The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

The buzzer sounded again, this time wavering like a sputtering motor in need of lubrication. Seconds later, the noise crescendoed to a high-pitched squeal, then stopped with a screech that made the hair on Connors’ beard stand on end.

  “Ah, crap!”

  “Larsen—try inverting polarity on the phase-in and speedin the drive on the grapplers.”

  “Aye aye, Chief.”

  “Well,” whispered Sillars, “Cook had a meeting with all the new officers. From what I hear tell, he laid into them pretty good. All but forbade them from issuing any orders at all, and told’em square off that they’d be giving commands to greenshirts at their peril. Put’em right to squawking, it did. Then he sent the lot of them into the pits to help put the engines in proper trim. I’ll give him this—he’s not above taking’em down a peg or two himself. And he’s not one to play favorites.”

  “Ah, rot,” muttered Connors.

  “Come on, Chief,” Sillars laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that. Besides, we’ve got us a hatch to unglitch.”

  The two yeomen returned to the stubborn emergency hatch, barely in time for another test. “All right,” barked Connors, “let’s see what we’ve got, here. You know how important proper hatch seals are to a spaceship, don’t ye lads? If the hull ruptures, we’ve got to be able to close off enough of the ship so that we aren’t all sucked into space like rubbish out the airlock.

  “Larsen— ”

  “Aye , Chief.”

  “Seal the hatch.”

  The young crewman flipped the control lever on the upper sidewall. The warning buzzer sounded and the two grapplers—one from below, one from above—glided together like clockwork until they meshed exactly in the core of the hatch. A gleeful cheer rose from the throats of the whole repair crew. Ramsey, the old-timer from Gaea, broke into a little song about “Coming home with the lassies of Riley’s Station,” and Connors and the others broke into a little jig of a dance.

  All too soon, the celebrants recalled the next job on their agenda—the next emergency hatch, two corridors farther along the port beam spoke—and started collecting tools from wherever they had left them.

  “All right, Mr. Larsen,” announced a smiling Chief Connors when the crew had finishing policing the area. “You may reopen the hatch.” The smile soon froze on his face.

  “I can’t, Chief . The damn thing’s stuck!”

  Connors’ voice was lost amid the groans and curses and toolboxes falling around him. “Ah, rot,” he said through clenched teeth.

  * * *

  “I don’t want to hear it, Jeremy.”

  “Captain....”

  “Jeremy, just handle it. I’ve got too many other things to worry about.”

  “But— ”

  “Handle it.”

  “But if you never— ”

  “No ‘buts’ about it, Jeremy. It will be your responsibility to whip the bridge crew into shape,” Cook said, in a blandly pleasant tone of voice that Jeremy was coming to find infuriating. “I leave the details to you. You’re the executive officer. So...well, execute.”

  “But— ”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.”

  Cook strode out of his office, leaving his first officer as frustrated as when they began. These meetings were solving nothing, Jeremy fumed, and they were doing nothing for his own morale. They hadn’t had a full staff meeting in two weeks, and every time Jeremy tried to brief the captain about some new problem, Cook ran off somewhere. He didn’t really blame the captain; ship-shaping was a long, thankless task. But it was even grimmer when the man at the top seemed so unconcerned about the difficulties he piled onto the shoulders of his senior aides. He’d rest more comfortably if he thought that Cook really cared about the troubles that faced them.

  Sullenly, he sank into the visitor’s chair. Jeremy had been so full of complaints when he entered the office, and was brimming with ways for the captain to resolve them. He wondered why his resolve melted away whenever the two of them started talking. He looked at the wall behind Cook’s desk. Looming over him were old style sketches of men he didn’t recognize, drawings from the captain’s sister that Cook had finally finished hanging the day before. And Jeremy felt foolish seconds later, when a cold chill ran down his back.

  It seemed that the captain’s wall hangings were all staring at him.

