The Helmsman

"Your Highness," Brim stammered.

"Wilf Brim, as I live and breathe," Prince Onrad drawled from the display while he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Certainly glad you take better care of my blond cousin than you do of His Majesty's ships."

He raised his eyebrows in mod disapprobation. "Poor Truculent's a proper mess."

Brim felt a rush of emotion. A choked laugh of relief escaped his throat. "Couldn't help it, Your Majesty," he sputtered. "They just showed me how to fly 'em at the Academy—didn't say anything about taking care of 'em."

"Ha, ha! Good point, Brim," Onrad laughed. "We ought to send you to teach the class, then, for I meant what I said about the proper mess you've made. It's totally proper. You've saved much more than just a conference, you know, and I am told you faced three enemy ships. I saw only one badly damaged survivor fall victim to our disruptors. So if my count is accurate, you must have destroyed two others while you were at it. Correct?"

"Correct, Your Highness," Brim answered, "but two were one too few. That third ship you destroyed nearly got us."

Onrad grinned. "Just like you xaxtdanmed Carescrians. Always biting off more than you can chew."

Then his face became serious. "I thank the Universe we arrived in time," he said slowly. "You and your crew have accomplished much important work today—more than I suspect most of you know. It will be good to see you suitably rewarded." He smiled again. "Right now, I'm going to turn you over to Admiral Penda here, but I shall expect to see you in person back on Avalon as soon as it can be arranged. Good work, Brim—and share those words with your crew. Today, each of you is a hero, in the fullest sense of the word."

Brim's display faded, then returned with the gray visage of Star Admiral Sir Gregor Penda, Imperial Fleet—no mistaking that round face and medium beard. The man had been part of almost every important news summary for the past five years—good and bad. His piercing eyes looked as if they had never admitted to a moment's doubt about anything—nor had they remained long shadowed by unanswered questions. Bold, decisive, and brave beyond all question, be was generally acknowledged to be the greatest tactician in the known Universe—as much by his enemies in the League as by Imperial colleagues. "Congratulations. Brim," he said with a pleased smile on his face. "You seem to have saved much of the Empire's face as well as the conference. However, from the looks of Truculent, your medical officer would probably welcome a hand with the wounded. Am I right?"

Brim thought of the crowded nightmare in Flynn's sick bay. "I'm sure he would, Admiral," he said.

Penda nodded. "We'll make the diplomats wait while we do something about that," he said. "The Empire needs all the crews like yours it can get—alive." He passed instructions quietly to someone out of view, nodded a few times, then turned back to Brim. "I shall have Benwell alongside in a moment, Brim.

We'll stow the protocol this time and do the maneuvering on this bridge. If I'm not mistaken, your own steering gear is shot to pieces."

Brim looked outside and felt the color rise in his face. Truculent was weaving all over the sky. He pulled back on the power until his course steadied.

"You look surprised, Lieutenant," Penda laughed.

"Universe," Brim groaned, his eyes raised to the shattered overhead Hyperscreens.

"That's all right, Brim," the Admiral chuckled. "Judging from the hole in Truculent's bottom, I doubt if the Fleet can come up with many Helmsmen who could have done as well—old Borodov's already notified our engineers you have performed a navigational miracle."

In moments, the colossal battlecruiser was carefully pulling alongside—towering over Truculent's tiny frame like a great mountain range. Brim shook his head in wonder—one brush with that immense bulk would reduce his little destroyer to a wrinkled piece of hullmetal foil. Momentarily, he succumbed to a flash of galloping claustrophobia that passed rapidly when he considered that even assistant Helmsmen aboard Benwell were among the finest in a whole galaxy. He grinned at himself while a brow extended from the giant hull. Far overhead, he could make out tiny figures looking down from the bridge. He stood and saluted. They all returned his gesture. It was one of the proudest moments of his life.

The TRANSpool skimmer drew to a halt in a cloud of swirling ice particles—which quickly dispersed in Gimmas Haefdon's everlasting wind. "Thanks," Brim said, stepping into ankle-deep snow despite recent efforts by one of the base's ubiquitous (and largely unsuccessful) pavement scrubbers. Early evening chill was raw on his face as he scanned the bleak inland repair yard. He'd got only a fleeting impression of it in the darkness the previous night after a frightful landing between the two deep-space tugs that towed Truculent home. Now, after a desperately needed rest, he had returned to sign Collingswood's destroyer over to the ship salvagers.

Salvage berth 189-E itself was a typical clutter of weather-beaten buildings in faded gray, heavy machinery, rusting wave guides, wheels of snow-covered cable—all surrounded by the requisite forest of ever-moving shipyard cranes. And what remained of Truculent hovered inertly on an oversized gravity pool, swaying uncertainly in the veering wind, centered on a tangle of mooring beams rigged by indifferent salvage-yard laborers. A rusty, oversized brow squeaked and rasped on unkempt bearings as she moved.

"Want me to wait, Lieutenant?" the driver probed gently from behind.

Brim guessed the woman had a lot of experience with people like himself. Ships could work their way into a person's soul. And when they were... 'Thanks, but this may take awhile," he lied, turning back to the skimmer. "I'll call for another ride when I'm finished." In truth, little more remained for him to accomplish at all so far as Truculent was concerned. A cycle or two at most, then she was no longer a part of his life—except for the memories.

The driver nodded. She understood. "There's COMM gear in the shack with the metal roof over there," she said, pointing off across the pool. Then she saluted (almost as if she meant it) and drove off into the snowy evening silence, her navigation lights persisting like ruby wraiths in the darkening grayness.

Brim pulled the Fleet Cloak closer around his neck and shivered as he turned once more toward the ship. When he'd viewed her from one of the tugs on the way home, she hadn't seemed quite so—damaged. Not out in space where she was meant to be. But here in the waning moments of a dreary Gimmas day, she was dreadfully transformed. Power chambers extinguished, her whole structure had cooled. Ice and snow dulled even the Hyperscreens over her buckled and warped bridge (or, rather, what remained of those Hyperscreens). Her decks were everywhere mottled by the bright blue of temporary pressure patches, and unsightly braids of thick multicolored cables ran through temporary holes punched in her hull from ugly machines blinking evilly on the periphery of the pool. She'd been despoiled of most everything that could be removed before the long tow home even began—including the workable disruptors. Now, during his absence, they'd taken even her one remaining launch. Except for a great throng of memories, the stout little ship had become a lifeless, stripped hulk.

With a deep breath (one he would never admit was a sigh), Brim started grimly for the brow, his boots squeaking in the powdery snow. Around him, the first lights began to sparkle on the cranes like bright stars in rapidly moving constellations. Others winked on here and there in windows of the sheds and control shelters. But he could sense no warmth in any of them. The whole salvage complex—all of it—reeked somehow with the stench of death.

