I inhaled through my teeth. “Does that mean what I think?”
“Yes, sir,” Drucker said grimly. The pulpy stems of four half-eaten unripe tomatoes lay tossed aside in the sand. “Someone’s been raiding the produce. Extra rations. I discovered it yesterday before we were locked up, sir. After the rest of the crew had been taken to Portia.”
The men had grown very quiet. My gaze shifted from eye to eye around the cabin. No one looked away. “From now on, we’ll keep the hydro chambers sealed,” I said. “Only the hydro detail will have entry. We’re on short rations as it is. Anyone found stealing food will be executed. No second chances.” There was no sound. I cleared my throat. “How much more food could we grow here?”
“The beds are full, Captain. Where else would we put plants?”
“What’s our output?”
“About twenty tomatoes a day, Captain, and about thirty cucumbers. There’s some beans started in bed eleven over there; they won’t be grown for a month or so. Lots of lettuce. Thing is, you can’t survive on lettuce.”
“Why didn’t you plant a full line of crops when the west hydros failed?”
“I dunno, sir. First we was tryin’ to get rid of the contamination, if there was any, then we kept expectin’ the rest of the squadron to show up. Figured we’d get some new plant stock from them; faster than startin’ fresh from seeds.”
“Um.” No point in criticizing Challenger’s former officers. “To the galley, then. Let’s see about our stores.” I sealed the hydro chamber hatch with a code, putting myself between the crewmen and the controls as I keyed it so the men couldn’t see what I entered. We trooped up to the galley.
The coolers were normally kept locked between meals. Most were sealed now, but one hatch had been forced and the cooler’s contents looted. I looked about. “Where are the codes for the locked coolers?” One man shrugged; the rest looked mystified.
“We’ll get ‘em open,” growled Clinger.
“No. I’ll search for the codes when I go back to the bridge. We’ll open the coolers on my order. Not before.” I had a deckhand go through the dry cupboards while we waited; a few sacks of flour, some condiments, and scattered cans of prepared vegetables were all we found.
I asked, “Do any of you know what stores are in the hold?”
“About twenty cases of powdered milk.” A sailor, his tone sullen. “I helped load them for Portia, then put them back when new orders came down.”
“What else?”
He shrugged. “Some cases of somethin’ else. I dunno. Not enough to keep us all fed, I know that much.”
I swung to Philip. “Mr. Tyre, after the tour, take this man to the hold and inventory our foodstuffs. You should find the manifest posted near the hatch.” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Engine room. Let’s go.”
At the engine room the drunken Chief was nowhere to be seen. The shards of his stone mug still lay about. I turned to the engine room rating. “Mr.—Sykes, is it? What’s the status here?”
He grinned mirthlessly through missing teeth. “Ol’ Chief, he off somewheres with a beaker, I reckon. The puter is runnin’ things now, looks like.” He guffawed.
“Mr. Tyre, put that man on report. I’ll deal with him next Captain’s Mast.” Dutifully, Philip wrote his name. “Mr. Sykes, try again.”
The rating shot me a resentful look, but caught himself before he replied. He took a slow breath and stood taller. “You saw the Chief, sir? He’s, uh, well, you know. Guess he’s too upset to care anymore. He’s got the engines all runnin’ on automatic. We’ve got electricity, heat, pump pressure. If we need lasers we’ll have to go to full power; I dunno if the puter can do that by hisself.”
“It can’t.”
“Yeah, well, then we don’t have lasers. Sir.”
“Can you man the machinery?”
“I can read the gauges, yes, sir. I know to turn the levers to full power when the order comes down, and watch the red lines. I don’t know what I’d do if they went over the red, sir. The Chief was always here to handle that. I guess I’d just shut everything off.” He grinned.
“In what order, Mr. Sykes?”
His grin vanished. “Uh, I don’t know, sir. That’s up to the Chief.” He mumbled, “Guess I could glitch things up good, foolin’ with them, huh?”
“Yes. I’ll get the Chief back on duty.” We finished our inspection and trooped up the ladder toward the Level 1 comm room. Along the way we were besieged by a gang of transients in the corridor. “Later, allyas!” I snapped. “Noway mess wid Cap’n now, noway!” They fell back, astonished at my language. Well, whatever worked.
