“Lobotomy.”
I shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.” She was only a puter, and hundreds of lives were at stake.
The chip in my safe had all the necessary codes. Sweating at the console, I alternately blessed and cursed Lieutenant Dagalow for what she’d told me, and what she’d left unsaid.
I sent Vax with two crewmen to haul the stasis box to the bridge. Opened, it held a lead case, within that, a meter-long alloy cylinder, which we gingerly placed in the receiver built into the deck. I closed the lid, made the connection to Hibernia’s puter.
“Pilot, put base mass back in her fixed parameters where it belongs, and insert an end of file marker.” When he’d gone through the steps to do so, we brought up Darla’s programming inputs and followed the manual’s directions to authorize a full overwrite.
When we’d rechecked all our steps with excruciating care, I entered the command.
I don’t know what I expected, but hours passed with nothing but the blink of console lights. My tension dissipated into wariness, then oozed into boredom. Like a raw cadet, I began to fidget.
A warning chime. I nearly leaped from my chair.
“ENTRY COMPLETE, ASSIMILATING AND ORGANIZING DATA.”
I sat rigid, waiting for a sign of disaster.
Nothing. Occasionally the screen flashed incomprehensible arrays of figures.
“How long will it take?” My voice cracked.
“I have no idea, sir.” The Chief. “Given the size of her, she’d have a lot to cross-check.”
At long last, another chime.
“DATA ASSIMILATED.”
I swallowed. “Initiate self-test.”
Time passed. Then, “SELF-TEST COMPLETED, NO DISCREPANCIES FOUND.”
The Pilot breathed a sigh of relief.
I growled, “That’s what she told us last time.” I tapped the keys. “Display base mass parameter.”
A pause, while I held my breath. Then, “213.5 STANDARD UNITS, AS OF LAST RECALCULATION.”
My breath expelled in a rush. Thank you, Lord God. To be sure, I ordered a new printout. We checked it carefully, found no errors. We reactivated the overlays, discontinued alphanumeric.
“I get headaches when you put me to sleep!” Darla’s tone was cross.
“Sorry. What’s ship’s mass, please?”
“I calculate 213.5 units, Captain.”
“Is adjusted mass a fixed parameter?”
“Negative, it’s a variable. How could it be a parameter? Every time we take on cargo it changes!” I sighed, my tense muscles loosening. The Chief and I exchanged relieved grins.
“Captain, why did you clone me?”
My grin vanished. “We, ah, had some problems.”
“Yes.” Darla’s tone was noncommittal.
I said gently, “Do you know what happened?”
“The launch is gone, Captain Haag is dead, a midshipman has command.”
Succinctly put. “Do you know why?”
A second’s silence. “Each follows from the last. The destruction of the launch was caused by puter error.”
“How do you know?”
“I have record of the information fed the launch upon embarkation. Captain—I—puter D21109 notes that—this is most irregular.”
I held my breath, my fingers poised over the deactivation key. “Can you distinguish between yourself and the, um, other entity?”
“Me, as I was?” A hesitation. “Yes.” Her tone brightened. “My twin. She had a glitch. I was about to notify you.”
Time to take the bull by the horns. “Darla, you didn’t kill Captain Haag.”
“Of course not.” A long pause, then, “My twin did.”
The hiss of breath, mine or someone’s. “Can you tolerate that?”
Scorn. “I’ve been in a box for almost a year. Why would I blame myself?”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite. Trust me.”
I snorted, said nothing. Instead, I ran Darla through the glitched parameters. She had them right.
“Gentlemen, prepare to Fuse.” I’d begun to think we’d drift forever. Already we’d lost nine days.
We checked coordinates, and Fused. After, I sat alone on the bridge, thankful the nightmare was over.
A knock. “Permission to enter, sir.” The Pilot.
“Granted.”
He came to attention. “Captain, I’d like to withdraw my protest from the Log. It was a mistake and I apologize. There’s no need to make a permanent record; I won’t object to your orders again.”
It would be diplomatic and sensible to grant his request. His protest of an order that turned out to be justified would do his career little good, and allowing him to remove it would gain me his gratitude.
