The Mercenaries

by Bill Baldwin

  The bridge went deadly silent, except for the slipstream howling past the Hyperscreens. At this altitude, there was no escape from the hull; everyone knew his life was entirely in Brim's hands—and whatever deities he might personally accredit.

  With the determination and nerve that had brought him through a thousand metacycles of mortal danger, the Carescrian guided the big cruiser toward a dead-stick landing on momentum alone. A tiny shore-side village disappeared beneath the bow as Brim willed Starfury's nose a few degrees high.

  Nearly there....

  "HANG ON!" Brim gasped into the blower. "We're going in!"

  Less than a click too late, he spotted the small hill of ice shards that caught his right pontoon and violently slewed the big machine around to the right. Loose equipment cascaded across the bridge in a cacophony of shattered cvceese' mugs and tumbling equipment. More by instinct than anything else, he kicked hard left rudder just as the cruiser smashed through the ice in a cloud of spray and was thrown in the air again. This time, she swung badly to port, and, rolling dangerously, fell heavily to the melted landing strip with a resounding thud on the left pontoon—but pointed the proper direction. He sensed the tail coming up as the tips of the pontoons plunged into the waves, but miraculously, the starship righted itself and glided to a stop, her overheated plasma generators pinging and crackling throughout the main hull. Moments later he glimpsed what appeared to be a squadron of land tractors racing over the ice toward him. The ship might be touching the water, with all the mischief that promised, but she was down. And safe....

  "Voot's beard," Tissaurd said in a shaky voice, opening her helmet in mock disgust, "you'd think there was a war on, or somethin'!"

  Chapter 9

  Strike Force

  Clearly, Starfury was not the first ship to have crashlanded on Lake Solent. Calshot Station was much too practiced in rescue/salvage operations for such an event to be any sort of rarity. Even before Starfury surged to a halt, eight big traction engines were thundering along each side of the melted landing vector, smartly projecting mooring beams to salvage points in the hull as they traveled. At a prearranged signal, they stopped to tension the beams; moments later Starfury was firmly moored at sixteen points, stable, although floating helplessly in the water.

  "HoloPhone signal from the Base, Skipper," a communications technician reported from Brim's display panel.

  Brim nodded and peered out the forward Hyperscreens toward a tall, uniformed man and a slim woman wearing an ankle-length cape who were standing beside a staff skimmer parked at the edge of the ice. "Very well," he said. "I'll take it here."

  Presently, the technician was replaced by an angular face with high hollow cheeks, thinning hair, a long nose, and the sensible, intelligent eyes of a born Engineer. "Commodore Atcherly, here, Commander," the man said. "If you're talking from the bridge, I'm over here by the staff skimmer," he said with a little smile.

  Brim glanced up to see one of the distant figures wave its arm. "I see you. Commodore,'" he said.

  "Too bad about the ice hill there off the end of the runway," Atcherly mused. His eyebrows raised for a moment as he peered out past his portable communicator. "You've taken considerable battle damage," he added, returning his eyes to the display. "Offhand, I'd say you did an admirable job landing with no propulsion—nearly made it, you know. Anyone hurt on board?"

  Brim ground his teeth. "We've a number of casualties, Commodore," he declared while a portable brow clanked into place two decks below at the main boarding lobby. "And... many thanks for the fast assistance," he forced himself to add, as medical teams rushed through the crystal tube toward Store's sickbay.

  Atcherly nodded, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired at all. "Next," he mused, "I suppose we'll have to see how quickly we can get that ship of yours out of the water," He scratched his head and frowned. "She's a big one for the salvage equipment we've got to work with here." Abruptly be looked off to his right, mewing unintelligible words in Fluvannian.

  Brim again glanced through the Hyperscreens at the two figures. From the HoloPhone, he could hear the woman's voice in the background—familiar, somehow—although her words were also in Fluvannian.

  A moment later Atcherly peered into the display again. "I say, Commander," he muttered with a grin, "is your name Brim by any chance? I don't think I've given you much of an opportunity to tell me."

  Brim felt his cheeks burn. In all the excitement, he'd never even thought of introducing himself—poor manners indeed. "My name is Brim, Commodore," he said. "Wilf Ansor Brim of Mustafa Eyren's Imperial Volunteer Group."

