He returned to Edgeward after two grueling months Brightside.
What had seemed a cramped, constricted city earlier now appeared so
vast as to make him nervous. All a matter of viewpoint, he told
himself as he tried to stretch and relax, free of the
moment-to-moment survival worries of the Shadowline.
He discovered that he was a comparative unknown. Half the
Edgewarders seemed unaware that the Legion was on Blackworld. The
other half did not care. The war had not changed daily life.
Storm did not know whether to be pleased or dismayed. Blake had
stirred up no hurrah at all. His employers usually went the reverse
route.
He had a feeling Blake was a little ashamed of what he was
doing.
His first day back he went through a rocky session with the
Corporation’s directors. They demanded action. Exasperated,
Storm offered them weapons and transportation. “You know more
about this business than I do,” he told them.
“I’m perfectly willing to run you out there and let you
handle it yourselves.”
After his initial aggravation, he enjoyed baiting them,
delighting in their aghast expressions. He would love to have a
chance to pull the same thing with the political pirates who ran
Confederation. How many wars would there be if the warhawks
themselves had to go put their fat asses on the firing line? The
armchair warlord was one of the grotesqueries of post-feudal
civilization. The Dark Ages were brutal, but then the ruling
classes got out and whacked on one
another . . .
There were no takers when he offered an inspection tour of his
Shadowline operations, either. Blake, he discovered, was the only
one of them ever to have crossed the Edge of the World. Typical of the breed, he thought. Never been out of their plush
chairs.
A week after his return Blake invited him to a City Hall party
for Edgeward’s elite. Pretty spy Pollyanna was on hand,
looking more comfortable and vivacious than he had seen her since
her wedding day. She was a different creature in her home
milieu.
“Gneaus!” She greeted him with a kiss and an
unselfconscious hug. “I hope you haven’t been too
miserable out there.”
“Miserable isn’t a word that will touch it.
It’s too good. I can’t think of one that’s low
enough.”
“Come on. I’ll introduce you around.”
“I hit Blake up pretty good on the contract, but I’m
beginning to wonder if he isn’t getting off cheap anyway. My
men don’t get to come in for these R-and-R breaks.”
Helmut, who had traded jobs with his brother, trailed Storm,
looking like a grumbling thunderhead seeking a target for its
spears of lightning. He was followed by the Sirian warhounds.
Helmut scowled fiercely at those Board members who had a habit of
sticking their long noses into the new Legion offices downstairs.
Cassius had moved them there to take advantage of the
Corporation’s superior communications facilities.
The first person Pollyanna introduced was Albin
Korando.
“We’ve met,” Storm said. “How are you,
Mr. Korando?”
“Still kicking, Colonel.”
“Albin’s sort of my brother,” Pollyanna
said.
“Must be a pretty thin genetic relationship.”
“Oh, no. Not by blood. We were both adopted by Frog.
Albin’s an exile from Twilight. Frog brought him in. Got him
into hogging. You should swap lies with Albin someday. He’s
got some stories to tell about the old days.”
Korando grinned. “Anything before last week is the old
days to these kids.”
“Uhm. Maybe we should slip off and swap a few over a
bottle. After the amenities.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Pollyanna told Storm.
“I’ve got plans for you.”
He began to fear that he had misread her, that she had not
changed after all.
“Lucifer . . . ”
“The break is official. No hard feelings. It was good for
a while, when we could both be ourselves. When we tried to be what
we thought somebody else wanted, well . . . No.
I don’t want to bore you. Just say I don’t regret it.
Most of it.”
Storm doubted that there were no hard feelings. This would mark
Lucifer for years. The boy would throw himself into soldiering,
trying even harder to become what he would never be. He did not
disabuse Pollyanna. He could sense that she would hurt for Lucifer,
knowing she had hurt him.
Next was Blake’s wife, Grace, whom he hadn’t known
existed. She was a short, slim, retiring, elfin woman, who was
socially ill at ease. She looked much younger than her probable
age.
