The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  He hadn’t come back to the Academy to be humiliated again.

  Chapter 6

  THE GENTLE BUBBLING of the small aquarium gave a melancholy richness to the sad music that filled the cabin. Shelves overflowed with curiosities from a half-dozen worlds. Pastel paneling softened the busy collection of plants and flowers hanging from the walls. Beside the sleeping chamber hung a Demetrian tapestry in earth tones of browns and greens, a silent reminder of a presence that still haunted the room and its principal inhabitant.

  Janet Mendelson rested on the sofa in the anteroom, her dried eyes staring at the ceiling. Her head lay on a pillow, and her graceful, well-conditioned body gently rose and fell with each breath. Her soft brown hair was braided today; time always passed more quickly if she had something to do, and fussing with her hair took her mind away from more painful concerns. Tears no longer streaked her pretty, youthful face, but her eyes were still puffed and red. The hurt had faded, though she knew it would return before long. In its place was anger and resentment—anger at the regulations that made her current anguish all but inevitable; anger at the system of regimentation that dominated her life; anger at herself, for the sweet delusions she’d allowed herself these past months. But most of all she felt betrayal, and a gnawing sense of helplessness that stripped away all of her lovely illusions.

  Seeking comfort in memories of more innocent times, her mind drifted to happier days as a skinny tomboy on New Babylon. Before long she was fighting tears again, this time trailing her brother and his friends as they raced to the schoolyard, too young to understand the cruel taunts hurled at her but old enough to know that they were meant to hurt. Her parents’ stern words to the boys actually made things worse, and eventually she learned not to tag along when they went outside. She never understood how the brother she adored could stand by, laughing as his friends tormented the little eight-year old girl who only wanted to play.

  Inevitably, her eyes weakened again, as her face remembered the touch of a hand that she knew she would miss forever. She buried her face in her pillow, and began to cry.

  Lt. Commander François LaRue was sitting at his desk, writing a letter to his sister when the intercom sounded. Like most cabins on the cruiser, his quarters were slightly cramped, but the Ceresian carpet on the floor softened the otherwise austere furnishings, and an oil painting of a farmhouse in the hills gave the room a touch of home. By reflex, he activated the speaker.

  “LaRue,” he said wearily.

  “Commander Cook wants to see you in his office,” said the disembodied voice of a young female ensign.

  “On my way.”

  He left his quarters and walked down the corridor, trying to compose his thoughts. Commander Cook was impossible, he thought as he entered the elevator. In the cosmic year they had served together, they’d disagreed on almost everything, and Cook gave him little support in the inevitable battles with the crew for respect. Finally, the cauldron was coming to a boil. LaRue had warned against granting leave to too many crew members at once, but the stubborn Isitian had insisted. Now, with orders just arrived to proceed to Isthar Command, they had ninety-eight crewmen and officers—all but two dozen of the entire ship’s complement— frolicking on the miserable planet below, doing God knows what, while the rest of them had to scramble to get the ship ready to depart on what, for all they knew, could be a mission of great importance. He knew that any attempt to blame himself for the inevitable delay would reflect badly upon his commanding officer. But Cook had powerful friends—how else to explain his cavalier attitude toward the Command Manual?—and LaRue worried that he himself would be made the scapegoat.

  The elevator left him around the corner from the Captain’s Quarters. Entering the adjoining office, LaRue was startled to find the commander just returned from Ishtar and still clad in his thermal uniform, busily rummaging through the unkempt piles of papers, books and binders on his desk. Star charts cluttered the worktable to his right; a single map of his home planet hung crookedly from the otherwise naked wall to his left. Behind were sketches of a half-dozen or so forgotten faces from Terra’s past. All around the room were shelves filled to overflowing with books and technical manuals and knick-knacks from all corners of Terra.

  “François,” said Cook, looking up from the knotted maze but continuing the search. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my Krutzmann—that leather-bound book on comparative biology?”

