"What else?" Calhoun demanded, his brow wrinkling in concern.
Drummond's face took on a rare look of annoyance, almost frustration. "It's another 'people problem,' " he replied, "and one that I'm half ashamed to mention. You see, a number of otherwise-loyal officers refuse to support the plan at all, even though they believe in it. Their fear is that influential, high-ranking CIGA brass within the Admiralty may get wind of the operation, and if it fails, they'll root out the ones who cooperated and ruin their careers."
"I thought of that myself," Calhoun said, taking a deep breath. "I simply did na want to b'lieve it."
He frowned and chewed his lower lip. "If that's the kind of slime we have to rely on these days, we might as well join Amherst's xaxtdamned CIGAs. At least they have some sort of common goal."
Drummond smiled bleakly and nodded understandingly. "I know how you feel, Cal," he said. "I hate dealing weakness like that, myself. But until we encounter a sentient that doesn't have emotions, we're going to have to endure cupidity of one form or another. The one recompense is that the Leaguers put up with the same things—and their thralls, the CIGAs, have to be prime examples of that sort of weakness. Imagine what it's like to deal with utterly contemptible pukes like Puvis Amherst.'"
Calhoun abruptly chuckled. "Aye," he said, winking at Brim with a look of comic satisfaction. "I can na imagine much worse punishment myself." Then he returned his attention to Drummond- "Neither does it do much to change the situation, either," he continued at length. "There are a lot of normally loyal officers in the Fleet who simply don't support the plan. And that's bad, because Prince Onrad's one requirement was that we generate some solid support among—"
Abruptly Barbousse opened the outer door and stepped inside. "His Highness, Vice Admiral Onrad," he announced as calmly as if the appearance of a Crown Prince were an everyday occurrence.
Barbousse was unflappable.
Onrad strode into the room only a heartbeat after all three officers jumped to attention. He wore an open Fleet Cloak over the standard Flag Officer's service dress: peaked cap with a double row of embroidered oak leaves, blue reefer jacket, and matching trousers with black boots. Four and a half stripes were embroidered on his cuffs. He wore no decorations save his Battle of Atalanta Service ribbon. "Seats, gentlemen," he said briskly, throwing his cloak onto a desk across the room and taking an office chair beside Calhoun. "Well, Drummond," he demanded, "how have our two Carescrian friends faired with the Admiralty staff?"
Drummond pursed his lips. "They've done brilliantly, Your Highness," he said after a moment's thought. "I've heard reports of only a few disagreements, and those are from known malcontents." Then he frowned. "I think if there has been any ill-fairing, it's been with our Admiralty itself. Everybody gives us lip service, but nobody is willing to provide crews."
Onrad nodded and slouched easily in the straight-backed office chair. He was one of those catlike persons who could look comfortable in a thousand-odd positions yet lose none of his dignity for it. "Yes," he said. "I suppose I'd expected that. I don't believe I would want to give up staff were I in their positions, either." He turned his gaze at Brim. "Wilf," he demanded, "how do you feel about temporarily resigning your commission in the Fleet to get this job done? Would you go along with something like that?"
Caught off guard by Onrad's forthright question. Brim needed a moment to sort out his thoughts.
Finally he looked the Prince directly in his eye. "Your Highness," he said calmly, "after doing a lot of thinking about how things seem to be going for the Empire right now, I'd take my chances and follow Commodore Calhoun into the Fluvannian Fleet. But I'd only do that because I believe that unless we act quickly we are liable to lose our Empire itself, and then my commission won't be worth much anyway."
"Well then," Onrad said with a smile. "That pretty much settles things, as far as I can see...."
Brim interrupted by raising his index finger. "You didn't let me finish, Your Highness," he said.
Onrad raised an eyebrow, clearly unused to such interruptions. "All right, Brim," he said.
"Continue."
"Thank you, Your Highness," Brim said. Over the years, he'd learned that the headstrong Prince actually counted on such interruptions, even though he had never learned to like them. "If I hadn't given a lot of thought to the state of our Empire," he started, "if I hadn't read a lot of exceedingly classified intelligence about what is really going on within the League, then probably I would turn the Commodore's offer down flat."
Onrad's eyebrows joined over the bridge of his nose in a mighty scowl. "And just what do you mean by that?"
"Well," Brim started, "imagine for a moment that you were not Crown Prince of an Empire but rather some career member of the Fleet—officer or rating, it doesn't matter." He poured himself a mug of cvceese' while he put the proper words together. "It's not all that easy to get a career berth in our Fleet," he continued. "Officers have to successfully complete a formidable education—then demonstrate its results in a battery of daunting tests. And ratings must fulfill all sorts of difficult skill and intelligence requirements." He took a deep breath and peered into the Prince's eyes. "If you don't have proper connections—and most of us Blue Capes don't—then entering the Fleet takes a long time, and sometimes a bit of luck, too."
Onrad nodded in agreement. "I understand all you've told me, Brim," he said. "But I've already said that they'd leave the Fleet only temporarily. I fail to see any problem there."
Brim continued unperturbed. "The problem, Your Highness," he said, "is that nowhere have I heard a guarantee that an officer's commission would be waiting or that a rating would regain his berth when this Fluvanna operation terminates."
"What?" Onrad growled. "Haven't I already said it?"
"Begging Your Highness's pardon," Brim retorted, "but I know what it's like to be legislated out of the Fleet. And believe me, so do a lot of other people. Nearly everyone on today's active-duty roster has seen how easy it is to find one's self on the outside, including the CIGAs who are going to consider this to be the most beneficial purge of the organization possible—lots of the best old-time fighters gone in one easy sweep. Were I a CIGA, I'd do my utmost to make sure none of them ever got a chance to serve again. Much as we all dislike the fact, Puvis Amherst heads up a very powerful, Empire-wide organization—enough to make me awfully leery about putting my commission in any kind of jeopardy."
Onrad frowned in sudden understanding. "Yes," he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I see what you mean now. It's going to take some sort of tangible guarantee, isn't it?"
"To my way of thinking it is," Brim replied. "Oh, there will be a number of us who will go along without one, but I suspect we won't be enough to staff eleven Starfury-class ships."
"For what it's worth, I think he's right, Your Highness," Drummond seconded.
"What sort of guarantee would they want?" Onrad demanded.
Calhoun smiled. "Like in a game of cre'el, Your Highness," he said. "Something that beats a CIGA resource."
"Like what?" Onrad persisted.
"These days, only Emperors beat CIGAs," Drummond said, "begging the Prince's pardon, of course."
Suddenly Onrad closed his eyes and nodded. " Now I understand," he said. "They'd want something 'in writing,' to coin an ancient phrase."
"That's the way I see it, Your Highness," Brim said, relaxing in his chair. He'd done his part; the rest was now up to Onrad.
The Prince leaned an elbow on Drummond's desk and stroked his short beard again, deep in his own thoughts. After a long pause, he nodded to Brim. "It's reasonable," he said. "The damn CIGAs are going to lose their power shortly after we find ourselves in a war with the League again. But until they are shown up for the wrong-headed idiots they are, we'll need that guarantee. And I'll provide it—through my father, the Emperor, of course. Some sort of immutable warranty that people can carry with them."