The wind seemed harsher and colder on Truculent's empty decks. Brim's ears caught the distant, crackling thunder of a lifting starship, and he suddenly found it difficult to face the ruin around him. He shivered again as he carefully picked his way across the icy, buckled hullmetal toward a temporary shelter they'd rigged as a main boarding hatchway. The cover itself was unsealed; he fought it open against the wind and stepped on the empty darkness beyond, stomping snow from his boots grating.

Maldive's station was long gone—as was poor Maldive herself. With so many of the others, they'd given her remains a Blue Cape's traditional sendoff into Universal emptiness. Her entry desk—along with Truculent's ornate sign-in register—had been reduced to subatomics in Valentin's last orgy of destruction.

The ship's interior even smelled empty—a damp staleness assaulted his nostrils, redolent of a faint but pervading scent of—he wrinkled his nose—death. No amount of scrubbing could ever rid this hull of the blood that had dried in every crack and seam.

Switching on his torch, he closed the hatch and started forward along the companionway, boots echoing hollowly in the empty stillness. He had gone only a few steps before the beam reflected from a spot of brightness on a blackened, wrinkled bulkhead. Frowning, be stopped, aimed the torch: "I. F. S. TRUCULENT JOB 21358 ELEANDOR BESTIENNE YARD 228/51988." The metal plate still shone as if it bad been polished within the last day—which on closer inspection he knew it had. By force of habit, he brushed a few strokes with his own sleeve, Someone in the skeleton crew had been polishing regularly all the way home.

Brim smiled thoughtfully. Who? It could have been any of them; they all loved the ship in one way or another: Nik, Borodov, Barbousse, the handful of starmen. Except himself. He'd been too heartsick to wander far from the bridge.

Farther along, he paused by the entrance to the wardroom—it was now only a rough blue patch in the bulkhead, shaped dike a hatch. Not enough of the riddled walls beyond remained to permit shoring-up operations, so they'd sealed the whole area off instead. Everyone took the easiest way out of solving problems in space—starship repairs were a whole lot easier in the controlled environment of a gravity pool. And in spite of his gloom, Brim found himself chuckling about Grimsby. The ancient steward had been sealed inside his pantry by an early bit—where he'd safely spent the remainder of the battle asleep.

They'd found him calm and rested the morning after the fight. Grimsby was a survivor.

Up the ladders past the ruin that was once Collingswood's cabin, he ended his climb in the twisted wreckage they still (almost jokingly) called a bridge. Now even the last of the consoles were dark—those that remained on the wrinkled deck plates. Most of the duty stations had been removed previously—either by Valentin's disruptors or parts—desperate scavengers from nearby Imperial blockade ships that swarmed to the battle site even before it was judged DD T.83 should be towed home for salvage. Brim walked slowly to the right-hand Helmsman's station—a most valuable console, it remained only because it was necessary for landfall operations. He turned his torch on full power, then melted frost covering the cracked Hyperscreens before him. Outside, it was quite dark now, but the snow had stopped and the air was clear. Round patches of light gleamed dully under the repair yard's ubiquitous Karlsson lamps.

As he stared out into the night, he could just see the blackened circle where A turret was once mounted. It reminded him of Fourier, herself blasted from existence like most of her beloved guns. In death, she traveled near Maldive somewhere, forever headed out into the Universe toward peace—if indeed such existed anywhere. Beside him, Theada's console had been removed and was certainly serving even now in as many as a dozen needy ships, salvaged like the young Helmsman himself. It would be a long time before he was sufficiently healed for a permanent return to duty. But he had survived—thanks largely to Admiral Penda's quick action moving wounded crew members from the overcrowded charnel house in Flynn's sick bay to the giant and superbly equipped hospital aboard Benwell.

He sat in the recliner to wait for the manager of the salvage team, remembering that only metacycles previously, he had used every bit of his skill—and a little more—fighting these same controls to a standoff as the two space tugs eased Truculent's almost helpless hulk down from a, temporary parking orbit. He shook his head in wonder. The transition from roaring, flaming reentry chaos to the stony silence that now enfolded the bridge was nearly unbelievable.

As he sat, he wondered what Lady Fate had in store for him. Clearly, Truculent would never need a Helmsman again. His own message queue at the base officers' quarters mentioned only that orders would be forthcoming—not when. He would hear something after the ceremonies tomorrow, he assumed, then shook his head. Somehow, he had been dreading that honor ever since Prince Onrad's message informing him Truculent's heroes would be decorated at home on Gimmas Haefdon rather than on Avalon. It made sense, the way the Prince put it—Avalon did appear to have quite enough in the way of ceremonies. The celebration would do a lot more good at the bleak outpost, where it would not be lost among the glitter of a hundred important functions.

He smiled to himself in the darkness. He found he didn't really care at the moment—only that something new was in the wind. That was enough. For the present, he was glad enough to have the almost unbelievable luxury of a few metacycles to waste on himself.

It would have been nice, he considered, had Margot been... Then he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing all thoughts about her from his mind. With her permanent reassignment to Avalon, it was clear she had already made a decision denying him any more of her life. And he'd accepted that pragmatically. There was, after all, a yawning gulf between the future queen of a large star cluster and a Helmsman lieutenant not seven years from the Carescrian ore mines. He nodded to himself as he had so often done in the past few months. An unbridgeable gulf.

Outside, the lights of a skimmer caught his eye as it churned along the main highway, then slowed and swung through the gate, drawing to a stop before Truculent's salvage berth. Brim watched its single passenger disembark and make his way toward the brow. A nearby Karlsson lamp revealed him to be none other than Bosporus P. Gallsworthy himself. Gallsworthy? He'd already been promoted to Lieutenant Commander and reassigned to important Admiralty duty on Avalon. And the man certainly couldn't plan a long visit—he was scheduled to depart on the Robur Enterprise, which left for the capital in no more than two metacycles.

Presently, footfalls sounded on the ladder to the chart room, then the senior Helmsman strode into the bridge. "Thought I'd find you here, Brim," he said with a chuckle. "Sentimental dunces like you always fall in love with the xaxtdamned-fool ships they fly."

Brim got to his feet and shrugged good-naturedly. "Guess I can't help what I am, Commander," he said.

Gallsworthy almost smiled. "I guess you're doing all right, Brim;" he allowed. "But I lie a lot, too. So you'll never be sure."

"I see, sir," Brim mumbled as he fought his own smile to a standstill. Coming from Gallsworthy, those words were high praise indeed.

The man shrugged. "I didn't come here to pass compliments, smart alec," he growled. "Seems I'm doomed to be Collingswood's messenger boy until I actually board the xaxtdamned ship for Avalon." He laughed a little and looked Brim in the eye. "Somehow, for the Captain, I never seem to mind." He frowned. "Don't exactly know why."