“Mrs. Blake.” He put on his courtly manners, bowed
to kiss her hand. A bit of ancient chivalry might put her at
ease.
A part of his mind watched cynically. How we love to play at
being paladins, he thought. Hired killers pretending to be knights
of the Round Table. Dragons slain. Maidens rescued. Ogres
dismantled. No, no, that’s not really innocent blood taking
the shine off the old armor. Just a spot of rust.
“Is it? . . . Is it dangerous?”
Mrs. Blake said, staring at the ravenshrike on Storm’s
shoulder.
“Only if he decides you’re edible.” He tried a
boyish smile. “Nothing to fear. He’s not fond of
sweets.”
She became flustered. He moved on to Blake, who gave him a
frosty, “Good evening, Colonel.” He seemed painfully
aware of Storm’s philandering reputation. His gaze darted to
the warhounds. “I hear you’re quite skilled with an
ancient instrument called a clarinet. Would you favor us by
playing?”
Storm became quietly reserved. He could not be comfortable
playing for strangers. He seldom played to an audience at all.
Blake sensed his discomfort. “Oh, not for the mob. For
Grace and myself, after dinner. And Pollyanna, of course.
Grace’s request. She’s a musician herself. Favors
classical strings.”
“An honor, then. Perhaps the lady will join me in a piece
or two?”
Grace Blake stared at the floor and nibbled her delicate lower
lip. She really was a timid creature. Pollyanna squeezed his arm.
She whispered, “You’re overdoing it.”
People were watching. Several faces betrayed the thinking behind
them. A few women were eyeing him speculatively. Men turned tip
their noses at his menagerie or calculated their chances with
Pollyanna. Both sexes envied his access to the throne.
He spotted a grim face behind the partiers. Thurston pushed
through the crowd, trampling toes and egos alike. He was supposed
to be on duty downstairs.
Storm murmured, “Dinner and music may have to
wait.”
He returned to Edgeward after two grueling months Brightside.
What had seemed a cramped, constricted city earlier now appeared so
vast as to make him nervous. All a matter of viewpoint, he told
himself as he tried to stretch and relax, free of the
moment-to-moment survival worries of the Shadowline.
He discovered that he was a comparative unknown. Half the
Edgewarders seemed unaware that the Legion was on Blackworld. The
other half did not care. The war had not changed daily life.
Storm did not know whether to be pleased or dismayed. Blake had
stirred up no hurrah at all. His employers usually went the reverse
route.
He had a feeling Blake was a little ashamed of what he was
doing.
His first day back he went through a rocky session with the
Corporation’s directors. They demanded action. Exasperated,
Storm offered them weapons and transportation. “You know more
about this business than I do,” he told them.
“I’m perfectly willing to run you out there and let you
handle it yourselves.”
After his initial aggravation, he enjoyed baiting them,
delighting in their aghast expressions. He would love to have a
chance to pull the same thing with the political pirates who ran
Confederation. How many wars would there be if the warhawks
themselves had to go put their fat asses on the firing line? The
armchair warlord was one of the grotesqueries of post-feudal
civilization. The Dark Ages were brutal, but then the ruling
classes got out and whacked on one
another . . .
There were no takers when he offered an inspection tour of his
Shadowline operations, either. Blake, he discovered, was the only
one of them ever to have crossed the Edge of the World. Typical of the breed, he thought. Never been out of their plush
chairs.
A week after his return Blake invited him to a City Hall party
for Edgeward’s elite. Pretty spy Pollyanna was on hand,
looking more comfortable and vivacious than he had seen her since
her wedding day. She was a different creature in her home
milieu.
“Gneaus!” She greeted him with a kiss and an
unselfconscious hug. “I hope you haven’t been too
miserable out there.”
“Miserable isn’t a word that will touch it.
It’s too good. I can’t think of one that’s low
enough.”