  “No, sir,” LaRue replied dryly, wondering whether his commanding officer had the audacity to summon him to help search for an outdated, mold-bitten book. A printed book, no less.

  “Well, never mind,” frowned Cook. He pushed a button on his intercom.

  “Library,” answered a low-pitched voice.

  “Fred, this is the Skipper.” Cook still foraged about his desk, but without the determined fervor of before. “Would you order a printout of the following textbook: Johannes Krutzmann, Biology Across the Heavens. I have no idea what the tracking code is, but it should be listed in the reference section.”

  “Certainly, sir. You want it run to your quarters?”

  “No,” replied Cook; a look of defeat crossed his brow. “I’ll be by later to pick it up.” The leather-bound Krutzmann was one of his prized possessions, and he wanted to give it to the Veshnans before departing. Now they would have to settle for a computerized printing, which took the soul out of the masterwork. Much like a paint-by-the-numbers Rembrandt, he thought.

  “Damn,” he sighed, sinking deeper into his chair. Absently, he picked up some papers, letting them fall to the table. “One of these days, I’ve got to get organized here.”

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” LaRue interjected haughtily, wondering if Cook had forgotten about him.

  Instantly, the commander’s bearing changed. He leaned forward in his chair. The confused haze was gone from his face and his fierce, intelligent eyes burned with curiosity. Without warning, a commanding presence had filled the room and the air crackled with purpose.

  “You took the IshCom transmission, François. The one calling us back to base, I mean. Do you know what it’s about?”

  “No, sir. The orders were to proceed at once to the Base. So, I instituted procedures to— ”

  “Well, if it’s not an emergency,” interrupted Cook, “they can damn well wait until the rest of our people check in.” He pushed another button on his intercom.

  “Ensign Schmidt?”

  “Schmidt here,” came the reply.

  “When’s the next call-in for our leave parties?”

  “About another cosmic hour, Skipper.”

  “Don’t bother trying to find anyone else. Plug the computer into the call-in channel and tell all hands to return immediately. And make sure the message is clear—we’re leaving in two hours, whether everyone’s aboard or not. Then put the Molly boys on stand-by for the signals.”

  “Molly” was short for Molecular Transmitter, the quickest and safest means of traveling between points less than fifteen-hundred miles apart. Cook never quite trusted the technology but there was no practical alternative, at least when traveling between a spaceship above and the ground below. Besides, he hated to appear old fashioned; it wasn’t very Isitian.

  “Got all that, Schmidt? I don’t want another Xanadu on our hands.”

  “Aye, aye, sir” Schmidt laughed. The last time they’d stopped at Xanadu, everyone waited until the last minute to molly back to the ship. The backlog made the transmitter blow a circuit and delayed their departure for two days.

  “Who’s manning the bridge now, Schmitty?”

  “Xing has the Chair. And Davidson’s on controls, sir.”

  Cook paused to think. All three women had done double duty during the crew’s liberty—it was odd, he thought, though not really surprising: throughout the Cosmic Guard, the women always volunteered to stay behind whenever their ship moored at Ishtar. He hated to push them further, but time was short and there was much to do before they sailed.

  �
��Tell Davidson to chart a course to Ishtar Command, estimated departure time in two cosmic hours. I’ll have Cardinale check her plot when he returns from the planet, or I’ll do it myself if I have the time. Meanwhile, Xing should start the Checklist; I’ll be there in five minutes to relieve her, and once a few more officers return to the ship I want you three to stand down for the next week—and however long we stay at IshCom. You’ve all earned it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  LaRue held his tongue but could not believe his ears. Cook knew him too well not to notice the disapproval on his face. “I know that look, François,” Cook smiled mischievously. “You’re keeping something to yourself again, aren’t you? That look of horrified disdain gives you away every time.”

  LaRue said nothing but began to fidget uncomfortably.

  Cook clasped his hands behind his head and rocked back in his chair. “So tell me what you think, François. Talk to me. Don’t make me beg.”

  “Commander Cook,” he began, in stilted, formal tones that often slipped into his provincial accent. “May I speak freely?”

