The Helmsman

THE HELMSMAN

BY BILL BALDWIN

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

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, Sublieutenant 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 overheated logics. At best, the Eorean Starwharves—one of fifteen starship construction-and-maintenance complexes on the watery starbase 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 mole 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-Helmsmann 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.

Long metacycles later—he lost track of time—Brim sat, head in hands, on his bunk, halfway between murderous anger and deep, deep despair. It was cadet school all over again. The few Carescrians who even made it to the Academy had to be better than anyone else just to be accepted as living beings. And the very weapon Imperials always used was a person's own temper. He shook his head, painfully rehearsing his meeting with Amherst for the thousandth time when a mighty pounding rattled the door to his cabin. "Wilf Ansor, my new friend, come! Now is the time for libations in the wardroom, eh?" In all his twenty-eight years, Brim could not remember a more welcome sound.

Now late in the last watch of the day, the wardroom was dim with hogge'poa and crowded by people who had clearly collected from all over the base. Brim picked out uniforms of spaceframe structure masters, logic boffins, and a whole cadre of Imperial officers—many with impressive ranks. Most of the latter were insignia from other ships. And beautiful women! They were all over the room. Some young, some not so young. His eyes had just fallen willing prisoner to an artfully tousled head of golden curls and soft expressive eyes when Ursis returned with two largish goblets of meem—and another Bear in tow.

"Come, Anastas Alexyi," Ursis called to the smaller edition of himself. "Let me present our new Helmsman just reported in. Wilf Ansor, you must meet this glorious engineering officer—and my personal boss, Lieutenant A.A. Borodov!"

Borodov grasped Brim's hand in a firm hirsute paw. "Brim?" he exclaimed. "But I have heard of you—greatest pilot of all Helmsmen in the latest Academy class, is it not so?"

Brim felt his face flush. "I am pleased to meet you, sir," he stammered.

"Ah-ha!" the Bear exclaimed, turning to Ursis triumphantly. "His blush gives him away, would you believe?"

Ursis chortled heartily. "All's dark when snow flies blue, eh?" They both laughed.

"Well, Wilf Ansor," Borodov rumbled on. "Many of us have looked forward to flying with you at the helm. Tonight we shall drink toasts to your Carescrian ore barges." He placed a paw on the chest of Brim's uniform. "I myself started Drive work on those same star beasts, eh? Many years before you were a little cub." He chuckled. "Destroyers ought to prove easy work in comparison, believe me."

He turned suddenly and caught the arm of a dainty lieutenant. "Ah, Anastasia," he said. "You must meet our new Helmsman, Wilf Brim!"

"Beautiful woman here is Anastasia Fourier—weapons officer, Wilf," Ursis added with a wink. "So small for such a large job...."

"Big enough to bruise your shins, you chauvinist Bear," Anastasia said as she bussed his furry cheek.

Her face was almost perfectly moon shaped with wide-set eyes and heavy, pouting lips. She had a high-pitched voice and talked at such a rate that Brim marveled she could make herself understood at all.

Her Fleet Cape revealed just enough in the way of curves to assure Brim that great intrinsic worth lay beneath. Her wink made him believe that much of it might, under proper circumstances, be readily available. "If this is the kind of company you keep, Lieutenant," she squeaked, "I shall have to keep a close eye on you—and the sooner the better." Then, suddenly ma she appeared, she was swept away giggling on the arm of a smiling commander. He wore the insignia—if Brim's eyes didn't lie—of a battlecruiser.

Ursis touched his arm. 'When you stop drooling, friend Brim," he said, "I want you to meet our Dr. Flynn—he keeps us alive and moderately healthy despite all efforts to the contrary." The Medical Officer was short, fair, and balding, with a reddish face and quick smile. His uniform was also—noticeably—standard issue.

"Xerxes 0. Flynn at your service," he said with a wide-eyed leer. "You look terrible."

Brim flinched. "Pardon?"

Flynn shrugged. "I need the practice, Brim," he said with mock seriousness. "These Bears keep the crew so filled with Sodeskayan wood alcohol nothing has a chance to get started." He cocked one eye and stared in the direction of Brim's ear. "You certain you haven't brought some sort of epidemic with you? I mean, Number One is spreading the word you're unsanitary or something!"

When all three howled at this bit of rare humor, Brim's temper threatened to erupt anew. Then suddenly he perceived an important difference. These people were laughing with him. Before he knew it, he was laughing, too—for the first time in years, it seemed—perhaps longer than that.

"And you'd better meet this lovely lass," Flynn panted, grabbing the arm of a plain young woman with her back to Brim. "Sophia, my dear," he said. "I want you to meet Wilf Brim, your new partner in crime."

Ursis grinned. "A lady Helmsman, would you believe?"

Relaxed for the first time since boarding Truculent, Brim turned and extended his hand. "I didn't catch your last name," he said, smiling. Then his heart literally skipped a beat. Sophia was talking to the girl with the tousled hair. He said something inane, took Sophia's proffered hand, and tried not to stare at her friend. When a voice from somewhere pronounced, "Margot Effer'wyck," the rest of the wardroom ceased to exist.

If this tall, ample young woman was not the most beautiful in the Universe, she nonetheless appealed to Brim in a most profoundly fundamental manner. Her eyes flashed nimble intelligence. Her oval face was framed by the loose golden curls which drew his gaze originally, and her skin was almost painfully fair, brushed lightly with pink high in her cheeks. When she smiled, her brow formed the most engaging frown he could imagine. Whatever it was she had, it was sufficient for him.

"Margot," he stammered. "That's a beautiful name."

Her cool blue eyes remained neutral, but the large hand tapering fingers in his grip were warm and friendly to his touch. "I like the name, too," she said, "even if everyone does use it these days."

Brim watched her full, moist lips, and suddenly he was bashful schoolboy all over again—he couldn't even look her in the eye! On the left shoulder of her cape, she wore insignia of a full lieutenant, and her name tag read, "CHIEF, THREAT ASSESSMENT SECTION, TECHNOLOGY DIVISION." An impressive-sounding job for one so young. Even her uniform looked perfect (and reminded him, for the millionth time, of his own shabby, regulation-issue blues).

While Flynn and Sophia (what was her last name?) exchanged words, with considerable friendly laughter, he met her glance again. This time, some of the coolness was replaced with interest. "You're new aboard Truculent, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes," Brim answered, wretchedly wishing he could think of something more clever to say. "I reported this morning."

The smiling frown reappeared. "You drew a good ship," she said, looking about the room. "And a lucky one, too. People like to share the wardroom when she's in port." She laughed. "I think they secretly hope some of the luck may rub off."

"Not you, though?" Brim asked with a grin.

Margot's eyes sparkled. "Perhaps me most of all," she said, laughing again. "I accept all the good luck I can get." Suddenly, she gazed at the blazes on his collar. "What made you become a Helmsman?" she asked.

"Oh, I'd done a bit of flying before I was called up," Brim explained modestly. "But I think the Admiralty was getting desperate, if you want the absolute truth."

Her eyes drew his. "I'd certainly say so," she agreed with a twinkle. "It's known that only madmen fly those ore carriers."

Brim took a deep breath. Everyone seemed to know about him. "Being a Carescrian," he answered coldly, "I was fortunate indeed to achieve the exalted status of 'madman.' It put me at a Helmsman's console. Most of my contemporaries were privileged to suffer radiation sickness in the cargo holds...."

"I'm terribly sorry," she said, wincing. "I suppose I know better than that." She put a hand on his arm.

"Your name came up at a party the other evening. They say you are a superb Helmsman."

Brim grimaced. "They should have informed you I am also unreasonably touchy Carescrian," he said, suddenly ashamed his outburst. "Will you forgive me?"

"I shall call it even," she said, color rising in her cheeks. " ' I have not loved my words, nor my words me/nor coin'd my voice to smiles....' "

Brim frowned, concentrated for a moment, then snapped his fingers and grinned. "' Nor cried aloud,'"

he continued, " 'In worship of an echo in the crowd. '"

Her sudden smile seemed to light the room. "You know that?" she asked.

"'Star Pilgrim,'" Brim said. "I suppose I've read a lot of Alastor's poems." He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I've had a lot of time on those old carriers—and secondhand poetry books are pretty cheap."

"But nobody reads poetry anymore."

"Evidently you do," Brim said with a smile. "And I do. I'd like to think neither of us is a nobody."

A new look was now on her face—one that hadn't been there before Alastor. "Who else do you read?" she asked.

"' Father of this unfathomable Universe/Hear my solemn song, for I have loved your stars....'"

"That...that's 'Solitude' by Nondum Lamia," she said with delighted eyes.

"Yes. That's right," Brim said. "Verse two."

"And how about, ' Roll on, thou deep and star-swept cosmos—roll/Ten thousand starfleets sweep thy wastes in vain....'"

"Yes!" Brim said, frowning again. He raised a finger. "Lacerta. 'Rime of the Ancients,' I think. ' Men mark their worlds with ruin—their power/Stops with their puny ships; upon the starry plain...."'

Clearly speechless, she shook her head. 'That's beautiful," she finally whispered. Then she raised her hands, abruptly serious. "It's nice to know I'm not totally alone sometimes...." Her voice trailed off.

Taken aback, Brim raised his eyebrows. "I don't understand," he began, but was interrupted by an elegantly uniformed commander.

"Sorry, Lieutenant," the man said without bothering to introduce himself. "It's about time I escort this young thing back to headquarters."

"My date seems to be here," Margot said, instantly recovering her previous mood of reserved amiability. "I'm very glad I met you, Wilf." Their eyes met once more—lingered for a heartbeat. "Until the next time," she whispered in a husky voice. Then, before he could answer, she was on her way through the crowd.

Entranced, Brim shamelessly stared as she walked away: long, well-built legs revealed below her cape through skintight trousers, feet in tiny, ankle-length boots. "You are spilling your meem, friend Wilf Ansor," Ursis said, once again breaking into his reverie.

"Yes, thanks," he mumbled, shaking his head.

"Quite a lady, Miss Effer'wyck," Flynn sighed. "But then you've already noticed, haven't you?"

Brim felt his face flush. He was sure he had already made a fool of himself.

"I think you may have to admire that one from a distance," Sophia observed tactfully. "Turns out she's already spoken for—the Honorable Commander LaKarn, Baron of the Torond, no less."

"Story of my life," Brim grumped good-naturedly. "Too late for everything."

"Well, perhaps not quite everything," Sophia observed. "You've still got more than a day before you face old Gallsworthy on the bridge."

"It's true, Wilf Ansor," Borodov interjected. "Lots of time to spend learning those deep-space whiz-clanks you Helmsmen play with on the bridge." He winked meaningfully.

"Not that we'd want you to disappoint Number One or anything so subtle as that," Flynn said under his breath.

Brim grinned. "I think I'm beginning to understand a lot of things," he said.

Borodov put a hairy finger on Ursis' cuff. "After the chill and darkness of a storm, wise Bears run without snow, eh?"

Ursis raised an index finger. "There is much truth in that, Anastas Alexyi," he said sagely. "Without snow, indeed."

By the time Brim returned to his cabin, the face of Margot Effer'wyck was already vague in his mind's eye. If nothing else, he had learned long ago to take life one step at a time.

Weary metacycles before dawn lightened Gimmas Haefdon's cloudy sky, Wilf Brim was already busy on Truculent's empty bridge. "Good morning, Mr. Chairman," he said, settling carefully in the right-hand Helmsman's seat. Good morning, Lieutenant Brim," replied the Chairman's disembodied voice. What service can we render?"

Brim peered into the darkness through the Hyperscreens where yesterday's snowfall had again relapsed to driving sheets of rain. Below, wet hullmetal decks gleamed under hovering battle lanterns; beyond, Eorean Complex was revealed by the half-lighted shapes of sleeping starships, grotesque forms on other gravity pools, and the ever-present shipyard cranes. Compulsively, he pulled the cloak tighter about his neck, though the air was warm and dry. "Simulation, Mr. Chairman, "he said at length. "All systems."

"All-systems simulation, Lieutenant," the Chairman repeated. "Starboard Helmsman's console in simulation mode." Soft-hued patterns filled the displays before him, moved and changed. "Will you require special circumstances?"

"Later, Mr. Chairman," Brim answered, concentrating on the startup data flashing past his eyes. "Right now, you can do something a bit easier—like the last takeoff here on Gimmas. Do you still have that stored?"

"A moment, sir," the Chairman answered. Presently the Hyperscreens became opaque, flickered, then abruptly came to life in the illusion of gloomy daylight, this time a mile or so out to sea from the complex.

"Found it," the Chairman intoned.

Brim looked around the simulated seascape, checked systems parameters once more on his displays, then gently lowered his hands to the consoles. "Mr. Chairman," he said, "we'll take this one from the very beginning...."

All that morning and far into the afternoon, Brim exercised Truculent's controls, simulating takeoffs in good conditions and bad. Like most contemporary starships, she employed antigravity generators for Hypolight-speed travel, switching to her four matched Sheldon Drive crystals (for both propulsion and negation of relativistic mass/time effects) only when it was desired to surpass the critical velocity of LightSpeed.

Specially designed for blockade and close-support work, all T-class starships flew with two oversized CR-special 258x gravity generators astride the keel at the deepest (and aftmost) point of the hull. These powerful units provided extraordinary acceleration and maneuverability when working close-in to planetary systems where Hyperlight travel was impractical (and potential targets were themselves either accelerating from decelerating to zero velocity). A third unit of normal output and configuration was housed in a long chamber over the keel directly beneath the bridge. This generator supplied direct thrust along the ship's vertical axis for intricate maneuvering or warping into an anchorage.

As the session wore on, Truculent's Chairman provided antigravity failures of every kind and significance, then added steering-engine problems and systems troubles as the session progressed. By midafternoon, the bone-tired Carescrian felt rancid with dried sweat from metacycles of mental and physical effort. But he was also reasonably certain he could fly the starship through anything the Universe might throw at him. In the back of his mind, he knew well enough that simulators never really duplicated real-life flying experience, but the combination of a day's practice on these well-maintained controls and two years' bullying deteriorated Q-97 ore carriers in and out of asteroid-cluttered Hyperspace provided him with considerable confidence in himself as well as the ship. Compared to even the best Carescrian transports, Truculent came off like scalpel to an ax—not altogether shabby, he allowed (smiling at himself), for a "pick and shovel" tub like a destroyer.

Tired as he was, he lingered at the console, working the controls even after technical ratings began to appear here and there on the bridge to bring their respective systems on line for the morning's takeoff.

But when two yeomen noisily commenced work on the principal Helmsman's console to his left, he knew it was tune to wrap things up. "Mr. Chairman," he announced, "I'm finished with the controls."

"A moment, sir," the Chairman said, then, "Simulation terminated. Starboard Helmsman's console returned to direct connect." The Hyperscreens faded momentarily, then restored themselves to the dreary landscape of Gimmas Haefdon. It was again snowing outside as spume tore from wind-lashed white-caps in the basin and the last yellowish tinges dissolved from the low-hanging clouds. Brim laughed grimly to himself. Weather on Gimmas Haefdon was so bad—so horrible—even poor Carescria seemed appealing in comparison.

He slid wearily from the recliner, then dallied for a moment, staring through the Hyperscreens at the driving snow. While he watched, haloed headlights from a distant surface vehicle caught his eye as it picked its way through the shipyard in the direction of the basin. Abruptly, the vehicle turned onto Truculent's jetty and pulled to a hovering stop under the battle lanterns at the gangway. Brim frowned, thankful it was not he who was out on a night like this.

He had just started back to his cabin when it occurred to that nothing more seemed to be happening on the jetty. The skimmer continued to hover in the driving snow, but no one got out, or in. The whole affair piqued his tired curiosity—now what?

As if in answer, two men appeared on Truculent's gangway, trudging through the driving snow toward the jetty and its waiting skimmer. Heads down and capes plastered to bodies, they gave mute testimony to the wind that he knew was howling through the nearby lifelines. One of them—by his very size and gait—was surely the inane Barbousse.

Curious, Brim considered. Where was a man like Barbousse going in a skimmer, especially with Truculent's lift-off little more than a few standard metacycles away? He watched with renewed interest.

Shortly, the two reached the skimmer, now hovering in a cloud of stirred-up snowflakes. They hammered on the forward compartment until they were joined by an agitated driver waving his arms and stamping his boots emotionally. Presently, Barbousse stepped to the man's side and plucked him from his feet by the scruff of his collar. This had an immediate quieting effect, and the three of them opened the passenger compartment of the skimmer and peered into its darkened interior.

Shortly thereafter, Barbousse disappeared through the door—only to emerge almost immediately, this time with the limp figure of a man in his arms. His companion from Truculent reached inside the skimmer and withdrew a Fleet Cape, which he used to cover the motionless individual, then completed some sort of transaction with the driver of the skimmer. This finished, he turned on his heel to follow Barbousse back up the gangway to the ship.

