The Mercenaries

by Bill Baldwin

  Brim felt his face burn as he sprinted for the companionway. How soon people forgot. In her days of active service, Collingswood had been one of the finest skippers in the Imperial Fleet. At his cabin, he rinsed his face and struggled into a clean uniform, then dashed into the corridor, dodged along three crowded companionways, and arrived at the wardroom just as Barbousse served the elegant ex-officer a sparkling goblet of Logish Meem. "Captain Collingswood!" he huffed before she could take the first sip. "What a great surprise!"

  Collingswood was a statuesque woman who never, even for a moment, let the power of her high station interfere with the basic femininity that shaped virtually everything about her personality. She was statuesque, tall, and ageless with a long patrician nose, piercing hazel eyes, and soft, graying chestnut hair that she wore in natural curls. Dressed in a beige business suit with huge, puffed shoulders, and fronted by great cascades of lace, she appeared to be completely ageless—which, Brim considered, she probably was. Shortly after Nergol Triannic foisted the disastrous Treaty of Garak on the war-weary Empire, she had resigned her commission and married Admiral Erat Plutron, her whispered long-time lover, who—as a recently elected member of the Imperial Parliament—had become a major opponent of the CIGAs. Now, for some reason, she was here in Avalon to meet I.F.S. Starfury. She smiled as she indicated a second chair Barbousse had drawn to the table. "Wilf Brim," she demanded, "when are you going to remember that my name is Regula—not Captain?"

  Brim bowed, took her hand, and kissed it. "Right now—I think," he said, slipping into the chair just as Barbousse quietly placed a goblet of Logish Meem before him. "Thanks, Chief," he said, touching the big rating's arm. "Sometimes, only very special friends will do."

  Barbousse gave a little wink and smiled. "Special friends are most honored to offer their assistance, Captain—er—Captains." Then he vanished into the Steward's room like a specter.

  "I thought you were still at Bemus Manor," Brim said. "And here you are in a government limousine, no less. What's happening?"

  Collingswood smiled. "Well," she explained, "ever since Erat was elected to Parliament, I seem to have become more and more involved with the Admiralty, at least the non-CIGA people there. And since starfleets require organizers as well as disrupters, Harry Drummond asked me to become his Operations Director." She laughed. "I even get a salary."

  Brim rolled his eyes. "What are you going to do with all that wealth?" he asked jestingly.

  "Donate it to the Fleet Relief Drive, of course," she said with a little smile. Then she chuckled. "As willing as I was to trade in my Blue Cape for a comfortable business suit, I never could get that far away from the Fleet. It's been a part of me too long."

  Brim savored the ancient Logish Meem that Barbousse had ordered from the ship's well-stocked meem vaults. "Somehow, I didn't think you'd last," he admitted, "especially after you got involved with the Imperial Starfiight Society." Then he frowned. "But..."

  Collingswood grinned. "But why am I here?" she interrupted.

  "Well," he answered, "with nothing but a two-and-a-half-stripe Commander for her Captain, Starfury isn't often met by Directors in big government limousine skimmers."

  Collingswood nodded. "Probably that is true sometimes, Wilf," she said. "But today, you are expected at the Imperial palace in a little more than a cycle so you can personally assist Commodore Calhoun and General Drummond when they brief Greyffin IV on the Fluvanna Plan. They scheduled the whole thing around Starfury's return, and you know what a hectic schedule Greyffin IV keeps every day." She smiled. "So at least for this exercise, you're a very important person, Wilf Brim."

  "It's not difficult to be important when you command the only starship in the game," Brim chuckled. "I suspect I'll be a lot less in demand when deliveries start on the production Starfuries."

  Collingswood sat back to sip her Logish Meem with an enigmatic smite on her face. "We'll see about that. Captain Brim," she said. "We'll see...."

  * * *

  "Saltash tells me that you've taken Magor by storm," Drummond chuckled, clapping Brim on the back as they sat in one of the palace's elegant waiting rooms.

  "Tough on clothes, tho'," Calhoun interjected. "I signed the order for your replacement uniform yesterday." He chuckled. "Brim, you act like a lightnin' rod when it comes to trouble."

