Seaman Clinger lay in a coma for days. I assumed he would die; we could perform routine first aid but not brain surgery. To my surprise, he rallied. Elena Bartel, far too solicitous for my liking, tended his needs. As he became more alert he bitterly protested the straps that bound him.
Whenever the bridge was in other hands I roamed the ship, visiting the recycler chambers, the comm room, even the engine room, where Dray received me with scant courtesy. In the corridors the crewmen came to attention as I passed, the newer recruits imitating the ways of their experienced compatriots.
I was on my way to the galley when Walter Dakko made a curious gesture before coming to attention; his hand flicking out as if to stop me. Though he held attention, he didn’t stand eyes front, but fastened his gaze on mine as if with urgency.
“What, Mr. Dakko?” I yearned for my waiting coffee.
“Might I make a suggestion, sir?”
Well, he hadn’t approached me unbidden. Not quite. “Go on.”
“The tomatoes are coming on strong. And some of the beans will be ready soon.”
“So?”
“You’ve sealed the hydro chambers, haven’t you? Only authorized crew can enter.”
“Obviously. I don’t have time for idle conver—”
“What about the cabins, sir? They’re wide open.”
I stopped short. Good heavens. Though our ripest vegetables had been started earlier in the hydro chambers, the majority of our crops were coming along in the cabins. “They’re not ripe yet,” I said.
“No, sir. But green tomatoes are edible. They might be very attractive to a man on short rations.”
If a sailor was caught stealing food I’d have to deal with a riot, if not a lynching. A total breakdown of authority could follow. How could I have overlooked the obvious? I cursed under my breath. Daily I walked the ship, failing to see my duty.
“As you were, Mr. Dakko.” As he relaxed I said, “This will earn you a promotion.” His look was unfathomable. I realized how little that meant to an aristocrat who’d volunteered to save Rome from the barbarian hordes. “And my thanks,” I added lamely.
That brought a faint smile. “You’re welcome, sir.”
“You’re in charge of the food security detail. Requisition any supplies you need from Dray.”
“Aye aye, sir.” We parted.
I sat at a table with my steaming cup of coffee. Mr. Bree tried to ignore me as he puttered about the dining hall, but his nerves were frayed. In an effort to improve morale I’d asked him to make our meals as attractive as possible and to resume the custom of starched tablecloths at dinner. The crewmen who’d once been passengers saw nothing unusual in this, but I could imagine what our old hands thought, used to dinner in the utilitarian crew mess.
Bree and Chris Dakko, who’d become his assistant, were setting tables. Chris glanced at me, turned away, stone-faced. I took a tentative sip. “How are your lessons going, Mr. Dakko?”
“With the trannies?” Chris bridled at my obvious distaste. “They call themselves trannies,” he said belligerently. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re not one of them.”
“At least I can be grateful for that!” He dumped a handful of silverware onto the table. “Sir.” His tone belied the courtesy of the word.
I held my peace. Little would be gained were I to humiliate him. We had a long journey together. Perhaps, in time, he would come round. I took my coffee to the bridge.
When Philip settled in for his watch I went to my cabin, sat in my easy chair, one arm on the polished conference table, and tried to think of nothing. Disturbing thoughts intruded. I explored them, and realized to my surprise that I was frightened. Not of dying, as that immediate prospect had faded, but of seventy-six years imprisonment on this disabled ship, surrounded by well-deserved resentment, hostility, and contempt.
I’d made enemies with careless abandon and saw no way to extricate myself. I’d humiliated Gregor, made a nightmare of Chris Dakko’s life, terrorized the Chief. I’d even been offensive to old Mrs. Reeves. Philip was the only one who stood by me, and that only from a sense of duty.
I sat miserable and alone until the dinner hour. Then I straightened my jacket and went to my duty.
In the morning I reviewed entries in the Log. Dray, I saw, had put young Deke on report. I called the engine room. “Why is Deke up for Mast?”
“Insubordination, as I wrote.” That told me nothing.
“Why, Dray?”
