Afterward, there should have been a thousand old stories to retell... jokes not always funny at the time they happened, but now hilarious almost beyond belief... valiant Blue Capes and starships, gone forever except in the memories of those who still honored them... a whole wealth of general catching up for Bears and Carescrians both. But somehow, none of these conversations even got started. The Sodeskayans were already consumed by their current mission and could talk of little else.
"You came halfway across the galaxy for a meeting of the Imperial Starflight Society?" Brim asked in amazement as Borodov refilled their cups. "What sort of interest could either of you have in an amateur outfit like the ISS? Did you see the antique they entered in the trophy race? It looked great, but it flew like it had an asteroid in tow—forty-nine point seven eight M LightSpeed, full bore! Valentin won at better than sixty-two."
"We saw both ships, and how they performed," Borodov said soberly, tamping a charge of Hogge'Poa into his Zempa pipe. "That is precisely why we have come—the Great Federation of Sodeskayan States is, after all, a part of the Empire."
"I understand that," Brim replied, struggling to stifle a gasp as aromatic 'Poa smoke filled his small apartment. Sodeskayans loved the odor, that to Brim smelled like something between smoldering yaggloz wool and fumes from a radiation fire. "But I didn't know the ISS had any Sodeskayan members. From what I understood, it was never much more than a swank social club for wealthy Avalonians."
Borodov nodded. "Your understanding is essentially correct, my friend," he said, frowning thoughtfully at his pipe, which appeared to have extinguished itself in spite of his efforts. "Until the war, those societies conducted starship racing in a very amateurish fashion indeed. The powerful socialites who formed their race committees wished only to bask in the dangerous glamour of starship racing, without necessarily participating in person. By unwritten fiat, they purchased their racers at military storage and reclamation facilities and left the flying side of things to contractors. It was all a big, infatuating game," he snorted,
"right up until this year." With that, he took out a pocket laser and began a new attempt to relight his recalcitrant pipe.
"When the League of Dark Stars broke all the old unwritten rules," Ursis continued in place of his companion, "they also twisted the whole concept from a grand, pangalactic celebration of affluence into a downright arrant display of military prowess. Instead of bumbling through as had all the prewar winners, these Leaguers tailored every detail for one particular task—winning. Which, of course, they did.
Handily. If it hadn't been for young Aram and his new starship factory on A'zurn, your friend Valentin would have won first and second places! And do you know why the Leaguers did it?"
Brim pursed his lips and shook his head. "I guess I hadn't been paying that much attention to the whys, Nik," he explained.
"Think of it this way, Wilf," Ursis explained. "Except for those obscenities who call themselves CIGA, anybody with even half a brain understands that Triannic will resume his war just as soon as he thinks he can win it. He's already taking his first steps with threats against Fluvanna, and competitions like the Mitchell Trophy Race are perfect places to show off military hardware, as well as attract new allies." He looked Brim directly in the eye. "Allies like your friend and mine, Rogan LaKarn," he added pointedly.
"That's my take of the thing, too," Borodov growled with a nod. "But just try to explain that to any of the CIGAs in Avalon," he said, "especially those blasted zukeeds in the Admirally. They not only lack interest in the truth, but have sufficient power to avoid hearing it very often."
"CIGA scum will not always be in the ascendancy," Borodov predicted darkly. "But until that time comes, we must have ways to counter them." He looked at Brim. "And now, friend Wilf, you begin to understand why Nikolai Yanuarievich and I have come halfway across a galaxy to attend a Royal Starflight Society meeting. Certain patriotic forces in the Empire are quietly reacting to the League's unusual win at A'zurn with their own meticulous preparations for the next race—preparations made with quiet, but almost limitless, government assistance."
"And believe me, Wilf," Ursis added, "we are not unique. Similar arrangements are going on all over the galaxy, even as we speak. This year's competition was also the unofficial prelude to the war's next phase." He laughed darkly, indicating the handsome lavender vest he wore over a richly embroidered white shirt and golden rope necktie. "We no longer wear our blue Fleet Capes, my friend, but we still fight for the same cause, eh?"
Brim nodded uncertainly. "If you say so, Nik," he equivocated. Sodeskayan Bears were known all over the Empire as rather parochial patriots.
The Bear shook his head soberly. "I do say so, Wilf Ansor, and proudly, I might add. Moreover, because of this, I am certain of where I stand in relation to the future—as is my friend and mentor Dr. Borodov." Then he rose. "But do you know where you stand?"
Brim felt his eyebrows rise as he looked from one Great Sodeskayan Bear to the other. "I don't think I know what you mean," he started. Then, abruptly it all came home to him. "You mean," he gasped, rising to his feet in astonishment, "that I—a Carescrian—ought to join the ISS with you?"
"In spirit, that is precisely what we mean, Wilf Ansor," Borodov said, taking the pipe from his mouth and looking over his glasses.
For a moment, Brim nearly succumbed to a wild, cynical urge to laugh in the old Bear's face. Ultimately, however, he managed to choke everything back in consideration of their long-established friendship.
Both Sodeskayans were clearly serious. He shook his head. "Nik, Dr. Borodov," he said earnestly, shrugging his shoulders, "I have no place in this crazy mission of yours—whatever it is. I don't particularly like aristocrats—present company excepted, of course. And besides all that, I'm not even so sure how much I love the xaxtdamned Empire. I got pretty hungry there for a while after the war—and I wasn't alone. A lot of us Fleet types got dumped like so much trash when we weren't needed any more."
"That you were, Wilf Ansor," Ursis answered quietly. "But you, at least, did not have to be hungry. Only your own anger prevented friends from helping you."
"But I didn't want charity," Brim snapped defensively, in spite of himself. "I couldn't stand xaxtdamned charity—from anybody."
"As I recall," Borodov interjected gently, "no one offered charity: not Nikolai, nor Commander Collingswood, nor Crown Prince Onrad, nor any of the half-dozen others who badly needed your services and had credits to pay."
" You, Wilf Brim, turned us down with cock-and-bull stories about phantom 'business deals' that were supposed to keep you too busy to accept our offers," Ursis inserted firmly. "Remember?"
Brim felt his face burn. That part of it was certainly true. "Yeah, Nik," he admitted, looking down at his boots. "You two did try to come through for me, a lot of times. And there were others. I haven't forgotten that. But my friends and what they tried to do for me doesn't excuse a whole Empire for the heedless way they treated other veterans who fought and sacrificed. I know what those poor people went through. I talked to them when they were hungry. I saw the hurt in their eyes—while rich bastards like these ISS dudes went on a spending spree all over the galaxy."