Midshipman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 1) Page 5

  “Truce,” Vax said again. “Truce—Mr. Seafort.”

  I slumped back. “Name?” I managed.

  “Your name is Mr. Seafort.” He didn’t look at me with fondness, but his expression held a wary respect I hadn’t seen before.

  “Truce,” I agreed.

  We staggered out of the room and back up to Level 1, neither saying a word. I went directly to the shower. I stood under the warm spray, watching my blood swirl down the drain to the recycler in the fusion drive chamber below. I didn’t pretend I was victorious.

  I had survived. It was enough.

  5

  TO MY SURPRISE, THE greatest change in the wardroom wasn’t how Vax acted toward the other middies. He remained surly to them, and they were still cautious in his presence. It was not in how Vax acted toward me. He spoke to me as seldom as possible and rarely used my name, but when he did, it was Seafort and not Nicky.

  No, the biggest difference was in how the other juniors acted toward me. Because I’d stood up to Vax and survived I was unquestionably in charge as far as they were concerned, and they were eager to win my approval.

  Alexi in particular seemed to undergo a case of hero worship. He and Sandy straightened my bunk, crease-ironed my pants along with their own, and showed me unexpected deference. Though I tried hard not to let it show, I loved it.

  Vax, for his part, eased off on his hazing. One day I came upon him forcing Alexi to stand naked in an ice-cold shower. When I ordered him to lay off, he did, without argument. Alexi stumbled quickly out of the shower room, blue with cold and trembling from humiliation. Perhaps Vax felt that having given his word he had to keep it, but my interference didn’t make him any more friendly.

  I reported for watch each day, sometimes with Mr. Cousins, occasionally with Ms. Dagalow. With Lieutenant Cousins I sat stiffly, hoping to stay out of trouble. Ms. Dagalow, though no Dosman, chatted about puters, as she often did. Though I didn’t share her interest, I enjoyed her company and did my best to please her by learning what I could.

  The next week I was transferred to engine room watch. There Chief McAndrews tried to teach me the intricacies of the fusion drive. I discovered that I had little aptitude for it. By now I’d shown myself impossibly slow at astronavigation, thoroughly muddled as a pilot, and hopelessly inept as a drive technician. Vax was older, bigger, and stronger. Both Vax and Alexi were better able to handle the crew. I was proving incompetent at navigation, pilotage, engineering, and leadership. An ideal midshipman.

  Except for chess. I could concentrate on that; I didn’t feel our thirty-second limit as pressure. I always looked forward to my afternoon game with Lieutenant Malstrom. But one day when we set up the board his manner was subdued. I led with queen’s pawn, and before I knew it I had trapped him in a fool’s mate in five moves. He was not a good player, overall, but he was far better than that.

  We started to put away the pieces. “What’s wrong, sir?” I had known and liked this man for months now, but nonetheless I’d taken a daring step. A middy does not ask a personal question of a lieutenant. It is not done.

  Lieutenant Malstrom looked at me without speaking. He began unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it out of his pants, rolled it up from his waist. He turned, showing me his side. Just above his hip was an ugly blue-gray lump.

  I met his eye. “What is it, Mr. Malstrom?” By not using his rank I was getting as close to him as I could. We were friends.

  He said the words so quietly I could barely hear him. “Malignant melanoma.”

  “Melanoma T?”

  “Doc thinks it might be.”

  My breath hissed. The disease was an occupational hazard. In Fusion, it was impossible to shield ourselves from the N-waves that drove the ship, and over time N-waves transmuted ordinary carcinoma to the virulent T form that grew with astonishing speed.

  Like all of us, Mr. Malstrom had shipped interstellar as an adolescent, and should have been nearly immune.

  “At least they’re not sure, sir.” I tried to look on the hopeful side. Most forms of cancer were easily cured nowadays, hardly worse than a bad cold. But the new strain of melanoma didn’t respond well to drugs. The treatment of choice was still amputation of the affected part, where possible.

  I asked, “Have you been treated?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Radiation and anticar drugs. They caught it early; Doc Uburu says I have a good chance.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “Harv.” He caught my look. “Here in my quarters. My name is Harv.” He must really have been shaken. I forced myself to say his unfamiliar name.

  “I’m sorry, Harv. You’ll be all right. I know you will.”

