A Company of Heroes Book Five: The Space Cadet (26 page)

“Mr. Queel,” the captain shouted as soon as he saw her friend, “set this infernal insect to working on this basket of laundry and see that he gets it done. Maybe he’ll learn how to wash clothes properly before I’m done with him.”

The basket indicated was as high as the lieutenant’s shoulders and must have contained 500 pounds of soiled laundry if it contained an ounce. Judikha was certain that it was the slop chest from the previous voyage and that the contents therefore had been worn for months without cleaning and had lain in that basket for at least another month since.

“You ‘gentleman’s gentleman’,” sneered Captain Krill. “You Patrol officer, you. I’ll learn you something!”

Birdwhistle did not answer, but only leaned a shoulder against the huge basket and began to nudge it inch by inch across the deck. Judikha speculated on their chances if she let fly with her wrench at the back of the captain’s head.

So the forenoon watch passed and the captain became more and more irritable. There was a constant supply of news from the helm of which he clearly did not. Judikha tried her best to manoeuver as close as she dared to the door of the control room, on the chance that she might overhear what was going on. This proved easy enough, for the man at the helm did not take any especial precautions, but merely shouted out his information to the captain without turning his head. The news was only that another spaceship had been detected, approaching gradually from the rear and slowly overtaking the
Rasputin
. The freighter’s own exhaust was interfering with communication. Still, her heart thrilled—what if the other vessel were a Patrol ship? Could there be some way to signal it? To let it know of Lieutenant Birdwhistle’s and her predicament?

The captain tramped into the control room and peered at the board. He stood up with a derisive snort.

“Nothing but a damned Jerhennian tramp,” he said, “and I hoped it might of been a Rastablanaplanian ship.”

Liar,
Judikha thought
. You believed it was a Patrol vessel as much as I did!

Nevertheless, it was the first spaceship that had come within hailing distance since they had taken off and Captain Krill was anxious to communicate with it.

“Well?” he shouted to the helmsman. “Can’t you raise her? What’s the matter with you?”

“Sorry, sir,” replied the flustered spaceman, “I—I don’t really know. I—I don’t—”

“Can’t you operate a radio proper?”

“That’s not it, sir. We’re not getting through on voice—distance or something else interfering, sir.”

“Then hail them by code, you brainless fool!”

“Y-yes, sir. But, sir, I don’t know code—”

“Oh!” cried the frustrated skipper, grasping the poor man by the collar and flinging him from his chair so that he fell to his hands and knees to the deck. He kicked the man with the point of his heavy boot and shouted, “Get below with you! What I have I done to be burdened with such useless infants? Here, you!” he called to Birdwhistle. “You gentleman’s gentleman what’s not a Patrol officer. Can you operate this radio?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant. He stood up and Judikha saw on his face that peculiar expression it now always seemed to wear.

“Then put that gear aside, clean your hands and come up here and help me signal that Jerhennian. Step lively now!”

In less than a minute Birdwhistle was alongside the captain.

“What’s he saying?” the captain asked, pointing to the speaker, which was emitting a series of plaintive-sounding beeps.

“It’s just a hailing signal, sir,” replied Birdwhistle. “Shall I reply?”

“What do you think I called you up here for? Your damned company? Answer it!”

The lieutenant worked at the key for a moment, then sat back. There was a moment’s silence, then the speaker beeped again.

“It’s the
Squattro
, sir, out of Blavek Port.”

“You do seem to know something, after all,” said the captain.

“More than you do,” muttered Judikha, fearful that the lieutenant, unaware of the captain’s recent suspicions, would prove too adept at code-sending, but there was no way for her to warn him now.

Birdwhistle acknowledged receipt and again waited. As a new series of signals arrived, he translated them for the skipper.

“Three weeks out of Parple IV, sir, bound for Arastaran.”

At the captain’s order, he signaled the other ship that the
Rasputin
was fifty-six days out of Rastabranaplan Port, bound for Quongslacken XI.

“All right,” said Captain Krill, “the formalities are over. Let’s get some news.”

Birdwhistle sent this request and listened closely to the reply. There was a great deal of static and Judikha, from her position, could not distinguish the signals of the other ship from the extraneous noise. Apparently the lieutenant was having no less difficulty.

“What’s he saying?” demanded the skipper.

“I’m not sure, sir. The only word I got clear so far is ‘battle’.”

“‘Battle’? What’s he mean, ‘battle’?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask him to repeat.”

