Excerpts from The Star Dancers: The Staff Meeting

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 13

* * *

“And besides, just where do you think all these lizards are going to come from? Shangri-la? Or maybe they’ll just materialize out of thin air. Or from the Cloud itself. My God, what nonsense!”

Embarrassed, the briefing officer shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Her pretty young face blushed brightly, as if her aborted report on alien ship movements had been the cause of this latest eruption. Beside her at the lectern, just under the viewing screen. stood Commodore Wright, her face burning with disgust. Silence had fallen over the rest of the starship captains, assembled in the main auditorium for their weekly briefing. They already knew the dangers of trying to interfere. The kind of exchange they were witnessing had become all too familiar.

“I don’t know, Commodore McIntyre,” Cook replied sharply, standing at his seat on the left aisle. “If I did, there would be no need for this discussion, and you could spare us the witless attempts at pointed rhetoric. In the meantime, it seems to me that we would do well to start studying defenses against an enemy flanking movement, if only because the Crutchtans are unlikely to view their tactical situation as narrowly as CosGuard’s finest.”

McIntyre’s face seethed with anger. A small man, his forceful personality and booming voice filled the hall. He was used to dominating these strategy meetings and did not take kindly to newcomers challenging him in his own domain—especially loudmouth rookies who hadn’t learned their place, or how to hold their tongues.

“That’s absurd, Cook—that’s truly absurd.”

“ ‘Fools see absurdity in their own reflected folly,’ ” Cook said, quoting a line from an old Isitian master. “What I say may well be wrong,” he explained, seeing his comment evoke nothing but confusion on the faces of everyone around him, “but it’s hardly absurd.”

“Gentlemen..., ” Wright began, as calmly as she could.

“Unlike some acquaintances of mine, I don’t pretend to know all the answers,” Cook continued, undaunted. “But I do know that knowledge rarely comes from ridiculing people who ask questions. If war does come, and we don’t knock out the enemy with the first blow, we’ll be scrambling all over creation, trying to shore up our failing flanks. In my humble opinion, that is where we should expect them to attack because that is precisely where we’re weakest. No matter how strong we are elsewhere, those two starbases—117 and 121—are the keys to front. That much should be clear to anyone who can read a starmap.”

“Rubbish!”

“Gentlemen— ”

“If we don’t reinforce them, we may well find ourselves on the short end of the war’s decisive battle. Unless, of course, the war turns into something of a rout. But then that’s hardly an assumption that should guide our strategic planning, so it’s largely beside the point.”

“Gentlemen, please....”

“They’ve no bases, no forces, no lines of supply, and no means of mounting an attack. And you’ve decided that it’s all immaterial, because the lizards can suspend the laws of logistics with no more than a wave of the hand.”

“Gentlemen!”

Cook pointed an angry finger at his antagonist. “Mark my words, McIntyre—though actually, I doubt we’ll ever really know, come to think of it. It would take a war to prove me right, and from what I’ve seen the aliens are far too civilized to let that happen. But mark my words, anyway— ”

“Cook—you’re an idiot! A windbag and an idiot!”

“All right, that’s quite enough!” Commodore Wright raged, her eyes on fire. “I’ll see you two right here—and right now. Everyone else is dismissed. The next pre-maneuvers briefing will be posted on the Board.”

Slowly, the two combatants sank into their chairs. The other starship captains started filing out of the auditorium, their feet shuffling noisily. Occasionally, one would lean over to give a word of encouragement to McIntyre while passing the senior wing commander’s seat. At last the great room emptied, until just Cook, the two commodores, and the pretty young briefing officer were left. Neither Cook nor McIntyre had budged from his seat, placing them on opposite sides of the room and making it impossible for Wright to see both of them at the same time.

“I think our Isitian friend has been sniffing something besides daisies,” sneered McIntrye. Before Cook could respond, the base commander erupted.

“I am sick and tired of this constant bickering!” she flamed, slapping the podium with the small stack of papers she held in her hand. “The two of you come down here—right in front of me—right in the center. Right here! Right now! I’m not about to get a stiff neck trying to yell at both of you. Come on...come...as in—Now!”

