A Company of Heroes Book Five: The Space Cadet

by Ron Miller

  She went to sleep, awakening at seven bells at peace with herself and with Monkfish—secure in her sleep-born loftiness of purpose. As was her custom—a habit born of the Patrol—she was first on her feet and started toward the galley to fetch breakfast. Her face showed more good humor than it had since her kidnaping, though it unfortunately proved to be short-lived. Her new-found philosophy was destroyed half a minute after she stepped from the door.

  First, she heard her name called. She turned to see Birdwhistle, his hands full of soapy socks, running toward her. Behind him was a crowd of males and females, human and otherwise, who had abandoned their work to gather around some sort of commotion that their bodies shielded from her sight. She had just taken a step forward when the lieutenant, in passing her, said: “Take a hand in that, Judikha!”

  She raced ahead and parted the curtain of bodies; between them she saw Mr. Wopple, flat on his back with Monkfish Glom settled on his chest. The spaceman’s face was dark purple, his tongue protruding and eyes bulging, as the new cook’s knees pressed into his chest and the fingers of one hand dug deeply into his throat. With his free hand, as big and hard as a hammer, he was pounding Wopple’s face into a different shape with each blow.

  “So you think,” said Monkfish, “that you’re going to order me about just because you’ve got my berth? I’ll teach you different!”

  This was not a matter for either ethics or philosophy. She had not received any direct order from Birdwhistle, but his injunction to “take a hand” seemed sufficient. In any case, she could not watch a good friend murdered by an ignorant giant bent on “teaching” his victim a lesson that could only prove fatal. Without any hesitation, she kicked Monkfish in the jaw. It was with a bare foot, but it was a well-trained foot and the blow would have broken any ordinary mandible. But Monkfish’s anatomy was anything if not ordinary and it held. But the force of the kick forced him off Wopple’s chest and he scrambled to his feet two paces from Judikha.

  “Defend yourself, Judikha!” she heard Birdwhistle call, from somewhere behind the madding crowd. She did not take her eyes from Monkfish, but saw several of the crew behind him helping Wopple to his feet.

  “You kicked me!” spluttered Monkfish, as though it had just dawned upon him what happened. “What’re you just called? Judikha? I knew it! I knew it was you!”

  “You’re quick, you bloated sack of wormshit,” she said calmly. “Yes, I’m Judikha and you only got one back, Monkfish. You’ve got more kicks coming to you.”

  The big man rushed her, but she easily dodged him and jammed a fist between a couple of ribs as the bulk passed her like a freight train; Monkfish squealed like a, well, like a monkfish, or at least like one would if they could

  What followed was the most desperate battle in which Judikha had ever engaged. It raged from the aft bulkhead to the forwards valve-trees, then back again. Monkfish bellowed like an ox, flailing his club-like arms insanely, wasting his energy. Judikha merely allowed herself to comfortably slip back into her old self, which fit her as familiarly and reassuringly as an old pair of pajamas. This was not the self that had tried to superimpose upon itself the ethics and sportsman-like behavior of Lieutenant Birdwhistle, but the old self that still bore the bruises from Monkfish as man and boy. She was a formidable combination of primeval human and scientifically trained Patrolman. Fired by an ecstasy of pride and courage, she would not have traded these characteristics for those of the lieutenant—not even for the power to win the boy she loved. She fought with her hands, with her feet, with her fingers, with her knees, elbows and teeth and she fought to win, if not to kill, but even in the greatest intensity of this emotion she saw no red.

  She noticed that the crew followed her, but kept its distance. No one raised a hand to help or hinder, though she saw that not a few hands held wrenches and pipes. She heard, once, a gruff voice order: “Let them alone, boys. Stand back, Mr. Wopple. She’s doing all right. Let ‘em have it out.”

  She fought on, caring little for the sympathy in that voice or for the poised weapons, until, breathing in painful rasps, dizzy from too many lucky blows to her head, she found herself restrained by Mr. Wopple and the captain, and looking down at the quivering, bloody, whimpering body of her late antagonist.

  “That’ll do, lassie,” said the captain, “that’ll do. You’ve licked him fair. Don’t spoil it.”

