The Sirens of Space (27 page)

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.

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-shaping 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.

He was lucky to have salvaged as much as he
did, he thought to himself. Once the Tories figured out how tenuous
their hold on power would be, they’d threatened to back out and
take their chances with the new elections. But that wasn’t
Schiller’s doing: he might be a terror in the industrial world, but
Schiller was an amateur as a king-maker and could have been
bluffed. No, thought Hollenbach, that play came from someone else,
and he chided himself for underestimating the Tory leadership all
these years. There actually was a brain under all that fluff, after
all.

But he could live with the changes. A
triumvirate controlling CosGuard procurement might be imperfect,
but at least he’d have a veto. More importantly, he did get to keep
his committee, which was the source of his power. Besides, with the
Tories in charge, his biggest worries would be a thing of the past,
and he could even help do something about the lizards. The election
he’d face in a few months scarcely crossed his mind; with the
Tories neutralized, and no likely opposition in his own party, it
barely touched his consciousness. But then, he always left such
matters to his aides.