Midshipman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 1) Page 9

  “Here it is!” Chief McAndrews held up a vial of amber liquid. A little box at his feet held several similar vials.

  I blinked. “Goofjuice?” I used the slang term for the pervasive drug.

  “Look how much they have. I wonder if they brought it aboard.” The Chief looked about with suspicion.

  “Of course they brought it, sir,” I said. “They didn’t find it on—” I stopped. “A still, on the ship?” It was impossible. No one would dare.

  “Maybe.” He caught Vishinsky’s eye; the master-at-arms gave the billy in his hands an angry twist. They went to work with a vengeance, removing every item in each sailor’s locker. It took them two hours to find it. The back plate of one seaman’s locker was loose; behind was a cavity in the bulkhead.

  “Lord God damn these people!” Vishinsky intended no blasphemy; I was sure he meant it literally. Arnolf Tuak, the hapless owner of the locker, was hauled off to the brig.

  It was late in the night before full order was restored and all known offenders were under lock and key. Wearily, we trooped back to officers’ country. “A bad kettle of fish,” was all Chief McAndrews had to say.

  “Yes, sir.” Bad indeed.

  “Contraband drugs on Hibernia.” Captain Malstrom said it again.

  “Yes, sir.” I stood at attention; he had forgotten to let me stand easy.

  His mouth curled in revulsion. “I expect they’ll smuggle a flask of wet stuff, Nicky. All sailors do that. But goofjuice ...”

  Goofjuice was another matter entirely. It didn’t seem addictive at first. But once it got hold, its grip was almost unshakable. The erratic behavior it caused wasn’t a problem to the joey indulging; he was in bliss all the while he was under the influence. But we had just seen an example of the mess it made for everyone else.

  “Yes, sir. At least we found the source.”

  Juice wasn’t that hard to make: a few test tubes, a retort, starch, magnesium salts, other common ingredients.

  “When Admiralty hears of this ...” He shook his head. Actually, I doubted it would be that bad. If Captain Haag were still in command he’d have had a lot to explain. But Mr. Malstrom hadn’t been in charge when the crew boarded.

  He looked up. “Stand easy, Nicky. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I relaxed. “How are you going to handle it? Captain’s Mast?” It was not a question a middy could ask. But Mr. Malstrom obviously wanted to talk about it, and once he had been my friend Harv.

  “No.” His face hardened. “Court-martial.” Seeing my surprise he added, “Those scum knew what they were doing. They broke a dozen regs just getting the stuff aboard ship. Then they caused a major riot among the crew. What if they’d gone berserk on duty stations, instead of in their bunks? In the engine room, or the airlock?”

  He was right, up to a point. The sailors’ stupidity might have wrecked our ship. But it hadn’t; we’d dealt with them in crew quarters. Captain’s Mast, or nonjudicial punishment, would mete out demotion, pay decreases, or extra duties. A court-martial was far more serious. While Hibernia was interstellar, far from home, the men could be punished with the brig, summary dismissal, or even execution.

  Instead of putting the incident behind us, court-martial would formalize and enlarge it. Worse, the matter would drag on unhealed while the court-martial was convened, poisoning relations between the enlisted men and officers.

  “Yes, sir. I understand.” It wasn’t my place to tell him my reservations.

  “I’m appointing Pilot Haynes as hearing officer. Alexi will be their advocate.”

  “Alexi?” I was so astonished I forgot my discipline. “Sir,” I quickly added, to correct my breach.

  “Who else? It has to be an officer. Chief McAndrews found the stuff; he’ll be a witness like you and Vax. Sandy has to present the evidence against them. There’s no one else left.”

  “Doc Uburu?”

  “Doc treated the injured and conducted the interrogations.” The Captain was right; he had no more officers to call on.

  “Aye aye, sir.” I began figuring how to relieve Alexi from his watches, so he’d have more time to study the regs.

  The court convened three days later, in the vacant lieutenants’ common room where the Board of Inquiry had met. In all, fifteen men were charged. Three were accused of organizing the still, taking part in the riot, and assaulting a superior officer. They were in the worst trouble of all. Five more were charged with use of contraband intoxicants, four of those with rioting as well. Seven others were charged with taking part in the melee.