Reluctantly, the two men rose from their seats and ambled to the front row center. Petulantly, they kept two seats between them. Each held his tongue as Commodore Wright, index finger wagging furiously, addressed them much as a schoolteacher would scold the class troublemakers.

“There is no excuse for it. None at all! I won’t have my wing commanders at each other’s throats. I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? And I don’t care who’s to blame. You’re both acting like spoiled brats. Now you don’t have to like each other, or talk to each other. In fact, I don’t care if I hear another word spoken out loud by either one of you. Ever! And I suspect I speak for the entire contingent here at Looking Glass! But this—gentlemen—is the last time that you two will disrupt a staff meeting.”

Wright strode to the front of the podium, and spoke in a taut voice that admitted no discussion. Her angry eyes shifted from Cook to McIntrye and back again.

“From now on, the two of you will show each other the same courtesy that you expect from the rest of the staff. In the privacy of your own quarters you may insult each other to your heart’s content. But in public, you will not show the slightest hint of your differences—not on my base—not on your own ships. Not anywhere in my command. Not anywhere in the whole of Terra! And if either of you so much as thinks of starting up again, I’ll have your tanned hide hanging from my wall so fast you won’t even know it’s gone.

“Am I clear?”

Both men nodded.

“Am I clear?” Wright fumed, glaring sternly at the young Isitian.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“McIntyre?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Wright gathered her briefing papers and angrily stuffed them into her briefcase. “You two are confined to this auditorium for the next ten minutes. You can use it to talk over your differences, or you can sit in silence like a pair of stubborn jackasses and not say a word. I really don’t care, as long as I hear nothing more about it.

“Follow me, Lieutenant. Let’s leave the children alone for a while.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two women walked up the aisle toward the door. Soon the two wing commanders were alone with their thoughts, their eyes drifting everywhere around the room except toward the figure sitting two seats down. And for ten minutes—to the second—the only sound in the hall was the soft hiss of the ventilator, echoing in the stillness.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from The Sirens of Space: Comings and Goings

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

“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 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

The High Art of Diplomacy---Excerpts from the Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 10

Far east of g’Khruuste, where Ya’Lisha girded himself to endure his Minister’s wrath, Zatar of Ibleiman was facing an ordeal of a different order on the planet Balarium, in the Grand Drawing Room of the Grand Hall of the Grand Alliance.

“So, Zatar,” cooed Drubid, the Glincian Solon, “what then is your real conclusion? What shall we expect you to tell the Council at tomorrow’s sitting?”

Watching from near the food table, Zatsami of Mlantza frowned in silence. Like all Veshnan women, she was used to indulging the male need for attention without taking what they said seriously. Unfortunately, in diplomatic settings like this one, the men and women of other races often listened intently, encouraging boastfulness at the expense of more productive endeavors. Or worse, they actually believed the silliest bits of male puffery. Such nonsense was one of the reasons that Veshnans rarely trusted their men with any undertaking of a delicate nature. Even when the man was as brilliant as Zatar, he was often most successful at getting himself into trouble.

Like this present slice of foolishness: Drubid was perfectly transparent, and his government’s interest in the matter was well known. He wished to drain Zatar’s insights in advance of tomorrow’s session of the Council, to help his delegation frame its position from a stance of reasonableness and draw added support from the ranks of the uncommitted. A child could see as much, but still Zatar pressed ahead, so intent on impressing the Glincian with his mastery of the subject that the need for discretion was forgotten.

Soon, the reception would be abuzz with talk of Zatar’s report on the Terrans, unmindful that Zatar could very well change his conclusions by the time the Council sat the next day. There was, after all, a wide gap between his own professionalism and the Veshnan male’s instinct to assert his dominance. As with all men, the show itself was all, and beyond their preening display lurked a child’s insecurity, which meant that nothing said during a man’s moments of self-importance should be taken seriously. Veshnan women understood this, and were quite happy to let men keep their fond illusions so long as it came to nothing. She could hardly expect sister races to understand the quiddities of Veshnan manhood, however, and the point was near when she could defer intervention no longer.