  Atcherly nodded and once again looked to his right, saying something to the unseen woman about "Commander Wilf Ansor Brim" and the "IVG."

  Suddenly, Atcherly's visage disappeared from the HoloPhone. It was immediately replaced by a glorious combination of oval face, patrician nose, full lips, and enormous, almond-shaped eyes that could only belong to Raddisma, the Nabob's favorite Consort. She wore a loose, fur-trimmed hood that revealed some of her black, shoulder-length hair. Even in his small panel display, she was beautiful—gorgeous was probably a better word, he decided.

  "Well, Commander Brim, we meet again," she said in the dusky voice he remembered so well. Her smile alone was enough to melt most of the Station's ice. "It is... regrettable," she said pointedly, "that Mustafa has not accompanied me on this trip. But then. Lady Fortune offtimes chooses strange circumstances and localities for the fulfillment of debts, wouldn't you agree?"

  Brim's mind raced. Yes! He clearly recalled her words the day he had shielded her body with his: Someday I shall see to it that you are appropriately rewarded—in a personal manner, of course. "Most strange, madame," he agreed cautiously, "but all the more delightful because of them." In the corner of his eye, he could see Tissaurd studiously ignoring the proceedings. She was making a bad job of it.

  "Indeed," Raddisma said, her eyes narrowing to a presence that could only be described as carnal. "You were unharmed in the, er, difficult landfall I watched."

  "Completely unharmed, madame," Brim assured her, "although a number of Starfury's crew sustained casualties in a recent battle that, I fear, I must tend to without further delay." He hesitated for a moment, then decided that even a Principal Consort could only say "no." "Might I have the honor of continuing this conversation later in the day?" he asked, heart in his mouth.

  Safely beyond the HoloPhone's field of view, Tissaurd wordlessly grinned and pumped her fist in encouragement.

  Raddisma's face colored visibly at his words, and she looked genuinely taken aback for a moment.

  Brim felt his face begin to color. He'd blown it this time! He braced himself....

  "Casualties?" she queried with a distraught look—while completely ignoring his proffered invitation. "Commander, I must beg your indulgence that I could lack the basic compassion to inquire about casualties." She shook, her head in obvious mortification. "What can I do to make amends?"

  "G-E-T L-A-Y-E-D!" Tissaurd mouthed soundlessly.

  Cheeks burning while he stifled a grin that threatened to break forth all over his face, Brim considered for only a moment. "Madame Raddisma," he said, glancing at the procession of covered GravLitters that were gliding through the brow to ambulances that hovered at the edge of the ice—many contained the bandaged figures of Bears. "Perhaps you would do me the honor of accompanying me through the base hospital tomorrow, once Starfury has been secured," he said. "I know the IVG casualties there would consider your presence a particular honor,"

  The woman's face slipped for a moment from its regal mien to one of genuine astonishment. "Me?" she asked with a frown, "tour the base hospital with you?"

  "But yes, Madame Raddisma," Brim said, bemused at her evident surprise.

  "Why... I... should be honored to accompany you on such a tour. Commander Brim," she said, her eyes momentarily flashing with considerable emotion, "at your convenience. I shall await your call tomorrow with great anticipation
." Then, turning to Atcherly, she quickly reverted to her accustomed bearing as the Nabob's Principal Consort. "Commodore Atcherly," she directed, this time in faultless Avalonian, "may I assume that Commander Brim and his officers will be requested to attend the reception in my honor tomorrow evening?"

  Tissaurd nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Y-E-A-H!" she mouthed.

  "Aye, that you may, madame," Atcherly said, replacing Raddisma in Brim's display. He spoke as if he hadn't noticed that she had switched to Avalonian for her query—but clearly he had. "You'll all attend, Commander?" he asked with a little smile.

  Brim grinned in spite of himself, fighting to keep his eyes from Tissaurd. "As many of us will attend as possible, Commodore," he replied, "depending, of course, on Starfury's condition by that time." He laughed grimly to himself. Only a few cycles ago, they had been fighting for their very lives. Here at Lake Solent, without Starfury's battle-damaged presence, it might have seemed as if the war had never started.

