by Bill Baldwin
“Twenty-eight LightSpeed will suffice,” Collingswood replied with a slight grin.
“Mister Chairman, set and hold the ship on twenty-eight LightSpeed,” Brim ordered.
“Twenty Eight LightSpeed cruise set,” the Chairman confirmed.
Without warning, Gallsworthy caught Brim’s eye.
“Yes, sir?” the surprised Carescrian asked, braced for still another rebuff.
A shadow of humor passed the senior Helmsman's reddened eyes, before they clouded again. “You may have proved a point or two this morning, Brim,” he allowed emotionlessly. “I shall take over now and let you watch the scenery.”
Jolted, Brim suddenly understood he had just received rare praise from this taciturn officer and groped for something appropriate to say. Then he brought himself up short with the sure realization that words were tools Gallsworthy simply didn't understand. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said matter-of-factly. “I should be glad for a moment to relax.”
When control was subsequently restored to the left-hand console, Brim settled back in his recliner and closed his eyes for a moment, smiling inwardly. It was a morning of two victories so far as he was concerned, though few of the Imperials on Truculent's bridge could have logically explained why. As thralls to Avalon's Galactic Empire, Carescrians were rarely praised for anything they accomplished. Most became highly adept at ferreting out life's little triumphs wherever and whenever they could be found. And even Gallsworthy's acceptance of his flying skills could in no way match Brim's satisfaction in the sour look still manifested on Amherst's long, homely face.
Truculent was well on her way to war — so was Wilf Brim.
* * * *
Blockades in intergalactic space were mounted for pretty much the same reasons they were mounted anywhere else: starve a critical component of a civilization into collapse and other, dependent components suffer with it. Starve sufficient critical components, and the whole civilization suffers. To this end, I.F.S. Truculent was assigned patrol duty off the periphery of the League's great Altnag'gin hullmetal fabricating complex orbiting the star Trax. Without imported metallic zar'clinium, a rare trace element, its mills could forge no hull metal plate, and without hullmetal plate, dependent shipyards could turn out no more warships.
The actual implementation was as simple as it was effective: transport starships cruising HyperSpace at roughly ten to thirty light years each metacycle were simply not “maneuverable” in any normal sense of the word. It was first necessary to exit HyperSpace before approaching anywhere near a space anchorage, and this meant Hypolight runs of at least two or three metacycles at the end of each journey. During this interval, “runners” (enemy ships headed in either direction) were quite visible in the normal spectrum — and vulnerable to attack from predators like the Empire's specially equipped T-class destroyers. Truculent was one of six patrol craft assigned to sealing Altnag'gin; she relieved a smaller N-class destroyer, which had been constantly on station for three Standard Months.
It came as no particular surprise to Brim when the duty quickly broke down to mostly hard work and boredom; a lot of work in deep space was like that. However, the routine was often enough punctuated by periods of deadly action, and Truculent found herself immersed in one of these no more than a few Standard Days after the ship she replaced gleefully turned her bow homeward and surged off into deep space at full thrust.
A chance break in one of the region's interminable gravity storms some thousand or so c'lenyts off the Nebulous Triad (a key departure point from one of the Cloud League's most important manufacturing centers) had just revealed two fast transports racing in from deep space.
Besides metallic zar'clinium, blockade runners in this part of the League nearly always carried other basic commodities to fuel the maw of Nergol Triannic's war machine: food ripped from starving farmers of Korvost, freshly mined crystal seedlings, and always quantities of life-sustaining TimeWeed from the Spevil virus beds — frequent drafts of the latter were necessary for addicted members of the dreaded Controller class and their rulers, expatriates from Triannic's royal court in far-off Tarrott city.
Only cycles out of HyperSpace, the enemy ships had run out of luck.
Gallsworthy and Pym worked briskly at Truculent's Helmsmen's consoles, Collingswood on her feet behind them, one hand on each recliner, staring through the Hyperscreens. An off-duty Brim sat as observer in a jump seat, concentrating on the proceedings as if his life depended on learning each movement at either console — someday, he knew it would.