Brim kept what he hoped was an impassive face. He could make a good guess why.

"At any rate, Regula's all tied up today with important business—which, by the way, involves you, punk—so she sent me to find you and tell you what she's done before you get the news as an official surprise." He actually did grin at this juncture. "I doubt if you'll have many objections."

By this time, Brim's curiosity was just about to go nonlinear. He nodded and steeled himself. One couldn't hurry Gallsworthy. The man simply had a hard time with words.

"Tomorrow," he continued at length, "after the ceremonies, you'll receive orders for your next ship.

She's I.F.S. Defiant, a brand-new light cruiser fitting out right now at Eleandor Bestienne." He stopped for a moment and frowned. "It's where old Truculent was launched,"' he said in an almost choked voice.

"Xaxtdamned rustbucket anyway. Always needed trim on the starboard helm."

Brim laughed to himself. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who ever loved a starship.

"Defiant's first in a new subclass of very light, high-speed cruisers," Gallsworthy continued after a moment. "Something else indeed. More'n half again the length of old Truculent here, nearly triple the crew—with the same top speed. Serious xaxtdamned warships. Built on the same principle as battlecruisers, only a lot smaller—they'll use 'em for leading convoy defenses. Typical combat group has three of 'em with four or five destroyers. Damned near maneuverable as those Leaguer NF-110s you went up against, but armed with nine big 152s and a whole raft of smaller stuff. And they've got propulsion that'll knock Ursis' eyes out."

"Nik, sir?" Brim interrupted in spite of himself. "He's assigned, too?"

"Yeah," Gallsworthy said. "Collingswood's asked for him, too. Old Borodov's heading for the Admiralty like me."

"Captain Collingswood? She's commanding Defiant?"

"Of course, Collingswood's commanding. Who else would bid for the likes of you two on her crew?

Especially in senior positions.

Brim shook his head. "In what positions, Commander?" he asked dizzily.

"Senior," Gallsworthy reiterated. "I don't know why, either. She must see something in you two young pups I've never seen. Xaxt, she's busy right now pulling the right strings to set that up. It's why she's not here telling you this herself."

"Universe..."

"Yeah. My words exactly."

"Who else is coming over to the new ship from Truculent?" Brim asked.

"Not many," Gallsworthy answered. "Course, there aren't a lot of you alive after that last action, either.

Aside from ol' Grimsby, Flynn and Barbousse are the only others I know of." He frowned. "Actually, I think Regula said she was bringing Barbousse along to keep you and that damned fancy Bear friend of yours out of trouble." He chuckled. "Barbousse. Now there's a real Blue Cape, by Voot."

"Yes, sir," Brim said. He had no arguments about that....

Only cycles following Gallsworthy's departure, Brim met the salvage crew on Truculent's starboard deck just inboard of the brow (as required by some ancient and obscure Fleet protocol), then placed his mark with a logic scriber in the prescribed half dozen places on a tabulator board. "For the Captain."

Then he was through. After that, he picked his way quickly over the brow and around the gravity pool to the shed with the metal roof.

Waiting for the TRANSpool skimmer to arrive, Brim found he could not bring himself to look back at the ship. It was as if he had just deserted a longtime friend in the middle of adversity—something Carescrians simply did not do. Mutual assistance was fundamental to survival itself in the grinding poverty of that far-off mining district, and Brim's sense of guilt in breaking this basic life tenet was almost overwhelming. He stood with his back to the littered gravity pool and stared out into the darkness, trying to concentrate on the future—not the past. Somehow, he wasn't very successful at all.

He traveled all the way back to the officers' quarters in near silence, then made his way directly to the Great Central Wardroom in the main building. He determined he would need am awful lot of meem to wipe the last few metacycles from his memory. An early start was not only advisable, it appeared to be a necessity.

He quickly found his need for drowning memories was not in the slightest unique. Ursis and Borodov had preceded him to the darkened, music-filled Great Wardroom by at least a metacycle. They were already well into a workable cure, each puffing his inevitable Zempa pipe and helping fill the room with the rich odor of bogge'poa.

"Aha, friend Wilf Ansorevich," Borodov slurred in a melancholy voice, raising his empty glass upside down. "At least you have finished with thankless task." As always, two young and (Brim assumed) attractive females fawned at either side of the elderly Bear. Somewhat less than soberly, they also raised their empty glasses to the Carescrian.

"Come, tonight we will drink manyeh, manyeh toasts to old Truculent, eh?" Ursis said, stumbling to his feet, "Devil take damned Valentin! Voof!" He handed Brim a large, ornate goblet and indicated an enormous collection of Logish and Sodeskayan meem bottles on an adjacent table—most of which were still relatively full.

As evening progressed into night, these vessels were duly emptied—and just as duly replaced by the quiet, efficient staff of the Great Wardroom. Brim's melancholy eventually gave way to fuzziness during endless Sodeskayan aphorisms and declamations on the memory of DD T.83. Each was punctuated by a toast in the Sodeskayan manner by first draining a freshly filled goblet, then reverently reciting the age-old Sodeskayan litany, "To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!"

"Bears can always dance with little storm maidens, but who can escape the wolf's golden fangs?"

Borodov growled. "Voot take it!"

"To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!"

"Is no great triumph watchink mountain winds freeze lakes," one of the females said as she rose unsteadily to her feet and smoothed her skirt. "Except those havink much to do wyith zest of life." The Bears nodded their heads wisely as she sat.

"Yes. Is fact!"

"She speaks truth in that."

"Yes....To the zest of life, and to Truculent! Mayeh her atoms continue aboard other heroic ships—in tradyition set byeh original crew!"

"To Truculent. Mayeb this salvage brink disaster to Nergol Triannic!"

"To Truculent. Long mayeh her atoms sail the stars!"

"To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!"

"Conflict loves the great warmink breasts of the Mother Planets," Ursis slurred emotionally.

"True," Brim said absently from his chair as he mopped spilled meem from the leg of his trousers.

"Yes...yes...conflict," the Bears shouted.

"To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!"

"To the atoms of old Truculent! Mayeh theyeh sail the stars forever!"

Shortly after the change of the last watch, the Great Wardroom began to empty, but Truculent's wake continued unabated. Brim was by now feeling little residual mental pain, but something still bothered him—and it had everything to do with the ship. He tried to concentrate more on the toasts.

"To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!"

"Frozen logs, like Holyeh Grayeb Rocks of Nodd, are truelyeh not stuff of scyience!" This latter nearly brought the Bears from their seats as they doubled up laughing.

"To Truculent! Never forget!"

"To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!"

