Baldwin, Bill - Helmsman 5 - The Defenders

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The Defenders
By
Bill Baldwin
Beyazh," Brim yelled, hauling
in the little ship's helm.
"Get that last torpedo ready.
NOW!"
"We're not going to fire this one," Brim warned, holding up his hand, "instead, we're going
to jettison it."
"Jettison?" Beyazh exclaimed. "An armed torpedo?"
"Yeah," Brim said through clenched teeth; the Leaguers were catching up fast, "...but set
the fuse for proximity—at about five hundred irals."
'" space mine!" the Fluvannian whispered. "Of course."
"If they'll just hold off firing a few more clicks," Brim grunted, his eyes glued to the aft
view display. The bastards had to be just where he wanted them. "Ready..." he warned. A whir
behind the alt bulkhead told him that the number five torpedo-loading hatch was open. The Leaguers
were nearly on top of him. He dared not wait another moment.
"Let 'er go!" he bellowed, then shoved the thrust dampers into MILITARY OVERLOAD.
No sooner had the ejector mechanism cycled than both League ships fired ranging shots—and
space itself erupted in a binding inferno of raw energy...
Also by Bill Baldwin
THE MERCENARIES
THE TROPHY
THE HELMSMAN
GALACTIC CONVOY
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
A Time Warner Company
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 © 1992 by Merl Baldwin
All rights reserved.
Questar is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
Cover illustration by John Berkey
Cover design by Don Puckey
Warner Books, Inc.
1271 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
A Time Warner Company
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: August, 1992
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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CHAPTER 1
Back to Gimmas
ASHF234812-19E GROUP 198BA 113/52011
[TOP SECRET]
PERSONNEL ACTION MEMORANDUM, IMPERIAL FLEET,
PERSONAL COPY
FROM:
BU FLEET PERSONNEL;
ADMIRALTY, AVALON
TO:
W. A. BRIM, CAPTAIN, I.E. IVG
AVALON
<0893BVC-12-K2134MV/573250>
SUBJECT: DUTY ASSIGNMENT
(1) YOU ARE DETACHED PRESENT IVG DUTY AS OF 205/52012.
(2) PROCEED MOST EXPEDITIOUS TRANSPORT GIMMAS STARBASE, HAEFDON. REPORT REAR ADM B. GALLS WORTHY,
11 GROUP, HOME FLEET, DEFENSE COMMAND, AS WING COMMANDER.
(3) SUBMIT TRAVEL EXPENSE VOUCHERS DIRECT ADMIRALTY
C/O H. DRUMMOND, REAR ADMIRAL, I.E
FOR THE EMPEROR:
TANDOR K. KNORR, CAPTAIN, I.F.
[END TOP SECRET]
ASHF234812-19E
"Hands to landfall stations! All hands man your stations for landfall. Secure from
HyperSpace operations...."
Frigid, cloud-swept Haefdon, third planet of the dying star Gimmas, filled the forward
Hyperscreens as Imperial destroyer Jacques Schneider—eight days out from Avalon—shut down her
interstellar Drive and thundered in toward landfall using gravity generators alone. On the cramped
flight bridge, Captain Wilf Brim, I.F., leaned forward in a jump seat between the two Helmsmen,
listening to sounds of thudding feet, the dull bang of airtight doors and hatches, starsailors
hurrying to their stations, and the general cacophony associated with securing a starship from
deep space. It was never easy for an active Helmsman to ride as a passenger, but at least he
wasn't staring at a bulkhead as the powerful little warship settled purposefully toward the thick
undercast—he hated riding that way.
The deck trembled slightly as stumpy Zinu Corbeil in the left seat turned up power in
preparation for the roiling storms that were part and parcel of entry to the planet-girding
Imperial Fleet base below. Brim chuckled. Corbeil—a Lieutenant Commander—spoke with a Rhodorian
dialect you could carry in a bucket. The man had a lot of rank for commanding a mere destroyer,
and an elderly one at that. But drastic starship reductions in the past meant that often senior
officers skippered the few ships that remained in service. Keeping an enemy at bay while
rebuilding (and recrewing) a sadly neglected fleet was only one of a myriad of problems facing the
Grand Galactic Empire of Emperor Onrad V after his recent declaration of war. And not all of those
troubles came from his perennial adversary, the League of Dark Stars.
"Gimmas Tower Nineteen, Imperial V981 is with you out of twenty-four and a half for twenty-
four," Sada Takanada broadcast to the Sector 19 Controller. Clearly younger than Corbeil, the
diminutive Takanada looked as if she had recently graduated from the Helmsman's Academy—but she
was probably nearer Brim's age of forty-seven than that of a cadet.
"Imperial V981:" the distant tower replied, "Sector Nineteen Control reads you. Continue
descent and maintain one zero thousand. The altimeter nine two nine five."
Brim listened to the discourse with real interest. Approaches to Gimmas Haefdon were
routinely difficult, even for old-timers like Corbeil. Storms kept Helmsmen busy with simple
basics—like attempting to stay on course. Whenever traffic permitted, Controllers here kept close
track of landing starships, especially little ones. And with very recent reactivation of the base,
traffic was still light. Certainly not the madhouse he remembered from the last war, more than
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eleven years ago. He shook his head sadly at that thought—what wouldn't the Admiralty give to have
that madhouse of ships today!