  It wasn’t as complicated as it sounded. Petty Officer Terrill knew which two sailors had worked him over: one of the men who was accused of using the goofjuice, and one of the three distributors. Several of those charged with rioting pled guilty to all charges, throwing themselves on the Captain’s mercy. Two of the men accused of using the goofjuice also pled guilty.

  The Captain was not lenient; he sentenced four of the men to six months in the brig and busted three others right down to apprentice seaman. Then the trials of the remaining eight got under way.

  The three men charged with supplying the goofjuice were tried first. Pilot Haynes, sitting at the raised desk, listened impassively while Alexi Tamarov haltingly argued on behalf of his clients. It was no kangaroo court; when the Pilot felt the middy was not bringing out a defensive point, he put aside his preferred reticence and questioned the witness himself.

  The three hapless sailors whispered with Alexi from time to time, interrupting his questioning of Chief McAndrews.

  “Was the vial under a particular bunk when you found it, sir?”

  “Not completely,” said the Chief, unruffled. “The box was on the deck, half pushed under a bunk.”

  “So you don’t know for sure that it was in Mr. Tuak’s possession, sir?” Alexi was doing his best on a hopeless ease. Tuak had already confessed under P and D. As was his right, he recanted his confession, but of course it would be entered against him. Alexi was casting about for other evidence to discredit it.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Tamarov.” The Chief was undisturbed; other witnesses had identified the box as belonging to Tuak.

  “Sir, did you see anything that contradicts Mr. Tuak’s having been framed by another sailor?”

  “Yes.” Alexi looked surprised and worried, but had no choice but to let the Chief answer. “When he recovered from the stun charge, Mr. Tuak tried to claw Mr. Vishinsky’s face.”

  “Could that have been from anger at having been stunned unjustly?”

  “It could have,” said the Chief, his tone making clear he didn’t believe it.

  The trial droned on. I was called as a witness, but had little to offer except a description of Mr. Vishinsky quelling the riot. Neither Sandy nor Alexi seemed much interested in my testimony.

  The trial, I reflected, was mostly ritual. It could help disclose truth, but that has rarely been necessary since P and D testing became the norm. Yet we still observed the old forms in civilian as well as military courts: defense attorneys, prosecutors, witnesses. In nearly all cases we already knew the outcome.

  While the trial was in recess I wandered into the passengers’ lounge, looking for a conversation to distract me. Perhaps Mrs. Donhauser and Mr. Ibn Saud were at it again. I found two older passengers I barely knew, reading holovids. One of the Treadwell twins, the girl, was writing a game program; she tested it from time to time on the passengers’ screen. Derek Carr, lean, tall, aristocratic, studied the holo of the galaxy on the bulkhead, hands clasped behind his back.

  I stood near him, lowering my voice. “My condolences, Mr. Carr. I never had a chance to speak to you after your father’s death.”

  “Thank you,” the boy said distantly. His eyes remained on the holo. It was a dismissal.

  “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.” I moved away.

  “Midshipman.” He didn’t even know my name, after sitting at table with me a month. I waited. “There’s
something you can do. Talk with me.” He hesitated. “I need to speak to someone. It might as well be you.”

  Graciously stated. I made allowances for his bereavement. “All right. Where?”

  “Let’s walk.” We strolled aimlessly along the circumference corridor, passing the dining hall, the ladders, the Level 2 passenger staterooms.

  He said, “My father and I own property on Hope Nation. A lot of it. That’s why we were going home.”

  “Then you’re provided for.” I spoke just to keep the conversation going.

  “Oh, yes.” His tone was bitter. “Trusts and guardianships; my father had it all worked out. He showed me his will. The banks and the plantation managers will run the estate for years. I won’t get anything until I’m twenty-two. Six years! I mean, I won’t starve. But it’s not like ...”

  After a while I prompted, “Like what, Mr. Carr?”

  He looked into the distance, beyond the bulkhead. “He’d been training me to run the plantations. He taught me bookkeeping, the crop cycles. We made decisions together. I thought ...” His eyes misted. “My father and I ... We had money, we had a good life. I thought it would always be that way.”

