomplished this miracle by powering the mammoth cannon directly from Hador's radiation—after launching their entire hilltop monastery at the star to stimulate its output.... I closed my eyes a moment, lost in memory. The monastery's cataclysmic lift-off had taken place nearly fifteen Standard Years ago, but it seemed more like eons. I only missed seeing it with my own eyes by little more than a day, but that's another story, entirely. A new, even grander edifice now stood on the melted, glasslike summit of City Mount Hill. And even though this one was not designed to launch itself into space, it had quickly become a major tourist destination, attracting travelers from all over the galaxy, while the sleepy old Rocotzian Section endured quietly, largely forgotten in the bustle of intragalactic trade—and war. But it had all started here, in this tiny, antiquated compound. It was also here in the Rocotzian Section that she lived—or at least once lived years ago. Feeling a bit drained—probably the morning's ride had been a bit premature—I shrugged and eased my gravcycle back out into traffic, then headed back to the base. The precise location of her residence didn't matter anymore—we'd seen each other. I knew she'd risen in rank over the years to the office of Harbor Master, directing all civilian activities on the base. That was enough for now—and all I'd have time for in the immediate future. * * * During the next week and a half, I spent nearly every waking hour at work, even then barely keeping up with the tasks at hand. However, with Williams apparently working in ten different locations at the same time, the base at last started looking and acting like a military installation again. We lost perhaps fifty CIGAs officers in the purge; luckily only six were Helmsmen—CIGAs tended to specialize in fields that had little to do with combat. The only thing that Williams and I didn't change was the Officers' Club; Summers had set up a good one and it remained open 'round the clock. I took advantage of that whenever I had the energy to do so, both because I simply needed a place to sit down and have a drink every once in a while and because it was a good place to meet the other officers. The job of Base Commander is much like being Skipper of a large starship. You've an Executive Officer who pretty much carries out the day-to-day work while you make policy and take responsibility for everything. It can be an ivory-tower existence if you let it. But the best Skippers keep in touch with the pulse of their "ships" by mingling, gently, often in the wardroom or the Club. The trick is never talking directly about anything, but mostly listening, absorbing the mood, the very atmosphere. It's that ability—listening gently—that makes the difference. Tonight—long metacycles after everyone but the Night Watch had turned in—I was alone at the bar, drinking a decent enough Logish Meem when I sensed someone behind me. Before I could turn, a hand touched my arm, and I got a trace of half-familiar, mostly forgotten perfume, with the spicy scent of a mu'occo cigarette. "Hello, Wilf Brim," a soft, warm voice purred like Halacian sunlight itself. I turned; my heart skipped a beat. Beside me in the half-lighted room stood a startlingly beautiful woman—neither young nor old—whose countenance instantly released a flood of memories I had struggled to suppress for years. As if we were completely alone, I stood and took her hands, staring at her as if she was a vision—which, entirely, she was. Petite and utterly feminine, she still wore her dark brown hair almost to her waist in gently flowing waves that had never been far from my mind's surface in the eighteen or so years since we'd first met not far from this very spot. Her wide-set brown eyes—soft and intelligent—were now graced by a network of tiny crow's-feet, but the long eyelashes, the same almost (but not quite) pug nose, the generous lips that had often brought me to the heights of passion, and the intrepid chin that revealed the true woman behind this dazzling beauty—all were truly untouched by age, only heightened by maturity. I glanced at her ample bust—as always boldly flaunted in a snug-fitting, fashionably short native Atalantan pleisse that revealed a modest waist—perhaps slightly increased in perimeter over the years (but then, whose wasn't?)—the same slim legs, and the same tiny feet in the timeless high-heeled sandals she favored. Characteristically, she was looking me directly in the face with the half smite of a woman who is quite accustomed to having a substantial impact on men. "Claudia Valemont," I whispered as if I were speaking in a dream. "You're staring," she said with a little smile. "Do you mind?" Same wonderful smile, "Do I mind? For a moment, I was afraid you might not remember me," she said almost shyly. "Some memories are so wonderful they don't go away," I replied, feeling my cheeks burn after all these years. "Thanks, Wilf," she said. "I guess I needed that." Found myself without adequate words to express my emotions; I could only shake my head in amazement. "Quite a show you put on for us the other night," she said at length. "I knew who was leading that fight without even asking. Lots of us in town have waited a long time for something like that to happen—fighting back, of course, not having you wounded." "Nice of you," I said with a grin—then frowned. "That was your voice I heard in the hospital, wasn't it?" She nodded. "Why did you leave? I was coming around." "Because I know you, Wilf Brim," Raised an eyebrow. "Even if you'd been conscious, Wilf," she said, "it wasn't time—you had too much on your mind. This base had gone to hell in a handbasket, and I wanted more of you than would be left over in the early stages." "Touché." She smiled and shrugged. "You said the people in town had been waiting for us to fight back," I noted, changing the subject. "According to Summers, the city people are dead set against resistance this go-around. What gives?" "Summers never asked me," she said "Nor any of the people I run around with." I nodded. "I kind of thought that might be the case. Of course, I haven't been here all that long, either." "About two weeks," Claudia said, glancing at me out of the corner of an eye with a little smile. "But then, who's keeping track?" "Can a fellow buy you a Meem?" I asked, suddenly realizing that we were still standing. "Thought you were never going to ask," she said with an expression of relief. Helped her onto a barstool beside me. The skirt opened, revealing her leg all the way to the thigh, and I couldn't help looking. "Sorry," I said, feeling my cheeks bum. "About what?" she asked. "Well... staring...." "Did you like what you saw?" "Of course." "As much as you used to?" "More, probably." "Then don't be sorry. If I hadn't wanted you to look, it wouldn't have happened." Same Claudia—thank Voot! "Meem?" "Of course. The Avignon oh-eight is good." Swung my leg back over the barstool and sat beside her, pointing to my goblet of Logish Meem. "Another one of these for the lady, please," I said to the bartender. She laughed. "Ought to have known you'd find the best all by yourself." "No," I replied, looking into her brown eyes, "the best found me this evening." Without thinking, I put my arm around her waist and gently drew her to my side. "I tried to keep my mind clear of you—all the way from Sodeskaya," I blurted out. "And it didn't work worth a xaxtdamn." I closed my eyes. "Still married to Nesterio?" I asked, mentally bracing myself for her reply. That was something I purposely hadn't checked on before I left Atalanta—needed to hear it from her. She nodded after a long silence. Dropped my arm from her waist; felt my cheeks burn. Embarrassed. "H-how is he?" I asked for lack of anything else to say. Another long silence. "Gorgas is fine.," she said in a barely audible whisper. "Still tends his cabaret... it's... much bigger now. He's expanded it." Abruptly, she seemed to run out of words. We sipped our meem in silence for at least two hundred Standard Years... perhaps three hundred. "And you, Wilf?" she asked at length, breaking the awful silence without looking up. "I guess you and your princess never got together, did you?" Margot.... "No," I replied. "We never got together." "Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked." "Why not?" I demanded. "I wanted to know about Nesterio." "I guess we both..." "Needed to know," I finished for her. Stared into her face. "You haven't changed much," I blurted out. "you're still the most beautiful woman in the Home Galaxy." "And you, Wilf Brim, are still the most charming liar in the same place." "Look at you," I protested, gesturing with my goblet. "Some fabulous hair, same beautiful face... same great shape. If you've changed any, it's to become even more beautiful." "Oh, Wilf Brim," she said with a little smile, "I know you're full of Gorksroar, but I love to hear it anyway." Suddenly she frowned. "You are still single, aren't you?" "Nobody would ever have me," I said, "Women are just too xaxtdamned wary and intelligent these days. Besides, nobody knows how to cook anymore—not like you do, anyway." She smiled a little, looking at me carefully. After a long time: "I'd love to cook for you again. Anytime you wanted. Would you come?" Felt myself frown. "Do you suppose your husband would mind?" "Mind?" she asked. "He'd love to see you—remembers what you did in the first war. Probably even bring him home for a change." Raised an eyebrow. "It's pretty much the custom with native Atalantans," she explained self-consciously. "Probably you didn't notice when you were here, but men here spend most of their evenings in taverns with their cronies." "And that's what Nesterio does?" She nodded. "It's his tavern, too." "Poor zukeed—doesn't know what he's missing," I said before I could stop myself. Then, lamely, "Sorry." "Nothing to be sorry about," she said, blushing again. "It's quite a compliment." Took her hand and to hell with convention. Remembered our last meeting years ago, when I watched her little skimmer disappear around a corner. Suddenly, I desperately wondered why I'd ever allowed a magnificent woman like her slip through my fingers. I wanted to say something now, but ran out of words and just sat there mute, looking at a face I'd dreamed about for years. "I'd love to have supper with you, Claudia," I whispered. A tear ran along her cheek. She quickly wiped it away. "You name the time, Wilf Brim," she said with a self-conscious little sniffle. "If I'm any judge," I replied, "that job of yours—congratulations, by the way—doesn't give you much opportunity to entertain." "Not much," she said, brightening at last. "But by the love of Voot, I'll be free any night you can make it, even if I've got to close down my part of the base—and the sooner, the better." "It may take me a while to get free for a whole evening," I said, "I understand," she said, nodding earnestly, "I know you've got an enormous job on your hands. I had to deal personally with Summers sometimes." "What was he like?'1I asked. She shook her head and laughed. "God, what a pompous ass. Couldn't keep his hands to himself—even in the office. Can you imagine a CIGA trying to talk me into bed?" "Oh, I can," I said, surprised. "Did he?" "You really want to know?" Frowned. "Well, it's clearly none of my business," I mumbled, a little ashamed of myself. "But..." She giggled. "I never mentioned this to a soul before, but actually, he did—once," she said, glancing at me from the corner of her eyes. "That particular night, though, was an inappropriate time of the month; I planned it that way." She grinned a little guiltily. "After a very expensive supper and enough vacant flattery to sink a barge, I let him find out for himself." Blushing now, she suddenly giggled. "Didn't think he'd go for it, and I was right. Watching the look on his face was worth everything." "Then," I said, "he really didn't, did he?" She grinned. "He got me in bed—that's what you asked." "Valemont," I said with genuine admiration, "you are an evil woman." "Thank you, Admiral," she said with a little smile. "I always attempt to do my best." "Clearly,"' I said. "And, as I also remember from at least eighteen years past, at least part of your 'best' includes cooking in the manner of a professional chef. I'll want to take you up on that invitation... as soon as I can." "I hope so," she said. "It's been a long time." Lost it completely, after that. Blurted out, "How about tomorrow?" "Strange," she replied with a little smile. "I was hoping you'd say that." "What time?" I asked. "You tell me—tomorrow, when you know" she said. "Call me. Cottshall has my number." "What if I'm late?" "Then we'll dine late...." We left soon after that. I suppose people were staring at us as we went out the door. Didn't particularly care. Walked to the parking lot and helped her into the skimmer. Touched her arm—felt excited and guilty at the same time. "G-good to see you," I blurted out. "Good to see you, Wilf." I stood there dumbly in the dusky, early-morning stillness, staring. Lost all track of time. I thought I spied a tear on her cheek when she reached out and touched my hand. "Tomorrow night," she whispered, then started the skimmer. "Tomorrow night," I gulped, so filled with emotion I could hardly speak. Watched her drive away until she was completely gone. Except the perfume.... Chapter 3 Sapphire 32 Heptad, 52014 Imperial Fleet Base, Atalanta, Hador-Haelic Familiar voice talking to Cottshall in the outer office; made me grin. "Barbousse!" I yelled, "March yourself in this office—on the double!" Huge man—nearly seven irals tall, broad shoulders, muscles everywhere. Looked as if he weighed a solid milston; walked with the catlike grace of a dancer. Totally bald with no eyebrows. Gentle—intelligent—eyes. Pug nose, round face, strong chin. Big hands, strong enough to bend the barrel of a blast pike. Perfect uniform, perfect salute. "Master Chief Petty Officer Utrillo Barbousse reporting for duty, Admiral Brim." The Defiance 79 I stood, returned the salute, then extended my hand. "Awfully good to have you here, Chief," I said. "You're needed." "Hope so, Admiral," he said. Grasped my hand in a warm, strong grip. "You'll wish you'd stayed put in Sodeskaya," I warned him. "Heard it's a mess here." "You should have seen it when I got here," I said. "Williams has worked miracles already." "Your Exec?" "Yeah. I think you'll like him. He's good." "So I've heard. Checked him out with some of the old-time Chiefs in Avalon. They say you've got yourself a prize." "Two of 'em now that you're here." He grinned. "Thanks, Admiral," he said. "But by my count, it's three." I don't keep guest chairs in my office. Makes the meetings short. "Buy you breakfast in the buffet?" I asked. "Best offer I've had since I got here," he said. For the next metacycle, Barbousse caught me up on all of the scuttlebutt from Avalon, handed over at least fifty HoloPics of Hope... on Emperor Onrad's lap... on Grand Admiral Calhoun's lap... on Admiral Gallsworthy's lap... on General Drummond's lap.... Clearly, she had conquered most of Onrad's General Staff. Afterward, I filled him in on as much background about the base as I'd been able to absorb. Then we met Williams in a conference room and got down to business—completing the task of returning the base to full operational status. Just before midday, got a call from Cottshall. Said someone was in the office to discuss what he called "important matters." Name of Deighton Ambrose, from Avalon. Arrived on the same starship as Barbousse. I hit the MUTE button; turned to Barbousse. "What do you know about a fellow named Deighton Ambrose?" "Had a Deighton Ambrose on the ship with me, Admiral," he said. "I'd guess he's a government man of some sort—maybe a courier. Carried a black briefcase secured to his wrist. Never saw him talking to anybody except the captain and a couple of stewards." "That's all you know?" "That's it, Admiral." Nodded. Canceled the MUTE. "Ask him what sort of 'important matters.' " "I shall do so, Admiral." Heard him ask; didn't catch the answer. Presently: "Mr. Ambrose asked me to mention the word Sapphire." "Cottshall," I said, "put a guest chair in my office and tell him I'm on the way...." * * * A big man in a dark business suit, sitting there in my office, briefcase secured to his left wrist. "Mr. Ambrose," I said, extending my hand, "Wilf Brim." He