Free The Sirens of Space by Jeffrey Caminsky

backed clumsily toward the door. But he paused before leaving,
not quite sure how to proceed next.
    “ Something else?” Cook
asked.
    “ About Lt. Mendelson, Commandre .”
    A look of fury flashed across Cook’s face,
passing as quickly as a tropical rainstorm.
    “ Whatever personal problems she is
having— ” LaRue began.
    “ I’m sure she’ll appreciate your
concern, François,” the commander said pleasantly, but with a
hardened edge to his voice.
    “ But to let an officer of her caliber
sulk in her room over some personal concern cannot but impede the
smooth operation of this ship.”
    “ Thank you François,” came the cold
reply, “but I will decide what impedes the operation of this ship.
And I have given her permission to stand down until further notice.
Anything else?”
    “ No, sir,” said LaRue, timidly shaking
his head and wondering why his resolve disappeared whenever he and
the commander aired their differences. He withdrew quietly, leaving
Cook alone in his office.
    Slowly, Cook rose from his chair to pace
absently about his office. At last, he stopped in front of a
bookshelf next to the door to his quarters, the one that held most
of his personal library. He reached for a figure used as a bookend
on the third shelf, where he kept his natural history materials,
and stood for several minutes looking at it. It was a gift from a
friend now lost to the past: a small castle, made from the sands of
Demeter.
    With a burst of resolve, he replaced the
trinket on the shelf and left the office, heading for the bridge.
There was work to be done, even before the rest of the crew
returned. And with Mendelson out of action, Ensign Jacobs would be
helmsman for the trip to IshCom. Cook chuckled as he walked. This
would be the young ensign’s first solo at the helm; the captain
hoped it wouldn’t be the last sail for the lot of them.

 
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 7

    WHAT THE TERRANS CALLED the Caucus Room had
no windows, but was admirably furnished. Six stuffed chairs arrayed
next to an artificial fireplace lent the room a coziness otherwise
lacking on the barren world they had chosen for the current round
of peace talks. On the walls were tapestries, imported from as far
west as Earth for the purpose of impressing their visitors with the
richness of Terran artistry. Over the mantle was a reprint of a
painting by an Old Earth master, depicting a Renaissance lady in
all her mysterious beauty. The walls were painted a soft ivory, to
accent the fine woodwork crafted to mimic the warmth found on
friendlier worlds. As if to atone for their choice of planets, the
Terrans had spared no expense to make their guests feel at
home.
    Unfortunately, most of the touches that the
Terrans lavished upon their guests passed unnoticed. Rather than
dangling their legs over the end of the “Terran sitting
implements,” the diplomats of the Grand Alliance sat on the floor
near the fire, taking what warmth they could from its artificial
flames. They found it hard enough to tolerate sitting Terran-style
through the talks—it did, after all, tend to cut off circulation to
their posteriors as well as their legs—without subjecting
themselves to such abuse when the courtesies due from guests did
not demand it. Though tapestries were a major art form among the
Veshnans, the abstract patterns of design that hung from the bland
walls were disconcerting, like peering through a distortion lens,
and the delegates, each of whom felt disoriented enough already,
avoided looking at them whenever they could. What appeared to be a
Terran painting looked flat and lifeless, like a poor photograph
with faded colors—although Zatar thought he could feel the eyes of
the Terran female follow him around the room whenever he moved. But
however uncomfortable they felt upon entering the room, they always
managed to lose themselves in discussion whenever they retired to
caucus, and this time was no exception.
    “ What do you want of me, Zatar?”