The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  Weatherlee leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he moved in for the kill. The Hawkins Massacre was still grabbing headlines across the whole of Terra. Panic over the alien menace had gripped Covington, and everyone was looking to the Cosmic Guard to set things right. But this Board of Inquiry had been cobbled together on the fly and he hadn’t expected the proceedings to go quite so smoothly. In fact, he’d expected the arrogant officer in front of him to try lying and squirming his way around the facts. But the young officer’s answers were exactly what the admiral had been trying to prove. Now, he could nail the little bastard’s hide to the wall.

  “Let me make sure I understand you, Lt. Commander Cook. Are you suggesting to this Board of Inquiry that you—an officer of the Cosmic Guard, sworn to uphold the law and protect civilians from whatever dangers space might present— maneuvered your squadron in such a way as to make it possible for the aliens to make good their escape.”

  “Actually, I’m not suggesting anything at all, Admiral Weatherlee,” replied the young officer. “I am telling this Board of Inquiry that I deliberately interposed my ships between the aliens and their pursuers, to prevent any further bloodshed. The fact that the aliens escaped without anyone else getting killed means that I accomplished exactly what I was trying to do.”

  “For what purpose?” asked the presiding officer, leaning forward to hear the answer. Concern creased his brown, and his kindly brown eyes seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “Our standing orders provide no guidance in dealing with aliens, Admiral Clay. Simply put, the aliens are beyond our jurisdiction. Our laws regard space as a common frontier that belongs to no one, and since they were not Terran nationals, it seemed to me that we had no legal basis to stop them. But beyond this—it was our first contact with an alien race.”

  “They attacked a mining camp and killed Terran civilians!” snapped Admiral Weatherlee. “And you let them all get away.”

  “As I understand, it was a rather bloody affair on both sides,” the young officer replied calmly. “At the time, the spacers were claiming several of their own had been killed and that the aliens they hadn’t managed to finish off were getting away. I suspect that the terror and surprise was mutual—and either side could well have started the bloodbath. If we hadn’t let them leave, then the aliens first taste of Terran hospitality would have been a massacre, followed by a pursuit, followed by a second massacre—which, given the reception they received at Hawkins Star, they’d probably have regarded as our standard welcome.”

  “They killed Terran civilians!”

  “We didn’t know who or what they are. And, quite frankly, we still don’t know. But it seemed to me that intervening in a way that separated the combatants—all of the combatants—and allowed the aliens to leave in peace gave us a better chance of sorting out the whole mess than we’d have right now if we’d just blasted away at them. Simply destroying them—which was the likely result of any attempt to stop them—may well have resulted in an interstellar war with an alien race of undetermined capabilities and intentions.”

  Admiral Clay nodded. “So you decided, entirely on your own....”

  “I had no time to radio for instructions, Admiral Clay,” the young man said. “My squadron was there only by chance, and we arrived just in time to see the spacers closing in for the kill. My choice was to intervene, or to stand aside and let the spacers take their revenge. I suppose, in hindsight, staying out of it might have been the safer course as far as the High Command is concerned, since asking for instructions would have let me avoid taking any responsibility in the matter. But letting our first contact with an alien race end in the annihilation of their scouting party struck me as foolish in the extreme—and the kind of foolishness that History would not treat kindly. Even today, taking the safe way out would strike me as the act of a coward. And if I had the same choice to make, I suspect I’d act exactly the same way—though I’d probably deploy my squadron a bit differently, now that I think of it.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Weatherlee felt a surge of satisfaction in proving his point. Later, when the Board retired to deliberate, he found himself smoldering with rage at what he was hearing. He’d done exactly what he set out to do. He’d actually proven that the arrogant prick was a traitor. But now everyone else seemed to regard it as a feather in the little snot’s cap.

  “I’ll tell you what,” laughed Porter Clay, the presiding officer on the Board of Inquiry as he rocked back and forth in his chair, “I’ve had my eyes on that kid ever since—actually, Winthrop, ever since that day in Covington when he topped off your tactics seminar at the Academy.”