"Imperial V981: suggest a heading of two five zero two five to join the Blue-10 zero one
zero radial inbound."
Corbeil put the helm over. "Imperial V981 turning two five zero," he answered. Only clicks
later, the flames of reentry died in their wake and the little starship shuddered as her trilon-
shaped hull met the first of Gimmas's famous turbulence. Soon they were driving along through the
first ragged cloud tatters. At least four more layers of dirty-looking, wind-frayed clouds defined
themselves below before perspective itself was swallowed in the murky undercast of the planet's
dismal afternoon. As the starship descended into solid cloud, Corbeil and Takanada began their
final checkout litany.
"Warning panel?"
"Check."
"Altimeters?"
"Verified."
"Landing lights..."
"Imperial V981: radio check," the distant Controller interrupted.
"Loud and clear," Takanada answered, "—and the lights are ON." Corbeil had now concentrated
most of his considerable facilities on the helm. Jacques Schneider was tossing like a leaf in a
millrace while rain and hail thundered against the forward Hyperscreens, instantly turning to
steam on the outer layers of crystal still heated by their reentry.
Brim turned up the power on his seat restraints, then tightened his shoulder belts. He'd
been through this particular soup a thousand times at least.
"Start the approach check, Sada."
"Ten degrees lift enhancers...."
"Ten degrees."
"Auto flight panels...."
"Imperial V981:" the tower Controller interrupted again, "reduce speed to one eight zero and
descend to five thousand irals altitude."
"V981—speed to one eight zero and down to five thousand. Zinu, say again the auto flight
panels."
"Checked."
The litany continued until, just short of two thousand irals altitude, little Jacques
Schneider gamely plunged out of the overcast into a mounting gale and driving snow—ancient Gimmas
was living up to her hard reputation for weather. Below in the gray afternoon murk, Brim could see
ice-flecked rollers tossing wildly in column against slender causeways dotted with Karlsson lamps.
Almost at the limit of his vision, a long goods train gave off tremendous sparks as it seemed to
crawl across the arcing spans. Relativity. Brim knew it was doing at least five hundred c'lenyts
each metacycle.
"Imperial V981: you're six c'lenyts from the marker," the Tower announced. "Turn left to
heading nine seven one and join the localizer at seventeen hundred. You are cleared for instrument
approach one seven left."
"Fleet V981 acknowledges all of that," Corbeil answered. "Thank you...."
Ahead, a land mass was materializing out of the gloomy mists. Here and there, beacons
flashed indistinctly, and reflected daylight—such as it was—defined a maze of canals. Massive,
silver-domed reactor towers dotted the snow-covered landscape. Brim shook his head. It was almost
as if eleven years had suddenly compressed to nothing. Little more than a year ago the great
sector harbor had appeared to be completely abandoned—frozen over and lifeless. Now, as they
approached, thousands of Karlsson lights glowed everywhere among a myriad of buildings and odd-
shaped structures that had once been buried in a hundred irals of snow.
"Sector Tower One Nine to Imperial V981: you are cleared to land three-seven left, wind one
nine zero at fifty, gust to one one twelve."
"Thank you, Tower...."
While Corbeil turned onto final, a point of ruby light burned through the mist at them—the
landing vector. Moments later their own triangular shadow moved in beneath them and they were
level, skimming just above the tops of the huge rollers. From long years of instinct, Brim glanced
out the quarter window, judging their touchdown as if he were at the controls. The generators
surged for a moment as the ship rotated slightly nose high, then great cascades of white water
soared skyward on either side of the hull as Corbeil "plastered" the ship onto her "gravity foot,"
the hull-shaped depression in the water starships made when they were on the surface. Four orange
lights appeared on the instrument panel as he shifted the generators into reverse, and a
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succession of graviton waves sent clouds of spray forward until the ship came to a halt a
regulation twenty-five irals above her foot, pitching moderately in the ground swell.
"All hands secure from landfall operations. All hands secure from landfall operations," the
blower announced. "Go to your stations, all landing parties. Stand by mooring and fender
beams...."
"Nice landing, Commander," Brim said. The words were no mere courtesy. Corbeil had actually
made the whole thing seem easy—which was, after all, a good bit of what Helmsmanship was all
about. But nothing was particularly easy on Gimmas Haefdon. He knew. Years ago, he'd called the
huge, frigid base "home."
Corbeil turned and grinned. "Thanks, Captain Brim," he said. "I watched you bring in those
tricky little Mitchell Trophy racers a couple o' years back—so I take those words as quite a
compliment."
Brim nodded, feeling his face flush. "I never had to land a racer on Gimmas," he returned as
Corbeil taxied the little ship past a glowing buoy tossing in the swell and headed toward two age-
blackened monoliths that marked the entrance to Sector 17's harbor. The horrible weather was what
made the frozen planet such a perfect Fleet base. Nobody else but starsailors could be persuaded
to go there.
