Brim settled into one of two battered armchairs in front of his desk, indicating the other with a nod of his head. "I think we'll change that soon enough," he said.
"Bloody well," Moulding chuckled. "Seems as if someone's been after my hide constantly since I met you."
"Commanding 610 Squadron won't seem much of a change, then," Brim said.
"Why am I not surprised?" Moulding asked with a grin. "Where's it to be?"
"Avalon."
"Well," Moulding said, brightening. "Quite an improvement. From a dominion barely awakened to starflight we're now assigned to the very center of galactic civilization."
" 'Very center of a huge target,' is more like it." Brim laughed. "My take is that anybody even remotely near Avalon will shortly be a recipient of the League's finest efforts."
"We saw some fine efforts in Fluvanna," Moulding observed soberly. "Let's hope these aren't too much better, or we may not survive the show."
Brim nodded. "I can't say that hasn't entered my mind...."
"Nobody lives forever," Moulding said, a smile breaking across his face.
"Probably won't have to worry about that," Brim assured him darkly, "We've already lost Karen Rumsey—your counterpart who was commanding Squadron 32 back at FleetPort 30. I just heard about it this morning; only got a chance to meet her a couple of times in person. She'd been running things pretty much on her own while I started the Starfury operation."
"I knew her in school," Moulding said. "A real expert in formation flying. How'd it happen?"
"Ferried some Effer'wyckean bigwig back to the capital," Brim explained. "League bastards caught her on the ground during their first raid on Luculent."
"Mmm," Moulding observed. "Well, if the night life over there was anything like I remember, the poor woman probably went out with a smile on her face."
Brim nodded. Luculent, the capital of Effer'wyck, was famed not only for a heroic overdose of pretentious architecture but also for its libertine way of living. "I'll bet things are a lot more subdued right now," he observed.
"You never know," Moulding replied. "People over there probably have a lot they'd like to forget these days."
"Yeah," Brim agreed. It was years since his own family had been wiped out in a single League raid from space, yet his mind's eye could see his tiny sister dying in his arms as if it had happened five minutes ago. "I wish them a lot of luck doing that...." Then he shrugged. "Enough," he said, forcing himself to relax. "There's ample bad news coming from Effer'wyck without dredging up the past—and I'll bet you'd like to hear about the new assignment."
Moulding laughed. "Well," he said, crossing his legs, "I already knew it's dangerous. Otherwise, you wouldn't be involved. But do let me in on the other details. Squadron Commander is it? Daresay that ought to prove interesting. Where might the crews be coming from?"
"That's probably the biggest problem we've got right now," Brim said. "The xaxtdamned CIGAs have been more successful than I ever dreamed. They drove so many people from the Fleet over the last ten years that trained crews are almost as scarce as ships. We're recruiting anywhere we can."
"Hmm," Moulding said, scratching his chin. "Somehow I was afraid that might be the case."
"We have plenty of warm bodies already, and a lot more on the way," Brim said. "A surprising lot of potentially good people—even Helmsmen, for all that. And individually, they're pretty well qualified for their positions. Universe, I've studied their records well enough and flown with some of them every day. But transforming groups of lone mavens into effective crews, then turning those crews into fighting squadrons isn't something that can be done in a few short weeks. At least, I don't know how."
"Combat," Moulding said.
"Combat?"
"Best instructor in the Universe—if a trifle short-tempered."
Brim nodded with a rueful grin.
"Let me get this straight," Moulding said. "All I have to do is whip a hodgepodge gaggle of independent space virtuosos into fighting teams good enough to compete with an experienced, highly organized, excellently trained and equipped enemy with high morale and absolutely no concept of compassion or fair play. Right?"
"No," Brim corrected, looking Moulding in the eye. "Competing isn't good enough. They've got to beat the zukeed bastards. And I don't mean in formation flying."
"Somehow, I didn't think you did," Moulding said with a little smile. "I suppose you want me to start immediately."
"Actually, no," Brim replied. "Not immediately."
"Oh?" Moulding asked with a cocked eyebrow.
"Yesterday," Brim answered. "Actually, last month would have been even better."
"In that case," Moulding chuckled, "I suppose I'd better be moving."
"Get yourself unpacked, old friend," Brim said, returning to his work. "I'll meet you at Pool Sector Twelve in three metacycles to introduce you around."
"I'll be there with my 'time rewinder,' " Moulding said on his way out the door.
"Better bring two," Brim replied over his shoulder. "The Leaguers aren't going to wait forever. ..."
The next evening, at the end of a frustrating day consisting mostly of useless paperwork, Brim wearily dropped into the Officers' Bar so late that even Borodov had called it a night more than a metacycle ago. However, due to increased traffic in and out of the great base, the bar was still crowded by transients keeping hours from any one of a thousand-odd planetary systems scattered across the galaxy. Colossal Gimmas Haefdon was coming back to life with each passing metacycle, no matter how slow the revival process seemed to impatient people like himself. Perched on a bar stool that was wedged between a huge Sodeskayan Drive Lieutenant and a morose-looking A'zurnian refugee, he was sipping a lonesome goblet of meem—and lamenting his wasted day—when he suddenly found his eyes covered from behind by a pair of warm hands scented by a familiar perfume.
"Guess who I am or you buy the meem," a disguised— obviously feminine—voice demanded.
"Hmm," Brim grumbled under his breath, "let's see. Nergol Triannic?"
"Wrong gender."
"Yeah, I thought so. Um... Zorfrieda, Queen of Halaci?"
"Universe, Captain, she's been dead a couple hundred years now."
"Oh," Brim agreed with a chuckle, "she was kind of boring. Ah... the Empress Mother Honorotha?"
"At least she's alive—now try somebody a few hundredweight lighter."
"Hmm. A few hundredweight lighter...." Now he remembered, or at least his nose did. The perfume! How could he have forgotten a hundred-odd receptions in the Fluvannian capital? "If I started moving my hands around back there," he asked with a grin, "would I touch anything familiar?"
The disguised voice laughed. "Unfortunately not, my ex-Skipper. But we can remedy that any time."
"Nadia Tissaurd!" Brim exclaimed, grabbing blindly behind him to capture a tiny, solid waist.
"Xaxtdamn," a lilting voice swore in mock rage as the hands covering Brim's eyes slid lower in an embrace of considerable affection, "I guess I buy the meem." At the same time, a pair of moist lips brushed his cheek, then retracted with a feminine grunt of dismay. "Voot's beard, Skipper, when did you last shave?"
"Early this morning," Brim replied, slipping off the bar stool to accept a hug that was—as always—a great deal more suggestive than friendly, "It's been a long day."
"You never let yourself go like that aboard Starfury," Tissaurd sniffed, accepting a boost onto the high stool.
"I never had to work so hard aboard Starfury," Brim groused. "And I'm not letting myself go!"
"If you say so, Skipper," she said, humor gleaming in her eyes. A tiny, prematurely graying Lieutenant Commander in her early forties, her round face, large eyes, pug nose, and full, sensuous lips gave a most pixielike countenance. She had a compact figure with large hands and feet—and prominent breasts that rarely failed to attract attention, even when mostly hidden by a Fleet Cloak. As Brim's First Lieutenant aboard I.F.S. Starfury in Fluvanna, she had proven herself to be a most competent Helmsman who could carry out a myriad of duties with the cheerful willingness of a saint. She was also frank and highly sensual. A strong bond had formed between the two officers, and occasionally they had been at pains to keep their relationship on the "safe" side of professionalism. "I assume you will join me in a Logish Meem," she said, signaling to the bartender.