A ship could have but one Captain, and Stanger was he. No civilian, even the Commander in Chief and head of Government, could legitimately issue a direct order on ship. Even an Admiral was required to operate through his subordinate Captain, who had actual responsibility for the vessel. The Admiral’s recourse was to remove a Captain who offended; even an Admiral couldn’t countermand his Captain’s orders.
It was well this was so. The Navy survived by maintaining an absolutely clear line of authority.
Ultimately, I could have Galactic’s crew do as I wished, but only by issuing directives to Admiralty, and having their orders filter through the chain of command. Of course, in practical terms a request from me had the effect of a direct order. No sailor in his right mind would alienate the SecGen.
We started down the corridor, several officers trailing behind.
Like any starship, Galactic was composed of disks. Imagine a series of foam rubber circles, stacked one on top of another. Then picture a rather thick old-fashioned pencil stuck through the center of the disks. The part of the pencil forward of the disks contained the voluminous cargo holds that justified the ship’s existence. Aft, below the disks, were the fusion drive chambers that generated the N-wave that drove the ship. But the disks were where passengers and crew worked and lived.
Most starships contained two levels, or three. Galactic had six, and they were huge. Through the middle of each disk ran a circular circumference corridor, divided into nominal east and west. The disks were connected by stairwells, which by Naval terminology were ladders.
“I feel ...” I couldn’t say it aloud, even to Arlene. I felt more at home on this ship, unfamiliar as she was, than ever I’d be in the corridors of the Rotunda.
Why can we not retreat to what was? More to the point, why had I ever abandoned life as a Captain? I sighed.
Stanger stopped abruptly at a hatch, slapped the panel. The midshipmen continued on until they were beyond the corridor curve.
A hatch slid open. I gaped. “Elevators, in a starship?”
“For passengers, mostly. Remember, we have six levels.” He smiled. “The lifts are off-limits to middies.”
“I would hope.” How soft would the Navy grow, if middies rode elevators from level to level? Why, in my day ...”
“Shall we?”
I asked brusquely, “Do you normally ride?”
“No, sir. But ...” His eye flicked to my cane.
That did it. “Neither do I.” I stalked down the corridor.
The ladder was farther than I’d thought. Surely the stair to Level 2 was no steeper than usual. Lips tight, I negotiated the steps, transferring as much weight to the rail as I could. As I climbed, though, my discomfort lessened. At the top of the ladder, on Level 2, I felt almost light-headed.
Stanger read my mind. “We have three gravitron units. They’re intended to mesh, but I keep the bow units set low. About a third gee. It’s better for our health.”
“Is it?”
He shrugged. “I like it that way.” As Captain, he could set them as he chose. Light gravity was rather refreshing, once you got used to it. Most unusual; a ship such as Hibernia had but one set of gravitrons.
We climbed to Level 1. It was, as Stanger had said, more as I’d expected. Gray bulkheads, alloy plate decking. Utilitarian: To my eye, comfortable.
A quarter of the way around the long corridor, we came to the bridge. Stanger slapped open the thickened hatch. A bridge was built like a fortress; if sealed from within, only a heavy cutting rig could penetrate it.
The watch officer jumped from his console, stood at attention.
“As you were.” Automatically, Stanger glanced at the console readouts. My own eye was drawn to the simulscreen that dominated the front bulkhead. As on any bridge, it provided a view of the stars, as seen from the ship’s prow. But most ships weren’t moored just off Earthport Station. The view from Galactic was beyond spectacular. It was breathtaking.
“Mr. SecGen, Ms. Seafort: First Lieutenant Garrow.”
I grunted, still lost in the Station’s blaze of lights.
“An honor to meet you, sir.”
“Of course.” After a moment I tore myself from the simulscreen, realized what I’d said. “I mean ...” I flushed. “Sorry. You’ve been on ship long, Lieutenant?”
“I came from Seville two weeks before commissioning.”
I forced myself to concentrate. “Captain Stanger’s last command.” I’d read as much, in a briefing.
Stanger drifted to the hatch. “I brought Garrow with me. A good man. Would you like a brief tour, Mr. SecGen?”