As the skimmer pivoted and started its journey back along the jetty, Brim scratched his head. Who? he asked himself—but deep inside, he feared he already knew.

The bridge was again deserted some four standard metacycles before Truculent's scheduled takeoff time, though things were well astir below as ratings prepared the ship for flight. "Morning, Mr. Chairman,"

Brim said, again settling into the right-hand Helmsman's station. "Today, well do those checkouts for real."

He worked without interruption until Ursis arrived at their power consoles—by which time most of the other stations were occupied and the bridge was humming with activity. "Don't they let you sleep in that new cabin of yours?" the Bear asked mock solicitousness as he strode along the main aisle of the bridge.

"My power-systems log says you've already checked everything a couple of thousand times." He chuckled. "You have no trust in the Chairman, maybe?"

Brim felt his face flush. "I thought I'd better get everything right this morning if I hope ever to do it again," he said with a chuckle.

Ursis smiled. "It's worth doing," he pronounced seriously. "No fool the Bear who first said, 'First impressions are lasting.' You must have been listening, eh?"

"Just scared," Brim said honestly.

"Probably a good time for being a little scared," a displayed image of Borodov interjected darkly from the power exchange deep in Truculent's hull. "Word is they carried him aboard!"

Brim looked the old Bear's image in its eye. "Gallsworthy?" he asked.

"The same," Borodov answered. "Bad, they say."

"I think I watched it from here on the bridge, then," Brim said. "I wasn't certain at the time."

The old Bear looked thoughtful as Sophia Pym arrived, towing a flabby Theada to his jump seat at the side of the bridge. The latter's eyes widened considerably when he caught sight of Brim at the right-hand console. "You may well find yourself on what you call a 'hot seat,' Wilf Ansor," Borodov pronounced soberly.

"We've seen him like this before," Ursis interjected.

Brim smiled and looked at the two Engineering Officers. "What are you trying to tell me?" he asked.

"Simply this," Borodov explained with a serious mien, "Nikolai Yanuarievich and I—we can make it seem like Truculent's power systems won't run. None of you humans will be able to tell the difference—I beg your pardon."

"Lots of us in the crew don't think it's fair you have to go through with this, Wilf," Ursis added.

Brim glanced at his boots, wrestling with his emotions. He wasn't used to Imperials who even cared if he lived or died. Finally, he shook his head, looking first at one and then the other "Thank you," he said quietly. "Thank you both. But sooner or later, I'm going to have to face up to this—and I suppose now is as good as any other time."

"It is a brave decision you make, Wilf," Borodov said.

"It is also too late to change your mind," Ursis interrupted inclining his head slightly toward the back of the bridge. "Now comes Gallsworthy." Without another word, the Sodeskayan dissolved into a suddenly quiet bridge.

CHAPTER 2

As he strode among the consoles, Bosporus P. Gallsworthy, lieutenant, I.F., wore the look of a man so secure in what he did that mere outward appearance was of no importance. His face was almost wooden in calm, though bushy eyebrows failed to mask a glint of cold intelligence in his red-rimmed eyes.

He had short-cropped hair and loosely jowled, pockmarked cheeks, a dark complexion, and thin, dry lips. His height was average or a little less, and his uniform—though most obviously clean—revealed the ghost of a stain halfway down the left breast of his tunic. Reaching the principal's console, he casually flipped his cape to one side and slid into the recliner. Brim watched him from the corner of his eye, motionless.

"Mr. Chairman," Gallsworthy said curtly.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Galls—"

"I'll have the systems checkout right away," Gallsworthy interrupted. "Altimeters?"

"Preverified," said the Chairman. "Set . . . and cross-checked"

"Engineers' preflight?"

"Preverified: complete."

"G-wave service?"

"Preverified: forty-four, five hundred G and G "

"What's this xaxtdamned 'preverified' business?" Gallsworthy demanded.

"The systems checkouts are already complete, Lieutenant," the Chairman said. "We are ready for immediate generator startup."

"Who ran them?"

"Lieutenant Brim, sir."

"Brim? Who's Brim?"

"Sublieutenant Wilf Brim," the Chairman replied, "at the console next—"

"Takeoff bugs ninety-two, one thirty-eight, one fifty-one," Gallsworthy interrupted, continuing the checkout. "And drop that 'preverified' muck."

"One sixty-nine five," the Chairman answered.

"Four eight oh four?"

"One hundred and seventy thousand, Lieutenant," the Chairman said. "Within tolerances."

Gallsworthy paused, frowned. "I know," he growled. "All right. You can skip the rest of that one, then.

We'll do the 'start' checklist next."

"The 'start' checklist is also Complete, Lieu—"

"I said 'start' checklist, Mr. Chairman. Now."

"Start pressure ninety-one forty. Subgenerator on," the Chairman said.

"Gravity brake?"

"Set."

"KA'PPA beacon?"

"Energized."

Again Gallsworthy stopped. "Skip down to...No. Stow that." Without turning his head, he spoke from the side of his mouth. "All right, Brim, or whatever it is they call you. If you think you're so xaxtdamned expert at checkout all by yourself, maybe you'll want to fly this beast yourself. Too?"

"That will be fine, sir," Brim answered—without turning his own head. But his heart was in his mouth.

He endured Gallsworthy's stony silence for a personal eternity, staring through the Hyperscreens into the dirty gray sky and driving rain and forcing himself to relax. Every eye on the bridge would be watching.

At some length, Gallsworthy turned in his recliner. "Smart-alec kid," he snarled under his breath, biting each word off short. "Right out of the xaxtdamned Academy and you puppies think you know how to fly a starship. I've got half a notion to let you try it—then kick your ass off the ship when you can't."

"I'm ready, Lieutenant," Brim asserted quietly, still staring out the Hyperscreens, "anytime you are." In the corner of his eye, he watched a startled expression form on the senior Helmsman's face - then turn to cold anger.

"You just thraggling asked for it, Brim— all of it," Gallsworthy hissed through clenched teeth. "The controls are yours." He sat back in his recliner and folded his arms.

For the first time, Brim turned and faced the waspish individual who was to be his first commandant.

"As you wish, Lieutenant," he said evenly.

Gallsworthy snorted, smiled, and began to return to the controls when he stopped short and turned in his seat again. "What was that?" he demanded.

"I said, 'As you wish, Lieutenant,'" Brim repeated.

Gallsworthy's face clouded; his bushy eyebrows descended to almost hide his eyes. "You mean you're actually going to try to...?" he stumbled, clearly unprepared for Brim's answer. "Why, you can't fly this ship any more than a..." He stopped, clearly groping for a suitable term of disapprobation.

"I can't believe you plan to finish that sentence, Lieutenant Gallsworthy," Collingswood interrupted.

"Certainly you would never turn over the controls to someone whose competence you question. Would you?"

The senior Helmsman jerked around in his recliner. "When did you...?" he growled, then bit his lip.

"My apologies, Captain," he said lamely. "I, ah..."

"Oh, please continue, Lieutenant Gallsworthy," Collingswood commanded sharply.

"Nothing, Captain," Gallsworthy grumbled. "Really."

"Good, Mr. Gallsworthy," Collingswood answered. "And I highly gratified to see you and Number One working so closely together today."

At this, Amherst looked up in alarm. "Together?"

"Why, yes," Collingswood answered, the very picture of innocence. "It was you who suggested Lieutenant Brim have a chance to show us how he graduated first in his class at Helmsman's Academy. Wasn't it?"

"First in his...?" Amherst stammered. "Ah. Why, a...of course, Captain." He turned to Gallsworthy.

"Didn't we Lieutenant Gallsw—"

"We shall discuss this cooperation at a more appropriate time, gentlemen," Collingswood interrupted pointedly. "Lieutenant Brim is about to transfer control to his console, aren't you, Lieutenant?"

Brim nodded. "Aye, Captain," he agreed quickly. Then, before anything further might transpire, he acted. "Mr. Chairman," he ordered, "swap command to this console immediately."

Gallsworthy stiffened, opened his eyes and his mouth at same time, and turned toward Collingswood—but he was already metacycles too late. Before retiring the previous night, Brim had carefully preset all necessary turn-over transactions, and the complex ritual was accomplished almost instantaneously.

"Start checkout is complete, Lieutenant Ursis," the Carescrian said to an image of the Sodeskayan that suddenly shimmered in a hovering display globe near his right hand. "Fire off the generators, please."

"Starboard antigrav," Ursis rumbled quickly. "Turning one—wave guide closed." From far aft and deep within the hull, a low whine dropped slowly to a wavering drone. This steadied. "Turning two." A thump passed through the spaceframe. "Guide open."

Brim watched colored patterns race across his power readouts as antigravity pressure built. A gentle rumble—more felt than heard—replaced the drone, building rapidly in volume and strength. "Call 'em out, Mr. Chairman," he ordered.

"Normal pressure," the Chairman confirmed. "Plus nine. Plus twelve. Plus fifteen—we have a start, Lieutenant."

Ursis' beady eye winked at Brim from the display. "Port generator, Mr. Chairman," he continued without interruption. "Turning one—wave guide closed." A second whine mingled with the sound of the running generator and dropped in pitch. "Turning two. Guide open." The combined rumble was a substantial presence on the bridge as the second antigravity generator reached operating parameters.

"Normal pressure on starboard," the Chairman reported. "Plus fifteen. You have a second start, Lieutenant Ursis."

"Number three," Ursis said quietly. "Standard start. You do it, Mr. Chairman." A third and higher pitched thrumming soon joined the first two.

"All generators running and steady," reported the Chairman.

"Your ship, Wilf," the Bear pronounced. "Drive systems are checked and waiting."

"Thank you, Nik," Brim said, trying desperately to avoid matching eyes with the clearly thunderstruck Gallsworthy. He mentally ran through a dozen personal checklists, scanned the readouts once more—all normal. Satisfied for the moment, he relaxed in the recliner. "Mr. Amherst," he announced to the clearly disapproving Number One, "the Helmsman's station is ready for immediate departure."

"Let's be at it, then, Number One," Collingswood's voice prompted as Brim watched the freezing rain spatter against the heated Hyperscreens. A large tracked vehicle had just pulled onto the jetty, lining up in front of Truculent's sharp nose. Presently, three great amber lenses deployed from its back and positioned themselves so that only one could be seen from Brim's console. They glowed once, twice.

Brim's hands eased over his control panel. "Ground link complete," he reported tersely.

"All hands to stations for lift-off, Mr. Chairman," Amherst commanded. Brim listened to alarms going off below. "Special-duty spacemen close up!" On the forward deck, lights appeared in the mooring-control cupola. A nearby display showed the two mooring cupolas aft were now manned and ready. All over the bridge, a familiar litany of departure was in full activity. Below, at least ten maintenance analogs were racing along the decks making last-minute checks for loose gear. From the rear of the bridge, Maldive spoke into a dozen interCOMM systems. "Testing alarm systems! Testing alarm systems! Testing...."

Outside, an indistinct movement on the basin caught Brim's attention. imagination? No—there it was again! Nearly lost in the grayness, a light of some sort was battling through driving rain.

"Ship approaching from green, yellow-green, Lieutenant Brim," a rating warned from his center console. "Very well, Brim acknowledged. "I'll keep an eye on it." Within ticks, he could make out a darker mass within the gray—which steadily defined itself into an angular shape. A KA'PPA beacon broke clear first among the sheets of driving rain, then a bridge, and finally a hull, riding fast about twenty irals off a flattened, frothing area of water amid the thrashing waves of the storm-swept basin. Brim made out "A.45" on the side of a wing—she was one of a relatively new class of large, fast, and heavily protected destroyers that had been constantly the public eye of late because of their prominent employment in the Empire's critical convoy lifelines. From her bridge she also displayed the flashing triangular device that signaled she carried a flotilla leader aboard. A ship of some consequence, this one, and she approached Truculent's gravity pool with an important mien, drawing to a stop in a sweeping cloud of ice particles as her reversing generators bled off the tremendous momentum she carried.

"I.F.S. Audacious," Amherst observed with ill-concealed awe as he looked up from a data display.

"With Sir Davenport himself aboard. Do you suppose she's the next one for our gravity pool? We could run the next checklists out on the water."

"Why should we do that?" Collingswood asked with a frown.

"Well," Amherst said with raised eyebrows. "Sir is Hugh an influential person in The Fleet, after all."

"And he is at least a quarter metacycle early," Collingswood answered. "We shall clear the mooring in our own good time. You will proceed with our departure in a normal manner, Mr. Amherst."

"As you wish, Captain," the senior Lieutenant said, a half-troubled timbre in his voice.

Brim mentally shrugged, storing that tidbit in a safe corner of his mind. If Collingswood wasn't worried about a flotilla leader, then neither was he. He grinned to himself while all around the gravity pool, mooring beams flashed as ratings in the mooring cupolas drew the ship solidly into place. Suddenly, treble-pitched steering engines overlaid the rumbling gravity generators. Truculent's bridge quivered as side thrusts jolted through her spaceframe. "Steering engine thrusts in all quadrants, Lieutenant," the Chairman reported.

"Very well" Brim said calmly. "Pretaxi check, Mr. Chairman. bridge report...."

"Bridge is secure, Lieutenant."

"Electrical?"

"On generators."

"Environmentals?"

"Packs are set for 'flight.'"

"Auxiliary power?"

"Running."

"Launches stowed and secured for deep space," a voice reported at Amherst's console behind him.

"All working parties on station, Lieutenant," said another voice. "Analogs report decks clear and secure."

"Pretaxi check complete," Brim announced, forcing himself to relax. He felt the gentle throb of the gravity generators, watched Ursis' face as the Bear made last-minute adjustments to their controls.

Truculent was nearly ready for lift-off.

Suddenly, KA'PPA rings flashed from the waiting ship's high beacon like concentric waves from a pebble in a pool.

"Message from I.F.S. Audacious," a balding signals yeoman with fat cheeks reported to Collingswood.

"Very well, Mr. Applewood," Collingswood replied. "I'll have it."

"'Flotilla leader, the Honorable Commodore Sir Hugh Davenport, I.F. informs I.F.S. Truculent that he is now assigned this gravity pool,'" Applewood read in a high-pitched voice.

Brim heard Collingswood chuckle. "Is that so?" she asked. "Well, Mr. Applewood, you can make this back to the Honorable, etc., aboard I.F.S. Audacious: 'Pity. Where does the Commodore propose to moor his starship?"'

"All stations ready to proceed, Captain," Amherst reported—this time almost in a gasp.

"Lieutenant Brim," Collingswood's voice boomed confidently in the pregnant silence of the bridge, "you may proceed to the takeoff zone when you receive taxi clearance."

Brin smiled to himself. It was one of those moments he imagined he would recall for the remainder of his life—as long as that might be, considering the going mortality rate for destroyers. "Aye, aye, Captain," he said. "Proceeding to the takeoff zone. Mr. Chairman, have the cupolas single up all moorings," he ordered. Immediately, beams winked out all around the ship until only a single shaft of green remained attached at any of the optical bollards in the jetty walls.

"All mooring points singled up, Lieutenant," the Chairman reported.

"Very well, Mr. Chairman," Brim announced quietly, "you may now switch to internal gravity—Quartermaster Maldive on the interCOMM, please."

"Aye, aye. Lieutenant," Maldive answered from a display.

"All hands stand by for internal gravity," Maldive's voice echoed from the ship's interCOMM as alarms clattered in the background.

Brim braced himself as the first sudden rush of nausea swept his stomach. He swallowed hard, forcing his gorge back where it ought to be. Loose articles all over the ship rattled and clanged. He felt sweat break momentarily from his forehead. Then, quickly as it struck, the sensation passed. A muffled thump announced detachment of the ground umbilicals—the ship sagged precariously to port, then righted as her stable platforms adjusted to independent operation. From a corner of his eye, he watched the brow swing away from the hull and retract into the top of the jetty. He glanced at the tracked vehicle—its lenses were still perfectly lined up with his console but now glowing cool green. A white cursor was centered on the foremost surface. He flexed his shoulders and shook his head, smiling to himself—another gravity switch without losing his breakfast. "I'll speak with Ground Control now, Mr. Chairman," he said, glancing quickly at the waiting vehicle on the jetty wall.

"Ground Control," a narrow face with huge, bushy eyebrows announced from a display.

"T.83 to Ground," Brim replied. "We're ready to taxi out when you are."

"Ground to DD T.83," the Controller said. "You're cleared to taxi. And you've got a destroyer standing off your stern."

"T.83 to Ground: I see that one," Brim replied.

