by Bill Baldwin
“Nor forget a brave Imperial lieutenant named Wilf Brim — to whom we credit all success of the mission,” the scarred one added. “Someday,” he said, “when a new generation of A'zurnians have regained our heritage of flight, we shall properly thank both you and Starman Barbousse. Meanwhile, there are ways to appropriately express our appreciation in a more current time frame.”
Brim smiled with embarrassment, fighting a lump in his throat. “Just keep on fighting,” he interrupted. “Live and win! That's thanks enough for any of us.” Then he saluted the two gaunt warriors before they could continue, and followed Barbousse down the ladder. “Good-bye and good hunting,” he shouted as his feet hit the grass. An instant after he cleared the hull, the traction engine roared and the field piece lumbered off after the others toward the protection of the low hills that formed the lower boundary of the city. In the control cabin, the man with the tricornered hat was saluting him through the armored glass. Respectfully, he returned the salute, then turned and sprinted desperately after Barbousse for the shuttle, which was half buttoned up and clearly ready to lift. Only the aft hatch was still open, with a gaggle of BATTLE COMMs crowding up the ladder.
“COME ON, you worthless Fleet types,” Hagbut yelled from the opening. “Anak's ahead of schedule. Get a move on it!”
Running for all he was worth, Brim glanced over his shoulder — nobody was there. He and Barbousse were the last off A'zurn! Somehow he found strength to run even faster.
The shuttle was already moving forward when he followed Barbousse onto the ladder, shaking with exertion. It was climbing vertically when the big rating dragged him by his arms through the opening, panting desperately.
The next days became a confused mélange of wailing sirens and sprinting crew members — beginning with a full-emergency takeoff when Prosperous' powerful Drive crystals shook her massive hull like a storm-driven leaf. Every few metacycles, alarms clattered in the liner's bridge as sensitive detectors picked up long-range BKAEW locator probes from the enemy battlecruisers, but the return signals were evidently too weak to betray the Imperials' location, and after a time the probing came less frequently, finally ceasing altogether on the morning of the third day.
Raid Prosperous was over.
* * * *
During the return to Gimmas/Haefdon, two personal messages from widely separated sources caught Brim's attention immediately. The first, from Effer'wyck@Haefdon, had been sent only metacycles after his release of the A'zurnian hostages. It contained the following lines penned — he assumed — by Margot herself. “Wilf the Helmsman flies faster than Fate: Wilf is he who rides early and late,/Wilf storms at your ivory gates: Pale king of the Dark Leagues, Beware!” Her short message ended with the cryptic sentences: “Today, Wilf, I begin to earn my own way in this awful war. Think of me.” This time, it was signed simply “Margot.”
Brim wasted little time puzzling over the words during his return flight; he was relishing plans for discovering their real meaning (among other things) in person. Instead, he sent a short note of thanks, signed only “Wilf,” then settled back to dream of his next rendezvous at the Mermaid Tavern.
The second message, from Borodov@Sodeskaya/983F6.735, contained another cross-reference to the Journal of the Imperial Fleet. This article was much nearer the front of the file and started:
Gimmas/Haefdon (Eorean Blockading Forces) 228/ 51995: SubLieutenant Wilf Brim from I.F.S. Truculent played a decisive role in the recent A'zurn raid. Leading 25 men and eight captured mobile cannon under the command of Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z. Hagbut, Xce, N.B.C…
The usual debriefing followed Prosperous' planetfall at Gimmas/Haefdon, this time conducted by a dried-out commander who may well have been as skilled in his profession as Margot Effer'wyck, but infinitely less pleasant to Brim. It seemed as if the cycles crawled by before he returned to Truculent — and the base COMM system.
He called up her code the moment he entered his cabin, but found to his dismay that Margot was “temporarily reassigned and unavailable for personal contact.” Emergency messages, he read, could be directed to her usual address, so long as the sender harbored no illusions concerning time of delivery. And no date was set for her return.
With a grim sense of foreboding, he now began to seriously question what she might have meant by earning her own way in the war. But his subsequent efforts to learn anything resulted in dismal failure — everywhere he tried. Personal inquiries were turned away at the Technology Assessment Office by low-level clerks, and his own clearance was insufficient to gain him audience with anyone who might have access to further information. It was as if she had disappeared from the Universe.