“Very well.” Reluctantly, glancing behind, we followed him from the bridge. Two middies tagged along, apparently at the Captain’s behest.
The dining hall on Level 2 was elegant beyond words; its decor would have been suitable in the finest French restaurant in Lunapolis. Alexi and I exchanged skeptical glances. “Rather ornate,” he allowed.
I tried to count the tables. If Galactic carried three thousand passengers ... “Mr. Stanger, surely you don’t hold two seatings?”
“No, this is only first class. Most passengers are served in the second dining hall below. We—”
I spluttered, “First class?” In all my Naval years, it had been a proud axiom: the Navy traveled with but one class of passenger. While wealthier joeys could buy certain amenities, such as parties and receptions in the lounges, passenger cabins were all the same size, and meals were alike.
“It’s not really a class, sir, it’s—”
“Why wasn’t I told of this?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Show me the other dining hall.”
Grimly, we proceeded two levels down the ladder.
Alexi scowled at the pressed celulex tables, the rows of straight chairs. “Hah. Not really a class?”
I muttered, “Inexcusable.” Compared to the opulent first class dining hall, the compartment was dreary and utilitarian.
Arlene gave my hand a warning squeeze, but her eyes said she was as disgusted as I.
I shook my head. “I’ll be paying Admiralty a visit.” I rounded on Captain Stanger. “I suppose the cabins are equally classless?”
“There are differences among them.” Stanger’s tone was frosty. “Remember, Mr. SecGen, that I’m not the architect.”
I wasn’t about to be mollified. “You, of course, dine on Level 2?”
“It’s nearer the bridge.”
“But of course.” My tone dripped contempt.
The two middies exchanged glances.
“Easy, sir.” Alexi touched my arm.
“It’s an outrage.” He and Arlene were right: there was no point in alienating Stanger, but ... the Captain wasn’t even ashamed of the disgraceful arrangements. Still, I’d treated him poorly in front of his own midshipmen. For the sake of ship’s discipline I tried to rein in my ire. “No need to drag you about the ship; a middy will suffice. You, there. Speke, is it? Would you care to show us the engine room?”
“With the Captain’s permission.” A touch insolent, perhaps, but technically correct. It was Stanger’s ship, not mine.
Stanger nodded his consent. Then, to me, “Would you care to lunch with us before you leave?”
“No, thank you. We have a shuttle to catch.” Not quite true; our shuttle for Von Walthers would depart when we were ready. Earthport was in geosync over the southeastern Americas, so we need not be concerned with an entry window. Still, I doubted I’d enjoy a meal in a galley masquerading as a luxury hotel.
The Captain’s face was wooden. “As you wish. I’ll have the launch crew stand by.” Another salute, and he left us.
Perhaps Midshipman Speke had taken umbrage at my dismissal of Stanger; he was distinctly cool as we went about our tour. It annoyed me enough so that obstinately, after the engine room, I asked to see more. Arlene looked about with interest; she’d been a lieutenant for a number of years in one of the Navy’s proudest ships.
> “This way, sir.” Speke’s tone was sullen. Well, if that was his attitude, no wonder he hadn’t made lieutenant.
I had the middy lead us to the comm room—an impressive establishment, bristling with radionics and sensors—and then an elegant passenger lounge, complete with ornate bronze statuary. With every step, I was more uneasy, more sure the Navy had made a grave miscalculation.
Galactic was stunning, there was no denying it. But the Navy was in the transport business, not the hotel trade. A voyage could last well over a year; Galactic’s cruise to the new colony of Constantine would take a full nineteen months. On such long voyages class distinctions ought to be suppressed, not encouraged, else they would fester, and resentments burst forth.
I asked, “Where are hydros?” Despite her capacious holds, the starship would depend to a large degree on the produce of her hydroponics chambers.
Speke said, “Below, on Level 6.”
I gaped at Alexi, but he had seen it too. The impatient middy had rolled his eyes. Alexi shook his head. I knew what he was thinking: on Melbourne, or for that matter, on any ship of mine, a middy who showed such disrespect would be brought up short. Well, Galactic was Stanger’s to command. I wouldn’t interfere.