"DD A.45: hold your position," the controller warned Audacious through another display in the tracked vehicle. Brim overheard Davenport's curt "Holding" through the same round-about means. It provided scant comfort; the waiting destroyer hardly have drawn up any closer to Truculent's gravity pool—nor been placed in a more inconvenient position with regard to the wind. Starships were forbidden to fly over any land areas because overpressure from their gravity generators simply caused too much damage and noise. That ruled out exiting the gravity pool in a normal, forward-running attitude. The same overpressure (and resulting noise levels) also prohibited altitudes higher than thirty irals anywhere within sight of land. And because Audacious blocked any chance for a snubbed swing with mooring beams rigged as old-fashioned spring lines, it was now Brim's difficult task to back the starship around the other destroyer in a high-wind situation. Moreover, he was painfully aware that if he so much as grazed Davenport's spotless new escort, the resulting board of inquiry would destroy his career before it had much of a chance to begin. Wrestling his jangled nerves to a tenuous draw, he shrugged and smiled to himself. Best to be on with it. In the next few cycles, he'd either win all the maneuvering room he wanted—or he would be on his way back to the ore corners. And in no way did he intend a return to Carescria!

"Ground to DD T.83: wind zero four zero at ninety-one," the Controller reported.

"T.83 copies," Brim acknowledged, shaking his head. "I'll have a balance on the forward gravity generator, Nik," he said. "Then give me a point ninety-one gradient at zero four." That would at least give him a chance with the wind.

"Ninety-one gradient at zero four," Ursis repeated.

The low rumbling of Truculent's forward generator increased as it shouldered the weight of the ship.

"Balanced," Ursis reported.

"Helm's at dead center, Lieutenant," the Chairman announced. "We are ready to move."

"Stand by," Brim warned. He checked the control settings once more, feeling a balm of resignation soothe his nerves. Trulucent could never—in his wildest nightmares—be as difficult to control as a loaded ore carrier. And he'd mastered them. "Let go all mooring beams," he ordered quietly, eyes glued to the cursor in the center of Ground Control's lenses. Instantly, the beams vanished. "Dead slow astern all," he ordered, feeling sweat break out on his forehead.

"Dead slow astern," Ursis echoed tensely—the ship began to move.

With one eye on Audacious, Brim struggled to keep the cursor centered, but in spite of every effort, it started across the glowing lens—sure indication Truculent was drifting upwind. Brim's heart leaped into his mouth. 'Too much gradient, Nik!" he warned. "We're sliding into Audacious."

"I've got a fix on it," Ursis answered tensely. "Sorry."

"'S all right," Brim croaked with relief as the drifting slowed and finally ceased—but he didn't breathe again until Truculent was backed all the way off the gravity pool. "Stop together, he ordered. She was now directly beside Audacious—separated at the stern from Davenport's spotless decks by no more than a score of irals.

"Stop together," Ursis echoed.

Now came the tricky part.

Screwing up his courage again, he ordered, "Dead slow astern, port."

"Dead slow astern, port." Truculent's bow began to swing sharply toward disaster waiting only irals away.

"Brim! What in the Universe are you...?" Gallsworthy' growled beside him.

"It is Lieutenant Brim's helm, Lieutenant Gallsworthy," Collingswood interrupted. "By your orders."

Brim put them both from his mind. The next ticks were critical. He tensed, waited.... "Quarter astern starboard, dead slow astern port," he uttered with a dry mouth.

"Quarter astern starboard, dead slow astern port," Ursis echoed. Truculent's bow stopped its swing only an iral or s from Audacious, then slowly began to draw away to safety. This time, the gravity gradient held and—as Brim planned—she continued in a wide turn to port. But an eternity passed before the starship's needle bow finally pointed out on to the rolling waters of the basin.

Brim never so much as looked back. "Ahead one-quarter, both," he ordered weakly.

"Ahead one-quarter, both," Ursis echoed—this time with an ear-to-ear grin. He knew.

At that moment, a display winked into life with the image of Sophia Pym touching thumb to forefinger.

"Too bad you can't see Amherst's face," she whispered gleefully. Beside her, Theada's look of astonishment had grown to one of total disbelief.

While Truculent moved into the relative freedom of the basin, the controller called once more from the jetty: "Ground to DD 183: you're cleared for taxi out to sea marker 981G. See you all next time you're in port. Good hunting!"

"DD T.83 to Ground," Brim replied. "Proceeding to marker 981G. And thanks." He peered into the driving rain ahead. "I am taking the helm, Mr. Chairman," he announced.

"You have the helm, Lieutenant Brim," the Chairman acknowledged. For the first time that morning, Brim's hands touched the directional controls. He was now in direct command of the ship itself.

Inadvertently, he glanced at Gallsworthy—who was now staring back with unconcealed curiosity.

"Yes, sir?" Brim asked.

"Mind your own business, Carescrian," Gallsworthy replied expressionlessly. But somehow the coldness had gone.

Brim nodded and turned away silently. Now was not the time to work out his basic relationship with this taciturn individual. "Taxi checks, Mr. Chairman," he said. "Lift modifiers?"

"Fifteen, fifteen, green," the Chairman replied.

"Yaw dampers and instruments?"

"Checked."

"Weight and balance finals?"

"One sixty-nine five hundred—no significant changes, Lieutenant."

"Twenty-one point two on the stabilizer. Engineer's taxi check, Nik?"

"Complete," Ursis growled.

"Taxi checklist complete," the Chairman pronounced.

With a feeling of relief, Brim watched the opening to the basin slide past. Truculent was now over open water. "Half ahead both," he said, setting a course for marker 98lG across the ranks of marching waves.

"Half ahead, both," Ursis echoed.

During the nearly ten cycles required to taxi into place, Brim made his own final checks of the starship's systems, finishing only moments before the flashing buoy hove into view ahead in the Hyperscreens. "DD T.83 to Harbor Control," he announced. "Starship is in sight of marker 981G.

Heading two ninety-one." He grinned in spite of himself. "Lift-off checklist, Mr. Chairman," he ordered.

"Transponders and 'Home' indicator on. 'Fullstop' cell powered. All warning lights on," the Chairman reported.

"Engineer's check?"

"Complete," Ursis said.

"Configuration check.... Antiskid?"

"Skid is on," replied the Chairman.

"Speed brake?"

"Forward."

"Stabilizer trim—delete the gravity gradient, Mr. Chairman."

"Gravity gradient eliminated. Ship carries normal twenty-three one on lift-off."

"Very well, Mr. Chairman. Course indicators, Mr. Gallsworthy?" Brim prompted politely.

Mind clearly elsewhere for the moment, Gallsworthy jumped in his recliner. "A moment, Lieutenant," he mumbled with a reddening face and busied himself frenetically at the course controls. "Set and checked," he croaked at length.

"Lift-off check comnpleie, Captain Collingswood," Brim announced. "At your command."

"Your helm, Lieutenant Brim," Collingswood replied from a display, thumb raised to the Hyperscreens—just as a nearby COMM globe flashed its priority pattern and displayed the Harbor Master's face.

"Harbor Master to DD T.83," he announced. "Hold your position at marker buoy 981G for cross traffic." Collingswood chuckled from her display and smiled understandingly.

"Holding," Brim grumped. "Full speed reverse, both," he said to Ursis' image.

"Full speed reverse, both," the Bear echoed. Truculent glided to a hovering stop just short of the tossing buoy.

"All stop."

"All stop."

"Steering engine's amidships," the Chairman announced.

In the driving rain outside the ship, Brim could see neither sky nor horizon; but twenty-five irals below, the sea's great swells were thick and black looking, peppered with ice rubble. Abruptly, a chance break in the downpour revealed the specter of another mass looming from the grayness—this one infinitely larger than Audacious. It quickly defined itself as the profile of a monster starship moving rapidly in Truculent's direction near the surface of the water. Scant moments later, she fairly burst from the storm, majestic and powerful, sea creaming away ahead of the roiling, foaming footprint she punched deep in the flattened surface, a haze of spray lifting hundreds of irals in her wake to rival the clouds themselves. Brim gasped in spite of himself. Perhaps no one in the galaxy could mistake that grand panorama of stacked bridges, great casemated turrets, and wide-shouldered, tapering hull: Iaith Galad, one of the three greatest battlecruisers ever constructed—and sister ship to Nimue, in which the famous Star Admiral Merlin Emrys was lost (nearly two years ago now, if Brim's memory served him). Waves of chill marched his back in icy regiments. To serve as Helmsman on something like her! He shook his head in resignation.

Carescrians didn't get assignments like that.

But what a dream.

"We shall require a salute, Lieutenant Amherst," Collingswood's voice prompted.

"Aye, Captain," Amherst replied. Immediately, glowing KA'PPA rings shimmered out from Truculent's beacon in the age-old Imperial salute, "MAY STARS LIGHT ALL THY PATHS."

Brim had to crane his head back to see Iaith Galad's beacon when she made her traditional reply:

"AND THY PATHS, STAR TRAVELERS." He glimpsed tiny figures peering down from the vast panoply of Hyperscreens atop her towering bridge as she passed. One of them waved. Then, quickly as she appeared, she was gone, swallowed again in the gloom. Truculent bounced heavily in her gravity wake while a deluge of spray from the warship's backwash cascaded in sheets over the Hyperscreens and decks below. Then the destroyer steadied and the sea rolled again beneath the hull as if the great starship had never passed.

*DD T.83: you now are cleared for immediate takeoff," the Harbor Master announced. "Wind is zero four at one oh three. Heavy battlecruiser just landed reports considerable turbulence on final: your path."

"Thank you very much," Brim acknowledged, then looked Ursis' image in the eye and winked.

"Finally," he whispered, then louder, "Full speed ahead."

The Bear nodded. "Good luck," he mouthed silently. "Full speed ahead." Immediately, Truculent's two oversized gravity generators began to thunder deep in the starship's hull, shaking the whole spaceframe.

While thrust built, Brim held the bucking, vibrating starship in place with gravity brakes. He got a definite feeling the devices were only just adequate for the job, and was distinctly glad to hear Gallsworthy's voice when it came.

"Lights are on—you've got takeoff thrust!"

Brim released the brakes. "Full military ahead, both, Nik!" he bellowed over the roar of the generators.

"Full military ahead, both," Ursis answered. The noise intensified and Truculent began to creep forward.

Brim managed a last glance aft through the rain. Gimmas Haefdon's huge rolling waves were now flattened in a wide, flowing trough that extended out from their stern to a huge cloud building skyward at the very limits of his vision. Then the ship was suddenly racing over the water and no time remained for thoughts, only reflexes and habits. Stabilizers and lift modifiers, helm and thrust controllers. And even his long afternoon simulating on the bridge was poor preparation for the destroyer's astonishing acceleration.

"Great-thraggling-Universe!" he gasped.

"Moves right out, doesn't she?" Ursis commented through a grinning mouthful of teeth.

Awed, Brim watched the surface rush by for only ticks before Gallsworthy's voice beside him announced, "ALPHA velocity." Then he carefully rotated the destroyer's nose upward a specified increment for lift-off. Truculent was smooth and responsive on the controls—almost skittish. She was his first real thoroughbred, a hundred light-years beyond even the best of the training ships he had flown.

"BETA velocity," Gallsworthy announced a few moments later, then, "Positive climb." Within ticks, Truculent was thundering through Gimmas Haefdon's heavy cloud cover, bumping heavily in the everlasting turbulence.

"Haul 'em both back to full speed ahead, Nik," Brim ordered.

"Full speed ahead, both," the Bear verified. Generator noise in the bridge subsided considerably.

"DD T.83: contact departure one two zero point six," the Harbor Master called. "Good hunting, Truculents!" The transmission faded quickly as they broke out in smooth air above the overcast—dirty gray billows that extended forever and forever in Ginmmas Haefdon's weak sunlight.

"Departure Control to DD T.83," said a woman's face in the display. "You are cleared Hypolight to the Lox'Sands-98 buoy, zone orange—with immediate transition to Hyper-Drive on arrival. Good-bye from Gimmas Haefdon. And good luck, Truculent."

"T.83 to Departure Control," Brim seconded, "proceeding Lox'Sands-98 buoy, zone orange with immediate Hyperlight transition on arrival. Thanks, Gimmas Haefdon. See you next time." Before he finished speaking, Truculent swept through the planet's atmosphere and was streaking along in darkness on the edge of outer space. He busied himself with additional checkout routines and monitored the ship's systems for the next few cycles, keeping a wary eye on his LightSpeed indicator as the ship accelerated.

"Let's cut in the Drive, Nik," he said presently. "Lieutenant Gallsworthy, will you call out the readings?"

Ursis winked and kissed his fingertips. "Drive shutters open. Activating Drive crystals," he echoed.

"Firing number one." A single shaft of green light extended far out into the blackness aft. Instantly, Hyperscreens dimmed to protect the bridge occupants while a deep, businesslike grumble joined the roar of the gravity generators.

"Point seven five LightSpeed. Point eight," Gallsworthy called out.

"Readouts normal," the Chairman reported.

Ursis nodded, cross-checking his own instruments. Apparently satisfied, he went on to the next: "Firing two. Firing three."

"Point eight five LightSpeed," Gallswoithy continued. "Point nine."

"Firing four."

Truculent's light-limited gravity generators were now just about played out. In the forward Hyperscreens, the first glowing sheets of Gandom's ve effect were already crackling along the starship's deck when Brim turned his attention outside.

"Point nine seven LightSpeed."

Presently, the visible Universe became laced by a fine network of pulsing brilliance spreading jaggedly from the last visible stars as if the whole firmament were about to shatter into the very pebbles of creation. Now all he had to do was pass the Lox'Sands-98 buoy. The ship would have to tell him when—until the Drive could be deployed, Truculent's bridge crew was virtually blind to the outside Universe.

Suddenly: "Lox'Sands-98 buoy in the wake, Lieutenant Brim," the Chairman confirmed. Brim smiled with anticipation. "That's it, Nik," he said. "Half ahead, all crystals."

"Half ahead, all crystals," Ursis echoed. Quiet thunder from Truculent's four Drive crystals joined the roar of her straining gravity generators, the starscape wobbled and shimmered, then blended to an angry red kaleidoscope ahead until space itself came to an end in a wilderness of shifting, multicolored sparks.

When this phenomenon (the Daya-Peraf transition) at last subsided, the LightSpeed indicator had moved through 1.0 and began to climb rapidly again as Truculent's Drive crystals took over the job of hurtling her through Hyperspace.

"Finished with gravity generators," Brim announced.

"Gravity generators spooling down," Ursis confirmed.

Immediately, the Hyperscreen panels darkened while their crystalline lattices were synchronized with the Drive—then they cleared once more, blazing with the full majesty of the Universe. On this side of the LightSpeed barrier, however, flowing green Drive plumes trailed the ship for at least two c'lenyts surrounded by a whirling green wake as Truculent's Hyperspace shock wave bled off mass and negative time ("Tneg" of historic Travis equations) in accordance with the complex system of Travis Physics. In a few moments, the noise of the generators faded completely and Gallsworthy once more caught his eye.

"Yes, sir?" the surprised Carescrian asked, braced for still another rebuff.

A shadow of humor passed the senior Helmsman's reddened eyes, before they clouded again. "You may have proved a point or two this morning, Brim," he allowed emotionlessly. "I shall take over now and let you watch the scenery."

Jolted, Brim suddenly understood he had just received rare praise from this taciturn officer and groped for something appropriate to say. Then he brought himself up short with the sure realization that words were tools Gallsworthy simply didn't understand. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said matter-of-fact. "I should be glad for a moment to relax."

When control was subsequently restored to the left-hand console, Brim settled back in his recliner and closed his eyes for a moment, smiling inwardly. It was a morning of two victories so far as he was concerned—though few of the Imperials on Truculent's bridge could have logically explained why. As thralls to Avalon's Galactic Empire, Carescrians were rarely praised for anything they accomplished.

Most became highly adept at ferreting out life's little triumphs wherever and whenever they could be found. And even Gallsworthy's acceptance of his flying skills could in no way match Brim's satisfaction in the sour look still manifested on Amherst's long, homely face.

Truculent was well on her way to war—so was Wilf Brim.

Blockades in intergalactic space were mounted for pretty much the same reasons they were mounted anywhere else: starve a critical component of a civilization into collapse and other, dependent components suffer with it. Starve sufficient critical components, and the whole civilization suffers. To this end, I.F.S. Truculent was assigned patrol duty off the periphery of the League's great Altnag'gin hullmetal fabricating complex at Trax. Without imported metallic zar'clinium, a rare trace element, its mills could forge no hullmetal plate—and without hullmetal plate, dependent shipyards could turn out no more warships.

The actual implementation was as simple as it was effective: cargo starships cruising Hyperspace at anywhere between ten and twenty thousand times the speed of light were simply not "maneuverable" in any normal sense of the word. It was first necessary to exit Hyperspace before approaching anywhere near a space anchorage, and this meant Hypolight runs of at least two or three metacycles at the end of each journey. During this interval, "runners" (enemy ships headed in either direction) were quite visible in the normal spectrum—and vulnerable to attack from predators like the Empire's specially equipped T-class destroyers. Truculent was one of six patrol craft assigned to sealing Altnag'gin; she relieved a smaller N-class destroyer, which had been constantly on station for three standard months.

