THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition

by Bill Baldwin

  Curious, Brim considered. Where was a man like Barbousse going in a skimmer, especially with Truculent's lift-off little more than a few standard metacycles away? He watched with renewed interest. Shortly, the two reached the skimmer, now hovering in a cloud of stirred-up snowflakes. They hammered on the forward compartment until they were joined by an agitated driver waving his arms and stamping his boots emotionally. Presently, Barbousse stepped to the man's side and plucked him from his feet by the scruff of his collar. This had an immediate quieting effect, and the three of them opened the passenger compartment of the skimmer and peered into its darkened interior.

  Shortly thereafter, Barbousse disappeared through the door — only to emerge almost immediately, this time with the limp figure of a man in his arms. His companion from Truculent reached inside the skimmer and withdrew a Fleet Cape, which he used to cover the motionless individual, then completed some sort of transaction with the driver of the skimmer. This finished, he turned on his heel to follow Barbousse back up the gangway to the ship.

  As the skimmer pivoted and started its journey back along the jetty, Brim scratched his head. Who? he asked himself, but deep inside, he feared he already knew.

  The bridge was again deserted some four Standard Metacycles before Truculent's scheduled takeoff time, though things were well astir below as ratings prepared the ship for flight. “Morning, Mr. Chairman,” Brim said, again settling into the right-hand Helmsman's station. “Today, we'll do those checkouts for real.”

  He worked without interruption until the Bears arrived at their power consoles, by which time most of the other stations were occupied and the bridge was humming with activity. “Don't they let you sleep in new cabin of yours?” the Bear asked with mock solicitousness as he strode along the main aisle of the bridge. “Power-systems log says you've already checked everything couple thousand times.” He chuckled. “You have no trust in Chairman, maybe?”

  Brim felt his face flush. “I thought I'd better get everything right this morning if I hope ever to do it again,” he said with a chuckle.

  Ursis smiled. “Is worth doing,” he pronounced seriously. “No fool, Bear who first said, 'First impressions are lasting.' You must have been listening, eh?”

  “Just scared,” Brim said honestly.

  “Probably good time for being little scared,” a displayed image of Borodov interjected darkly from the power exchange deep in Truculent's hull. “Word is they carried him aboard!”

  Brim looked the old Bear's image in its eye. “Gallsworthy?” he asked.

  “Is same,” Borodov answered. “Bad, they say.”

  “I think I watched it from here on the bridge, then,” Brim said. “I wasn't certain at the time.”

  The old Bear looked thoughtful as Sophia Pym arrived, towing a flabby Theada to his jump seat at the side of the bridge. The latter's eyes widened considerably when he caught sight of Brim at the right-hand console. “You may well find yourself on what you call 'hot seat,' Wilf Ansor,” Borodov pronounced soberly.

  “We've seen him like this before,” Ursis interjected.

  Brim smiled and looked at the two Engineering Officers. “What are you trying to tell me?” he asked.

  “Simply this,” Borodov explained with a serious mien, “Nikolai Yanuarievich and I, we can make seem like Truculent's power systems won't run. None of you humans will be able to tell difference — begging your pardon.”

  “Many of us in crew do not think is fair you must go through with this, Wilf,” Ursis added.

  Brim glanced at his boots, wrestling with his emotions. He wasn't used to Imperials who even cared if he lived or died. Finally, he shook his head, looking first at one and then the other. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you both. But sooner or later, I'm going to have to face up to this, and I suppose now is as good as any other time.”

  “Is brave decision you make, Wilf,” Borodov said.

  “Is also too late to change mind,” Ursis interrupted, inclining his head slightly toward the back of the bridge. “Now comes Gallsworthy.” Without another word, the Sodeskayan dissolved into a suddenly quiet bridge.

  CHAPTER 2

  As he strode among the consoles, Bosporus P. Gallsworthy, lieutenant, I.F, wore the look of a man so secure in what he did that mere outward appearance was of no importance. His face was almost wooden in calm, though bushy eyebrows failed to mask a glint of cold intelligence in his red-rimmed eyes. He had short-cropped chair and loosely jowled, pockmarked cheeks, a dark complexion, and thin, dry lips. His height was average or a little less, and his uniform, though most obviously clean, revealed the ghost of a stain halfway down the left breast of his tunic. Reaching the principal's console, he casually flipped his cape to one side and slid into the recliner. Brim watched him from the corner of his eye, motionless.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Gallsworthy said curtly.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Galls…

  “I'll have the systems checkout right away,” Gallsworthy interrupted. “Altimeters?”