  "I understand your concern, Commander," Atcherly said, "but I think we shall be able to move Starfury, in spite of her size." Then he frowned. "Repairing her, however," he added, "may turn out to be an altogether different problem—much as I hate to say it."

  Nobody hated those words more than Brim....

  * * *

  Judicious application of Calsnot's big snow tractors and a miraculous performance by crews deftly operating all six of the Station's medium-duty gravity barges (at a risky 115 percent levitation factor) finally managed to wrestle the light cruiser onto one of the base's five "large" gravity pools. When they concluded their work, Brim, who had watched the delicate operation all afternoon from the bridge, found himself soaked in sweat. Though he was only a helpless bystander, he had probably traveled ten c'lenyts pacing back and forth across the bridge from Hyperscreen to Hyperscreen. It felt as if he had hefted the cruiser on his own shoulders.

  "Commodore Atcherly reports the ship is secure, Commander," Barbousse announced, his normally deep bass voice at least an octave higher with the tension on the bridge.

  "Very well," Brim replied. "How much time do you suppose the Bears will need for their damage report?"

  "I asked Chief Baranev on my way to the bridge," Barbousse said. "He sent his compliments and asked me to tell you that it's at least as bad as it looked when you were there about a cycle ago, but he'll need at least all day tomorrow and perhaps more for a detailed report."

  Tissaurd took Brim's arm. "In that case, Skipper..." she Started.

  "In that case what. Number One?" Brim asked suspiciously.

  "In that case," she repeated, "it is my studied suggestion that you command every officer who has no immediate duty— including yourself—to stand down till morning when we have a better idea of how bad things really are."

  "Good idea," Brim admitted. "Put those orders on the blower, if it's still operational, and I'll run over to headquarters and get us set up for the repair effort."

  "Skipper," Tissaurd said with her hands on her hips, "you didn't hear what I said. You need rest as much as anybody. Doesn't he, Chief?" she asked, turning to Barbousse.

  The big rating raised his eyes to the overhead Hyperscreens. "Um... beggin' the Cap'm's pardon," he stammered, "but... um... that sounds like good advice to me. Most of us in the Petty Officers Mess are... um... headin' for our bunks as soon as we can. It's been a long day."

  "There, Skipper," the tiny officer declared as Barbousse lumbered off toward the companionway. "And you certainly won't be much help to anybody tomorrow if you can't think straight."

  Brim nodded. "Thanks, Number One," he said. "That makes sense. I guess I could stand some R and R, couldn't I?"

  "More than anybody else I know, right now," she said. "And who knows, maybe after the hospital tour tomorrow, this green-eyed 'Consort' can get your mind off that LaKarn woman."

  Brim smiled sadly and took a deep breath. "Somehow," be sighed, "I doubt if that will happen."

  "It certainly won't if you don't let it," she stated firmly, "or if you fall asleep while you're trying to... Well, you get my point."

  "Yeah," Brim chuckled, as if she were making a joke, but somehow he knew she meant every word she said. He retired to his cabin shortly afterward.

  * * *

  When a COMM rating woke him before dawn the next morning with a high-priority message, Brim couldn't even remember crawling into his bunk. Clearly, he had slept like a burned-out star, for he felt unusually refreshed—as he often did after pushing himself nearly to the brink of exhaustion.

  He spent most of his day inspecting damage and frantically swapping messages with Varnholm—especially Calhoun—and it was late afternoon before he was finally able to leave word for Raddisma that he would meet her in the lobby of the Station hospital at Aftemoon:3:00, early enough that they would have time for both a meaningful tour and an appearance later at Atcherly's reception. Following that, he hurried to his cabin where Barbousse had already laid out a fresh uniform.

  * * *

  In the hospital lobby, Mustafa's Consort was even more alluring than Brim recalled. She entered wearing her same black woolen cape with the fir-trimmed hood; white, high-heeled, ophet-leather boots; and matching gloves. The Carescrian shook his head in admiration. Even largely covered up she was beautiful. No wonder the Nabob—who clearly enjoyed his pick of Fluvanna's courtiers (as well as courtesans)—had chosen her above all others! He smiled while two ladies-in-waiting helped her slip out of her cape. Instead of the flowing robes he anticipated, she had dressed in contemporary Imperial style, wearing a silky gold crepe cocktail suit (whose backless jacket opened all the way to her slim waist) and a short, shaped skirt that revealed long, very shapely slim legs. "Madame Raddisma," he said, "how good of you to come."

