by Bill Baldwin
“Starboard generator will fail within three cycles, Wilf Ansor,” Borodov reported from below. Brim glanced at Ursis.
The Bear nodded confirmation.
“I suppose it will have to fail then, Chief,” Brim said. “Keep it going as long as you can.”
Borodov smiled broadly. “Give 'em great grief, Wilf Ansor!” he yelled over the din as he returned to his readouts.
In the corner of his eye, Brim caught Ursis grinning, too. His thumb was raised in the Universal human sign of approval.
Then there was little time to notice anything except the battle. “Stand by to concentrate all fire on the number-three ship!” Brim yelled at Fourier's replacement. He noticed the man's gloves were almost instantly soaked in blood from the console. “Let's go, then!” he yelled. “One last try!” He skidded Truculent into a tight descending spiral, then suddenly hauled back on the helm until he was flying on a collision course — with all remaining turrets firing as fast as their crews could recharge the 144s.
This unexpected attack once again took the enemy ship by surprise. The Leaguer captain instinctively put up his helm and attempted to climb out of Truculent's way; it was the worst thing he could do. Brim's remaining 144s all concentrated their fire on the enemy's steering gear just forward of the Drive openings. Pieces of hull metal blasted loose as the big disruptors tore at her hull. Suddenly, a terrific explosion ripped the enemy's midsection, followed immediately by a second and a third. A deckhouse blew off in a shower of sparks and glowing clouds of radiation. Then, slowly but inexorably, the ship began to shear off course.
“Get another spread of torpedoes in there!” Brim yelled, skidding Truculent to open a clear line of fire for the torpedo launcher — which fired as soon as it bore on the target. Five ruby sparks flashed past the bridge from aft; Brim watched them on their way, noting that this time, his scalded skarsatt had done the outmaneuvering. Then the target was obliterated in a stunning ball of flame that pulsed rapidly four times before it defined itself into a roiling cloud of livid energy that consumed what remained of the enemy ship like a minute star.
Brim put his helm over only just in time to avoid the cloud of debris, then aimed the ship once again toward the first enemy vessel. “Give 'em everything we've got left!” he yelled — just as the damaged port generator gave out with a thunderous rumble that shook Truculent's starframe to its very keel.
In spite of his struggles with the controls, the destroyer slewed around out of control, stars sliding across the Hyperscreens like a billion speeding comets on parallel tracks. Brim almost had to bring the ship to a halt before the steering gear would accept its new offset parameters.
“B turret seems to be jammed,” someone reported.
“And we've no power to the torpedo flat,” Barbousse added. “That last salvo did it for my part of the power exchange.”
Brim nodded to himself as he carefully eased Truculent around to face his final opponent, now warily closing in for the kill. Seriously afire in a number of places, the Zagrail was not in much better shape than her Imperial adversary, but with propulsion systems evidently intact, she now had an insurmountable advantage. Brim shrugged grimly and continued to fly as best he could; if nothing else, he'd stopped the raid on Tandor-Ra. Perhaps that might make up for what was in store for the destroyer under his very temporary command.
He suddenly remembered Collingswood's mention of Imperial battlecruisers and glanced at his timepiece. He'd been fighting for more than a metacycle and certainly needed the “assist” she mentioned. The big ships were due any cycle now. He gritted his teeth. If he could just buy himself a little more time… Then he laughed ironically. Last-moment rescues only happened in fables to princes and kings. In all probability, Carescrians simply didn't qualify.
Outside, the enemy destroyer approached on an asymptotic curve, always toward the port side where Truculent had no operational disruptors to bear. Brim tried to turn with it for a forward shot, but to no avail. When he tightened up on the port helm, the steering engine created intense interference patterns with the operational generator and actually opened the effective radius. Helplessly, he stood by as the enemy ship positioned itself, watched the turrets index around to point directly at his bridge.
“Message from the enemy ship,” somebody yelled above the confusion. “Full video an' all, if you please!”
Brim cleared a display. “I'll take it at this station,” he growled, guessing who was on the other end. The globe flashed, glowed, then manifested the image of a handsome masculine face: Blue eyes, blond hair, dimpled chin. The Carescrian grimly nodded to himself. The Valentin.
