A Company of Heroes Book Five: The Space Cadet

by Ron Miller

  “Mr. Birdwhistle,” the captain said, almost pleasantly, “Mr. Queel will relieve you. I have just learned that there is a dangerously faulty valve. Get your kit from stores and get aloft. Don’t wait to say your prayers. Up with you!”

  Birdwhistle knuckled his forehead respectfully, rose from his chair and left the helm. He descended the stairs and went directly to the tools locker. Judikha dropped from her vantage and said to him, softly, “Watch yourself, Mr. Birdwhistle. That valve’s set to blow at the slightest touch! The skipper knows it. He suspects you.”

  “You say he knows about the valve?”

  “I reported it myself.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  The lieutenant took what he needed from the locker and mounted the narrow ladder that led aloft. Judikha glanced back toward the helm and saw that Captain Krill was glaring at her. Although he could not have heard her, he must have understood the meaning of her short talk with Birdwhistle. On the other hand, she heard Mr. Queel clearly when he burst from the control room and shouted to the skipper: “War, sir! War expected between Terria and Rustchuk!”

  “War!” the captain repeated, shaking his head. He turned toward his first mate and had only just begun to speak when he was interrupted by Judikha. He looked over his shoulder to see her, face white and lips drawn back from her teeth. She gripped a ten-pound wrench in each fist.

  “You murdering devil!”

  “What—?”

  “In the name of the Space Patrol, I take charge of this spaceship. Do you surrender quietly, and instantly, or shall I kill you where you stand?”

  “What are you saying? What do you mean?”

  “I am Ensign Judikha of the Space Patrol,” she replied, raising one of her weapons an inch. “Do you give me command of this vessel?”

  “No, by Musrum, I do not! I’ll see you in—”

  Whatever the captain’s invitation may have been was interrupted by the heavy iron wrench that felled him like a sack of meal.

  Birdwhistle was just dropping from overhead. “The game is up, Judikha,” he said.

  “The captain knew about you, sir. He sent you to die.”

  “I heard it all. But now what are we to do? There’s only the two of us. You have seriously jeopardized my plans, Judikha. This is terribly premature.”

  “There’s to be war, sir. We must commandeer this ship. Take over here; I must stop the mate if I have to kill him.”

  As the distraught lieutenant secured the helm, Judikha vaulted the railing, dropping in front of Mr. Queel, who had been hurrying to the captain’s aid.

  How easy it was—after the first blow had been struck. Judikha faced the sadistic first mate with a smile on her face and joy in her heart.

  “Stop where you are,” she said calmly. “Lieutenant Birdwhistle of the Space Patrol has confiscated this spaceship and has ordered me to kill you if you make any trouble. Understand?”

  “You’re going to kill me, are you? Why? What have I ever done to you, that you should kill me?” Mr. Queel back away and Judikha followed. Though he retreated, there was no fear in his voice or expression, even though he had seen the young woman thrash the massive Monkfish Glom only that morning. But with an arm still in a sling, he was not about to oppose iron wrenches with bare fists. As far as he was concerned, he was the signed first officer of the Rasputin and his life was being threatened. He took the right and proper action: with a sudden side spring he drew a toaster from within his sling and fired left-handed at Judikha. Judikha felt the beam scorch her cheek as she rushed the officer. He fired again as he retreated and Judikha pursued in the heat of a frenzy born of danger, risking death because she loved life, seeking only to kill this man who was trying to kill her.

  Though the mate had an advantage in possessing a toaster, he was a moral coward who, faced with the cold fury of the girl, did not press that advantage. Instead, he only tried to keep his distance from her, firing shots that she did not even bother to duck, though they struck close enough to shower her head and shoulders with hot sparks. Instead, she stalked the man, increasingly panicked, among the twisted columns of pipes like a panther leisurely stalking its prey. Finally, the mate’s nerve broke and he bolted. Judikha bounded after him, nearly reaching him in a single leap, and would have had his coat tail in her extended fist had not she trod in a pool of grease that sent her plummeting ungracefully to the deck. Mr. Queel, hearing her fall, turned immediately and raised his weapon, leveling it point-blank between her eyes. Yet, simultaneously with her fall, Judikha had spun in a half-circle, launching the wrench from her extended arm like a stone from a sling. It struck the mate squarely, burying three inches of its length in his face. Mr. Queel dropped like a marionette that had just had its strings severed. The toaster spun from his hand and she scooped it up. She found another stuck in his waistband.

