"Beggin' the Emperor's pardon," Brim answered, "but I can't say as I blame them at all. You'd be quite a prize for the Leaguers to capture and parade about in front of their cameras. A disaster of that magnitude might just win them a whole war."
Onrad sighed, "I know, Brim," he said quietly. "It's one of the penalties one pays for being Emperor. One of the big ones."
Brim got a straight-in approach to the Effer'wyckean capital of Luculent the first time he asked for it. Clearly, someone on the surface knew who was aboard his Starfury, but all the same, it was evident that traffic—at least civilian traffic—in and out of space was nearly nonexistent. Probably, he surmised, everyone who had someplace off-planet to go—and a way to get there—was already long en route. But even so, the city's great network of avenues below looked characteristically busy as he overflew lofty old Legend Tower, asserting its own meaningless construction at the very center of town.
An afternoon of intermittent rain was waning on this part of the planet; to port, he could see great slabs of light among the showers. Farther out, the immense Effer'wyckean National Museum of Galactic Art gleamed soddenly, dominating a tiny forest completely surrounded by the ancient crystalline building. Off to the left rose the glistening towers of the grand Norchelite cé Effer'wyck (one of the great examples of Gradgroat cathedral architecture) begun nearly a thousand years in the past.
He recalled prowling the narrow streets nearby with Margot shortly after the first war, she disguised as one of the city's many prostitutes against discovery by her husband's secret police. They'd stopped at every third pastry shop for flaky, gooey, buttery sweets, eating them as they walked, getting sticky-faced as two children and licking their fingers. Afterward, in a little top-floor flat with a large window overlooking the city's famous lake, they made love again and again until they felt there was nothing more they needed to invent before they died. And then they went off for more pastries.
Almost a normal afternoon below in Luculent. But as he turned into final, Brim could see the great boulevards were not just busy, they were swarming with people. He bit his lip. The citizens were evacuating the city—in chaos. The great metropolis was vomiting out an almost pitiful collection of conveyances; shining, high-speed skimmers, ancient goods carriers covered with a half century of dust.
There were lorries, carry-alls, delivery vans, even construction carts. Had he seen a wheeled vehicle in the snarled traffic, if would not have astonished him at all. Every box that could hover and provide traction had been dug up and was now laden with treasures that had once spelled home to these panicked city-dwellers.
As he lined up on the ruby landing vector, he ground his teeth in compassion for the pitiable clutter of gravity machines below—they carried the people too insignificant to get off the planet. Most of them wouldn't even get very far out of town. Without spare parts, without mechanics, without energy resources, they formed long caravans of doom. How long would the older vehicles run before they failed? Braking, stopping, starting, turning in the midst of an inextricable jam. And the survivors would make no more than ten c'lenyts a day through the maze of disabled wrecks.
A lifetime of Helmsman ship forced Brim's mind back to the business of landfall. And if the city's roads had been jammed with refugees, Lake Doering that fronted the terminal district was uncharacteristically empty, for it led only to outer space, and those who could leave that way had already gone. He'd never seen the lake that way. Luculent was one of the largest, most cosmopolitan, and busiest cities in the known Universe, in many ways a rival of Avalon herself. Yet today, its once-teeming space harbor looked as it must appear during the national holidays. The pretentious old Dortmond Imperial Terminal itself was nearly deserted as he taxied up to one of the general-navigation gravity pools. It lent an unnatural character to everything in sight.
Once P7350 was moored—and special guards dressed in mufti were deployed around the ship—Onrad, Ursis, and Jaiswal were whisked away aboard a great, darkened limousine skimmer.
"Take in the city if you can," the Emperor confided to Brim just before his departure. "It may be the last chance you get for a long time, and the Effer'wyckean Secret Police will know where to find you when it's time to go home."
Brim smiled thanks and saluted wordlessly. But he did not take advantage of Onrad's kind offer, nor did he pass word to the others that the alternative was available. He and his crew were paid to chauffeur—and, if necessary, protect—the Emperor, not to enjoy the surroundings, tantalizing as they might be. He did take a few moments out to buy one of the country's fabled timepieces in a duty-free shop of the terminal block. At the going prices, he even had his name engraved on it. Aside from that, he remained within walking distance of the ship.
CHAPTER 4
GravAnchors and Identities
Toward midday, local time, Onrad and Jaiswal sent word that they would require nearly the whole day in Effer'wyck learning the situation firsthand. Ursis, however, returned during the late afternoon and immediately joined Brim on the bridge.
"Nik," the Carescrian exclaimed, looking up from a display filled with administrative minutiae, "why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"Secret mission," Ursis said as he tossed his Fleet Cloak over a darkened navigational display.
"Anastas Alexi has told you about the position I've taken with the Intelligence Services?"
"He told me of it," Brim said with a smile, "not about it."
This time, it was the Bear's turn to smile. "Everything about it is secret," he said. "Right now, everybody thinks I'm still somewhere in Gromcow."
"Pretty damned secret if you can't tell your friends," Brim complained in feigned petulance.
The Bear laughed. "I only got in last night, Wilfooshka," he said, rolling his eyes. "I haven't even checked in with the Embassy."
"What are you going to be doing?" Brim asked.
"Liaison work," Ursis replied. "I'll be back and forth all the time, so we'll have ample time to share a few goblets of Logish Meem, friend Brim."
"I'll hope so," Brim replied, then he frowned. "What's it like out there?" he asked.
The Bear shook his head gravely. "Worse than I imagined," he said, settling heavily into Onrad's jump seat. " 'Wycks have panicked. Utterly panicked. Today, Wilf, I talked to people at all levels and ranks, many from front-line planets—wherever those happen to be at any given moment. Big Cheeses in High Command try to make Onrad believe they still have control, but they don't. Nobody has control, except maybe Leaguers. Xaxtdamned CIGAs have so weakened whole government that military has no effective leadership above battalion level. Little armies, little squadrons—fragments—all try to fight same enemy, but no real coordination from High Command." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I have talked to many brave men out there, fighting Leaguers tooth and claw. But alone—in small, uncoordinated groups—they haven't chance of icicle in collapsium furnace."
Brim pursed his lips. "And it's our turn next in Avalon," he said to no one in particular. "I wonder how we'll fare in that furnace."
"Depends," Ursis said quietly.
Brim looked up and frowned. "On what, Nik?"
The Bear smiled kindly and put a hirsute, six-fingered hand on each of Brim's shoulders. "On things you already know about, Wilfooshka," he said. "Training, spirit, bravery, commitment to dominion, equipment. Nothing new," He frowned and shrugged. " 'Wycks have it all, except perhaps spirit—and they even had that in beginning. But without coordination, then all 'usual' things break themselves individually against coordinated opposition. You understand."
Brim nodded. "Yeah, Nik," he said, "I understand."