“Surely, the Solon cannot expect the Council’s own emissary to display favoritism?” Zatsami interjected, ignoring Zatar’s stamping foot. “How can the council’s favorite procurator reveal his thoughts to one and withhold from the rest? No, I am sorry, Lord Drubid, but I must protest. And, of course, Zatar must beg your forgiveness.”

Bowing politely, the Glincian smiled and excused himself. Zatar’s eyes followed him to the entrance to the Banquet Hall, where Drubid disappeared into the crowd. The council’s favorite turned with a fury upon Zatsami, Veshna’s senior solon.

“You seem a most popular man tonight, Zatar,” Zatsami said mildly. “But then, I have never known you to want for companionship.”

Pleasant memories darted between their eyes, and Zatar’s anger soon faded. He even managed a smile, as he realized—after the fact, of course—that the solon’s intervention had spared him even greater embarrassment on the morrow. “I have never seen such curiosity on the eve of Council, Tsami,” he said, “and from all corners of the Alliance. It is as if my report holds some meaning hidden from myself. Only the Crutchtans have not sought my counsel tonight, and I doubt that the reason is a lack of interest.”

Sighing, Zatsami closed her eyes and nodded. Men could be so unthinking, she thought, but Zatar had been gone a long time and re-mastering the nuances of Council politics after an absence always took time. Placing her arm in his, she led him from the Drawing Room out onto the veranda. The stars glimmered in the clear night sky, and a soft breeze blew from the south. The city lights shone like diamonds strewn over the valley below. The view from the hill was magnificent, commanding one of the grandest vistas in all the civilized universe. Yet it was the loneliest vista as well, for aside from the city the planet was uninhabited. The Grand Alliance kept its administrative center alone and isolated, on a world open to none but those with official clearance to visit. Only bureaucrats and diplomats and visiting dignitaries—and their families, once the proper forms were filed and approved—could enjoy its teeming gardens, or swim in its warm, salty seas.

Coming to rest near grRunsti Fountain near the Fidrei Gate, Zatsami turned to face her countryman, concern etched across her face. “You are aware of the divisions within the Crutchtan ranks?”

“I am not long away from the Terrans, where conflict is as natural as breathing. I found myself developing a new sense to detect it. And I have come to wonder whether conflict is any less natural to our Crutchtan friends than to their Western neighbors.”

Zatsami nodded ponderously, and spoke in the lowered tones of one accustomed to the intrigues of diplomacy. “Cra’Jenli and Gal’Shenga are finally joining their battle for dominance in the Imperator’s Palace, and here the Glinci and Atkvalo are casting for allies among the uncommitted. Even as we speak, plans are hatching and forming here and in every corner of the Alliance, all with the purpose of gaining sway throughout the realm. All seek to use the Terrans to their advantage. Your report is critical to everyone, Zatar, though to each for different reasons. And all wish to couch their positions in terms that comport with your own.”

“And Veshna’s position is— ?”

“Our position is not your concern, Zatar. You are charged with the common good, not with advancing the interests of the Motherland. And our policy will likely follow whatever you recommend. After all,” she smiled, “we cannot believe that what benefits all will inure to our disadvantage—particularly since the Council will be looking at matters through the eyes of a Veshnan.”

She took his arm to lead him back into the palace. As they walked, Zatar had time to reflect. He was walking into a swarm of harvestbugs, he thought, a vast host devouring all before them without thought for what might lie ahead. None of them understood the dangers they faced. Not the Crutchtans, nor the Glinci, nor the Atkvalo. Not even Zatsami and the others of his own kind. And Zatar often wondered if he himself understood any better than the rest.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from the Sirens of Space: Skipper's Promotion

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

....[A]t a dry dock back at the starbase an alarm tone exploded deep inside the cerebral cortex of CosGuard’s newest captain. Struggling toward consciousness, Cook groped to shut it off. His head was a symphony of pain, repaying him dearly for the hours of abandon he shared with the crew on his full last day commanding the Constantine. The clock by his bed read 350 Hours; he’d slept half the day—nearly five cosmic hours—and vaguely recalled that he still had a lot to do. He couldn’t remember what any of it might be, but he knew he had a full day in store.