It came as no particular surprise to Brim when the duty quickly boiled down to mostly hard work and boredom—a lot of space was like that. However, the routine was often enough punctuated by periods of deadly action, and Truculent found herself immersed in one of these no more than a few standard days after the ship she replaced gleefully turned her bow homeward and surged off into deep space at full thrust.

A chance break in one of the region's interminable gravity storms some hundred or so c'lenyts off the Nebulous Triad (a key departure point from one of the Cloud League's most important manufacturing centers) had just revealed two fast transports racing in from deep space.

Besides metallic zar'clinium, blockade runners in this part of the League nearly always carried other basic commodities to fuel the maw of Nergol Triannic's war machine: food ripped from starving farmers of Korvost, freshly mined crystal seedlings, and always quantities of life-sustaining TimeWeed from the Spevil virus beds—frequent drafts of the latter were necessary for each member of the dreaded Controller class and their rulers, expatriates from Triannic's royal court at far-off Indang.

Only cycles out of Hyperspace, the enemy ships had run out of luck.

Gallsworthy and Pym worked briskly at Truculent's Helmsmen's consoles, Collingswood on her feet behind them, one hand on each recliner, staring through the Hyperscreens. An off-duty Brim sat as observer in a jump seat, concentrating on the proceedings as if his life depended on learning each movement at either console—someday, he knew it would.

No escort craft accompanied these two high-speed beauties—Kabul Anak had recently siphoned nearly all protection from the area to support a large combined attack on nearby targets in the Empire.

And the gravity storm that only cycles in the past covered their dash for safety also served to conceal Truculent. But the latter's military scanning devices picked up two traders long before her own image activated their civilian-proximity alarms. Now the deadly warship was postioned so as to deny any possibility of escape to Hyperspace and was surging along in their wakes like the legendary wraith of Zoltnark, Dark Lord of the Universe.

"We shall have a warning salvo, if you please, Anastasia," Collingswood ordered quietly. "They are surely aware of our presence by now."

"And probably yelling for help on every channel they scan," Amherst grumbled nervously. Brim's glance strayed to the communications consoles where two ratings quietly nodded to each other. No time to waste today. The broadcast alarm would attract every enemy warship remaining in the area.

Outside, he watched Truculent's three upper-deck turrets Index slightly to port, then return to starboard, finally coming to a stop with their long, slim 144s pointing dead ahead: toward the distant targets. His mind's eye visualized four identical turrets that had just danced the same little gigue out of sight on the starship's dorsal planes.

"Stand by for a close pattern about half a c'lenyt off their bows," Fourier ordered.

Brim watched fascinated while firing crews hunched over their Director consoles, faces lit from beneath by the ever-changing colors of information pouring into their globes.

"Range six thousand and closing. Fifty-nine hundred...fifty-eight hundred..."

"Connect the mains, all disruptors."

"Connected."

"Deflection seventy-six left. Rate eighty-one plus."

"Range fifty-five hundred and closing. Sharply now...."

"Steady."

"Fire!" At Fourier's word, all seven disruptors went off in a salvo of blinding light and raw energy—

Truculent's deck bucked violently; clouds of angry radiation cascaded into the wake. In spite of himself, Brim thrilled to the rolling, ear-splitting thunder rumbling through the spaceframe. Instantly, a whole volume of space ahead of the League ships convulsed with brilliant flashes of yellow fire.

"Eyes of Vothoor!" Theada quipped in an undertone, "That ought to slow them down some."

"Don't count on it," Collingswood warned, eyes riveted on her fleeing quarry. "They'll not give up so easily as that. Anak's desperate for supplies—he makes it well worthwhile for the ones, who do get through." Indeed, nearly a full cycle later, the two ships were still speeding toward their destinations.

She frowned, nodded her head. "Reason with them again, Anastasia," she ordered. "Closer, this time."

"Aye, aye, Captain," Fourier answered. "A bit closer, if you please, at the Directors."

"Aye, Lieutenant. Down five hundred. Deflection fifteen minus. Rate sixty-four plus."

Brim's untrained eye could detect little movement of the disruptors as they were relaid, but he knew the next shots would be a great deal closer—if recent target exercises were any indication at all.

"Fire!"

This time, the darkness ahead was shattered by one huge upheaval which appeared as if it must have taken place only irals from the targets themselves. And though it did produce immediate results, they were not quite the ones expected on Truculent's bridge. "Voot's gray ghost," Collingswood grumped under her breath. "Wouldn't you know!" Only one of the ships had slowed down to surrender—the other was still speeding home, leaving its partner as a sacrificial Lau'f'last. A rare show of teamwork for the independent Cloud League's blockade runners.

"Must be something xaxtdamned important in that second one," Gallsworthy observed angrily. "Those zukeeds never help each other."

" That's the truth," Anastasia agreed. "We'd better catch it, all right."

"I want them both," Collingswood said, tossing her head. "Those ships are valuable prizes, and I do not intend either will escape." She turned abruptly, peering into the darkened bridge. "Lieutenant Arnherst!" she called.

"Captain?"

"Lieutenant, round up those hands we designated boarding party A," she said in an excited voice. "Ten with side arms and blast pikes. Have them ready no later than ten cycles from now—before we catch up to the first ship," she ordered. "Because you are going to take it home as a prize while we continue 'discussions' with its friend."

"Me? Home?"

"Yes, Puvis— home," she said, gaze sweeping across the bridge—where it came to rest on the off-duty Brim in his jump seat. "And by Slua's third eye!" she continued, "you are going to do it with our Carescrian prodigy as your pilot. How do you feel about boarding that transport, too, Lieutenant Brim?"

Grinning like an addled tree h'oggoth, Brim clambered out of his recliner and hurried along the aisle to Amherst's console. "I'm on my way to the transfer tube, Captain," he laughed.

"Pity," Collingswood laughed. "You may well miss all the action there, for I do not plan to board her by conventional means—that would absolutely insure the second ship's escape."

Brim watched Amherst match his own frown. "Captain?" the latter asked.

"I shall only slow when I pass that first ship," she said, eyes narrowed in excitement. "Something neither of those rather clever blockade runners expects." She pointed a finger at Brim's chest, "Instead, Lieutenant Brim, you will fly the boarding party—in a launch—alongside the enemy bridge. Where you, Lieutenant Amherst," she continued, "will have the job of boarding her through any kind of a hatch you find there—they've all got something. Then take immediate possession of controls. Ten men should be more than sufficient. And if you work quickly, it will all be done while she's still in the range of our 144s-they should guarantee active cooperation from your hosts. After that, Lieutenant Brim, it will be your job again to take her into any Imperial port you can reach. Don't worry about the launch. We'll pick it up if we get the chance, otherwise she's a small price to pay for either of those beauties. I shall expect you back aboard Truculent soon as you can hitch a ride. Now get moving—both of you!"

Moments later, Brim and Amherst were bustling down a ladder toward the ship's small armory as Maldive's voice broke into the interCOMM, "Boarding party one form in battle suits immediately at launch hatch three. Boarding party one to launch hatch three—immediately!"

Well within the ten cycles allotted by Collingsworth, Brim sat perspiring at the command console of Truculent's number-three launch, a stubby, powerful affair Sophia Pym swore was designed first for ugliness, and only then for performance. Behind him, similarly peering from the armored blue globes of Imperial battle-suit helmets, Amherst and ten men—led by the hulking Barbousse—clambered through the hatch to perch on jump seats in the crowded utility compartment, jostling to position their long blast pikes under the low canopy. Last aboard was Ursis, waving a huge side-action blaster of Lo'Sodeskayan manufacture.

"Hatch is closed and dogged, Wilf," the Bear reported, thumping into place beside Amherst. " Terribly sorry, Lieutenant," he grunted, as he wedged the First Lieutenant against a rack of stringers.

"Collingswood sent me to keep an eye on Brim here," he continued as Amherst dissolved in a fit of coughing.

Brim stifled a delighted grin, nodded assent, and confirmed the hatch seal on an instrument panel before him. Then he started the powerful little antigravity generator aft and immediately spooled it up to maximum output—hating that kind of heavy-handed piloting—with little choice under the present circumstances. When the registered output steadied, he nodded to the image of Theada in an overhead display. "Swing us out, Jubal," he barked through the suit's interCOMM. Moments later, two heavy davits sparkled with emerald light as mooring beams flashed to the launch's optical capstans. Less than a cycle later, the beams thickened, then the davits began to move: first upward, then sideways, hauling the launch from behind the protection of Truculent's bridge wings. It provided Brim's first unobstructed view forward since he left the bridge: the first enemy ship—a typical Cloud League transport made up of globes and cylinders co-located along a single tube—was now pothering along less than a quarter c'lenyt ahead and being overhauled rapidly.

"Stand by to cast off the launch," he yelled over the roar of the generator.

"Standing by," Theada asserted shakily.

Brim carefully judged his distance and rate of closure—launches were not capable of sustained high-speed travel, even at military overload. Aft, the straining antigravity generator already threatened to rip itself from its mountings. He tensed. "Now, Jubal!" he yelled.

Theada made no clean job of it. The forward beam winked out a fraction of a second before the aft, and very nearly dragged their launch end around end before Brim fought her back on course, heart pounding against his chest. Then, miraculously, he was bucketing along beside the craft's globular forward module with an already distant Truculent pulling away all too rapidly for comfort—her big 144s provided a distinct feeling of security in the thin-skinned launch.

"There's the emergency hatch, Lieutenant," Barbousse exclaimed, pointing a fingered glove toward a faint outline just aft the port arm of the ship's cross-shaped Hyperscreens.

"He's got it," Ursis seconded. "Bring us alongside, Wilf. We'll blast it in if they won't open on their own—they xaxtdamned well know why we're here."

Brim maneuvered the launch until his main hatch was opposite the enemy's bridge, then watched Barbousse yank it open and aim his blast pike, finger twitching on the valve. He could see the enemy flight crew peering back at him—helplessly, he hoped.

"Give them a moment, Barbousse!" he yelled.

"Aye, Lieutenant," Barbousse assured,him. "I'll wait."

But in point of fact, the blockade runners did not need even a moment—their escape hatch flew off into the wake before Barbousse's voice faded from the bubble of Brim's helmet. The opening was immediately filled by one of the Cloud League's jet-black battle suits, arms crossed against the chest in the Universal gesture of surrender.

"Snag 'em, Barbousse," he yelled as he jerked the launch sideways, smashing the two hatches together in a cloud of sparks. Deftly for his awesome size, Barbousse lofted two explosive grappling hooks accurately through either side of the opening, then dragged them taut when they fired, securing each to baggage tie-downs on the launch's floor.

After that, nothing happened. Puzzled, Brim shut down the straining generators, his attention glued to Number One, waiting for further commands.

"Well, c'mon Amherst," Ursis growled in the resulting silence, "You are waiting perhaps for a personal invitation from Kabul Anak?"

"Oh. Er...yes. I mean no, of course not! Ah...this way, men," Amherst stuttered, pushing Barbousse through the opening first. Ursis clambered through on his heels, followed by Brim and the ten ratings of the boarding party.

Inside, a small group of civilian spacers huddled glumly on one side of the still-smoking bridge, nervous eyes darting in every direction. One, a woman, was tall with a figure even a space suit couldn't hide—she also had a nose only a mother could love. Beside her a fat old man stood with his paunch straining the power belt around his waist. Another had no hair on his head. And still another wore a crumpled little peaked cap inside his bubble helmet and sported a huge black mustache drooping from his upper lip.

Brim stopped in his tracks. So these were the enemy he so often read about. The Cloud League's storied blockade runners. He snorted in irony. These? They looked like nothing more—or less—than every workaday spacer he knew from the ore carriers; ordinary, everyday faces. In an Avalonian byway, he would not have noticed any one of them. And to a man, they were frightened, no doubt about that!

In the center of the bridge, however, three very different, human forms stood before the controls, these dressed in the black battle suits of Controllers. For no apparent reason, they instantly returned Brim to the dark mood of war. Black-uniformed Controllers were a separate—and elite—branch of the normally gray-uniformed League armed forces. In the eyes of most Imperials, they were the true Cloud League villains—killers of little Carescrian girls and destroyers of undefended villages. He could almost see bloodstains on their spotless gloves as they waited with looks of insolence on their faces.

"Ah," Amherst started lamely, "wh-what ship is this?"

"And who asks?" one of the black-suited Leaguers demanded haughtily.

"It is not your time for questions, Black Suit," Ursis growled as he ever so slightly moved the big side-action blaster in his hand. There was nothing subtle at all about the gesture—either meant by the Bear or interpreted by the Controllers.

"S-Starship Ruggetos," one said quickly.

"Good," Ursis rumbled, taking control of the situation. "You now understand our relationship. For your own good, I urge all to remember it well." He licked his chops with a long red tongue. "It has been almost a year since I visited Mother Planets for chasing live red meat."

Sweat broke out on the brows of all three Controllers. Everyone knew about Sodeskayan Bears and their annual home leave for "The Hunt." It was only natural. Certain places in the galaxy permitted nonsentient bear hunts, too.

"Take these men and lock them somewhere, Barbousse," Amherst ordered imperiously, recovering some of his confidence. "And see those Controllers are kept off to themselves," he added. "I don't want them mixing with the rest."

"Aye, sir," Barbousse, said, nudging the three black-suited Controllers into the companionway with the tip of his oversized space boot. "They won't stir no one up when I'm done with them." Cycles later, he reappeared to herd the civilians from the bridge in a different direction. Brim filed all this away for future reference. Today, the huge starman was not at all the bumbling dunce who appeared on Truculent's gangway the morning of his arrival.

Then there was no more time for random thoughts as he took his place at the master control console in the center of the ship's peculiar cross-shaped Hypcrscreen arrays. He heard Ursis thump down behind him in what appeared to be a propulsion console. The simplified layout on Ruggetos' tiny bridge was surprisingly easy to comprehend—yet as distant from Imperial design philosophy as the Cloud League's spoken Vertrucht was from Avalonian. "We'd better get some speed on this bucket of bolts, Nik," he called back as he studied the readouts before him. "Our COMM people picked up the messages these birds broadcast. We'll likely have visitors around these parts before we know it, and the first of them probably won't be Truculent."

Always different in minor respects, flight controls on one starship usually turned out to be fairly similar to those on any other—anywhere in the Universe. These were no exception. Brim soon mastered all three panels and prudently set a course for deep space, waiting for the sound of the crystals when Ursis fired them up. But—at least by the chronometer on his console—five cycles later, nothing more happened. In the corner of his eye, he detected a concerned look on Amherst's face and continued to study his own readouts, hoping to avoid drawing further attention to the clearly troubled engineer at the console behind him. The ploy was totally without success.

"What seems to be the trouble, Ursis" Brim heard the First Lieutenant ask nervously.

"Can't change the Drive's power settings," Ursis growled absently. "Something has been altered here."

His voice trailed away as he continued to concentrate.

Amherst fairly ran across the bridge to the console. "Something has been altered?" he asked, his voice suddenly tinged with, fear.

Brim turned in his seat as Ursis looked up at the First Lieutenant, blinked his eyes, then shook his head as if what he had to say pained him. "Yes, Number One," he said, frowning, "something has been tampered with that I do not yet—completely—understand. But if you let me alone for a few cycles, I'll master it. Now—"

"Don't touch that console, you damned Sodeskayan fool!" Amherst squeaked in a high-pitched voice.

"They've rigged it to blow us up!" Sweat suddenly stood out on his forehead.

"With them still aboard?" Ursis demanded indignantly as he continued to manipulate the controls.

"Ridiculous."

"Get your hands away from those, Ursis!" Amherst hissed nervously. "That is an order. Understand?"

"Would you rather wait until one of their patrols intercepts us, Lieutenant7" Ursis asked, frowning.

"I don't want to die, Ursis," Amherst spat. "Stay away from those controls before you blow us all over the Universe!"

"Wha-a-a-t?"

"You have no idea what they might have patched in there, Sodeskayan. By Slua's third eye, you toy with our lives. There's high power at the end of those controls."

"I know from power for xaxt sake," Ursis rumbled, head cocked to one side in a anger. "That's how I make my living—usually."

"You know about power systems that have not been turned into death traps, Bear," Amherst argued hotly.

"True, but I do not think such is the case here. Can you seriously believe they'd blow themselves up with us?"

"I shall believe anything I wish. And get your paws off those controls—that is a direct order! Do you understand?"

Ursis thumped angrily back in the recliner, a grim look on his face.

Unable to contain himself further, Brim jumped into the fray. "If we don't start moving a whole lot faster than this, we are very liable to end up looking down the barrel of a disruptor—and it won't be ours, Lieutenant Amherst," he protested. "Both these ships messaged off calls for help."

"Would you rather risk being blown to subatomics, Carescrian?" Amherst snapped angrily.

"I don't see what Nik's doing as any sot of risk," Brim said, temper only barely under control. "What I do see as a risk is sitting around here at less than LightSpeed. Anybody can catch us the way we are now—and unless I badly miss my guess, we will soon be joined by a lot of 'anybodys."

