THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (2 page)

* * * *

Abruptly, he was there. A rusting sign announced “GRAVITY POOL R—2134.” Beyond floated 190 lean irals of T-class destroyer: starship T.83, I.F.S.
Truculent.

He picked his way along stone jetties surrounding the gravity pool, seldom taking his eyes from the hovering, wedge-shaped form. In the amber glow of gravity generators below, shadows from ventral turrets moved gently over her underside as she stirred to urgings of the wind. Above, huddled battle lanterns still cast dim circles of light outside her entry ports, and a sparse web of emerald mooring beams flashed occasionally as the resting starship gently tested her anchorage.

T-class starships weren't big as destroyers went, and at rest they weren't especially pretty, either. But inside their pointed, angular hulls they crowded four powerful Sheldon Drive crystals and two brutish antigravity generators with at least triple the thrust claimed by other ships their size. These latter provided astonishing acceleration below LightSpeed, a regime in which much of their close-in patrol duty was performed. And every iral spoke power. They were rugged, sturdy machines with all the mass of space holes. In the hands of a good captain, any one of them was more than a match for the Cloud League's best. In excellent repair, they could attain speeds in excess of 35 LightSpeed, or 35 Light Years per Standard Metacycle; they had a cruising range in excess of 4000 light years.

Truculent's
sharply angular hull formed a pointed, three-sided trilon resembling the curious lance tips of Furogg warriors from the K'tipsch quadrant. Her flat main deck widened cleanly from a needle-sharp bow nearly a quarter of its length to the rounded shape of an A turret with its long, slim 144—mmi disruptor. Faired in and raised three levels from this was the starship's frowning bridge, covered by a presently transparent “greenhouse” of Hyperscreen panels (required for hyperLightSpeed vision), which reflected the weak dawn in runnels of melting snow. Projecting from either side of this structure, bridge wings extended like shoulders nearly all the way to the deck's crisply defined edge. A sizable globe atop each of the wings housed fire directors controlling her seven main turrets. From the aft center of the Hyperscreen canopy, her tall, streamlined mast supported a long-whiskered KA'PPA-COMM system beacon that, by a curious loophole in Travis physics, enabled nearly instantaneous communication both below and above the velocity of light and over enormous distances.

Immediately aft of the bridge, the starship's silhouette fell sheer to the single-level 'midships deckhouse, which extended into the aft third of the deck. Wide as the bridge itself, this was flanked by four stubby launches, two in succession to port and two to starboard, protected by the projecting bridge wings. A swiveling, five-tube torpedo launcher was mounted on the flat surface of its roof.

Behind this, a two-level aft deckhouse completed the top deck centerline superstructure. The torpedo launcher abutted its second-level torpedo reload and repair shop. Torpedo magazines and general repair shops occupied most of the first-level space — vital necessities for the long tours of blockade for which she and her sister ships were commonly employed. Slightly aft and outboard of this deckhouse, W and X turrets with 144—mmi disruptors occupied the widest, and most vacant, portions of the upper deck.

Like all other surfaces of
Truculent's
hull, her stem was also a triangular slab of hullmetal. From his studies at the Academy, Brim knew this one measured 97 irals along the “top” edge with its inverted apex only 21 irals below. Pierced by four circular 3.5-iral openings, the surface was otherwise featureless. Each of the openings (outlets for the ship's Drive crystals) was presently sealed from Haefdon's elements by a system of circular shutters.

Both ventral decks were also virtually featureless, except for 144—mmi disruptor turrets mounted fore and aft along each centerline. Those on the port surface were designated “B” (forward) and “Z” (aft); those starboard, “C” and “Y.” On each side of her bridge wings, “T.83” appeared in square Avalonian glyphs.

Wistfully, Brim pondered her size. Even with her powerful sort of beauty, she still lacked the sense of hauteur he associated with big capital ships like the ones based just over the horizon. “Pick and shovel” were words that came readily to mind. Smiling wryly, he allowed as to how he was fortunate indeed just to have a berth on her at all. Not many Carescrians ever made it out of the asteroid mines.

As he stared through the hissing snow, a hatch opened in the deckhouse just opposite an arched gangway to the waterside jetty. Presently, a huge starman lumbered through, watched his breath congeal to steam, and pulled a too-short Fleet Cloak closer to his neck. Reaching inside the hatch, he removed a broom.

