“Ready for another?”
“No.” I looked at my watch. Early yet. “I suppose. A small one.”
“Sure.” He grinned without mirth and handed me the glass he’d already brought. A comedian. He should have been on the holovid.
About halfway through the second drink I thought I’d feel better if I closed my eyes, and that was easier to do when my head was resting on the table. I stayed that way, drifting in and out of a doze, while the bar filled and the noise grew louder.
“Detour! Off to Detour for seven weeks, then another week’s leave.” A woman’s voice. Ms. Edwards, our gunner’s mate.
“You joes should work the Hope Nation system. You’re never more than five weeks from port. One easy run after another.” My eyes were open now but my head stayed on the table. I listened, drifting.
“Nah, who wants a milk run? You gotta go deep to get action.” Guffaws.
“Sure, joeygirl.” The voice was mocking. “It’d be great, stuck interstellar with a tyrant for a captain and only fourteen months to go!”
“Hey, don’t slam our Captain, buster!”
“Hah. I hear he’ll be out of diapers soon!”
“Listen, grode, I’d rather sail with Captain Kid than one of your system sissies who’d wet his pants if he couldn’t see a sun.” I blinked, focused on the empty glass.
“Captain KID? You spank him if he makes a mistake?” I felt my ears flame.
“Hey, Seafort’s all right! Sure, Captain Kid gets a wild hair up his ass sometimes—what officer don’t? But that joey knows what he’s doing. He took the puter apart single-handed, ’cause he knew she was planning to kill us. If he hadn’ta found her glitches we’d be half outta the galaxy heading for Andromeda.”
Another voice joined in. “I’ll match him mean for mean with any Captain in the fleet. Two joes we had, they beat up on the CPO. They were real garbage, druggies and worse, but always got away with it. He hanged them himself without batting an eye. And you know about Miningcamp, where they tried to seize our ship?”
Yes, tell them about my folly at Miningcamp. Sickened, I closed my eyes.
“Those scum shot their way aboard, the Captain held them off with a laser in each hand ’til help came. When it was over he marched one of them right out the airlock and made him breathe space, and laughed all the way back to the bridge! He’s tough, Captain Kid is. You don’t mess with him. I’d rather be on a ship with him than with some old fart can’t find his way to the head!”
For some reason I was feeling better. Time to go, before they found me spying on them. Cautiously, I raised my head. I was dizzy but functioning. I gathered my jacket, left a few unibucks on the table, and moved as quietly as I could to the door. Nobody saw me. I slipped outside, greedily sucking in the fresh air.
“God, it’s the Captain!” Two of Hibernia’s ratings saluted hurriedly. I fumbled a return salute and kept moving, working at making my unsteady legs cooperate. I lugged my duffel toward the shuttleport, feeling a bit more steady with each step. By the terminal I was nearly myself again. I made for the rental agency at the far end.
“Hey, Captain, wait up!” I turned. Derek Carr in civilian garb, waved from the far end of the building. He ran to catch up. He stopped, his face flushed with healthy exertion. “Sir, I, uh—” All at once, he looked abashed.
Impatient, I asked, “What, Derek?”
“Your invitation. Is it too late to accept?”
I studied his face, unsure of my answer.
He stared at the pavement. “Sorry about the way I spoke to you yesterday. I’m still immature sometimes. I’d enjoy touring with you, sir, if you’ll have me.” With an effort, he raised his head and looked me in the eye.
My smile was bleak. “What changed your mind, Derek?”
“I was steamed over your sending me to the Chief, even though I really was asking for it that day. Then I remembered two things: I promised you I could take anything, and you were the only person who was kind to me when I really needed it.” His face lit in a smile. “That was the most important thing anyone’s ever done for me. So holding a grudge is pretty stupid. I’m sorry, sir.”
I smiled back, meaning it this time. “What about your trip to your plantation?”
