"Baldwin, Bill 01 - The Helmsman ch05" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baldwin Bill)

CHAPTER 5

THE HELMSMAN
BY BILL BALDWIN
CHAPTER 5
    Swept along in the lines of soldiers and military vehicles coursing up the wide lanes of the brow, Brim and Barbousse caught only glimpses of the great starliner as she hovered on her monster gravity pool. She seemed to stretch for c'lenyts on either side, and lighted only by the weak glow from beneath, she still looked splendid. Her forward deck tapered gently upward from a conoid bow to a high, rakish super-structure surmounted by two enormous KA'PPA beacons and a dwarfed control bridge, the latter providing the ship with a nearsighted and, to some extent, surprised expression overall. The remainder of the wide, shallow hull-at least three-quarters of her overall length-appeared to be covered by cascading Hyperscreen terraces, which gleamed brightly from within as the big ship loaded.
    Below, streams of tarpaulin-covered cargo lumbered along under the lights of at least a dozen cargo-level brows-Brim glimpsed giant cargo tractors levitating a line of self-propelled disruptor cannon into an access hatch deep in the hull. Enormous machines. A great turrent squatted on each flattened hull, ridiculously small for the apparent weight it bore, and angular glassed-in driving cabins projected awkwardly like after-thoughts from the forward port and aft starboard corners. Inboard of these, massive cooling systems were ample proof of the prodigious energy required to fire the thick, stubby disruptors that protruded from the turrets.
    "What do you make of those?" he asked Barbousse, nodding toward the big vehicles crawling along below.
    "Captured fieldpieces, by the looks of 'em, sir," the big I rating answered.
    "No wonder they looked strange," Brim remarked. "Won't they be a surprise to a couple of Leaguers somewhere."
    Barbousse laughed as they crested the uphill portion of the brow. "Serve Triannic right to have those turned against him, Lieutenant. Nine-Ks are mean weapons, I've heard. Big, but exact for all their size. Use 'em for knockin' armored vehicles around, as I hear it. Like tanks and things."
    Suddenly the whole ship was spread before them. Brim shook his head in wonder, imagining how she might have appeared before the war-hullmetal in brilliant white and the legendary IGL logo shining ostentatiously on her bridge. "She must have been beautiful," he whispered, literally stunned by the immensity of the gigantic machine floating before him.
    "Aye, sir," Barbousse agreed beside him. "Another world all by herself, so they say."
    "Not a Carescrian's world, you can bet," Brim said as they continued their journey down the other side of the brow toward the main aperture 'midships.
    "Nor mine, Lieutenant," Barbousse said, then he chuckled. "But in the Fleet she belongs to all of us, in a manner of speakin'. War has a funny way of redistributing the wealth."
    Even stripped of peacetime luxury. Prosperous' Grand Receiving Lobby was everything Brim expected-and more: spacious pillared concourse with wide, arched corridors leading off in all directions to other parts of the ship. Tracks glowed everywhere in the deck, and they guided dozens of hooting trains piled high with military luggage pushing slowly through the noisy crowds. The air was alive with the smell of excitement, and everyone seemed to have somewhere important to go-although it was not at all clear any of them knew precisely where that somewhere might be located.
    In the center of the lobby, a crew of harried-looking clericals toiled desperately within the perimeter of a huge circular desk, fielding questions, peering into half a hundred terminals, and generally assisting the mob of newcomers struggling into the ship. It was here Brim and Barbousse found themselves separated, the latter assigned to a damage-control unit, Brim to Flight Operations.
    "I'll keep an eye on you, sir, just the same," Barbousse said, voice raised to make himself heard in the crowd. "When you want me, just ask any of the ratings." Then he was gone, pushing his way confidently toward one of the large companionways as if he had been assigned to the mammoth starship all his life.
    Brim smiled as the big man disappeared in the crowd. Prosperous was a large ship, with a lot of strangers on board-a likely place for feeling lonely. He laughed to himself-before Truculent, he hadn't really thought that much about loneliness; he'd been simply used to it. Now... It was nice to have Barbousse around. Someone from home, so to speak.
    "You'll want to check in with the Flight Ops," a bucktoothed rating with narrow eyes and a long nose said as she handed him back his identification. Her perfume suggested crushed ca'omba cookies, somehow. "Fifth level, zone 75-catch the 16-E tram, Lieutenant. Concourse 3." She pointed vaguely across the room. "One comes by every few cycles during loading operations."
    Brim nodded and started through the crowd, chuckling to himself. So far as he could remember, this would be one of his very first rides in a shipboard tram. All the really big ships had them, of course-even giant Carescrian ore carriers. The big difference was that presumably ones on Prosperous worked!

    "Oh, you're welcome on the bridge anytime, old boy," said a youngish-looking lieutenant commander wearing prominent Ka'LoomKA signet rings (one of which gave his name as "C. A. Sandur"). With a bulbous nose, pursed lips, and enormous gray eyes, his round face wore a perpetual look of pleased astonishment. "But probably you'll never touch a control," he added uncomfortably. "Pity they dragged you along at all. You're clearly dressed as if you had better plans for the evening."
    "I did, Commander," Brim answered, looking bleakly around the spacious cabin-everything was big on this ship. "I'm replacing someone suddenly ill, is that it?"
    "That seems to be the drill," Sandur said.
    "Just my luck," Brim grumped, thinking of a warm room in a warm tavern with a warm Margot. "All that trouble and now I've got nothing to do. Sir."
    "The woman you are replacing had nothing to do, either, if it makes you feel any better," Sandur answered patiently. "She was just a temporary Helmsman like yourself. We always I have full crews of IGL people to man this particular liner-same ones who fly her in peacetime. Like myself." He snorted humorlessly. "Yet the movers and shakers in your Admiralty I think we need Fleet types to help us run our own equipment now they've got a war." He shook his head in good-natured frustration. "It's not as if we hadn't been piloting this elegant rustbucket for close to seven years now." Then he laughed amiably. "But that isn't your fault, is it, Brim? Any more than it is my fault you find yourself here. Is there anything I can I do to make your stay more, ah..."
    "I'll say there is," Brim piped up. "Sir," he added quickly. "They called me out so quickly, nobody told me anything about the mission."
    Sandur shook his head. "Oh, my," be said sympathetically. "They really did the job on you, didn't they, Brim?" He laughed. "Well, that seems about the very least I can do." He swept his Fleet Cloak from a nearby recliner and fastened it around his neck with an expensive-looking-and very nonstandard-collar clasp. "Why don't you follow me up to the bridge? We can I observe the takeoff from there, and then I shall tell you what I know."
    Less than a metacycle later, Brim watched Gimmas Haefdon recede in the aft Hyperscreens from a disappointingly normal looking control bridge. He chuckled to himself-wondering why he'd expected anything special about Prosperous. Bridges were, after all, bridges-some larger than others, but in-most aspects alike as so many shells on a beach. Another study in relativity, he decided while he settled down to his first details of the mission code-named "Raid Prosperous."
    As Sandur put things, the operation had been sorely needed for a long time now. A'zurn, a mild, lushly vegetated world on the edge of Galactic Sector 944-E had been violently seized by the League at the outset of the war. The solitary planet and the star that gave it sustenance lay directly astride one of the principal thoroughfares in Triannic's TimeWeed trade. Location itself made the illegal seizure one of military as well as social necessity-at least the way the Leaguers saw things. To provide a modicum of propriety in which to wrap this outright rape of a blameless republic (and longtime ally of the Empire), Triannic immediately constructed a network of sixteen research centers within the capital city of Magalla'ana. Then he broadcast far and wide that the new facilities would be dedicated to beneficial purposes-ridding primitive worlds of viral diseases that threatened their most promising life forms.
