The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  An ominous murmur pulsed through the crowd. Sullen men withdrew from the bar as the aliens, closely grouped and clinging to each other for safety, approached. Timidly, one of the creatures grasped the railing and stood, tiptoed, peering over the bar into the curious face of the barkeep.

  “Five glasses of prune juice, please,” it said in a clear and unaccented voice. Jumping with surprise, the startled barkeep knocked over a half-dozen glasses, which shattered loudly on the floor and caused everyone nearby to yelp in alarm. But he had the presence of mind to overcharge his strange customers for their drinks, and watched in wonder as they strolled, prune juice in hand, toward the center of the pub to survey the room, blissfully unaware of the tension growing around them.

  Presently, one of the aliens pointed to a table at the far corner of the pub, near the entrance to the sanitary annex the building shared with the one next door. The others nodded and exchanged a singing chorus of voices. After several moments of melodious debate, the aliens started walking toward the table. Before them, the crowd parted; angry stares followed them.

  Lost in thought and seated at the table was a CosGuard officer, with the eyes of a poet. Sitting quietly by himself in the farthest corner of the pub, he seemed uncomfortable and out of place, and looked to all the world like someone who’d just lost his best friend. The three gold stripes on his space-black epaulets showed him to be a full commander, and the subordinates aboard his ship knew his sharp voice with its edge of steel and ring of command. But the lager had dulled his senses along with his mind, and his eyes had long since gone glassy with drink. Among the crowd, he was the only one who’d failed to notice the strangers’ arrival in the pub, and it was only by chance that he raised his eyes to see them walking slowly toward him. By the time he cleared his windpipe of the drink that his sudden gasp drew into his lungs, the newcomers had arrived at his table and were busy making themselves at home. Under the murderous glowers of the crowd, he realized that he was beginning to perspire.

  “Excuse me, Commander,” one of them said, “but we recognized your uniform and thought it would be interesting to chat. Do you mind if we join you?”

  The commander would come to wonder why he was not surprised by the alien’s flawless speech. At the time, all he could do was take a deep breath and emit a soft, involuntary whimper. His eyes quickly darted about, desperately seeking help. When he’d entered, the pub had sparkled with Cozzie colors, mingling with the natives. Now, he searched vainly for a friendly face.

  “Please sit down,” he said at last, clearing his throat. Despairingly, he caught sight of the last remaining Cozzie discreetly slipping out the door. It meant, he realized to his horror, that he was now trapped, surrounded, and quite alone. As his mind struggled to free itself from the effects of the lager, all he could do was wonder why having a quiet beer by himself was proving to be such a problem.

  “Making peace means making contact,” the alien linguist said in a tone that seemed to admit no debating the point. “It is more than merely talking across a conference table. We decided to mingle, as you call it, to help us better understand each other.”

  “Admirable,” said the Terran, his voice cracking. He’d heard stories, but always wondered what bar brawls on Ishtar were really like.

  “This world seems far too cold,” the alien continued, shivering at the memory of walking outside. “Why do so many chose to live here?”

  “It’s close...to...resources,” the commander said absently, gazing about him.

  “But a quarter-billion people? Our scientists say that your biology is similar to ours, and that we prefer similar climates. So, when we first arrived....”

  Nodding politely, the commander was not paying attention to his guest. He was watching the crowd, and he did not like what he saw.

  * * *

  Minutes seemed like eons.

  The commander felt every eye watching him. Murmurs coursed through the room and darkened with anger, the tone growing more menacing with each passing heartbeat. As his head struggled to clear itself, panic rose to take the place of the beer. Across the table, the alien kept chattering merrily, as if they were all long lost friends exchanging pleasantries and gossip. Either fear was as alien to Veshnans as they were to Ishtar, he thought to himself, or they had no sense of the trouble they were causing.

  “We find your music interesting but incomprehensible,” said the Veshnan. “There is so much noise, there is so much chaos. But our hearing senses are quite similar, so we are told, and we know that there must be something we are missing. Perhaps it is some structural form or convention?”