  The younger Carescrian laughed. "If it weren't for the honor of the thing. Commodore," he quipped, "I'd just as soon someone else had the title."

  "Aye," Drummond said. "I can understand that, all right."

  "At any rate," Calhoun declared, "Mustafa is ane hundred percent in support o' the plan. An' a lot o' that decision had to do wi' his impression o' you. He's already ordered his embassy here on Avalon to sign the papers just so soon as we draft them up."

  "Now," Drummond interjected with a nod of his head, "all we have to do is to make certain our own Emperor's behind the plan."

  "An'," Calhoun said, nodding toward the door of the elaborate waiting room, "I believe that we gat to begin that process immediately."

  Brim turned to confront an Imperial paige, dressed in a traditional high-collared blue uniform with four gold frogs down the front of the tunic. He carried a gilded AnGrail reed at least six irals tall.

  "This way, gentlemen," the paige said, bowing from the waist. Straightening, he pointed his AnGrail at the rear of the room and part of the wall simply vanished. Beyond was a huge oval chamber whose elegant walls were entirely lined by lofty beveled mirrors inscribed with intricate scrollwork. Colorful renderings of legendary flighted beings and baroque starships decorated the ceiling above a trompe l'oeil arbor "supported" on ornate columns separating the mirrors. At one end of the room was a huge rococo table beneath a canopy of deep blue velvet, and beside the table stood the slim form of Emperor Greyffin IV, Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens.

  A spare man of medium build—neither young nor old— Greyffin still looked surprisingly like the portraits that hung in every Fleet starship large enough to have a wardroom. He was dressed in a magnificently tailored Fleet uniform adorned by the insignia of a full Admiral. His hair, a little grayer than Brim remembered, was stilt short, parted on the left, and combed straight back from his narrow face. He had close-set gray eyes on either side of a prominent, squarish sort of nose and a diminutive, pointed beard. As the three officers approached his table, he returned their salutes with that particular bearing of total impenetrability that seems to define people who are both very wealthy and very powerful.

  Offering his hand first to Baxter Calhoun, then to General Drummond, he turned at last to Brim and smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, Commander," he said, extending his hand. "It has been quite some time since I've been referred to as 'His Nibs,' to my face."

  Brim felt his cheeks flush. He'd done that inadvertently the night Greyffin awarded him the Imperial Comet. Then, as now, the Emperor seemed to value the little slip as a rather good joke. "Your Majesty," he said, solemnly shaking the Emperor's hand, "I have been extremely careful ever since to look before I speak."

  "A pity," Greyffin chuckled under his breath. "You're probably spoiling everyone's fun." Then nodding to Calhoun, he took his place in a huge, high-backed chair behind the table. "Baxter," he said, "Onrad's privately described your plan to save Fluvanna in spite of the CIGAs." He raised his eyebrows. "About time to let me in on the details, eh?"

  "Aye, Your Majesty," Calhoun replied, immediately swinging into what must have been his ten-thousandth presentation. Brim and Drummond stepped clear of the projectors and took seats at the side of the room, doing their best to appear as if fresh information were reaching their ears, too. Mercifully, the elder Carescrian had prepared a capsulated version for the Emperor, so he spoke for little more than a half metacycle. But during that short time, he covered every important factor. And just as he finished, Prince Onrad strode into the room to stand by Greyffin's side.

  "Well, Father," he asked with a
grave look, "what do you think?"

  The Emperor nodded thoughtfully, joining the tips of his fingers and thumbs. "Wonderful," he pronounced at length. "Just the right treatment. Completely beyond the CIGAs. Bloody wonderful. In fact, Baxter," he said, angling his head toward Calhoun, "during the past week, I have mulled over some ideas about your staffing problem."

  "I'm all ears, Your Majesty," Calhoun declared. "We need ev'ry bit o' help we can gat wi' that particular problem."

  The Emperor took a deep breath and frowned. "It seems that the bloody CIGAs have forced some of our finest officers and starsailors from the Fleet in the last few years," he mused grimly. "Commander Brim knows," he added with a wink, "Now assuming that some of them have the forbearance and patriotism he exhibited, what would happen if I personally extended them an offer to rejoin the Fleet at their old grades plus one promotion? Shouldn't at least a few of them come through for us?"

