THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (4 page)

Ursis touched his ann. “When you stop drooling, friend Brim,” he said, “I want you to meet our Dr. Flynn — keeps us alive and moderately healthy despite all efforts to contrary.” The Medical Officer was short, fair, and balding, with a reddish face and quick smile. His uniform was also — noticeably — standard issue.

“Xerxes O. Flynn at your service,” he said with a wide-eyed leer. “You look terrible.”

Brim flinched. “Pardon?”

Flynn shrugged. “I need the practice, Brim,” he said with mock seriousness. “These Bears keep the crew so filled with Sodeskayan wood alcohol nothing has a chance to get started.” He cocked one eye and stared in the direction of Brim's ear. “You certain you haven't brought
some
sort of epidemic with you? I mean, Number One is spreading the word you're unsanitary or something!”

When all three howled at this bit of rare humor, Brim's temper threatened to erupt anew. Then suddenly he perceived an important difference. These people were laughing
with
him. Before he knew it, he was laughing, too, for the first time in years, it seemed — perhaps longer than that.

“And you'd better meet
this
lovely lass,” Flynn panted, grabbing the arm of a plain young woman with her back to Brim. “Sophia, my dear,” he said. “I want you to meet Wilf Brim, your new partner in crime. Sophia Pym, Wilf Brim.”

Ursis grinned. “Lady Helmsman, would you believe?”

Relaxed for the first time since boarding
Truculent,
Brim turned and extended his hand. “I didn't catch your last name,” he said, smiling. Then his heart literally skipped a beat. Sophia was talking to the girl with the tousled hair. He said something inane, took Sophia's proffered hand, and tried not to stare at her friend. When a voice from somewhere pronounced, “Margot Effer'wyck,” the rest of the wardroom ceased to exist.

If this tall, ample young woman was not the most beautiful in the Universe, she nonetheless appealed to Brim in a most profoundly fundamental manner. Her eyes flashed nimble intelligence. Her oval face was framed by the loose golden curls that drew his gaze originally, and her skin was almost painfully fair, brushed lightly with pink high in her cheeks. When she smiled, her brow formed the most engaging frown he could imagine. Whatever it was she had, it was sufficient for him. “Margot,” he stammered. “That's a beautiful name.”

Her cool blue eyes remained neutral, but the large hand and tapering fingers in his grip were warm and friendly to his touch. “I like the name, too,” she said, “even if everyone does use it these days.”

Brim watched her full, moist lips, and suddenly he was a bashful schoolboy allover again — he couldn’t even look her in the eye! On the left shoulder of her cape, she wore insignia of a full lieutenant, and her name tag read, “CHIEF, THREAT ASSESSMENT SECTION, TECHNOLOGY DIVISION.” An impressive-sounding job for one so young. Even her uniform looked perfect (and reminded him, for the millionth time, of his own shabby, regulation-issue blues).

While Flynn and Sophia (what
was
her last name?) exchanged words, with considerable friendly laughter, he met her glance again. This time, some of the coolness was replaced with interest. “You're new aboard
Truculent,
aren't you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Brim answered, wretchedly wishing he could think of something more clever to say. “I reported this morning.”

The smiling frown reappeared. “You drew a good ship,” she said, looking about the room. “And a lucky one, too. People like to share the wardroom when she's in port.” She laughed. “I think they secretly hope some of the luck may rub off. “

“Not you, though?” Brim asked with a grin.

Margot's eyes sparkled. “Perhaps me most of all,” she said, laughing again. “I accept all the good luck I can get.” Suddenly she gazed at the blazes on his collar. “What made you become a Helmsman?” she asked.

“Oh, I'd done a bit of flying before I was called up,” Brim explained modestly. “But I think the Admiralty was getting desperate, if you want the absolute truth.”

Her eyes drew his. “I'd certainly say so,” she agreed with a twinkle. “It's known that only madmen fly those ore carriers.”

Brim took a deep breath. Everyone seemed to know about him. “Being a Carescrian,” he answered coldly, “I was fortunate indeed to achieve the exalted status of 'madman.' It put me at a Helmsman's console. Most of my contemporaries were privileged to suffer radiation sickness in the cargo holds…”

“I'm terribly sorry,” she said, wincing. “I suppose I know better than that.” She put a hand on his arm. “Your name came up at a party the other evening. They say you are a superb Helmsman.”

