The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  “Well, Ensign?”

  Dexter punched a blue button to the left of his main screen, then flashed the broadest grin Jeremy had ever seen.

  “Computer gives us an eighty-five, Mr. Ashton—an eighty-five!”

  Jeremy smiled broadly, and accepted congratulations from the rest of the bridge crew. All were elated, except for the helmsman, who remained oddly subdued. It was their best score, against the toughest simulation they’d faced yet, and Jeremy felt it deserved a proper reward.

  “All right people!” he bellowed. “You think we’re ready for the Captain?” The cheer that came in response gave him the answer he wanted.

  “Mr. Underwood, page the Skipper. Tell him we await his presence on the bridge. In the meantime, the rest of you have ten minutes to relax. Get some food if you want, but be back here at 675 sharp. It’s taken us this long to get the Skipper here and we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  The bridge cleared in a minor stampede, leaving Janet and Jeremy alone. Jeremy stepped from the captain’s chair and stepped forward to the helm station, where Janet was busy replaying the last simulation. She was a quiet one, Jeremy smiled, and her reluctance to share her insights on the captain wasn’t the only thing about her that was driving him crazy.

  “It went well, I thought.”

  Janet looked up and nodded, though less enthusiastically than Jeremy had hoped. “Yes, I guess it did.”

  “You find it difficult, working with someone else in the hot seat?”

  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.”

  “Ninety?” The words had spurted out before Jeremy had a chance to think; at the Academy, even his best scores barely reached the nineties.

  “Oh, that shouldn’t be too difficult, Mr. Ashton,” Cook smiled humorlessly. “You can always use Mendelson’s score to boost the average. Already I’d give her about a ninety-two, though the computer’s probably a little more generous.”

  He nodded toward the rookies. “And I’ll be satisfied with a Level Two score of ninety from the others.

  “Actually,” he smirked, “it should prove a rather close race. Carry on.” And he left the bridge, the hatch door closing behind him with a soft whoosh.

  “That arrogant son of a bitch,” snapped Talbert, as soon as Cook was out of earshot. But nobody responded; not one of them even heard him. For the time being, each was lost in his own private world.

  Jeremy swivelled his chair to face the system’s station. He pushed a green button to the left of his center screen, activating the simulation computer to call up the helmsman’s score from the last simulation. His heart sank when it appeared on the screen.

  It read: “Helm: 93.”

  His heart pounding like a kettle drum, Jeremy called up the score for the command chair. The image from the screen burned indelibly into his memory.

  “Command Station,” read the screen. “Simulation Score: Timing—100; Strategic Design—100; Tactics—100.”

  * * *

  The classroom fell silent as the instructor, a full commander, glared at the troublemaker. A plebe did not belong in the same classroom as upperclassmen, thought the commander—much less in an advanced class like Intra-solar Tactics. He snatched the paper from the student’s desk and examined the marks the young man had jotted down. Sure enough, it was exactly correct, just like the last time. Just like every time. But th
is time, the teacher smiled; this time he was ready. He’d always known that this student was cheating. Finally, he’d be able to prove it.

  “Stand up.”

  Slowly, the young plebe rose to his feet.

  “How did you know the correct navigation plot before I even explained the problem?” the commander snarled.

  “I just did,” the plebe answered uneasily.

  “Explain it.”

  “I’m sorry, Professor. I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve always been able to tell.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t really know how. I just do.”

  “All this from someone who isn’t even taking Navigation.”

  “I passed out of Navigation,” replied the student, a slight edge to his voice.

  Scowling, the commander returned to his desk and put another problem on the holographic screen. One that wasn’t in any of the textbooks they were using. One of his own devising. And one that had an unexpected twist that would prove once and for all that the student wasn’t as brilliant as all the other professors kept saying. Soon, the image of an imaginary star system appeared, with the mass and velocity of each planet marked on the screen, just as on a real ship of the line. Glowering as he returned to the young man’s side, the commander he barked his command.

  “All right, Midshipman Cook—set your course for Planet Two.”

  “Heading 810 by five degrees north,” the plebe answered quietly, without hesitation; as he did, the instructor laughed mockingly.

  “Hard when you haven’t already gotten the answer, is it?”

  “Sir?”

  “Here is the correct plot,” said the commander. Pushing a button on his controller, the computer displayed a navigation on the map, arcing in the opposite direction from the student’s chosen course, and using the gravitational pull of the system’s primary planet to accelerate toward the target planet.