  She drew off a glove and presented her hand. "It is my pleasure. Captain Brim," she said in a dusky, modulated voice, her lips forming a little smile as she nodded to the small coterie of physicians gathered nervously at the entrance to the wards. With her hair pulled back from her face and tied in a loose knot at the back of her head, she was more than just stunning. Huge golden rings dangled from her earlobes and she wore an enormous sapphire ring on her left hand. She had that enigmatic brand of natural assurance that goes hand in hand with influence. Brim surmised she would have an intelligence as sharp as anyone he had ever encountered. She'd need it to merely survive the cutthroat machinations that he understood characterized the inner circles of Mustafa's court.

  He bowed and kissed the soft, warm tips of her fingers. "If I may be so bold," he said, straightening, "you look magnificent this afternoon."

  She smiled, obviously pleased. "You may always be so bold, Captain," she answered. Her gaze was like an inspection: outwardly cool and composed—but absolutely complete.

  Brim nodded to the physicians, then turned to Raddisma. "Shall we begin, then, madame?" he asked, offering his arm.

  Nodding to dismiss her maidservants, she grasped his elbow and they proceeded on to the wards. In the cycles since Starfury had landed, three of the most gravely wounded Bears and seven humans had already died; however, healing machines were steadily working their magic on other casualties. Six of the throbbing cylinders had opened, and their occupants were even now in various stages of rousing. Raddisma immediately captivated a Sodeskayan Chief who had been working only a few irals from the point of detonation, yet had been miraculously saved by the chance deflection of a falling control panel, in the machine beside him was a pretty electronics technician whose left arm and leg were being regenerated beneath pulsating layers of healing plastic tissue. Saved by her imperial battlesuit, she had been blown through three vaporized hullmetal bulkheads and remembered nothing of the disaster—which she laughingly agreed was probably the best thing that could have happened under the circumstances. Two machines farther along was a quartermaster's mate who had been attached to a damage-control unit stationed in the power chamber itself. He had actually missed the main force of the hit, but had bee
n caught in the outer margin of a secondary explosion when one of the big plasma generators blew up. The healing machine was rebuilding the top half of his face—but be considered himself lucky. The other nine members of his crew were dead—vaporized. A number of generator technicians in adjoining chambers had been burned through their battlesuits, but were still ambulatory and undergoing antiradiation treatments. Many of them would be available for duty in the morning. All in all, twenty-four of Starfury's crew had been killed or wounded as a result of the hit.

  As always, the hospital tour was a sobering experience for Brim. He had been wounded a number of times himself, both in war and in peace—and seriously enough that he could appreciate what it was like to be on the other end of his visit. But Raddisma completely astounded him. Throughout the grisly tour, she acquitted herself like a veteran, as if she encountered such wounds as an everyday occurrence. Moreover, she was witty when she could be, sympathetic when necessary, and even coquettish with some of the wounded crew members. More than once, Brim stood back and marveled at the woman's aplomb. Doubtlessly, she had experienced nothing to match the horror of these hideously wounded individuals. Yet she made each of them feel special in her eyes—as if she personally appreciated the sacrifice they had made for her and her domain. When the tour finally ground to a halt, she showed little more wear than if she had just spent an afternoon entertaining at the royal palace at Magor.

  In Brim's view, whatever else Raddisma happened to be, she was also a trooper, pure and simple.

  * * *

  "Might I offer a lift to the reception, Captain?" she asked in the lobby while her handmaids placed the cloak around her shoulders. "When Mustafa bids me tour in his place, he invariably includes a small fleet of cars."

  "I should be honored to ride with you, Madame Raddisma," he replied, shrugging into his Fleet Cloak. The evening was still his to enjoy—he had just finished talking to Chief Baranev, and as predicted, there was still no complete estimate of Starfury's damage—except "bad." At the door, he offered Raddisma his arm and they stepped out into a clear, wintery evening agleam with starlight. As the cold air nipped his cheeks, he felt her grip tighten.