  “Preverified,” said the Chairman. “Set... and cross checked. “

  “Engineers' preflight?”

  “Preverified: complete.”

  “G-wave service?”

  “Preverified: forty-four, five hundred Go and GH.”

  “What in xaxt is this xaxtdamned 'preverified' business?” Gallsworthy demanded.

  “The systems checkouts are already complete, Lieutenant,” the Chairman said. “We are ready for immediate generator startup.”

  “Who ran those checkouts?”

  “Lieutenant Brim, sir.”

  “Brim? Who's Brim?”

  “SubLieutenant Wilf Brim,” the Chairman replied, “at the console next...”

  “Takeoff bugs ninety-two, one thirty-eight, one fifty-one,” Gallsworthy interrupted, continuing the checkout. “And drop that 'preverified' muck.”

  “One sixty-nine five,” the Chairman answered.

  “Four eight oh four?”

  “One hundred and seventy thousand, Lieutenant,” the Chairman said. “Within tolerances.”

  Gallsworthy paused, frowned. “I know,” he growled. “All right. You can skip the rest of that one, then. We'll do the 'start' checklist next.”

  “The 'start' checklist is also complete, Lieu...”

  “I said 'start' checklist, Mr. Chairman. Now.”

  “Start pressure ninety-one forty. Sub-generator on,” the Chairman said.

  “Gravity brake?”

  “Set.”

  “KA'PPA beacon?”

  “Energized. “

  Again Gallsworthy stopped. “Skip down to… No. Stow that.” Without turning his head, he spoke from the side of his mouth. “All right, Brim, or whatever it is they call you. If you think you're so xaxtdamned expert at checkout all by yourself, maybe you'll want to fly this beast yourself, too?”

  “That will be fine, sir,” Brim answered, without turning his own head. But his heart was in his mouth. He endured Gallsworthy's stony silence for a personal eternity, staring through the Hyperscreens into the dirty gray sky and driving rain and forcing himself to relax. Every eye on the bridge would be watching.

  At some length, Gallsworthy turned in his recliner. “Smart aleck kid,” he snarled under his breath, biting each word off short. “Right out of the xaxtdamned Academy and you puppies think you know how to fly a starship. I've got half a notion to let you try it, then kick your ass off the ship when you can't. “

  “I'm ready, Lieutenant,” Brim asserted quietly, still staring out the Hyperscreens, “anytime you are.” In the corner of his eye, he watched a startled expression form on the senior Helmsman's face, then turn to cold anger.

  “You just thraggling asked for it, Brim,” Gallsworthy hissed through clenched teeth,” — all of it. The controls are yours.” He sat back in his recliner and folded his arms.

  For the first time, Brim turned and faced the waspish individual who was to be his first commandant. “As you wish, Lieutenant
,” he said evenly.

  Gallsworthy snorted, smiled, and began to return to the controls when he stopped short and turned in his seat again. “What was that?” he demanded.

  “I said, 'As you wish, Lieutenant,'“ Brim repeated.

  Gallsworthy's face clouded; his bushy eyebrows descended to almost hide his eyes. “You mean you're actually going to try to…?” he stumbled, clearly unprepared for Brim's answer. “Why, you can't fly this ship any more than a…” He stopped, clearly groping for a suitable term of disapprobation.

  “I can't believe you plan to finish that sentence, Lieutenant Gallsworthy,” Collingswood interrupted. “Certainly you would never turn over the controls to someone whose competence you question. Would you?”

  The senior Helmsman jerked around in his recliner. “When did you…?” he growled, then bit his lip. “My apologies, Captain,” he said lamely. “I, ah…”

  “Oh, please continue, Lieutenant Gallsworthy,” Collingswood commanded sharply.

  “Nothing, Captain,” Gallsworthy grumbled. “Really.”

  “Good, Mr. Gallsworthy,” Collingswood answered. “And I am highly gratified to see you and Number One working so closely together today.”