  "Counting Starfury herself, we'll need to find volunteers for eleven ships," Onrad warned.

  The Emperor shook his head. "Commander Brim already has a crew," he said. "If what I hear is correct, he will lose only a few when he announces that Starfury's been leased. So you will only need enough for ten." He looked around the room while passing his fingers among the beams from a tiny panel of lights near his right hand. "Here, let me read an offer I've had drafted." He frowned as he peered onto his tabletop where a display lit his face from beneath. "First," he began, "by Imperial Edict, all candidates, officers, and enlisted alike will be offered special one-year reserve commissions and enlistments in the Imperial Fleet at their previous grade plus one. To obtain these, however, they will be required to 'disappear,' serving in the Fluvannian Fleet as mercenaries in what will be known as the Imperial Volunteer Group, or IVG for short."

  "What happens after the year is over?" Onrad asked.

  "Afterward," Greyffin continued, glancing up from the table, "if I decide not to extend the term of service, I shall personally guarantee each volunteer a permanent place in the Imperial Fleet—working at his or her IVG specialty and rank." He looked at Brim and smiled. "I shall extend the same sort of offer to certain persons who already have positions in the Fleet, including Starfury's entire crew. It will, of course, require them to resign their commissions. But each will have my personal guarantee that they may return." Turning to Calhoun, he raised eyebrows. "How does that sound, Baxter?"

  Calhoun grinned. "I think your personal guarantee wull do it nicely, Your Majesty," he said. "That's all I would ever need."

  "Good," Greyffin said. "Harry? Wilf? Is there anything you want to change?"

  "Nothing, Your Majesty," Calhoun said.

  Brim shook his head, bemused at hearing the Emperor use his first name. "Nothing, Your Majesty," he seconded.

  "In that case," Greyffin declared, applying thumb and forefinger to a minute signing window on the tabletop, "it is now a proclamation. Onrad, call in the Fluvannian Ambassador and we shall begin 'recruiting' immediately."

  In less than a cycle, they were joined by a tall, slender woman in fashionable Avalonian dress. She had straight black hair that reached her shoulders and bangs cut straight across her high forehead. Her calm, almond-shaped eyes complemented a long, narrow nose and wickedly thin lips. She wore a restrained business suit, all in black, with a white ruffled blouse and a skirt so long it revealed only high-heeled slippers and a hint of slim ankle. "Your Majesty," she said, bowing almost double.

  "Madame Orenzii," Greyffin said, nodding from his chair. "These men are the vanguard of the warship crews who will soon fortify your fleet. May I present General Harry Drummond, Commodore Baxter Calhoun, and Commander Wilf Brim."

  Orenzii bowed to Onrad, then looked from one officer to the other until her eyes stopped at Brim. "You are captain of the Starfury, are you not?" she asked with no trace of an accent.

  "I am, Madame Orenzii," Brim answered.

  The woman laughed. "Raddisma made me promise that I should not leave the castle without thanking you once more for saving her life," she said.

  Brim felt his cheeks burn again. "I think Consort Raddisma gives me credit for a great deal more than I accomplished," he replied.

  Orenzii bowed with only a wink for comment, then turned to face the Emperor. "Your Majesty," she said, "I have been empowered by Nabob Mustafa IX Eyren, The Magnificent, to begin recruiting as soon as qualified space crews can be located."

  At that, Calhoun stepped to the Emperor's table and bowed. "I should count it an honor to become the first volunteer," he declared proudly.

  "Your Majesty," Orenzii asked, turning to the Emperor, "is your office perhaps available for this historic occasion?"

  Greyffin smiled, peering down at the work surface of his table. "I detect the fine hand of my son here," he commented with a chuckle. "The necessary documents have already appeared on this display—including my own. Even the signing window is activated, no doubt for the Commodore's fingerprints, eh?"

  "Well," Onrad admitted, "I did make a few preparations for this meeting. Nothing elaborate, of course, but..."

  The Emperor shook his head. "Hmm," he muttered wryly, "since everything appears to be in good order, I suppose we proceed. Commodore," he said, rising from his chair, "come sit here. You may as well be comfortable while you sign away a year of your life.''