    Of course, nobody believed a word-weapons testing is difficult to conceal anywhere. And all sixteen centers were successful from the outset: so much so that destruction of the network soon became an obsession with Imperial war planners everywhere. But the Leaguers stayed one step ahead. They cleverly used A'zurnian natives (a race of flighted humanoids) for on-site laborers and hostages-with the latter function more vital than the first. While big, starship-mounted disruptors could easily wipe out the whole research network without even coming into orbit around A'zurn, they could not do so without slaughtering the thousands of innocents imprisoned directly within each of the sixteen target areas. Only if the hostages could first be evacuated to safety could the Fleet destroyers accomplish their- mission. Essentially, that called for sixteen individual ground forays-closely followed by sixteen individual destroyer strikes. The necessity of coordinating all the diverse units necessary to field such a complex operation eventually led to Raid Prosperous, hosted by Imperial Fleet Operations and implemented as a joint effort by the tradition-steeped Imperial Avalonian Expeditionary Forces, units of the Nineteenth and Twenty-fifty Destroyer Flotillas, and His Majesty's Royal Transport Command, whose temporarily Blue-Caped IGL employees operated Prosperous in war as they did in peace.
    During the last day out, Brim audited a series of briefings conducted by native A'zurnian officers: onetime diplomats and military attaches stationed in Avalon at the outbreak of war who found themselves unable to return home before their dazed government capitulated.
    Even Carescrian children got to study pictures of A'zumians-everyone in the Universe did, it seemed. But Brim had never yet encountered one in real life. Close up, they were stunning. Men and women alike were tall, barrel-chested individuals who dressed in wonderfully old-fashioned regimentals: tight gray tunics with twelve golden frogs, crimson collars (elaborately embroidered), gold epaulets, and dark knee breeches with crimson side stripes, and light-weight, knee-high flying boots. The uniforms cast an odd but beguiling grandeur wherever they appeared.
    From the front, A'zurnians were normal enough humanoids, resembling most all of the space-traveling sentients encountered so far. From the back, however, their wings-really a second, very specialized set of arms-set them apart from all the rest. Midway between the shoulders, their tunics opened to accommodate a down-covered, pillow-sized lump common to all adult A'zurnians known as a "tensil." This protrusion (manifesting itself at puberty) covered an outgrowth of the reflexive nervous system which automatically coordinated the complex motions of feather and flesh necessary for flight. From each side of the tensil, great folded wings arched upward like golden cowls trailing long flight feathers in alabaster cascades that reached all the way to the floor. Brim found himself awe-struck.
    The briefings themselves were well prepared and easy to understand. Careful lectures from a whole staff of experts gave Brim details of the landscape and climate, planetary transportation system, the Magalla'ana city layout (including locations of the target research nodes), and known effects of the League occupation.
    This last subject was covered by a tall female with the huge eyes and large retinas of a born hunter-she instantly captured Brim's imagination. Her presentation, however, drove all thought of pleasantries from his mind, for 'she described an A'zurn that suffered mightily under Triannic's iron fist.
    As she explained it, League soldiers intended no special malice toward their A'zurnian thralls, but the net effect was much the same as if they did. Triannic's military structures were specially designed to stifle independent thought of any kind. Pragmatic rules covered everything-including how conquered peoples were to be governed. So, when the fragile A'zurnians were subjected to the same general treatment that subdued a planet of sturdy warriors like the seven-iral giants of Coggl'KANs, their hollow bones and fragile wings literally tended to crumple and shatter upon contact. Broken extremities were so common that fully a quarter of the A'zurnian population was known to have succumbed in the first two years of occupation alone. And if this were not enough, the feared black-suited Controllers (who were occasionally permitted to think) soon discovered it was much more convenient to imprison A'zurnians once their wings were snapped in half just below the "elbow." Captives altered in such a fashion could then be impounded without the Leaguers' first having to construct sky barriers as well as walls. It wasn't so much cruelty that led the Controllers to devise such gross tortures-it was simple pragmatism.
    When the briefing ended, a much subdued Brim made straight for his stateroom and pondered the utter callousness of war. At that point, he would almost have joined the ground forces himself.
    Less than a day later, the big liner arrived in high orbit over A'zurn. Below, on the surface, a small but highly organized A'zurn underground was already well into a noisy-and highly I successful-uprising in the distant city of Klaa'Shee to draw League occupation troops away from Magalla'ana while Imperial land forces disembarked for operations on the surface. In the air, the Imperial Fleet held complete, if temporary, command of the skies. After six years of League occupation, the A'zurnians were so totally devastated that the Controllers had seen fit to reassign all but a few surveillance warships to other occupied planets where more active opposition to League ministrations made such equipment mobs in demand.

    "I say, Brim," Sandur exclaimed, bursting onto the bridge where Brim idly watched a stream of shuttles ferry men and equipment toward the surface. "Someone claims they've actually got work for you down there. How does that sound?"
    Brim laughed. Used to constant-grueling-activity on blockade duty, he was more than halfway desperate for something to at least occupy his mind. "Where do I sign up, Commander?" he asked immediately.
    "Well," Sandur said, smiling and cocking his head, "you won't need to sign anything. Seems they've already saved that trouble and volunteered you."
    Brim smiled. "How thoughtful, sir," he chuckled. "What sort of work do they have in mind?" he asked.
    Sandur frowned, managing somehow to look even more surprised than normal. "I don't know, Brim," he answered. "You're to receive your orders from an Army type once you've arrived-a Colonel Hagbut, I believe." He cleared his throat. "I suppose it could be dangerous."
    Brim nodded with equanimity. "Boredom can be dangerous, too, Commander," he chuckled. "I'll be packed in five cycles."
    Sandur grinned. "That's the spirit," he said. "And you won't go alone, either. There's the most Universe-awfully big rating who insists he travel with you." He scratched his head. "Don't rightly know how he even found out about the whole thing-nor how he managed to get orders cut and signed by the Captain himself But he did. Said he'd wait in the shuttle,-Brim. You Truculents stick together, don't you?"
    Brim smiled. "Have to, Commander," he agreed. "It's a rough war out there."
    "Isn't it," Sandur said soberly. "And getting more so all the time, as I am about to inform you." He squared his shoulders. "Seems Triannic's occupation forces got off every broadcast for help we predicted they would. Maybe even a few more. We were pretty accurate guessing those." He gazed thoughtfully out the Hyperscreens, drumming his fingers on a nearby console. "Unfortunately, we also predicted Triannic wouldn't be able to free up much equipment for a counterattack," he continued, "at least not before we finished most of our work." This time he ended with a grimace.
    "You weren't so accurate there, Commander?" Brim asked.
    "Not quite," Sandur answered.
    "What went wrong, sir?"
    Sandur laughed. "Nothing actually went wrong, my young friend. We simply did not count on Admiral Kabul Anak and his battlecruiser squadron to be in quite such close proximity." He shook his head in disgust. "You've heard of him, of course."
    "Once or twice," Brim growled, a little girl's face flashing painfully in his mind's' eye. "And us with only destroyers..." He stared out into the starry blackness. "How long do we have, Commander?"
    "Perhaps three standard days," Sandur said, frowning daddy. "Instead of the five Planning Ops allotted." He grimaced. "I thought I'd better let you know beforehand-because whatever you're going to accomplish down there, you'd better do it quickly. When we receive orders to move Prosperous, we'll move her-let me guarantee you that. This starship is more than just a fast transport; she's considered an Imperial resource-one of the biggest and fastest liners in the Universe-but she can't fight and she can't outrun a battlecruiser. So when those orders arrive, we'll pick up whomever and whatever we can on the way out-and we'll leave everything else here." He placed a hand on Brim's shoulder. "There's ample time to accomplish the destruction of the research network-that's important to the Admiralty, too. But once those objectives are accomplished-well, remember, Brim, after the raid, everything is expendable except Prosperous herself."