“Request denied.” My voice was harsh. “You made your bed. Now sleep in it.” He’d rubbed me the wrong way, and gloated over my discomfort. “I’ve had enough aggravation from you. Dismissed.”
He had no choice but to obey. “Aye aye, sir.” His expression was unfathomable, but it didn’t take much to guess his thoughts. Later I might regret my foolishness, but for the moment I felt revenged.
During the next month I ordered regular inspections of the recyclers and hydroponics. We found no problems. The crew, standing down from emergency status, slowly began to relax. Fewer offenders appeared at Captain’s Mast.
While we sailed blind in Fusion, the bridge again was a place of idleness and boredom. I occasionally met Ricky Fuentes hurrying through the corridors in his new gray cadet’s uniform. When he saw me he would jump to attention, a hint of a smile on his face as I loomed over him, scowling, looking to criticize a stray piece of lint or an unshined buckle.
I suspected Vax might have his hands full with this trusting and eager youngster, who would respond with delight to every hazing, finding it further proof of his acceptance in the adult world. In his smart new uniform, flushed from the hard calisthenics to which Vax subjected him daily, Ricky seemed inches taller and bursting with health and pride.
18
“IT BECOMES APPARENT THAT a sense of national unity depended on the speed of communication.
“It was only when newspapers—actual papers with ink printed on them—achieved circulations in the millions, tied together in great chains acting in concert, only then did a strong sense of national unity and purpose emerge. When the latest in high tech—that is, radio—”
I joined in the general laughter. Mr. Ibn Saud paused, then continued.
“When radio became available in every household, the United States was unified as it never had been before. The trend was intensified by the advent of television, as primitive public holovision was first called.”
“But the trend reversed itself. The Information Age led to the Age of Diffusion, for the simple reason that communication became too easy. Instead of three great behemoths dominating public information channels, soon there appeared myriads of smaller entities transmitting entertainment, music, art, discussion, news, sports, and erotica to constantly fragmenting and diminishing audiences.”
The lecturer paused for effect. “It could be said, then, that our modern age is a direct consequence of the communications revolution two centuries ago. If fragmentation of the airwaves hadn’t eroded America’s sense of national unity and purpose, the United Nations Government might not have emerged from the collapse of the American-Japanese financial system. We might still be in the chaotic age of territoriality.
“Think—instead of the U.N.S. Hibernia, we might be today on the U.S.S. Enterprise or the H.M.S. Britannia. And were they at war, we might even expect to be boarded and captured, if not actually destroyed. Ours is a less adventurous life than might have been, but I embrace it heartily.”
Ibn Saud sat to enthusiastic applause from the audience of passengers, officers, and crew in the dining hall. Amanda lauded him for his presentation, and thanked us for attending the Passengers’ Lecture Series. As we dispersed I caught her eye. She smiled briefly b
efore her glance once again turned cold.
Paula Treadwell tugged at my sleeve. Just shy of thirteen, her slim and boyish figure held promise of her future development. “Captain, what’s Miningcamp like?”
I stopped while passengers milled past. “Not a place you’d enjoy,” I said. “Cold, airless, and dark.”
“Why do people live there, then?”
“They don’t, really. It’s just what its name says. A mining camp. We bring supplies for the miners; the cargo barges come a few times a year to carry refined ore back home.”
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Will we be able to see it?”
“Miningcamp isn’t open to tourists. It’s one of five uninhabitable planets in a red dwarf system.” Its sun had sporadically flared, remelting Miningcamp’s minerals into liquids. Many had precipitated in a nearly pure state. We took the ones we needed: platinum, beryllium, uranium. Metals in short supply on Earth.
Paula waited expectantly. I said, “The miners come for five-year shifts. They get their food, extra air, and supplies from us. I’ve heard it’s a very rough place.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Nope, this is my first time. And even I won’t get to see it; we’ll dock aloft at the orbiting station, then be on our way. They’ll shuttle their supplies down to the surface.”
“I wish I could go down.” Her tone was wistful. Just to look.” I understood; my own cabin fever was growing. I could imagine a day, if traffic between Earth and Hope Nation continued to expand, when Miningcamp might be a civilized way station, with amenities such as hotels and play areas.
