THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (36 page)

To the right, they passed the shimmering Desterro Monument with its colossal spiral of sculpted flame commemorating discovery of the Cold Tetrad of Edrington, center of a gravity drift that collected space debris and invaluable historic artifacts from a million years of space travel. A traditional Mecca for peacetime tourists, the monument was presently overrun by hundreds of gawking cadets and Blue Capes from all over the Empire. Brim smiled. As a cadet, he'd visited more than once himself.

In a matter of cycles, they were gliding over the first great ruby arch crossing the Grand Achtite Canal, each end of the wide, translucid span guarded by immense crystal warriors gazing at the same section of the sky (as indeed their sculptor had determined they would). Brim recalled a tour guide once pointing out that three similar bridges crossed the canal far downstream at regular intervals, each guarded by the same crystal statues that stared eternally at the same section of the sky: the Achtite Cluster. To the left of the bridge apron, Brim's eye caught the great domed tower of Marva thrusting silver and gold above the skyline with its fluted sides and curious winding concourse that spiraled all the way to the dome like a sparkling vine. Old Queen Adrien herself once lived and studied there before she set off in her little
Durax III
to discover Porth Grassmere on the far side of Elath. It was a place all Imperial Helmsmen knew — and appreciated.

Farther along, they passed Avalon's famous Kimber Castle, where Cago JaHall composed
Solemn Universe
and other classics of the same idiom. In later years, Dalgo Hildi had also lived there, but by the time she finally arrived in Avalon, her active career was nearly over. The graceful old building was presently fronted by crystal scaffolding, and workers appeared to be treating its carved metal facade.

While they continued on into the historic Beardmore sector, Brim noted heavy construction wherever he looked. New buildings were going up on nearly every block. Older structures were being rebuilt, scaffolding and cranes everywhere. A good sign, he considered. Avalon was beginning to recover from the initial shock of the war, looking toward the future again, and perceiving the first glimmerings of possible victory.

He sat back, breathed deeply, and sank deeper into the luxuriously padded seat, feeling the smooth power of the skimmer and the skill of its driver. As they swung through the spacious Courtland Plaza with its famous three-tiered Savoin gravity fountain and onyx reflecting pool, the Imperial Palace momentarily came into view across an expanse of carefully tended gardens and manicured forests. Huntingdon Gate was its usual confused mass of traffic (reputed challenge even to Avalon's finest chauffeurs). Then the view was obstructed by the squat, glass-walled Estorial Library, where Hobina Kopp first presented her Korsten Manifesto a full two hundred years prior to Brim's birth. The library had a special poetry section, which he promised he would one day peruse at his leisure — but as usual, not
this
trip!

At last, Brim's limousine swung onto the long, park-lined Boulevard of the Cosmos and began to slow. Moments later, it stopped gently in a curving driveway before a gracefully understated jade-stone portico: the sprawling Lordglen House of State. It was still early in the day, and the spacious receiving plaza was empty, but Brim could imagine what it would be like later when the guests began to arrive.

A white-gloved footman in a bright red coat and white breeches saluted and opened the door for him. “Lieutenant Brim, sir? Right this way, please,” he said with a smile that instantly dissipated the awesome personality of the building itself. Brim rapped “thanks” on the glass separating the passenger and driver compartments, then followed the footman through an imposing two-story doorway. Inside, they crossed a wide entry hall, boots clicking on the flawless obsidian floor. Above, an enormous gold and crystal chandelier reflected light from thousands of polished facets, and at the far end of the room, twin alabaster staircases curved upward to an ornate balcony jutting gracefully above an elaborately carved archway whose polished ebony doors were presently closed.

The footman led Brim up the left-hand stairway and through a carved-gold arch into a short hallway whose domed ceiling depicted allegorical scenes painted in an old-fashioned and elegant style. Midway along the left-hand wall, they entered a lift to the fifth floor, where Brim was presented a large golden key and shown into an elegant suite furnished with exquisite period furniture and decorated by a collection of artifacts that, even to an untrained eye, were clearly worth the price of a large starship.