  Thrusting his hands in his pockets he turned to me, his eyes bleak. “And now it’s all gone. I’ll be treated like a joeyboy again. Nobody will listen. No one will care. It’ll be years before I can do anything about it.”

  I said nothing, taking it in. “Do you have a mother?”

  “No, I’m a monogenetic clone. Just my father.” Not an uncommon arrangement of late, but I wondered how it would feel. Back home in Cardiff we were more conservative; I carried my host mother’s genes as well as Father’s, though I’d never met her. After a moment Derek added, “I thought you might understand, being my own age and all. And having responsibilities.”

  “Yes, I understand. Tell me something, Mr. Carr.”

  “What?”

  I probably shouldn’t have said it, but I was overtired and my nerves were on edge. “Do you miss your father?” He stiffened at my tone. I added, “You haven’t mentioned how you feel about him. Just the advantages he gave you.”

  He was furious. “I miss him. More than a person like you will ever know. Forget we spoke.” He stalked back down the corridor.

  I strode quickly to catch up. “How do you expect me to know, when you keep it hidden?”

  He took several more steps before slowing. Finally he stopped, hand against the bulkhead. “I don’t wear my feelings for everyone to see,” he said coldly. “It’s uncouth.”

  I felt I owed him something for jabbing at him. “The day I went to Academy at Dover, I was thirteen. My father brought me to town. I had my belongings in a duffel I carried at my side. Father walked me to the compound gates, his hands in his pockets, saying nothing. When we reached the gate I stopped to say good-bye. He turned my shoulders around and pushed me toward the entrance. I started walking. When I looked again he was striding away without looking back.” I paused. “I dream about it frequently. The psych says I’ll probably outgrow it.” I took a couple of breaths to restore calm. “It’s not the same, Mr. Carr, but I know what loneliness is.”

  After a pause Derek said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Midshipman.”

  “It’s Seafort. Nick Seafort.”

  “I apologize, Midshipman Seafort. My father always said we were extraordinary, and I believed it. In a way we are. It’s hard to remember other people have feelings too.”

  We wandered back to the lounge, saying nothing. At the hatch we stopped, and after an awkward moment we shook hands.

  8

  ACCORDING TO RITUAL MR. Tuak stood in front of the presiding officer’s desk with his advocate, Alexi. The two stood at attention while Pilot Haynes declared his verdict.

  “Mr. Tuak, the court finds you guilty of the offense of possessing aboard a Naval vessel a contraband substance, to wit, a magnesium starch colloquially known as goofjuice. The court nominally sentences you to two years imprisonment for this offense.” The court always imposed the maximum sentence provided for in the regs, a nominal sentence subject to review and reduction by the Captain.

  “Mr. Tuak, the court finds you guilty of the offense of rioting aboard a vessel under weigh. The court nominally sentences you to six months imprisonment and loss of all rank and benefits.” Pilot Haynes stopped for breath. It was the longest speech I had ever heard him make.

  “The court also finds you guilty of striking a superior officer, to wit, Mr. Vishinsky, and likewise Mr. Terrill, in an attempt to prevent the performance of their duty. The court sentences you—nominally sentences you—to be hanged by the neck until dead, and remands you to the master-at-arms for execution of the sentence.”

  Even though the sentence was known and expected, Alexi’s shoulders fell and his head bowed. Tuak stood unmoving, as if he hadn’t heard.

  After, in the wardroom, I tried to comfort Alexi. He had been crying and paid no attention to my consolation. Vax watched as I fumbled at Alexi’s arm, muttering inane words. After a time the burly midshipman tapped me on the shoulder and motioned me aside. He sat on the bed next to Alexi and put his big hand on the back of the younger middy’s neck, squeezing the muscle gently.

  “Let go; I’m all right.” Alexi tried to pull away Vax’s hand.

  “Not until you listen.” His hand stayed where it was. “My uncle is a lawyer. A criminal lawyer back in Sri Lanka.”

  “So?”

  “He once told me the hardest part of his job. He liked his clients, some of them.” Vax waited, but Alexi made no comment.