Birdwhistle did so, then listened closely, his face screwed up with concentration.

“S-h-i-p. ‘Ship’, sir.”

“What in hell does he mean?”

“Just a moment, sir, there’s more. Ah! ‘Pordka’, sir—”

“‘Pordka’? As in Shahalzin Pordka? That’s the emperor of Terria!”

“‘—battleship
Pordka
’. Ah! The signal’s coming in more clearly, sir. Just a moment—” Again the lieutenant’s face became tense as he strained to separate the faint
beeps
from the pops and sputters of the static.

“‘Battleship
Pordka
’,” he continued, “‘—destroyed—Rustchuk VI—eight—weeks ago’. That’s when we took off!”

“Shut your trap! Answer that and stand by.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain took a dog-eared code book from an inner pocket and flipped through it. He looked up from it with an evil smirk. “Send W-J-L-L-C.”

“W-J-L-L-C, sir?” replied Birdwhistle, fumbling at the key, “Ah, did you say W-J-L-L-C, sir, or W-L-J-J-C?”

“What’d I tell you?” shouted the captain, throwing the book at the back of the lieutenant’s head. “W-L-J-J-C. ‘Is there chance of war?’ Now, send it, since you know all about it.’

Birdwhistle, his eyes sparkling, sent the signal. Nearby, Judikha wondered if the lieutenant had not just sealed his fate and hers.

Mr. Queel entered the control room and whispered a few words into the captain’s ear. They both glanced at the lieutenant, the mate with an expression of gloating, the skipper with as evil an expression of triumph that Judikha never hoped to see again.

“Mr. Birdwhistle,” the captain said, almost pleasantly, “Mr. Queel will relieve you. I have just learned that there is a dangerously faulty valve. Get your kit from stores and get aloft. Don’t wait to say your prayers. Up with you!”

Birdwhistle knuckled his forehead respectfully, rose from his chair and left the helm. He descended the stairs and went directly to the tools locker. Judikha dropped from her vantage and said to him, softly, “Watch yourself, Mr. Birdwhistle. That valve’s set to blow at the slightest touch! The skipper knows it. He suspects you.”

“You say he knows about the valve?”

“I reported it myself.”

“All right. Thanks.”

The lieutenant took what he needed from the locker and mounted the narrow ladder that led aloft. Judikha glanced back toward the helm and saw that Captain Krill was glaring at her. Although he could not have heard her, he must have understood the meaning of her short talk with Birdwhistle. On the other hand, she heard Mr. Queel clearly when he burst from the control room and shouted to the skipper: “War, sir! War expected between Terria and Rustchuk!”

“War!” the captain repeated, shaking his head. He turned toward his first mate and had only just begun to speak when he was interrupted by Judikha. He looked over his shoulder to see her, face white and lips drawn back from her teeth. She gripped a ten-pound wrench in each fist.

“You murdering devil!”

“What—?”

“In the name of the Space Patrol, I take charge of this spaceship. Do you surrender quietly, and instantly, or shall I kill you where you stand?”

“What are you saying? What do you mean?”

“I am Ensign Judikha of the Space Patrol,” she replied, raising one of her weapons an inch. “Do you give me command of this vessel?”

“No, by Musrum, I do not! I’ll see you in—”

Whatever the captain’s invitation may have been was interrupted by the heavy iron wrench that felled him like a sack of meal.

Birdwhistle was just dropping from overhead. “The game is up, Judikha,” he said.

“The captain knew about you, sir. He sent you to die.”

“I heard it all. But now what are we to do? There’s only the two of us. You have seriously jeopardized my plans, Judikha. This is terribly premature.”

“There’s to be war, sir. We must commandeer this ship. Take over here; I must stop the mate if I have to kill him.”

As the distraught lieutenant secured the helm, Judikha vaulted the railing, dropping in front of Mr. Queel, who had been hurrying to the captain’s aid.

How easy it was—after the first blow had been struck. Judikha faced the sadistic first mate with a smile on her face and joy in her heart.

“Stop where you are,” she said calmly. “Lieutenant Birdwhistle of the Space Patrol has confiscated this spaceship and has ordered me to kill you if you make any trouble. Understand?”

