Midshipman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 1) Page 21

  “Darla stays down! That’s an order!” Their nagging infuriated me.

  The Pilot stood. “Aye aye, sir,” His voice was cold. “I protest the order and request you to enter my protest in the Log.”

  I bit back a savage retort. “Denied. Your previous protest continues and is sufficient. You both have your orders. Call the midshipmen together, divide up the list, and start checking every item. Go to the textbooks for astrophysical data. Manually recheck all ship’s measurements and statistics.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” They had no choice; arguing with a direct order was insubordination.

  “One more thing. I’ll see all of you, including the middies, on the bridge before you begin. Dismissed.” I shut the hatch behind them and sagged in my chair. With my customary finesse I’d thoroughly alienated the Chief as well as the Pilot. Now I was truly alone.

  I paced the bridge, Darla’s last output still frozen on the screen. I was in over my head. My order to run Hibernia’s systems manually could put our men on emergency watches for a month or more, while every last parameter was checked. The crew would grow tired, then embittered. Meanwhile, the officers would be driven to distraction by the rote examination of data. They’d be exhausted from ceaseless extra work. Their relations with the crew would worsen.

  My order risked far greater damage to the ship than Darla’s glitch.

  When the officers assembled on the bridge an hour later, I was near panic. “Gentlemen, we’re about to check all the information in Darla’s parameter banks. Some of you may not agree with this course. You may think it’s a waste of time. I don’t care. You will personally recheck each and every datum on your list until you verify its accuracy from other sources.”

  That much was acceptable, but I couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Let me make clear what will happen if you gloss over any items. Chief, Pilot, you will be tried for dereliction of duty and dismissed from the service. Mr. Holser, Mr. Tamarov, Mr. Wilsky, I will personally cane you within an inch of your life; then try you for dereliction of duty. Mr. Holser, the cadet may help you with measurements, but you’re not to give him any tasks to perform without supervision.” I ignored the shock in their faces. “Acknowledge, all of you!”

  One by one they responded: “Orders received and understood, sir. Aye aye, sir.” The midshipmen were agitated; they’d never heard an officer speak in such a manner. Nor, for that matter, had I. After I dismissed them I flopped in my leather chair, appalled at what I’d heard myself say.

  Some of the data were standard and easy to check, involving no more than a trip to the ship’s library and a review of standard references. Others were more complicated: for example, the volume of air in each airlock. Alexi checked lock dimensions in the ship’s blueprints, then confirmed them by measuring them himself. I knew, because I watched.

  I tried to be everywhere. I peered over the Chief’s shoulder while he took the dimensions of the drive shaft opening. I watched Vax and Derek measure the volume of nutrient in one hydro tank, then multiply by the number of identical tanks. I held the electrical gauges as the Chief and Vax, sweating and swearing, connected them to each of our power mains to measure ship’s power consumption.

  By the end of the second day I could stand myself no longer. During our rest period I forced my reluctant steps down the ladder to Level 3, to the Chief’s cabin near his engine room. I knocked. He opened the hatch, his jacket off, tie loose.

  “Carry on,” I said quickly, before he could come to attention. He stepped aside for me to enter. I remained in the corridor. Now, especially, I had no right to be in his cabin. “I’ve come to apologize.” My tone was stiff. “I’ve never had reason to think you wouldn’t carry out your duties. My remarks on the bridge were abominable.”

  “You owe me no apology,” he said, his voice stony. “You gave your orders, as was your right.”

  “Nevertheless I’m sorry. I insulted you. I know you won’t forgive me, but I want you to know I regret my words.” I turned and left abruptly, not wanting him to see my eyes tearing.

  We made progress, but it was slow going. The crew continued to monitor ship’s systems manually. Over the next weeks I noticed an increase in the number of seamen sent to Captain’s Mast. Tempers flared as the crew’s irritability began to match my own. They too suffered from loss of sleep. Only the midshipmen seemed to thrive under the extra burden.

  While the exacting labor continued, days stretching into weeks, Vax Holser stolidly carried out all the tasks I laid on his broad shoulders, without objection and, more importantly, without offense at my manner.

