THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition

by Bill Baldwin

  Alive?

  He opened his eyes cautiously. A curved, transparent canopy arched overhead no more than half an iral from his face. For lack of anything better, he concentrated on that, and blinked his eyes. In one corner, it carried the stylized comet insignia of the Imperial Fleet.

  Safe, too! Somehow — miraculously — he was in somebody's sick bay. He didn't even particularly care whose it was, or how he got there.

  He turned his head in the cramped enclosure, sighted along his left shoulder. It had come free. The healing machine's amoeba like apparatus was evidently finished with him and had retracted, or whatever it was pseudopods did when they went away. The shoulder itself was wrapped in a softly glowing cloth that extended all the way to his elbow. The remainder of him appeared to be dressed in a standard-issue, one-piece Imperial hospital suit — minus the left sleeve and shoulder. He moved his left hand, clenched a fist. Very little tenderness.

  Not bad.

  In a state of almost total exhaustion, he closed his eyes again and drifted off into contented sleep.

  Later, when he woke again, the canopy was open and the deep rumble of Drive crystals soothed his ears. A familiar face peered down from a balding head with considerable professional interest. “You xaxtdamned Carescrians will do anything for a little attention, won't you?” admonished Xerxes O. Flynn.

  Brim grinned. “Well,” he conceded, “almost anything. I didn't let 'em kill me, after all.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Flynn said with a serious look. “Those League bastards sure thought you were dead. Frightened to death of what might happen to 'em because of it. “

  Brim frowned. “Yeah,” he conceded, “Well, they weren't alone by a long shot. I was pretty sure it was all over, too. Just how in the bloody Universe did I get here?” he demanded. “When I passed out, that Prefect bastard, Valentin, was still trying to play sex roles with Collingswood.”

  “Collingswood wasn't playing,” Flynn chuckled, “but I did hear her telling Pym she thought he was xaxtdamned cute.”

  Brim raised an eyebrow. “Collingswood? Valentin?”

  “Valentin, indeed,” Flynn answered. “He's rather famous over there, in case you hadn't heard. Quite a hero, among other things.” He laughed. “And there's nothing wrong with our little Regula Collingswood, either. She's a perfectly healthy specimen in every respect. Just wasn't in the mood at the time. Probably the sight of all your blood, or something. Anyway, she worked everything out. It's a long story; you can get the details later. But she nearly melted that thraggling corvette before she left, not long after Ursis carried you over himself. In a LifeGlobe.”

  “Melted the corvette?” Brim asked in amazement. “Universe, you can't expect me to wait for that story. Come on now, Doctor. I'll never get back to sleep.”

  Flynn opened his mouth for a moment, pointed a finger at Brim, then shook his head and smiled resignedly. “All right,” he said, leaning his elbows on the side of the healing machine. “I suppose it makes sense. I wouldn't be able to sleep, either.” With that, he related how Collingswood offered Valentin a very simple plan. He and his crew could safely embark in their LifeGlobes — so long as the captured Imperials were also provided their own LifeGlobe in which they could separately return to Truculent. Once they were safely aboard and the Leaguers were a safe distance away, Collingswood would signal Pym to destroy the corvette — and one Leaguer LifeGlobe for each Imperial who was dead or had failed to return. “They were xaxtdamned careful with you after that,” Flynn concluded.

  “What about Ursis and Barbousse and the rest of the crew?” Brim asked.

  “Oh, they're all healing, more's the pity,” Flynn said. “Pym got no further target practice, and you're the only one I was able to really practice on.”

  “Universe,” Brim said, “I'll bet everybody else all felt terrible about that.”

  “They didn't,” Flynn grumped. “Unsympathetic bastards. But you made up for it, Brim, old friend,” he said with a smile of satisfaction. “Isn't much under that bandage you brought from Carescria. I practiced on you for a long time; practically had to grow you a whole new shoulder, plus a few teeth.”

  “Thraggling wonderful,” Brim exclaimed in mock dismay. “Does any of it work?”

  “Smart bastard,” Flynn fumed. “I couldn't very well cock up the teeth, now could I? They come in a box.” Then he frowned. “I am sort of worried about the arm and shoulder assembly, now that I think about it. Might be only good for piloting starships and lifting glasses of meem.” A quiet chime interrupted his banter, and he looked over his shoulder, grinning. “Couple of strange-looking individuals asked to see you when you awakened, Wilf,” he said. “Feel up to talking some more?”