    Later, the Carescrian hurried toward his cabin, chucking in spite of storm clouds gathering in the back of his mind. He could distinctly remember the Commander's original warning that-he might likely have nothing to do on this trip.

    Barbousse arrived on A'zurn's surface armed to the teeth. He carried two heavy-looking meson pistols on his belt and a wicked-looking curved knife strapped to the top of his right boot, this latter in a splendid jeweled scabbard that glittered in the bright afternoon sunlight as he jumped to the ground from the shuttles He surveyed the noisy, crowded landing field for only a moment, then pointed to a big L-181-type armored personnel carrier hovering nearby, its driver beckoning with a burly arm. "Transportation into town, Lieutenant," he announced while Brim adjusted the small knapsack attached to his battle suit.
    The crowded roadway was not in the best of repair, but Magalla'ana itself was beautiful, though mysteriously bereft of all but a few winged inhabitants-at least from what little Brim could see through the side port of the L-18 1 as it lumbered along at high speed through equipment-crowded suburban streets. He fancied exploring its tree-shaded squares and shaggy-moss-covered carved stone spires (which looked as if they had been in place since the Universe cooled.) Here and there they passed side lanes lined by deserted-looking homes with upper-story doors and overgrown gardens of multicolored flowers in place of roofs. Then they rattled between two heroic obelisks and out across an ornate stone bridge spanning what looked to be a major canal. Through intricate balustrades, Brim could see a great waterway fronted by palaces or at least important houses of state, each terraced with I the remains of once-tended gardens, most gone wild with neglect. The burned-out wreck of a graceful water craft rose gruesome from the center of the channel like a charred finger of warning. Brim grimaced sadly as they drove through more deserted streets and lanes. Heroic efforts would truly be needed -to restore this, tiny paradise to its former tranquillity-beginning with the demise of Nergol Triannic and his horde of invaders from the League.
    In due time, the personnel carrier rumbled to a hovering stop before a stately portico of ten ornate pillars that fronted a circular stone building topped with a high, age-discolored dome. Carved two-story wooden doors provided street-level entrance through the weather-stained walls.
    "You'll find the Colonel in there," Brim heard the driver shout to Barbousse over the noise of the traffic, "and may the Universe spare you both." He laughed, then Barbousse slammed the hatch shut and the L- 181 lurched into the thundering flow of traffic amid an angry blare of warning clicks from the other vehicles. Deciding to ignore the overheard warning for a time, Brim silently led the way up a broad stone staircase toward the massive doors. Under the weather-stained portico, they proffered their orders to four white-gloved guards, then stepped inside under the dome where Barbousse audibly gasped with awe.
    The whole structure enclosed one grand circular room lined in polished, flawlessly white stone. Elegant inlays divided the curving walls into four quadrants, and on each of these, great carved murals depicted heroic struggles between winged men dressed in ancient-looking body armor and tall, eight-legged creatures with lancelike fangs. Above these, the dome glowed from hundreds of circular doors set into its very plates, and a huge sword dangled perilously, point down, from a curious- ornamentation at the very apex. The floor-swarming with people running in all directions-was constructed from the same white stone as the walls and was arranged in three concentric circles, the inner two raised and surrounded by a strange carved-metal balustrade. Aisles ran straight from the mural-covered walls to a circular altar centered on the inner circle. This was presently occupied by a figure in the tan and red battle dress of the Imperial Army.
    "D' you suppose that's Hagbut?" Brim asked with a shrug.
    Barbousse grinned. "I'd bet on it, Lieutenant."
    "I'll be back in a cycle or so, then," Brim said, and started up one of the aisles.
    He was no more than a few irals past the first balustrade when he was intercepted by a pink-looking civilian administrator who looked very much out of place in his ill-fitting battle suit. "Your orders, Lieutenant," he demanded officiously.
    Brim silently handed over his card for inspection-which was accepted as if it bore some shameful disease.
    "You may approach the Colonel," the man said after a long pause, indicating the figure at the center of the room with a pained nod of his head.
    Brim's eyes met Barbousse's for a moment; then he was on his way. As he climbed the second alabaster staircase, an ornate nameplate became visible on the surface of the desk. Self-powered and multicolored, the clearly expensive device flashed:
    Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z' Hagbut,
    Xce, N.B.E., Q.O.C., Imperial Expeditionary
    Forces (Combat).
    The mustachioed figure behind the nameplate was a small, intense-looking individual of middling years who spoke as though he disliked showing his teeth. His left collar wore distinctive crossed blast pikes, which identified him as a graduate of the prestigious BDM-38 Darkhurst Academy, a close neighbor of Avalon itself. Likewise, his clearly custom-tailored battle suit and mirrorlike boots spoke of considerable wealth-wielded by a man to whom the act of commanding probably came as a natural inheritance. His red-veined face further revealed him as an officer of quick temper or little patience or I (more probably) both. As Brim approached, the man's coarse gestures to a cowed-looking subordinate gave substance to Barbousse's earlier warning that the undersized field officer ~ was known as a "cod'dlinger" (a uniquely Narkossian-91 reference to excretory organs of a local slops-yard scavenger). "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," he had assured his companion, "but I'm not sure I'll be able to do anything about it."
    "YOU THERE!" the Colonel roared in a voice that sounded as if his mouth were open a great deal wider than it appeared. He motioned imperiously to Brim. "OVER HERE! ON THE DOUBLE!"
    Brim ran the last few steps, then saluted (smartly, he hoped). "Lieutenant Wilf Brim, I.F. reporting as ordered, Colonel," I he said, gazing politely up at the huge sword dangling from the center of the dome.
    "Certainly not a moment too soon," the Colonel rumbled I irately. "Where have you been?" He sat back with a sour look on his pinched red face. "You Fleet types are so worthless," he observed at length, spitting noisily over the balustrade. "WELL?"
    Brim remained at attention. "What can I do for the Colonel?" he asked in a respectful voice, still staring at the sword.
    "You mean you don't know?"
    Brim swallowed his embarrassment, sure every eye in the room was laughing at him. "No, sir,"' he said, looking the Colonel in the eye for the first time. "I don't."
    "Universe," the Colonel sniffed, spitting over the balustrade again. "Well, I suppose I shall have to tell you, then-mind you, it won't be the first time I have covered for your organization's INCOMPETENCE!"
    Brim spied a wiry little sergeant standing on the second ring about ten irals behind the red-faced officer. The man winked and rolled his eyes toward the sky-it helped somehow.
    "HERE," the Colonel shouted, gesturing Brim's attention to a display globe that suddenly materialized over a portable COMM pack. It pictured the eight captured disruptors Brim had watched being loaded aboard Prosperous. They were now resting lifelessly on the ground. "You are to take command of those League fieldpieces," he snorted. "Lost all eight of my regular crews in a shuttle accident last night. Can't trust you Fleet types to get anything right, can I? At any rate, I knew you've all been trained to fire a disruptor. It's probably all you can do."
    Brim felt his jaw drop open. "Colonel," he stammered, "I have a lot to learn about League disruptors."
