Bill Baldwin - Helmsman 7 - The Defiance

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"Look out, Tempo," somebody
shouted on the radio.
Suddenly, two stinging shocks. Bang! Bang! The first, distant, smashed us sideways accompanied by
agonized screaming on the intercom; must have been in the main hull. The second exploded right
beside me. Raw energy roaring through the hullmetal plates, a sudden mist in the flight bridge
that disappeared as our atmosphere escaped.
Decompression! My faithful instruments were... gone. Smashed crystal and dark displays mocked
me from the smashed panel. But it was my leg that caught my attention. Felt blood pumping in my
left leg before my battlesuit sealed itself like a tourniquet just above the knee. This one was
serious—hurt like fire! The screaming continued on the intercom; all I could do to keep from
joining the poor devils.
"Damage report!" I shouted through clenched teeth. "Give me a damage report!"
THE DEFIANCE
BILL BALDWIN
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen
property and reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author
nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1996 by Merl Baldwin
All rights reserved.
Aspect® is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
Cover design by Don Puckey
Cover illustration by Chris Moore
Warner Books, Inc.
1271 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Visit our web site at
http://pathfinder.com/twep
A Time Warner Company
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: November, 1996
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Prologue
13 Heptad, 52014
Interstellar Space:
En Route from Braltar to Atalanta
"General quarters!" I called into the blower—rather calmly under the circumstances, if I do
say so. "All hands man your battle stations! General quarters! All hands man your battle
stations!" For a moment, there was only shocked silence and the muted, pervasive thunder of the
Drive, then the starship quickly filled with the discordant clamor of thudding boots and slamming
airtight doors as our skeleton crew raced to man the few serviceable disrupter cannon we carried
on board.
I was flying lead helm in a convoy of sixteen Sherrington Mk V Starfury killer ships destined
for the defense of Atalanta, the colossal Imperial Fleet Base on Hador-Haelic. Until moments
ago—just short of the halfway point from Braltar, the Empire's space citadel in a neighboring
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sector of the galaxy—we'd faced little more than the boredom of an uneventful, three-day trip.
Then the head and shoulders of Yin-Hardwyck, our Systems Officer, materialized in one of my
globular displays with bad news. Other starships were approaching—and out here, they could hardly
be from our side of the war. "Dampiers, Lieutenant?" I surmised.
"Both proximity systems indicate the enemy ships are Dampier DA-79s, Admiral Brim," she
replied.
"Give me the whole thing."
"Aye, sir. Eight DA-79s bearing two seventy-five degrees true, point nineteen light-years, on
course three fifty-five degrees true; speed twenty-five M LightSpeed, and closing fast."
"Got you," I said, absently scanning the flowing, constantly altering colors and hues of my
readouts. Odors of a new starship everywhere: hot metal, sealants, logics, polish, food, people.
Too new. We weren't ready to put up much of a fight today. Of course, the Dampiers over there
didn't know that... maybe wouldn't—if I could be clever enough.
In these perilous days, all of Emperor Onrad V's subjects needed to be clever—because
cleverness was nearly all we had to fight with. Our ancient Empire stood defiant, but nearly alone
and friendless in the Home Galaxy, with only the Great Federation of Sodeskayan States—herself
under attack—to help counter the onslaught of Nergol Triannic's League of Dark Stars. One by one,
I'd watched the great allied star domains capitulate before these lightning attacks: A'zurn, then
Gannet, then Lamintir, then Korbu, then even powerful Effer'wyck, the latter in concert with a
final, humiliating retreat from old Dankir by General Hagbut's Imperial Expeditionary Forces. Now,
fully half the galaxy lay prostrate beneath Triannic's jackbooted feet.
As the League advanced, other would-be tyrants followed its success with great interest. One,
Grand Duke Rogan LaKarn of The Torond, had quickly determined he could likewise extend his own
empire beyond certain portions of the Dominion of Fluvanna he had seized previously. But he would
need help. To this end, he'd ingratiated himself with the dictator Triannic until, ultimately, he,
too had declared war on the Empire, thus placing all remaining free Fluvannian planetary systems
in deepest jeopardy, along with some of the Empire's most precious, and critical, resources.
In my new assignment, I was supposed to do something about all that... somehow.
Glanced through the forward Hyperscreens—after nearly half a standard day on the repair list,
they were once more translating Hyperspeed-jumbled photons to comprehensible vision. Nothing yet.
The Dampiers were still too far away. Nearer at hand, the other Starfuries had already opened from
our normal, long-distance ferry formation into four groups of four ships—"quads," two-by-two
combat formations on which we'd recently standardized. "Red" quad—the only four ships with
activated disrupter cannon—was mine.
"Red One from Blue One: got a visual on four unknowns at Blue Apex. Thirty c'lenyts and
closing fast."