* * *
Negotiating a maze of wide, stone-walled canals lined by rows of gravity pools—many occupied
by huge freighters from all over the Empire—they headed through driving snow for a forest of
massive shipyard cranes and a huge structure of ancient, age-blackened brick that Brim recognized
as a finishing bay where recently completed starships were fitted out in preparation for Fleet
duty. Clearly, this part of the great base would soon be in the business of building a fleet
again. On either side of the canal, causeways were alive with scurrying vehicles of all kinds and
shapes. Past a sharp curve, beacons began to strobe astride one of the gravity-pool ramps curving
up from the water. Through the snow, he could make out two bundled figures on a corner of the old
stone seawall, holding their ears against the noise as the starship approached. The taller was
clearly a Sodeskayan Bear, splendidly dressed in his country's distinctive papakha (a tall black
hat shaped like a woolly pillbox), high boots made of black leather so soft they bagged at the
ankles, and a long, deep maroon Fleet Cloak cut on the lines of its Imperial counterpart. The
other figure, dressed in the dark blue greatcloak of the Imperial Fleet wore an officer's cap and
significant bands of gold above his cuffs. Both waved as Corbeil applied the gravity brakes and
swung the starship's nose over a glowing Becton tube that led up the curving stone ramp to a
gravity pool.
Outside on the obsidian hull, parties of deck hands in magnetic boots and clumsy-looking
antiradiation mittens were already racing here and there to open hatches to activate the mooring
systems. Generators surged for a moment as the ship's mass transferred from its gravity foot, and
moments later, they were coasting onto the pool. Below, on the age-stained cobblestones, six spool-
shaped repulsion generators filled the great, open cell with a reassuring yellow glow. Corbeil
eased the ship into reverse for a moment while mooring beams leaped out to optical bollards along
the pool's walls, surging and flashing as Jacques Schneider settled to her moorings. Then he
glanced at Takanada, who grinned and nodded in return while a weathered brow clanked into place
abaft the bridge and connected to the boarding port with a great rush of air.
"All hands stand by for local gravity," she announced as six jewels in an overhead panel
switched from red to orange. "All hands stand by for local gravity."
Brim braced himself, watching Takanada reach up and touch each jewel in turn, turning it
from orange to green. A momentary wave of nausea savaged his gut and he fought his gorge to a
draw. During all his years in space, he'd never quite gotten used to The Switchover—just the
momentary discomfort it brought. He shook his head wryly as the feeling rapidly passed. A lot of
people never had any problems at all....
"Finished with generators," Corbeil announced to the bearded visage of an Engineering
Officer that appeared in a globular display.
"Aye, Captain."
Simultaneously, the background rumble of gravity generators died to the first silence Brim
had encountered since the ship lifted off seven days previously.
They were down.
* * *
Brim had departed Avalon in such a hurry he had little in the way of baggage as he descended
through the brow, dodging busy crewmen running past in both directions. He pulled his Fleet Cloak
tighter around his neck and turned up the heat against blasts of cold air surging up from below.
As he stepped outside into the snowy air, two figures resembling the pair he had spied on the
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seawall stepped forward. He recognized them almost immediately. "Dr. Borodov!" he exclaimed, first
saluting the Sodeskayan officer, who returned the salute, then immediately engulfed him in a
traditional Bear hug.
"Wilfooshka!" the Bear replied. "Seems like year of special holidays since I last laid eyes
on you." Grand Duke (Doctor) Anastas Alexi Borodov was master of vast baronial estates in the
deeply wooded lake country outside Holy Gromcow on the G.F.S.S. "Mother" planet of Sodeskaya
itself, and—for Brim—as close to family as anyone alive. He was also perhaps the greatest Drive
scientist in the known Universe. Both collars of his maroon Fleet Cloak were tipped in the black
leather of the Sodeskayan Engineers and bore three stars, denoting a Colonel General. Graying fur
on his great muzzle would have been chestnut-colored in his youth but was now as much silver as
brown. Somewhat bowed by the years, he stood only a little taller than Brim's six-iral height, but
his tiny eyes sparkled with youthful humor and prodigious intellect behind a pair of old-fashioned
horn-rimmed spectacles. Enormous sideburns provided him with a most profoundly academic
countenance despite a huge, wet nose of the sort that gave most Bears a slightly comic look in
humans' eyes—until they'd seen one angry. They were the only warm-blooded beings in the galaxy who
could enjoy Gimmas's weather. If anything, the original seed planets of the Great Federation were
often colder.
Grinning, Brim emerged from the Bear's embrace only to encounter another old friend and
mentor, now a Rear Admiral with a broad and a narrow gold band above the cuffs of his dark blue
Imperial Fleet Cloak. Bosporus Gallsworthy—no one else in the Universe had that combination of
dark complexion, thin, dry lips, pockmarked jowls, and eyes that could drill holes in hullmetal.