  “It’s the emotional content, I think,” the Terran said absently. “Your experience with us is too limited to sense clues we grasp immediately, but barely notice. And our musical instruments are probably different enough to confuse you.”

  The alien smiled. For an instant, the danger they shared faded from the Terran’s mind, and the commander found himself charmed to the point of captivation. In the middle of a room filled with hate, it shined like the gentle sun of an Isitian Spring, warming everything and everyone with the glow of renewal. The alien’s smile, to the Terran’s amazement, looked like the sweet, innocent smile of a human infant.

  “You are very perceptive, Commander.”

  The officer smiled lamely and shrugged. “I just know a bit about music,” he said, looking nervously about.

  Turning around, his back was to the lockers as he saw them pushing toward him, cutting off any chance of escape. They were big and mean, and anger flared in their eyes.

  “Plebe,” snorted one. “You’ve much to learn about respect.”

  The young man stood his ground, but said nothing. He watched their advance impassively, his arms filled with books and computer files. Though scared to death, he would not give them the satisfaction of showing fear.

  “Some folk don’t think much of Isitian daisy-sniffers pretending to be spacers,” smirked another. The plebe saw amused scorn flash in their eyes. As if by signal, they dropped their school books to the floor.

  “So I’ve heard,” he answered.

  Soon they stood pressing him on all sides, nose to nose to ear. He could smell the liquor on their breath, and felt the mindless hatred in their souls. With all the inner strength he could muster, he forced himself to relax. Surrendering to panic would only admit defeat.

  “What’s that you’re carrying?” demanded the third.

  “Navigation disks, a biology text, and some music.”

  “What kind of music?” Snatching a disk from the plebe’s arm, the upperclassman knocked everything else the young man carried onto the floor.

  “VanSlambrook—and Mozart!” the upperclassman chortled derisively. His companions laughed.

  “Sissy music,” scoffed the first, taking the tape. “For Isissies and other losers.” He threw down the disk contemptuously, then cracked and shattered it under his boot.

  The plebe’s eyes darted to the ruined music disk, then challenged the upperclassman’s haughty stare. “Midshipman VanderMuelen,” he said, quietly but firmly. “That was my personal recording. I expect you to pay for it.”

  VanderMuelen’s eyes narrowed.

  “Plebes don’t talk that way to upperclassmen.”

  “This one does,” said the plebe. He saw rage flash in their faces, felt their fists clench, sensed their arms draw back to strike. You prat-head, he told himself; you never learn.

  “So every winter Ghilgh’a’sin’s spirit returns to the ground, to sleep until spring.

  “Is that not a lovely legend, Commander?”

  A tall, sneering spacer rose from a table at the other end of the room and emptied his stein. Pushing away from his friends, who tried to pull him back to his chair, he glowered at the aliens sitting at the officer’s table and began staggering toward the aisle.

  “Commander?” repeated the Veshnan.

  “Yes, it’s a beautiful story,” answered the Terran, but his attention was elsewhe
re. The mood of the crowd was now livelier, almost festive. Looking about, he saw everyone’s eyes following the spacer’s progress, their faces giddy with anticipation.

  “You see why Terra has nothing to fear from the Crutchtans?”

  As the spacer neared them, the commander heard drunken voices raising in hearty encouragement. His head had cleared enough to know full well the danger they faced, but not enough to let him plan an escape. He felt a surge of resentment toward his companions for placing him in this predicament. It quickly passed, for he realized that they were not responsible for the lowlife of Ishtar, and knew no better than to wander into a spacer’s bar.

  “Any culture where the strong give their lives for the weak, and an act of love becomes a source of renewal, will be friendly and peaceful,” said the Veshnan. “And they will be the best sort of neighbors. All they need is a chance.”

  The spacer was twenty feet away and closing. The crowd was definitely enjoying itself; the prospect of blood always warmed the Ishtari soul. “Listen to me,” said the commander, calmly but intensely. “We have to leave. Tell your friends to put on their cloaks and prepare to follow me.”