“You’re going to kill me, are you? Why? What have I ever done to you, that you should kill me?” Mr. Queel back away and Judikha followed. Though he retreated, there was no fear in his voice or expression, even though he had seen the young woman thrash the massive Monkfish Glom only that morning. But with an arm still in a sling, he was not about to oppose iron wrenches with bare fists. As far as he was concerned, he was the signed first officer of the
Rasputin
and his life was being threatened. He took the right and proper action: with a sudden side spring he drew a toaster from within his sling and fired left-handed at Judikha. Judikha felt the beam scorch her cheek as she rushed the officer. He fired again as he retreated and Judikha pursued in the heat of a frenzy born of danger, risking death because she loved life, seeking only to kill this man who was trying to kill her.

Though the mate had an advantage in possessing a toaster, he was a moral coward who, faced with the cold fury of the girl, did not press that advantage. Instead, he only tried to keep his distance from her, firing shots that she did not even bother to duck, though they struck close enough to shower her head and shoulders with hot sparks. Instead, she stalked the man, increasingly panicked, among the twisted columns of pipes like a panther leisurely stalking its prey. Finally, the mate’s nerve broke and he bolted. Judikha bounded after him, nearly reaching him in a single leap, and would have had his coat tail in her extended fist had not she trod in a pool of grease that sent her plummeting ungracefully to the deck. Mr. Queel, hearing her fall, turned immediately and raised his weapon, leveling it point-blank between her eyes. Yet, simultaneously with her fall, Judikha had spun in a half-circle, launching the wrench from her extended arm like a stone from a sling. It struck the mate squarely, burying three inches of its length in his face. Mr. Queel dropped like a marionette that had just had its strings severed. The toaster spun from his hand and she scooped it up. She found another stuck in his waistband.

“Onto the deck, everyone!” she called. “Mr. Birdwhistle, here!” She tossed one of the mate’s toasters to him. “Call the second mate, Mr. Wopple—call the watch forward!”

Crew began scrambling onto the deck. Wopple appeared among them. He had been awakened by the noise and was still rubbing his eyes. He looked in amazement at Judikha on the catwalk, wrench in one hand, toaster in the other, and Birdwhistle at the helm.

“Mr. Wopple,” she said, “the Space Patrol expects war with Rustchuk. Lieutenant Birdwhistle and I’ve taken charge of this spaceship in the name of the Patrol. I’ve killed the mate and I may have killed the skipper. Shall I kill you, too, or will you take orders from us?”

“I don’t think I want to be killed,” he replied with a smile, “so I suppose I’ll submit to your show of force. I’ll take orders from anyone with a toaster. Just tell me what you want me to do—sir.”

“Get all hands on deck, right away.”

“Very good, sir.”

The speech that Judikha made to the crew after they appeared was short, sharp and expressive—and made in the name of Lieutenant Birdwhistle. She stated their position with regard to the Patrol and the law. She granted them permission to disbelieve her, until she and Birdwhistle proved themselves by their handling of the vessel, but at the same time promised instant death to whomever acted on that disbelief.

The crew made no response to this announcement. They merely shuffled their feet, looking at one another with wonder and shock; they got no comfort from the complacent second mate, less from the stern face of the lieutenant and even less from the sterner-faced young woman on the catwalk. But she had already won half their regard by her courage, gentleness and deference to their experience. Eight bells squawked from the annunciator while Judikha awaited their answer. Meanwhile, she called to the deck, “Mr. Wopple, send two men up here to carry the captain to his cabin.”

“Very good, sir,” the second mate replied, with a man-of-war’s salute. “Bombla, Aarngla, bear a hand here. Up on the walk with you and get the skipper put away.”

The two he named hesitated, looking at one another and at their shipmates; they looked up at Judikha, who slowly raised the toaster to the railing, and started for the steps. When Wopple ordered two more to remove the body of the first mate, they obeyed immediately.

Judikha then ordered, “Eight bells. Dinner, the watch.” The crew moved forward slowly. She glanced toward Birdwhistle, but he would not meet her eyes.

Judikha had mastered the ship.

-XIV-

The captain had not died. While Birdwhistle, Wopple and Judikha were examining the bodies, the skipper quivered convulsively, moaned and relapsed into semi-consciousness. After a few moments, he sat up and stared at the trio with sleepy, disbelieving eyes. He uttered a sound that was half growl, half groan. Birdwhistle sighed with relief. Judikha noticed that he was deathly pale, that his hands trembled and perspiration poured down his face faster than he could wipe it away. “I’m glad—it’s better—I’m glad now that more murder was not done,” he said brokenly. “It’s time of war, I know, and Musrum knows that they deserve it, but it seems cowardly all the same.”