Squinted through the Hyperscreens over my left shoulder. Gradually, a formation of faint
sparks emerged in the distance high to port, moving at an angle to the stars rushing past in the
"spaceman's tunnel". "Got them, Blue One, bogies at Blue Apex." I acknowledged, edging the ship
right for a better tracking position while I considered my next move. Even though The Torond's
fleets were mostly manned by ill-trained bullies drawn from the ranks of gangsters—talent at a
helm wasn't necessarily linked to honesty: look at our own great Fleet—the ships they flew were
good, very well armed. Underestimating their capabilities might well be fatal because it only took
one lucky hit and... pfft, good-bye buttocks. Needed to face these ships down right away. "We'd
better go see what they're up to," I said, turning our half-armed Starfuries to the attack. Made
me nervous when I thought about it! But no more than a few clicks after we changed course, the six
Dampiers abruptly set me at ease by veering away onto a parallel track with the convoy—well out of
disrupter range. I could have cheered!
Continued on course a few moments more to make them sweat. Then I, too, turned, aligning my
quad on a course separating the two groups, relieved—but not at all surprised by the Toronders'
reaction. Our tri-hulled Sherrington Starfuries were graceful, 330-iral-long killer ships that
could top 75M LightSpeed and tussle with anything the galaxy could throw at them. They were
reduced in size by nearly half from the Mark 1C Starfury "pocket battlecruisers" that were their
immediate ancestors, yet they retained the identical main battery of twelve 406-mmi disruptor
cannons and required a crew of only fifteen. In their intended role as short-range interceptors,
they were renowned—and feared—throughout the galaxy. Most likely, the enemy commanders out there
had no idea that twelve of our convoy were not armed. Or for that matter, that the four of us—the
so-called escort—carried only a partial suite of disrupters.
Our regrettable lack of firepower was a sad fact of life. The very success of these
Sherrington interceptors was also an undoing—at least for some roles. In spite of the finest 'Grav
and Drive systems in existence, their atmospheric-sleek, tri-hulled spaceframes and power
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generators had been optimized from the start for short missions of less than a Standard Day's
duration.
My sixteen ships had already been in continuous flight more than two Standard Days, and it
had been necessary to disable numerous ancillary systems in order to make even that possible. The
additional one and a half Standard Day's flight from our present position to Atalanta had required
either disconnecting all the disrupters or many of the control systems. We'd come to a tricky
compromise with the four ships that would be manned exclusively by Fleet personnel—six active
disruptors (out of twelve) per ship and only the most basic control systems. Nobody, especially
me, was very happy with the result, but the squadrons posted to Atalanta would need reinforcement
within a very short time. So I'd agreed to lead a convoy; I was on my way there in any case. After
this trip, however, replacements would have to come by transport, at least until someone on our
side invented a good long-range interceptor.
Decided to re-form into one unit. Increasing the size and apparent firepower of our little
flotilla was nothing but pure fakery. but even looking more capable than we were could be worth
something. Broadcast "join me" orders to the other Starfuries by KA'PPA communications—in the
clear so the Toronders would read it aboard the Dampiers, too. KA'PPA transmitters instantaneously
deliver information "packets" to all "listening" receiver nodes in the known Universe. In turn,
the receivers ordinarily ignore packets addressed elsewhere, but I knew the Toronders couldn't
resist scanning everything that came their way. If nothing else, my little ruse might mean a
moment's hesitation over an attack. And I'd been saved by a moment any number of times during my
career as a combat Helmsman.
As the others took up station, I kept a wary eye on the six Dampiers, imagining their
messages to and from some Sector Headquarters as they KA'PPAed with Controllers. Not much for
independent action, those Toronders. It was a flaw I intended to exploit, both now and during the
battles that were certain to come, if, of course, I got to Atalanta in the first place.
My new assignment: take command of the military base on Atalanta's Grand Harbor, including
the Starfuries of 71 Group—primary Sector Space Defense for the planet Haelic. The present
commander, Rear Admiral W. Groton Summers, a known Triannic sympathizer and member of the League-
sponsored Congress for Intra-Galactic Accord (CIGA), had deliberately allowed the base to
deteriorate. I'd been briefed that he was protected from indictment by powerful, League-leaning
CIGA politicians in the Imperial Parliament.
For a number of years now, Grand Harbor had been under dual management: a Military
Commandment responsible for operation of the Fleet Base and a civilian Harbor Master who operated
the commercial port. Both offices—in theory, if not in practice—reported to the largely ceremonial
office of Port Governor, appointed directly from our distant Imperial capital on the planet
Avalon. However, that tradition was about to change—at least for the duration. The last civilian
Governor, Photius I. Grünwald, an elderly, disinterested academic, had passed away some weeks
hence in office. He would not be replaced. Instead, the Military Commandant and Harbor Master
would both report directly to Avalon. In this manner, the Admiralty would be more directly in
charge of both civilian and military operations during this rather difficult interval in history.
My first task: restore the base to a wartime state of affairs in the shortest possible time.
Summers has let things reach an exceptionally miserable state there, they'd told me, chuckling—all
of them chuckling—so it's not going to be a plum assignment. But then, you've never had a plum
assignment, Brim, so you're more or less the best man for the job, eh? They'd relented after
that—only for a moment. We think you'll like the second part of the job a lot better, they'd
added, even though it will be infinitely more difficult—and dangerous. But until I got the first
one accomplished, they'd refused me any more information about it—only something about a rapidly
ticking clock and the code word Sapphire....
