"I understand," the A'zurnian said. "They're afraid. You can see it in their faces. They've got it in their minds that anything's better than fighting, so they're willing to make up with monsters like the Leaguers on the Leaguers' own terms. We had our own brand of CIGAs—did damnably well until the Leaguers showed their version of 'peace' for what it really was. The CIGAs changed their minds posthaste when the attacks came, but by that time, it was too late to reverse the damage they'd done to the military." He shook his head. "And— at least in the few days I was able to observe—many of those sorry zukeeds were the first the Leaguers executed."
Brim nodded, staring at the floor of the skimmer. "Makes sense," he said. "Leaguers conquer by gaining control—absolute control. You saw what they did to your countrymen in the last version of this war. They tore off people's wings so they'd be easier to keep track of."
"Yeah," Aram said bleakly. "I still have a bad time with that. The bastards really didn't do that out of any overt love of inflicting pain—although I'm certain some of 'em do. People who can't fly are simply easier to control than those who can."
By the time Brim looked up, they'd cleared the base entrance and were speeding along a broad highway that paralleled the shore of Lake Mersin, In the distance to spinward, a baroque clutter of towers and domes that was Avalon City dominated the horizon. Off to the right, a thousand-odd starships surrounded the great island structure of Grand Imperial Terminal, a galaxy of mooring beams glittering through the haze as the ships rode to optical anchoring devices. In a matter of cycles, the highway fed into Vereker Boulevard with its famous stands of kilgal trees and traffic began to pick up substantially. The three rode in silence, absorbed by their own thoughts—and the war. Brim settled back in the seat and watched as they passed parks, sparkling fountains, and rococo facades as if the deadly war bearing down on them had no existence at all. He'd seen the damage in Atalanta after the League's great raid there years back. This war would surely change the face of the great city, in spite of any efforts he could bring about to avoid it. But today, great black limousine skimmers decorated by embassy flags still sped by importantly in both directions. Many, he guessed, would be on their last trips in the Empire as one by one, the Leaguers' real allies declared for the enemy camp and departed into the darkness of war.
They passed the shimmering Desterro Monument, still crowded by tourists, hurried over the Grand Achtite Canal just moments before a huge barge closed the ornate ruby span in what promised to be a snarl of traffic, and moments later pulled daredevil fashion into Locorno Square with its traffic charging wildly around the monumental statue of Admiral Gondor Bemus. With a mad series of starts and panic applications of the skimmer's gravity brakes, the driver plunged into a turnoff and stopped at a marble staircase leading to the imposing, ornate structure known simply as "the Admiralty" for millions of light-years in every direction.
"How'd you like to fly a killer ship?" Moulding jokingly asked the driver as he stepped onto the pavement. "That kind of navigation takes real fortitude, in my book."
The driver grinned. "Thank you, sir," he said, "but those of us wot can survive Locorno are needed right where we are. Otherwise, none o' you starship drivers would ever get to the Admiralty alive."
"You're right." Moulding chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at the noisy traffic careening around the square. "I'd rather face the Leaguers anyday."
Brim agreed wholeheartedly as he started up the great staircase beneath wheeling squadrons of dirty, noisy pidwings. The stair treads bore mute testimony to at least five centuries of open warfare between the Admiralty and the birds—which the former had clearly lost. "I take it you're an old hand with the guards by now," he said to Aram as they reached the top and strode toward the massive entrance.
"Watch me," the A'zurnian said, setting a purposeful course toward the ornate entrance. When he was precisely four paces from the center portal, two of the four guards snapped to attention and saluted while the other two yanked open the doors. Returning the salute, Aram led the way through the entrance without breaking stride, Moulding and Brim followed close in his wake. Only experienced Admiralty hands knew how to do that; invariably, everyone else stopped. "Just like downtown, as they say," he chuckled over his shoulder.
Brim winked to Moulding. "So much for picking up local customs," he said.
"You were worried?" Moulding asked.
"Who, me?" Brim answered with a chuckle. But inside, he had been worried. Much as he loved Moulding, his blue-blooded old friend was far too wealthy and insulated from the realities of Imperial social protocol even to recognize de facto discrimination when he saw it. Indeed, to a large extent, Brim had become that way over his years in the Fleet, too. But in the beginning, he'd been only a talented Helmsman from Carescria, the most backward, underdeveloped section of the Empire, where the sole industries were poverty and asteroid mining. He well knew what it was like to be on the outside looking into a society that—in truth—gave only lip service to the notion of classless integration. It was good to see that Aram had so far soared above these hurdles as if they didn't even exist. Mentally, he blew a kiss to Nadia Tissaurd, who from the beginning had manifested confidence in the young A'zurnian.
They were late for the briefing and—once they'd submitted to retinal-image and fingerprint checks—tiptoed to seats at the rear of the small auditorium. "Universe," Brim groaned under his breath before he even saw the speaker. The man's grating voice immediately set his teeth on edge and brought back a flood of memories. General (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z'Hagbut, Xce, N.B.E., and Q.O.C., had changed little since Brim first met him more than sixteen years previously during the famous raid on occupied A'zurn that ultimately led to the League's losing control of the small planetary system by guerrilla action alone. Hagbut would also forever bring Margot Effer'wyck to Brim's mind because of a wonderful evening in which she managed to so thoroughly embarrass the pompous officer that he nearly lost consciousness. As if it were yesterday, Brim could still see the buxom Princess costumed in the low-cut, virtually skirtless blue uniform of an Orenwald prostitute leading Hagbut across the dance floor of Avalon's ostentatious Golden Cockerel club.
"What's the matter?" Moulding whispered from Brim's side. "Your face has suddenly gone red."
Struggling to stifle the mirth that threatened to break loose from the pit of his stomach, Brim could only shake his head and mumble, "It's all right, Toby—just a stray memory."
Hagbut had made his share of military mistakes over the years—mainly through an inability to listen when he was offered advice. However, the blustery General had usually proven himself to be more than competent in dealing with Leaguers. A small, intense-looking superpatriotic man of undetermined years, he had a perpetually flushed face and spoke as if he disliked showing his teeth. As always, his uniform was perfectly tailored, although its wrinkled condition left little doubt that he had been intensely busy since his precipitous return to Avalon.
"We are now in the midst of a MISTAKE nearly as GRAVE as the DEFEAT we have just suffered at the hands of the Leaguers," he said in his most boisterous style of speaking. "I find myself DISGUSTED when I see Imperial soldiers walking about in Avalon and elsewhere with an embroidered flash on their sleeve reading 'Aunkayr.' " He took a deep breath, and his face became even redder.