“I thought, sir, perhaps you’d like to come with me.” His smile vanished. “Though I’m not sure we’d be welcome. My father told me that the manager, he ...” He shrugged. “Anyway, we could go to the mountains afterward.”
I debated, my melancholy lifting. His company would be more pleasant than my own. “Sounds great. I’ll rent a car.”
“I already have one, sir. I got it yesterday.” He blushed. “I was sort of waiting until you came down.”
“Right.” I followed him to his electricar, a tiny three-wheeler with permabatteries that could power the vehicle for months. I thought fast. “Derek, while we’re groundside, I want you to call me Mr. Seafort, as if I were first middy. And you don’t have to say ‘sir’ all the time. Just make sure you switch back when we go aboard again.”
“Aye aye, si—I mean, thank you, Mr. Seafort.” We climbed in. I took off my jacket and tie and stowed my duffel in the back seat. “I’ve got a tent and supplies in the trunk,” he said. “If you’re ready, I am. It’s a two-day drive.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”
A couple of hours out of Centraltown we came upon the Hope Nation I’d first expected. The three-lane road gave way to two lanes and then one and a half. Instead of pavement, only gravel. Homes were few and far between. Occasionally a cargo hauler lumbered toward Centraltown. We passed the time chatting and joking, sharing a merry mood.
Our route paralleled the seacoast a few miles inland. Occasionally, from a high point, we caught a glimpse of the shimmering ocean; more often our path cut through a dense jungle of viny trees of unfamiliar purplish hues.
We stopped for lunch at Haulers’ Rest, a comfort station and restaurant about two hours from the edge of the plantation zone. The public showers were in an outbuilding. After, we walked past enclosures of turkeys, chickens, and pigs to the restaurant entrance. Cargo haulers were parked at random in the mud-packed parking lot.
Haulers’ Rest generated its own electricity from a small pile in the back pasture, pumped water from deep wells, and prepared most of its own food from the hoof. Wheat and corn fields provided the grains, from hybrid stock that needed no pollination. On Hope Nation, no local blights affected our terrestrial crops, and there were no insects to harass the livestock, so everything grew fast and healthy.
After a stomach-stretching meal (ham steak, corn, green beans, homemade bread, lots of milk) we waddled to the car to resume our trip.
During the afternoon we pulled aside frequently to take in the rugged view. The forest was strangely silent. No birds circled above; no animals called out their cries. Only the soft wind that rippled through the incredibly dense vegetation.
The land wasn’t fenced, but each plantation had its own identifying mark nailed to trees and posts along the road, much like the brands once put on cattle. The first we came to stretched many miles before it gave way to another.
As evening settled, rich reds dominated the sky, fading to subtle lavender. The two moons, Major and Minor, sailed serenely over scattered clouds. By now we both were tired, and I began watching for markers along the road. I said, “Let’s pick a plantation before it gets too late.”
According to the holovid guides, Hope Nation had few inns outside Centraltown, so plantations provided free food and lodging to travelers who came their way. An old tradition, now virtually obligatory. Plantation owners didn’t stint on food or shelter; they could afford it, and travelers brought outside contact that the isolated planters appreciated.
Derek drove on in silence. Then, “Mr. Seafort, I changed my mind. Let’s camp out for the night.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to look at plantations.”
I raised an eye
brow, waiting.
“I told you the managers control our estate. They won’t want me around. They’ll patronize me, and push me aside if I ask questions. Let’s not bother to visit.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“What difference is it to you?”
“Better to face it than brood for the rest of your leave. Besides, Carr is another day’s ride or more. We’ll stop at a closer estate for the night.”
His tone was petulant. “What’s the point of seeing another family’s holding? It’s mine I care about.”
“You care so much you’d turn tail and run?”
Even in moonlight I could see him flush. “I’m no coward.”
“I didn’t say you were.” But I had. Inwardly, I sighed. “I’ll handle it, Derek.”
“How?”
“I’ll do the talking, and we won’t tell them your name.” Ahead was a gate, and a dirt service road that wound into a heavy woods. A wooden sign above read “Branstead Plantation.”