It was food for a lot of thought. So far, Negrol Triannic's plans for his League of Dark
Stars had been focused on a largely unsuccessful attack against our five Imperial capital
planets—now known as the Battle of Avalon—followed by his invasion of Sodeskaya, an enterprise
that was also slowly running into trouble as the Great Sodeskayan Bears, commanded by my old
friend Marshal Nikolas Yanuarievich Ursis, gained the necessary strength and confidence to defend
their homeland.
Meanwhile, half a galaxy distant, the sprawling base at Atalanta—despite its tremendous size
and strategic location—had been allowed to become little more than a backwater in the fast-
expanding Second Great War. It wasn't as if our War Cabinet in Avalon considered Atalanta
unimportant; but Imperial resources were low after years of League-backed opposition to defense
spending by powerful CIGA interest groups. Until home production caught up with demand, our
limited forces would necessarily be concentrated in locations that were under active attack.
According to our best intelligence, the planet of Hador-Haelic was next on Triannic's
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schedule of conquest, although no one had yet been able to determine precisely when. I personally
suspected this dearth of information wasn't so much a failing of our intelligence services as the
fact that Triannic had assigned this particular enterprise to his flunky from The Torond, Grand
Duke Rogan LaKarn and the slipshod, unprofessional military organization he had put in place since
his ascension to—call it "theft of"—The Torond's throne.
Peering out the Hyperscreens, I was about to risk another feint with all sixteen ships, when
the Dampiers suddenly turned tail and disappeared among the stars. Probably, they were heading to
The Torond's big Fleet base at Otnar'at, less than half a day distant from Atalanta. I shrugged,
my little deception had worked well enough, but the xaxtdamned Toronders could easily guess where
we were going. It was a foregone conclusion that—sooner or later—I would encounter them again...
and again and again.
Chapter 1
Entirely New Management
15-l6 Heptad, 52014
Interplanetary Space, near Hador-Haelic
The star Hador had grown from a flickering pinpoint of light to the dazzling jasmine star
presently looming in the blackness off to port. Ahead, Haelic's planetary disk occupied most of
the forward Hyperscreens as my haggard ferry crew prepared the Starfury for landfall, KA'PPA
channels were filled with traffic from ships entering and leaving the colossal port of Atalanta
and its sprawling Fleet Base. "All hands to stations for landfall! All hands man your landfall
stations." I called into the blower. "Secure from HyperLight Operations...."
From below, the Starfury's cramped navigation bridge filled again with the distant thuds of
airtight doors and hatches, crewmen dashing to their stations, and the semi-ordered confusion
associated with securing a starship from deep space.
Waiting for the Transition, I glanced forward as the ship slowed toward LightSpeed.
Presently, all 'Screens were still projecting their HyperLight simulation of the view outside. But
there... even as I watched, they got more and more transparent while our big Wizard 60 Drives
fought the terrific momentum that had taken us a quarter of the way across the galaxy from the
great Imperial space citadel of Braltar.
As we passed through LightSpeed, I switched to the six powerful Admiralty-391 gravity
generators the ship used when flying HypoLight, then shut down the Drive. Presently, photons began
to arrive at speeds my human eyes could translate, and the 'Screens came over to full transparent,
revealing an ocher planet with overtones of ultramarine cloaked here and there by filmy white
cloud banks. I'd first seen that panorama something like a thousand eons ago, it seemed—during an
altogether different war.
Tried to force the past aside while I went through the rigmarole of securing approach
clearance from Planetary Center. Got the clearance; the other didn't work. A woman with long brown
hair I'd known then—face had never gone completely from my memory. She was still there—I'd made it
my business to check. Would she remember me after all these years? Or would she even care to?
Shouldn't think about her just now, but...
I'd always found Atalanta fascinating, and not just because of her. The city had been a vital
anchorage of one sort or another since time immemorial—long before the Age of Star Flight, when
only seaborne ships called at her already age-blackened stone jetties and piers. HyperLight travel
changed the very warp and woof of civilization on Haelic, and gradually, Atalanta's identity
merged with that of the whole planet. Advent of the militant Gradgroat-Norchelite Order and,
later, their huge, hilltop monastery with its orbital forts gave the city-planet yet another
identity—one that would ultimately save the Empire itself during the final battle of the First
Great War. That clash effectively destroyed much of the ancient city as well as the League's
fleet, the latter causing Emperor Nergol Triannic to sue for amity with his double-dealing
armistice and subsequent Treaty of Garak. Now: another war had come, with Atalanta once more
slated for the pain and misery associated with a major strategic role.
Ahead—actually, below, now—Haelic had taken on added dimension. My Starfuries were descending
through ever-thickening atmosphere like meteors while they beamed directed-energy plasma torches
out ahead to shield their hulls from the heat of reentry. At the edge of vision, I checked my
other quads—all keeping perfect station in echelon to port.
Down we swept toward shapeless, smoothed-over cloud banks that quickly became moving, grayish
masses fringed with color as the horizon lost its curve and I made my personal transition from
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navigating the vast emptiness of deep space to flying in crowded, controlled airspace. Glancing at
an altimeter, I keyed the radio, "Atalanta Center," I sent, "Fleet ST-337F with Convoy ART-19
requests approach clearance."
"Fleet ST-337F," a civilian controller responded promptly, "Convoy ART-19 is cleared to
Orbital Buoy nine nine one, Frequency seven eight four three. On arrival, continue descent to two
five zero c'lenyts and decelerate to velocity twenty-five zero zero."
