Baldwin, Bill - Helmsman 1 - The Helmsman
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THE HELMSMAN
BY BILL BALDWIN
CHAPTER 1
Only three travelers shambled from the coach at the badly lighted Eorean station.
Two of them disappeared into the ozone-pungent darkness even before the train's
warning lights were out of sight along the causeway. Alone on the platform, Sub-
lieutenant Wilf Brim dialed his blue Fleet Cloak's heating element control another
notch toward "warm," then clambered down the wet metal steps from the elevated
tracks. The whole Universe seemed dismally cold around him as he reached the
landing. He listened to wind moaning through the station shelter while he oriented
himself, then picked his way around ice-crusted puddles barely visible beneath
infrequent Karlsson lamps' and started out toward the dim shape of a distant guard
shack. He was shamefully aware of the single traveling case following him. It fairly
shouted his humble origins, and he was joining an Imperial Fleet once commanded
exclusively by wealth—privileged officers—until First Star Lord Sir Beorn Wyrood's
recent Admiralty Reform Act (and six years of war's insatiable attrition) forced
inclusion of talent from whatever source it could be obtained.
Shivering despite the warm, high-collared cloak, he peered at the predawn sky.
Enough light now filtered through the clouds to disclose lines of low, gray-painted
buildings, a world of dissected starships, and forests of shipyard cranes stationary
against a starless sky. Along the waterfront, indistinct shapes of more or less intact
vessels hovered quietly on softly glowing gravity pools while the outlines of others
projected above covered wharves and warehouses, all a uniform shade of weather-
faded gray relieved occasionally by stains of oxidation or char. In the distance,
mountainous forms of capital ships dominated a lightening horizon from still another
complex. Brim shook his bead bitterly. Fat chance for a Carescrian Helmsman on one
of those!
He stretched to his nearly three-iral height and yawned in the clammy dampness.
The sky was now spitting snow occasionally, with a promise of more substantial
amounts soon to come. He sniffed the air, sampling the odor of the sea as it mixed
with ozone, heated lubricants, and the stench of over-heated logics. At best, the
Eorean Starwharves—one of fifteen starship construction-and-maintenance
complexes on the watery star-base planet of Gimmas Haefdon—could accurately be
described as an untidy sprawl. To the twenty-eight-year-old Brim, it was far more
than that: it was also realization of a dream that only recently seemed impossible. His
fellow cadets (and many sullen instructors) quietly did their utmost to make it thus,
and prevent his recent graduation from the prestigious Helmsman's Academy near the
capital planet, Avalon. He somehow had prevailed, determined he could raise himself
from the grinding poverty of his home in the Empire's Carescrian Mining Sector. A
combination of fierce tenacity, hard work, and native talent finally won him his
commissioning ceremonies and this lonely outpost in the Galactic Fleet. He counted
on those same attributes to take him a great deal farther before he traded in his blue
Fleet Cloak—a lot farther indeed.
Picking his way carefully over a series of glowing metal tracks that paralleled a
high fence, he stopped at the gate house to rap on the window and rouse its single,
nodding occupant. Inside, the ancient watchman wore age-tarnished medals from
some long-forgotten space campaign. He was tall with thin shoulders and enormous
hands, a beak of a nose, sparse white hair, and the sad eyes of a man who had seen too
many Wilf Brims cater through his gate and never return. "A bit early," he observed,
opening the window no more than a crack to admit the other's proffered orders card,
while denying passage to as much of the cold wind as he could manage. "First ship,
I'll wager," he said.
Brim smiled. Metacycles ago at Gimmas Haefdon's Central Terminus, he had
indeed conceded the remainder of his sleep to excitement and anticipation. "Yes," he
admitted. "In a way, at least."
"Well, you're not the original early riser, young man," the watchman chuckled, "nor
I suppose the last, either. Bring yourself in here while I try to find where you belong.
And don't open the door more'n you must!" While Brim parked the traveling case and
made his way into the pungent warmth of the shack, the old campaigner placed his
orders card in the side of a battered communications cabinet (which also doubled as
storage for six cracked and stained teacups, none particularly clean). Presently, a
shimmering display globe materialized over the crockery. He studied the contents.
"Hmm. All the way from Carescria," he observed without looking around. "Caught in
Anak's big sneak attack, I suppose?"
Brim only nodded to the man's back.
"Lose anybody?"
Brim shut his eyes. Did people have to ask? All he personally wanted was a chance
to forget. Even after six years, the war's sudden onset was as real as the night before.
Wave after wave of heavy cruisers from Emperor Nergol Triannic's League of Dark
Stars. Concussion. Agonizing heat—his tiny sister's last, anguished screams. He
shook his head. "Everyone," he whispered almost to himself, "everyone."
"Sorry," the old man said. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's all right," Brim interrupted dully. "Forget it."
