Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2)

by David Feintuch

His face was like a grinning death’s head.

  “You’re a drunk, Dray, and I need a watch officer, not a sot. So here’s what we’ll do. The first time I catch you drinking, I’ll put your hand on the table and put the pistol to it, like so. Then I’ll fire and cook your hand. I won’t need to brig you, and you’ll still have one hand left to serve watch. Doesn’t that make sense, Dray? Answer!”

  He babbled, “Yes, sir! Yes, Captain, it makes sense, I understand. I won’t touch a drop—”

  “I knew you’d agree, Dray. And that idiot called me psychotic ...” He smiled in terror and relief. My pistol was still pressed to his hand. I moved it along a finger. “We have an agreement, Dray?”

  “Oh, yes, Captain! Yes, sir! I—”

  “So, we’ll seal the bargain with your little finger.”

  He screamed, tried to wrench loose his hand.

  I held tight. “Don’t twitch, Chief! Don’t even breathe hard, or it’ll be the whole hand!” Gray of face, he stared in abject terror. “You see, Dray,” I said reasonably, “you don’t need five fingers to stand watch, and the stump will remind you every time you think of taking a drink.”

  His pale pasty face pleaded in mute despair; a sound between a whimper and a groan escaped him. Despite his efforts his hand twitched involuntarily. I smiled. “Well, let’s get it—”

  “God, don’t!” he rasped. “Captain Seafort, I beg you! I won’t give you any more trouble; please, sir! Please!”

  I considered it. Then I shook my head in refusal. “No, Dray, if I don’t take the finger, you won’t know I’m serious. Sorry.” I shifted my grip on his hand.

  “Oh, Lord God! Please, sir, I can give it up! I’ll show you where I keep the stuff, all of it! And the still, I can tear it down!” Sweat fell unnoticed from his brow. I hesitated, shook my head. “Captain, wait, let me take you there! Please!”

  I said slowly, “But I want to do it, Dray. Fingers are fun. First they make a popping sound—”

  He gagged. Then words poured out of him in a desperate plea for mercy.

  Slowly, I let him persuade me. Grumbling under my breath, I followed him to the engine room storage, where his copper-tubed still dripped precious droplets of contraband alcohol into a glass jug. I watched impassively, laser leveled, as he smashed the still.

  Then I watched him pour quarts of home brew back through the recyclers, his face frozen in a ghastly smile as he eyed the laser pistol I held on him.

  When all was done I left the ashen Chief at his station, vehemently assuring me that he would never make or touch another drop of liquor. I headed back to Level 1. I stopped at my cabin, vomited my coffee into the toilet. Then I sat on the bed, head in my hands, until I remembered Philip alone on the bridge. I forced myself onto my feet and trudged along the corridor.

  On the bridge Philip regarded me apprehensively. Bile rose again in my throat. I said mildly, “I’m not angry with you, Philip. That was for his benefit, not yours. Don’t concern yourself.” Slowly his face relaxed. I eased myself into my chair. “I’ll take the watch. Get some sleep.”

  “Can I get you anything before I go, sir?”

  I debated the state of my stomach. “Some coffee, I think. You’ll find my cup on the mess hall deck.” He looked puzzled, but left without comment.

  The morning passed without further incident. I had Mr. Tzee break in a replacement to serve watch in the comm room, and Mr. Kovaks do the same for the recycler’s watch. Still, with only thirteen crewmen I knew I couldn’t maintain full watches for long.

  I busied myself on the ship’s caller, arranging for dinner supplies, seeing to Mr. Andros in the brig, organizing a rudimentary steward’s service to cope with laundry and cleaning, making sure the galley and the hydro chamber were tended. I’d never realized how many jobs had to be performed aboard ship; many were accomplished without any attention from the officers.

  Sweeping and mopping, laundry, manning the engine room, standing all necessary watches, the purser’s various functions that kept the passengers comfortable ... I marveled that Challenger had accomplished it all with a full crew of eighty-nine.

  I had Kerren plot our course for home, but knew we’d have to assemble a competent engine room watch before I attempted any maneuvering with our thrusters. In any event, I would want to recheck our course manually with the utmost care, and I didn’t feel up to it in my current state.

