THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (43 page)

With a deep breath (one he would
never
admit was a sigh), Brim started grimly for the brow, his boots squeaking in the powdery snow. Around him, the first lights began to sparkle on the cranes like bright stars in rapidly moving constellations. Others winked on here and there in windows of the sheds and control shelters. But he could sense no warmth in any of them. The whole salvage complex — all of it — reeked somehow with the stench of death.

Out on
Truculent's
empty decks, the wind seemed harsher and colder. Brim's ears caught the distant, crackling thunder of a lifting starship, and he suddenly found it difficult to face the ruin around him. He shivered again as he carefully picked his way across the icy, buckled hullmetal toward a temporary shelter they'd rigged as a main boarding hatchway. The cover itself was unsealed; he fought it open against the wind and stepped into the empty darkness beyond, stomping snow from his boots on the grating. Maldive's station was long gone, as was poor Maldive herself. With so many of the others, they'd given her remains a Blue Cape's traditional sendoff into Universal emptiness. Her entry desk, along with
Truculent's
ornate sign-in register, had been reduced to subatomics in Valentin's final orgy of destruction.

The ship's interior even
smelled
empty; a damp staleness assaulted his nostrils, redolent of a faint but pervading scent of — he wrinkled his nose — death. No amount of scrubbing could ever rid this hull of the blood that had dried in so many cracks and seams.

Switching on his torch, he closed the hatch and started forward along the companionway, boots echoing hollowly in the empty stillness. He had gone only a few steps before the beam reflected from a spot of brightness on a blackened, wrinkled bulkhead. Frowning, he stopped, aimed the torch: “I.F.S. TRUCULENT. JOB 21358 ELEANDOR BESTIENNE YARD 228/51988.” The metal plate still shone as if it had been polished within the last day, which on closer inspection he
knew
it had. By force of habit, he brushed a few strokes with his own sleeve. Someone in the skeleton crew had been polishing regularly all the way home.

Brim smiled thoughtfully. Who? It could have been any of them; they all loved the ship in one way or another: Nik, Borodov, Barbousse, the handful of starmen left alive. Except himself. He'd been too heartsick to wander far from the bridge.

Farther along, he paused by the entrance to the wardroom; it was now only a rough blue patch in the bulkhead, shaped like a hatch. Not enough of the riddled walls beyond remained to permit shoring-up operations, so they'd sealed the whole area off instead. Everyone took the easiest way out of solving problems in space; starship repairs were a whole lot easier in the controlled environment of a gravity pool. And in spite of his gloom, Brim found himself chuckling about Grimsby. The ancient steward had been sealed inside his pantry by an early hit; they'd found him there calm and rested the morning after the fight. Grimsby was a survivor.

Up the ladders past the ruin that was once Collingswood's cabin, he ended his climb in the twisted wreckage they still (almost jokingly) called a bridge. Now even the last of the consoles were dark — those that remained on the wrinkled deck plates. Most of the duty stations had been removed previously, either by Valentin's disruptors or parts — desperate scavengers from nearby Imperial blockade ships who swarmed to the battle site even before it was judged DD T. 83 should be towed home for salvage. Brim walked slowly to the right-hand Helmsman's station: A
most
valuable console, it remained only because it was necessary for landfall operations. He turned his torch on full power to melt frost covering the cracked Hyperscreens before him. Outside, it was quite dark now, but the snow had stopped and the air was clear. Round patches of light gleamed dully under the repair yard's ubiquitous Karlsson lamps.

As he stared out into the night, he could just see the blackened circle where A turret was once mounted. It reminded him of Fourier, herself blasted from existence like most of her beloved guns. In death, she traveled near Maldive somewhere, forever headed out into the Universe toward peace — if, indeed, such existed anywhere. Beside him, Theada's console had been removed and was certainly serving even now in another needy ship, salvaged like the young Helmsman himself. It would be a long time before Theada was sufficiently healed for a permanent return to duty. But he
had
survived, thanks largely to Admiral Penda's quick action moving wounded crew members from the overcrowded charnel house in Flynn's sick bay to the giant and superbly equipped hospital aboard
Benwell.

