THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (42 page)

“
That
foul
trick, Brim,” Valentin snarled, “was the last — lucky — gasp of your contemptible existence.” He glowered from the display in high dudgeon. '“Today, I shall finish what I started more than two years ago. For Dame Fortune has finally deserted you, Carescrian — and your thrice-damned ship!”

Brim kicked the steering engine once more, but the Leaguer Helmsman was wary this time. Now there were no more tricks left from the Carescrian mines. With Valentin's execrable laughter ringing in his ears, he desperately scoured his mind for a way to prolong things until the battlecruisers might arrive. “Well,
hab’thall,”
he commented derisively, “I see they
demoted
you after your last blunder.” .

Valentin's eyebrows shot upward.
“Demoted?”
he protested. “You would have done well to study League Fleet ranks, fool.” He pointed proudly to the ornate device embroidered in metallic thread on his perfectly tailored cuff. “I,” he pronounced, “have been made an
Overprefect
—
pro
moted
,
Brim. Not
de
moted
!
The same rank as your
full
Commanders,
Lieutenant.
“

“Is that right?” Brim said derisively. “Old Triannic must xaxtdamned well be scraping the bottom of his bedchamber slops bucket if he's forced to promote the likes of
you.
“
Voot's
beard, Valentin, you've never been able to complete a mission yet, when I'm around.” He peered into the display with mock concentration, wrinkling his nose. “Something about me sets you on edge, doesn't it,
hab’thall?”

“Capcloth! Carescrian scum!” Valentin raged in a high, choked voice. “I shall show you what it means to be on edge.” He turned to someone outside the display and nodded. “Carefully, though,” he panted. “I want this to be slow. Make certain our Imperial friends have plenty of time to savor their agony.” He laughed nervously. “Yes,” he hissed in clear anticipation, “so they enjoy every shot!” Then he raised his hand and Brim's display went blank.

“Apparent end of transmission, Lieutenant,” a rating reported.

Brim nodded. “Very well,” he said to himself. He turned to face the enemy ship and waited grimly, wishing he had even some of Fourier's rocks to throw. They would have been every bit as effective as his disruptors now, and a thousand times more satisfying!

He glanced around
Truculent's
battered bridge, littered with bodies and Hyperscreen shards. Not many of the old crew alive now; only Ursis and a few scattered ratings waited defiantly at their consoles, staring into the enemy disruptors. Clearly Valentin was keeping his promise to draw things out, enjoying his moment of triumph. Brim nodded. Let him! The battlecruisers were on their way, and even if
he
were not around to see it, the
Overprefect's
predilection for torture might cost him dearly.

As he sat watching the enemy ship, he thought about the Lixorian forts. In
Truculent's
present position, at least three of them could bring their big disruptors to bear, save the ship doing a job they were built to accomplish. But all were silent, watching as the Leaguers prepared to cut his now-helpless destroyer to pieces. He took a deep breath. Though he would soon be blasted all over the Universe, he would die with disdain for every preening Lixorian businessman on the surface who sucked sustenance from the troubles of others. Much as he hated the black-suited Leaguer Controllers, he could easily generate more respect for them than for the rapacious bastards who lived on the planet below. At least Controllers had moral fortitude to cleave to
some
cause other than pure avarice.

Across the emptiness, a single disruptor flashed.
Truculent's
deck jumped as the bolt of energy crashed home just forward of the bridge in a shower of sparks. A second flash, and the 'midships deckhouse erupted in a cloud of radiation. Through a display, Brim scanned the glowing wreckage of the wardroom. Most of it was now open to space; great starry holes yawned where Greyffin IV's picture used to hang. He wondered momentarily about the fate of old Grimsby, but couldn't see the pantry — and the damage-control sensors there seemed to have lost any ability to function. In the long, shocked silence that followed, he thought of Margot; his mind's eye saw her as she was the night they met in that same wardroom. Then the softness of
that
memory was blown away by a stunning jar as a bolt landed in the petty officers' mess directly below his feet. More Hyperscreens shattered beside him; splinters tweaked his battle suit in a dozen places. A sharp pain burned his arm. He looked down to watch a charred hole sealing itself on his right forearm. The deck bucked again as three direct hits destroyed the torpedo launcher behind him.

