The Sirens of Space (8 page)

“
I’d think you’d have your
mind on our upcoming simulator duel,” Weatherlee smiled. “I’m sure
your own plans aren’t quite fully developed. I could have some of
my staff help you with a few of the details if you like, since you
really haven’t had much time to get ready. But Advanced Navigation
is a senior’s elective. Aren’t you studying it
yourself?”

“
Actually, I placed out of
Navigation entirely on the entrance exam,” the boy replied;
Weatherlee could see a smirk forming on the boy’s lips. “And I’ve
already prepared all I need to, for our little exercise
tomorrow.”

“
You know,” the commodore
smiled, stepping closer to the young man. “I really shouldn’t have
made that crack about your home. I’m sure that Isis is a wonderful
place for a bright and handsome young man like you to—”

“
Distractions won’t work
on this midshipman, Commodore,” the young man interrupted sharply;
Weatherlee could feel the arrogance in the boy’s voice, and saw his
pretty eyes narrow with condescension.

“
Besides, I’ve looked over
our scenario, Commodore. I’m on defense, which means that my plan
is really quite simple: I’ll just be disrupting whatever it is
you’re planning to do, and striking wherever you leave yourself
open. So my advice to you is to worry more about your own plans
than about mine, because I’ll be doing my level best to blow yours
up, once we get going. And as combat tends to make a hash of
everything anyway, I suspect your plans will be largely worthless,
once they close the doors and we start having at it.”

“
Midshipman Cook! ”
snapped Weatherlee, his eyes cold with hate.

“
In any event, my friend’s
midterms are the day after tomorrow. She has lots to digest between
now and then, and I need to see what kind of misinformation they
have in these books of yours so I can explain what she needs to
know for her test—and what she really needs to know on board a
ship.”

“
You arrogant little
snot.”

Furious, Weatherlee turned on his heels and
left, slamming the library door behind him. As he walked out of the
building and into the crisp air of early spring, the commodore felt
a knot growing in the pit of his stomach. He hated the Academy. He
still bristled at the memory of countless humiliations he’d endured
as a young man struggling to show everyone his appointment hadn’t
come only through his father’s connections, on Demeter and beyond.
Weatherlee knew he’d earned his place there just as much as anyone
else, but nobody ever let him forget about his father’s political
clout in the capital.

He hadn’t come back to the Academy to be
humiliated again.

THE GENTLE BUBBLING of the small aquarium
gave a melancholy richness to the sad music that filled the cabin.
Shelves overflowed with curiosities from a half-dozen worlds.
Pastel paneling softened the busy collection of plants and flowers
hanging from the walls. Beside the sleeping chamber hung a
Demetrian tapestry in earth tones of browns and greens, a silent
reminder of a presence that still haunted the room and its
principal inhabitant.

Janet Mendelson rested on the sofa in the
anteroom, her dried eyes staring at the ceiling. Her head lay on a
pillow, and her graceful, well-conditioned body gently rose and
fell with each breath. Her soft brown hair was braided today; time
always passed more quickly if she had something to do, and fussing
with her hair took her mind away from more painful concerns. Tears
no longer streaked her pretty, youthful face, but her eyes were
still puffed and red. The hurt had faded, though she knew it would
return before long. In its place was anger and resentment—anger at
the regulations that made her current anguish all but inevitable;
anger at the system of regimentation that dominated her life; anger
at herself, for the sweet delusions she’d allowed herself these
past months. But most of all she felt betrayal, and a gnawing sense
of helplessness that stripped away all of her lovely illusions.

Seeking comfort in memories of more innocent
times, her mind drifted to happier days as a skinny tomboy on New
Babylon. Before long she was fighting tears again, this time
trailing her brother and his friends as they raced to the
schoolyard, too young to understand the cruel taunts hurled at her
but old enough to know that they were meant to hurt. Her parents’
stern words to the boys actually made things worse, and eventually
she learned not to tag along when they went outside. She never
understood how the brother she adored could stand by, laughing as
his friends tormented the little eight-year old girl who only
wanted to play.