Brim grimaced. “They should have informed you I am also an unreasonably touchy Carescrian,” he said, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. “Will you forgive me?”

“I shall call it
even,”
she said, color rising in her cheeks.
'I have not loved my words, nor my words me/nor coin'd my voice to smiles…
.' “

Brim frowned, concentrated for a moment, then snapped his fingers and grinned. “
'Nor cried aloud,’”
he continued, “
'In worship of an echo in the crowd.’”
.

Her sudden smile seemed to light the room. “You know
that?”
she asked.

“'Star Pilgrim,'“ Brim said. “I suppose I've read a lot of Alastor's poems.” He smiled, a little embarrassed. “I've had a lot of time on those old carriers — and secondhand poetry books are pretty cheap.”

“But
nobody
reads poetry anymore.”

“Evidently
you
do,” Brim said with a smile. “And I do. I'd like to think neither of us is a nobody.”

A new look was now on her face, one that hadn't been there before Alastor. “Whom else do you read?” she asked.

“
'Father of this unfathomable Universe/Hear my solemn song, for I have loved your stars..
.’ “

“That… that's 'Solitude' by Nondum Lamia,” she said with delighted eyes.

“Yes. That's right,” Brim said. “Verse two.”

“And how about,
'Roll on, thou deep and star-swept cosmos — roll/Ten thousand starfleets sweep thy wastes in vain..
.’ “

“Yes!” Brim said, frowning again. He raised a finger. “Lacerta. 'Rime of the Ancients,' I think.
'Men mark their worlds with ruin — their power/Stops with their puny ships; upon the starry plain…
’”

Clearly speechless, she shook her head. “That's beautiful,” she finally whispered. Then she raised her hands, abruptly serious. “It's nice to know I'm not
totally
alone sometimes...” Her voice trailed off.

Taken aback, Brim raised his eyebrows. “I don't understand,” he began, but was interrupted by an elegantly uniformed commander.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” the man said without bothering to introduce himself. “It's about time I escort this young thing back to headquarters.

“My date seems to be here,” Margot said, instantly recovering her previous mood of reserved amiability. “I'm very glad I met you, Wilf.” Their eyes met once more, lingered for a heartbeat. “Until the next time,” she whispered in a husky voice. Then, before he could answer, she was on her way through the crowd.

Entranced, Brim shamelessly stared as she walked away: long, well-built legs revealed below her cape through skintight trousers, feet in tiny, ankle-length boots. “You are spilling your meem, friend Wilf Ansor,” Ursis said, once again breaking into his reverie.

“Yes, thanks,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

“Quite a lady, Miss Effer'wyck,” Flynn sighed. “But then you've already noticed, haven't you?”

Brim felt his face flush. He was sure he had already made a fool of himself.

“I think you may have to admire that one from a distance,” Sophia observed tactfully. “Turns out she's already spoken for: The Honorable Commander LaKarn, Baron of the Torond, no less.”

“Story of my life,” Brim grumped good-naturedly. “Too late for everything.”

“Well, perhaps not quite
everything,”
Sophia observed.

“You've still got more than a day before you face old Gallsworthy on the bridge.”

“It's true, Wilf Ansor,” Borodov interjected. “Lots of time to spend learning those deep-space whiz-clanks you Helmsmen play with on the bridge.” He winked meaningfully.

“Not that we'd want you to disappoint Number One or anything so subtle as that,” Flynn said under his breath.

Brim grinned. “I think I'm beginning to understand a lot of things,” he said.

Borodov put a hairy finger on Ursis' cuff. “After chill and darkness of storm, wise Bears run without snow, eh?”

Ursis raised an index finger. “Is much truth in that, Anastas Alexi,” he said sagely. “Without snow, indeed.”

By the time Brim returned to his cabin, the face of Margot Effer'wyck was already vague in his mind's eye. If nothing else, he had learned long ago to take life one step at a time.

* * * *

Weary Metacycles before Haefdon’s dawn lightened Gimmas’ cloudy sky, Wilf Brim was already busy on
Truculent's
empty bridge. “Good morning, Mr. Chairman,” he said, settling carefully in the right-hand Helmsman's seat.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Brim,” replied the Chairman's disembodied voice. “What service can we render?”