  “Come with me, Veronica,” said Wopple, “and get your breakfast.” The captain released his hold and she allowed the second mate to lead her to the galley.

  “You came just in time to save me, girl,” said Mr. Wopple, “and I’ll not forget it. I didn’t think you could do him and I was ready with a wrench. I’m glad now, that I didn’t, on your account, but sorry on mine. The bastard struck me from behind just because I’d ordered him to clean up some slops he’d just spilled on the deck.”

  “My name’s Judikha, Mr. Wopple. Monkfish’s an old school enemy. I only went under another name to avoid what just happened anyway. Now that it’s over, it doesn’t matter. The skipper seemed to be on my side back there. Can’t we convince him about Mr. Birdwhistle?”

  “Not on your life,” replied Wopple seriously. “Don’t even think about it. And I’ll tell you this: the skipper suspects something. I heard him and Mr. Thorpe only yesterday talking about your friend. He can’t keep up his pretense forever, you see. The Patrol sticks out all over him and the skipper’s catching on. Only this morning the skipper asked me what I thought of Mr. Birdwhistle, if I thought he was more than he says. I told him that so far as I could see he was the most worthless, good-for-nothing pantywaist sissy that was ever signed an able spaceman. But it didn’t wash—I could see that. Give your friend a word from me: tell him to watch out. You’d better get in to your breakfast now, I’ve talked to you long enough.”

  -X-

  Before Judikha reached the crew’s quarters, where her watch was now gathered, she heard the captain shouting and cursing. She turned to see what the new fuss was about, thinking that the subject of the abuse was most likely Monkfish. That man, however, was sitting on the deck, ignored by everyone. It was Birdwhistle who was being rebuked. He was at the foot of the steps that led to the catwalk and the captain was standing over him, wiping his coat and sleeves with a rag. The lieutenant seemed to be in no present danger—she assumed that he had only blundered into the captain while bearing an armload of wet laundry.

  This proved to be the case. When she came out at eight bells, Birdwhistle was stowing his tubs and washboards in their locker outside the galley. Mr. Queel had taken the place of the captain and was continuing to pile abuse on the hapless man.

  “Go on and get your breakfast and at one bell you turn to, understand? And next time you spill any suds you’ll lick them up!”

  Queel then turned his attention to the new watch and gave them their orders. Judikha’s was to wriggle her way into the maze of plumbing high above the deck, to read the gauges and check the valves that were hidden in the darkness there.

  “Take some packing with you and check any fittings that look like they’re leaking to you.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” she answered and went to the locker to get her tools.

  She knew she had been given this job because, of all the crew, she was at one and the same time the thinnest, lithest and strongest. She tucked her tools and packing into a belt and clambered up the narrow ladder. Halfway up, as she passed the catwalk, she saw Monkfish lumbering from the helm. His purpled eyes were closed and his face was cut and bruised. She thought he looked as ludicrous as he was miserable. She felt a sort of pity for him. She glanced below, to the right and left, and saw that Quell and the captain were out of sight. He called out to the cook.

  “Monkfish,” she said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you so much. I’d just made up my mind to drop the old grudge and call things square, but you forced me to it. Will you shake hands and call it even?”

  She held out her hand, but Monkfish, lifting his chin to see better through his
swollen lids, suggested that she have intercourse with herself.

  “All right,” she replied and continued her way up the ladder. Well, at least I feel better for having offered.

  Stepping from the top of the ladder onto one of the big, horizontal conduits, she nimbly trotted out to its midpoint. She glanced down, but the curve of the pipe blocked much of her view, as did the seemingly random maze of pipes that surrounded her on all sides, above and below. Climbing higher, hopping and swinging from pipe to pipe, she felt very much like a monkey clambering among the limbs and lianas of some lightless jungle. Each time she found a valve or gauge, she shone her penlight on it and checked to see that it wasn’t leaking or that it’s needle was anything other than perfectly vertical.