Inevitably, her eyes weakened again, as her
face remembered the touch of a hand that she knew she would miss
forever. She buried her face in her pillow, and began to cry.

Lt. Commander
François
LaRue was sitting at his desk, writing a letter to his sister when
the intercom sounded. Like most cabins on the cruiser, his quarters
were slightly cramped, but the Ceresian carpet on the floor
softened the otherwise austere furnishings, and an oil painting of
a farmhouse in the hills gave the room a touch of home. By reflex,
he activated the speaker.

“
LaRue,” he said wearily.

“
Commander Cook wants to see you in
his office,” said the disembodied voice of a young female
ensign.

“
On my way.”

He left his quarters and walked down the
corridor, trying to compose his thoughts. Commander Cook was
impossible, he thought as he entered the elevator. In the cosmic
year they had served together, they’d disagreed on almost
everything, and Cook gave him little support in the inevitable
battles with the crew for respect. Finally, the cauldron was coming
to a boil. LaRue had warned against granting leave to too many crew
members at once, but the stubborn Isitian had insisted. Now, with
orders just arrived to proceed to Isthar Command, they had
ninety-eight crewmen and officers—all but two dozen of the entire
ship’s complement— frolicking on the miserable planet below, doing
God knows what, while the rest of them had to scramble to get the
ship ready to depart on what, for all they knew, could be a mission
of great importance. He knew that any attempt to blame himself for
the inevitable delay would reflect badly upon his commanding
officer. But Cook had powerful friends—how else to explain his
cavalier attitude toward the Command Manual?—and LaRue worried that
he himself would be made the scapegoat.

The elevator left him around the corner from
the Captain’s Quarters. Entering the adjoining office, LaRue was
startled to find the commander just returned from Ishtar and still
clad in his thermal uniform, busily rummaging through the unkempt
piles of papers, books and binders on his desk. Star charts
cluttered the worktable to his right; a single map of his home
planet hung crookedly from the otherwise naked wall to his left.
Behind were sketches of a half-dozen or so forgotten faces from
Terra’s past. All around the room were shelves filled to
overflowing with books and technical manuals and knick-knacks from
all corners of Terra.

“
François,” said Cook, looking up from
the knotted maze but continuing the search. “I don’t suppose you’ve
seen my Krutzmann—that leather-bound book on comparative
biology?”

“
No, sir,” LaRue replied dryly,
wondering whether his commanding officer had the audacity to summon
him to help search for an outdated, mold-bitten book. A printed
book, no less.

“
Well, never mind,” frowned Cook. He
pushed a button on his intercom.

“
Library,” answered a low-pitched
voice.

“
Fred, this is the Skipper.” Cook
still foraged about his desk, but without the determined fervor of
before. “Would you order a printout of the following textbook:
Johannes Krutzmann,
Biology Across the
Heavens
. I have no idea what the tracking code is, but
it should be listed in the reference section.”

“
Certainly, sir. You want it run to
your quarters?”

“
No,” replied Cook; a look of defeat
crossed his brow. “I’ll be by later to pick it up.” The
leather-bound Krutzmann was one of his prized possessions, and he
wanted to give it to the Veshnans before departing. Now they would
have to settle for a computerized printing, which took the soul out
of the masterwork. Much like a paint-by-the-numbers Rembrandt, he
thought.

“
Damn,” he sighed, sinking deeper into
his chair. Absently, he picked up some papers, letting them fall to
the table. “One of these days, I’ve got to get organized
here.”

“
You wanted to see me, sir?” LaRue
interjected haughtily, wondering if Cook had forgotten about
him.

Instantly, the commander’s bearing changed.
He leaned forward in his chair. The confused haze was gone from his
face and his fierce, intelligent eyes burned with curiosity.
Without warning, a commanding presence had filled the room and the
air crackled with purpose.