“Ah, Brim,” the elegant visage hissed, peering out of the display with a look of amused surprise. “I thought it might be you from the first transmission.”
“Well, hab’thall?” Brim snarled as he kicked the steering engine. It was just sufficient to surprise the opposite Helmsmen and get in a brief volley from C turret. Three shots landed with bright explosions; Valentin's portside launch arched away in a series of tight loops trailing flame like a small comet. The Overprefect's image jumped wildly in the display.
“That foul trick, Brim,” Valentin snarled, “was the last — lucky — gasp of your contemptible existence.” He glowered from the display in high dudgeon. '“Today, I shall finish what I started more than two years ago. For Dame Fortune has finally deserted you, Carescrian — and your thrice-damned ship!”
Brim kicked the steering engine once more, but the Leaguer Helmsman was wary this time. Now there were no more tricks left from the Carescrian mines. With Valentin's execrable laughter ringing in his ears, he desperately scoured his mind for a way to prolong things until the battlecruisers might arrive. “Well, hab’thall,” he commented derisively, “I see they demoted you after your last blunder.” .
Valentin's eyebrows shot upward. “Demoted?” he protested. “You would have done well to study League Fleet ranks, fool.” He pointed proudly to the ornate device embroidered in metallic thread on his perfectly tailored cuff. “I,” he pronounced, “have been made an Overprefect — promoted, Brim. Not demoted! The same rank as your full Commanders, Lieutenant. “
“Is that right?” Brim said derisively. “Old Triannic must xaxtdamned well be scraping the bottom of his bedchamber slops bucket if he's forced to promote the likes of you. “Voot's beard, Valentin, you've never been able to complete a mission yet, when I'm around.” He peered into the display with mock concentration, wrinkling his nose. “Something about me sets you on edge, doesn't it, hab’thall?”
“Capcloth! Carescrian scum!” Valentin raged in a high, choked voice. “I shall show you what it means to be on edge.” He turned to someone outside the display and nodded. “Carefully, though,” he panted. “I want this to be slow. Make certain our Imperial friends have plenty of time to savor their agony.” He laughed nervously. “Yes,” he hissed in clear anticipation, “so they enjoy every shot!” Then he raised his hand and Brim's display went blank.
“Apparent end of transmission, Lieutenant,” a rating reported.
Brim nodded. “Very well,” he said to himself. He turned to face the enemy ship and waited grimly, wishing he had even some of Fourier's rocks to throw. They would have been every bit as effective as his disruptors now, and a thousand times more satisfying!
He glanced around Truculent's battered bridge, littered with bodies and Hyperscreen shards. Not many of the old crew alive now; only Ursis and a few scattered ratings waited defiantly at their consoles, staring into the enemy disruptors. Clearly Valentin was keeping his promise to draw things out, enjoying his moment of triumph. Brim nodded. Let him! The battlecruisers were on their way, and even if he were not around to see it, the Overprefect's predilection for torture might cost him dearly.
As he sat watching the enemy ship, he thought about the Lixorian forts. In Truculent's present position, at least three of them could bring their big disruptors to bear, save the ship doing a job they were built to accomplish
. But all were silent, watching as the Leaguers prepared to cut his now-helpless destroyer to pieces. He took a deep breath. Though he would soon be blasted all over the Universe, he would die with disdain for every preening Lixorian businessman on the surface who sucked sustenance from the troubles of others. Much as he hated the black-suited Leaguer Controllers, he could easily generate more respect for them than for the rapacious bastards who lived on the planet below. At least Controllers had moral fortitude to cleave to some cause other than pure avarice.