Brim's mind had begun to drift by now on a pleasant, muzzy lake of meem. Were the Bearish aphorisms actually beginning to make sense? Was that Captain Collingswood entering the Great Wardroom on the arm of a rather ordinary-looking Blue Cape?

Collingswood!

Brim struggled to put himself together as the couple approached. The Captain was now in the lead as they threaded their way among the tables. Her escort wore a triple insignia on his collar. Brim counted its parts carefully. One thick and two thin rhomboids. He counted them again as the two reached their table.

A vice admiral. Somehow, he was not surprised.

"Ah, Captain Collingswood!" Borodov remarked jovially, his speech suddenly without accent. "Our evening will be complete only if you and Sir Pluton will join us for an early morning libation." He bowed.

"May I present two of our most beautiful Sodeskayan intelligence officers, just arrived from the Mother Planets: Spa'rzha Cherdak and Ptitsa Pro'tif."

The two young Bears giggled and curtsied. "You won't have to remember our names if you'll stay," they laughed.

"Please," Ursis said as he rose, his voice also without accent. "We shall consider ourselves doubly honored."

Brim smiled. "Yes, please," he echoed from atop two wobbly legs. He knew he was in no shape to utter anything more complex.

Collingswood turned to the Vice Admiral, who now stood by her side. "I should love to join these people, Erat," she said, looking into his eyes.

"And so should I," the Admiral said. "Spa'rzha, Ptitsa, I am most honored to make your acquaintance."

He chuckled. "We Imperials can use all the intelligence we can locate." He was short and thin with bushy brows, gray hair, and a fleshy nose. He was also clearly involved with Collingswood in a relationship that had little to do with the Root. His deep-set eyes fairly shouted how he felt about her.

"My friends," Borodov said, "we are, this morning, in the company of Vice Admiral Sir Erat Pluton, Commander of the Fourth Battle Squadron." He began to introduce the other members of the party.

"I'm going over here for a moment," Collingswood called to the Admiral. "I should like a few words with Lieutenant Brim while I have the opportunity."

Pluton smiled. "I don't think I shall be jealous," he said to Brim with a wink.

Brim nodded and held up his hands. "N-No contest, Admiral," he said, then moved a chair from a nearby table beside his, holding it for Collingswood while she sat. "Good m-morning, Captain," he said, returning clumsily to his own chair. He was very much aware his words weren't coming out as well as they should. Bears, he concluded with no little envy, had an unbelievable tolerance for meem.

Collingswood smiled. "Relax, Wilf," she said quietly—the others had suddenly been drawn into vigorous conversation with Admiral Pluton. "I have been far more intoxicated than you on occasion—for the very same reasons."

Brim felt his brow knit, but he kept his silence.

"I shan't preach long," she said, pouring herself an admirable dollop of the best Logish meem (a woman with clearly patrician tastes). "I have other matters to occupy mind tonight besides Truculent.

But then, old DD T.83 was not my first ship, as she was yours." She fastened her eyes on his. "It may not help much at the present, but you should know that you did a superb job in that last battle. Remember that. You may have had your first ship blown out from under you, but you accomplished your objective admirably—against astronomical odds." She smiled and raised her eyebrows. "The three-to-one ship ratio you faced was an impossibility in the first place. Add to this the fact that you were also up against one of the League's most promising, most highly decorated, and probably most clever young Fleet commanders. The whole episode says much for your ability—as well as your accomplishments. You did win, you know."

"Except," Brim interrupted; "I th-think Valentin got away in one of the xaxtdamned launches, beggin' the Captain's pardon."

Collingswood laughed. "I thought you'd notice that," she laughed. "I did, too. Truculent's Chairman was broadcasting the whole thing to me real time in Tandor-Ra. The Admiralty would love to believe they're rid of the likes of that hab'thall. But I think not. I talked to Erat about it—he feels the bloody criminal got away, too. Evidently, the League trains its officers to desert if a ship appears doomed. They do it a lot, you know. And I don't think it would have been a good bargain risking all those lives in Flynn's sick bay against the capture of a few worthless Leaguers. Do you?"

Brim bit his lip. "Thanks, Captain," he said. "But a lot of them died anyway. As you well know."

Collingswood reached and took his hand. "Lots of people die in wars," she said quietly. "It seems that's mostly what they're all about." She smiled. "You almost died yourself—on your first mission. A matter of pure chance, I think. You did the best you could—that's all any of us can ask. Living or dead."

Brim could only stare into her brown eyes as she spoke.

"And so far as Truculent herself is concerned... certainly 1 loved her. I've loved all my ships." She looked him in the eye. "But never forget, Wilf Brim, she was only a ship. Hullmetal, rivets, crystals, and a couple of oversized antigravs. No life there. No personality. Only what we lent to her while we were aboard. And we took it with us over the brow when we left—never forget that?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Yes," she ruminated in an uncharacteristically hard tone of voice, "we all feel bad old Truculent's gone to the breakers. But we'll take her personality along with us to Defiant—you, me, Ursis, Flynn, Barbousse, even crazy old Grimsby. And Truculent will never die. Just as they'll salvage her parts, we'll salvage her soul."

Brim shook his head. The talk had finally uncovered his sore spot. "Except I was the one making decisions when they all died, Captain," he said with renewed gloom. He could hear the others at the table discussing comparative Drive systems with great animation. Admiral Pluton was also a person of far-flung knowledge.

"Finally," Collingswood said triumphantly. "I believe we're finally at the heart of the matter."

Brim raised an eyebrow. "The heart, Captain?"

Collingswood smiled. "The heart, Wilf," she repeated. "If you accept command responsibility, you also accept costs. It goes with the territory. In the most crass terms, it has to do with resources and the fact that nothing is free—simple thermodynamics. As a commander, your resources are ships and lives—including your own. You put what you are willing to gamble on the line, then play toward some goal as best you can. At the end, you have either won that goal or lost—always at some cost of your resources. It's as simple as that. If you win, you measure relative success by comparing your actual cost against the value gained."

Brim's mind was beginning to function again a little. "I guess my goal was..."

"Your goal—which you instinctively knew without any orders from me—was to prevent further attack on Tandor-Ra. At least until Penda and the battlecruiscrs arrived." She looked him in the eye. "Did you do that, Wilf Brim?' she asked.

Brim pursed his lips. "I did that, Captain," he said—a little proudly, in spite of himself.

"You're absolutely right you did," Collingswood said. "And don't you ever forget it."

"But the price," Brim said, wincing at the thought. "Universe..."

"That part belongs to me this time," Collingswood answered. "Because, in effect, I ordered you out there on an impossible mission. I set the price I was willing to pay not you, Wilf Brim." She smiled. "Of course," she said, "I didn't expect to pay the whole wager when I put you in charge. And I didn't."

Brim could only shake his head.