Still clothed in his standard blues, Cook staggered to the shower in his cabin and fumbled at the activator until the warm water began to flow. He leaned against the stall, grateful to have mastered his first major task of the day. Gradually, he shed his clothing, leaving it in an inert pile in the corner of the shower, and stood transfixed by the streams of water from the dual nozzles. After what seemed like several hours he opened the hatch, dragged himself back into the cabin, and fell onto his bed, face down and dripping wet, where he remained until his yeoman came to call him to duty.

“Commander—I mean, Captain Cook,” said the startled young woman. Tactfully, she tossed a bedsheet over his bare bottom before gently shaking his shoulder to wake him. As Cook began to stir she took to tidying the room a bit, throwing soiled fatigues and socks into the laundry shoot.

“You’re needed in security,” she said, as matter-of-factly as she could. “Some of the redshirts got rather out of hand last night, you see, and Lt. Moll would really like you to conduct the captain’s mast. You know...before you turn over the ship to Mr. LaRue.”

Cook grunted an acknowledgment of sorts, his groggy mind fighting its way toward consciousness. As his yeoman chattered merrily away, reminding him of the duties of a outgoing skipper, his two major tasks of the day gradually began to crystallize in his foggy brain.

First, he told himself, he would speak to Mr. LaRue about overdoing discipline upon assuming temporary command. This was a good crew, and good crews need nurturing, not an iron fist. The sooner LaRue understood this, the quicker his own command would follow. He started to sit up until he was interrupted by his giggling yeoman. Her face flushed beet red, as she quickly turned her eyes toward the far wall.

“Wrong again, Cook,” he smiled at her wearily, too tired to care about his loss of dignity. As carefully as he could, he leaned over to recover the fallen bedsheet.

“The second thing I’ll do is see Mr. LaRue.”

* * *

After a tasteless breakfast in the cafeteria, Cook made his way from B-Deck to Security, where he declared an amnesty for all infractions of the day before. The cheers still ringing in his aching head, he went down two more levels to Engineering, to say goodbye to Chief Engineer Seth Montgomery. The old-time Cozzie had been a favorite of Cook’s, with a Demetrian’s contempt for pomp and an endless supply of stories. The two had passed many an hour sharing a whiskey bottle and bemoaning the luck of the draw that had infected the ship with such a stickler of a first officer. They’d had a falling out the past few months as Cook’s personal life intruded upon their friendship, and Cook wanted to square things before he left. But Monty interrupted Cook’s apology with the observation that real friends had little need of such formalities, and such things were usually understood. “Especially,” Monty said, his eyes twinkling, “when the insulted friend is proven right.”

Cook laughed along with his friend, hoping that Monty wouldn’t be too disappointed when he learned that CosGuard’s newest starship skipper still had a few blind spots in affairs of the heart. He declined the offered drink; his head was still recovering from the last batch of “one more rounds” he’d had the previous night, and his stomach was already having trouble adjusting to the near-zero gravity that Monty kept in the engine room to make traversing easier. Instead, Cook spent his time listening to his friend tell about the starship skippers he should watch out for.

“The sorriest batch of losers in the heavens,” the engineer snorted, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Egos a parsec wide and mouths to match. Particularly that jackass from Demeter.”

“Jones?” smiled Cook. Jefferson McKinley Jones, the senior wing commander at DemCom, was reigning champion at the semi-annual maneuvers six times running. Cook’s sole encounter with the man—Jones literally patted him on the head after the Constantine had staunched a Red Fleet breach that would have cost Blue the encounter and Jones his sixth gold medal—had not endeared the esteemed Commodore Jones to the young Isitian.

“That self-important twit was a squirrelly frigateer when I knew him, befuddled as a fly in a glass ball. His idea of battle is two ships dead in space, firing amidships until someone’s shields buckle. The pompous bastard couldn’t tell his butt from a black hole then, and I hear he ain’t changed much since.”