Across the emptiness, a single disruptor flashed. Truculent's deck jumped as the bolt of energy crashed home just forward of the bridge in a shower of sparks. A second flash, and the 'midships deckhouse erupted in a cloud of radiation. Through a display, Brim scanned the glowing wreckage of the wardroom. Most of it was now open to space; great starry holes yawned where Greyffin IV's picture used to hang. He wondered momentarily about the fate of old Grimsby, but couldn't see the pantry — and the damage-control sensors there seemed to have lost any ability to function. In the long, shocked silence that followed, he thought of Margot; his mind's eye saw her as she was the night they met in that same wardroom. Then the softness of that memory was blown away by a stunning jar as a bolt landed in the petty officers' mess directly below his feet. More Hyperscreens shattered beside him; splinters tweaked his battle suit in a dozen places. A sharp pain burned his arm. He looked down to watch a charred hole sealing itself on his right forearm. The deck bucked again as three direct hits destroyed the torpedo launcher behind him.
“Sorry, Nik,” he yelled to the Bear. “I did the best I could.” Ursis shrugged and smiled fatalistically. “I am not troubled by impending death, Wilf Ansor,” he growled. “I only regret I did not tear that hab'thall from limb to limb when I had chance. “
“Universe!” somebody exclaimed in a trembling voice, “why doesn't he get it over with?”
“Do not attempt to speed Lady Fate,” Ursis laughed over the voice circuits. “She often requires time for her miracles — which we badly need, as Universe knows.”
“I can't stand any more of this!” somebody else shrieked, but her voice stopped abruptly, interrupted by a blinding light that erupted just aft of Valentin's ship. The spreading burst of raw energy sent the enemy destroyer tumbling out of control like a child's toy and laid Truculent on her beam-ends. Terrorized screams filled the voice circuits; many of the Imperials no longer had visual access to the outside. Stunned, Brim automatically eased the destroyer back on to her original orientation, just in time to watch the Zagrail hesitate in its flight for a moment, then angle off into space at top acceleration amid a whole barrage of the huge flare-ups — the battlecruisers had finally arrived.
It was about xaxtdamned time!
CHAPTER 10
Brim ultimately missed destruction of the third enemy ship (except to note a great pulsing light coming from somewhere off to starboard). Instead, he had been searching the darkness for a large object that appeared to separate from the doomed starship in its moment of hesitation before the attempted escape. Debris or possibly a cutter? Or had he imagined the whole thing? Whatever it was, it failed to register on any of his displays. Shaking his head, he reluctantly abandoned his search to watch the great Imperial battlecruisers Benwell and Oddeon heave majestically into view, their glowing disruptors returning smoothly to parked positions on their foredecks as they approached.
“Incoming messages, Lieutenant,” a rating yelled.
“I'll take 'em here,” Brim ordered, reluctantly abandoning his search. Whatever escaped Valentin's doomed flagship had long since disappeared among the stars. Momentarily, a globe materialized a familiar head and shoulders on his console.
“Your Highness,” Brim stammered.
“Wilf Brim, as I live and breathe,” Prince Onrad drawled from the display while he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Certainly glad you take better care of my blond cousin than you do of His Majesty's ships.” He raised his eyebrows in mock disapprobation. “Poor Truculent's a proper mess.”
Brim felt a rush of emotion. A choked laugh of relief escaped his throat. “Couldn't help it, Your Majesty,” he sputtered. “They just showed me how to fly 'em at the Academy; didn't say anything about taking care of 'em.”
“Ha, ha! Good point, Brim,” Onrad laughed. “We ought to send you to teach the class, then, for I meant what I said about the proper mess you've made. It's totally proper. You've saved much more than just a conference, you know, and I am told you faced three enemy ships. I saw only one badly damaged survivor fall victim to our disruptors. So if my count is accurate, you must have destroyed two others while you were at it. Correct?”
“Correct, Your Highness,” Brim answered, “but two were one too few. That third ship you destroyed nearly got us.”
Onrad grinned. “Just like you xaxtdamned Carescrians. Always biting off more than you can chew.” Then his face became serious. “I thank the Universe we arrived in time,” he said slowly. “You and your crew have accomplished much important work today — more than I suspect most of you know. It will be good to see you suitably rewarded.” He smiled again. “Right now, I'm going to turn you over to Admiral Penda here, but I shall expect to see you in person back on Avalon as soon as it can be arranged. Good work, Brim — and share those words with your crew. Today, each of you is a hero, in the fullest sense of the word.”
