THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (6 page)

“Very well,” Brim acknowledged. “I'll keep an eye on it.” Within clicks, he could make out a darker mass within the gray, which steadily defined itself into an angular shape. First, a KA'PPA beacon broke clear among the sheets of driving rain, then a bridge, and finally a hull, riding fast about twenty irals off a flattened, frothing area of water amid the thrashing waves of the storm-swept basin. Brim made out “A.45” on the side of a bridge wing; she was one of a relatively new class of large, fast, and heavily protected destroyers that had been constantly in the public eye of late because of their prominent employment in the Empire's critical convoy lifelines. From her bridge she also displayed the flashing triangular device that signaled she carried a flotilla leader aboard. A ship of some consequence, this one, and she approached
Truculent's
gravity pool with an important mien, drawing to a stop in a sweeping cloud of ice particles as her reversing generators bled off the tremendous momentum she carried.

“I.F.S.
Audacious,”
Amherst observed with ill-concealed awe as he looked up from a data display. “With Sir Davenport himself aboard. Do you suppose she's the next one for our gravity pool? We could run the next checklists out on the water.”

“Why should we do that?” Collingswood asked with a frown.

“Well,” Amherst said with raised eyebrows, “Sir Hugh
is
an influential person in the Fleet, after all.”

“And he is at least a quarter metacycle early,” Collingswood answered. “We shall clear the mooring in our own good time. You will proceed with our departure in a normal manner, Mr. Amherst. “

“As you wish, Captain,” the senior Lieutenant said, a half-troubled timbre in his voice.

Brim mentally shrugged, storing that tidbit in a safe corner of his mind. If Collingswood wasn't worried about a flotilla leader, then neither was he. He grinned to himself while all around the gravity pool, mooring beams flashed as ratings in the mooring cupolas drew the ship solidly into place. Suddenly, treble-pitched steering engines overlaid the rumbling gravity generators.
Truculent's
bridge quivered as side thrusts jolted through her spaceframe. “Steering engine thrusts in all quadrants, Lieutenant,” the Chairman reported.

“Very well,” Brim said calmly. “Pretaxi check, Mr. Chairman, bridge report...”

“Bridge is secure, Lieutenant.”

“Electrical?”

“On generators.”

“Environmentals?”

“Packs are set for 'flight.'“

“Auxiliary power?”

“Running. “

“Launches stowed and secured for deep space,” a voice reported at Amherst's console behind him.

“All working parties on station, Lieutenant,” said another voice. “Analogs report decks clear and secure.”

“Pretaxi check complete,” Brim announced, forcing himself to relax. He felt the gentle throb of the gravity generators, watched Ursis' face as the Bear made last-minute adjustments to their controls.
Truculent
was nearly ready for lift-off.

Suddenly, KA'PPA rings flashed from the waiting ship’s high beacon like concentric waves from a pebble in a pool.

“Message from I.F.S.
Audacious,”
a balding signals yeoman with fat cheeks reported to Collingswood.

“Very well, Mr. Applewood,” Collingswood replied. “I'll have it.”

“'Flotilla leader, the Honorable Commodore Sir Hugh Davenport, I.F, informs I.F.S.
Truculent
that he is now assigned this gravity pool,'“ Applewood read in a high-pitched voice.

Brim heard Collingswood chuckle. “Is that so?” she asked. “Well, Mr. Applewood, you can make this back to the Honorable, etc., aboard I.F.S.
Audacious:
'Pity. Where does the Commodore propose to moor his starship?'“

“All stations ready to proceed, Captain,” Amherst reported, this time almost in a gasp.

“Lieutenant Brim,” Collingswood's voice boomed confidently in the pregnant silence of the bridge, “you may proceed to the takeoff zone when you receive taxi clearance.”

Brim smiled to himself. It was one of those moments he imagined he would recall for the remainder of his life — as long as
that
might be, considering the going mortality rate for destroyers. “Aye, aye, Captain,” he said. “Proceeding to the takeoff zone. Mr. Chairman, have the cupolas single up all moorings,” he ordered. Immediately, beams winked out all around the ship until only a single shaft of green remained attached at any of the optical bollards in the jetty walls.

“All mooring points singled up, Lieutenant,” the Chairman reported.

“Very well, Mr. Chairman,” Brim announced quietly, “you may now switch to internal gravity — Quartermaster Maldive on the interCOMM, please.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” Maldive answered from a display.

