A small knot of flighted civilians had gathered outside one of the main corridors and were talking quietly among themselves. Though dressed in battered remains of what once must have been opulent civilian clothes, each held a new Fleet Cloak over his arm; clearly they had been evacuated during a season of warmth and were being issued temporary clothing until they could be resettled elsewhere.
After all these years, Brim had never gotten over a sense of wonder when he encountered A'zurnians in real life. Men and women alike were tall and barrel-chested, normal-enough humanoids except for great folded wings—really a very specialized second set of arms—that arched upward like golden cowls trailing long flight feathers in alabaster cascades that reached all the way to the floor. These extended from "tensils," or down-covered, pillow-sized lumps growing midway between their shoulders.
The protrusions, manifesting themselves at puberty, covered an outgrowth of the reflexive nervous system that automatically coordinated complex motions of feather and flesh that resulted in flight.
Peering around the huge lobby, Brim could see that the two clearly harried clerks who manned the administrative desk were already mobbed by at least twenty white-suited technicians, so he made his way directly to the A'zurnians themselves. Raising his hands palms to his chest in the Universal sign of peace and respect, he half mumbled one of the few formal A'zurnian salutations he knew. "O' collo sol ammi. Do any of you speak Avalonian?"
"I do, Captain Brim," replied a gray-haired individual— clearly patriarch of the group. His massive forehead and great hooked nose gave him a distinctly fierce demeanor, but his huge green eyes were filled with the gentle wisdom that characterized A'zurnian people wherever they settled. Even stooped by age, the old man stood taller than Brim by at least half an iral. "How may I serve you?" he asked with no trace of an accent.
"You know my name, sir?" Brim asked in surprise.
The elder decorously placed a long, slim finger on the green-and-gold ribbon Brim wore among his decorations. "In all of our long history," he said with great dignity, "only one nonflighted individual has ever worn that ribbon. Your name is well know among A'zurnians."
Brim felt his cheeks flush. It had been more than fifteen Standard Years since he—a mere Sub-lieutenant at the time—led a small party of Imperials on a perilous raid against the Leaguers who occupied much of the little domain at the time. For his heroism, he'd been personally awarded the Order of Cloudless Flight by A'zurn's Crown Prince, now King Leopold XVIII. "I am most honored that you remember me, er..." he stumbled.
"At home, I was known as Knorr the Elder," the A'zurnian replied. "I served Leopold's father as Grand Ambassador to Avalon for many years."
"Then I am doubly honored, Your Excellency," Brim said.
"And so am I, Captain," Knorr replied modestly. "Now, how may I help you?"
Brim smiled. The old man was a true A'zurnian. "You landed last night aboard the bender Nord, did you not?" he asked.
"Aye, Captain," Knorr replied. "All of us."
"I seek Aram of Nahshon who landed with you," Brim said. "Can you tell me where they have taken him?"
"I have just returned from Commander Nahshon's side," Knorr said, pointing across the lobby toward one of the lighted corridors. "Ward B-131. Almost to the end, on the right. His bed is the first past the entrance. I take it you met Aram during his racing days, Captain?"
"Earlier, we were once shipmates as well," Brim answered. "But everyone knows of his recent heroism. For a while we feared he had not survived. How is he?"
The old man shook his head. "Only youth and Lady Fortune saved his reckless feathers this time," he chuckled. "But aside from some painful burns and bruises, it appears that he needs only nourishment and liquids to assure his survival."
"Thank the Universe," Brim said with no little feeling; Aram had always been one of his favorites.
"I'm certain he will be glad to see you, Captain," Knorr said, clearly anxious to continue his talk with the other A'zurnians.
Touching his forehead in thanks, Brim set off across the lobby, through a new crush of wounded Imperial servicemen who must have just arrived at the base. He grimaced. The steady stream of casualties boded ill for the defense of Effer'wyck. Unless he missed his guess, it would soon be Avalon's turn.
Except for dark rings beneath the eyes and a large area of badly singed feathers atop his starboard wing, scarlet-haired Aram of Nahshon had changed very little since he and Brim competed in the Mitchell Trophy races. "Wilf!" he shouted, struggling to his feet in spite of clearly obvious discomfort.
"I thought you were still in Fluvanna," he added, throwing a plucky salute. "You look great!"
Returning the salute. Brim could only stare in awe at the young A'zurnian who had calmly set his tiny destroyer against a Leaguer battleship and nearly won—then survived nearly two weeks in a lifeglobe with supplies that should have lasted no more than ten Standard Days. "Aram," he said, offering his hand, "you look perfectly awful. What is it that keeps you alive in spite of Voot's best efforts?"
The A'zurnian thought for a moment in feigned concentration. "Maliciousness," he replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "I simply hate Leaguers so much that I can't die until I take a lot more of 'em with me."
Brim shook his head. "For xaxt's sake, sit down before you fall down, Aram," he chuckled.
"How do you feel?"
"About half, Wilf," the A'zurnian admitted, settling to the bed. "Not only have I got the grandfather of all headaches, I can't fly until I grow a lot of replacement feathers." He shook his head.
"The liquid in this glass will get rid of the headache by tomorrow, but feathers grow slowly and you know how I hate to walk."
"I believe I've heard about that," Brim said with a chuckle, pressing a locator button on his paging unit as it sent a mild tingling into his shoulder. The two friends soon fell to reminiscing as starsailors are wont to do throughout the galaxy, and had just finished a spirited conversation on the merits of Defiant-class attack ships when Barbousse burst into the room, carrying a briefcase and a large red envelope that he passed to Brim.
"Commander Aram!" the big rating said with a broad smile. "It's wondrous good to see you alive, sir."
Brim opened the envelope and studied its contents while the A'zurnian struggled to his feet again and gripped Barbousse's hand. "It's good to see you, too, Chief," he said, winking. "Sort of proves I'm still alive."
Barbousse laughed. "You A'zurnians are a tough lot, if you'll pardon m'sayin' it. I'd bet that singed wing pains ye some."
"It'll keep me from flying for a while." Aram said, ruefully peering up over his shoulder.
"Not necessarily," Brim interrupted. "The Chiefs brought a message from our old friend Baxter Calhoun that'll get you a lot of time in a starship if you want it."
Frowning, Aram turned. "Time in a starship?" he asked.
"Absolutely," Brim said, handing him a sheet of plastic hardcopy. "Read it for yourself."
As he read aloud, Aram's eyebrows rose in apparent surprise. "This gives you authority to...." he began. His voice suddenly trailed away, as if he didn't believe what he was reading.
"To commission you on the spot as a Commander in the Imperial Fleet," Brim finished for him.
"And to put you in charge of 32 Squadron. You sign up for the duration only; after we win. you stay in our Fleet at your own discretion."
"Working for you?" Aram said.
"Well," Brim said with a shrug, "there's a down side to everything, you know. But I'm not half as bad as the Chief here claims."