Brim's display faded, then returned with the gray visage of Star Admiral Sir Gregor Penda, Imperial Fleet; no mistaking that round face and medium beard. The man had been part of almost every important news summary for the past five years, good and bad. His piercing eyes looked as if they had never admitted to a moment's doubt about anything, nor had they remained long shadowed by unanswered questions. Bold, decisive, and brave beyond all question, he was generally acknowledged to be the greatest tactician in the known Universe, as much feared by his enemies in the League as admired by Imperial colleagues. “Congratulations, Brim,” he said with a pleased smile on his face. “You seem to have saved much of the Empire's face as well as the conference. However, from the looks of Truculent, your medical officer would probably welcome a hand with the wounded. Am I right?”
Brim thought of the crowded nightmare in Flynn's sick bay. “I'm sure he would, Admiral,” he said.
Penda nodded. “We'll make the diplomats wait while we do something about that,” he said. “The Empire needs all the crews like yours it can get — preferably alive.” He passed instructions quietly to someone out of view, nodded a few times, then turned back to Brim. “I shall have Benwell alongside in a moment, Brim. We'll stow the protocol this time and do the maneuvering on this bridge. If I'm not mistaken, your own steering gear is shot to pieces.”
Brim looked outside and felt the color rise in his face. Truculent was weaving all over the sky. He pulled back on the power until his course steadied.
“You look surprised, Lieutenant,” Penda laughed.
“Universe,” Brim groaned, his eyes raised to the shattered overhead Hyperscreens.
“That's all right, Brim,” the Admiral chuckled. “Judging from the hole in Truculent's bottom, I doubt if the Fleet can come up with many Helmsmen who could have done as well; old Borodov's already notified our engineers you have performed a navigational miracle.”
In moments, the colossal battlecruiser was carefully pulling alongside towering over Truculent's tiny frame like a great mountain range. Brim shook his head in wonder; one brush with that immense bulk would reduce his little destroyer to a wrinkled piece of hullmetal foil. Momentarily, he succumbed to a flash of galloping claustrophobia; it passed rapidly when he considered that even assistant Helmsmen aboard Benwell were among the finest in a whole galaxy. He grinned at himself while a brow extended from the giant hull. Far overhead, he could make out tiny figures looking down from the bridge. He stood and saluted. They all returned his gesture. It was one of the proudest moments of his life.
* * * *
The TRANSpool skimmer drew to
a halt in a cloud of swirling ice particles, which quickly dispersed in Haefdon's everlasting wind. “Thanks,” Brim said, stepping into ankle-deep snow despite recent efforts by one of the base's ubiquitous (and largely unsuccessful) pavement scrubbers. Early evening chill was raw on his face as he scanned the bleak inland repair yard. He'd got only a fleeting impression of it in the darkness the previous night after a frightful landing between the two deep-space tugs that towed Truculent home. Now, after a desperately needed rest, he had returned to sign Collingswood's destroyer over to the ship salvagers.
Salvage berth 189-E, itself, was a typical clutter of weather-beaten buildings in faded gray, heavy machinery, rusting wave guides, wheels of snow-covered cable — all surrounded by the requisite forest of ever-moving shipyard cranes. And what remained of Truculent hovered inertly on an oversized gravity pool, swaying uncertainly in the veering wind, centered on a tangle of mooring beams rigged by indifferent salvage-yard laborers. A rusty, oversized brow squeaked and rasped on unkempt bearings as she moved.
“Want me to wait, Lieutenant?” the driver probed gently from behind.
Brim guessed the woman had a lot of experience with people like himself. Ships could work their way into a person's soul. And when they were hurt… “Thanks, but this may take awhile,” he lied, turning back to the skimmer. “I'll call for another ride when I'm finished.” In truth, little more remained for him to accomplish at all so far as Truculent was concerned. A cycle or two at most, then the doughy little warship was no longer a part of his life — except for the memories.
The driver nodded. She understood. “There's COMM gear in the shack with the metal roof over there,” she said, pointing off across the pool. Then she saluted (almost as if she meant it) and drove off into the snowy evening silence, her navigation lights persisting like ruby wraiths in the darkening grayness.