“All hands stand by for internal gravity,” Maldive's voice echoed from the ship's interCOMM as alarms clattered in the background.

Brim braced himself as the first sudden rush of nausea swept his stomach. He swallowed hard, forcing his gorge back where it ought to be. Loose articles all over the ship rattled and clanged. He felt sweat break momentarily from his forehead. Then, quickly as it struck, the sensation passed. A muffled thump announced detachment of the ground umbilicals; the ship sagged precariously to port, then righted as her stable platforms adjusted to independent operation. From a corner of his eye, he watched the brow swing away from the hull and retract into the top of the jetty. He glanced at the tracked vehicle; its lenses were still perfectly lined up with his console but now glowing cool green. A white cursor was centered on the foremost surface. He flexed his shoulders and shook his head, smiling to himself — another gravity switch without losing his breakfast. “I'll speak with Ground Control now, Mr. Chairman,” he said, glancing quickly at the waiting vehicle on the jetty wall.

“Ground Control,” a narrow face with huge, bushy eyebrows announced from a display.

“T.83 to Ground,” Brim replied. “We're ready to taxi out when you are.”

“Ground to DD T.83,” the Controller said. “You're cleared to taxi. And you've got a destroyer standing off your stem.”

“T.83 to Ground: I see that one,” Brim replied.

“DD A.45: hold your position,” the Controller warned
Audacious
through another display in the tracked vehicle. Brim overheard Davenport's curt “Holding” through the same roundabout means. It provided scant comfort; the waiting destroyer could hardly have drawn up any closer to
Truculent's
gravity pool — nor been placed in a more inconvenient position with regard to the wind. Starships were forbidden to fly low over
any
land areas because overpressure from their gravity generators simply caused too much damage and noise. That ruled out exiting the gravity pool in a normal, forward-running attitude. The same overpressure (and resulting noise levels) also prohibited altitudes higher than thirty irals anywhere within a c’lenyt of land. And because
Audacious
blocked any chance for a snubbed swing with mooring beams rigged as old-fashioned spring lines, it was now Brim's difficult task to back the starship
around
the other destroyer — in a high-wind situation. Moreover, he was painfully aware that if he so much as grazed Davenport's spotless new escort, the resulting board of inquiry would destroy his career before it had much of a chance to begin. Wrestling his jangled nerves to a tenuous draw, he shrugged and smiled to himself. Best to be on with it. In the next few cycles, he'd either win all the maneuvering room he wanted, or he would be on his way back to the ore carriers. And in
no way
did he intend a return to Carescria’s C-97s!

“Ground to DD T.83: wind zero four zero at ninety-one,” the Controller reported..

“T.83 copies,” Brim acknowledged, shaking his head. “I'll have a balance on the forward gravity generator, Nik,” he said. “Then give me a point ninety-one gradient at zero four.” That would at least give him a chance with the wind.

“Ninety-one gradient at zero four,” Ursis repeated.

The low rumbling of
Truculent's
forward generator increased as it shouldered the weight of the ship. “Balanced,” Ursis reported.

“Helm's at dead center, Lieutenant,” the Chairman announced. “We are ready to move.”

“Stand by,” Brim warned. He checked the control settings once more, feeling a balm of resignation soothe his nerves.
Truculent
could never — in his wildest nightmares — be as difficult to control as a loaded ore carrier. And he'd mastered
them.
“Let go all mooring beams,” he ordered quietly, eyes glued to the cursor in the center of Ground Control's lenses. Instantly, the beams vanished. “Dead slow astern all,” he ordered, feeling sweat break out on his forehead.

“Dead slow astern,” Ursis echoed tensely; the ship began to move.

With one eye on
Audacious,
Brim struggled to keep the cursor centered, but in spite of every effort, it started across the glowing lens — sure indication
Truculent
was drifting upwind. Brim's heart leaped into his mouth. “Too much gradient, Nik!” he warned. “We're sliding into
Audacious.”

“I've got fix on it,” Ursis answered tensely. “Sorry.”

“'S all right,” Brim croaked with relief as the drifting slowed and finally ceased, but he didn't breathe again until
Truculent
was backed all the way off the gravity pool. “Stop together,” he ordered. She was now directly beside
Audacious
, separated at the stem from Davenport's spotless decks by no more than a score of irals.

“Stop together,” Ursis echoed.

