by Bill Baldwin
* * * *
Brim fidgeted impatiently as he tested the fit of his borrowed dress uniform before a full-length mirror: white tunic with stiff, gold-embroidered collars, epaulets, and high cuffs, dark blue breeches with gold stripe, knee-high parade boots (like polished hullmetal), white gloves, and peaked hat. A rich, red-lined formal Fleet Cape was carefully draped on the bed, certainly nothing like the cheap copies he had rented at the Academy.
He felt a growing sense of excitement as he counted off the cycles before he would see Margot — it was impossible to sit anymore. He paced back and forth across the thick carpet, its softness wasted beneath his boots. Each cycle seemed longer than its predecessor, even though months had passed since the evening he shared with her on Haefdon, And those now seemed like moments. Outside, a gentle breeze moved the panthon trees; the weather was perfection. An omen, perhaps? He laughed to himself. All moments with Margot were perfection, so far as he could remember; he doubted she would disappoint him tonight.
As he stood staring at the patio, a distant chime sounded importantly. Then, in moments, a soft knock came at his door. “Come in,” he said. “It's unlocked.”
“About ready, sir?” Keppler asked as he stepped into the room. “The reception is under way in the ballroom.”
Now that it was time to go, Brim suddenly began to fret about the other guests. Wealthy people, of a certainty. Influential. Powerful. He was no more than a simple Helmsman. What could he have in common with any of them? What could he say worth listening to? Would he make a fool of himself? Suddenly, he felt tired. He wished he could have made other arrangements to see Margot. He never had a chance.
“You look splendid, Lieutenant,” Keppler said. “They'll all be jealous, especially with your action record.” He helped Brim place his cape properly over one shoulder in the latest fashion. “Now stand back,” he ordered imperiously. “Let me make a last-moment check.”
Brim suffered further adjustments to his collar, cape, and an offending epaulet before Keppler was finished.
“Perfect, sir,” the footman said finally as he nodded his approval. “A number of important people down there expect to meet you, so you'll want to look your best.” With that, he gently propelled Brim from the room and into the lift.
Only a few cycles later, Brim found himself returned to the balcony at the head of the double staircase. Voices and soft music surged from below as elegant couples filed slowly in from the portico and disappeared through the doorway beneath his feet. He paused for a moment, reflecting on his failure to submerge a natural Carescrian irritation with these scions of wealth and privilege. While they enjoyed unbelievable comfort and luxury, men and women of more humble origins were elsewhere locked in mortal combat to protect the very Imperial existence. Why were these people exempted? Then he grimly laughed at the folly he had just concocted. Here he was, himself dressed like the worst sort of professional courtiers — and in the absolute thick of it! He snorted and started down the staircase, contemplating his own double standard.
The huge ebony doors were open now, eight gray-clad footmen with ornate symbolic pikes flanking either side. Beyond, an elegant throng preened and pirouetted: polished officers in the colorful uniforms of every friendly nation in the galaxy, seas of half-revealed bosoms and lavish gowns in every hue and pattern art and science could conjure, humans, Bears, A'zurnians, and the less-numerous races. At the center of the high archway, a majordomo dressed in bright green tunic with dark trousers and green boots bowed as Brim approached. “Your name, please, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Wilf Brim,” Brim declared. “A Carescrian.” He looked the man directly in the eye.
“Ah, yes, Lieutenant Brim,” the majordomo said. “A thousand pardons. I should have known.” He turned on his heel and led Brim into the ballroom. “Lieutenant Helmsman Wilf Ansor Brim, Imperial Fleet,” he announced, thumping the butt of his pike loudly on a special square of flooring. “I.F.S. Truculent. “
A few heads turned indifferently, but the announcement was generally lost in the babble of the crowd. And, from what Brim could see as he stepped into the room, his rank alone would relegate him to the very depths of unimportance among most other guests whose ranks he could identify.
