A Company of Heroes Book Five: The Space Cadet

by Ron Miller

  Oh, what a good little girl! he thought, happily. Stout denial! The very first thing I try to teach them. And right here to my face! Without blinking an eyelash! Oh, she’s got a little nerve, she has!

  “There’s no use denying it, Judikha. I’ve got proof.”

  She didn’t reply, nor did her bland expression change.

  He held up the marked coin between a chubby forefinger and thumb. “I’ve seen this coin,” he said, “three times, and each time it was in your payment.”

  “I’m sure there must be many coins with nicks in them, sir.”

  “No doubt. But not another one with a mark I put on it myself.”

  She was silent for what could not have been more than three heartbeats, though her expression did not waver.

  “Oops, huh, sir?”

  “Oops, indeed.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I should have been more observant.”

  “No, no. Well, yes, you should have been more careful, but you did very well. Better than anyone has before you, I can tell you that. There’ve been some pretty bold liars in this office and some very slick operators, but no one, Judikha, no one among all the hundreds who’ve been through my academy, have had the nerve to steal from me!”

  “Thank you, sir. I really do try to do my best.”

  “Would you mind telling me how you went about it?”

  “Do I have to, sir?”

  “No. No, I suppose not. But you’ve been punished once or twice before. How did you know that it wasn’t for stealing from me? Why did you keep on doing it?”

  “Well, sir, I figured that if I was being punished for stealing from you, I surely would have been told. Just to make sure, I stole again the next week and nothing happened. So I knew that it must have been either for something else—though just what I couldn’t figure out—or you were only making an example of me.”

  “Good heavens, you are nerveless!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Judikha was obviously such an apt pupil that The Fox felt a wholly unexpected and unfamiliar quiver of pride. He rewarded himself by increasing her tithe to an even ninety per cent. Nevertheless, he instructed the hag (his mother? some thought so) to punish the girl that night and he withheld the old woman’s gin to insure that it would be an experience Judikha would not soon forget.

  Turned out at eight and a quarter years of age—more than a year and a half earlier than the average—Judikha found a niche for herself in an abandoned garret, much as the infant barnacle, set free from its parent, soon attaches itself to a rock, pier or hull.

  An irregular hole that served as the only window looked out on a chaotic landscape of steam and wheels and smokestacks and ruined warehouses. Factories gloomed through the oily mists, dynamos throbbed and steam hammers rang. And every now and then there would be the subsonic roar of a launching rocket. She could feel the city’s vibrations through the soles of her feet and when she pressed her cheek against the clammy plaster of the wall. Squabs of grass, wounded by the iron-dust that sifted from the atmosphere in lieu of rain or snow, added a sad color among the rockeries of broken bricks and shattered masonry. An unceasing brown rain dripped from the bare hedges. From across the singed yards, where snakes of yellow smoke writhed, she could hear the voices of engines and the yelping of dogs. Only the dogs and the wheels denied the thought that the Transmoltus was a city of destruction surrendered to the conqueror smoke. Through the crevice came persistently, day and night, the surge and throb and squall of the city. From dawn to dawn the movements of its insane symphony repeated themselves, now taken up here, now there, beating against the outer walls with grandiloquent noise, lashing and swirling in little eddies or concerted waves. But on the horizon, against the clouding sky, through the banners of flame, through a roaring cloud of smoke and steam and sunset, she could see the craggy, gleaming terraces of the City.

  Her home was little more than a den created from an odd angle in the top floor of a massive tenement block. It was crisscrossed by the massive, black timbers that supported the lead-sheeted roof; a weird, prismatic hollow with no right angles, it boasted a feature that had infinite appeal to the young girl: the outside wall, more than two feet of stone, brick and plaster, had that meandering crack that allowed her an unobstructed view of Blavek and, more importantly the spaceport beyond.

  The garret had been inhabited, off and on, for centuries. She discovered that at one time someone had papered all the walls with pictures cut from magazines and newspapers. They had been painted over countless times, but with patience she could often pick away the ancient scales until an image was revealed. She never knew what it was going to be; sometimes it was an animal, sometimes a flower, sometimes a pretty girl. Sometimes the layers merged imperceptibly one into the other, so she would uncover, perhaps, a bird-person or an automobile-fish or some other surprising and even disconcerting hybrid.