Neither occupant found more words until the old man broke his silence with
another pregnant "Hmm." He scratched his head. "T.83, eh?" Apparently, this needed
no answer, for he continued moving age-spotted fingers over his small control panel,
concentrating on rapidly changing patterns in the globe. Finally, he looked up to
consult a large three-dimensional map tacked above a ragged chair. Tracing a long
finger along the causeway, he stopped near the image of a tiny, fenced-in square.
"You're here, now, d' you see?" he asked.
Brim peered at the map. "Yessir," he said. "I see."
"All right, then," the watchman continued. "Now let me think, G-31 at, ah. . ." He
peered nearsightedly at the globe again without moving the finger. "Oh, yes, G-31 at
B-19." Now he continued across the map until he stopped at a basin carved into a far
corner of the island. "B-19," he announced. "Your Truculent's moored here,
Carescrian. On the gravity pool numbered R-2134. D' you see?"
Brim squinted at the map near the man's black fingernail. A tiny "R-2134" was just
visible printed inside one of seven rectangular gravity pools bordering the circular
basin. "I see it, all right," he said.
"Bit of a distance on foot," the old man observed, stroking his thin, stubbled chin.
"First skimmers from the transport pool I won't run for another metacycle or so, and I
can't imagine the ship'll send one of their own. You're not even signed aboard as a
crew member yet."
Brim snorted. He knew what the watchman really meant—that they wouldn't send a
skimmer for a no-account Carescrian. He'd been here before, often. The old man
smiled sympathetically. "1 can offer you a spot of tea to warm your stomach until
then, if you'd care to have a seat."
"Thanks just the same," Brim said, making his way toward the door. "But I think
I'll walk off some of this excitement before I try to check in." He nodded. "R-2134. I'll
find it."
"Thought you might do something like that," the old man observed. "You'll get
there with no trouble. Just keep the set of blue tracks on your left. Snow won't stay on
'em."
Brim nodded his thanks and stepped quickly into the cold, summoning the traveling
case to his heel. A thickening carpet of snow lay over the still-sleeping complex,
already hiding much of the unsightly dockyard clutter beneath a mantle of white.
Carefully keeping the blue-glowing tracks on his left, he made his way along a dark
concourse, noting that his pace curiously increased as soon as he cleared the gate.
While he hurried along the rough pavement, he asked himself if it was the cold that
made him hurry so—or was it the excitement?
On either side of the road, powerful forms of warships loomed through the falling
snow, hovering ponderously over shallow gravity pools, dimly lit from beneath by the
glow of shipyard gravity generators. Those near the water were often lighted. On a
few, he saw occasional crew members performing routine poolside duties (cursing
both their superiors and the snow, he guessed with a smile). The signs of life made
him feel less alone in the sprawling confusion of hulls, KA'PPA masts, and ubiquitous
cranes which now crowded the lightening sky.
Other ships—those grotesquely damaged or undergoing dissection for repair—
hovered like metallic corpses over inland gravity pools half hidden by stacks of
hullmetal plates and heavy shipbuilding equipment. Brim shuddered as he passed one
particularly savaged wreck. On the convoy from Avalon be helplessly, watched one of
the escorts, an old destroyer named Obstinate, take a torpedo hit amidships. She had
blown up with all hands. That crew would have deemed themselves fortunate indeed
to bring her back to base at all, even in this condition! He shook his head—everything
in the Universe was relative, as they said.
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.
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 hyper-LightSpeed 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
which, 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 stern was also a triangular slab of
hullmetal. From his studies at the Academy, Brim knew this one measured 97 irals
along the 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 Gimmas Haefdon's elements by a
system of circular shutters.
Both ventral decks were also virtually featureless, except 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 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 whining 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 millitick, 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—he 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 desk top 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 be 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 maid. "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 sin 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 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.
"Word has it we lost heavily in that one," the Bear said.
"More than half the cargo vessels," Brim asserted. "Twelve, I think."
"And most of the escorts," the Bear stated.
Brim nodded again. The Eorean Complex boasted an accurate rumor mill. "I
watched old Obstinate blow up no more than a c'lenyt off our port bow," Brim said.
"No survivors you could see?"
"I can't imagine anything living through that blast," Brim answered. "All four Drive
chambers seemed to blow at the same time-there wasn't even much wreckage."
Ursis got out of the recliner thoughtfully. Standing, he was average for a
Sodeskayan native: powerfully barrel chested and slightly taller than the three irals
Brim claimed for himself. Like other Bears, he had short pointed ears and a short
muzzle for natural heat retention on the cold planets of his origin. He looked Brim in
the eye. "Two cousins," he pronounced slowly. "Voof."
"I'm sorry," Brim said lamely.
