“You’ve written about Miningcamp in that little diary, Lieutenant?”
“Oh, yes.” His manner was modest. “It’s very dramatic. Uncle will be intrigued, I’m sure.”
I let the conversation lapse, fretting. After a while I shrugged. Admiralty didn’t need Mr. Crossburn’s little book to know how badly I’d managed.
But three weeks into the cruise I knew I would have to take action. Mr. Crossburn had left the subject of Miningcamp and was asking about the execution of sailors Tuak and Rogoff. At the same time, the morale of my midshipmen and cadets was plummeting. Alexi stalked the ship in a cold fury, civil to me but otherwise seething with unexpressed rage. Derek appeared depressed and tired.
“I’ve had Mr. Tamarov up twice,” Lieutenant Chantir told me. “I went fairly easy on him, but I had to give him something.” I was already aware; I was watching the Log carefully now. I began checking the exercise room, realizing that one of the reasons I rarely saw the middies and cadets was that they were usually working off demerits.
Perplexed, I took my problems to Chief McAndrews. At this point I didn’t hesitate to display my ignorance. He already knew my limitations.
“What did you expect?” he asked bluntly. “You asked the Naval station to supply you officers. Where did you think they’d get them?”
“I don’t understand.” I shuffled, feeling young and foolish, but I needed to know.
He sighed. “Captain, Mr. Chantir volunteered, yes? The other two officers were requisitioned. If Admiralty told you to supply a lieutenant for an incoming ship, whom would you pick?”
“Mr. Crossburn.” I spoke without hesitation.
“And which midshipman?”
I swore slowly and with feeling.
“You gave the joeys in the interplanetary fleet a chance to get rid of their worst headaches.”
I damned my stupidity, my blindness. “How could I have been so dumb? I asked for officers and didn’t even check their files to see who I was getting!” A real Captain would have known to watch for that trick.
“Easy, sir. What do you think the files would have shown?”
I paused. A good question. The notation “tyrant” or “sadist” was unlikely to appear in Mr. Tyre’s personnel file. As for Lieutenant Crossburn’s diary, what the man wrote in his cabin during his free time wasn’t subject to Naval regulations. Even if his officious private inquiries stirred up trouble, that was hard to prove, and moreover it would be foolhardy to rebuke a man who had the ear of the fleet commander. No wonder his Captain was delighted to get rid of him.
I went back to my cabin to think. I had no sympathy for those who misused our Naval traditions for their own ends, but I didn’t know how to stop Mr. Tyre without violating tradition myself. As for Mr. Crossburn, how could I order him not to keep a diary? I found no solution.
In the meantime, I ordered Alexi to advanced navigational training, followed by a tour in the engine room under Mr. McAndrews. That should give him some respite from Mr. Tyre.
It didn’t. Alexi continued to accumulate demerits. Again he reached ten and was sent to Lieutenant Chantir’s cabin.
Two days later we shared a watch. He eased himself into his chair, wincing. I blurted, “Be patient, Alexi.”
“About what, sir?” His voice was unsteady. Seventeen now, nearly eighteen, he could expect better treatment than he was getting. Yet his Academy training held firm. He would not complain to the Captain about his superior.
I deliberately stepped over the line. “Be patient. I know what’s going on.”
He looked at me, his usual friendliness replaced by indifference. “Sometimes I hate the Navy, sir.”
“And me too?”
After a moment his face softened. “No, sir. Not you.” He added quietly, “A lot of people are being hurt.” It was as close as he would come to discussing the wardroom.
Meanwhile Mr. Crossburn continued his scribbling. On watch he would flip idly through the Log, scrutinizing entries made prior to his arrival. He was delving into Alexi’s defense of the unfortunate seamen at their court-martial. He asked me how well I thought Alexi had performed.
“Lieutenant, your questions and the reports you write are damaging the morale of the ship. I wish you’d stop.”
“Is that an order, sir?” His tone was polite.
“A request.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think my diary is under Naval jurisdiction. I’ll ask Uncle Ted about that when I see him. As for asking questions, of course I’ll stop if you order it.”
“Very well, then, I so order.”
“Aye aye, sir. Since your order is so unusual I request that you put it in writing.”
I considered a moment. “Never mind. You’re free to carry on.” A written order, viewed without knowledge of his constant prying, would appear paranoid and dictatorial. Anyone who hadn’t experienced Lieutenant Crossburn firsthand wouldn’t understand, and I was in enough trouble with Admiralty as it was.