"Well!" Amherst fumed. "I suppose I have no reason to be surprised. You Carescrians would be expected to side with the Bears; now that I think of it. Subhumans..."

Brim shook his head, ashamed to meet Ursis' eyes. "Perhaps you'd rather deal with our black-suited friends from the Cloud League," he said hotly. "Shall I send Barbousse to fetch them? Maybe you can persuade them to explain what they've done."

Amherst tensed. "We...we all know how much good that would do," he said, a shadow of fear passing into his eyes. "And besides, I prefer to keep them where they are."

Brim set his jaw and glowered at the starship's useless controls. He was still fighting his temper when the ship's proximity alarm started clanging overhead. He swiveled in his recliner, activating the aft viewscreens before he stopped.

"What is that?" Amherst asked, face ashen. "Are we going to blow up after all?"

"No," Brim assured him grimly. "And you are now quite safe from foreign hands tampering with the ship's Drive me mechanism."

"Well, that's better," Amherst said, taking a long bread relief. "But what was that ringing?"

"The proximity alarm, Lieutenant," Brim said, adjusting focus of the aft viewscreens and shaking his head. "Help has just arrived."

"Oh," the First Lieutenant said, "then Truculent's back?"

"No," Brim said, "but there is another starship outside. I can't make out the name. She's a Cloud League corvette. And both her long 99s are pointed right here at the bridge."

CHAPTER 3

Arms embracing his knees, Brim sat with his back against a chilly metal bulkhead gritting his teeth in frustrated anger. Twelve more would-be raiders from Truculent idled about in the gloomy compartment, faces set in like attitudes of disgust, helmets confiscated from their battle suits. Outside, in the merchantman's central K tube, he could hear disjointed bursts of guttural Vertrucht—and a lot of laughter. He understood most of what he heard: before the war, all ore-carrier Helmsmen had to learn Emperor Triannic's official language. League buyers were some of the Empire's best customers in those days. He snorted; the lot aboard this ship didn't know that about him. And he wasn't about to volunteer the information either—though so far his little secret had netted him no particular advantage. Except the knowledge that all thirteen of them were up for immediate transfer to the waiting corvette.

He listened to the uneven thrumming of the merchantman's unsynchronized gravity generators. Every so often, they rattled a bolt somewhere on the bulkhead at his back, but he couldn't locate it in the dim light. Turning his head, he glared at Amherst's rigid figure still nearly frozen by fear as he stood bolt upright, staring at the door. Nearby, Ursis and Barbousse each occupied a corner, asleep and snoring soundly. Brim chuckled in spite of his wrath—nobody in a right mind would disturb those two.

He shook his head in resignation: if nothing else, he'd learned a good lesson (though a fat lot of good it would do him grinding his strength away in some Cloud League slave brigade). But if he did taste freedom again someday, Wilf Brim swore he would never again acquiesce to anyone's reasoning flawed by fear. He shook his head in disgust. Had he taken steps to silence the frightened First Lieutenant (or had Ursis disregarded the man's orders and continued to work on the sabotaged Drive controls), they might now be boring their way through Hyperspace toward home and safety. Instead, Ruggetos and her vital cargo would soon resume their interrupted journey into a safe Leaguer harbor.

The Carescrian shrugged angrily. It was far too late now for thoughts of that sort. He purged them from his mind—self-recrimination was patently useless anyway, especially once basic mistakes were aired and thoroughly understood. He forced himself to random thoughts, conjured loose golden curls and frowning smiles. Red, moist lips—Lacerta's "Rime of The Ancients." He heard the husky voice in his mind's ear as if it were yesterday: "Roll on, thou deep and star-swept cosmos." Margot Effer'wyck—her large hand warm and soft in his for a too-short instant of total enchantment. Sturdy legs and tiny feet. Suddenly, another line of poetry crossed his mind; written especially for her, it seemed, though Lacerta penned the words more than a thousand years before those blue eyes first saw the light of day. "She walks in beauty, like the stars/ Of cloudless climes and worlds afar." He shook his head.

Strange how meeting her affected him. Just that once, and her face was never again far below the surface of his mind. "She walks in beauty..."

He chuckled to himself. Always an eye for the best! But this time those tastes had surely betrayed him.

Incredible now he hadn't tumbled to the name when be first met her. Pym had to explain the whole thing days after they'd met: Effer'wyck! The beautiful blond Lieutenant was not only grandchild of Sabar Effer'wyck (ascetic mogul of the powerful Effer Cluster), she was also a full-blooded princess and kin to the late Emperor Erioed III himself.

He snorted in embarrassment. A Carescrian talking face to face with an Effer'wyck. Even taking her hand. He pictured her and the elegant Baron LaKarn together in some ornate setting, sharing a laugh about his pitiful love of poetry. His cheeks burned with shame. Given his background of poverty, he'd need to become another Admiral Merlin Emrys—save a whole star system, perhaps—before she'd notice any interest he might have in her.

He shrugged. It was all over now anyway. Not much chance to accomplish anything heroic where he was going, or contribute anything to anybody—except perhaps to Kabul Anak's war effort. Well, he considered, if nothing else, he had his anonymity. She couldn't laugh at someone she didn't remember—and Wilf Brim was about to disappear completely, another small statistic in a very large war.

The hatch abruptly clanged open, nearly blinding him with light. Shouted commands propelled him to his feet, and a sharp blow to his head brought sudden pinpoints of light to his eyes as he started through the hatch and down the companionway. In a black mood, he stumbled off toward incarceration aboard the enemy corvette.

Shambling helmetless through the transparent transfer tube, he glanced toward Truculent's ugly little launch hanging forlornly at the merchantman's bridge, silhouetted against the blazing stars of outer space.

How differently things had begun only a few short metacycles ago! Ahead, the glasslike tube ended at a circular hatch opened in the corvette's second module, a fat cylinder mounted astride the ship's central K tube—crew quarters, he guessed. Next aft, the spherical battery module carried both 99-mmi turrets mounted at opposite poles. After this...He craned his neck, but he was already too close alongside now to see. If he remembered correctly, though, most Cloud League ships started with a spherical bridge module forward, then alternated cylinders and globes along the central K tube—so this ship would continue with a second cylinder, then a globe, and presumably end with a final cylinder containing the Drive and antigravity machinery. He wished he'd paid more attention when he could see the whole ship in the merchantman's bridge display.

Then he was inside the hatch, where a sharp kick by a hulking, lantern-jawed Controller-rating sent him reeling along a companionway into the K tube itself. There, a second black-suited rating—with scowling mien and great bushy eyebrows—waved him aft with an ugly-looking blast pistol. A few steps farther on, a Controller officer stopped him in his tracks—an overmann (the League equivalent of an Imperial first lieutenant). Her face was horribly disfigured by a purple scar that ran diagonally across her mouth from her nose to her chin.

"You will halt!" she commanded, large almond-shaped eyes blazing with hate. Somehow Brim couldn't bring himself to blame her—no question she'd received her wound at the hands of someone dressed in the same kind of battle suit as his. He stopped and prudently froze, listening behind him to other voices, thumping, stomping, and occasional grunts of pain, as his comrades from Truculent were herded into the corridor.

The black-suited lantern jaw at the hatch evidently enjoyed kicking. His own shin throbbed, but he dared not move to rub it.

At some length, the woman banged on a hatch beside her. "All right, Overmann," she said gruffly, "here's the lot. They're yours."

The hatch opened and a serious-looking, bespectacled officer in the stiff-necked gray tank suit of the Cloud League's "normal" military starfleet stepped through. Thin and ascetic-looking, his face had more the intense seriousness of a lifelong student than the careful awareness Brim associated with military professionals. A person more likely to be addressed as "Professor" than "Overmann," he wore an antique timepiece on his wrist which sparkled in the overhead lights. He was followed by two elderly gray-suited ratings, one fat with squinting eyes and flushed face, the other with the looks of a farmer, spare and muscular, whose callused hands had not yet lost the hardness required of those who tend the soil. Each carried a wicked-looking blast pike of League manufacture. "Ah, yes, ma'am," the Overmann said in a cheerful voice to the disfigured Controller. "Just leave the whole thing to us. We'll take good care of them for you." He smiled hopefully.

The black-uniformed Overmann only raised her eyebrows. "How good of you," she sneered, then turned on her heel and walked away as if the studious-looking starfleet officer simply didn't exist. It was graphic proof to Brim that even though rank names might be the same in both starfleet and Controller organizations, actual power was lopsidedly vested with the latter.

The man shrugged embarrassedly, then watched his counterpart disappear along the K tube in the opposite direction Brim had come. "Controllers," he said, shaking his head. After a moment, he turned to the slim rating beside him. "Locar," he ordered, "you and Koch'kiss follow while I lead 'em to the interrogation chamber." Then he stopped and frowned. "Ah...how many of 'em are there anyway?" he asked.

"I don't know, Overmann," Locar said. "She didn't say."

The officer raised an eyebrow. "I suppose we'd better know that," he said, standing on tiptoe. "Let's see..."

Brim suddenly jumped as he beard his name growled in a whisper from directly behind his back.

"Make a break for it, Wilf Ansor," Ursis' voice urged in a fierce whisper. "Now, before they can make that count!" Immediately, he roared at the top of his voice in feigned—and deafening—agony. Brim whirled just in time to see the Bear sink to the deck, writhing in the grip of what could only be a seizure of the deadliest kind. Stunned by the sudden outcry, the two gray-suited ratings jerked around in dumb surprise, only to be knocked into a welter of flying arms and legs by a suddenly howling and wide-eyed Barbousse. In the burgeoning confusion, Brim dropped to his knees and scuttled toward a nearby hatch, praying to every power in the Universe it was not secured. With a paroxysm of tension, he grabbed the latch. It moved! In one motion, he smashed the door open with his shoulder, blindly threw himself through, and slammed it closed behind him, gagging on the sudden sick-sweet foulness of TimeWeed, the mysterious—and poisonous—narcotic all Controllers were known to smoke (indeed, some were rumored to eat it!). Before him, dressed only in ceremonial loincloth, the room's occupant bounded up from his bunk, slowed by the drug but surprisingly agile for all that—and clearly alerted by the commotion outside his room. Roaring in anger, the Leaguer grabbed a blast pike from a nearby rack and swung the heavy weapon toward Brim's stomach. Desperately, the Carescrian grabbed its barrel and fiercely wrenched it off to one side, jerking awkwardly. The dazed Controller howled in surprise, overbalanced, and began to tumble forward, a look of bestial rage on his face. He recovered and ripped the weapon from Brim's hands, swinging its clumsy barrel like a club. Spontaneously, Brim stepped in close, the man's breath stale in his face, grabbed his slippery armpits, and drove a knee into the loincloth with all the strength he could muster.

Eyes wide as saucers, the Controller bellowed in hoarse agony. Retching on Brim's battle suit, he dropped the pike and grabbed convulsively for his smashed testicles. Instinctively, Brim reverted to Academy training—he cocked his fist at a right angle, then smashed the heel of his hand upward into the base of the other's nose with a brackling crunch as snapped bone and cartilage punctured the frontal lobes of his brain like tiny stilettos.

The Controller's eyes—still open in mortal agony—glazed and rolled upward as he sank to his knees, blood guttering from his nostrils, then he toppled face first to the deck.

Panting desperately, Brim sank to his own wobbly knees, hands trembling convulsively. Air!

Light-headed, he shook his head wildly—the TimeWeed. It was still burning somewhere, filling the room with deadly narcotic fumes. The whole Universe seemed to have slowed around him. He felt light-headed and introspective. His mind was expanding—growing more and more perspicacious. Much more: conceptualizing.... He was losing control!

Using his last vestiges of strength, he willed himself to the bunk. There! The man's pipe of TimeWeed lay in a bulkhead alcove, thick smoke writhing heavily from its bowl. He lifted it in weak hands—then somehow found himself at the metal washstand. He mashed open the water valve, shoved the pipe into the trickling stream. The fragile bowl hissed, shattered with a snap—but the smoke stopped. Senses reeling, Brim next pulled himself up to the basin, reached above the top of the wash fixture itself, and dialed the atmosphere controls to "ALL FILTERED." A sudden hissing filled the room as he slithered again to his knees, gasping desperately. Why? How could the Controllers do such things to themselves?

He felt himself falling, hit his chin on the basin, almost blacked out from the pain. Then a rush of cool air hit his lungs like a runaway starship and his head began to clear. Some cycles later—he never remembered how many—he was on the deck, grinning stupidly, huffing like some sort of animal. He'd made it!

Suddenly, a persistent buzzing overhead brought him jumping again to his feet. What now? His watering eyes searched the room. An alarm? Finally, there, over the door, an old-fashioned summons hooter, like the ones on ore carriers. Heart beating with fresh apprehension, he stepped over the sprawling corpse, reached above the door, and flipped the device from "MONITOR" to "RECEIVE."

Then he waited—in sudden and terrifying silence. Whatever new fate awaited his twelve comrades outside in the K tube, it was evidently now decided.

In due time, the hooter answered his summons with the tinny imitation of a woman's voice:

"Overmann Zotreb?"

Brim eyed the body at his feet. So that was the name of the man he killed. He shuddered. "Yes?" he responded in Vertrucht, muffling his voice through a fist.

"Overmann?"

"Yes."

"You do not sound yourself, Overmann Zotreb."

Heart in his mouth for the hundredth time since he left Truculent, Brim searched the bare walls for an answer—deciding attack was his best defense. "And just what is it you expect?" he snapped angrily, still muffling his voice.

"N-Nothing, Overmann!" the voice responded placatingly.

"You will concentrate on your own concerns in the future," Brim growled. "Now, what message disturbs my contemplation of the Weed?" he demanded.

"S-Sorry, Overmann," the voice said. "The call was placed at your personal request."

"Well get on with it, damn your worthless hide!"

"Y-Yes sir. You are due on the bridge in twenty cycles, Overmann."

"And that is all?"

"Yes, Overmann."

"Acknowledged," Brim spat, then turned the device back to "MONITOR." He frowned, concentrating. Twenty cycles of relative safety before they started looking for Zotreb. After that, it was just a matter of time until...He snorted. He couldn't very well just sit in the cabin. Ursis hadn't set up his escape so he could run away to hide. And now that he found himself with a few options again, it was necessary he make the most of his time and do something about the disaster their mission had become.

Soon! Every cycle brought the little crew closer to an enemy spaceport and slavery or death—eventually the latter, in any case.

Brim suddenly grimaced. Of course. That was the answer. Whatever else he might accomplish, it was necessary first to stop the corvette. That meant getting himself to the engineer's flat in the aftmost module and somehow disabling the starship's single gravity generator. Its uneven rumble irritated him almost as much as the Controllers. But how could he get all the way back there? His answer came from the corpse.

The late Overmann Zotreb had no further use for his uniforms now, but Wilf Brim did. In less than five cycles, the Carescrian was dressed in one of the dead man's hated black uniforms—too big overall, but a lot less noticeable than his own bright blue Imperial battle suit. He consulted his timepiece. About fifteen cycles remained—perhaps forty until they started looking and found the body. After that, Universe knew.

But one step at a time.

Wiping clotted blood from Zotreb's big blast pike, he carefully opened the door, peered both ways along the empty K tube, then started aft toward the propulsion module at what he hoped was a casual rate of speed.

Footsteps echoing in the smooth-walled tube, Brim didn't get far at all before his disguise was put to the test. A gray-clad rating, arm around a bundle of logic assemblies, appeared suddenly from a companionway, turned on his heel, and passed at a fast walk. He saluted but never lifted his eyes. Brim breathed a deep sigh of relief as he entered the ship's central module, carefully memorizing everything he saw. One never knew....

Unlike similar modules built around a K tube, this corvette's central globe was part of the tube itself—a place where the long, cannular structure swelled to a spherical chamber before shrinking again at the point opposite his present position. The walkway cantilevered across twenty irals of open space to meet its counterpart on the other side.

Centered in the chamber, a glowing vertical tube divided the catwalk and extended through wide, circular openings at the top and bottom of the room—beyond which were control rooms located just inboard of the ship's 99-mmi disruptor turrets. Brim easily picked out the firing consoles (triggering gear all looked pretty much the same everywhere) in the harsh light that streamed from the rooms and provided most of the illumination around him. Elsewhere in the chamber, great power conduits sprang from the aft opening to the K tube and disappeared within the brilliance of the rooms. Numerous ledges jutting from the curved inner walls contained consoles—some manned, most not—many of which Brim could not identify. These oddly placed displays cast random, moving patterns of colored lights throughout the strange spherical chamber and everything it contained. Clearly, a great deal of the activity that took place on the bridge of an Imperial warship was decentralized throughout this ship. A nice point of design, he allowed, for a warship. It would make her much harder to knock out with one well-placed hit. But it also denied the close team atmosphere that resulted from concentrating decision-making power. He filed it away in his mind as he strode (more confident looking, he hoped, then he felt) across the catwalk, gripping Zotreb's blast pike and trying to act as if he belonged where he was. If he ever got back to his own side of the war, the information he memorized could prove handy in many ways. He snorted to himself. If he ever got back.