Though Brim had long since surpassed the man's skills at the controls of a starship, he still
considered Gallsworthy the greatest Helmsman of all times. An astounding Atalantan who had started
out as a ground soldier, fighting in the first Imperio-Leaguer Wars at Ilepillag (947th Sector),
Gallsworthy was wounded at the Emmos Confrontation, and then, by purposely losing his own medical
records, transferred to the Fleet and became a Helmsman who helped destroy twenty Leaguer
starships. "Hmm," he joked, returning Brim's salute. "Seems to me Alexi and I once shipped out
with somebody who looks a lot like you."
The three starsailors originally met aboard the old T-class destroyer I.F.S. Truculent at
the beginning of Brim's first tour of duty. "Interesting, Admiral," Brim replied, wrinkling his
brow in mock recollection. "I believe I've heard of somebody like that. A real troublemaker, if
memory serves."
Gallsworthy laughed. "A real troublemaker indeed!"
"Couldn't have been me, then," Brim continued, rolling his eyes heavenward. "I never make
trouble."
"That's good to know," Gallsworthy said. "The fellow was about twenty years younger than
you, now that I think about it."
"Nineteen, to be exact, Admiral," Brim chuckled. "But who's counting?"
"And here we are, still fighting a xaxtdamned war," Borodov growled. "Except this one we
call Second Great War, and we've given ten-year rest period to Leaguer zukeeds."
Brim nodded. "Looks like they've made the most of it, too. Doctor."
"So we have heard," Gallsworthy replied. "And of course you were among the first to sample
their new fighting skills, Wilf. Alexi and I are most anxious to hear about your adventures as a
mercenary in Fluvanna."
Snow stung Brim's face and he grinned. "As I am anxious to hear about this assignment of
mine, Admiral," he said. "And rumors of a new ship, General."
"Aha!" Borodov exclaimed to Gallsworthy, a huge grin baring his gem-inlaid fangs. "If you
are no longer troublemaker, you have at least lost none of your curiosity." He peered over his
glasses and nodded to a Fleet-blue staff skimmer hovering nearby in the passenger parking area.
"Come, Wilf Ansorivich," he said. "We will first drop you at the Visiting Officers Quarters so you
can freshen up. Later, over goblet of Logish Meem in Officers Bar, Bosporus and I will introduce
you to many new things—some you may even want to hear about."
"We'll soon be needing all the 'things' we can get our hands on," Brim said, starting off
for the waiting skimmer. "Because from what I've seen of the Leaguers and their Second Great War
so far, they're going to be tougher to deal with than ever before...."
* * *
The period of time Brim and many of his contemporaries already were referring to as the
Second Great War existed only as a name. In reality, it was no more than a logical extension of a
larger struggle that entered temporary hiatus eleven years previously during Standard Year 52000
with the abdication of Emperor Nergol Triannic, the League-proposed Treaty of Garak, and a
concomitant armistice until the treaty could be approved.
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Shortly after these three critical events, the Empire found itself divided into hostile
camps of war-weary reconciliationist groups and equally war-weary militants. Most
reconciliationists coalesced rapidly into the politically powerful Congress for Intra-Galactic
Accord (CIGA). Militants, however—comprising various military and veteran organizations—were still
required to concentrate the bulk of their efforts on such workaday tasks as securing the farflung
bulwarks of Empire. They therefore steadily lost political influence at all levels, and
subsequently, after furious debate throughout the Imperial Parliament, the League's treaty—already
signed by League Emperor Nergol Triannic—was pushed through by CIGA Chief Puvis Amherst. It was
formally ratified by (then) Emperor Greyffin IV two days prior to the Year's End holiday in
Avalon, 52000.
Amid vociferous Admiralty protests and resignations, Imperial Fleet reductions (with
resultant base closings) began promptly in 52001 to rigid schedules set forth in the new treaty.
Each of the ex-antagonists chose referees to oversee the other's disarmament progress. After two
successive Imperial Fleet reductions in 52002 and 52003, out-of-work veterans gathered for a
"March on Avalon." Most departed peacefully after Parliament vetoed cash bonuses recommended by
Greyffin IV; however, other, more adamant veterans were forcibly expelled by special detachments
of Imperial Marines wearing the special CIGA flash on their uniforms and lead by CIGA-aligned
officers.
A further reduction in Fleet strength during 52004 completed Imperial disarmament
requirements and resulted in the smallest Fleet in the Empire's history. Half a galaxy away in
Tarrott, Puvis Amherst personally confirmed similar reductions in League strength, but the
scattering of starsailors who remained loyal to the Empire knew the League's claims were little
more than fabrications. Unfortunately, a clamor of pacifist emotion sweeping the Empire—though
ultimately emotional and uninformed—was nevertheless politically unassailable. And while the
League secretly built a new and much more powerful fleet, the Empire continued to sink into
impotency.
In 52005, culmination of a three-year study by the blue-ribbon Interdominion Reparations
Committee resulted in a report fixing League war liability at 132 billion credits, to be
indemnified during the next ten Standard Years. Zoguard Grobermann, League Minister of State,
promised that the Chancellery would, "take the sum under advisement," but no further action was
forthcoming.
