Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Read online

  It was an hour before my call got through to Admiral Brentley on Lunapolis. The conversation was brief. “I can’t do a thing about it, Nick. This comes straight from the Secretary-General’s office. I know you’re overcrowded but I can’t help you.”

  “But what possible good could it do to haul forty transpops from among the hundreds of thous—”

  “Ask the Council of Elders of the Church; it falls under ‘charitable works’ and they have the ear of the SecGen. I gather that if the experiment works, they’ll begin mass shipping of trannies to the newer colonies.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I know, I know. As a means of relieving population pressure it’s nonsense, and you’d think they’d know better. A nuisance for you, but it’s out of my bailiwick. Put up with the overcrowding as best you can.”

  “It’s more than overcrowding, sir. The recyclers aren’t meant to handle—”

  “I know, Seafort, but there’s ample safety margin built into the specs. As for food, we’d provided extra canned—”

  “Sir, they’re dangerous to the ship and the other passengers!”

  “I’d feel the way you do if Portia were mine. But the U.N.’s desperate to relieve pressure in the urban centers. The program is set. Anyway, they’ve sent you younger ones who have no known parents, and a supervisor to watch over them. I understand the most violent cases have been screened out. Do your best, Seafort.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” I said automatically. The connection went dead. I turned to Alexi. “Make sure the purser is prepared. Set up additional tables in the dining hall. Have extra crewmen stand by when they arrive. Good Lord!”

  “Yes, sir. Aye aye, sir.” Alexi’s faint smile was almost hidden by the hand propped in front of his mouth.

  I knocked at the Level 2 corridor hatch, waited as it slid open. “Chief Engineer Hendricks?”

  A thin, graying man, whose officer’s jacket ill fitted his long, skinny arms. “Yes, sir.” His voice was flat and emotionless, his mouth unsmiling.

  “You were bunked down when I visited the engine room,” I said. “Good to meet you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are we ready for departure?”

  “Yes, sir. I would have told you otherwise.”

  “Uh, right.” I felt like the awkward middy I’d once been. “Carry on. We’ll talk later.” I continued along the Level 2 corridor, Philip Tyre at my side. “Which cabins, Mr. Tyre?”

  He pointed ahead. “There, sir, just past crew berth one.” We strode past the crew berth. Two seamen lounging in the corridor stiffened to attention. I ignored them. Tyre opened the cabin hatch.

  Upper and lower bunks were stacked alongside three of the four bulkheads. The two extra dressers utterly filled the rest of the compartment, leaving barely enough room to move about. “A few nights is one matter,” I said, “but seventeen months of this ...”

  Philip shrugged, unconcerned. “They’re just trannies, sir.”

  I was outraged. “Two demerits, Mr. Tyre! Make that three!” I ignored his stricken look. “On my first posting, we middies were taught to show respect for passengers!”

  “Yessir,” he said quickly. “I’m very sorry, Captain. I only meant they’re probably used to it. Not that they deserved it.” His tone was meek. “I’m sorry if I offended, sir.”

  Perhaps I’d overreacted, but a few hours of calisthenics wouldn’t hurt him. It only took two hours to work off each demerit, unless he reached ten and was sent to the barrel. “Very well. Are all their cabins like this one?”

  “Yes, sir. Pretty much.”

  “They’re all on this Level?”

  “Yes, sir, 211 through 217. I think Mr. Holser wanted them near crew quarters, sir, in case of trouble.”

  I considered a moment. Vax was probably right, and I certainly didn’t want them on the same Level as the bridge. Anyway, the transpops were due to board anytime now; too late for changes. “Very well, Mr. Tyre, we’ll go back up. You’ll help the pursuer when they board.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” As we climbed the ladder to Level 1 he blurted, “Sir, I already had seven demerits.”

  Alexi must have been at him again. I hesitated. Canceling demerits was bad for discipline. But still ... ten meant the barrel. “Very well, Mr. Tyre. Two demerits instead of three.”

  He shot me a grateful look. “Thanks, sir. Thanks very much.”

  Exhausted, I contemplated returning to the bridge. There was no reason to stay awake; Vax could settle our passengers. I had to be alert in the morning for our departure. I headed for my cabin, and Amanda’s soothing care.