    "Well, you'd better GET BUSY!" the Colonel bellowed "because those eight vehicles were starlifted all the way from Gimmas Haefdon especially to protect my portion of the mission from league armor. They were my idea-League vehicles will be nearly invisible to counter-attacking forces looking for Imperial equipment. And all eight of those fieldpieces will move out precisely two metacycles from now. UNDER-STAND?" He shot a pair of elegant battle cuffs, then raised his eyebrows as if he were reassuring a hopelessly dense child. "This is A BRILUANT INNOVATION, and you will be PROUD to have been instrumental in its trial run."
    Brim could only stare wide-eyed and silent in disbelief.
    Hagbut frowned for a moment, stared closely into Brim's eyes, then grimaced. "You really don't know anything about the job we summoned you down here for, do you?"
    "No, sir," Brim assured him. "I do not."
    Hagbut laughed aloud. "I'll bet those drafted IGL people never let you in on a xaxtdamned thing, did they?"
    "They said I'd receive my orders from you, Colonel," Brim replied flatly.
    Hagbut regarded him bleakly. "Wonderful," he muttered.
    Brim held his tongue. There was nothing more he could say.
    After a few moments in thought, Hagbut shrugged to himself and looked Brim directly in the eye. "YOUR XAXTDAMNED FLEET STINKS, Brim," he said with his upper lip raised. "You can't help it-and neither can I. BUT IT DOES. Luckily, your uselessness probably won't mean a thing to me this time anyway. Since the A'zurnian underground staged their big show in Klaa'Shee a couple of days ago, those rotten Leaguers hardly have anybody left in the area at all-much less tanks to fight the cannon you're here to drive. All you've got to do is follow along and keep your head down when there's fighting to be done." He drummed his fingers on the altar. "For you, the mission ought to be easy as falling off a cliff. You follow us to the research center in your cannon, wait out of the way while we free the hostages they've got penned up beside the main laboratory, then you call in your destroyers to blow the whole thing up once we're on our way back." He shook his head in disgust. "Do you think you can handle that much?"
    "I shall certainly try," Brim answered.    -
    "Well," Hagbut said bleakly, "at least you seem willing. It's I better than nothing, I suppose. BUT NOT MUCH." He gazed balefully across the altar, lost for a time in some inner thought. "Probably," he continued presently, "the worst part of the trip will come when we get to the hostages themselves."
    "I understand they've been pretty roughly treated."
    "An understatement," Hagbut said with a grimace. 'Those Controllers they use as guards aren't very nice people at all even dislike coming up against them in combat," he said. "Hard to go about the job professionally-without emotion, you know."
    Brim felt his eyebrow raise. "Sir?"
    "We Army officers usually go out to fight our opposite numbers in the League," Hagbut answered, "like the guards they'll have at the outer gates to the whole compound. No emotion there. It's simply professional against professional; somebody wins and somebody loses. But what kind of persondo you think they have guarding the inner gates to the hostage compound? Army types? Not on your life. They'll have Controllers. Bloody black-suited Controllers. And when I come up against them, then the fighting gets bitter. Because those scum of the Universe deserve anything we do to them." Suddenly he stopped, looked at his shaking hand, and thrust his jaw in the air. "I don't know why I feel constrained to tell all this to you, Brim," he said. "This interview is at an end." He raised a pontifical finger. "As for your cannon, I shall direct you PERSONALLY as to where and when I want them fired. It will save you from overtaxing what little of your gray matter remains operable in your head after a tour in the Fleet Academy." He looked down his nose. "Do you have any questions, Lieutenant?"
    Brim stifled an urge to laugh in the man's face and nodded instead. "I do have one question, Colonel," he said.
    "Well? Be quick about it."
    "Who else do you have scheduled to crew those eight field-pieces, Colonel?" he asked. "They sent only two of us down from Prosperous."
    Hagbut laughed triumphantly. "I have ALREADY seen to that, Lieutenant," he boomed. "More than one metacycle ago, I deposited EIGHT of your ordnance ratings with the disruptors to help do that." He spat again. "And since I KNEW they'd be worthless as any other Fleet type on land, I gave you fourteen equally worthless extras to assist." He frowned. "Those last are a BA3TLE COMM group-all women, but they're at least warm bodies, I think." He guffawed without humor. "NOW GET MOVING. You've less than five metacycles to get that blasted machinery into some sort of useful operation." He turned back to the desk in a clear gesture of dismissal.
    Brim saluted uselessly, then trudged back down the staircase to where Barbousse waited, a black look on his brow.
    "Cod'dlinger," the big rating glowered in a low voice. "If you please, sir."
    "I xaxtdamn well please," Brim grumped. "Come on. Let's see if we can find someone who knows where those mobile disruptors are. Maybe we can use one to run the bastard over once he's in the field accidentally, of course."
    "Of course, sir," Barbousse chuckled darkly. "Accidentally, by all means."

    Barbousse worked his magic rapidly in the old temple and within a few cycles, he both discovered the location of the mobile disruptors and lined up another ride. Presently, the two Truculents found themselves deposited in a large urban park bordering dense groves of tall, gnarled trees. Nearby, the mobile disruptors sat disconsolately on their warty rounded bottoms, leaning drunkenly at odd angles like toys discarded by some titanic child. A row of twenty-two Blue Capes dangled their legs from one of the hulls, kicking their heels against the giant cooling fins beneath, and talking excitedly.
    Brim glanced at a flight of starships traveling so high he couldn't even make out what kind they were-but he could hear them. He suddenly felt homesick for Truculent. Truth to tell, he felt more than a little out of place here on the land-inadequate was more to the point. Then he laughed to himself. Fat lot he could do to change things anyway! He braced his shoulders and strode across the field. Might as well look confident, he thought, even though he didn't feel that way.
    As he approached the fieldpieces, two of the ratings jumped I from their perches and ran to meet him, saluting smartly.
    "Leading Starman Fragonard here, Lieutenant," one announced importantly. "In charge of your ordnance men." He was short and rawboned, his hair was gray, and he seemed to be in motion standing still. His constantly darting green eyes were those of a master thief or a master gunner. Right from the beginning, Brim suspected he was both. On his uniform, a number of gold and crimson ribbons presaged excellence in his specialty of Ordnance. Too bad nobody gave awards for mischief, Brim thought with a stifled smile. At least none were approved for wearing on a Fleet Cape!
    Brim returned their salutes, then nodded toward the second with a raised eyebrow.
    "Yeoman of Signals Fronze reporting, Lieutenant," the other said; she was a squat, heavyset woman with broad shoulders and neutral hair. Her flat, amorphous countenance served merely to highlight a coarse, open-pored complexion. Only flashing eyes and a winning smile saved her from total, unmitigated plainness. She was neither young nor old, but her large hands suggested long periods of manual toil long ago in another life. Both she and Fragonard would have been nearly invisible on a crowded metropolitan street in Avalon, but where Fragonard might well have made a diligent effort to achieve such an effect, for Fronze it would have been automatic. She indicated thirteen women of various sizes wit jumped to the ground and saluted raggedly. "Two mobile KA'PPA beacons and the best BA1TLE COMM in the Fleet," she added with a toothy grin.
    Brim smiled back as his heart sank. BATFLE COMM people to drive League tank destroyers. Wonderful! He supposed somewhere nearby a squad of qualified drivers were probably attempting to fathom the arcane operation of a KA'PPA beacon. "Ordnance and Communications," he said lamely. "Well, I'm, ah, certainly glad to have you, ah, aboard. I don't suppose anyone knows anything about starting one of these mechanical marvels, does he or she?"
    "Us?" Fragonard asked incredulously, holding a slender (and reasonably clean) hand to his chest. "Lieutenant," he said, "we only fire the disruptors, we don't do nothin like drivin'." He stopped suddenly as the rumble of heavy artillery intruded from a distance.
