THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (15 page)

Theada grasped Brim's hand. “We made it!” he gasped joyfully. “We actually made it!”

“Yeah,” Brim said, himself overcome with a strange sort of relief. He could plan on living at least a few weeks more. It was a strange feeling. He hadn't encountered that kind of confidence since their departure.

Truculent
was home.

* * * *

With little to occupy him at the moment, Brim forsook the noisy throng exiting from the bridge. A traditional homecoming celebration was scheduled shortly for the wardroom, but according to wartime rules, crew members joined only after completing a session with someone from a debriefing team, and with his lack of seniority, Brim appeared next to last on the schedule of officers. He looked out through the Hyperscreens at the gray landscape: Another of Haefdon's long, drab evenings was beginning in a driving snowstorm as the Harbor Master's peculiar vehicle scuttled off down the snow-hazed road. A large group of utility skimmers in various sizes was already parked near the breakwater, and below the bridge he watched a line of figures leaning into the wind-driven blizzard as they trudged across the brow toward the ship. One particularly heavy gust momentarily freed a shock of golden hair from beneath a parka before its owner hurried out of his sight. It made him laugh at himself. Nearly anything was sufficient to remind him of Margot Effer'wyck these days! He shook his head. Beyond all reason, and he
knew
it.

Nearly three metacycles passed before he was finally summoned for his debriefing — in Amherst's cabin, of all places. Somewhere in the Universe there was irony in
that,
he chuckled as he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a familiar voice called out from the other side. Brim frowned as he pushed the door open. Where had he heard that? His heart skipped a beat.

“Wilf Brim,” Margot exclaimed, brushing a soft blond curl aside. “I have surely saved the best for last.”

He stopped short in the doorway when he felt his face flush. His breath had suddenly gone short, his ears burned, and he felt like a foolish schoolboy with his first serious crush. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. The image she sent in her message didn't begin to do her justice at all! “M-Margot,” he stammered, then his eyes went to the full lieutenant's insignia on the left shoulder of her cape. “I mean, 'Lieutenant.'“

She smiled warmly. “'Margot' is fine, Wilf,” she said. “And we shall
never
get to the wardroom if you don't come in and let me start your debriefing.”

Somehow, those words brought him around. “Sorry,” he said, regaining at least some of his composure and breaking into his own smile of honest pleasure. He shook his head. “I guess I never expected to see you here,” he said.

“Some ships get special treatment, Wilf,” she said. “Ones that carry special people.”

Brim looked at her hands, smooth and shapely and perfectly manicured, as she set up the keyboard of Amherst's Communicator. He listened to the sounds of the cooling hull, the raucous celebration in the wardroom. “Thank you” was all he could think to say. She was disconcertingly beautiful. Then he lost all track of time while she probed his mind with professionalism and skill that nearly took his breath away. He was first surprised and then fascinated by her deep understanding of the technology of warfare, and especially starflight mechanics. She posed questions that led to others and to others still — forced him to recall details that he had forgotten as unimportant but which were decidedly the opposite, from her viewpoint.

'The triggering gear you saw in the corvette's central globe, Wilf, was it in the
upper
firing room only, r was it in both?”

“Both, I think,” he answered.

“Then, were they the same?” she asked, blue eyes searching his very soul. “Could both disruptors be operated from the
same
firing room if the other was shot out?”

He thought for a moment. “Yes,” he answered finally, “because the power cables went to
both
firing rooms.”

Every word he uttered seemed to have some value. He had never met anyone like this before, never a woman both so beautiful and so talented all at once. When she finished, he found himself dazed with mental fatigue. They had worked without interruption for nearly three metacycles.

“You have quite a memory, Wilf Brim,” she said, fatigue slowing her own voice, “which has provided me a great deal of material for study.” She smiled comfortably. “Now I shall claim the further pleasure of sharing some meem from your wardroom. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” Brim said, looking at her softness. “Just wonderful.” Then other words suddenly crept into his mind. He grinned. .. 'Oh
weary lady Geraldine,/I pray you drink this crystal wine,'“
he recited, gesturing dramatically.