stood, gripped my hand, fixed me with a powerful gaze. "Glad to meet you, Admiral," he said in a deep, quiet voice, looking and sounding more like a Sodeskayan Bear than anything else. Massive forehead and jaw, deep-set eyes, straight-line features. Big hands, perfectly manicured. Placed his briefcase on my desk. "If you'll put a thumb here," he said, pointing to an Imperial seal near the top, "I've some items for you from Avalon." Touched my thumb to the seal. Warm. "Keep it mere a moment, please." "Sorry." Presently, the seal became cold and the briefcase opened. Ambrose reached inside, removed a thick, secure-looking pouch with "Sapphire" printed on the outside. "Left index finger here, please," he said, indicating an ID frame near the top. This time, I let my finger remain. The security strip at the top of the pouch disappeared with a quiet zip. "You'll want to look these over while I'm here." Ambrose said, closing his briefcase. After struggling with the pouch for a moment—the outside catches were often stubborn the first few times they were used—I opened it up and spread its contents before me on the desk: two navigational charts, an old-fashioned, illustrated book—Voot knew how long ago it had been published—and a Personal HoloScreen displaying: PRE-LOADED WITH INFORMATION FROM THE IMPERIAL MUSEUM AND THE COLLEGE OF SPACE ANTIQUITIES, IMPERI UNIVERSITY. "You mean they sent a courier all the way out here to bring me this?" I demanded. "The remainder comes from here," Ambrose said, pointing to his forehead with a smile. "But not in your office. Outside, somewhere in the open air—away from the base. I've rented a skimmer." He handed me a small leather folder. I opened the folder, felt my eyebrows rise as I looked at the gold emblem inside. No mere courier, this Ambrose—one of perhaps fifteen senior Consuls in the Empire called Travelers. Carry flag rank, at minimum. Put the Sapphire pouch under my arm, followed him out of the office. "Be 'in conference' till I get back," I said to Cottshall on the way past his desk. "I shall place a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on your office door," Cottshall said with a smile. Ambrose's rented civilian skimmer in the parking lot was a nondescript Nordan 223 four-door. He silently drove us out in the country a distance, checking constantly in the rearview mirror. We stopped on a hilltop beside an unkempt olive grove with high, uncut grass and, beyond, a great stone tub surrounded by overgrown hedges. I peered around for a moment—two elderly looking farmers scything grass at a leisurely pace in the distance—then relaxed, turned to Ambrose. "A bit sudden, this," he said. "Sorry—but we're about to treat Rogan LaKarn and his friends in The Torond to a nasty surprise. We don't want them to catch wind of things until there's little they can do to prevent it." I nodded that I understood. "Right, then," he said. "The ultimate objective of Sapphire is the invasion and ultimate liberation of all planets in the domain of Fluvanna." Felt my eyebrows rise at that, especially since we seemed to be on the defensive nearly everywhere else in the galaxy. A million questions sprang to mind, but principal among the ones that didn't pertain to troops and material was what the liberation of Fluvanna had to do with me—and Atalanta. The city would be bombed to smithereens if we tried to assemble an invasion fleet in the harbor. Nodded again, but shifted my eyes to the farmers, who were still slowly working their way toward us. "You're not saying much," Ambrose commented. "I don't know enough, yet," I said, returning my gaze to him. "Ever hear of Gontor?" he asked. That brought a frown; I had... somewhere. Yes. "The old space fortress in Sector Nineteen?" I asked. "That's it," he said. "What do you know about it?" "Not much," I admitted. "Just that something's there that must look like a fortress." "Is a fortress," Ambrose corrected gently. "Actually, a tremendous asteroid orbiting a little dwarf star called star Cyjix-19, Been vacant for a millennium or more. Hundreds of Standard Years before that, someone with a lot of talent and power to spare—nobody remembers who anymore—life-formed the monster into a nearly impregnable fortress, so large and spacious it can accommodate a sizable invasion force in safety." That started the bells ringing. "Where?" I asked. "I know it's not on any of the established space routes." "Wasn't always the case," Ambrose said. "Fifteen hundred, two thousand years ago—give or take a few—Cyjix-19 lay astride the main commercial thoroughfare between the old Mornay Star Empire and an up-and-coming star domain that called itself the Vann Group." "Never heard of it," I said. "I'll bet you've heard of the Flu'wicz Empire," Ambrose said. "I think so," I said. "But I can't place it." "They conquered the Vannians to form..." "Fluvanna?" "You've got it," Ambrose said. "Give you some idea of how handy old Gontor is to the Fluvannian star systems? It's less than a Standard Day's flight distant." "Mother of Voot!" "Right." "Don't you think The Torond has thought about that, too?" I asked. "Probably," Ambrose said. "But they aren't doing anything about it. After all, they've already taken half the country." More pieces of the puzzle in place—getting a strange feeling about... "And, so far," I said warily, "they see us doing very little to change the situation." "Suggest anything to you, Admiral?" Winced, "Mother of Voot," I groaned. "Is that why Summers and his CIGA colleagues got away with letting the base go to xaxt?" Ambrose nodded. "It's also why you and Williams have to be very careful how rapidly you put your improvements into place—or at least how much you let them show. You're already moving a lot faster than we'd hoped. A lot faster." He laughed quietly for a moment—first time I'd seen him smile. "A number of us didn't want you—or your sidekick Barbousse—within light-years of this place. No offense intended." My head was whirling. "None taken," I said. "But why did you...?" "Horns of a dilemma, Admiral. We also couldn't turn such a ticklish operation over to anybody without a reputation like yours." "Reputation?" "Of digging in and getting things done—against bad odds," he said. "Luck," I said. Regretted it instantly. "That too." His second smile. Looked at him carefully while the last few pieces fell into place... and sent icy chills along my spine. "So where does Gontor enter the picture?" I asked, but I already knew. "As you've guessed," Ambrose said, "your assignment to 'clean up' the base here was only a cover. The actual reason you find yourself in Atalanta for a second tout—project Sapphire—concerns only Gontor. You are first to occupy and secure it, then provision it—after which the Imperial Expeditionary Forces will use it as a staging area for the men and material of Operation Spark—the liberation of Occupied Fluvanna." "Into the bargain," I added, almost to myself, "I've got to keep the lid on the base here at Atalanta—and the Toronders unsuspecting—until we've got Gontor so secure that it's too late for them to drive us out." "In a nutshell," he said with an apologetic little smile. The zukeeds never did trouble themselves laying on the work, did they? Frowned. Outside, the elderly farmers had been joined by six much younger ones. Big, husky men, I noticed idly. Ought to make the work go much quicker. "What sort of resources do I get?" I demanded. "You've already got pretty much everything we can spare," Ambrose said. The little smile, again. "You of all people know we're pushed to the limit everywhere," he said, "And the Sodeskayans. .. well, it was you who sold the War Cabinet on the importance of supplying the Sodeskayans with all our surplus." I could only nod my rueful agreement. "Sorry," he said. Didn't think he really meant it. I took a moment to think it over. Probably I could use part of the base's excellent military police force. It was one thing Summers hadn't got his hands on: bigwigs like that consider themselves above police. Remembered a couple of small, fast transports in the hangar— not enough, but maybe I could commandeer a few civilian ships in the harbor. The three benders I'd seen the night I landed; they'd come in handy—somewhere. Forty-odd fly-able Starfury interceptors—excellent protection for the base and the city. Not much in the way of spares, but we'd take care of that somehow—always had. Biggest trouble would be getting the troops and supplies across to Gontor. Even without a starmap, I knew it was a long-distance haul. A lot farther than Starfuries could fly—at least Starfuries with all their disrupters enabled. That meant that the convoys, such as they might be, would have to go unescorted.... "There is some extra help we intend to provide." Ambrose broke into my thoughts. "Love to hear about it," I replied—all ears. He looked at me carefully. "Well," he said with a little hesitation, it's got to do with your home province of Carescria." That got my attention. I raised an eyebrow. "You certainly must know that we Imperials—actually past Emperor Greyffin IV—opened a number of production plants there just after the first war. And Onrad's kept up the support as if he'd had 'em built himself. Carescria's become very important to the war effort in the last few years." I nodded, with a somewhat guilty sense of pride for the people of my own section of the Empire, though I'd selfishly forsaken everything Carescrian most of my adult life. Even before the first factories were complete, Carescrians back home were turning out the extra Starfuries that made the difference during our Battle of Avalon. I'd flown a number of them. Those people out there broke their backs making star-ships that saved our Triad. Onrad had once said to me. They're important: we're going to need them a lot more before we finally whip the Tyrant and his bloody League. "Every one of those factories is in full production now," Ambrose continued, "turning out new, unique designs that appear to be very promising." Raised an eyebrow. "Like, what?" I asked. "Like a whole new breed of ships they call Basilisks, hunter-killers," he replied—as if he'd been reading my mind. "Big, tough, oversize killer ships with the kind of range that Mark Valerian never even considered when he designed our vaunted Starfuries. There's also a fast, rugged medium attack ship that's nearly the equal in firepower of those new Sodeskayan Ro'stovik crawler killers, but they carry a belly full of HyperTorps as well." Sounded too good to be true. Far too good. "But...?" I prompted. Ambrose nodded. "The 'but' is that none has ever been tested in actual combat. Nor have the all-Carescrian crews who man them. That's why we thought of you, Admiral Brim." Didn't like the sound of that. I'd spent years making certain I got assignments in spite of my Carescrian background—didn't want to get one now because of it. "What's why you thought of me?" I demanded. "The work you just finished with the Sodeskayans," he replied. "Right now, our Carescrians are just about where the Bears were a year ago: ready to send plenty of promising new people and equipment into the field—with no experience. And you've been through it all before—including the very difficult job of directing the operations of people who don't even report to your organization. A job that few people ever get right, especially the first time." "Thanks," I said, mollified. Noticed the extra farmers had really sped things up. They'd more than halved the distance to our skimmer, "And, of course, you are a Carescrian," Ambrose added. . Nothing ever changes, does it? Looked him in the eye with the coldest stare I could muster. "First and foremost," I said pointedly, "I am an Imperial Citizen—as is everyone who hails from Carescria." His face reddened. "Um... yes... terribly sorry, Admiral Brim," He said. "Figure of speech." Ignored the apology. "So how many can I get?" I demanded. "How many what?" Ambrose asked, "Hunter-killers. Medium attack ships," I said. "How many can you send me and when?" Ambrose's face brightened with relief. "You want them?" he asked. "Of course," I said. "There's something wrong with 'em?" "If you mean other than a lack of combat experience, then nothing," "No disease? Insanity? Infirmity?" The little smile again. "Just normal people like you or me, Admiral Brim," he said. Back on track, "Then how many and when?" I repeated. Ambrose thought a moment. "The 'how many' is easy," he said. "I can have the first pair of squadrons—sixteen Basilisks, by the way—here in a little less than two months. Replacements for casualties will start two or three weeks after that." "Sounds good to me," I said. "And the mediums?" "I'll send a squadron of twelve around the first of the year." Wished it were sooner, but... "What about maintenance and spares?" "Package deal," Ambrose explained. "They bring everything with them. All you've got to do is house the ships and feed the crews," "And train 'em to fight," I added. "Best we can do," Ambrose said. "Sorry." "No criticism implied," I assured him. "A little guts does wonders for the fighting spirit. Ask the Bears, I saw some of them stop motorized attacks with little more than blast pikes and mines." "And you wondered why we thought you were the right man to help 'em into combat," Ambrose said with a chuckle. Absently glanced out the window at the farmers for a moment—no more than a hundred irals from our skimmer by this time. Young ones were working as if there were no tomorrow. "You've got to be a little crazy, I guess," I said. "A prime qualification," Ambrose observed, "especially when you hear our deadline for securing the old fort." Steadied myself. I'd been waiting for that shoe to fall, wondering why it hadn't. "Bad?" I asked, "Bad," Ambrose declared. "Give it to me." "Twelve weeks—starting yesterday," he said. "The first convoy lifts in eighteen days to prove out the route. You can expect it at Atalanta by seventeen Octad." Closed my eyes. "Voot's beard," I groused, "you people don't mind laying on the work, do you?" "I know," he agreed. "But there's not much anybody can do about it. With the Toronders gearing up for their own invasion, twelve weeks is cutting things awfully thin as it is. Best information says they'll start moving reinforcements into Occupied Fluvanna within the next few Standard Days; you'll need to put a crimp in that directly—along with everything else you're tasked with." Nodded. Made sense—nothing's easy when it comes to waging war. I sat for another couple of moments in silence. "Anything else?" I asked warily. "That's it, Admiral," he said. "All right," I said, reaching into the backseat to rummage into the Sapphire pouch. "Let's spend a couple of cycles looking over the stuff you brought," The catch, of course, chose that moment to stick again. "Good idea," he said. "I think you'll find them interesting as well as..." While I struggled in the backseat with the catch, I suddenly felt a searing blast of heat on the back of my neck, and when I glanced up... I nearly screamed! Ambrose's head had simply, well cooked to a char—while he was talking—cut him off in mid-sentence. Lidless eyes stared at me in agonized consternation, mouth open for the next word. Stench like roasted pork. I ducked my head in alarm—just as a second blast of searing heat missed me by no more than a hair, ripping his door away from the skimmer's body and hurling it to the other side of the road. For a moment, the entire Universe erupted in blinding light, concussion, and flying glass. Instinctively, I dived for the floor, only a split click before the upper half of my door exploded inward and I felt the skimmer sink heavily to the roadbed. Stunned senseless, I scrambled over Ambrose's flaccid legs and threw myself outside, fumbling for my holster. Grasped the Wenning just as someone leaped around the front of the skimmer, bringing up a blaster in a two-handed grip. Fired the big .985 almost blindly—full power. Heard a grating howl as his chest exploded. Someone coming from the rear. Whirled around... too late. His blaster was already aimed. Braced—good-bye, Brim. Expected the zappfft, but instead, he simply got a surprised look, slowly dropped the blaster, then crumpled facedown on the dirt with a huge dagger buried halfway to the hilt in the back of his neck. Barbousse! More shots. Screams of pain. Sounds of running boots. Only an iral behind me, the skimmer was burning furiously— scorching