The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  He turned to Munshi and smiled; she was so pretty, and her mouth danced playfully, a teasing promise of pleasures lurking just out of reach. On the Terran starbase, before the final leg of their journey to Sh’tar, she went into heat quite unexpectedly, causing a week-long delay in the talks before her cycle ran its course; even then, he wasn’t the same for another week. Munshi was different from the rest; hers was the pleasure of soft summer nights, shared with a favored companion. Now, his nose told him that she was starting again; it would be a pleasant trip home.

  “I miss people, not places,” he said at last, quoting the old proverb. His smile was the tranquility of one at peace with his soul. “We’ve been here long enough. I’m ready to go home.”

  She eased close beside him and purred like a breeze. “The others have gone ahead. I told them we’d join them after checking our house one last time.”

  Gently as sleep, he stroked her face; she took his hand and led him up the stairs.

  * * *

  “Fire!”

  “Guns are still recharging, Mr. Ashton.”

  “Crap! Helm, hard about.”

  “Guns amain, sir.”

  “Crap!”

  “Jeremy— ”

  “As you were, Mister. And put the damn plot on the screen. No, belay that, Mr. Dexter. Put a new simulation on the board, instead. Let’s start over again.”

  “Do you want to know our sc— ”

  “No, Dexter— just put a new simulation on the fricking board!”

  “We actually got an eighty-four that time, sir. Can you believe it? And that was despite— ”

  “Ensign—put a new simulation on the board!”

  “Aye aye, sir— (gee whiz, that’s no reason to—)”

  “Ensign Dexter, did you say something you would care to repeat so that we all may hear it?”

  “No sir .”

  “Then put a new— ”

  “—a new simulation on the board. Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Silence filled Andersen’s cabin, and Chief Connors found it a welcome relief. For as long as he could remember, he’d been chasing about the ship like a madman, trying to pull the pieces together, and it was proving too much for him. His feet ached. His eyes hurt. Every muscle in his body hurt, and his brain cried for sleep. Slightly dizzy from the beer they’d swiped from the galley, Connors sprawled on the couch staring at the ceiling, his boots on the floor and his feet propped on an armrest. Smiling like a cheshire cat, Andersen sat on the side chair, his own feet on the lounge table.

  “I tell ye, Andersen, it’s like to be drivin me mad.”

  “I know what you mean, Chief.”

  “I mean it’s bad enough to be racing sideways to center when ye have an end in sight. That comes with the territory, an’ no spacer worth his weight will carp over an isolated cruncher here and there. But this bloody thing goes on an’ on, No tellin when it’s going to bloody end.”

  “Well, you know there’s an end coming eventually, Chief.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I do. But in my bones, I can’t feel it comin. An’ I sure as bloody hell can’t be convincin many redshirts it’s a-comin if I can’t bloody well convince myself.”

  “I think they already know, Chief. At least some of them. The ones who really count.”

  “Ah, rot. Not the ones complainin to me, that’s for bloody sure. On top of everything else, the Skipper won’t even—ah, rot. Pour me another, Andersen. I’ve got more brain-numbin to do.”

  Andersen filled Connors’ mug to half-full, emptying the pilfered beer canister of its contents. A knock sounded on the closed cabin door and instantly, as if he’d been expecting another visitor, Andersen sprang to his feet.

  “I wonder who that could be?” he asked as he disappeared beyond the foyer panel. Connors was too lost in thought to pay much attention, until a familiar voice sounded from out of his sight.

  “Is he here?”

  “This way.”

  “Ah, rot,” muttered Connors. He heard the door close, and the privacy bolt swing into place. Andersen stepped from behind the foyer. Behind him, and heading to pull an unoccupied chair next to the couch, was the captain.

  “Don’t get up, Chief,” Cook smiled, his eyes twinkling devilishly. “Looks like you don’t need the exertion.” Connors grunted in return, and glowered fiercely at his fellow greenshirt. The Yeoman’s unspoken code had few words for traitors, none of them kind.

  “I understand you have some things on your mind,” said Cook. “And they won’t get said until we sit down to talk.”

  Slowly, and still scowling, Connors sat upright on the couch.

  “Here,” said Cook, handing Connors a package. It was wrapped in plain white tissue paper, with a broken shoelace for a ribbon.

  “Call it a peace offering. Go ahead, open it.”

  Sullenly, Connors undid the bow, and let the wrapping fall on the floor by the couch. It was a bottle of brandy: Isitian brandy, one-hundred proof.

  Andersen returned from the next room with three fresh glasses. He insisted they were clean, despite what his guests’ eyes might tell them. “It’s just the way the light hits them,” he explained.

  Shaking his head skeptically, Cook opened the bottle and filled the three grimy glasses half-way to the rim. “If that won’t loosen your tongue,” he told Connors, “there’s more in the bottle. Now, drink up.”

  “But— ”

  “And that’s a direct order, Chief.”