Passing cabin after cabin, we trudged down the sumptuous corridor toward the hydroponics chamber, my knee aching. We passed an airlock, one of half a dozen the ship boasted. Two seamen waited for the entry light to go green, stiff and awkward in their pressure suits.
Alexi said, “Hullo, what’s this?”
The young middy’s voice was cool. “Machinist’s mates, sir. I believe they’re checking another sensor.”
“Problems?”
“Four external airlock sensors have gone bad so far.” That sort of thing happened, especially on a new ship. That’s why Galactic tarried so long in home system after her commissioning. Speke shook his head. “Shoddy Navy parts.” I bit back a savage reply.
By the time we’d looked at the rows of tomatoes, legumes, and greens growing in East Hydros, I’d walked as much as I could tolerate. We started back to the launch berth.
At the Level 3 launch bay lock, I opened the inner hatch from the corridor panel. “That will be all, Mr. Speke.”
Alexi cleared his throat. “Middy, please give Mr. Stanger a message.”
“Yes, sir?” The boy waited.
Alexi’s voice was stern. “Tell him Captain Tamarov is offended by your behavior, and wishes to call it to his attention.”
The middy gulped. “Aye, sir.”
I whistled under my breath. The boy was in for it now. At twenty, he was by custom too old to be caned, but he’d have to work off demerits as would any other middy. If I were his commander, he’d get a full ten demerits, for the folly of irking a fellow Captain. Each required two hours of hard exercise.
I’d been prepared to let the matter go, but Alexi wasn’t so charitable. Well, coming off a ship of the line, he expected shipboard discipline. No doubt, on Melbourne, he got it, though Alexi was one of the most kindhearted souls I knew.
Still, I hesitated. It was I who’d kindled Speke’s resentment in the first place, by being so brusque with Stanger. Nonetheless, I’d see ten midshipmen caned before I’d alienate my oldest friend. I flashed Alexi a glance of apology. “Your outrage is warranted, Captain Tamarov.” I favored the hapless middy with a steely glare. “Tell me, Mr., ah, Speke. Can you imagine making Captain?”
“Um—I ...” It was every midshipman’s dream. “Yes, sir.”
“And if one of your middies—no doubt a good joey at heart—went about sulky and sullen, sighing under his breath, rolling his eyes ... You’d be pleased?”
“No, sir.” He reddened.
“And this in front of a distinguished Captain and the SecGen?”
“No, sir.” He was sweating.
“You were annoyed, perhaps, that I was curt with Captain Stanger?”
“I—there was no—it’s none of my business, sir.”
“Ahh.” My glance softened. “Perhaps I might prevail on Mr. Tamarov to countermand his order?”
Glowering, Alexi nodded.
“Very well, no need to report the matter to Stanger. But joey ... think on it.”
The boy’s gratitude was pathetic. “I will, sir. Thank you. Please forgive me.”
“Good lad.” Out of habit, I saluted, and automatically, he stiffened to return it.
In silence, we passed through the lock.
“I wish I’d been at the banquet.” Derek Carr lounged on the soft blue divan in my Washington living room, swirling his drink. “After you left the hall, the media were at a loss. I’ve never heard such blather on the nets.” His sharp blue eyes met mine. “Though you shouldn’t have done it.”
“I had to.”
“Why? Because you’re not perfect?”
“I’m much less than that.”
On the couch opposite, Arlene lounged with Alexi. Though they’d never known each other in the Service, they’d hit it off from the moment they’d met, years ago. In fact, during the Transpop Rebellion, we’d stayed with Alexi and his wife, Moira, while searching for Philip. They’d had one toddler, I recalled, and another joeykid on the way.
Again I wished P.T. were with us, but he’d left word in response to my query. He needed time, he said, to assimilate what I’d done. I knew my refusal of the Von Walthers hurt him deeply, though I wasn’t sure why.
Alexi sipped at his scotch. “I haven’t followed the news. What’s the line?”
Derek grinned. “First word was that the SecGen’s glitched and should resign. But then they read the early polls.”
“And?”