"Oh, don't try to talk, Wilf," Collingswood said. "Simply think about what I have said. Objective and price—those are the touchstones. When you work them out for Truculent's last mission, you'll find you accomplished my objective at a bargain. You not only saved a city—with all the lives that involves—but a treaty, too. And there's no telling how many lives that treaty will eventually save." She laughed and sipped her meem. "Then," she said, "there's the matter of the enemy ships. Your score stands at one ship for two—actually one for three, since the last one would probably have gotten away had you not disabled him before Benwell arrived at the scene. Not a bad score in anybody's book, I should think.

How do you really feel about that battle, Wilf Brim?"

"Well..."

Collingswood laughed: "Wilf," she said, "I think I have made my point. If you continue to let this Truculent thing bother you, then it is clearly your own doing." She turned her head toward Admiral Pluton. "I, on the other hand, have urgent matters on my mind, so if you will excuse me, Lieutenant, we shall see each other next at your decoration ceremonies tomorrow."

"Aye, Captain," Brim said. "And I th-thank you for including me in Defiant's crew."

Collingswood smiled warmly and shrugged. "If you still want to sign on with me, after what I have put you through," she said, "then I am quite gratified to have you aboard."

Shortly after that, Collingswood and her admiral took leave of the Sodeskayan table amid wishes for safety, prosperity, and long life from each to all. Not much later, Borodov also rose, stretching his arms sleepily. "Is an early metacycle for elderly Bears," he said, glancing at his timepiece. "I think I shall turn in now. Tomorrow promises long metacycles of wakefulness—for I accompany the Prince back to Avalon." He looked at Brim and grimaced in mock anticipation. "Even Bears are sometimes afflicted with hangovers, Lieutenant," he said. Then he disappeared with Pro'tif on his arm.

After a final goblet of meem, Ursis accompanied Brim to his room. "Since you started on Sodeskayan meem," the Bear explained, "this Sodeskayan has the responsibility to insure you find the way to your room, eh?"

Brim shrugged. Were the truth known, he felt a little woozy on his feet—besides, the Bear's room was nearby, and he felt his own responsibility toward his friend. In the end, they assisted each other—with added help from Cherdak, who also professed responsibility for making sure Ursis arrived at his room safely. The Carescrian decided he wouldn't ask any questions about that. The threesome decided (after much serious discussion in committee) to take a shortcut through a spacious courtyard. The night was still clear—miraculously so for Gimmas Haefdon. Brim scanned the stars as they walked. Suddenly, Ursis and Cherdak picked up their ears.

"Big one comink, Nik," Cherdak said, turning her gaze toward the ocean.

"Indeed," Ursis said presently. "Listen, Wilf Ansor—you should be able to hear it any moment. Sounds like battleship."

Brim listened, peering sightlessly at the sky and concentrating on sounds from the night. There. A low rumble—felt more as a vibration than heard—growing stronger by the tick. Soon it was shaking the pavement beneath their feet. All three looked up at the same time to watch a whole flotilla of destroyers blaze through the cold air. This was followed immediately by a monstrous collection of lights and flashing beacons that glided rapidly overhead with the cascading thunder of a thousand lesser starships. And even in the relative darkness, there was no mistaking those majestic lines: Queen Elidean herself, first of the five greatest battleships ever constructed (she alone had tear-shaped shelters at the tips of her bridge wings). Then the great vessel passed behind the roofline of the officers' quarters.

Ursis laughed as the tumult began to ease and they continued across the courtyard. "Your Crown Prince Onrad travels in style, if I may say so."

Brim saluted his friend. "If it turns out that you may not say so," he pronounced in mock seriousness, "then I shall take it upon myself to say it for you." He rubbed his chin and shrugged as if he had suddenly reached a difficult decision. "In point of fact, I have recently divined that such mode of travel is probably even more comfortable than the average Carescrian ore barge. Now what do you think of that, Sodeskayan?"

"Deep thinking, Brim," the Bear replied, nearly tripping on a raised paving tile. "Deep thinking indeed."

Cherdak smiled and got a better grip on her countryman.

The two Sodeskayans delivered Brim to his door only cycles after they stumbled out of the sixth-floor lift. The Carescrian never was able to remember getting himself into bed—nor neatly hanging his uniform in the wardrobe.

Brim came muzzily awake before his alarm chimed him out of bed. He didn't bother to open his eyes—clearly he was not finished sleeping, and his thoughts were still muddled from the night before.

Besides, he was still glowing from an erotic dream to end all erotic dreams. About Margot, of course, and oddly enough (now that he thought about it) set right here in the room he occupied. He sighed—the xaxtdamned thing was so real, it might really have happened. His mind's eye could still see her mounted astride him, eyes glazed, red-flushed face twisted into a ravishing mask of effort and delight while her pelvis moved urgently backward and forward, scraping his groin with her coarse, wet gold. Their coupling was even better than he remembered from Avalon, as if the Universe were atoning for time they'd spent apart. If that made any sense at all. If anything in that sort of dream had to make sense.

As he recalled, she'd arrived in the dream out of nowhere—awakening him as she climbed into bed, her clothes folded neatly on a chair by the door.

He smiled as he lay in the lonely darkness. Even dreaming, he'd been too affected by the powerful Sodeskayan meem to take much advantage of the situation. Except, of course...But that had been totally automatic.

She'd giggled happily when she discovered his condition, and placed her lips beside his ear while blond curls tickled his nose. "That's wonderful, Wilf," she'd whispered. "You've come through splendidly.

I shall now take care of all the rest." It was the most beautiful dream of his entire life.

He sighed again and shifted to a more comfortable position—where he suddenly encountered a warm, smooth curve that had absolutely nothing to do with an empty bed.

He felt himself go rigid. Heart suddenly thundering in his ears, he moved his hand along the softness.

And he was awake this time, all right. The curve was very, very real. He carefully opened his eyes to a mass of golden curls on the pillow beside him.

"M-m-mm, Wilf," she said sleepily. "Ready for more?"

"S-Sweet, thraggling Universe," he mumbled. It was all he could manage before she rolled toward him, threw her leg over his hip, and smothered his mouth with her wet—crazy wet—lips.

A long time passed before either of them said anything sensible at all.

"How in the name of Voot himself," Brim asked as dim morning light glowed through the window, "can you sit here naked in bed with me and say you are going to marry him? I mean, how?'

Margot smiled impishly, resting her back against a pillow. "Watch my lips," she said. "I... am... going...to..."

"Universe!"

"Oh, Wilf, for crying out loud—which you are going to make me do before long—I don't love him.

You certainly must know that, by now. I'm just going to marry him. That's all."

"That's all? Universe, Margot. I mean..."

