Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6) Page 2

  By the time I neared the classroom area, all had caught up with me: the staff sergeants who’d joined our conference, the Commandant, Arlene, the agonized Sergeant Gregori, the middy who’d burst in with him.

  Hazen panted to Gregori, “Full report!”

  “Aye aye, sir. I took Krane Barracks to the suiting room at seventeen hundred hours. Later than usual, but we were keeping them out of the sun.” The sergeant paused for breath. “Twenty-nine cadets; Cadet Robbins was confined to barracks. I had them help each other suit up. Same as always, sir.”

  “Get on with it!”

  I opened my mouth for a rebuke, but held my peace. Hazen was in charge, not I.

  “Then I sent them through. Midshipman Anselm, here, was helping. A canister of the emetic was already in place; Sergeant Booker used the chamber this morning. The first four cadets went through without incident.”

  Where in God’s own Hell was the suiting chamber? I’d never remembered it as so distant.

  Gregori slowed his pace, to match mine. “Cadet Santini doubled over as she came out the lock. I helped with her helmet and gave her a piece of my mind, but my eye was on the cadets going through the room.” Abruptly he came to a halt, his gaze withdrawn to a private hell.

  “I told you to report!” Hazen.

  “Belay that!” My voice was a lash. Protocol be damned. I was Commander in Chief, and could do as I pleased. I limped to Gregori. “Are you all right, Sergeant?” He was responsible for the cadets’ safety. Lord God knew what he must be feeling.

  “Sir ...” His eyes beseeched mine. “Other cadets were falling ill. It’s not their fault, they’re young, they don’t know to double-check the seals. I was trying to watch them all, and Santini had her helmet off. I knew she’d be all right. Except ...” He shuddered. “When I looked down she was in convulsions. There was nothing I could do. Nothing!” His voice broke.

  Awkwardly, I let my hand brush his shoulder.

  He began to walk again, this time more slowly. “In the chamber, Ford pitched flat on his face. Then Eiken went down. I realized something was terribly wrong and yelled at Anselm to purge the room, but he didn’t hear me, or didn’t understand.”

  The middy stirred.

  I raised a hand. “In a moment, Mr., ah, Anselm. Go on, Sarge.”

  “By the time I ran round to the other door and triggered the emergency oxygen flush, two more were down. I ordered Anselm to pull them out—he was suited, I wasn’t—and ran back to Santini. She was staring at the sky.” Gregori’s mouth worked. “By the time we got the others out, three more were dying. I called sickbay, and rang for Lieutenant LeBow.”

  At last, the suiting chamber, a low, windowless, gunmetal gray building behind the nav training center. I recalled the suit room, with its rows of lockers where the cadets would enter. The airlock to the main chamber, the waiting lock at the far exit.

  A covey of cadets milled about. I said, unbelieving, “You left your squad there?”

  “Lieutenant LeBow told me to report to you, flank.” And the sergeant would, of course. In the Navy, orders were obeyed.

  My knee ached abominably. I bit back a foul imprecation as we neared the dazed cadets. Some were weeping. A few slumped on the grass. Among them were five motionless forms in gray. Three med techs worked over them, from scramble carts. A lieutenant watched, arms folded.

  A cadet corporal saw us coming. “Attention!” His voice was ragged.

  “As you were,” I rasped. Then I had a glimpse of one of the casualties. “Oh, Lord.” Blood had flowed, from her mouth and eyes. “You, there, any survivors?”

  The med tech looked up, his eyes grim. He shook his head.

  “What caused it?”

  “I don’t know.” Wearily, he knelt on the grass. “We couldn’t have been three minutes responding to the call. They were gone. We never had a chance.”

  I turned. “Sergeant M’bovo, escort the squad to barracks.” The sooner the joeykids were removed from the sight, the better.

  “Let me take them, sir. They’re mine.” Gregori.

  “No, I want you here.” If it was Gregori’s blunder that had killed his cadets, he should be kept far from them. “Stay with them, Sergeant M’bovo. See that they’re on light duty for three days.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” There was little else he could say, to a direct order. Civilian I might be, and outside the chain of command, but I was SecGen. “You joeys, back to barracks. Double-time!”