So he sent a number of messages to Effer'wyck@Haefdon — all remained unanswered, and he finished the remainder of Truculent's refit amid varying shades of gloom to match the weather outside. Not even the obstreperous return of the Bears from Sodeskaya really helped, though a sudden increase in his meem intake considerably dulled the worst pangs of loneliness.
A brief ceremony celebrated Barbousse's promotion to Leading Torpedoman, then a few standard days later, Truculent's lengthy refit was complete. Two weeks of space trials proved out her new systems, and Haefdon's perpetual storms once again ebbed to insignificance in the aft Hyperscreens. The perceptive Collingswood wisely saw to it that Brim's responsibility — and metacycles at the helm — were greatly increased during this, his second tour on blockade. And with this extra duty, the image of Margot Effer'wyck once more began to fade from his mind's eye. In time, her memory became bearable once more, but only just. Clearly, her “reset” had been much more successful than his.
CHAPTER 7
Partway into an endless early morning watch, Brim and Theada attended Truculent's helm while most of the crew snatched a few cycles' badly needed rest below. In the nearly deserted bridge, only occasional warning chimes and snatches of disjointed conversation disturbed the muted rumble of the generators. Off to port, a bleak asteroid shoal crawled diagonally astern beneath the bows as though the destroyer were skirting the surface of some infinitely large inclined plane.
“Good morning, friend Wilf,” Ursis said cheerfully, materializing in a display globe. “What gradient have we outside?”
“Morning, Nik,” Brim said, peering at his readouts. “Looks like it's shifted a bit, now that you ask.”
“So,” Ursis mumbled, entering data via an overhead console.
“Let her fall off a few points to starboard nadir, Mr. Chairman,” Brim ordered. The steering engine sounded for a moment, and the oncoming stars shifted slightly in his forward Hyperscreens.
“Course nine ninety-one, orange,” the Chairman reported.
“Very well,” he acknowledged, studying Truculent's decks by the glow of a smoky dwarf blazing overhead. He swung his recliner aft, scanning the trunk of the KA'PPA mast and twin globes of the directors. Farther back, he cursorily checked the scorched cowling of their torpedo launcher flanked by the hemispheres of W and Z turrets. All appeared in trim, as usual. He had just reached above his head to start a suite of power system checks when a shadow fell across the main console. He looked up to find Gallsworthy leaning over Theada's recliner.
“Take a break, son,” the senior Helmsman muttered, indicating the bridge exit with his thumb. “I'll keep the seat warm while you're gone.”
“But, Lieutenant,” Theada protested, “I just had a …”
“You look tired, Theada,” Gallsworthy said sternly. 'Tired.”
“Oh. I, ah, see, Lieutenant,” Theada agreed, fairly jumping out of the recliner.
Gallsworthy nodded. “Give us about ten cycles,” he said.
“Aye, sir,” Theada said, squeezing his way into the main bridge corridor.
Gallsworthy thumped into the recliner and frowned, drumming his fingers on the console. “I guess I'm a messenger today,” he said, glowering at Brim. “Collingswood's asked me to pass on a bit of information she doesn't really want to talk about. “
Brim nodded, trying to appear indifferent — but inside he was all curiosity. Collingswood normally needed no intermediaries. She said what she wanted — when she wanted. “Yes, sir?” he asked. '
“She's got herself dunned with another xaxtdamned Admiralty detail,” Gallsworthy explained. “Has to 'volunteer' some of the crew. Only…” He pursed his lips and drummed his fingers again as if he were having trouble with the words. “Only,” he repeated, “she got a few extra parameters with this order. Nobody's supposed to know about 'em. But you're a special case, in her eyes.” He scratched his head for a moment, then nodded as if reaching some internal accord. “I guess I agree with her,” he said with a frown, “for whatever that's worth, Carescrian.”
Brim's curiosity was really piqued now. Senior Helmsmen never shared personal opinions with people who reported to them. He waited. Gallsworthy would get it all out in his own good time.
