The Sirens of Space

by Caminsky, Jeffrey

  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.

  The music stopped, and the silence caught Hollenbach’s attention. “Please be seated, and fasten your seat belts,” a woman’s pleasant voice called over the speaker. It was hard for him to remember that it was the voice of a computer. “The ship is preparing to sail.

  “Please be seated....”

  The ship shuddered, as her captain engaged the engines and a tractor beam eased the ship away from the spaceport. Soon, Hollenbach’s bulky frame pressed lightly into the side of his chair, as the ship accelerated toward breaking orbit. Outside the porthole, the black terminator line began consuming the planet, and two bright moons came into view. Minutes later, New Babylon was nothing more than a blue point of light, quickly receding from view as the ship began its leisurely, six-day trip to Earth. Outside, in all directions, the stars glowed silently. Rainbow-colored and timeless, they danced across the icy blackness like an endless field of wildflowers.

  “How long ye be gone this time, Macey?”

  “Not long. Two or three months at most, I imagine.”

  “Ye be careful out here.”

  “I will.”

  Janey gave Mason a warm hug and handed him a bag filled with some bread and sausage. “It’ll last ye for the first few days,” she said. Her eyes moped along the floor of the hangar as she spoke.

  “There’s plenty of air, and there’s more in the spare schooner. Ye can radio Nelson or Cifaldi if ye be startin to run low, or get to feelin lonely.”

  “C’mon, Mason!” Cyrus barked. He leaned over the gangway, impatience clouding his face. “The stars can wait forever, but I’ll be damned if I will.” Mason said goodbye and then ran down the gangplank. He turned at the hatch to wave to his woman and then disappeared inside the ship.

  “Ye’ll be spoiling her yet, Mason,” Cyrus said, disapproval creasing his brow. Mason shrugged and slumped into his seat at the controls.

  “Where we be goin this time?”

  Cyrus chuckled as he engaged the engines. “East an’ anticenter. We ain’t been there yet. Not in a while, anyways.”

  Mason laughed out loud. “Ain’t many been that way in a while, Cyrus. Leastways, none without a price on his head. But if the rumors about Wilkes be right ones, I supposed it does us good. If he’s back to Pirate’s Alley, I don’t want to be around when the Cozzies get wind of it.”

  “An ye tell me ye’ve no head for spacin, Macey,” laughed Cyrus. “To think ye’ve been holdin out on me the whole time!”

  “What I got is no head for gettin shot.”

  Cyrus mussed his brother’s black hair, then turned his attention to the helm. Soon, the ship eased away from its moorings, and disappeared into the emptiness of space.

  “Any moment now,” the pilot said in his native tongue.

  Smiling, Zatar peered over the railing of the observation platform. He could see the speaker standing at the control panel with his back to the platform and his body partly obscured by the molded lounger beside his station. As was typical for his race, the young Crutchtan pilot had scarcely said a word for the entire trip, tending silently to his duties while keeping his emotions locked deep within. Now, as they neared familiar skies, he had started giving voice to his reports, and Zatar even thought that he heard the smallest hint of excitement in the very terseness of the pilot’s commentary.

  Of course, Crutchtan reserve found no echo in his own kind. The entire Veshnan delegation had come to the platform, to view the passage through the dome overhead. As the Crutchtans seated themselves comfortably and waited in silence, his own delegation fairly squealed with delight. It was as if they had taken it into their heads to let their Crutchtan hosts see the truth of the common stereotype, the excitable, gaggling Veshnan, too rapt in the thrill of the living moment to enjoy it in peace and quiet.

  Zatar turned to look behind him, at the skies they were leaving. He could not see the star that had given them light until so recently; its brightness had disappeared from view many days earlier. The memories of the frozen, dusty land that had lent them its shelter would take longer to fade. Everywhere, heaven’s blackness was the same; the calm tranquility was eternal and unvarying, and yet he was looking at Terran skies. It touched him with profound wonder to know that as he was seeing the alien stars of a strange race, the Terrans found comfort in the same heavens.

  “The Great Divide is passed,” called the pilot into the speaker, his voice echoing throughout the ship. “We are home.”

  Cheers rang over the observing platform. The Veshnan women hugged each other and sang songs of celebration; Zatar cried out in joy. The Crutchtans rose and clasped their friends by the shoulders, mildly protesting when the Veshnans came to embrace them more warmly than their ways allowed for Lsh’Gelunsch—or “Ones who are Not Mates.”

  Zatar looked overhead, from one side of the Observation Dome to the other. He could not explain the difference: the black sky held the same stars, and looked no different than before, but he felt the difference in his soul. No longer were they living amid strangers; now, they were among friends.

  Glancing down from the platform toward the ship’s controls, Zatar saw the pilot’s face raised toward the arching dome. Like all of his kind, the Crutchtan’s countenance looked featureless and inexpressive. And yet quietly glistening on his cheeks, tears flowed from the young man’s eyes.