  “When he couldn’t get his clients freed, the hardest thing for him to remember was that it was their own fault they were in trouble, not his. They were in jail not because he had failed them, but because they had fouled up in the first place.”

  “There must have been a way to get him out of it.” Alexi’s voice was muffled, but at least he was listening.

  “Not in this Navy.” Vax spoke with certainty. He picked up the younger middy and turned him over onto his back. Again I wished for Vax’s strength. “Read the regs, Alexi. They’re designed to protect authority, not to encourage flouting it.”

  “But executing him—”

  “That’s for the Captain to decide. Anyway, he’s a drug dealer. I have no sympathy for him. Why should you?”

  I sat down on my bunk. I wasn’t needed anymore.

  “But they might hang him!” Alexi propped himself upon an elbow. “Look, I know you want me to feel better. But tell me Lieutenant Dagalow couldn’t have done something to save him!”

  “Lieutenant Dagalow couldn’t have done anything to save him,” Vax said evenly. “A ship under weigh is under the strictest military rules. It has to be, to preserve order and lives. The rules are clear. What happened down in berth three was nearly a mutiny. You don’t think mutineers should get off, do you?”

  “Of course not!” Alexi said indignantly. It was unthinkable to us all.

  “Tuak struck an officer in the performance of his duty. That’s a form of mutiny. You have a hell of a nerve sympathizing with him, Tamarov!”

  Alexi was smart enough to make the distinction. “I don’t sympathize with what he did, just the penalties. Sometimes we’ve screwed up too, you know. You mutinied against Mr. Seafort, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and he let me off easy. Mr. Seafort should have taken my head off. I realize that, now.” Oh. Nice to know.

  “Then we’re just luckier than Tuak,” said Alexi bitterly.

  “No,” I intervened. “Mouthing off in the wardroom isn’t comparable to dealing drugs to the crew or hitting the CPO, and you know it.”

  After a moment Alexi sighed. “I know,” he said. He sat up. “You joes realize I have to go through it again? With the other trials?”

  We commiserated. The crisis was over.

  The other trials began the next day. When they were done, two other unfortunate sailors were under sentence of execution for striking their officers. A
variety of lesser penalties had been handed out to the remaining participants.

  The Pilot formally presented his verdicts to Captain Malstrom. The Captain had thirty days to act; unless he commuted the sentences, they’d be automatically carried out by the master-at-arms.

  During the next few days the officers watched for signs of tension among the crew. There was some bitterness, but on the whole the hands settled down. Our crew knew the ship needed authority at its helm, just as the rest of us did. If Captain Malstrom was troubled by the decision he had to make, he didn’t show it. He relaxed visibly when it was clear the unrest was over. He laughed easily, joked with the younger passengers, and arranged a place for me several evenings at the Captain’s table, though it was not customary to favor an officer.

  Once he even invited me to play chess. He knew I would be uncomfortable in the Captain’s quarters; they were so unapproachable I’d never been allowed to see them. We went instead to the deserted lieutenants’ common room.

  We set up the board for the first time in many weeks. I didn’t play well, not by choice, but from nervousness. Playing the Captain was nothing like playing a second lieutenant. He seemed to sense my mood and chatted with me, trying to put me at my ease.

  “Have you reached a decision yet, sir, on the rioters?” It was presumptuous of me, but Captain Malstrom seemed pleased by my attempt at intimacy. Perhaps he needed it.

  His face darkened. “I don’t see how I can let them off and keep a disciplined ship.” He sighed. “I’m trying to justify commuting the death sentences; the thought of killing those poor men sickens me. But in good conscience, I don’t know how I can.”

  “You still have time to decide.”

  “Yes, twenty-five days. We’ll see.” He turned the conversation to Hope Nation. He asked if I still intended to buy him a drink. Yes, I said, knowing it was unlikely. A Captain on shore leave doesn’t carouse with middies. For one thing, he’s too busy.

  After that day, something was wrong. I didn’t know what, but the Captain didn’t offer a smile when we met in the ship’s dining hall. He looked preoccupied and grim. I shared a four-hour watch with him and the Pilot. He hardly spoke. I assumed his decision about the death sentences was affecting his mood.