Setting Sail at Last

Excerpted from The Sirens of Space by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

from Chapter 16

* * *

"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-wish¬ers 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 running 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.”




© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

War Comes to Gr'Shuna

Excerpted from Clouds of Darkness by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or a bookstore near you.

(Readers from the United Kingdom and abroad can also find Clouds of Darkness on Amazon.co.uk )

Chapter 17

THEY RAN IN LOCKSTEP down the paved streets, their feet sounding as one, their minds locked into place by the hypnotic rhythm of their pace. Surrounding them was little of the world they had left a brief cycle earlier. As Regiment Blue plodded along, toward a still-unknown destination, it was like running through a graveyard of shadows from the past.

The manicured gardens along the wide boulevards had grown wild and unkempt. No longer did the city echo with the laughter of children, nor ring with the gentleness of females. To the left a building burned out of control and untended, for none had the time to squelch the fire. Garbage littered the streets along the ancient houses of the aristocracy, and vermin from the forests were finding homes amid the refuse. Wherever the soldiers looked they saw chaos.

Shl’Lanasha kept his eyes focused ahead. So long as he concentrated on his duties, his heart beat as one with his comrades. But whenever he permitted himself a sideways glace he saw an unspeakable horror in the eyes of his countrymen, and could feel their consuming terror.

His helmet and body armor were light, nearly as comfortable as bathing in the warm summer sea. They had taken the design from some garments found on a dead Terran in the early days of the war. Though the clothes were as alien as the longnoses, it had been a simple task to adapt them to the needs of the g’Khruushtani. The visor on his helmet adjusted to the light, permitting him to see the warmth of those around him in the darkness. Coveralls the lightness of air swathed his body; yet woven into the fabric of his armor were threads of an alloyed metal that gave his clothes strength and resilience, shielding his vital organs from all manner of projectiles. Like the others, Lanasha did not know where they were headed; they knew only that they had been ordered to the edge of town. And so they ran in unison, as they had been trained to do, giving as little thought to what they saw as to the air they breathed.

Down the boulevard they ran, oblivious to the distant scuffles and screams that followed their passage. Up the Hill of Remembrance, they continued past the perimeter of the Old City and out the ancient Gate of Judila, away from the sea, toward the hills and forests to the west.

As the sun reddened and set, the onset of darkness found them running still. As the creatures of the night stirred from their rest, and began their daily labors of survival, Regiment Blue found no rest. There was only the dull rhythm of two thousand soldiers, plodding onward, twelve abreast, to the call of night beetles and the lonely screech of the raptor.

* * *

FO’RENDISH STRUGGLED to keep a stoic calm. He knew the importance of his task, and strove to do it well. But having One of Importance watching his every movement made him uneasy. When such a One was also the Lord Commander, uneasiness could not help but affect his performance.

“Well?”

The monitor watched his instruments, waiting until the motion sensor made another sweep of the screen before venturing an answer.

“All remains clear, my Lord.”

“You can see nothing?”

“Not from this distance, Lordship.”

“Not even the Convoy?”

“No, Lordship.”

“Have you used all of your instruments, Monitor? Can we not raise them on our screens by using more sophisticated methods of detection?”

The young Monitor sighed deeply, and repeated the answer he had given a dozen times before, to officers whose rank and importance had increased with each duty cycle over the past two days.

“We are in low frequency radio contact with the Convoy, Lordship. They are still beyond the range of our most sensitive instruments. And they still have not encountered the Terrans. Until they do there is no reason to disclose our presence, or theirs, by using our active sensors. Passive observation will do just as well.”

“I would prefer additional readings, Monitor.”

“Please allow me my professional judgment, Lordship.”

“But the difference in sensor range— ”

“The Convoy is alerted, Lordship,” fo’Rendish said, more sharply than he had intended. “Their scouts are combing the skies for any trace of the longnose bandits. It is unlikely that the Terrans will be able to come upon them undetected. And you surely must remember that the Terrans possess sensing devices of their own. If we probe the skies too aggressively for them, they will detect the probes long before we detect the Terrans.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Yes, Lordship.”

Ga’Glish bowed and turned to go, the sensor soundings echoing in his ears. He knew that the monitor was right, and felt foolish for having troubled the young man. Yet he ached to think that they were helpless in the face of Terran atrocities, that as they sought to cut across the Gulf of Shuna he could do no more than pray that the Terrans did not find the Convoy before help arrived.

He strode down the corridor toward the Intelligence Section. Such a crisis called for action, he thought; he would not accept their own impotence in the face of impending disaster. Whatever it took, he would find a way to intercept the longnoses before they could murder any more Small Ones. Before they destroyed the last shreds of the heritage and traditions of his home.