  A gruff smile crossed his lips. Connors lifted his glass and took a sip. Though it kicked like a stallion, the brandy was smooth as satin and burned joyously as it trickled down his throat. Moments later, he was feeling its effects. Grudgingly, he began to wonder if he hadn’t misjudged this blueshirted young quirker after all.

  “Rigley Clamp released.”

  “Check.

  “Musser Valve open.”

  “Check.”

  “Transmitter gauge normal.”

  “Check.”

  “IshCom reception pods cleared.”

  “Check.”

  “All right, Crewman, engage the Molecular Transmitter.”

  “Aye aye, Mr. Van Horn. Engaging.”

  Zzzzt.

  “Oh, for crying out loud.”

  “Mr. Van Horn!”

  “Damage Control Repair Crew, report to Molly Trans, on the double.

  “Do you— ”

  “For the love of— ”

  “Mr. Van Horn!”

  “Yes, I see it....”

  “Whew....”

  “Damage Control, please bring pod scrapers to Miss Molly.”

  “Wow.”

  “You may disengage the Molecular Transmitter, Crewman.”

  “What a mess.”

  “So it is, Mr. Agacinski; so it is.”

  * * *

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha— ”

  “And then what, what happened then?”

  “Well, funny you should ask,” Cook slurred, and all three men burst out laughing. Even through a glassy haze, Cook’s eyes twinkled brightly. He and Andersen sat on the floor; it was safer that way. Connors was still on the couch and getting wobblier with each passing second.

  “No, really.”

  “Well, back then LaRue was a trifle pudgy in the first place. And the uniform curved in all the wrong places anyway, for all the obvious reasons. But mad as he was, he sashayed from his cabin, down Corridor A, fully halfway across the ship, and burst into my office. Suddenly, I find myself face to face with a homicidal, six-foot-tall executive officer— ”

  Tears were pouring down Andersen’s cheeks; and Connors was laughing so hard his sides were aching.

  “—with his belly sticking out where the top didn’t quite reach to the bottom, and chest folds that looked like someone had taken a pin to deflate everything that should have bulged while a friend pumped up what was better left alone.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, he stormed over to my desk and said—in his
haughtiest French accent: ‘Monsieur Commandre—you see what zey have done to me. All my uniforms are like zis... someone at ze laundry pulled a switch. And now, I am left to dress like—like some fille de joie. I demand to know what you are going to do about it—how you are plan to help me out of zis—zis predicament’.”

  “And so you—“ Andersen wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Well, what could I do? I told him: ‘I’m sorry François, but I really don’t have any lipstick. Perhaps if you asked Ensign Mendelson—”

  Connors fell back onto the floor, barely managing to avoid cracking his head.

  “—we could arrange something to tide you over till we reach port.”

  Cook joined in the laughter himself, spraying brandy over his companions as he tried to take another sip from his glass. “No, actually I promised to handle the investigation myself. And I assured him that I would bring the fiends to justice, no matter how long it took. Funny thing, though. I still haven’t found any evidence. At least none that didn’t get lost. I’m still on the lookout for fiends, though.”

  As the others gasped for breath, Cook gulped the rest of his brandy and poured everyone another refill. The bottle was down to its last quarter. Already, Cook was having trouble focusing his eyes, and he had the distinct feeling that he was pouring more brandy on the floor than in their glasses.

  Connors struggled until he was sitting upright on the floor. “So ye—so ye do apperciate—appreciate—a good prank after all, don’t ye, Skipper?”

  “Of course I do, Chief. If it’s clever enough.”

  “Then why in the name of St. George,” thundered Connors, surprised at the anger in his voice, “don’t ye let us have some fun with the tyros?”

  “Chief?”

  “No, Andersen—ye bloody well stay out of this. I want the Skipper to answer for himself.”

  Cook leaned back against the couch, to steady himself; his head spun like a pulsar. As slowly as he could, he turned his head so that he faced Connors. The Chief’s face curled into a scowl, almost hidden by his beard.

  “That’s what all this is about?” The captain started to giggle, and brought Andersen along in his wake. Connors stared ahead, dumbly; the giddy spirits of his companions had suddenly left him behind.

  “You mean—you mean to tell me— ”

  “Now, that’s quite enough of that. I mean, beggin your pardon, sir. But that’s quite enough of that.”

  “You mean to tell me, that all this—all this grief is over a few days of hazing? Not the seques—not the sequestration, not the double shifting. Not the lock on the beer vault—but the hazing? The skinned-knee, schoolboy ‘eat-worms-or-you-can’t-come-into-the-clubhouse’ hazing?”

  Despite himself, Connors joined in the renewed chorus of laughter, which seemed to their brandy-soaked minds to last a quarter-watch at least.

  “Well, Chief—I’m sorry to have to say it, but that’s not the way we do things on Isis,” Cook said at last, when he had finally calmed himself down.

  “Sir?”

  “Hazing isn’t rounders, Chief.”

  “It isn’t what?”

  “It isn’t—well, it’s just not very Isitian. Besides,” he added, his mood turned serious. “I won’t allow anyone under my command go through what I did my first week in the service. Or at the Academy.”

