THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (19 page)

When the briefing ended, a much-subdued Brim made straight for his stateroom and pondered the utter callousness of war. At that point, he would almost have joined the ground forces himself.

* * * *

Less than a day later, the big liner arrived in high orbit over A'zurn. Below, on the surface, a small but highly organized A'zurn underground was already well into a noisy, highly successful, uprising in the distant city of Klaa'Shee to draw League occupation troops away from Magalla'ana while Imperial land forces disembarked for operations on the surface. In the air, the Imperial Fleet held complete, if temporary, command of the skies. After six years of League occupation, the A'zurnians were so totally devastated that the Controllers had seen fit to reassign all but a few surveillance warships to other occupied planets where more active opposition to League ministrations made such equipment more in demand.

“I say, Brim,” Sandur exclaimed, bursting onto the bridge where Brim idly watched a stream of shuttles ferry men and equipment toward the surface. “Someone claims they've actually got work for you down there. How does that sound?”

Brim laughed. Used to constant — grueling — activity on blockade duty, he was more than halfway desperate for something to at least occupy his mind. “Where do I sign up, Commander?” he asked immediately.

“Well,” Sandur said, smiling and cocking his head, “you won't need to sign anything. Seems they've already saved that trouble and
volunteered
you.”

Brim smiled. “How thoughtful, sir,” he chuckled. “What sort of work do they have in mind?” he asked.

Sandur frowned, managing somehow to look even more surprised than normal. “I don't know, Brim,” he answered. “You're to receive your orders from an Army type once you've arrived: A Colonel Hagbut, I believe.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose it
could
be dangerous.”

Brim nodded with equanimity. “Boredom can be dangerous, too, Commander,” he chuckled. “I'll be packed in five cycles.”

Sandur grinned. “That's the spirit,” he said. “And you won't go alone, either. There's this absolute
giant
of a rating who insists he travel with you.” He scratched his head. “Don't rightly know how he even found out about the whole thing — nor how he managed to get orders cut and signed by the ship’s Captain himself. But he did. Said he'd wait for you in the shuttle, Brim. You Truculents stick together, don't you?”

Brim smiled. “Have to, Commander,” he agreed. “It's a rough war out there.”

“Isn't it,” Sandur said soberly. “And getting more so all the time, as I am about to inform you.” He squared his shoulders. “Seems Triannic's occupation forces got off every broadcast for help we predicted they would. Maybe even a few more. We were pretty accurate guessing those.” He gazed thoughtfully out the Hyperscreens, drumming his fingers on a nearby console. “Unfortunately, we
also
predicted Triannic wouldn't be able to free up much equipment for a counterattack,” he continued, “at least not before we finished most of our work.” This time he ended with a grimace.

“You weren't so accurate
there,
Commander?” Brim asked.

“Not quite,” Sandur answered.

“What went wrong, sir?”

Sandur laughed. “Nothing actually went
wrong,
my young friend. We simply did not count on Admiral Kabul Anak and his battlecruiser squadron to be in quite such close proximity.” He shook his head in disgust. “You've heard of him, of course.”

“Once or twice,” Brim growled, his little sister’s face flashing painfully in his mind's eye. “And us with only destroyers...” He stared out into the starry blackness. “How long do we have, Commander?”

“Perhaps three standard days,” Sandur said, frowning darkly. “Instead of the five Planning Ops allotted.” He grimaced. “I thought I'd better let you know beforehand, because whatever you're going to accomplish down there, you'd better do it quickly. When we receive orders to move
Prosperous,
we'll
move
her, let me guarantee you that. This starship is more than just a fast transport; she's one of the biggest and fastest liners in the Universe, but she can't fight and she can't outrun a battlecruiser. So when those orders arrive, we'll pick up whomever and whatever we can on the way out — and we'll leave everything else here.” He placed a hand on Brim's shoulder. “There's ample time to accomplish the destruction of the research network; that's important to the Admiralty, too. But once those objectives are accomplished, well, remember, Brim,
after
the raid, everything and
everyone
is expendable except
Prosperous
herself.”