  “If they can stand me, I can probably stand them,” Brim assured him.

  Flynn nodded, again over his shoulder. “All right,” he said, “come on in.”

  Brim heard a door slide open on quiet rollers. Directly, Ursis and Barbousse appeared on either side of the Doctor, grinning from ear to ear. Both wore heavy bandages. “Remember now,” Flynn warned sternly, “only a couple of cycles. Then out you go.”

  The Bear looked down at Brim with one eye (his other was hidden by a patch), fang gems flashing the soft light. He cocked his head toward the Doctor. “Flynn here can be great nuisance when he wants,” he said. “Is not so, Starman Barbousse?”

  The big rating's face reddened. “Well, sir,” he said, “he does appear to do passing good work. Ah …” He peered down at Brim. “Glad to be seein' you, ah …”

  “How about alive?” Brim suggested. “And speaking of that, what happened to you two?”

  “Oh,” Barbousse said lightly, “them Cloud League scalawags didn't take kindly to Lieutenant Ursis' fake fit there in the K tube, what with all his rollin' around on the deck an' all. “

  “And you piling in for good measure,” Ursis chuckled with a toothy grin. “As they say on Mother Planets, 'When Hagsdoff scratches rock, Bears move snow houses out of sunlight,' eh?” He nudged the big rating in the ribs with an elbow.

  “Oh. Ah … aye, sir,” Barbousse answered with a confused look. “Hagsdoffs.”

  Flynn's eyes met Brim's, then rolled toward the ceiling. “Hagsdoffs,” he repeated.

  “You were both great, “Brim piped up to stifle an oncoming chuckle. “Even if you did almost get me killed.”

  “Sure glad you made it, Lieutenant,” Barbousse repeated. “If you hadn't done what you did, we'd likely be startin' an all-day night shift at some Altnag’gin hullmetal mill.”

  “Not all of us,” Ursis interjected with a dark growl.

  “I heard,” Brim said. “The bastards …”

  “At any rate,” Flynn interrupted quickly. “You two did show up here for a particular purpose, didn't you?”

  “Yes, that we did,” Ursis answered, turning to Brim with a serious look on his face. He narrowed his eyes. “Someday, Wilf Brim,” he said, “I shall properly thank you for all you did for us. Not now. But I want you to know your bravery would be legend, even in my homeland.” He shook his head, momentarily a long way off. “Meantime,” he said, turning to Barbousse, “you give it to him. You found it.”

  Barbousse's cheeks went red again, but he looked Brim in the eye. “Ah, I, ah, c-copped this on the way out of the corvette,” he stammered as he lifted a big side-action blaster into the startled Carescrian's right hand. “Tried to return it to Lieutenant Ursis, but he wouldn't take it back.”

  “We agreed you should have it,” Ursis thrust in. “It belonged to my grandfather: A man of great gallantry. You will honor it, Wilf — and him, rest his spirit.”

  Brim opened his mouth in surprise. “I... Oh, Universe, Nik,” he exclaimed emotionally, “I can't take that.”

  “Sorry,” Flynn interrupted, “but if you people are going to argue, these two will have to leave, which they are going to have to do soon anyway.”

  Brim shook his head in defeat, tears of emotion burning his eyes. “Thank you,�
� he choked when he was able. Not eloquent, but all he could manage.

  “You are most welcome, Friend Brim,” Ursis said with a huge grin. “And before this very inhospitable medicine man rescinds his tenuous welcome, I have something else here for you — from no less a personage than Bosporus P. Gallsworthy.” Brim raised an eyebrow. “Gallsworthy?” he asked incredulously.

  “None other,” Ursis said. “As your boss, he has collected all messages sent to your person since you last accessed your queue.”

  “And?” Brim asked. “Nobody sends me anything but debit notices.”

  “Don't remember Gallsworthy handing me anything like that,” Ursis said, a look of ill-concealed merriment in his eyes.

  “What else could it be?” Brim asked, genuinely mystified.

  The Bear laughed. “This,” he said, handing Brim a small plastic card. “Hard copy of personal message from Gimmas. Thought you might want to see straightaway.”

