by Bill Baldwin
At Sherrington's message center, Brim identified himself and signed for his mysterious dispatch, which was delivered to his hand in the characteristic blue and gold plastic envelope of the Imperial Courier Corps.
"It's why we didn't simply send it to your ship, Commander," the clerk explained. "We were only permitted to store this one. It was delivered to us by hand."
Nodding thanks to the clerk, Brim frowned at Calhoun. "You know all about this, don't you?" he demanded.
"Weel," Calhoun replied with a little smile, "I've ne'er exactly seen inside yon envelope, but I probably know a wee of wha's written there." He looked at the clerk. "Is yon a secure room?" he asked, pointing to a door beside the counter.
"Aye, Mr. Calhoun," the clerk assured him, "category three at minimum."
"Hie you in there and read the message, young Brim," Calhoun said. "It wull na take you lang. I'll wait here, and afterward we'll be able to talk."
Placing the envelope under his arm, Brim entered the secure room, turned on the lights, and sealed the door, seating himself on a hard, straight-backed chair at a bare table. Thoughtfully he touched his right index finger to the plastic envelope's seal— which clearly approved of his fingerprint because it immediately opened in a puff of odorless smoke. With a growing sense of excitement, he withdrew a single sheet of light blue plastic, engraved in gold with the Royal Seal of Crown Prince Onrad, heir to the Imperial Throne at Avalon.
The Imperial Palace,
Avalon, 388/52009
My dear Commander Brim,
This letter comes to you under Our personal signature as introduction to Baxter Calhoun, not that you should need such after serving with him on I.F.S. Defiant during the past hostilities.
First, be aware that Calhoun is no longer a civilian, although he will be most certainly dressed as one when you first encounter him in Bromwich. He is on special assignment, serving in the Fleet under Our direct orders with the rank of Commodore, I.F. His mission: to thwart the plan of high-handed annexation Nergol Triannic has concocted against the Dominion of Fluvanna, which now includes one of the League's new deep-space fortifications.
Commodore Calhoun has devised an extraordinary plan that requires both your skill as a Helmsman and the excellent ship that you command. He will personally describe this plan and the role you will play in its early stages. It is Our desire that you provide all support within your purview as both Commander and citizen of the Empire.
Until you receive further orders from Us personally, Commander Brim, you will covertly serve under Commodore Calhoun's direct command, although your "official" documents may state otherwise.
Accept, Commander, the assurances of Our highest consideration, etc., etc.
Onrad, Vice Admiral, I.F.
Crown Prince to the Throne at Avalon
Clipped to the message was a note scrawled in a hand that matched Onrad's signature: "Brim," it read, "I can't imagine whatever got into me when I agreed to team you two lunatic Carescrians together. See if you can at least stay out of major trouble." It was signed, simply, "O."
Slouching comfortably in the hard wooden chair, Brim read the dispatch twice more and frowned. Fluvanna, a tiny domain astride the Straits of Remic, supplied Greyffin IV's Empire with nearly one hundred percent of its celecoid quartz kernels: the rare—absolutely pure—crystalline "seeds" from which Drive crystals were manufactured under tremendous temperature and pressure. Well, it wasn't as if he hadn't predicted trouble since long before Nergol Triannic usurped political power in Rogan LaKarn's Torond, once the Empire's primary source of the rare and all-important crystals. Eventually, he folded the page in half, touched his thumb to the top right-hand corner, and the message evaporated into thin air as if it had never existed.
When Brim exited the room, Calhoun was in rapt conversation with a gorgeous strawberry blonde stationed behind the message counter. From their eye contact, Brim could see that his newly appointed commander had already chalked up another conquest. The gorgeous woman was Calhoun's sort of luck. She had clearly replaced the fat, middle-aged clerk who earlier delivered Brim's own message—no doubt as his last act on the shift.
"Brim, mon," Calhoun called over his shoulder, "while you pack your duffel. Miss Phillpotts and I plan to share a spot of lunch, noo. Meet me at the main lobby in, say, two metacycles and I'll drive you to my ship."
"My duffel?" Brim asked. "Your ship...?"
"Aye, laddie," Calhoun said. "Pack enough for a couple o'weeks. We'll be gone at least that lang."
"Cal!" Brim protested, "I can't leave just like that. I've got my own ship to command."