  I grew to depend on him; when I wanted to be sure a difficult measurement was made and rechecked without complaint, it was Vax I called upon. Whatever he said to the other midshipmen in the privacy of the wardroom, it persuaded them to work with willing good humor, a feat of which I’d have been incapable.

  Sandy and Alexi crawled around the cargo holds in their confining pressure suits for hours at a time, determining location and mass of the cargoes. Derek, when he wasn’t poring over his navigation texts or performing the strenuous exercises Vax required of him, obediently held measuring lines, copied figures, and made himself otherwise useful to the midshipmen.

  “Captain to the bridge, please!” I was sacked out in my bunk in utter exhaustion when the call came. Never before had I been summoned from my cabin; after shaking my head in a hapless effort to clear it I took only seconds to scramble into my clothes and-dive out the hatch, foreboding rushing my stride.

  Alexi stood rigidly at attention. The Chief appeared angry. Pilot Haynes paced back and forth, a holovid in his hand.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded. I’d expected a gaping hole in the hull, if not worse.

  “Mr. Tamarov,” spat the Pilot, “brought some funny measurements. They’re wrong; they don’t balance. They can’t.”

  “Alexi, report.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir. I was assigned to check gas exchange rates on the atmospheric recyclers. I took Recycler’s Mate Quezan to the recycler compartments, bringing along gas gauges as ordered. We tested the oxygen/carbon dioxide exchange, the nitrogen recycler, and the purifiers, sir. The exchange rates were lower than listed so I ordered Mr. Quezan to repeat each measurement. We got the same numbers again, sir.”

  The Pilot. “I told you. He must have—”

  “Let him finish.”

  “I went to the ship’s library and got out the manufacturer’s specs. Their model numbers don’t jibe with the actual numbers on our units, but as far as I could tell the equivalent models in the book showed rates like we measured, not the rates Darla had in her banks, sir.” Alexi shifted uncomfortably before bringing himself back to attention at my glare.

  I sat to think. Atmospheric recycler rates were predetermined: they were fixed parameters. Darla kept the atmosphere in balance by keying the machinery on and off in accordance with those rates. “Chief, talk about recycling, please.”

  “Sir, the puter regulates our atmosphere. She turns on the oxy-carbo exchanger at set times, based on the rate the machine exchanges the atmosphere. Likewise the nitrogen and the other trace elements. If those rates were wrong we should be dead by now. The likely explanation is that Mr. Tamarov took bad measurements.”

  Alexi’s face reddened.

  The Chief added, “We called you before rechecking, because your standing orders were to be summoned the moment, we found an inconsistency.”

  “Sir, I didn’t foul up. Darla has another glit—”

  I snarled, “Be silent!” Alexi knew better than to argue with the Chief. Still, his integrity was being questioned, and I could understand his indignation. “We’ll know soon enough. Chief, you and Mr. Haynes run the test while Alexi and I watch.”

  We trooped down to Level 3 and crowded into the recycler compartment. Alexi, his face pale, watched the Chief hook up the gauges, knowing he faced disaster if his report was inaccurate. The Pilot tightened both connections to the gauge. He tu
rned on the system. After a few minutes we took a reading. The actual CO2 exchange rate was lower than the puter’s parameter.

  Alexi closed his eyes, sagged in relief.

  “Now the others.”

  The Pilot transferred his gauges to the oxygen tubes. We waited while the machinery settled into operation. The oxygen rate was also lower than Darla’s parameter. So, we learned a moment later, was the nitrogen rate, but by a lesser amount.

  We returned to the bridge in tense silence. “Chief, report tonight on why these discrepancies haven’t killed us. The rest of you, carry on. Alexi, just a moment.” When they left I came close to him. “Good man.” My voice was soft. “And, thanks.” I touched his shoulder. “Dismissed.”

  He gave me an Academy parade salute and spun on his heel toward the hatch. From the worshipful look he made no effort to hide, I knew I had finally done something right.

  The Chief’s report, delivered a few hours later, was brief.

  The discrepancy in exchange rates hadn’t fouled our air because we were never at maximum utilization. Later in the voyage, after the last of our reserves of oxygen were fed into the system, the recyclers would go to full capacity to keep our atmosphere healthy. That’s when Darla’s glitch could have proved fatal.