“Welcome to Lordglen House, Lieutenant,” the footman said as he opened the heavy drapes. “Lord Wyrood has instructed me to attend to all your needs. I have placed a complete formal uniform in the closet to your right, and attempted to provide other, more basic necessities — which you will encounter in the usual places.” He bowed. “Should you find I have missed items here and there,” he added, “you have only to ring. My name is Keppler; I shall be at your service promptly.” With this, he bowed again and exited the room backward, closing the double door quietly behind him.

Brim shook his head as he looked about the tastefully ornate room, a long way from Carescria, this! He peered through the window into a courtyard of perfectly shaped flowering panthon trees whose glowing fruits made the quadrangle look like a miniature Universe of starry galaxies when viewed against the dark paving stones. A stately fountain danced placidly at its center. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment; this level of wealth transcended his understanding completely. He shrugged. None of it had much importance to him anyway. The only reality here was Margot. Once she arrived, everything else would fade to nothing.

* * * *

Brim fidgeted impatiently as he tested the fit of his borrowed dress uniform before a full-length mirror: white tunic with stiff, gold-embroidered collars, epaulets, and high cuffs, dark blue breeches with gold stripe, knee-high parade boots (like polished hullmetal), white gloves, and peaked hat. A rich, red-lined formal Fleet Cape was carefully draped on the bed, certainly nothing like the cheap copies he had rented at the Academy.

He felt a growing sense of excitement as he counted off the cycles before he would see Margot — it was impossible to sit anymore. He paced back and forth across the thick carpet, its softness wasted beneath his boots. Each cycle seemed longer than its predecessor, even though
months
had passed since the evening he shared with her on Haefdon, And those now seemed like
moments
. Outside, a gentle breeze moved the panthon trees; the weather was perfection. An omen, perhaps? He laughed to himself. All moments with Margot were perfection, so far as he could remember; he doubted she would disappoint him tonight.

As he stood staring at the patio, a distant chime sounded importantly. Then, in moments, a soft knock came at his door. “Come in,” he said. “It's unlocked.”

“About ready, sir?” Keppler asked as he stepped into the room. “The reception is under way in the ballroom.”

Now that it was time to go, Brim suddenly began to fret about the other guests. Wealthy people, of a certainty. Influential.
Powerful.
He was no more than a simple Helmsman. What could he have in common with any of them? What could he say worth listening to? Would he make a fool of himself? Suddenly, he felt tired. He wished he could have made other arrangements to see Margot. He never had a chance.

“You look splendid, Lieutenant,” Keppler said. “They'll all be jealous, especially with your action record.” He helped Brim place his cape properly over one shoulder in the latest fashion. “Now stand back,” he ordered imperiously. “Let me make a last-moment check.”

Brim suffered further adjustments to his collar, cape, and an offending epaulet before Keppler was finished.

“Perfect, sir,” the footman said finally as he nodded his approval. “A number of important people down there expect to meet you, so you'll want to look your best.” With that, he gently propelled Brim from the room and into the lift.

Only a few cycles later, Brim found himself returned to the balcony at the head of the double staircase. Voices and soft music surged from below as elegant couples filed slowly in from the portico and disappeared through the doorway beneath his feet. He paused for a moment, reflecting on his failure to submerge a natural Carescrian irritation with these scions of wealth and privilege. While they enjoyed unbelievable comfort and luxury, men and women of more humble origins were elsewhere locked in mortal combat to protect the very Imperial existence. Why were
these
people exempted? Then he grimly laughed at the folly he had just concocted. Here he was, himself dressed like the worst sort of professional courtiers — and in the absolute thick of it! He snorted and started down the staircase, contemplating his
own
double standard.

The huge ebony doors were open now, eight gray-clad footmen with ornate symbolic pikes flanking either side. Beyond, an elegant throng preened and pirouetted: polished officers in the colorful uniforms of every friendly nation in the galaxy, seas of half-revealed bosoms and lavish gowns in every hue and pattern art and science could conjure, humans, Bears, A'zurnians, and the less-numerous races. At the center of the high archway, a majordomo dressed in bright green tunic with dark trousers and green boots bowed as Brim approached. “Your name, please, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Wilf Brim,” Brim declared. “A Carescrian.” He looked the man directly in the eye.