  “Is anything wrong, Commander?” asked the alien. “Have we done something— ”

  “I’ll explain later. Just do as I say—quickly, but with no sudden moves.” The Veshnans donned their cloaks and fastened their waistbelts as the commander rose to put on his heavy gray overcoat. The spacer stopped short and chuckled.

  “Ye wouldna be leavin us now, Mr. Cozzie,” said Cyrus, his voice thick with drink. “I be needin a ward wi’your lizard-lovin friends, there.”

  The commander had no illusions about what “a word” with somebody blocking the exit meant on Ishtar. Painfully aware that he was out of his element, he knew that the time for fear had passed. Now, he needed the clearest thinking his own muddled brain could muster. That, he thought, and about a year’s worth of luck.

  A quick glance and the beleaguered officer had sized up his adversary. The haze in the spacer’s eyes promised a slow reaction if they tried to slip past him. But he was a big man—bigger than the commander, anyway—and would be far stronger, even in his drunken condition: the lower gravity of the officer’s home planet guaranteed that the spacer would beat him senseless if they came to blows, and few Ishtaris would pass the chance to help someone dust off a CosGuard officer. Even in the best of times, Cozzies were not very popular here; someone would surely stop them from escaping if they tried rushing the door.

  Even worse, they might just grab the Veshnans. A physical attack on diplomats in a pub—the commander shuddered to think about the complications.

  No, he thought. They had to ease past him gradually. A sudden move could provoke a riot. And the honor of the Guard required at least one try for a graceful retreat before dashing for the hatch like a whipped puppy.

  “My friend,” he said firmly. “Please step aside and let us pass.”

  Cyrus folded his arms and smirked. Sweat coursed down his face. Hate burned in his eyes like glowing coals.

  “My friend,” the commander smiled coldly. “We’d love to stay and share a lager-pitcher with you, but I’m afraid we’re due somewhere else, and running a bit behind schedule as well. Perhaps another time.”

  “I’m wantin no drink wi’you, matey,” stormed Cyrus, his eyes searching the officer for the smallest reaction, the faintest hint of fear. But the Cozzie held his ground and returned Cyrus’ hateful stare without flinching. He even folded his arms and stiffened his back, defying a closer approach by the drunken spacer. Taken aback by the show of resolve, Cyrus spat out his words like acid. “Kindly tell your wan, wee friends to be steppin over here.”

  A wave of gleeful hate filled the air. Several men moved to block the aisleway, the only route to the door. Hurriedly, the bartender began clearing bottles and glasses and other breakables from the top of the bar. Then, amid cheers from the center of the pub and a quietly sinking heart from the lone Cozzie in the room, a huge man rose and lumbered past the others to stand beside Cyrus.

  “Hello, Cozzie,” said a giant that the increasingly alarmed officer recognized from a past encounter, though the Cozzie had quite forgotten the Goliath’s name. The spacer had once tried to slip past a CosGuard blockade, bent on making a run to one of the illegal colonies past Hodges’ Binary. He’d spent the next week in a Cozzie brig, his ship in tow to Looking Glass, and the brooding, sullen man had never forgotten.

  At least my luck is consistent, thought the Cozzie. His hopes now ran less to escape than to the prospect of a short convalescence.

  Suddenly, the commander noticed an annoying pressure, from a source he took pains to avoid when leading his ship into battle. By reflex, he started to look over his shoulder to the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen and—

  To safety, he thought, dismayed at the time it had taken to arrive at the obvious solution. The doors weren’t very sturdy, but it didn’t matter. Once inside, he could lock the door and signal his ship. The molecular transmitter on board could whisk them out of danger long before the door gave way. Must be the lager, he thought, smiling as he realized that the lager led him to the answer as well.

  “Listen carefully,” he whispered to the Veshnan linguist. “Take your friends down the hallway behind us and wait for me in the room with the small ceramic pot in the middle of the floor.”

  The alien had heard the exchange between the Terrans, and understood enough to be frightened beyond measure. Quietly, as their officer friend kept talking, the Veshnans backed toward the hall.