  There had also been bits and pieces cast off by countless previous denizens for which Judikha always found some good use. Stumps of candles and puddles of spilled wax she carefully gathered and consolidated into new candles, if roughly formed and smokily inefficient. Cardboard cartons contained her neatly folded clothing. Bales of yellowed newspaper were crumpled into balls and used for insulation; a broken spoon, bits of cloth, a few pins, buttons, a can opener, rusted springs, shards of glass bottles, a rusted tin cup—dozens of odd objects, mostly useless and certainly worthless, all which she carefully preserved because, after all, one never knew. Chief among this detritus, and perhaps the least useful of it, was the tintype she found jammed edgewise between two floorboards. It took her half an hour of patient scrabbling and the help of a fork whose single remaining tine proved the perfect tool (and didn’t that go to show that you shouldn’t ever throw anything away?) to retrieve the photograph. As it was drawn from the crack—ever so slowly and gently for fear of scratching the surface—it entranced her from the first glimpse. Torn, bent and worn to an irregular oval shape, there was little left of the original image except the face of a young woman and the hint of old-fashioned-looking clothes. In the flickering, unsteady light of a single candle, the silvery features seemed to take on an uncanny life. It was the face she’d always imagined faeries to possess: pale, triangular, with wide, white brow and delicately pointed chin. The little mouth had upturned corners, which made it look wise and sardonic. The nose was tiny and, because the portrait was full-face, almost invisible. The eyes, however, were enormous and reminded her of a cat’s or an owl’s: wide, slanted and almost entirely occupied by huge black pupils, like two drops of oil in a pool of milk. Surrounding the elfin face was a froth of black hair that parted the shimmering forehead with a pronounced widow’s peak.

  There were four crudely-written letters in wax crayon on the back of the tintype—a different color for each letter—that had been almost perfectly effaced. All they said was THUD. She discovered much later that this word should have meant something to her, but at the time the connection would have seemed so unlikely, so impossibly coincidental, that she can hardly be blamed for missing it.

  The photograph became her most valuable possession. She neatly and meticulously trimmed away all of the image except for the haunting face and placed it in a brass-plated locket that she had stolen from a variety store—not without considerable agonizing over which of many styles most suited her prize. She would have been unable—or perhaps unwilling—to explain her fascination with the tintype and fortunately no one ever asked her to do so. But then, she never showed it to anyone. Judikha to this day is reluctant to discuss it—one who is otherwise candid, even graphic, in discussing the most intimate and even disreputable details of her life. However, she has made it clear that even at that early age she was dissatisfied with her physical appearance, that she thought herself homely and unattractive, so perhaps it is not unreasonable to suppose that she saw in the little tintype portrait an ideal, that when she gazed into it she could imagine she was looking into a kind of magic mirror that reflected the imag
e she’d prefer seeing.5

  Often, at night, after rolling herself into her blankets, she would open the locket and stare at the tiny face until she fell asleep. Sometimes, just before she lost consciousness, the face, dimly lit by the evanescent, auroral light of the furnaces that flickered through the crack in the wall, filtered through quivering half-closed lashes and watery half-focused eyes, would seem to momentarily appear alive. Inspired by that illusory movement, her imagination—unfettered by a brain whose logical faculty was already half-asleep—saw the strange, elongated woman step toward her, her long, luminous body like a wavering shaft of moonlight—which in truth it probably was. The sad gentleness in that limpid cat-face lacerated Judikha’s heart. She wanted more than anything to ask what was wrong, to inexplicably say she was sorry, but swallowed the words aborning, for fear that the slightest sound would make the beautiful woman vanish like a soap bubble. Invariably and disappointingly she always fell asleep before she could discover what the woman wanted or why she looked so sad.