  When dinner hour arrived I reluctantly sealed the bridge and left for the dining hall, dogged by a sense of guilt at leaving the bridge untended again. I reminded myself that with only three officers it was virtually impossible to man the bridge around the clock, and furthermore, until I saw whether the Chief was able to keep sober, there was no way I could trust him on watch alone. Better the bridge remain unmanned.

  At dinner I was greeted with palpable hostility. My remarks on enlistment had obviously not gone over well. Even the young lady who’d spoken with me yesterday, Elena Bartel, today froze me with a glance. Only Walter Dakko was affable, and he seemed preoccupied.

  There was little conversation in the dining hall, and less cheer. When our food arrived, portions were meager, the preparation unappetizing. I’d have to improve the quality of our meals or ship’s morale would suffer dramatically.

  Later I gave Philip the watch and plodded off to my cabin, reeling from exhaustion. I stripped off my clothes and fell on my bunk. I lay awake for an eternity, the ship’s many unsolved problems running feverishly through my mind.

  Finally I drifted into sleep, tossing and turning restlessly until Amanda quieted me with a soothing caress. Her warmth aroused me; in the dark of the cabin I turned passionately to her embrace and came awake, my body aching, my mind muddled. I snapped on the light, let loose the pillow around which I’d wrapped myself, waited for my heart to stop pounding and my erection to subside. My head fell back. I don’t know how long I wept. Eventually I turned off the light and feigned sleep until the blessed arrival of morning.

  I dressed slowly, willing myself to put aside my irritation and attend to ship’s business. Carrying a cup of hot coffee to the bridge, I relieved Philip Tyre and took the watch. I spent the morning pondering flow charts on my handheld holovid, trying to determine the minimum number by which I needed to increase my crew.

  It was a day in which I could get nothing done without interruption. First Mr. Kovaks, with questions about monitoring the recycler gauges. Then Seaman Drucker wanted to know about refitting the hydro chamber. Even Philip Tyre, hesitant now to make decisions in his Captain’s name, brought me trivial problems concerning the passengers and the dining hall until, exasperated, I sent him off to bed.

  When Mr. Bree called the bridge to ask my advice about the evening’s menu I simply snarled and rang off. It was as if the whole ship had caught my agitation.

  Rather than leave the bridge unattended yet again, I had a steward’s mate fetch the soup our galley had prepared for lunch. Philip was asleep, as far as I knew, and would eat later. My first day standing watch on Challenger, and already I felt a prisoner on the bridge.

  By midafternoon I began to eye the clock, waiting for the deliverance of the dinner hour. I thought of chatting with Kerren but decided even silence was better than his excessive formality. I was savoring memories of Danny and his delight in our chess matches when pounding on the bridge hatch hauled me back to reality.

  Cautiously, I swiveled the camera to survey the corridor. Outside, Walter Dakko anxiously shifted from foot to foot, ready to hammer again on the tough alumalloy panel. I slapped open the hatch, my temper soaring. “Belay that! What in Hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Sorry, but I had to get your attention. I went—downstairs, I was looking for Chris—”

  “Don’t bother me with your problems!” I turned away, disgusted. If he’d hammered at my bridge because of his churlish son—

  “I was on Level 3. I saw some men outside the brig, cutting through the door.”

  “Oh, Lord God.” It had begu
n, and all too soon. “How long ago?”

  “A minute or two. I came right here—”

  “Get off the bridge!” I shoved him out the hatchway, snatched up my laser rifle. I sealed the hatch, ran to the ladder and scrambled down the stairs. Walter Dakko followed close behind. In a moment I was midway between Level 2 and Level 3; remembering lessons from another ship, ages past, I slowed as I approached the lower deck and raised my rifle warily.

  The corridor was deserted.

  I hurried past the corridor bend, to the brig. The hatch sensor panel was open and the wiring disconnected; the hatch was forced half open. Its hinges were burned through and bent. Cursing, I thrust myself through the opening. The cells were empty. Crawling out I bumped into Mr. Dakko and nearly died of fright. “Get aside!” I pushed past.

  At crew berth one, I took a deep breath before I slapped the hatch. As it slid open I charged in, rifle ready. Mr. Tzee sat on his bunk, hands in his lap. I raised my weapon. He met my eye. “I know about it, but I’m not part of it.” He held quite still.