No escort craft accompanied these two high-speed beauties; Leaguer Admiral Kabul Anak had recently siphoned nearly all protection from the area to support a large combined attack on nearby targets in the Empire. And the gravity storm that only cycles in the past covered their dash for safety also served to conceal Truculent. But the latter's military scanning devices picked up the two traders long before her own image activated their civilian proximity alarms. Now the deadly warship was positioned so as to deny any possibility of escape to HyperSpace and was surging along in their wakes like the legendary wraith of Zoltnark, Dark Lord of the Universe.
“We shall have a warning salvo, if you please, Anastasia,” Collingswood ordered quietly. “They are surely aware of our presence by now.”
“And probably yelling for help on every channel they scan,” Amherst grumbled nervously. Brim's glance strayed to the Communications consoles where two ratings quietly nodded to each other. No time to waste today. The broadcast alarms would soon attract every enemy warship remaining in the area.
Outside, he watched Truculent's three upper-deck turrets index slightly to port, then return to starboard, finally coming to a stop with their long, slim 144s pointing dead ahead: toward the distant targets. His mind's eye visualized four identical turrets that had just danced the same little gigue out of sight on the starship's dorsal planes.
“Stand by for a close pattern about half a c'lenyt off their bows,” Fourier ordered.
Brim watched fascinated while firing crews hunched over their Director consoles, faces lit from beneath by the ever-changing colors of information pouring into their globes.
“Range six thousand and closing. Fifty-nine hundred …fifty-eight hundred…”
“Connect the mains, all disruptors.”
“Connected.”
“Deflection seventy-six left. Rate eighty-one plus.”
“Range fifty-five hundred and closing. Sharply now…”
“Steady.”
“Fire!” At Fourier's word, all seven disruptors went off in a salvo of blinding light and raw energy — Truculent's deck bucked violently; clouds of angry radiation cascaded into the wake. In spite of himself, Brim thrilled to the rolling, earsplitting thunder rumbling through the spaceframe. Instantly, a whole volume of space ahead of the League ships convulsed with brilliant flashes of yellow fire.
“Eyes of Vothoor!” Theada quipped in an undertone, “That ought to slow them down some.”
“Don't count on it,” Collingswood warned, eyes riveted on her fleeing quarry. “They'll not give up so easily as that. Triannic’s forces everywhere are clamoring for supplies — he makes it well worthwhile for the ones who do get through.” Indeed, nearly a full cycle later, the two ships were still speeding toward their destinations.
She frowned, nodded her head. “Reason with them again, Anastasia,” she ordered. “Closer, this time.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Fourier answered. “A bit closer, if you please, at the Directors.”
“Aye, Lieutenant. Down five hundred. Deflection fifteen minus. Rate sixty-four plus.”
Brim's untrained eye could detect little movement of the disruptors as they were relaid, but he knew the next shots would be a great deal closer, if recent target exercises were any indication at all.
“Fire!”
This time, the darkness ahead was shattered by one huge upheaval that appeared as if it must have taken place only irals from the targets themselves. And t
hough it did produce immediate results, they were not quite the ones expected on Truculent's bridge. “Voot's gray ghost,” Collingswood grumped under her breath. “Wouldn't you know!” Only one of the ships had slowed down to surrender — the other was still speeding toward Altnag’gin, leaving its partner as sacrifice. A rare show of teamwork for the independent Cloud League's blockade runners.
“Must be something xaxtdamned important in that second one,” Gallsworthy observed angrily. “Those zukeeds rarely help one-another.”
“That's the truth,” Anastasia agreed. “We'd better catch it, all right.”
“I want them both,” Collingswood said, tossing her head. “Those ships are valuable prizes, and I do not intend either will escape.” She turned abruptly, peering into the darkened bridge. “Lieutenant Amherst!” she called.
“Captain?”