Later, the Carescrian hurried toward his cabin, chuckling in spite of storm clouds gathering in the back of his mind. He could distinctly remember the Commander's original warning that he might likely have nothing to do on this trip.

* * * *

Barbousse arrived on A'zurn's surface armed to the teeth. He carried two heavy-looking meson pistols on his belt and a wickedly curved knife strapped to the top of his right boot, this latter in a splendid jeweled scabbard that glittered in the bright afternoon sunlight as he jumped to the ground from the shuttle. He surveyed the noisy, crowded landing field for only a moment, then pointed to a big L-181-type armored personnel carrier hovering nearby, its driver beckoning with a burly arm. “Transportation into town, Lieutenant,” he announced while Brim adjusted the small knapsack attached to his battle suit.

The crowded roadway was not in the best of repair, but Magalla'ana itself was beautiful, though mysteriously bereft of all but a few winged inhabitants — at least from what little Brim could see through the side port of the L-181 as it lumbered along at high speed through equipment-crowded suburban streets. He fancied exploring every tree-shaded square and shaggy, moss-covered carved stone spire (all looked as if they had been in place since the Universe cooled.) Here and there they passed side lanes lined by deserted-looking homes with upper-story doors and overgrown gardens of multicolored flowers in place of roofs. Then they rattled between two heroic obelisks and out across an ornate stone bridge spanning what appeared to be a major canal. Through intricate balustrades, Brim could see a great waterway fronted by palaces or at least important houses of state, each terraced with the remains of once-tended gardens, most gone wild with neglect. The burned-out wreck of a graceful watercraft rose gruesome from the center of the channel like a charred finger of warning. Brim grimaced as they drove through more deserted streets and lanes. Heroic efforts would truly be needed to restore this tiny paradise to its former tranquility — beginning with the ouster of Nergol Triannic’s jack-booted invaders.

In due time, the personnel carrier rumbled to a hovering stop before a stately portico of ten ornate pillars that fronted a circular stone building topped with a high, age-discolored dome. Carved two-story wooden doors provided street-level entrance through the weather-stained walls.

“You'll find the Colonel in there,” Brim heard the driver shout to Barbousse over the noise of the traffic, “and may the Universe spare you both.” He laughed, then Barbousse slammed the hatch shut and the L-181 lurched into the thundering flow of traffic amid an angry blare of warning clicks from the other vehicles. Deciding to ignore the overheard warning for a time, Brim silently led the way up a broad stone staircase toward the massive doors. Under the weather-stained portico, they proffered their orders to four white-gloved guards, then stepped inside under the dome where Barbousse audibly gasped with awe.

The whole structure enclosed one grand circular room lined in polished, flawlessly white stone. Elegant inlays divided the curving walls into four quadrants, and on each of these, great carved murals depicted heroic struggles between winged men dressed in ancient-looking body armor and tall, eight-legged creatures with lance like fangs. Above these, the dome glowed from hundreds of circular doors set into its very plates, and a huge sword dangled perilously, point down, from a curious ornamentation at the very apex. The floor — a confusion of people swarming in all directions — was constructed from the same white stone as the walls and was arranged in three concentric circles, the inner two raised and surrounded by a strange carved-metal balustrade. Aisles ran straight from the mural-covered walls to a circular altar centered on the inner circle. This was presently occupied by a figure in the tan and red battle dress of the Imperial Army.

“D' you suppose
that's
Hagbut?” Brim asked with a shrug.

Barbousse grinned. “I'd bet on it, Lieutenant.”

“I'll be back in a cycle or so, then,” Brim said, and started up one of the aisles.

He was no more than a few irals past the first balustrade when he was intercepted by a pink-looking civilian administrator who looked very much out of place in his ill-fitting battle suit. “Your orders, Lieutenant,” he demanded officiously.

Brim silently handed over his card for inspection; it was accepted as if it bore some shameful disease.

“You may approach the Colonel,” the man said after a long pause, indicating the figure at the center of the room with a pained nod of his head.

Brim's eyes met Barbousse's for a moment; then he was on his way. As he climbed the second alabaster staircase, an ornate nameplate became visible on the surface of the desk. Self-powered and multicolored, the clearly expensive device flashed:

Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z' Hagbut,X
ce
, N.B.E., Q.O.C., Imperial Expeditionary Forces (Combat).

