Barbousse had just finished reviewing the controls one last time. "Any more questions, gentlemen?" the big rating asked with a grin. "We want to be sure you put these mechanical brutes to the best use possible."
"Thanks to your patient instruction, we have none," said the one with the tricornered hat. "My colleague and I will master the machine with practice."
"At one time," the second one croaked, holding up a spindly forefinger, "we were masters of many machines. Fine machines...."
"But few weapons among them," the other said with surprising vehemence. "When we have scourged Triannic's plague from our homeland, we shall never again neglect that part of—our responsibilities."
"Nor forget a brave Imperial lieutenant named Wilf Brim—to whom we credit all success of the mission," the scarred one added. "Someday," he said, "when a new generation of A'zurnians have regained our heritage of flight, we shall properly thank both you and Starman Barbousse. Meanwhile, there are ways to appropriately express our appreciation in a more current time frame."
Brim smiled with embarrassment, fighting a lump in his throat. "Just keep on fighting," he interrupted.
"Live and win! That's thanks enough for any of us." Then he saluted the two gaunt warriors before they could continue, and followed Barbousse down the ladder. "Good-bye and good hunting," he shouted as his feet hit the grass. An instant, after he cleared the hull, the traction engine roared and the fieldpiece lumbered off after the others toward the protection of the low hills that formed the lower boundary of the city. In the control cabin, the man with the tricornered hat was saluting him through the armored glass.
Respectfully, he returned the salute, then turned and sprinted desperately after Barbousse for the shuttle—which was half buttoned up and clearly ready to lift. Only the aft hatch was still open, with a gaggle of BATTLE COMMs crowding up the ladder.
"COME ON, you worthless Fleet types," Hagbut yelled from the opening. "Anak's ahead of schedule.
GET A MOVE ON IT!"
Running for all he was worth, Brim glanced over his shoulder— nobody was there. He and Barbousse were the last off A'zurn! Somehow he found strength to run even faster.
The shuttle was already moving forward when he followed Barbousse onto the ladder, shaking with exertion. It was climbing vertically when the big rating dragged him by his arms through the opening, panting desperately.
The next days became a confused melange of wailing sirens and sprinting crew members—beginning with a full-emergency takeoff when Prosperous' powerful Drive crystals shook her massive hull like a storm-driven leaf. Every few metacycles, alarms clattered in the liner's bridge as sensitive detectors picked up long-range locator probes from the enemy battlecruisers—but the return signals were evidently too weak to betray the Imperials' location, and after a time the probing came less frequently, finally ceasing altogether On the morning of the third day.
Raid Prosperous was over.
During the return to Gimmas Haefdon, two personal messages from widely separated sources caught Brim's attention immediately. The first, from Effer'wyck/Gimmas, had been sent only metacycles after his release of the A'zurnian hostages. It contained the following lines penned—he assumed—by Margot herself. "Wilf the Helmsman flies faster than Fate: Wilf is he who rides early and late,/Wilf storms at your ivory gates: Pale king of the Dark Leagues, Beware!" Her short message ended with the cryptic sentences: "Today, Wilf, I begin to earn my own way in this awful war. Think of me." This time, it was signed simply "Margot."
Brim wasted little time puzzling over the words during his return flight—he was relishing plans for discovering their real meaning (among other things) in person. Instead, he sent a short note of thanks, signed only "WiIf," then settled back to dream of his next rendezvous at the Mermaid Tavern.
The second message, from Borodov/Gimmas @ Lo'Sodeskaya/983F6.735, contained another cross-reference to the Journal of the Imperial Fleet. This article was much nearer the front of the file and started:
Gimmas Haefdon (Eorean Blockading Forces) 228/
51995: Sublieutenant Wilf Brim from I.F.S. Truculent
played a decisive role in the recent A'zurn raid. Leading 25 men and eight captured mobile cannon under
the command of Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z.
Hagbut, X ce , N.B.C....
The usual debriefing followed Prosperous' planetfall on Gimmas Haefdon—this time conducted by a dried-out commander who may well have been as skilled in his profession as Margot Effer'wyck, but infinitely less pleasant to Brim. It seemed as if the cycles crawled by before he returned to Truc ulent—and the base COMM system.
He called up her code the moment he finally returned to his cabin, but found to his dismay that Margot was "temporarily reassigned and unavailable for personal contact." Emergency messages, he read, could be directed to her usual address—so long as the sender harbored no illusions concerning time of delivery.
And no date was set for her return.
With a grim sense of foreboding, he now began to seriously question what she might have meant by earning her own way in the war. But his subsequent efforts to learn anything resulted in dismal failure—everywhere he tried. Personal inquiries wee turned away at the Technology Assessment Office by low-level clerks, and his own clearance was insufficient to gain him audience with anyone who might have access to further information. It was as if she had disappeared from the Universe.
So he sent a number of messages to Effer'wyck/Gimmas—all remained unanswered—and he finished the remainder of Truculent's refit amid varying shades of gloom to match the weather outside. Not even the obstreperous return of the Bears from Lo'Sodeskaya really helped, though a sudden increase in his meem intake considerably dulled the worst pangs of loneliness.
A brief ceremony celebrated Barbousse's promotion to Leading Torpedoman, then a few standard days later, Truculent's lengthy refit was complete. Two weeks of space trials proved out her new systems, and Gimmas Haefdon's perpetual storms once again ebbed to insignificance in the aft Hyperscreens. Collingswood wisely saw to it that Brim's responsibiity—and metacycles at the helm—were greatly increased during this, his second tour on blockade. And with this extra duty, the image of Margot Effer'wyck once more began to fade from his mind's eye. In time, her memory became bearable once more—but only just. Clearly, her "reset" had been much more successful than his.
CHAPTER 7
Partway into an endless early morning watch, Brim and Theada attended Truculent's helm while most of the crew snatched a few cycles' badly needed rest below. In the nearly deserted bridge, only occasional warning chimes and snatches of disjointed, conversation disturbed the muted rumble of the generators. Off to port, a bleak asteroid shoal crawled diagonally astern beneath the bows as though the destroyer were skirting the surface of some infinitely large inclined plane.
"Good morning, friend Wilf," Ursis said cheerfully, materializing in a display globe. "What gradient have we outside?"
"Morning, Nik," Brim said, peering at his readouts. "Looks like it's shifted a bit, now that you ask."
"So," Ursis mumbled, entering data via an overhead console.
"Let her fall off a few points to starboard nadir, Mr. Chairman," Brim ordered. The steering engine sounded for a moment, and the stars shifted slightly in his forward Hyperscreens.