The Sirens of Space (21 page)

Janet switched off her station and turned to
face Jeremy. “Difficult? No, it’s not difficult. It is different,
though. And in some ways, it’s a welcome change. Besides, you’re a
refreshing change from the XO on our last ship.”

“
How do we stack up— ”

“
To the bridge crew of the
Constantine
?” Janet smiled and
tilted her head. Her smile brightened her whole face, thought
Jeremy, and her slender uniform complemented every curve. “Everyone
here is much more accomplished....”

Jeremy’s smile was cut short when Janet
finished her sentence.

“
But the
Constantine
would cut us to ribbons.” The sudden
look of dismay on his face made Janet laugh, which only added to
Jeremy’s consternation.

“
Oh, don’t worry about it, Jeremy.
We’ll all get better. But you really should have checked with me
before calling the Captain.”

“
How so?”

Janet bit her lower lip and grimaced
girlishly. “He won’t like being called yet.”

Before Jeremy could ask what she meant, the
others began returning to the bridge. Jeremy walked to the systems
station, to check his instruments before the captain arrived. When
he turned back to look at Janet, he saw her smile at him, then
shake her head and turn to her screen. For a moment it made him
feel better, until foreboding seeped into his consciousness, and he
suddenly realized how little he knew about the captain, even after
all these weeks.

* * *

“So the Skipper’s
finally
going to make his grand entrance,” Gerlach whispered. The regular
bridge crew was already at stations, busying themselves with final
adjustments on the equipment. The rookies all gathered on the
sidelines to watch. Three yeoman on the bridge freed the younger
officers from running errands.

“
I still don’t understand why
everyone’s making all this fuss,” said Connie. She felt a tenseness
in the air, a current of concern about drilling under the eyes of
their commander. Some of the regulars had even changed into fresh
standard blues during the break. To her, it all seemed a bit much.
After all, if the captain didn’t think enough of them to drill
together, she couldn’t see the point of making a special effort to
impress him.

“
Well, Connie,” responded Dexter;
“this is our first chance to show the Skipper what we can do.
Everyone’s probably worried about the impression we’ll make. After
all, it isn’t every day that you have the opportunity to make a
first one. Impression, I mean. Besides, from what I’ve heard about
the Skipper…”

Connie tuned Dexter out, letting him babble
to his heart’s content. She was more interested in exchanging words
and glances with the handsome Academy ensign to her left. All
conversation halted as the captain strode onto the bridge and all
hands jumped to attention—except at the helmsman’s station, where
Janet first looked about, then slowly rose, trying not to appear
conspicuous.

“
As you were,” Cook smiled. He was
dressed in dark blue fatigues and carried a cup of coffee in his
left hand. “I appreciate the effort, but the bridge is no place for
strict formalities. I’d rather have you stay at your posts,
especially if we’re in the middle of a battle. For the future,
don’t bother snapping to attention as long as we’re on the bridge.
I’m sure we’ll find it less distracting that way.”

Looking slightly bored and mildly amused,
Cook glanced about the bridge. He noticed the smartness of the
uniforms and the keyed emotions displayed by the crew. It pleased
him, but he was careful not to show it. There was no need to ruin a
promising collection of bridge officers by giving them a
prematurely high opinion of themselves.

“
Mr. Ashton,” Cook said, an edge of
disbelief to his voice, “I understand you people have something to
show me.”

“
Yes, Captain. I think you’ll be
pleased.” Jeremy noticed that Janet was rolling her eyes; it did
nothing to ease his anxiety.

“
Well, let’s hope so.” Cook sipped his
coffee casually and smiled blandly. He stepped to the captain’s
chair and placed his cup on the arm rest, then turned to face the
forward screens. “All right, let’s see what we have.

“
Oh—and Mr. Underwood, I don’t think
we’ll be needing you right now. I’m sure you have other things to
do. Yeoman Bernacki can fill in for you here.”

