The Defenders
Bill Baldwin
Beyazh," Brim yelled, hauling in the little ship's helm.
"Get that last torpedo ready.
NOW!"
"We're not going to fire this one," Brim warned, holding up his hand, "instead, we're going to jettison it."
"Jettison?" Beyazh exclaimed. "An armed torpedo?"
"Yeah," Brim said through clenched teeth; the Leaguers were catching up fast, "...but set the fuse for proximity—at about five hundred irals."
'" space mine!" the Fluvannian whispered. "Of course."
"If they'll just hold off firing a few more clicks," Brim grunted, his eyes glued to the aft view display. The bastards had to be just where he wanted them. "Ready..." he warned. A whir behind the alt bulkhead told him that the number five torpedo-loading hatch was open. The Leaguers were nearly on top of him. He dared not wait another moment.
"Let 'er go!" he bellowed, then shoved the thrust dampers into MILITARY OVERLOAD.
No sooner had the ejector mechanism cycled than both League ships fired ranging shots—and space itself erupted in a binding inferno of raw energy...
Also by Bill Baldwin
THE MERCENARIES
THE TROPHY
THE HELMSMAN
GALACTIC CONVOY
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
A Time Warner Company
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1992 by Merl Baldwin
All rights reserved.
Questar is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
Cover illustration by John Berkey
Cover design by Don Puckey
Warner Books, Inc.
1271 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
A Time Warner Company
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: August, 1992
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CHAPTER 1
Back to Gimmas
ASHF234812-19E GROUP 198BA 113/52011
[TOP SECRET]
PERSONNEL ACTION MEMORANDUM, IMPERIAL FLEET,
PERSONAL COPY
FROM:
BU FLEET PERSONNEL;
ADMIRALTY, AVALON
TO:
W. A. BRIM, CAPTAIN, I.E. IVG
AVALON
<0893BVC-12-K2134MV/573250>
SUBJECT: DUTY ASSIGNMENT
(1) YOU ARE DETACHED PRESENT IVG DUTY AS OF 205/52012.
(2) PROCEED MOST EXPEDITIOUS TRANSPORT GIMMAS STARBASE,
HAEFDON. REPORT REAR ADM B. GALLS WORTHY, 11 GROUP, HOME
FLEET, DEFENSE COMMAND, AS WING COMMANDER.
(3) SUBMIT TRAVEL EXPENSE VOUCHERS DIRECT ADMIRALTY
C/O H. DRUMMOND, REAR ADMIRAL, I.E
FOR THE EMPEROR:
TANDOR K. KNORR, CAPTAIN, I.F.
[END TOP SECRET]
ASHF234812-19E
"Hands to landfall stations! All hands man your stations for landfall. Secure from HyperSpace operations...."
Frigid, cloud-swept Haefdon, third planet of the dying star Gimmas, filled the forward Hyperscreens as Imperial destroyer Jacques Schneider—eight days out from Avalon—shut down her interstellar Drive and thundered in toward landfall using gravity generators alone. On the cramped flight bridge, Captain Wilf Brim, I.F., leaned forward in a jump seat between the two Helmsmen, listening to sounds of thudding feet, the dull bang of airtight doors and hatches, starsailors hurrying to their stations, and the general cacophony associated with securing a starship from deep space. It was never easy for an active Helmsman to ride as a passenger, but at least he wasn't staring at a bulkhead as the powerful little warship settled purposefully toward the thick undercast—he hated riding that way.
The deck trembled slightly as stumpy Zinu Corbeil in the left seat turned up power in preparation for the roiling storms that were part and parcel of entry to the planet-girding Imperial Fleet base below.
Brim chuckled. Corbeil—a Lieutenant Commander—spoke with a Rhodorian dialect you could carry in a bucket. The man had a lot of rank for commanding a mere destroyer, and an elderly one at that. But drastic starship reductions in the past meant that often senior officers skippered the few ships that remained in service. Keeping an enemy at bay while rebuilding (and recrewing) a sadly neglected fleet was only one of a myriad of problems facing the Grand Galactic Empire of Emperor Onrad V after his recent declaration of war. And not all of those troubles came from his perennial adversary, the League of Dark Stars.
"Gimmas Tower Nineteen, Imperial V981 is with you out of twenty-four and a half for twenty-four," Sada Takanada broadcast to the Sector 19 Controller. Clearly younger than Corbeil, the diminutive Takanada looked as if she had recently graduated from the Helmsman's Academy—but she was probably nearer Brim's age of forty-seven than that of a cadet.
"Imperial V981:" the distant tower replied, "Sector Nineteen Control reads you. Continue descent and maintain one zero thousand. The altimeter nine two nine five."
Brim listened to the discourse with real interest. Approaches to Gimmas Haefdon were routinely difficult, even for old-timers like Corbeil. Storms kept Helmsmen busy with simple basics—like attempting to stay on course. Whenever traffic permitted, Controllers here kept close track of landing starships, especially little ones. And with very recent reactivation of the base, traffic was still light.
Certainly not the madhouse he remembered from the last war, more than eleven years ago. He shook his head sadly at that thought—what wouldn't the Admiralty give to have that madhouse of ships today!
"Imperial V981: suggest a heading of two five zero two five to join the Blue-10 zero one zero radial inbound."
Corbeil put the helm over. "Imperial V981 turning two five zero," he answered. Only clicks later, the flames of reentry died in their wake and the little starship shuddered as her trilon-shaped hull met the first of Gimmas's famous turbulence. Soon they were driving along through the first ragged cloud tatters.
At least four more layers of dirty-looking, wind-frayed clouds defined themselves below before perspective itself was swallowed in the murky undercast of the planet's dismal afternoon. As the starship descended into solid cloud, Corbeil and Takanada began their final checkout litany.
"Warning panel?"
"Check."
"Altimeters?"
"Verified."
"Landing lights..."
"Imperial V981: radio check," the distant Controller interrupted.
"Loud and clear," Takanada answered, "—and the lights are ON." Corbeil had now concentrated most of his considerable facilities on the helm. Jacques Schneider was tossing like a leaf in a millrace while rain and hail thundered against the forward Hyperscreens, instantly turning to steam on the outer layers of crystal still heated by their reentry.
Brim turned up the power on his seat restraints, then tightened his shoulder belts. He'd been through this particular soup a thousand times at least.
"Start the approach check, Sada."
"Ten degrees lift enhancers...."
"Ten degrees."
"Auto flight panels...."
"Imperial V981:" the tower Controller interrupted again, "reduce speed to one eight zero and descend to five thousand irals altitude."
"V981—speed to one eight zero and down to five thousand. Zinu, say again the auto flight panels."
"Checked."
The litany continued until, just short of two thousand irals altitude, little Jacques Schneider gamely plunged out of the overcast into a mounting gale and driving snow—ancient Gimmas was living up to her hard reputation for weather. Below in the gray afternoon murk, Brim could see ice-flecked rollers tossing wildly in column against slender causeways dotted with Karlsson lamps. Almost at the limit of his vision, a long goods train gave off tremendous sparks as it seemed to crawl across the arcing spans.
Relativity. Brim knew it was doing at least five hundred c'lenyts each metacycle.