  At this, Amherst looked up in alarm. “Together?”

  “Why, yes,” Collingswood answered, the very picture of innocence. “It was you who suggested Lieutenant Brim have a chance to show us how he graduated first in his class at the Helmsman's Academy. Wasn't it?”

  “First in his…?” Amherst stammered. “Ah. Why, ah… of course, Captain.” He turned to Gallsworthy. “Didn't we, Lieutenant Gallsw...”

  “We shall discuss this cooperation at a more appropriate time, gentlemen,” Collingswood interrupted pointedly. “Lieutenant Brim is about to transfer control to his console, aren't you, Lieutenant?”

  Brim nodded. “Aye, Captain,” he agreed quickly. Then, before anything further might transpire, he acted. “Mr. Chairman,” he ordered, “swap command to this console immediately.”

  Gallsworthy stiffened, opened his eyes and his mouth at the same time, and turned toward Collingswood, but he was already metacycles too late. Before retiring the previous night, Brim had carefully preset all necessary turn-over transactions, and the complex ritual was accomplished almost instantaneously.

  “Start checkout is complete, Lieutenant Ursis,” the Carescrian said to an image of the Sodeskayan that suddenly shimmered in a hovering display globe near his right hand. “Fire off the generators, please.”

  “Starboard antigrav,” Ursis rumbled quickly. “Turning one; wave guide closed.” From far aft and deep within the hull, a low whine dropped slowly to a wavering drone. This steadied. “Turning two.” A thump passed through the spaceframe. “Guide open.”

  Brim watched colored patterns race across his power readouts as antigravity pressure built. A gentle rumble, more felt than heard, replaced the drone, building rapidly in volume and strength. “Call 'em out, Mr. Chairman,” he ordered.

  “Normal pressure,” the Chairman confirmed. “Plus nine. Plus twelve. Plus fifteen — we have a start, Lieutenant.”

  Ursis' beady eye winked at Brim from the display. “Port generator, Mr. Chairman,” he continued without interruption. “Turning one; wave guide closed.” A second whine mingled with the sound of the running generator and dropped in pitch. “Turning two. Guide open.” The combined rumble was a substantial presence on the bridge as the second antigravity generator reached operating parameters.

  “Normal pressure on starboard,” the Chairman reported. “Plus fifteen. You have a second start, Lieutenant Ursis.”

  “Number three,” Ursis said quietly. “Standard start. You do it, Mr. Chairman.” A third and higher pitched thrumming soon joined the first two.

  “All generators running and steady,” reported the Chairman.

  “Your ship, Wilf,” the Bear pronounced. “Drive systems are checked and waiting.”

  “Thank you, Nik,” Brim said, trying desperately to avoid matching eyes with the clearly thunderstruck Gallsworthy. He mentally ran through a dozen personal checklists, scanned the readouts once more — all normal. Satisfied for the moment, he relaxed in the recliner. “Mr. Amherst,” he announced to the clearly disapproving Number One, “the Helmsman's station is ready for immediate departure.”

  “Let's be at it, then, Number One,” Collingswood's voice prompted as Brim watched the freezing rain spatter against the heated Hyperscreens. A large tracked vehicle had just pulled onto the jetty, lining up in front of Truculent's sharp nose. Presently, three great amber lenses deployed from its back and positioned themselves so that only one could be seen from Brim's console. They glowed once, twice. Brim's hands eased over his control panel. “Ground link complete,” he reported tersely.

  “All hands to stations for lift-off, Mr. Chairman,” Amherst commanded. Brim listened to alarms going off below. “Special-duty spacemen close up!” On the forward deck, lights appeared in the mooring-control cupola. A nearby display showed the two mooring cupolas aft were now manned and ready. All over the bridge, a familiar litany of departure was in full activity. Below, at least ten maintenance analogs were racing along the decks making last-minute checks for loose gear. From the rear of the bridge, Maldive spoke into a dozen interCOMM systems. “Testing alarm systems! Testing alarm systems! Testing…”

  Outside, an indistinct movement on the basin caught Brim's attention. Imagination? No — there it was again! Nearly lost in the grayness, a light of some sort was battling through the driving rain.

  “Ship approaching from green, yellow-green, Lieutenant Brim,” a rating warned from his center console.

  “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.