“
You took the IshCom transmission,
François. The one calling us back to base, I mean. Do you know what
it’s about?”

“
No, sir. The orders were to proceed
at once to the Base. So, I instituted procedures to— ”

“
Well, if it’s not an emergency,”
interrupted Cook, “they can damn well wait until the rest of our
people check in.” He pushed another button on his
intercom.

“
Ensign Schmidt?”

“
Schmidt here,” came the
reply.

“
When’s the next call-in for our leave
parties?”

“
About another cosmic hour,
Skipper.”

“
Don’t bother trying to find anyone
else. Plug the computer into the call-in channel and tell all hands
to return immediately. And make sure the message is clear—we’re
leaving in two hours, whether everyone’s aboard or not. Then put
the Molly boys on stand-by for the signals.”

“
Molly” was short for Molecular
Transmitter, the quickest and safest means of traveling between
points less than fifteen-hundred miles apart. Cook never quite
trusted the technology but there was no practical alternative, at
least when traveling between a spaceship above and the ground
below. Besides, he hated to appear old fashioned; it wasn’t very
Isitian.

“
Got all that, Schmidt? I don’t want
another Xanadu on our hands.”

“
Aye, aye, sir” Schmidt laughed. The
last time they’d stopped at Xanadu, everyone waited until the last
minute to molly back to the ship. The backlog made the transmitter
blow a circuit and delayed their departure for two days.

“
Who’s manning the bridge now,
Schmitty?”

“
Xing has the Chair. And Davidson’s on
controls, sir.”

Cook paused to think. All three women had
done double duty during the crew’s liberty—it was odd, he thought,
though not really surprising: throughout the Cosmic Guard, the
women always volunteered to stay behind whenever their ship moored
at Ishtar. He hated to push them further, but time was short and
there was much to do before they sailed.

“
Tell Davidson to chart a course to
Ishtar Command, estimated departure time in two cosmic hours. I’ll
have Cardinale check her plot when he returns from the planet, or
I’ll do it myself if I have the time. Meanwhile, Xing should start
the Checklist; I’ll be there in five minutes to relieve her, and
once a few more officers return to the ship I want you three to
stand down for the next week—and however long we stay at IshCom.
You’ve all earned it.”

“
Thank you, sir.”

“
Over and out.”

LaRue held his tongue but could not believe
his ears. Cook knew him too well not to notice the disapproval on
his face. “I know that look, François,” Cook smiled mischievously.
“You’re keeping something to yourself again, aren’t you? That look
of horrified disdain gives you away every time.”

LaRue said nothing but began to fidget
uncomfortably.

Cook clasped his hands behind his head and
rocked back in his chair. “So tell me what you think, François.
Talk to me. Don’t make me beg.”

“
Commander Cook,” he began, in
stilted, formal tones that often slipped into his provincial
accent. “May I speak freely?”

“
Of course you may,
François.”

“
I do not wish to question your
judgment,
Commandre
,” said
LaRue, his accent becoming noticeable. “But our orders were to
proceed ‘at once.’ How can you keep Command Base waiting? How can
we remain here two hours more?”

“
François,” Cook replied patiently,
but with an underlying intensity LaRue always found unsettling. “Do
you really want to leave half the crew on Ishtar, only to wait a
day or two at the base until somebody remembers why they sent for
us—or even notices that we’ve arrived? No matter why IshCom wants
us, we’ll still have to come back to the planet for anyone we’ve
left behind. Leaving now is a waste of time. Besides, we’re less
than an hour away from the base, so we can be there
toute suite
if they really need
us.”

“
Mais oui,
Commandre
, but our orders— ”

“
Sacré
frommage
, François,” Cook tried not to laugh as LaRue
winced at his butchering of the idiom. “I admire your devotion to
duty—and your opinion is noted for the record, if you like—but
don’t worry about it. It simply isn’t worth the bother. Now, return
to your quarters and take some time off. You deserve a
rest.”