Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  My eyes slowly turned from the barrel to Deke. “How old are you, sailor?”

  The young transient shrugged. “Dunno, sir. Dey tellin’ me sixteen, seventeen, some’pin like dat.”

  “Well, now. And Jokko is eighteen. Both of you short of majority.” I gestured to the barrel. “Chief, do you need help, or can you handle it yourself?”

  “You mean, cane them like middies?” His face darkened. “It would be a pleasure. But I need their help to clean up this mess first.”

  “I’ll be in my cabin. Tell me when I have water for a shower. When I do, discipline your children!” With what dignity I could muster I padded barefoot back to the ladder.

  I eventually got my shower, and soon put the incident out of my mind. But the next day Walter Dakko stopped me in the corridor. He was terse. “We’d better talk privately.”

  By now I knew he would bother me only for something important. “On the bridge, in half an hour. Make sure nobody sees you.” I wondered if Dakko knew how dangerous was his role of informer.

  I waited impatiently. When he knocked I sealed the hatch behind us. “Now, then.”

  “Again, sir, I’m not suggesting how you should run your ship.”

  “I know,” I said impatiently. “Belay that. I order you to bring me information you think I ought to have. Remind me if I take offense.”

  “Aye aye, sir. I think you ought to go armed for a while.”

  I drew in my breath. “It’s that bad?”

  “I think so. It didn’t help any when Dray brought the transients back, wailing and carrying on.”

  “This is about caning Deke and Jokko?” I said, unbelievingly.

  “It’s about physically abusing enlisted men.” His tone was sharp.

  “But I have the right—they’re legally children! How dare you call it abuse!”

  “I didn’t say I did. It’s what the crew berth calls it.”

  “What do you call it, Mr. Dakko?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a fitter punishment than mopping already clean decks for a week,” he said. “Probably no more than they deserved. At times I wish I’d done the same to Chris.”

  “He wouldn’t have stood for it. He wasn’t in the Navy then.”

  “I know, sir.” A sigh. “In any event, there’s some wild talk.”

  “Mutiny?” My voice was hard.

  “Wild talk,” he repeated. “That’s all it may come to. After they—”

  “Who?” I interrupted.

  His eyes closed. “I knew it might come to this,” he muttered. “When I chose to warn you.”

  “Answer me. Who?”

  “Please withdraw the order, Captain.” His tone was flat.

  I sneered, “You’re afraid you wouldn’t obey it?”

  “No, sir.” He sounded tired. “I’m afraid I would.” He held my eye until I was forced to look away.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dakko.” My voice was quiet. “I withdraw my question. While it’s just talk, you need not tell me. But if they make a move ...”

  “I’m still a Roman citizen,” he said with a small smile. “And the walls are still under siege.”

  After I sent him below I wondered how to save myself from the disaster I’d caused. Perhaps it would be better to do nothing, to let a mutiny form and run its course.

  After an afternoon sulking on the bridge I went directly to dinner. I’d grown used to a general hostility; now it was blatant and almost universal. I met cold silence from the moment I entered the room until I’d finished the prayer.

  Mrs. Reeves eased herself into her seat. “Is there any way I can help?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She accepted the rebuff. “The talent of leadership is not to get too far ahead of the populace.” She spoke offhandedly, as if in answer to a question. “You can only lead people where they are willing to go.”

  “Challenger is not a democracy,” I snapped.

  The old blue eyes gazed myopically. “You’re angry?”

  “Not especially. I’m trying to do my duty.”

  “I’m worried for you.”

  I could find nothing to say to that.

  I stared at the beans and mixed vegetables, all I’d see on my plate for years to come. I tried to concentrate on my food and block out the rising babble from other tables.

  China crashed to the deck. “Stinkin’ trannie!” Seaman Kovaks was on his feet, fists bunched. Across the table, Deke and Jonie lunged. Mr. Tzee ducked, guarded his plate.

  I scrambled to my feet as Jonie shrieked a challenge to the maddened seaman. She charged into the fray.

  “STAND TO, ALL OF YOU!” My bellow stopped her, but just barely. “ATTENTION!” Kovaks, white-faced, paid no heed. Savagely I shoved him aside. “Stand to, this instant!”