  * * *

  The starship’s galley functioned as a third lounge, but unlike the officers’ lounge on the conning deck, and the redshirt lounge one level below, the galley provided a meeting place for all ranks. To center of the galley was Corridor A, onto which faced the ship’s main services—including Sick Bay, Supply, Science Center, Library, Central Computer, Molecular Transmitter, and the like. Beyond the innermost corridor was the bridge, the very hub of the conning deck.

  By informal agreement, tyros of all ranks took charge of Dining Room Two, gathering to share what passed for food aboard the d’Artagnan, and to exchange stories and laughs over the plights facing them as “Green-tailed Groundtoads,” living among all the seasoned Cozzie veterans. Each of the old-timers seemed to know everything worth knowing about running a starship, although no two of them could agree on much of anything. At a table at the far corner of the room, beneath a portrait of Wellington Carswell—the CosGuard scientist who pioneered the early weapons systems that led to the development of the first molecular blasters—were two young officers in standard blue uniforms, sitting beside a redshirt, all fresh recruits, all tired to the teeth by overwork and double shifts.

  “How long before we can transfer out of this hell-hole?” asked Tom Gerlach, a tall, handsome young ensign on his first posting. He ran a hand through his closely cropped blond hair, then rubbed his tired blue eyes and yawned. He personally constituted half of the CosGuard Academy graduates in the current crop of ensigns.

  “I don’t know,” said Connie McKenzie, sitting beside him. “But time seems awfully long when you start counting the seconds. You know, I’m actually looking forward to spending two relaxing hours in the Supply Office. When I graduated Tech school, I thought I’d resign my commission rather than get stuck with a boring job like that.” She sipped her coffee; grimacing, she reached for a packet of sugar.

  “Well what really bothers me,” continued Gerlach, “is this patronizing, heavy-handed way the captain runs things. He won’t give us anything to do, except for the shit-shoveling crews and other jobs no long-termer would take without a fit of bellyaching.”

  “And then,” continued Connie, “he has the nerve to stop us from making sure what little we do get to do gets done right. Am I making any sense?” she giggled. “I’m too tired to talk straight.”

  Martindale, the tyro redshirt, shook his head. “I think you’re being way too hard on the Skipper. The stories I hear about the way most ships treat newcomers—and female officers in particular—are enough to spin your fannies. Connie—how would you like to spend your first two weeks on board as chamber maid to a crewman you’ve insulted. And you know what the most popular hazing for bluebirds is?”

  Connie shook her head.

  “Typically, the yeomen assign the prettiest girls to stand beside the urinals in the men’s room, and clean them before—and after—every crewman conducts his business there. And then she’s expected to thank the crewman for his patronage, and ask him to come again.”

  Connie winced. “Christ! And they let them do things like that?”

  “That’s to teach the new officers humility. To show them that they’re really no better than anyone else on board, the one thing they never learn in officer’s school. Hazing for the redshirts is usually less severe, but the purpose is the same.”

  Connie sat back in her chair. Humility wasn’t the only thing they didn’t learn in Tech school. And if the closeness of this call weren’t enough, she soon heard a voice in the distance that made her skin crawl.

  “Connie—Connie!”

  She looked to see Kirkland Dexter running toward her, wavi
ng a piece of paper in his hand. Briefly, she looked at the ceiling, wondering whether the miserable snip would literally dog her to the ends of the Universe. Worse, her companions actually seemed to enjoy her predicament.

  “Hello, Dexter,” Gerlach said in his heartiest voice, careful to ignore the fury in Connie’s eyes. “Why don’t you join us?” Dexter was a pest, he thought, but essentially harmless. In small doses his effect on McKenzie was worth the aggravation.

  “Hey—thanks, guys. You know, I’ve been so busy since we arrived that I haven’t had much chance to socialize.”

  “Here, have some nice, reconstituted chocolate cake,” said Martindale. “I’ve had all I want.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Dexter. Martindale had eaten exactly one forkfull, and for a good reason. CosGuard Chocolate bore the same resemblance to the real thing as shoe polish bore to shoes. Dexter stuffed an oversized bite into his mouth, never stopping to let his taste buds register their verdict with his brain.

