The Sirens of Space (3 page)

“
You are very perceptive,
Commander.”

The officer smiled lamely and shrugged. “I
just know a bit about music,” he said, looking nervously about.

Turning around, his back was to the lockers
as he saw them pushing toward him, cutting off any chance of
escape. They were big and mean, and anger flared in their eyes.

“
Plebe,” snorted one.
“You’ve much to learn about respect.”

The young man stood his ground, but said
nothing. He watched their advance impassively, his arms filled with
books and computer files. Though scared to death, he would not give
them the satisfaction of showing fear.

“
Some folk don’t think
much of Isitian daisy-sniffers pretending to be spacers,” smirked
another. The plebe saw amused scorn flash in their eyes. As if by
signal, they dropped their school books to the floor.

“
So I’ve heard,” he
answered.

Soon they stood pressing him on all sides,
nose to nose to ear. He could smell the liquor on their breath, and
felt the mindless hatred in their souls. With all the inner
strength he could muster, he forced himself to relax. Surrendering
to panic would only admit defeat.

“
What’s that you’re
carrying?” demanded the third.

“
Navigation disks, a
biology text, and some music.”

“
What kind of music?”
Snatching a disk from the plebe’s arm, the upperclassman knocked
everything else the young man carried onto the floor.

“
VanSlambrook—and Mozart!”
the upperclassman chortled derisively. His companions
laughed.

“
Sissy music,” scoffed the
first, taking the tape. “For Isissies and other losers.” He threw
down the disk contemptuously, then cracked and shattered it under
his boot.

The plebe’s eyes darted to the ruined music
disk, then challenged the upperclassman’s haughty stare.
“Midshipman VanderMuelen,” he said, quietly but firmly. “That was
my personal recording. I expect you to pay for it.”

VanderMuelen’s eyes narrowed.

“
Plebes don’t talk that
way to upperclassmen.”

“
This one does,” said the
plebe. He saw rage flash in their faces, felt their fists clench,
sensed their arms draw back to strike. You prat-head, he told
himself; you never learn.

“So every winter
Ghilgh’a’sin’s spirit returns to the ground, to sleep until
spring.

“
Is that not a lovely legend,
Commander?”

A tall, sneering spacer rose from a table at
the other end of the room and emptied his stein. Pushing away from
his friends, who tried to pull him back to his chair, he glowered
at the aliens sitting at the officer’s table and began staggering
toward the aisle.

“
Commander?” repeated the
Veshnan.

“
Yes, it’s a beautiful story,”
answered the Terran, but his attention was elsewhere. The mood of
the crowd was now livelier, almost festive. Looking about, he saw
everyone’s eyes following the spacer’s progress, their faces giddy
with anticipation.

“
You see why Terra has nothing to fear
from the Crutchtans?”

As the spacer neared them, the commander
heard drunken voices raising in hearty encouragement. His head had
cleared enough to know full well the danger they faced, but not
enough to let him plan an escape. He felt a surge of resentment
toward his companions for placing him in this predicament. It
quickly passed, for he realized that they were not responsible for
the lowlife of Ishtar, and knew no better than to wander into a
spacer’s bar.

“
Any culture where the strong give
their lives for the weak, and an act of love becomes a source of
renewal, will be friendly and peaceful,” said the Veshnan. “And
they will be the best sort of neighbors. All they need is a
chance.”

The spacer was twenty feet away and closing.
The crowd was definitely enjoying itself; the prospect of blood
always warmed the Ishtari soul. “Listen to me,” said the commander,
calmly but intensely. “We have to leave. Tell your friends to put
on their cloaks and prepare to follow me.”

“
Is anything wrong, Commander?” asked
the alien. “Have we done something— ”

“
I’ll explain later. Just do as I
say—quickly, but with no sudden moves.” The Veshnans donned their
cloaks and fastened their waistbelts as the commander rose to put
on his heavy gray overcoat. The spacer stopped short and
chuckled.

“
Ye wouldna be leavin us now, Mr.
Cozzie,” said Cyrus, his voice thick with drink. “I be needin a
ward wi’your lizard-lovin friends, there.”