  Finally, she reached a point where there was nothing above her but the rusty, riveted, domed ceiling of the engine room. Dozens of pipes, thick and thin, descended through it like stalactites. She could see nothing of the deck far below her. Not even the sounds of the watch reached her, only the steady thrumming of the engines and turbines that pervaded every cubic inch of the ship. Above this she heard a hoarse hissing, as well as an acrid odor. These proved to emanate from a brass valve as big as her head. Vapors were squirting from its seams. She checked the gauge that protruded from the side of the fitting and saw that its needle was quivering far to the left. An examination of the fittings revealed that a gasket had decomposed allowing high-pressure gas to escape. And whatever that was, it made her eyes burn and her nose and throat pinch shut convulsively. Squinting, holding a scrap of oily cloth over her nose and mouth, she drove fresh packing into the seam with the blade of her knife, but knew that it was but a very temporary measure. The fault was a dangerous one that required serious repair, and she was glad enough to get away from the device. She did not envy the spaceman who’d be assigned the task of replacing the gasket, for the slightest error or mistiming would release a blast of superheated corrosive gas, to say nothing of rocketing shards of brass, iron and steel.

  When she had redescended to within earshot of the deck, she became aware of a commotion below her. The spaceman at the helm had just shouted something to the captain, who was on the deck berating the first mate.

  “All right, all right!” Captain Krill was answering, angrily. “Why the hell don’t you set it to music and sing it? Don’t have so much to say up there!”

  Judikha dropped to the deck and called to Mr. Queel: “Sir, there’s a bad valve packing up top. I did what I could, but I don’t think it’ll hold long.”

  The captain, however, thought that she was speaking to him and turned upon her violently. “Don’t you be so damned busy with your comments and suggestions! I know my business without your help. You attend to your own!”

  “Get those tools stowed,” ordered Mr. Queel, deferring, as always, to the captain.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Judikha and did as she was told.

  No one can attach clear motives to the moods and whims of an autocrat, but Judikha—watching the surly skipper stamping back and forth between the helm and the rail, occasionally snarling at the man at the controls, occasionally scrutinizing the instruments—shrewdly guessed that the captain was still disturbed by the accident he had with poor Birdwhistle that morning. The accuracy of her guess was confirmed when, at one bell, the lieutenant appeared on deck.

  “Mr. Queel,” the captain shouted as soon as he saw her friend, “set this infernal insect to working on this basket of laundry and see that he gets it done. Maybe he’ll learn how to wash clothes properly before I’m done with him.”

  The basket indicated was as high as the lieutenant’s shoulders and must have contained 500 pounds of soiled laundry if it contained an ounce. Judikha was certain that it was the slop chest from the previous voyage and that the contents therefore had been worn for months without cleaning and had lain in that basket for at least another month since.

  “You ‘gentleman’s gentleman’,” sneered Captain Krill. “You Patrol officer, you. I’ll learn you something!”

  Birdwhistle did not answer, but only leaned a shoulder against the huge basket and began to nudge it inch by inch across the deck. Judikha speculated on their chances if she let fly with her wrench at the back of the captain’s head.

  So the forenoon watch passed and the captain became more and more irritable. There was a constant supply of news from the helm of which he clearly did not. Judikha tried her best to manoeuver as close as she dared to the door of the control room, on the chance that she might overhear what was going on. This proved easy enough, for the man at the helm did not take any especial precautions, but merely shouted out his information to the captain without turning his head. The news was only that another spaceship had been detected, approaching gradually from the rear and slowly overtaking the Rasputin. The freighter’s own exhaust was interfering with communication. Still, her heart thrilled—what if the other vessel were a Patrol ship? Could there be some way to signal it? To let it know of Lieutenant Birdwhistle’s and her predicament?

  The captain tramped into the control room and peered at the board. He stood up with a derisive snort.

  “Nothing but a damned Jerhennian tramp,” he said, “and I hoped it might of been a Rastablanaplanian ship.”

  Liar, Judikha thought. You believed it was a Patrol vessel as much as I did!

  Nevertheless, it was the first spaceship that had come within hailing distance since they had taken off and Captain Krill was anxious to communicate with it.

