THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition

by Bill Baldwin

  He savored her oval face, her loose curls, her sulky eyes — now even sulkier as fatigue and the meem took effect. And he drew her out, learned what he could of her life, her family, her loves from her days as a little girl. She spoke freely, clearly relishing the memories of carefree dalliances before the war. Brim smiled with her, but somehow the words were bittersweet in his ears.

  Then, suddenly she looked about the wardroom. His eyes followed. Except for Grimsby's spectral presence in the pantry, they were alone. Margot glanced down at her timepiece and shut her eyes. “Oh, Universe, Wilf,” she whispered. “I'm on duty in less than five metacycles. I've got to go — now!” She touched his hand and drew his eyes to hers. “Thank you for a beautiful break in a long tour of duty,” she whispered. “'Rarely, rarely, comest thou,/Spirit of Delight!/Wherefore hast thou left me now/Many a day and night?' “

  As he helped her into her Fleet Cloak, Brim found his mind a poetic blank. “All I can think of right now are my own words,” he stammered. “But I need to tell you that … that this evening has made some of the tough parts of my life suddenly well worth living through.” For a few moments of absolute unreality, he stood so close he nearly touched her. And found his carefully nurtured professional attitude was rapidly evaporating with each passing cycle.

  Then, from nowhere, Grimsby appeared again, this time with Brim's own Fleet Cloak. It broke the spell.

  “M-Many thanks, Grimsby,” the Carescrian stammered, looking perplexedly at the strange little man.

  “Yes,” Grimsby agreed with a warm smile. “She is lovely, isn't she, sir?” Then he saluted and scuttled off toward the pantry.

  Margot looked at him and smiled sleepily. “I shouldn't begin to question him, were I you, Wilf,” she giggled. “This old Universe has always contained its share of magic; Grimsby's clearly a part of that.”

  “So are you, Margot,” Brim whispered as he followed her into the companionway.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Brim replied. “Just saying good night to Grimsby. “

  Outside, the wind had abated somewhat, but the cold nearly deprived Brim of his breath while they picked their way over the icy brow. In the snow-strewn mist at the breakwater, they stopped outside her little skimmer.

  “I'm glad I scheduled you last, Wilf,” she said — almost disconcertedly.

  “You did that on purpose?” he asked.

  Margot smiled. “My professional secret,” she said. “But aside from missing all the important data I took from you, I might also have missed the pleasure of these last few metacycles with you, mightn't I?”

  Brim looked down at his boots. “Yes,” he admitted. “I would never have dared to even ask you to drink with me.” He shook his head and shrugged. “So many other officers must want…”

  She put a gloved finger to his lips. “The Universe doesn't have many Wilf Brims to offer,” she said. “Let me choose my friends. All right?”

  “All right,” Brim agreed with a smile. He opened the door to her skimmer in a shower of tiny snowflakes that tingled against his face and flashed in the dim light of Truculent's battle lanterns.

  She slid into the seat, then looked him in the eye once more. “Few people here who recite poetry, either, so don't be a stranger, Wilf.” She tilted her head slightly. “Soon,” she added, then shut the door.

  “I promise,” he said.

  Moments later, the little machine trembled into life and shook itself of snow. Then it rose and skimmed off over the drifts, lights beaming through the tendrils of fog. Brim stared silently at the point where it disappeared a long time before he trudged thoughtfully back to the starship. A bloody real princess — but the title didn’t matter any more.

  A fitful night ensued as Brim tossed endlessly in his narrow bunk while his timepiece metered away the early morning watch. When occasionally he could trick himself into something resembling sleep, he was beset by further dream sequences with Margot — whose beauty remained frustratingly untouchable (for one reason or another), but who was at least now unencumbered by Baron Rogan LaKarn. When more commonly he couldn't sleep at all, he lay staring at the dark ceiling attempting to convince himself his impossible relationship with this beautiful young noblewoman was nothing more than a friendship growing naturally out of some shared professionalism.