“I’d say he got away with it. The newsies go on about his unyielding moral rectitude, his refusal to compromise, his—”
“So, Mr. SecGen.” Alexi raised his glass in mock salute. “You’ll hold the Rotunda awhile yet.”
“No.” It was time I told them. “In a few days it’ll be over.”
Arlene gazed at my face, silent, waiting.
“I—it’s—you see ...” I hadn’t expected it to be so hard. A deep breath. “The Patriarchs intend to disavow me.”
“Why?”
“Because of the Navy. Colonial affairs. No, that’s not it. The real issue is that I refuse to support Mother Church. They want me to coerce the colonies into economic and social submission, and I refused. But they’re right, you see. They have to be.” For some unfathomable reason, my eyes stung. “They represent Lord God. Only a fool would oppose His will.”
“But you’re not that.” Alexi set down his drink. “Sir, they’ve no right to—”
“Be silent!” I slapped the table with open palm. “Not another word!” He’d come close to blasphemy, and perhaps damnation.
“No.” Alexi gave an apologetic smile. “We’re past that, you and I. I’m long since adult, and a Captain. I take responsibility for my acts. If the Patriarchs condemn you, they’re wrong. It’s that simple.”
Derek uncurled himself from the divan. “Does Branstead know? Has he started to fight? Plant stories in zines, get out the word that—”
“He doesn’t know, and we’ll do no such thing.” My tone was firm. “They’ve every right to censure me. And even—no, let me finish—even supposing they’re wrong, if you think I’d raise my hand against them, you know me not at all.”
Silence.
“Besides ...” I made my tone more reasonable. “I’ll retire at last. You’ve no idea how much I want out of office.”
Abruptly, Arlene got to her feet, padded to the door.
“What’s up, hon?”
“I’ll make tea.” She disappeared into the hall.
“Excuse me.” Perhaps she wanted tea, but that wasn’t all. “Hon?” I followed into the bright-lit kitchen. “What is it?”
“Nothing, Nick. You have enough troubles.” She set a ceramic pot in the micro. “Until it boils,” she told it.
“Go on, hon.”
“Retirement.
”
“I look forward to it so much.”
Her gaze was speculative. “You’ve said that for years. When did it stop being true?”
“What? How can—I’ve always dreamed of—”
“You meant it at first. The night you announced for reelection, atop the Franjee Tower, you almost wept. When did it change?”
“It didn’t!”
“Swear it, Nick. By Lord God.”
“Of course I do. I—”
“Say the words.”
“Oh, Arlene ... By Lord God Himself, I swear to you, I yearn ...” I faltered.
“Water boiling.” The micro lapsed silent.
I blurted, “I don’t know when. Until tonight, I didn’t realize ...” I met her gaze. “I like being SecGen. I want to hold on to office. I like the power. And I’m good at it; I make decisions and get them carried out. It’s like being Captain again; when I speak, joeys jump. That’s Lord God’s truth.” My smile was bitter. “See what I’ve become?”
“It’s important you see also.”
“Why?”
“So you can have what you want. Let’s fight them.”
“No. Tell me, what do you want?”
“A cup of Darjeeling.” She busied herself with the pot. “All right, that’s not honest. I hoped you’d retire, because I thought that’s what you wanted. I can make a life for myself either way, Nick.” Suddenly her eyes teared. “I always have.”
“Oh, hon.” I drew close.
She fended me off with a palm. “If we’re to tell truth ... You love me, I think, though sometimes I’m not sure. But you don’t need me. I’ve stayed busy. I raised Philip, and did a damn fine job of it. So did you; we were good parents, weren’t we? I wish he were still young.”
She sipped at her tea, made a face. “I played at First Lady when I had to. I’ve read, and gone back to school; you know how proud I was of my doctorate.” She paused, reflecting.
“Arlene ...”
“But for years ... I’ve been marking time. I have a few friends, but not many.” She stared into her cup. “So we’ll leave the Rotunda for good. It’s all right. It’s just ... Galactic reminded me of my years on Wellington, and what it was like to see other worlds. Of the life I lost.”
Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6) Page 10