  “I hope so, Nicky.” He tucked in his shirt. “Don’t mention it to the others.”

  “Of course not.” The Captain would know, of course. Perhaps the other lieutenants. But the middies need not be told, or the seamen.

  “I’ll go on sick leave for a few days, in case the anticars get me down. You can come give me chess lessons.”

  I grinned as I stood at the hatch. “Every day, sir.” I snapped him a salute. It was a sign of affection and he knew it. He returned it and I left.

  “Lord God, today is January 2, 2195, on the U.N.S. Hibernia. We ask you to bless us, to bless our voyage, and to bring health and well-being to all aboard.”

  “Amen,” I said fervently. Lieutenant Malstrom was absent. Amanda and I were again at the same table. This time I was thrown in with a colonist family of five journeying to a new life on Detour, our port of call beyond Hope Nation. The unspoiled resources of these newer colonies attracted many like the Treadwells, eager to escape the pollution and regimentation of overcrowded Earth. At home we had Luna, of course, and the Mars colony. But some people weren’t attracted to dome or warren life. They sought open space and fresh air that was ever harder to find.

  Not everyone could emigrate, certainly. Only the wealthy could afford it. Though I admired the quest that was taking them sixty-nine light-years from home, I wondered how the Treadwells had managed it. She was a gaunt prim woman whose hands darted restlessly. Her husband, squat, swarthy and muscular, looked more a laborer than the habitat engineer the manifests showed him to be.

  Their oldest children were twins poised on the edge of adolescence. Paula, wearing a shade too much shadow, and Rafe, all awkward knees and elbows, seemed so vulnerable they recalled my own painful thirteenth year, roaming Cardiff with my best friend Jason. I stirred uneasily, recollecting my discomfort at his hand on my shoulder, aware of his acknowledged sexual proclivity and dubious of my own. I also remembered, at Jason’s casual touch, Father’s silent look that spoke volumes of reproach.

  Both Rafe and Paula seemed awestruck by Naval life and in love with anyone who wore the uniform. Rafe pestered me for information, as he had Doc Uburu and Ms. Dagalow before me. Paula asked about joining up, what Academy was like, how old you had to be to enter.

  Ms. Treadwell frowned. “The Navy’s no place for a lady.”

  “Oh, Irene.” Paula’s voice dripped with condescension. “What about Lieutenant Dagalow, at the next table?”

  I tried not to wince. I couldn’t imagine calling my own father anything but “Father” or “Sir”.

  “Look into it when we get to Detour.” Their mother flashed me an apologetic smile. “You can’t enlist in the middle of a cruise.” Their faces fell. Another fantasy gone.

  I tried to cheer them up. “That’s not quite true, Ms. Treadwell. The Captain has authority to enlist civilians as officers or crew. It’s almost never done, but it’s possible.” The Captain also had authority to impress civilians into service in an emergency, but I didn’t mention that.

  The twins fell to talking among themselves. They decided to persuade Captain Haag to let them join up, with or without their parents’ permission. Their younger sister Tara, six, said little. We adults drifted into another conversation. Jared Treadwell asked, “Is it true, Mr. Seafort, that this ship is actually armed?�
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  “All U.N. ships have weapons, Mr. Treadwell.” I smiled. “It’s an odd and ancient precaution. There’s nobody to use them against, except now and then a few planetside bandits, and the ship’s lasers are not designed for antiguerrilla operations. They’re like male nipples: standard equipment, but useless.”

  My sally drew a nervous laugh from his wife. Groundside attitudes were fairly straightlaced. It was fun to scan old holovids about the Rebellious Ages, but I couldn’t imagine a young couple who showed up unmarried with a baby, or even tried to swim naked on a beach. Of course modern birth control has separated casual copulation, which is tolerated in any combination of sexes, from casual reproduction, which is not.

  The next day all four middies had astronavigation drill with Lieutenant Cousins. I worked my problems as well as I could, while Mr. Cousins shook his head in disgust at my mistakes. Vax got everything right, as usual. Then Alexi fouled up a really easy problem and put the ship dead in the middle of a hypothetical sun.

  Lieutenant Cousins glared at Alexi’s console, withering contempt dripping from his every word. “You incompetent child! God damn your eyes, Mr. Tamarov, you’re hopeless!”