Brim sat in the recliner to wait for the manager of the salvage team, remembering that only metacycles previously, he had used every bit of his skill — and a little more — fighting these same controls to a standoff as the two space tugs eased
Truculent's
almost helpless hulk down from a temporary parking orbit. He shook his head in wonder. The transition from roaring, flaming reentry chaos to the stony silence that now enfolded the bridge was nearly unbelievable.

As he sat, he wondered what Lady Fate had in store for himself. Clearly,
Truculent
would never need a Helmsman again. His own message queue at the base officers' quarters mentioned only that orders would be forthcoming, not
when.
He would hear something after the ceremonies tomorrow, he assumed, then shook his head. Somehow, he had been dreading
that
honor ever since Prince Onrad's message, informing him
Truculent's
heroes would be decorated at home on Gimmas/Haefdon rather than on Avalon. It made sense, the way the Prince put it: Avalon
did
appear to have quite enough in the way of ceremonies. The celebration would do a lot more good at this bleak outpost, where it would not be lost among the glitter of a hundred important functions.

He smiled to himself in the darkness. He found he didn't really care what happened at the moment, only that
something
new was in the wind. That was enough. For the present, he was glad enough to have the almost unbelievable luxury of a few metacycles to waste on himself.

It would have been nice, he considered, had Margot been… Then he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing all thoughts about
her
from his mind. With her permanent reassignment to Avalon, it was clear she had already made a decision denying him any more of her life. And he'd accepted that pragmatically. There was, after all, a
yawning
gulf between the future queen of a large star cluster and a Helmsman lieutenant not seven years from the Carescrian ore mines. He nodded to himself as he had so often done in the past few months. An
unbridgeable
gulf.

Outside, the lights of a skimmer caught his eye as it churned along the main highway, then slowed and swung through the gate, drawing to a stop before
Truculent's
salvage berth. Brim watched its single passenger disembark and make his way toward the brow. A nearby Karlsson lamp revealed him to be none other than Bosporus P. Gallsworthy himself. Gallsworthy? He'd already been promoted to Lieutenant Commander and reassigned to important Admiralty duty on Avalon. And the man certainly couldn't plan a long visit to
this
burned-out hulk; he was scheduled to depart on the
Robur Enterprise,
which left for the capital in no more than two metacycles.

Presently, footfalls sounded on the ladder to the chart room, then the senior Helmsman strode into the bridge. “Thought I'd find you here, Brim,” he said with a chuckle. “Sentimental dunces like you always fall in love with the xaxtdamned-fool ships they fly.”

Brim got to his feet and shrugged good-naturedly. “Guess I can't help what I am, Commander,” he said.

Gallsworthy almost smiled. “I guess you're doing all right, Brim,” he allowed. “But I lie a lot, too. So you'll never be sure.”

“I see, sir,” Brim mumbled as he fought his own smile to a standstill. Coming from Gallsworthy, those words were
high
praise indeed.

The man shrugged. “I didn't come here to pass compliments, smart alec,” he growled. “Seems I'm doomed to be Collingswood's messenger boy until I actually board the xaxtdamned ship for Avalon.” He laughed a little and looked Brim in the eye. “Somehow, for the Captain, I never seem to mind.” He frowned. “Don't exactly know why.”

Brim kept what he hoped was an impassive face. He could make a good guess why.

“At any rate, Regula's all tied up today with important business, which, by the way, involves you, punk, so she sent me to find you and tell you what she's done before you get the news as an official surprise.” He actually
did
grin at this juncture. “I doubt if you'll have many objections.”

By this time, Brim's curiosity was just about to go nonlinear. He nodded and steeled himself. One couldn't hurry Gallsworthy. The man simply had a hard time with words.

“Tomorrow,” he continued at length, “after the ceremonies, you'll receive orders for your next ship. She's I.F.S.
Defiant,
a brand-new light cruiser in final design right now at Eleandor-Bestienne.” He stopped for a moment and frowned. “It's where old
Truculent
was launched,” he said in an almost choked voice. “Xaxtdamned rustbucket anyway. Always needed trim on the starboard helm.”

Brim laughed to himself. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who ever loved a starship.