In the comm room the disassembled laser controls lay neatly atop their consoles. The manuals were likewise waiting, open to the page that detailed how to reinstall the controls. “Lord God Almighty!” I stopped myself, before I said worse. “Sorry. Amen. Mr. Tzee, can you reinstall the firing controls?”
The rating looked over the various parts before he answered. “Yes, sir. I’m pretty sure I can.”
“Get right on it.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He rummaged in a locker for tools. “It would be easier, sir, uh, I mean, if you all weren’t—”
“Right.” I went to the hatch. “Report to the bridge when you’ve finished. While you’re at it, test our radionics. Let me know what you find.” I waited while the crew filed out. We gathered in the Level 1 corridor.
“All right, inspection’s finished. We have work to do. Mr. Sykes, clean up the engine room. Mr. Tyre, go search for foodstuffs in the hold. Be thorough. Mr. Akkrit, I’m giving you the passenger detail. Take three men. Make a list of all the passengers and their cabins. See they’re all settled in properly. The rest of you”—that left seven—“for the moment, you’re the galley crew. Mr. Bree is in charge. We’ll need dinner soon; call me on the bridge and tell me what you can manage with current supplies. That’s all.”
Reluctantly they dispersed. Some looked as if they had objections that I made sure they had no time to voice. I hurried back to the bridge, taking care to seal the hatch behind me.
I slumped into my chair, my mind grappling with unsolved problems. “Kerren?”
“Yes, sir? How may I help?” I understood why Captain Hasselbrad had shut off the puter’s conversational overlays. Despite his politeness, something about his manner grated.
“The coolers in the galley are locked. Do you know where the codes are?”
“Yes, sir.”
I waited expectantly. Then, “Where, Kerren?”
“Captain Hasselbrad put them in the Log, sir. Have you checked the Log?”
I cursed my stupidity. “No.” I reached for the holovid.
“You should check it, sir,” Kerren said solemnly. “If you want to find the codes.”
Gritting my teeth I snapped on the Log and flipped through its pages. I swore out loud. Among the last few entries were the codes to the bridge safe and the food lockers. I memorized the locker code, went to the safe, dialed it open. Inside was a stunner pistol, and an envelope marked “Armory Key.” I pocketed them, feeling more secure as I resumed my seat.
Half an hour later Philip Tyre returned triumphant from his tour of the hold. “Canned meat and vegetables, sir! Two containers full. Five hundred seventy-four cases; sixteen to a case, to be exact!” He dropped into his chair at the watch officer’s console.
I smiled. “Good find, Middy.” The room seemed brighter, the ship less oppressive. Philip grinned back, basking in my approval. I busied myself reading the Log, familiarizing myself with the ship’s operating parameters.
The caller came to life. “Uh, bridge? Captain?”
I answered. “Who are you? Don’t you know how to report?”
“Uh, no, sir, I never called the bridge before. This is Akkrit.”
“Seaman Akkrit reporting, sir!”
He parroted my words. “Uh, we figure there’s seventy-six passengers, sir, counting the damn trannies. One of them young joeys, I had to punch hi
s lights out to make him stop following me. Thirty-nine trannies, a bunch of old people, and a few others. Jabour here has the list.”
“Very well. Send him up. Your group is assigned to corridor detail. Pick up the refuse on all three Levels.”
“Uh, aye aye, sir.”
I broke the connection, played idly with the calculator on my console. Seventy-six passengers, fourteen crewmen, Philip, the Chief, and myself. Ninety-three in all. If we consumed, on the average, one can of food per person per day, we had rations for ninety-eight days. The hydroponics output would add to that, but we’d consume food faster than we were growing it. What little we had was immensely valuable, and we’d need to watch it closely.
“Mr. Tyre, did you secure the hold?”
Philip looked puzzled. “I shut the hatch, sir.”
“You didn’t seal it?” A chill of alarm.
“No, sir, you told me to search for food, not to—”
“That deckhand, what’s his name—”
“Ibarez.”
“He saw the cases of food?”