  Clay slapped Weatherlee roughly across the back, and the rest of the board burst into laughter. They’d all been there. Every last one of them.

  “I’ll never forget it,” roared Admiral Pendleton, and the rest of his colleagues started reliving the entire episode. “But hell, Winnie—we passed you anyway. It wasn’t your plan that was the problem, you know. You just ran it into a goddamn buzz saw. The god-damndest one I’ve ever seen. And from a student, yet!”

  Weatherlee closed his eyes and tried his best to push the experience out of his memory. “Even with all this evidence...,” he began.

  “That kid is the most brilliant young commander I’ve ever seen,” said Clay, looking around the table. “And that decision of his took more balls than any of us have shown in our entire careers—and God as my witness, I think he made exactly the right call. Damn!—but his instincts are remarkable. Hell, if it had been up to us we’d have spent two weeks debating it—and we’d still have fucked the whole thing up.

  “No,” Clay sighed, taking a deep breath. “We don’t punish initiative in the Cosmic Guard, no matter what the press or politicians have to say. I move that this Board of Inquiry issue a statement calling on Covington to open immediate talks with our neighbors before another similar misunderstanding leads us to war. Then, we give that young man a medal—promote him to full Commander—and give him a cruiser to hone his skills. And you just watch: some day, he’s going to be the best starship skipper in the whole damn fleet.”

  “The vote will not be unanimous, Admiral Clay,” Weatherlee whispered intently.

  “No, Winthrop,” Clay replied coldly, “I didn’t think it would be.”

  Chapter 15

  DAYS RACED BY in a seamless blur, until one day a week or so later found Cook alone in his office. The writing on his viewscreen cast a soft glow on his face. Aside from the screen, and the clock on his bedstand, a small lamp on a corner table was the room’s only light. When things around him seemed too hectic, Cook found it easier to concentrate that way. The time pulse on the chronometer read 470 Hours; little more than five cosmic hours remained in the current cosmic year. Time was racing by and there was still much to do.

  He leaned back and re-read his message to Fleet Headquarters:

  CGS 2001 <>

  POSITION: SB 114, 43-110901/a2/15.6e

  COMM REQ CODE III cc:142-9994.7:

  TO: EastFleetHQ/IshCom/FtAdmPMClay/

  FROM: CaptRCook/

  SECURITY: Standard/

  PREFIX: Admiral Clay-Special Request/

  FLAGS: yellow1;yellow2;green3/

  RE: Maneuvers Eligibility

  Preliminary repairs are nearing completion, but final adjustments will extend into cc:143; I estimate readiness for final inspection at 143-0150, and anticipate departure for shakedown cruise approximately ten days later, at 143-0250.

  With regular maneuvers scheduled for 143-1250, d’Artagnan will have a full cosmic month after departure to make all adjustments necessary to ready herself for maneuvers. Since the next scheduled exercises are set for 143-6250, the inspection deadline of 143-0000 will result in our ineligibility for maneuvers through the near future, unless the time requirement is waived.

  Therefore, I request that you extend the eligibility deadline for my ship, allowing us to qualify for the first-half exercises. Other rookie ships, includin
g all of the Challengers, may fall into the same category, and would likely appreciate similar consideration.

  Capt R Cook//

  Cook pressed the transmit button, sending his request to Admiral Clay. He stretched his limbs as far as he could, and after a few false starts he reached for the vidphone. He was already starting to relax; he was sure he had made the right decision. As he entered the number, he chided himself for leaving everything until the last moment.

  * * *

  The bridge hatch opened with an airy whoosh, though none could spare the time or attention to see who it was. Asteroids dotted the viewer, and twin enemy cruisers a-flank the ship were firing almost at will. Even the tyros, most of whom had not touched the controls all day, were on the edge of their seats.

  “Incoming fire!”

  “Helm, slow to sublight, quarter-power and hard about.”

  “Direct hit amidships, Mr. Ashton. Shields are holding but weakened, at 60 percent power.”

