by Ron Miller
In the second line, its sharp bow pointed toward the planet below, like a silvery plumb bob, hovered a torpedo rocket. Close up in its nose, sprawled against the thick panes of glass, bare feet resting against the steel mullions, lay Judikha. She was not sleeping; she was deep in thought, brooding at the planet that swung beneath her. Behind her (or above her, rather), on deck after deck, lay her shipmates, in all the unlikely postures permitted by the lack of gravity and often unusual skeletal structures, but in a common frame of mind. As one they reviled the stink, the heat, the luck—and each other. They anathematized the war, the Rustchukians, the torpedo rocket, its equipment—everything, in fact, within their ken during that hot duty came under their ban but the officer who commanded them and the admiral who had condemned them.
Judikha, to escape the ceaseless and pointless grumbling, had sought the farthest corner, finding an attitude most conducive to philosophy, trying to solve the past and resolve the future. She was now the friend of a man whom she had hated intensely but a few months earlier—a man who had admitted hating her then, as well. She had since won his regard in spite of herself and he had sounded her praises to the companies of two ships and had secured her present rating as Signalman First Class on the torpedo rocket which he himself now commanded. She had been called to the control room of the Mazanderan and introduced by the enthusiastic Birdwhistle as Gunner’s Mate First Class Judikha to a group of kindly officers, who, from the captain down, shook her hand and complimented her on her skill as a fighter. Judikha had at first thought that the lieutenant had told them of her part in the taking of the Rasputin, but later learned that all he had told them was of her fight with Monkfish. She learned even later that he had told no one at all of her role in the mutiny. The officers had been sincere and their congratulations genuine, but they were also gentlemen and she wondered if they would have complimented Birdwhistle as highly had the feat been his. Things that were remarkable for a common spaceman were expected of an officer. Later, this was repeated on the flagship, which they had rejoined en route to Rustchuk, and she had listened to kind, meaningless words from the grave-looking admiral himself, who told her that he hoped to hear further from her before the war ended. This was all well and good—more than well, so far as it went. But they were only impressed by her courage, perhaps the commonest of human attributes. Certainly she was courageous, but so was a bulldog; that was not enough. Education, breeding? Perhaps that was what she longed for. But opportunity—the accident of time, place and environment—was necessary to bring tangible recognition and reward for the best of her inherent aptitudes and it had been so far denied her. It had come to Birdwhistle, at her expense, but not yet to her. Would the war give her another chance, as the admiral had hoped? She had been relegated to a mere torpedo rocket, one of hundreds that ran errands during one orbit and did picket duty the next. She had watched, safely out of range, three massive bombardments of Rustchukian fortifications and envied the men the wild joy of being under fire. She had volunteered among the hundreds who had responded to the call for men to take the Rudiger in, but others were chosen and she had watched them go by—no doubt hoping for opportunity and glory but finding only death. She shuddered at that recollection.
But if opportunity repeated itself, she would seize it and keep it this time. If not, she would be of age in a few months. Her time in the Patrol would be up and she would have the four years’ pay that had been automatically deposited in an account for her. This she would collect quickly and disappear into the depths of space where Rhys’s face could not disturb her.
-II-
“Judikha,” came a low voice from the darkness amidships. “Judikha,” it repeated. “Pass the word in there for Gunner Judikha.” Her name was repeated by others and she finally rose to her feet.
“The old man wants you,” said a man old enough to be Birdwhistle’s father.
She found Birdwhistle in the ready room, in about the same attitude which she herself had assumed forward: flat on his back, his head pillowed on a humming busbar. Although his face was in the dark, his head was silhouetted by a faint coronal discharge.
“Want me, sir?” she asked, saluting in the dim light.
“Yes, Judikha. Sit down by me and never mind the ‘sir’. We’re back aboard the hellship for the moment and there’s no one near. I want to talk to you.”
She stretched out near her captain and, after a full minute’s silence, Birdwhistle said softly and slowly, “I got some letters today, did you?”
“No,” she replied. “No one writes to me.”