The mustachioed figure behind the nameplate was a small, intense-looking individual of middling years who spoke as though he disliked showing his teeth. His left collar wore distinctive crossed blast pikes, which identified him as a graduate of the prestigious Darkhurst Academy on Fortis-Darkhurst, a close neighbor of Avalon itself. Likewise, his clearly custom-tailored battle suit and mirror-like boots spoke of considerable wealth — wielded by a man to whom the act of commanding probably came as a natural inheritance. His red-veined face further revealed him as an officer of quick temper or little patience or (more probably) both. As Brim approached, the man's coarse gestures to a cowed-looking subordinate gave substance to Barbousse's earlier warning that the undersized field officer was known as a “cod'dlinger” (a uniquely Narkossian-91 reference to excretory organs of a local slops-yard scavenger). “I'll be sure to keep that in mind,” he had assured his companion, “but I'm not sure I'll be able to do anything about it.”

“YOU THERE!” the Colonel roared in a voice that sounded as if his mouth were open a great deal wider than it appeared. He motioned imperiously to Brim. “OVER HERE! ON THE DOUBLE!”

Brim ran the last few steps, then saluted (smartly, he hoped). “Lieutenant Wilf Brim, I.F, reporting as ordered, Colonel,” he said, gazing up in awe of the huge sword dangling from the center of the dome.

“Certainly not a moment too soon,” the Colonel rumbled irately. “Where
have
you been?” He sat back with a sour look on his pinched red face. “You Fleet types are so worthless,” he observed at length, spitting noisily over the balustrade. “
Well
?”

Brim remained at attention. “What can I do for the Colonel?” he asked in a respectful voice, still staring at the sword.

“You mean
you don't know?”

Brim swallowed his embarrassment, sure everyone in the room was laughing at him. “No, sir,” he said, looking the Colonel in the eye for the first time. “I don't.”

“Universe,” the Colonel sniffed, spitting over the balustrade again. “Well, I suppose I shall have to tell you, then — mind you, it won't be the first time I have covered for your organization's
incompetence
!”

Brim spied a wiry little sergeant standing on the second ring about ten irals behind the red-faced officer. The man winked and rolled his eyes toward the sky; it helped somehow.

“
Here
,” the Colonel shouted, gesturing Brim's attention to a display globe that suddenly materialized over a portable COMM pack. It pictured the eight captured disruptors Brim had watched being loaded aboard
Prosperous.
They were now resting lifelessly on the ground. “You are to take command of those League field pieces,” he snorted. “Lost all eight of my regular crews in a shuttle accident last night. Can't trust you Fleet types to get
anything
right, can I? At any rate, I know you've all been trained to fire a disruptor. It's probably all you
can
do.”

Brim felt his jaw drop open. “Colonel,” he stammered, “I’m a Helmsman; I have a lot to learn about operating League disruptors.”

“Well, you'd better get busy and
learn
!” the Colonel bellowed, “because those eight vehicles were starlifted all the way from Gimmas/Haefdon especially to protect this mission from league armor. They were
my idea —
League vehicles will be nearly
invisible
to counterattacking forces looking for Imperial equipment. And all eight of those field pieces will move out precisely two metacycles from now.
Understand
?” He shot a pair of elegant battle cuffs, then raised his eyebrows as if he were reassuring a hopelessly dense child. “This is a
brilliant innovation
, and you will be
proud
to have been instrumental in its trial run.”

Brim could only stare wide-eyed and silent in disbelief.

Hagbut frowned for a moment, stared closely into Brim's eyes, then grimaced. “You really
don't
know anything about the job we summoned you down here for, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” Brim assured him. “I do not.”

Hagbut laughed aloud. “I'll bet those drafted IGL people never let you in on a xaxtdamned thing, did they?”

“They said I'd receive my orders from
you,
Colonel,” Brim replied flatly.

Hagbut regarded him bleakly.
“Wonderful,”
he muttered.
“Just thraggling wonderful.”