Now came the tricky part.

Screwing up his courage again, he ordered, “Dead slow astern, port.”

“Dead slow astern, port.”
Truculent's
bow began to swing sharply toward disaster waiting only irals away.

“Brim! What in the Universe are you…?” Gallsworthy growled beside him.

“It is Lieutenant Brim's helm, Lieutenant Gallsworthy,” Collingswood interrupted. “By your orders.”

Brim put them both from his mind. The next clicks were critical. He tensed, waited... “Quarter astern starboard, dead slow astern port,” he uttered with a dry mouth.

“Quarter astern starboard, dead slow astern port,” Ursis echoed.
Truculent's
bow stopped its swing only an iral or so from
Audacious,
then slowly began to draw away to safety. This time, the gravity gradient held and — as Brim planned — she continued in a wide turn to port. But an eternity passed before the starship's needle bow finally pointed out on to the rolling waters of the basin.

Brim never so much as looked back. “Ahead one-quarter, both,” he ordered weakly.

“Ahead one-quarter, both,” Ursis echoed, this time with an ear-to-ear grin. He knew.

At that moment, a display winked into life with the image of Sophia Pym touching thumb to forefinger. “Too bad you can't see Amherst's face,” she whispered gleefully. Beside her, Theada's look of astonishment had grown to one of total disbelief.

While
Truculent
moved into the relative freedom of the basin, the Controller called once more from the jetty: “Ground to DD T.83: you're cleared for taxi out to sea marker 98lG. See you all next time you're in port. Good hunting!”

“DD T.83 to Ground,” Brim replied. “Proceeding to marker 98lG. And thanks.” He peered into the driving rain ahead. “I am taking the helm, Mr. Chairman,” he announced.

“You have the helm, Lieutenant Brim,” the Chairman acknowledged. For the first time that morning, Brim's hands touched the directional controls. He was now in direct command of the ship itself. Inadvertently, he glanced at Gallsworthy — who was now staring back with unconcealed curiosity.

“Yes, sir?” Brim asked.

“Mind your own business, Carescrian,” Gallsworthy replied expressionlessly. But somehow the coldness had gone.

Brim nodded and turned away silently. Now was not the time to work out his basic relationship with this taciturn individual. “Taxi checks, Mr. Chairman,” he said. “Lift modifiers?”

“Fifteen, fifteen, green,” the Chairman replied.

“Yaw dampers and instruments?”

“Checked.”

“Weight and balance finals?”

“One sixty-nine five hundred; no significant changes, Lieutenant.”

“Twenty-one point two on the stabilizer. Engineer's taxi check, Nik?”

“Complete,” Ursis growled.

“Taxi checklist complete,” the Chairman pronounced.

With a feeling of relief, Brim watched the opening to the basin slide past.
Truculent
was now over open water. “Half ahead, both,” he said, setting a course for marker 98lG across the ranks of marching waves.

“Half ahead, both,” Ursis echoed.

During the nearly ten cycles required to taxi into place, Brim made his own final checks of the starship's systems, finishing only moments before the flashing buoy hove into view ahead in the Hyperscreens. “DD T.83 to Harbor Control,” he announced. “Starship is in sight of marker 981 G. Heading two ninety-one.” He grinned in spite of himself. “Lift-off checklist, Mr. Chairman,” he ordered.

“Transponders and 'Home' indicator on. 'Fullstop' cell powered. All warning lights off,” the Chairman reported.

“Engineer's check?”

“Complete,” Ursis said.

“Configuration check... Antiskid?”

“Skid is on,” replied the Chairman.

“Speed brake?”

“Forward.”

“Stabilizer trim — delete the gravity gradient, Mr. Chairman.”

“Gravity gradient eliminated. Ship carries normal twenty-three one on lift-off.”

“Very well, Mr. Chairman. Course indicators, Mr. Gallsworthy?” Brim prompted politely.

Mind clearly elsewhere for the moment, Gallsworthy jumped in his recliner. “A moment, Lieutenant,” he mumbled with a reddening face and busied himself frenetically at the course controls. “Set and checked,” he croaked at length.

“Lift-off check complete, Captain Collingswood,” Brim announced. “At your command.”

“Your
helm, Lieutenant Brim,” Collingswood replied from a display, thumb raised to the Hyperscreens — just as a nearby COMM globe flashed its priority pattern and displayed the Harbor Master's face.