  “What the— ” the giant puzzled dumbly.

  “Beelzebub’s ghost!” thundered Cyrus, when he understood what was happening.

  “Move!” barked the commander, tipping over chairs and tables to cover their retreat. Quickly, he ushered the Veshnans into the room with the sign marked “Johnnie,” then slammed the door, bolting it shut just ahead of Cyrus’ lunging body, hoping that it would hold for a few minutes. Outside in the bar, a crush of laughing and sneering spacers followed the two ringleaders to the hallway.

  “A fine display o’Cozzie courage,” scoffed one.

  “I ain’t had this much fun since the day Paddy Hassib got tored apart in the Collyseum,” cackled another.

  “Look, what I found,” said a third, stooping by the abandoned table. There, from the floor, he picked up a CosGuard mobile transmitter; in the rush to escape it had fallen from the commander’s pocket.

  “Stars to smile on a spacer’s heart,” crowed Cyrus, as someone handed him the radio. “Cozzie,” he bellowed with a laugh. “Ye dropped your squawker. There’s no way to be gittin out.”

  The response was silence.

  “We’ll let ye go, we will,” cooed Goliath, a bloodthirsty glint in his eye. “It’s your puny friends we want.”

  The silence from the locked men’s room only made the mob angrier.

  “Ye can’t stay in there forever,” Cyrus shouted. In the hallway the crowd cawed and whooped.

  “We’re a-comin in after ye!” Goliath warned, to the cheers of the others. He started ramming the door with his body. Others joined him, shouting with glee. Furiously they hurled themselves at the flimsy metal, trying to shake it loose from its crumbling concrete frame. Each grunt fanned their blood lust; every bruised shoulder whipped their animal fury.

  Finally, the door started moving. With a fierce howl, the frenzied men threw their bodies into one smashing thrust at the buckling frame. The hinges ripped from the wall, the door slammed onto the floor, and the blood-crazed men charged into the head in a blind rage. In an instant, the crush from the rear threw the leaders nose-first against the back wall, and Cyrus cracked his shin against the commode. The pain crackled up his leg to echo in his lager-soaked brain, but except for the mob, the room was empty.

  Within seconds, someone noticed a frozen chill to the air. Goliath looked toward the ceiling in the right corner of the room, where the air-chute was ripped open. The opening was barely b
ig enough for a man, surely big enough for the small aliens. As the drain in the commode finished its cycle, the cold night air poured through the hole, driving the attackers back into the hallway.

  The giant was furious.

  “Ye noodle-noggined mushbrain!” he bellowed at Cyrus. “Ye should o’ thought he might sneak out some back way, the tricky bastard. Ye simpleminded twit.” He punched the wall as hard as he could, breaking his hand.

  “Don’t be a-blamin me, ye loud-mouthed fanny-noodler,” snarled Cyrus. Too drunk and angry to know better, he stomped on the larger man’s foot and aimed an elbow at his solar plexus. He hit the monster’s belly instead, and the enraged giant lifted Cyrus off the floor with his good arm, hurling him into the crowd, knocking several would-be brawlers down and forcing the rest into the center of the pub.

  “Fight, fight!” chorused the mob, eagerly joining the melee, little caring whose side they took.

  After running for several blocks, the cold air burned their lungs. On the Terran’s signal the group stopped to lean against a wall, breathing deeply. Their hearts were pounding like hammers.

  “Your pubs—seem friendlier—from the outside,” the alien gasped between breaths.

  The commander laughed, as much from relief as in response to the alien’s jest. He rested his head against the wall and looked up at the shining stars and lightening sky. “I’ll walk you to your hotel,” he panted. “The rowdies are out in force tonight, and the nights here are short. Dawn will break soon, and it would be better if you were home when the sun comes up.”

  They started walking, slowly to help them catch their breath. Before long they were trotting as quickly as they could without stumbling over the cracks in the pavement. The wind pierced their clothing like knives, and soon they were shivering again.

  “By the way, Commander, I am called Panche’teMunshi. And we are renting a house, not a hotel.”