  “Shared professionalism.” The term pleased him: Ample foundation for a friendship, even with a royal princess so far above his station she ought rightly to be completely out of sight. It explained everything. Made it all right.

  Eventually, he did succumb to a deeper sleep, but it lasted only into the first portion of the morning watch: two metacycles at most, then chimes woke him, directing his attention to his message frame, which announced a wardroom meeting for officers in twenty cycles. Sleepily, he pulled on his uniform. “Shared professionalism,” he thought while he polished his boots. Well, if that's what it was, then it was clearly his turn to get them together. Muzzily, he combed the knots from his thick black hair. What did one do with royalty? He shook his head and chuckled. This time, he'd have to improvise as he went because the average Carescrian simply wasn't outfitted with that kind of knowledge, at least as standard equipment. Then he smiled.

  Yet.. .

  “I shall detain you only a few moments,” a smiling Collingswood called out from the head of the table. “I know everyone is as anxious to be about their business…” the merest blush of color rose high in her cheeks, “as am I.”

  A joshing kind of rustle swept the table, punctuated by, “Hear, Hear!” and, “Good on you, Captain!” Brim looked down the table while the small stir settled. Nik sat to his right, outfitted in his usual finery, the heel of one expensive-looking boot hooked to the front of his chair, hands folded across a sturdy Bear ankle. At the opposite end of the table from Collingswood, Amherst sat imperiously looking neither right nor left, and to his left Gallsworthy already swayed drunkenly in his seat. Next to him, and closest to the door, a tired-looking Sophia Pym slouched in loose-jointed comfort, her red-rimmed eyes dreamily focused somewhere a long way from Truculent.

  “We have a whole lot of repairs to put to rights this trip,” Collingswood was saying, “as all of you know so well.” More laughs and comments punctuated that. “Well, they're going to make it worthwhile for us, too. This time, people, I have been notified we shall be in port for one full month, starting today. And we shall be processing applications for leave directly following this meeting.”

  At this, the wardroom fairly erupted in cheers and applause. Nik pounded his fists on the table, great diamonds flashing in his fangs. Fourier and Pym slapped each other on the back, and Borodov nudged Flynn in the side with a wicked look on his furry face. Only Gallsworthy seemed not to notice — a momentary cloud of sadness passed over his face. Then it was gone, replaced by the impenetrable mask of drunken indifference.

  Collingswood completed her presentation quickly after that, finishing with the usual port announcements, duty-roster requirements (to be satisfied before any leave applications would be processed), and official Fleet notices. One of these had to do with a call for volunteers — a special mission of one sort or another — but Brim missed most of it in the chorus of hoots and general disparagement that followed the word “volunteer.” Something about a converted starliner registered in the back of his mind. I.F.S. Prosperous was it? If memory served him, a ship by that name was among the fastest in the peacetime fleet. Then the meeting was over and everyone was suddenly fighting over the duty roster.

  Brim walked quickly past the happy throng signing up for leave. He had none coming, nor anyplace to spend it if he did. Alone in his cabin, he sat before the Communicator and reported in to the Base's general-availability roster for the duration of Truculent's stay in port. Dutifully removing one of the Fleet's ubiquitous personal transponders from his cabinet, he sent in its serial number, activated power for one standard month, then swallowed the tiny device and waited.

  �
�Recorded and verified, Lieutenant Brim,” the Communicator said. “We shall be in touch if necessary.”

  So much for that…

  Within the metacycle, Brim was on Truculent's bridge once again, watching a husky, broad-shouldered tug materialize out of a thick fog to tow the destroyer to one of the inland repair pools. Collingswood had long since signed her over to the base repair organizations and would not return for at least two weeks. For that matter, nearly all the rest of the officers were gone, too. Only Ursis remained with the ship to run the center gravity generator while the ship was towed — and even he was scheduled to depart with Borodov when that was done. The Bear watched approvingly while the tug's crew grappled on to Truculent's hull with the huge mooring beams the little ships seemed to use whether they needed them or not.