  She would assume the exchange rates were adequately renewing our atmosphere, while we slowly poisoned ourselves from excess CO2. Our sensors were supposed to detect any variations from normal atmosphere, but Darla would suppress their readings as faulty as long as the machines seemed to be operating properly.

  Only our manual backups would have stood between us and asphyxiation. A crewman probably would have noticed—if he didn’t ignore the sensor rather than report it, to avoid having to tear down the whole system when he knew the puter was already keeping watch.

  The next week we found seven more glitches, two of them involving the navigation system. Others seemed less important: misfigured stats for various compartments and the launch, or incorrect paint colors. Impatiently I waited for our recheck of the parameter list to be completed, so I would know how bad matters actually were.

  Some of the more difficult calculations involved rechecking calibrations on the electronic gear, which required the help of crew work parties. We Defused, to allow crewmen to clamber around on the hull; during Fusion any object thrust outside the field surrounding the ship would cease to exist. As they clumped about outside, our work parties sighted their primitive electronic instruments on distant stars, to provide an absolutely clean base for calibrations.

  One evening there came a knock on my hatch. Apprehensive, I realized that except for Ricky with my breakfast tray, nobody had ever knocked on my hatch. Except in my dreams.

  Chief McAndrews stood stolidly in the corridor, coming to attention when I opened. “As you were, Chief,” I said. “What is it?”

  “I’m here to own up, Captain.” He met my eye.

  “Come in,” I said, turning away. He had no choice but to follow.

  Uncomfortably, he cleared his throat. “Captain Seafort, I apologize for my foolishness, entering a protest in the Log. You were right and I was dead wrong; I should have kept my mouth shut. I’ve been kicking myself for two weeks now. I was insubordinate. You’d think I’d been in the Navy long enough to know better.”

  “You had every right to protest.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but like hell I did. You’re in charge and you knew what you were doing. I had no business playing sea lawyer. I’m ashamed.”

  I sighed. “I was lucky, Chief.” He looked skeptical. “Very well, we’ll trade apologies. Mine for yours. As long as you’re here, stay awhile and help me research that thing in the safe.”

  “I really don’t think, I mean, after—”

  “Stay.” I punched in the combination. Sometimes it felt good to pull rank.

  17

  THE NIGHTMARES RECEDED, BUT my loneliness remained. One evening after dinner I found myself descending the ladder to Level 2, wandering along the east corridor to Amanda Frowel’s cabin. I knocked hesitantly at her hatch. Inside, sounds emanated from a holovid.

  She opened the hatch; abruptly we found ourselves eye to eye.

  “What is it, Captain Seafort?” Her cool formality only made me feel more ill at ease.

  “I hoped we could talk.”

  She thought for a moment. “I can’t stop you from coming in, Captain, but I don’t want to talk with you.”

  “I’m not going to force my way in, Amanda.”

  “Why not? Force is your Navy’s first recourse.”

  I sighed. It was difficult enough without that. “Can’t the incident be over? I wanted—I need somebody to talk to.”

  Her voice hardened. “The incident will never be over, Captain. Not now, not as long as I live.”

  “You’re that sure I was wrong?”

  “I’m sure, as you should have been, I’d like to close my door, please.” She stared at my hand on the hatch until I removed it. The hatch closed firmly in my face. I remained there a moment, numb, before I turned and left. Not wanting to go back to the bridge, dreading the solitude of my cabin, I wandered along the corridor. Impulsively I took the ladder down to Level 3, with vague thoughts of visiting the engine room to hear the Chief’s reassuring voice.

  As I rounded the Level 3 circumference corridor I heard laughter ahead. A soccer ball skittered around the bend. Crewmen sometimes congregated outside the crew berths in the evening, kicking a ball back and forth. Doing so in the corridors was against regs but generally ignored. Without thinking I kicked it against a bulkhead, bouncing it back the way it had come. I followed.

  “Go for it, Morrie! Pretend it’s Captain Kid’s head!” A laugh.

  “Belay that, before he has you up on charges!” Another voice, jeering.