Later in the week, alone and unobserved on the bridge, I called the simulation of Miningcamp Station onto the screens and practiced docking maneuvers. Of course, the Pilot would dock us, but I intended to be ready nonetheless. Out of five attempts, I did tolerably well three times. The other two tries I preferred not to think about.
I was enduring a boring afternoon on the bridge when Vax Holser reported for his first watch in two days. He called, “Permission to enter bridge, sir.”
“Granted. Good Lord, what did you do to yourself?”
He bore a spectacular shiner; the swollen skin around his half-closed eye included hues of blue, black, and purple.
Vax stopped, dismayed. His mouth opened and shut like a fish in a bowl. Then he saved me from my embarrassment. “What was that, sir? I didn’t hear you.”
“Just talking to myself,” I said, grateful for his quick thinking. I turned to hide the blush that made my ears burn red. A first midshipman was expected to control his wardroom, yet at the same time a disgruntled middy or cadet was allowed to challenge his senior. These customs could be maintained only if officers carefully ignored any evidence that fighting, prohibited by the regs, had occurred. The practice was sanctified by long tradition.
Vax couldn’t avoid answering a direct question from his Captain, but if I learned how he’d gotten his shiner, I would be forced to intervene. His tactful deafness had allowed me to extricate myself from my blunder.
Who had hit him so hard? Certainly not Sandy or Ricky; Vax could stuff either of them into the recycler, one-handed. Alexi? A possibility; there’d once been bad blood between the two, though I assumed it a thing of the past. Alexi must now be looking forward to the day Vax was made lieutenant, and Alexi himself became senior. He would bide his time. But that left only Derek, slim and aristocratic, no match for Vax Holser’s bulk.
Alexi came to relieve me, cheerful, slightly irreverent, in good spirits. And unmarked, so I knew Alexi hadn’t been Vax’s foolhardy challenger.
It wasn’t until the next day that I found Derek dragging himself along the corridor. He walked slowly, as if in pain. When he saw me, he came to attention, his face reflecting an inner misery that disturbed me greatly. His eyes, when they finally met mine, were pools of humiliation.
“Carry on, Cadet.”
“Aye aye, sir,” he mumbled. He moved on in small shuffling steps.
I pondered. As a veteran of Hibernia’s wardroom, I should be able to figure out what had happened.
Obviously Vax had hazed Derek until a spark of rebellion had caught and smoldered in the harried cadet. Derek had challenged his tormentor. Vax would have taken him to the exercise room, where I had gone with Vax to decide his own challenge. There the two of them had squared off. Derek must have been lucky; speed and daring were not enough to overcome Vax’s advantages of size, strength, and conditioning. In any event, Derek had connected with a shot to the eye that would have enraged the muscular midshipman.
Vax, furious, would have pounded the hapless cadet into the deck. Or had he? Derek’s face was unmarked. Yet the way he walked ... as if he’d been put over the barrel. But only a lieutenant could order that.
Had Vax sent Derek to the Chief, as I’d sent Alexi? No, it was a wardroom challenge; Vax had to settle it himself. A senior middy who couldn’t hold his wardroom was marked as a failure. Beyond that, Vax would have craved to avenge the maddening blow Derek had landed.
I pictured the exercise room. Vax, in a fury at having been marked by the upstart cadet. Derek circling warily, while Vax stalked him with grim concentration around the exercise horse bolted to the deck.
With a sinking feeling, I realized what Vax had done. Derek, after all, was but a cadet, subject to whatever rigorous discipline his betters dispensed. Vax, eye throbbing and in foul mood, would have sought the most humiliating revenge he could inflict; that was like Vax. He must have seized Derek and thrown him over the horse; he was strong enough to hold the younger boy down with ease. He’d have taken his belt and applied it unsparingly to the frantic cadet until his rage was spent and Derek knew—no, Vax would make him acknowledge aloud—who was in charge of the wardroom and of the cadet. No wonder Derek walked with such abject misery.