my back. But I didn't dare leave its shelter. Then Barbousse's voice. "Admiral! Admiral Brim! Are you all right!" "Chief!" I yelled back. "I'm all right. Where the xaxt are you?" "Coming round the rear end, Admiral. Got the situation in hand. Don't shoot me." Rolled away from the skimmer. Knees so wobbly, didn't know If I could stand. Saw Barbousse sprinting toward me—how can someone so big move so fast? Dragged me to my feet, roaring orders like a Sodeskayan at a detachment of Space Police. Hardly heard him. In the field, one of the younger "farmers" was on his knees with his hands up, eyes big as saucers as he peered into the barrels of five powerful blast pikes. Another man sprawled beside him... wasn't moving. Farther out, more SPs were running the two "older" farmers to ground like hounds after a fox. The man I'd managed to shoot had been thrown backward ten irals by the force of my blaster. Nothing left of his chest except a blackened hole. Felt my gorge rise. At least the searing effect cut down on puddled blood. Clearly Barbousse's work there at the back of the skimmer. Nobody else in the known Universe throws a knife like that. Glanced inside the burning passenger compartment... wanted to throw up. Turned away. Nothing anybody could do for Ambrose. I stiffened—the pouch! Ran to the skimmer, pulled it out of the backseat moments before the upholstery went up with a terrific whump that nearly knocked me from my feet again. Barbousse caught me. "Er... Sorry, Admiral," I heard him say as he gently set me on my feet. Shaking his head. Angry at himself. "You merely saved my thraggling life, Chief," I protested, trying my shaky legs. "I'm not sorry, believe me. What if this had happened before you arrived this morning?" Barbousse knelt to pull his knife from the unfortunate assassin's neck. "Don't even want to think about such a thing, Admiral," he said, carefully wiping the blade on his victim's sleeve. I put my hand on his shoulder. "Fact is, you were here, though, Chief," I said. "Just as you always have been in the past." Then I frowned. "What was it that made you follow me in the first place?" "The man Ambrose," he replied, standing to replace his knife in its scabbard strapped inside his left trouser leg. "Somethin' about 'im I couldn't put my finger on. An' I couldn't learn anythin' about 'im on the Chiefs' network. So I decided it wouldn't hurt to put on a little protection." He looked troubled. "I kept my distance 'cause I figured it was none of my business. That's why we were so long getting here once the trouble started." I took the hint. "I'll be a lot more careful in the future, Chief," I promised. "And it is your business, believe me. But it's really sensitive stuff. Can't talk about it here—I'll have to fill you in once you get me back to the base." Barbousse nodded, looked relieved. "Thanks, Admiral," he said, then strode toward the SPs and took charge. Within moments, he'd commandeered the skimmer they'd come in and we were on our way, passing five armored personnel carriers headed the opposite direction. For me, the war had just entered a much uglier—deadlier—phase. * * * On the way in, I briefed Barbousse with what he needed to know, then clamped a MOST SECRET classification on the whole thing and turned it over to him. The old farmers would be sworn to secrecy—they'd be more than happy to trade a year's wages for bragging rights to the yarn—and the surviving prisoner would go to the SPs for interrogation, although I didn't expect to learn all that much when he finally cracked. Looked to me as if the real perpetrators had contracted the job to local thugs—Voot knew there was no dearth of those—who couldn't reveal much if they failed to make an escape. With Barbousse making fur fly, I went back to my office and began to sort things out. Ambrose had been just about finished with my briefing when he died, so I already had my marching orders. Those, a couple of starmaps, an ancient book, and a HoloScreen. Just thraggling wonderful! Oh yes, and a xaxtdamned near impossible deadline of twelve Standard Weeks. But all that was in my hands now. The Carescrians, however, were not. They were critical to the mission, and my only link to them was dead—murdered. Now what? Suddenly, I remembered the HoloPics of Hope—especially the one with her sitting on...."Cottshall," I said to the intercom, "get me a secure KA'PPA channel to Fleet Headquarters, Avalon, flash priority. I want to speak to General Harry Drummond at the Admiralty." * * * Took nearly half a metacycle, but at last Cottshall signaled he'd made the connection. Because of the tremendous traffic load, wartime KA'PPA communication was made using old-fashioned ciphers instead of normal holographic images. A little clumsy, but it worked. Enabled my HoloPhone, which immediately displayed: ADMIRALTY: PLEASE SIGNAL WHEN READY FOR GENERAL DRUMMOND. "Ready," I said. The HoloPhone translated my voice to ciphers, then scrambled them before transfer to the base's KA'PPA transmitter. DRUMMOND: HELLO, WTLF. HEARD ABOUT DEIGHTON—BAD NEWS INDEED. EXPECTED YOUR CALL, WHAT HAPPENED? Told him in the fewest, most gentle words possible; figured they might know each other. Then: "I'm ready to tackle everything he and I discussed, but don't know how to contact the Carescrians—or who to talk to. Can you help me?" DRUMMOND: YEAH, YOU CAME TO THE RIGHT PLACE; FIGURED YOU WOULD. I WAS ABOUT TO KA'PPA YOU, BUT YOU GOT HERE FIRST. CAN'T TELL YOU MORE THAN THAT. SORRY. CAN I TAKE IT YOU AGREED TO AVAIL YOURSELF TO THE CARESCRIANS? "Absolutely, General," I said. "No way to complete Sapphire without them." DRUMMOND: FIGURED THAT, TOO. GOOD! WISH THEY HAD A LITTLE MORE EXPERIENCE, BUT NOTHING'S PERFECT. I'LL SET UP THE SAME DIRECT CONTACT DEIGHTON ESTABLISHED. A COLONEL, NAME OF ANDERSON; HE'LL CONTACT YOU WITHIN THE NEXT SIX WEEKS. Figured I'd have to wait. Fleet time and actual time have very little in common. "What sort of clearances will he have?" I asked. DRUMMOND: CLEARED AS HIGH AS YOU ARE, BUT HAS NO NEED-TO-KNOW YET. YOU DECIDE WHO LEARNS WHAT—AND WHEN. WHOLE THING'S YOUR BABY NOW, YOU LUCKY ZUKEED. "My joy is unbounded," I sent. DRUMMOND: SAME TO YOU, BRIM. I chuckled. That was about it, then. "Great pictures of you with Hope," I sent. DRUMMOND: GONNA BREAK A LOT OF HEARTS, THAT KID OF YOURS. DAMN LUCKY SHE LOOKS LIKE HER MOTHER. "Agreed. Anything else you can tell me?" DRUMMOND: YOU'VE GOT EVERYTHING I KNOW. BEST OF LUCK AND ALL THAT. "Thanks," I sent. "Signing off." I touched DISCONNECT, and the display faded. Sat there staring at a wall for a little while, head spinning. Where to start? Needed to get an SP detachment formed right away so they could have some sort of training before they occupied Gontor. Of course, first someone would have to learn enough about the old fort to do the training. And they'd need weapons—not just the usual side arms and blast pikes. If for any reason the Toronders discovered what was going on, the SPs would need to defend themselves from heavy attack, even though they were holed up in a pretty impregnable place. Then there was the question of transportation. That whole matter would have to be coordinated with the civilian Harbor Master... who had invited me to supper! Glanced at my timepiece. Nearly Evening plus three— damn! Where had the day gone? "Cottshall! Put a call through to the Harbor Master's office. On the double, please!" "At once, Admiral, To whom do you wish to speak?" "Sorry," I said. "Claudia Nesterio, please. If she's still there." Grimaced while I waited. Simply hated to forget personal commitments. Damn! Watched the 'Phone materialize a miniature of her head and shoulders... smiling, at least. "Understand you had a busy day," she said, so beautiful I wanted to reach out and touch her. "Oh?" frowning in spite of myself. "What'd you hear?" Thought I'd made everything Top Secret. "Only scuttlebutt." "Like...?" "Bit of a shoot-up inland," she said, looking a little concerned. "Heard you were involved." Nodded. Couldn't put that TOP SECRET lid on things until I got back to the base, and word had clearly gotten out. "Yeah," I said, chuckling. "Only thing that goes faster than HyperDrive is scuttlebutt." "You all right?" she asked. "Only embarrassed," I said. "Embarrassed?" she asked. "About a shoot-up?" "About supper tonight. The shoot-out's not important anymore." She rolled her eyes. "Wilf Brim," she said, "you haven't changed one iota in all these years. You are still totally and completely impossible." "Does that mean I get no supper?" I asked. "I know I'm late." "Told you we'd dine late if we had to," she said. "Can you still make it?" "Of course," I said. "I was just afraid I might be too late." "Give me till"—she glanced off to the side—"Twilight and a half." Then her eyebrows rose. "Belay that," she said. "You don't know where I live anymore." "I can take directions," I said. "Easier if I just pick you up on my way home. See you in fifteen cycles outside Headquarters." "How'll I get back?" "Same way," she said. "It's not that far. All right?" "Fifteen cycles," I promised. "Front door." Sat there like a log realizing how much seeing her meant to me—even after the day I'd just put in. Needed to tone those feelings down some, I reminded myself. She was married, after all. And though I'd seldom let that bother me with other women over the years, Claudia Valemont-Nesterio was a very special case. Shook my head. Back to business. Tomorrow was another day! Grabbed my garrison cap and left the desk the way it was. Stopped at Cottshall's desk. "I'll need to see Williams in the small conference room first thing tomorrow," I said. "Morning and a half sharp. Tell him I apologize for what that does to his schedule, but he'll understand when he hears." Thought for a moment. "I'll need Chief Barbousse there, too. And, yeah, better arrange for a substitute at this desk, because I'll want you in on all of this, too. Got that?" "Got it, Admiral." Glanced at my timepiece; started for the door when... "Er, Admiral?" Embarrassed look on Cottshall's very serious countenance. "What's up?" "These," he said, nodding to a box of native flowers that looked as if they had just been delivered. "Thought you might want to take these with you." Frowned. "Don't know what you mean," I said. But I did. "In that case, Admiral," Cottshall said, quickly placing the box beneath his desk, "please ignore my words. Clearly, I erred." Felt prickly; hate anyone's nose in my personal business—and Valemont-Nesterio was about as personal as things got with me. Wanted to tell him off, then reined in my galloping temper, "Just why would I be interested in those flowers?" I demanded. Cottshall looked at me as if I had just inquired about the weather. "Because," he said matter-of-factly, "by the hour of the call I placed for you, I assumed you are dining with our Madame Harbor Master this evening for the first time since your arrival. And since at one time you two were known to be, er, close friends, I also assumed flowers might be in order. Clearly, Admiral, you have had no time to purchase them." Stood there flabbergasted. He was completely right, of course, his actions well within the limits of a personal secretary. I'd never had a real secretary before. Shook my head while the anger changed to gratitude. "Damned thoughtful of you, Cottshall," I said, holding out my hand. "I really do appreciate those flowers. What do I owe you?" Cottshall looked at his timepiece as he handed me the box of flowers. "You're running a bit short of time, Admiral," he said. "I shall bill you in the morning." Claudia pulled up to the curb just as one of the guards saluted and opened the door for me. She loved the flowers, for which I shamelessly took credit all the way to her new home.... * * * Gorgas Nesterio, Claudia's husband of nearly ten years, was waiting at the door of their new home with his grandest smile. "Welcome to our humble home, Admiral!" he boomed in a voice deep enough to rattle the furniture. Dressed in bright, traditional Atalantan garb, he hadn't changed appreciably since I'd last seen him, some fifteen years ago. Huge, swarthy, and heavily bearded, he wore an embroidered red tunic with shiny brass buttons in two rows that extended from a high lace collar to a short tapestry skirt woven in brightly colored patterns. A broad, elaborately jeweled leather belt draped over his hips, placing a long silver dagger close to his right hand—and made me wonder uncomfortably if he had any idea about the fun things his wife and I used to do to each other. Long pointed shoes that curled into coils and blue tights over powerful, muscular legs completed his costume. He smelled of perfumed oils, leather, and musk—and looked as if he could throw me bodily all the way back to the base in the event I stared at his wife too much. Didn't take much speculation to guess what had kept Claudia's juices flowing so well all these years. "Er, thank you, Gorgas," I said, feeling rather small, shriveled, and impotent. "It is a distinct honor to be here." "A libation, my friend?" Nesterio asked. "Love one," I said. "Meem will be great." "But of course," Nesterio said as he stepped behind a magnificently inlaid bar and opened a wall panel to reveal a large meem rack. Slipped an ancient-looking glass bottle from a wall safe and peered at it proprietarily. "I think you will find this interesting, Admiral—a Cantrell, vintage 5205; Logish, of course. Slightly sweet, fruity. It is said one can taste the age." Nodded expectantly; watched him expertly open the ancient container and fill a single crystal goblet. Then he placed two long-stemmed flutes beside it and filled them with clear liquid from a magnificent carved-crystal decanter. "E'lande," he explained, as if I might have forgotten the fiery, powerful native Atalantan liqueur. Nodded again. Remembered now that was what Claudia drank at home; wondered why I'd forgotten at the Officers' Club and ordered meem for her. Just then, she returned from the kitchen with the flowers, now charmingly arranged in a tall vase, and placed them on the bar. "I propose a toast to honored guests and old friendships," Nesterio said, lifting his flute. Claudia raised hers. "To honored guests and renewed friendships," Thinking quickly, got to my feet and raised my goblet, "To the Nesterios," I saluted. "Old friends: long may you delight in the glow of happiness!" Both Nesterios drained their flutes in a single draught before I had even finished a sip of the magnificent old Logish Meem. I laughed. "No way am I going to bolt this treasure," I protested with a grin. "Don't care what the local customs call for." "Then, it is we who are doubly honored," Nesterio replied, filling both their flutes again, "I propose a second toast—this time to old friends who appreciate Logish Meem!" Claudia glanced at me for a moment, her eyes striving to say something mine couldn't understand. "To enduring friends who appreciate Logish Meem," she echoed, downing her second flute of E'lande. I got to my feet again, raised my goblet. "To enduring friends and remarkable Logish Meem." Savored another taste of the splendid meem, then, as I raised the goblet to my nose for the bouquet, Nesterio filled their flutes a third time. Noticed Claudia no longer met my eyes. "I propose a toast to the Emperor!" Nesterio announced, raising his flute and looking expectantly at Claudia. "To Onrad the Fifth," she said, raising her flute but still averting her eyes from me, "Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens," "To Onrad," I said simply—while the two Nesterios drained their third flute of E'lande in less than fifteen cycles. Completely at ease by now, I took another sip of meem to see what came next. "And now," Nesterio said, abruptly, "the cabaret beckons me." He put his arm around Claudia's shoulders and drew her to him, planting a wet, noisy kiss on her lips. Then, turning her like some sort of life-sized mannequin, he... well, seemed to present her to me. "You will provide Admiral Brim with all hospitality that I would bestow myself, had I no prior commitments, tonight," he said. "Er, y-yes, I shall, Gorgas," she said, a blush appearing high on her cheeks. He laughed. "Do not let him leave until he has finished the meem. Few here in the city can appreciate its vintage." He next turned to me and bowed. "Perhaps another night for the three of us, Admiral," he said, looking me directly—knowingly