“Between east hydros and section eight, we’ve lost about half our food supply.” Dakko grimaced.
“Have Mr. Branstead take a look. Can we repair the lines to the recyclers?”
“Probably most of them, sir. If we can scrounge up enough materials without going into the hold.” Dray waited expectantly.
I kept my irritation in check. “Get on it, then.”
“Aye aye, sir. The chemicals that were in the lines—I have no way to replace them now that we’ve lost the hold. The recyclers will just barely keep up.”
“Do what you can.” They waited for more orders; I forced myself to think anew. “Where else are we decompressed?”
“Level 2, sections four and five, sir,” said Dakko. The rebel prisoners were gone, then. Except for Mr. Clinger, saved by the providence of Mr. Drucker’s ill temper.
“Oxygen reserves?”
Dray answered that one. “Just sufficient to re-air the ship, sir, but after that it’s going to be tight on recycling.”
“It won’t matter after a while,” I said. I turned to Gregor. “Mr. Attani, see who’s survived among the passengers and crew. Bring me a list. I’ll be in my cabin.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Chief, do what you can to clean up. Mr. Dakko, look to the needs of the crew as best you can.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
I headed for my cabin, concerned no longer about manning the bridge; my work there was done. We would live until the hatch gave out, or the food, or the air.
Then it would be over.
At the top of the ladder I met Mrs. Reeves, hobbling heavily on her cane. She eyed me with a curious smile. I waited.
“So you were right after all, young man.”
“Right?” I tried to recall our conversation.
“About your military discipline.”
“It didn’t save the ship.”
“We live.”
“Not for long,” I replied.
“That’s not for you to say,” she rejoined tartly, and continued on her way.
I lay on my bunk in a daze. Lord, how I’d wanted Challenger, before she was snatched from me. But I’d entered her in disgrace, assuming that I was to die on her. It seemed fitting. But never in my strangest dreams had I imagined such a prelude to death.
After a time, not knowing what else to do, I got up and sat at my immaculate, polished, useless table. How does one wait for death, certain of its inevitability but not knowing when it will arrive?
“One lives,” said Father, almost aloud, so near I almost jumped. “Our deaths are all in the hands of Lord God. Nothing changes that.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You’re not aboard.” I sensed his disapproval and ignored it, but knew he was right. One lives, as long and as well as one can. One does his duty.
A soft knock at the hatch; I went to open it. Gregor Attani saluted, offered me a paper. “You said to bring this, sir.”
“What?”
“The list. Casualties.”
“How many?”
“Only two passengers, sir. They were caught without suits when the Level 3 corridor decompressed.”
They were the lucky ones. “Have Mr. Tyre arrange stowage of the bodies.” My tone was weary.
His look was strange. “Mr. Tyre is dead, sir. The launch. He—”
I sagged against the bulkhead, unable to speak.
“Sir, are you all—”
“Get out!”
When he was gone I thought of going to my bunk but it seemed easier to remain where I was, propped against the bulkhead.
I’m sorry, Philip. But how can you blame me for losing track? I’ve killed so many of you. Amanda. Nate. Crewmen. Passengers. Uppies and trannies. So many.
After a time I wiped my face and went out to the corridor, where all was quiet and still. I could sense, if not hear, the steady imperturbable throbbing of the engines below.
Level 1 seemed abandoned. I passed the hatch to the launch berth. On the far side of the berth was the hatch to our hold. I poked my head into the bridge. The instruments hummed silently, recording pointless data.
I had a craving for coffee. On the way to the officers’ mess I passed the Level 1 passengers’ lounge. On impulse I stopped and looked inside.
Walter Dakko sat across from his son. He held Chris’s hands in his own. The two glanced up wordlessly. I mumbled something and backed out of the hatchway.
The boy was crying.
I wasn’t sure about the father.
I made the coffee hot and strong, the way I liked it. I sipped greedily, hunched over the long wooden table, waiting for the caffeine to jog my system.
“Sir, is there anything you’d like me to do?”