“Shut the xaxtdamned hatch, Barbousse!” a voice echoed through the cold air.

“Aye, aye, ma'am!” The clang of hullmetal rang out as the hatch slammed closed. Shrugging, the oversized seaman triggered his broom and began clearing snow — precisely in time for Brim and his traveling case to meet him at the end of the gangway. The man piled considerable snow over Brim's booted feet before he recognized something was amiss. He looked up with a startled expression.

Brim smiled. On this first contact with his first ship, he was determined nothing would, or could, go wrong. “Morning, Barbousse,” he said with all the equanimity he could muster.

In sudden confusion, Barbousse dropped the whirring broom as his hand jerked to spasmodically salute. The device promptly spat clouds of snow over Brim's face and cape, then rolled backward toward the tumbling water of the basin, burbling evil satisfaction. By reflex, each bent at the same time to check its travel — and nearly knocked the other from his feet. At the last possible milliclick, Brim grabbed the throbbing machine from the edge of sure destruction and switched it off, letting it spit snow and particles of rock into the water. He handed it carefully to the seaman while he brushed debris from the front of his cloak and desperately bit his lip to contain his amusement.

“Oh… ah, sorry, sir,” Barbousse stumbled mournfully.

Brim forced himself under control. “Think nothing of it, Barbousse,” he said with his last shred of dignity. He spat gritty stone crumbs into the water, then stepped left toward the gangway. At that very moment, Barbousse attempted to remove himself from the path by stepping right. In midstep, Brim deftly switched to
his
right — as Barbousse dived left. Once more, Brim jogged right, blocked again by the wretched Barbousse, who now wore a frantic look in his eyes.

“FREEZE, Mister!” Brim commanded, stopping himself short in the trampled snow. “And don't drop the broom!” Barbousse froze in apparent rigor mortis, began to topple toward the water, caught himself again, and came to an uneasy rest. Calmly as possible, Brim walked past and onto the gangway, only to stop once more in his tracks. Carefully, he turned to check on Barbousse; the man was still standing before the gangway, broom in hand at parade rest. “Carry on,” he ordered smartly, then hurried up the steep incline toward the ship.

Stepping over a high sill, he drew the hatch closed and breathed deeply of starship odors: the too-fresh redolence of ozone and rank stench of electronics mixed with odors of hot metal and scorched sealants. Food. Bodies. And on every starship in the Fleet, an unmistakable scent of polish. He chuckled as he made his way along the short companionway
— everything
military smelled of polish. Before him, a petty officer glared at her hovering display. Her desk plate read, “Kristoba Maldive, Quartermaster.”

“All right, Barbousse,” Maldive growled without looking up. “What now?”

“Well,” Brim said, “you might start by signing me in…

Maldive wrinkled a large, thin nose and continued to stare into the display. “Sign you
what?”
she demanded, fingers flying on a nearby control panel. Hues and patterns in the globe shifted subtly (Brim politely avoided reading any of them). “What in Universe do you mean by th…?” she continued, then stopped in midword when her narrow-set eyes strayed as far as Brim's cloak and the sublieutenant's insignia on the left shoulder. “Oh, Universe,” she grimaced quietly. “Sorry, sir; I never expected anyone out so early.” She stared down at the desk. “We don't often get a chance to sleep so long. And the skimmers…

“It's all right,” Brim interrupted. “I walked.”

Maldive looked up again. “Yes, sir,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “I see you certainly did.” She inserted Brim's card in a reader, then peered at the display. More soft hues and patterns filled the globe. “Everything seems in order, sir,” she said. From her desk she hefted an old-fashioned book, elegantly bound in polished red fabric with gold trim.
Truculent's
emblem of a charging bull Hilaago (deadly predator from the planet Ju'ggo-3 in the Blim Commonwealth), was engraved in its front cover. “Sign here, sir,” she grunted, opening the heavy book on the desktop facing Brim. “We'll have you aboard in no time at all.”

Brim bent to the book and signed full fingerprints of both hands. “Well,” he asked with a smile, “how was that?”

“I'd bet you're in, sir,” the Quartermaster said, returning the smile. “Can you find your way to the wardroom? It's on the same deck level. We'll need a few cycles to make up your cabin. “

“I'll find it,” Brim said with more confidence than he actually felt. He'd been at pains to learn the starship's layout in the Academy library back on Avalon, but now everything looked unfamiliar and confusing.