“Sorry, Nik,” he yelled to the Bear. “I did the best I could.” Ursis shrugged and smiled fatalistically. “I am not troubled by impending death, Wilf Ansor,” he growled. “I only regret I did not tear that
hab'thall
from limb to limb when I had chance. “

“Universe!” somebody exclaimed in a trembling voice, “why doesn't he get it
over
with?”

“Do not attempt to speed Lady Fate,” Ursis laughed over the voice circuits. “She often requires time for her miracles — which we badly need, as Universe knows.”

“I can't stand any more of this!” somebody else shrieked, but her voice stopped abruptly, interrupted by a blinding light that erupted just aft of Valentin's ship. The spreading burst of raw energy sent the enemy destroyer tumbling out of control like a child's toy and laid
Truculent
on her beam-ends. Terrorized screams filled the voice circuits; many of the Imperials no longer had visual access to the outside. Stunned, Brim automatically eased the destroyer back on to her original orientation, just in time to watch the Zagrail hesitate in its flight for a moment, then angle off into space at top acceleration amid a whole barrage of the huge flare-ups — the battlecruisers had finally arrived.

It was about xaxtdamned time!

Brim ultimately missed destruction of the third enemy ship (except to note a great pulsing light coming from somewhere off to starboard). Instead, he had been searching the darkness for a large object that appeared to separate from the doomed starship in its moment of hesitation before the attempted escape. Debris or possibly a cutter? Or had he imagined the whole thing? Whatever it was, it failed to register on any of his displays. Shaking his head, he reluctantly abandoned his search to watch the great Imperial battlecruisers
Benwell
and
Oddeon
heave majestically into view, their glowing disruptors returning smoothly to parked positions on their foredecks as they approached.

“Incoming messages, Lieutenant,” a rating yelled.

“I'll take 'em here,” Brim ordered, reluctantly abandoning his search. Whatever escaped Valentin's doomed flagship had long since disappeared among the stars. Momentarily, a globe materialized a familiar head and shoulders on his console.

“Your Highness,” Brim stammered.

“Wilf Brim, as I live and breathe,” Prince Onrad drawled from the display while he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Certainly glad you take better care of my blond cousin than you do of His Majesty's ships.” He raised his eyebrows in mock disapprobation. “Poor
Truculent's
a
proper
mess.”

Brim felt a rush of emotion. A choked laugh of relief escaped his throat. “Couldn't help it, Your Majesty,” he sputtered. “They just showed me how to fly 'em at the Academy; didn't say
anything
about taking
care
of 'em.”

“Ha, ha! Good point, Brim,” Onrad laughed. “We ought to send you to teach the class, then, for I meant what I said about the
proper
mess you've made. It's
totally
proper. You've saved much more than just a conference, you know, and I am told you faced three enemy ships. I saw only one badly damaged survivor fall victim to our disruptors. So if my count is accurate, you must have destroyed
two
others while you were at it. Correct?”

“Correct, Your Highness,” Brim answered, “but two were one too few. That third ship
you
destroyed nearly got
us.”

Onrad grinned. “Just like you xaxtdamned Carescrians. Always biting off more than you can chew.” Then his face became serious. “I thank the Universe we arrived in time,” he said slowly. “You and your crew have accomplished much important work today — more than I suspect most of you know. It will be good to see you suitably rewarded.” He smiled again. “Right now, I'm going to turn you over to Admiral Penda here, but I shall expect to see you
in person
back on Avalon as soon as it can be arranged. Good work, Brim — and share those words with your crew. Today, each of you is a hero, in the fullest sense of the word.”

Brim's display faded, then returned with the gray visage of Star Admiral Sir Gregor Penda, Imperial Fleet; no mistaking
that
round face and medium beard. The man had been part of almost every important news summary for the past five years, good and bad. His piercing eyes looked as if they had never admitted to a moment's doubt about anything, nor had they remained long shadowed by unanswered questions. Bold, decisive, and brave beyond all question, he was generally acknowledged to be the greatest tactician in the known Universe, as much feared by his enemies in the League as admired by Imperial colleagues. “Congratulations, Brim,” he said with a pleased smile on his face. “You seem to have saved much of the Empire's face as well as the conference. However, from the looks of
Truculent,
your medical officer would probably welcome a hand with the wounded. Am I right?”

Brim thought of the crowded nightmare in Flynn's sick bay. “I'm sure he would, Admiral,” he said.

