The real responsibility for this war isn't with the militants here on Avalon, but with Nergol Triannic himself—and the misled traitors in our Empire who support him."
Brim paused for a moment, suddenly aware of what had just happened. The HoloRecorders were now concentrated entirely on him. He'd been outmaneuvered. This wasn't the bridge of a starship where he could fight with the best of them. He was now in the very center of CIGA territory—the slippery arena of media-swaying.
Then he looked into Amherst's eyes and saw.. . fear.
Of course! For once, he had an important advantage—people everywhere could see what was happening. The truth was out. He turned to face his old adversary, heart in his mouth. "The moment to decide on an Imperial course of action has long since passed," he said, "because the choice of fighting or acquiescing has already been made for us in Tarrott, not in Avalon. Now, it's high time that everyone—you included, Mr. Earl of Amherst—gets himself behind the people whose job it is to fight this war."
He took a deep breath, recalling a wise Gradgroat-Norchelite friar in the Juniper Street Mission of waterfront Atalanta who long ago taught him one of the ancient prayers peculiar to that venerable sect.
He peered meaningfully into the HoloRecorders and spoke with all the determination he could muster. "I am not a religious man," he said. "Nor am I certain that I shall ever comprehend anything deeper than the spiritual ties I have to my Empire. But long ago, I learned a few words from a wise man who lives halfway across the galaxy. They have served me well over the years, and I offer them to you, Puvis Amherst, Chief of the CIGAs, for your guidance as you begin your campaign to bring about our ultimate defeat."
He bowed his head. "O Universe," he invoked in a clear voice, his words echoing in the great, still lobby of the Admiralty, "stretch forth, we pray thee, thine almighty spirit to strengthen and protect the soldiers of this Empire. Support them in the day of battle... endow them with courage and loyalty, and grant that in all things they may serve without reproach...."
When he had finished, the HoloRecorders were still riveted solely on him. And Puvis Amherst was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 3
A Last Glimpse of Effer'wyck
As it turned out, Brim never did return to FleetPort 30 that evening. Shortly after the briefing, he and his two companions found themselves "invited" to a wardroom party aboard the Imperial battlecruiser Benwell. And it was quite clear that "regrets" were definitely not in order—even for two officers who had just flown halfway across a galaxy and were dressed more for conning starships than joining their colleagues for an evening of relaxation. Brim especially was outraged; he'd been looking forward to getting a fast start in his new command that same day. But, as ever in the politics-charged military arena of Avalon, social duties were often considered as important as one's actual job. The League would soon put a stop to that, he grumped to himself. However, until an actual attack came, Avalon evenings were meant for entertaining—and political posturing....
Benwell had come off the stocks more than twenty years ago, if Brim's memory served. She'd been built to replace Nimue, the great battlecruiser—whose destruction during an unequal battle with powerful League forces near the historic battlefield of Zarnathor had also resulted in loss of Admiral Merlin Emrys. As the skimmer drew to a halt at the majestic battlecruiser's entry port, he remembered his own youthful worship for Emrys and the three great battlecruisers, Nimue, Iaith. Galad, and Oddeon.
Before the war, the Admiral and his majestic squadron had ghosted in and out of harbors all over the galaxy, showing the colors—and the power—of Greyffin IV's Galactic Empire. Loss of both Emrys and his flagship had been devastating at the time, mourned throughout the galaxy. The former's near-miraculous reappearance after six years of "exile" on a primitive planet and his influence (secret, at the time) on the Battle of Atalanta were more than enough to establish him as a legend in his own time.
"Universe," Moulding whispered as they stepped to the pavement and looked up at the colossal machine before them. "No matter how often I see the old girl, I always find myself surprised at how big she really is."
"And beautiful," seconded Brim. Along a thousand-odd irals of her length, not a single light glowed; moreover the system of mooring beams that secured her had been damped against all but local radiation. Even blacked out, however, the ship's famous silhouette could be clearly seen against the starry firmament of the galactic center. Early on, the big Nimues gained a reputation as the best-looking warships of their day, with none to match their perfect balance of design. Benwell was no exception.
Fore and aft, her sleek, low-set hull was surmounted by three sets of superfiring disrupters placed into graceful turrets that literally melted into the gentle curve of her decks, A frowning bridge surmounted her raked superstructure and afforded the big ship a malevolent countenance that naturally bespoke her deadly purpose. And if the great ship had never completely replaced the original Nimue in the hearts of old-guard Imperial starsailors, she was perhaps even more beautiful than her predecessor by a dint of the many improvements incorporated into her design.
As Brim and his two companions approached the ship's prodigious gravity pool, thunder from what must have been at least fifty heavy-duty repulsion generators filled the night air and made further conversation virtually impossible until all three had identified themselves to a large— very thorough— security detachment and were well along the great brow that carried into the ship's spacious boarding lobby. "Voot's beard," Aram commented, making a little frown. "With all that, you'd think they'd invited the Emperor."
Moulding laughed. "Benwell's a bloody important ship, and her skipper, Admiral Dugan, is a most influential man in the Admiralty. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he had invited Onrad tonight."
"Nor would I be surprised if he showed up," Brim chuckled half seriously. The Onrad he'd known as a Crown Prince enjoyed a good party as much as anyone else.
Benwell's wardroom was already teeming with Blue Capes by the time Brim and his companions stepped over the coaming. Lighted for the party by dimmed sidelights only, the large, dark-paneled room was close with the spicy fragrance of camarge cigarettes, meem, perfume, and Sodeskayan Zempa pipes. One quick scan through the haze made Brim thankful for the clean uniform Barbousse had packed for him. A year in relatively primitive Fluvanna had clearly little affected the big man's penchant for working miracles or his inclination to discover events that were about to happen long before other mortals knew about them.
Checking his Fleet Cloak with a white-gloved rating, Brim led the way through the crowd toward the bar. The very atmosphere was charged with a cozy hum of animated conversation, musical clinking of fine crystal, and soft, elegant music played on a quintet of stringed instruments. And whoever had laid on the meem did a superb job. Elegantly Logish and aged to perfection, the fine old meem was a tribute to Admiral Dugan's meem chambers—and clearly his purse strings as well. If this were a true sample of the libations to come, Dugan was indeed a wealthy man or expected wealthy guests—or (most probably) both. Brim had just touched his goblet to Aram's and Moulding's in salute to A'zurn when his glance met a familiar pair of gentle perspicacious eyes greeting him from the other side of the room. These were set into a heartshaped face along with a sensuous mouth, wide forehead, and prominent nose, all framed by long black hair cut severely straight at the shoulders and across the forehead. Eve Cartier! She was smiling now that he'd recognized her, and he grinned back, inexplicably filled with delight. Less than a year previously, her unexpected arrival—leading three powerful attack ships— had literally saved his ship and his life following the battle of Zonga'ar. And, of all things, she was a fellow Carescrian. To Brim's eternal consternation, she was clearly proud of her heritage, even going so far as to retain the Carescrian burr that he had worked so diligently to erase during his years in the Helmsman's Academy.