Calhoun frowned, whispered a few words to Phillpotts—who smiled delightedly—then strode across the room. "What's troublin' you, young Brim?" he asked.
"My ship, Cal," Brim answered. "I can't just walk off and leave her."
"Sez who?" Calhoun asked with a grin. "Are you under special orders that I don't know about, or should I conclude that yon shapely Tissaurd is incompetent in her job as Number One?''
"Neither," Brim said. "It's just that...."
"That wha?" Calhoun insisted. "If it's not secret orders that're holdin' you back, then we'll go right away and replace Ms. Tissaurd with someone who can handle her job."
"Oh, damnit, Cal," Brim replied hotly, "Tissaurd is a fine officer. It's just that... I don't feel I ought to leave the ship yet."
"If that's true, young Brim," Calhoun charged, poking a finger into the younger Carescrian's chest, "then you are a damned poor warship captain. What would happen to Starfury if—Universe forbid—you got yourself killed in action?"
Brim swallowed hard. Calhoun's point was definitely well taken. He had been running everything since his arrival at Sherrington's, long before Starfury's launch. He'd given no one a chance to get along without him.
Calhoun smiled. "Tissaurd can take over for a while," he said. "She looks reasonably competent."
"She is," Brim grumped. "Very competent."
"Then it's settled," Calhoun said phlegmatically. "We'll meet in the lobby of the Sherrington headquarters at''—he consulted his old-fashioned gold timepiece and glanced at the smiling Phillpotts—"Brightness-one and a half; in two metacycles. That ought to allow us both enough time to conduct our business."
"I'll be there," Brim assured him, and started off toward the door.
"If I'm a wee late," Calhoun called after him, "you'll understand?"
"I'll understand," Brim chuckled. It was reassuring to know that Calhoun still had his priorities straight.
* * *
Nearly three metacycles later, Calhoun strode into the lobby with a lopsided grin. "Sadly," he said, "'tis time for us to be gone from this wonderful place. I would spend considerable time learning about young Miss Philfpotts."
" 'The exigencies of the Service,' is how they put it, I think," Brim offered.
"Ah yes, the exigencies," Calhoun said mournfully, opening the door. "Wull, another exigency waits for us outside." He nodded toward a small, nondescript skimmer hovering at the curb. "Poor but reliable transportation, young Brim," he said. "But it wull get us to my ship without causin' undue notice."
"Lead on. Commodore," Brim chuckled, striding through the door with his duffel bobbing at his heels. "Where you and I started out lives, waterproof boots were considered first-class transportation. Remember?" Carescria was perhaps the most beggarly province of Greyffin IV's Empire.
"True," Calhoun agreed with a wry nod. "How soon we forget...."
Bromwich was located midway along a nightward-facing crescent formed by Glammarian Bight, and the Sherrington plant occupied its most boreal districts. From there, the main surface route to Cruden City paralleled the bay, running along a highly industrialized corridor. Once out of the plant, Calhoun set course directly for this artery. Brim hung on to an armrest as the light suspension reacted to Calhoun's high-speed urging over an ancient cobble-surfaced road. On either side were cheapside redbrick buildings with small windows that reminded him
of Carescria. "Pick-and-shovel" workers seemed to gravitate toward such housing everywhere in the galaxy.
"First and foremost," Calhoun explained as they bounced across a narrow intersection, "you must understand one under-lyin' fact. Nergol Triannic means to take the wee dominion o' Fluvanna an' her supply of celecoid quartz Drive crystal seeds—as soon as he can. He's e'en buildin' ane o' his new space forts no mare than a few thousand light-years from their capital."
Brim nodded, marveling at the light traffic for that time of day. "Onrad mentioned that in his letter," he replied. "He also said you have a strategy to thwart Triannic's plans."
"O' course I do," Calhoun replied, "as promised." He pulled into the high-speed lane, blithely ignoring a flashing maximum safe speed exceeded on the instrument panel. "And I've based the whole plan on legal means, in spite o' the wild stories that circulate about my many enterprises in space."
"I'm all ears," Brim responded with a grin. Calhoun had been prime suspect for a long list of deep-space acts of piracy for years, but the courts never successfully proved the link between him and the crimes. Probably this was due to the peculiar fact that Imperial ships had never fallen victim to the attacks.
