The Sirens of Space (11 page)

Still, Schiller thought, Hollenbach was also
the Senate’s best head-counter. If Hollenbach said it was
possible—and was willing to stake his political life on the
outcome—then that was as sure a thing as anyone could ask for in
interplanetary politics. They had no choice, he concluded bitterly;
they had to go along.

“
I’ll see what I can do,” Schiller
said at last, his eyes flashing with anger. He smiled a tight,
humorless smile of his own. “But it won’t be easy. There aren’t
many of our people who count you as a friend. And you’re not
exactly making yourself seem trustworthy.”

Hollenbach chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll do
your best. Especially when you consider that the alternative is
letting Sarkisian run our defenses further into the ground.
Remember, he doesn’t have to call another general election for six
years, and you’ll never gain enough seats in the regular biennial
elections. Not with the current combination of safe, Federalist
seats and contested Tory districts up for grabs as far as the eye
can see. If you and your friends want to help that silver-haired
Demetrian nitwit take over, your only chance is a no-confidence
vote—and you fools will need all the help you can get.”

The cold rain outside obscured the view of
the river. Schiller pushed his food around his plate aimlessly with
his fork. He had quite lost his appetite. Soon, the waitress
approached with the bill, summoned by an ebullient Hollenbach.

“
Is it afternoon already?” Hollenbach
asked, with mock incredulity. He downed the last sip of his wine
with a practiced flair. “Well, Sally—I must say you’ve been a
delight. And patient to a fault, with three old men sending you
this way and that. Oh, and give the bill to Mr. Schiller. He’s
buying today.”

* * *

Far to
the east, along the
Terran frontier, the cold Ishtari winds buffeted the concrete
bunker that housed the Veshnan consulate.

“
Tell the Ambassador that I welcome
his candor, and that he may rest assured that nothing that we
discuss will be revealed—except, of course, directly to the head of
my government.”

Seated in a dimly lit room in ambassador’s
sitting room, Jonathon Osborne Grant waited as the lone translator,
a Veshnan female he knew as Munshi, translated his remarks. Gazing
into the eyes of his counterpart, Grant looked for a glimmer of
anything he could recognize as empathy, but saw nothing. The
Veshnans, he knew, had as full a range of feelings as any human,
but their facial expressions seemed lost in the milky whiteness of
their skin, and he found himself unable to fathom the workings of
an alien mind. Even an alien reputed to be as intelligent as Zatar,
he found, seemed unable to grasp the simplest nuances of human
emotions. All their races really had in common, it appeared to him,
was the bareness of sterile logic, and common self-interest.

Grant had labored long and hard during these
talks, reading everything about the aliens he could find. Still,
there was much that baffled him. There were suggestions that the
Crutchtans enjoyed limited telepathy, but that hadn’t prevented
misunderstandings from nearly sinking his mission. And he simply
could not understand why, given the pronounced matriarchy of the
Veshnans, they had chosen a male to lead their delegation. Beyond
this were all the questions about the alien Consortium itself—how
it was organized, its power structure, how so many diverse cultures
had been able to resolve so many questions touching the vital
interests of all with no appreciable conflict for countless
millennia. Most puzzling of all, the Consortium had existed when
Man was still living in caves on Earth. How in God’s name could
Terra have pulled almost even with them in so short a time, and
what did that imply for the future of the human race?

Grant was so lost in thought that he almost
missed the Veshnan ambassador’s reply.

“
Zatar says that he welcomes the
opportunity to discuss matters frankly, without the need for the
niceties of form. Among our people, it is well recognized that
delicate matters are best handled by those who are not—as Terrans
often say—playing to an audience.”

“
We seem to make progress only to see
it stall. Whatever direction we take, we find obstacles that seem
more formidable as we discuss them. It has become apparent to me
that the Crutchtans are disinterested in reaching a quick
agreement. What I have to know is whether there is a
reason.”

“
Such as?”

Grant smiled. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t
need to be discussing it, would we?”

From Zatar’s immediate response—an ominous,
choking sound that he had come to recognize as alien laughter—he
could tell that Zatar was following portions of the conversation.
He never knew how much of the language his opposite had mastered.
But however much it was, Grant thought ruefully, the Veshnan’s
knowledge of Terran language and culture far surpassed his own
meager insights into the alien’s mind.

“
Zatar asks if you have a specific
question.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed, and he looked
directly into Zatar’s. He had long noticed that the aliens would
all avert their glance if a Terran met their eyes. Apparently,
Zatar had noticed the same thing, for the Veshnan continued to
smile and return the stare until this time it was the Terran’s turn
to blink.

“
Are the Crutchtans planning for war?”
he asked at last. “Is that why they are reluctant to sign an
agreement?”

The question seemed to provoke a lively
exchange between Zatar and Munshi. Grant could follow none of it
and found himself speculating about what it all might mean. He was
oddly reassured when the answer finally came, apparently despite
the translator’s better judgment.

“
Zatar remarks that your question is
most ironic, for it is one which the Crutchtans themselves have
often asked about Terra. As to the thrust of your question, Zatar
has instructed me to tell you that war is the last thing the
Crutchtans desire.”

“
What do they want, then?”

Munshi smiled blandly, as Grant had learned
that Veshnans did whenever they knew they were about to say
something that made little sense.

“
The Crutchtans wish only to be left
alone.”

“
But— ”

“
To be left alone,” Munshi
interjected, the slightest edge to her voice. “Nothing more, and
nothing less.”

***~~~***

“WHERE IN BLOODY HELL....”

From his seat at the forward control panel,
Mason McGee listened to his brother’s voice trailing off into the
distance and breathed a sigh of relief. Their ship was big as
brigantines go: fifty meters long, with the central hallway
stretching from the bridge past the living quarters to the rear
decks. Offshoot hatches allowed access to the holds on either wing,
and Mason was wondering whether it mightn’t be wise to tend to the
cargo, now that his brother was on a rampage.