  “All right.” I tried to slow my breathing. “Where are they?” With an effort, I made myself lower the rifle.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “Clinger, Sykes. One of the new deckhands from your ship. They’ll kill me if they learn I told you.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “Stay here.” I had a better idea. “No, go seal yourself in the comm room. Stand watch.”

  He got quickly to his feet. “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Kovaks? Drucker?”

  “I think Kovaks is in the recycler room. I don’t know about Drucker, he was walking around when it started.”

  I grabbed the caller and thumbed it to the recycler circuit as Mr. Tzee brushed past to the hatch. “Mr. Kovaks?”

  An endless moment, before he answered. “Yes, sir?”

  “Who is with you?”

  “No one, sir. I just now came on duty and relieved Stefanik.” I wondered if he’d gone to his station so as not to be committed to the rebellion.

  “Seal the hatch and don’t open it until I give the order. Acknowledge.”

  “Orders understood and acknowledged, Captain. What’s up?”

  I set down the caller without answering. From the hatchway Walter Dakko gaped. I snapped, “Let’s go. You’d better not be found here.” I started back to the ladder, took the stairs two at a time.

  Dakko panted to keep up. “Captain, there’s something I ought to tell you.”

  “Later.” I rounded the ladder well and strode to the wardroom.

  “It shouldn’t wait.”

  Reluctantly I stopped. “Well? What?”

  “I’ll enlist. Give me the oath anytime you’d like.”

  “You will?” It was all I could think to say. “You?”

  “Yes.” He regarded me with disfavor. “I imagine you intend to ask why?”

  “Well ... yes.” I blushed.

  A wry smile. “I suppose this is the last time I’ll be free to say what I think. I’m not enlisting out of love for you, Captain; you already know that. But it’s a choice between you and what you represent, or those men out there. And what they represent.”

  He shivered. “It may already be too late; I don’t know. We’re Roman citizens, Mr. Seafort, and the barbarians are at the gates. I’m no centurion, but if the barbarians storm the walls my citizenship won’t matter.”

  I nodded. “I understand. Thank you. Repeat after me. I, Walter Dakko ...”

  He took the oath, there in the middle of the corridor, and was inducted in the Naval Service of the United Nations. Afterward I shook his hand, though that was not the custom. He stood, somewhat apprehensive, waiting for orders.

  “I’ll teach you the forms and courtesies later, Mr. Dakko: Right now, it’s sufficient that you do whatever you’re told, immediately and without question.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” I corrected automatically, then laughed at my foolishness. “No matter. Come along.” I continued to the wardroom and banged on the hatch. “Philip, open up. It’s me—Seafort.” A moment later the hatch slid open. Philip Tyre, in his underwear, peered sleepily at the pair of us.

  “Get dressed. They’ve forced the brig hatch and freed Mr. Andros.” Philip thrust arms and legs into his clothes. “Never mind your jacket. Mr. Dakko has just taken the oath, by the way. Faster, damn it!” The boy finally had on his shoes. “Let’s go!” I led them to the armory and fished in my pocket for the keys. I opened the arms compartment. “What weapons are you familiar with, Mr. Dakko?”

  “I’ve hunted, in the game parks. Probably a rifle would be best.”

  I handed him one. I gave a stunner to Philip and took another for myself. Resealing the hatch, I hurried around the corridor to the comm room. “Open up!” In response the hatch slid open. Weapon ready, I glanced inside. Mr. Tzee was alone. “Carry on. Admit no one except me or Mr. Tyre.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  I led my small war party to the recycler chamber; Mr. Kovaks was secure inside. We proceeded to the east hydros. There, Mr. Drucker reluctantly opened the hatch at my command, eyed us uncertainly, came to attention. I was blunt. “Do you know what’s afoot?”

  He hesitated before committing himself. With a grimace he said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you with us?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I took a chance. “Who isn’t?”

  “I dunno, sir. I was in here, mostly.”

  I gestured to the open hatch. “Go join them, Mr. Drucker, if you won’t answer.”

  “They’re my mates!” His cry was a plea.

  My tone was unyielding. “They’re mutineers.”