  Straightening my tie and checking my jacket I strode onto the bridge, a confident young Captain about to take command. Still I paused before taking the chair at the left console. The seat was empty, of course; it would have been unthinkable for a junior officer to be found in it.

  I nodded to Vax Holser in the chair across, and turned to the unfamiliar figure at the console at my right. “Pilot Van Peer, I presume?”

  The red-haired young man smiled engagingly as he stood and saluted. “Walter Van Peer, yes, sir. Glad to meet you.” Mr. Van Peer was a holdover from the ship’s last voyage to Casanuestra.

  I glanced at my instruments. “We’re ready, gentlemen?” I keyed the caller to Departure Control. “Station, U.N.S. Portia is prepared for departure from G-4.”

  After a moment the reply crackled in the speaker. “Initiate breakaway, Portia.”

  “Roger.” I thumbed the caller. “Attention, aft and forward airlocks. Cast off!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Alexi and Rafe Treadwell were at the aft lock; Derek was forward. With a pang I remembered Hibernia’s departure from Luna Station on my first interstellar flight, three years ago. I’d been at the aft lock where Rafe now served, Lieutenant Malstrom supervising my every move. Impulsively I jumped from my seat. “I’m going below,” I said. “Hold breakaway until my command.”

  Vax glanced at me in mild surprise; the Pilot’s mouth opened in astonishment. Of course neither said a word except to acknowledge my order.

  I hurried down the corridor to the ladder. At the forward airlock Derek Carr was calmly supervising the seamen who were unhooking our steel safety line from the stanchion in the station lock. At my approach he raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  Portia, like any vessel, secured herself to a station with its capture latches, and the ship’s airlock mated to the station lock with rubber seals, but ever since the Concorde disaster, backup safety cables were mandatory.

  A sailor wound in our cable, pulling it into our own lock. The cable bent with difficulty through the gloves of his space-suit as he folded it. “Line secured, sir,” he called to Derek.

  “Forward line secured, sir,” Derek repeated, though I stood at his side.

  “Proceed, Mr. Carr.” Then I blurted, “I’m not inspecting. I just wanted to watch.” Idiocy, explaining myself to a midshipman.

  “Yes, sir.” Derek turned to the sailor. “Close inner lock, Mr. James. Prepare for breakaway.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Seaman James pressed a coded transmitter to the inner lock panel. The thick hatches slid shut smoothly, forming a tight center seal.

  “Disengage capture latches.”

  The seaman keyed open the latch control panel, touched the pad within. “Disengaged, aye aye.”

  Derek glanced at me. “Forward lock secured, sir. Shall I report also to the bridge?”

  “I suppose, Mr. Carr.” I looked helplessly at the outer lock still mated to the station. What I’d wanted to see was our actual breakaway, but my duty was aloft. I sighed, and reluctantly headed back topside.

  In my seat again I thumbed the caller. “Departure Control, Portia ready for breakaway.”

  “Proceed, Portia. Vector oh three oh from station. Godspeed.”

  “Thank you, Station.” I touched a button on my console three times. Three deep blasts from the ship’s whistle resounded, signaling imminent breakaway to all on our vessel.
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  “Pilot Van Peer, you have the conn.”

  “Right, sir.” His tone was cheerful. He signaled the engine room. “Chief, auxiliary power, please.”

  Chief Hendricks’s dry, unemotional voice. “Auxiliary power, aye aye.”

  “Hang on, folks, here we go,” the Pilot said with an irreverent grin. He gently fired our side thrusters; jets of propellant shot from the nozzles imbedded in the ship’s hull. Portia rocked, her airlock suckers stretching. Abruptly they parted from their counterparts on the station lock; U.N.S. Portia drifted slowly clear of Earthport Station. Stars slid across the simulscreens on the forward bulkhead. After a few moments the Pilot asked casually, “Would you care to close the outer locks, sir?”

  I flushed. It was my responsibility to give the order, but I’d been too busy gawking at the receding station. “Very well.” I thumbed the caller. “Secure outer hatches!”

  Red console lights switched to green as the outer airlock hatches slid closed. “Forward hatch secure, sir.” Derek.

  Alexi’s steady voice followed. “Aft hatch secure, sir.”

  “Secured, very well.”

  The Pilot maintained us on course. I watched the station in the simulscreens until it was swallowed by the starry backdrop. Long minutes stretched into an hour.