“Well, they write about you. I sent a hypergram to Bettina and Rhys, telling them where I’d disappeared to and something of what you and I had gone through together. I got their answer today—it’s been chasing halfway across the spiral arm. They’re glad you didn’t desert and they expect you to return as an officer and a lady.”
“An officer!” Judikha scoffed. “And a lady. They expect a lot. Will you write to them again?”
“Of course.”
“Will you tell Rhys, please, that I am grateful for his interest in me, and that though it is impossible for me under Patrol regulations to come home an officer, I may yet come home a lady.”
“What kind of reputation did you have back home, if I might ask? We’ve had our names in the papers. You’re supposed to have murdered me that night, disposed of my body and escaped as a deserter from the Patrol. At least, that’s how our disappearance was explained. What in your past history would make anyone assume you’d actually do such a thing?”
“I know,” she replied as she thought of the clipping she had once received. “My reputation will allow anything. But there’s one thing cleared up, which I only learned about lately. Did you know I left home four years ago a proven thief and suspected murderer?”
“Well—no. Not exactly. I had heard something about it, but you were cleared at the time, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t know until recently. All these years I thought I was a wanted felon back home, and that’s what made me so ready to lick that crowd. Monkfish told me the truth about Pomfret one night when he was drunk enough to talk to me, but I didn’t speak to you about it on account—” she hesitated.
“I understand, Judikha. Pomfret’s a brother officer. And he’s out there, bullying good men. An officer and a gentleman! No, the Patrol made him an officer. Most unpopular man in your school, as I understand it. I heard about that scrape long before I met you. Not from his brother, Rhys, though—from a friend of his. You certainly acted like a lady, Judikha, until, of course, you were driven to desperation. But—you know, I wish I could have seen you pounding his head on the floor!” He laughed with Judikha.
“I always wanted to be considered a lady,” said Judikha with a gloomy sigh, “but the Patrol toughens a person and knocks such sensibilities out of her. But at that,” she raised her voice slightly, “I’d a better right to the title of gentle person than he. But his father made some money and got him into the Academy, while I—”
“You think him rich?” said Birdwhistle. “No, not particularly—not so rich, I think, as Judikha, spaceman gunner for the Patrol. What made you sign on, anyway, with all that money coming to you?”
“Money?” repeated Judikha. “You’re right, there’s a little due to me when I come of age.”
“Good heavens! What do you consider a little? Eight and a half million imperial crowns comes well within my definition of considerable. The lawyers have been looking for you.”
“What?” she cried, sitting up.
“That’s what Bettina wrote. Some old man, an uncle I assumed, died intestate and you’re next of kin, I imagine. And all I have is my Patrol pay! No wonder the boys go for you!” he said with a bitterness that she missed entirely.
“But why didn’t I know about this? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“How could they find you? No one knew where you were. I suppose you were shanghaied before the news got to the
lawyers.”
“But who—I have no rich uncle; I have no one—no family. Who’d leave me that kind of money?”
“I supposed you would know.”
“Eight and a half million crowns,” she murmured. “Why, someone could be a lady very easily with that much money, couldn’t they?”
“Yes, some kind—any kind that she wishes. The best society will welcome you, Judikha. When your Patrol time’s up, let your hair grow out, get some good clothes, a little makeup—you could hold your own with the best of them. You’ll be all right.”
“But—but that’s not enough. I’d give up every eagle to get to be a commissioned officer.”
“All the money in the universe couldn’t buy you an appointment. Not at your age, at any rate; you’re too old. Well, there’s always a chance in this mix if you do something to get the admiral to give you a recommendation. Why, with all your experience, you could breeze through in two years!”
“Then give me every chance you can!” she begged. “Give me the riskiest work—the craziest that comes along! I’ll do it!”
Birdwhistle did not answer. He stood erect and listened. “Something’s up,” he said. She also stood and could hear the faint alarms and voices. She went to the wall monitor and turned it on, keying the appropriate channel.
“It’s a signal from the flagship, sir,” she said. “Ordering one of the torpedo boats on a reconnaissance job.”
“Anything for us?”
“Not yet.”