"Fleet FA-337 acknowledges direct routing to HoverBuoy nine nine one. Convoy is presently at
five fifty c'lenyts and thirty-one zero zero velocity. Decelerating to velocity of two five five
zero."
Within twenty cycles, I had the HoverBuoy in sight to starboard, radiating a coded pattern in
flashes of ruby light. We were now well within Haelic's atmosphere and measuring altitude in irals
rather than c'lenyts. Out ahead, a departing merchantman crossed our path on the way to outer
space. As the Starfury bounced through its churning gravity wakes, the head and shoulders of a
young woman appeared in a globular display over my right-hand console. "Fleet FA-337," she said,
"Convoy ART-19 may descend and maintain flight level three hundred."
"Convoy ART-19 will continue descent to flight level three hundred," I acknowledged, checking
the Hyperscreens for local traffic. From long experience, I understood that the Center's traffic
controllers were severely overworked—and used equipment that was rarely uprated. Been around long
enough to understand that one of the first items to be rationed during wartime was safety, with
every commander on both sides—including myself—deceitfully preaching some brand of safety gospel
as if we actually believed a word of it.
Came through a solid bank of clouds nearly as large as the continent it covered. Only a few
hundred irals below, I picked out at least four more layers of dirty, gray-looking clouds—detritus
of a frontal system moving slowly down from the polar regions of the planet.
"Fleet FA-337 with Convoy ART-19, descend and maintain one zero thousand irals with a heading
of three one five to join the Blue-five radial inbound," a new controller directed. She had pretty
blue eyes.
"Many thanks," I replied. "Convoy ART-19 descending to one thousand irals and a heading of
three one five for radial Blue." I listened to the steady beat of the 'Gravs thundering in the
Starfury's lower two hulls—"pontoons" was the builder's term—on either side of the Starfury's main
fuselage. Thought about the ferry crew, at least as anxious to be down as I was.
I set the lift augmenters, listening to the 'Gravs spooling up as they shouldered the extra
load. Clicks later, the ship trembled as finned cooling radiators deployed from either side of the
main fuselage and roared in the slipstream.
"Fleet FA-337 with Convoy ART-19: proceed direct to intercept Blue beacon on the three nine
three radial," the blue-eyed controller intoned. "Cross the threshold at eight five thousand and
maintain altitude."
"Convoy ART-19 flying direct to Blue radial three nine three to cross threshold at eight five
thousand and maintain altitude." Eyeballed the altimeters and turned on the landing lights just as
the autopilot disconnected. It was the only automatic system still online in the Starfury;
actually I often flew with the automatic systems disconnected, especially during lift-offs and
landfalls. Wasn't alone, either, at least among the better Helmsmen....
During the next minutes, the controller reduced our speed to 200 cpm (c'lenyts per
metacycle), then 150 before turning us onto an instrument vector for landing. Silhouetted ahead in
the evening light was an unmistakable cityscape and glowing harbor—Atalanta! My eyes followed the
great upsweep of City Mount Hill as fading daylight illuminated the Gradgroat-Norchelite's
reconstruction of their colossal monastery. In spite of myself, I felt a growing sense of
excitement. Twice before this legendary city had assumed critical importance in my life. It was
clear a third instance had already commenced....
A different controller appeared in my globular display: this time a young man with short,
fiery red hair. "Fleet FA-337 with Convoy ART-19," he advised, "your ships are cleared for
landfall by quads line abeam; vector ninety-eight left. Wind from three hundred at four six with
gusts to five nine."
"Thank you, Atalanta Tower," I replied. "Convoy ART-19 is cleared for landfall by quads line
abeam: vector ninety-eight left." He switched to the convoy frequency. "Quad leaders—you noted all
that?"
"Affirmative, Admiral," three voices replied in unison.
"Good," I said. "I'll take my four ships in first. Harris, you make a circuit and follow with
Blue quad, next Kimple with Yellow, and finally Bell with Green. Any questions?"
"None, Admiral."
"See you on the surface," I said as a solid ruby light flashed out of the evening magenta
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ahead. A gust of wind pushed the ship to port, and the light began to dissociate into horizontal
lines. As I corrected to starboard, the ruby lines converged, then separated again, this time to
vertical lines. One last correction and they coalesced again—on centerline. Increased the lift
augmenters and fed in ten degrees more power to take up the load.
More landing checklist. Continuous boost ON; radio nav switches set on RADIOS; flight panels
checked. The other three ships in my quad had now moved into line-ahead formation behind me, each
ship slightly offset to the left. It was time I got everyone belowdecks down in their seats. "All
hands secure personal stations. All hands secure personal stations..."
Altimeter, flight, and nav instruments set and crosschecked; airspeed EPR bugs reduced to one
thirty nine and cross-checked, speed brake levers LOCKED. The starship began to sink as I reined
in the power. Off to starboard, a virtual forest of shipyard cranes slid by my Hyperscreens, then
huge rounded towers, darkened globes, and a maze of tall crystalline structures catching the last
of Hador's failing light. Three thousand irals to my left a veritable city of darkened goods
houses and wharves materialized out of the night, most of the latter occupied by one sort of
starship or another.