A pause. “I’d rather come up to discuss it.”
“Very well.” A few moments later he arrived, breathing heavily from the two flights up the ladder. “Well?”
“He used insubordinate language to describe an officer,” Dray said.
I waited for him to continue, realized he wouldn’t. This burly, stolid man was embarrassed, unsure. “What did he call you?” I asked gently.
The Chief stared at me without expression. “Not me, Captain. You.”
I bit back my surprise, but persisted. “Must I drag it out of you, Dray?”
“Scarface,” he said. I couldn’t help but flinch. “It’s a name they have for you now, Captain. I wouldn’t have that.”
I fingered the ugly ruin of my cheek. “It’s true.”
“Still, he’s a sailor.” Dray’s tone was uncompromising. I was intrigued by the divided loyalty of this complicated man, who could treat me with unconcealed insolence, yet send a man to Captain’s Mast for doing the same.
I said hesitantly, “Dray, a lot has happened between us ...”
“Yes.” His tone was unbending.
“I would not do again what I chose to do to you. If there’s any way it could be put behind us ...”
“There is not.” He spoke with finality.
“Very well. I’ll deal with Deke without getting into specifics. You may go.”
“Right.” Without bothering to salute he turned and left.
Depressed, I waited out my watch. Toward the end of it, Ms. Bartel paged to tell me Seaman Clinger was begging to see me.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, sir. He’s rational now. We’ve been talking a lot. He keeps asking for you.”
The last thing I wanted was to visit Clinger. “Very well. When Mr. Tyre relieves me.” Some duties it was best to get over with. After my watch I went directly to the infirmary, sent away Ms. Bartel.
His head was still heavily bandaged, both hands taped securely to the bed rails. Near one wrist was a buzzer by which he could summon Ms. Bartel; she carried a caller that responded to it.
“Hullo, Captain.”
My anger kindled. That was no way to speak to me. On the other hand, he couldn’t very well salute. “What did you want?”
His tone was plaintive. “Do you think maybe you could untie one hand, just while we talk? Please, sir?” I shook my head; he added quickly, “I won’t try anything. I’m still too dizzy to move much.”
“All right.” I unwrapped the tape from his right hand.
The moment it was free he scratched the side of his nose. “You know how hard it is not to be able to do that?” A weak smile.
I only grunted in response.
He said slowly, “Captain, I’ve fouled up good, I know that.”
“Right.”
“What could I do to earn another chance?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, sir.” He wiggled his toes under the sheets. “Andy was pumpin’ me full of all sorts of ideas. When you brigged him, I got a little crazy.”
“You mutinied.”
He stared at his feet. “Yes. I did that.”
“That’s all there is to be said.”
He spoke as if he hadn’t heard me. “You know it was me got into the hold to get the food?”
“I presumed so. I didn’t see your face.”
“I’m from Liverpool, Cap’n. What about you?”
The question was bizarre. Despite myself, I answered, “Cardiff.”
He took a couple of deep breaths, spoke more slowly. “But I never figured on this. Bein’ abandoned, like. I’m twenty-four, you know. Just twenty-four. I wanted so damn much to live!” He drew in a breath that was a sob.
“Easy, Mr. Clinger.”
“That bastard Tremaine took all our food, as much as he could carry. They say it was Hasselbrad stopped him from gettin’ the rest. So I knew we was goin’ to starve, no matter what.”
I said nothing.
“So we broke inna hold, me and Ibarez and Simmons. Just ta get some food. When I was a kid I saw a man once, starved to death after he been trapped in a chimney a week or two. All I could think of was lookin’ like that.”
“Nothing excuses mutiny, Mr. Clinger.”
“An’ when Ibarez got killed, I didn’t know what ta do, I thought about it a few days, and got Andy out. ‘Cause he’d tell me what to do.”
I waited.
His tone held wonder. “It just kinda happened. I dunno why I listened to him. He said, get the guns while we got a chance, so I helped. And Simmons got hisself killed. So you got hold of the armory, and we was done for. So Andy said, take the engine room. It all seemed to make sense, the way he put it.”