“Slow down. Take that one.”
Reluctantly he turned into the drive. “Mr. Seafort, I feel like a welfarer asking for a handout.”
“That’s the system here. Go on.”
Nothing but woods for a good mile. Then, a clearing where remains of huge brush piles skirted the edge of plowed fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Our road straightened, ran alongside the field. After another two miles I began to wonder if the road led to a homestead, but abruptly we came on a complex of buildings set around a wide circular drive. Barns, silos. A heliport. Farmhands’ shacks. They surrounded a huge wood and stone mansion that dominated the settlement.
We got out to stretch. A stocky man in work clothes emerged from the stone house, walked to where we waited. “Can I help you boys?”
“We’re travelers,” I said.
“The guest house is over there.” He pointed to a clean but simple building that seemed in good repair. “We don’t serve separate for the guests; you’ll eat with us in the manse. We dine at seven.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, but he’d already turned to go.
“Welcome.” He didn’t look back.
We carried our duffels into the guest house. A row of beds sat along one wall, with hooks and shelves on the wall opposite. Around the corner, a bath. The lack of privacy wasn’t unlike a wardroom.
Derek’s tone held wonder. “He didn’t care about us. No questions.”
“Don’t you know about travel in the outland?”
“My father was born here. I wasn’t.”
“Then read the holovid guides, tourist.”
I opened my duffel.
Derek sorted through his clothes. “I’m not a tourist.” His voice was tremulous. “This is my home. Earth never was.”
“I know, Derek.” I’d have to remember not to tease about certain things.
We washed and changed clothes. In Naval blue slacks and a white shirt, I could have been any young civilian. Shortly before seven we strolled up the drive past a field of grain to the main dwelling. From the plank porch we could hear loud conversation and the friendly rattle of dishes.
Derek fidgeted with embarrassment. I knocked.
“Come on in.” A well-fed balding young man in his thirties. “I’m Harmon Branstead.” He stood aside. The entrance room was rough-hewn but comfortable, well furnished with solidly built furniture.
“Nick, um, Rogoff, sir.”
Derek shot me an amazed glance. I gulped, breathing a silent apology to Lord God. Whyever had I chosen the name of the man I’d murdered? I said hastily, “And my friend Derek. We’re sailors.”
“A local ship?”
“Hibernia, sir. The interstellar—”
“We all heard Hibernia docked. Quite an event.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to Branstead Plantation. How long will you stay?”
“Just the night. We’ll be on our way in the morning.”
“Very well. Come eat with us.”
We were the only guests. Supper was at a long plank table in a dining room that was large but homey. The planter and his wife, their small children, and two farm managers sat at table with us. Hefty platters of home-cooked food were passed around.
Derek asked, “Did you build this place, sir?” He glanced at the stuccoed walls, the comfortable furnishings.
“My grandfather did,” said Branstead. “But I’ve added about ten thousand acres to cultivation, and put up a few more buildings.”
“Very impressive,” I said.
“We’re the fourth largest on Eastern Continent.” His voice was proud. “Hopewell is first, then Carr, then Triforth, then us.” Branstead passed creamed corn to his older son, a boy of nine or so. “As soon as we get the machinery paid off, I’ll open some new acreage. Then we’ll see. Maybe by the time I pass it on to Jerence we’ll be the biggest.” He beamed at his son.
“I’d think estates would get smaller over the generations,” said Derek. “Divided among all your children.”
“Divided? Lord God, no! Primogeniture is the rule. Firstborn.” Branstead nodded at his younger child. “Of course, everyone is well provided for, but the land stays intact. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“How large is your plantation?” I asked.
“We’re only three hundred thirty thousand, but we’re growing. Another seventy-five thousand and we’ll pass Triforth. Hopewell is eight hundred thousand acres.” A pause. “Carr is seven hundred thousand, but they don’t really count as they’re no longer family-run.”