Penda nodded. “We'll make the diplomats wait while we do something about that,” he said. “The Empire needs all the crews like yours it can get — preferably alive.” He passed instructions quietly to someone out of view, nodded a few times, then turned back to Brim. “I shall have
Benwell
alongside in a moment, Brim. We'll stow the protocol this time and do the maneuvering on
this
bridge. If I'm not mistaken, your own steering gear is shot to pieces.”

Brim looked outside and felt the color rise in his face.
Truculent
was weaving all over the sky. He pulled back on the power until his course steadied.

“You look surprised, Lieutenant,” Penda laughed.

“Universe,” Brim groaned, his eyes raised to the shattered overhead Hyperscreens.

“That's all right, Brim,” the Admiral chuckled. “Judging from the hole in
Truculent's
bottom, I doubt if the Fleet can come up with many Helmsmen who could have done as well; old Borodov's already notified our engineers you have performed a navigational miracle.”

In moments, the colossal battlecruiser was carefully pulling alongside towering over
Truculent's
tiny frame like a great mountain range. Brim shook his head in wonder; one brush with that immense bulk would reduce his little destroyer to a wrinkled piece of hullmetal foil. Momentarily, he succumbed to a flash of galloping claustrophobia; it passed rapidly when he considered that even
assistant
Helmsmen aboard
Benwell
were among the finest in a whole galaxy. He grinned at himself while a brow extended from the giant hull. Far overhead, he could make out tiny figures looking down from the bridge. He stood and saluted. They all returned his gesture. It was one of the proudest moments of his life.

* * * *

The TRANSpool skimmer drew to a halt in a cloud of swirling ice particles, which quickly dispersed in Haefdon's everlasting wind. “Thanks,” Brim said, stepping into ankle-deep snow despite recent efforts by one of the base's ubiquitous (and largely unsuccessful) pavement scrubbers. Early evening chill was raw on his face as he scanned the bleak inland repair yard. He'd got only a fleeting impression of it in the darkness the previous night after a frightful landing between the two deep-space tugs that towed
Truculent
home. Now, after a desperately needed rest, he had returned to sign Collingswood's destroyer over to the ship salvagers.

Salvage berth 189-E, itself, was a typical clutter of weather-beaten buildings in faded gray, heavy machinery, rusting wave guides, wheels of snow-covered cable — all surrounded by the requisite forest of ever-moving shipyard cranes. And what remained of
Truculent
hovered inertly on an oversized gravity pool, swaying uncertainly in the veering wind, centered on a tangle of mooring beams rigged by indifferent salvage-yard laborers. A rusty, oversized brow squeaked and rasped on unkempt bearings as she moved.

“Want me to wait, Lieutenant?” the driver probed gently from behind.

Brim guessed the woman had a lot of experience with people like himself. Ships could work their way into a person's soul. And when they were hurt… “Thanks, but this may take awhile,” he lied, turning back to the skimmer. “I'll call for another ride when I'm finished.” In truth, little more remained for him to accomplish at all so far as
Truculent
was concerned. A cycle or two at most, then the doughy little warship was no longer a part of his life — except for the memories.

The driver nodded. She understood. “There's COMM gear in the shack with the metal roof over there,” she said, pointing off across the pool. Then she saluted (almost as if she meant it) and drove off into the snowy evening silence, her navigation lights persisting like ruby wraiths in the darkening grayness.

Brim pulled the Fleet Cloak closer around his neck and shivered as he turned once more toward the ship. When he'd viewed her from one of the tugs on the way home, she hadn't seemed quite so damaged. Not out in space where she was meant to be. But here in the waning moments of a dreary Haefdon day, she was dreadfully transformed. Power chambers extinguished, her whole structure had cooled. Ice and snow dulled even the Hyperscreens over her buckled and warped bridge (or, rather, what remained of those Hyperscreens). Her decks were everywhere mottled by the bright blue of temporary pressure patches, and unsightly braids of thick multicolored cables ran through temporary holes punched in her hull from ugly machines blinking evilly on the periphery of the pool. She'd been despoiled of most everything that could be removed before the long tow home even began, including the workable disruptors. Now, during his absence, they'd taken even her one remaining launch. Except for a great throng of remembrance, the stout little ship had become a lifeless, stripped hulk.