  “Onto the deck, everyone!” she called. “Mr. Birdwhistle, here!” She tossed one of the mate’s toasters to him. “Call the second mate, Mr. Wopple—call the watch forward!”

  Crew began scrambling onto the deck. Wopple appeared among them. He had been awakened by the noise and was still rubbing his eyes. He looked in amazement at Judikha on the catwalk, wrench in one hand, toaster in the other, and Birdwhistle at the helm.

  “Mr. Wopple,” she said, “the Space Patrol expects war with Rustchuk. Lieutenant Birdwhistle and I’ve taken charge of this spaceship in the name of the Patrol. I’ve killed the mate and I may have killed the skipper. Shall I kill you, too, or will you take orders from us?”

  “I don’t think I want to be killed,” he replied with a smile, “so I suppose I’ll submit to your show of force. I’ll take orders from anyone with a toaster. Just tell me what you want me to do—sir.”

  “Get all hands on deck, right away.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The speech that Judikha made to the crew after they appeared was short, sharp and expressive—and made in the name of Lieutenant Birdwhistle. She stated their position with regard to the Patrol and the law. She granted them permission to disbelieve her, until she and Birdwhistle proved themselves by their handling of the vessel, but at the same time promised instant death to whomever acted on that disbelief.

  The crew made no response to this announcement. They merely shuffled their feet, looking at one another with wonder and shock; they got no comfort from the complacent second mate, less from the stern face of the lieutenant and even less from the sterner-faced young woman on the catwalk. But she had already won half their regard by her courage, gentleness and deference to their experience. Eight bells squawked from the annunciator while Judikha awaited their answer. Meanwhile, she called to the deck, “Mr. Wopple, send two men up here to carry the captain to his cabin.”

  “Very good, sir,” the second mate replied, with a man-of-war’s salute. “Bombla, Aarngla, bear a hand here. Up on the walk with you and get the skipper put away.”

  The two he named hesitated, looking at one another and at their shipmates; they looked up at Judikha, who slowly raised the toaster to the railing, and started for the steps. When Wopple ordered two more to remove the body of the first mate, they obeyed immediately.

  Judikha then ordered, “Eight bells. Dinner, the watch.” The crew moved forward slowly. She glanced toward Birdwhistle, but he would not meet her eyes.

  Judikha had mastered the ship.

  -XIV-

  The captain had not died. While Birdwhistle, Wopple and Judikha were examining the bodies, the skipper quivered convulsively, moaned and relapsed into semi-consciousness. After a few moments, he sat up and stared at the trio with sleepy, disbelieving eyes. He uttered a sound that was half growl, half groan. Birdwhistle sighed with relief. Judikha noticed that he was deathly pale, that his hands trembled and perspiration poured down his face faster than he could wipe it away. “I’m glad—it’s better—I’m glad now that more murder was not done,” he said brokenly. “It’s time of war, I know, and Musrum knows that they deserve it, but it seems cowa
rdly all the same.”

  Judikha ignored the lieutenant and pressed the cathode of her toaster against the captain’s bloody forehead. “Mr. Wopple,” she said, “get leg irons and shackle this man by the ankles.”

  Wopple hurried off. Captain Krill, still sitting and regarding them stupidly, still covered by Judikha’s toaster, erupted into senseless abuse. He could not comprehend what had happened, but when Wopple had locked his ankles together he was sufficiently awakened to ask questions, which Judikha ignored until she was ready to answer them.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? What am I doing in irons?” the captain snarled.

  “We ironed you,” replied Judikha, “to keep you quiet and out of trouble. You will remain in irons until released by the proper authority.”

  “You will, eh? Do you know this is mutiny? Do you know you’ll be spaced for this? I’m captain of this vessel!”

