"Found it," the Chairman intoned.
Brim looked around the simulated seascape, checked systems parameters once more on his displays, then gently lowered his hands to the consoles. "Mr. Chairman," he said, "we'll take this one from the very beginning...."
All that morning and far into the afternoon, Brim exercised Truculent's controls, simulating takeoffs in good conditions and bad. Like most contemporary starships, she employed antigravity generators for Hypolight-speed travel, switching to her four matched Sheldon Drive crystals (for both propulsion and negation of relativistic mass/time effects) only when it was desired to surpass the critical velocity of LightSpeed.
Specially designed for blockade and close-support work, all T-class starships flew with two oversized CR-special 258x gravity generators astride the keel at the deepest (and aftmost) point of the hull. These powerful units provided extraordinary acceleration and maneuverability when working close-in to planetary systems where Hyperlight travel was impractical (and potential targets were themselves either accelerating from decelerating to zero velocity). A third unit of normal output and configuration was housed in a long chamber over the keel directly beneath the bridge. This generator supplied direct thrust along the ship's vertical axis for intricate maneuvering or warping into an anchorage.
As the session wore on, Truculent's Chairman provided antigravity failures of every kind and significance, then added steering-engine problems and systems troubles as the session progressed. By midafternoon, the bone-tired Carescrian felt rancid with dried sweat from metacycles of mental and physical effort. But he was also reasonably certain he could fly the starship through anything the Universe might throw at him. In the back of his mind, he knew well enough that simulators never really duplicated real-life flying experience, but the combination of a day's practice on these well-maintained controls and two years' bullying deteriorated Q-97 ore carriers in and out of asteroid-cluttered Hyperspace provided him with considerable confidence in himself as well as the ship. Compared to even the best Carescrian transports, Truculent came off like scalpel to an ax—not altogether shabby, he allowed (smiling at himself), for a "pick and shovel" tub like a destroyer.
Tired as he was, he lingered at the console, working the controls even after technical ratings began to appear here and there on the bridge to bring their respective systems on line for the morning's takeoff.
But when two yeomen noisily commenced work on the principal Helmsman's console to his left, he knew it was tune to wrap things up. "Mr. Chairman," he announced, "I'm finished with the controls."
"A moment, sir," the Chairman said, then, "Simulation terminated. Starboard Helmsman's console returned to direct connect." The Hyperscreens faded momentarily, then restored themselves to the dreary landscape of Gimmas Haefdon. It was again snowing outside as spume tore from wind-lashed white-caps in the basin and the last yellowish tinges dissolved from the low-hanging clouds. Brim laughed grimly to himself. Weather on Gimmas Haefdon was so bad—so horrible—even poor Carescria seemed appealing in comparison.
He slid wearily from the recliner, then dallied for a moment, staring through the Hyperscreens at the driving snow. While he watched, haloed headlights from a distant surface vehicle caught his eye as it picked its way through the shipyard in the direction of the basin. Abruptly, the vehicle turned onto Truculent's jetty and pulled to a hovering stop under the battle lanterns at the gangway. Brim frowned, thankful it was not he who was out on a night like this.
He had just started back to his cabin when it occurred to that nothing more seemed to be happening on the jetty. The skimmer continued to hover in the driving snow, but no one got out, or in. The whole affair piqued his tired curiosity—now what?
As if in answer, two men appeared on Truculent's gangway, trudging through the driving snow toward the jetty and its waiting skimmer. Heads down and capes plastered to bodies, they gave mute testimony to the wind that he knew was howling through the nearby lifelines. One of them—by his very size and gait—was surely the inane Barbousse.
Curious, Brim considered. Where was a man like Barbousse going in a skimmer, especially with Truculent's lift-off little more than a few standard metacycles away? He watched with renewed interest.
Shortly, the two reached the skimmer, now hovering in a cloud of stirred-up snowflakes. They hammered on the forward compartment until they were joined by an agitated driver waving his arms and stamping his boots emotionally. Presently, Barbousse stepped to the man's side and plucked him from his feet by the scruff of his collar. This had an immediate quieting effect, and the three of them opened the passenger compartment of the skimmer and peered into its darkened interior.
Shortly thereafter, Barbousse disappeared through the door—only to emerge almost immediately, this time with the limp figure of a man in his arms. His companion from Truculent reached inside the skimmer and withdrew a Fleet Cape, which he used to cover the motionless individual, then completed some sort of transaction with the driver of the skimmer. This finished, he turned on his heel to follow Barbousse back up the gangway to the ship.
As the skimmer pivoted and started its journey back along the jetty, Brim scratched his head. Who? he asked himself—but deep inside, he feared he already knew.
The bridge was again deserted some four standard metacycles before Truculent's scheduled takeoff time, though things were well astir below as ratings prepared the ship for flight. "Morning, Mr. Chairman,"
Brim said, again settling into the right-hand Helmsman's station. "Today, well do those checkouts for real."
He worked without interruption until Ursis arrived at their power consoles—by which time most of the other stations were occupied and the bridge was humming with activity. "Don't they let you sleep in that new cabin of yours?" the Bear asked mock solicitousness as he strode along the main aisle of the bridge.
"My power-systems log says you've already checked everything a couple of thousand times." He chuckled. "You have no trust in the Chairman, maybe?"
Brim felt his face flush. "I thought I'd better get everything right this morning if I hope ever to do it again," he said with a chuckle.
Ursis smiled. "It's worth doing," he pronounced seriously. "No fool the Bear who first said, 'First impressions are lasting.' You must have been listening, eh?"
"Just scared," Brim said honestly.
"Probably a good time for being a little scared," a displayed image of Borodov interjected darkly from the power exchange deep in Truculent's hull. "Word is they carried him aboard!"
Brim looked the old Bear's image in its eye. "Gallsworthy?" he asked.
"The same," Borodov answered. "Bad, they say."
"I think I watched it from here on the bridge, then," Brim said. "I wasn't certain at the time."
The old Bear looked thoughtful as Sophia Pym arrived, towing a flabby Theada to his jump seat at the side of the bridge. The latter's eyes widened considerably when he caught sight of Brim at the right-hand console. "You may well find yourself on what you call a 'hot seat,' Wilf Ansor," Borodov pronounced soberly.
"We've seen him like this before," Ursis interjected.
Brim smiled and looked at the two Engineering Officers. "What are you trying to tell me?" he asked.
"Simply this," Borodov explained with a serious mien, "Nikolai Yanuarievich and I—we can make it seem like Truculent's power systems won't run. None of you humans will be able to tell the difference—I beg your pardon."