  “Divert power to midship shields, prepare to blank the aft guns. Helm, prepare to increase speed.”

  Jeremy stole a glance toward the entrance. It was the captain. For the first time that Jeremy could recall, Cook was wearing standard blues instead of his ratty fatigues. Jeremy felt blood rushing to his head, but couldn’t afford the luxury of worry.

  “Starboard shield amain.”

  “Enemy cruiser coming tight about; number two is looping wide.”

  “Increase speed to C-2; prepare to fire remaining guns.”

  “Enemy slowing to C-1; range, ten klicks.”

  “Incoming fire!”

  “Fire starboard guns!”

  “Shields are buckling. Heavy damage to enemy shields; second cruiser approaching to port, now passing athwart to starboard.”

  “Incoming fire!”

  “Fire all remaining guns!”

  “Missed him, Mr. Ashton.”

  “Starboard shield is gone, Mr. Ashton.”

  “Damn!” Jeremy hit his armrest with a balled fist and turned to face Cook. He wanted to say something, mumble some inane words that he didn’t really believe about how much better things were going and how quickly they were improving. To his surprise, Cook motioned for him to step from the chair.

  Wordlessly, a smiling Cook assumed the vacant captain’s chair, swiveling from side to side as the simulator continued unabated. Jeremy quietly turned to assume the systems station from Dexter. Suddenly the bridge looked and felt different, crackling with anticipation, yet relaxed as a still night before a summer storm. The screen still showed the enemy cruisers closing for the kill, but the frenetic tension that gripped the bridge during the simulation had vanished, replaced by curiosity about what the captain had in store for them.

  “Mr. Ashton,” the captain, his voice quiet, but firm. “Replay the last simulation from two minutes before your last ‘Hard About.’ ”

  “We’ve never scored a ninety, Captain,” Jeremy said. “I doubt we even— ”

  “Close enough, Mr. Ashton,” Cook smiled patiently. “You’re close enough. Now, replay the simulation, please.” Soon, the screen showed incoming fire, and a graphic on the board registered the enemy score against the ship’s shields.

  “Slow the replay to quarter-speed, Mr. Ashton. Go on—quarter-speed.” Winking at Mendelson and ignoring the quizzical looks of the others, Cook leaned back in his chair. “Everyone look at the screen, and remember what you see. This is your last simulation, slowed to more manageable levels. Look at it and imagine yourselves floating freely through time. The universe around you moves at this speed, but your own clock can beat to any time you find comfortable.

  “This is how things should look to you during a battle. This is how they will look to you, once you’ve mastered your station. The flow of time has slowed, from a mad torrent to a placid lake of crystal clarity, and time itself has become your friend, one you can use and trust, whatever the dangers, whatever the enemy.

  “Watch the screen,” said Cook, a hardened edge creeping into his soothing voice. “Mr. Ashton deserves our thanks, for conducting these drills to help you to this point of proficiency, where you are at last capable and competent. It was a thankless task, and one that I find quite impossible, but it’s among the most crucial for any new ship. His job is over now. He can only bring you part of the way. My job starts where he has left off, and I will bring you the rest of the way—to where your no longer have to struggle to do your job, and your actions will seem as natural as breathing—to where you and your comrades on the bridge are one with the ship.”

  The enemy cruisers completed their circling maneuvers, and were bearing down on the d’Artagnan, fully armed.

  “Mr. Ashton, turn off the grader. The computer can give a rough measure of progress and you should all use it for your off-hours practice, but it’s outlived its usefulness here. I prefer to evaluate you all myself. Now, release the simulator to manual control and let’s keep things at this speed for a while, shall we? I think we’ll find it more relaxing.

  “One more thing,” he added, smiling mischievously at his first officer. “We’ll do it my way, this time.” He leaned back in the chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and lightly touching his fingertips together as he gazed at the screen. Outwardly, he seemed the quintessence of calm repose, like a tenured professor sitting in his den for an evening of study and quiet reflection. But his eyes blazed in fierce concentration, sending chills down the spines of those on the bridge perceptive enough to notice.