“Yes, he helped me count—”
“Idiot! Can’t you do anything right?” I scrambled to my feet. “I should know better than to trust you! Move!” I was already out the hatch.
Philip ran after me. “To the hold, sir?”
“Yes, by God’s—no! The armory, first.” We rounded the corridor bend. I skidded to a stop at the armaments locker and fumbled with the key. Finally I had the locker open.
I tossed a stunner and a pistol to the midshipman and pulled out a laser rifle for myself. Slamming the hatch shut I raced along the corridor to the launch berth hatch. The cargo holds were far forward from the disks in which we lived, in the slim, pencillike body of the ship beyond the launch berth.
.I slapped the hatch control and rushed through as the panel slid open. Philip followed. In the suiting room I snatched a suit from the racks and thrust myself into it. The cargo holds were pressurized, but as the air wasn’t run through our recyclers it couldn’t be depended on, so one always wore a suit in the hold. I slapped on my helmet, checking the air gauge automatically as it sealed.
Suited, we clambered to the hatch at the far end of the chamber. At my touch the hatch slid open.
Challenger’s huge cargo hold stretched to the narrow bow of the ship. I flicked off my radio, grabbed Philip by the neck, touched his helmet to mine. “Where?”
Understanding that I wanted silence, he pointed to the opposite side of the hull, about a hundred meters forward. I crouched, moved along the passageway as quietly as I could. I flicked my radio back to “Receive,” motioning Philip to do likewise.
The sound of heavy breathing. “Hurry, damn it, we gotta get outta here!”
I crept toward the voices. A narrow passageway ran along the hull on either side of the hold; at twenty-meter intervals catwalks branched over the bins of cargo to the passageway on the other side. As noiselessly as I could manage, I followed a dimly lit catwalk to where the food was stored.
I tiptoed across the decking. On the far side of the bins, three suited men loaded boxes onto a power dolly.
I raised my rifle. “Hold it!”
“Run!” With a curse, one man dashed along the far passageway back toward the launch berth. Another leaped down to the hold, among the stacked boxes and containers. The third came directly at me.
The sailor charged across the catwalk, brandishing a heavy iron bar.
“Stop!” I raised my rifle. He hurled the bar at my head. My visor shattered, blinding me with a shower of broken transplex. Reflexively, I fired. I gasped, expecting foul air. To my relief it was clean and fresh. My head rang from the blow. I staggered to keep my footing, blinked trying to see.
My attacker was gone.
Philip, with a yell. “Here, sir! He’s—whoof!”
I backtracked across the catwalk, ran to the hatch. Philip Tyre sat oh the deck, holding his ribs, a lame grin plastered on his young face. “Sorry, sir. I was aiming at the other joe and he blindsided me. Knocked my breath out.” He glanced about. “They got away.”
“Got away?” I hauled him to his feet. “Damn you, Middy! Where’s your pistol? Your stunner?”
Philip paled. His frantic eyes searched for the missing weapons. “I—they—he must have taken them, sir, when I fell.”
I was shocked into silence. Any act of deliberate disobedience by a crewman constituted mutiny. Still, there were degrees. To take up arms against lawful authority was unthinkable. We were long past the Rebellious Ages; for civilians, the penalty for keeping unauthorized firearms was a life sentence in Callisto penal colony. For a seaman, death.
Now I had armed rebellion on my hands. All because of Philip.
I shoved him back toward the catwalk. “I shot at someone. Did he get past you?”
“I think I saw just two, sir.”
“You think!” I mimicked. “If you didn’t let him past, he’s still here.” I held the rifle ready as we crossed the catwalk.
My weapon wasn’t needed. The third sailor lay facedown in the hold, blood seeping from his head. I sent Philip down to the body; when he turned it over, the face of the deckhand Ibarez stared blindly back. Pale and silent, the middy climbed to the catwalk.
Outside, I hauled off my suit. “This is all your doing! You knew there isn’t enough food to go around. The deckhand saw you leave the hatch unsealed; what did you expect they’d do? And worse, you didn’t even hang on to the weapons I issued!”
The boy blanched.
“Now the rebels have a pistol and a stunner. You incompetent child, I ought to send you to the barrel!”