  Once, when she was nine, she slipped across the bridge into Blavek. She had to be careful; the police, who turned a blind eye to what occurred in the Transmoltus so long as it stayed there, were particular as to whom they allowed to roam the streets of the capital. Stringy ragamuffins with hungry eyes were very much on their list of undesirables. But it was winter, and a bleak, dank, foggy evening, and the forces of law and order were not prone to discomforting themselves over trifles, therefore no notice was taken of the slight, silent shadow. For a giddy hour thereafter Judikha had looked through the unshaded window of an alabaster townhouse, received an eyeful of white-linened table, gleamingly bare arms and necks and backs, flashes of silver and the glint of crystal all aswim in a pink glow. It was more than a glimpse into Blavek, more than a glimpse into the cool world of the privileged; it was a glimpse into a life as alien as though it were on another planet.

  Another winter dusk, when she was ten, she stood before a roaring sunset watching the soaring vapor trails subdividing the heavens and pledged a terrible oath to herself.

  IV.

  When better able to remember the events of the previous night, and to realize that she was now in space, apparently on board a large independent merchant freighter, Judikha asked the man nearest her for an explanation.

  “What’re you growlin’ ‘bout, girlie girl?” he answered, between gritted teeth, as he hauled on an enormous valve-clabber. “You’ve jus’ run afoul of th’ bucko second mate—th’ kid bucko. We’ve been doin’ th’ same all night. He’s big enough, all right, but too young fer th’ noise he makes.”

  “So I’ve been shanghaied,” Judikha groaned. “Do you know if Lieutenant Birdwhistle is aboard?”

  “Who? Th’ gink you was brung in wit’? He’s wit’ th’ other watch. Oh, you’ve struck a sweet ship, girlie girl, you have. Been in space before?”

  “In the Patrol.”

  “Whew! Patrolman? Botha you? Musrum help you then, ‘til you learn your work.”

  “Dry up that guff at the valves!” bawled the officer from the catwalk.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” returned the man with strained courtesy, then shouted to his workmates: “Watch that balance, boys! Hold ‘em level! Keep them needles straight up! Take ahold, here, girlie girl,” he added in a lower tone. “Take ahold er you’ll have ‘im at you again.”

  Judikha hauled at the huge valves with the enormous, greasy wrench, as big as her leg, a blind, physical activity that was about all she could do in her demoralized condition. The muscles in her long arms, bunched and quivering like epileptic anacondas, were almost torn from their moorings by the effort. She allowed her mind to concentrate entirely on the purely mechanical task of working the tool, of directing her limited reserves of energy into the brainless fibers of arms and back. She fell into a kind of trance that was as therapeutic as it was time-passing. Before she knew it she had accomplished her task—the valves were all balanced for open space and the gauges were all trimmed until their thin red needles were uniformly vertical. Then the crew were driven aft to assist the other watch in trimming the turbine inhalators. The strong, dry, chilly breeze that leaked from the gratings rapidly cleared Judikha’s benumbed faculties, and as she worked with the others, she searched her memory in an effort to identify the second mate’s voice. She had heard it somewhere before, she was certain, but could not quite remember where. It was certainly out of its original context. But ever since her awakening the man had kept to the shadowy catwalk—either by chance or design—where it was too dark for her to distinguish any features other than his bulky, porcine outline. Indeed, it was difficult to distinguish even the features of those working shoulder to shoulder with her. It was only when the second mate chastised the crew for not bending their backs enough to suit him, and the man next to her muttered an indignant reply, that she became aware that that unkempt and sagging figure was the formerly elegant Lieutenant Birdwhistle.

  “Keep quiet, Judikha!” said the latter in an undertone, responding to her startled exclamation. “Don’t say anything until I can talk with you. We’re in separate watches, curse it. Can you believe they roused me out at 2400? Why, I’d barely gotten a decent six hours’ sleep!”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me here!” he hissed. “Do as you’re told and say nothing. We’re in a bad fix.” Then he turned his back on her and their labors were resumed in mutual silence if not mutually identical feelings.

