The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  “Here you go, Sully,” he smiled. He was a tall lad, with tightly curled hair and olive skin. Hidden beneath his boyish looks and slender physique were muscles like strands of steel, and on top of everything else, he came from a family of spacers. It was little wonder that, almost alone among the redshirt tyros, Martindale won quick acceptance from the veterans, and respect for his knowledge of a ship’s insides.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say your mother gave you birth in the engine room of a schooner. Thanks, lad.”

  “Must be hard on you old-timers,” said Martindale, towering over his two supervisors, “stringing cable like this, day after day.”

  “Aye to that,” called a voice from behind them. It was Bartee, another of the tyros. He’d finished his cup of water and was coming to join the group; the rest of the crew was close behind.

  “I swear,” he continued, “this crap goes on and on. No let up, no break, not even for New Year. And not so much as a word of thanks for all our hard work. That’s something they never tell you about, when you sign the enlistment papers. The endless hours in a sweatshop, the fact that there’s no end to it all.”

  “Now that’s enough out of you,” Sully snapped, startled by the fury in his own voice. Denny and Larsen, another new recruit, helped him to his feet. “No matter what I may think of you, you’re a Cozzie now. A tyro, to be sure about it, but you’re a full fledged Cosmic Guardsman. And if you think this is rough, you wait for the real work to start. You ain’t done full watch in the midst of an ion storm, or battle with a pirate squadron whose only thought is spreading your atoms from here to kingdom come. I’ve had about all I’ll stand of your belly-aching, and I’ll not stand for it any longer.”

  “But if that tyrant of a bridge-rat had any sense— ”

  “And I’ll not stand your bad-mouthing the Skipper, neither. Not unless you want me to tan your groundtoad butt myself. Skipper drives us tough—tough as any I’ve seen, maybe tougher. That, I’ll grant you. But he’s no shirker. He works as hard as any of us himself, maybe twice as hard. He won’t have us doing anything he’ll shy from himself. And he won’t lean on us at all, without there be a reason for it. If he says sweat, then we sweat. And we’ll do it from now until he says to quit, even if he takes us through every holiday from here to Rigel and back again.

  “Am I understood?”

  Bartee barely kept a sullen silence.

  “Am I understood, Mr. Bartee?”

  “That’s no reason— ” the tyro began, but his reply was cut short by the clearing whistle of the ship-wide intercom, muffled as it sounded through the engine coils.

  “Attention,” came a voice over the speakers. “May I have your attention, please. This is the Captain.” It was the third time Cook had used the intercom to address the entire crew. The first time, he announced that the galley would not serve beer until further notice; the next time it was to inform the crew that they were sequestered, and none of them could leave the ship without his written permission until the ship was starworthy. His voice on the speaker knotted every stomach on the ship.

  “That’s no reason...,” Bartee began again, his voice dripping indignation; this time he was silenced by his superiors.

  “Quiet,” stormed Sullivan. “The Skipper’s talking. Now be still, all of you.”

  “This is the one hundred sixth-fifth day since I assumed command of the d’Artagnan. Many of you have been here almost since the beginning. In that time, we have found our ship needing constant care and attention to compensate for shoddy work in the factory. But we are professionals, dedicated to making our ship the finest in the fleet, even if it means endless hours of sacrifice and hard work. When the attention we lavish today turns into habit, we’ll find that we cannot accept less than the best from one another, or from ourselves, simply because that’s the way we’ve always done things....”

  “Does that mean we’re all doomed to spend eternity checking engine blocks, Mr. Van Horn? Engineering duty’s rough enough, without us— ”

  “Hold your tongue, Ensign Stewart, or I’ll come over there and pull it out myself. And that goes for the rest of you, as well.”

  “I demand a lot from my crew: loyalty; devotion to duty; devotion to each other; above all else, the highest devotion to excellence. For all of us, it should be a constant irritation to find the d’Artagnan in less than finest trim, for this hits at what should be our first and final objective—pride in our work, ourselves, and in our ship. That is why I’ve pushed us all as hard as I could, because we cannot and should not tolerate anything less than perfection....”

  “All right, if you can’t listen quietly, stand at attention, the lot of you. And Huntsman, get out from under that Scout. You can finish the overhaul later, when the Skipper’s done talking.”

  “But Mr. Patterson— ”

  “You heard me, Crewman. Out of there and over here! On the double!”

  “But I will not bear down, or call for sacrifice, without an overriding purpose. By the same token, when it serves no purpose, I will not exact an unthinking discipline, merely for its own sake. That does nothing but dull the sense of order aboard ship, diminishing respect due the captain from his crew—and the crew from the captain....”

  Connors was leaning against the doorframe at the entrance to the molecular transmitter when he heard a voice call from down the corridor.

  “What do you think it all means, Chief?”

  Connors turned to see Andersen coming around the bend, on his way from the computer room, a quizzical look on his face. Connors leaned his head back and chuckled deeply. Slowly, he was coming to realize what the captain had in mind, and that the Skipper probably had it in mind since the beginning.