I whirled, spilling hot coffee down my shirt. Gregor waited.
“Don’t sneak up on me, Cadet!”
“I—no, sir! I mean, aye aye, sir.”
I regarded him balefully. “What should I have you do, Mr. Attani?”
“I don’t—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just leave me be,” I growled.
He hurried to the hatch.
“Mr. Attani!” He stopped. “I’m ... sorry.” I swallowed my ire. “For my manners.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do as you wish. See if you can help Mr. Dakko or the Chief. I’ll page if I need you.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He seemed grateful for the directions.
I was left alone.
As I washed the cup to put it away I glanced at the small mirror hanging alongside the galley sink. My jagged scar flamed vividly, as if in reproach. Get hold of yourself, I ordered. You were prepared to die. So now you’re doing it. Even now, there is duty.
As penance I walked the habitable areas of the ship. Everywhere I was greeted with pathetic welcome. The crew hung on my words and scurried to do my bidding, as if my orders could extricate us from our calamity. Those passengers I met contrived to have a word with me, some even going so far as to shake my hand.
Detouring around the sealed-off sections of Level 2 that would never be reopened, I finally completed my tour. Eager for isolation, I approached the bridge with unaccustomed eagerness and sank thankfully into my chair.
“What can you tell me about the hold, Kerren?”
It was the wrong question. “The hold is two hundred thirty meters in length, averaging twenty-four meters across, tapered at a ratio—”
“Cancel. Tell me about the current condition of the hold.”
“I have very little information about the state of the ship forward of the launch berth,” Kerren said, his voice stiff. “If you would Defuse long enough to—”
“Tell me what you DO know, you burned out pile of chips!”
A shocked silence. “Last sensor reports,” he said primly, “indicated prow disintegration and collapse of the hull in the forwardmost twenty meters of the hold. That was at 0911 hours. At 0942 the midships hold sensors became inoperative. I can only conclude that the progressive damage reached that point.”
“What sensors still work?”
“You are referring to the hold, Captain?”
“Yes.” I heard my teeth gnash, willed my jaw open.
“Adequate references would facilitate our conversation,” he said sweetly. “To answer you, only one. The internal port sensor is still operative. We had a starboard sensor too, but the line was cut when the hold was first punctured. The operative sensor is mounted on the hull above the catwalk, twenty meters forward of the launch berth hatch.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, Captain.” He spoke with his typical courtesy, so I couldn’t be certain of his sarcasm. “The fact that the sensor is operative suggests the hull retains structural integrity to that point.”
“Thank you,” I said again.
“You’re welcome,” he repeated.
I brooded a moment. “Kerren, can your sensors indicate anything about the exterior of the ship or our location?
”
“Not while the fusion drive is operating,” he said. “Certainly you must know that.”
“Kerren, we’re not Fused.”
“But we are, Captain.”
“Kerren, monitor status of fusion drive.”
His pause was infinitesimal. “The drive registers as off, Captain.”
“So you—”
“But external registers confirm we are Fused. Therefore the drive monitors are inoperative and their data is ignored.”
I sighed. Kerren’s programming didn’t allow him to accept the possibility of Fusion other than by our drive. I wasn’t sure my own did, either. Perhaps the puter could be reprogrammed, but I saw no point in trying.
We’d lost well over half our food plants, and the remaining food stored in the hold was inaccessible. Though three crewmen, our four prisoners, and two passengers were dead, that still left us facing certain starvation. Our recyclers labored to keep breathable air circulating through the ship. Until the feeder lines could be repaired, they barely functioned.
In the meantime we were in Fusion or some analogous state, hurtling toward an unknown destination, entangled with a deadly and hostile alien.
And I was hungry. Should we ration the remaining food? Would we live long enough for it to matter? How long could we make it last, even with rationing?
I thumbed the caller. “Mr. Attani, Mr. Branstead, Mr. Dakko Junior to the bridge.”