  “But you know what—I’ve seen the list!” he mumbled. Cake crumbs fell down his chin, onto his standard blues.

  “What are you babbling about?” Connie asked sharply.

  “The list! The assignment list. Captain Cook posted the assignment list on the bulletin board not five minutes ago. We have our first permanent assignments, now. Imagine, no more waking up in the morning—or however they describe it on the Cosmic Clock—not knowing where you’ll be spending the day, or what foul-mouthed yeoman will be watching that day, waiting for you to screw up. I tell you, we’re really moving up in the world.”

  “So, Dexter,” Gerlach said, winking slyly at Connie. “What are the assignments?”

  “Oh, I’ve got it right here.” Dexter handed the paper to Gerlach, who snatched it greedily. He laughed as his two friends scanned the list eagerly, hunting for their names, and smiled at their redshirted companion, whose name he didn’t remember.

  “I don’t see us here, Dexter.”

  Dexter giggled louder than before. “I removed your names. I wanted to see how you’d react.”

  “Dexter! “ Gerlach menaced.

  “Relax—I wouldn’t play games with you guys for no reason. You know all those bridge drills we all hate? Where Mr. Ashton keeps yelling at everybody in spitting distance and we never seem to beat the simulator?”

  Gerlach and Connie both nodded in suspense, almost afraid to believe that what they thought might be true.

  “Well, you sure impressed somebody, because Gerlach, you’ve been accepted as a Weapons Officer Apprentice. And Connie—you’re the ship’s new apprentice navigator.”

  Dexter watched as his companions hugged each other and cheered. He smiled in his odd sort of way, adjusting his thick glasses as they started falling down his nose. One of these days, he told himself, he had to see the ship’s doctor about his myopia, but right now he just didn’t have the time. Finally, his friends finished their initial round of celebrating.

  “This calls for a toast,” said Gerlach. “Let’s see if we can bribe the galley crew to break open the beer.” The others laughed.

  “What’s your assignment, Dexter?” Connie asked smugly.

  “That’s the best part,” he giggled in reply, nodding like a grinning jack-in-the-box. “I’m the new Systems Officer Apprentice. We’ll all be working together on the bridge. Isn’t that great?”

  Connie and Gerlach were too stunned to reply;. Martindale was too busy laughing.

  “Enemy destroyed! Hah!” Weapons Officer Karen Palmer jumped up from her station and circled around her chair in a victory dance. At forty, she was older than the rest of the bridge crew, with blond-streaked hair and piercing blue eyes. Today, for the first time, glee had chased the anger from her face. It was the first kill they’d made at Difficulty Level Two, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Commander Ashton usually held his temper in fine trim for an hour, but after that all bets were off. And they’d been living on borrowed time for the last three simulations.

  “Lt. Palmer,” Jeremy laughed. “Let us know when you’re ready.”

  “Can’t we take a break, Jeremy?” asked Lt. Commander Ronald Talbert, the ship’s navigator. “We’ve been at this for a long time already, and we’re starting to lose whatever sharpness we had in the first place.”

  “Systems?”

  “Computer gives us an eighty-one, Mr. Ashton,” said Chief Andersen, the yeoman assisting them on the bridge while the captain made up his mind on permanent assignments. “That’s the best score we’ve ever gotten.”

  “All right, take ten. But don’t any of you leave the bridge.”

  “Unless— ”

  “Right you are, Miss Palmer. Unless you’re needed in the head, as Chief Connors would say.”

  Jeremy wandered off the bridge. The captain’s chair was the hardest bridge station by far, and he needed some air and something cool to drink. The water fountain in the hallway leading to the bridge shell would do quite nicely, he thought. He had to clear his head before facing another round in the hot seat.

  When Jeremy had gone, Talbert spun the navigator’s chair halfway around, then rose to stretch his legs. He was a tall man, with dark features contracting into a permanent scowl. His jet black hair was combed straight back, and body hair seemed to ooze from every pore not covered by his standard blues.