Brim peered into the darkness through the Hyperscreens where yesterday's snowfall had again relapsed to driving sheets of rain. Below, wet hullmetal decks gleamed under hovering battle lanterns; beyond, the Eorean Complex was revealed by half-lighted shapes of sleeping starships, grotesque forms on other gravity pools, and the ever-present shipyard cranes. Compulsively, he pulled the cloak tighter about his neck, though the air was warm and dry. “Simulation, Mr. Chairman,” he said at length. “All systems.”

“All-systems simulation, Lieutenant,” the Chairman repeated. “Starboard Helmsman's console in simulation mode.” Soft-hued patterns filled the displays before him, moved and changed. “Will you require special circumstances?”

“Later, Mr. Chairman,” Brim answered, concentrating on the start-up data flashing past his eyes. “Right now, you can do something a bit easier — like the last takeoff here on Haefdon. Do you still have that stored?”

“A moment, sir,” the Chairman answered. Presently the Hyperscreens became opaque, flickered, then abruptly came to life in the illusion of gloomy daylight, this time a mile or so out to sea from the complex. “Found it,” the Chairman intoned.

Brim looked around the simulated seascape, checked systems parameters once more on his displays, then gently lowered his hands to the consoles. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “we'll take this one from the very beginning …

All that morning and far into the afternoon, Brim exercised
Truculent's
controls, simulating takeoffs in good conditions and bad. Like most contemporary starships, she employed antigravity generators for Hypolight-speed travel, switching to her four matched Sheldon Drive crystals (for both propulsion and negation of relativistic mass/time effects) only when it was desired to surpass the critical velocity of LightSpeed.

Specially designed for blockade and close-support work, all T-class starships flew with two oversized CR-special 258x gravity generators astride the keel at the deepest (and aftmost) point of the hull. These powerful units provided extraordinary acceleration and maneuverability when working close in to planetary systems where HyperLight travel was impractical (and potential targets were themselves either accelerating from or decelerating to zero velocity). A third unit of normal output and configuration was housed in a long chamber over the keel directly beneath the bridge. This generator supplied direct thrust along the ship's vertical axis for intricate maneuvering or warping into an anchorage.

As the session wore on,
Truculent's
Chairman provided antigravity failures of every kind and significance, then added steering-engine problems and systems troubles as the session progressed. By mid-afternoon, the bone-tired Carescrian felt rancid with dried sweat from metacycles of mental and physical effort. But he was also reasonably certain he could fly the starship through anything the Universe might throw at him. In the back of his mind, he knew well enough that simulators never
really
duplicated real-life flying experience, but the combination of a day's practice on these well-maintained controls
and
nearly three years' bullying deteriorated Q—97 ore carriers in and out of asteroid-cluttered HyperSpace provided him with considerable confidence in himself as well as the ship. Compared to even the best Carescrian C-97s,
Truculent
came off like a scalpel to an ax — not altogether shabby, he allowed (smiling at himself), for a “pick and shovel” tub like a destroyer.

Tired as he was, he lingered at the console, working the controls even after technical ratings began to appear here and there on the bridge to bring their respective systems on line for the morning's takeoff. But when two yeomen noisily commenced work on the principal Helmsman's console to his left, he knew it was time to wrap things up. “Mr. Chairman,” he announced, “I'm finished with the controls.”

“A moment, sir,” the Chairman said, then, “Simulation terminated. Starboard Helmsman's console returned to direct connect.” The Hyperscreens faded momentarily, then restored themselves to the dreary landscape of Haefdon. It was again snowing outside as spume tore from wind-lashed whitecaps in the basin and the last yellowish tinges dissolved from the low-hanging clouds. Brim laughed grimly to himself. Weather on Haefdon was so bad — so horrible — even poor Carescria seemed appealing in comparison.

He slid wearily from the recliner, then dallied for a moment, staring through the Hyperscreens at the driving snow. While he watched, haloed headlights from a distant surface vehicle caught his eye as it picked its way through the shipyard in the direction of the basin. Abruptly, the vehicle turned onto
Truculent's
jetty and pulled to a hovering stop under the battle lanterns at the gangway. Brim frowned, thankful it was not he who was out on a night like this.