Margot closed her eyes for a moment and frowned. Then she laughed, a look of pleasure spreading from her lips. She pointed a finger at him. ..
'It is a wine of virtuous powers;/My mother made it of wild flowers.'
There! Something out of Leoline's 'Silver Lamp,' isn't it? You've
yet
to stump me, Wilf Brim. Even when you choose some of the very worst poetry in the whole Universe!”

They both laughed at that, then she deactivated Amherst's Communicator and they made their way to the wardroom.

They were late to the party, much of which was by now moved off to other ships and wardrooms across the sprawling base.
Truculent's
badly depleted meem supplies would be better stocked for the next round of celebrations. The wardroom was still well populated, but the early frenetic energy was now worn into a comfortable hum of conversation and the musical clink of goblets. Most of the lights were dimmed, and here and there couples shared the privacy of shadowed tables. A gathering of Bears talked quietly at one end of the room; Ursis signaled “hello” from a seat close to a slim female whose eyes never strayed from his face. The air was heavy with the scent of perfume and hogge'poa. Two other female Bears talked animatedly with Borodov while a number of other furry couples toasted in the Sodeskayan manner: Goblets raised empty and upside down while they chanted the age-old Bearish drinking litany, “To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!”

Margot nodded toward Borodov. “He's everybody's darling,” she said with her husky laugh. “The sly old Bear.”

Brim smiled and nodded. “I didn't realize so many of their females had joined the Fleet,” he commented.

“More of them arrive from Sodeskaya all the time,” Margot continued as he helped her into a chair at a table away from the lights. “Bears can't get along without them any more than men can,” she laughed softly. “Professionally, that is.”

“The Logish Meem you ordered, Lieutenant,” Steward Grimsby said, materializing cadaverously from the smoky darkness.

Startled, Brim looked up as the ancient steward placed two goblets before them. “I didn't order...” His eyes met Margot's; they were laughing and sleepy all at the same time.

“It's a fine choice, Wilf,” she said as Grimsby half filled her goblet.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, ma'am,” Grimsby said to Margot. He poured Brim's with total aplomb. “My compliments, Lieutenant Brim,” he said. “I can only agree with Princess Effer'wyck. It is a
fine
choice. Saved for a special occasion.” Then, quickly as he appeared, he was gone again.

Margot shrugged and raised her goblet. “To
you,
Wilf,” she said, “and to old
Truculent
here — and to Nergol Triannic's slipping on a ca'omba peel.”

He lifted his goblet and touched hers with a tiny musical note. “I'd duel a dozen Nergol Triannic’s — ripe ca'ombas at ten paces — if you would promise to debrief me each time I got home.” The Logish Meem was like silver fire in his throat. He had never experienced such fine vintage.

“One Nergol Triannic is quite sufficient for
this
war,” Margot said with a wink, “in spite of what I am sure are your
very
formidable talents throwing ripe ca'ombas.”

As the cycles slipped by, they talked of poetry, Haefdon, and the endless duty watches. She clearly had the broader picture of their war, and by the time Grimsby materialized with a second bottle of the same rare Logish Meem, Brim had a confused impression that her mysterious Technology Division was actually beginning to grasp some of the enemy's
meter,
that Baron Rogan LaKarn didn't find his way to Gimmas as often as she thought he should, and that even when he did, her own work schedule took its toll of an already abbreviated love life. Somehow Brim found nothing unusual about her last comment. She was that sort of person. Besides, he reminded himself, this was simply a social occasion shared between two professionals. But, oh, how he wished he could satisfy
that
particular area of her needs!

He savored her oval face, her loose curls, her sulky eyes — now even sulkier as fatigue and the meem took effect. And he drew her out, learned what he could of her life, her family, her loves from her days as a little girl. She spoke freely, clearly relishing the memories of carefree dalliances before the war. Brim smiled with her, but somehow the words were bittersweet in his ears.