  “You were captain. You have been relieved of command by a representative—Mr. Birdwhistle here—of the Space Patrol. His actions will be upheld by any official you may appeal to. You, this ship and its owners, its cargo, all of its combined value is of small importance to the needs of the Patrol’s officers and spacemen when war threatens.”

  “I waive,” added the lieutenant, “all consideration of your attempt on my life today and rest my case on the fact that you were restraining me from my duty—taking me into space when I am needed in the Patrol. Therefore, as you have proven yourself to be of troublesome, uncooperative disposition you will be confined in chains on government rations until we quit this ship.”

  “And how’ll you quit this ship, I ask, in the middle of its course? Why didn’t you make yourself clear—why didn’t you prove yourself, if you belong to the Patrol? I didn’t know.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Judikha. “Mr. Birdwhistle told you when he was first taken aboard. And you knew for certain this morning, when you realized he knew the codes. Instead of recognizing his status, you tried to kill him. You sent him to repair a valve that you knew was going to blow.”

  “And it would have killed me, had she not warned me,” said the lieutenant.

  “Well, I’m damned sorry she did. I’m damned sorry you didn’t break your neck. Take these iron off my legs and I’ll land you at the nearest planet and be damned to you!”

  “That’ll do,” said Birdwhistle coldly. “Stand up, there.”

  The captain had already by this time swung so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, with his shackled legs dangling.

  “Stand up,” repeated Judikha. “Catch Mr. Wopple by the shoulder and stand up or you’ll be lifted by my toaster in your back. Quickly now!”

  Her earnestness was far more evident than the lieutenant’s. The captain looked at her stern countenance, gripped the second mate’s sleeve and hauled himself erect.

  “March,” commanded the girl, “and make your way to the brig.”

  The skipper moved weakly and unsteadily, even with the support of Wopple, and left the cabin slowly and painfully. Before he turned into the passage, Krill turned his head and cursed his victors vividly. Birdwhistle, looking hurt and confused, and Judikha followed. They reached the tiny, windowless cabin that served as the ship’s brig. The heavy hatch was undogged and swung aside.

  “In you go,” said Mr. Wopple.

  “Remember,” said Birdwhistle, with some difficulty, “that I am the legitimate commander of this spaceship, empowered by law to enforce my orders with deadly force, if need be.”

  Judikha held her toaster carelessly in line with the captain’s head and the lieutenant clutched his weapon as though he had forgotten it was in his hand. The captain stumbled over the high sill and sat down on the riveted floor.

  “You’ll be ironed by the legs to a stanchion,” said the lieutenant in a mechanical voice, “but your hands will be left free. I’ll send someone to tend to your medical needs. Have no fear that you won’t be watched closely. Any overt act of resistance or insubordination will result in—in your death. I will shoot you in irons. Mr. Wopple, make him fast to a stanchion and tell the steward to nurse his wounds and feed him the prescribed allowance but not a gram more.”

  “Very good, sir,” replied Wopple with a joyous grin, while Birdwhistle and Judikha returned to the control room. The lieutenant examined the instruments and said, with some satisfaction: “The other ship is still near us. We’ll ask it a few more questions. All we know now is that the Pordka has been destroyed and that war is imminent. It was fortunate that I knew that the code the captain asked for was meaningless, otherwise we’d never have gotten this news.”

  “I’m sure that the captain knew the proper code,” said Judikha, “—after all, he had just looked it up in his book. I think he gave you the wrong one to trap you.”

  “Do you suppose so? Well, it’s all irrelevant now, as things have turned out. Let’s send E-E-B-B-T and see if there are any warships nearby.”

  Judikha ran the key and waited for an reply. After a few moments the other ship answered with a series of beeps that Judikha interpreted while Birdwhistle jotted them down. When finished, he read his notes aloud and whistled slowly.

  “Rustchukian Petchora, out of Phlegethon; Rastablanaplanian Dieskau, Blavek; Rastablanaplanian Mazanderan, Swethora, departed 12:182.”