  “TEN HUT!” Someone bellowed the command as I came into sight. The ball rolled to the bulkhead and rebounded gently toward me. I put my foot on it.

  “Carry on.” The group relaxed from attention, but waited in mute hostility for me to leave. I shouldn’t have interrupted. If I’d turned the other way in the circumference corridor, I could have reached the engine room without passing them.

  “I used to play that once.” I wished someone would have the audacity to invite me, knew that no one would.

  An awkward silence, before one of the men spoke politely. “Is that so, Captain?”

  “Back when,” I said, trailing off. “Carry on,” I repeated, walking past as quickly as dignity permitted. I heard no further sounds until I reached the engine room. Chief McAndrews was below in the fusion shaft supervising a valve maintenance detail, so I retreated back to Level 1, this time taking the west corridor so as not to pass the crew berths.

  Still restless, I ignored the bridge and continued down the corridor to the now-vacant lieutenants’ cabins and the wardroom. While I waited, hesitant to knock, Sandy flung open the hatch, smiling. At the sight of me, he took an involuntary step backward, his smile vanishing. He stiffened to attention. Alexi rolled off the bed and came to attention also.

  Derek sat cross-legged on the deck with a pair of shoes in his lap, and three other pairs nearby. He put down polish and brush and stood awkwardly.

  “Carry on, all of you.” Sandy and Alexi relaxed. Derek resumed polishing a boot.” How’re you joes doing?” I asked.

  “Fine, sir.” I yearned to hear Alexi call me “Mr. Seafort,” as before.

  “What’s Vax up to?” Anything, to make conversation.

  “Mr. Holser went to the passenger lounge, sir.” Sandy’s tone was almost friendly in comparison with Alexi’s stiffness.

  “What’s with the cadet?”

  An uncomfortable pause. I’d violated the tradition that cadets were not noticed by officers. Sandy spoke. “Mr. Holser didn’t approve of the way his shoes were shined. The cadet is practicing on ours.” Quite within the acceptable bounds of hazing.

  “Very well.” I glanced around. The wardroom seemed small after my
sojourn in the spacious Captain’s cabin, but I repressed an urge to order my old bunk made ready nonetheless.

  Alexi’s eye strayed to his wrinkled blanket and darted elsewhere. “Don’t worry, Mr. Tamarov, this isn’t an inspection.” I owed him more than that, so I added, “I’m pleased with your conduct these days, Mr. Tamarov. With all of you, for that matter.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Alexi spoke promptly, politely.

  Even Derek might need encouragement. “You too, Mr. Carr.”

  His eyes rose quickly and searched my expression, perhaps to see if I mocked him. Apparently mollified, he said, “Thank you, sir.” His voice held a hint of gratitude.

  Time to go. There would be no conversation, no exchange beyond the most casual pleasantries. “Carry on.” I opened the hatch.

  “Thank you for visiting, sir,” Alexi blurted.

  It was something.

  “That’s the last of them.” I looked over the parameter list with its checkmarks and notations.

  The Pilot nodded. “Yes, sir. Nine glitches in all, out of some fourteen hundred parameters.”

  I shivered, thinking of the air exchangers. Darla could easily have killed us. “Very well, we’ll fix her tomorrow morning. You, me, and the Chief.” I took us all off the watch roster for the night; best that none of us be fatigued when we reviewed each other’s keyboard entries.

  That evening I fought an urge to stop at the infirmary for another pill. Even if the Doctor was reluctant to give me a trank, I could order one, and she’d have to obey. The knowledge made me secure enough to sleep like a baby.

  When Ricky brought my breakfast I remarked, “You may take the oath as soon as we’re finished with repairs, Mr. Fuentes.”

  His eyes lit. A grin spread over his young, eager face. “Wow, zarky! Thanks, Captain! Will that be soon?”

  “Tomorrow you’ll be a cadet like Mr. Carr. I expect you to make officer in a month!”

  He knew that was preposterous. “I can’t do it that fast, sir. But I’ll try awful hard. Maybe in a few months you’ll say I qualify.” He hesitated. “Does everybody have to cry, sir?”