"I know what you mean, Wilf," she said. "And even if my life isn't my own to live as 1 choose, I don't intend to give you up. My wedding to Rogan LaKarn won't produce a marriage—a partnership is more like it. He doesn't want me. He's got somebody else, too, you know. A couple of somebody elses, in fact."

"Well, that's not my case, Margot," Brim replied. "You know I want you—I've just never wanted to own you. Or anybody else, for that matter." He looked her in the eye. "But I xaxtdamned well want to make sure nobody else gets to make that claim, either."

"I understand," she said, nodding her head. "Universe knows I feel the same way about you."

"That's good," he answered, "because there is something else." He was talking very seriously now.

He'd given the matter months of thought on blockade duty and was quite ready to discuss it in a Universe of detail. "What I need—all I need," he went on emphatically, "is to know that I'm the one special person in your life—permanently. I need that relationship—because I need you."

She looked him in the eye. "You have that already, Wilf," she said. "It's one of the few parts of my life they can't control with the excuse that royal duty calls for it." Then she took a great breath and put her hands on her stomach, staring down into her lap. "But will you still believe in that relationship when this belly of mine is swollen with his child?" She looked up and pursed her lips. "That, Mr. Brim will be the true test for us both. And it will happen. They'll expect heirs immediately after the war."

Brim closed his eyes and winced. "Heirs," he repeated, emphasizing the plural form of the word.

"Ouch."

"You didn't think it was going to be easy for either of us, did you?" Margot asked. "Listen, Wilf, in the not too distant future, I'm going to have to encourage you to find yourself some...ah... temporary sleeping companions. Either that or you'll end up like a celibate lots of the time. And it's my bet that if I ask for something like that, I'll eventually lose what little I have of you."

Brim started to protest, but she continued before he could speak.

"This love we think we share will have to be so terribly strong it can fast through quite a bit of adversity, especially now that I'm permanently reassigned to Avalon. Just trying to see each other is going to be xaxtdamned difficult. It was no easy matter getting a berth aboard Queen Elidean so I could be here for your ceremony today. And I am required to return with her when she casts off early this evening." She laughed resentfully. "After my little spying sojourn to Typro, Uncle Greyffin IV is doing everything in his power to keep me safely within the Imperial sphere on Avalon. At least until I produce that heir."

Brim nodded and smiled gently. "1 guess we'll spend a lot of our lives skulking, then," he said.

She sighed and took his hand. "I should dearly like to find some nicer words, Wilf," she said, looking down at her manicured nails. "But I suppose it is precisely what everything boils down to. Turns out it's commonly accepted practice among us of the so-called ancienne noblesse, if that's any help. Otherwise, we'd have royal marriages falling apart all over the Empire. Can you live with something like that?"

"Can you, Margot?"

"I asked you first, Wilf Brim," she laughed quietly. "But, yes. I can live with it." She looked him full in the face. "I've spent a lot of time weighing the question of 'us'—and now I'm ready to commit." She grimaced. "I can't find a nice war of putting this, but it's got to be said. Rogan and I have been together—that way—a number of times since you and I first made love on Avalon. And never once has it changed the way I feel about you. Not even when it was especially good." She pursed her lips and squeezed his fingers. "Life is going to be damned difficult over the long stretches we'll be apart. But the most difficult times of all will come when we do see each other and cannot touch."

Brim nodded. That made abundant sense. "How long before the wedding?" he asked.

She took a deep breath and frowned. "Sometime during the summer season in Avalon," she said. "I shall have to set the actual date soon after I return."

"And until the wedding?" Brim asked.

"Until the wedding—and after the wedding—we'll skulk, Wilf Brim, just as we're skulking now.

Whenever we can be together." She smiled (and frowned). "The more we practice, the better we'll be—at skulking as well as other, more interesting activities. Starting right now." Her eyebrows raised and she smiled salaciously. "It's still more than two metacycles before Cousin Onrad presents your decorations, and I need you. 'Like a king fulfill then my life!/Fill my unsatiated soul/ With all the bliss of paradise!"'

Miraculously, the morning continued to hold fair—though telltale cloud formations promised an expeditious return to more conventional meteorological fulsomeness not too many metacycles hence. The dying world had almost become placid by the time Brim stood at attention in dim midday light. Behind Headquarters Plaza, flags rustled crisply in the chill breeze From the corners of his eyes, he could see ranks of Blue Capes lined on either side as far as they'd cleared the melting snow—representatives from the hundreds of organizations comprising Gimmas Haefdon. He smiled to himself. Margot was among them somewhere, watching, sharing the moment with him, as were Borodov and Ursis. The two Sodeskayans stood to his right, with Borodov in a center position as befit his great seniority. Nearby, a single rank of ratings—including Barbousse—waited for their own decorations.

Distant thunder from a lifting warship momentarily drummed his ears, then faded into the yellow-gray sky. Someone in the formation sneezed. Another coughed. He smelled the nearby sea as it tossed itself to vapor on the jetties and boulder-protected causeways. At last, the main doorways to headquarters were thrown wide by white-gloved Imperial Marines. They moved in perfect unison—a professional honor guard, if Brim had ever spotted one. He wondered idly how the beautifully attired escorts would face up to a day's terror on blockade duty. Presently, a military band yerked out one of the brassy war marches from nearby Glamnos Grathen, then Crown Prince Onrad emerged from the building. He was followed by a number of high-ranking naval officers, including (Gimmas Haefdon's commander, (the Hon.) Rear Admiral Dianna C' J' Herrish, Vice Admiral Eug'enie Drei'ffen, commander of the Sixth Battle Squadron, Star Admiral Sir Gregor Pendi, Admiral of the Imperial Fleet, and First Star Lord Beorn Wyrood!

Brim was stunned. He had trouble even imagining such an assemblage, much less seeing one—especially walking toward him. For a moment, his knees felt more than a little weak. Then the feeling passed in a wave of relief. These sage visitors from the Admiralty had little interest in any of the Truculents as persons. Rather, they were using the little ceremony to personally address the commoners of the Fleet. He took a deep breath, then smiled inwardly. If admirals really had that sort of need, then Wilf Brim was glad for an opportunity to assist—after all, they'd brought him a long way from the Carescrian ore mines.

Mercifully, none of the senior Fleet officials had many thoughts to inflict on the gathered hoi polloi.

Brim listened to their words echoing hollowly from military voice amplifiers. He even concentrated—and appreciated the praise he heard for men and Bears. He was especially gratified to hear Lord Wyrood state that, "the Carescrian Wilf Brim" had done much to prove his Admiralty Reform Act (and that a number of new Helmsman Academy slots would be opened in honor of his accomplishments). But when he attempted to probe below the glossy surface of their flawlessly delivered words, he encountered the same lack of basic understanding that characterized the absentee owners and controllers of the mine operations in which he'd once toiled.