Emmett Branstead arrived first, looking surprisingly trim and fit. He’d lost about eight kilos since taking the oath, and with it some of his ruddy complexion. True to his word, he’d obeyed orders with dogged determination from the moment of his enlistment.
Moments later the cadet and Chris Dakko entered.
“I need an immediate survey. Our current food production and stores graphed against consumption at half rations and at one-third rations. Determine whether we can survive until we bring more crops on-line. Make your calculations and report back in two hours. Mr. Attani, you’re in charge, of course. Avail yourself of Mr. Branstead’s expertise regarding production. Mr. Dakko, make yourself useful.”
Only after they left did I realize it was the first time the cadet had been allowed to lead a work detail. I worried for a moment before remembering it didn’t matter.
“... We ask you to bless us, to bless our voyage, and to bring health and well-being to all aboard.”
The prayer done, I looked from Mr. and Mrs. Reeves to Mrs. Ovaugh and Mr. Fedez, all seated at my table. I looked beyond them to the tables occupied by the other passengers, the subdued groups of crewmen huddled together for comfort. I said, “I will not deceive you about the gravity of our situation. It is hopeless.” There was an audible sigh.
“We will almost certainly run out of food before we can grow enough to replace what we lost. At one-third rations, we can last perhaps ninety days. It is barely possible that with conservation and intensive plantings, we can survive until enough crops mature to sustain us. Mr. Branstead’s best estimate is that to stretch the food so long we would have to reduce our rations to the point where many of us would die nonetheless.”
Elena Barrel raised a hand. I nodded. “What about the—the bodies?” she asked.
To my shame, I’d considered it. “We will not prolong our lives by resorting to cannibalism.” My tone was firm. “The bodies have been moved to the engine room for cremation.”
“They could sustain life!”
“At the cost of our humanity. I will not allow it.” I glanced around the hall. “That decision has already been taken and is not a subject for discussion.” I held her eye until she reluctandy sat.
“In any event we are unlikely to live long enough to starve. When we emerge from Fusion, or more likely before, the ship will be consumed.” I looked beyond the crew tables, to the far bulkhead. “It is my decision that Challenger will go to one-third rations as of our next meal, so as not to foreclose the possibility of extending our lives. We shall continue to function as best we may, until the end. May Lord God bless you all.”
I sat to a stunned silence and fixed my eyes on my plate.
The day was followed in dreary succession by another, then a third. Our tension subsided, and an eerie simulation of normal life resumed. The whole ship’s company nursed seedlings in a desperate effort to replenish our food supply. But as Gregor Attani’s task force had calculated, we had no way to stretch our available stores to sustain us until the new plantings matured. Deke muttered about letting some starve so others could live, but I chose not to understand him.
As the days dragged on, I sat on the deadened bridge, staring at blankened screens, reviewing the Log, contemplating the succession of follies that had led us to this pass. If only the Admiral ... If Captain Hasselbrad had just ... If I had refused command and let them hang me ...
Twelve days into our grim vigil I woke from a doze at my console to hear Kerren’s voice, behind a blinking warning light. “The remaining sensor in the hold has failed, sir.”
“Failed?” I asked stupidly. “What? How?”
“It showed a rise of thirteen degrees Celsius during the hour just before failure, Captain. Then nothing. I have no way to determine if the line was cut, a connection loosened, or the sensor became inoperative.”
“What is the condition of the hull inside the hold?”
“I infer hull status from the sensor data, Captain Seafort. I now have no way to determine the status of the hull forward of the launch berth.”
“Very well.” I stared at the console. “The hatch from Level 1 to the launch berth is secure?”
“That is correct.”
“And the hatch on the other side of the launch berth to the hold?”
“Sensor data says it’s functional, sir.”
“Very well,” I said again. I wanted to confer with Dray, but there was nothing he, or any of us, could do.
Ten more days passed. Though I’d lost only a couple of kilos, my cheeks were sunken, and the scar on my cheek was more noticeable.
Elena Battel asked through Mr. Attani to see me. I allowed her onto the bridge.
“Elron—Mr. Clinger and I—we would like to be married.”