Exasperated, I snapped, “And now it doesn’t? What do you want from me, Clinger?”
“I’m not wicked!” he shouted. His free hand pounded the bed, and he winced as it shook. “I’m dumb, God damn it, but no worse!” He took a shuddering breath. “Don’t send me back to him. Please, Captain. Give me any kinda detail, I’ll scrub the heads, I’ll go on half rations, I’ll do whatever you say. Let me make it right!”
“No.” I took the roll of tape and grabbed his wrist. He resisted a moment, then was still. I taped him securely to the bed as quickly as I could.
“Please!”
“No.” I walked out.
I went directly to my cabin. I examined my burns in the mirror. Scarface. Scarface Seafort. For an impossible moment I imagined Amanda’s soft hand on my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, Nick. I’m here.”
But you aren’t, Amanda. You never will be again.
“I loved you.”
I swallowed. She had. But she was gone, and a retreat into fantasy wouldn’t help. I lay on my bed, face pressed into the pillow. I tried not to cry, and failed.
That evening at dinner I was subdued, hoping no one would notice my reddened eyes. In any event, no one remarked on them.
That night I slept as if drugged, and roused myself with reluctance come morning. The day passed, followed by a dreary succession of others. Philip warned me one day of growing discontent.
“Mr. Dakko, sir. Senior. He passed me the word there’s a lot of grumbling in the crew berth.”
“What about?” I demanded. The bridge lights seemed unbearably bright.
“Trying to get home faster. There’s talk again about repairing the fusion drive.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“I know, sir.” The middy hesitated. “They feel so, well, helpless. A long cruise is hard enough when you know it’ll end in a few months.”
“Yes.” And beyond the problem of morale lay another I dreaded to confront. How long would ship’s discipline last once it became evident we wouldn’t be rescued?
As Captain, I was a symbol of the U.N. Government. Once the crew and passengers realized we’d never again be subject to that Government, what would they do? Revolt? Demand free elections? I wasn’t even certain I should oppose them.
I forced my mind back to the issue at hand. “The drive is irreparable, surely they know that. I’ll run some more drills, to divert them.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Philip looked doubtful.
I glanced at my young midshipman and was overcome by gratitude for his loyalty. Though he might make mistakes, he strove unremittingly to please me, to carry out his duties. “Mr. Tyre ...”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you for your efforts. Without you I’d—” I broke off. What was I doing? I cleared my throat. “Very good, Mr. Tyre,” I said gruffly. “Keep your eye on the situation.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He was carefully formal.
“That’s all, then.” As the hatch closed behind him I beat my knee with my fist. How could I be so stupid? Could I expect Philip to maintain the right distance if I kept varying it? I would keep my feelings to myself. Damn it, I had to.
For the next three days I ran Battle Stations, General Quarters, and boarding drills at unexpected intervals. I succeeded in making the crew as irritable and jumpy as I; what effect it had on the scuttlebutt about repairing the drive, I had no idea.
Eventually I decided to take the bull by the horns, and so, in the late evening hours when most of the crew were off duty, I went to crew berth one. As I entered Seaman Kovaks roared, “Stand to!” and jumped to attention. Sailors in various states of undress formed lines in front of their bunks.
“As you were.” I faced the ragged line. “I’ve heard,” I said bluntly, “some foolishness about fixing the fusion drive. Who’s spreading that goofjuice?”
No one spoke.
“Well?”
Elena Bartel said quietly, “Sir, why can’t the drive be repaired?”
I scowled. “It’s you?”
“No, sir.” One hand went to her hip. “But there’s been talk. Maybe if we heard the truth ...”
“The drive is wrecked. When the aliens attacked, their acid melted through the shaft wall. You can see it through the transplex from the engine room.”
“Everyone knows that,” she said sharply. A sailor grinned; his smile vanished at my glare. “The issue, sir, is whether they can be repaired.”