    Barbousse stepped quietly to the side of the rawboned little man and plucked him from his feet by the scruff of the collar, smiling pleasantly all the while. "You," he said gently over the far-off booming, "are, of course, volunteering yourself and all of your men for whatever duties the Lieutenant suggests. Is that correct, Starman Fragonard?"
    Fragonard's eyes bulged, became large as saucers. He tried to swallow something much larger than his throat, but the latter was constricted by the peculiar way his collar was twisted within Barbousse's huge fist. "Of course," he choked.
    "M-My s-signal ratings, too," Fronz~ piped up hurriedly. "Always glad to help out anywhere we can."
    Barbousse nodded silently, returning Fragonard none too gently to his feet. "My apologies for the interruption, Lieutenant," he said, regaining his position behind Brim.
    "Er, yes," Brim mumbled, struggling to stifle a smile. He looked over the heads of the assembled Blue Capes to the huge machines lying cold and silent in a forlorn pile of-unless he could start them-space junk. He counted heads for a moment, frowned, and scratched his head, listening to renewed artillery fire in the distance. "All right," he said to the two ratings, "we've got eight of these monsters to operate. That means teams of three each. Count off your people, Fronze-two in a control cab. One of yours in each turret, Fragonard. Understand?"
    "Aye, sir," Fragonard answered, his face a picture of concentration, "but twenty-two people only crews seven of those big thumpers."
    Brim nodded his head. "That's right," he said. "Barbousse and I crew the eighth. And you run the turret for us. Does that fit with your previous views on the proper division of labor?"
    Fragonard peered at Barbousse for only a moment, then he nodded. "Absolutely, Lieutenant," he said, grinning. "Besides, I'm a very good gunner-and a very bad wrestler."

    Brim sat uncomfortably upright in the cold, stiff-backed control seat, a dark instrument panel staring balefully at him in the afternoon glare. The distant artillery duels had recessed for a moment, birds sang in the background, and heavy vehicles rumbled somewhere on a crowded highway. His mind drifted to Ursis and Borodov-most likely off at a hunting dacha on one of the Lo'Sodeskayan planets, happily drinking Logish meem and hunting the great two-headed mountain wolves which shared-and ravaged-many areas of the Bears' home worlds. Bears would know how to start this hulking bucket of bolts!
    He shook his head enviously as another flight of distant starships thundered across the sky at the edge of space. Little more than a metacycle remained before his own part of the operation was expected to move out. And the thrice-xaxtdamned fieldpiece that fell to his own lot to drive was canted at a perfectly sickening angle to the horizon. It made him dizzy every time he looked outside. Drumming his fingers on the console, he gazed in helpless disgust at the bewildering array of controls.
    For the hundredth time, he considered the large red button that occupied a prominent place on his lower starboard instrument quadrant. Its center ring displayed the Vertrucht symbol for 'begin," but Brim was not about to blow himself to atoms by that sort of simpleminded error. In the League's crazy vocabulary, the word "detonate" started with the same symbol. He grumpily looked outside at the other seven inert forms, also canted at uncomfortable angles. In the last-precious-forty-five cycles, he had managed to accomplish nothing, and no spare time was virtually gone-along with his options. He shrugged to himself, squeezed his eyes closed, gritted his teeth and mashed the button, waiting anxiously for the explosion that would snuff out his life.
    Instead, he was greeted by bird-punctuated silence broken now and then by heavy breathing-his and that of his two companions.
    Cautiously opening his eyes, he found himself confronted by nothing more threatening than all the lights on the vehicle blazing out as if it were the blackest darkness outside. That and a newly operational instrument panel. Moreover, one of its readouts, CL-2 intensity (all CL-2 readouts looked more or less the same), was already starting to rise. He watched it for a few cycles, then smiled. Normal. Even at its present rate, he estimated it would take about fifteen cycles to reach operating parameters.
    He showed the button to Barbousse and Fragonard, then sent them out to help power up the other machines. "By the time you get back," he called down the ladder after them, "maybe I'll have the next step figured out."
    As he expected, the remaining controls and readouts were all more or less incomprehensible, except for a big pulse limiter-anybody could recognize one of those. And to its left, a primitive linear slide control was mounted in the panel. It looked a lot like an adjustable thrust sink-common cost-conscious substitute for antigravity brakes on many large military vehicles built for the League. The slide itself was pushed all the way to the top of its slot, where the highest index numbers were. An "on" position, probably, but he couldn't be sure, so he kept hands off while he studied further.
    He frowned. Most heavy ground equipment operated by ducting energy from a pulse limiter into a gravity-defraction transmitter. The latter acted as a simplified antigravity generator, providing lift and directional thrust through a simple logic-lens arrangement. It couldn't fly, of course, any more than a traveling case could fly. Antigravity technology guaranteed no more-than vectored thrust-to really fly, one needed a lot more major systems than one could economically cram into a ground vehicle.
    Grimacing, he pondered the correct amount of energy to gate from the pulse limiter-how much CL-2 was good? Or bad? It was still building steadily, according to the readout in front of him-but to what? He considered the possibility he had just sent Barbousse and Fragonard on a mission to blow up the other seven vehicles in his tenuous command, then shook his head. If that was the way things were going to turn out, then so be it! He had to start somewhere. He returned his concentration to the controls.
    Ah! There, low in the left-hand quadrant of the center console, his eye caught a primitive sort of phase converter-regulating mechanism for just about every pulse limiter he'd ever seen. Of course, the ones in his experience were also installed on heavy mining equipment-and were never set at more than half conductance. This one indicated a full three-quarters, and even a little more. He grimaced. He knew he could fine-tune the device by thumbing a notched wheel under its mounting, but if he set the converter too high, it could severely spike the defraction transmitter when that device came on line-and then he'd never get it started. He could also get a runaway power plant, he remembered with a shudder, and decided to leave everything set as it was for the time being.
    He narrowed his eyes. To the left of the converter, he recognized a strange-looking resonance-choke readout, which indicated a pulse average of zero. Probably all right, as he recalled; these units ran with really low pulse pressure. But if the reading slid into negative values, he knew he would have to consider dumping the CL2 pressure to start all over again-and he didn't have time for anything like that. Then he noticed the choke was switched to "off." That explained zero pressure at the readout-but didn't do much to relieve his growing sense of apprehension.
    "Lieutenant," a voice called out, breaking into his concentration, "we've got 'em all turned on now."
    Brim looked up to see Fragonard's face peek over the door coaming from the boarding ladder. He checked the other seven machines-each was blazing with unnecessary lights-and, -happily, nothing untoward seemed to have resulted from punching the big red power buttons. "No problems?" he asked.
    "None, sir," Fragonard declared.
    "Good," Brim said offhandedly, "because the next thing you'll have to do is teach those same people how to run them."
    "How to run 'em, sir?"
    'Not to worry. Fragonard," Brim chuckled darkly. "It isn't clear I shall ever discover anything to tell you about the subject."
    "Sir?"
    "Nothing," Brim said as he got up to stretch. "But you'd better get our friend Barbousse up here with us. We'll all three of us see if we can't learn how this fool thing operates- together."
    "Aye, sir," Fragonard said as he scrambled back down the ladder. He presently returned with Barbousse in tow, and the two were soon breathing over Brim's shoulder, watching his every move.
    As he scanned the readouts, he brought himself up short, peering at the resonance chokes in utter disbelief. The thrice-xaxtdamned zero reading! He snapped his fingers in angry comprehension. Somewhere in the system, a heavy-duty demodulator kept the whole radiation mechanism safe. And chances were that if the resonance choke was off, so was that demodulator! He felt sweat beading on his forehead. The whole subsystem might already be far beyond the limits of safety. He frantically scanned his readouts searching for... There! He breathed a sigh of relief. He found it, and it was on.