  “One would think we displaced as much as Benwell,” the Bear chuckled as Truculent was eased backward off her gravity pool.

  “So long as they’re the ones driving us to the repair pool,” Brim laughed, “they can use real rope for all I care — just so I don’t have to keep track of the silly rules they've got for overland running.” In no time at all, their original mooring was swallowed in the fog. Brim watched in silence from the bridge as occasional buoys passed below in the swirling wake of the generator's footprint on the water. Then they slowed and passed between two great, age-blackened stone pylons, and the ice-filled water of the basin was abruptly replaced by grimy, dirt-tracked shipyard snow.

  The tug was soon towing them over a pair of glowing rails, the kind Brim had followed on his arrival at the base. And great Gimmas/Haefdon Fleet Base had meanwhile transformed itself into a disjoint parade of weathered buildings, suddenly looming gantries, and dismantled starships, which appeared and faded in the grayness as the destroyer glided backward in the swirling mists. Here and there, they saw trackside parties of grinning, heavily bundled workmen who alternately held their ears and waved as the ships rumbled past, cheering soundlessly outside the destroyer's bridge.

  Finally, Truculent jolted to a stop on a pool surrounded by a forest of towering cranes and dozens of new umbilicals to sustain the ship's logic systems while her main power supply was shunted elsewhere for diagnostics.

  Ursis no sooner shut down the center generator than a monstrous brow gently latched aboard, and presently the bridge filled with a rowdy gaggle of rough-hewn shipyard engineers and technicians.

  “I shall offer my farewell here, Wilf Ansor,” Ursis said gravely. “I would remain, but I am sure you understand one takes leave when he can.” He solemnly raised a long finger. “'Dark snow and thrice-frozen lamps beckon old Bears and cubs alike to caves in the Great Vastness,' as the saying goes,” he observed.

  Brim smiled and put his hand on the Bear's shoulder. “I think I understand, Nik,” he said. “And thanks for the thought.”

  Ursis bowed formally. “Besides,” he said, “Borodov and I have a . . ,” he frowned, “feeling, shall we say, that you will not lack for companionship — if last night is indication.”

  “Last night?”

  The Bear merely laughed as he peered through the Hyperscreens, then nodded toward the breakwater where an elegant chauffeur-driven skimmer had drawn up opposite the gate. “Last night,” he pronounced, grinning now. “We shall talk again, eh?” He clapped Brim on his arm. “Enjoy Princess Effer'wyck, my good friend. She is known among Bears as a fine young woman, in spite of her royal blood.” Then he was gone. Brim watched him stride across the brow toward the waiting skimmer, six great traveling cases bobbing along in his wake.

  Soon after Borodov's massive skimmer disappeared into a new snowstorm, Truculent's bridge became a confused mass of incomprehensible voices and engineering babble until Brim could stand it no more and escaped to the relative tranquility of his cabin. While these crews were on the job, Truculent, or at least the Truculent he knew, would cease to exist.

  With little to occupy his normally busy mind, his thoughts returned quickly to Margot — and the promise he had made her. He frowned. Well, why not? He reached for the Communicator, then shook his head, suddenly unsure of himself. Wardroom parties were one thing, but right now, he didn't even have the prospect of a wardroom, much less another party. What would he say to her? One didn't just invite someone to visit a gravity pool! And he knew nothing about the rest of Haefdon — or how to entertain a full-blooded princess.

  He laughed. He didn't have to know anything about either, for Margot Effer'wyck did. She'd been around the bloody base for years now! Screwing up his courage once more, he activated the COMM and talked his way into the Threat Assessment Division (Universe, but they were secure!). At some length, her face appeared in the display.

  “Wilf,” she said, brushing aside a stray curl. “How nice. I hoped I'd hear from you.”

  The warmth of her smile managed to calm him before her physical beauty made a gawking schoolboy of him again. He laughed. “I hoped you'd hope,” he quipped. “Now, all I have to do is find something to say next.”