“What it boils down to,” the man continued at some length, “is that you, your friend Ursis, Theada, Barbousse, and a couple of ratings are going to form a temporary team — Regula will brief you in a couple of cycles about it. And she's put Amherst in charge of the whole thing.”
Brim nodded within. So that bothered her! He calmly scanned the instruments, waiting.
“She wanted you to know,” Gallsworthy said presently, “that she didn't make the Amherst assignment by choice. That part came in a personal note from Amherst's father — you've heard of Rear Admiral Amherst, I'm sure.”
Brim nodded sourly. He'd heard, all right. According to Borodov, the Admiral had been among the loudest and most vocal opponents to passage of Lord Wyrood's Admiralty Reform Act. It certainly showed in his son.
“The old boy decided Puvis needed a bit more exposure in the media. Maybe a couple of medals to help the next promotion.” He chuckled gruffly — and uncharacteristically. “Probably you had something to do with that, punk, what with those articles you got in the Journal. So whatever happens, figure it's your own fault, one way or another.”
“I'll try to remember that, sir,” Brim said, more than a little relieved it wasn't something worse. Life as an everyday Carescrian was still fresh enough in his mind that he could put up with quite a bit of harassment.
“Thank Collingswood sometime. I'm just the messenger,” Gallsworthy said. “And, yeah, there's one more thing.”
“Sir?”
Gallsworthy nodded his head, indicating the systems console farther back in the bridge. “You have the job of telling Ursis. He's not going to like this at all.”
* * * *
Within the metacycle, all four officers sat awkwardly together in Collingswood's cramped cabin, Ursis' bulk crowded in a center position. The Captain (dressed, as usual, in her worn sweater) was explaining what little she knew about the mission. “The Admiralty wouldn't give me much detail. Not even where you are going. Just that it involves a very small starship—one of those little astroplanes both sides have been playing with lately-— and for me, a much-curtailed period of short-handedness: three Standard Weeks maximum, they say.” Her eyes looked at Brim with a twinkle of humor. “These little side trips are getting to be a habit with you, Wilf,” she said.
“Aye, Captain,” Brim agreed with a grin.
“I think you’ll enjoy this one,” she declared. “From the scuttlebutt I get, the little ships are fun to fly.”
“And tricky, from what I hear,” Brim added with a grin.
“At any rate,” Collingswood continued, “the requirement is for four officers: someone in command, two Helmsmen, and an engineer. That ought to tell you where each of you fits. Plus a Torpedoman and a crew of six general-purpose ratings. I'll be sending Barbousse to run that lot for you.”
“Barbousse,” Amherst gasped with raised eyebrows. “Why, he's only just been promoted to that rank. Besides which, the big lout has absolutely nothing between his oversized ears, er, Captain. “
Collingswood's eyes narrowed. “I believe,” she said patiently, “Barbousse will serve quite admirably. His records indicate a number of assignments within that duty category.”
Amherst sniffed, glancing first at Brim, then at Ursis. “Bloody lowbrow crew, if you ask me,” he grumped peevishly.
Brim glanced at Ursis. The Bear scowled.
“That will be sufficient, Lieutenant,” Collingswood warned. “You will carry out the assignment as ordered, whatever your personal feelings. Is that understood?” Her quiet voice had suddenly turned to hullmetal.
“Yes, Captain,” Amherst agreed hurriedly. “I, ah, understand.”
“Good,” Collingswood said. “Because I am also permitting the mission to proceed as organized, while harboring some rather serious reservations of my own.”
“Well!” Amherst started, then clearly thought better of it and abruptly shut his mouth.
Collingswood closed her eyes and tapped her toe. “Since I have little more information to impart,” she said stiffly, “I declare this meeting at an end. We rendezvous with your pickup ship in approximately two metacycles; it will, I am assured, take you to your mysterious destination. Good luck to all,” she said in a clear sign of dismissal. “I am sure I do not have to remind any of you that I expect performance that reflects favorably on the Imperial Fleet and on Truculent.” Then, abruptly, she busied herself at a console.
“We shall do all in our power, Captain,” Amherst muttered stiffly, leading the way from her cabin. Brim followed Ursis and shut the door quietly behind him.