  It was only later that Judikha grasped the general layout of the spaceship, which, though simpler overall, was very much different than the warships with which she was familiar. The Rasputin was shaped like an enormous football. From its blunt nose to seven-eighths of the way towards the equally blunt tail, the ship was filled with cargo—thousands upon thousands of tons. Of the remaining eighth the first third was the chamber—the pump room—in which Judikha now found herself. Cheesebox-shaped, it was circular and not quite as high as it was broad. It was the only habitable part of the spaceship, which was operated and steered from a control room that opened onto the catwalk that completely encircled it; the officer’s quarters were on the same level as the control room and catwalk. The crew’s quarters and the galley were cramped rooms squeezed between the vast, pulsating machines that occupied the bulk of the available space. The rear section of the ship was devoted entirely to fuel, engines and etherbenders. Like many independent merchant ships, the Rasputin was of primitive design, at least compared to the sleek, automated Patrol ships. It was cheaper and simpler to maintain half-century-old technology, to keep the decrepit old ships running until they literally disintegrated one fine day, to kidnap a crew and starve and beat them and then replace them next voyage out, than to refurbish a worthless hulk and install modern equipment. So there you were.

  Though the air was now clear of the soot and oil and steam of takeoff, the huge banks of engines would continue to thunder until sufficient velocity had been achieved for transystem hypoinsertion—when the big ether benders would be engaged—after which they would be economically throttled back to where the scantest modicum of gravity would be maintained. There was a honk and then a bellowing roar sounded from the annunciator: Relieve the helm and lookout. That’ll do the watch.

  “Your watch, youngster,” said Judikha’s valve-mate, as they stowed their gear. Perspiration still poured down the length of her glistening stalagmite body, sticky and salty, her fine hair glued in calligraphic swashes to broad forehead and broader shoulders; she was glad for the briefs and sleeveless vest, both of thin cotton gauze, though they were plastered to her like wet tissue paper. She wiped her face with the back of her forearm.

  “There was little choice between ye,” said her companion, apologetically, “when we lifted ye up th’ hatch; but th’ first mate picked your chum an’ th’ second mate picked you. Don’t know which o’ ye had th’ worse luck. Wonder where th’ bloody mate is, anyhow. Ain’t heard his yap this watch, but he was busy enough
up t’ midnight. Where ye hail from, anyway?”

  “Blavek,” she replied. “The Transmoltus.”

  “Earth-girl, eh? Least we hail from th’ same planet, more or less. Leastways I’m from a dead loyal colony. Rastabranaplan, just th’ same what this sorry barge calls home, I’m ashamed to say, though I was born in Udskaya.”

  “But then,” she mused, “every planet’s called ‘earth”, isn’t it? just like the native name of every race usually translates into ‘people’. So it doesn’t really mean much if I tell someone the name of the planet I’m from.”

  “True enough, youngster. ‘Rastabranaplan’ did just mean ‘place’ in the tongue of th’ late natives, now that ye mention it. Might behoove us t’ use earth’s Galactic Standard name.”

  “Might as well get used to it. What ship is this?” she asked, “and where’s she bound?”

  “Rasputin, of Rastabranaplanian registry, as I said, Captain Krill, of Schlarnbarro, master. Ever hear of ‘im? Surprised ye ain’t. First mate’s another Schlarnbarro bully, an’ th’ second mate’s a brand new bucko just out o’ kindergarten, I take it—not used t’ bossin’ crew an’ not more’n half a spaceman, but a jim-hickey with his fists. From your neck o’ th’ woods, I heard. Guess you an’ me an’ your chum are th’ only Terrians forrard. We’re goin’ out t’ Quongslacken-Oop XI. My handle’s Wopple, of Udskaya, an’ I go t’ space only t’ keep out o’ Ironhouse. How’d you come t’ b’ shanghaied?”

  “Beats me. Drugged, I guess, judging from the headache I’ve got.”

  “That’s bad. Stick t’ your own boardin’-house, that’s my advice. You’ll get robbed all right, anywhere, but ye won’t be doped in your own place. The doctor’s turned out so I guess we’ll get some coffee soon—what they call coffee anyway. It ain’t good, but it’ll sure give your system th’ wallopin’ it needs.”