Only a hundred irals' altitude, now—the part that separates Helmsmen from wannabes. Walked
the steering engines carefully, concentrating on the ranks of waves glittering out ahead in the
landing lights. Glide path... descent rate... speed... angle of attack. None perfect, but close
enough at this altitude, especially with a human at the helm. Called up a little more
thrust—should be 3-4 cpms fast—then eased off the steering engines. The bow swung to windward,
then I slanted the deck a little for drift. Nose up ever so slightly. Judging the wave troughs...
held her off... deftly leveling the tri-hull only an instant before cascades of dark water shot
skyward past the side Hyperscreens, diminished as we slid through a trough, then shot skyward once
more as I gently plastered the pontoons to the surface. We sliced through two more of the big
rollers before I pulsed the gravity brakes gently, sending long streams of gravitons out ahead to
flatten the waves and slow the ship. Moments later, we were stopped, rolling gently on the surface
of Grand Harbor while I switched to local gravity (as always, nearly losing the contents of my
stomach), then configured the controls for surface running. In the overhead 'Screens, the clouds
had passed, and stars from the galactic center shimmered like a great canopy of lights to set the
water glittering with a million-odd colors and hues. After a number of momentous years, I had
again returned to Hador-Haelic's Atalanta—and perhaps a middle-aged woman with long brown hair who
had never been far from my mind during thirteen long years. Focused on the ship again—no time to
think about her now!
* * *
We'd scarcely cleared the landing vector when a harbor controller with an anxious look
appeared in my globular display.
"Harbor Control to all quads of Convoy ART-19... Harbor Control to all quads of Convoy ART-
19," she said. "Slave your ships to individual blue taxi vectors with all haste. I repeat—with all
haste. Enemy raids are imminent."
"Red quad scanning for vectors," I responded—not at all surprised. The zukeeds had us nailed!
Configured for surface running, our Starfuries were much too far behind the energy curve for quick
lift-offs—especially in the face of an attack. As I spoke, Red Four turned hard to port, followed
by Red Three, then Red Two. Abruptly, a blue harbor vector gleamed in my own port Hyperscreen.
Pointed an acquisition tube at it until three blue lights converged in my nav panel, then it was
up to the Starfury. Now, remotely steered from somewhere in the darkness ahead, we headed straight
for the vector. Rising from the helm, I peered aft through the darkness, where Blue quad was
skimming to a landing in clouds of spray no more than a thousand irals behind us.
By the time Yellow quad reported they were down, I could sense rather than see a large
opening in the massive seawall ahead, where the water's reflection ended in the darkness. My taxi
vector was beamed from it. "Docking and mooring details to stations," I ordered on the blower.
Moments later, hatches popped open atop the pontoons and soon crews of starsailors dressed in
attractor boots, sea slickers, and big insulated mittens were scurrying along the wet, dimly
lighted surfaces to open our optical mooring cleats.
As our four ships approached the massive entrance, a searing flash lighted the sky and dimmed
the Hyperscreens, almost as if a nearby star had exploded. Startled, I jumped in my seat, then
steadied myself. Of course—the Gradgroat-Norchelite orbital forts! They'd be the first to fire on
an attack from space.
Another blinding flash. Then another, and another until the darkness was turned to a
throbbing, toneless blue-white daylight. Then... darkness again—darker still for the contrast.
I knew the attackers were now either past the forts or destroyed as I listened to the ships
of Green quad report their landing runs, then make an abrupt turn shoreward. Breathed a little
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easier. All of Convoy ART-19 was at least safely down—if not yet safely sheltered.
Suddenly our four ships were safe inside the darkened cavern, running four abreast along what
appeared to be a wide canal. From her position at the extreme right of the quad, my Starfury
seemed to be speeding along only a few irals from a very solid-looking seawall—with nobody at the
helm!
Abruptly, we came to an halt with the 'Gravs idling, and I glanced aft again—Just in time to
hear the ships of Blue quad report themselves safely through the entrance, four dim white wakes
against the near darkness. Then the unmistakable flashing of disruptors lighted the sky outside of
the hangar, bathing Yellow quad in brilliant strobes of light as the four ships raced for shelter
through a veritable forest of glowing, yellow-green waterspouts just short of the entrance.
I watched—horrified—as the rightmost Starfury lifted from the water atop a glowing,
coruscating eruption of greenish energy and water. While its luckless Helmsman struggled with the
controls, the Starfury's nose reared higher and higher, then fell off sharply to starboard—Just as
it managed to reach the hangar entrance. Next moment, the speeding ship slammed broadside against
a solid-rock column, then broke in two and exploded, spewing glittering clouds of hullmetal sparks
as it sideswiped its closest neighbor. More disruptor flashes outside, these much brighter. The
Fleet Base was finally shooting back—just as the doors began to close,
But where was Green quad?
Another tremendous explosion—followed by an angular-looking starship tumbling into the mouth
of the hangar, aflame from stern to Drive tubes. One of The Torond's new Dampiers! The stricken
ship erupted in a blinding sheet of pure energy while the massive doors continued to slide shut.
Without warning, a Starfury burst through the incandescent rubble, followed by a second... then a
third, only just squeezing through the narrow opening that remained. Then a secondary explosion
and the doors finally slammed together.