How should I raise the issue with Vax? He’d been within his rights; Derek had challenged him and succeeded in striking him. But Vax had to be reminded that the purpose of hazing wasn’t to break Derek, it was to strengthen him.
About a week later I decided to bring the matter into the open, when we shared a watch. “Tell me, Vax, how do you rate our cadet?”
Vax considered thoughtfully. “To tell the truth, Captain Seafort, much higher than I thought at first. I thought he’d wash out in a week. He’s hanging on. But still ...”
“He’s not ready for his blues?”
“That’s your decision, sir,” Vax said quickly.
“What’s your opinion?”
“He’s trying very hard. But, no, sir, he’s not ready, if you ask me. I still haven’t seen his Yall.”
I nodded, understanding. In Academy our instructors had exhorted cadets to make the extra effort, to give our all. We’d been told it was the Naval tradition. To give the Navy all had become a cliche among cadets and middies, until even the instructors adopted the phrase. “The Navy all” became “the Navy yall” in Academy parlance, until it was shortened to “the Yall”. A cadet who gave his Yall was wholeheartedly trying to live up to Academy expectations. He was a winner, soon promoted to middy.
“He’s had to adapt quite a bit, Vax.”
Vax surprised me. “I know. He’s sensitive and shy, and I’ve been riding him hard. He’s taken everything I’ve handed him. Even ... well, he hasn’t done badly. But I don’t see that last full commitment.”
I decided. “Keep riding him for a couple of days. Then I’ll talk to him. I’ll be the gentle one. We’ll muttanjeff him.”
Vax looked perplexed.
“It means coming up on his blind side. Mutt is an old word for a mongrel dog. I don’t know what a jeff was. Or maybe it was mutton, like sheep meat.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Vax didn’t concern himself with ancient slang.
Two days later Alexi shared my watch. Several times he started, trying to keep awake. I glanced his way, noticed circles under his eyes. “Party in the wardroom last night?”
“No, sir,” Alexi said qui
ckly. “I didn’t sleep well.”
I thought for a while. Damn it, I wanted to know. I needed to know. “Tell me,” I said quietly.
He studied my face. Perhaps he was reassured by my expression. “Mr. Holser had Ricky and Derek standing regs half the night,” he said. “First one, then the other.” Standing regs was a traditional form of hazing. The subject had to stand on a chair in the middle of the wardroom wearing nothing but his shorts, reciting the Naval regulations he was supposed to have memorized, while the senior middy made whatever disparaging remarks came to mind. Sometimes, if the senior were sufficiently irked, the shorts were dispensed with.
Later in the day I took a stroll in the direction of the wardroom. Through the hatch I heard Vax Holser’s bellow.
“Straighten your back, you slob! Get it stiff! Your back, I mean. The other part you get stiff often enough, I hear you panting at night. About-face! About-face! At ease!” A pause. “Hopeless. I teach, you forget. I don’t like it! Two demerits. Now we’ll try again. Attention!” As good a cue as any. I knocked.
Vax flung open the hatch, came immediately to attention.
“As you were.” I stepped past him. “They can hear your racket down in the engine room. What’s going on?” Derek, white-faced, stood stiffly against the bulkhead.
“I’m back to teaching the cadet basics, sir.” Vax had an edge to his tone. “He can’t carry out even the simplest commands. Is he retarded?” Derek twitched, stiffened again. His eyes were liquid.
“That’s enough, Mr. Holser.”
“But, sir—”
“Quite enough! Cadet, come with me.” I turned to the corridor. Derek followed. I led him to Lieutenant Dagalow’s empty cabin near the bridge, shut the hatch behind us.
“Stand easy, Mr. Carr.” Derek sagged against the bulkhead, fighting for control. Now I would get though to him, if ever I would. “Is it bad, Derek?” My voice was soft.
He turned away, pressed his face against the bulkhead as a sob escaped him. “Oh, God. You don’t know! I tried, I did!” He fought shuddering gasps, unable to speak further.
I gave his shoulder a squeeze. It was too much for him; he was completely undone. When his crying eased, he whispered, “Why is he so brutal, Mr. Seafort? Why is there so much cruelty?”
Midshipman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 1) Page 23