  For a riotous moment my authority teetered on the balance, before their discipline asserted itself. “Mr. Kovaks, out of the hall. Go to crew berth two.”

  Rage suffused his features. “But they—”

  “SHUT UP!” It made my throat hurt. He blanched. I snarled, “Leave!”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He stalked out.

  “You two, go to crew berth one.”

  “No way,” Jonie spat, “Not afta—”

  “Master-at-arms! Chief petty officer!” Walter Dakko and Eddie Boss came at a run. “Escort these sailors to the brig.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Walter Dakko took Jonie’s arm. The young transpop twisted free.

  “Knockidoff, Jonie,” growled Eddie. “Go widda man!” From behind, he slammed his palms into Deke’s shoulder blades; the younger boy skidded toward the exit. “You too, Dekeboy. Call yaself a sailor, huh? I be showin’ ya!”

  I waited in silence until they were gone, rounded on Mr. Tzee. “What was that all about?”

  “Mr. Kovaks had a comment about Deke’s welding, sir.” His face showed no expression.

  “Welding?”

  “The plates.” He sounded reluctant. “For the fusion drive.”

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. “That project, again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turned on my heel, stalked back to my table. Tempers were running high; I’d have to be careful not to overreact and set them—

  No, by God. I would not. I strode to the center of the room. “All hands, form a line. Officers in front.”

  I waited, hands on hips, until all complied. Philip pushed Gregor to an officer’s place, five feet in front of the assembled men. The passengers remained in their places, all eyes fastened on mine.

  “Attention, all of you.” I spoke very quietly, battling to contain my rage. “Mr. Tyre, straighten the line.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He broke ranks, turned smartly. “You, forward. Back, Mr. Bree.” In a moment he had them standing properly, and returned to his place.

  “At ease.”

  With commendable precision the crew moved into the at-ease position, hands clasped.

  “I won’t have slack discipline on my ship.” I stopped in front of Philip. “All work on the drive shaft is suspended.”

  A murmur of discontent.

  “Pardon?” I raised an eyebrow. A wall of silence. “The work is halted until I order otherwise. Which won’t happen until I find your conduct acceptable.”

  “Christ!”

  I whirled. “Who spoke?”

  Stony silence.

  “Well?”

  “I did.” Drucker, the hydroponicist’s mate.

  “Two days in the brig for insolence and blasphemy. Report there. Stand at attention outside the hatch until someone comes to take you in.”

  His indecision lasted only a couple of seconds. “Aye aye, sir.” His voice was sullen, but he walked out as bidden.

  “I won’t tolerate insubordination,” I snapped. “Or sloppy drills, or fighting. When I’m satisfied in all respects, we’ll see about the fusion drive.”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  I glared at Ms. Bartel. “Yes?”

  “We’re ready to start
testing, sir. Can we at least do that?”

  “No.” No one spoke, but their resentment was unmistakable. I knew it was suicidal to push them farther, but I wasn’t sure I cared. “Remain where you stand until I finish my meal. Then you’ll return to quarters.” Without a further glance I strode back to my table.

  I had already eaten most of my meager serving but for effect, I toyed with the vegetables a few moments longer. I topped off my coffee from the pot on the table, sipped at it. When I felt I’d made my point I said evenly, “Mr. Tyre, dismiss the men to quarters. Mr. Dakko, go to the brig and put Mr. Drucker into a cell.”

  I stared unseeing into my coffee cup until they were gone. Mrs. Reeves said nothing.

  When I had no excuse to remain I said, “If you will excuse me,” and left my place. I went to the bridge.

  Dray let me in. I told him what I’d done.

  The look he gave was carefully neutral. As I’d demanded, he’d eliminated any hint of insubordination from his manner. Now there was nothing. “It only delays the inevitable,” he finally said.

  “I suppose.” I assumed he meant my overthrow.

  “The drive won’t work no matter what they try. I can’t answer for their actions when they find that out.”

  “I know.” I was glad I’d misread him. I left him to his watch.

