"I suppose the Cap'm's right, if the truth were known." Barbousse sniffed in mock resignation.
Aram rolled his eyes and lowered himself painfully to a sitting position again. "Chief, I know how much you hate working for the Captain." He chuckled, then looked at Brim with a serious mien. "How do you suppose a group of Imperials would feel taking orders from a foreigner?"
"I assume you'll take orders from me," Brim countered. "And I haven't noticed any wings on my back."
Aram grinned and shook his head. "You know what I mean," he said.
"Yeah," Brim said, "I've done a lot of thinking about it since I heard you arrived. And I can't say there mightn't be problems. People are people, whatever race they happen to be. Everybody's prejudiced to a degree. But overcoming that sort of thing, that's what galactic civilization's all about, isn't it?"
Aram nodded, although he continued to frown.
"You don't have to make your mind up right away," Brim said. "Think about it for a while. I'll be around the base all—"
"That won't be necessary," Aram interrupted, suddenly wide-eyed. "I mean, I want the job! I'm simply trying to think of something significant to say when I accept."
"How about, 'I'll do it.' "
"I'll do it, Skipper...."
"Chief, did you bring the Oath Taker along with you?"
"Aye, Cap'm," Barbousse said, taking a portable warrant board from his briefcase.
"Commander," he said, setting the small device beside Aram on the bed and activating its window. "Place your right hand on the window here and repeat after me...."
The next day, after a long night of briefings, Aram of Nahshon—Commander, I.F.—was on his way to Avalon and FleetPort 30, where he would assume command of 32 Squadron. As Brim sat in his office listening to the morning starpacket thunder overhead, he smiled. Almost miraculous, he considered, how the excitement of a new assignment could mask the aches and pains of a very dangerous war. And besides, Aram was, after all, an A'zurnian, with a real sense of identity from which he could draw strength. Probably, he thought, that would be more than enough....
Toward the end of the Standard Month Pentad, as Brim and Moulding prepared to move 610
Squadron to its new home at Fleetport 30, Imperial Expeditionary Forces under Major General (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z'Hagbut and remnants of the Effer'wyckean army were forced to retreat from the Torbean worlds toward the center of the galaxy. Hoping to link up with other Effer'wyckean forces, they made a stand on three watery planets orbiting Aunkayr, a fifth-class star on the edge of the 'Wyckean Void, only 160 light-years away from Asterious.
Scarcely a matter of days later, however, fresh Leaguer armadas overran most of the Effer'wyckean Sixth Fleet, and Hagbut swiftly concluded that even his new position was hopeless. To the General's everlasting credit, he immediately KA'PPAed for help—and in doing so triggered an event that bordered on the miraculous.
In no way could the beleaguered Imperial Admiralty muster sufficient transports to effect the withdrawal before oncoming Leaguers totally wiped out their trapped Allied quarry. So the Admirals put out a general call for help to anyone in the area who had an operational starship. And with panache that had saved the hoary old Empire literally hundreds of times in the past, Avalon's private citizens provided the miracle.
Barges, interstellar ferries, space yachts, HyperLaunches, salvage vessels, tramps, smugglers, space drifters, ore trawlers, even a beacon ship halfway through her overhaul, anything that could lift into HyperSpace—plus the Fleet—crossed the 'Wyckean Void to Aunkayr in mass. There, operating loosely under Admiralty supervision, the ragtag squadrons began what was soon called The Miracle of Aunkayr.
Each morning saw a shrinking perimeter around the beleaguered Allied forces, and the lakes that served as lift-off stations became more jammed by the metacycle as interplanetary barges full of soldiers and their gear arrived from the shrinking front. "The ground troops were hungry and thirsty and nearly dead," commented one volunteer with a small rescue craft. "A lot of 'em even wore ripped battlesuits.
But they kept in line. I was proud of the poor sods!" Leaguer warships fired viciously on them from every direction, in spite of dedicated efforts from every attack ship the Imperials could get into space. Yet volunteers in unknown hundreds of private starships ultimately rescued nearly 225,000 Imperial soldiers and an additional 113,000 Effer'wyckean troops, transporting them back to Avalon before the operation ended during the first metacycles of Standard date 2 Hexad 52012.
In the local darkness, General Hagbut packed his few items of equipment in a small spacecraft and made a final tour with the Senior Fleet Officer, Captain W. G. Landlord. When they were satisfied, as they remarked in their official communiqué, "that there were no more Imperial troops alive at the lift-off sites," they themselves left for Avalon aboard a destroyer. The operation would continue to lift off Effer'wyckean troops before the Admiralty declared an official termination at the end of 4 Hexad.
Brim, Moulding, and 610 Squadron arrived at FleetPort 30 just after midday on the fifth, as the last stragglers were still limping in from Aunkayr. The usually crowded sky over Avalon was mobbed, and since passing through LightSpeed the squadron of rakish Starfuries had been assigned vector after vector to avoid collisions with slower traffic. Lake Mersin was already reflecting light through the haze that obscured the far horizon when Brim contacted a FleetPort Controller in the midst of what promised to be tremendous confusion. "Imperial P7350 to FleetPort 30," he announced. "I am leading sixteen Starfuries inside your outer marker."
"Defiant N956," the Controller announced to someone else, "move into position and hold vector two four left. Traffic will cross downrange."
"Acknowledge two four left and hold, Defiant N956...."
Brim shrugged and held his course. Maybe they hadn't heard his call. However, with sixteen Starfuries immediately behind him—and only the barest experience in heavily crowded airspace—there wouldn't be a lot of time for course corrections. He opened his mouth to repeat his initial contact when ...
"AkroKahn 725 is ready in sequence," a deep Sodeskayan voice interrupted on the same frequency.
"AkroKahn 725: affirmative," the Controller announced, still completely ignoring Brim's fast-moving squadron, "Move up to vector two four left and hold short."
"Up to hold short, AkroKahn 725," the Sodeskayan confirmed.
Brim checked his instruments. "Sanders," he demanded, "is the radio working?"
"Checks out on this end, Skipper," the radio officer reported.
Still another voice came on the tower frequency with a burst of static. "Um, we're on frequency again. Changed radios. Sorry about that."
"5006: you're back with me?" the Controller asked in a voice dripping with irritation.
"Yeah, and we didn't mean to switch radios. We're now on...."
Concerned, Brim swung high to starboard, avoiding a battered interstellar ferry that suddenly lumbered into his path. The old ship was clearly off course, victim of worn-out navigational equipment or—more probably—damage from a near miss by League disrupters. Ahead, he could actually see FleetPort 30's long-range beacons against the darkness of space. Time was running out. Keying an arrival layout for the satellite to one of his displays, he chose his own inbound vector, one that at least seemed to be generally aligned with his present path. "Imperial P7350," he announced, as if she had already assigned the vector to him, "I am leading sixteen Starfuries for vector two four left. Do you read me?" he asked, his voice clearly indicating an end to his patience.