* * *

"NEXT!”

Lanash stepped through the circle of fellow soldiers into the center of the ring. Numbness coursed through his body. The blood-green sand felt soft beneath his feet, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He stared silently at the small wooden post that faced him, a few paces away. Soon the circle parted, and he heard the throaty protests of the woodland animal that two soldiers were dragging by the neck into the makeshift arena. As the drillmaster fastened its leash to the post, Lanash took several deep, reassuring breaths and looked at the animal now bleating at him, loudly and pitiably.

“Shl’Lanasha!” commanded the drillmaster. “Take the ready!”

Lanash drew his dagger from its sheath and crouched low, looking into the animal’s frightened eyes. Forcing himself to be strong, Lanash fought the urge to empty his stomach on the ground beside the terrified beast.

“Your home is in ashes and your mate’s entrails are filling a barbarian’s stomach!” hissed the drillmaster. Lanash felt hate gnawing at his belly, and his mind was on fire.

“Listen to my voice,” the drillmaster continued. “Death is a phantom and the longnoses are but shadows of evil.”

Lanash felt the fire of passion and lost all sense of time and self. He never heard the command to halt, stopping only when two of his comrade’s physically grabbed his arms and held him fast against their bodies.

Looking down, he saw his chest covered with his victim’s lifeblood. The creature’s shredded remains were scattered across the circle. Led away from the exercise ring, behind the mutilated carcass of the dead animal, Lanash felt his heart reawaken, and could feel it pounding thunderously in his breast even as his belly weakened. Falling to his knees, he bent over and emptied his morning meal onto the sandy ground. As his companions helped him rise to his feet, he felt his legs give way. His head floated lightly over his body as he struggled to remain conscious in the face of a growing faintness. He did not hear the drillmaster’s harsh voice sounding behind him.

“Next!”

* * *

THE SMALL audience in the Briefing Room stirred visibly. Fa’Shenali could sense their growing excitement, a single thought growing stronger, much like a snowflake starting its fall from the mountaintop.

“So it is your belief— ”

“It is not a belief, Lordship,” fa’Shenali interrupted, “so much as a theory. Whether it proves correct, of course— ”

“I understand, Subaltern,” said Ga’Glish. “But your idea brims with wit as well as promise.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Do you know the range of their sensors?”

“Lordship?”

“From what distance will they be able to detect our active probes?”

“No one knows with any certainty, my Lord. My guess would be that their range is approximately the same as ours—twelve units, more or less. That is how long it takes for the signal to fade into the background noise of the galaxy.”

Ga’Glish thought a moment. They would have to be careful. Too many probes might make it easier for the longnoses to sense a trap; too few might make the bait so hard to perceive that the Terrans might never notice. But the idea itself....

Ga’Glish rose from his seat and began to pace. The logic of fa’Shenali’s plan was flawless. Searching for new merchantmen to attack, the Terrans would be looking for any signs of activity in the sector. Active sensor probes from the fleet—not many; just enough to make the Terrans aware that ships were headed toward them—should draw the Terrans away from the Convoy and toward the relief force.

Then they could set their ambush for the Beast. A few ships in the middle, to serve as bait, surrounded by the bulk of the g’Khruushtani fleet, concealed by distance or shoals, or wisps of interstellar gas. When the Terrans attacked, the g’Khruushtani would surround and destroy them. The Beast and all he symbolized would die in flames, and Gr’Shuna’s future would reach haven, beyond the reach of the murdering Terrans.

And if the witless longnoses surrounding the planet delayed their attack long enough, the Fleet might even return soon enough to repel the attack on Gr’Shuna itself.

“The plan is brilliant,” Ga’Glish said.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Your commander salutes you, One Called fa’Shenali. And your people owe you a Grand Debt that is beyond measurement.

“Come!” Ga’Glish gestured grandly, his arm sweeping full circle and coming to point toward the archway leading to the tactical computers. “Let us see just how cleverly we can plot to reclaim our debt of blood from the longnoses.”

Cheers ringing in his ears, fa’Shenali bowed proudly, and watched as the assembled High Commanders converged on their leader, their voices brimming with excitement. Yet as others thrilled at thoughts of victory, secret and treasonous doubts clouded the subaltern’s mind. The One Called Khu’ukh was slippery and unpredictable, and Legends told of the brave one who died, eaten by a seashark while trying to catch a fish with his own bare hands. He could assign it no reason—and if reason governed their lives, then his doubts were little more than madness. But as others felt the thrill of budding triumph, fa’Shenali felt the coldness of disaster lurking unseen in the darkness.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky