The Sirens of Space (24 page)

“
Well, you know there’s an end coming
eventually, Chief.”

“
Yeah, I suppose I do. But in my
bones, I can’t feel it comin. An’ I sure as bloody hell can’t be
convincin many redshirts it’s a-comin if I can’t bloody well
convince myself.”

“
I think they already know, Chief. At
least some of them. The ones who really count.”

“
Ah, rot. Not the ones complainin to
me, that’s for bloody sure. On top of everything else, the Skipper
won’t even—ah, rot. Pour me another, Andersen. I’ve got more
brain-numbin to do.”

Andersen filled Connors’ mug to half-f,
emptying the pilfered beer canister of its contents. A knock
sounded on the closed cabin door and instantly, as if he’d been
expecting another visitor, Andersen sprang to his feet.

“
I wonder who that could be?” he asked
as he disappeared beyond the foyer panel. Connors was too lost in
thought to pay much attention, until a familiar voice sounded from
out of his sight.

“
Is he here?”

“
This way.”

“
Ah, rot,” muttered Connors. He heard
the door close, and the privacy bolt swing into place. Andersen
stepped from behind the foyer. Behind him, and heading to pull an
unoccupied chair next to the couch, was the captain.

“
Don’t get up, Chief,” Cook smiled,
his eyes twinkling devilishly. “Looks like you don’t need the
exertion.” Connors grunted in return, and glowered fiercely at his
fellow greenshirt. The Yeoman’s unspoken code had few words for
traitors, none of them kind.

“
I understand you have some things on
your mind,” said Cook. “And they won’t get said until we sit down
to talk.”

Slowly, and still scowling, Connors sat
upright on the couch.

“
Here,” said Cook, handing Connors a
package. It was wrapped in plain white tissue paper, with a broken
shoelace for a ribbon.

“
Call it a peace offering. Go ahead,
open it.”

Sullenly, Connors undid the bow, and let the
wrapping fall on the floor by the couch. It was a bottle of brandy:
Isitian brandy, one-hundred proof.

Andersen returned from the next room with
three fresh glasses. He insisted they were clean, despite what his
guests’ eyes might tell them. “It’s just the way the light hits
them,” he explained.

Shaking his head skeptically, Cook opened
the bottle and filled the three grimy glasses half-way to the rim.
“If that won’t loosen your tongue,” he told Connors, “there’s more
in the bottle. Now, drink up.”

“
But— ”

“
And that’s a direct order,
Chief.”

A gruff smile crossed his lips. Connors
lifted his glass and took a sip. Though it kicked like a stallion,
the brandy was smooth as satin and burned joyously as it trickled
down his throat. Moments later, he was feeling its effects.
Grudgingly, he began to wonder if he hadn’t misjudged this
blueshirted young quirker after all.

“Rigley Clamp released.”

“
Check.

“
Musser Valve open.”

“
Check.”

“
Transmitter gauge normal.”

“
Check.”

“
IshCom reception pods
cleared.”

“
Check.”

“
All right, Crewman, engage the
Molecular Transmitter.”

“
Aye aye, Mr. Van Horn.
Engaging.”

Zzzzt.

“
Oh, for crying out loud.”

“
Mr. Van Horn!”

“
Damage Control Repair Crew, report to
Molly Trans, on the double.

“
Do you— ”

“
For the love of— ”

“
Mr. Van Horn!”

“
Yes, I see it....”

“
Whew....
”

“
Damage Control, please bring pod
scrapers to Miss Molly.”

“
Wow.”

“
You may disengage the Molecular
Transmitter, Crewman.”

“
What a mess.”

“
So it is, Mr. Agacinski; so it
is.”

* * *

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha— ”

“
And then what, what happened
then?”

“
Well, funny you should ask,” Cook
slurred, and all three men burst out laughing. Even through a
glassy haze, Cook’s eyes twinkled brightly. He and Andersen sat on
the floor; it was safer that way. Connors was still on the couch
and getting wobblier with each passing second.