From inside, the room was high and huge, though a soft light level held the overall effect well within the limits of Brim's comprehension — longer than it was wide, with an ornate, domed ceiling covered by gold and silver designs in the form of a sinuous Logis vine. Three monstrous chandeliers like the one in the anteroom hung along its centerline. One wall was a solid bank of mirrors, the others were covered by rich-looking tapestries. The floor was a continuation of the flawless obsidian outside.
While Brim stood orienting himself in the heady atmosphere of hogge'poa, meem, and a hundred fragrances of perfume, a tall commander with a wisp of a mustache and piercing blue eyes appeared from the revelers, smiled, and clapped him on the back. “Brim, my good man,” he said, “so glad you could make it. I'm Avlin Khios, secretary to Lord Wyrood.” He waved his hand apologetically. “Sorry your invitation arrived with so little notice. We hoped you might be able to make it anyway.” He grinned. “Understand you had an exciting mission, what?”
“'Exciting' is probably as good a word as any, sir,” Brim acknowledged with a smile. “The important thing, though, is that we were able to see it all the way through.”
“Yes, I understand,” Khios said with a knowing grin. “Well, her Effer'wyckian nibs is certainly on tonight's guest list.” He took Brim's arm and propelled him into the center of the crowd. “But until the young lady actually does arrive, we have some people who want to talk to you, not many of them have the opportunity to meet real fighting men.”
Brim felt a goblet placed in his hand as he passed a pair of footmen. The shallow vessel made his passage through the crowd even more difficult than before. As he passed a red-faced Army officer, the man spit, “Carescrian,” bitterly at him as if he were repeating an impolite word. Then, within a few more clicks, he was centered in a ring of smiling young officers who wore the badges of the Admiralty Staff — and curious looks on their faces.
Khios named each as Brim greeted one after the other with the handshake he learned in the Academy (Carescrians normally avoided touching anybody, at least during a first meeting); their names were promptly forgotten in the rush of questions that followed.
“You've actually been in one of their starships?”
“What were the cannon like on A'zurn? Were they easy to drive?”
“Were they hard to start?”
“League torpedoes are good, aren't they? How'd the J band stand up after the radiation from those mines?”
To his surprise, Brim quickly began to sense an underlying mood of serious interest — certainly the questions coming his way were founded on well-informed backgrounds. As the group continued to probe, Brim rapidly found he was not talking to the vacuum-headed courtiers he originally thought they might be. Rather, it seemed he was surrounded by a group of dedicated staff people: behind-the-scenes decision makers who, so far as he could ascertain, were probably far more valuable contributing to an office work group than fighting the war somewhere in a battle zone. In the ore barges, one learned quickly to respect anyone who was willing to make a genuine contribution to almost anything.
During the next few cycles, he answered each question as honestly as he could, within his limited knowledge. It was difficult to make noncombatants understand that one often fought more by calm reaction to impressions and reflexes than by detailed study of anything specific. He was patiently giving his third impression of E60T’s handling characteristics when the gathering was interrupted by Khios. “I've got to steal Lieutenant Brim for a while, gentlemen,” he said, breaking into the circle to re-grasp Brim's arm. “We have a couple of executive types who insist on meeting him now.”
Brim nodded politely at the smiling officers and lifted his hands palm upward. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said. T
hen he turned on his heel and followed in Khios' wake through the festive atmosphere of music, perfume, and beautiful people. The secretary stopped nearly all the way across the big room at a small, unobtrusive archway leading off among the hanging tapestries. He rapped gently on an ornate door before he pushed it open, nodding for Brim to follow.
Inside, soft lighting, walls of elegant display cases, magnificent furniture, and deep carpets identified the room as one of the ultra-private drawing rooms everyone heard of but seldom saw, rooms where the very course of history could be charted quietly, and frequently was. Two tall officers stood talking before a blazing fireplace: One a human, the other a flighted being from A'zurn. Their uniforms were heavy with ponderous badges of rank and decoration.