In 52006, the anti-League president of Beta Jago, Konrad Igno, was assassinated by an
unknown murderer during the traditional mid-year holiday interval in that dominion. League
Minister for Public Consensus Hanna Notrom denied any knowledge of the act, and soon afterward,
the League's Supreme Council even enacted laws forbidding assassination to prove once and for all
their peaceful intentions.
Early in 52007, exiled Nergol Triannic published his semibiographical Ughast Niefft as a
formal declaration of proper League objectives. By Avalonian midsummer, League sympathizers
annexed all planets of the Gammil'lt star system at the request of openly League-endorsing
Chancellor, I. B. Groenlj. At year's end, CIGA elements in the Imperial Parliament itself passed
the Cavir-Wilvo Bill posing stringent limits on Imperial starship manufacture.
Soon after Standard Year 52008 began, exiled Nergol Triannic returned in triumph to Tarrott
and resumed the reins of League government wearing the outlawed black uniform of a Controller.
Less than one month later, Conrad Zorn, prominent intra-galactic traveler and industrialist, was
found murdered after accusing the League of secretly expanding its Deep Space Fleet. By midyear,
Triannic repudiated the League's reparations debt and reintroduced compulsory military service for
all League citizens. At the end of the League's Festival of Conquest holidays (Imperial Standard
Date; 2 Nonad. 52008), Controller forces entered and occupied planets of The Torond, enthroned
League-sympathizer Rogan LaKarn as ruler, and proclaimed the "eternal" political union of League
and Torond.
Midway through 52009, Zoguard Grobermann and Hanna Notrom jointly announced League
incorporation of the Zathian planetary system, as result of a plebiscite. Soon afterward, Nergol
Triannic issued a stern warning to the dominion of Fluvanna concerning treatment of League
citizens dwelling on its planets.
Early in 52010, after CIGA-inspired frustration of numerous Imperial attempts to defend the
important Dominion of Fluvanna (supplier of nearly one hundred percent of the Empire's Drive
crystals), Emperor Greyffin IV formed the Imperial Volunteer Group (IVG) from the first eleven
Starfury starcruisers delivered, "leasing" not only the warships but their crews to Fluvanna for a
year. Shortly thereafter. League forces invaded and occupied the Dominion of Beta Jago, ignoring
protests from throughout the galaxy. Two months later—on trumped-up charges, Triannic also
declared war on Fluvanna, thus supplying a spark that would eventually reignite war itself.
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Until well into 52011, CIGAs throughout the Imperial Parliament prevented implementation of
the Empire's mutual-assistance treaty with Fluvanna. However, with the abdication of Greyffin IV,
Onrad V became Emperor and declared war on the League even as IVG forces destroyed huge League
space fortifications at Zonga'ar and set Triannic's timetable for conquest back nearly a Standard
Year. Within a month, the new Imperial Emperor dissolved the IVG, ordering his battle-proven crews
back to a newly expanding Imperial Fleet, where the veterans would be spread throughout the Home
Fleet in preparation for the inevitable Battle of Avalon. Wilf Brim—commander of the Zonga'ar
raid—formed the vanguard of this historic migration.
* * *
Later, after a luxuriously long shower and shave in a washroom large enough to turn around
in, Brim donned the only clean uniform he had with him and headed for the lobby. A hodgepodge of
officers in military dress from all over the Empire relaxed here and there in the low-ceilinged
room, some dozing in battered couches, others puffing on spice-filled pipes while they idly sifted
the news on global displays. Like lobbies of the other thousand-odd VOQs Brim had seen—all painted
in the same two tones of wearisome green—it was one of two escapes from the ultimate boredom of a
lonely transient's cubicle. He was headed for the other. ...
"Bar's down the road, Captain," a desk clerk said perspicaciously. "Shall I call a skimmer?"
"Thanks, starsailor," Brim answered, "but after a week in a destroyer..."
"Aye, sir," the rating said with a smile. "You'd rather walk. I know the feelin.' About a
half c'lenyt to starboard on your left. Can't miss it."
Brim nodded and headed for the door. Unless you liked snow—a lot of snow—Gimmas Haefdon
offered little else than vast amounts of work and drinking. Bars for all ranks tended to be large
and crowded.
Outside, the wind had lost some of its intensity and the snow was falling less heavily. He
returned the salute of a rating who was operating one of Gimmas's ubiquitous snow shovels—the
little machine chirped and scurried off to the side of the parking lot as he passed—then he
started down the dark street, boots crunching on the fresh powder. No odors on Gimmas Haefdon, he
thought for the millionth time as he walked in the muffled stillness. Smells of all kinds been
frozen solid for centuries.
Ahead, through gently falling snow, the street dwindled in perspective to diminishing
circles of light cast by a long column of Karlsson lamps placed in military precision along the
center divider. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of big gravity generators
spooling up. Ancient, shadowed goods houses, one more massive than the next, loomed on either
side, darkened reminders of past Imperial might. Here and there, however, lights appeared in odd
windows. Onrad V's hoary old Imperial Fleet was once again on the upswing after more than ten
years of intentional neglect, caused from within by a traitor's organization, the Congress for
Intra-Galactic Accord.