I had little better luck with Philip Tyre. I called him to my cabin, where our discussion could be less formal than on the bridge.
“I’ve been reviewing the Log, Mr. Tyre. Why do you find it necessary to hand out so many demerits?”
He sat at my long table, his arm resting on the tabletop much as the Chief’s had before I’d isolated myself. His innocent blue eyes questioned me. “I’ll obey your orders, sir. Are you telling me to ignore obvious infractions?”
“No, I’m not. But are you finding infractions, or searching for them?”
“Captain, I’m doing the best I know how. I thought my job was to keep wardroom affairs from coming to your attention, and I’ve been trying to do that. As I certainly haven’t called any problems to your notice, someone else must have.” It was said so reasonably, so openly, that I could have no complaint.
“No one’s complained,” I growled. “But you’re handing out demerits faster than they can work them off.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve noticed that. I encouraged Mr. Carr and Mr. Fuentes to spend more time in the exercise room. I’ve even gone myself to help them with their exercises. A better solution would be for them to stop earning demerits.” His untroubled eyes met mine.
“How do you propose that they do that?”
“By following regulations, sir. My predecessor must have been terribly lax. I observe a lack of standards in his own behavior, sir. It’s no wonder he couldn’t teach the others. I’m trying to deal with it.”
I sighed. The boy was unreachable. “I won’t tell you how to run the wardroom. I will tell you that I’m displeased about the effects on morale.”
Tyre’s voice was earnest. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, sir. I’ll make sure their morale problems don’t bother you further.”
“I want them eliminated, not hidden! That’s all!”
The midshipman saluted smartly and left. I paced the cabin, bile in my throat. Very well; he’d been warned. I would give him until we left Detour. If he didn’t improve, Mr. Tyre had made his bed; he’d have to sleep in it.
On my next visit to the exercise room I found Derek and Ricky working, Derek on the bars, the cadet struggling at push-ups and leg lifts on the mat. Alexi was absent. The two perspiring boys waited silently for me to leave.
I didn’t come across Alexi for three days, until we next shared a watch. “You haven’t been in the exercise room of late, Mr. Tamarov.”
He glanced at me without expression. “No, sir. I’ve been confined to quarters except to stand watch and go to the dining hall.”
“Good Lord! For how long?”
“Until my attitude improves, sir.” His gaze revealed nothing, but his cheeks reddened.
“Will it improve, Alexi?”
“Unlikely, sir. I’m told I’m not suitable material for the Navy. I’m beginning to believe it.”
“You’re suitable.” I tried to cheer him up. “This will pass. On my first posting my senior middy was very difficult to deal wi
th, but we got to be friends.” I realized how fatuous I sounded. Jethro Hager was nothing like the vicious boy fate had put in charge of my midshipmen.
“Yes, sir. I don’t mind so much, except when Ricky cries himself to sleep.”
I was alarmed. “Ricky, crying?”
“Only two or three times, sir. When Mr. Tyre isn’t around.” That was bad. Ricky Fuentes was a cheerful, good-natured boy; if he was in tears something was very wrong. I thought briefly of the lesson I had given Vax Holser when I succeeded to Captain, an approach I’d decided against with our new midshipman. In Vax’s case I’d recently been a member of the wardroom and had personal knowledge of his behavior. Also, Vax was a good officer who was making a sincere effort to combat a personal problem. Philip Tyre was not.
In three weeks we would Defuse for a nav check, and then we’d have only a few more days to Detour. I could wait.
But a few days later Mr. Chantir raised the subject openly. “Sir, something’s gone wrong in the wardroom. I’ve had Mr. Carr and Mr. Fuentes up again. The Log is littered with demerits.”
“I know.”
“Is there anything you could do?”
“What do you suggest, Mr. Chantir?”
“Remove the first midshipman, or distract him. Lord, I’d enjoy having him sent to me with demerits after what he’s done to the others.”
“He’ll make sadists of us all, Mr. Chantir. No, I won’t remove him. I have witnessed no objectionable behavior. He’s scrupulously polite, he obeys my orders to the letter, he’s excellent at navigation drills and in his other studies. I can’t beach him simply because I don’t like him.”
“That wouldn’t be the reason, Captain.”
“No, but that’s what it would look like to Admiralty. They don’t know that Derek and Alexi aren’t giving him a hard time.”