  “For me? I don't know anybody on Gimmas. I didn't even get there until two nights before we…”

  “Hmm,” the Bear replied. “Perhaps is a mistake. But I think not. Read…”

  Frowning, Brim took the card, turned it to catch the light — his heart skipped a beat. Four short lines of poetry from the ancient pen of Sante' Eremite blazed from the tiny page. The power of the simple words transcended centuries; he'd read them often: “My fire burns among the stars/My long lance thrusteth sure,/My strength is as the strength of ten,/Because my heart endures.” One more line completed the short message: “Congratulations, Wilf Brim.” It was signed simply, “Margot Effer'wyck.”

  CHAPTER 4

  More than two Standard weeks passed before Brim's weakened body accustomed itself to its brand-new parts, but the day at last arrived when Flynn dismissed him permanently from Truculent's sick bay — with strict orders to go cautiously until more of his strength returned. Now, only cycles after pressing the Doctor's hand in heartfelt thanks, he was at last back inside his tiny cabin, seated on the edge of his bunk and accessing the ship's message system. He cycled his pitifully small mail file three times: Eight messages in all, only one sourced from “Effer'wyck@Haefdon.”

  He immediately brought this one to his display, which filled with loose golden curls and a frowning smile. Margot! He thrilled while the image recited Lacerta's timeless lines in a soft, modulated voice. She'd be proud of that voice, he reflected, and wondered how he'd managed to miss it before.

  Far too soon, the little message ran its course. He played it again — and then again. He rotated the display and watched her from every angle. She might be far beyond his reach, but that didn't stop him from dreaming!

  With a sigh, he finally sent her message to his permanent storage, then selected a note from Captain Collingswood. Voice only, this requested he “drop by” her office to file a verbal report whenever he felt “up to it.” He took care of that immediately, appending his name to her appointment schedule for just after the next change of watch.

  The remainder of his messages, save one, was all debit notices.

  His single exception was a short communication from Borodov containing a cross-reference to the prestigious Journal of the Imperial Fleet. “A most valuable article, Wilf Ansor,” the shifting patterns read. “You must file this with your most important documents. Good as credits in the pocket, perhaps better. (signed) A.A. Borodov.”

  The Journal? With a frown, Brim fetched Borodov's reference to his display. Characteristic patterns in the style of the highly venerated publication replaced Borodov's covering message, then indexed to a small article almost lost toward the back of the issue. It was clearly little more than filler placed during a time of little important activity elsewhere, but it was there nonetheless:

  Gimmas/Haefdon (Eorean Blockading Forces) 118/ 51995: Carescrian SubLieutenant Wilf Brim, recently graduated Helmsman assigned to Lieutenant-commander Regula Collingswood's I.F.S. Truculent (DD T.83, see other reports, this issue), distinguished himself recently off the Altnag'gin periphery during a boarding action that resulted in destruction of a corvette commanded by Kirsch Valentin, infamous young Prefect with five Imperial kills.

  As Borodov suggested, he carefully filed the reference on his permanent storage, grinning in spite of himself. Strange, he reflected, how much that little bit of recognition meant to him. He'd been such an outsider since he joined the Fleet under Lord Wyrood's Admiralty Reform Act. It took only this insignificant crumb of acknowledgment to make him feel a lot less like one.

  Then he busily applied himself to composing Margot's answer — no easy task, he discovered to his surprise. When he scanned his books of verse for a fitting line or two, nothing seemed to fit, though a number of the same poems seemed perfect when he first thought about them in the solitude of the sick bay. He made a second pass, then a third, before settling down for a detailed search. Shortly before his appointment with Collingswood, he had completed only two books with three-quarters of a third remaining to be studied. So far, nothing even resembled his requirements. In the end, he decided he might easily spend years without finding the proper words. Shaking his head ruefully at the time he had already wasted on the project, he quickly chose a few lines that approximated his thoughts, composed a short covering message of thanks, then sent everything on its way before he could change his mind again.

  That out of the way, he smoothed his tunic, brushed his boots on his bunk cover, and made his way forward to the captain's cabin, one level above his own.