  “Well?” he shouted to the helmsman. “Can’t you raise her? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Sorry, sir,” replied the flustered spaceman, “I—I don’t really know. I—I don’t—”

  “Can’t you operate a radio proper?”

  “That’s not it, sir. We’re not getting through on voice—distance or something else interfering, sir.”

  “Then hail them by code, you brainless fool!”

  “Y-yes, sir. But, sir, I don’t know code—”

  “Oh!” cried the frustrated skipper, grasping the poor man by the collar and flinging him from his chair so that he fell to his hands and knees to the deck. He kicked the man with the point of his heavy boot and shouted, “Get below with you! What I have I done to be burdened with such useless infants? Here, you!” he called to Birdwhistle. “You gentleman’s gentleman what’s not a Patrol officer. Can you operate this radio?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant. He stood up and Judikha saw on his face that peculiar expression it now always seemed to wear.

  “Then put that gear aside, clean your hands and come up here and help me signal that Jerhennian. Step lively now!”

  In less than a minute Birdwhistle was alongside the captain.

  “What’s he saying?” the captain asked, pointing to the speaker, which was emitting a series of plaintive-sounding beeps.

  “It’s just a hailing signal, sir,” replied Birdwhistle. “Shall I reply?”

  “What do you think I called you up here for? Your damned company? Answer it!”

  The lieutenant worked at the key for a moment, then sat back. There was a moment’s silence, then the speaker beeped again.

  “It’s the Squattro, sir, out of Blavek Port.”

  “You do seem to know something, after all,” said the captain.

  “More than you do,” muttered Judikha, fearful that the lieutenant, unaware of the captain’s recent suspicions, would prove too adept at code-sending, but there was no way for her to warn him now.

  Birdwhistle acknowledged receipt and again waited. As a new series of signals arrived, he translated them for the skipper.

  “Three weeks out of Parple IV, sir, bound for Arastaran.”

  At the captain’s order, he signaled the other ship that the Rasputin was fifty-six days out of Rastabranaplan Port, bound for Quongslacken XI.

  “All right,” said Captain Krill, “the formalities are over. Let’s get some news.”

  Birdwhistle sent this reques
t and listened closely to the reply. There was a great deal of static and Judikha, from her position, could not distinguish the signals of the other ship from the extraneous noise. Apparently the lieutenant was having no less difficulty.

  “What’s he saying?” demanded the skipper.

  “I’m not sure, sir. The only word I got clear so far is ‘battle’.”

  “‘Battle’? What’s he mean, ‘battle’?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask him to repeat.”

  Birdwhistle did so, then listened closely, his face screwed up with concentration.

  “S-h-i-p. ‘Ship’, sir.”

  “What in hell does he mean?”

  “Just a moment, sir, there’s more. Ah! ‘Pordka’, sir—”

  “‘Pordka’? As in Shahalzin Pordka? That’s the emperor of Terria!”

  “‘—battleship Pordka’. Ah! The signal’s coming in more clearly, sir. Just a moment—” Again the lieutenant’s face became tense as he strained to separate the faint beeps from the pops and sputters of the static.

  “‘Battleship Pordka’,” he continued, “‘—destroyed—Rustchuk VI—eight—weeks ago’. That’s when we took off!”

  “Shut your trap! Answer that and stand by.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain took a dog-eared code book from an inner pocket and flipped through it. He looked up from it with an evil smirk. “Send W-J-L-L-C.”

  “W-J-L-L-C, sir?” replied Birdwhistle, fumbling at the key, “Ah, did you say W-J-L-L-C, sir, or W-L-J-J-C?”

  “What’d I tell you?” shouted the captain, throwing the book at the back of the lieutenant’s head. “W-L-J-J-C. ‘Is there chance of war?’ Now, send it, since you know all about it.’

  Birdwhistle, his eyes sparkling, sent the signal. Nearby, Judikha wondered if the lieutenant had not just sealed his fate and hers.

  Mr. Queel entered the control room and whispered a few words into the captain’s ear. They both glanced at the lieutenant, the mate with an expression of gloating, the skipper with as evil an expression of triumph that Judikha never hoped to see again.