No matter who you were, it seemed, once you reached—or passed—a certain level of command, you eventually lost contact with the reality of the work being done—mining, fighting, either one. Herrish, Drei'ffen, Penda, even Wyrood spoke in vainglorious terms of "glory," "bravery," "heroism," and the like.

Brim wondered if any had ever lived on a blockade line—where the most common terms were more like "terror," "desperation," and "death." He wasn't sure if anybody aboard old Truculent ever did have time for heroism. He was xaxtdamned well sure he hadn't himself.

Then he relented—a little. Unlike the mine controllers, it actually seemed as if these officers wanted to say something worthwhile. In their own manner, they cared—partly to save their own skins, of course.

But nevertheless, he felt they did care. And at least for now, it was enough.

Laurels were awarded after the speeches (Were they afraid to lose their audience otherwise?). The admirals stood in a line facing the Blue Capes, Prince Onrad in the center. On one side, Admiral Penda dispensed medals; on the other, Lord Wyrood called out names from a tabulator board. "Utrillo Barbousse, torpedoman," Wyrood boomed.

Brim watched the big rating stride impassively to a point directly in front of the Prince and salute as if such an encounter had been a daily occurrence for years. Gallsworthy's words suddenly echoed from Truculent's ruined bridge. "Now there's a real Blue Cape."

Each medal accompanied a short, personal conversation with the Prince that invariably sent the recipients back to their positions on the plaza with outright smiles breaking through their carefully nurtured military sangfroid. Brim was so thoroughly mesmerized by the proceedings that when the next called was

"Ursis," he found himself almost unprepared to follow!

He watched with a heightened sense of concentration while Onrad spent an even longer time in conversation with the younger Sodeskayan—until the Bear's words suddenly broke everyone within earshot into gales of very genuine-looking laughter. Wiping his eyes, the Prince clapped Ursis' shoulder and said something with a great smile beaming on his face. Then he turned to Penda, took the proffered decoration, and pinned it to Ursis' collar. They saluted. A smiling Nikolai Yanuarievich Ursis returned to his position on the other side of Borodov, and the name "Wilf Ansor Brim" boomed hollowly from the loudspeakers.

Ears roaring suddenly in a nonsensical attack of pure stage fright, Brim felt himself moving across the pavement. Mentally, he jerked himself around as he walked. There was nothing different between this and his first meeting with the Prince back on Avalon. He snorted quietly as his mind came back under control, and he stopped the prescribed three paces from the line of nobles, saluting energetically.

"Well, Lieutenant Brim," Onrad remarked with a distinctly pleased expression. "You seem to be turning up in my life with some regularity these days." His eyes strayed past Brim's shoulder to wink at someone in the formation of Blue Capes. He laughed. "That pile of blond curls atop my cousin yonder seems to turn up often in the same places." He shook his head. "Coincidence, of course," he said.

"Of course, Your Highness," Brim assured him.

Onrad stood in silence for long moments, considering. Finally, he shook his head. "You know, Wilf,"

he said in an underbreath, "aside from my own considerable masculine jealousy, I think she's made a damned fine choice." He chuckled quietly. "As if what 1 think means anything to the independent likes of her!" Then he became serious. "Unless I miss my guess—which I don't all that often—you have just accepted a hard road with her." He took Brim's elbow. "It's a damned important road, and it requires one very strong man to follow it." He pursed his lips. "Of course, it's none of my business—I simply have a habit of butting in where I shouldn't. Take good care of her, Wilf. Someday, she'll probably be the most powerful woman in the galaxy, and then she'll need love— real love—from someone who doesn't have an ax to grind." He winked. "But then, I couldn't know anything about you two." He smiled.

"Coincidence she's come all this way, of course."

Brim bowed. "Coincidence, of course, Your Majesty," Brim said with a straight face.

"Good for you, Wilf," the Prince said with a smile. "You will do well." Then, once again, he became serious. "And I did come here to present you with a reasonably significant decoration. Although it is probably only the first (and the least) of a whole series of medals I shall pin to your cape over the next period of years—if we survive." he turned to Penda. "The Imperial Comet, if you please, Admiral," he ordered.

Brim felt his heart skip a beat—he actually questioned his ears. That medal was only given...

Onrad laughed. "I caught the look in your eye just then, Wilf" he said. "And though it was Regula Collingswood who put you in for it, I was damned proud to sign my name beside hers. You deserve the medal." He grimaced. "You should have been decorated for the part you played in the A'zurnian mission, too," he continued. "Old Hagbut killed that one, though. I found that out through my Army sources, but I couldn't do anything about it. I've got to back up my senior officers—even when they're wrong."

Speechless, Brim could only shake his head for a few moments. "I am terribly honored, Prince Onrad," he finally stammered.

"Actually, I think I am, too," Onrad said with a grin. "I shall look forward to our next encounter, my Carescrian friend. They always seem the result of some interesting excitement."

The Prince's words were a clear sign of dismissal. Brim stood at rigid attention while Onrad fastened the device to his collar just below his badge of rank. This finished, he stepped back to salute. "I shall indeed look forward to our next meeting, Your Highness," he said. Then, turning about-face immediately, he marched back to his place in the line.

From this opposite vantage point, he had no trouble locating Margot in the assembled sea of Blue Capes. She had been standing in the front row, directly behind him throughout the whole ceremony. And her wink, this time, was all for him.

Borodov closed the ceremony by receiving two medals: one Imperial and one Sodeskayan, before his reassignment to the Admiralty in Avalon. Afterward, the nobles followed Onrad back to the headquarters building in (approximate) step to additional marches from Glamnos Grathen—at which time the formation of Blue Capes disintegrated with a sea of happy cheers. Brim dodged to Margot's side in a matter of ticks. She shook her head happily amid the noisy throng and smiled as she took his hand.

He thrilled at the soft warmth before she abruptly released him. "The first of those look-but-don't-touch encounters, I suppose?" he said ruefully over the hubbub.

"Neither of us can complain about the touching we got to do this trip," Margot laughed quietly, looking at him from the corner of her eyes. She touched her back and laughed ruefully. "I shall be stiff for weeks."

Then, capriciously, she took his hand again. "Parting is one of the more painful ways we shall perpetually pay for the pleasure of being together," she sighed. "And Queen Elidean departs for Avalon in less than two metacycles. I shall have to be aboard almost immediately. Will you walk with me to the brow, Wilf? It may be a long time before we talk alone again."

The vast battleship looked much like a great humpbacked island as it hovered beside the quay.

Rumbling at idle with the muted thunder of sixteen antigravity generators, Queen Elidean was indeed ready for immediate departure—a chill layer of air hung over the whole pierhead, and the water round about her massive footprint rippled and stirred in swirling patterns of alabaster froth. High overhead on the topmost bridge, Helmsmen could be seen performing last-moment systems checkouts, jabbing here and there at. unseen controls.