“Ah, yes, Lieutenant Brim,” the majordomo said. “A thousand pardons. I should have known.” He turned on his heel and led Brim into the ballroom. “Lieutenant Helmsman Wilf Ansor Brim, Imperial Fleet,” he announced, thumping the butt of his pike loudly on a special square of flooring. “I.F.S.
Truculent.
“

A few heads turned indifferently, but the announcement was generally lost in the babble of the crowd. And, from what Brim could see as he stepped into the room, his rank alone would relegate him to the very depths of unimportance among most other guests whose ranks he could identify.

From inside, the room was high and huge, though a soft light level held the overall effect well within the limits of Brim's comprehension — longer than it was wide, with an ornate, domed ceiling covered by gold and silver designs in the form of a sinuous Logis vine. Three monstrous chandeliers like the one in the anteroom hung along its centerline. One wall was a solid bank of mirrors, the others were covered by rich-looking tapestries. The floor was a continuation of the flawless obsidian outside.

While Brim stood orienting himself in the heady atmosphere of hogge'poa, meem, and a hundred fragrances of perfume, a tall commander with a wisp of a mustache and piercing blue eyes appeared from the revelers, smiled, and clapped him on the back. “Brim, my good man,” he said, “so glad you could make it. I'm Avlin Khios, secretary to Lord Wyrood.” He waved his hand apologetically. “Sorry your invitation arrived with so little notice. We hoped you might be able to make it anyway.” He grinned. “Understand you had an exciting mission, what?”

“'Exciting' is probably as good a word as any, sir,” Brim acknowledged with a smile. “The important thing, though, is that we were able to see it all the way through.”

“Yes, I understand,” Khios said with a knowing grin. “Well, her Effer'wyckian nibs is certainly on tonight's guest list.” He took Brim's arm and propelled him into the center of the crowd. “But until the young lady actually
does
arrive, we have some people who want to talk to you, not many of them have the opportunity to meet real fighting men.”

Brim felt a goblet placed in his hand as he passed a pair of footmen. The shallow vessel made his passage through the crowd even more difficult than before. As he passed a red-faced Army officer, the man spit, “Carescrian,” bitterly at him as if he were repeating an impolite word. Then, within a few more clicks, he was centered in a ring of smiling young officers who wore the badges of the Admiralty Staff — and curious looks on their faces.

Khios named each as Brim greeted one after the other with the handshake he learned in the Academy (Carescrians normally avoided touching anybody, at least during a first meeting); their names were promptly forgotten in the rush of questions that followed.

“You've actually been
in
one of their starships?”

“What were the cannon like on A'zurn? Were they easy to drive?”

“Were they hard to start?”

“League torpedoes
are
good, aren't they? How'd the J band stand up after the radiation from those mines?”

To his surprise, Brim quickly began to sense an underlying mood of serious interest — certainly the questions coming his way were founded on well-informed backgrounds. As the group continued to probe, Brim rapidly found he was not talking to the vacuum-headed courtiers he originally thought they might be. Rather, it seemed he was surrounded by a group of dedicated staff people: behind-the-scenes decision makers who, so far as he could ascertain, were probably far more valuable contributing to an office work group than fighting the war somewhere in a battle zone. In the ore barges, one learned quickly to respect anyone who was willing to make a genuine contribution to almost anything.

During the next few cycles, he answered each question as honestly as he could, within his limited knowledge. It was difficult to make noncombatants understand that one often fought more by calm reaction to impressions and reflexes than by detailed study of anything specific. He was patiently giving his third impression of E60T’s handling characteristics when the gathering was interrupted by Khios. “I've got to steal Lieutenant Brim for a while, gentlemen,” he said, breaking into the circle to re-grasp Brim's arm. “We have a couple of executive types who insist on meeting him
now.”

Brim nodded politely at the smiling officers and lifted his hands palm upward. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said. Then he turned on his heel and followed in Khios' wake through the festive atmosphere of music, perfume, and beautiful people. The secretary stopped nearly all the way across the big room at a small, unobtrusive archway leading off among the hanging tapestries. He rapped gently on an ornate door before he pushed it open, nodding for Brim to follow.