“
Thank you, sir,” said the startled
radio officer; as Bernacki approached the station, Underwood
hurried from the bridge, grateful for small favors. The bridge
hatch closed behind him just as the tall greenshirt settled in to
the console.

“
Will we really be needing the
rookies, either?” smirked Talbert. “I understand most of them are
Techies.”

“
Now, now—let’s not be elitist, Mr.
Talbert,” Cook smiled coldly. “Not all of us are fortunate enough
to be in the bottom third of an Academy graduating class, now are
we?”

Nervous laughter coursed over the bridge,
and Talbert blushed in embarrassment. The senior officers turned to
man their stations. Cook glanced briefly at the rookies, seated on
displaced galley chairs on the starboard side of the bridge, then
circled behind the captain’s chair and walked slowly toward the
helm station. Pausing for a moment just behind the helmsman, he
took a deep breath before turning again, bringing him back to where
he had started.

“
Let’s start off with something easy,”
he said, scratching the back of his head. The easy indifference of
his manner suddenly convinced Jeremy that it had been a terrible
mistake to invite him to the bridge. Almost at once, Cook confirmed
all misgivings, sending prickles down the backs of everyone on the
bridge, except for the helmsman, who was busy adjusting her
controls

“
Mr. Ashton, set the simulator for us
to face off against a starship, one-on-one—Difficulty Level Three.
And deep space, too. No need to complicate things until we’re
warmed up.” Cook ignored the worried glances that darted across the
bridge.

“
Are you there, Mr.
Ashton?”

“
Sorry, sir. One-on-one at Level
Three.”

“
Engage the screens; helm, ahead at
C-level 4.”

The main viewers came to life, showing stars
on all sides of the bridge. At each station, lights began to dance
along the consoles, as the computer fed information as it became
available.

“
Enemy starship bearing 010 by twenty
degrees north,” announced Jeremy. He was beginning to perspire;
they had never faced a cruiser simulation before, much less a
starship.

“
Range, Mr. Ashton?”

“
Sorry, sir. Fifty astrokilometers,
closing rapidly with shields raised.” Suddenly, Jeremy realized
that anxiety was affecting his performance; forgetting the range
reading was a midshipman’s mistake.

Cook lifted his coffee cup to his lips, then
cleared his throat. “Charge all shields, prepare to charge forward
and starboard guns,” he said. He spoke quietly, the calmness of his
manner contrasting sharply with the frantic concentration of his
crew. “And Mr. Ashton, you may blank the tactical grid screen; I
find it useless and rather distracting.”

The rest of the bridge crew exchanged looks
of puzzled shock; the tactical grids were their only means of
orienting themselves with the outlying space. Cook smiled
blandly.

“
No—on second thought, belay the
order. The rookies might find it helpful, after all. Miss
Mendelson, slow to C-2 and prepare for bank to port; Mr. Talbert,
plot a portside arc past the enemy ship, heading 855, south
forty-five degrees.”

Talbert worked frantically at the navigation
console, trying to hurry the computer along so that he could put
something on the navigation screen. After several missed entries,
the figures finally flashed on his calc-screen and he rushed to put
the plot on the board.

“
All enemy guns amain,” said Ashton;
“her shields are at full strength and she’s slowed to fighting
speed, to C-2.”

“
Bank dead to port and increase speed
to C-5,” Cook said serenely, noticing the hesitation everyone but
Mendelson showed at the unusual order; increasing speed in
mid-melee was highly risky. The physical distention of
faster-than-light travel made speeds greater than C-3 dangerous in
battle, and almost never tried.

“
Miss Palmer, charge forward and
starboard guns, and prepare to charge the portside. And Mr.
Ashton—no editorializing, if you please. Helm, come inside the
navigation arc by six degrees.” For the first time, the captain’s
voice showed signs of irritation, but it passed quickly. Cook began
to stroll slowly around the bridge, sipping his coffee and looking
over shoulders at the bridge stations as he passed.

“
Range—twenty astrometers; enemy speed
steady.”

“
Helm, cut to C-1; barrel roll left
and continue south apace.”