  * * * *

  “Sit down, Wilf,” Collingswood said as she relaxed in her chair. Subtle harmonies insinuated themselves from the cabin background: soft instruments blending, separating, then blending once more to form emotional tapestries of surprising beauty. He seemed to recall the same sounds from his first visit to her cabin, but they hardly registered then. “The last time I saw you,” Collingswood was saying with a twinkle in her eye, “you appeared to be rather soundly asleep.”

  Brim grinned. “I seem to have been doing a lot of that lately, Captain,” he answered. .

  “Almost a permanent condition, from what Dr. Flynn tells me,” Collingswood declared, her face becoming serious. “I watched Ursis and Barbousse carry you in from the corvette. You'd been rather thoroughly worked over by that frightful Valentin character and his crew — you evidently caused a bit of trouble during your short visit.”

  “I tried to, Captain,” Brim said.

  Collingswood laughed quietly. “I'm quite certain you did, Lieutenant. But I shall need to know a bit more than that,” she asserted. “I am required to file an official report, you know. “

  Brim felt his face flush. “Sorry, Captain,” he said. “I didn't understand.” He stared at his boots, reflecting for a moment, then rubbed his chin. “So far as I can remember,” he began, “this is what happened after we spotted that corvette...” For the next metacycle, he described what he had seen aboard the enemy warship, including his own activities when he felt they had any relevance.

  Collingswood sat relaxed in her recliner while he spoke, taking notes, interjecting occasional questions, or clarifying certain points. When he finished, she re-crossed her legs, frowned thoughtfully, and looked him straight in the eye. “Strange,” she mused, “how much like your shipmates you have become. None has mentioned Lieutenant Amherst so far, or his part in this little adventure of yours. I wonder why.”

  Brim frowned. In the seclusion of the healing coffin, he considered himself ready for questions about that part. Now all his confidence seemed to dissipate like smoke. He fumbled with a loose fastener on his tunic. “Well,” he uttered, groping for something to say, “I can't speak for the others, of course. I was alone most of the time we spent aboard the corvette, Captain. “

  “I see,” Collingswood said, brushing aside a stray lock of hair. She studied the fingernails of her right hand. “Would you,” she began, “make any further comments were I to ask you for information concerning alleged incompetence on the part of Lieutena
nt Ursis?”

  “In what context, Captain?” Brim asked warily, not yet willing to meet her eyes.

  “Why, in the context of his attempts — or should I say, non-attempts — to alter the control settings of the Cloud League merchantman Ruggetos, of course,” she answered, her expression suddenly cold as space itself.

  Brim took a deep breath and met her gaze squarely. “In that case, Captain,” he said evenly, “I should probably have a great deal more to say.”

  “Would you testify, Lieutenant?” she continued, sitting well forward in her recliner, elbows firmly on the armrests.

  “If it came to that, Captain, you can bet I would testify,” Brim answered. He waited for an explosion — both she and Amherst were clearly Imperials of no mean station, and in his experience, Carescrians didn't usually get away with taking stands, no matter who was in the right.

  As if considering her next words, Collingswood remained for a moment staring into his eyes. Then, suddenly she relaxed and sat back in her recliner, smiling broadly. “You have joined my old Truculent, haven't you, Brim?” she pronounced. “I rather thought you'd have little trouble doing that once you got started.”

  Brim blinked. “Pardon?” he stammered.

  “Protecting Amherst the way you are,” Collingswood explained. “You're already part of my crew.” She laughed quietly. “In rather record time, too.”

  Brim kept his silence, unsure of where she was leading him.

  “You probably wonder what I plan to do about him, don't you, Lieutenant?” she went on, holding up a graceful hand. “His part in the loss of that merchantman was easy enough for me to piece together — and caused you considerable difficulty and pain. You deserve an answer.”

  Brim nodded his head noncommittally. “Thank you, Captain,” he said simply.

  “I shall not rid the ship of him,” she said with no further preamble. “Because Amherst is a powerful name throughout the Fleet — and other reasons which have nothing to do with either of you — he shall have one more chance, at least.” She smiled and shook her head. “No one ever said life would be fair, Lieutenant. In spite of what Amherst might really deserve, I shall not commit political suicide to secure his punishment — though I shall attempt to insure he is never again in a position to cause so much harm, should he fail a second time.”