    He glanced nervously at the CL-2 intensity. Universe! Now that was all the way up to fourteen hundred. He gritted his teeth, doing a desperate conversion from milli-ROGEN to something he could work with. Then he shook his head and relaxed. Certainly. Fouteen hundred milli-ROGEN was all right in this sort of system (it had no local storage capacity). In fact, the reading was just a hair under normal.
    Getting a firmer grip on himself, he watched the CL-2 climb into the operational range, then switched the choke to "on" and squinted tensely at the readout. It was just beginning to register. Presently, a great plume of vapor sighed from the cooling mechanism behind the cabin and the gravity-defraction transmitter came on line. The big vehicle automatically righted, lifting smoothly to about eight irals above the ground, where it hovered quietly, at last on an even keel.
    "That's the way, Lieutenant!" Barbousse cheered in an awe-struck voice.
    Brim could hear more cheering from the ground. He leaned his head against the chair's high back for a moment and took a deep breath. He really had started the xaxtdamned thing.
    "All right, Barbousse, Fragonard," he said. "You were both watching. Think you can show the others how to do that?"
    "Yes, sir, Lieutenant," Barbousse declared immediately.
    "I think I could, too," Fragonard said after frowning once more at the control panel.
    "You only think you could?" Brim asked pointedly.
    "No, sir," Fragonard declared with a grin. "I could."
    "That's better," Brim said, grinning at the two ratings. "Get bopping, then, both of you. You've seven more to fire up while I try to get this oversized ore hauler moving next." Walking to the hatch, he listened to the deep, steady growl coming through the logic lenses from the gravity-refraction transmitter, then peered down at the small crowd of ratings gathered below. "Stand clear, down there," he yelled, then made his way back to the front of the cab and took his seat at the controls.
    Buckling himself firmly to the seat, he looked at the pulse limiter and shook his head. Its setting of three-quarters conductance was simply too high. The thumb wheel, however, was mounted in an incredibly awkward place, and he found himself hard pressed to move it. Eventually, he prevailed (with a few skinned knuckles) and changed the reading to fifty percent. Now he gingerly reached out and opened the phase converter itself, gating raw energy into the pulse limiter. The machine sounds behind him changed subtly, becoming deeper and more damped as he listened. He bit his lip nervously, considering everything he had done. So far, it all checked CL-2 intensity normal (a little on the high side, but not enough to worry about), phase converter at "open" and set to approximately fifty percent, cooling on, gyros lighted, hull trimmed level. He checked the ground in front of him. It was clear. His previous audience of spectators had mostly disappeared, but here and there he caught a face peering out from behind the protection of a tree or a large rock.
    He laughed. He certainly couldn't blame anybody for that!
    Shrugging, he acknowledged the vehicle was as ready as he could make it, and retarded the pulse limiter. The sounds in the power compartment increased precipitately, and the big machine began to vibrate. But nothing else happened.
    Brim frowned, opening the pulse limiter still farther. Now a great, discordant roar came from the shuddering traction machinery, but he was moving, albeit in palsied jerks and hops. Trouble was, the movement was nowhere near what it ought to be, considering the tremendous power he was gating to the deflection transmitter. He opened the pulse limiter a little farther still, and his forward progress did improve, but the increased speed was accompanied by intolerable levels of roaring from the traction machinery plus an alarming cycle of repetitive shuddering now coming from beneath his feet. Outside, the few stragglers who persisted in watching the big vehicle move were running panic-stricken for the nearest shelter. Behind him, a huge cloud of steam was blasting from the cooling unit as brightly glowing fins stripped vapor from A'zurn's moist air. The cabin air was blue with the acrid smell of red-hot metal.
    Suddenly, he pounded his fist on the instrument panel. The thrust sink! That's what was doing it. On its highest setting, it was recycling all the energy back to the coolers. No wonder the traction machinery was tearing itself to pieces. He grabbed at the slide, then bit his lip. "Easy, Brim!" he yelled as he moved it gently to the center of its slot.
    The rasping noise faded immediately-although the cooling system continued to race. His face flushed and sweating, Brim suspected it would continue to do that for quite awhile to come.
    He was picking up speed smartly now. Tentatively, he pushed one of the rudder pedals. The vehicle lumbered around clumsily but steered well enough to provide at least a modicum of control. It wasn't built for much manual steering anyway-only enough to maneuver to and from the ubiquitous cableways installed wherever the League held sway. Near any one of these, automatic devices in the hull of the fieldpiece could take over and "follow the wire," as the expression went. Typical, he considered, of a civilization that discouraged any sort of free thinking outside a small ruling class. He could see the thick cable he would soon follow himself disappear around the trees at the far end of the field.
    Those trees! For some reason, he was still picking up speed-a lot of it. Already he was running a great deal faster than he should if he were to negotiate a turnaround. He had to stop the big machine. And soon!
    Frantically, he smashed the thrust-sink slide back to the top of its slot-the rasping noise resumed immediately, along with the shuddering, which quickly turned into a bone-jarring series of grinding jolts. Everything loose in the control cabin cascaded to the deck, where it added its own distinctive clatter to the rattling of every plate in the hull.
    And that hadn't stopped it! If anything, he was moving even faster-toward the trees, which now looked like a green wall of solid stone. What had gone wrong?
    In something closely related to panic, Brim suddenly realized his mistake-the thumb wheel on the phase converter. It was supposed to retard energy flow instead of increase it-so when he'd changed the setting from three-quarters (retardation!) to one-half, he'd actually doubled the device's output. No wonder the thrust sink wouldn't do its job! In horror, he visualized the big machine smashing itself farther and farther into the thick forest ahead until one of the trees was simply too big. He shuddered. In sudden desperation, he awkwardly jammed his fingers onto the little wheel and painfully moved it back close to its original position.
    Immediately, his speed began to drop-along with the shuddering rasp from aft. But far too late to help. With a shattering crash, the big machine plowed through the edge of the forest, snapping trees like twigs and throwing splintered lags a hundred irals in the air. The cab ricocheted back and forth like a starship caught in the great-grandfather of all space holes as he stood on the port rudder pedal. Ahead, through the armored glass, he watched a huge tree that seemed to have deliberately moved in his way. That was it! He braced himself for the crash just as the runaway vehicle smashed over a half-buried rock, swerved crazily, then wobbled level again, miraculously turned around the other way-and stopped against a sapling no thicker than his forearm.
    He sat for a number of cycles in the smell of crushed vegetation, listening to more distant artillery, the angry cries of disturbed birds, and the rattling polyphony of cooling metal behind him. Then he returned to the controls and carefully retraced his well-marked route back to the sunlight.
    By the time he reached the forest's edge, his steaming, branch-strewn vehicle was traveling at a normal rate of speed-under positive control for the first time since he entered the cab. Brim could feel himself blush as he brought the big vehicle to a stop beside a cheering crowd of ratings. Some days, it simply didn't pay to get out of one's bunk.

    Ten cycles before Brim's scheduled departure, all the mobile cannon were finally operational, their fledgling crews making the most of a few moments' practice. The field was alive with rumbling, steam-breathing machines that staggered drunkenly over the smashed grass in a scene filled with resounding collisions and general confusion. Red-faced and very much out of breath, Barbousse and Fragonard both returned on foot, grumbling they were hard pressed merely to stay alive amid the roaring mayhem outside.
    Now, with Fragonard safely ensconced in the turret, Barbousse reactivated the COMM, and within a short time a display globe materialized the wobbly image of Colonel Hagbut.
    "WELL?" the flush-faced officer demanded. "Are you ready to move out?"