I stared in openmouthed astonishment until she blushed with embarrassment.
“You want to marry Elron Clinger?” Not one of my more astute remarks.
“Yes, sir.”
Marriage among crewmen was unusual, but not unprecedented. Sailors needed the Captain’s permission to marry, and in our case I was the only one aboard authorized to perform a marriage. The couple would maintain separate bunks in the crew berth, of course, but there were always the crew privacy rooms.
“Well, er, I suppose ...” I had no reason to deny permission. “Are you quite sure ... about Mr. Clinger, that is?”
“Quite, sir. Mr. Clinger has thought a great deal about his former life.”
“Very well,” I said. “You have permission. When would you like the ceremony performed?”
“As soon as possible. We’re not—sure how much time we’ll have together.”
“This evening? Tomorrow?”
“This evening would be fine, sir.” She blushed again. “Thank you.”
After the ceremony I reflected on the irony. She was at least ten years older than he. Clinger must have indulged in the usual life portside; she’d once admitted to me she’d never had so much as a boyfriend. Ms. Bartel upheld the proprieties; he was a rebel who’d tried to seize the ship.
Perhaps they’d know happiness. More than Amanda and I.
Whether it was the wedding ritual and unspoken thoughts of its aftermath, or some other cause, I felt urgent desire that night, for the first time since Amanda had died. I tossed and turned restlessly and was glad when morning came.
A full month had passed since we’d embedded ourselves in the alien. We relied on shipboard routines to carry us through the gray remorseless days. Gregor Attani lived alone in the wardroom, eagerly performing what chores I found for him.
Taking pity, I put aside the tradition that a Captain didn’t deign to notice a cadet and made sure to chat with him every day. I also noticed him conversing with Chris Dakko, who seemed miserable and depressed.
Dray spent most of his time in the engine room. I wondered if he’d rebuilt his still, but I saw no evidence of it and didn’t choose to investigate. One day I decided to play chess with Kerren, and it gave me so much pleasure I made it a daily routine: one game in the morning, another in the afternoon.
After I lashed out at Gregor, the cadet learned not to disturb me at these times.
Kerren did not play as well as Darla. Or Danny.
On the thirty-fifth day Dray brought word that Eddie Boss sought to speak with me. To avoid the formality of the bridge I called him to the officers’ mess, where I waited with a cup of coffee. Thank Lord God for our unabated supply; the hot liquid soothed my nearly constant pangs of hunger and sated my addiction.
Eddie seemed reluctant to tell me why he’d come. I waited as patiently as I could. I even had him sit; it didn’t seem to help. His fingers drummed the table as he stared into his lap.
I tried to jar him out of his funk. “Why ol’ Eddie be ‘fraid talkin’ ta da man, hey? Big Eddie, he be chickenshit tella Cap’n boudit?”
That brought a reluctant smile. “You ain’ no trannie, sir. Like I tole you once.”
“Maybe I’m learning to be.”
His smile faded. “You wouldn’ wanna be one.” His fist tightened. “No way to live, dat. Noway.” He stared moodily at the deck. “Funny you sayin’ dat. It’s what I wan’ talkin’—talk to you ‘bout.”
I waited.
He appealed to me. “Bout bein’ a trannie. Don’ go laughin’ at ol’ Eddie, Cap’n, ifn it funny.” His fists knotted. “I knows—I know it don’ matter none, but you teachin’ me read, n’ all ...”
With a flash of insight I guessed what might be coming. I said carefully, “Go ahead, Mr. Boss.”
He blurted, “Could you teachin’—teach me, not actin’ like trannie? Not talkin’ trannie?”
“How do you want to act?” I asked.
“Not like dem Uppies!” he said emphatically. “Not Mr. Tyre, or dat Chris Dakko. Maybe ...” He flushed. “More like you.” He kept his eyes carefully on the table. “I know it don’ matter, we gonna die ‘n all, but I just be wantin’, before den—” He lapsed into embarrassed silence.
Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Page 40