"It all has to do with the Mutual Defense Treaty Onrad put in place with Fluvanna a few years ago," Calhoun began as they passed a huge metal salvage yard, glinting in the sunlight. "That scrap of plastic he signed may turn out to be a most important document."
"How so?" Brim asked.
"Wull," Calhoun replied, steering toward a steep up ramp, "the way I see things, that zukeed Triannic's wanted Fluvanna for a long time now, even before the Treaty of Garak in the year 52000. He'd have gone right after it once the war was officially suspended. But when Onrad inked his Mutual Defense Treaty, the Leaguers had to take us on first. And after losing the battle of Atalanta, their squadrons were in no condition to do anything like that, even though Fluvanna never had much of a fleet."
Brim nodded grimly while the skimmer careened giddily across a deckless repulsion bridge. Hundreds of irals below, a toiling switcher dragged its string of barges toward a sprawling factory. "I haven't kept up with Fluvanna lately," he said, "but the CIGAs have certainly changed the odds with our Fleet."
"You've got that right, laddie," Calhoun growled, "though we've na lost all our teeth just yet. The Tyrant's still proceedin' with a little caution." He winked. "His latest ploy is to set up an 'incident' that wull give him a legal excuse to take military action. His CIGAs wull instantly tie up our General Parliament in endless debate aboot retaliation while he invades Fluvanna's capital at Magor, and afore we know wha's hit us, we'll hae lost our supply of Drive crystals. That wull put paid to most o' our new warship construction, an' one day he'll be able to walk into Avalon essentially unopposed."
"Unless we develop some sort of new Drive technology that doesn't start with celecoid quartz kernels," Brim interjected. They were now astride a grotesque-looking complex of thick glowing transmission conduits suspended from huge spirals that towered at least two hundred irals overhead. He remembered wondering about the structures from the air, but could make no more sense of them from the ground.
"We both know that's a few years away at best," Calhoun retorted. "Too far in the future to have much effect on the short-term events that are starting e'en as we speak. That's why we've got to make certain the Fluvannians can take care o' themselves—an' yon Leaguer space fort. Wi'out our Imperial Fleet."
Brim frowned, staring out the window at a long row of weathered storehouses that fronted a muddy, filth-tittered canal. Each was connected to one of the mysterious transmission conduits. "Not an easy task," he said thoughtfully, "if what I've heard about their fleet is correct."
"And wha's that?" Calhoun queried.
"It's said they fly some of the oldest starships in the galaxy," Brim replied. "Real antiques."
Calhoun pursed his lips. "True enough," he said. "I've seen them—e'en flown in a few. But there's a lot mair to a fleet than that. Fluvannian crewmen rate as some o' the most professional starsailors in the galaxy. An' those auld ships are in magnificent repair."
"Could they stand up to the League's new Gantheisser killer ships?" Brim asked, staring out the window at the blur of a high-speed train thundering past in the same direction, lost in clicks as it hurtled above the roadway through the glowing coils of a helical bridge.
"Depends on wha' you mean by 'stand up,' " Calhoun answered after a little thought. "Disruptors are disrupters, after all. The Fluvannians clearly couldn't survive a toe-to-toe sluggin' match wi' a squadron of Gantheissers—or that new space fort. But if they decided on suicide, they could inflict a lot of damage afore they were ground into space dust."
"Ground-up space dust doesn't stop an invasion fleet," Brim said, wondering what Calhoun was leading up to.
"That's true enough," the other allowed. "But Starfuries could."
"Starfuries?" Brim demanded, turning to face Calhoun in surprise. "I don't understand."
"You will directly," Calhoun assured him with a smile, "because Starfuries are a major part of my plan."
Brim frowned. "Cal"—he chuckled—"I'm all ears."
"Simplest thing you could think of,'' Calhoun explained, "an' it even makes a bit of business sense. We'll simply transfer I.F.S. Starfury to the Fluvannian Nabob along with the next ten Starfuries to complete. In return, Fluvanna wull send their entire production of celecoid quartz kernels to the Empire. That way, they can defend themselves wi' the same ships we wad, and the xaxtdamned CIGAs won't hae onything to say about it."
"You may have a spot of trouble with that one," Brim cautioned. "Starfuries are the most restricted ships in the Empire. Even if Prince Onrad could get the sale approved somehow, the Bears at Krasni-Peych would never consent. The reflecting Drive is their latest technology."