Brim and Margot arrived at the 'midships brow after successfully avoiding every shortcut from headquarters either of them could think of. "Onrad's not here," he observed hopefully. "His royal pennant isn't flying from the Queen's KA'PPA yet. You've probably got the best part of a metacycle before they even single up her mooring beams."

Margot laughed quietly. "There's no putting it off any longer, Wilf," she said firmly. "I must board now.

Otherwise, I won't be able to make myself go at all. I don't want to leave you any more than you want to leave me, you know." She bit her lip. "Our early morning kisses must suffice us for a while. Too many people are watching." She held out her hand.

Brim took it in his. "I wish I had any idea when I shall see you again," he said. "Whenever that turns out to be, it will seem as if I have waited a lifetime."

"But at least not forever, Wilf," she said. "And I shall write this time—enough to make up for the months of silence I put you through. We have years of 'skulking' ahead of us. I know that sounds pretty awful, but for me at least, it's a whole lot better than giving up completely. And who knows, someday..."

"I shall gladly skulk until my dying moment, Margot," Brim said, barely holding back emotions that threatened to make a fool of him on the crowded quay. He swallowed hard, then raised her hand to his lips. "'Alas, how soon the cycles are over,/Counted us out to play the lover,"' he quoted, the words rushing to his mind from nowhere.

"Oh, Universe, Wilf," she choked, her eyes brimming, "I can't say good-bye." She fumbled an ornate signet ring from her finger and passed it into his hand. Then without another word, she abruptly thrust herself into the throng filing into the brow.

Brim stood for a long time staring dumbly after her until he realized a number of the Imperial Marine guards were regarding him with ill-concealed suspicion. He shook his head as he turned to leave the boarding area. Onrad had been very right. His choice would be a hard road, indeed.

Toward the end of the afternoon, Gimmas Haefdon was rapidly settling back to its normal mien. Raw, wintery wind gusted remorselessly from the polar regions, blustering along the drab beach and bringing with it sure promise of snow—joined by occasional whiffs of overheated logics from the Theo-21 repair yard across the bay. Outbound along a narrow finger of tumbled rocks that jutted into the tossing gray water, Brim pulled his Fleet Cloak tighter around his neck, turned up the heat, and continued toward a dark, abandoned beacon clinging in rusty desperation to the last vestiges of stained, weather-smoothed rock. Its base was nearly lost in the lashing surf. It could be a wet perch to watch from, he knew, his face breaking into a smile. But be also knew it would be well worth any discomfort.

Behind him, in the waning light, Queen Elidean had been singled up for some time now. Her escort of ten powerful R-class destroyers was already aloft and thundering through the leaden skies as each took up position for the battleship's lift-off. Only cycles earlier, he'd watched them rumble out toward the horizon, turn, and hold for a moment while glittering clouds of ice particles rose like summer storm clouds a thousand irals beyond their sterns. Then, moments later, the reverberating blast of antigravity generators reached his ears as the sleek escorts raced in pairs over the surface of the water and soared effortlessly into a darkening sky.

The Carescrian lowered his head as he picked his way over age-smoothed boulders that formed the last few irals of the ruined pier, eyes squinting from the blowing saltwater that now ran in rivulets from his cloak. His arrival at the beacon coincided with the first snow squall, which passed quickly enough and actually seemed to clear the air as he ascended corroded rungs toward the long-dark beacon. In a few cycles, he was well above the spray and settled onto a wide, rusting girder with a surprisingly dry view of both the quay and the ocean.

He was not a moment too soon. In a matter of ticks, great optical hawsers flashed to the battleship from four waiting deep-space tugs, a final network of mooring beams extinguished, and the great starship began to shrug aside the long gray rollers as she slid majestically toward open ocean—and space. She passed Brim's vantage point only cycles later—her port tugs rumbling by a few hundred irals out on the sound. With a smile, Brim observed the orderly confusion on their bridges, then looked up at the great battleship ghosting through the wintery air like some monstrous sea creature totally unaffected by wind or wave. Even at idle, the beat of her incredible generators shook the old pylon where he sat in a shower of rust flakes. He squinted up at her great casemates—individual disruptors in the main battery were longer and far heavier than the spacegoing scout he'd ridden deep into League territory. Many of the deckhouses were nearly as large as old Truculent herself. Sweeping beacons flashed everywhere; a thousand lighted scuttles gleamed in sweeping parallel rows along her graceful hull. Countless analog machines scurried everywhere along her decks, stowing landside gear before it was forever lost in the takeoff. And somewhere aboard was Margot. He squeezed her ring in his pocket and lifted his head toward the bridge as it moved grandly past. It was too far away to make out more than moving silhouettes—but he could swear one of them waved. He'd shown her where he would be.

Snow began again before the big ship was out into the takeoff zone, but Brim could still see her when she turned parallel to the shore and the mooring hawsers winked out from the space tugs.

Like her escorts, she paused while great clouds of backwash became a whole miniature storm system (complete with flashes of lightning!). Then, unbelievable thunder filled the air—became part of the very Universe—while the great ship gathered herself and began to move over the water once more, her footprint throwing great curving waves to either side until—just abreast of Brim's beacon—she lifted.

Simultaneously, four of her escorts swooped through the cloud cover to take up station on each side and the five powerful warships climbed like a single existence to vanish slowly into the rolling storm. Mighty sounds from the squadron's passing echoed for a long time before they eventually faded into the booming of the ocean's everlasting surf.

Before Gimmas' feeble radiance departed completely, Lieutenant Wilf Ansor Brim, I.F., climbed from his perch and began picking his way back among the rocks toward the shore. Around him, little remained in view except the empty wharf, the pounding water—and the snow, which by now had grown into a hissing blizzard. He shrugged as he walked—none of the dirty weather mattered. He was nicely warmed from within. He had part of Margot now. And somewhere halfway across the galaxy, Collingswood's new ship waited—with a whole different kind of "pick and shovel" warfare for him to master. He touched the comet on his collar—he'd come a long way to get that. Not much more an ex-miner could ask for, now, was there?

As he neared the shore, he spied two figures making their way toward him through the snow—a large man and an even larger Bear waving what could only be a colossal bottle of...meem! The three met in the last moments of daylight, passing the bottle among themselves and clapping one another on the back in great apparent hilarity. Then arm in arm, they started landward and disappeared into the driving snowstorm singing, "To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!" over and over again until their voices merged with the howling wind and pounding surf. Not long afterward, the quiet flakes covered their tracks in a soft, uniform mantle of white.

Table of Contents

THE HELMSMAN

BY BILL BALDWIN

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10