“Try to report to the transport hatch on time, you three,” the First Lieutenant said. “I shall leave it to your judgment who should be responsible for notifying Barbousse.” Then he hurried self-importantly down the ladder and disappeared into the next level below.
Brim looked at Theada and smiled. “Don't worry,” he said. “It won't be all that bad. Besides, Amherst has no objections to your pedigree at all.” He patted the younger Helmsman on the back. “Go down and pack for a three-week trip; we'll meet you at the hatch. All right? If we all stick together, everything will come out all right. You'll see.”
Theada nodded his head and smiled bravely. “I guess,” he said uncertainly. Then with a grimace he followed Amherst down the ladder.
Brim stood and shook his head and looked at Ursis. “Wonderful,” he said with a wry grin. “Just thraggling WUN-der-ful.”
The Bear frowned. “Perhaps, Wilf Ansor, is not as bad as seems, especially in light of, shall we say, 'special' information Captain Collingswood provides.”
“How can that be, Nik?” Wilf asked. “We both know what he's like when he's got the wind up.”
“Just so,” Ursis growled quietly. “And for selfsame reason, I for one will never unthinkingly follow orders from him again. Nor, I suspect, will you.”
Brim nodded. “You're right, Nik,” he said. “Never again.”
“Therefore,” Ursis pronounced, holding his hands at his chest, palms inward, “we may be only team can operate successfully, given circumstances.” He narrowed his eyes and looked Brim directly in the face. “Others might well hesitate crossing him — as I once hesitated — with same disastrous results.”
“I was as guilty of that as you,” Brim interrupted.
“'Guilt' is Imperial word looks only toward past,” Ursis observed with a smile. “One of most useful truisms from my homeland. This duty is only in present and future. Yes?”
“It is.”
“Then Lady Fate smiles once more on tired old Empire,” Ursis said. “Let us notify large compatriot, Barbousse, and prepare for whatever Lady has in store.”
* * * *
Shortly after midwatch, the “volunteers” gathered at Truculent's main hatch in time to view their rendezvous. Directly on schedule, a light cruiser swooped up out of the blackness and pulled smartly abreast. “Brand new,” Ursis observed. “One of the new Nimrons, from her silhouette.”
“I.F.S. Narcastle,” Brim read, squinting through the Hyperscreens.
“That one's just fi
nished fitting out,” Theada said. “They must have called her in from her space trials.” Outside, brows connected with a muffled series of clangs. Only moments later, air hissed into the passage and a mooring crew unsealed the main hatch.
“Look lively,” Amherst whispered impatiently. “I shall brook no slackers while I am in command.” Motioning the others to hurry, he shoved Barbousse roughly toward the transparent tube. Brim frowned. Something was definitely bothering the First Lieutenant. He briefly wondered what it was as he followed Barbousse into the hatch.
On his way through the tube, he got a better look at the new starship. She was shaped like an oversized lance and appeared twice the length of Truculent's angular hull. Like all Nimrons, she was specially built for high-speed reconnaissance work supporting battle-fleet operations in deep space. Accordingly, she was also lightly armed for her size, carrying only six small turrets on rings about a third of the way from bow and stem. A scant superstructure was topped by a sharply raked control bridge, and six hefty Drive plumes merged from oversized blast tubes exiting just behind her aft turret ring.
Inside, she smelled every bit as new as she was. Ozone, sealant, hot metal: all the familiar detritus of a starship — except the odors of life. Those latter took time to accumulate. And she certainly had been called in from her space trials. Civilian contractors everywhere he looked. Even the tube operators were dressed in the distinctive silver and green space suits of the big commercial shipyard at Trax.
The team was met at the opposite air lock by a tight-faced lieutenant commander with a large red mustache and narrow-set eyes, who regarded them as if they were some special brand of nuisance. “This way, gentlemen,” he directed unceremoniously, directing the way down a narrow companionway to a large cabin clearly intended to house portions of a permanent crew. “I shall have to ask all of you to stay here for the remainder of the trip,” he said. “Someone doesn't want you mingling with any of the trials crew we've got on board — too many civilians and all that sort, you know.”