Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Page 2

  One sentry remained standing with his hand on the butt of his pistol; the other saluted the bars on my dress uniform, took my papers. “Commander Nicholas Seafort?”

  “That’s right.” I waited patiently while he compared the holopic to my face. After the rebellion we’d blundered into at Miningcamp, I appreciated their security measures; any orbiting station now left me ill at ease.

  “There’s your ship, Captain.” He gestured.

  Alexi followed me into the lock. As Portia maintained the same atmospheric pressure as the Station, the airlock had no need to cycle; Portia’s inner hatch would be opened as soon as we sealed the outer for safety.

  Through the transplex airlock panel I caught a glimpse of sailors milling in the ship’s corridor. “Gawd, there he is!” someone hissed within. The hatch slid open.

  “Attention!” Vax Holser’s bellow rang through the corridor. Utter silence greeted me as I took a step forward. Correctly, Alexi waited behind, in the lock. Vax’s muscular frame stiffened to rigid attention as he snapped an Academy salute.

  “Permission to come on board.” My tone was formal.

  “Granted, sir.” Vax’s grin was heartfelt and warming.

  I strode through the inner hatch. Vax, Midshipman Derek Carr and two seamen remained at attention, eyes locked front.

  I unfolded my orders. “To Nicholas Ewing Seafort, Commander, United Nations Naval Service,” I read aloud. “Effective November 4, 2197, you shall command U.N.S. Portia, a vessel assigned to the squadron commanded by Admiral Geoffrey Tremaine. You are to voyage to Hope Nation and thence to Detour Colony in such manner as may be ordered by the Admiral commanding ...” I read through the orders and folded the paper.

  “As you were.” As they relaxed, I looked about. We were at the fore airlock, adjacent to the ship’s launch berth. The aft lock was below, on Level 2.

  From a distance our vessel—or any Naval starship—would look like a pencil stood on end; the disks in which we lived consisted of two rings fitted tightly over the pencil about halfway from bow to stern. Portia had only two Levels rather than the three of Challenger and larger ships.

  I turned to the waiting midshipman. Derek Carr, lean and youthful at eighteen, stood confidently in his crisp blue middy’s uniform, buckles and shoes shined to perfection. As his eye caught mine I winked. Derek, whom I recruited from among the passengers of Hibernia, was maturing into a fine naval officer, despite occasional traces of the haughty young aristocrat he’d once been.

  “I’ll show you to your cabin, sir,” Vax offered.

  I made a quick decision. I still knew virtually nothing about my new command. “No. Mr. Carr, take my duffel to the Captain’s cabin, and tell Amanda I’ll be there in a while. Vax, show me everything, bow to stern.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Vax said automatically. No other response was possible to a Captain’s command. As the others drifted away, he hesitated. “It won’t take long to see. Compared to Challenger, this is a toy. He had no right—”

  “Mr. Holser!” My voice was tight. “Don’t even think of saying that aloud.”

  “I—no, sir.”

  “Did you forget an Admiral is senior to a Captain? The squadron is his to deploy. No criticism, now or ever.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” His tone was subdued. “Shall we start at the bridge?”

  “If you like.” As I followed him along the corridor I remembered that I still wore my dress whites; I’d get them dirty poking around the ship. I’d also be hot. I decided against stopping to change; better not to appear indecisive my first day aboard.

  As we were still moored, the bridge hatch was open and only a nominal watch was kept. Midshipman Rafe Treadwell came to attention when I entered. My eyes took in the control consoles, the navigation equipment, the simulscreens covering the front bulkhead. I would spend many of my waking hours in this compartment. Smaller than Hibernia’s bridge, still it had ample room to move around. I wondered if Naval designers knew Captains liked to pace.

  I looked down at Rafe, fourteen, promoted from cadet at my recommendation so that he could join my next command as midshipman. “Enjoy your shore leave, Mr. Treadwell?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.” He blushed furiously. It must have been an interesting leave indeed. As midshipman, Rafe had his majority by statute of the General Assembly, and could frequent the bars and dives of Lunapolis. He’d been but eleven the last time he’d seen home port.

  “Good; carry on. Vax, where to?”