“Lieutenant, round up those hands we designated boarding party A,” she said in an excited voice. “Ten with side arms and blast pikes. Have them ready no later than ten cycles from now: Before we catch up to the first ship,” she ordered. “Because you are going to take it home as a prize while we continue 'discussions' with its friend.”
“Me? Home?”
“Yes, Puvis — home,” she said, gaze sweeping across the bridge — where it came to rest on the off-duty Brim in his jump seat. “And by Slua's third eye!” she continued, “you are going to do it with our Carescrian prodigy as your pilot. How do you feel about boarding that transport, too, Lieutenant Brim?”
Grinning like an addled tree h'oggoth, Brim clambered out of his recliner and hurried along the aisle to Amherst's console. “I'm on my way to the transfer tube, Captain.”
“Pity,” Collingswood laughed. “You may well miss all the action there, for I do not plan to board her by conventional means — that would absolutely insure the second ship's escape.”
Brim watched Amherst match his own frown. “Captain?” the latter asked.
“I shall only slow when I pass that first ship,” she said, eyes narrowed in excitement. “Something neither of those rather clever blockade runners expects.” She pointed a finger at Brim's chest, “Instead, Lieutenant Brim, you will fly the boarding party — in one of our launches — alongside the enemy bridge. Where you, Lieutenant Amherst,” she continued, “will have the job of boarding her through any kind of a hatch you find there; they've all got something. Then take immediate possession of the controls. Ten men should be more than sufficient. If you work quickly, it will all be done while she's still in the range of our 144s — they should guarantee active cooperation from your hosts. After that, Lieutenant Brim, it will be your job again to take her into any Imperial port you can reach. Don't worry about the launch. We'll pick it up if we get the chance, otherwise she's a small price to pay for either of those beauties. I shall expect you back aboard Truculent soon as you can hitch a ride. Now get moving — both of you!”
Moments later, Brim and Amherst were bustling down a ladder toward the ship's small armory as Maldive's voice broke into the interCOMM, “Boarding party one: Form in battle suits immediately at launch hatch three. Boarding party one to launch hatch three — immediately!”
Well within the ten cycles allotted by Collingswood, Brim sat perspiring at the command console of Truculent's number-three launch, a stubby, powerful affair Sophia Pym swore was designed first for ugliness, and only then for performance. Behind him, similarly peering from the armored blue globes of Imperial battle-suit helmets, Amherst and nine men — led by the hulking Barbousse — clambered through the hatch to perch on jump seats in the crowded utility compartment, jostling to position their long blast pikes under the low canopy. Last aboard was Ursis, waving a huge side-action blaster of Sodeskayan manufacture.
“Hatch is closed and dogged, Wilf,” the Bear reported, thumping into place beside Amherst. “Terribly sorry, Lieutenant,” he grunted, as he wedged the First Lieutenant against a rack of stringers. “Collingswood sent me to keep an eye on Brim here,” he continued as Amherst dissolved in a fit of coughing.
Brim stifled a delighted grin, nodded assent, and confirmed the hatch seal on an instrument panel before him. Then he started the powerful little antigravity generator aft and immediately spooled it up to maximum output; he hated that kind of heavy-handed Helmsmanship, but had little choice under the present circumstances. When the registered output steadied, he nodded to the image of Theada in an overhead display. “Swing us out, Jubal,” he barked through the suit's interCOMM. Moments later, two heavy davits sparkled with emerald light as mooring beams flashed to the launch's optical capstans. Less than a cycle later, the beams thickened, then the davits began to move: first upward, then sideways, hauling the launch from behind the protection of Truculent's bridge wings. It provided Brim's first unobstructed view forward since he left the bridge: the first enemy ship — a typical Cloud League transport made up of globes and cylinders co-located along a single tube — was now pothering along less than a quarter c'lenyt ahead and being overhauled rapidly.
“Stand by to cast off the launch,” he yelled over the roar of the generator.
“Standing by,” Theada asserted shakily.