was a better word—in the eye. "It is my understanding that you and my wife have long been friends; therefore, I trust you will have much to revisit." Without another word, he grasped a dark green cloak and strode to the door, opened it, and with a low, graceful bow to Claudia, simply... departed. The two of us stood in silence for a long interval—looking anywhere except at each other—before Claudia turned to me with a stricken look. "I am so sorry, Wilf," she said. "I didn't think he'd do this to me tonight." Walked to her side; touched her arm gently. "Sorry for what, Claudia?" "Wilf, Wilf, Wilf," she said. "You never did learn about Atalanta, did you?" "I don't know what you mean," I said, suddenly worried... about what, I had no idea. Her voice had begun to slur now, and I helped her to a chair, put my hand on her shoulder. Couldn't imagine someone so petite drinking all that E'lande so quickly—in so little time. "What didn't I learn?" I asked gently. Staring at the floor. She touched my hand, shook her head. "Nothing, Wilf," she said. "S-shouldn't have said anything. Forget I opened my mouth," "Of course, Claudia," I said. Probably not a good time to disagree. Looked up at me after a few moments. Eyes were wet, but she'd got that part of her under control, at least. "Still hungry?" she asked. Surprised. "Are you?" "A-asked you first." "Well, as a matter of fact, I am," I said. She smiled a little uncomfortably. "So'm I," she said. "And I did offer you supper, if I remember." "You did, but..." "But nothing, Wilf Brim," she said. "May be drunk—devil take it—but think can still cook... if you'll assist." "Whatever I can do." "Help me into the kitchen," she said, giving me her arm. "By all that's holy, nobody—not even Nesterio nor all his cronies— can do me out of my supper with you, Wilf Brim. I've waited for this more than twelve years!" Put her arm over my shoulder; had to half carry her to the kitchen. Clearly, the E'lande was still coming on, but she was fighting it. "In the c-chair, there, Wilf," she said. "Prop myself on the table. It'll wear off." Did that. Her eyes were half-closed. "Goddamn him," she mumbled. "Goddamn him and every man ever born of Haelic!" Suddenly, she slumped facedown on the table. Got one arm behind her shoulder, the other beneath her knees. Lifted gently, laid her on the couch beneath a superb native coverlet I remembered from the old days. Hair like a brown halo on the cushions—remember that, too. "Don't leave me, Wilf," she whispered breathlessly. "It'll wear off, I promise." "I won't leave," I said, drawing up a chair. Gently caressed her hand. "God, I'm, sorry," she groaned suddenly. "Sh-h-h." "I'm not like this," she said fervently. "Not like this." "It's all right," I said, anxious to calm her. "Please don't leave me, Wilf..." Suddenly, she was asleep, breathing deeply. Checked her pulse. A little fast, but not unusual. Went to the end of the couch, pulled up the coverlet, took off her sandals. Tiny, beautiful feet... ticklish, once, I remembered. Returned to my chair, noticed the open meem bottle. Got up and corked it. Somehow, drink had lost its appeal. In the kitchen cooler, thick butter and sharp cheese; crusty bread on the counter. I'd made many a meal of those in my lifetime—good meals, too. Loaded a plate and took it to the drawing room where I could keep an eye on her. Changed my mind about the meem. Filled the goblet. Nothing like the supper I'd hoped for, but then I was here alone with her—admitted that's what I came for in the first place. And even if she wasn't presently aware of my presence, it was a damned sight better than my office. Another goblet of that unforgettable meem, then I settled back in the chair, kicked off my boots, and listened to what could only be a flight of Starfuries lifting off from the harbor. Had been a long day indeed. Momentarily closed my eyes to rest 'em... * * * "Wilf?" Opened my eyes. Startled for a moment, then remembered. She was kneeling beside my chair with a troubled look, hand on my arm. "How do you feel?" I asked. "Humiliated," she said quietly. "Don't." Closed her eyes for a moment. "What kind of person wouldn't be humiliated?" she asked. Didn't have an answer for that. Covered her hand with mine. "Let's forget it," I said. Glanced at an expensive-looking timepiece on the mantel: Darkness plus two. She caught my glance. "Guess it's too late for supper," she said. "You still hungry?" I asked. Gave me a doubtful look. "Yes," she said, "I suppose I still am." "How do you feel, then?" "Well, all right. Little bit woozy, but..." "But something to eat ought to fix everything up." "That's what I was thinking." "Like some company?" "Are you serious? After...?" "Of course I'm serious." I pointed to the crumbs on my empty plate. "All I had was an appetizer. Great cheese, but, well, I did come for something a bit more substantial." "How about eggs and bacon?" "An Imperial feast," I said, gesturing with my arms, "If I am permitted to cook." "W-wilf, I can't let you do..." "Tell it to Voot," I said with a chuckle. "Unless, of course, Nesterio would have a problem with me puttering around in his kitchen." "In the first place," she growled, "it is my kitchen. And in the second, he won't be home till sometime tomorrow afternoon, believe me." "You're serious?" A vitriolic took passed her eyes. "Serious," she said. "Trust me." Got to my feet; helped her up. We walked carefully to the kitchen. "Over there," I said, pointing to the chair in which she'd passed out earlier. She sat. Hadn't noticed the kitchen the first time. Like everything else I'd seen of their house, it was all expensive and hard-edged. Not at all like the soft, feminine retreat I remembered from her days as a bachelor girl. "You'll need to tell me where everything is," I said. "Eggs and bacon first." "Cooler," she said, "middle shelf." Found them. "Fry pan?" Pointed to a cabinet. "There," she said, "Middle drawer." Found the fry pan. Rooted in a couple of drawers near the stove and discovered everything else on my own. Took the bread to her with a knife and a bread board. "Here," I said, "Make yourself useful." I had the bacon snapping in no time and was beating the eggs when: "I can't believe you haven't walked out on me," she said. Put down the eggs; turned a slice of bacon. "Guess I'm like you," I said. "I've waited damn near thirteen years for this, too," "Not this." "Well, for seeing you," I amended. "You don't care that I got so drunk I couldn't...?" Turned more bacon, "Of course I care," I said. "But, well, somehow, I don't think that was the normal Claudia I saw tonight. It wasn't, was it?" "One of the Claudias," she said, slicing bread with the over-careful movements of someone who is still considerably under the weather. "I see," I said, vigilantly judging the bacon... within a click or two of perfection. "And just how many Claudias are there?" "There are two Claudias," she said, "You've met only one— Claudia the professional." Perfection! Took the fry pan from the heat, began forking the bacon onto a towel. "Think I've been in love with that Claudia much of my adult life," I said. Drained the grease; turned down the heat while I looked at her. "Who's the other Claudia?" I asked. "The one I've never met." "Never met her until tonight," she corrected. I let the skillet cool another few moments while I thought about that. Wasn't as if she'd never been drunk with me. In the old days, we were often... pretty tipsy, I remembered. But never senseless, as she was tonight. Never. We had much better uses for our nights together than sleeping. Put the skillet back on the heat; looked at her. "Want to tell me about it?" I asked. "You sure you want to hear?" she asked. Nodded. "Yeah," I said. It was pretty clear she needed to tell me about it. "You know I'm a native of Haelic here, don't you," she asked, "that I grew up right here in Atalanta?" Poured the eggs into the fry pan, listened a moment—just right "You told me, once," I said. "Well, there's a lot of difference between life in Atalanta— especially native Atalanta—and life behind the base enclosures. More than you ever dreamed." Thought about that while the eggs slowly cooked. Wilf, Wilf, Wilf—you never did learn about Atalanta, did you? Glanced at her and frowned, as if I was meeting her for the first time—again. "Tell me," I said. "Customs," she said,"—sometimes thousands of years old." Rarely had I seen anyone this serious outside of combat. "I live in two worlds, Wilf," she said quickly, "with two sets of customs, each as foreign to the other as oil and water. And until tonight, I never tried to mix them. Thought after all these years I could get away with it smoothly. But, as you can see, I failed." She rose a little, peered into the fry pan. "You'll need to flip that," she said. "I'll wait." She was right; the omelet was nearly ready for turning... There—now or never! Held my breath; gently raised the pan from the heat. Balanced myself. Focused everything on that pan. This separated the wannabes from the true omelet artists. Drew my arm in. Steady... Flipped it, while the Universe slowed and the omelet glided from the fry pan... rose majestically, curling end over end until... Caught it! Steadied it! Gentled it! Then set the fry pan back onto the heat. Kissed my fingers. Magnificent! Relaxed a moment. "I guess I don't understand what you failed this evening." I said, attempting to continue our previous conversation, "or what you tried to mix. You might have had a little too much E'lande, but, well, it isn't as if we haven't been drunk together before." "Oh Wilf," she said. "You've never really seen native Atalanta, have you?" "Seen what?" I asked. "Atalanta?" Couldn't figure what she was getting at. "Native Atalanta," she corrected. "I've never met a real Imperial who has." "I thought," I said, looking up, "I'd seen a lot of native Atalanta. Remember how we used to meet at Nesterios? If that's not native Atalantan, I don't know what is." She smiled. "Have you learned to speak Atalantan?" "You know I haven't," I said. "Then you've missed all the substance of what you saw—and sensed," she said. "Good as you are at sensing, Wilf Brim, our native culture is so far removed from Avalon's that you never got more than a hint." She peered into the fry pan again. "I'm steady enough to bring the dishes, now," she said, getting up and moving gingerly to a large cabinet. "Use the platter next to you." Gently placed the finished—perfected—omelet on the platter, incredible stoneware thing. Expensive like everything else. Arranged the bacon strips, garnished with sprigs from native millen herbs growing in a window box. Laid the platter with a flourish between two places she'd set at the table. "It's beautiful!" she said, clapping her hands with a bewildered little smile. "You know, Wilf Brim," she said, elbow on the table while she propped her head with a single manicured finger, "you really are impossible." Then she closed her eyes. "And wonderful." "Better not decide which till you taste the omelet," I cautioned, loading her plate before I served myself. Odd how quickly bread and cheese abandon one's stomach when something else presents itself. She dug in, quite ladylike—but clearly very hungry. Not much I can cook for myself. But eggs? Best in the thraggling known Universe. I dug in, too. Everything except a single crust of bread disappeared in a hurry. At length, Claudia touched her mouth with a napkin and settled back in her chair—clearly much revived. "I don't suppose you need much telling that I enjoyed that," she said. "All compliments are accepted with gratitude," I prompted. She grinned. "It was absolutely magnificent." "Thanks," I said, grinning pompously. "I thought so, too." Then I took her hand. "How are you holding up?" "Better every moment," she said. "I mean, time-wise," I said, carrying some of the dishes to the dishwasher. Took my hand, "I've already had my beauty sleep," she said, "And Nesterio won't be back for a long time, so-o-o..." "So-o-o?" I asked, listening to a number of Starfuries thunder over the house. She got to her feet, "Leave the dishes," she said, leading the way back into the drawing room. "The first night we've gotten together after all those years has been a disaster—with the exception of your omelet. So I need a little time to explain. All right?" "Well..." "Listen, Wilf," she said. "I know you well enough that if you didn't feel something for me, you'd have been out of here the first click you knew I wasn't going to die. Right?" Startled for a moment—but it was the old Claudia. "Yeah," I admitted, "probably I would have." "Then, we'll be seeing more of each other, won't we?" Nodded. "I hope so," I said. "Count on it," she said. "But where years ago you saw only one side of me—a reasonably normal 'Imperial Claudia'— tonight, you got your first look at the 'Atalantan Claudia,' who sometimes acts completely outside the bounds of Imperial decorum." She looked at me carefully. "Understand, Wilf, that years ago when you and I were lovers, there was no reason for me to be anything but an 'Imperial Person' when we were together. Made things easy—normal—for you and, well, simpler for me; it's the person I still use when I'm on the base. But when I went out with Atalantans like Gorgas, I reverted to my native side, a very comfortable persona, too... most of the time." She paused a moment, placed her hand on mine while more Starfuries thundered overhead—clearly on takeoff power. "Probably had you and I become... well, a bit more... permanent, I should have eventually discarded that native side of me. But for one reason or another, we didn't—and I haven't. Which brings me to Gorgas Nesterio, who is one hundred percent native Atalantan—a man whose entire existence is oriented toward the Atalantan way of life. When I married him, I peripherally made a commitment to observing Atalantan conventions and social values in my home life. Not a bad commitment for a native Halacian—It's comfortable, as I've said. But quite the opposite for Imperials, I'm afraid. You got a taste tonight." I shook my head. "You've lost me," I said. "I'm almost finished," she said. "And unless I can make you understand about tonight—and any future evenings we may share as well—we're in for trouble." "Never," I said. She smiled. "Never—ever—say 'never,' my Avalonian friend. What you say tonight—my getting so drunk that any normal Imperial would have walked out on me—was quite acceptable in Atalantan society." I started to remonstrate; she stopped me with a warning hand. "You see, Wilf," she continued, "I made an error tonight. For the first time in all these years, I risked mixing the two cultures and got disastrous results. Somehow, I had expected that Gorgas would adhere to Imperial mores in honor of your presence tonight. Unfortunately, I misjudged. He is so in awe of you, that he could only react as an Atalantan. And believe me, Wilf Brim, you have been honored." "I don't understand," I said for the eleven millionth time. "I know," she said. "That's why our continuing friendship will probably depend heavily on how tolerant you can be when our two cultures intersect—as they clearly will. Gorgas is a fine man, Wilf, and a wonderful, caring husband who loves me deeply. He is not a sophisticated intergalactic traveler, of course, but..." She shrugged. "I could have done a lot worse." "I'm certain," I said helplessly. "Probably you are wondering what all that has to do with three quick—large—shots of E'lande taken quickly." Nodded. "Wilf, Gorgas Nesterio is so impressed with you—an Admiral in the Imperial Fleet—that he couldn't handle it. At the last moment, he reverted—maybe retreated is a better term—to Atalantan male behavior, and I couldn't bear to rebuff him in front of you. He'd have lost so much face, it would have destroyed him, so I went along." "But what was he trying to do?" I asked, "Honor you the best way he knew how," she said. "Honor me?" I asked, "By making you so tipsy you couldn't cook supper?" She grimaced. "You bet," she explained. "You see, Gorgas was offering me—my body. I'm the one treasure he can extend to someone like you who, in his eyes, must be sated with things that he cannot even imagine. So far as he's concerned, we are having sex right now, and I am doing everything in my power to make it a memorable occasion for you." She smiled a little. "You should feel exceptionally honored, Wilf. He's done that