  Lieutenant Holser led me from the inactive bridge to the sickbay, and I chatted a moment with the Doctor. I’d see a lot of that place now that our baby was near. Down the circular corridor just past the ladder was the officers’ mess, a tiny compartment barely larger than a passenger cabin. We officers would take our evening meal in the ship’s dining hall with the passengers, and few enough of us would share the mess for morning and noon meals, as we stood our staggered watches.

  Belowdecks, I glanced at the engine room and took a long look at Hydroponics, on whose output we would all depend. Outside the crew berth the chief petty officer brought a gaggle of seamen to attention. “Akrit, stand even with the others! Wipe off that idiot smile, Clinger. Sorry, sir.”

  I nodded curtly. The petty officers would have their hands full for a time, one of the pitfalls of guaranteed enlistment. Virtually any able-bodied person was guaranteed acceptance into the Service, and got a half-year’s pay in advance as a bonus.

  Back on Level 1, I surveyed a few passenger cabins as well as officers’ quarters. I said little, trying to memorize what I could. We came across Alexi in the passengers’ lounge chatting with two civilian girls; he detached himself and joined our tour.

  Vax knocked on the wardroom hatch. By custom the wardroom was the midshipmen’s private territory; except for inspection, other officers entered only by invitation. The hatch swung open. Seeing us, Midshipman Philip Tyre came rigidly to attention, in regulation naval slacks and tee shirt. His white shirt, tie and blue jacket lay neatly on his bunk.

  “Mr. Tyre.” I regretted my impulse to include Philip in my new command. I should have let him resign when Hibernia’s homecoming had released him from his purgatory. Tyre, at seventeen, was still as breathtakingly handsome as the day he’d first come aboard Hibernia. But now he wore a wary look, a legacy of the undying enmity he’d kindled in Alexi Tamarov, when Tyre had been Alexi’s senior in the wardroom.

  “Yes, sir.” Philip waited anxiously. The middy was always obedient to his seniors, eager, cooperative and helpful. It was to his juniors that his unbearable traits were exposed. After Alexi’s promotion, on the long trip back from Hope Nation, Lieutenant Tamarov had exacted vengeance by setting Philip over the barrel for a caning whenever opportunity arose.

  Time to face the issue. “I wish you a good voyage, Mr. Tyre.” I meant it as a signal; Alexi heard but gave no sign.

  Philip’s look was almost pleading. “Thank you, sir.” Wisely he said no more. We left him to contemplate his future.

  “Are you ever going to ease up, Alexi?” Together, we descended the ladder to Level 2.

  “When you order it, sir.” His tone was flat.

  There was little more I could say. By tradition, the Captain was expected not to involve himself in wardroom affairs. Alexi, an amiable, goodhearted joey, could normally be depended on not to harass a middy, but in his misery under Mr. Tyre, Alexi had sworn an oath of revenge to Lord God himself. Lieutenant Tamarov meant literally what he had told me; he would stop when ordered, but not a moment before.

  Fortunately for Philip, the miscreants’ barrel was now in First Lieutenant Vax Holser’s cabin, rather than Alexi’s where it had sat most of our voyage home.

  Shrugging, I continued my tour. Philip had made his own bed. Now, as with all of us, he must sleep in it.

  2

  “GOD, NICKY, WHERE HAVE you been?” Amanda shifted her bulging body to the side of her cushioned chair. The baby was due very soon.

  “Hi, hon. Inspecting t
he ship.” I tossed my jacket on the bunk and bent to nuzzle the soft brown hair I’d admired ever since I’d first seen her, an awkward young middy on Hibernia.

  She gave a rueful grin. “She’s not quite what Challenger would have been.”

  “Well ...”

  “I couldn’t pack fast enough when they told me you were transferred. I dreaded that somehow you’d ship on Portia and I’d be left where I was. What on earth were they thinking of, changing Captains at the last moment?”

  It wasn’t a topic I cared to dwell on. I sat, made a lap, beckoned her to it. “You didn’t want a rest from me?”

  She settled cautiously, rested her sweet-scented hair in the crevice of my neck. “Not that long.”

  I loosened my tie, sighed. “My feet hurt.”

  From my collarbone came what sounded like a growl. “Try changing places. Everything aches these days.”