Moments later, when the hangar's internal lighting came on, a glance around revealed that we
were in a huge, arched tunnel carved from solid rock—at least two hundred irals high and perhaps
five times that in width. The "canal" I'd sensed in the darkness was actually the ends of piers
lining either side of the underground passage, which appeared to extend for nearly a quarter
c'lenyt in either direction. Wreckage from the downed Dampier still smoldered just inside the
massive doors, and the six survivors from Yellow and Green quads were idling in two ranks behind
the four ships of Blue quad—all apparently undamaged, as were my own Starfury and the three other
ships of Red quad.
I'd lost two of the sixteen Starfuries in my charge—better than twelve percent. Not a record
to be proud of, especially since the ships had come all that way safely. They'd be missed; no
doubt about that. From my position on the canal, I could count twenty-nine other Starfuries moored
in three groups along the tunnel. Fifteen older Defiant-class attack ships were clustered into two
additional groups. The remainder of the occupied wharves nearby were taken up by various utility
and transport starships as well as three bizarre-looking "benders" that could "bend" nearly all
radiation around their hulls, rendering them virtually invisible to all known receptors.
Clearly, the defending squadrons of 71 Group had been caught with their collective pants
down. Why? With the sophisticated, late-model KA'PPA-based BKAEW early-warning systems that had
been shipped here only Standard Months earlier, they should easily have been spaceborne in plenty
of time to blunt—or even completely foil—the assault that had destroyed two brand-new attack ships
and their crews. Yet none of the ships appeared even to be manned, although a few maintenance
crews could be seen working on their hulls.
Well, by Voot, I'd been warned. What a state of affairs! With a fast-growing sense of
indignation, I promised myself that tomorrow—first thing—I would start rooting out the bastards
who were responsible, starting with the present, outgoing commander, one Rear Admiral (the Hon.)
W. Groton Summers, who would soon be on his way to a comfortable staff job in Avalon. My angry
musings were interrupted by a surface-traffic controller who appeared in his globular display with
a mooring assignment at one of the empty piers....
* * *
I was roused at Dawn plus one twenty-five by a chime from my timepiece. Frowning, I sat up in
the bunk and glanced around. The message screen on the wall of my temporary cubicle in the
Bachelor Officer's Quarters indicated three messages waiting. I hadn't even checked the previous
night; I'd been too ragged out from the trip for anything but a desperately needed shower,
immediately followed by a bed. Shrugging, I took a battered Remote from the night table and
displayed the first message:
14 Heptad 52014, Brightness: 3:30
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TO: Wilf A Brim, RADM, I.F.
From: Hathaway Cottshall, Administrator
For: W. Groton Summers, RADM, I.F.
Admiral Brim: RADM Summers sends compliments, and directs me to convey that it will be his
pleasure to receive you in his private Headquarters office at Morning:00:00 sharp for Transfer of
Command Ceremonies to be held promptly at noon. Formal uniform recommended.
Formal uniform, eh? So that's the sort of thing that concerned Summers. Certainly didn't seem
worried much about his base being attacked—or about safe arrival for badly needed reinforcements
to its defense. Except for a few dock-side mooring squads, no one had even bothered to meet my
tired ferry crews as they stiffly piled out of their Starfuries at pierside. And it couldn't be
that they'd mistaken our arrival time; the message had been forwarded here to the VOQ late
yesterday afternoon.
Later yesterday, when I'd personally inquired about what sort of defenses had been aloft when
the Dampiers arrived for their attacker, I was informed that only the orbiting space forts and the
harbor's fixed disruptor batteries had been put on full alert. Yet even in worst case, many of
those twenty-nine Starfuries I counted had to be operational. So where in xaxt were their
thraggling crews? And why hadn't at least a few of the zukeeds been flying a Combat Space Patrol?
Maybe Summers was a CIGA, but he certainly couldn't have effected damage on this scale without a
lot of help.
The Ops Officer was responsible for much of the way the base appeared. But first
responsibility lay with Summers and his Executive Officer; that's where I'd start. After that, I'd
root out the decay so that this kind of treason would never happen again—ever.
The next message was from Master Chief Petty Officer Utrillo Barbousse, highest-ranking
noncom in the Imperial Fleet and a trusted personal associate since our days together aboard
I.F.S. Truculent during the First Great War. Barbousse and I had formed such an effective team
that for years Emperor Onrad insisted the two of us be stationed together. According to the him,
it was the most damaging thing he could do to the League.
WO9FGU7BVJW405967HGJQ0W9E8RG
[TOP SECRET]
FROM:
U. BARBOUSSE, MCPO, VPOQ, IFB, AVALON,
AVALON-ASTERIOUS
TO:
WILF A BRIM, RADM, VOQ, IFB, ATALANTA, HADOR-HAELIC
HAVE TRANSPORTATION ORDERS IN HAND FOR I.S.S. SWANNBRLAND DEPARTING HERE 26 HEPTAD AND ARRIVING
ATALANTA 32 HEPTAD. ALREADY PACKED NUMEROUS CASES OF VINTAGE LOGISH MEEM YOU MAY FIND INTERESTING
AS WELL AS DELICIOUS. KA'PPA OTHER "NECESSITIES" I SHOULD PICK UP FOR YOU IN AVALON. SEEN MUCH OF
YOUR DAUGHTER, HOPE, IN LAST FEW DAYS. SHE IS ABUNDANTLY HEALTHY AND FILLED WITH THE SAME
WONDERFUL SUNSHINE AS HER LATE MOTHER. SHE CONSTANTLY ASKS ABOUT YOU, IN SPITE OF NEARLY PERPETUAL
OVERINDULGENCE BY EMPEROR ONRAD—WHO SENDS PERSONAL REGARDS, AS DOES NURSE COSA TUTTI. HAVE LATEST
HOLOPICS IN HAND SO YOU CAN SHOW HER OFF TO EVERYONE IN ATALANTA.