As he moved into the aft continuation of the K tube, more and more gray-clad crew members passed, all avoiding his eyes—most, in fact, cringed while they hurried by as if they were relieved to be out of his way. He smiled to himself—no more relieved than he!

Then, passing an open door in the next-to-last module, he heard voices, glanced inside, and was rewarded with a view of five Controllers sitting wound a circular table—clearly pursuing serious matters among themselves. Putting his haste aside for the moment, he stepped to a position outside the door where he could hear what was gong on inside but still remain unseen by the conferees. He rested the butt of his blast pike on the deck beside his right hoot, then assumed the Universal position of a bored-guard.

So far as he could remember, Brim himself seldom questioned armed guards—especially commissioned armed guards—and guessed it was a pretty typical reaction. This was verified only moments later when he was passed by three, gray-suited ratings (who saluted) and two Controllers (who did not). Not one of them so much as met his eyes.

"It is now under control?" a smooth, perfectly modulated voice demanded in Vertrucht from inside.

"It is, Prefect," a younger voice declared, fear just below the surface.

Brim felt his eyebrows raise. Prefects were the equivalent of Imperial lieutenant commanders. The corvette was too small for more than one of these—so it was a sure bet he was listening to the ship's captain.

"And the count, Officiant Naddock—how many were they?" the Prefect's flawless voice demanded.

"Ah," the younger voice began. "Ah, I..." A chair scraped the deck.

"Well, Officiant?"

"We have all twelve of them locked up, Prefect," a female voice asserted. Brim recognized it as the scarred officer's from the K tube. "Gray Officer Mocht—the ex-professor—counted them just after the Bear had his fit."

Brim smiled—Ursis' distraction had come just in time. They couldn't know he was loose. Yet.

"You had better hope the Gray fool's count is accurate, my scarred beauty," the modulated voice sneered. "Or I shall make certain you are both more painfully interested in detail during any future operations you survive to join."

This was answered by a sharp intake of breath and then silence. Brim returned a melancholic salute from a fat, gray-suited rating with a painful-looking, and very swollen, black eye, who slowly limped along the corridor. Souvenir of Ursis' free-for-all in the K tube, he guessed, hard put to stifle his smile.

"Well, what then have you planned for our visitors from the Empire, Placeman Zodekk?" the Prefect's voice demanded next. "I haven't all day. We dock in less than three metacycles."

"Oh, yes, sir," another voice answered, this one with just the hint of a lisp. "We are questioning them one by one right now."

"Well, go on, pretty fool. What then?"

"Wh-When we finish, we could simply shoot them," the new voice offered.

"Of course," the female voice suggested, "handpower is scarce down there. The captured Imperials might serve for a time as slaves. All appear to be well fed. They could survive a long time on next to nothing, Provost."

"Hmm," the modulated voice said "Indeed a point—and I have heard of your, shall we say, predilection for the slower forms of death." He laughed. "But what of the Bear? Do you wish his presence among the slaves?"

"Oh, the Bear is quite a windfall, my Provost," the lisping voice interrupted gleefully. "Only Imperials have any use for them on starships. But bearskin coats and carpets are in much demand among Emperor Triannic's royal court this season. It has been quite cold, as you might have heard."

"All right, Placeman," the Prefect's voice said with an ill-concealed accent of boredom. "And you will let all this be a lesson. The next time..."

Heart pounding, Brim turned and started aft again along the K tube. It was imperative that he prolong the corvette's trip in space—once it reached its destination, they all were good as dead. Especially Ursis.

Free passage along the tube ended abruptly in a solid-looking bulkhead and dogged-down hatch at the entrance to the ship's aftmost module. Illuminated warnings mounted on either side of the hatch read,

"AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" and "SIGN IN/OUT REQUIRED BY THE PREFECT."

Below these, a tabulator board hung from a hook, complete with logic scriber—the same kind of portable writing device carried by everyone in the Universe who ever took an inventory or made a survey. It was all Brim needed.

Checking behind himself for activity, he suddenly ripped the tabulator free from its hook—only one person was signed inside. He scrolled the sign-in form from its display surface, then touched a glowing panel on the hatch before him and waited.

"Yes?" a voice asked from a speaker.

"Radiation-level survey," Brim, answered briskly, pointing to the blank tabulator board as if it were his own.

"Name and ID?" the voice demanded.

Brim grimaced, heart pounding. "I have already signed that information in your tabulator board you have hanging from your hatch, fool!" he blustered, pointing to the empty hook as if it were visible from the other side of the hatch. "Now you open up before I have you fire-flogged. Do you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Aye, sir! I h-hear," the voice stammered as a series of clanks and chatterings: announced the opening of the hatch. Brim was almost knocked to the deck as it swung open toward him.

"Th-This way, please, Overmann, sir," a frightened rating stammered, face white with fear. He was short, wiry, and middle-aged with narrow-set eyes and a sharp-looking chin covered by uneven gray stubble. His hands bore the blue stains of a sometime kupp'gh cleaner.

Brim pushed his way past and into an antechamber—which ended in a second hatch. This one looked even more secure than its outside counterpart. Keeping his nerve under control, he slammed the first hatch shut and whirled on the rating with the best imitation of haughty anger he could summon. "You will also open this immediately," he demanded through tight lips.

"Oh, ah, aye, Overmann," the cowed guard said, taking a key from around his neck and unlocking the inner hatch. "And will you need assistance, sir?" be asked.

"You dare question my ability?" Brim hissed through his teeth.

The rating shrank back away from the hatch. "S-Sorry, sir," he whispered. "Don't have me whipped, Overmann. I mean no harm askin' ye."

Brim looked down his nose at the wretched rating, hating himself and what he had to do. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end. "Perhaps I may overlook the lapse this time," he said. "But I shall brook no interruption of my work. Do you understand? No interruption."

"I understand, sir," the rating said, taking his seat with a wan face. "No interruptions. I'll make sure."

"See that you do," Brim growled, then stepped into the bright, humming module and closed the door after himself. He had just dogged it down tight from the inside when he heard alarms go off everywhere.

He glanced at his watch—time was up by almost ten cycles.

"Warning!" the speakers brayed "Warning. An Imperial murderer is loose within the ship. He is armed and dangerous. Shoot on sight and shoot to kill. Repeat: shoot on sight and shoot to kill."

Brim shrugged as he threw the tabulator in a corner. It probably wouldn't fool anyone else now.

One eye out for his lone companion in the module, Brim jog-trotted from cabin to compartment, desperately seeking entrance to the generator chamber. No time to waste now. He soon found himself deep within the module, but unable to exit from the deck on which he entered—and from the intensity of sound and vibration coming from below, he knew the mechanism he sought was located somewhere deeper in the hull. Frowning, he had just returned to the K tube from another fruitless search of a parts storeroom when a dazzling explosion seared the wall beside his head and nearly knocked him from his feet. He whirled around, firing the pike by instinct as a second explosion ruptured the space he had occupied only ticks before. The shadow of a black-suited Controller disappeared inside a nearby hatch only ticks before the bucking weapon blasted its door panel from its hinges in a wild tattoo of destruction.

He rushed for the blackened, dented opening and flattened himself outside.

Panting, he readied the pike again, then blew out a whole section of overhead lights. This resulted in almost total darkness—except the bright glow streaming from the door into which this new adversary had disappeared. He dropped to a crouch, the pike ready at his hip. Gathering himself, he flexed his shoulders, took a last deep breath, and leaped through the doorway, spraying the room with deadly bursts of energy and radiation. As his feet hit the floor, a figure armed with what must have been a RocketDart pistol ran screaming toward him, launching a flurry of deadly sparkling missiles. Two hit with a searing—unbelievable—agony in his left shoulder. He heard himself scream, sank to his knees, and fired the heavy weapon point-blank into the man's stomach.

With a horrible scream of anguish, the Controller doubled over, sprayed a stinking froth of blood and vomit over Brim's blouse, then collapsed nearby in a heap on the floor, his still-smoking torso blown nearly in half.

Gritting his teeth from the burning pain in his shoulder, Brim felt blood running inside his tunic and realized he had no more than a few cycles to disarm the ship's generator before he lost consciousness.

He struggled awkwardly to his feet, stuffed the RocketPistol in his belt, and dragged the blast pike by its scorched barrel to a large open hatch set in the deck. Light and noise streaming through from below assured him be had finally reached the generator chamber. And not a moment too soon. Far down the K tube, he could already hear thumps and clangs as the ship's crew—almost certainly alerted by the sight of their dead comrade in the crew section—attempted to force the inner hatch.

Balancing himself precariously on the narrow rungs, he found the howling bass of the machinery nearly as painful to his unprotected ears as the throbbing darts in his charred shoulder. Somehow, he managed to descend with his good hand while doggedly clutched the heavy pike in his left, but at the bottom he couldn't remember navigating the last two rungs at all.

Mounted overhead directly to the underside of the K tube the generator itself looked much like the rest of the antigravity generators he had seen. It was big, taking up the major volume of the round-bottomed chamber—the deck on which he presently stood was no more than a small platform mounted over the stout longerons and curved hullmetal plates that formed the underside of the module itself. Brim estimated the machinery stretched nearly twenty irals in length from its forward cooling vanes to the gleaming, pressure-regulating sphere where it connected to the ship's primary power supply by means of two finned wave guides arching down from the flat ceiling, then up and around to a radiation-blackened collar.

Thrusting aside the torment in his shoulder, Brim considered his options. There were only two. He could blast the regulator globe—either of the weapons he carried could do that easily. Or he could shoot out the machine's all-important phase latch, if he could find it. The second choice was much more attractive from a personal standpoint: rupturing the regulator globe would release all the generator's output directly into the chamber. The burst of raw energy would last only a gigatick at most before logic fuses sensed the runaway flow and choked it off at the source. But that was ample time to fry him (and any other organic compounds in the generator chamber) to fused carbon atoms. Grimly, he studied the big machine. Familiar as it looked overall, individual parts made little sense by themselves. He shook his head with frustration as he eyed the pulsing regulator. He grimaced. Death held no particular terror for him, especially after what he'd already been through. But he hated to give in. He concentrated again, trying desperately to discover some thread of functionality amid the complex network of conduits, insulators, logics, and odd-shaped housings. Then, almost by accident, his eye was caught by a big synchronous compensator, calibrated by the League's crazy x-ROGEN. No wonder he couldn't find it the first time! Directly below was its logic shunt—and to the right of that, a beam multiplier, no doubt about it! And a Fort'lier tube—they'd call it a "multigrid-A" here, calibrated as it was in mega-ROGEN.

He was getting close now—a good thing, too. The pain in his shoulder was all but stopped, but be had become very drowsy now—and dizzy. He steadied himself with the hot barrel of the blast pike, forcing his eyes to focus. A distant clanging and hammering commenced on the hatch above him. Not much time left now. He compelled his tired mind to function.... The Fort'lier tube. It controlled a radiation modulator somewhere. Therefore... He shook his head. Things ~ getting terribly foggy. He traced a thick wave guide from the oblong device through... Yes. That was the modulator, and beside it the phase latch he was looking for. He could tell by the big rectifier mounted on its side. All so easy once he knew where to look!

He sniffed the air anxiously, looked up. The hatch was glowing cherry red. Bastards were burning through. Desperately, he raised his pike toward the generator—Universe, how he was shaking. The hammering commenced again. He blurred, squeezed his eyes clear. The latch was in his sights. He fired...and missed.

With a sharp ripping noise, a bolt of energy cut through the hatch and sent sparks all over a nearby bulkhead. Gritting his teeth, Brim wrestled the weapon to his shoulder again, aimed. This was his last chance. If he missed, he'd go for the regulator and a quick, painless death. He willed himself to steady the sights, counted backward. Three...two...one. Then he fired. This time, he was rewarded with a satisfying flash of light as the phase latch shattered in a wobbling ball of violet radiance. Immediately, the noise of the generator began to fade with a great, almost-human sigh.

Presently, his eyes began to fog over again. By now, Brim had no strength to counter it. He felt himself falling. The last thing he heard was the hatch grating open on its ruined hinges—guttural shouts he no longer understood. Then he heard nothing.

He noticed the glare forcing his closed eyelids at about the same time his cheek told him he was lying facedown on something cold and very hard. Groggily, he caught himself before he opened his eyes—voices on every side, all speaking Vertrucht. Where was he? So hard to remember.... But with all the Vertrucht being spoken, it couldn't be very healthy for him, wherever it was.

"Try it again," a gruff voice commanded, clearly under some sort of strain.

"I already did," a nasal voice answered. "And I'm telling you, the whole damned thing's dead. What's the big rush anyway? They've already sent a ship out to help."

"You know the Prefect as well as I do," the gruff voice said. "And he's not going to be happy taking anybody's help. So try it."

"Yes, sir. Shunt's in place. Inverters on. Grav housing closed."

Other voices stopped, listening.

"Hit it!" the gruff voice commanded. "Now."

Silence. Brim's shoulder throbbed painfully. He was cold, shivered in spite of himself.

"That's all?"

"That's all," the nasal voice confirmed. "Bastard really cocked up the phase latch, didn't he?"

The gruff voice swore an unintelligible oath. "The whole damned generator's dead as an xchort, then," it said.

The generator! It all came back to Brim in a rush. But where had they taken him? Was he still in the chamber? Somehow he didn't think so. This sounded more like the bridge.

"How long before you can get us going again?' a new, deeper voice demanded.

"None will say as yet, Placeman," the gruff voice answered. "When that one on the deck over there murdered Overmann Zotreb, he did more damage then he knew."

"Well?"

"Zotreb's assistants are a good deal slower, it seems"

"Curse all of them—especially him," the deep voice growled. Brim's side exploded with a blow that knocked the wind from his lungs—and opened both eyes wide with pain. It took only a moment to determine he was indeed on the corvette's bridge.

"Look out! He's awake," someone yelled. This was followed by a second vicious kick. Brim shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, waiting for the next one.

"Placeman! Placeman!" another voice squealed. "Would you kill him before we search his mind?"

"Putrid spawn of Greyffin's scum!" the deep voice growled. "You can be sure I shall kill him."

"But not before we extract certain information, fool," a new, smoothly modulated voice interrupted.

Brim remembered that voice from the conference he'd "guarded."

"Oh, ah—no, sir, Prefect Valentin!" the deep voice stumbled. "Certainly not before."

"One must be subtle," the modulated voice interrupted, as though the other had never spoken. "Like this...."

Brim opened his eyes wide in renewed agony as a gleaming boot ground the fingers of his left hand into the metal decking. He gasped in pain, trying to pull his hand away, but the arm didn't seem to work anymore. Blinking angry tears from his eyes, he peered upward into the calm face of another Controller, clearly the corvette's commanding officer. Blond, square-jawed, young, and strikingly handsome, even from a deck-level angle of view, the man called Valentin was outfitted in immaculate black breeches, a tight, form-fitting tunic with crimson prefect's collars, and a peaked hat with silver decoration. He was the perfect embodiment of Triannic's officer corps, and the look of confidence on his face gave clear signal he was also a man on his way up someone's ladder of success.

"Keep your eyes open and attend my questions, slime of slime," the youthful officer commanded in flawless Avalonian. He sneered as he removed his heel from Brim's bleeding fingers. "You clearly understand you will die soon," he said matter-of-factly, "therefore it should be of little concern to you what we do with your body." His face exploded with cruel laughter. "How quickly and painlessly you die depends upon your answers. I reward truthfulness even for your kind."

'Hab'thall," Brim spat defiantly, picking the most insulting malediction he could dredge from his store of gutter Vertrucht—then grunted in pain as a polished boot smashed into his mouth, snapping teeth and throwing his head back against his shoulder.

"That should teach you better use of Vertrucht."

Brim willed the pain away and glared up in silence.

"Good," Valentin said at length, studying his fingernails. "Now, what is your ship? Name and home port, if you please."

Brim continued his silence as blood seeped from the corner of his ruined lips and ran warm along his lower cheek to puddle silently on the deck.

"My, my," the officer said with an innocent mien, "others in your crew have shared that secret with me. And much more, too. Now..." He stepped on Brim's helpless fingers again. "Won't you?"

Brim threw up on the other perfect boot.

Valentin roared in anger, jumped back, and kicked Brim full in the stomach.

By this time, Brim hardly noticed.

"I'll show you, cretin son of a capcloth," the enraged officer shouted, pulling a blaster from a black, shiny holster on his hip. He pointed it in the direction of Brim's stomach. "Slowly, Avalonian scum. As I promised."

Fascinated, Brim watched the man's finger curl over the trigger. Then suddenly, alarms went off all over the bridge.

"Prefect," a rating yelled in panic. "Prefect Valentin, sir!"

Valentin growled—lowered his blaster and turned. "Well?" he demanded.

"Another sh-ship, Prefect," the voice stammered.