  I knew Amanda’s pregnancy was trying, but she’d borne it with a good grace for which I cherished her all the more. She’d refused even to discuss a host-mother embryo transplant, prenatal rearing, or other alternatives that would have eased her discomfort.

  My eye wandered around the cabin, examining my home for the next three years. It was the largest stateroom on the ship, far larger than the wardroom I’d shared with several midshipmen in earlier days. An open hatch led to the Captain’s private head. Our cabin had its own shower compartment, similar to the one I’d had on Hibernia. That was one luxury I’d grown used to.

  Amanda stretched, rose to her feet. “Learn anything in your briefings?”

  “Only that Admiral Tremaine doesn’t like me.” I slipped out of my dress uniform, wishing I’d done so hours earlier.

  “Why not?” She sounded indignant.

  “It doesn’t matter. He has his ship and I have mine.” I donned my regular ship’s blues. “I’ll hardly see him at all.”

  “I missed you.” Her voice was soft. “They boarded me on Challenger three days ago, while you were still in that Fusion course.” She frowned. “A whole day I spent, checking their reference library. Wasted.” Earlier, I had arranged for her appointment as Challenger’s civilian education director, the same post she’d held on Hibernia. Luckily, I was able to have her given similar duties aboard Portia.

  “Have you checked out Portia’s library?” I asked, to divert her.

  “It seems complete enough.” A whole library could be contained in a trunkful of holovid chips, so storage space wasn’t a problem. I knew Amanda would examine the booklist carefully; as ed director, her task would be to teach children who wanted education, and to supervise adult classes during the long, dull Fuse to Hope Nation and to Detour beyond. It was common for passengers to use the uneventful months in space to learn new skills or carry out research.

  I checked my watch. “Seven o’clock. Hungry, hon?”

  “I’m always hungry,” she admitted. She flashed the smile that had captivated me as a fumbling midshipman. “Don’t worry, I won’t stay fat.” We headed for the dining hall.

  Most of the passengers and all of the crew had already boarded. However, many passengers had chosen to leave the ship to wander in Earthport Station’s vast concourses, watch through the observation ports as other ships arrived and departed, or sample the many expensive restaurants the station provided. Dinner that night aboard Portia was sparse and informal.

  At the Captain’s table Amanda and I were joined by only two passengers. Normally we sat eight to a table; nine large round tables would seat my officers and Portia’s sixty passengers.

  I felt uneasy beginning the meal without the traditional Ship’s Prayer, recited every night while under weigh, but it was not the custom to pray in port. Instead, I said a silent grace.

  Amanda introduced me to Dr. Francon, a synthetic cardiology specialist on route to Hope Nation to run Hope General’s cardiac generation unit. Our other guest, Mr. Singh, told us he had no reason for traveling except to see as much of the known universe as his lifetime would let him.

  “The galaxy is a hundred thousand light-years across, Mr. Singh. You won’t have time to see but a fraction; why did you pick our corner of it?”

  The small, tan-skinned man smiled delightedly. “Pure chance, Captain Seafort. Fortuity. As you know, I had to arrange my cruise before you returned on Hibernia, so I had no idea when I chose Hope Nation that I might actually get to see alien life.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t,” I muttered. A chill prickled my spine.

  “It isn’t foreordained that our contact must be hostile,” he said in his gentle singsong voice. “Now that we each know of each other’s existence, perhaps more positive, loving contact may be had.”

  “Not by me.” I changed the subject. As we progressed from soup to the main course I was distracted by boisterous children and teenagers at a table across the hall. I ignored them, though their presence surprised me. Hibernia had carried few youngsters.

  Under the table, my wife pressed her hand on my knee. I hoped no one noticed; I could hardly maintain the dignity of a Captain while an attractive woman fondled me.

  After dinner I escorted Amanda to our cabin and returned to the bridge. Lieutenant Tamarov had the watch; he was sitting comfortably at the first officer’s console when I came in.

  “Are we all set, Alexi?”

  “All supplies loaded, sir. The last contingent of passengers arrives late this evening. The mail comes aboard at 04:00 standard time, then we’ll be ready to cast off.”

  Idly I tapped the back of my soft leather watch chair. “Why would passengers reboard so late?”