  “We’re clear to Fuse, sir,” the Pilot said.

  “Danny, Fusion coordinates, please.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the puter said promptly. He flashed the figures onto my console screen.

  As I began to punch calculations onto my screen I felt sweat gathering under my jacket, as always when I plotted Fusion coordinates.

  The Pilot stirred. “I ran our coordinates myself and checked them against the puter’s figures, sir.”

  I ignored him.

  “They check out to six decimal places,” he added.

  “Vax, you too,” I said.

  “Aye aye, sir.” My first lieutenant tapped figures into his console.

  Pilot Van Peer looked from one to the other of us, perplexed. “Is there a problem, Captain?”

  I made no response.

  “I thought it’s customary for the Pilot to calculate Fusion coordinates.” He sounded plaintive.

  I grunted. “On my ship we all do. Nothing personal.” I returned to my laborious calculations.

  “The puter’s figures and mine are in full—”

  “Pilot, shut up!” Nav didn’t bring out the best in me.

  “Aye aye, sir.” His hurt was manifest.

  Half an hour later I had my figures. They checked with Danny’s and Vax’s. “Very well.” I fed them into the puter.

  “Coordinates received and understood, Captain.” Danny sounded breathless.

  “Thank you.” I thumbed the caller. “Engine room, prepare to Fuse.”

  “Prepare to Fuse, aye aye.” After a moment the speaker came alive. “Engine room ready for Fuse, sir.”

  “Chief Engineer, Fuse.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The Chief’s voice was flat. “Fusion drive is ... ignited.” The simulscreens abruptly blanked.

  I remained in my seat, the melancholy of our isolation pressing. In Fusion, all our external instruments were dead; we rode the crest of our N-wave out of the Solar System at superluminous speed, blind and deaf. Even communication was denied us; nothing we broadcast could travel as fast as the N-wave itself. Now we had only our own resources to sustain us until we reached safe haven sixty-nine light-years away.

  Vax had the watch; I knew he was reliable. Besides, there was nothing on the bridge that needed doing. After a while, morose, I left. Amanda wasn’t in our cabin, so I wandered to the Level 1 passengers’ lounge, where I found only unfamiliar faces among the holovids, easy chairs, and game machines.

  I could have remained; officers were free to use the lounge and we weren’t discouraged from socializing with passengers, but I withdrew, ill at ease. I followed the circumference corridor to the west ladder, climbed down to Level 2. Perhaps I’d find Amanda in the library.

  “Here’s cap’n! Here’s cap’n!” A teen joey pranced around me, sandals flopping on the deckplates as his high, excited voice beckoned his mates. He pointed at my jacket. “Mira, mira da man!” Rough-trimmed hair hung over his ears. His scrawny body was covered by a blue denim jumpsuit.

  “He da man! He da man! Mira threads!” Grimy hands pawed at the braid on my jacket. I slapped them away, but other curious youths pressed close.

  A voice sliced through the jabber. “Knock off, joeys! Knock off!” A meaty hand flung aside one ragged youngster. A short, chunky woman pushed through the opening she’d made. “Gi’im room! Knock off, gi’im room.” Her words tumbled. Slowly the crowd drew back. She smiled briefly. “Sorry, Captain. Melissa Chong. I’m supposed to make sure things like this don’t happen.” Apparently unaware of ship’s protocol, she stuck out her hand.

  Awkwardly I took it. “You’re the supervisor?”

  “Right, I’m a UNICEF DSW, but these joeys call me Mellie.” She collared the youth who first approached me. “Say sorry, Annie! Tell’im sorry cap’n!”

  “Naw!” Her charge tried to squirm away.

  “Noway toucha cap’n, Annie! Noway!”

  “Din’ hurtim,” he—she?—said sullenly. “Jus lookin’!”

  “Say sorry,” repeated Dr. Chong, a firm grip on the youth’s neck.

  The look Annie shot me was wrathful. “Din’ mean nothin’,” she muttered. “Din’ hurt, just lookin’, sorry.”

  I nodded. “No harm done. Your name is Annie? You’re a girl?”

  Her face flashed into an elfin grin. She wiggled her hips. “Cap’n wanna fin’ out?”

  “Knock off, Annie!” Dr. Chong said sharply. She thrust the girl away. “Inna room, allyas. Inna room.” Reluctantly they drifted away toward their cabins.