Cook heard about men he already knew—Drexler from CentCom, Addison from Ceres, McIntyre from Looking Glass—and even shopworn stories about the old days, when Captain Porter Clay, with “Fighting Joe” Ferrigan and Little Dickie Blodgett, finally drove the pirates out of the Demeter sector. In the end, he quickly conceded that he’d fallen in with a hopeless cast of scoundrels , and led Monty on a last inspection of the ship’s powerful engines. The nine large cylinders, each three stories high, had seemed so huge when he first took command; it was hard to believe that they would be dwarfed by the fifteen monstrous engine blocks of a starship. All too soon, time came to bid his friend farewell.

“Next stop,” Cook called over his shoulder as he leaped toward second-story catwalk leading to the main corridor, “la maison de l’Escargot—and then, you’ll have a new skipper.”

“Still trying to talk some sense into François?” Monty shouted in return. In the low gravity Monty kept in the engine room, Cook sailed through the air like a diver, deftly coming to rest between the handholds on either side of the gangway atop the ’tweendecks companionway.

“Nice shot, Captain!”

“So long, Monty,” Cook laughed. “Maybe you’ll find someone who can beat your next skipper at no-grav bandyball.”

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Excerpts from the Star Dancers: Battling Space Pirates

Excerpted from The Star Dancers by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon, or at a bookstore near you.

From Chapter 9

As d’Artagnan sailed through uncertain skies, another ship pierced the blackness of outer Terra. Newly christened the Black Dragon by her crew, her scouts had just spotted the last enemy standing between their new mother ship and the safety of open space. With a cortege of a half-dozen brigantines following in her wake, the renegades sensed a kill in the offing. Tension built within their ranks, but it was the anticipation of hunters thrilling in the chase. They had confidence in their champion and no doubts about his ability to prevail in combat against anything the Cosmic Guard could send to stop them. His valor in battle was unsurpassed; his cruelty and cunning had made him a legend far beyond the confines of his own camp. The mere mention of Chadbourne Wilkes raised a mixture of hatred and admiration across the West Terran frontier. And except for a lonely figure striding onto the bridge of the Cozzie ship now hurtling toward them, the thought of facing him even up in battle was enough to send quivers of mortality through the bravest of souls.

* * *

Slowly, the two ships closed, until they were almost within range of their close-range sensors. Then d’Artagnan hove to, near the gravitational limit of a planetary system circling a bright blue star, inviting the pirates to attack. Wilkes responded by doubling his speed, leading his brigantines toward the glory of what would be their crowning achievement—bringing down a starship of the Cosmic Guard, and laying the frontier at their feet.

* * *

The klaxons rang loudly, calling all hands to battle stations. Crewmen scurried about, preparing the ship for the ordeal ahead. The gun batteries signaled ready; engineering signaled ready. Soon, all stations signaled their battle status to the radio officer on the bridge, who reported each bit of news to the captain.

The mood on the bridge was tight as a metal drum. On all sides, the monitors showed the enemy starship racing toward them, ten minutes away. Jeremy’s heart pounded furiously and he saw fear everywhere around him. Underwood was pale as death itself; Talbert’s eyes were sunken like a tomb. Beads of sweat were forming on Palmer’s brow. Even Janet’s hands were starting to tremble and sweat over the helm control spheres, and Jeremy knew full well how important she was to their chances of surviving. A clear, firm voice ringing over the bridge brought them all back.

“Helm, increase sublight speed to one-half, prepare to engage subspace drive.”

Jeremy looked to see Cook, hands clasped behind his head, leaning back in the command chair as serenely as at one of his bridge drills.

“Prepare to come about—and I hope you’ve all left your queasy stomachs in your cabins,” Cook chuckled. “Nothing is more distracting than having the cleaning drones scraping vomit from the floor while I’m planning an attack.”

Nervous laughter coursed through the bridge.

“Miss Palmer, half power to shields,” continued the captain, his voice measured and confident. “Charge the forward and portside guns, and stand by to raise the shields.

“Helm, come about to 750 by 015 south, and increase speed to C-1—mark! Now, lift us back up to the enemy’s plane of approach—slowly...that’s right. And prepare for hard a-starboard at increased speed.

“Mr. Underwood, sound the clearing horn, if you would. Let’s try cutting enemy ranks down to more manageable proportions.”