I spooned myself more corn, passed it on. “What’s Carr?” My tone was careless.
“One of our neighbors. The estate was owned by old Winston, ’til he died. We all thought they’d stagnate, but I have to admit, Plumwell’s doing all right, even if there’s talk that—” He bit off the rest.
Derek toyed with his food.
Branstead leaned back in his chair. “So, you boys are Navy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Smart of you not to wear your uniforms, Mr.—Rogoff, is it? I myself wouldn’t hold it against you, but there are some ...”
“I’m on leave. Otherwise—” I was proud to wear the uniform, and resented any implication to the contrary. My back stiffened.
“Now, don’t take offense. Some folks see Naval blues and blame the sailors.”
“For what?”
“The usual: you slap export duties on what you send us, and we can’t ship our produce except in Naval hulls. Makes for unfair trade, and we’re paying dearly.”
Derek’s eyes flickered to the comfortable house.
Branstead shrugged, his manner depreciating. “As a nation, I mean. We’re the breadbasket of the colonies. Do you know how much food Hope Nation ships back to Earth? Millions of tons. Once you lift it out of the atmosphere, vacuum cold storage costs nothing. Where are you boys from, anyway?”
“Earth,” I told him. “We’re going on to Detour.”
“When you get home, tell them we want a new tariff bill.” We drifted to politics and current events, that is, as current as they could be after eighteen months of sail.
After dinner Derek and I settled into the guest house. I sank onto my bed with a sigh of relief. “Why did I blurt out the name Rogoff? I felt his presence all through the meal. I shouldn’t have done that.”
His tone was accusing. “I thought you said you knew how to handle it.”
“You got to see a plantation, didn’t you?”
He grimaced, but without rancor. I got into bed and turned out the light.
Derek tossed and turned for hours, waking me each time I drifted to sleep. In the very early hours he got up quietly, put on his clothes, and slipped outside. Just as dawn was breaking he crept back to his bed, waking me once more.
In the morning, I dressed quickly, anxious for my first cup of coffee. Derek paced. “Look, sir, we can’t go on to Carr.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That again?”
�
��The manager won’t talk to us.” He sat, stood again immediately. “We’ll learn nothing. And I won’t beg, not on my own land.”
I tried to soothe him. “One thing I’ve learned as Captain, Derek. You’ll have enough problems without worrying about ones that haven’t come up yet. We’ll play it by ear.”
His look was dubious. After a while, he sighed. “All right. Tell them I’m your cousin or something.”
Thanks to Derek’s nocturnal meanders, we’d slept in until well past nine. We were prepared to leave without breakfast but the housekeeper insisted on feeding us a simple meal that grew into a gargantuan feast.
I was eyeing the last of my coffee when Harmon Branstead looked in. “Where do you go from here, boys?”
“North, toward Carr. Maybe beyond.”
“Stop at Hopewell if you have time. Their automated mill and elevator is astonishing.”
“Thank you.” I glanced at my watch. I could imagine nothing less interesting.
Derek pushed back his chair. “Ready, Mr. Seafort?”
“Yes.” I got to my feet. “Drive the car around. I’ll get our duffels.”
“Thanks for your hospitality, sir.” Derek hurried out. I headed for the stairs.
“Just a moment,” said Branstead then to a farmhand, “Randall, get their bags.” When we were alone, he eyed me with distaste.
“Sir?”
His face was cold. “In Hope Nation, hospitality is a matter of tradition, not law. In that tradition, I opened my home to you. I sat you at dinner with my own children.”
“Yes, sir?”
He shot, “Who are you?”
“Nick. Nick Rog—” My voice faltered.
“Seafort, I believe he called you. I don’t know why you chose to lie, but it’s despicable. You were a guest! Get out, and don’t come back!”
My face flamed. “I’m sor—”
“Out!”
“Yes, sir.” I headed for the door with as much dignity as I could muster. Beyond, in the haze, Father glowered his disapproval.
Midshipman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 1) Page 31