  “Miss Palmer—blank all guns, all power to shields, and stand by to recharge the keel guns. Helm—constant heading, prepare to drop us dead south, two hundred fifty degrees.”

  * * *

  Like giant snakes, buried in layer upon layer of black insulation, the engine coils stretched in both directions before disappearing beyond the opposite bends in the ship. The dark corridor walls, wide enough to let two men pass comfortably abreast on either side, did nothing to relieve the gloom. The air dripped like jungle heat, dank and oppressive, but without even the prospect of rain to bring relief.

  Crewman Technician Tom Sullivan’s coil crew was still laying replacement cables in 277-port-12, as they had for the last week. Whoever installed the original coils had not gone overboard on quality control, he thought. There was scarcely a length of coil that didn’t needed adjusting, or outright replacement. It was almost criminal, what these contractors got away with, and this was not the only pocket of trouble on the ship. If all the Challengers were like this, they’d be best off sending the lot back to the factory and demanding their money back. But that wasn’t the way of any world in the Universe, these days. The procurement industry had too many well-placed friends, and there was no guarantee that anyone else would do a better job, anyhow.

  “All right,” he shouted. “Take ten. And Esshaki, try not to trip over the torch wires this time.” He eased down to the floor and leaned back against the coil.

  Sweat coursed from his pores. At his age, he thought, he should be thinking about his pension, not working like a jungle shoate on Demeter. Panting, he removed his shirt and tried to wipe his face and chest, but soon gave it up. The shirt was already soaked, and going bare-chested in this humidity didn’t help at all. Soon, the rest of the crew gathered near the water jug, some rinsing themselves, others grateful for the chance to gulp a few mouthfuls of tepid water.

  “Needing some comp’ny there, Sully?” Denny Barrett, his face dripping wet, came and sat next to Sullivan. Like Sully, Barrett was a Valhallan and full technician; together, the two of them supervised an eight-man crew. With too few yeomen to go around they’d been conscripted for nanny duty, and were beginning to understand why greenshirts were such crusty, cantankerous sorts. They had two apprentices and six raw recruits in the bunch, and had their hands full, explaining to the tyros what they should be doing.

  “Can’t say I like this any better’n I ever did,” said Sully. “Leastways before, whatever else I did I got to see some progress. N
ow, seems like we butt our heads sideways against the wall just to stay even.”

  Barrett laughed. “Always a fountain of joy, eh Sully? Seems I remember a cute birdie on the old B R McLintock.”

  “Now, don’t start up on me, Denny.”

  “Pert as a song, she was. And singing all day long the praises of one Thomas McGiver Sullivan.”

  “Denny, I’m telling you— ”

  “But there was always something, wasn’t there, Sully? She was late for this or that, or too tired when you were in the mood to romp. Seems once I remember you arguing over a shade of lipstick you didn’t much fancy. Then, one day—lo and behold—she’s off with another and you’re left complaining about that turn, too.”

  Sully sighed and rested his head against the insulation on the coil behind him. She’d been pretty, with lips like wine and a smile like a breeze, a ray of sunshine in a life of rain. He’d often wondered what his life would have been like, if only…but he banished such mawkish thoughts from his mind as soon as they arose. Cozzies had little room for nostalgia, and space was no place to dwell in the past.

  “A-course,” nudged Denny, “she did give old man Dugan a touch of Demetrian Flu—and Demmy Rot’s a fitting climax to his career, wouldn’t you say?”

  The two old friends laughed. They’d been through a lot together. Seen all of Terra between them and knew all the redshirts on all the ships along the frontier. They’d laughed and cried, and hugged within an inch of breaking their backs when they found they’d drawn the same duty. For the first time in ages, and even in the midst of the newest ship of the line in the whole Fleet, the old-timers felt at home.

  “Sully?” called a voice from the water jug; it was Martindale, the tyro from Ceres. He was holding up a cup, spilling water over its sides. Sully motioned for him to bring it; it was nice that some of the recruits showed their elders some respect, he thought.