  Calhoun took his place at the table, carefully reading the displayed contracts. "All right," he said at some length, "I'll sign." Twice, he placed his thumb and forefinger on the signing windows with a flourish. Then, Orenzii signed for her government.

  "Congratulations!" she said, shaking Calhoun's hand with great gusto. "You are now a Commodore in the Royal Fluvannian Fleet."

  "It is a great approbation, madame," Calhoun said gallantly as he stepped back from the table and fixed his eyes pointedly on Brim.

  His were not the only eyes peering in that direction. "Well, Commander," the Emperor said, "shall I assume you also intend to volunteer?''

  "Poor Brim," Onrad observed with a broad smile. "He only won back his commission two years ago."

  Greyffin chuckled gently. "Don't think of this as losing your commission again, Commander. The next year ought to be much like an assignment to a very special covert mission. That should be nothing new to you."

  "Aye, Your Majesty," Brim agreed, settling into the Emperor's chair. Before him, shimmering on the surface of the table, were three lettered documents. On his left was a Form 889A,

  VOLUNTARY TERMINATION OF FLEET SERVICE, everyone joked about the forms, but in the eyes of idealists like Brim, they were suicide notes. Next to it was a one-year commission for service in the Fluvannian Fleet at the rank of Commander. On its right, the Emperor's guarantee was dynamically changing contents as writers elsewhere in the palace attempted to hammer out a legal document at a dead run. Brim waited until the characters had stabilized, then read the new parts, and eventually signed all three documents. "Good of you to sign," Onrad remarked. "I noticed Father's pledge going through at least three drafts white you tried to read it."

  Brim chuckled in spite of the solemnity of the occasion. "I managed to read one complete draft, Your Highness," he said. "I'm no space lawyer, but it seems all right to me."

  "The Fleet takes another hit," Onrad said facetiously. "Scratch one Commodore and a Commander."

  "Yes," the Emperor agreed dourly. "And the absurd part of it is that we aren't even CIGAs." He shook his head sadly. "A terrible darkness is settling over the galaxy, even as we meet here. What a terrible shame that we may contend with it only in secret and by guile for fear of inciting the enemy...."

  * * *

  The next evening, Brim dined alone in a quiet bistro just off Courtland Plaza where he and Margot used to rendezvous during the early years of her marriage to Rogan LaKarn. It was a place known for stiff white linen, discreet service, excellent food, and what the Carescrian had grown to know, and respect, as "good music." He came here often when he was in Avalon, after the press of the dinner
crowd, to dine quietly and reflect on his day's activities, which today centered around Nergol Triannic's Treaty of Garak. The document had served its creator well during the spurious "peace" it had enabled. But it was quite clear that both the treaty and its peace had outworn their usefulness to the League of Dark Stars—and both would soon be shattered by their creator.

  He stared blindly off into the dark, smoky room as he sipped a goblet of Logish Meem and mused about the year ahead. There would be a war; that was almost a given. What concerned him even more than the war was its ultimate outcome, because win or lose, it would also end the familiar, centuries-old civilization that Greyffin IV's Empire had enjoyed in relatively affluent comfort. He frowned a little as a tall figure stopped beside his table and, when it didn't go away, glanced up—in sudden disgust.

  There, glowering like the threat of a bad cold, was the choleric visage of Puvis Amherst, chief of the CIGAs. With a Fleet Cloak draped across the right shoulder of his impeccable dress uniform, the man still cut an impressive figure—in spite of a most conspicuous absence of battle ribbons on his chest. "Well, Carescrian," he said with a curled lip, "you have clearly continued your warlike activities in spite of my personal warning to you last year in the Admiralty, What do you have to say for yourself?"

  Brim fought down a strong urge to punch the overweening clown in his nose, then relaxed with a smile of contempt. "Your warning wasn't frightening enough, Amherst," he said. "I assume that you have noticed I am still very much alive."

  "Antagonism toward our friends in the League will yet cost your worthless life. Brim," Amherst spat back with venom. His eyes narrowed. "And you will address me by my title of Commodore, as regulations require, Commander Brim. I have warned you about that often."

  "Not often enough, zukeed," Brim said quietly. "As I said last year, the best title you'll get from me is 'traitor,' at least so long as you remain the local CIGA boss."