THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (27 page)

* * * *

“ …And I've given the personnel carriers to the A'zurnian underground as well, Colonel Hagbut,” Brim explained. “They'll take them over immediately with the Leaguer battle crawlers, then send crews with us on the run to Magalla'ana so they can drive these field pieces back when we ship out.” Two ragged A'zurnians stood quietly at the rear of the control cabin.

Hagbut's eyes narrowed for a moment — Brim could almost swear he heard clockwork clattering, then the man's face broke into a wide grin. He put a fatherly arm around Brim's shoulders and thumped him on the back. “You make me
proud
of you, boy,” he roared. “I
knew
you had it in you when I put you in charge. I shall write a
favorable memorandum
on your behalf.”

Brim felt his eyebrows raise, along with his hackles. A half-stifled snort issued from Barbousse at the COMM cabinet.

“I shall tell my high command that the success of the mission is actually a tribute to the fine training I received at old Darkhurst Academy,” Hagbut continued, striking a heroic pose. He turned to address the A'zurnians. “This accomplishment, gentlemen, is merely the latest in the
unbroken
series of military victories which mark my career.” He indicated Brim with his free hand, as if the Carescrian were his personal prodigy. “I provided this talented young man with the proper equipment for his task, instructed him as to mission parameters, then
commanded
him until I could no longer physically command. Once properly instructed and equipped, he merely followed my lead to insure the success of the mission.” He turned again to Brim. “Yes, young man,” he said, “I shall write a
highly
favorable memorandum concerning your part in this successful operation.
You follow orders well!
”

“Four-metacycle departure warning from
Prosperous,
Lieutenant Brim,” Barbousse interrupted in a choked voice.

Brim winked at the big rating, then turned to Hagbut. “Perhaps we should consider starting out for Magalla'ana, Colonel,” he suggested. “Took us a bit more than three metacycles to drive here in the first place, and we left a real mess to negotiate at the end of that high suspension bridge.”

They both stopped to watch the BATTLE COMMs hoisting an Imperial Fleet battle pennant to the top of the KA'PPA tower where it fluttered lazily just below the transmitter — more magic courtesy of Barbousse.

Hagbut nodded his head and glared out of the corner of his eye. Then he took a deep breath. “All right,” he conceded. “Lieutenant Brim, you may broadcast orders for my men to mount the field pieces immediately.”

* * * *

They only
just
made it. When Brim's steam-breathing field pieces charged into the pickup zone with battle flags flying, they became the last vehicles to return at all. The whole area was littered with abandoned equipment. Only one large shuttle remained idling in the center of the lift-off area, crewmen at both hatches beckoning frantically with their arms.

“I think they want us to hurry,” Barbousse said as he braked the big machine to a halt.

“So do I,” Brim agreed. “If that League fleet is still on schedule, Anak and his battlecruisers can't be too far away any more.” He switched on the amplifiers. “End of the line, gentlemen,” he announced to Hagbut's soldiers. “Everyone into the shuttle over there — on the double!” Instantly, the men began clambering to the ground. Hagbut was out of the control cab before Brim had even stopped speaking and led the sprint across the field. “Don't stop for
anything,”
the Carescrian added, chuckling, then he turned to the pair of gaunt A'zurnians who would take his field piece back into the hills.

One wore the battered tricornered hat of a highly placed A'zurnian nobleman, the other was totally bald with a huge red welt from his prominent nose to his right ear. Both were filthy and disheveled. Their wings had been cruelly snapped from their backs, ripped away, leaving long, ragged blades that moved slowly, uselessly, while they talked. Except for a few facial differences, they were alike as twins, he thought with a twinge of pity. But then, emaciated people all tended to look alike. He had discovered that long ago in Carescria: Sunken cheeks, joints swollen, dressed in tattered rags that hung in shreds from their bony frames. Yet in
these
hollow eyes burned sparks of hope and deep,
bitter
anger. These wrathful men would soon make implacable enemies for the conquerors of A'zurn. No fear of death remained among them. Each long ago relinquished all hope for his life.

Barbousse had just finished reviewing the controls one last time. “Any more questions, gentlemen?” the big rating asked with a grin. “We want to be sure you put these mechanical brutes to the best use possible.”

