"If that's true, young Brim," Calhoun charged, poking a finger into the younger Carescrian's chest, "then you are a damned poor warship captain. What would happen to Starfury if—Universe forbid—you got yourself killed in action?"
Brim swallowed hard. Calhoun's point was definitely well taken. He had been running everything since his arrival at Sherrington's, long before Starfury's launch. He'd given no one a chance to get along without him.
Calhoun smiled. "Tissaurd can take over for a while," he said. "She looks reasonably competent."
"She is," Brim grumped. "Very competent."
"Then it's settled," Calhoun said phlegmatically. "We'll meet in the lobby of the Sherrington headquarters at''—he consulted his old-fashioned gold timepiece and glanced at the smiling Phillpotts—"Brightness-one and a half; in two metacycles. That ought to allow us both enough time to conduct our business."
"I'll be there," Brim assured him, and started off toward the door.
"If I'm a wee late," Calhoun called after him, "you'll understand?"
"I'll understand," Brim chuckled. It was reassuring to know that Calhoun still had his priorities straight.
Nearly three metacycles later, Calhoun strode into the lobby with a lopsided grin. "Sadly," he said, "'tis time for us to be gone from this wonderful place. I would spend considerable time learning about young Miss Philfpotts."
" 'The exigencies of the Service,' is how they put it, I think," Brim offered.
"Ah yes, the exigencies," Calhoun said mournfully, opening the door. "Wull, another exigency waits for us outside." He nodded toward a small, nondescript skimmer hovering at the curb. "Poor but reliable transportation, young Brim," he said. "But it wull get us to my ship without causin' undue notice."
"Lead on. Commodore," Brim chuckled, striding through the door with his duffel bobbing at his heels. "Where you and I started out lives, waterproof boots were considered first-class transportation.
Remember?" Carescria was perhaps the most beggarly province of Greyffin IV's Empire.
"True," Calhoun agreed with a wry nod. "How soon we forget...."
Bromwich was located midway along a nightward-facing crescent formed by Glammarian Bight, and the Sherrington plant occupied its most boreal districts. From there, the main surface route to Cruden City paralleled the bay, running along a highly industrialized corridor. Once out of the plant, Calhoun set course directly for this artery. Brim hung on to an armrest as the light suspension reacted to Calhoun's high-speed urging over an ancient cobble-surfaced road. On either side were cheapside redbrick buildings with small windows that reminded him of Carescria. "Pick-and-shovel" workers seemed to gravitate toward such housing everywhere in the galaxy.
"First and foremost," Calhoun explained as they bounced across a narrow intersection, "you must understand one under-lyin' fact. Nergol Triannic means to take the wee dominion o' Fluvanna an' her supply of celecoid quartz Drive crystal seeds—as soon as he can. He's e'en buildin' ane o' his new space forts no mare than a few thousand light-years from their capital."
Brim nodded, marveling at the light traffic for that time of day. "Onrad mentioned that in his letter," he replied. "He also said you have a strategy to thwart Triannic's plans."
"O' course I do," Calhoun replied, "as promised." He pulled into the high-speed lane, blithely ignoring a flashing maximum safe speed exceeded on the instrument panel. "And I've based the whole plan on legal means, in spite o' the wild stories that circulate about my many enterprises in space."
"I'm all ears," Brim responded with a grin. Calhoun had been prime suspect for a long list of deep-space acts of piracy for years, but the courts never successfully proved the link between him and the crimes. Probably this was due to the peculiar fact that Imperial ships had never fallen victim to the attacks.
"It all has to do with the Mutual Defense Treaty Onrad put in place with Fluvanna a few years ago," Calhoun began as they passed a huge metal salvage yard, glinting in the sunlight. "That scrap of plastic he signed may turn out to be a most important document."
"How so?" Brim asked.
"Wull," Calhoun replied, steering toward a steep up ramp, "the way I see things, that zukeed Triannic's wanted Fluvanna for a long time now, even before the Treaty of Garak in the year 52000.
He'd have gone right after it once the war was officially suspended. But when Onrad inked his Mutual Defense Treaty, the Leaguers had to take us on first. And after losing the battle of Atalanta, their squadrons were in no condition to do anything like that, even though Fluvanna never had much of a fleet."
Brim nodded grimly while the skimmer careened giddily across a deckless repulsion bridge.
Hundreds of irals below, a toiling switcher dragged its string of barges toward a sprawling factory. "I haven't kept up with Fluvanna lately," he said, "but the CIGAs have certainly changed the odds with our Fleet."
"You've got that right, laddie," Calhoun growled, "though we've na lost all our teeth just yet. The Tyrant's still proceedin' with a little caution." He winked. "His latest ploy is to set up an 'incident' that wull give him a legal excuse to take military action. His CIGAs wull instantly tie up our General Parliament in endless debate aboot retaliation while he invades Fluvanna's capital at Magor, and afore we know wha's hit us, we'll hae lost our supply of Drive crystals. That wull put paid to most o' our new warship construction, an' one day he'll be able to walk into Avalon essentially unopposed."
"Unless we develop some sort of new Drive technology that doesn't start with celecoid quartz kernels," Brim interjected. They were now astride a grotesque-looking complex of thick glowing transmission conduits suspended from huge spirals that towered at least two hundred irals overhead. He remembered wondering about the structures from the air, but could make no more sense of them from the ground.
"We both know that's a few years away at best," Calhoun retorted. "Too far in the future to have much effect on the short-term events that are starting e'en as we speak. That's why we've got to make certain the Fluvannians can take care o' themselves—an' yon Leaguer space fort. Wi'out our Imperial Fleet."
Brim frowned, staring out the window at a long row of weathered storehouses that fronted a muddy, filth-tittered canal. Each was connected to one of the mysterious transmission conduits. "Not an easy task," he said thoughtfully, "if what I've heard about their fleet is correct."
"And wha's that?" Calhoun queried.
"It's said they fly some of the oldest starships in the galaxy," Brim replied. "Real antiques."
Calhoun pursed his lips. "True enough," he said. "I've seen them—e'en flown in a few. But there's a lot mair to a fleet than that. Fluvannian crewmen rate as some o' the most professional starsailors in the galaxy. An' those auld ships are in magnificent repair."
"Could they stand up to the League's new Gantheisser killer ships?" Brim asked, staring out the window at the blur of a high-speed train thundering past in the same direction, lost in clicks as it hurtled above the roadway through the glowing coils of a helical bridge.
"Depends on wha' you mean by 'stand up,' " Calhoun answered after a little thought. "Disruptors are disrupters, after all. The Fluvannians clearly couldn't survive a toe-to-toe sluggin' match wi' a squadron of Gantheissers—or that new space fort. But if they decided on suicide, they could inflict a lot of damage afore they were ground into space dust."
"Ground-up space dust doesn't stop an invasion fleet," Brim said, wondering what Calhoun was leading up to.