  “The Mazanderan!” cried Judikha. “She was destined for Telamon II, she’d likely reprovision at Hanyang, possibly, or at Rueil for sure. We’d best keep away from Rustchukian planets for the nonce, at least while the Petchora is around. I’d say our place is Rueil. With any luck, we could make it in time to rendezvous with the Mazanderan, and then—war!”

  “Do you know what that means, Judikha?”

  “Yes, sir, I think I do. But are you sure that war will be declared?”

  “How could it be otherwise? We must.”

  “Then let’s see if there’s more news.”

  “Good enough. Send R-H-B-J-N. That’s ‘How many dead?’ Then tack on the Pordka’s name.”

  The answer to this signal was “eight hundred and fifty-two.”

  “That’s all we need to know,” said Birdwhistle. “Eight hundred and fifty-two. Almost the whole complement—many of them were our friends, Judikha. I knew most of the officers. Oh, there’ll be war all right. It’s strange, but it makes me feel better.”

  The steward joined them as they were thanking the other ship and signing off.

  “Where will you eat, sirs?” he asked deferentially.

  “At the cabin table, as master of this spaceship. This is Mistress Judikha, first mate. Treat her as such. Mr. Wopple is still second mate. Call him to dinner and serve him immediately. Then prepare two baths and procure from the ship’s stores two suits of clothing, the best you can find—shirts, underclothing, socks, shoes, jackets, everything complete.”

  “Yes, sir—yes, sir.”

  The steward, impressed beyond all uttering, departed.

  At one bell, before the watch went to dinner, Birdwhistle began the arduous and delicate task of turning the massive vessel. The crew, when they began the work, moved with a deliberation that was an index of their doubt and dissatisfaction. However, a few sharp, clear-cut orders from their new first mate penetrated their reserve and by the afternoon the crew seemed as impressed as the steward had been.

  Three weeks later, the Rasputin came within Rueil’s system and a few days after that, Birdwhistle was greeting a customs official. His first question to that gentleman was, “What’s the news from Terria?”

  “War was declared on Rustchuk nine days ago. Didn’t you know? Rustchuk is blockaded and we’re prepared to receive the

  Mazanderan and the Anathoth for provisioning any hour. Indeed, when you first showed on our scanners we thought you might have been one of them.”

  “Judikha,” the lieutenant said, “we’re just in time. We’ll report directly to one of the captains instead of the consul. It’ll save complications. Then we’ll continue on with the Mazanderan.”


  “And the Rasputin?”

  “Can take care of itself. The official log contains our ‘confessions.’ Mr.Wopple can take care of the report to the consul.”

  They prepared to leave the freighter in a shuttle, to wait at the nearby orbiting way station for the arrival of the warships. Judikha was glad to turn her back on the Rasputin, but there was one discordant note to her departure. As she was about to duck into the open airlock, there was a painful thump between her shoulder blades. She turned and saw Monkfish Glom, recovered and revengeful, with another potato ready to launch at her. Then, the last thing she heard as the heavy hatch clanged shut, was the remonstrating curses of Mr. Wopple as Glom dared him to fight.

  “It’s still a hellship,” she said.

  PART THREE

  WAR

  -I-

  Blockade duty five hundred miles above Rustchuk and the warship is at full alert; its every deck is overcrowded with Patrolmen and Space Marines. The air conditioning and ventilators ineffectively struggle to maintain a bare minimum of comfort. But the air is muggy, heavy and stale. The men and women sit about, tensely, tired and bored by the extra muscular effort needed to breathe the thick atmosphere. It’s a time ripe for profanity and rumor. The crews take little care about their speech or personal appearance; the officers do their best with white shorts and singlets, maintaining their dignity with white uniform caps; the spacemen, however, strip to underclothing or less and consign dignity to the Weedking.

  There are three levels to the blockade: an outer sphere of heavy battleships, whose guns and torpedoes have a range greater than the radius to the center of the planet; a lower level of destroyers, shuttles and relief ships; and nearest the planet a network of small launches, reconnaissance craft, fighters. These latter are well-equipped with sensing devices of every subtlety and only one message is hoped from them—the signal that the imprisoned Rustchukian fleet shows signs of breaking its bonds.