Baffled by the unfamiliar order, Palmer and
Talbert both turned to look at Janet; Jeremy was too busy working
his scanners, but found the subdued tone of Cook’s voice
disquieting. All three found the pace too brisk to follow: though
never raising his voice, Cook’s commands came in sharp, staccato
bursts, too quickly for them to follow what was happening elsewhere
on the bridge. As the captain came to stand aft of their respective
stations, looking over their shoulders as if they were naughty
schoolchildren, each of them felt acutely embarrassed, though none
could quite say why.

Cook ignored the puzzled looks and
continued, his voice calm and businesslike. “Charge portside guns
and blank the starboard.” Cook walked slowly from the navigator’s
desk to the weapons station on the port side of the bridge.

“
Helm, pivot twelve points to
starboard. Miss Palmer, lock target and prepare the portside guns;
and…fire.”

Nothing happened; the enemy ship’s
salvo missed the ship by a wide margin, but the
d’Artagnan
’s guns did not fire at
all.

“
Portside guns amain,” Cook said in a
weary tone of voice, and snapped his fingers; instantly, a red
light flashed on the weapons console, showing that the main
portside batteries were now ready to fire. He sighed, then walked
to the captain’s chair and placed his cup on the armrest before
turning to face the crew.

“
Really, Mr. Ashton,” he said, his
voice heavy with disappointment. “I thought these people were
ready. But, obviously not.”

The bridge was silent as a lifeless moon. It
was apparent that things had not gone well, but nobody knew what
had gone wrong—not even Janet, who had been too busy minding the
helm to pay attention to anything else.

“
Well, as long as I’m here,” he
smiled, sounding very much like an Academy instructor. Turning to
every station in turn, his voice lacked harshness or rancor, but
carried undertones of judgment that made clear the extent to which
each had fallen short of what was expected. The effect on the crew
was devastating.

“
Miss Palmer, if you check the
computer record you will find that you forgot to blank the
starboard guns as I’d ordered. This meant a delay in charging the
portside guns and caused us to muff our shot.

“
Mr. Talbert, your course swung us too
wide by nearly ten astrometers. Even worse, when corrected you
made no attempt to amend your course plot on the navigation screen
so that the helmsman could anticipate and adjust her settings. I
expect you to plot us as closely as possible to the optimum; Miss
Mendelson will ease us off whenever the laws of physics demand
it.”

Talbert was about to protest, but was cut
short.

“
Mr. Ashton,” Cook smiled a bland
smile; Jeremy thought he saw a momentary flash of amusement in the
captain’s eyes.

“
Mr. Ashton—I will ascribe your
failure to take a second reading of the enemy shields as we
approached to the fact that you’ve been drilling in my chair, and
have ignored your own station in the process. But mark this—I
overlook mistakes like that exactly once.

“
And Miss Mendelson,” Cook began. He
brought his index finger to his lips, as if choosing his words with
the utmost care.

After a long pause, he said simply: “You
almost have it.”

Cook’s eyes passed leisurely around the
bridge, lingering briefly as his gaze crossed the rookie bridge
officers.

“
It looks to me like you people still
have some work to do,” he said at last. “Mr. Ashton, when you’ve
mastered Level Three, you know how to reach me.” He started toward
the portside exit, sipping at his coffee.

“
Excuse me, Captain.” It was Talbert;
everyone else on the bridge winced. Cook merely turned in place,
fixing a curious gaze on his navigator.

“
Yes, Mr. Talbert; what is
it?”

Under the captain’s merciless glare, Talbert
felt his voice die in his throat, but it was too late for him to
back down. “Excuse me, sir, but what do you mean by ‘mastered?’
”

“
Mastered, Mr. Talbert,” Cook said
coldly, “means that the computer routinely gives you a perfect
score of one hundred.” He smiled grimly, as if he could read the
shock on the faces of his bridge crew. “However,” he continued,
shifting his gaze to his first officer, “you may call me when your
collective Level Three score hits ninety for the third time in a
row.”