"Drat!" Valentin swore. "They got here much sooner than I, expected." He glared at the generator console. "Now I suppose I shall have to accept their help."

"It...it's the w-wrong kind of ship, Prefect Valentin," the rating declared.

"Well, what kind of ship, fool? How does it answer the challenge?"

"It does not answer, Prefect."

"What?"

"See for yourself, Prefect."

"Silence, fool! Where is it coming from?"

Brim couldn't see where the man pointed, but watched Valentin's boots spin round.

"Train the guns," the officer bellowed. "And..." He stopped in midsentence. "Sweet hok'kling Pokknor," he swore through his teeth. "Belay that last order. It's one of their T-class ships. Our 99s don't stand a chance."

Brim laughed through his cut and bleeding lips—though it came out as more of a bubbling noise. He mouthed the next words slowly and carefully. "What number, hab'thall?" This time, he spoke entirely in Vertrucht, then waited for the foot. It didn't come.

"You sneaking slime," Valentin snarled. "Vertrucht, eh?"

"What number, hab'thall?" Brim bubbled, this time with a smile worth twice the pain it caused his lips.

Valentin narrowed his eyes, peered through the Hyperscreens. "T.83," he snapped furiously, then turned and called over his shoulder, "Get this ordure into the seat here. Perhaps he can be of further value after all." He slipped the blaster back into its gleaming holster.

Rough hands hauled Brim from the deck and into a recliner at an empty console. He almost passed out from the pain—new blood was trickling along his chest again. His eyes fogged over and he felt himself slump toward the console. "I think you're too late, Prefect, old cock," he mumbled as a tiny popping noise exploded on his right arm.

"There, that'll bring him around for a while," another voice said.

Warmth spread rapidly from his right arm, and his eyes abruptly cleared. A rope under his arms secured him to the back of the recliner—he could see out the Hyperscreens. He focused his eyes, grinned as well as he could. I.F.S. Truculent, all right. Never had a "pick and shovel" starship looked so beautiful. Bow on, she was standing about a thousand irals off the corvette's port quarter, all seven of her powerful 144-mmi disruptors pointed, it seemed, directly at his head. Even while he watched, they flashed in unison, accompanied by great coruscating eruptions of flame and glittering clouds of radiation.

Outside, the Universe went mad in a paroxysm of erupting, runaway energy. The corvette bucketed violently, seams creaking and groaning as her spaceframe twisted in the backwash of space falling back in on itself. Screams of terror filled the bridge. The lights flickered out, then relighted—much dimmer this time.

Too near the final onslaught of death to care, Brim turned to the young Prefect. The hypodermic that cleared his eyes also seemed to have stemmed the pain—at least most of it. He smiled crookedly. "She's about to blow all of us to subatomics, Valentin," be bubbled happily, "I'm sure the others won't mind."

"She?"

"Captain Collingswood," Brim said reverting to Avalonian.

"By Pokknor's beard," Valentin whispered. "Perhaps there's a chance yet," he whispered to himself.

"Univers..."

"Not 'Universe,' 'Collingswood,'" Brim corrected gleefully.

"Silence, fool!"

"As you wish, Prefect."

Valentin shivered, peered through the Hyperscreens at Truculent's seven 144-mmi's. "I want to talk to her," he said almost to himself, then turned to a rating at a nearby console. "Get me a connection to that ship," he ordered, smoothing his wavy blond hair. "Immediately!"

"Aye, Prefect," a rating with a bald head and large ears answered, bending over his console. Within scant ticks, a blank Lobe appeared on the console nearest the black-suited officer.

"Not yet to me!" he bellowed. "Him!" He pointed to Brim.

A second blast from Truculent, this time much closer, sent every loose article on the bridge crashing wildly to the deck. The ship's gravity pulsed and the Hyperscreens flashed wildly.

"Hurry, fool!" Valentin wailed, nervously shooting his cuffs. "Hurry!"

"Aye, Prefect," the rating answered. "They're listening now, I think." A new globe appeared on Brim's console, flashing once... twice. Then it filled with a Blue Cape rating—bald with fat cheeks. It was Applewood.

"Connection's made, Prefect," the League rating reported.

Applewood's image peered out from the globe, talking with someone off the display. "We've got a connection to them, Captain," he said hesitantly. "I seem to be looking into the bridge." His eyes came to rest on Brim's ruined face. He stopped, a look of horror on his face. "Oh, sweet thraggling Universe," he groaned. "It looks like Lieutenant Brim."

Brim nodded, raised his good band. He felt hot and weak. The hypodermic was rapidly wearing off and his vision was starting to fog again. Blood still trickled down his chest.

"There's blood all over him," Applewood exclaimed. He was suddenly thrust aside, replaced by Collingswood in the globe.

"Lieutenant Brim," she said, clearly struggling to keep herself under control. "What has happened to...?" She paused. She seemed to know the answer to that. "To the rest of the crew?" she asked.

Smiling toothsomely and fairly dripping masculinity, Valentin moved beside Brim and spoke into the globe. "They are safe, Captain Collingswood," he said with the earnest look of a schoolboy. "You have my word as an officer of the League."

"Oh?" Collingswood answered. "Lieutenant Brim certainly doesn't look particularly safe to me."

"As you can see from his dress, Captain," Valentin said smoothly, "Lieutenant Brim is a special case.

Disguised, mind you, in the uniform of my beloved homeland—against all established conventions—this criminal ruthlessly murdered two of my officers." He shrugged. "We were forced to question him." "I see," Collingswood said slowly, a look of disgust in her eyes. "And you have, ah, 'questioned' my other crewmen in the same manner?"

"You can believe me when I say the remainder of your crewmen are, shall we say, safe for the moment." Valentin's eyes hardened theatrically the length of a well-measured instant, then the boyish smile returned.

"'For the moment,'" Collingswood repeated evenly. "Perhaps you had better tell me what that means."

The corvette's bridge was deathly still by now, every officer and rating watching breathlessly as if life itself depended on the next few words.

"Simply this, Captain Collingswood," Valentin said, his voice growing more oily by the moment.

"Should something untoward happen to my ship, your men would surely be affected also. And I am sure a lovely woman of your stature would never want something like that."

"Silence!" Collingswood snapped, her eyes blazing with anger. "I have no more patience with your game—and it is now clear to me you cannot move under your own power. Therefore, listen to me well," she continued, "for I am about to destroy your ship."

Valentin's eyes opened wide in surprise. "With thirteen of your men aboard?" he asked. "Would you kill them, too?"

"Absolutely," Collingswood assured him.

"She means it, Valentin," Brim laughed weakly. "I'm ready—look at me. And I imagine the others are, too." Blackness was sweeping over him and he had no strength left to fight. He closed his eyes, felt his head lolling as be collapsed against the rope that held him in place. He heard Collingswood gasp, then abruptly her voice hardened.

"Despite my own wishes to the contrary, Prefect," she said I through clenched teeth, "it is not necessary that anyone die with your ship—if my orders are followed accurately. Do you understand?

No deviations. Your fate is entirely up to you."

"Wh-What can I do?" Valentin asked in a shaky voice. His part in the game was clearly over before it began.

"You have only ten cycles to carry out my orders..." Collingswood said, the sound of her voice fast fading in Brim's ears. He strained to hear the next words, too, but they were drowned by a sudden thundering roar having nothing to do with starships or disruptors either: be was dying and he knew it.

Strange it didn't matter now the time had come. He even managed to relax as the last light faded from his eyes and the Universe ceased to exist. He'd done the best he could....

This time, the light filtering through his closed eyes was gentle—and wherever he was now come to, things were blessedly quiet, even warm. Comfortable. A definite improvement, be thought. Even the pain was gone, replaced by a wild tingling in his shoulder.

Alive?

He opened his eyes cautiously. A curved, transparent canopy arched overhead no more than half an iral from his face. For lack of anything better, he concentrated on that, and blinked his eyes. In one corner, it carried the stylized comet insignia of the Imperial Fleet.

Safe, too! Somehow—miraculously—he was in somebody's sick bay. He didn't even particularly care whose it was, or how he got there.

He turned his head in the cramped enclosure, sighted along his left shoulder. It had come free. The healing machine's amoebalike apparatus was evidently finished with him and retracted, or whatever it was pseudopods did when they went away. The shoulder itself was covered by a softly glowing cloth that extended all the way to his elbow. The remainder of him appeared to be dressed in a standard-issue one-piece Imperial hospital suit—minus the left sleeve and shoulder. He moved his left hand, clenched a fist. Very little tenderness.

Not bad.

In a state of almost total exhaustion, he closed his eyes again and drifted off into contented sleep.

Later, when he woke again, the canopy was open and the deep rumble of Drive crystals soothed his ears. A familiar face peered down from a balding head with considerable professional interest. "You xaxtdamned Carescrians will do anything for a little attention, won't you?" admonished Xerxes O. Flynn.

Brim grinned. "Well," he conceded, "almost anything. I didn't let 'em kill me, after all."

"Could have fooled me," Flynn said with a serious look on his face. "Those Cloud bastards sure thought you were dead. Frightened to death of what might happen to 'em because of it."

Brim frowned. "Yeah," he conceded, "Well, they weren't alone by a long shot. I was pretty sure it was all over, too. Just how in the bloody Universe did I get here?" he demanded. "When I passed out, that prefect bastard, Valentin, was still trying to play sex roles with Collingswood."

"Collingswood wasn't playing," Flynn chuckled, "but I did hear her telling Pym she thought he was xaxtdamned cute."

Brim raised an eyebrow. "Collingswood? Valentin?"

"Valentin, indeed," Flynn answered. "He's rather famous over there, in case you hadn't heard. Quite a hero, among other things." He laughed. "And there's nothing wrong with our little Regula Collingswood, either. She's a perfectly healthy specimen in every respect. Just wasn't in the mood at the time. Probably the sight of all your blood, or something. Anyway, she worked everything out. It's a long story—you can get the details later. But she nearly melted that thraggling corvette before she left, not long after Ursis carried you over himself. In a LifeGlobe."

"Melted the corvette?" Brim asked in 'amazement. "Universe—you can't expect me to wait for that story. Come on now, Doctor. I'll never get back to sleep."

Flynn opened his mouth for a moment, pointed a finger at Brim, then shook his head and smiled resignedly. "All right," he said, leaning his elbows on the side of the healing machine. "I suppose it makes sense. I wouldn't be able to sleep, either." With that, he related how Collingswood offered Valentin a very simple plan. He and his crew could safely embark in their LifeGlobes—so long as the captured Imperials were also provided their own LifeGlobe in which they could separately return to Truculent.

Once they were safely aboard and the Leaguers were a safe distance away, Collingswood would signal Pym to destroy the corvette—and one Leaguer LifeGlobe for each Imperial who was dead or had failed to return. "They were xaxtdamned careful with you after that," Flynn concluded.

"What about Ursis and Barbousse and the rest of the crew?" Brim asked.

"Oh, they're all healing, more's the pity," Flynn said. "Pym got no further target practice, and you're the only one I was able to really practice on."

"Universe," Brim said, "I'll bet everybody else all felt terrible about that. "

"They didn't," Flynn grumped. "Unfeeling bastards. But you made up for it, Brim, old friend," he said with a smile of satisfaction. "Isn't much under that bandage you brought from Carescria. I practiced on you for a long time—practically had to grow you a whole new shoulder, plus a few teeth."

"Thraggling wonderful," Brim exclaimed in mock dismay. "Do any of them work?"

"Smart bastard," Flynn fumed. "I couldn't very well cock up the teeth, now could I? They come in a box, you know." Then he frowned. "I am sort of worried about the arm and shoulder assembly, now that I think about it. Might be only good for piloting starships and lifting glasses of meem." A quiet chime interrupted his banter, and he looked over his shoulder, grinning. "Couple of strange-looking individuals asked to see you when you woke, Wilf," he said. "Feel up to talking some more?"

"If they can stand me, I can probably stand them," Brim assured him.

Flynn nodded, again over his shoulder. "All right," he said, "come on in."

Brim heard a door slide open on quiet rollers. Directly, Ursis and Barbousse appeared on either side of the Doctor, grinning from ear to ear. Both wore heavy bandages. "Remember now," Flynn warned sternly, "only a couple of cycles. Then out you go."

The Bear looked down at Brim with one eye (his other was hidden by a patch), fang gems flashing the soft light. He cocked his head toward the Doctor. "Flynn here can be great nuisance when he wants," he said. "Is this not so, Starman Barbousse?"

The big rating's face reddened. "Well, sir," he said, "he does appear to do passing good work. Ah..."

He peered down at Brim. "Glad to be seein' you, ah..."

"How about 'alive'?" Brim suggested. "And speaking of that, what happened to you two?"

"Oh," Barbousse said lightly, "them Cloud League scalawags didn't take kindly to Lieutenant Ursis' fake fit there in the K tube—what with all his rollin' around on the deck an' all."

"And you piling in for good measure," Ursis chuckled with a toothy grin. "As they say on the Mother Planets, 'When Hagsdoff scratches rock, Bears move snow houses out of sunlight,' eh?" He nudged the big rating in the ribs with an elbow.

"Oh. Ah...aye, sir," Barbousse answered with a confused look. "Hagsdoffs."

Flynn's eyes met Brim's, then rolled toward the ceiling. "Hagsdoffs," he repeated.

"You were both great, "Brim piped up to stifle an oncoming chuckle. "Even if you did almost get me killed."

"Sure glad you made it, Lieutenant," Barbousse repeated. "If you hadn't done what you did, we'd likely be startin' an all-day night shift at some Altnag'gin hullmetal mill."

"Not all of us," Ursis interjected with a dark growl.

"I heard," Brim said. "The bastards..."

"At any rate," Flynn interrupted quickly. "You two did show up here for a particular purpose, didn't you?"

"Yes, that we did," Ursis answered, turning to Brim with a serious look on his face. He narrowed his eyes. "Someday, Wilf Brim," he said, "I shall properly thank you for all you did for us. Not now. But I want you to know your bravery would be legend, even in my homeland." He shook his head, momentarily a long way off. "Meantime," he said, turning to Barbousse, "you give it to him. You found it."

Barbousse's cheeks went red again, but he looked Brim in the eye. "Ah, I, ah, c-copped this on the way out of the corvette," he stammered as he lifted a big side-action blaster into the startled Carescrian's right hand. "Tried to return it to Lieutenant Ursis, but he wouldn't take it back;"

"We agreed you should have it," Ursis thrust in. "It belonged to my grandfather—a man of great gallantry. You will honor it, Wilf—and him, rest his spirit."

Brim opened his mouth in surprise. "I...Oh, Universe, Nik," he exclaimed emotionally, "I can't take that."

"Sorry," Flynn interrupted, "but if you people are going to argue, these two will have to leave—which they are going to have to do soon anyway."

Brim shook his head in defeat, tears of emotion burning his eyes. "Thank you," he choked when he was able. Not eloquent, but all he could manage.

"You are most welcome, Friend Brim," Ursis said with a huge grin. "And before this very inhospitable medicine man rescinds his tenuous welcome, I have something else here for you—from no less a personage than Bosporus P. Gallsworthy."

Brim raised an eyebrow. "Gallsworthy?" he asked incredulously.

"None other," Ursis said. "As your boss, he has collected all messages sent to your person since you last accessed your queue."

"And?" Brim asked. "Nobody sends me anything but debit notices."

"Don't remember Gallsworthy handing me anything like that," Ursis said, a look of ill-concealed merriment in his eyes.

"What else could it be?" Brim asked, genuinely mystified.

The Bear laughed. "This," he said, handing Brim a small plastic card. "Hard copy of personal message from Gimmas Haefdon. Thought you might want to see it straightaway."

"For me? I don't know anybody On Gimmas Haefdon. I didn't even get there until two nights before we..."

"Hmm," the Bear replied. "Perhaps it is a mistake. But I think not. Read...."

Frowning, Brim took the card, turned it to catch the light—his heart skipped a beat. Four short lines of poetry from the ancient pen of Sante' Eremite blazed from the tiny page. The power of the simple words transcended centuries; he'd read them often: "My fire burns among the stars/My long lance thrusteth sure,/My strength is as the strength of ten,/Because my heart endures." One more line completed the short message: "Congratulations, Wilf Brim." It was signed simply, "Margot Effer'wyck."

CHAPTER 4

More than two Standard weeks passed before Brim's weakened body accustomed itself to its brand-new parts, but the day finally arrived when Flynn dismissed him permanently from Truculent's sick bay—with strict orders to go cautiously until more of his strength returned. Now, only cycles after pressing the Doctor's hand in heartfelt thanks, he was at last back inside his tiny cabin, seated on the edge of his bunk and accessing the ship's message system. He cycled his pitifully small mail file three times—eight messages in all, only one sourced from "Effer'wyck@Gimmas."

He immediately brought this one to his display, which filled with loose golden curls and a frowning smile. Margot! He thrilled while the image recited Lacerta's timeless lines in a soft, modulated voice.