  Margot grinned. “Hmm,” she said. “Perhaps I can help. What was it you had in mind?”

  “Actually,” Brim answered, “I had you in mind.”

  “Well,” Margot said with a look of mock thoughtfulness, “you have come to the right person, then.”

  “I thought so,” Brim said. “Perhaps, then, you can tell me how I might suggest another evening together.”

  Margot smiled again, her heavy-lidded eyes alive with warmth and humor. “That's not difficult,” she said. “You could ask me to supper; I'm quite available for something like that.” She winked. “Including tonight.”

  Brim felt his heart skip a beat.

  “Universe,” he stammered, “I'd love that, b-but I have no idea where.”

  “I see,” Margot said in mock seriousness. “Well, were such an invitation tendered, I should be glad to take care of the other details — including transportation.”

  Brim laughed. “I was going to cross the transportation bridge when I got to it,” he admitted.

  “Gets cold around here for a lot of walking,” Margot asserted. “But, then, I haven't been invited anywhere, either.”

  “You did say tonight, didn't you?” Brim asked, hardly willing to believe his ears.

  “Well, I am free.”

  “Would you… ?”

  “Wilf, I swear I thought you'd never ask.”

  “Universe.”

  “Pick you up right after the third watch. Does that sound all right?” she asked.

  “Rebuild pool 581 ,” Brim answered, regaining some control of himself.

  “I know,” she said. “Bring an appetite.” Then she was gone.

  Grinning to himself, Brim shook his head happily. Whatever else she might turn out to be, Margot Effer'wyck was also a whole new set of rules. He looked forward to learning as many as he could.

  * * * *

  By precisely the end of the third watch, Brim had carefully picked his way over the icy surface of the repair pool's monster brow and now stood impatiently on a platform before the main gate. Light snow was falling, and for the first time he could recall, the wind was still. Even Gimmas had its peaceful moments — but not many.

  Margot arrived only slightly late; Brim was checking his timepiece for the ten-thousandth time when headlights glowed softly down the road. Moments later, her well-used little skimmer was hovering at the platform.

  “Hungry?” she asked when he settled into the seat beside her.

  He nodded. With the hood of her cape back over her shoulders, she looked tired, relaxed, and ravishing. Brim felt his breath quicken. “Where are you taking me?” he asked in mock-frightened innocence.

  She looked his way for a moment. “A favorite place of mine,” she answered. “I think you'll like it, too — and it's not very far, either.” They were soon off the main highway and climbing a gentle grade over what Brim guessed was once a country road, now buried irals deep in Gimmas’ everlasting snow. On either side, tall, tangled forms of an
cient trees wound themselves into a sinuous wall of bare branches draped by garlands of snow: Mute reminders of summers now lost forever as the dimming star Haefdon continued its long march toward ultimate death. Ahead, at the summit, soft lights shone in glittering circles through the gentle snowfall.

  “It must have been beautiful once,” Brim pronounced, looking out at the dark landscape.

  “It still has its beauty, Wilf,” she said quietly. “You've got to look for it, though.” She smiled. “'Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of time!/It is most hard, with an untroubled ear/Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear!'“ They glided through an ornate metal gate set in a high stone arch; a huge lantern at its center illuminated the swept cobblestones of a spacious courtyard. She brought the skimmer to a halt before an age-blackened stone building with a great vaulted entrance whose dark wooden doors were covered by intricate carvings. Over these, a ponderous sign hung from stout chains below an age-bleached yardarm set into the stone. “MERMAID TAVERN,” it read, ESTABLISHED 51690”, nearly three hundred of Haefdon's long years in the past.

  “Universe,” Brim whispered in a hushed voice as he peered up at the snow-covered jumble of steep peaked roofs and tall stone chimneys. Huge wooden beams appeared everywhere, in every architectural capacity imaginable, each carved in bas-relief with shapes of strange animals and birds. Translucent first-floor windows glowed warmly in the darkness; here and there, a softer light emanated from the upper floors.