“Wait a bit. Something’s up.”
Long minutes went by as they scrutinized the screen. There was a subtle shifting of the spacecraft around them, but no orders came. Presently, a small moving spot resolved itself as a ten-man shuttle approaching the torpedo rocket. By the time Birdwhistle and Judikha reached the airlock, the small rocket had attached its magnetic grapples and was cycling its locks. “Welcome aboard the Sterkstroom,” said Birdwhistle as the inside hatch opened.
“Hello,” replied a voice that Judikha recognized with a chill. “Is that you, Mr. Birdwhistle?”
“Yes. What’s up? What’s all the excitement?”
The visiting officer stepped into the anteroom and extended his long, pale hand to Birdwhistle. It was Rhys’s brother, Pomfret.
“I’m in a fix,” he said as they shook hands. “Fact is, I’ve been sent in to find out what the Rustchukians are up to. Been too quiet too long, you know. I’m supposed to report by code, but, hang it all, just never had the time to pick it up. I could get by with the daily change, always get that printed out in a hard copy, but wouldn’t you know I left it behind? Don’t suppose you could lend me yours?”
“Well, Mr. Pomfret, strictly speaking, as I’m sure you know, security really forbids making any kind of hard copy of the daily code, so afraid I can’t help you there. But perhaps I can do you one better.”
Pomfret’s face had clouded at Birdwhistles’s thinly veiled reprimand, but immediately brightened at his last words.
“I’ll give you my signalman,” continued Birdwhistle. “She’s an ace. Take her along, listen to her and you won’t go wrong.”
“Thanks! By Musrum, I’m a thousand times obliged, old starfish. There’s no helping it: I’ve got to go in and if there’s anything up I must flash it out posthaste. No time for puzzling it out on paper, not if I want to get back with my skin whole and I can assure you that I do. Feel a lot better about it all, now.”
“Glad to help. All right, Judikha, you’ll go along with Mr. Pomfret, here.”
“Judikha?” frowned the young officer, scowling at her as though he had only just then noticed her presence, which was true. “Well, now, Mr. Birdwhistle, isn’t this just a little—I mean—She’s a pet of yours, I know, but—”
“You have asked me for a signalman,” replied Birdwhistle cooly, “and I have given you the best one I have. The best in the fleet, in my opinion. Take her or go without. Suit yourself, sir.”
“Oh, well—all right, all right,” answered Pomfret testily. “Send her aboard when you’re ready, sir.”
Pomfret turned and reentered the airlock.
“Go along, Judikha,” said Birdwhistle quietly. “If he gets into trouble—and he’s just the kind who will—get him out of it. I’ll see about the credit.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied warmly, then jumped into the lock herself. The credit for saving Pomfret’s weasily little ass would almost equal the satisfaction of the humiliation it would cause him.
The little scout didn’t waste a moment in blasting away from the bigger ship, dropping into the starless void that was currently the dark side of Rustchuk. Pomfret had the helm. There were two other men in the cockpit, silently hunched in their seats. In the rear was a single engineer, watching over the humming drive.
Not a word was spoken between them as the ship dropped into the planet’s atmosphere. The young officer had not acknowledged her presence and she pondered the strange hatred that the pampered young gentleman still felt for her ever since the trouble at school. This was their first meeting since that raucous chase over the desks.
“We’re getting close in,” announced the engineer, softly. “Shall I cut thrust to minimum?”
“Yes—yes, I suppose so,” answered Pomfret. “Slow down—there, stop and hover. I can’t see a thing out there. It’s too confounded dark. Can anyone see?”
Eight pairs of eyes strained at the ports.
“Land’s right ahead, sir, high land,” said Judikha, whose eyes were sharp.
“Right—I see it, now, of course. Must be Romola. Where the deuce are the lights of the fortress, anyway? What am I supposed to find out in this infernal darkness? Nothing going on that I can see.”
“If they still have their screens up, sir,” said the engineer, “then it’s likely that none of their interceptors are out tonight.”
“If we get far enough to find that out,” said Judikha, “we might not get back.”