  When the cadets were out of earshot Hazen grated, “I’d have laid on extra drills, to keep them occupied.”

  So might I, in my younger days. “Let them grieve.” I turned to the redheaded middy. “Let’s hear your version.” My wife flinched, and too late, I realized it sounded an accusation.

  Anselm stammered out his story, but it corroborated the sergeant’s in all details.

  Arlene pulled me close, to whisper in my ear. “Nick, let Hazen handle it. You’re stepping on his toes.”

  True, but I was beyond that. “Where’s the emetic canister?”

  “Still in the dispenser.” Sergeant Gregori swung open the panel.

  “Don’t touch that!” I lowered my voice to a normal tone. “Commandant, have the gas analyzed. A party of three to take the canister to the lab. Send LeBow, there. And two sergeants who had nothing to do with the incident. Get these poor children’s bodies to sickbay, we can’t have them lying here. Well, what are you staring at? Get moving, flank!”

  “Aye aye, sir.” As if dazed, Hazen reached for his caller. Gregori said nothing, but his eyes bore mute reproach.

  “And autopsies on the cadets. Tonight.” I tried to think what else. “Seal the base.” If rumors got out, we’d be besieged with mediamen, to the Navy’s detriment. All mediamen were ghouls. “Gregori, Anselm, wait for us at the Commandant’s office.”

  Hazen was busy on his caller.

  “LeBow!”

  The lieutenant jumped as if shot. “Yes, sir!”

  “Suit up, and go into the chamber. Check out—”

  “I won’t need a suit, sir. It’s been purged.”

  “Suit up.” My tone was icy. “We’ll take no chances.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” At least he seemed abashed, as well he should, quarreling with a direct order. On the other hand, as a civilian I had no right to give him orders.

  “Look around, report by radio anything that seems out of place.” As he turned to the suiting-room door I added, “Careful with your seals!”

  LeBow’s expedition found nothing. By the time he emerged, the lifeless cadets had been carried to sickbay, and two staff sergeants had arrived to escort the canister to the lab. We all watched LeBow disconnect it from the intake. Ignoring common sense, I held my breath to inspect it gingerly. The customary factory label, the usual warnings. If the manufacturer had inadvertently sent us a contaminated canister, I’d see the culprit hanged. I hoped that was the case. The alternatives didn’t bear thinking about.

  There was work ahead, and I’d realized I didn’t trust Hazen to do it alone. This was one of the moments I regretted refusing to carry a personal caller. An old habit, dating from my days as Commandant. As I’d learned on Hibernia, a commander who carried a caller had no peace.

  “Would you give Branstead a call?” I gave Hazen my chief of staff’s code. “Tell him to cancel my suborbital. I’ll spend the night in Devon.”

  “Nick, we have to get home.” Arlene looked apologetic. “Derek’s coming, and tomorrow there’s the delegation from Dutch Relief.”

  “Belay that, Commandant. Let me talk to him.” I took the caller. “Jerence? Arlene’s on the way home, I’ll stay here.” Arlene shot me a look of annoyance. “Lay on transport tomorrow, I’ll let you know when. No, I’m fine. There’s been an ... incident. What? I don’t care, reschedule him. Next week.” I rang off, gave my wife an awkward hug. “Get ready for Derek, listen to the Hollanders for me. I’ll see you soon.”

  Somewhat mollified, she rested her chin on my should
er. “Nick, those cadets ...”

  “Yes, I know. Terrible.”

  “I mean the survivors.”

  “Death happens, Arlene. We’ve both seen it. They have to get used—”

  “They’re bewildered, and in pain.”

  “It’s not my responsibility.”

  “You remember, don’t you, Nick?” Her voice was soft.

  I looked away. At last I said, “I’ll do what I can.”

  In the gathering dusk Hazen and I walked slowly back to his office. “How well do you know Gregori, Commandant?”

  “He’s a good man. Even if he wasn’t watching carefully, how could he have caused their deaths? We’ve used the emetic for years.”

  My smile was grim. “Generations.”