* * *

Slowly, though at speeds beyond the comprehension of human senses, the giant ships lumbered toward battle. As lights on a distant shore, the stars hung silently in place. The pirates approached like a dagger, in a formation the Cosmic Guard called a “battle wedge.” The d’Artagnan approached alone.

At a distance of ten astrokilometers, the ships made visual contact. Like minor stars in the local heavens, each reflected light from the hot, blue star that glistened in the blackness nearby. Slowly, the enemies neared each other, the pace of their progress tightening the nerves of everyone on both ships.

Suddenly, on the order of their commander, the pirates doubled their speed, charging toward the CosGuard ship like the ancient armies of Old Earth. Just as suddenly, as if reacting to a long-awaited signal, d’Artagnan swung hard to starboard at a sharply increased speed and dove, dipping far below her adversaries’ directional plane and heading toward the area’s dominant star. Baffled by the maneuver, the pirates held their course, watching dumbly as the Cozzie starship raced far out of position, almost inviting them to join a deadly game of hide and seek among the stellar debris of the nearby system. Then, suddenly and without warning, the d’Artagnan came about smartly and changed course, heading straight for the pirate flotilla. As the seconds passed, confusion gripped the bridge of the pirate flagship, freezing the flotilla in place for a few precious moments. As Cozzie grew closer, the pirates cut speed and began to pivot, desperately trying not to be outflanked, their leader sensing that by the time he realized what Cozzie had in mind, it could well be too late.

* * *

“Power readings, Mr. Ashton.”

“Holding at 60 percent of capacity.”

“Miss Palmer—shields amain. Blank all guns and prepare to charge the aft batteries. Helm—slow to C-1, ease up on approach arc—that’s it. Prepare for hard aport, bank even at 730—and mark! Now bring us in line with the trailing brigantine, and let’s let them start sweating awhile.”

“All enemy guns amain, Captain; all enemy shields at full power. They’re all at sublight, trying to come about.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ashton. Miss Palmer, open fire on my order.

“Aye, sir.”

“Helm—increase to C-14, prepare for sublight lift due north on full stop at my command.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Dead ahead at fourteen, and standing by.”

* * *

As the pirates pivoted in place, d’Artagnan raced toward the corner ship in the formation. Within seconds, she would be within range of the powerful guns of the renegade starship, but Cook had timed the maneuver to keep the pirates’ leftmost wedge between the d’Artagnan and the pirate leader, shielding the ship. As Wilkes fumed on his bridge, frustrated that he couldn’t get a clear shot, the Cozzie ship came to full halt, training her aft guns on all brigantines within range. Soon a flash appeared in the sky, the funeral fire of the corner ship in the pirate flotilla. Cozzie had drawn first blood.

The first flash was followed almost instantly by a second; two ships were gone from their ranks and the pirates had yet to fire a shot. From his bridge, Wilkes barked orders to his wingmates, telling them to scatter to the stars and give him a clear approach. He was furious with himself for being so gullible, and it was now painfully clear that the brigantines, rather than distracting Cozzie as he’d hoped, would only be a hindrance.

Suddenly, without warning, d’Artagnan burst through the dying fireball of her second kill on a direct heading for the enemy starship. With no time to react, panic seized the pirate bridge. Wilkes screamed the order to dive and the Black Dragon jerked violently downward. Barely missing the Cozzie ship as she passed overhead, the pirates felt their mast shields shudder under the blast of enemy guns. And when they finally managed to compose themselves, the Cozzie ship was speeding into open space, daring them to follow.

By the time the pirates recovered enough to take up the chase, d’Artagnan had begun a leisurely starboard arc, edging ever so slightly back toward the blue star that dominated the local heavens. The Black Dragon alone dared to follow, and across her bridge eyes widened in amazement. Even their leader looked badly shaken, and fear was a stranger to Chadbourne Wilkes. Danger was nothing new to any of them. They were used to living on the edge of disaster, cheating death by the seat of their pants. But this was different, and the same cold chill gripped the hearts of all: they were stalking a madman.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

Politics in the 26th Century

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 12

This is ridiculous.”