A starship thundered invisibly close overhead, its gravs at full lift-off power. It was
already lost in Gimmas's swirling clouds. Brim laughed softly to himself, remembering his early
days at the base as a green Sub-lieutenant, fresh from the Helmsman's Academy on balmy Ariel. Even
discounting the miserable weather of Carescria, his homeland in one of the Empire's poorest
sectors, after four Standard Years on balmy Ariel, he'd found himself quite unprepared for
Gimmas's fulsome climate. Yet he'd eventually come to think of the great base as home. He
certainly didn't consider his native Carescria as any kind of home. And besides, at the time,
Margot was here....
He sighed wistfully as the snowy darkness merged through nearly seventeen years to the night
he met Her Serene Majesty, Margot Effer'wyck, Princess of the Effer'wyck Dominions and first
cousin to Onrad, the present Imperial ruler. It had been a routine wardroom party aboard little
I.F.S. Truculent. She was there as an ordinary Lieutenant—a hardworking one at that, he'd quickly
discovered. And if the tall, amply built woman were not the most beautiful he'd ever encountered,
she'd still appealed to him in a most fundamental manner. Even after all these years, he could
picture her that night: artfully tousled golden curls and soft, expressive blue eyes, flashing
with nimble intelligence. Skin almost painfully fair, brushed lightly with pink high in the
cheeks. And when she smiled, her brow formed the most engaging frown he could imagine. Moist lips,
long, shapely legs, small breasts, and... He bit his lip.
They'd become lovers long after they'd fallen in love. She a princess of Effer'wyck, the
Empire's most influential dominion—he a commoner from the shabbiest sector imaginable. For a
while, the desperate absurdity of galactic war had canceled out that awesome gap in status. But
reality intervened soon enough, forcing a political marriage between Brim's Princess and Rogan
LaKarn, Baron of the Torond—a union designated to cement the bond between his massive palatinate
and the Empire.
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Afterward, the two star-crossed lovers continued as best they could, carrying on a tawdry
affair filled with endless stretches of longing punctuated by brilliant flashes of their own
special passion. For a while it had worked—even after ersatz peace forced a return to "normal"
canons of class and status. But eventually distance, a child, and Margot's growing addiction to
the Leaguers' devastating narcotic TimeWeed ate away their ties until only longing remained,
buried deep within Brim's psyche to mask the pain it brought. Now, he didn't know if she were even
still alive.
Twin convoys of immense lorries droned past, loaded with massive shapes under billowing
tarpaulins; their traction engines whipped the fresh snow into swirling eddies. The rushing
columns were gone in a moment, swallowed up by the night and the snow as if it had never existed.
Not even tracks in the snow marked the passage of the big gravity skimmers.
He snorted. The lorries were a lot like Margot and himself, he thought, wryly brushing snow
from his face. As if they'd never met. Even the Emperor's sacrifice of their love had come to
nothing, for in spite of a marriage linking LaKarn to the royal family itself, the preening bully
eventually allied himself with the League of Dark Stars and took Margot to the side of the
enemy—or so it sometimes seemed to those who kept track of such things. Until little more than a
month ago, that is, when she'd laid her own life on the line to save his, then disappeared from
the face of the Universe in the explosion of a giant space fortification.
Grinding his teeth, he put that from his mind. Much as he wished to the contrary, there was
nothing he could do about Margot Effer'wyck-Lakarn at present, and he had a number of other
pressing matters on his mind, not the least of which was his new assignment....
"Hoy! Brim! Only Bears walk on Gimmas when they can ride."
The voice yanked his mind back to the present. Beside him, a command car hovered at curbside
with its door open. Inside, illuminated only by instrument lights, he could see a long, thin nose
terminating in an enormous mustache. Behind it were the rheumy eyes and painfully thin physique of
Mark Valerian, designer of I.F.S. Starfury, name ship for a whole class of light cruisers that had
revolutionized space warfare. In Brim's estimation, the man was easily the premiere starship
designer of his times. "Bears and Carescrians, Mark," he replied with a grin of pleasure. "We're
both a little daft."
"I'll drink to that," Valerian said matter-of-factly. "Anybody who'd fly those racing
starships I designed has to be a little daft."
Brim grinned as his mind went spinning backward in years. Probably he had been a little daft
to fly Valerian's racers. It all seemed so long ago, but the whole thing had begun only a few
years previously—in 52005, if he remembered correctly—when Sodeskayan physicist U.V. Popova
theorized the Reflecting HyperLight Drive. Based upon Sheldon Travis's (then) obscure Special
Theory Number Six, Popova's hypothesis foreshadowed a whole new generation of starships. Under
normal circumstances, practical applications of such a radical new Drive would have required years
of experimentation. Instead, the singular rise to intergalactic prominence of a yearly competition
for starship speed, the Mitchell Trophy race, spurred Sodeskayan development of the reflecting
Drive to such a pace that prototypes were available for use by Imperial racers within three years,
permitting Imperial Helmsmen like Brim to win permanent possession of the trophy—while League
Drive development continued along a more conventional path. This seemingly arcane technological
achievement combined with simultaneous development by Designer Mark Valerian of the classic
Sherrington Starfury produced historic results only a few Standard Years afterward.
And despite the Starfury's legendary reputation, there was really no mystique about
Valerian's design. It was a straightforward merger of all the technical knowledge of the time into
one composite unit of machinery, including its superb Krasni-Peych Drive, that, with the
spaceframe, embodied every experience of high-speed starflight gathered from the Mitchell Trophy
races. In the case of the Reflecting-Drive Starfury, everything came right at the psychological
moment—a rare event in starship and Drive design....
"Daft or not, I'll drive you to the bar anyway," Valerian continued, snapping Brim from his
reverie. "How about that for compassion?"
Brim relented; no exercise tonight—again. "You've got a deal," he said, climbing into the
warmth of the passenger seat. "And speaking of daft, what kind of new starship brings you to
Gimmas this time?" he asked. "Especially when it's summertime back home at the Sherrington labs on
Lys."
"Starfuries," Valerian said, easing the skimmer into forward. "At least for the present."
Brim turned and frowned. "But you designed Starfury years ago," he said. "Nothing new?"
"Oh, we're kickin' around a few new ideas on Lys, Brim," Valerian drawled with a little
smile. "But I didn't say Starfury; I said Starfuries." He winked as they pulled into a circular
driveway lined by the twisted, skeletal forms of trees that had been dead for centuries. "New
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Starfuries, my friend," he added. "Like Starfury Mark 1C killer ships,"
"Killer ships? Mark, Starfuries are light cruisers, not short-range killer ships."
"One Cs are killer ships, Brim. Trust me," Valerian laughed. "All they share with normal
Starfuries is hullmetal. Single helms. No provisions for long-range cruising at all. I've packed
every cubic iral with amplification gear for the new disruptors."
"New disruptors, too?"
"You bet—425s."
"Four what?" Brim demanded, stepping out onto the snow. "I thought 406s were the biggest
they make."
"Not anymore," Valerian said. "And the new 1Cs carry fourteen 425s in seven turrets.
Superfocused, no less; we brought the technology from Theobold Interspace in Lixor.''
Brim held the bar door for his friend as tides of familiar warm odors swept past him into
the cold air outside. A thousand subtle flavors of camarge cigarettes mixed with Hogge'Poa, meem,
perfume, and life itself. "The Great Neutrals," he laughed at the mention of Theobold Interspace.
"Those Lixorian zukeeds manufacture—and peddle—more weapons than anybody else in the galaxy. Why,
they're so peaceful, they almost make me sick."
"Yeah, you're right," Valerian admitted. "But at least they don't do much of the shooting."
"They leave that up to their clients," Brim said, handing his Fleet Cape to a shapely
rating. "Like the xaxtdamned Leaguers."
"And us, now," Valerian reminded him. "From what I hear, you're gonna like the merchandise."
"If it kills Leaguer starships easier, I'll love it," Brim said grimly. "The bastards we
fought in Fluvanna gave us quite a run for the money." Through an ancient wooden arch, he could
see Borodov and Gallsworthy signaling from the crowded twilight and started into the room.
"Disrupters won't, be the only things you'll like about the 1C," Valerian assured him.
"Somehow I have little doubt about that," Brim called over his shoulder. "Like Logish Meem!
Thank you, Doctor," he said, taking a goblet from the old Bear. He sniffed its pungent contents.
"Excellent, excellent!" he exclaimed, examining the deep ruby liquid against light from an
excellently counterfeited fireplace—firewood on dead Gimmas was worth a king's ransom.
"Tastes as good as it looks!" Valerian said, appreciatively sipping a goblet proffered by
Gallsworthy. "It once again proves that Drive systems are not the only subjects on which Bears are
born masters."
"Is good to be appreciated for truly important things," Borodov chuckled. "No Drive system
can compare with excellent Logish Meem."
"And speaking of important things..." Gallsworthy interrupted.
"You going to talk about work already?" Valerian asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"War," Gallsworthy corrected.
"War's work enough for me," Brim observed bleakly, refilling his goblet from a fresh
decanter silently placed on the table by a rating. After six Standard Days at Hyperspeed in a
cramped destroyer, he was beginning to feel the trip.
"It's war's work we need to talk about, Brim," Gallsworthy said, turning abruptly serious.
"All of us."
"Is calling meeting to official order," Borodov intoned, raising his goblet. "To His
Majesty, Onrad the Fifth," he toasted.
"To Onrad the Fifth," the others chorused earnestly. "Long may he reign!"
"Now, Brim," Gallsworthy began, "all three of us are here tonight specifically to get you
started in your new job. What do you want to hear about first?"
Brim sat back and considered. The meem was warm in his stomach and he was tired. If he
really had his choice, he wanted to hear about how to get back to his room and some sack time.
"Well," he chuckled, "Mark introduced me to the Starfury 1C on the way over. So I'm assuming I'll
be flying one."
"You've got that right," Gallsworthy said with a smile. "But you'll be doing a lot more than
flying."
"I was afraid of that," Brim said wryly. "The Wing Commander thing...."