  “It was surely an accident, Mr. SecGen. Contaminants.”

  “Do you believe that?” My own doubts were growing.

  A long silence. “I want to.”

  Abruptly I liked him more. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been taking over.”

  “That’s your privilege, sir. You’re SecGen.”

  I grinned, remembering an Admiral who’d commandeered my ship, long past. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

  “No,” he said. I admired his honesty. He added, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I cast about in my memory. “I was notified of your appointment. You had UNS Churchill, am I right?”

  “I was in Valdez Barracks.” He spoke as if he hadn’t heard. “When you took command.” He slowed his pace, so I’d have less difficulty keeping up. “Sergeant Ibarez.”

  “Ah.” How could I make him change the subject? I loved Academy, truly I did. Yet ...”

  “I was one of the few left here when you took the cadets to Farside. Else I’d have volunteered. I know I would.” His face was red, and his gaze was carefully averted. “I’d fallen—we were skylarking in barracks. About a week before the fish attacked. I broke three ribs. Sarge said you were furious.”

  “It’s a cool night,” I said desperately. “After the sun goes—Commandant, I atone every night of my life for what I did to those wretched cadets. Be thankful you weren’t among them.” During the final alien attack I’d called for volunteers, knowing, but not telling them, I was sending them to their deaths. At least, with effort, I now could speak of it. For years I could not.

  “Sir, do you know what it’s like, to be class of ’01, the last class Nicholas Seafort commanded? They say you called the cadets to Farside dining hall.” His eyes were distant, as if reliving a memory he couldn’t have known. “You said there’d be danger, and asked for cadets willing to go to the Fusers. Your voice ... hushed, urgent, almost desperately casual. Even as joeykids, they understood.”

  “Mr. Hazen ... How could I divert him?

  “For years, those who refused cast blame one on another, or you. Only Boland and Branstead could be proud. And Tenere.” The pitifully few survivors, who’d sailed with me in the Mothership.

  “And whenever it came up, I was hurt and defensive.” His tone was conversational. “I would have gone, but how could I prove it? We fought, at times. I lost friends.” He chopped off his words, cleared his throat. “When I was posted here, I couldn’t fathom the honor. To walk where you walked, sit at your desk, command men you—”

  “Stop it!” My cry echoed through the quadrangle.

  He faced me, determined. “I wanted so to impress you. To make you see I had matters well in hand. You think I don’t know what an idiot I sounded, shouting at Gregori? I could have bitten my tongue off.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Hazen. I’ve done the same.”

  “Not in front of your ...” He muttered something unintelligible.

  “What?”

  “Idol.” His gaze was a challenge, as if daring me to object.

  I muttered, “Lord God preserve us.” We’d reached the steps. I took his arm, leaned my weight on it as we climbed. “I really ought to have this leg looked at.”

  “May I ask what it is, sir? I noticed you began to carry a cane a few years ago.”

  “Arthritis. The Helsinki crash aggravated it.” Arthritis was curable, and had been for generations. But I deserved my infirmities.

  He paused at the door to his office. “Will you see Gregori and Anselm now, or wait for the lab report?”

  “Wait, I think.”

  “I could show you to the VIP suite.”

  “I know the way. Ring my quarters when you have the report.” I limped to my apartment.

  I peeled off my jacket, washed my face, combed my hair. I caught a glimpse of the aging visage in the glass, and paused. Wrinkles on my forehead, and my hairline was creeping upward. I hadn’t let them give me cosmetic enzymes, though I’d had the primary anti-aging compounds. They were universally disseminated through drinking water.

  Still, even past sixty, I wasn’t all that old. The relentless extension of life was the main cause of Earth’s overcrowding, and a terrible strain on our resources. I had another quarter century of active life, if I wanted it. Perhaps even more. These days, retirement benefits didn’t start until eighty-five.

  I passed a hand over the faint outline of the hideous scar that had once adorned my cheek. Many years ago I’d let them remove it, at the insistence of Admiralty. Joeykids had started to emulate my appearance, and that was intolerable.