“Defiant's
first in a new subclass of very light, high-speed cruisers,” Gallsworthy continued after a moment. “Something else
indeed.
More'n half again the length of old
Truculent
here, nearly triple the crew — with the
same
top speed. Serious xaxtdamned warships. Built on the same principle as battle-cruisers, only a lot smaller; they'll use 'em for leading convoy defenses. Typical combat group has three of 'em with four or five destroyers. Damned near maneuverable as those Leaguer Zagrails you went up against, but armed with nine big 152s and a whole raft of smaller stuff. And they've got propulsion that'll knock Ursis' eyes out.”

“Nik, sir?” Brim interrupted in spite of himself. “He's assigned, too?”

“Yeah,” Gallsworthy said. “Collingswood's asked for him, too. Old Borodov's heading for the Admiralty, like me. He’s an Archduke back in Sodeskaya, ya’ know —serving in our Fleet only because he feels he should. He’ll be assigned to the General Staff next go-around.”

“Borodov an
Archduke
?”

“Brother of the Sodeskayan Knez,” Gallsworthy assured him.

“Voot’s beard,” Brim said. “Who would have thought something like that?”

“And Captain Collingswood? She's commanding
Defiant
?”

“Of course, Collingswood's commanding. Who else would bid for the likes of you and Ursis on her crew? Especially in senior positions.”

Brim shook his head. “In
what
positions, Commander?” he asked dizzily.

“Senior,” Gallsworthy reiterated. “I don't know why, either. She must see something in you two young pups I've never seen. Xaxt, she's busy right now pulling the right strings to set that up. It's why she's not here telling you this herself.”

“Universe…”

“Yeah. My words exactly.”

“Who else is coming over to the new ship from
Truculent?”
Brim asked.

“Not many,” Gallsworthy answered. “Course, there aren't a lot of you alive after that last action, either. Aside from ol' Grimsby, Flynn and Barbousse are the only others I know of.” He frowned. “Actually, I think Regula said she was bringing Barbousse along to keep you and that damned fancy Bear friend of yours out of trouble.” He chuckled. “Barbousse. Now
there's
a real Blue Cape, by Voot.”

“Yes, sir,” Brim said. He had no arguments about that…

* * * *

Only cycles following Gallsworthy's departure, Brim met the salvage crew on
Truculent's
starboard deck just inboard of the brow (as required by some ancient and obscure Fleet protocol), then placed his mark with a logic scriber in the prescribed half dozen places on a tabulator board. “For the Captain.” Then he was through. After that, he picked his way quickly over the brow and around the gravity pool to the shed with the metal roof.

Waiting for the TRANSpool skimmer to arrive, Brim found he could not bring himself to look back at the ship. It was as if he had just deserted a longtime friend in the middle of adversity — something Carescrians simply did not do. Mutual assistance was fundamental to survival itself in the grinding poverty of that far-off mining district, and Brim's sense of guilt in breaking this basic life tenet was almost overwhelming. He stood with his back to the littered gravity pool and stared out into the darkness, trying to concentrate on the future, not the past. Somehow, he wasn't very successful.

He traveled all the way back to the officers' quarters in near silence, then made his way directly to the Great Central Wardroom in the main building. He determined he would need an awful lot of meem to wipe the last few metacycles from his memory. An early start was not only advisable, it appeared to be a necessity.

He quickly found his need for drowning memories was not in the slightest unique. Ursis and Borodov had preceded him to the darkened, music-filled Great Wardroom by at least a metacycle. They were already well into a workable cure, each puffing his inevitable Zempa pipe and helping fill the room with the rich odor of hogge'poa.

“Aha, fryind Wilf Ausorevich,” Borodov slurred in a melancholy voice, raising his empty glass upside down. “At least you have finished vith thankless task.” As always, two young and (Brim assumed) attractive females fawned at either side of the elderly Bear. Somewhat less than soberly, they also raised their empty glasses to the Carescrian.

“Come, tonight we will drink manyeh, manyeh toasts to old
Truculent,
eh?” Ursis said, stumbling to his feet, “Devil take damned Valentin! Voof!” He handed Brim a large, ornate goblet and indicated an enormous collection of Logish and Sodeskayan meem bottles on an adjacent table, most of which were still relatively full.