“Thanks to your patient instruction, we have none,” said the one with the tricornered hat. “My colleague and I will master the machine with practice.”

“At one time,” the second one croaked, holding up a spindly forefinger, “we were masters of many machines. Fine machines…”

“But few weapons among them,” the other said with surprising vehemence. “When we have scourged Triannic's plague from our homeland, we shall never again neglect
that
part of our responsibilities.”

“Nor forget a brave Imperial lieutenant named Wilf Brim — to whom we credit
all
success of the mission,” the scarred one added. “Someday,” he said, “when a new generation of A'zurnians have regained our heritage of flight, we shall properly thank both you
and
Starman Barbousse. Meanwhile, there are ways to appropriately express our appreciation in a more current time frame.”

Brim smiled with embarrassment, fighting a lump in his throat. “Just keep on fighting,” he interrupted. “Live and
win!
That's thanks enough for any of us.” Then he saluted the two gaunt warriors before they could continue, and followed Barbousse down the ladder. “Good-bye and good hunting,” he shouted as his feet hit the grass. An instant after he cleared the hull, the traction engine roared and the field piece lumbered off after the others toward the protection of the low hills that formed the lower boundary of the city. In the control cabin, the man with the tricornered hat was saluting him through the armored glass. Respectfully, he returned the salute, then turned and sprinted desperately after Barbousse for the shuttle, which was half buttoned up and clearly ready to lift. Only the aft hatch was still open, with a gaggle of BATTLE COMMs crowding up the ladder.

“COME ON, you worthless Fleet types,” Hagbut yelled from the opening. “Anak's ahead of schedule.
Get a move on it!
”

Running for all he was worth, Brim glanced over his shoulder
— nobody
was there. He and Barbousse were the last off A'zurn! Somehow he found strength to run even faster.

The shuttle was already moving forward when he followed Barbousse onto the ladder, shaking with exertion. It was climbing vertically when the big rating dragged him by his arms through the opening, panting desperately.

The next days became a confused mélange of wailing sirens and sprinting crew members — beginning with a full-emergency takeoff when
Prosperous'
powerful Drive crystals shook her massive hull like a storm-driven leaf. Every few metacycles, alarms clattered in the liner's bridge as sensitive detectors picked up long-range BKAEW locator probes from the enemy battlecruisers, but the return signals were evidently too weak to betray the Imperials' location, and after a time the probing came less frequently, finally ceasing altogether on the morning of the third day.

Raid Prosperous was over.

* * * *

During the return to Gimmas/Haefdon, two personal messages from widely separated sources caught Brim's attention immediately. The first, from Effer'wyck@Haefdon, had been sent only metacycles after his release of the A'zurnian hostages. It contained the following lines penned — he assumed — by Margot herself.
“Wilf the Helmsman flies faster than Fate: Wilf is he who rides early and late,/Wilf storms at your ivory gates: Pale king of the Dark Leagues, Beware!”
Her short message ended with the cryptic sentences: “Today, Wilf, I begin to earn my own way in this awful war. Think of me.” This time, it was signed simply “Margot.”

Brim wasted little time puzzling over the words during his return flight; he was relishing plans for discovering their
real
meaning (among other things) in person. Instead, he sent a short note of thanks, signed only “Wilf,” then settled back to dream of his next rendezvous at the Mermaid Tavern.

The second message, from Borodov@Sodeskaya/983F6.735, contained another cross-reference to the
Journal of the Imperial Fleet.
This article was much nearer the front of the file and started:

Gimmas/Haefdon (Eorean Blockading Forces) 228/ 51995: SubLieutenant Wilf Brim from I.F.S.
Truculent
played a decisive role in the recent A'zurn raid. Leading 25 men and eight captured mobile cannon under the command of Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z. Hagbut, X
_ce
, N.B.C…

The usual debriefing followed
Prosperous'
planetfall at Gimmas/Haefdon, this time conducted by a dried-out commander who may well have been as skilled in his profession as Margot Effer'wyck, but infinitely less pleasant to Brim. It seemed as if the cycles
crawled
by before he returned to
Truculent — and
the base COMM system.

He called up her code the moment he entered his cabin, but found to his dismay that Margot was “temporarily reassigned and unavailable for personal contact.” Emergency messages, he read, could be directed to her usual address, so long as the sender harbored no illusions concerning time of delivery. And no date was set for her return.

