"Aye, sir," she said, placing her hand on one of the alarm systems. "An' shall I call up one of the Starfuries on alert status?"
Brim grimaced. "No," he said hurriedly, "don't do that. Just tell the people below to expect a captured Gorn-Hoff—the 219 we seem to have permanently acquired as the base hack. It's got hull number"—he stood on tiptoe to read the little starship's hull number—"319-JE."
"Right, sir," Carnaby answered, "Imperial Gorn-Hoff 319-JE. Will you need a gravity pool, then, or will she fit on a grav pad?"
"A grav pad will be fine," Brim chuckled. With that, he strode across the wide deck of the mooring tube and into the brow. An "Imperial" Gorn-Hoff, no less. Even Valentin would get a kick out of that!
This time, he started both spin-gravs in short order and was about to cast off for the surface when for no apparent reason the mysterious crystal mounted on his readout panel began to flash excitedly. He frowned, scanning the panels for some ancillary information. Now what?
Abruptly, alarms sounded in the COMM channel, and the sector Controller's emotionless voice filled the headphones of his battlesuit, "610 Squadron, lift off and patrol base; you will receive further instructions in the air. 610 Squadron lift off quickly as possible, please. This is an emergency!"
Brim reached to switch off the 219, when the Controller broadcast again. "Large enemy attack formation approaching FleetPort 30. All personnel not engaged in active duty take cover immediately."
There was no time to get to his Starfury; it was on the far side of the big satellite. He was out of options—it was either head for the surface or helplessly play target again as he had done with Onrad a few days previously. Reclosing the helmet of his battlesuit, he turned in his seat and backed the little starship away from the brow. Starfuries were speeding away in all directions like insects whose hive is threatened. As he swung the nose out into space, he glanced up and saw the Leaguers—about a dozen GA 87B Zachtwagers—gleaming in the brilliant light of the Triad and coming straight on. Instinctively, he shrugged up his shoulders and ducked his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three more Starfuries head spaceward in close formation—just as the Leaguers opened fire with their great single-shot disrupters.
One moment the Starfuries were racing along in close formation; the next, they were catapulted apart by a tremendous explosion—the Leaguers and their astonishing precision. How did they do it?
They sure didn't have a xaxtdamned crystal strobing in the middle of their Hyperscreens like this little Gorn-Hoff did or they wouldn't have been able to hit a thing!
Or would they?
At that moment it hit him! The crystal. It was part of the aiming system Ursis was working on. It explained a lot of things that had happened since he'd helped steal the little Gorn-Hoff. The Leaguers who had been hunting for a "Weg'wysershmook crystal" ship... Valentin's desperate attempt to recapture him... the attempt to destroy a whole Intelligence complex (where logic dictated a captured ship would be stored). Before him in his captured transport was the key to their whole new aiming system!
He curved off and flew recklessly through the battle to test his theory. Wherever his crystal flashed, he slowed and circled the location at a circumspect distance until a Leaguer ship showed up—as invariably one would—and fired its big, single-shot disrupters as it flew through. He had it!
Suddenly an approaching Gorn-Hoff veered toward him, ignoring the point in space where the crystal flashed. He'd been spotted! He jinked, only to find another Leaguer curving in on him. Then another—and still another.
Putting the helm over hard, he headed for the surface at full acceleration as space erupted in a bedlam of monstrous explosions, each bouncing the 219 in a different direction until its sturdy spaceframe creaked in protest. Thank Voot their "unassisted" marksmanship was no better than ever! Reentry flames coursed along the little starship's flanks and every protrusion on the hull glowed with white heat, while cabin temperature began to rise ominously. For an eternity of clicks the tumult of confused disrupter fire continued, then fell away aft, as the Leaguers were engaged by avenging Starfuries, then he began to draw back on his power settings as the surface rapidly came up to meet him.
Some ten thousand irals above the cloud tops, he wrestled the now-incandescent starship out of its headlong plunge and peered around him. He was alone in the sky. And even though his battlesuit was putting out full refrigeration, he was sweating profusely in the heat. He checked the readouts and... The crystal. It was dark again.
He ground his teeth in anger as he listened to a status report on FleetPort 30. The mooring tube had a few more gaping holes that hadn't been specified by the original design charts and four men had been killed in a maintenance launch. But Barbousse estimated the base would be in full operation before the afternoon was over, so the Leaguers had very little to show for ten cycles or so of their confoundedly accurate shooting. Sad as it was to lose lives, the raid was further proof that try as they might, the Leaguers would never completely wipe out the Empire's system of FleetPort satellites. Shaking his head, he canceled the gravity pad he'd ordered, left word with Calhoun's office that he would be late for the meeting, and set course for the Intelligence laboratories on Proteus at top speed. His little Gorn-Hoff was about to cost Nik Ursis a whole case of Logish Meem.
Metacycles later, after cadging a ride back to Avalon and further mooching a staff skimmer to the admiralty, he noted a number of large HoloPosters on media kiosks exuberantly recounting the space battles around Asterious—and the losses inflicted on the Leaguers' vaunted Deep Space Fleet. Shops displayed stylish civilian battlesuits for both men and women, and street-corner displays demonstrated
"How to Lie Down When the City Is Attacked," advising citizens they should be flat on their stomachs, battlesuit visors down, mouths slightly open, and gloves covering the all-important neck interface. Near the palace, a nascent CIGA demonstration protesting the raid on Tarrott aborted nearly as soon as it began when angry crowds broke through obviously reluctant police barriers, scattering bruised and pummeled protesters throughout one of the large parks nearby.
Brim slipped into the meeting nearly two metacycles late, taking a seat beside Eve Cartier that just happened to be empty on the aisle toward the end of the rear of the assembly hall. He was in time to learn that the previous day's Imperial raid against Tarrott had been a complete success, with all attack ships returning safely to their bases. Moreover, the Leaguers had been stunned as their city erupted in the same great explosions they had wreaked on Avalon—during his early days of overconfidence, Admiral Hoth Orgoth had promised that Tarrott would never be attacked. The League media had immediately erupted with banner denouncements of the "Cowardly Imperial Attack," and editorial caterwauling against "Imperial air pirates over Tarrott!" But the Leaguers' protestations served only one purpose in Avalon—they cleared the way for even more raids in the future.
Additionally, the League had lost 41 starships that same day—and the number of operational Imperial killer ships remained level at 728. Clearly, from the Leager point of view, Imperial forces must appear to be a long way from capitulation. But Blue Capes like Brim who spent their lives on the front lines knew better. The granite-like Imperial facade was beginning to crack from overwork, stress, and fatigue.
Brim and Cartier dined exhaustedly after the meeting and afterward spent the night in the apartment on Vereker Square. But before they could make love, they fell contentedly asleep in each other's arms, and dozed so soundly—and so late—that Cartier had to make a mad dash for the shuttle carrying most of her underclothes in her kit bag. Grinning, Brim wondered if he could have spent the same kind of night with someone he didn't feel so close to. Maybe—just maybe—he thought, mere was more to this acceptance of his own origins than he initially estimated.