only twice before." Rolled my eyes. "Only twice?" I asked as more Starfuries thundered overhead—hardly heard them. "For the love of Voot, Claudia, how did you manage to...?" "I managed very nicely," she said, looking me directly in the eye. "Very nicely. One of them made a point of complimenting Gorgas afterward. Don't forget, I was the other Claudia, and I really did everything I could think of—including," she said with a little blush, "some of the things you and I invented together, Wilf Brim." "My God," I gasped, completely flabbergasted. "I was being a good wife," she said, "as I was tonight. It made Gorgas very happy and proud—and that was the point of the whole thing, wasn't it?" Squeezed my eyes closed a moment. "I suppose I should have taken advantage of the opportunity, then," I groaned. "You'd have devastated me, had you done that," she said. Then she smiled ironically. "However, if Gorgas ever discovers we didn't, it'll be he who is devastated." "You mean," I said, grimacing, "I've got to make a fuss about..." "Please," she said. "Make up anything you like. Remember some of the things we did years ago, if you don't want to lie to him." Was about to say something about that when suddenly blinding lights strobed through the windows, startling me out of a year's growth. "The space forts!" Claudia cried out. "We're under attack!" Moments later, the strobing doubled, then redoubled, as local surface-based disrupters began to fire accompanied by ground-shaking thunder. Through the din, I heard the HoloPhone chiming. Claudia grabbed it, hit the ENABLE... globular display came up dark—in PRIVATE mode. Barbousse's voice over the din: "Admiral Brim, are you there?" "Yeah—I'm here!" "I've got a skimmer for you two, Admiral," he yelled. "Downstairs at the door!" Then—quite abruptly—the windows came bursting into the drawing room while the world around us exploded in an impossible burst of light and noise... Chapter 4 GONTOR 33 Heptad, 52014 Imperial Fleet Base, Atalanta, Hador-Haelic Looked around the conference table again. "Any questions?" I asked. "Anybody not sure what's expected of us?" No one opened his or her mouth. They still looked stunned. My little Morning and a half meeting had gradually grown in size until by Brightness it included Lt. Commander Jill Tompkins, the new Chief of Operations; Commander Burton LaSalle, Space Officer; Lt. Terry Westover, SP Commandant; and Claudia as Harbor Master; plus our original cast of four. None looked as if they'd had enough sleep, especially Claudia, who was clearly fighting a headache, as well as sharing the others' surprise at the base's secret new mission. "Right, then," I said by way of dismissal, "let's be at it. We've got a lot of work to do and very little time to do it." "As well as doing it in secret," Williams added. Plainly, clandestine projects weren't his cup of cvceese', but he'd signed on like the good StarSailor he was. Claudia furtively rolled bloodshot eyes at me as everyone filed out. Clearly, our "friendship" was well-known throughout the base, so I took her aside. "You're all right, now?" I asked. She smiled ruefully. "Except for a monumental hangover," she said, shaking her head. "That and having a Dampier crash into the house next door." "I was thinking more about the latter," I said, trying my best to avoid taking her hand. We'd had a close call as I carried her bodily to the skimmer, but that was part and parcel of living in a war zone. She and Nesterio—I supposed I'd always call him by his surname—would have to replace some glazing in the new house, but it was at least standing—with both its occupants among the living—which was a lot more than could be said for their late neighbor's house next door. She reached out for a moment, then withdrew her hand with a little brush of embarrassment. "You'll forgive me, then?" she asked. "There's nothing to forgive," I said, "unless we can do it again soon." "Voot's beard," she whispered with a bogus look of alarm, "you mean I've got to go through that again?" "Well," I said with a little smile, "perhaps your husband won't want to share you so soon." "That wasn't nice," she said with a little smile. "Damn straight, it wasn't," I said. "Now, Wilf," she averred, "remember the two Claudias." "I've remembered one for a lot of years, now," I said. "I shall try to ensure you see the other as little as possible," she promised. She looked around—the room was empty now—kissed me on the cheek. "Take care on your trip, Wilf," she whispered, then left before I could say another word. After that, Barbousse and I had approximately two metacycles to pack and board the bender that would take us for our first look at Gontor. * * * Three days of cramped, uncomfortable travel aboard a cloaked bender, and we were there. In spite of what I'd learned from Ambrose's book, I was still taken aback by the sheer size of the huge, perfectly spherical asteroid hanging over me in the starry darkness of space—and its incredible, smooth-rock surface dimly reflecting the harsh rays of Cyjix-19. The ancient fortress—at the edge of an immense asteroid shoal—looked as if it had been cast rather than formed. I'd read that originally the great rock had been more than ten c'lenyts in diameter. The builders, whoever they were, had studded the surface—apparently at random—with enormous, jet black metallic structures, most of them circumscribed by high, circular walls and ringed with what certainly looked like colossal disrupter cannon emplacements—great crystalline spheres plated over for nearly a hemisphere where they were pierced by two slender, finned rods that must have reached two hundred irals in length. All of these surface features were apparently connected by c'lenyts-long channels of what appeared to be armored cable, broken here and there by fields of extravagant antenna arrays. The channel networks met at opposite poles in giant, towering structures—one white, the other crimson—constructed of odd-sized boxes inset with glazed apertures and bristling at the top with articulated arms of various length. Each tower appeared to be built on a large black disk, raised from the rocky surface on white pillars that looked for all the galaxy as if they were some sort of energy insulators. And each disk was surrounded by five concentric circles of the spherical "disrupter emplacements." Fascinating place, if totally baffling and totally without power. As far as the eye could see, nothing moved; nothing glowed—anywhere. I was at the controls of the bender's launch with Barbousse in the right seat. Aft, five of our twenty SPs peered through the canopy in awe. "Wow!" "Will ya look't that!" "Voot's beard—'j ever see one of those before?" Chuckling, I let them prattle on. Actually, the view was pretty exciting; even Barbousse's eyebrows were raised behind the visor of his battlesuit. According to my old book—actually some of its excellent holographic illustrations—one of the citadel's four main portals was located within the circular structure I was fast approaching. Looked like it. From close up, it took the form of a large, circular building—call it a pillbox—topped by more of the complex antenna arrays. An angular tower jutted vertically from one side to an altitude of perhaps sixty irals. The latter was topped by a large, glassed-in room. As I circled, it became apparent that nearly a quarter of the building's circumference was fronted by a section of lighter-hued materials that accommodated some thirty massive doors of various sizes. The complex was surrounded by more "disrupter emplacements" that also enclosed an area blackened and pitted as if it had been the sole target of a terrific attack. I guessed it was a landing field for the ancient fusion "propulsors" in almost universal use prior to Sheldon Travis's renowned discovery of the HyperDrive. "What do you say we set down over there by that collection of smaller doors?" I asked. "Looks good to me, Admiral," Barbousse said, his voice hollow in my headset. "From what I read in the book, that should be some sort of entrance for people or at least manned vehicles." He flipped through the ancient plastic pages. "Says here some of them's been jacked open." Checked the gravity below—registered .19 Standard Imperial Gravity Units (SIGUs) on the meter—no more than normal for this sort of mass. Nodded, slowed the launch, and brought us to a near-vertical touchdown some fifty irals from an almost-whimsical collection of spherical objects on slender masts that fronted this quadrant of the building. Switched the 'Gravs to LOW IDLE and set the entry hatch to OPEN—don't know why I had a feeling we might need to leave in a hurry. Clambered out—more like "floated out"—first, followed by Barbousse and the SPs, two of them hauling a five-day survival pack. The others were burdened by new MK-9A MRMs, microradiation meters that could detect the slightest occurrence of biological life—or anything else with similar emissions for that matter—through five hundred irals of solid mass. We peered about to get our surface bearings, then set off, loping past the spheres-on-sticks almost as if we were in flight. As advertised, a number of the doors had been crudely jacked open over the years by archaeological expeditions. Blackened and gouged sections attested to numerous—completely unsuccessful—attempts to burn them open. "Looks like the ancients knew a thing or two about armor plating," I observed. Wondered why the explorers didn't concentrate on discovering how to open the doors before spending so much time trying to burn them through, but then, I was only a simple Helmsman.... "Strong, those, Admiral," Barbousse agreed with a chuckle. "They must have left the place unlocked when they vacated, 'cause I can't see tryin' to pick their locks would do much good, either." We stopped for a moment while the men checked their MRMs—nearly zero levels—then switched our helmet lights to BRIGHT and stepped under the door into what appeared to be a colossal receiving room for goods. Huge trams hung cold and dead from an overhead network of switches and guide ways that disappeared into circular tunnels clearly designed for other than human transit. Barbousse and I checked the book. "Next one," Barbousse said. I nodded agreement. The next door—actually a row of human-sized doors behind a long, panel of sliding, overlapping armor places that had long ago been forced open by some sort of hydraulic ram—led into a spacious, human-sized, human-appointed lobby. A fleet of smaller, spindle-shaped trams waited in mechanical patience for passengers who had departed the galaxy millennia in the past. The overhead network of tramways from which they hung also exited into tunnels, but evidently, these had been more attractive to archaeologists, for they had been at least partially diagrammed. Ambrose had given me an excellent set of maps. On the way over from Atalanta, I'd downloaded the information in everyone's battlesuit, so it could be projected on the inside of our helmet visors. We parleyed for a few moments, then the three SPs with MRMs bounded into the tunnels that seemed to pass through the most area. The other two SPs remained on guard at the surface, while Barbousse and I made our way through the tunnel leading to a station near the site of the "power chambers." Took us nearly two metacycles to get there, walking single file along the amazingly smooth bore of the tunnel. The guide-way—a complex extrusion with a cross section that must have resembled a five-pointed star—was suspended only a few irals above our heads on peglike stanchions imbedded into the rock itself. At a point I estimated was nearly halfway to our destination, we passed a blackened section of tunnel that bore deep gouges and marks of a major wreck, perhaps a head-on collision. Clearly, the ancients were no more protected from cock-ups than we "moderns." Somehow, I never shook the ridiculous feeling that the next moment we'd see a fast-approaching headlight from one of those trams back at the surface terminal and... pfft, good-bye buttocks. As advertised, the fifth station we came to matched the hologram I projected on the inside of my faceplate—complete with door that had been forced open by some sort of hydraulic jack. Archaeologists—at least these archaeologists—I decided, seemed a lot better at ruining things than preserving them for history. But then, what did I, a simple Helmsman, know about archaeology? Still, the damage irritated me. Following a series of images projected on our helmet visors, we made our way through a complex maze of corridors and ramps to three cavernous vaulted rooms—so high that the powerful beams of our headlamps scarcely lighted their great domes. The rooms had been hollowed out at the apexes of a right triangle and were connected by great excavated passages big enough to accommodate an extensive distribution grid. Everything was completely empty, stripped (in my estimation) of the generators that once powered the huge citadel, but the connecting grid passages contained what I took to be attachment points that would serve replacement power sources—as if the departing engineers expected to return some day with newer, better equipment. A great deal more interesting than these—except for size—was what appeared to be a whole section of connected rooms dedicated to energy management. In one of them, three rows of double-sided consoles looked as though they'd received little attention at all from intruders (archaeological or otherwise) during the millennia since they'd last been shut down. The few manual controls, such as they were, appeared to be made for human-like hands, but since most of the console's surfaces were made up of a dark crystalline substance, I could discover no readouts. Probably, they had been generated externally by the vast array of logic engines I'd read were located elsewhere in the fort. Found Barbousse studying a wall chart so large that his helmet light illuminated only small sections at a time. I remembered it in the background of a HoloPic in the book Ambrose had given me. "What d'you make of that?" I asked, joining him. "Don't rightly know, Admiral," the Chief said. "Looks like some sort of flowchart." "How about a network diagram?" I suggested, adding my helmet light to his. "Something like that," he agreed, distractedly. "Energy distribution, maybe." He pointed to a large, central node— represented by three circles joined into a triangle—from which all the major trunks emanated, then spread out to become the network. "I'll bet this stands for the three rooms we came through back there." I nodded. "Got a hunch, then," Barbousse said thoughtfully, "that a team of half-decent power engineers could return energy to this whole fort without much trouble at all. After that, getting a lot of this old equipment back in service oughtn't to be too difficult." He put his hands on his hips and nodded to himself as if he were giving a lecture. "Except for what the archaeologists touched, nothing much has been disturbed since the place was abandoned. And clearly this dark, airless environment hasn't supported much deterioration anywhere." Made sense to me, although I didn't consider myself much of an engineer. Oh, I could understand everything I needed to know about the starships I flew—probably a little more than I needed to know after all these years of flying. But Barbousse was another story indeed. He'd studied under some of the greatest Sodeskayan professors alive and had become a pretty good systems engineer. I watched him put his gloves on his hips and scan the ancient diagram again and again, passing his helmet light repeatedly over parts of the surface as if he were brushing on a coat of glaze. Finally, he activated his suit's recorder pack. "Think I'll send some HoloPics to our boffins at the PARC Memorial Power Labs on Asturious-Proteus," he said, "If I'm right, we might be able to get this place humming with a lot less effort than anyone thinks." Metacycles later, the seven of us rejoined on the surface as planned, pronouncing the great space fort as benign as the MRMs could discern after an initial scan. Reports from the orbiting bender indicated that nothing on the surface had changed—or moved—while we were below, either. So far, so good, I thought—keeping in mind an important corollary to Voot's Law stating that the rate of things going disastrously wrong increase in direct proportion to the apparent ease of the job. Straight-away we began a shuttle service with the bender's other launches, off-loading the fifteen SPs, who would remain behind as the advance party. While this was going on, the rest of us began an inspection of the citadel's surface facilities, which turned out to be just as impressive as the ones buried deep beneath our feet. We found vast hangars and storage rooms everywhere, all clearly constructed to cache large items—and protect them with staggeringly massive armor. None were locked from the outside: however, all inside doors leading below the surface from them were firmly secured. I had no idea what these huge spaces were originally created to house, but they were perfect for items like Starfuries and battle crawlers—to name only a few—that could never fit through the underground tunnels. Those of us who were returning to Avalon in the bender spent the night aboard, then got an early start for the surface to see how the others had fared. I had to chuckle: the hardy souls who'd volunteered for this crazy duty seemed to love it! They'd already connected their little survival globes into a tent city of sorts and were serving up a delicious brew of cvceese' as we stepped through one of the airlocks. I was just about to lope over and investigate one of the big disruptor emplacements when a call came through on the guard channel from the ship's COMM center. "Eyes-only KA'PPA message for Admiral Brim—Flash priority." "Thanks," I sent to the ship. "I'm on my way back right now." Turned to Barbousse. "Coming up?" I asked. Think I'll look around a little more, Admiral," he said. "See you aboard, then," I said, loping off for our launch. Twenty cycles later, I was in the ship's KA'PPA room. 2IVEQHG14YUYKLWNJV E32UY85215FC [TOP SECRET * SAPPHIRE*] FROM: J. WILLIAMS, CAPTAIN, ATALANTA FLEET BASE TO: W. A. BRIM, RADM, ABOARD BENDER B-908 1. AVALON INTELLIGENCE INDICATES TOROND CONVOY OF 8 FAST TRANSPORTS (TROOPS AND EQUIPMENT) PLUS ESCORT WILL LIFT FOR OCCUPIED FLUVANNA IN 12 STANDARD DAYS. 2. ADMIRALTY MESSAGE TODAY "SUGGESTS" INTERCEPTION FROM ATALANTA. 