"Yeah," Gallsworthy laughed, "the Wing Commander thing. You want to hear about that next?''
"I've got a choice?" Brim asked.
"Certainly," Gallsworthy answered. "We can also talk about your new job as Wing Commander.
Which one?''
Brim grinned resignedly. "Well then, how about an introduction to my new job, Admiral?" he
said.
"Ah! Perceptive choice, Wilf Ansor," Borodov rumbled.
"You always were lucky at thinks like that," Valerian observed with mock gravity.
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"Things won't be as bad as you think, Brim," Gallsworthy promised. "You'll get plenty of
time at the helm of a starship, believe me. It's just that you'll have a number of other duties,
too—with the same importance as Helmsmanship. And you won't be doin' anything that you haven't
already done setting up that IVG base at Varnholm Manor for our friend Baxter Calhoun. Mostly
getting things done and keeping people out of trouble. It all came out pretty well on Fluvanna,
didn't it, now?"
Brim shrugged. "The IVG was a pretty special outfit, Admiral," he said. "All veterans with
years of experience. I think anybody could have set up the base at Varnholm—especially with Chief
Barbousse to help."
"You'll have the Chief as soon as we can fly him out here," Gallsworthy asserted. "Emperor's
personal orders on that."
"And that's all there is to being a Wing Commander?" Brim asked, cocking his head
suspiciously. "Just like Fluvanna?"
"A few differences," Gallsworthy said. "This time, for instance, you'll be doing all those
'commander' jobs officially."
"And...?"
"Well, you won't start with experienced crews like you did in Fluvanna, either. This time,
you'll have to build an organization from the ground up—and see to their training. We'll get you
the best people we can lay our hands on, but aside from being individually talented, they won't be
a fighting force by anybody's definition. You'll have to turn 'em into that."
"And," Brim continued, wincing. He'd been waiting for something like that.
"And," Gallsworthy continued, "Baxter Calhoun won't be around to let you off the hook after
you've got it all set up. It's a permanent assignment—at least as permanent as anything about the
Fleet."
Brim nodded as Borodov refilled his goblet. "Where?" he asked. "Here?"
"Avalon."
"Avalon?" Brim exclaimed in relief. "You mean Avalon as in...?"
"As in the Imperial capital planet," Gallsworthy laughed, "—or at least orbiting above it.
Now that's not hard to take, is it?
"Not hardly. Admiral," Brim agreed.
"I'd vote for that and lend a hand stuffin' the ballot box," Valerian put in.
Brim chuckled. "The 30 Defense Wing, Admiral?"
Gallsworthy nodded. "They called it 30 Wing during the last war," he said. "Got deactivated
right after the Treaty of Garak. This time, it'll have two squadrons: 32 and 610. I've already got
32 Squadron set up in one of the new, orbiting FleetPort satellites under Commander Karen Rumsey.
You two met in Atalanta during the Payless Operation years ago."
"Karen Rumsey," Brim said, nodding his head. "Yeah. I remember her. Fine Helmsman if memory
serves."
"Fine administrator, too," Gallsworthy added. "Unfortunately, she's not much of a Squadron
Leader at the helm. She puts too much emphasis on formation flying—one of those damn-fool ideas
the CIGAs pushed so well when they had everybody's ear. Form over function—looks great but doesn't
do much for winning wars." He shrugged. "Your problem now. She's running sixteen Defiant-class
cruisers in four flights of four and one in reserve. You and she will have to get together by
KA'PPA for a while because you'll be too busy helpin' set up 610 Squadron from scratch."
"Who'll I have to command that squadron?" Brim demanded. "I've got a strong recommendation
if you haven't assigned anybody yet,"
"How about Toby Moulding?" Gallsworthy asked with a grin.
Brim laughed. "Since Toby's my recommendation," he said, "I'm in violent agreement."
"He'll be tied up for a while helpin' to shut down the IVG," Gallsworthy said. "But I'll
have him here as soon as Calhoun releases him." He laughed. "I used all my 'obs' with Calhoun
gettin' you assigned directly."
" 'Obs'?" Brim asked.
"As in 'obligations'," Gallsworthy explained. "He owed me a few for supportin' his IVG in
Fluvanna."
"Guess I owe you a couple of 'obs' myself, then," Brim acknowledged.
"You'll pay 'em," Gallsworthy said. "You'll take care of quite a few operating 610 Squadron
all by yourself."
"We'll be flying 1Cs?" Brim asked.
"Fifteen of 'em," Gallsworthy assured him. "Three flights of four. That'll give you two in
reserve."
Brim frowned. "By my count, Admiral," he said, "you're one Starfury short."
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file:///G|/rah/Bill%20Baldwin/Baldwin,%20Bill%20-%20The%20Helmsman%2005%\20-%20The%20Defenders.txtTheDefendersByBillBaldwinBeyazh,"Brimyelled,haulinginthelittleship'shelm."Getthatlasttorpedoready.NOW!""We'renotgoingtofirethisone,"Brimwarned,holdinguphisha\nd,"instead,we'regoingtojettisonit.""Jettiso...

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