Khios stopped approximately halfway into the room and bowed from the waist. “Your Majesties,” he said. “May I present Lieutenant Helmsman Wilf Brim, Imperial Fleet, on detached duty from I.F.S. Truculent.” Then he rose to his full height and indicated the two men. “Lieutenant, Crown Prince Onrad, your host, and Crown Prince Leopold of A'zurn.” Startled, Brim saluted while Khios clicked his heels and bowed once more, then silently exited the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Nearly panicked and alone in the center of the room, Brim set his chin, collected himself as best he could, and strode purposefully to a position a few respectful paces before the two young dignitaries. He bowed, then stood looking first at one and then the other. “Your Majesties,” he said, seizing his emotions with an icy calm, “I am honored.”
Onrad spoke first. He looked to be approximately Brim's age and was powerfully built, with the square jaw and thick neck of a natural athlete. Expensively attired, his basic dress was the tailored blue uniform of a vice admiral. “So you are Wilf Brim,” he remarked, “the Carescrian who has caused all that trouble for Great Uncle Triannic.” His broad smile nearly squeezed his eyes shut. “Ha, ha! Well, your partisan campaign to prove out old Wyrood's Reform Act certainly seems to be working impressively.” He nodded to the A'zurnian beside him. “Isn't that right, Leo?”
Crown Prince Leopold exuded an ageless, almost ethereal restraint which, in its own understated manner, stood out like a beacon from all the heavy magnificence of the ornate drawing room. His folded wings reached at least six golden irals from the floor, his eyes were the huge eyes of a hunter hawk, and his look conveyed the very soul of dignity. Here was a man who never acted in haste, nor passion. He was beautifully clothed in the elegant, old-fashioned uniform of a brigadier general, and he stood with one polished boot on the high hearth. He also smiled at Brim, his an analytical and questioning smile that seemed to test its recipient without so much as a touch of challenge. “A 'gentle and daring leader,' as my cousins put it,” he said. His eyes narrowed and he seemed to look into the very soul of Brim's existence. “A 'complete' leader.”
“There, Leo,” Onrad interrupted hotly, “tell that to the anti-Wyrood idiots. They are hard to convince.”
Leopold sighed and stared into the fire for a moment. “Even they will learn, Onrad, or surely none of us will survive this tumult.” He nodded his head. “But those very factions will eventually learn — because the Wilf Brims of this Universe have the strength to persist, and in the final analysis, they do not.” Then he reached to the top of the great carved mantelpiece and took a golden chest in his hands. Stepping to a position opposite Brim, he opened it and extracted a tiny crystal image of a winged being: The same figure Brim instantly remembered from the twin pillars outside the quarry on A'zurn where Hagbut and his troops were held prisoner. It was suspended on a small red ribbon. The Prince smiled again. “I have sent all the meaningless text that goes with this to Gimmas/Haefdon, Lieutenant,” he said. “The only importance is that you understand how much your actions were appreciated in Magalla'ana and that we shall never forget your dedication to your mission and my countrymen.” He grinned a momentary, lopsided grin. “Lieutenant Wilf Ansor Brim,” he said, “in the presence of your liege, the Crown Prince Onrad, I award you the A'zurnian Order of Cloudless Flight.” He peered deeply into Brim's eyes. “Wear it proudly,” he said. “The decoration has never before been awarded to a groundling.” Then he fastened the ribbon to the left breast of Brim's tunic and resumed his original position at the fireplace.
Brim bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesties,” he said. The A'zurnian nodded.
“And see that you take good care of my cousin Margot,” Onrad added with a grin and a half-sensed wink. “I have a distinct feeling you constitute the only reason we shall be honored with her blond presence this evening.”
Brim felt his face flush. Then he boldly returned the Prince's smile. “I shall certainly attempt to do that, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. After this, he stepped back, saluted, and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him. Outside, he stood for a moment gathering his thoughts. Mentally, he felt as if he had just come through a pitched space battle. Then he shrugged to himself. It certainly was a long way from the ore barges — not an inconsiderable accomplishment for a Carescrian!
He made his way back into the growing crowd, accepting another goblet of meem and unsuccessfully scanning the room for Margot's blond curls when a small stir occurred at the entrance doors.
