The Sergeant jumped to attention. He was a huge man, almost as large as Barbousse, and looked as if he could take care of himself in any situation, with or without weapons. "Alive, General," he said, smiling grimly, "but certainly not by my wishes."
"Nor by mine," Drummond growled. "But he's valuable, so we'll keep him awhile longer. Besides, I think the Captain here will want to meet him for at least two reasons."
"Yes, sir. General," the Sergeant said, "I'll wake him." He strode to the inner door.
Brim frowned. "Somebody I'll want to meet, General?"
Drummond smiled and raised a finger. "Let's see if you remember him," he said. "You described him quite well in your report."
"My...?"
Before Brim could finish, the Sergeant opened the door. "All right, Von Oster," he said.
"Someone to see you."
Moments later, a tall, blond man appeared at the door dressed in a bright yellow jump suit. Brim had seen prisoners of war before—that explained the yellow uniform; the man was clearly a captured Leaguer. But where had they met? Fluvanna? He'd certainly attended his share of parties and masques at the Fluvannian Palace prior to the outbreak of open hostilities. Perhaps even during the years he raced for the Mitchell Trophy. He'd certainly met enough Leaguers in those days.... Then it came to him.
"Melia!" he exclaimed, nodding to the Leaguer. "Rogvor Melia nagvor gorbost sugar. Vorgost?" he asked in perfect Vertrucht.
"Dovinc nagvor Melia," the Leaguer answered angrily. "And you need not speak in the Father Tongue, Imperial. I am capable of conversation in your own bastard Avalonian."
"I'd forgotten you spoke their language, Wilf," Drummond said, "Where did you pick up that particular talent?"
Brim smiled. "In Carescria," he said. "We ore-barge Helmsmen dealt with Leaguers all the time before the war. Triannic was one of our biggest customers."
"A lot of us remember that," Drummond said. "A little before Praefect Dorner's time," he said, nodding toward the Leaguer. "I assume you two recognize each other."
"Says he was shot down over Melia on the nineteenth," Brim replied. "I got two Gorn-Hoffs that day, and...." He pursued his lips and stared at the Leaguer. "The second Helmsman had blond hair like that."
"Foolish Imperial," Dorner spit with contempt. "If that was you, your cowardice nearly did you in. I all but had you."
Brim ground his teeth. "Cowardice?" he demanded. "Dorner, I gave you a chance to save your life and the lives of your crew. And you tried to shoot me."
"Well of course," the Leaguer said as if he were talking to a retarded child. "Isn't that what this is all about. Killing?" He laughed. "If you had any backbone at all, you'd be a rather good warrior, er... I didn't catch your name."
"Brim," the Carescrian said.
At that, the Leaguer narrowed his eyes. "Did you say Brim?" he asked with a new look on his face.
"That's right, Dorner," Brim said.
The Leaguer stared for a moment as if he were surprised. "Wilf Brim of the Mitchell Trophy?" he asked.
"I raced," Brim replied.
"So," the Leaguer said, "I believe, then, that you know my Commander well." He laughed sardonically. "From the asinine questions your Imperial colleagues have asked me, I already extrapolate that my crewmen have talked too much. Therefore, it will come as no surprise to your General Drummond when I tell you that my Commander is none other than Provost Kirsh Valentin. I assume you have heard of him; he has mentioned you on occasion."
"Me?" Brim asked. "Why?"
"He also is a fool," Dorner said with a cruel smile. "He holds you up as both the bravest and most dangerous of Imperials. But I know you for the coward you really are. You do not have the, how do you say, 'guts' to win a war."
"I had the guts to spare your life, Leaguer."
Dorner laughed. "Those kind of... guts... will reward you with defeat," he said. Then he frowned.
"Perhaps there is something alike between you and the Provost," he said. "He has lost much of his former respect because of his views on the war. Some of us are suspicious that he does not think we should be in this war at all."
This time, it was Brim's turn to laugh. "I can't imagine old Kirsh speaking out against war," he said. "If anybody were ever a first-class warrior, it's him."
"Perhaps," the Leaguer said, "but that is not how the, er, 'scuttlebutt' goes." He laughed. "And now, gentlemen," he said, "you have had your little gloat, and I shall provide no more new information—at least not unless I am drugged."
"The only drug you'll get is the minimum TimeWeed you need to stay alive, Leaguer," Drummond said through clenched teeth. "You have given us more information than you know. We figured Brim's presence would make you talk, and it did."
"But you learned nothing new," the Leaguer gloated.
"On the contrary," Drummond said with a little smile. "You see, Von Oster, you were the only survivor; the rest of your crew died on impact in their defective lifeglobes." With that, he turned to the Sergeant. "He's ready for camp, now, Nelson. See he's on his way without further delay."
"I'll take care of it, General," the big man said.
Nodding, Drummond led the way from the room.
Later, on his way to meet Aram in the Admiralty's Great Wardroom, Brim noticed the Emperor striding toward him across the great lobby with a small flotilla of escorting bodyguards racing in his wake.
"I say, Brim!" he called out. "Wait."
Brim stopped in his tracks and saluted, even though it was indoors. "Your Highness," he said by way of greeting.
Once more, Onrad was outfitted in full Fleet uniform. "Understand they shot you up a trifle," he said, returning Brim's salute with a little frown, then offering his hand.
Brim nodded. "A trifle," he said, grinning while he gripped the Emperor's large, soft hand.
"Anyone killed?"
"No, Your Majesty. We were awfully lucky."
"Brim," Onrad chuckled, "you're always lucky, especially when there's fighting concerned."
"You've got that right, Your Majesty," Brim replied, thinking how often he'd nearly lost his life only to find himself saved in the barest nick of time by some ridiculous stroke of luck. "Now, if I can just find out how to avoid some of that fighting...."
Onrad laughed. "When you've discovered how to do that, you can give me lessons!" he said.
"Meanwhile, I've decided to use some of your luck myself, today."
"I'll gladly share whatever I can, Your Highness," Brim laughed, "What can I do for you?"
Onrad checked his timepiece. "Turns out," he said, "I'm to meet an old friend of yours in about a metacycle. Oodam Kav Navee Beyazh, the Fluvannian Ambassador. We're scheduled to inspect one of those new BKAEW satellites." He frowned. "Poor devil," he mused. "Things aren't going well in Fluvanna right now. The Leaguers want that dominion in the worst kind of way, but with our own situation here in Avalon, we have barely the resources to aid even those planets of theirs that produce Drive crystal seeds, much less their capital." He shook his head. "That leaves Magor open to attack anytime, and there's nothing anybody can do about it except fight with what little they have and suffer. It's a bad situation,"
Brim swallowed hard. Raddisma and his unborn child were in the thick of it, then. And there was absolutely nothing he could do for them. He couldn't even acknowledge....
"So," Onrad continued, "I thought I'd take him with me out to the BKAEW site and show him that we've got some tricks up our sleeves, too. Won't win the war by itself, but every little bit helps."
"Aye, Your Highness," Brim agreed absently. He hadn't been aware the war was going that badly in the out-of-the-way dominion half a galaxy away. Since Raddisma was the Fluvannian Nabob's favorite consort, they corresponded very infrequently by necessity.