[END TOP SECRET]
WO9FGU7BVJW405967HGJQ0W9E8RG
I grinned. My tiny daughter Hope did seem to have some internal source of sunshine—on those
all-too-few occasions I got to see her. Officially, the little girl's father was Mustafa Eyren,
the Nabob of Fluvanna; her mother, Raddisma, a singularly gifted and beautiful woman as well as
Eyren's most favored courtesan. But I was the little girl's actual father—after a single,
extraordinary night with the beautiful courtesan aboard a crippled starship. Sadly, we saw each
other only twice more after that.
Little Hope had come a long, treacherous route to her present fortuitous state of affairs.
Just before the fall of Fluvanna, Emperor Onrad granted asylum in Avalon to the Fluvannian
court—including Raddisma., who delivered little Hope shortly after her arrival in Avalon. And,
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upon Raddisma's death from a stray disruptor burst during the Battle of Avalon, Onrad further made
the little girl his personal ward—-some whispered as a courtesy to me when he accidentally
discovered her actual derivation. At all events, Hope now resided in the Imperial Palace, cared
for by Raddisma's faithful retainer, Cosa Tutti, although elderly Nabob Eyren still visited
faithfully in the belief that the little girl was his true daughter.
My third message was from the Base Housing Office, informing me in the most incoherent
bureaucratese possible that my base housing authorization was denied because a form had been
misfiled in Atalanta. Shrugging phlegmatically, I made a note to let Barbousse handle that item,
then fetched my tote bag from the shelf over my bunk. Clearly, I had plenty of work in store—and
very little time to do it.
At Dawn plus two, roughly five metacycles remained until my "ceremony" with Summers; I
resolved to use it productively. I dressed from my duffel bag in worn blue flight overalls, soft
leather boots, a battered black leather Helmsman's jacket, and a garrison cap with two small stars
as the only indication of my flag rank. Then—just in case—I buckled on my Wenning .985 blaster in
its leather holster. Grabbed a steaming, sweet cup of cvceese' on my way through the VOQ lobby,
then strode out into the early morning duskiness—where the star Hador was already clearing
Atalanta's spinward horizon with a swollen streak of burnt orange—and caught a grimy freight tram
to the underground hangar.
Below, I found the vast gloomy cavern much the way I had left it the previous evening,
redolent of seawater, overheated logics, solvents, hot metals, sealants, lubricants, and the other
smells common to a starship anchorage. It was also still mostly unpopulated, with only a minimum
of activity going on—although a few more vehicles were moving within my purview. Here and there, I
could hear the staccato t-zaapt of collapsium welders, reflecting their wobbling glare on the
jagged rock of the ceiling. An overhead crane hummed along a track over the main canal carrying a
crated Drive crystal, and from somewhere far inside came the lonely chime of a communicator. But
the giant facility was virtually abandoned. Where in the name of Voot was everybody?
Behind me, the doors to the harbor had been rolled open again while a floating crane noisily
dredged up the tangled wreckage of the Dampier and my Yellow-quad Starfury that had crashed during
the previous evening's attack. Farther out in the harbor, a second salvage crane had just turned
off its working lights, raising, I assumed, the wreckage of the missing Starfury from Green quad.
I ground my teeth. Neither Starfury needed to have been lost—certainly not pissed away without
opposition as they had been. Without even a fight. Starfuries themselves were hard enough to
replace; but their crews could never be replaced—either aboard ship or among their families.
Especially the civilians. Bad enough to sacrifice starsailors; possible death was written into
their job descriptions. But the civilians—that was murder.
I strode along a section of the broad concourse that paralleled the left-hand wall of the
tunnel. The surface was littered and stained by puddles of spilled lubricant slippery enough to
cause an accident. Yet I could see no sign of a maintenance detail anywhere. Many of the stains
looked as if they had been around for a long time.
I checked one of the piers that jutted out from that side of the great subterranean hangar.
Hardly a Karlssohn lamp was burning with a full array of illuminators. Dockside gear was
carelessly adrift everywhere; some even blocking access to the N-ray mains—in spite of flashing
fire-lane indicators built into the surface. On the second pier, a number of optical bollards were
weak and clearly out of adjustment, allowing both Starfuries moored there to drift dangerously
close to the piers.