“
No, really.”

“
Well, back then LaRue was a trifle
pudgy in the first place. And the uniform curved in all the wrong
places anyway, for all the obvious reasons. But mad as he was, he
sashayed from his cabin, down Corridor A, fully halfway across the
ship, and burst into my office. Suddenly, I find myself face to
face with a homicidal, six-foot-tall executive officer—
”

Tears were pouring down Andersen’s cheeks;
and Connors was laughing so hard his sides were aching.

“—
with his belly sticking out where
the top didn’t quite reach to the bottom, and chest folds that
looked like someone had taken a pin to deflate everything that
should have bulged while a friend pumped up what was better left
alone.”

“
And then?”

“
And then, he stormed over to my desk
and said—in his haughtiest French accent: ‘
Monsieur Commandre
—you see what zey have done to
me. All my uniforms are like zis... someone at ze laundry pulled a
switch. And now, I am left to dress like—like some
fille de joie
. I demand to know what
you are going to do about it—how you are plan to help me out of
zis—zis predicament’.”

“
And so you—“ Andersen wiped his eyes
with his sleeve.

“
Well, what could I do? I told him:
‘I’m sorry François, but I really don’t have any lipstick. Perhaps
if you asked Ensign Mendelson—”

Connors fell back onto the floor, barely
managing to avoid cracking his head.

“—
we could arrange something to tide
you over till we reach port.”

Cook joined in the laughter himself,
spraying brandy over his companions as he tried to take another sip
from his glass. “No, actually I promised to handle the
investigation myself. And I assured him that I would bring the
fiends to justice, no matter how long it took. Funny thing, though.
I still haven’t found any evidence. At least none that didn’t get
lost. I’m still on the lookout for fiends, though.”

As the others gasped for breath, Cook gulped
the rest of his brandy and poured everyone another refill. The
bottle was down to its last quarter. Already, Cook was having
trouble focusing his eyes, and he had the distinct feeling that he
was pouring more brandy on the floor than in their glasses.

Connors struggled until he was sitting
upright on the floor. “So ye—so ye do
apperciate—
appreciate
—a good
prank after all, don’t ye, Skipper?”

“
Of course I do, Chief. If it’s clever
enough.”

“
Then why in the name of St. George,”
thundered Connors, surprised at the anger in his voice, “don’t ye
let us have some fun with the tyros?”

“
Chief?”

“
No, Andersen—ye bloody well stay out
of this. I want the Skipper to answer for himself.”

Cook leaned back against the couch, to
steady himself; his head spun like a pulsar. As slowly as he could,
he turned his head so that he faced Connors. The Chief’s face
curled into a scowl, almost hidden by his beard.

“
That’s what all this is about?” The
captain started to giggle, and brought Andersen along in his wake.
Connors stared ahead, dumbly; the giddy spirits of his companions
had suddenly left him behind.

“
You mean—you mean to tell me—
”

“
Now, that’s quite enough of that. I
mean, beggin your pardon, sir. But that’s quite enough of
that.”

“
You mean to tell me, that all
this—all this grief is over a few days of hazing? Not the
seques—not the sequestration, not the double shifting. Not the lock
on the beer vault—but the hazing? The skinned-knee, schoolboy
‘eat-worms-or-you-can’t-come-into-the-clubhouse’
hazing?”

Despite himself, Connors joined in the
renewed chorus of laughter, which seemed to their brandy-soaked
minds to last a quarter-watch at least.

“
Well, Chief—I’m sorry to have to say
it, but that’s not the way we do things on Isis,” Cook said at
last, when he had finally calmed himself down.

“
Sir?”

“
Hazing isn’t rounders,
Chief.”

“
It isn’t what?”

“
It isn’t—well, it’s just not very
Isitian. Besides,” he added, his mood turned serious. “I won’t
allow anyone under my command go through what I did my first week
in the service. Or at the Academy.”