  * * *

  “Commander Ashton?”

  “Engines are fully primed, Captain. Mr. Van Horn reports all clear.”

  “Mr. Underwood?”

  “Ishtar Command gives us clearance for departure, sir. At our pleasure.”

  “Amid-deck hatches are secure, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ashton. You may deactivate the grapplers whenever you are ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Underwood, sound the clearing horn.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  The alarm sounded throughout the ship, and soon loud cheers rose on all decks as the crew felt d’Artagnan begin to move beneath their feet. Slowly, as the charging engines sent shudders through the entire ship, the tractor beam eased them away from the base and into the nothingness of space.

  The Dock Twenty-three Observation Deck was swollen with well-wishers and onlookers but the crowd was quiet, almost lifeless. Occasional laughter split the soft murmurs of conversation, and a few children played merrily in the playpit at the base of the deck. Most sat and watched in silence.

  Silence greeted the ship’s first appearance in the window plate; and silence followed her slow movement across their field of view. Like a gray ghost looming in the starlight, the great ship banked gracefully to starboard before gliding off into the Big Black. Stillness lingered on the deck until the ship was too faint to see any longer, and the well-wishing throng departed.

  But a few stayed behind. Some tearful, some dry-eyed and stoic, they gazed into the distance, wistfully savoring the last flickers of d’Artagnan’s run
ning lights. Most swore that they’d never again catch themselves aching after a fading point of light. Few remembered that they’d said the same thing before.

  Ahead, the monitors showed the glowing red storms of the Ishtari Belt. Behind them, the starbase hung large in the blackness, its solar panels reflecting the yellow rays of Ishtar’s sun, the spokes of the docks reaching into the heavens

  “Nearing the end of controlled space,” Jeremy reported. “We should be clear in another two minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ashton,” said the captain. “Please let me know when we’re twenty seconds out. Helm?”

  “Engines purring merrily at one-eighth capacity. Efficiency readings are smack in the middle of the dial.”

  Leaning back in the command chair, Cook closed his eyes and sighed. For the first time in ages, he was totally relaxed, totally at ease. Not that he was under any illusions about the future. Space always had a way of making things go wrong, he smiled. Whatever problems they had in store for them would probably arise at the worst possible time. And he suspected that his headaches were far from over. In fact, they were probably just beginning.

  But not right now. It seemed forever since he’d felt so free of pressures and constraints. Today not even the croakers and worrywarts in the control tower were going to stand in his way.

  “Helm, increase thrusters to one-half.”

  “Sir?” Janet worried. She’d seen him this way before, and it usually meant trouble.

  Not chills-down-the-spine-and-pray-we-get-through-this kind of trouble, she knew. But still trouble.

  “Thrusters to one-half,” she replied. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Let’s give ourselves a proper send-off, shall we?” the captain said briskly. “Helm—stand by for Academy victory sequence. Wing over wing, port over starboard.”

  “Skipper!” Jeremy exclaimed. “We’re still inside the Red Zone!”

  “Relax, Jeremy. We’re almost clear. And I need to test my timing to see just how rusty I’ve gotten. It’s been a few months since I’ve taken a ship into open skies.”

  Janet turned in her chair to face the command seat. “You know, we haven’t practiced this maneuver.”

  “Sure we have. At least, I have.”

  “Not on this ship, we haven’t.”

  “Well...just pretend it’s the Constantine. The helm isn’t all that different. At least, it wasn’t on the simulator. Same omni-directional controls and all. Guess we’ll just have to sort it out as we go.”

  “Some things never change,” Janet muttered, shaking her head and returning to her controls.

  “All right, people...sound the alarm, all hands to Condition Yellow.”

  As the bells sounded across the ship, summoning a thoroughly puzzled crew to alert, Cook leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath.

  “Helm, stand by full throttle.”

  “Standing by.”

  “Red Zone terminus approaching,” Jeremy said, nervously feeling the ship’s power building all around them. “Clear in twenty seconds... mark!”

  “Helm—full throttle. Power up and stand by to engage subspace engines.”

  “Engines amain.”

  “Helm—prepare for victory roll...and snap us out smartly at C-2, Missy. Heading 070 by 15 degrees north.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Stand...by...annnnd...now!”

  As the ship wheeled on its axis, Cook could feel her main engines roaring to life, powering them out of their turn and racing toward the clear skies east and anticenter. He chuckled to hear groans filling the deck, as cross-currents of gravity yanked the bellies of his bridge crew in a dozen different directions. A moment later the ship came out of her roll, settling them onto their course. Ishtar Command became an insignificant dot in the blackness astern, and for the first time in a long while the captain felt he was home.

  “Jeeshus!” cried a startled voice in the control tower. “Did you...did they...were they...?”

  “They were clear of the zone by twenty-two feet.”

  “What a hot dog.”

  “Well, they were in port a long time.”

  “Did they file a flight plan?”

  “I forgot to ask.”