Cook exhaled loudly. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk and holding a folded sheet of paper. Untouched on a tray on a side table was a breakfast of reconstituted eggs and toast, and a cup of lukewarm coffee. A digital scanner was on the work table next to the wall, and display disks were evenly divided between the floor and the half-open binder box on the floor. He woke up in a foul mood. Insomnia kept him up reading half the night, and that usually meant a rough day for anyone he was around the next morning. The mail that greeted him had not helped his disposition.

“Problems?” asked Jeremy, entering the room, wondering what new problems faced them today. The captain seemed a font of boundless energy, but as nearly as Jeremy could tell, most of that energy was focused on sending the ship’s executive officer chasing in a dozen different directions.

“I haven’t been on Isis in fifteen years,” Cook complained. “Aside from an occasional reference to my Uncle Cornelius in letters from my parents, nobody tells me anything that’s going on there. What do I know about local politics? They don’t even tell me which district I vote in these days, for crying out loud.”

Baffled, Jeremy walked to the captain’s desk and took the paper from Cook’s hands. His eyes widened in surprise when it dropped to the floor and unfolded into a sheet nearly eight feet long. It was a ballot, sent him by the Northland Province Elections Commission. By law, everyone in the Cosmic Guard received an absentee ballot whenever his home planet held elections. Isis had the minimum number of senators—one fixed-termer, one special-termer elected whenever the president called for elections—and this was the year Isis selected her fixed-term senator. The Isitian ballot also presented a confusing array of candidates and ballot proposals and was taller than he was. The tiny printing on the ballot’s twelve columns did not seem designed to help anyone to make sense of it all, and apparently nobody thought to distribute the ballot by district. By the looks of it, every office on the planet was listed. Fortunately there only seemed to be two parties, and a brief scan of the top of the ticket revealed a name that even Jeremy recognized.

“There’s Irene McGinnis,” he said. “I remember her from the hearings on that big scandal a few years ago. She has quite a reputation, as I recall. I was quite impressed with her.”

“No, no, no,” Cook said, trying not to sound impatient. “That’s not the way we do things on Isis. She’s already had her turn. Besides, she’s the wrong party. She’s a Nuthatcher.”

Jeremy looked again. The only parties on the ballot were the Liberals and the Conservatives.

“Well, you see,” Cook tried to explain, “we don’t like to give anyone more than one turn in Covington. Politicians are like naughty children. They’re easily spoiled and must be constantly watched. Give them too much and it goes right to their heads. Makes them think they’re big shots. So tradition is quite specific. Nobody goes to the Senate more than once. Anything beyond that is simply not very Isitian.”

“But hasn’t she already served two terms? And what in God’s name is a nuthatcher?”

“On Isis, tradition is not carved in stone,” Cook said testily. “And the Cooks vote for Mugwumps, not Nuthatchers. Nuthatchers are a subspecies of unenlightened visigoths. Corneilius Cook would never let me hear the end of it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem.”

Cook voted straight Mugwump, too proud to admit that McInnis—Old Ironpanties, as she was known on Isis—was the only name apart from his uncle’s that he recognized as well. All the while, he grumbled about the fact that he didn’t know enough about the issues or candidates to vote for “None of the Above.” Like most Isitians, he also voted to reject all the proposals and initiatives, since voting for them only encouraged similar nonsense in the future. It made no difference anyway, he muttered to himself. In interplanetary politics everyone on Isis was a Federalist: they stuffed the last Tory and put him in a museum long ago. And it hardly mattered that the Mugwumps made a hash of things whenever they came to power. The Nuthatchers were just as bad, but at least this way they’d face a Mugwump mess in the end. Those messes were usually more convoluted, of course, but at least their hearts were in the right place. As he finished, he noticed that Jeremy was trying not to laugh, and doing a very poor job of it.

“All right, what’s so funny?” Cook snapped. Immediately, he felt a surge of guilt at his lack of good temper. He knew that Jeremy wouldn’t like his next assignment, but if there was one thing he’d learned on the Constantine, it was how to delegate assignments that he didn’t want to do himself.

Of course, some jobs were easier to delegate to people he didn’t like. Jeremy was such an improvement over his last first officer that Cook hated pushing the advantages of rank too far. That reluctance wouldn’t stop him from doing so, he admitted to himself. But at least he had the decency to feel guilty about it.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky

PIRATES!