“Come on. I’ll introduce you around.”
“I hit Blake up pretty good on the contract, but I’m
beginning to wonder if he isn’t getting off cheap anyway. My
men don’t get to come in for these R-and-R breaks.”
Helmut, who had traded jobs with his brother, trailed Storm,
looking like a grumbling thunderhead seeking a target for its
spears of lightning. He was followed by the Sirian warhounds.
Helmut scowled fiercely at those Board members who had a habit of
sticking their long noses into the new Legion offices downstairs.
Cassius had moved them there to take advantage of the
Corporation’s superior communications facilities.
The first person Pollyanna introduced was Albin
Korando.
“We’ve met,” Storm said. “How are you,
Mr. Korando?”
“Still kicking, Colonel.”
“Albin’s sort of my brother,” Pollyanna
said.
“Must be a pretty thin genetic relationship.”
“Oh, no. Not by blood. We were both adopted by Frog.
Albin’s an exile from Twilight. Frog brought him in. Got him
into hogging. You should swap lies with Albin someday. He’s
got some stories to tell about the old days.”
Korando grinned. “Anything before last week is the old
days to these kids.”
“Uhm. Maybe we should slip off and swap a few over a
bottle. After the amenities.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Pollyanna told Storm.
“I’ve got plans for you.”
He began to fear that he had misread her, that she had not
changed after all.
“Lucifer . . . ”
“The break is official. No hard feelings. It was good for
a while, when we could both be ourselves. When we tried to be what
we thought somebody else wanted, well . . . No.
I don’t want to bore you. Just say I don’t regret it.
Most of it.”
Storm doubted that there were no hard feelings. This would mark
Lucifer for years. The boy would throw himself into soldiering,
trying even harder to become what he would never be. He did not
disabuse Pollyanna. He could sense that she would hurt for Lucifer,
knowing she had hurt him.
Next was Blake’s wife, Grace, whom he hadn’t known
existed. She was a short, slim, retiring, elfin woman, who was
socially ill at ease. She looked much younger than her probable
age.
“Mrs. Blake.” He put on his courtly manners, bowed
to kiss her hand. A bit of ancient chivalry might put her at
ease.
A part of his mind watched cynically. How we love to play at
being paladins, he thought. Hired killers pretending to be knights
of the Round Table. Dragons slain. Maidens rescued. Ogres
dismantled. No, no, that’s not really innocent blood taking
the shine off the old armor. Just a spot of rust.
“Is it? . . . Is it dangerous?”
Mrs. Blake said, staring at the ravenshrike on Storm’s
shoulder.
“Only if he decides you’re edible.” He tried a
boyish smile. “Nothing to fear. He’s not fond of
sweets.”
She became flustered. He moved on to Blake, who gave him a
frosty, “Good evening, Colonel.” He seemed painfully
aware of Storm’s philandering reputation. His gaze darted to
the warhounds. “I hear you’re quite skilled with an
ancient instrument called a clarinet. Would you favor us by
playing?”
Storm became quietly reserved. He could not be comfortable
playing for strangers. He seldom played to an audience at all.
Blake sensed his discomfort. “Oh, not for the mob. For
Grace and myself, after dinner. And Pollyanna, of course.
Grace’s request. She’s a musician herself. Favors
classical strings.”
“An honor, then. Perhaps the lady will join me in a piece
or two?”
Grace Blake stared at the floor and nibbled her delicate lower
lip. She really was a timid creature. Pollyanna squeezed his arm.
She whispered, “You’re overdoing it.”
People were watching. Several faces betrayed the thinking behind
them. A few women were eyeing him speculatively. Men turned tip
their noses at his menagerie or calculated their chances with
Pollyanna. Both sexes envied his access to the throne.
He spotted a grim face behind the partiers. Thurston pushed
through the crowd, trampling toes and egos alike. He was supposed
to be on duty downstairs.
Storm murmured, “Dinner and music may have to
wait.”