  Morale continued to plummet. I sensed the inevitable outcome, and hardly cared. I released Deke and Jonie from the brig with a stern admonition to behave. The next day I did the same with Mr. Drucker.

  Hours later Drucker was back before me, seething with sullen hatred. Philip Tyre glared accusingly. “Insubordination, sir!”

  “Just tell me what happened,” I repeated, my tone weary.

  “Mr. Branstead said we had to check the nutrient baths more often because the tomatoes were getting leaf wilt. When I gave Mr. Drucker the order he, uh, told me what I could do with the tomatoes.”

  “Which was?”

  “Please, I—”

  “Answer!”

  “Aye, aye, sir. He said I should shove them up your, uh, arse, sir.” Philip’s face was red, with suppressed anger or mirth I couldn’t tell.

  I rounded on the seaman with unconcealed fury. “Anything to say, Mr. Drucker?”

  “No.” He glared back.

  “Two months imprisonment. Midshipman, escort him to the brig.”

  Philip returned to the bridge a few minutes later. “He’s brigged, sir.” His tone was stiff, his eyes on the simulscreen so as not to meet mine.

  “Very well.” I was in no mood to probe his petulance.

  “We’ll need to replace Mr. Drucker on the hydro watch schedule,” Philip prompted.

  “I know.”

  “There’s no one left to—”

  “Dismissed.”

  He snapped a salute, left at once. Knowing what I had to do, I quelled my distaste. “Master-at-arms to the bridge.”

  When Dakko arrived I handed him a pistol, bade him follow me below. I stopped at the section four hatch. “Cover me.”

  “What are we doing, sir?”

  “Retrieving Mr. Clinger.” Dakko’s eyebrow rose measurably, but he said nothing. I punched in the code; the hatch slid open. “Clinger!”

  A slovenly Seaman Akkrit drifted out of a cabin to regard me with indifference. “Think he’s in the lounge or somethin’.”

  “Get him.” I waited, prey to my misgivings. A few moments later Clinger appeared, haggard, unshaven, eyes ringed by black circles. He eyed me uncertainly.

  “Did you mean what you said?”

  “Huh?” He stared, mouth working.

  “About another chance.”

  “Oh, Jesus God. Please.” He sank to his knees. “Please.”

  “Come.” I backed through the hatchway. After an unbelieving moment he followed. “You’re dropped, to apprentice seaman. No seniority. No ratings.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Understand this: you get one chance, no more. Disobey an order, violate any regulation, and I’ll execute you on the spot.”

  “I got it, sir! I won’t give you any more trouble, honest. I’ll—”

  “You’ll replace Mr. Drucker in hydroponics. Mr. Dakko, go to stores and issue him his personal gear, then have him report for duty.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  As they departed I mulled over my latest feat. I’d brigged a conscientious but frustrated sailor and replaced him with an unscrupulous rebel who’d tried to take over the ship.

  All in the name of discipline.

  18

  “COMMENCE FIRING!” I WATCHED the simulscreen as Challenger’s forward lasers found their target: scrap metal released from the forward lock. Within seconds the metal glowed red.

  “Better,” I acknowledged. “All right, switch to simulation drill.” I keyed the safeties on, making actual laser fire impossible.

  On most ships laser drills took aim at computer-generated imaginary targets. But once, on the Training Station over Farside, Sarge had let us cadets fire at real scrap that otherwise would have been hauled back to base. I still remembered the thrill when at last the target glowed and sputtered and disappeared from the screens. On my own ships I used real targets from time to time, and been pleased by the improved results.

  Still, enough was enough. Every target had to be released from the lock, and it was time consuming. “Kerren, simulated firing, random targets fore and aft, retained from three to twelve seconds. Visual confirmation on the laser screens.”

  “Aye aye,, sir,” said the imperturbable puter. The screen flashed.

  I keyed the caller. “This drill is scored for destruction, not accuracy. Demolish all targets.” In an accuracy drill missed shots counted against the gunners; in a destruction drill hits scored favorably and misses didn’t count. However, each target remained on screen a random time; if it disappeared before being hit the gunners’ scores were penalized.