The commander had no illusions about what “a
word” with somebody blocking the exit meant on Ishtar. Painfully
aware that he was out of his element, he knew that the time for
fear had passed. Now, he needed the clearest thinking his own
muddled brain could muster. That, he thought, and about a year’s
worth of luck.

A quick glance and the beleaguered officer
had sized up his adversary. The haze in the spacer’s eyes promised
a slow reaction if they tried to slip past him. But he was a big
man—bigger than the commander, anyway—and would be far stronger,
even in his drunken condition: the lower gravity of the officer’s
home planet guaranteed that the spacer would beat him senseless if
they came to blows, and few Ishtaris would pass the chance to help
someone dust off a CosGuard officer. Even in the best of times,
Cozzies were not very popular here; someone would surely stop them
from escaping if they tried rushing the door.

Even worse, they might just grab the
Veshnans. A physical attack on diplomats in a pub—the commander
shuddered to think about the complications.

No, he thought. They had to ease past him
gradually. A sudden move could provoke a riot. And the honor of the
Guard required at least one try for a graceful retreat before
dashing for the hatch like a whipped puppy.

“
My friend,” he said firmly. “Please
step aside and let us pass.”

Cyrus folded his arms and smirked. Sweat
coursed down his face. Hate burned in his eyes like glowing
coals.

“
My friend,” the commander smiled
coldly. “We’d love to stay and share a lager-pitcher with you, but
I’m afraid we’re due somewhere else, and running a bit behind
schedule as well. Perhaps another time.”

“
I’m wantin no drink wi’you, matey,”
stormed Cyrus, his eyes searching the officer for the smallest
reaction, the faintest hint of fear. But the Cozzie held his ground
and returned Cyrus’ hateful stare without flinching. He even folded
his arms and stiffened his back, defying a closer approach by the
drunken spacer. Taken aback by the show of resolve, Cyrus spat out
his words like acid. “Kindly tell your wan, wee friends to be
steppin over here.”

A wave of gleeful hate filled the air.
Several men moved to block the aisleway, the only route to the
door. Hurriedly, the bartender began clearing bottles and glasses
and other breakables from the top of the bar. Then, amid cheers
from the center of the pub and a quietly sinking heart from the
lone Cozzie in the room, a huge man rose and lumbered past the
others to stand beside Cyrus.

“
Hello, Cozzie,” said a giant that the
increasingly alarmed officer recognized from a past encounter,
though the Cozzie had quite forgotten the Goliath’s name. The
spacer had once tried to slip past a CosGuard blockade, bent on
making a run to one of the illegal colonies past Hodges’ Binary.
He’d spent the next week in a Cozzie brig, his ship in tow to
Looking Glass, and the brooding, sullen man had never
forgotten.

At least my luck is consistent, thought the
Cozzie. His hopes now ran less to escape than to the prospect of a
short convalescence.

Suddenly, the commander noticed an annoying
pressure, from a source he took pains to avoid when leading his
ship into battle. By reflex, he started to look over his shoulder
to the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen and—

To safety, he thought, dismayed at the time
it had taken to arrive at the obvious solution. The doors weren’t
very sturdy, but it didn’t matter. Once inside, he could lock the
door and signal his ship. The molecular transmitter on board could
whisk them out of danger long before the door gave way. Must be the
lager, he thought, smiling as he realized that the lager led him to
the answer as well.

“
Listen carefully,” he whispered to
the Veshnan linguist. “Take your friends down the hallway behind us
and wait for me in the room with the small ceramic pot in the
middle of the floor.”

The alien had heard the exchange between the
Terrans, and understood enough to be frightened beyond measure.
Quietly, as their officer friend kept talking, the Veshnans backed
toward the hall.

“
What the— ” the giant puzzled
dumbly.

“
Beelzebub’s ghost!” thundered Cyrus,
when he understood what was happening.