3. REQUEST INSTRUCTIONS. [END TOP SECRET * SAPPHIRE*] 2IVEQHG14YUYKLWNJV E32UY85215FC It was the most polite "get-your-butt-back-here-and-take charge" message I'd ever received. Pretty clear the Chief's network was right on the money—Jim Williams was an absolute jewel, I KA'PPAed him to tell his new Space Officer about our latest "challenge" from Headquarters Avalon, then ordered everyone on the return flight to board immediately. Barbousse was on the last launch from the surface. Said he'd been back to the mysterious power chambers to record more data. Good to see the Chief so absorbed in this kind of work; he'd labored mightily for his education. Same uneventful return trip Atalanta—with one worrisome exception. We sighted fully eight long-range patrol ships from The Torond along the middle third of our supposedly unused route. Far too many, in my way of thinking, to be where they were by mere happenstance. Clearly, they weren't looking for benders running in cloaked mode. None was transmitting the N-rays that—I'd earlier explained to one of the SPs—could smother our ship's computational ability to detect incoming radiation anywhere on the hull, then duplicate and broadcast ft from an obverse position in precisely the same direction as received. But the very fact that so many ships were patrolling an area of space containing so little of normal interest reminded me how tenuous information security becomes in wartime. I had little doubt that the Toronders and Leaguers both had a pretty good idea about our plans for Gontor; after all, why else would they have done away with Deighton? Gave me real problems about how I was supposed to secure the ancient fort, or, for that matter, how we'd transport a whole invasion force to it. Certainly we'd never accomplish the latter by moving twenty or twenty-five SPs at a time in benders! But one thing at a time. I'd at least started the securing process, which would now proceed at its own speed, no matter how hard I pushed. Meanwhile, I still had to worry about the first convoy that would lift from Avalon in eight Standard Days, bound for Braltar, then Atalanta, and then Gontor. As usual, they'd given me a secondary job whose priority seemed to exceed any of the primaries. Ah, for life in the Fleet! So say the recruiters.... * * * "Figured you might not have enough to keep you busy out there," Williams shouted as I stepped from the bender's brow, breathing fresh air for the first time in more than a Standard Week. "I sent that message so you wouldn't be bored, Admiral." He chuckled. "Bet you couldn't wait to get home." "Wouldn't wager too much on that particular bet," I replied with a wry grin as I watched Barbousse running to catch a tram for the KATPA center with his data. "We've got some real problems." I hadn't the foggiest notion how to secure a space lane between Atalanta and Gontor. Figured I'd base a flight or two of Starfuries on Gontor, itself—if I could get 'em there. But even then I'd still be faced with an awful full-day span in the middle of the trip when the transports would travel without escort—or at least any kind of killer-ship escort. And of course, there was The Torond's supply convoy we were supposed to destroy in our spare time. Thank Voot I had people like LaSalle who could take care of small details like that. Climbed into a skimmer with Williams, and we headed back toward Headquarters. "What was it like out there?" he asked. "Pretty impressive," I replied. "Perfect place to collect an invasion force. And launch it. But that's not the problem." "Getting it there?" Williams suggested. "Getting it there in one piece," I amended with a grimace. "Our bender took three days traveling to Gontor moving roughly at the same speed as those convoys coming from Avalon. If we don't come up with some long-range escorts before then, they'll be traveling two full days without escorts at the far end—not only between here and Gontor but between Braltar and here. They'll be thraggling shredded." Williams nodded agreement. "What about those Carescrians we were promised?" "Even if they got here today, they've no combat experience." I shrugged. First things first—and what I had to do before anything else could happen was fortify Gontor. "Have any luck lining up some transport to Gontor?" I asked. "I haven't," he said with a grin, "but I think maybe your friend the Harbor Master has," he said. "Looks as if she's scored a real find." "Tell me." "Fella name of Delacroix—Cameron Delacroix, I think. Comes from one of those little one-and-two planet 'parishes' that used to belong to Effer'wyck. Claims he has a hot ship with plenty of cargo space and a crew that can get in and out of just about anywhere." I raised an eyebrow; claims like that were pretty common anywhere independent crews gathered. Especially in major ports like Atalanta. Still, Claudia had been around for nearly as long as I—and had a lot more experience with civilian space operations. At the moment, we were passing the civilian Headquarters building, so... "Jim, why don't we stop off here and ask if she can see us?" He grinned again. "Timed it perfectly, I did," he said, pulling to a halt in a VISITORS ONLY parking place close to the door. We arrived outside Claudia's office at the same time a meeting seemed to be breaking up. "Admiral Brim, Captain Williams," a secretary asked as if she'd known us for years—I supposed Cottshall could perform the same magic—"what can I do for you?" "Admiral," Williams said, "this is Adele Hough, who runs Ms. Valemont-Nesterio's life during duty hours." She stood. "Admiral," she said, offering her hand. "I've heard such excellent things about you for years. What a pleasure." Flustered, I felt myself blush. "Er, thank you," I stammered. "Claudia always was too kind." "Somehow, I doubt that, Admiral," she said, seating herself primly. "I take it you'd like to see her." "If she's got a few moments." Adele nodded, glanced at a display. "Somehow, I'd bet she does." She touched her display. "Two military gentlemen to see you, Ms. Harbor Master." She listened to a hidden earpiece, then smiled. "Yes, ma'am," she said with a chuckle. "They appear to be gentlemen, at any rate." Momentarily, Claudia appeared at the door to her office. "Well," she said to Adele, rubbing her chin as if deliberating, "close enough. I'll vouch for Captain Williams, at any rate." Williams took my arm. "I'll personally vouch for the Admiral," he asserted. "Please come in, then," she said, motioning us inside. "No visitors, please," in an aside to Adele. Her office was absolutely businesslike—a place for serious commerce—yet somehow it was also thoroughly feminine. A lot like the Claudia I'd known over the years—or, I supposed, the "Imperial Claudia" she'd described to me. "Jim tells me you've got a ship for us," I said, pulling up a chair while Adele poured steaming mugs of cvceese'. "Never were a big one for small talk, were you, Admiral?" she admonished. Felt my cheeks burn. "Sorry Cla... er, Ms. Harbor Master," I stammered. She laughed. "Claudia's fine, Wilf," she said. "And you're simply being Wilf Brim, so that's fine, too." She glanced at Williams. "I assume, Captain, you've noticed he becomes rather focused at times." "Never noticed a thing, Ms. Claudia," Williams said in his best down-home decorum. Shook my head. "I think I may be sick," I groaned. "Not when you see the ship I've located," Claudia said. "The one you told Jim about?" She nodded. "Sounds too good to be true," I suggested. "Possibly," she said with a shrug, "but the ship's brochure certainly looks promising. And there's something about her master that says, well... 'daring.' It's a look in his eye, I guess." She shrugged. "Something you'd have to see for yourself. Interested?" Didn't have to think long about that. "You bet," I said. "I'll go look at anything you think looks promising. Where is it?" "If you'd like some company," she said, "I'll help you find it myself." "When?" I asked. "Right now," she said. "I've just had a long project review postponed." "Now?" I asked doubtfully. "I don't know. I haven't even seen my desk in nearly a week." "Talked with Cottshall as you landed, Admiral," Williams interjected. "He assures me he's checked with Chief Barbousse, who agrees finding a transport is a lot hotter than anything waiting in your queue." "All right," I said, "I'm game. You coming along?" "Well," he asserted, "since you and Ms. Claudia know a lot more about starships—and their drivers—than I'll ever learn at this age, I think I may just mosey back to Fleet Headquarters, where I can be at least marginally useful." He turned to Claudia. "I assume you can supply transportation for the Admiral, Ms. Harbor Master." "Probably can scare up a spare skimmer somewhere," she assured him. "I'm on, then," I said—as if they'd left me a choice. "Good," Williams said, getting to his feet. "Myself, I've got more work than I can handle already, so I'll be on my way directly. See you when you're finished." "Put out a 'grab call' on your summoner if you need me," I called to his fast-receding back, then glanced at Claudia. "Does it seem to you that we've been railroaded, or something?" I asked. She blushed a little and nodded. "Why?" I asked. "It's almost as if..." "I don't think we were, well... discreet as we might have been all those years ago," she interrupted. "I don't believe it," I said. "Unfortunately, it's true," she replied. "According to Adele, we're still seen as an item by a lot of old-timers." I laughed, blushed a little myself. "Yeah," I whispered. "I suppose that could happen." Suddenly I was struck by a memory I simply couldn't keep to myself. "Claudia," I whispered, "will you ever forget the night we got caught on a mat in that experimental LifeGlobe?" She reddened and touched my arm. "Wilf Brim," she said with an embarrassed little laugh, "I was thinking about the same thing myself." She shook her head, then got the damnedest smile. "How I ever let you talk me out of all my clothes.... My God, I think the whole base got a good look at me—absolutely in flagrante delicto—with damn near everything they wanted to see pointed right out the hatch." "Well, I was pointed the same way, if you'll remember," I whispered in mock reproach. "Oh sure," she replied. "But the part of you they wanted to see was quite well hidden most of the time. I can vouch for that." She rolled her eyes as she laughed. "Little thraggling wonder people still think of us as lovers." "Bet that makes Gorgas happy," I observed. She shrugged. "I doubt that he gives it much thought—or credence, for that matter," she said. "This base and all that goes with it are, well, not very real to him. Besides," she added, "it did happen a few years ago." "Yeah," I said, quashing a number of conflicting emotions that were rearing their various heads when they shouldn't. "Ancient history." "Yes," she echoed, "ancient..." Suddenly, she shook her head vigorously. "Adele," she called without using the intercom. "Check on Captain Delacroix for me, please. See if he's on board that Yellow Bird of his." "Yes ma'am!"—through the door again. We stood in embarrassed silence until Adele replied, "He's aboard. Shall I tell him you're on your way?" Claudia glanced at me and raised her perfect eyebrows. I nodded. "Tell him fifteen cycles," she ordered. Before we left her office, she stopped me and took my hand. "We did have a good time those days, didn't we?" she whispered, still blushing. "The best," I assured her. "The very best—ever." I meant it.... * * * Claudia could find her way most anywhere in Atalanta, but we'd twice found ourselves at odds with an official map before we finally drew up beside Yellow Bird. The ship was moored at the end of a polluted, odoriferous backwater canal, practically hidden from any distant glance by destitute groups of goods houses in one of the meanest sections of the harbor. Close on, though, she stood out like a sore thumb among her near-derelict neighbors. Long, powerful-looking, and sleek as a game fish, she'd clearly been built for highspeed, atmospheric work—in short, the smuggling trades. Her builder had placed huge Drive and SpinGrav units in slim, teardrop nacelles mounted at the ends of short, radically swept 'midships sponsons. Two small, razor-thin fins rose in a wide "vee" near the ship's stinglike tail. Overall, she looked less like a transport than one of the racing ships I'd flown between wars for the Mitchell Trophy. But her sheer size—at least fifteen hundred irals overall, I estimated—put her forever outside that arcane class of spacecraft. Smoothest design I'd seen in years; even the vaunted hulls of our Starfuries were disfigured by turrets and disrupters. Some third of the way aft, an angry-looking bridge rose glaring from the needlelike bow, then fared back into the smooth circular cross section of the hull as it reached its widest point. To me, this particular yellow bird was more of a raptor than any other breed. "You haven't uttered a word since we turned onto the wharf," Claudia said, breaking into my fascinated reverie. "Can I take it you're interested?" "You bet," I assured her, still scanning the ship's long, elegant lines as I opened the door. "Never seen anything like her anywhere." Helped her down from the driver's seat. Hot afternoon sun was nearly blinding, "What's the owner like?" I asked. She laughed a little. "Not sure how to describe him," she admitted, "But he seems to fit the ship pretty well." "Must be quite a guy," I offered. "That, Wilf Brim," she said, "may be the greatest understatement you've ever uttered." As I spoke, a tall, painfully slim figure—dressed in a white linen suit and clamping a sinuous, black cigarette in the corner of his mouth—appeared in the shade of the boarding hatch, arms reflectively folded, regarding us as if we were a pair of domestics he might deign to engage. Clearly, he'd paired us with Adele's call, for he motioned us to approach—with all the aplomb of a sovereign bidding mendicants approach his throne. Beneath a high forehead and black hair that grayed at the temples, his face was slim, as was his long, patrician nose and the thin, black mustache he wore. He had sensitive lips and a pointed jaw embellished by a sharply trimmed goatee. As we advanced, I saw his gray eyes—far out of proportion with the rest of his features— sparkle with intellect and