With a grim sense of foreboding, he now began to seriously question what she might have meant by earning her own way in the war. But his subsequent efforts to learn anything resulted in dismal failure — everywhere he tried. Personal inquiries were turned away at the Technology Assessment Office by low-level clerks, and his own clearance was insufficient to gain him audience with anyone who might have access to further information. It was as if she had disappeared from the Universe.

So he sent a number of messages to Effer'wyck@Haefdon — all remained unanswered, and he finished the remainder of
Truculent's
refit amid varying shades of gloom to match the weather outside. Not even the obstreperous return of the Bears from Sodeskaya really helped, though a sudden increase in his meem intake considerably dulled the worst pangs of loneliness.

A brief ceremony celebrated Barbousse's promotion to Leading Torpedoman, then a few standard days later,
Truculent's
lengthy refit was complete. Two weeks of space trials proved out her new systems, and Haefdon's perpetual storms once again ebbed to insignificance in the aft Hyperscreens. The perceptive Collingswood wisely saw to it that Brim's responsibility — and metacycles at the helm — were greatly increased during this, his second tour on blockade. And with this extra duty, the image of Margot Effer'wyck once more began to fade from his mind's eye. In time, her memory became bearable once more, but only just. Clearly, her “reset” had been much more successful than his.

Partway into an endless early morning watch, Brim and Theada attended
Truculent's
helm while most of the crew snatched a few cycles' badly needed rest below. In the nearly deserted bridge, only occasional warning chimes and snatches of disjointed conversation disturbed the muted rumble of the generators. Off to port, a bleak asteroid shoal crawled diagonally astern beneath the bows as though the destroyer were skirting the surface of some infinitely large inclined plane.

“Good morning, friend Wilf,” Ursis said cheerfully, materializing in a display globe. “What gradient have we outside?”

“Morning, Nik,” Brim said, peering at his readouts. “Looks like it's shifted a bit, now that you ask.”

“So,” Ursis mumbled, entering data via an overhead console.

“Let her fall off a few points to starboard nadir, Mr. Chairman,” Brim ordered. The steering engine sounded for a moment, and the oncoming stars shifted slightly in his forward Hyperscreens.

“Course nine ninety-one, orange,” the Chairman reported.

“Very well,” he acknowledged, studying
Truculent's
decks by the glow of a smoky dwarf blazing overhead. He swung his recliner aft, scanning the trunk of the KA'PPA mast and twin globes of the directors. Farther back, he cursorily checked the scorched cowling of their torpedo launcher flanked by the hemispheres of W and Z turrets. All appeared in trim, as usual. He had just reached above his head to start a suite of power system checks when a shadow fell across the main console. He looked up to find Gallsworthy leaning over Theada's recliner.

“Take a break, son,” the senior Helmsman muttered, indicating the bridge exit with his thumb. “I'll keep the seat warm while you're gone.”

“But, Lieutenant,” Theada protested, “I just had a …”

“You look
tired,
Theada,” Gallsworthy said sternly.
'Tired.”

“Oh. I, ah,
see,
Lieutenant,” Theada agreed, fairly jumping out of the recliner.

Gallsworthy nodded. “Give us about ten cycles,” he said.

“Aye, sir,” Theada said, squeezing his way into the main bridge corridor.

Gallsworthy thumped into the recliner and frowned, drumming his fingers on the console. “I guess I'm a messenger today,” he said, glowering at Brim. “Collingswood's asked me to pass on a bit of information she doesn't really want to talk about. “

Brim nodded, trying to appear indifferent — but inside he was all curiosity. Collingswood normally needed no intermediaries. She said what she wanted — when she wanted. “Yes, sir?” he asked. '

“She's got herself dunned with another xaxtdamned Admiralty detail,” Gallsworthy explained. “Has to 'volunteer' some of the crew. Only…” He pursed his lips and drummed his fingers again as if he were having trouble with the words. “Only,” he repeated, “she got a few
extra
parameters with this order. Nobody's supposed to know about 'em. But you're a special case, in her eyes.” He scratched his head for a moment, then nodded as if reaching some internal accord. “I guess I agree with her,” he said with a frown, “for whatever that's worth, Carescrian.”