"I didn't say anything about a sale, young Brim," Calhoun chuckled. "What I mean to do is lease them the ships."
"All right," Brim allowed. "Maybe you could get some sort of leasing arrangement past the Bears, but who would man the ships? Damned near half the systems aboard are classified, with a no foreign nationals caveat. Even our closest allies are barred from the Drive chambers and the control systems."
Calhoun smiled as he urged the little skimmer around a fast-moving lorry. "Well, there you are," he said, cutting back in front of the lumbering vehicle and careening onto an exit ramp. "You already know who would man them, then. Who else but their present crews?"
"Cal," Brim objected, "you know better than that. The Imperial Fleet Oath strictly forbids us from anything like—"
"True enow," Calhoun interrupted. "But if you weren't in the Fleet anymore, you simply wadn't ha' that problem, noo, wad you?"
Brim considered that for a moment, then gasped in horror. "Are you suggesting that everyone simply resigns?"
"Not permanently," Calhoun answered. "Only lang enough to do a wee bit of fightin'—defendin', that is." The skimmer was now speeding along the perimeter of a small private spaceport Brim had often spotted from the air.
"Voot's beard," Brim growled, "whoever heard of a temporary resignation? The CIGAs would love it. They'd never let us in again."
"How about if Greyffin IV himself guaranteed your return?"
"Greyffin IV? He knows about this?"
"To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure," Calhoun admitted, "but Onrad does, as you well know."
Brim considered that while they pulled to a hover beside a large gravity pool. He'd only regained his long-revoked Fleet commission a year previously, and many of his civilian-life recollections weren't all that comfortable. "I'm not sure anything less than an Imperial guarantee would be acceptable anywhere," be concluded at length. "I know I'd certainly have a hard time with it."
"I think I understand," Calhoun said. "I hae pretty strong feelin's myself." He put his hand gently on Brim's shoulder. "When the time comes, if our plan's right, we'll hae little trouble gettin' Greyffin to back us. Wha's important noo is t
o start the groundwork in Avalon. We're a lang way from settin' course for Fluvanna."
Brim climbed out of the skimmer. "I take it then that we're headed for Avalon," he said, glancing up at a large starship floating on the pool, its ebony hullmetal coated stunning white. A curious red circle glimmered just aft of its bridge Hyperscreens, enclosing what could only be an old-fashioned blue hat folded into a "tricorn" shape.
"Avalon it is, young Brim," Calhoun replied. "An' welcome to my yacht, S.S. Patriot," he said over the roar of the pool's repulsion generators.
Mounting a short stairway to the pool's rim, Brim shaded his eyes and took in the angular lines of Calhoun's "yacht." A curious craft; with her trilon-shaped hull she looked more like someone's idea of a very fast attack vessel, pre Starfury, than someone's expensive toy. And she mounted no disrupters, of course: visible ones, at any rate, Brim considered with a smile.
"What do you think o' her?" Calhoun shouted proudly. The repulsion generators were even louder here.
"Powerful-looking," Brim called out. He guessed she was in the neighborhood of 500 irals long with a beam of perhaps 250, and by the size of the four Drive outlets in her squared-off stem, she was probably powered by Admiralty HyperDrives of some sort. "Where'd you find her?" he asked. "She's got Imperial lines right out of the last war, but I've never seen anything like her."
Calhoun smiled proudly. "That's because I own the only three e'er built," he explained, passing Brim onto the brow with a wave of his hand.
The moment his foot touched the runners, a trio of white-cloaked starsailors at the top snapped to attention. Each was armed with a large blaster bolstered on his hip.
"And you're right about the era," Calhoun continued as they moved out across the brow. "They're prototypes o' fast attack ships that were to be built on an out-o'-the-way planet called Arret—in the Rhodorian province. Your Medical Officer, Penelope Hesternal, comes from there. They make damme fine deep-space cruisers, they do. But after the Treaty of Garak, there wasn't all that much demand for new warships. And then the CIGAs declared 'em surplus. That's when I got 'em. Bought all three hulls as scrap metal." He stopped at the entry port and gazed up at the wide line of Hyperscreens fronting the bridge. The angle at which they were set gave a brooding look to the ship, like some great spaceborne creature of prey, "They'd removed all the weapons and propulsion systems, but they were scrappin' so many ships at the time I had no trouble replacin' onything."