perhaps a certain deprecating humor. Here, I considered, was a gentleman who could fit himself into any epoch—or no epoch. He was the living embodiment of every wily space gambler I'd ever encountered, in fact or in fiction. I took Claudia's arm and we stopped a few irals short of the end of the brow. "Captain Delacroix?" I asked as a rogue breeze carried the aromatic bouquet of his cigarette past my nose. "At your service, Admiral Brim," he said in a deep, musical voice, and made a slight bow. I nodded in return—we of the Imperial Fleet are forbidden to bow under any circumstances. "This is Harbor Master Valemont-Nesterio," I said. "We'd like permission to board your ship." Delacroix nodded. "I shall count it as an honor," he said, offering his arm to Claudia, then leading the way to the ship's small lobby. Felt myself smile as I followed them through the hatch—I'd never been deprived of a woman's arm so smoothly in my life. Inside, the boarding lobby was small, very small actually, but lavishly appointed, smelling of wood polish and the rich carpeting that cushioned my steps. It was a place where large sums of money-might change hands in return for risky, and dangerous missions, most of which would be on the far side of "legal." In the background, I could hear—"feel" was a better word—the faint bass thunder of what promised to be huge power chambers. Clearly, Delacroix kept his ship ready for swift—unplanned—lift-offs. Two huge, bearded men with the enormous biceps of professional k'ito wrestlers stood watchfully on either side of the door that led to the interior of the ship. They were dressed as stewards, but never took their eyes from their captain. Delacroix offered us seats on a very expensive-looking couch; Claudia shook her head. "The cargo compartments first, please, Mr. Delacroix," she said, disengaging her arm from his. "Then, I think Admiral Brim will want to see the bridge." "But of course," Delacroix said, glancing at me with an almost-invisible nod of abdication. "Please follow me," he said, leading us through an inner hatch and into a busy corridor. After a considerable excursion forward, during which we were shadowed at a respectful distance by two men who appeared to be ship's officers, Delacroix led us through a hatch and into... "Wow!" I exclaimed... a perfectly cavernous cargo compartment—large enough to stow three pairs of Starfuries loaded nose to stem plus a tremendous amount of miscellaneous cargo packed among them. Delacroix nodded proudly as his footsteps echoed hollowly in the vast chamber. "I take it you approve, Admiral," he said quietly. "If she'll lift all the cargo a space like this can hold, she's quite a ship," I said, peering around in admiration. "She has her limits," Delacroix replied, "but I trust you will find she can lift ample mass for your purposes." I looked into his eyes—he met my gaze honestly. "I think I believe you, Mr. Delacroix," I said. "Thank you, Admiral," he said with a strange little smile. "A mutual friend recently assured me you would have no trouble deducing Yellow Bird's capabilities. She referred to you as a..." he frowned momentarily, " 'natural spaceman,' I believe." "A mutual friend?" I asked, wondering where this Effer'wyckean might have run into a mutual friend. I'd spent so much time in the Fleet, it often seemed as if I had no other acquaintances outside its rather narrow confines. At that moment, a small woman dressed in a flight suit appeared in a doorway and made a signal to Delacroix. He winced. "A thousand pardons, Admiral, Ms. Harbor Master," he said with a little bow, "but I must immediately tend to an important situation." He quickly turned to our escorts. "Engles, Carthin," he ordered, "you will please escort the Admiral and Ms. Harbor Master to the flight bridge." Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down a companion way. Frowning, Claudia and I followed the two men onto an ascending companionway. The spacious flight bridge, which we reached only after more protracted walking, was nothing like the cramped warships to which I'd grown accustomed. It was at least twenty irals wide, with two roomy, comfortable-looking helms and a navigator's station situated directly behind the forward Hyperscreens. Aft of those were a massive systems station and two communications consoles, backed by three consoles that Carthin asserted were configured for cargo control. Clearly, Bird was equipped with the latest in autoloading and unloading. Made sense. She probably didn't spend much time in large, metropolitan harbors like Atalanta. After a short time, Delacroix rejoined us at a small, round table that—by edict, to all appearances—inhabits the aft bridge of every civilian starship in existence. "Well, Admiral, Ms. Harbor Master," he asked with obvious pride, "what do you think of my Yellow Bird now?" "Most impressive, Captain," I remarked—and I meant it. "Thank you, Admiral," he said, his nod summoning a small, powerfully built steward. "Ms. Harbor Master, may I offer a libation, perhaps?" he asked. "Er, cvceese', thank you," Claudia replied with a blush that told me volumes about what she thought of Delacroix. "Admiral?" he asked solicitously. "I'll have the same, Captain," I said—somehow liking the man before I'd even got a chance to know him. Something told me we'd been cut from the same cloth. For a moment, I wondered who our mutual friend might be, but left the question to another time when I wasn't so pressed with things to do. Clearly, Delacroix picked up on my sense of urgency, for he got right down to business. "Admiral," he began, glancing rather fondly at Claudia, "Harbor Master Valemont-Nesterio has been kind enough to inform me that you are in the market for some high-speed transportation." "Looks as if I've come to the right place, doesn't it?" I replied. "Then you like the appearance of Yellow Bird too," he said with a flicker of pride in his eyes—deserved pride, in my opinion. "Of course," I replied. "She looks magnificent. If she flies that way, you've got a masterpiece on your hands." He smiled, glancing appraisingly at Claudia for a moment. "She flies much better," he said. Somehow I wasn't surprised. "I assume," he added, "you and perhaps the Harbor Master will want to prove this for yourself by flying her." I shook my head and glanced at Claudia—who looked as if she'd love to go aloft. Wasn't certain whether the attraction was Yellow Bird or Delacroix, but I strongly suspected the latter. "Claudia?" I asked. Suddenly, she blushed, "Oh, no, er, Mr. Delacroix," she stammered. "I only located your ship for Admiral Brim. I am no Helmsman." "Perhaps you would enjoy a ride?" he persisted. "Thank you, Captain, but..." she hesitated a moment, "no. I simply won't have time." Now, she was really blushing. I wondered what it must be like to have quite that much masculine charisma to manifest. Godlike, I termed it, with a twinge of jealousy. Claudia was as worldly a woman as they made, yet this Delacroix had her flustered as a schoolgirl. "A pity," he replied, then turned to me. "And you, Admiral," he asked. "Will you fly with me?" "Much as I'd love that," I said, "I simply have no time, either. Besides, I don't plan to be aboard any of the flights you may undertake for us. And at this point I emphasize the word may." "How will you evaluate us, then?" he asked in obvious surprise. "I'm willing to pay for one or two short, local flights," I said, "during which you and your crew will demonstrate your capabilities in conditions that simulate actual mission parameters—at least the important ones." "But you will not be aboard?" "That is correct," I said. "However, I shall be quite adequately represented by people who can evaluate your overall performance as well as I—probably even better, because I'm already so impressed with your ship. Yellow Bird, herself, is only part of my needs. It's an ability to accomplish the whole mission that interests me, not just piloting a sweet-flying starship." Delacroix held his cigarette between his thumb and first three fingers, staring at it in silence for a considerable time. Once, he looked up at Claudia and smiled. Then he seemed to reach a conclusion and nodded with a curious little smile. "Admiral," he said, "bring on your experts..." * * * Once Barbousse briefed me on the current situation at the base—everything "urgent," nothing unusual—I set him to working out a demonstration schedule with Delacroix. Then I began worrying about a strike force to counter The Torond's reinforcement convoy, scheduled to lift in some eleven Standard Days, according to our best intelligence estimates. Luckily, Burt LaSalle, Williams's new Space Officer, hadn't been sitting on his hands since he got my KA'PPA message from Gontor three days ago. After studying the situation, he had determined that the Toronders' convoy would almost certainly pass well within range of our Atalanta Starfuries. Clearly, if they suspected trouble, it would be a simple matter for them to detour out of our range, but since we had only just begun getting the base back on a military footing after Admiral Summers's disastrous reign, they'd feel no particular threat coming from what was still nearly an inactive base. Additionally, Avalon's intelligence indicated they were in a hurry to land this large force on Fluvanna before they lost the initiative. Therefore, with great caution, LaSalle had immediately started carrying out what he simply called "defensive exercises" in full view of anyone who wanted to observe—especially the disguised reconnaissance ships from The Torond that showed up nearly every day. He'd quickly cobbled together a makeshift "convoy" from the few small transports assigned to the base, then bolstered it with a number of itinerant civilian cargo ships stuck in the harbor since the beginning of hostilities. The latter were more than glad to have some income. Next, he'd designated twenty of our Starfuries as "attackers" and five more Starfuries plus eight of our older—nonetheless potent—Defiants as "defenders." After this, he announced in secret (depending on it quickly leaking back to The Torond through the cargo-ship crews) that he was training the latter for a role as convoy escorts. In reality, his primary purpose was exercising the twenty Starfury "attackers" in preparation for their assault on the Toronders' Fluvanna-bound convoy. Relieved that someone was attending to at least one of my immediate problems, I turned what remained of my energies to the apparently near-hopeless problem of really escorting our own convoys. Realistically, the word "hopeless" was little more than a euphemism for "impossible." Our Starfuries and Defiants simply hadn't the range to escort much farther than a Standard Day out from the base. Oh, we could get more range from them by disabling most of their offensive systems, as we had done ferrying them from Braltar to Atalanta. But the very first dogfight following our arrival—the one I'd rashly led with our ships still rigged for ferrying—proved that under really determined attack, we'd likely lose the convoy ships as well as the Starfury escorts. They'd be sacrifices rather than battle losses. And I didn't believe in sacrifices of any kind, especially where Imperial StarSailors—or my own highly cherished hide—were concerned. Unfortunately, I still had a responsibility to do what I could for the convoys... something. Found myself pacing back and forth in my office. Thought about attacks on convoys—the kind LaSalle was practicing even as I helplessly paced my office. Since he couldn't very well shoot down the friendly transports in his cobbled "convoy," what he was really practicing out there was the destruction of escorts. Without them, the transport could move freely. Something there, but what? I scratched my head.... Suddenly it all came to me in a rush. Of course! If I couldn't knock out The Torond's attack ships while they were going after the convoys, perhaps I ought to concentrate on doing something about them before the convoys actually passed. That had definite possibilities—for the Toronders' base from which all their attacks would be launched when our convoys were in mid-transit was the big base they'd established at Otnar'at, only planet of a large star that was within range of both our Starfuries and Defiants. At the extreme limits of their range, perhaps. But a well-planned attack oughtn't to need all that much time over the target, I considered. Besides, farfetched as it might have been, it was the only possible plan I could think of. LaSalle's "defensive exercises" left me with the sixteen Starfuries of 614 Squadron and eight of 510 Squadron's older Defiants for my mission. Of course, these ships also constituted our alleged CSP, but they were all I had to work with. Hadn't been all that long ago that the base put up no CSP at all. And following Ambrose's admonition to go slowly in restoring the base's apparent readiness, we'd been very careful in our responses to any Toronder provocations. So I decided to take a bit of a chance. Years ago, long before the current war was much more than a gleam in Nergol Triannic's eye, I'd been closely associated with Sherrington Limited, and the company's principal designer, Mark Valerian—father of the Starfury. In fact, I'd spent countless hours aboard the prototype, I.F.S. Starfury—old "K5054," as she was called. This association gave me considerable, fortuitous insight into the design of the graceful ships, including "hardpoints," as Valerian called them, for the attachment of HyperTorps. When it was later decided that Starfuries should carry HyperTorps internally— as did all early "light cruiser" models of the ship—the hard-points were "skinned over" with hullmetal and forgotten. However, to my knowledge, the stiffeners and bracing that supported them also buttressed other important structures on the ships, and had been carried through each successive model to the most modern MK V-B marks, although no frontline Starfuries had carried HyperTorps anywhere for nearly two years. Given a little luck, I intended to make use of those nearly forgotten, out-of-sight hardpoints—and a store of some two hundred HyperTorps that had been languishing in one of the base magazines since before the war began. "Cottshall," I said into the intercom, "see if you can scare up Jim Williams for me." * * * At Dawn plus one and thirty the next morning, the two of us were seated in a crowded conference room with Commander Tom Carpenter, Base Engineering Officer for Space (one of the few key officers retained from Summers's reign) and Commander Burt LaSalle, who was flanked by representatives of his reserve starships: Lt. Commander Tip O'Hara, Leader of 614 Squadron with its sixteen Starfuries, and Lt. Cap Lindamann, a Flight Leader in charge of the eight remaining Defiants from 510 Squadron. Briefly told them what I wanted to do, then watched mouths drop open with surprise. "We're going to what?" LaSalle demanded through a wide grin. "While you're out shooting up the Toronders' invasion fleet," I repeated with a shrug, "I'm going to use the rest of our ships to attack their base at Otnar'at—see if we can't chew up some of their attack ships before they get a chance to use 'em on our convoys." "And we're finally going to use those old HyperTorps, Admiral," Carpenter said with a bemused look. "You've got no idea how long I've tried to get rid of those things. Been taking up space in the magazines for years. Never could get authorization to scrap 'em." "You've got it now," I said. "We'll scrap 'em for you. All you've got to do is mount 'em on our Starfuries and we'll even cart 'em away—free of charge. Think you can do it?" Carpenter frowned. "If the structure for hardpoints is in place as you say it is, then absolutely I can—or we can." "Here," I said, handing him a KA'PPA address for the city of Bromwich on the planet Rhodor, "get in touch directly with the Sherrington plant. They'll tell you all you need to know. Ask for Mark Valerian; say I told you to call." Suddenly, Carpenter's eyes narrowed. "Mark Valerian," he whispered as if he were speaking the name of some ancient god. "Voot's beard, Admiral, then you're the Wilf Brim who used to fly those Sherrington racers before the war, aren't you?" Felt myself blush; suddenly, all eyes were on me. "Yeah," I admitted. Seemed like a thousand years ago, yet a lot of people were still fascinated by the Mitchell Trophy