“
That’s all what’s behind
it?”

“
That’s all,” Cook nodded solemnly.
“Of course, I did have my own way of dealing with Hell Week. I
mean, I don’t take things like that lying down. Even if I did have
the meanest old yeoman on two legs—or was it three?”

The two yeomen perked up, suddenly curious.
“What did you do?” Andersen asked, his giggling barely under
control.

“
Well now,” Cook slurred, his lips
inching toward a sly smile. “I considered the problem from all
angles...all the various and sundry aspects and prospects, as it
were...and planned—planned, mind you—the appropriate
stragedy...
strategy
! The
exaggly right stragedy.”

“
But what did you do?”

“
And then I went and put it all—just
put it into operation. ’Cause when Roscoe Cook sees what need to be
done, he just goes ahead and— ”

“
What did you do?” the two yeomen
bellowed in chorus.

“
Well...I pulled rank on him,” Cook
shrugged, and took a deep swallow of brandy.

“
You—you what?”

“
Well now, it occurred to me that I
still outranked the son of a bitch. At least when we were on duty.
So the first duty shift we pulled, I just tracked him right down
and gave him two direct orders.... ”

“
Direct orders?” Connors and Andersen
both started laughing.

“
Written orders! Direct written
orders. And I made him sign a receipt so I could court martial the
bugger if he disobeyed me...which I wouldn’t have put past the
slimy bastard, which is why I got it in writing.”

“
Direct—direct orders from—from a tyro
blueshirt during Hell Week?”

“
First order—don’t bother me anymore
when I’m off duty. Except when absolutely necessary to avoid loss
of face with the rest of the greenshirts. I didn’t want to
humiliate the bastard, after all.”

“
Don’t—don’t bother you— ”

“
Second order—don’t ever tell anybody
about the first order. I don’t know why the same thing never
occurred to the other ensigns. But blueshirts never have struck me
as a practical lot, you know? They don’t teach it in officers’
school so I guess some of ’em feel it’s vaguely non-regulation.
Here, have some more brandy.”

The convulsing yeomen were too busy
struggling to stay upright to protest. Cook drained the contents of
the bottle until it overflowed the three glasses and started
spilling onto the floor, then started to sing:

Prime engines and set sail,

Chop off a comet’s tail.

We’ll walk no more Demeter’s shore

So bid your love good day-ay-ay.

Connors and Andersen joined the chorus; the
Chief’s heart throbbed dully in his head, spurred by the brandy and
the pulse of the song. As much in wonder as to clear the fog from
his brain, Connors slowly shook his head. He might have known: the
Skipper was one of those maddening sorts who excelled at anything
he tried. It stood to reason that he’d have one of the best singing
voices on his own ship. Their singing spun circles in his mind,
like the merry-go-rounds he loved to ride as a little boy, but the
memory would bring little comfort when he awoke the next day:

Ring ‘round, the buckoes sing,

We’ll drink what fate may bring,

While Rigel flares and Deneb glares

Five hundred years away.

* * *

“Item ten— ”

“
And hopefully the last.”

“
Now, now—we’re paid well enough. We
can postpone our naps for a few minutes longer.”

As Admiral Clay and the others chuckled
amiably from his respective conference rooms, Weatherlee glanced
down at his briefing papers. The last item on the agenda was the
same as it had been for the past month. And it never failed to make
him sick to his stomach.

“
Updates on the new starships,” said
Clay, looking up from his papers.

“
McKinnon reports that the shields and
weapons systems are still inoperable on the
Buena Vista
. Something in the wiring isn’t quite
right and they haven’t been able to figure it out yet. And Ebling
reports that the computers on the
Covington
are still crashing,” reported Miriam
Wright, on Clay’s left at the Command Center on Looking Glass.
“Every time they load more than two bridge simulations before
rebooting, the entire system freezes up, and it takes the better
part of an hour to get things running.”