Philip smiled weakly in his humiliation and shame; the expression only fueled my anger. I slapped shut the hatch. “By Lord God, I will! Come along, Midshipman. I’ve never been first lieutenant; the barrel was never in my cabin. It’s about time I learned to use it!”
Philip’s eyes pleaded, but he said nothing.
I grabbed his arm. “Get yourself to the first lieutenant’s cabin, flank!” In a blind rage I stalked from the suiting room into the circumference corridor. Philip scurried alongside, his face red with embarrassment. In moments we were in officers’ country, near the bridge. We reached the lieutenant’s cabin. The hatch was ajar.
I stormed in. The barrel stood on its mount in the far corner of the cabin. The cane leaned against it. Philip stared, gulped.
Unprompted, he shucked his jacket and folded it neatly across a chair. Small, reluctant steps took him to the barrel. He lay himself across it, arms crossed under his head in the required position.
I set down my rifle, snatched up the cane. “I’ll teach you to do your duty, you—” I lashed him with all my strength. He yelped, jerked convulsively, then made himself still, his head pressed into his folded arms. I raised the cane to strike again, triumphant in the exercise of my lawful authority. Mine was the power to punish, to mete justice.
I came to my senses.
“What am I doing?” The cane fell, from my fingers. I fell into a chair alongside the table. Philip lay across the barrel, unmoving. I put my head in my hands. “Lord God!”
The middy waited.
“Philip, get up.” My voice was hoarse. Slowly the boy straightened. One hand crept to the seat of his pants. He turned, his face scarlet. “Sit.” I thrust out a chair. He obeyed, and winced. I steeled myself to meet his eye. “I don’t know if you can forgive me, Mr. Tyre. I don’t expect it. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. You deserve far better.”
“No!” The cry was wrung from him.
“Yes. You—”
“Don’t you see, sir? You were right!” His tears welled. “I should have known to seal the hatch and hold on to my gun. I’m sorry I’m such a failure; I’ll try harder from now on! I know I deserve worse than the barrel. If you’re afraid to discipline me, how can you trust me? How can you run the ship? I’m not like those men, I’ll take discipline and obey my oath. Please!”
He got to his feet, grab
bed the cane. “I don’t want to be hit—God, how it hurts—but you’re Captain! I beg you, don’t be afraid to punish me.” He set the cane on the table.
I closed my eyes. A long time passed. I said quietly, “You think that’s why I stopped? Because I thought you’d join the mutineers if I caned you?”
He cried, “Why else would you let me off after what I did?”
“Because the fault was mine, from the start. It was my own responsibility to see the hatch was sealed. Thanks to my stupidity a man is dead. Blaming you was cowardly. Despicable. The pistol and stunner—that couldn’t be helped. You did your best.”
“My best isn’t good enough!” His tone was anguished. “I’m your only officer, and you can’t rely on me. No wonder you didn’t want me aboard.” He looked down. “I’m useless.” His voice was muffled. “Worse, I’m a hindrance.”
“Mr. Tyre, listen well: I didn’t want you on Challenger because I didn’t want your life thrown away. There was no other reason. You are a good officer and you have my respect. I’m sorry I hit you. I won’t do it again.”
“You don’t have to promise—”
“It’s done. And I have to make the promise; I can’t trust my judgment otherwise. I feel—” I tried to quell my surge of emotions. I said, my voice ragged, “Philip, you know I’m not fit to be Captain. Would you relieve me?”
His voice came in a whisper. “What?”
“Take the ship. I won’t object. I can’t go on hurting people.” I glanced up; his face was thunderstruck. “Or killing them.”
He laughed bitterly. “You’re the hero who saved Hibernia. I can’t even hang on to my gun, and you want me to relieve you.”
“Stop. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“You’re the youngest man ever appointed Captain, and I’ll never be more than a middy. Never, I know that. Relieve you!” He laughed again; it was a sob.
My hand closed over his. “Lord God help us both.” We sat in unhappy silence. After a while I sighed “Very well. Let’s go about our duties. I apologize again for hitting you.”
He attempted a smile. “Mr. Tamarov hit me harder, sir.” We moved toward the hatch.
Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Page 19