  “Of course you may, François.”

  “I do not wish to question your judgment, Commandre,” said LaRue, his accent becoming noticeable. “But our orders were to proceed ‘at once.’ How can you keep Command Base waiting? How can we remain here two hours more?”

  “François,” Cook replied patiently, but with an underlying intensity LaRue always found unsettling. “Do you really want to leave half the crew on Ishtar, only to wait a day or two at the base until somebody remembers why they sent for us—or even notices that we’ve arrived? No matter why IshCom wants us, we’ll still have to come back to the planet for anyone we’ve left behind. Leaving now is a waste of time. Besides, we’re less than an hour away from the base, so we can be there toute suite if they really need us.”

  “Mais oui, Commandre, but our orders— ”

  “Sacré frommage, François,” Cook tried not to laugh as LaRue winced at his butchering of the idiom. “I admire your devotion to duty—and your opinion is noted for the record, if you like—but don’t worry about it. It simply isn’t worth the bother. Now, return to your quarters and take some time off. You deserve a rest.”

  LaRue bowed in deference to his dismissal, and backed clumsily toward the door. But he paused before leaving, not quite sure how to proceed next.

  “Something else?” Cook asked.

  “About Lt. Mendelson, Commandre.”

  A look of fury flashed across Cook’s face, passing as quickly as a tropical rainstorm.

  “Whatever personal problems she is having— ” LaRue began.

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate your concern, François,” the commander said pleasantly, but with a hardened edge to his voice.

  “But to let an officer of her caliber sulk in her room over some personal concern cannot but impede the smooth operation of this ship.”

  “Thank you François,” came the cold reply, “but I will decide what impedes the operation of this ship. And I have given her permission to stand down until further notice. Anything else?”

  “No, sir,” said LaRue, timidly shaking his head and wondering why his resolve disappeared whenever he and the commander aired their differences. He withdrew quietly, leaving Cook alone in his office.

  Slowly, Cook rose from his chair to pace absently about his office. At last, he stopped in front of a bookshelf next to the door to his quarters, the one that held most of his personal library. He reached for a figure used as a bookend on the third shelf, where he kept his natural history materials, and stood for several minutes looking at it. It was a gift from a friend now lost to the past: a small castle, made from the sands of Demeter.

  With a burst of resolve, he replaced the trinket on the shelf and left the office, heading for the bridge. There was work to be done, even before the rest of the crew returned. And with Mendelson out of action, Ensign Jacobs would be helmsman for the trip to IshCom. Cook chuckled as he walked. This would be the young ensign’s first solo at the helm; the captain hoped it wouldn’t be the last sail for the lot of them.

  Chapter 7

  WHAT THE TERRANS CALLED the Caucus Room had no windows, but was admirably furnished. Six stuffed chairs arrayed next to an artificial fireplace lent the room a coziness otherwise lacking on the barren world they had chosen for the current round of peace talks. On the walls were tapestries, imported from as far west as Earth for the purpose of impressing their visitors with the richness of Terran artistry. Over the mantle was a reprint of a painting by an Old Earth master, depicting a Renaissance lady in all her mysterious beauty. The walls were painted a soft ivory, to accent the fine woodwork crafted to mimic the warmth found on friendlier worlds. As if to atone for their choice of planets, the Terrans had spared no expense to make their guests feel at home.

  Unfortunately, most of the touches that the Terrans lavished upon their guests passed unnoticed. Rather than dangling their legs over the end of the “Terran sitting implements,” the diplomats of the Grand Alliance sat on the floor near the fire, taking what warmth they could from its artificial flames. They found it hard enough to tolerate sitting Terran-style through the talks—it did, after all, tend to cut off circulation to their posteriors as well as their legs—without subjecting themselves to such abuse when the courtesies due from guests did not demand it. Though tapestries were a major art form among the Veshnans, the abstract patterns of design that hung from the bland walls were disconcerting, like peering through a distortion lens, and the delegates, each of whom felt disoriented enough already, avoided looking at them whenever they could. What appeared to be a Terran painting looked flat and lifeless, like a poor photograph with faded colors—although Zatar thought he could feel the eyes of the Terran female follow him around the room whenever he moved. But however uncomfortable they felt upon entering the room, they always managed to lose themselves in discussion whenever they retired to caucus, and this time was no exception.