“Her Serene Majesty, Princess Margot of the Effer'wyck Dominions,” the majordomo announced in a voice notably louder than before. The babble hushed, and heads turned expectantly.
Brim felt his breath catch as she swept through the door on the arm of First Star Lord Beorn Wyrood. No longer was she merely an attractive military officer, she now radiated that particular beauty exclusively reserved for the wealthy and powerful. She was magnificent.
She was wrapped in a meem-colored, full-length gown that crossed in front and tied at the neck, leaving her creamy shoulders and back stunningly bare. A matching sash nipped her waist, and a daring slit revealed enough of a long, shapely leg to considerably raise Brim's temperature. Around her neck, she wore an enormous, single-drop StarBlaze that flashed with an inner fire as she laughed and chatted with the First Lord.
“…had no idea the party was that important,” someone whispered behind Brim. “She hardly ever attends these affairs.”
“Voot's beard,” another said in a low voice. “She's wearing the Stone of the Empire!”
“And LaKarn isn't anywhere in sight.”
“Noticed that.”
Brim watched transfixed as a small crowd formed around the couple. In a moment, both crown princes appeared, laughing and talking.
Then, the A'zurnian was bending close to Margot, she whispering in his ear. He grinned his lopsided grin and pulled himself to his full height, scanning the ballroom with his enormous eyes — which lighted on Brim and stopped. Smiling, he spoke rapidly to Margot, then she was peering Brim's way, too.
Their eyes met; she smiled — and frowned. In a moment, she was on her way through the crowd, never taking her eyes from him.
And in that instant, Wilf Brim knew for a certainty he was hopelessly in love.
CHAPTER 9
Margot reached Brim amid murmured admiration from the gathered revelers, took his hands, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Wilf,” she whispered with a breathless smile, “I knew you'd manage it tonight — 'Fresh evening winds have blown away all fear/From my glad bosom, now from gloominess!/I mount forever.' “
Stunned for a moment, he could only stare at her blue eyes, moist lips, and perfect teeth. Never had he seen so much of her shoulders, the swell of her small breasts. He felt his heart rush. “Margot,” he said in a whispered croak. “How wonderfully beautiful you are.”
She laughed. “I suppose I am a little more presentable than the last time you saw me,” she said, her voice mellow and beautiful over the sparkling background of music and conversation. She touched the A'zurnian medal on his tunic and smiled, looking him directly in the eye. “I'm very proud of you, Wilf,” she whispered.
Somewhere far away, detached words announced the arri
val of someone named Godille, but Brim hardly noticed. He wanted nothing in the Universe more than taking Margot Effer'wyck in his arms and holding her tightly. It was as if they were alone in the room.
Abruptly, she seemed to read his mind. She took his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. “Not yet, Wilf,” she breathed almost inaudibly. “I have additional functions I must perform with my new assignment on Avalon — and we shall have to share each other for a while tonight.” She gently guided him toward the lights and music, pressing his arm; her perfume was the very soul of seduction.
The dance floor! Brim almost froze. He'd learned exactly enough about social dancing to minimally satisfy his infrequent social commitments at the Academy — nothing more. Helmsmen especially had little time for anything else but flying. “Margot…” he warned, but he was already far too late. Abruptly, he found her in his arms… and they were moving, she flowing with the music, he stiff and suddenly a little frightened.
“Universe, Wilf,” she laughed in his ear, “you are a horrible dancer, aren't you?”
“I know,” he agreed. “Maybe we ought to...”
“Won't work,” she laughed. “You'll have to finish this set with me no matter what.” She nearly touched his nose with hers, looking deeply in his eyes and smiling. “Oh, Wilf, relax,” she said. “Here, hold me like … this. Yes. That's better.”
Brim suddenly found her fitted comfortably against him, her soft cheek pressing his. And it was easier. He felt her body — her breasts. He breathed her perfume, felt his movements become one with hers. He held her tighter.
And the music stopped.
In a rush, the world returned while she slowly released him. He held her hands, desperately trying to stop time's headlong rush. “I don't want to let go, Margot,” he heard his voice say; his heart was beating out of control.