races. Before he could derail the meeting, I stopped him. "Call him now," I said firmly. "Right now. We have only a short time to bring this off, and every cycle's going to count." I softened. "Let me know what he has to say," I added with a wink, then turned to LaSalle and his deputies. "All right, gentlemen," I said, "let's plan a mission to Otnar'at. When Brother Carpenter's finished with his modifications, your Starfuries will carry eight HyperTorps each—a pair on either side of your pontoons—and fly like overloaded quarry barges until you get rid of them. You won't have much time over the target, but each HyperTorp will give you the destructive power of a battleship's broadside. And, oh yes, I plan to fly the lead ship...." * * * Never escaped from headquarters that day till Twilight plus one. It had just become dark, and the warm evening—somehow tranquil in spite of a bustling garrison around me—smelled of the nearby harbor. Difficult at the moment to imagine war raging throughout the galaxy around me. I was wearily uncovering my gravcycle—as always, newly polished in my absence—when a skimmer bustled past on the street, came to an abrupt halt, then reversed and pulled to a hover at the curb beside me. "Buy you dr-e-e-nk, StarSailor?" someone with Claudia's voice inquired from the driver's seat. Laughed. "Sounds like a line to me, lady," I said. "You've had a better line tonight?" she demanded. "Absolutely not—probably never in my life," I replied, climbing into the passenger seat—and the faint, seductive incense of her perfume. "How about a drink and supper?" She laughed. "I almost asked you the same question, but I was a little afraid that after the other night..." "Great omelet, that time," I replied quickly. "Your chef is magnificent. Handsome, too." "Awfully nice of you, Wilf," she said. "What's awfully nice is your stopping," I said. "And you haven't answered me yet. How about some food with those drinks? The Officers' Club serves all night. Doesn't exactly rival Avalon's best, but it's not all that bad, either." "Sounds wonderful," she said, skidding through a one-eighty turn and heading for the Club. Hesitated a moment, then had to ask. "Where's Gorgas tonight?" "At the Cabaret as usual," she said. Glanced at my timepiece. "You're certainly a bit late tonight," I commented. "Can't blame me," she said, pulling into a parking place. "It's that new Base Commandant. Keeps things stirred up so much I'm usually late these days. Took up a good chunk of my afternoon—just to go see somebody's transport ship, would you believe?" "Hmm," I said, unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the way her dress rode up when she slipped out of the seat. Wondered idly how much of it was on purpose... if any. "You wouldn't have volunteered this afternoon for that duty or anything, would you... or enjoyed yourself once you got there?" "Why, Wilf Brim," she exclaimed, "how ever could you imagine something like that?" "Oh-o-o, nothing much," I said with what must have been an-enormous grin, "but you sure seemed fascinated by Captain Delacroix." Ushered her into the Club lobby—smelled comfortably of food, spirits, and mu'occo cigarettes—then signaled the chief steward for a booth. Noticed idly that I got a lot quicker service as an Admiral than I'd derived years ago as a Lieutenant. "By Voot he was sexy, wasn't he?" she said with an iniquitous little chuckle. "I couldn't tell," I replied, "but I'll take your word for it." "Expected you'd say that," she murmured. We ordered from the small, late-evening menu—this time I remembered her E'lande, but instead she opted to share a bottle of meem. The Club's dining room was only partially filled at that hour, a pleasant, quiet place to talk. Dim lights; candles on the tables. Nice music—a local group playing softly. Romantic. One of the most beautiful women I'd ever known sitting on the other side of the table—and married to someone else. Had to break the spell or I was going to say— suggest—something silly. "S-so what did you think of him?" I asked desperately. "Who, Delacroix?" she asked as if she'd expected something else from me. "Yeah," I replied. "What do you think he'll be like to work with?" She thought a moment, sipped her meem. "I suppose you mean with his clothes on," she said with a theatrical look of disappointment. "With his clothes on," I replied, nodding vigorously. "It's important." She set down her goblet, looked at me with that little smile she got when she really knew what I was thinking, then frowned. "Interesting man," she said, playing my game. "Something about him I liked, but I don't particularly know what it was. I kind of got the impression you felt the same way, too. Maybe it was the way the crew looked at him—as if they, well, really appreciated him. Like a father, almost, though he's not all that old." "That could be good or bad," I observed, gesturing with a piece of bread. "What if he's a pirate czar and they all admire him because he's murdered so many people?" She rolled her eyes. "Be serious, Wilf," she admonished. "I am serious," I protested—then relented. "Couldn't help noticing the same thing you did, Claudia," I admitted at length. "I've met damned few men who keep a happy crew and can't be trusted. Starships, no matter what their size, are too small for secrets. So that's a big point in his favor." "I also liked the way he kept the ship, herself," she added as stewards brought our suppers. "I know it's new, but with a crew that size, it doesn't keep clean all by itself." "Good point." "But," Claudia said, gesturing with her raised goblet, "none of that means a hill of these beans compared to what impression he makes on Chief Utrillo Barbousse, does it?" I grinned. "You know me well," I said. "Doesn't much matter whether or not I like him as a person—it all depends on how well I think he can do the job." "When do you find out?" "Already found out," I said, pouring the dregs into our goblets. "Thanks... You mean this afternoon?" "Delacroix had Yellow Bird ready to lift by the time Barbousse arrived at the wharf to set up a demonstration. Surprised even the Chief. The whole thing was over a couple of metacycles ago." "And?" she asked, peering up from her meem. "Barbousse was plenty impressed," I told her. "Delacroix put him in a jump seat right behind the helm, then took the controls himself and ran through one of those tricky asteroid shoals off Nartin-11 as if he'd practiced the course for a month. We'd only mapped it out this afternoon." "Why am I not surprised?" Claudia asked with a smile. "Same reason I wasn't," I replied. "He looked good to begin with." "He's got the job, then?" she asked. "Not yet," I said. Claudia looked up again and raised her eyebrows. "What's wrong with him, then?" she asked. "Thought Barbousse said he was so good." "He did," I replied. "But Delacroix is clearly no fool either. He knows good and well he's got the best crew and ship available in this part of the galaxy. And I told Barbousse to make certain he understood the risks involved. Couldn't keep that from him. So naturally he wants a bloody fortune to do the job." "Is he worth it?" she asked, finishing her meem. "Yeah," I said. "I'm pretty sure he is." "Then what's holding you back?" I laughed. "Wanted him to stew about his price a while tonight. He'll have the job tomorrow, but he shouldn't know how easily he got it. Otherwise, he might be tempted to demand more for the next trip, and there's no sense paying more than a fair price, is there?" She smiled. "Yeah," she said. Then, suddenly, conversation lapsed again; we were once more alone together with the dim lights, the music, and now a half bottle of meem each. I, for one, was feeling very, well, relaxed. And having a terrible time keeping my eyes from Claudia's bosom, wondering guiltily if those ample breasts had changed much in the nearly fifteen years that had elapsed since I'd enjoyed looking at them without the distraction of clothing. "You're staring again," she whispered with that soft look in her eyes she got when she was happy. "Just the way you used to..." "Guilty as charged," I said. She lit one of her mu'occo cigarettes. "What were you thinking about them?" she asked with a little smile, exhaling a tiny cloud of spiced smoke. "You really want to know?" I asked. She nodded, looked at me through half-closed eyes. Drew on her cigarette again. "I was thinking... well"—felt myself blush—"wondering if they'd changed much since I'd last looked at them." "You did, eh?" Another puff of spiced smoke. "Yeah, I did." "Well," she said, glancing at herself circumspectly, "they probably droop a bit by now. They're a little larger, too, of course—along with the rest of me, Voot take it." Then she looked up with a little smile. "Otherwise, though," she added, "I think they're pretty much the same as they were when... well, when we enjoyed them together." Her small, perfectly manicured hand was near mine on the cushion between us and I wanted to feel its warmth and softness. Of course, I couldn't. For a moment, my mind's eye glided into the past to glimpse great, heavy breasts, tipped by large, dark aureoles and taut, swollen nipples... "Claudia, Claudia, Claudia," I swore softly through clenched teeth, "you were—you are—so god-awfully beautiful!" Suddenly, I felt her hand on mine, warm and soft as I imagined. "Wilf," she whispered breathlessly, "I'm losing it. I shouldn't have drunk all that meem...." "You're sick?" I asked, grabbing my napkin in momentary panic. "Not sick, you awful boob," she hissed in a desperate voice, looking at me through nearly closed eyes. "Horny, sexually aroused, libidinous, carnal. Turned on, Wilf Brim—the way no other man has turned me on before I met you—or since." I looked into that beautiful—now thoroughly blushed—face and felt a familiar, terribly urgent surge in my loins. The whole Universe had suddenly dissolved around us, and I was desperately thrashing around for the right words, when... "Er, Madame Harbor Master," a sotto voice announced hesitantly, "there's a Mr. Nesterio on the phone for you." Chapter 5 Otnar'at 13 Octad, 52014 Imperial Fleet Base, Atalanta, Hador-Haelic Couldn't sleep, so toward morning I made my way to the underground hangar, where preparations for our mission were filling the huge room with echoes of every kind. LaSalle and his squadrons had sortied for the Toronder invasion fleet only a few metacycles earlier. The overworked starship filters and riggers at the base had been working 'round the clock to put that mission into space, then somehow managed to prepare our Starfuries and Defiants—with their special HyperTorp mounts—as well. I still didn't know quite how—certainly, no one associated with the maintenance crews had managed to cadge much sleep during the last few nights before the raid. At least we'd had minimal incursions from The Torond. What with our carefully slowed series of "operational improvements," they seemed satisfied to deliver occasional reminders of their presence, which we fought off with a great deal less enthusiasm than we might have—or would in the near future. Today, we would show our hand in a big way—with no time at all to spare. The first convoy from Avalon was scheduled to arrive in four days, and it was time to deprive our enemies of as many offensive units as we could possibly destroy. Off in one corner of the cavern, our special "ground attack" Starfuries and Defiants were moored by themselves, fairly bristling with HyperTorps. The first time I'd seen one of our lean interceptors with eight evil-looking torpedoes hanging off its slender pontoons, I decided I was not going to like this phase of the work at all—short-lived as it might be. The Starfuries looked intolerably burdened with their loads, and the monstrous, warty HyperTorps were a basic contradiction of all the intrinsic beauty and symmetry of the star-ships themselves. Perhaps I had become unduly sensitive after flying these elegant starships for such a long time. To me, it was one thing to attack ground targets in a heavy starship designed specifically for the purpose like one of the Sodeskayans' Ro'stoviks that could destroy battle crawlers from the air like a crawler, but it was quite another matter to force these relatively light, sensitive starships into the same role. The night before, I'd stood on a wharf with Marsha Kelly, one of the Helmsmen on the mission, as together, we inspected one of the torped-up Starfuries. "What do you think of running a mission with them, Marsha?" I'd asked. "Not much, Admiral," she'd answered. Redheaded, almost painfully slim, and amply freckled, she had a serious countenance that lighted up like fireworks when she laughed. She also had a record of nineteen Leaguer and Torond victories to her credit and was a veteran of the Battle of Avalon. She'd been unhappy with the conversion from the beginning. Like most of her compatriots, however, she'd gone along with only a bit of grousing to let us know she didn't wholly approve. "If we'd got some decent range-extenders to hang on the pontoons instead of those ugly things, we might be able to do some decent escort work instead of pretending we were flying some sort of goods lorries filled with rocks...." Unfortunately, the whole thing had been my idea in the first place, and I would have to see it through. Volunteers from each firing crew had been slaving night and day in simulators to perfect their aiming skills. To my way of thinking, they were developing into deadly marksmen, but of course, no simulator can really fabricate the terrors—and opportunities to blunder—that are created by actual combat conditions. Until one places the actual flesh of his or her buttocks at deadly risk, everything is little more than harmless theory. And most of these interceptor crews had never experienced anything like close ground support in their lives. Checked my timepiece—a little nervously, perhaps. The final mission briefing was scheduled in less than a metacycle. I'd seen enough combat in my lifetime to use up at least eight and a half of the fanciful nine lives ascribed to sable Rothcats—Haelic's own Felis Rothbartis. But I'd never gotten used to it—only hardened, maybe. On the bridge of my own Starfury, technicians were still at the consoles, making last-cycle checks and adjustments. The power chambers had been rumbling deep in the main hull all night as maintenance crews tweaked them—and the wave guides they supplied with specially prepared energy—to exceed their already-celebrated rated efficiency. Stepped out onto the pier again. Briefing in one metacycle. Made my way to the huge, noisy hangar cafeteria—always smelled a little of the dishwashers. Grabbed a steaming mug of cvceese' while a sleepy-looking, motherly woman dropped a jellied mass of eggs and a couple of Atalanta's famous Rocotzian sausages onto a thick wedge of toast, then pushed the lot onto a plate and handed it to me. I carried it to an unoccupied table, dripping hot cvceese' over my cringing fingers and avoiding eye contact with anybody who looked as if he might like to talk. Wanted to savor the last moments of peace before my life went crazy again—as it seemed accustomed to doing every day since I'd arrived. Today, however, promised to be a lot crazier than most others. Idly thought about Delacroix and his Yellow Bird, blasting toward Gontor with six partially disassembled Starfuries even while I sipped my cvceese'. Today marked his second run; only a few more and the Toronders would begin to get suspicious of his ship making repeated trips so far off the beaten path. Then he would begin to really earn the tremendous fees he was charging. Made me pause and wonder. I was banking a lot on my gut feeling about the man's good character. A lot of people I'd met over the years would simply cut and run, jettisoning my cargo at the first sign of trouble. That's why I was packing every cubic iral of Yellow Bird with goods. Until I got to know Cameron Delacroix a whole lot better, I could only predict that the first few trips would have a good chance of arriving at their destination. At last, it was nearly Dawn plus one. "Mission briefing in five cycles—mission briefing in five cycles," someone called over the blower, "Mission briefing in five cycles—mission briefing in five cycles." Enough! A lot of people from all over the huge room got up at the announcement—most, like me, had been sitting alone. We moved singly or in small, sil