  “How do you speak that jargon?” My tone was mild.

  “You pick it up after a while. Mostly it’s just fast.” Her round Oriental face broke into a grin. “I’ll teach you, if you wish. In case you ever go transient.”

  I shuddered. “Lord God forbid.” I glanced about, frowned at the litter that hadn’t strewn the deck a few moments before. “Well. You’ll have your hands full.”

  “Yes, ‘til Detour. Then they’re someone else’s responsibility.”

  Seventeen months, with such rabble. I sighed. “How do you control them?”

  “I’m trying to meld them into a single tribe. Most of them respect tribal authority. It’s all they know.”

  I raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “I thought trannies were—”

  “Don’t use that word!”

  “I beg your pardon?” My tone was frosty.

  “Say ‘transpops,’ or ‘transients.’ The other is a racial slur, like ‘chic’ or ‘black.’ They’ll take offense, and the consequences could be violent.”

  “I’ve heard it used.” I wrinkled my brow. “Very well, I’ll take care. Anyway, I was asking ...”

  “About tribes, yes. Most Uppies don’t realize there’s more than one transpop subculture. Transpops live in social units based on location. Some homelands are contained in a few small blocks, others quite large. They get along by trading, or selling sex. Or warring. For instance, the Unies—”

  “How many tribes among our group?” I was impatient to be on my way.

  “Several, and it’s caused no end of problems. If UNICEF had only listened—” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m sorry for the disturbance, Captain.” On that note we parted.

  I found Amanda sorting through holochips in the library. “Look, Nicky, they even have Marx and Engels! I could do a comparative economics course.”

  I grinned. “For whom, hon? The transpop joeys?”

  “I’ll have you know we’ve plenty of educated passengers this trip.” She racked a stack of chips. “We’ll have lots of guest lecturers. In fact I was thinking of—ungh!” She flinched.

  “What’s wrong?” I couldn’t hide my alarm.

  “I got kic
ked. I think he wants out, Nicky.”

  “Right now?”

  She laughed at my consternation. “Not in the next few minutes. But soon, I think. He wants to see his papa.”

  I grimaced. The idea of parenthood was still alien. “I want to see him too,” I assured her. I paused. “Will you lunch with me?”

  “Officers’ mess or the dining hall?” Ship’s officers ate their morning and noon meals in the tiny officers’ mess, and joined the passengers for the formal evening meal. The passengers took breakfast and lunch cafeteria style in the Level 1 passengers’ dining hall. The crew, of course, always ate belowdecks in the Level 2 crew mess.

  “The officers’ mess,” I said. “I don’t want to share you with all those people.” She rewarded me with a smile. I took her hand and we wandered back along the corridor toward the ladder. I didn’t care how undignified I looked.

  Lunch was a simple affair, some sort of stew served over bread. I chose the small table against the bulkhead rather than the long wooden table in the center of the cabin. By tradition that signaled I meant to eat alone, and the other officers wouldn’t bother me. If I chose the long table, officers were free to strike up conversation.

  “You ought to talk with Melissa Chong,” I told Amanda. “Set up an education program for the transpops.”

  She grimaced. “From what I hear I’d have to start at the very beginning.” She eyed me suspiciously. “Who’s Melissa Chong, and where were you?”

  I made allowances. In her pregnancy Amanda had a right to insecurity. “Talking to passengers.” My voice was mild. I changed the subject.

  After lunch I returned to the bridge. In Fusion I had little to occupy me there. The puter’s sensors monitored air pressure, power, recycling and hydroponics controls, airlock status, and the like. We would stand watches against the risk that something might go seriously wrong, but if it did, we were unlikely to survive.

  Philip Tyre and Pilot Van Peer had the watch. Both stood politely as I entered. I waved them back to their seats, took my place, and scanned the displays.

  “Readouts are normal, Captain,” the Pilot offered.

  “May I check for myself?” I regretted my growl almost instantly; Van Peer hadn’t meant any criticism. I was still touchy from the trouble I’d had with my Pilot on Hibernia. “Sorry,” I added lamely. That annoyed me even more; a Captain didn’t need to apologize for snapping: it was his privilege. The commander of a vessel under weigh had virtually unlimited powers. The respect his officers showed him was partly tradition and partly from self-preservation.