“I told you,” said Pomfret, “that if I wanted your advice, I’d ask for it. Kindly remember that.”
Judikha bit her lip, but kept quiet.
“Go on toward the fortress,” ordered the young gentleman. “We’ll see about those screens when we get to them. Dead slow, engineer.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The little craft crept along cautiously, hovering only a few yards above the dark landscape, it’s ether benders raising only a few puffs of dust in its wake. The engineer was intent upon his instruments, his face weirdly lit by their lurid gleam, looking for the slightest electronic sign of the enemy. The others were each pressed against one of the ports, scrutinizing the impenetrable dark.
“Light to starboard, sir,” said one of the men, “at about three o’clock.”
Everyone looked, but could see nothing. Even Judikha’s sharp eyes detected nothing but the random discharges of her own retina. Still, the man insisted he had seen a brief glimmer on the level of the horizon. Suddenly, there was a flash of electric blue light, a loud crackling, and the scout ship bucked like a startled cat. There immediately followed other blows, each accompanied by sharp reports and flashes of light. The interior of the scout was suddenly flooded with a brilliant glare and Judikha, shading her eyes against it, could see that it emanated from batteries of searchlights that topped the low hills on either side of the scout. The long beams of light had pinned the little spaceship to the ground like a butterfly. Small, dark shapes, bearing their own dazzling lights, rose from the batteries.
“Fighters, sir!” she cried, but before Pomfret responded, the scout was raked by fire, sounding like pebbles thrown against a tin can. The enemy was still a little too distant to do real harm yet—but there were only seconds to spare until the range was closed.
“We’ve got to get out of here, sir,” said the engineer. “I’ll give her full speed, if you’ll give the order.”
“They’ve spotted us,” added Judikha. “We can do no more good here.”
“I know that! I told you to s
hut up!” shouted the cadet.
The scout was again raked by gunfire and this time it lurched sickeningly; there was an acrid scent in the air. The interior seemed filled with angry wasps. Judikha had thrown herself to the deck and when she raised her head, she saw that the two Patrolmen were laying quietly near her. Something wet had splashed her from head to foot.
“Sir!” cried the engineer. “Give the order!”
“Yes! Yes! You’ve got the order!” shouted Pomfret and before he had finished speaking the engineer had opened his controls to their fullest. The scout leaped ahead like, well, like a rocket.
The cadet turned on Judikha, shrieking: “This is your fault, damn you!”
There was another explosion and hot sparks flew past her face. The cockpit was filled with stinging smoke. The cadet fell against Judikha and she held him for a moment, looking into his dull, shocked eyes.
“We can’t get any altitude!” cried the engineer.
Dropping the body, Judikha sprang to the helm. “Give her all the forward velocity you can! We’ll have to run in instead of out. Mr. Pomfret’s been hit. We can’t get out now.”
There was no reply and she glanced over her shoulder. The engineer was slumped over his instruments, their lights dimmed by the thick gouts of blood that covered them. Nevertheless, the scout was accelerating at full speed and she turned her attention to steering. Stopping was her very last concern at the moment. She leveled the craft as best she could, while looking for a way to elude her pursuers. She was consistently losing altitude—evidently the ether benders were mortally damaged—no doubt the reason the engineer could not allow a vertical escape.
She spared a glance at her rear-view screen and was pleased, if somewhat surprised, to see that the fighters were being distanced. Perhaps Musrum had been satisfied with four men down and a scout fatally damaged.
She saw the deep shadow of a gully among the low hills and swung the sluggish spacecraft toward it. The gloom was comprehensive and she hoped that the lightless scoutcraft would be invisible, that any scanners might not be able to distinguish it from the boulders and crags. The gully followed a lazy S curve, ending abruptly at a low cliff. She pulled back on the wheel—the muscles of her arms and back standing out in metallic cords and knots—and was afraid for a long moment that the scout would refuse to respond. As it was, it did not begin to lift until the cliff face filled her window and she heard the rocks grinding against the bottom of the hull until it fell over the lip of the cliff. The scout would rise no further, but instead skidded painfully across the rough, pebbly soil.