  “I said— ”

  “I heard ye...now listen to him.” The two men stood silently, listening to the captain’s voice ring through the hallways.

  “We have many reasons to be proud. Our ship is a fine one, and our hard work over the past weeks has brought her to the brink of starworthiness at a pace that is nothing short of miraculous. A new ship carries burdens as well as promises, and ship-shaping any vessel of the Cosmic Guard is a heavy responsibility. I have demanded a lot from everybody on board. My only regret is that we could not ready the ship for inspection by the end of the Cosmic Year, because it makes us ineligible to participate in maneuvers next quarter.

  “I wanted us to be the first rookie ship in the history of the Cosmic Guard to win the gold medal, and I hate the thought of falling short of our first goal together as a crew. But any failure or disappointment we have suffered is not for want of trying. I am proud of the way each and every one of you has closed ranks, despite the hardships and self-denials I have made you endure. You’ve all tried your best. And while I will often demand even more than your best in the days to come, I will never call you to task for failing to do the impossible.”

  Andersen’s eyes bulged wildly. “Is he saying— ”

  “Shhh.”

  “A captain has few opportunities to show his gratitude, and limited ways of showing his thanks. Therefore, effective at 800 Hours, I am suspending my sequestration order and granting liberty—”

  No one heard the rest of Cook’s sentence. In every corner of the ship, it was drowned out by a loud cheer that filled every deck and every station. Soon, half the crew had spilled into the corridors and hallways, all voices raised to give three cheers and more for the Skipper.

  “You believe it, Chief?” Andersen shouted to be heard over the noise.

  Connors shook his head and laughed, as much in gratitude and relief as in admiration. “That sneaky, duplicitous plotmeister. He had the bloody thing planned all along! Ever since the first day, I’ll wager. The young bastard could out-diddle the flintiest Ceresian who ever— ”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at those bellowing clowns.” He pointed down the corridors, as everyone cheered their unexpected good fortune. “Two minutes ago they were grumblin over the color
of their eyes and blamin it all on Cook. Now he’s a bloody hero. Ye won’t find a man or woman on this ship who won’t follow him to Andromeda in a push cart. And they’ll never think to complain again, no matter how hard he pushes’em.”

  “And you think— ”

  Connors shot back the wickedest grin this side of Pirate’s Alley. “That man knows exactly what he’s doing, Andersen. Exactly what he’s doing. And ye can bloody well forget anything you’ve learned about dealing with blueshirts before. As a Skipper, he’s one of a kind, Andersen. One of a kind. Ye can be thankin the stars that he’s ours, for ye’ll never see the likes of him again.”

  Connors stepped into the corridor to join the cheering. Soon, he and the other yeomen started calming the redshirts, making sure that they returned to secure their posts before liberty took effect. Whatever lingering doubts he had about the captain had vanished. Connors had already heard about his wizardry on the bridge, but with this bit of psychological sleight of hand, Cook had proven himself a master of all aspects of command. More important than anything else, the captain now commanded the Chief’s respect as well as his admiration.

  * * *

  “Hurry Roscoe, or we’ll be late.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”

  “I was set to go twenty minutes ago. This is your fault, you know....”

  Vera could hear Cook busily rummaging through his closets, looking for something suitable. She knew that it really was her fault, at least in part. With shined boots and a fresh uniform, he had looked fine when she arrived. But fine wasn’t stunning, and so she made him dig around for his dress blues. After all, she’d spent three hundred credits buying her own outfit, a low-cut, powder blue dress that flowed with her every move, and was not about to let her escort make her feel overdressed. Now, of course, she was paying the price, but how was she to know that he’d have to go through his entire wardrobe to find the one dress uniform he owned? She shuddered to think what it might look like; the stars only knew how long it had been stashed away in his clothes closet. Or whether he might not find it stuffed in his duffle bag.

  She walked out the door connecting his cabin to his office. The chronometer read 950 Hours; they still had a half hour to get to McMorrow’s party before Zero Hour. The office was a mess. Not as bad as his room, perhaps, but hardly likely to impress a visitor with its owner’s organizational abilities. Vera started to tidy the desk, but stopped almost at once, as she realized that there was no place to put anything. Like a Grand Canyon of clutter, everything was in layers, perhaps revealing much to the trained eye about the problems of a starship captain readying his ship to sail, but buried under tons of sediment.

  “Well?”

  Vera’s head snapped around, and a dazzling smile lit her face. Cook stood proudly in the doorway, a half-dozen of his smaller medals accenting the silken cloth of his dress blues. Slowly, he turned around to model his new attire.

  “You look very handsome, Roscoe Cook,” Vera beamed, “though I doubt anyone at the party will realize that neatness is not your natural state.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Cook protested, but he knew that debating the matter was a lost cause. Vera took his arm and led him down the corridor toward the main elevators.

  “How many are staying behind?” she asked as they waited for the lift cage.

  “About twenty. All volunteers. I promised an extra three days’ liberty to anyone who drew security detail.”

  The elevator door opened, and Vera stepped inside. But Cook paused at the entrance, a curious look on his face. Something had caught his attention, and he wandered out into the hall.