“
Move!” barked the commander, tipping
over chairs and tables to cover their retreat. Quickly, he ushered
the Veshnans into the room with the sign marked “Johnnie,” then
slammed the door, bolting it shut just ahead of Cyrus’ lunging
body, hoping that it would hold for a few minutes. Outside in the
bar, a crush of laughing and sneering spacers followed the two
ringleaders to the hallway.

“
A fine display o’Cozzie courage,”
scoffed one.

“
I ain’t had this much fun since the
day Paddy Hassib got tored apart in the Collyseum,” cackled
another.

“
Look, what I found,” said a third,
stooping by the abandoned table. There, from the floor, he picked
up a CosGuard mobile transmitter; in the rush to escape it had
fallen from the commander’s pocket.

“
Stars to smile on a spacer’s heart,”
crowed Cyrus, as someone handed him the radio. “Cozzie,” he
bellowed with a laugh. “Ye dropped your squawker. There’s no way to
be gittin out.”

The response was silence.

“
We’ll let ye go, we will,” cooed
Goliath, a bloodthirsty glint in his eye. “It’s your puny friends
we want.”

The silence from the locked men’s room only
made the mob angrier.

“
Ye can’t stay in there forever,”
Cyrus shouted. In the hallway the crowd cawed and
whooped.

“
We’re a-comin in after ye!” Goliath
warned, to the cheers of the others. He started ramming the door
with his body. Others joined him, shouting with glee. Furiously
they hurled themselves at the flimsy metal, trying to shake it
loose from its crumbling concrete frame. Each grunt fanned their
blood lust; every bruised shoulder whipped their animal
fury.

Finally, the door started moving. With a
fierce howl, the frenzied men threw their bodies into one smashing
thrust at the buckling frame. The hinges ripped from the wall, the
door slammed onto the floor, and the blood-crazed men charged into
the head in a blind rage. In an instant, the crush from the rear
threw the leaders nose-first against the back wall, and Cyrus
cracked his shin against the commode. The pain crackled up his leg
to echo in his lager-soaked brain, but except for the mob, the room
was empty.

Within seconds, someone noticed a frozen
chill to the air. Goliath looked toward the ceiling in the right
corner of the room, where the air-chute was ripped open. The
opening was barely big enough for a man, surely big enough for the
small aliens. As the drain in the commode finished its cycle, the
cold night air poured through the hole, driving the attackers back
into the hallway.

The giant was furious.

“
Ye noodle-noggined mushbrain!” he
bellowed at Cyrus. “Ye should o’ thought he might sneak out some
back way, the tricky bastard. Ye simpleminded twit.” He punched the
wall as hard as he could, breaking his hand.

“
Don’t be a-blamin me, ye loud-mouthed
fanny-noodler,” snarled Cyrus. Too drunk and angry to know better,
he stomped on the larger man’s foot and aimed an elbow at his solar
plexus. He hit the monster’s belly instead, and the enraged giant
lifted Cyrus off the floor with his good arm, hurling him into the
crowd, knocking several would-be brawlers down and forcing the rest
into the center of the pub.

“
Fight, fight!” chorused the mob,
eagerly joining the melee, little caring whose side they
took.

After running
for several
blocks, the cold air burned their lungs. On the Terran’s signal the
group stopped to lean against a wall, breathing deeply. Their
hearts were pounding like hammers.

“
Your pubs—seem friendlier—from the
outside,” the alien gasped between breaths.

The commander laughed, as much from relief
as in response to the alien’s jest. He rested his head against the
wall and looked up at the shining stars and lightening sky. “I’ll
walk you to your hotel,” he panted. “The rowdies are out in force
tonight, and the nights here are short. Dawn will break soon, and
it would be better if you were home when the sun comes up.”

They started walking, slowly to help them
catch their breath. Before long they were trotting as quickly as
they could without stumbling over the cracks in the pavement. The
wind pierced their clothing like knives, and soon they were
shivering again.

“
By the way, Commander, I am
called
Panche’teMunshi
. And
we are renting a house, not a hotel.”

“
My name is Roscoe Cook,” said the
commander. He returned the Veshnan’s bow as they ran, nearly
tripping over some cracked pavement in the process.