  “That’s all what’s behind it?”

  “That’s all,” Cook nodded solemnly. “Of course, I did have my own way of dealing with Hell Week. I mean, I don’t take things like that lying down. Even if I did have the meanest old yeoman on two legs—or was it three?”

  The two yeomen perked up, suddenly curious. “What did you do?” Andersen asked, his giggling barely under control.

  “Well now,” Cook slurred, his lips inching toward a sly smile. “I considered the problem from all angles...all the various and sundry aspects and prospects, as it were...and planned—planned, mind you—the appropriate stragedy...strategy! The exaggly right stragedy.”

  “But what did you do?”

  “And then I went and put it all—just put it into operation. ’Cause when Roscoe Cook sees what need to be done, he just goes ahead and— ”

  “What did you do?” the two yeomen bellowed in chorus.

  “Well...I pulled rank on him,” Cook shrugged, and took a deep swallow of brandy.

  “You—you what?”

  “Well now, it occurred to me that I still outranked the son of a bitch. At least when we were on duty. So the first duty shift we pulled, I just tracked him right down and gave him two direct orders.... ”

  “Direct orders?” Connors and Andersen both started laughing.

  “Written orders! Direct written orders. And I made him sign a receipt so I could court martial the bugger if he disobeyed me...which I wouldn’t have put past the slimy bastard, which is why I got it in writing.”

  “Direct—direct orders from—from a tyro blueshirt during Hell Week?”

  “First order—don’t bother me anymore when I’m off duty. Except when absolutely necessary to avoid loss of face with the rest of the greenshirts. I didn’t want to humiliate the bastard, after all.”

  “Don’t—don’t bother you— ”

  “Second order—don’t ever tell anybody about the first order. I don’t know why the same thing never occurred to the other ensigns. But blueshirts never have struck me as a practical lot, you know? They don’t teach it in officers’ school so I guess some of ’em feel it’s vaguely non-regulation. Here, have some more brandy.”

  The convulsing yeomen were too busy struggling to stay upright to protest. Cook drained the contents of the bottle until it overflowed the three glasses and started spilling onto the floor, then started to sing:

  Prime engines and set sail,

  Chop off a comet’s tail.

  We’ll walk no more Demeter’s shore

  So bid your love good day-ay-ay.

  Connors and Andersen joined the chorus; the Chief’s heart throbbed dully in his head, spurred by the brandy and the pulse of the song. As much in wonder as to clear the fog from his brain, Connors slowly shook his head. He might have known: the Skipper was one of those maddening sorts who excelled at anything he tried. It stood to reason that he’d have one of the best singing voices on his own ship. Their singing spun circles in his mind, like the merry-go-rounds he loved to ride as a little boy, but the memory would bring little comfort when he awoke the next day:

  Ring ‘round, the buckoes sing,

  We’ll drink what fate may bring,

  While Rigel flares and Deneb glares

  Five hundred years away.

  * * *

  “Item ten— ”

  “And hopefully the last.”

  “Now, now—we’re paid well enough. We can postpone our naps for a few minutes longer.”

  As Admiral Clay and the others chuckled amiably from his respective conference rooms, Weatherlee glanced down at his briefing papers. The last item on the agenda was the same as it had been for the past month. And it never failed to make him sick to his stomach.

  “Updates on the new starships,” said Clay, looking up from his papers.

  “McKinnon reports that the shields and weapons systems are still inoperable on the Buena Vista. Something in the wiring isn’t quite right and they haven’t been able to figure it out yet. And Ebling reports that the computers on the Covington are still crashing,” reported Miriam Wright, on Clay’s left at the Command Center on Looking Glass. “Every time they load more than two bridge simulations before rebooting, the entire system freezes up, and it takes the better part of an hour to get things running.”

  “Wouldn’t they be better off simply replacing the whole system?” asked the Admiral commanding the Hodges Outpost.

  “They’d have to rebid the project,” explained Commodore Wright. “And it would probably take the better part of a year before we could authorize a replacement.”

  “That’s insane!”

  “Those ar
e the regulations,” Wright smiled. “Unless we can prove a defect....”

  “A crashing computer isn’t a defect?”

  “I just apply the rules,” she replied. “I don’t try to defend them.”

  “And Cook?” asked Admiral Clay.

  “Actually, the d’Artagnan is the only one of the bunch that is anywhere close to being ready. Their computers are fully debugged, their systems are all minimally functional, and Cook’s last report suggested that they were almost done with an overhaul of every engine coil on the ship.”

  “Still not starworthy, though?”

  “No...but it’s just short of miraculous that they’ve come as far as they have.”

  “I swear,” Clay said, “I was rooting for him to pull it off.”

  “But the rules are quite specific...,” Weatherlee began.

  “Yes, Winthrop,” Clay answered wearily. “As we’ve already decided, without their certificates, none of them will make Maneuvers.”

  “Exceptions would be— ”

  “No—we’ve been over that before.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Weatherlee took small solace in winning his point. These days, it seemed he won very few of them. And he seemed to win fewer with every passing year.