THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition Read online

  In due time, the personnel carrier rumbled to a hovering stop before a stately portico of ten ornate pillars that fronted a circular stone building topped with a high, age-discolored dome. Carved two-story wooden doors provided street-level entrance through the weather-stained walls.

  “You'll find the Colonel in there,” Brim heard the driver shout to Barbousse over the noise of the traffic, “and may the Universe spare you both.” He laughed, then Barbousse slammed the hatch shut and the L-181 lurched into the thundering flow of traffic amid an angry blare of warning clicks from the other vehicles. Deciding to ignore the overheard warning for a time, Brim silently led the way up a broad stone staircase toward the massive doors. Under the weather-stained portico, they proffered their orders to four white-gloved guards, then stepped inside under the dome where Barbousse audibly gasped with awe.

  The whole structure enclosed one grand circular room lined in polished, flawlessly white stone. Elegant inlays divided the curving walls into four quadrants, and on each of these, great carved murals depicted heroic struggles between winged men dressed in ancient-looking body armor and tall, eight-legged creatures with lance like fangs. Above these, the dome glowed from hundreds of circular doors set into its very plates, and a huge sword dangled perilously, point down, from a curious ornamentation at the very apex. The floor — a confusion of people swarming in all directions — was constructed from the same white stone as the walls and was arranged in three concentric circles, the inner two raised and surrounded by a strange carved-metal balustrade. Aisles ran straight from the mural-covered walls to a circular altar centered on the inner circle. This was presently occupied by a figure in the tan and red battle dress of the Imperial Army.

  “D' you suppose that's Hagbut?” Brim asked with a shrug.

  Barbousse grinned. “I'd bet on it, Lieutenant.”

  “I'll be back in a cycle or so, then,” Brim said, and started up one of the aisles.

  He was no more than a few irals past the first balustrade when he was intercepted by a pink-looking civilian administrator who looked very much out of place in his ill-fitting battle suit. “Your orders, Lieutenant,” he demanded officiously.

  Brim silently handed over his card for inspection; it was accepted as if it bore some shameful disease.

  “You may approach the Colonel,” the man said after a long pause, indicating the figure at the center of the room with a pained nod of his head.

  Brim's eyes met Barbousse's for a moment; then he was on his way. As he climbed the second alabaster staircase, an ornate nameplate became visible on the surface of the desk. Self-powered and multicolored, the clearly expensive device flashed:

  Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z' Hagbut,Xce, N.B.E., Q.O.C., Imperial Expeditionary Forces (Combat).

  The mustachioed figure behind the nameplate was a small, intense-looking individual of middling years who spoke as though he disliked showing his teeth. His left collar wore distinctive crossed blast pikes, which identified him as a graduate of the prestigious Darkhurst Academy on Fortis-Darkhurst, a close neighbor of Avalon itself. Likewise, his clearly custom-tailored battle suit and mirror-like boots spoke of considerable wealth — wielded by a man to whom the act of commanding probably came as a natural inheritance. His red-veined face further revealed him as an officer of quick temper or little patience or (more probably) both. As Brim approached, the man's coarse gestures to a cowed-looking subordinate gave substance to Barbousse's earlier warning that the undersized field officer was known as a “cod'dlinger” (a uniquely Narkossian-91 reference to excretory organs of a local slops-yard scavenger). “I'll be sure to keep that in mind,” he had assured his companion, “but I'm not sure I'll be able to do anything about it.”

  “YOU THERE!” the Colonel roared in a voice that sounded as if his mouth were open a great deal wider than it appeared. He motioned imperiously to Brim. “OVER HERE! ON THE DOUBLE!”

  Brim ran the last few steps, then saluted (smartly, he hoped). “Lieutenant Wilf Brim, I.F, reporting as ordered, Colonel,” he said, gazing up in awe of the huge sword dangling from the center of the dome.

  “Certainly not a moment too soon,” the Colonel rumbled irately. “Where have you been?” He sat back with a sour look on his pinched red face. “You Fleet types are so worthless,” he observed at length, spitting noisily over the balustrade. “Well ?”

  Brim remained at attention. “What can I do for the Colonel?” he asked in a respectful voice, still staring at the sword.

  “You mean you don't know?”

  Brim swallowed his embarrassment, sure everyone in the room was laughing at him. “No, sir,” he said, looking the Colonel in the eye for the first time. “I don't.”

  “Universe,” the Colonel sniffed, spitting over the balustrade again. “Well, I suppose I shall have to tell you, then — mind you, it won't be the first time I have covered for your organization's incompetence!”

  Brim spied a wiry little sergeant standing on the second ring about ten irals behind the red-faced officer. The man winked and rolled his eyes toward the sky; it helped somehow.

  “Here,” the Colonel shouted, gesturing Brim's attention to a display globe that suddenly materialized over a portable COMM pack. It pictured the eight captured disruptors Brim had watched being loaded aboard Prosperous. They were now resting lifelessly on the ground. “You are to take command of those League field pieces,” he snorted. “Lost all eight of my regular crews in a shuttle accident last night. Can't trust you Fleet types to get anything right, can I? At any rate, I know you've all been trained to fire a disruptor. It's probably all you can do.”

  Brim felt his jaw drop open. “Colonel,” he stammered, “I’m a Helmsman; I have a lot to learn about operating League disruptors.”

  “Well, you'd better get busy and learn!” the Colonel bellowed, “because those eight vehicles were starlifted all the way from Gimmas/Haefdon especially to protect this mission from league armor. They were my idea — League vehicles will be nearly invisible to counterattacking forces looking for Imperial equipment. And all eight of those field pieces will move out precisely two metacycles from now. Understand?” He shot a pair of elegant battle cuffs, then raised his eyebrows as if he were reassuring a hopelessly dense child. “This is a brilliant innovation, and you will be proud to have been instrumental in its trial run.”

  Brim could only stare wide-eyed and silent in disbelief.

  Hagbut frowned for a moment, stared closely into Brim's eyes, then grimaced. “You really don't know anything about the job we summoned you down here for, do you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brim assured him. “I do not.”

  Hagbut laughed aloud. “I'll bet those drafted IGL people never let you in on a xaxtdamned thing, did they?”

  “They said I'd receive my orders from you, Colonel,” Brim replied flatly.

  Hagbut regarded him bleakly. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “Just thraggling wonderful.”

  Brim held his tongue. There was nothing more he could say.

  After a few moments in thought, Hagbut shrugged to himself and looked Brim directly in the eye. “Your xaxtdamned fleet stinks, Brim,” he said with his upper lip raised. “You can't help it, and neither can I. But it does. Luckily, your uselessness probably won't mean a thing to me this time anyway. Since the A'zurnian underground staged their big show in Klaa'Shee a couple of days ago, those rotten Leaguers hardly have anybody left in the area at all — much less battle crawlers to fight the cannon you're here to drive. All you've got to do is follow along and keep your head down when there's fighting to be done.” He drummed his fingers on the altar. “For you, the mission ought to be easy as falling off a cliff. You follow us to the research center in your cannon, wait out of the way while we free the hostages they've got penned up beside the main laboratory, then you call in your destroyers to blow the whole thing up once we're on our way back.” He shook his head in disgust. “Do you think you can handle that much?”

  “I shall certainly try,
” Brim answered.

  “Well,” Hagbut said bleakly, “at least you seem willing. It's better than nothing, I suppose. But not much.” He gazed balefully across the altar, apparently lost for a time in some inner thought. “Probably,” he continued presently, “the worst part of the trip will come when we get to the hostages themselves.”

  “I understand they've been pretty roughly treated.”

  “An understatement,” Hagbut said with a grimace. “Those Controllers they use as guards aren't very nice people at all — I even dislike coming up against them in combat,” he said. “Hard to go about the job professionally, without emotion, you know.”

  Brim felt his eyebrow raise. “Sir?”

  “We Army officers usually go out planning to fight our opposite numbers in the League Army,” Hagbut answered, “ — like the guards they'll have at the outer gates to the compound. No emotion there. It's simply professional against professional; somebody wins and somebody loses. But what kind of person do you think they’ll have guarding the inner gates to the hostage compound? Army types? Not on your life. They'll have Controllers. Bloody, black-suited Controllers. And when I come up against them, then the fighting gets bitter. Because those scum of the Universe deserve anything we do to them.” Suddenly he stopped, looked at his shaking hand, and thrust his jaw in the air. “I don't know why I feel constrained to tell all this to you, Brim,” he said. “This interview is at an end.” He raised a pontifical finger. “As for your cannon, I shall direct you personally as to where and when I want them fired. It will save you from overtaxing what little of your gray matter remains operable in your head after a tour in the Fleet Academy.” He looked down his nose. “Do you have any questions, Lieutenant?”

  Brim stifled an urge to laugh in the man's face and nodded instead. “I do have one question, Colonel,” he said.

  “Well? Be quick about it.”

  “Who else do you have scheduled to crew those eight field pieces, Colonel?” he asked. “They sent only two of us down from Prosperous.”

  Hagbut laughed triumphantly. “I have already seen to that, Lieutenant,” he boomed. “More than a metacycle ago, I deposited eight of your ordnance ratings with the disruptors to help do that.” He spat again. “And since I knew they'd be worthless as any other Fleet type on land, I gave you fourteen equally worthless extras to assist.” He frowned. “Those last are a BATTLE COMM group, all worthless females, but they're at least warm bodies — I think.” He guffawed without humor. “Now get moving. You've less than five metacycles to jump-start that blasted machinery into useful equipment, then get it operating.” He turned back to the desk in a clear gesture of dismissal.

  Brim saluted uselessly, then trudged back down the staircase to where Barbousse sat waiting, a black look on his brow.

  “Cod'dlinger,” the big rating glowered in a low voice. “If you please, sir.”

  “I xaxtdamn well please,” Brim grumped. “Come on. Let's see if we can find someone who knows where those mobile disruptors are. Maybe we can use one to run the bastard over once he's in the field — accidentally, of course.”

  “Of course, sir,” Barbousse chuckled darkly. “Accidentally, by all means.”

  Barbousse worked his magic rapidly in the old temple, and within a few cycles, he both discovered the location of the mobile disruptors and lined up another ride. Presently, the two Truculents found themselves deposited in a large urban park bordering dense groves of tall, gnarled trees. Nearby, the mobile disruptors sat disconsolately on their warty rounded bottoms, leaning drunkenly at odd angles like toys discarded by some titanic child. A row of twenty-two Blue Capes dangled their legs from one of the hulls, kicking their heels against the giant cooling fins beneath and talking excitedly.

  Brim glanced at a flight of starships traveling so high he couldn't even make out what kind they were — but he could hear them. He suddenly felt homesick for Truculent. Truth to tell, he felt more than a little out of place here on the land; inadequate was more to the point. Then he laughed to himself. Fat lot he could do to change things anyway! He braced his shoulders and strode across the field. Might as well look confident, he thought, even though he didn't feel that way.

  As he approached the field pieces, two of the ratings jumped from their perches and ran to meet him, saluting smartly.

  “Leading Starman Fragonard here, Lieutenant,” one announced importantly. “I’ve got seven ordnance men with me.” He was short and rawboned, his hair was gray, and he seemed to be in motion standing still. His constantly darting green eyes were those of a master thief — or a master gunner. Right from the beginning, Brim suspected he was both. On his uniform, a number of gold and crimson ribbons presaged excellence in his specialty of Ordnance. Too bad nobody gave awards for mischief, Brim thought with a stifled smile. At least none were approved for wearing on a Fleet Cape!

  Brim returned their salutes, then nodded toward the second StarSailor with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yeoman of Signals Fronze reporting, Lieutenant,” she said — a squat, heavyset woman with broad shoulders and neutral hair. Her flat, amorphous countenance served merely to highlight a coarse, open-pored complexion. Only flashing eyes and a winning smile saved her from total, unmitigated plainness. She was neither young nor old, but her large hands suggested long periods of manual toil long ago in another life. Both she and Fragonard would have been nearly invisible on a crowded metropolitan street in Avalon, but where Fragonard might well have made a diligent effort to achieve such an effect, for Fronze it would have been automatic. She indicated thirteen women of various sizes who jumped to the ground and saluted raggedly. “Two mobile KA'PPA beacons and the best BATTLE COMM in the Fleet,” she added with a toothy grin.

  Brim smiled back as his heart sank. BATTLE COMM people to drive League battle-crawler destroyers. Wonderful! He supposed somewhere nearby a squad of qualified drivers were probably attempting to fathom the arcane operation of a KA'PPA beacon. “Ordnance and Communications,” he said lamely. “Well, I'm, ah, certainly glad to have you … aboard. I don't suppose anyone knows anything about starting one of these mechanical marvels, does he — or she?”

  “Us?” Fragonard asked incredulously, holding a slender (and reasonably clean) hand to his chest. “Lieutenant,” he said, “we ordinance types only fire the disruptors, we don't do nothin’ like drivin'.” He stopped suddenly as the rumble of heavy artillery intruded from a distance.

  Barbousse stepped quietly to the side of the rawboned little man and plucked him from his feet by the scruff of the collar, smiling pleasantly all the while. “You,” he said gently over the far-off booming, “are, of course, volunteering yourself and all seven of your men for whatever duties the Lieutenant suggests. Is that correct, Starman Fragonard?”

  Fragonard's eyes bulged, became large as saucers. He tried to swallow something much larger than his throat, but the latter was constricted by the peculiar way his collar was twisted within Barbousse's huge fist. “Of course,” he choked.

  “M-My s-signal ratings, too,” Fronze piped up hurriedly. “Always glad to help out anywhere we can.”

  Barbousse nodded silently, returning Fragonard none too gently to his feet. “My apologies for the interruption, Lieutenant,” he said, regaining his position behind Brim.

  “Er, yes,” Brim mumbled, struggling to stifle a smile. He looked over the heads of the assembled Blue Capes to the huge machines lying cold and silent in a forlorn pile of — unless he could start them — space junk. He counted heads for a moment, frowned, and scratched his head, listening to renewed artillery fire in the distance. “All right,” he said to the two ratings, “we've got eight of these monsters to operate. That means teams of three each. Count off your people, Fronze: Two in a control cab. One of yours in each turret, Fragonard. Understand?”

  “Aye, sir,” Fragonard answered, his face a picture of concentration, “but twenty-two people only crews seven of those big thumpers.”

  Brim nodded his head. “That's right,�
� he said. “Barbousse and I crew the eighth. And you run the turret for us. Does that fit with your previous views on the proper division of labor?”

  Fragonard peered at Barbousse for only a moment, then he nodded. “Absolutely, Lieutenant,” he said, grinning. “Besides, I'm a very good gunner — and a very bad wrestler.”

  * * * *

  Brim sat uncomfortably upright in the cold, stiff-backed control seat, a dark instrument panel staring balefully at him in the afternoon glare. The distant artillery duels had recessed for a moment, birds sang in the background, and heavy vehicles rumbled somewhere on a crowded highway. His mind drifted to Ursis and Borodov — most likely off at a hunting dacha on one of the Sodeskayan planets, happily drinking Logish meem and hunting the great, two-headed mountain wolves which shared, and ravaged, many areas of the Bears' home worlds. Bears would know how to start this hulking bucket of bolts!

  He shook his head enviously as another flight of distant starships thundered across the sky at the edge of space. Little more than a metacycle remained before his own part of the operation was expected to move out. And the thrice-xaxtdamned field piece that fell to his own lot to drive was canted at a perfectly sickening angle to the horizon. It made him dizzy every time he looked outside. Drumming his fingers on the console, he gazed in helpless disgust at the bewildering array of controls.

  For the hundredth time, he considered the large red button that occupied a prominent place on his lower starboard instrument quadrant. Its center ring displayed the Vertrucht symbol for “begin,” but Brim was not about to blow himself to atoms by that sort of simpleminded error. In the League's crazy vocabulary, the word “detonate” started with the same symbol. He grumpily looked outside at the other seven inert forms, also canted at uncomfortable angles. In the last, precious forty-five cycles, he had managed to accomplish nothing, and now spare time was virtually gone, along with his options. He shrugged to himself, squeezed his eyes closed, gritted his teeth, and mashed the button, waiting anxiously for the explosion that would snuff out his life.