  Author’s Note

  Those interested in exploring the historical context of the ensuing chapters can find information about the era from a variety of sources. Unfortunately, most of those sources are not yet in print.

  To aid readers curious about the years to come, the Author has convinced the Publisher to share some information about what the Future may hold in store for our relatives, taken directly from the prize-winning work of a renowned historian.

  Excerpts from Toomey, From Earth to Isis: The Rise of Humanity. (New Alexandria, cc:343-0874; 3191 OE; 1055 Is)(Reprinted by permission of the author):

  From the Introduction to Volume VI: THE CONFLAGRATION

  On this side of the vast Crutchtan Cloud a mighty empire once stretched westward, reaching into the heart of Greater Isis. Like many nations of pre-cosmic antiquity, its divergent cultures were noted chiefly for their inability to unite long enough to apply the most obvious solutions to the simplest problems of social policy, and for a stubborn unwillingness among their people to let the pressing concerns of the day intrude upon their daily lives.

  Like its Old Earth predecessors, and for many of the same reasons, this early empire has now disintegrated into the many feuding and contentious parts that we know today. And while their never-ending squabbles no longer threaten their neighbors, they offer unexpected insights and occasional amusement to the curious.

  This, of course, is the Terran League of the Second Cosmic Century....

  From Volume IV: THE ASCENSION OF TERRA

  In the dying days of the twenty-first century, a previously unknown amateur mathematician named Caldwell Covington published his first and last paper, entitled Subatomic Particles and Subspace: An Inferential Analysis, in an obscure professional journal. That same year some graduate students at Earth’s Massachusetts Institute of Technology, trying to help a professor complete a paper of his own before being denied tenure, thought they saw in its turgid prose the key to unraveling a mystery of physics: “Irregularities in the behavior of some subatomic particles,” Covington had written, “are explicable only by positing the existence of a non-universe, or subspace, where charged particles can go for a time and then return, almost at random, and not always in the same place.”

  Caldwell Covington was no scientific radical. In fact, he had intended his paper as a sarcastic riposte to the sloppy methods and theoretical involutions of a whole school of subatomic physicists. But however accidentally, he had hit the mark. And though they failed to save their professor’s job at MIT, the students soon devised an hypothesis, some rough equations, and a few crude experiments that cracked the bedrock of twenty-first-century science.

  They found that all atoms, and hence all objects in the physical universe, produce emissions caused by the constant, random passage of subatomic particles into subspace. With proper equipment these emissions are instantly detected across great distances, since time is not a subspace dimension. Light, too, has a subspace component called, with typical scientific poesy, subphotons, and the speed of light is nothing more than the simultaneous passage of observable phenomena through two separate universes. While nothing in nature travels faster than light, its speed could no longer intimidate human ingenuity.

  More importantly, these subspace emissions quickly led scientists to a powerful new energy source, which we now call gravitronics. Like magnetism, we can control it by using simple electricity, and researchers soon found that it let us bend gravity, shred atoms and molecules if focused properly, and carry images and sound waves. It also lifted Man’s horizons and truly opened the heavens....

  ...[M]en and women, machines and molecules exist, like Light, in the physical universe. With limited exceptions, we cannot enjoy the instantaneous travel of “pure” forms
of energy, but Science soon realized that, while matter could not outpace energy beams, it could hitch rides with them. Speed through space was now limited only by Man’s imagination—or his technology, which is really the same thing....

  * * *

  Toward the end of the twenty-first century, and in Year 1 of the cosmic calendar,* MIT developed the first spacedrive engine prototype.

  By the early twenty-second century—or cc:4-4009, to be precise—extensive research in high energy physics had produced the pressure-resistant crystalline metallic alloys needed to withstand the extreme stress of faster-than-light travel. Ten years later, the first interstellar flight returned from a fifteen-month round trip to Alpha Centauri; on its return, the ever-bickering nations of Earth established the Cosmic Guard, to direct and control interstellar travel and exploration.

  CosGuard discovered the first known inhabitable planet outside Earth’s solar system by the middle of the century. Nineteen light years away, Athena became Earth’s earliest self-sustaining colony. In rapid succession, the Guard discovered the planets now known as Gaea, New Babylon, and Zarathustra, and soon had explored and charted all star systems within fifty light years of Earth....

  [*The cosmic calendar is a chronometrical system used to standardize astronomical time: 100 seconds = 1 cosmic minute; 100 cosmic minutes = 1 cosmic hour; 10 cosmic hours = 1 cosmic day; 10 cosmic days = 1 cosmic week; 10 cosmic weeks = 1 cosmic month; 10 cosmic months = 1 cosmic year. Cosmic time differs from solar time, which varies from planet to planet and time zone to time zone, and is used by science to compute units of mass, volume, distance, time, and the like. As used in this book, one cosmic day equals about 27.8 solar hours; one cosmic year equals about 3.2 solar years, a cosmic century, about 320 years.