"So am I," Ursis said with a faraway look in his close-set predator's eyes. "But then
Hagsdoffs always gore the hairiest oxen first, don't they?"
"Pardon?"
"An old saying from the Mother Planets," Ursis explained. "And it is I who ought
to be sorry for unloading troubles on you." He put a hand on Brim's arm. "Your
people suffered with mine in the first raids."
Brim bit his lip.
"Despots like Nergol Triannic strike sears and men alike," Ursis said. "Our work is
to finish him—and his thrice-damned League—eh?" He puffed thoughtfully on his
Zempa pipe.
"Some news of your coming preceded you, Carescrian. Many of us have looked
forward to your arrival with great interest."
Brim raised an eyebrow.
"Soon, my new friend, we will talk of many things," the Bear said. "But for now,
the Drive demands my presence. And I am certain you will be delighted to see your
cabin, which at last seems to be ready." He nodded toward the door.
Brim turned. A starman waited outside in the companionway.
"This way, please, Lieutenant," the young woman said.
"Later...." Ursis declared, leading the way through the door.
Within a few cycles, Brim stood proudly in a tiny stateroom, the first in his
memory he would not share with someone else. Luxury like this was a far cry indeed
from Carescria and her ore trade, and he had paid dearly to win it. For the moment at
least, all seemed worth the price.
He had only just stowed his traveling case beneath the narrow bunk when he
noticed a message frame that had materialized on the inside of his door.
"Yes?"
"Captain's compliments," the frame said. "And interviews will begin in her office at
standard 0975."
Glancing at his timepiece, Brim saw he had more than three metacycles to wait.
"Very well," he answered, then settled back on his bunk as the indicator faded.
Clearly, he was one of very few early risers aboard Truculent, at least when she was
in port.
Well before standard 0975, Brim climbed two levels to the aft end of the bridge
tower. Near the ladder, a door was engraved simply "CAPTAIN," below which
removable adhesive stickers spelled out "R.G. Collingswood, Lt. Commander, I.F."
While he waited, he was joined by a second sublieutenant with Helmsman's blazes on
his collar. The newcomer was pink and chubby and had an uneasy look about himself.
His belt divided an expensive-looking tunic into two rolls which flubbered up and
down as he hurried. "I thought I'd never find the Captain in this awful warren," he
grumped in a high-pitched voice. "What time is it anyhow?"
"If you're scheduled at standard 0975, you've made it," Brim assured him, checking
his own timepiece. "We have nearly a cycle to go."
"No little wonder," the man said, panting, then suddenly looked at Brim with
something like recognition. "You're not that Carescrian sublieutenant, are you?" he
asked.
"I am," Brim asserted, immediately on the defensive.
The other grunted. "Well, you certainly don't look odd," he observed.
From bitter experience, Brim knew Imperials often had no idea they were giving
offense—and now was not the time to teach this one. "Ready?" he asked evenly.
"As I'll ever be, I suppose."
Brim knocked firmly.
"It's open," a voice called from inside.
Brim pushed the latch plate. Inside, with her back to the door, Lieutenant
Commander R.G. Collingswood stared intently at a display. Soft chords of stately,
unfamiliar music beguiled Brim's ears from the background. "Come in," she urged
without turning around. "I shall be finished momentarily."
Brim led the way, then stood uncomfortably in the soft, haunting music until she
cleared the display and swiveled her chair, looking first at one and then the other. She
had a long, patrician nose, hazel eyes, and soft chestnut curls. Graceful fingers
interlaced on her lap.
"Well?" she asked.
"Sublieutenant Wilf Ansor Brim reporting for duty aboard I.F.S. Truculent,
ma'am," Brim said with as steady a voice as he could muster. In the following silence,
he realized he was very nearly terrified. He also noticed he was not the only one—his
overweight counterpart hadn't even opened his mouth. Still in silence, he offered his
orders card, carefully turning it for insertion in a reader.
Collingswood read the printed name, then—accepting the other's without a
glance—placed both behind her on the desk. She frowned. "So you're Brim?" she
asked finally in a quiet mezzo.
"Yes, ma'am."
"That makes you Theada," she said to the other.
"J-Jubal Windroff Theada the Third," he said, "from Avalon."
"Yes," Collingswood said with a frown. "At one time, I knew your father." Silent
for a moment, she smiled distantly, then went on. "I suppose both of you are fresh
from Helmsman's training," she said.
Brim nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said again. The other continued his silence.
A tiny smile escaped Collingswood's thin mouth. "Ready take old Truculent into
space from the command seat, then?" she joked.
"I'd gladly settle for any seat up there, ma'am," Brim said with a grin. For the first
time, it occurred to him the woman was dressed in a threadbare sweater and short skirt
that revealed slim legs and soft, well-worn boots. Somehow, even at her leisure, she
looked every inch a captain.