  That was too much. Alexi knew it. So, belatedly, did Cousins. Even Vax caught my eye and slowly shook his head.

  Alexi got to his feet, nervously drawing himself to attention. He had opened his mouth to speak when Mr. Cousins forestalled him. “I apologize, Mr. Tamarov.” He glanced around. “To you and to all present. I spoke out of anger and not intent. I mean no disrespect to Lord God.”

  Alexi sat in relief, and there was silence in the cabin. I knew Lieutenant Cousins, for all his bullyragging, wouldn’t hold Alexi’s objection against him. Blasphemy was no more tolerated aboard ship than it was groundside. The lieutenant could find himself on the beach for that kind of talk.

  For three days Lieutenant Malstrom showed no ill effects. Then he took to his bed, his side bandaged. We played chess daily, sometimes two or three games. I didn’t quite let him win, but I tried some unusual variations I wouldn’t have risked otherwise. Sometimes they didn’t work.

  A week later he raised his shirt to show me his side. The ominous blue mass was gone; in its place was a red welt that was fading in places to white. Unthinking, I clapped him on the shoulder. “It worked!”

  He grinned. “I think so, Nicky. Doc says I should be all right.”

  “Fantastic!” I jumped up, too excited to be still. “Oh, Harv, sir, that’s wonderful!”

  “Yes. I have my life back.”

  We were too keyed up for chess. Instead, we talked about what to expect on Hope Nation. We’d both seen the holovids but I’d never traveled interstellar before, and Mr. Malstrom hadn’t been to Hope Nation. He promised to take me sightseeing in the fabled Ventura Mountains during our stopover. I promised him a double asteroid on the rocks at the first bar we came to.

  Happy and relaxed, I went back to the wardroom to change. Vax lay on his side and glowered the whole time I was there. I said nothing; he did likewise. By the time I left, my good cheer had evaporated.

  Alexi had the middy watch when we Defused to search for Celestina. We were fortunate; though far away, her beacons registered on the sensors’ first try. Under Lisa Dagalow’s watchful eye, Alexi plotted a course to the derelict ship. The lieutenant rechecked his figures. They agreed with Darla’s; we Fused again, a short jump to where the abandoned ship floated.

  I pulled watch two days later when we Defused once more. Lieutenant Cousins and I were on the bridge waiting, as the Captain took the conn. “Bridge to engine room, prepare to Defuse.”

  “Prepare to Defuse, aye aye, sir.” A moment passed. “Engine room ready for Defuse, sir. Control passed to bridge.”

  “Passed to bridge, aye aye.” Captain Haag glanced at his instruments, then ran his finger down the control screen. Millions of stars burst forth on the bridge simulscreens. I knew I couldn’t spot Celestina unaided, but my eyes searched nonetheless.

  “Confirm clear of encroachments, Lieutenant.” The Captain waited.

  Lieutenant Cousins turned to me. “Go to it, Mr. Seafort.” His tone held a hint of impatience.

  I checked the readouts as I’d been taught. I glanced again, in alarm. Something was there. “An encroachment, sir! Course one three five, distance twenty thousand kilometers!”

  “That’s Celestina, you idiot.” Cousins’s scorn brought a flush to my cheeks.

  The Pilot intervened. “Maneuvering power, Chief.”

  “Aye aye, Bridge. Power up.”

  The Captain watched, not interfering. He could maneuver his own ship, of course, but Pilot Haynes was aboard for that very purpose. With squirts of the thrusters, the Pilot eased the ship forward.

  Lieutenant Cousins dialed up the magnification on the simulscreens. A dark dot became a blob, then a lump. Abruptly Celestina leaped into focus, and I saw for the first time the tragic wreck that had cost two hundred seventy lives.

  She spun lazily on her longitudinal axis, crumpled alumalloy revealing a gaping hole in her fusion drive shaft. Torn and shattered metal protruded from both levels of the disk; the passengers and crew had never had a chance.

  I was silent, a lump in my throat. Hundreds of colonists had sailed that ill-fated vessel. A Captain like ours. Seamen, engineers, midshipmen like ourselves. My eyes stung.

  “Get back to work!” Lieutenant Cousins loomed over me. “Watch your screens, you—you crybaby!”

  “Belay that, Lieutenant!” The Captain’s voice stopped him cold.