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 9

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 them 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.”

Shamus turned from the helm console to the trailer controls, on the left-most panel, and began to enter the security code to jettison their cargo train. He hated the thought of decoupling. The payday that awaited them on delivery would have left them sitting pretty for half the year, and given them plenty of cash to spend on Demeter once the paperwork cleared. But if it came down to their hides, they’d leave the cargo for the pirates and be off, as quick as a Ceresian gigolo.

* * *

Striding into the command center, Admiral Clay cast a stern glance from the monitor screens on the left to the radio controls on the right. He was pleased to see the room well-disciplined and tightly controlled. Every technician was seated and focused on the instruments, and there was none of the mindless chatter that often made the Command Deck seem so chaotic. Every voice was either asking or answering a question; a crewman sat at every screen. Everyone in the Cosmic Guard knew just how deadly a pirate raid could be, and the coded security announcement calling him to the bridge had made clear that another attack was underway. The admiral didn’t like the turn things were taking the last few weeks; he didn’t like it one bit.

“Admiral on the deck!” announced the officer of the day, a dark, pretty lieutenant commander whose name Clay couldn’t remember.

“Situation?”

“Brigantines moved to attack a lone freighter along the Ishtar Spike, Admiral. Fortunately, the freighter was sticking right to the middle of the shipping lanes. We had a squadron of escorts patrolling the affected sector. They scrambled and put the bandits to flight.”

“The freighter?”

“It was hauling a train of six cargo trailers. The pilot decoupled almost at once and took flight. But the pirates didn’t seem interested in the cargo—they started after the freighter. The escorts arrived before they could close. Now they’re helping the freighter recouple with its cargo.”

“They took after the naked freighter?” Clay squinted.

“Yes, sir.”

“But the situation is under control?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Commander—carry on.”

Clay left the Command Deck and walked down the wide corridor toward his office. Guards from the Security Office snapped to attention as he passed, but he was too preoccupied to nod an acknowledgment, as he usually did when young Cozzies tried to impress him. This was the seventh pirate attack they’d seen in the last three months, he thought. All against lone freighters.

He decided to issue another advisory, this time strongly advising against solitary travel, and urging all commercial shipping to form into convoys before entering interstellar skies. He knew he’d get resistence: the shippers always resisted advisories, and usually ignored them. It delayed their delivery schedules and added to their costs. But he knew he’d never be able to make a mandatory directive stick: the threat was still too amorphous, too random, too unfocused. He’d be overruled by Central Command by the end of the day, if he tried to impose another Convoy Directive. Just like he was at the outset of this latest round of attacks.

Arriving at his office, he strode into his private chambers and locked the door behind him. Gazing at a picture of himself as a young skipper, he smiled sadly before taking a seat and beginning to write out his notes for the report he’d file later in the day. He’d spent his youth battling pirates, he reflected. He’d chased them away from Demeter and cleared the shipping lanes all the way to Central Terra, but they never really disappeared. The past few months it seemed that they’d returned as bold as ever, raiding ships closer and closer to base, harassing the lanes from Ishtar all the way to the frontier.

Briefly, he thought about scheduling a command conference for the next day, to discuss their options. Maybe a simple redeployment would give them more assets to use along the commercial corridors. With the aliens behaving themselves, they certainly could spare some ships from the frontier. But he dismissed the idea as soon as it formed in his head.

They’ll just think I’m an old granny, the admiral chuckled. Attacks had always tended to come in streaks, and whenever pirates got bored, they’d take to buzzing convoys, just to amuse themselves. Still, he thought, it had been nearly a year since they’d seen Chadbourne Wilkes and his band of cutthroats. Wilkes was not often given to lying low, and he was hardly the type to retire quietly. Clay couldn’t avoid thinking that while the raids were doing no real harm, they seemed a lot like an enemy probing for weakness.

Finally giving it up, he decided that everyone else was probably right, and he really was just an old granny. He quickly sent along his advisory, and turned his attention to resolving the logistics snafu that kept routing half of their food from Looking Glass back to the Hodges Binary, and most of their replacement parts back to Central Command.

© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky