Brim nodded. Clearly, Calhoun had established a little Carescrian Admiralty, with himself as First Lord.
As the older Carescrian passed Patriot's builder's plaque he stopped to polish it with the sleeve of his coat. "A wee trick I learned from a mutual friend," he called over his shoulder to Brim. Then he disappeared into a companion way.
Only cycles after Brim stowed his duffel in the most luxurious stateroom he'd ever encountered, he followed Cartier onto Patriot's roomy bridge. It was laid out in the standard warship manner with twelve rows of consoles split along the ship's center line by a wide aisle. Through a tremendous expanse of Hyperscreens that wrapped completely around the bridge, he could see nearly the whole upper deck.
"Nice view," he whispered to no one in particular.
"Nice view indeed," Cartier answered. "And you, Commander, are one o' the very few individuals who hae e'er been up here to see it, except for the flight crews, o' course." She smiled.
"Greyffin IV was here for a wee flight, and Prince Onrad's been wi' us on numerous occasions. Regula Collingswood's been here, too—she an' Admiral Plutron."
Brim nodded, peering out at two circular plates expertly fitted into the center line of the forward deck. Each was perhaps thirty-five irals in diameter. Two more occupied the aft corners of the triangular hull. "How long does it take to remount the turrets?" he asked nonchalantly.
"Something less than three Standard Days—at the Governor's private facilities in Rhodor,"
Cartier answered as if it were common knowledge. "That includes the twa' twin-mounts that by noo you've guessed we can carry ventrally." She laughed quietly. "Tis why few outsiders ever get a glimpse o' the ship from her bridge."
No need for comment on that, Brim thought. A powerful warship like this in private hands would be enough to unnerve any politician. Three could cause an absolute panic! He grinned as he caught sight of Calhoun seated at one of two raised stations behind the Helmsmans' positions. He was staring intensely at his console and uttering short phrases from time to time. By the multitude of glimmering rings diffusing outward from Patriot's high KA'PPA mast, Brim guessed "The Governor" was making up for time he'd lost playing chauffeur during the morning.
At that moment, a tall, aristocratic man strode onto the bridge, took one look at Brim, and thrust out his hand. He had three stripes on the cuffs of his white Fleet Cloak. "Aha, 'tis you, young Brim—finally. We've been a long time in meetin', but I used to watch you flyin' ore barges years ago in Carescria. I knew your family afore they were killed in the war."
"Universe," Brim said, shaking the man's hand. "That's a few Standard Years ago."
"Don't I know," the man agreed, rolling his eyes.
"Probably I ought to introduce the twa' o' you afore you've become auld friends," Cartier laughed. "Captain Melbourne Byron: Commander Wilf Brim."
"Byron," Brim said, testing the name with his mind. "That does sound familiar, but..."
"I wadn't expect you'd remember," Byron said with a chuckle. " 'Tis been a number of years noo, and you war' in a mighty big hurry to get on wi' your life."
"You've been with Calhoun long?" Brim asked.
"A wee," Byron replied, his eyes momentarily peering far into the past. "Since his first ship." He smiled. " Which reminds me that I'd best gat to my console. The Governor is anxious to be under way.
We'll talk further ower a cup o' cvceese' once we're spacebome."
"I'll took forward to it," Brim said. He turned to Carrier. "Guess I'd better find myself a place to sit," he said. "I take it the jump seats are over there along the starboard 'screens."
"They are," Carrier answered with a look of surprise, "but nae ane's sittin' there this trip, at least to my knowledge."
"What do you mean'no one'?" Brim asked with a grin. "I'm someone, aren't I?"
"Well, o' course you are," Cartier said with a raised eyebrow. "But...." Then she frowned. "Wait a cycle. Fit bet the Governor ne'er told you, did he?"
"Told me what?"
She laughed. "That you're to replace him at the right-hand command console. Beside Captain Byron."
At that moment, Calhoun swung himself out of his console and strode toward them along the main aisle. "Come on forrard, Brim," he said with a grin. "This trip, I've nae time for gawkin' thro' the Hyperscreens. An office is a better place to prepare for sellin' m' plan. Besides," he added, clapping Brim on the shoulder, "I've been told that you'd ne'er believe we war' off the ground if you didn't watch the takeoff. So I thought I'd make things easy on you." Before Brim could answer, he was through the hatch and clattering down the companion way.
"I was wrong," Cartier chuckled. "He did tell you, after all."
"When you said it, you were correct," Brim mumbled, shaking his head.
"All hands to stations for liftoff!" piped over the blower. "All hands to stations for liftoff!"
Within fifteen cycles, they were headed for deep space.
Four Standard Days out from Bromwich—and less than a week from the turn of the year—Brim watched Cartier lay Patriot in through heavy traffic for a perfect landing on an autumnal Lake Mersin just off Avalon's sprawling Grand Terminaclass="underline" civilian gateway to a thousand-odd civilizations scattered throughout the galaxy—and beyond. Swinging off toward shore, they followed three gleaming liners and an old tramp into the prodigious mooring basin of bustling canals, fanciful bridges, gravity pools, reactors, and towering goods houses that surrounded the terminal, all connected by fleets of high-speed pool trams that made the mammoth complex feasible.
Under a high overcast, the sky was never without starships of one sort or another coming and going in all directions at all altitudes. War might be looming throughout the galaxy. Brim considered, but the interlocking gears of commerce still managed to turn and mesh as if little were amiss. Trade was the very lifeblood of civilization; when it stopped, whole dominions died, as had nameless thousands during the long march of history.
General Harry Drummond of the Imperial Army met them at the terminal. An enigmatic character who appeared to rove at will among all Imperial Services—including the Foreign Diplomatic Corps—Drummond often exercised extraordinary prerogative and clearly served someone with tremendous political power as a military wild card. Small and perfectly tailored in the tan and red uniform of Greyffin IV's Imperial Expeditionary Forces, he had a long narrow face, a prominent nose, and laughing eyes with an irrepressible natural humor. "Cal... Brim," he said, shaking their hands, "it's good that you have come. The time is ripe."
"I kind o' thought so, Harry," Calhoun replied. Then he looked the General over critically. "An'
you haen't luiked so good in years. You must be takin' care o' yourself."
"No more than usual," Drummond replied with a smile. "Maybe it's that plan of yours that gives me a bit more hope these days, Cal, You know, those xaxtdamned CIGAs have made it pretty rough on those of us who stayed loyal to the Fleet."
Calhoun grinned. "Tell that to my friend Brim here," he said. "He knows."
Drummond nodded at Brim. "I've heard," he said.
"An' I've also heard that you hae a most attractive chauffeur, General," Calhoun continued.
"My chauffeur?" Drummond said, his cheeks reddening slightly. "Why," he blustered, "I suppose I hadn't noticed."
Calhoun grinned. "Weel, I consider myself to be an extraordinary noticer. An' my sources say that she's really somethin'," he pronounced, snapping his fingers to summon his traveling case. "Maybe Brim and I ought to hae a luik at her. That way, we can make a mair honest judgment. What do you think, Wilf?"
"Sounds like a great idea to me, Commodore," Brim agreed.
"Absolutely," Calhoun mused. "An' while we do that, we'll let her drop us off at our hotel, killin' twa' birdies with ane stone. How aboot it, General?"