“The drive generates N-waves. You know that much, don’t you? The N-waves are shaped as energy is fed down the shaft. The shape of the shaft wall determines the wavelength.” I paused, trying to marshal my thoughts. “Now, it takes a shipyard months of trials to get the tolerances just right. If the curve of the wall is not perfect to the nearest millimeter, the energy isn’t properly focused. Do you know what that means?”
I paced, waiting for an answer, but none came. “An unfocused beam could melt the shaft wall. And if not, there’s still no way to aim the beam. We might Fuse, but to where? We could find ourselves heading out of the galaxy!”
“That’s not what Sykes said,” a deckhand muttered.
I rounded on him. “How much does Sykes know? Does he have his engineer’s ticket?”
“I heard him talkin’,” the man said stubbornly. “Before you locked him up. We could make new plates, weld ‘em on—”
I shouted, “You can’t weld steel plates to an alloy shaft wall! Don’t you understand?”
A few faces retained a stubborn look I knew was irremovable. They would believe what they needed to believe; that somehow there was a way to sail home. “I’ll have the Chief explain it again,” I said, defeated. “Maybe you’ll take his word for it.”
The next morning I sent Dray to talk to them; he came away shaking his head. “Most of them are convinced,” he reported. “That Walter Dakko, and the Bartel woman. Drucker and Tzee. But some of the others ...” He descended to his engine room, still grumbling.
Everywhere I went I felt eyes, wondering and calculating. Nothing was said, but the doubts were evident, the yearning obvious. I’d put down rebellion once; I wondered when it would rise again. I fingered a stack of laser pistol recharge packs, still piled in a corner of the bridge. Would Dray stand with me this time? He stood watch, one shift out of three, on the bridge, where all our weapons were piled. Where he could seal the hatch, bar me from command ...
I thrust aside my uneasiness. He would do what he would do. I had no choice but to trust him; I couldn’t spend year
s sealed on the bridge in suspicion and terror.
Philip broke up a scuffle between Eddie Boss and Chris; they appeared at Captain’s Mast while the new master-at-arms, Walter Dakko, stood by. Deke was on report as well; I dealt with him first.
“The Chief says you were insubordinate.” I glowered at the young transient.
Deke shuffled his feet. “Dunno what it mean.”
“Sir!” Philip Tyre roared. “You address the Captain as ‘sir’!”
“Sir,” the boy mumbled.
“It means refusing to obey orders or being disrespectful to lawful authority.”
“He din’ groo yo’ joename.”
“What?”
Eddie raised his hand cautiously. I nodded.
“Deke say’n, Chief din’ like joename dey givin’ you, Cap’n.”
“Good God.” Joename. Groo. Melissa Chong, come back to interpret for your young charges. I cut off that line of thought, too late. “Sailor, on every ship I’ve ever known, the Captain has a nickname. Usually not a fond one. What sailors call the Captain in private conversation is their own affair. The trick is not to use the, ah, joename in front of an officer.”
I made a note in the Log. “Ten days punishment detail. Mr. Tyre, see to it.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Deke would be given extra chores, the less pleasant ones. He’d suffer no worse, nor should he.
“Mr. Boss is next, sir.”
“I’ll take him and Mr. Dakko Junior together. Come forward. Brawling, were you?”
Chris gave his messmate a look of pure hatred. “No, sir, Captain. The gorilla boy was shoving me around. I just defended myself.”
My hand tightened on the console. What was the matter with young Dakko? He’d get nowhere by alienating me. His father’s expression was noncommittal.
“I ain’ shovin’ no—”
I thundered, “Speak when you’re spoken to!” Eddie recoiled. I swung to Chris. “You have one more chance to tell me your side.”
“I was teaching the trann—the crewmen how to read gauges,” Chris said hurriedly. “Jokko and Shay. They were laughing and pretending not to understand. I yelled at them. Then Eddie here came up and spun me around and started shouting I should teach him first, like you said. But he wasn’t even in the room when I started, so how could I?” He paused for breath. “I was trying to get my arm loose, when the middy, I’m sorry, I mean Mr. Tyre, came around.”
Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Page 33