“We'll come for you there when your cabin's ready,” Maldive promised. “And you can leave that traveling case with me, too.”

Brim nodded thanks and shook his head. What a difference the tiny device on his left shoulder made! Having someone else look after his luggage was a far cry from life on the ore carriers at home. Of course,
there
he would have been counted fortunate indeed to have any baggage at all — aside from what he wore on his back or could carry in a pocket.

Along the companionway, he paused at a gleaming metal plate set with old-fashioned rivets. “I.F.S. TRUCULENT,” it read, “JOB 21358 ELEANDOR BESTIENNE YARD 228/51988.” The plaque might have been polished every metacycle on the metacycle from its looks — and by persons who cared considerably for the ship. A fine portent, he decided, and gave it a few good strokes of his own with a sleeve. He smiled. Something like that might even bring good luck.

Finding the wardroom proved easier than he expected — he was lost only twice. He opened the door almost bashfully — officers' country had been strictly off limits as recently as six days ago. With sincere relief, he discovered it was unoccupied and stepped over the high sill. A large picture of Emperor Greyffin IV, “Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens,” adorned the forward bulkhead (identical poses stared beatifically from every available wall in the Empire). Battered recliners lolled here and there along a narrow deck dominated by a massive carved table with ten matching chairs. Eight places were set at the table; two additional chairs faced only polished wood.

Beyond the table, a window opened through the aft bulkhead into a tiny, dark pantry. From within this space, two incredibly rheumy eyes peered at him from atop a thin nose, which ended in a bushy white mustache. This time, it was Brim's turn for surprise. He jumped. “Er, good morning,” he said.

“It certainly does, sir,” the face stated with conviction.

“Pardon?”

“But then I understand
all
you young fellers love snow.”

Brim was just opening his mouth again when he was interrupted by the appearance of a Great Sodeskayan Bear with engineering blazes on the high collar of his Fleet Cloak. The newcomer — a full lieutenant — peered through the door, appeared to immediately grasp the situation, and wiggled long, unruly whiskers. “Lieutenant Brim?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Brim answered. “Ah…?” He inclined his head toward the pantry door.

The Bear smiled. “Oh, that's Chief Steward Grimsby,” he explained. “He's all right; he just doesn't listen anymore.”

“Doesn't listen, sir?”

“Well, not in the half year since I signed on he hasn't.”

Brim nodded, more in capitulation than anything else.

“Don't let him bother you, friend,” the Bear said. “He seems to anticipate most everything we require. Anything else, we get for ourselves.”

“I, ah, see, sir.”

The Bear grinned, exposing long, polished fangs, each with the tiny jeweled inlay all fashionable Bears seemed to consider indispensable. “'Sir' is not really my name,” he said, extending a large furry hand. “On the Mother Planets, I am called Nikolas Yanuar Ursis, but you should call me 'Nik,' eh?”

Brim gripped his hand. “Nik it is,” he replied. “And you seem to know mine's Wilf Brim, Wilf
Ansor
Brim, that is.”

“Kristoba told me you were here,” Ursis said, drawing a battered Sodeskayan Zempa pipe from a pocket of his expensive-looking tunic. Six strong fingers delicately charged its bowl from a flat leather case, and he puffed vigorously until the hogge'poa glowed warmly, filling the wardroom with its sweet, heavy fragrance — object of centuries' aggravated complaint by suffering human crewmates all over the Universe. “You don't mind, do you?” Ursis asked, settling into one of the less seedy recliners.

Brim smiled and shook his head. Hogge'poa never especially bothered him. Nobody seriously expected the Bears to stop anyway, but the tolerance had less to do with altruism than with recognition of the extraordinary genius by which Bears engineered HyperSpace Drive systems, and besides, female Bears simply
loved
the smell of it.

“Fresh from the Academy, eh?” Ursis asked, crossing his legs comfortably. His high boots were perfectly polished, as if he expected an imminent inspection.

“I only graduated last week,” Brim admitted.

“Then you came in from Avalon on
Amphitrite,
didn't you?”

Brim pursed his lips and nodded. Indeed, he had arrived in the big converted liner only the night before. “Convoy CXY98,” he explained.