  “I won’t repeat this in front of Ashton,” Talbert said; in Jeremy’s absence he was the highest ranking officer on the bridge. “But I could strangle that witless Isitian.”

  “How so?” asked Underwood, the communications officer. A technician through and through, he could not understand why he had to participate in these endless bridge drills when there was still work to do on the communications systems on board. He hesitated mentioning this to Mr. Ashton, who seemed to have enough troubles of his own these days.

  “I’ll tell you, Lieutenant—that maniac has ruined the navigation computer. Completely ruined it! He reprogrammed the damn thing so that it doesn’t respond the way it should. Fixed it, he says. But now it’s all wrong. It’s set to different guideposts. I have to relearn everything.”

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t like,” said Palmer. “I don’t like the fact that we’re up here slaving our butts away while he’s gallivanting around the ship without a care in the world. The only time I’ve seen him up here is once after drills. And all he did then was pace around and about the bridge, listening to the computer telling him when the guns were fully charged—over and over and over again. Then he left, right as time neared for our second session of the day. It’s bad for morale. I mean, what does he think? That he’s too good to drill with us on the bridge?”

  Janet Mendelson had vowed never again to defend Cook to his detractors, and had succeeded since coming aboard. When put to the test, she found that old habits were hard to outgrow.

  “Actually,” she said matter-of-factly, “he is.”

  “Oh, really?” scoffed Talbert. “And I suppose pacing around an empty bridge is supposed to give him some sort of mystique—like the ghost of the Canada Royal?”

  “He’s getting a feel for the rhythm of the ship,” Janet said, to the disbelieving groans of the others.

  “Right.”

  “I know I can’t explain it,” Janet responded defensively. “But he was something of a musician in his younger days, and that’s how he senses the way the ship will respond, and how to time his commands. That’s why he’s having Jeremy conduct the bridge drills. Cook has better things to do with his time. He prefers to be visible— ”

  ”I can imagine some of those better things,” Talbert sneered. “Though I always thought it took two to tango. And he must be so lonely with his dance partner busy on the bridge all day.”

  Janet blushed a furious red, and struggled to maintain her temper. “I’ve never said that Cook wasn’t a jerk—although, Mr. Talbert, I can already tell that he will not be the biggest jerk aboard this ship. But I’ll tell you this: he is the best captain any of us will e
ver serve under.”

  “The voice of experience, Missy?” Talbert said wickedly. Titters echoed across the bridge and burned in Janet’s ears.

  “The voice of experience is telling you,” she shot back angrily, “that when Captain Cook finally does come to the bridge, you, Commander Talbert, will have the most difficult time of any of us. The captain is hard—mark me, very hard—on his navigators.”

  Janet slumped back in her chair. She had no stomach for Talbert’s salacious smirk. Besides, Jeremy was due back on the bridge any time now, and she wanted to practice their last maneuver. Even if she had brought them smartly within striking distance, it had been far too sloppy.

  The voices around her soon faded from her awareness, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her professional pride. The captain was hard on his navigator, she mused bitterly, replaying the last “Hard a-Starboard” to see where she’d gone wrong. But he was even harder on his helmsman.

  “The Constantine isn’t where she belongs!” barked the image on the monitor screen. “Explain yourself, Commander!”

  Cold and austere, Commodore Jefferson McKinley Jones had a reputation for tactical brilliance, but he was not the most patient commander in the fleet. He’d won the gold medal at the semi-annual maneuvers five times running, and didn’t like having his orders ignored. Especially when his deployment instructions were being disputed by a hot shot newcomer. The Jones temper was legendary, and his fiery blue eyes looked like they could burn a hole through space itself.

  “We are the only ship in this sector, Commodore,” Cook replied earnestly. “If the enemy attacks us here, they’ll open a breach ten klicks wide, along our entire flank. In my opinion, this is precisely where the enemy will strike—because it’s precisely where we’ve given them an opening.”

  “Those morons from Looking Glass couldn’t strike an asteroid if they were sitting on it,” Jones snapped. “I have McIntyre’s whole attack wing pinned down over here—and this is where I want you.”