"You are the one who piloted those horrible ore carriers, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," Brim answered, again braced for the inevitable insult.
"Hmm," she mused, "I understand they require some rather extraordinary flying."
Brim felt his face flush and kept an embarrassed silence.
Collingswood smiled again. "You'll show us your talent soon enough, Lieutenant."
she said. "And you, Lieutenant Theada. Shall I put you in the command seat straight
off?"
"W-Well, Captain," Theada stammered, "I only h-have about three hundred
metacycles at the controls—and some simulator time. I don't know if I'm actually
ready f-for the left seat right away...."
"You'll build your metacycles quickly in Truculent," Collingswood interrupted with
just the shadow of a frown. Then her neutral smile returned. "Lieutenant Amherst will
expect you to check in with him—he's our number one. And of course you must see
Lieutenant Gallsworthy when he returns to the ship. He's chief Helmsman—you
report to him." Abruptly, she smiled, then swiveled back to the display. 'Welcome
aboard, both of you," she said in dismissal.
Brim led the way out the door. Just as he stepped over the sill, Collingswood turned
his way again. "By the by, Lieutenant Brim," she said, looking past Theada. 'When
you address me, it's 'Captain,' not 'ma'am."' She smiled with a warmth Brim could
actually feel. "Nothing to worry about," she added. "I thought you'd want to know."
When Theada disappeared along the companionway without uttering another word,
Brim decided his next move should to report to Truculent's first lieutenant. He tracked
the down in the chart house portion of the bridge at work before a small disorderly
table that projected one of the ship's ubiquitous display globes. "Lieutenant Amherst?"
Brim inquired politely, eyeing a richly lined Fleet Cape carelessly heaped on a nearby
recliner.
"Never forget it," Amherst growled coldly as he turned his display. His were the
same aristocratic features as Collingswood's—only strongly masculine. He had a thin,
straight nose with flaring nostrils, two narrow mustaches, a lipless silt for a mouth,
and wavy auburn hair. It was the eyes, however, that set him apart from
Collingswood. While hers greeted the world with easygoing intellect, Amherst's
revealed the quick, watchful manner of a true martinet. "You certainly took your time
reporting, didn't you?" he sniffed, ignoring Brim's original question.
"I was with Captain Collingswood, sir," Brim explained.
"Plead your explanations only when I ask," he sneered. "Lieutenant Theada came to
see me straight off—as befits a proper Imperial officer." He swiveled his chair and
smoothed his blue-braided breeches where they became close fitting just below the
knees. Elegant knee-high boots exuded the soft luxury of expensive ophet leather
(which Brim had seen only in pictures). "Colonials always have so much to learn
about proper deportment," he sighed, then peered along his nose at Brim. "You
Carescrians will probably prove the worst of all."
Brim held his temper—and his tongue. After the Helmsman's Academy, Amherst's
manner was all too familiar.
"Well?" the other demanded suddenly. "What have you to say for yourself?"
"I was with the Captain," Brim repeated, "at her request."
"You'll soon learn to be smart with me, Carescrian," Amherst snapped, eyes
flashing with quick anger.
"I meant no insult, sir," Brim stated evenly, still under relatively firm control.
Amherst glared coldly. "I shall be the judge of your pitiful insults, Sublieutenant."
He joined long fingers at the tips, contemplated the roofed structure they formed
while Brim stewed in uncomfortable silence. "I believe I shall do the whole crew a
favor," he said presently, looking Brim in the eye for the first time. 'The sooner your
kind display your true abilities, the sooner we can replace you with your betters."
Abruptly, he turned to his display. "Imagine," he muttered to no one in particular, "a
Carescrian with a cabin of his own!" He shook his head and moved long, pink fingers
over the control panel. "We are scheduled out of here the morning after next," he
chortled. "And you are now posted as co-Helmsman for the takeoff. Old Gallsworthy
ought to be in a spectacular mood after another two nights' gaming. He'll make short
work of your no-account talent."
Trembling with frustration, Brim remained in the doorway, waiting for whatever
might come next. "You may go," Amherst said, turning his back. "You have the
remainder of today and tomorrow to enjoy the ship. After that, good riddance,
Carescrian. You have no place with a gentleman's organization—in spite of what Lord
Beorn's perverted Reform Act might allege."
Brim turned on his heel, and with the last vestiges of his patience eroding like sand
on a beach, he stormed off to his cabin.
摘要：
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THEHELMSMANBYBILLBALDWINCHAPTER1OnlythreetravelersshambledfromthecoachatthebadlylightedEoreanstation.Twoofthemdisappearedintotheozone-pungentdarknessevenbeforethetrain'swarninglightswereoutofsightalongthecauseway.Aloneontheplatform,Sub-lieutenantWilfBrimdialedhisblueFleetCloak'sheatingelementcontrol...
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