  From time to time I glanced up from my console to the simulscreen, on which the derelict slowly swelled. Soon, tiny portholes were visible against the white of the disk, shaded almost to black against the interstellar darkness. After a time even Lieutenant Cousins seemed affected; he fiddled with the magnification until suddenly he caught the lettering on the vessel’s side. He spun up maximum magnification, and the letters “U.N.S. Celestina” filled the screen. My breath caught. We were all silent now.

  Pilot Haynes maneuvered the ship to within a half kilometer of Celestina. Then he turned the conn back to the Captain, who picked up the caller and spoke to the passengers, who would be crowding the portholes for the extraordinary view.

  “Attention all hands. We have Defused. We are now at rest relative to U.N.S. Celestina, destroyed by the Grace of God one hundred twelve years ago this month. Many of us will never pass this place again. It has become custom, in ships sailing this road, to pay our respects to the memory of Celestina. All passengers who wish may go aboard. Our ship’s launch will ferry you across in groups of six. The trip will last approximately two hours. The Purser will announce the order of embarkation. That is all.” Captain Haag put down the caller and stepped to the front of his command console, staring somberly at the simulscreen, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Will you go aboard, sir?” Lieutenant Cousins asked him.

  “No,” Captain Haag said quietly. “I’ll stay with the ship.” He cleared his throat. “I went over on my last trip, four years ago. I’ll remember without seeing it again.” But his eyes were riveted on the derelict.

  The duty roster was posted. The ship’s launch normally held ten. Each trip would be conducted by a lieutenant, accompanied by a midshipman and two seamen. Lieutenant Malstrom drew the first trip. Vax went with him. Two and a half hours later a subdued group of passengers returned, saddened and quiet. Oh the second excursion Sandy Wilsky went, with Lieutenant Cousins. I was scheduled for the third trip with Lieutenant Dagalow, and back on watch for the fourth.

  When my turn came I suited up and joined the seamen helping passengers struggle into their unaccustomed suits. For convenience, the launch traveled airless. Mrs. Donhauser was in our group, but I was too busy helping the others to say anything to her.

  The launch berth was in Hibernia’s shaft, just forward of the disk. We trekked into the airlock joining the two sections of the ship, climbing awkwardly up into the shaft when the lock finishe
d cycling. I felt my weight lessen as I dropped onto the deck of the shaft. Forward of me a hundred meters or so, the cargo hold was stuffed with medical equipment, precision tool and die-making implements, a hi-tech chip manufactory, and other supplies for the Hope Nation colony.

  We seated the passengers. The launch’s transplex portholes offered a clear view, and the passengers huddled to peer through them. Lieutenant Dagalow dialed the bridge; a moment later the launch berth airlock slid open.

  I glanced hopefully at the launch controls. Lieutenant Dagalow shook her head, smiled gently. “We don’t have time, Nick.” I flushed at the reminder of my incompetence, but merely nodded.

  With a brief squirt of the maneuvering thrusters she propelled us out of Hibernia’s berth. The launch’s powerful engines throbbed, its nozzles directing the liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen reaction mass that propelled us.

  Lieutenant Dagalow didn’t bother to compute a course as I would have had to; instead, she eyed the huge derelict and sailed by dead reckoning. It wasn’t quite by the book, but I envied her skill, and some part of me was glad I hadn’t attempted to pilot a craft with so many watching.

  We drifted closer to the inert ship. Ms. Dagalow’s voice crackled in our suit speakers. “U.N.S. Celestina embarked from Mars Orbiting Station May 23, 2083, with a crew of seventy-five men and women, including twelve officers. She carried a hundred ninety-five passengers, all of them colonists for Hope Nation.” She paused. “Jethro Narzul, son of the Secretary-General, was among them.” She throttled down the engines. We were rapidly approaching the derelict ship; time for braking thrusters.

  At reduced speed we drifted close to the abandoned colossus. With a practiced skill I envied, Lieutenant Dagalow fired the maneuvering thrusters and brought us to rest relative to Celestina’s gaping lock. Our alumalloy hatch slid open and a seaman jumped the few meters to the ship, a coiled cable slung over his shoulder. He moored us tight to the safety line stanchion in Celestina’s lock. As the derelict had no power, we couldn’t connect to her capture latches, but since everyone aboard was suited, we didn’t need an airtight seal.