  “What do you want of me, Zatar?” asked an exasperated Munshi. “Should I permit you to make a fool of yourself when it is within my power to spare you embarrassment?”

  “If I choose to play the fool,” snapped Zatar, “what right have you to interfere? You, who chose to venture alone into their midst and almost to your own death! And do the Terrans really care if I butcher their tongue? Did they take offense? Did my effort to reach beyond ignorance find them laughing like children at another’s clumsiness, or beating their breasts like a waddlewort closing on his prey?”

  Several of the other Veshnans began to smile—men took to anger so easily, for all the good it did them—but the ambassador’s glower soon froze their smirks on their faces. It was impolite to bait a brood male during a nest mate’s rutting season, and today’s talks did come at a most inopportune time. It was understandable that Zatar was in no mood for teasing. Besides, none of them wanted to be the new target of the keenest mind and sharpest tongue of the High Council’s Procuracy. Patiently, they waited for Zatar’s anger to pass, and soon he returned to the topic at hand.

  The Terran ambassador, the one they called Gr’Raun-te, had offered a dramatic concession, one that rendered obsolete their tepid compromises of the past. For the first time, Terra was willing to cede sovereignty over the disputed space, all the way to the Terran edge of the Great Divide—which the Terrans, with characteristic inscrutability, called ny’Otrl’Zhog’hn, or “The Area of Indifference.” What they asked in return were the twin rights of exploration and exploitation, in nearby portions of the great Crutchtan Cloud. Zatar was certain that they would be willing to restrict their movements even more, accepting limits on their penetration into Crutchtan space. But G’Rishela, the Imperator’s representative, demurred nonetheless, for reasons which remained a mystery.

  It was that maddening Crutchtan stoicism, thought Zatar. They never committed themselves to anything, never showed the slightest emotion, until they were certai
n of their course and confident of their advantage. If that didn’t change quickly, they would lose the momentum this new initiative could give them, perhaps squandering their chance for peace as well.

  Zatar looked at the Crutchtan seated by himself near the fireplace, whose face was a study in stolid impenetrability. The Crutchtan’s eyes stared ahead impassively while listening to the others airing their disagreements. All the Crutchtans he had ever met displayed the same expressionless calm, thought Zatar, as if expressing interest or passion would be a show of weakness. In the course of his duties as procurator for the High Council, he had watched the Crutchtan delegates sit motionless, listening to passionate arguments on the most difficult issues facing the Alliance, all the while keeping their own counsel until the very end, when they finally decided on the proper course of action. Then, of course, they were among the most forceful of advocates for their own cause, but their very reluctance to commit themselves often led to misunderstandings with their allies.

  Intellectually, Zatar could understand their ways. Mildly telepathic, the Crutchtans instantly sensed the intentions of others of their kind. When faced with a crisis, they never needed to reassure each other by word or conspicuous deed, for each could sense the good will of the others—or their malevolence, if that were the case. It let a Crutchtan think matters through thoroughly before venturing to speak. While an admirable trait sorely lacking in most of the Universe, it often caused consternation in their dealings with other races.

  “I suppose none have a thought about this latest impasse?” the ambassador said at last, his voice thick with dignity.

  G’ela cleared her throat. “I cannot understand the Terrans’ dismissal of our exchange program. It can only foster understanding between all the races, by giving science the chance to study new life forms.”

  Zatar cut her short. “We are not talking about your cadaver proposals, G’ela,” he snapped. “We are still talking about the border dispute. And that idea may take a long time, in any event. The Terrans are still primitives in many ways. According to the anthropology texts our friend Khu’ukh has provided, they still bury their dead.... ”