  “The Lower New Yorkers, sir. The station didn’t want to bring them aloft any earlier than necessary.”

  “Who?” I gaped. “Street people?”

  “Transpops, yes, sir.”

  “On my ship?” I sank into my chair, dismayed. “Are you joking?”

  “Not at all. Didn’t you read the memo?”

  “What memo, Alexi?” It came as a growl.

  “From Cincfleet, sir.” He glanced at me, hurried on. “While you were away. It’s a pilot program arranged by the Reunification Church, endorsed by UNICEF. They’re rounding up teen transpops and sending them outward. Give them a better life while harnessing their raw energy to productive use, or some such folderol. Our band is headed for Detour, in the custody of a UNICEF social worker.”

  Appalled, I pictured my honeymoon in New York. Our tour bus had crawled down Fifth Avenue along the ruins of Central Park, past the old Central Park Zoo, long bereft of animals they couldn’t protect from hungry human scavengers who prowled its cobbled stones.

  As we came upon the twenty-foot wall topped with broken glass and barbed wire that ringed the ancient Plaza Hotel, the bus was abruptly surrounded by a mob of ragged, frantic youths brandishing what I at first thought were homemade weapons, but soon realized were tourist artifacts carved or pressed from sheet metal, worn pieces of rubber tire, and other scrap.

  “Getcha Newyawk souvs!” a grimy boy shouted through the grillwork welded to the tour bus windows. “TraCenta, Empiyabuildin’, lookadem heah!” He waved his crude skyscrapers at any prospective takers. Amanda pressed my hand tightly.

  The driver glanced at his mirrors, decided it would be safe to stop. While he and the guard grasped their stunners, two of the wild children were allowed to enter the fortresslike bus to peddle their wares. After five minutes they were hustled off and we’d continued on our way to Timesquare.

  I slammed my fist into the chair arm, startling Alexi. “I won’t have it!”

  By day, Lower New York maintained a semblance of civilization; tour buses such as ours penetrated its outer reaches. Not by night. In the darkened alleyways and torn avenues of Lower New York, rival Hispanic, Black, and Oriental gangs preyed on the transient population, the transpops, our permanent and ever-increasing urban homeless.

  Rarely, if ever, did anyone descend to street level; residents of Upper New York flew in and out of the city from rooftop hel
iports. Derek Carr, the young aristocrat I’d befriended and enlisted in the Service, was of that urbane and civilized culture. Buildings such as Derek’s home generated their own power and were heavily fortified against invasion by the transpops.

  How could Admiral Brentley think of infesting my ship with such savages?

  “How many?” I demanded.

  “Forty-two, sir.”

  I was aghast. “Out of sixty passengers?”

  “No, sir.” Alexi took a deep breath, eyed me warily. “We have our sixty passengers. And forty-two transpops.”

  I came out of my seat, fists bunched, controlling myself only with effort. “We have cabins for only sixty!”

  “Yes, sir. A number of scheduled passengers will double up. The, uh, transportees will bed six to a cabin.”

  “That’s worse than the wardroom! How can you cram six bunks into a stateroom?”

  “Pardon, sir, but they’ve already been installed.” A nervous adolescent voice, from the speaker. “Double bunks against each bulkhead.”

  I glared from speaker to speaker. “Who are you?”

  “Danny, sir. Uh, hi.”

  “Danny?” I turned to Alexi,

  “Our puter.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “Hello, Danny.” I glowered at Alexi. “Supplies? Hydrononics and recyclers?”

  “Adjusted, sir, but we’ll be at near-maximum utilization the whole cruise.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner about the transpops?” My voice was dangerously quiet.

  “I thought you already knew.” Alexi eyed me steadily.

  Petulant, I threw myself into my seat. “Patch me through to Fleet Ops.” Alexi picked up the caller. “This isn’t a prison ship,” I muttered, half to myself. “Are they insane?”

  “Perhaps, sir,” said Alexi gravely. Despite my agitation, I had to smile; Alexi had taken the opportunity provided by my question to suggest criticism of his superiors, which otherwise would have been unacceptable. Neatly done, but it reminded me that I had just criticized Admiralty in front of my lieutenant.