She'd be proud of that voice, he reflected, and wondered how he'd managed to miss it before.

Far too soon, the little message ran its course. He played it again—and then again. He rotated the display and watched her from every angle. She might be far beyond his reach, but that didn't stop him from dreaming!

With a sigh, be finally sent her message to his permanent storage, then selected a note from Captain Collingswood. Voice only, this requested he "drop by" her office to file a verbal report whenever he felt "up to it." He took care of that immediately, appending his name to her appointment schedule just after the next change of watch.

The remainder of his messages, save one, were all debit notices.

His single exception was a short communication from Borodov containing a cross-reference to the prestigious Journal of the Imperial Fleet. "A most valuable article, Will Ansor," the shifting patterns read. "You must file this with your most important documents. Good as credits in the pocket, perhaps better. (signed) A.A. Borodov."

The Journal? With a frown, Brim fetched Borodov's reference to his display. Characteristic patterns in the style of the highly venerated publication replaced Borodov's covering message, then indexed to a small article almost lost toward the back of the issue. It was clearly little more than filler placed during a time of little important activity elsewhere, but it was there nonetheless: Gimmas Haefdon (Eorean Blockading Forces) 118/ 51995: Carescrian Sublieutenant Will Brim, recently graduated Helmsman assigned to Lieutenant-commander Regula Collingswood's I.F.S. Truculent. (DI) T.83, see other reports, this issue), distinguished himself recently off the Altnag'gin periphery during a single-handed action which resulted, in destruction of the corvette commanded by Kirsch Valentin, infamous young Prefect with five Imperial kills.

As Borodov suggested, he carefully filed the reference on his permanent storage, grinning in spite of himself. Strange, he reflected, how much that little bit of recognition meant to him. He'd been such an outsider since he joined the Fleet under Lord Wyrood's Admiralty Reform Act. It took only this insignificant crumb of acknowledgment to make him feel a lot less like one.

Then he busily applied himself to composing Margot's answer—no easy task, he discovered to his surprise. When he scanned his books of verse for a fitting line or two, nothing seemed to fit, though a number of the same poems seemed perfect when he first thought about them in the solitude of the sick bay. He made a second pass—then a third—before settling down for a detailed search. Shortly before his appointment with Collingswood, he had completed only two books with three-quarters of a third remaining to be studied. So far, nothing even resembled his requirements. In the end, he decided he might easily spend years without finding the proper words. Shaking his head ruefully at the time he had already wasted on the project, he quickly chose a few lines that approximated his thoughts, composed a short covering message of thanks, then sent everything on its way before he could change his mind again.

That out of the way, he smooothed his tunic, brushed his boots on his bunk cover, and made his way forward to the captain's cabin, one level above his own.

"Sit down, Wilf," Collingswood said as she relaxed in her chair. Subtle harmonies insinuated themselves from the cabin background: soft instruments blending, separating, then blending once more to form emotional tapestries of surprising beauty. He seemed to recall the same sounds from his first visit to her cabin, but they hardly registered then. "The last time I saw you," Collingswood was saying with a twinkle in her eye, "you appeared to be rather soundly asleep."

Brim grinned. "I seem to have been doing a lot of that lately, Captain," he answered.

"Almost a permanent condition, from what Dr. Flynn tells me," Collingswood declared, her face becoming serious. "I watched Ursis and Barbousse carry you in from the corvette. You'd been rather thoroughly worked over by Valentin and his crew—you evidently caused a bit of trouble during your short visit there."

"I tried to, Captain," Brim said. Collingswood laughed quietly. "I'm quite certain you did, Lieutenant. But I shall need to know a bit more than that," she asserted. "I am required to file an official report, you know."

Brim felt his face flush. "Sorry, Captain," he said. "I didn't understand." He stared at his boots, reflecting for a moment, then rubbed his chin. "So far as I can remember," he began, "this is what happened after we spotted that corvette..." For the next metacycle, he described what he had seen aboard the enemy warship, including his own activities when he felt they had any relevance.

Collingswood sat relaxed in her recliner while he spoke, interjecting occasional questions or clarifying certain points. When he finished, she recrossed her legs, frowned thoughtfully, and looked him straight in the eye. "Strange," she mused, "how much like your shipmates you have become. None has mentioned Lieutenant Amherst so far—nor his part in this little adventure of yours. I wonder why."

Brim frowned. In the seclusion of the healing coffin, he considered himself ready for questions about that part. Now all his confidence seemed to dissipate like smoke. He fumbled with a loose fastener on his tunic. "Well," he uttered, groping for something to say, "I can't speak for the others, of course. I was alone most of the time we spent aboard the corvette, Captain."

"I see," Collingswood said, brushing aside a stray lock of hair. She studied the fingernails of her right hand. "Would you," she began, "make any further comments were I to ask you for information concerning alleged incompetence on the part of Lieutenant Ursis?"

"In what context, Captain?" Brim asked warily, not yet willing to meet her eyes.

"Why, in the context of his attempts to alter the control settings of the Cloud League merchantman Ruggetos, of course," Collingswood answered, her expression suddenly cold as space itself.

Brim took a deep breath and met her gaze squarely. "In that case, Captain," he said evenly, "I should probably have a great deal more to say."

"Would you testify, Lieutenant?" she continued, sitting well forward in her recliner, elbows firmly on the armrests.

"If it came to that, Captain, you can bet I would testify," Brim answered. He waited for an explosion—both she and Amherst were clearly Imperials of no mean station, and in his experience, Carescrians didn't usually get away with taking stands, no matter who was in the right.

As if considering her next words, Collingswood remained for a moment staring into his eyes. Then, suddenly she relaxed and sat back in her recliner, smiling broadly. "You have joined my old Truculent, haven't you, Brim?" she pronounced. "I rather thought you'd have little trouble doing that once you it started."

Brim blinked. "Pardon?" he stammered.

"Protecting Amherst the way you are," Collingswood explained. "You're already part of my crew."

She laughed quietly. "In rather record time, too."

Brim kept his silence, unsure of where she was leading him. "You probably wonder what I plan to do about him, don't you, Lieutenant?" she went on, holding up a graceful hand. "His part in the loss of that merchantman was easy enough for me to piece together—and caused you considerable difficulty and pain. You deserve an answer."

Brim nodded his head noncommittedly. 'Thank you, Captain," he said simply.

"I shall not rid the ship of him," she said with no further preamble. "Because Amherst is a powerful name throughout the Fleet—and other reasons which have nothing to do with either of you—he shall have one more chance, at least." She smiled and shook her head. "No one ever said life would be fair, Lieutenant. In spite of what Amherst might really deserve, I shall not commit political suicide to secure his punishment—though I shall attempt to insure he is never again in a position to cause so much harm should he fail a second time."

Brim nodded again. At least she was honest.

"And no record of Amherst's report will ever find its way into your friend Ursis' records." She glanced at her empty display, then grimaced in an unmistakable sign of dismissal.

Brim got up to leave.

"Your report was first rate—as were your actions, Lieutenant," she added. "You weren't thinking of returning to bridge duty immediately, were you?"

"Not for two more days, Captain," Brim answered.

"Dr. Flynn knows best," Collingswood said as her display began to fill with data.

Brim left feeling, a lot better about his future than he had ever dreamed possible. So long as the Fleet had a few Collingswoods, Carescrians still had a chance.

The endless succession of days that followed were notable only by their sameness until danger and boredom became two great stones which ground Truculent and her crew alike. And all around, the larger war waxed and waned. Victories and defeats—there were still more of the latter, but one could sense an occasional ray of hope among the grim news KA'PPAed in from powerful transmitters halfway across the galaxy.

To Brim's utter astonishment, his abbreviated answer to Margot's note established a lively—if disappointingly chaste—correspondence. During the long stretches of boredom, he often argued with himself concerning that. After all, any kind of treatment was more than he should ever expect. She was, aside from being promised to someone else, a person of noble blood. Very noble blood. And a full military rank above his own into the bargain. What more could he expect?

Sometimes this sort of logical approach worked. Sometimes it didn't. But most of the time, it didn't.

And for some exasperating reason, he never did quite condition himself to the point where he could comfortably think of her in the company of Rogan LaKarn. That became painfully apparent when a chance news program pictured the two together during a leave in Avalon: Princess Margot Effer'wyck and Commander the Honorable Baron Rogan LaKarn share a well-deserved leave in Avalon's Courtland Plaza near the Imperial castle.. Engaged nearly two years now, the popular couple have postponed their nuptials while they work to defend the Empire from its enemies.

Somehow, the sight of them holding hands in that manicured garden tied his heart in a knot. He gritted his teeth and felt his cheeks burns hoping against hope nobody in the wardroom noticed his helpless discomfort—he a Carescrian worked up over an Effer'wyck. What a joke that was!

In private, he railed at himself. He could claim no part of her life. How she chose to spend her leave was certainly none of his business. He meant nothing special to her—and she meant nothing to him.

But he really didn't believe the second part.

That night, as he fitfully dozed, his mind was torn by weird, wildly erotic dreams. He pictured her beckoning to him through a soft, warm fog. But when he reached to touch her, Rogan LaKarn interposed. And each time, Brim awoke to find himself alone in his tiny cabin, sweating and frustrated, the rumble of the generators no longer comforting to his ears.

In a foul mood, he dressed and made his way up to the bridge, where be spent the remainder of his free Watch tutoring Jubal Theada for a battery of upcoming tests. Even that kind of frustration was better than fighting his own imagination!

For the next three months, Collingswood's aggressive blockading techniques eroded both Truculent and her crew. Space off the Altnag'gin Complex at Trax was a busy crossroads of the League's commerce. Always there was another "runner" to be Pursued—or a pursuing Cloud League warship determined to rid the space lanes of Imperial blockaders. Borodov and Ursis constantly rushed through Truculent's battered hull patching battle damage or repairing components worn to uselessness from constant duty at maximum settings.

Flynn was similarly busy patching burned and blasted bodies—carelessness caused by advanced fatigue was at least as deadly an enemy as the League itself. Yet no relief was forthcoming, and everyone knew why. The Imperial Fleet was stretched so thin that every ship and every crew member served past all reasonable limit. No alternative existed—everyone was well aware of Triannic's vow to "punish" the Imperial Fleet "to its last man."

Only continuing success made any of it bearable. Collingswood was an extraordinary tactician, and Truculent sent a steady stream of prizes off toward Avalon—often seriously shorting the crew complement for weeks at a time. Everyone was now accruing Imperial credits in individual accounts, and even Brim found himself debt free one day—for the first time he could remember.

Following still another stormy month of desperate fighting and wearing fatigue, Truculent was even more patched and dented than before. Many of her less critical mechanisms were by now completely inoperative—the crew worked around these when possible, but mostly did without. Some of the important systems were little better than these, and operated only marginally—when they worked at all.

Often, Brim looked over the battered decks from his position high on the bridge and wondered if anyone back in the Imperial Client States had any idea at all what it really took to keep Triannic from their gates.

A small part of him wanted desperately to believe they did. The remainder doubted many of them had any idea what was going on at all.

Only when Borodov managed to convince his Sodeskayan superiors at the Admiralty that Truculent could no longer be patched enough to fight and win did Flight Operations deign to send their replacement, and by then it was nearly too late.

The Drive itself failed three times on the way home and fully half the Atmospheric Controller Modules consumed themselves in a cloud of sour-smelling vapor and sparks before they were two days en route.

The nearly desperate crew completed their return with most of the ship's environment simulating the worst elements of a steamy Crennelean Narr jungle.

One way or another, they made it. Gimmas Haefdon was a sizable disk in the Hyperscreens ahead when Brim heard the Drive finally eased all the way back to idle. He and Theada occupied observers' seats while Gallsworthy and Fourier flew the approach. "You may prepare us for landfall, Lieutenant Gallsworthy," Collingswood said, her voice loud in the unaccustomed silence.

"Aye, aye, Captain," Gallsworthy growled. Immediately, Brim heard distant alarms go off below in the ship, and docking crews began to fill the bridge.

Fourier signaled to Ursis, and a few moments later the generators shivered to life.

"Finished with the xaxtdamned Drive," Gallsworthy rumbled.

"I think it's finished with us anyway," Collingswood said grumpily.

"Drive deactivated," Borodov chuckled. Astern, the flowing green of the Drive plume flickered and disappeared.

"Drive shutters closed," Ursis said.

"LightSpeed point zero," Fourier called out as Gandom's 've effect went into full flare and the Hyperscreens stopped translating. Gradually, the view cleared as the speed dropped below the critical mark. Applewood contacted Gimmas Approach soon afterward, and within a few metacycles they were in a holding pattern for clearance at the Lox'Sands control ring—this time in zone green. Traffic was light during that watch, and presently Truculent was on final, thundering down through Gimmas Haefdon's cloudy turbulence.

With a sense of weary excitement, Brim waited impatiently for Truculent to break out of the overcast.

So far, all he could see were regular flashes of the beacon reflected back from the streaming haze outside and the occasional glow of KA'PPA rings expanding outward as Applewood talked to Approach Control. The sound of the generators was now moderated to a burbling grumble, and the muted drones and thumps of imminent landfall were well under way. Gallsworthy banked to port, revealing glimpses of gray, fog-strewn seascape wrinkled by the thickly sluggish patterns of frigid-looking swells and jagged ice fragments everyone associated with the base.

As they returned to level flight, Brim spied two or three lamp-studded causeways below like the thin spokes of some great wheel converging at an unseen hub somewhere far off to port, but the haze swallowed them completely in damp-looking muzziness before he could distinguish any details. As usual, there was no real difference between land and sky aloft on Gimmas Haefdon—no horizon, only fog and clouds and occasionally the wrinkled blackness of the inhospitable sea below.

Another turn to port, generators roaring momentarily, then Truculent settled gently onto her forward gradient and churned over the icy rollers that shone dully in the landing lights twenty-five irals below her stained and dented hull. Through a chance break in the fog, Brim saw they were now running parallel to another causeway. He watched giant waves batter themselves to wind-blown spume against its rocky bulwarks. A beacon flashed indistinctly in their direction. Ahead, fog-shrouded blue and red lights marked the opening to the Eorean section. He smiled to himself. The last time through here, he'd been considerably more occupied than he was now, sitting at his leisure in an observer's seat. Beyond, a forest of KA'PPA masts jutted from the starwharves themselves.

With Fourier at the controls, Truculent changed course smoothly, slid through the entrance, and in a few moments glided to a halt above a gently glowing gravity pool. Thick mooring beams leaped from lenses in the seawalls and Brim's nausea made itself felt when the umbilical arm connected, switching Truculent back to local gravity. Gallsworthy raised his hand silently and their gravity generators spun down and stopped—the unaccustomed silence after nearly six months of one kind of propulsion system or another was almost physical. A tentative "Hurrah!" sounded from the back of the bridge. Then another, and another—in a moment, the whole ship was gone wild in a paroxysm of cheering. Even the normally reserved Collingswood could be seen pounding Gallsworthy on the back.

Theada grasped Brim's hand. "We made it!" he gasped joyfully. "We actually made it!"

"Yeah," Brim said—himself overcome with a strange sort of relief. He was going to live for at least a few weeks more. It was a strange feeling. He hadn't encountered that kind of confidence since their departure.

Truculent was home.

With little to occupy him at the moment, Brim forsook the noisy throng exiting from the bridge. A traditional homecoming celebration was scheduled shortly for the wardroom, but according to wartime rules crew members joined only after completing a session with someone from a debriefing team—and with his lack of seniority, Brim appeared next to last on the schedule of officers. He looked out through the Hyperscreens at the gray landscape—another of Gimmas Haefdon's long, drab evenings was beginning in a driving snowstorm as the Harbor Master's peculiar vehicle scuttled off down the snow-hazed road. A large group of utility skimmers in various sizes was already parked near the breakwater, and below the bridge he watched a line of figures leaning into the wind-driven blizzard as they trudged across the brow toward the ship. One particularly heavy gust momentarily freed a shock of golden hair from beneath a parka before its owner hurried out of his sight. It made him laugh at himself.

Nearly anything was sufficient to remind him of Margot Effer'wyck these days! He shook his head.

Beyond all reason, and he knew it.

Nearly three metacycles passed before he was finally summoned for his debriefing—in Amherst's cabin, of all places. Somewhere in the Universe there was irony in that, he chuckled as he knocked on the door.

"Come in," a familiar voice called out from the other side.

Brim frowned as he pushed the door open. Where had be heard that? His heart skipped a beat.

"Wilf Brim," Margot exclaimed, brushing a soft blond curl aside. "I have surely saved the best for last."

He stopped short in the doorway when he felt his face flush. His breath had suddenly gone short, his ears burned, and be felt like a foolish schoolboy with his first serious crush. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. The image in her message didn't begin to do her justice at all! "M-Margot," he stammered, then his eyes went to the full lieutenant's insignia on the left shoulder of her cape. "I mean, 'Lieutenant."'