Read Online THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition by Bill Baldwin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Baldwin
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Truculent's Helmsmen's consoles, Collingswood on her feet behind them, one hand on each recliner, staring through the Hyperscreens. An off-duty Brim sat as observer in a jump seat, concentrating on the proceedings as if his life depended on learning each movement at either console — someday, he knew it would.
No escort craft accompanied these two high-speed beauties; Leaguer Admiral Kabul Anak had recently siphoned nearly all protection from the area to support a large combined attack on nearby targets in the Empire. And the gravity storm that only cycles in the past covered their dash for safety also served to conceal Truculent. But the latter's military scanning devices picked up the two traders long before her own image activated their civilian proximity alarms. Now the deadly warship was positioned so as to deny any possibility of escape to HyperSpace and was surging along in their wakes like the legendary wraith of Zoltnark, Dark Lord of the Universe.
“We shall have a warning salvo, if you please, Anastasia,” Collingswood ordered quietly. “They are surely aware of our presence by now.”
“And probably yelling for help on every channel they scan,” Amherst grumbled nervously. Brim's glance strayed to the Communications consoles where two ratings quietly nodded to each other. No time to waste today. The broadcast alarms would soon attract every enemy warship remaining in the area.
Outside, he watched Truculent's three upper-deck turrets index slightly to port, then return to starboard, finally coming to a stop with their long, slim 144s pointing dead ahead: toward the distant targets. His mind's eye visualized four identical turrets that had just danced the same little gigue out of sight on the starship's dorsal planes.
“Stand by for a close pattern about half a c'lenyt off their bows,” Fourier ordered.
Brim watched fascinated while firing crews hunched over their Director consoles, faces lit from beneath by the ever-changing colors of information pouring into their globes.
“Range six thousand and closing. Fifty-nine hundred …fifty-eight hundred…”
“Connect the mains, all disruptors.”
“Connected.”
“Deflection seventy-six left. Rate eighty-one plus.”
“Range fifty-five hundred and closing. Sharply now…”
“Steady.”
“Fire!” At Fourier's word, all seven disruptors went off in a salvo of blinding light and raw energy — Truculent's deck bucked violently; clouds of angry radiation cascaded into the wake. In spite of himself, Brim thrilled to the rolling, earsplitting thunder rumbling through the spaceframe. Instantly, a whole volume of space ahead of the League ships convulsed with brilliant flashes of yellow fire.
“Eyes of Vothoor!” Theada quipped in an undertone, “That ought to slow them down some.”
“Don't count on it,” Collingswood warned, eyes riveted on her fleeing quarry. “They'll not give up so easily as that. Triannic’s forces everywhere are clamoring for supplies — he makes it well worthwhile for the ones who do get through.” Indeed, nearly a full cycle later, the two ships were still speeding toward their destinations.
She frowned, nodded her head. “Reason with them again, Anastasia,” she ordered. “Closer, this time.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Fourier answered. “A bit closer, if you please, at the Directors.”
“Aye, Lieutenant. Down five hundred. Deflection fifteen minus. Rate sixty-four plus.”
Brim's untrained eye could detect little movement of the disruptors as they were relaid, but he knew the next shots would be a great deal closer, if recent target exercises were any indication at all.
“Fire!”
This time, the darkness ahead was shattered by one huge upheaval that appeared as if it must have taken place only irals from the targets themselves. And though it did produce immediate results, they were not quite the ones expected on Truculent's bridge. “Voot's gray ghost,” Collingswood grumped under her breath.
No escort craft accompanied these two high-speed beauties; Leaguer Admiral Kabul Anak had recently siphoned nearly all protection from the area to support a large combined attack on nearby targets in the Empire. And the gravity storm that only cycles in the past covered their dash for safety also served to conceal Truculent. But the latter's military scanning devices picked up the two traders long before her own image activated their civilian proximity alarms. Now the deadly warship was positioned so as to deny any possibility of escape to HyperSpace and was surging along in their wakes like the legendary wraith of Zoltnark, Dark Lord of the Universe.
“We shall have a warning salvo, if you please, Anastasia,” Collingswood ordered quietly. “They are surely aware of our presence by now.”
“And probably yelling for help on every channel they scan,” Amherst grumbled nervously. Brim's glance strayed to the Communications consoles where two ratings quietly nodded to each other. No time to waste today. The broadcast alarms would soon attract every enemy warship remaining in the area.
Outside, he watched Truculent's three upper-deck turrets index slightly to port, then return to starboard, finally coming to a stop with their long, slim 144s pointing dead ahead: toward the distant targets. His mind's eye visualized four identical turrets that had just danced the same little gigue out of sight on the starship's dorsal planes.
“Stand by for a close pattern about half a c'lenyt off their bows,” Fourier ordered.
Brim watched fascinated while firing crews hunched over their Director consoles, faces lit from beneath by the ever-changing colors of information pouring into their globes.
“Range six thousand and closing. Fifty-nine hundred …fifty-eight hundred…”
“Connect the mains, all disruptors.”
“Connected.”
“Deflection seventy-six left. Rate eighty-one plus.”
“Range fifty-five hundred and closing. Sharply now…”
“Steady.”
“Fire!” At Fourier's word, all seven disruptors went off in a salvo of blinding light and raw energy — Truculent's deck bucked violently; clouds of angry radiation cascaded into the wake. In spite of himself, Brim thrilled to the rolling, earsplitting thunder rumbling through the spaceframe. Instantly, a whole volume of space ahead of the League ships convulsed with brilliant flashes of yellow fire.
“Eyes of Vothoor!” Theada quipped in an undertone, “That ought to slow them down some.”
“Don't count on it,” Collingswood warned, eyes riveted on her fleeing quarry. “They'll not give up so easily as that. Triannic’s forces everywhere are clamoring for supplies — he makes it well worthwhile for the ones who do get through.” Indeed, nearly a full cycle later, the two ships were still speeding toward their destinations.
She frowned, nodded her head. “Reason with them again, Anastasia,” she ordered. “Closer, this time.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Fourier answered. “A bit closer, if you please, at the Directors.”
“Aye, Lieutenant. Down five hundred. Deflection fifteen minus. Rate sixty-four plus.”
Brim's untrained eye could detect little movement of the disruptors as they were relaid, but he knew the next shots would be a great deal closer, if recent target exercises were any indication at all.
“Fire!”
This time, the darkness ahead was shattered by one huge upheaval that appeared as if it must have taken place only irals from the targets themselves. And though it did produce immediate results, they were not quite the ones expected on Truculent's bridge. “Voot's gray ghost,” Collingswood grumped under her breath.
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