Then, suddenly she looked about the wardroom. His eyes followed. Except for Grimsby's spectral presence in the pantry, they were alone. Margot glanced down at her timepiece and shut her eyes. “Oh,
Universe,
Wilf,” she whispered. “I'm on duty in less than five metacycles. I've got to go — now!” She touched his hand and drew his eyes to hers. “Thank you for a beautiful break in a long tour of duty,” she whispered.
“'Rarely, rarely, comest thou,/Spirit of Delight!/Wherefore hast thou left me now/Many a day and night?'
“

As he helped her into her Fleet Cloak, Brim found his mind a poetic blank. “All I can think of right now are my own words,” he stammered. “But I need to tell you that … that this evening has made some of the tough parts of my life suddenly well worth living through.” For a few moments of absolute unreality, he stood so close he nearly touched her. And found his carefully nurtured professional attitude was rapidly evaporating with each passing cycle.

Then, from nowhere, Grimsby appeared again, this time with Brim's own Fleet Cloak. It broke the spell.

“M-Many thanks, Grimsby,” the Carescrian stammered, looking perplexedly at the strange little man.

“Yes,” Grimsby agreed with a warm smile. “She
is
lovely, isn't she, sir?” Then he saluted and scuttled off toward the pantry.

Margot looked at him and smiled sleepily. “I shouldn't
begin
to question him, were I you, Wilf,” she giggled. “This old Universe has always contained its share of magic; Grimsby's clearly a part of that.”

“So are you, Margot,” Brim whispered as he followed her into the companionway.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Brim replied. “Just saying good night to Grimsby. “

Outside, the wind had abated somewhat, but the cold nearly deprived Brim of his breath while they picked their way over the icy brow. In the snow-strewn mist at the breakwater, they stopped outside her little skimmer.

“I'm glad I scheduled you last, Wilf,” she said — almost disconcertedly.

“You did that on purpose?” he asked.

Margot smiled. “My professional secret,” she said. “But aside from missing all the important data I took from you, I might also have missed the pleasure of these last few metacycles with you, mightn't I?”

Brim looked down at his boots. “Yes,” he admitted. “I would never have dared to even ask you to drink with me.” He shook his head and shrugged. “So many other officers must want…”

She put a gloved finger to his lips. “The Universe doesn't have many Wilf Brims to offer,” she said. “Let
me
choose my friends. All right?”

“All right,” Brim agreed with a smile. He opened the door to her skimmer in a shower of tiny snowflakes that tingled against his face and flashed in the dim light of
Truculent's
battle lanterns.

She slid into the seat, then looked him in the eye once more. “Few people here who recite poetry, either, so don't be a stranger, Wilf.” She tilted her head slightly. “Soon,” she added, then shut the door.

“I promise,” he said.

Moments later, the little machine trembled into life and shook itself of snow. Then it rose and skimmed off over the drifts, lights beaming through the tendrils of fog. Brim stared silently at the point where it disappeared a long time before he trudged thoughtfully back to the starship. A bloody
real
princess — but the title didn’t matter any more.

A fitful night ensued as Brim tossed endlessly in his narrow bunk while his timepiece metered away the early morning watch. When occasionally he
could
trick himself into something resembling sleep, he was beset by further dream sequences with Margot — whose beauty remained frustratingly untouchable (for one reason or another), but who was at least now unencumbered by Baron Rogan LaKarn. When more commonly he couldn't sleep at all, he lay staring at the dark ceiling attempting to convince himself his impossible relationship with this beautiful young noblewoman was nothing more than a friendship growing naturally out of some shared professionalism.

“Shared professionalism.” The term pleased him: Ample foundation for a friendship, even with a royal princess so far above his station she ought rightly to be completely out of sight. It explained everything. Made it all right.

Eventually, he did succumb to a deeper sleep, but it lasted only into the first portion of the morning watch: two metacycles at most, then chimes woke him, directing his attention to his message frame, which announced a wardroom meeting for officers in twenty cycles. Sleepily, he pulled on his uniform. “Shared professionalism,” he thought while he polished his boots. Well, if that's what it was, then it was clearly his turn to get them together. Muzzily, he combed the knots from his thick black hair. What did one
do
with royalty? He shook his head and chuckled. This time, he'd have to improvise as he went because the average Carescrian simply wasn't outfitted with
that
kind of knowledge, at least as standard equipment. Then he smiled.