  “Begin!”

  The gunners’ voices crackled on the speaker. Two crewmen sat at each laser emplacement. One controlled the targeting, his mate regulated the duration and intensity of fire. A puter could direct our fire more accurately, of course. But only a man could be trusted to know at what to fire. After a century of dispute, the Navy had at last learned to trust crewmen over machines.

  “Target oh seven five, closing!”

  “Go! I got ‘im.”

  “Target one nine oh! Target two one four.”

  “Fire!”

  “Get the other one!”

  Kerren duplicated on our bridge simulscreen the targets he gave my gunners; the darkness of space glowed with hostile points of light. Realistic flares indicated hits. Many targets abruptly disappeared, untouched.

  After fifteen minutes I called a halt. “Gunnery crews stand down.” A few moments later Mr. Tzee appeared in the hatchway, hopeful. I shook my head. “Not good enough.”

  “But—yes, sir.”

  “What’s their problem?”

  “None of them were originally trained as gunners, sir. And they have to learn to work closer together.”

  “They’ve had plenty of time for that.” I waved a dismissal. After an hour reviewing the Log I picked up the caller and flicked the alarms. “GENERAL QUARTERS! ALL HANDS TO GENERAL QUARTERS!” Sirens wailed.

  “Kerren, simulated laser drill, as before. Tabulate scores for each laser team. Forty minutes of continuous targets.”

  As a middy I’d conducted laser drill; an officer was supposed to be familiar with every station on his ship. I remembered continuous fire practice as nerve-wracking, the more so the longer the drill.

  “Comm room reporting ready, sir!”

  “Engine room ready, sir!”

  “Gunners, commence firing!”

  I paced irritably, eyes on the simulscreen where Kerren displayed the scores. After the first few minutes they began to rise as our gunners found their marks. Then, slowly, accuracy began to fall, as they tired. After an endless interval, they began to climb agai
n, as if grudgingly, until they surpassed the previous test.

  The screen abruptly darkened. “Exercise completed, sir.”

  “Thank you, Kerren.” I keyed the caller. “Gunners stand down.”

  For three days I’d sounded General Quarters, Repel Boarders, and decompression alerts until the crew was thoroughly disgusted. I ran snap inspections, citing every violation I found. The crew’s hostility was masked by only the thinnest veneer of discipline.

  Philip Tyre was no longer sullen. Instead, he seemed almost apathetic. In a way, that was worse. Any effort I made to cheer him was met with indifference. I became increasingly uneasy. Finally, in desperation, I took him to the officers’ mess for coffee. He stared into his steaming cup.

  I sat, but stood again almost immediately to pace a few steps and examine the texture of the bulkhead. “Mr. Tyre—” That sounded too formal. “Philip. You’re next in line to command should anything happen to me.” My voice was husky.

  He stared, suddenly worried. “Yes, sir.”

  I blurted, “We’re all going to die here. I know that.”

  He sat stunned at the voicing of his own fears.

  “Philip, I have no answers. I don’t know how to act nobly. I don’t know what to do.”

  He stirred. “Sir, I—”

  “Let me finish. There’s a chance some of us will survive, but not a great one. I assume I’ll end my life on board Challenger. Perhaps very soon.” He sucked in his breath. “I don’t mean suicide; that’s mortal sin. But the crew—” I gestured. “They won’t take much more.”

  “Sir, if you explain to them—”

  “There’s nothing to explain.” I stared at the silent bulkhead. “I don’t have solutions. All I have is my oath. I swore to uphold Naval regulations; Challenger is a Naval vessel and I haven’t been relieved. So I’ll follow the regs. It’s the only course I know.”

  He said nothing, scrutinizing me intensely.

  “The regs require military etiquette, so I’ll enforce it. They require that we be prepared for emergencies, so I’ll continue to train the crew.” I smiled bleakly. “I know it seems useless, but it’s all I know to do.”

  He swallowed. “I haven’t been much help lately, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve been an immense help. If you know a better course, suggest it. Or relieve me and follow it yourself.” His glance was shocked. “I don’t think you’ll have to answer to Admiralty.”