    Brim glanced at the clattering disorder outside, gulped, and nodded his head. "Absolutely, Colonel," he declared, thankful the Army officer was not privy to the same view of the field. In truth, he rationalized, the Blue Capes were probably as ready as they were going to become for a while.
    'That's BETYER, Brim," Hagbut barked. "We shall make a proper soldier of you yet."
    Brim uttered a silent oath about that.
    "In precisely eight cycles," the Colonel continued, "you will lead your fleldpieces onto the wire at the end of your field and proceed at speed paint zero three. That will put you in position to switch onto my cable-behind the personnel carriers-five cycles later. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"    I
    "Aye, Colonel," Brim said.
    "That's 'Yes, Colonel,'" Hagbut corrected. "On LAND, we I do not 'aye' anything."
    "I understand, Colonel," Brim said through gritted teeth.
    "That's better, young man." Abruptly, Hagbut frowned and peered directly in Brim's face. "Of course," he said in sudden recognition. "You're that Carescrian they let into the Fleet, aren't you?"    I
    "I am a Carescrian, yes," Brim said stiffly.
    "Universe," Hagbut said. "That explains a lot. Well, do the best you can, then. I'm sure you can't help what you are."
    Brim felt his face flush-at the same time he also felt a massive grip on his forearm-well beyond the console's video pickup.
    "Stand easy, Lieutenant," Barbousse's voice whispered. I "Don't let the cod'dlinger make you throw it all away!"
    He clenched his fists. "Very good, sir," he spit through histeeth, but the COMM globe had-as usual-already gone out.

    Five cycles later, all eight machines hovered idling at the end of the wire in reasonable approximation of line-ahead formation, Brim's foliage-littered fieldpiece at the van. Directly behind him, the cab from the next vehicle in line hung over his savaged rear deck-where it had come to rest as the result of a badly planned stop. A red-faced BATTLE COMM rating smiled in discomfiture from the controls as Brim and Barbousse picked themselves up from the deck, strapped more securely into their seats, and prepared to follow the cable into the leafy tunnel.
    Running at precisely 0.3 speed, according to his velocity readout, Brim's group of lurching vehicles cleared the boundaries of the park (and the end of his temporary cable) precisely at the same time as Hagbut's speeding troop-carrier convoy. So accurate was their arrival that they switched in line behind the last Army coach without even slowing, now following the stronger signal of a permanent cable buried in the road.
    "Not bad for a worthless gaggle of Fleet types," Brim growled under his voice as the COMM module spawned another display globe.
    "CONGRATULATIONS, Brim," Hagbut barked. "You do tolerable work."
    "Thank you, Colonel," Brim grumped, keeping his voice just the safe side of propriety. At least the zukeed didn't sound as if he wanted to press the Carescrian issue.
    "Our convoy travels no faster than those fleldpieces of yours, Lieutenant, so keep a careful watch to the rear," the Colonel admonished. "We have all indications that League forces are nowhere within a day's march-but with operations like this, one trusts one's own eyesight, as they say. Understand?"
    "I understand," Brim lied, wondering how much the recent artillery exchanges affected the Colonel's "indications." Turning the controls over to Barbousse, he positioned himself at the COMM module and set up a neat row of seven display globes, one to each of his companion mobile disruptors.
    "Now hear this," he said into the COMM console. "Our friends from the Expeditionary Forces tell us all League forces have been drawn from the area," he began. "But just to be on the safe side..." He scanned the seven faces peering at him from the globular displays. Each was serious, but showed no fear Whatsoever. "Just to be on the safe side," he repeated, "you will each keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious-and report it to me immediately."
    Seven versions of "Aye, Lieutenant" joined Barbousse in the rumbling control cabin as Brim settled back in the awkward seat for a few moments of relaxation-~-he had been working at peak output for a considerable time, and was only feeling the first pangs of fatigue. The gentle swaying of the heavy vehicle and the steady thunder of its traction system relaxed him. He leaned back as far as he could in the straight-backed seat and crossed his legs. Forward, the giant shape of Barbousse hunched attentively over a console, poised for instant action should the machine require assistance at the controls.
    He turned his head and peered through the thick armored glass as they roared past blackened shells of suburban homes, windows and top-story doors gaping hideously like open mouths caught forever in the great gasp of death. No sense of surprise clouded his mind's eye, only disgust. Triannic's invaders laid their cableway with the typical arrogance of all conquerors-burning their right-of-way straight as a die through the city with no regard whatsoever for the hapless victims in its path. I The neatly spaced ruins with their pitifully blackened gardens and skeleton trees continued for a considerable distance, eventually giving way to shrub-lined fields dotted with tall, I dome-capped structures-some connected by fantastic lacelike webs shimmering in the afternoon sun. But nowhere did he see the planet's winged inhabitants aloft. He pondered momentarily on this, then quickly dismissed it. He had plenty of other concerns to -solve-before he tackled that!
    Swiveling in his seat, he looked out the opposite side of his control cabin and across the broad expanse of stained, tree-rumpled metal that formed the front of the vehicle. Fragonard's huge disruptor loomed overhead, pointing their course like a stubby veined finger with three sets of grooved antiflash shields circling its tip. To starboard, tall, closely spaced buildings replaced the domes, then mixed with residences-these of clearly diminished promise, but whole nonetheless, having. U glazed windows to flash back the brilliant sunlight as Brim's heavy vehicles rushed past.
    Presently, they came upon the banks of a broad canal and I took up a new heading atop a moss-covered seawall whose age-blackened stones looked easily twice the size of the mobile fieldpiece in which they rode. They whizzed past a string of rotting pilings out on the water covered with green braids of hairlike moss. The pilings curved abruptly from the seawall and terminated at a tumbledown pier before a crumbling brick structure of uncertain purpose. On the far shore, Brim could see rows of ramshackle warehouses fronted by networks of wooden piers extending far out into the stream-but few water craft anywhere: mute testimony to the ruined commerce of the conquered world.
    They soon flashed across a connecting waterway, the cable exposed and suspended in an arch by rusty-looking wire bundles depending from pairs of slender pylons at opposite sides of the stream.
    Then abruptly they were thundering wildly along a narrow, shadowed thoroughfare between two close-set rows of giant buildings faced with panels of dreary color decorating vast expanses of featureless wall.
    Emerging again into the sunlight, they sped steadily along the stone seawall until the canal itself ended in a great lagoon. Their cable-and travel-diverged, however, in a sharp curve to the right, continuing uninterrupted through marshes and tidelands near the shore until they passed a second dark canyon of buildings in a streaming blur-this much longer than the first. Then suddenly, far off to port, Brim caught sight of a stupendous arch bridge rising gracefully a thousand irals into the afternoon sky before it descended again in the hazy distance on the other-side of the lagoon.
    The trip answered all his questions as to why A'zurn was considered such a paradise. His mind drifted for a moment, and he daydreamed himself hand in hand with Margot on one of the quiet streets in Magalla'ana or lying in the still privacy of a wooded shore. He grinned to himself. The last idea-now, that was worth dreaming about! He took a deep breath and closed his eyes just as an excited voice broke into his thoughts from the COMM console.
    "Lieutenant Brim! Lieutenant Brim! I think we've picked up a few extra vehicles! I can't see how many, but a couple at least."
    Instantly awake, Brim frowned at an image of Yeoman Fronze in the last vehicle.
    "What do they look like?" he asked.
    "Don't exactly know how to describe 'em, Lieutenant," the woman said, looking off to one side. She squinted, frowned. "Big, for sure. An' squatty, like a roach or somethin'," she reported. "They're kind of keepin' their distance right now."