He looked out the porthole. The stars hung
like silent beacons in the distance, and a glowing nebula lighted
the skies toward the galactic center. As much as he loved space,
with its eternal calm and limitless vistas, he always hated coming
to Ishtar. They needed someplace to sell their ore, that was true,
and the heavens knew that they could use the change in scenery. But
every time they headed back home he swore that he’d rather take the
lower prices of the outpost stations and be overcharged for their
provisions than watch the wretched planet take its toll on his
brother.

Cyrus was ornery and mean by nature, thought
Mason— independent to a fault, and hard enough to live with in the
open reaches of space. Bring him to Ishtar and he lost what little
sense he had in the first place. The woman they shared at home was
nice enough; she might not be much to look at, but she was a good
worker and a source of comfort who never caused them grief. But
come to the Wasteland, where the women were just as ugly but twice
the trouble, and Cyrus lost all sense of proportion. Between the
free-flowing liquor and the overpriced whores, his older brother
never failed to leave the planet bloody and out of control. It
would take Cyrus a week to dry out, another week to reconcile
himself to his gambling losses, two weeks more to come to what
remained of his senses. In the meantime, Cyrus would rage like an
ion storm in full fury, all because of some barren hunk of sand and
rock that was better left alone.

Suddenly, the door flung open. Cyrus stormed
into the room, almost tripping over the below-deck hatch. His eyes,
wild with drink, flashed with anger.

“
You!” Cyrus screamed, wobbling as he
stood and reeking of drink. “You’re the one who’s been inna my
provisions. You took my fligh’gear, and you were th’one who tried’a
talk me into sleeping away half the return trip.”

Mason put the ship on automatic pilot, then
stood to face his brother.

“
Get off the bridge, Cyrus,” he said
slowly enough so his words would register in his brother’s
rum-soaked brain. “I didn’t touch your provisions and wouldn’t want
to anyway, even if you are too drunk to know the difference.” He
pulled a handblaster from the side console and set it on heavy
stun.

“
Get off the bridge,” he
repeated.

Cyrus reeled, the weight of comprehension
proving too much for his dulled senses. After a few moments his
rage receded, and he turned slowly and made his way back into the
main hallway. Quickly, Mason secured the door. Breathing a sigh of
relief, he returned to the controls.

Two more weeks, he thought. Two more weeks
before they got home. He hoped Cyrus would calm down by then. He
usually did, once the store of rum ran out. All the same, he
pressed the buttons on the internal control panel, locking all
doors and hatches but the one to Cyrus’ quarters, and to the
kitchen. Mason would keep them locked until they arrived home.

* * *

Some distance
away, in the
shipping channel between Ishtar and Demeter, an old man yawned,
struggling to stay awake. The instruments whirred and clicked, and
near the end of his turn at the wheel the sounds always lulled him
to sleep. But it was no matter. He’d made the run hundreds of
times, and the stars never changed. There was still the huge,
glowing cloud abaft and to port, where the mining colonies were as
thick as the whores on Ishtar. Ahead, the cloud dissipated, the
reddish glow turning a wispy blue. And as the radar kept sounding,
his thoughts turned to the greeting that awaited at the end of the
run.

Blip
.

It should be summer along the Demetrian
Riviera when they arrived, he smiled. The girls would be prettier,
but Demetrian whores were fussier. Less likely to indulge a
withered old spacer—at least, not for less than a premium price.
And a lot more trouble, what with their fancy clothes and all. Not
like the spacer’s girls on Ishtar.

Blip
.

In the back, he could hear Shamus stirring.
It was nearly his time to take the chair. The two of them had
roamed across half the galaxy, he smiled, thinking back to their
younger days. Made it far into alien skies, too. Lots farther than
most.

Blip
.

Of course, that was before they knew about
the aliens. Or, at least, about how close the lizards were
venturing west. Now, the spacers all had to keep to this side of
the Hodges System. And it was a pity, he thought. Some of the
prettiest skies were east of Hodges.

“
Damnation!” cried a voice from the
ramp.

The old man turned around to see Shamus, his
partner, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Ye dodd’rin’ old fool!:”
Shamus screamed. “Ye can’t hear the radar a-soundin’ trouble?” He
dashed from the ramp, heading straight for the ship’s radio.

Turning back to his instruments the old
timer finally saw it, clear as the heavens.

There were three of them.

At this distance the ship’s computer
couldn’t identify them, but both men recognized the readings at
once. And they knew they’d never be able to change course in
time.

Brigantines
.

Shamus tuned the radio to the emergency
channel, hoping he’d entered the right password and trying to keep
his voice calm. It wouldn’t help them if nobody could understand
the message.

“
This is Freighter-9042, call
name
Demetrian Mist
. We have
a Code-One emergency in this sector. Repeat—Code One emergency.
Over.”

“
This is Ishtar Command,” came a
woman’s voice over the radio. “We read you,
Demetrian Mist
. State the nature of your
emergency.”

“
We’ve spotted pirates. And they’re
heading right for us.”

Too impatient to tolerate his partner’s
sluggishness, Shamus shooed his old friend out of the pilot’s seat
and began trying to change their heading. Lugging a half-dozen
cargo trailers in tow, the ship would take at least ten
astrokilometers to slow and come about, and the pirates looked to
be forty klicks away. If help didn’t come soon—

“
Freighter-9042 to IshCom, status
inquiry.”

“
Roger,
Demetrian Mist
. I’m checking for ships in the
vicinity. Keep this line open and start transmitting a distress
beacon.”

“
Roger, IshCom. Please
hurry.”