Brim carefully judged his distance and rate of closure; launches were not capable of sustained high-speed travel, even at military overload. Aft, the straining antigravity generator already threatened to rip itself from its mountings. He tensed. “Now, Jubal!” he yelled.
Theada made no clean job of it. The forward beam winked out a fraction of a second before the aft, and very nearly dragged their launch end around end before Brim fought her back on course, heart pounding against his chest. Then, miraculously, he was bucketing along beside the enemy transport’s globular forward module with an already distant Truculent pulling away all too rapidly for comfort — her big 144s provided a distinct feeling of security in the thin-skinned launch.
“There's the emergency hatch, Lieutenant,” Barbousse exclaimed, pointing a fingered glove toward a faint outline just aft the port arm of the ship's cross-shaped Hyperscreens.
“He's got it,” Ursis seconded. “Bring us alongside, Wilf. We'll blast it in if they won't open on their own. They xaxtdamned well know why we're here.”
Brim maneuvered the launch until his main hatch was opposite the enemy's bridge, then watched Barbousse yank it open and aim his blast pike, finger twitching on the valve. He could see the enemy flight crew peering back at him — helplessly, he hoped.
“Give them a moment, Barbousse!” he yelled.
“Aye, Lieutenant,” Barbousse assured him. “I'll wait.” But in point of fact, the blockade runners did not need even a moment; their escape hatch flew off into the wake before Barbousse's voice faded from the bubble of Brim's helmet. The opening was immediately filled by one of the Cloud League's jet-black battle suits, arms crossed against the chest in the Universal gesture of surrender.
“Snag 'em, Barbousse,” he yelled as he jerked the launch sideways, smashing the two hatches together in a cloud of sparks. Deftly for his awesome size, Barbousse lofted two explosive grappling hooks accurately through either side of the opening, then dragged them taut when they fired, securing each to baggage tie-downs on the launch's floor.
After that, nothing happened. Puzzled, Brim shut down the straining generators, his attention glued to Number One, waiting for further commands.
“Well, come on Amherst,” Ursis growled in the resulting silence. “You are waiting perhaps for personal invitation from Admiral Anak?”
“Oh. Er… yes. I mean no, of course not! Ah …this way, men,” Amherst stuttered, pushing Barbousse through the opening first. Ursis clambered through on his heels, followed by Brim and the nine ratings of the boarding party.
Inside, a small group of civilian spacers huddled glumly on one side of the bridge, nervous eyes darting in every direction. One, a woman, was tall with a figure even a space suit couldn't hide; she also had a nose only a mother could love. Beside her a fat old man stood with his paunch straining the p
ower belt around his waist. Another had no hair on his head. And still another wore a crumpled little peaked cap inside his bubble helmet and sported a huge black mustache drooping from his upper lip. Brim stopped in his tracks. So these were the enemy he so often read about. The Cloud League's storied blockade runners. He snorted in irony. These? They looked like nothing more — or less — than any workaday spacer he’d known from the ore carriers; ordinary, everyday faces. In an Avalonian byway, he would not have noticed anyone of them. And to a man, they were frightened, no doubt about that!
In the center of the bridge, however, three very different human forms stood before the controls, these dressed in the black battle suits of Controllers. For no apparent reason, they instantly returned Brim to the dark mood of war. Black-uniformed Controllers were a separate, elite branch of the normally gray-uniformed League armed forces. In the eyes of most Imperials, they were the true Cloud League villains: Killers of little Carescrian girls and destroyers of undefended villages. He could almost see bloodstains on their spotless gloves as they waited with looks of insolence on their faces.
“Ah,” Amherst started lamely, “wh-what ship is this?”
“And who asks?” one of the black-suited Leaguers demanded haughtily.
“It is not your time for questions, Black Suit,” Ursis growled as he ever so slightly moved the big side-action blaster in his hand. There was nothing subtle at all about the gesture — either meant by the Bear or interpreted by the Controllers.