  Nearly fifty years, since Father had brought me to Academy’s gates, guided me within, and strode off without a backward glance. The U.N. Navy had been men—and still was—the glamorous service youngsters dreamed of joining. The Army was a poor relative, and resented it.

  Of course, the Navy had the advantage of starting its officers young. The discovery in 2046 that N-waves travel faster than light, and the accompanying revision of physics, led to the fusion drive, and superluminous travel. But the stars came at a cost: melanoma T, a vicious carcinoma triggered by long exposure to Fusion fields. It was an occupational hazard for spacefarers.

  Fortunately, humans whose cells were exposed to N-waves within five years of puberty seemed almost immune. But the Navy couldn’t put untrained children aboard its great starships. And so cadets were recruited barely into their teens, as I had been. After two years at Academy they were shipped off as green young middies to get their sea legs aboard a starship.

  Gaunt eyes stared at me from the mirror.

  As a middy, I’d been catapulted to Captain of UNS Hibernia on the death of her other officers. Later, on Challenger, I’d fought off relentless attacks by the alien fish. We’d survived to see home system, but not before I’d damned myself by breaking my sacred oath, to save my ship.

  By then, to my infinite disgust, I was a media hero. Eventually, Admiralty appointed me Commandant of Naval Academy. And at Farside, when the fish attacked, I engaged in the greatest betrayal since Judas. I sent my cadets to their deaths with lies.

  The caller chimed. “Yes?”

  “Sir, the lab report.” Hazen.

  “So soon?” I glanced at my watch. I’d been staring into the mirror a full hour. “I’ll be right there.”

  I smoothed my graying hair. Decades ago, Father Ryson had saved my sanity, in the hard peace of his neo-Benedictine monastery. Brother Nicholas would be at Lancaster yet, but for the desperate pleas of Eddie Boss, my transpop shipmate, whose tribe was under attack by the Territorial Administration. I couldn’t refuse him. Leaving my haven, I’d used my notoriety to enter politics. As Senator from northern England, then as SecGen, I managed to have the relocations halted.

  Despite my best intentions, my life had been political ever since. I’d left office in the Port of London scandal, and been glad. But the Transpop Rebellion of 2229 sucked me into its madness. I’d had no choice; my son Philip was caught up in it, and missing. His life was worth more than mine. I still thought so, despite what he’d become after.

  When the rebellion was settled, given the attitude of the Territorial Party toward our urban masses, I’d had no choice but to declare my candidacy o
nce more.

  I thrust on my jacket, limped to the Commandant’s office.

  “Nerve gas.” Hazen jabbed a thick finger at the holoscreen. “Deadly toxin.”

  Stunned, I sank into my chair. I’d dreaded something of the sort, and the confirmation left me dazed. I grasped at straws. “Contaminating the emetic?” I peered at the screen.

  “No, sir. Nerve gas in concentrated form. One canister, if opened in dining hall, could have killed the whole lot of us.”

  “Gregori said Booker had used the same canister earlier.”

  “His cadets are fine. I sent Anselm to check.”

  I asked, “Where is the emetic made?”

  His face was grim. “I put in a call to the manufacturer. Chem-gen Corporation specializes in hospital supply. They claim even if they’d made some sort of error, they produce nothing that could kill so fast.”

  “And the canister?”

  “I already thought of that. They construct their own.”

  I let my eyes meet his. “Commandant, do you understand what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, sir. It was deliberate.”

  For a moment we were silent. Then I slammed the table. “That sergeant who used the suiting room this morning, Booker, was it? Send him and Gregori to P and D!”

  “Sir, we can’t.”

  “Cadets are dead.”

  “But there’s no evidence. Nothing at all.”

  “They both used the canister.”

  Hazen took a deep breath. “That’s not evidence of a crime, sir, and you know it!”

  My jaw clenched. It had been a long while since anyone had spoken to me so. After a time, my fury abated.

  He was right.

  A defendant had no right to silence, not since the Truth in Testimony Act of 2026. If there was other evidence against him, he could be sent for polygraph and drug interrogation. If the tests proved he had told the truth, charges were dismissed. If he admitted the charges, as sophisticated drugs forced him to do, his confession was of course introduced as evidence.