  Vera left the elevator to stand beside him. She was about to ask what was wrong when she heard it—soft and distant, yet floating through the sterile corridor like a fresh summer breeze.

  It was coming from down the hall, from the crew’s common galley.

  It was the sound of singing.

  “That was good, Larsen, let’s have another.”

  Andrew Larsen strummed his guitar and laughed. “Nah—not if I’m the only one singing. I hate playing to myself. I do that often enough in my cabin.” His brown eyes danced merrily, flirting with the prettier part of his audience—a young ensign named Mathison, whose shy smile hinted that she shared at least some of his interests, and that missing Cosmic New Year on the base wouldn’t be much of a disappointment for either one of them.

  “We’ll be joinin in this time—won’t we, lads an’ lassies?” Crewman Martindale grinned, mimicking Chief Connor’s Demetrian brogue. “Else, ye’ll be fodder for the brig, and salt for the mines.”

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Something slow.”

  “Something fast.”

  “Something sad,” Mathison said softly. Larsen was too happy to oblige, singing a soft spacer’s ballad that the local beer halls never did justice. They always turned it into another bawdy house drinking song.

  Now the life of a spacer keeps changing,

  As over the heavens he’s ranging;

  Past timeless horizons and yonder,

  His spirit is destined to wander.

  None of them noticed that two more had slipped into the galley; and not until chords began sounding on the refrain—and in the proper key—did they look to see that the captain had activated the keyboard.

  For it’s Springtime on Ishtar, m’darling,

  It’s payday, come lager and car’ling;

  And my dusty dry glass needs a-filling,

  By a lusty young lass who’s a-willing.

  “Do you mind,” whispered Cook, as his hands helped the simple tune pulse smoothly in six-eight time, “if we’re a little late for the party? I’d like to ring in the New Year with my crew.”

  Vera nodded her head but choked back a tear, determined not to show how hurt she was. Slowly, the startled remnants of the crew made their way to where Cook and Vera were seated, and soon the party was in full gear. Viewers linked the galley to each station manned for the duration of the holidays, and crewman and captain played every song known to Cozzie lore—including all but a few of the verses the men sang when they gathered alone, without their shapelier companions. Cook even helped break into Supply, to liberate some beer from the bowels of the food vault.

  Though too good a sport not to join the others as the songs rolled from sad to merry and back again, Vera knew that she’d been fooling herself these past few weeks. Cook’s life was his ship and his crew, and nothing would ever change him.

  Chapter 16

  REFRESHED AND RECHARGED from a few days away from the ship, d’Artagnan’s crew returned from liberty rested and ready to storm the heavens. Morale was high, and progress was brisk. For the first time everything seemed to break the right way, and tasks that seemed so hard a few days earlier now fell easily into place. As the ship neared readiness, all hands could sense that the ordeals and hardships of the past weeks were finally showing results.

  The first successful test of the engine coils came at cc:143-0090. In all corners of the ship, the crew could feel the vibrating pulse that stirred beneath their feet, as the engines finally sent power coursing through her inner reaches. Loud cheers filled the corridors, and the captain ordered the entire crew to stand down for two full shifts in celebration. Two days later, Cook announced a temporary switch to single shifts for the redshirts, assigning all but the officers to one watch per day and promising to make it permanent if they could handle the work load and still make the ship starworthy by ’0250. In response, the crew redoubled their efforts, each hand pulling as hard as possible, trying to justify the Skipper’s confidence. Meanwhile, Cook drove his officers harder than ever, conducting two full bridge drills daily and accepting no excuses for sloppy work on or off the bridge. He expected all the officers to set examples for the rest of the crew; and as for his bridge team, he demanded that they set an example for the rest of the officers, requiring them to pull full ship-shapi
ng duty in addition to their other responsibilities.

  As the finishing touches neared completion, anticipation swept over the entire ship. At last, they began to see the final result of the efforts and a shared sense of adventure began to take root. They no longer thought of the hardships they’d endured, nor of the countless future tasks involved in keeping the ship in proper trim. All was forgotten in the glory of the moment. They began to dream of what might lie ahead of them in the dark reaches of space, and threw themselves at their work, filled with mounting pride at all they’d accomplished and determined not to disappoint their Skipper.

  Finally, Cook pronounced the ship starworthy; and on May 22, 2551—on cc:143-0235 in the official records of the Cosmic Guard—Admiral Clay signed the order authorizing the first of the Challengers to sail. All that remained for the crew was to say their goodbyes to friends and loved ones on the base, and begin readying the ship for departure.

  * * *

  New Babylon hung in the porthole window, a blue and white ball floating on a black, eternal sea. Now and then, spots of brown or green broke through the clouds, dappling the pristine beauty of the water below with splashes of life. The starliner’s speakers filled the air with mindless music, but few seemed to notice.

  Emerson Hollenbach sat in a cushioned chair in the first-class section, looking out the porthole, a glass of sherry in one hand, a smoldering cigar in the other. He’d requested a private booth, so he sat alone.