  He tried to hold my eye and failed. “Sykes and Clinger,” he muttered. “Andros.”

  “Who else?”

  Drucker licked his lips. His eyes darted between Philip Tyre and Dakko.

  My slap spun him halfway around. He recoiled, his hand flying to his cheek in shock. I glared from a distance of inches. “God damn you, Mr. Drucker, there’s a mutiny afoot! Obey my order or I’ll execute you on the spot!” My hand tightened on the pistol at my side.

  “Akkrit,” he mumbled. “That new steward’s mate, Byzer. That’s all I know of, honest.” His eyes were on the deck.

  “Very well,” I said coldly. “Next time—”

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted. His face twisted in anguish. “Captain, I dunno what’s right anymore. I wanna be loyal, but turning on my mates—”

  “I understand,” I said more gently. I groped for reassurance. “When all else fails, Mr. Drucker, do your duty. Uphold your oath; it is what you are.” It had no effect on him. I prodded. “Where did they take Andros?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno, sir. I got out when I saw what they were doin’. They had that rifle and the stunner, and I knew some joes was gonna get hurt.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Philip blush, trying not to squirm.

  “Very well.” Now it was my turn to hesitate. After a moment I took the stunner from my belt. I held it out, butt first. “Mr. Drucker, I order you to remain here, and to defend your station against any mutineer who attempts entry.”

  Astonished, he could only stare. Then he took the weapon, knuckles tightening around the smooth barrel. “Aye aye, sir.” His shoulders straightened. As I turned toward the hatch he added, “Count on me, sir.” I smiled grimly. I would; I had no choice.

  Outside in the corridor we conferred. “Secure the galley or search for Andros?” I asked Philip.

  “Search where, sir?” the midshipman asked sensibly. The miscreants could roam the ship as readily as we could.

  I shrugged. “The engine room or the purser’s stores. Who knows? We have nearly a hundred empty cabins.”

  Walter Dakko said mildly, “If you don’t secure the galley first—”

  I rounded on him. “Speak when you’re spoken to, sailor!” His jaw d
ropped. “Don’t ever interrupt an officer,” I growled. I knew he’d never been addressed in such a tone. Nonetheless, he swallowed and answered, “Aye aye, sir.”

  I was exhausted, famished, confused. The rebels could be anywhere. I swallowed, acknowledging defeat. “To the dining hall.” I trudged wearily back to the ladder.

  In the mess Mr. Bree gasped with fright as the hatch swung open and the three of us strode in. His eyes darted to our ready weapons.

  “Why the panic, Mr. Bree?” I asked. White-faced, he licked his lips and made no answer. I stared at him a long moment before I guessed. “They were here?” He nodded. “What did they take?”

  “I couldn’t help it, Captain, honest,” he babbled. “They had a rifle. They were going to shoot us!” He took an involuntary step back.

  “What did they take?” My throat was tight.

  He put his hands out as if to ward us off. “Please; Captain, I don’t want to be part of it, sir. Don’t put me in the middle!”

  Philip intervened as my hand went to my pistol. “Tell the Captain exactly what they took, Mr. Bree,” he said quietly. “We need to know.”

  The terrified sailor shot Philip a grateful glance. “The canned goods in the locker, sir, and the vegetables. All they left was the flour, and the bread baking.”

  I sank into a chair, stared at the bare wooden table. Philip came alongside. “I’ll unseal the hold and get more stores, sir, if you’d like.” I made no answer. I studied the grain of the wood.

  Mr. Bree was hesitant. “I can make stew again tonight, sir, if I could have more canned meat.”

  “Shut up, all of you.” My voice was flat, emotionless. Trying to carry on was folly. There was nothing more I could do but resign and let events take their course,

  I sighed. I wasn’t cruel enough to leave Challenger in Philip’s hands. Not yet. But we would die aboard this ship; survival was impossible. I’d failed. I had only to live out my oath until it was over.

  The silence stretched to minutes before I stirred. I stood heavily. “Mr. Tyre, take Mr. Bree’s mate to the hold and bring back a case of canned meat and vegetables. Let no one else into the hold, reseal it when you leave, and return safely with the stores. Carry out these orders if it costs your life.”