Except for the ships I'd delivered myself, the Starfuries and the Defiants I could see
appeared to be anything but ready for battle, or even flight. Especially the more complex
Starfuries. Many had access hatches open as if they were waiting for maintenance of one kind or
another. Thick cables fed into them here and there, but nobody seemed to be doing much work—at
least nobody in a hurry. Here and there crews of mechanics stood in little groups talking and
smoking the spicy local mu'occo cigarettes. None of them one paid me the slightest attention as I
strode along the concourse—a complete stranger. Where in the name of Voot was Security? Where was
thraggling anybody?
I grew more disgusted with each pier I passed, especially when I remember how things had once
been at this magnificent Fleet Base—even during peacetime. But in those days, some of the best
minds in the Empire had been in charge, Clearly, that had changed drastically.
I stopped for a moment to take stock. Things were deeply wrong in the Ops, Engineering, and
even the Space Divisions of the base. I checked my timepiece. Still three metacycles until my
appointment with Summers. Used a portable HoloPhone to pass a few quick orders to the three quad
leaders who'd flown in with me, then caught a nearby lift to the surface and cadged a ride to the
transport pool.
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More smells of lubricants and solvents as I opened the door to the office, but with a strong
overtone of... polish. Nothing wrong with that! Peered through an open door into the main garage;
spied a lone rating energetically shining a large, elegant limousine skimmer. The last time I'd
been stationed in Atalanta, the base didn't even have a limousine skimmer.
"Can I help you, sir?" the young StarSailor called through the door with his sweaty back to
the checkout counter. Young, in his early twenties, he was stripped to the waist and flexing
muscles in the manner of someone who likes to keep himself in shape.
"I need a gravcycle, Mister," I said, glad to see at least someone hard at work.
"D' you mind just takin' one, sir?" he puffed over his shoulder, "I've got to have this thing
shined for the big doings at Headquarters, and I don't have much more time."
"What's going on at Headquarters?" I asked—as if I didn't know.
"New military commander checkin' in, sir," the StarSailor explained, still with his back to
me. "Guess they're going to show him around."
"They need a limousine skimmer to show him around?"
"I don't ask questions, sir," the StarSailor said, grunting as he reached across the top of
the big machine to polish a recalcitrant spot, "I just take orders and spread wax."
Grinned in spite of myself. "I see," I said, stepping through the doorway into the
garage—which on first sight appeared to hold some of nearly every type of vehicle known to
civilization. Toward the rear of the huge room, a group of mechanics were grouped around a heavy
lorry, their tools and voices echoing distantly in the vastness, I turned to the rating. "Isn't
anybody around to help you out?" I demanded.
"Oh yes, sir," he replied, still not turning around. "But they're a bit late this mornin'.
Usually I can handle it myself, but today Headquarters wanted the Admiral's limo all shined up—and
nobody got around to tellin' me about it till I got here about Dawn plus two twenty-five." He
shook his head. "Awful lucky I was early, or I'd be in a real pickle."
"I see," I said. "Very well. How do I get myself a 'cycle?"
"Just sign the tabulator back there on the office counter, sir, then go pick one out," the
StarSailor said, pointing to a large collection of gravcycles nearby. He climbed down to move the
ladder. "When you ride past, call out the number, and I'll note it down for you, er..." Suddenly,
his gaze fell on my garrison cap. "Admiral, sir!" he said with a stricken look.
"At ease, StarSailor," I answered, raising a hand to check him. "What's your name?"
"Er, Russo, sir. Joe Russo, Petty Officer, Third Class—sir."
"Who's your boss, Russo?"
"Er, Chief Petty Officer Lorton Tambourne, sir."
"Where is he?"
"I, er, don't know, sir."
I looked at him carefully. "Is he on leave, or something?"
"No, sir."
"He supposed to be here, then?"
"Well, er.. "
"Yes or no, Russo."
"Yes, sir."
"Who's his boss?"
"Chief Tambourne works direct for the Base Transportation Officer, Commander Baily, sir."
"I assume Baily reports to the Ops Officer?"
"Yes, sir. Captain Harper."
"All right, Russo," I said, making a quick decision. "Three items for you. First: park the
limousine; it won't be needed today. Second: at Brightness on the dot, I take over from Admiral
Summers as Base Commander and you're promoted to Petty Officer, First Class—call it a battlefield
commission for obvious reasons. Third: at that moment, you're also in temporary command of the
transport pool. Can you handle it?"
"Command... me?" He only hesitated a moment. "You bet I can handle it, sir, b-but..."
"The name's Brim, Mister. If anybody gives you trouble, refer him—or her—to me at the Base
Commander's office. I'll take care of it personally."
"Aye aye, Admiral Brim."
"Good. Now stow that polish and go sign me out one of those gravcycles—a good one. On a
permanent basis...."
Cycles later, I was astride a powerful, deliciously balanced new RSB gravcycle, wind
whistling past my helmet as I sped around the base making a quick private inspection.
Didn't like much of what I saw.
Some parts of the huge complex were immaculately kept—in certain cases, even better
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file:///G|/rah/Bill%20Baldwin/Baldwin,%20Bill%20-%20The%20Helmsman%2007%20-%20The%20Defiance.txt"Lookout,Tempo,"somebodyshoutedontheradio.Suddenly,twostingingshocks.Bang!Bang!Thefirst,distant,smashedussidewaysaccompaniedbyagonizedscreamingontheintercom;musthavebeeninthemainhull.Thesecondexplodedr...

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