    "Ask her if they're square shaped like this one, or long, sir," Barbousse urged from the driver's seat.
    Brim relayed the question.
    "Long," Fronze stated emphatically. "With three turrets. A big one to starboard and two on the port side facin' fore and aft."
    "Sound like RT-91s to me," Barbousse pronounced. "About the best the League manufactures," he added.
    "Comforting to know those League people are more than 'a day's march away,"' Brim snorted, then established connection with the Colonel's personnel carrier.
    "WELL?" Hagbut demanded.
    "Someone seems to be following us along the cable, Colonel," he reported. "Were we scheduled to rendezvous with other captured vehicles from Prosperous-RT-91 types, perhaps?"
    Hagbut's brow wrinkled. "Negative," he said. "You've seen these RT-91s with your OWN eyes?"
    "They've only been reported to me, Colonel," Brim answered. "But I have no reason to question-" He was interrupted by a glowing blue-green geyser that shot skyward about five hundred irals out in the lagoon. The huge waterspout immediately burst about five hundred irals to his left with terrific flame and concussion.
    "Don't bother, Brim," Hagbut blustered. "I could see that!" He immediately bawled a string of orders over his shoulder and the troop carriers began to accelerate, soon outdistancing the lumbering fieldpieces by a considerable margin.
    Brim winced as a second explosion leveled a large row of warehouses to his right in a cloud of dirty flame and flying, debris. So much for doing the mission in "invisible" captured equipment, he thought. The xaxtdamned ruse hadn't worked more than a single watch! He shrugged phlegmatically. At least the Leaguers weren't having much luck with their ranging shots.
    "I have ordered the troop carriers forward, Brim," Hagbut boomed from the display globe. "To insure the integrity of my mission"
    Brim nodded. "Aye, sir," he said.
    "Not to mention the integrity of your bloody skin," Barbousse muttered under his breath. "Beggin' the Lieutenant's pardon."
    "What was that?" Hagbut demanded.
    "The local grass, sir," Brim said, desperately stifling a laugh. "Starman Barbousse suffers a violent sneezing reaction."
    "Poor fellow," Hagbut pronounced as another explosion destroyed an island of trees a few hundred irals to port. "Damn Leaguers never could seal a driving compartment."
    "No, sir."
    "It is now your DUTY, Brim, to stop the bastards," Hagbut continued in what must have been his best pontifical voice. "Use those cannons soon as you can." He turned in the display for a moment to bark more orders at someone, then swung back to Brim. "Catch up to us when you've stopped whoever it is back there-but not before. UNDERSTAND? We cannot compromise the mission!"
    "I understand, Colonel," Brim said, but again he spoke to a darkened display. He shook a mock fist of anger at Barbousse, then opened a connection to Fragonard in the turret. "You're the disruptor expert, Fragonard," he said. "What do you say? Can these fieldpieces really tear up a couple of tanks?"
    "Easily," Fragonard replied with a frown, "if we can just aim enough. I've told the men to have a go at it soon as they've got their equipment ready. Trouble is, we haven't had time to adjust 'em well enough yet to fire accurately while they're moving. Maybe we can get close, but if we kill more Leaguers than locals, it'll be more out of good luck than good 'aiming, if you catch my drift, sir."
    "Tell everybody to do the best they can," Brim yelled over the noise of another near miss. This one sent a deluge of green water drizzling into the control cabin between the panes of glass to puddle on the deck and COMM cabinet. He ruefully wished he'd thought to have the BATTLE COMMs rig a permanent KA'PPA to his fieldpiece. Perhaps he might now be calling in some close support from space-one couldn't do that with ordinary COMM gear, of course. He shrugged and dropped the subject from his mind. The fact was that he couldn't make that call-no power in the Universe could change the past. "Are they gaining on us?" he queried Fronze in the last disruptor.
    "Aye, sir," she answered, face serious. "We're gettin' ready to try an' put the disruptor on 'em, Lieutenant-but Starman Cogsworthy up in the turret don't think we've much chance of hittin' them, what with no stabilizers an' all." Her image bounced in the display as the same enemy fire sounded first from the COMM console, then a tick later from the windows.
    "Thanks, Fronze," Brim said. "Let me know when you get the thing going." They were passing along a relatively clear stretch of shore marsh now. His mind raced. If he couldn't get at the pursuing tanks, what could 1k do? Stop and fight? He laughed at that possibility. They'd all be sitting ducks while the ordnance men recalibrated their disruptors. He shook his head. Perhaps he ought to sacrifice the last few cannon in line-order Fronze to stop and fight a lonely battle of delay. He discarded that idea, too-not enough delay.
    Presently, a deeper, more substantial explosion sounded from the rear, its flash visible at midafternoon. A dirty column of smoke and debris shot skyward. "Lieutenant!" Fronze yelled excitedly from a display globe. "Cogsworthy got it goin', sir! That ought to give 'em somethin' t' think about!" Her image jumped violently as sounds of heavy return fire filled the-control cab.
    More of the huge, drumming-explosions followed the first. These were succeeded in rapid succession by whole series of smaller bursts. "By Corfrew's beard," someone said excitedly, "I don't think they liked that!"
    "Can't understand why not," another voice said after more explosions tore up the marsh. "Look! It wasn't anywhere half near them. Bastards have no sense of humor."
    "How's it going back there, Fronze?" Brim asked.
    "Not so bad, Lieutenant," the rating said through clenched teeth. She blanched while a whole volley of discharges thundered from the disruptor above her, then turned to peer out the rear of her vehicle, shaking her head. "'Cept," she added, "I think they're shootin' closer t' us, an' Cogsworthy's gettin' farther away from them." She grinned. "This single-file-on-the-wire stuff cuts our shootin' down to my one projector." Her image danced violently in the globe as Cogsworthy let go with another shot, then continued to shake from a peppering of near misses landed in return. "Course," she added cheerfully, "it also saves our skins from more'n one of theirs, too."
    Suddenly, the display globe seethed with a churning glow and disappeared. A violent flash from aft lit the afternoon sky, followed by a grating, trembling roar. Brim swung in his seat in time to see a burning turret arch lazily through the sky, trailing thick clouds of amber smoke until it disappeared with a monstrous splash and cloud of steam far out into the lagoon.
    "Universe," someone bawled, "that was Cogsworthy!"
    "Poor Fronze!" wailed another voice.
    "Shut up, the both of you," a-third voice rasped. "None of those three felt a bloody thing! So just maybe they're the lucky ones.
    "Yeah," said a fourth. "You'll wish that was you if we're ever captured, you will!"
    Brim squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, thinking about a prefect named Valentin, then nodded in silent agreement.
    "Someone told me you were worried about bein' bored this trip, Lieutenant," Barbousse called out over the roar of the machinery, his face an impish parody of surprise.
    "Must have been someone else," Brim said, eyeballs raised in feigned concentration. "It surely wasn't this Wilf Brim!" He glanced out the windshield and nearly jumped in surprise. His running battle was rapidly approaching the titanic suspension structure he had viewed from a distance.
    He snapped his fingers. That was it! An artificial hill-and a big one.
    He activated "broadcast" on the COMM console and began to speak, taking special pains to keep a calm inflection in his voice. "Now hear this, all hands!" he yelled over the rising thunder of the disruptors. "We are about to run the high arch ahead. While we're on this side, you'll each have fine visibility and a clear field of fire below. Make the most of both! And remember that any tanks you don't polish off will have the same visibility and field of fire when you are on the bottom!"

Baldwin, Bill - The Helmsman Chapter 6

CHAPTER 5

Baldwin, Bill - The Helmsman Chapter 6