“What do you expect of me when these joeys are sent to the barrel, then?”
“I expect you to do your duty, Mr. Chantir.” He quickly dropped the subject.
As time passed Mr. Crossburn threw caution to the winds. Twice he mentioned how eagerly he was looking forward to seeing his uncle Admiral Brentley and talking over old times. I ignored him, but my uneasiness grew.
For a diversion I called drills. The crew practiced Battle Stations, General Quarters, Fire in the Forward Hold at unexpected intervals. The sudden action seemed a relief.
At last came the day Pilot Haynes took his place on the bridge, along with Alexi and Lieutenant Chantir. I brought the ship out of Fusion, and stars leaped onto the simulscreens with breathtaking clarity. The swollen sun of Detour system glowed in the distance. We would Fuse for four more days and emerge, hopefully, just outside the planet’s orbit.
I waited impatiently for the navigation checks to be done. With Pilot Haynes, Mr. Chantir, and Alexi all computing our course there was no need for me to recheck their calculations, but still I did. Finally satisfied, I ordered the engine room to Fuse.
That evening, I had a knock on my cabin hatch. Philip Tyre stood easily at attention, his soft lips turned upward in a pleasant expression. “Sir, excuse me for intruding, but a passenger wishes to speak to you. Mr. Treadwell.” A passenger couldn’t approach officers’ country; he needed an escort to arrange contact with me unless he found me in the dining hall.
“Tell him to write—oh, very well.” Though I could refuse to see him, another tirade from Jared Treadwell about his daughter was no more than I deserved for rashly enlisting her. “Bring him.” The middy saluted, spun on his heel, and marched off. I paced in growing irritation, dreading the interview.
Again, a knock. “Come in,” I snapped. Mr. Tyre stepped aside. Rafe Treadwell came hesitantly into my cabin. I blurted, “Oh, you. I was expecting ...” I waved Philip his dismissal.
The lanky thirteen-year-old smiled politely. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Is this about your sister?”
“No, sir.”
I waited. He stood formally, arms at his sides. “I’m hoping, Captain Seafort, that you’d allow me to enlist too.”
For a moment I was speechless. “What?” I managed. “Do what?”
“Enlist, sir. As a cadet.” Seeing my expression he hurried on. “I thought I wanted to stay with my parents, but things have changed. I don’t know if you need more midshipmen but I’d like to volunteer. I’d like to be with my sister for a while longer, and I just can’t believe how much the Navy has done for her.”
I shot him a suspicious look. If the boy was twitting me I’d stretch him over the barrel, civilian or no.
“I mean it, sir. She always used to ask me for help. Now she doesn’t even have time for me and when I do see her, it’s like talking to a grown-up. She’s about three years older than me now.” He shook his head in wonderment.
“What about your parents?”
“Paula and I were creche-raised, sir. Community creche, back in Arkansas. I knew our parents but we didn’t spend much time with them. They took us out of creche when they decided to emigrate. They can survive without us.”
“They don’t act like it.”
He grinned. “They think togetherness is something they can proclaim. They don’t realize you have to grow up with it. They’ll get used to being without us.”
“And the discipline? You’d enjoy that?”
“No, I’ll probably hate it. But it might be good for me.” He sounded nonchalant, but, at his side, his hand beat a tattoo against his leg.
I paced anew. Another midshipman would be useful, though hardly necessary. Having Rafe in the wardroom would certainly help Paula’s morale. But taking both Treadwell children without their parents’ consent wouldn’t be appreciated by Admiralty at home, to say nothing of the Treadwells. Well, I was already in so much hot water that one more mistake didn’t matter.
“I’ll let you know.” I opened the hatch.
“But I’ve only got—”
“Dismissed!” I waited.
“Yes, sir.” His tone was meek, passing my first test.
That night Mr. Tuak came, for the first time in months. He peered at me through the cabin bulkhead, making no effort to grab me, until at last I woke. I was disturbed, uneasy, but barely sweating. I showered and went back to sleep, unafraid.
Three days later we Defused for the last time on our outward journey. We powered our auxiliary engines for our approach to Detour. Pilot Haynes, Mr. Tyre, and Alexi had the watch; of course I was also on the bridge.
Philip Tyre sat stiffly at a console checking for encroachments. I noticed he kept Alexi on a very short leash, ordering him to sit straight when he relaxed in his seat and observing Alexi’s work closely. Tyre never raised his voice, never asked anything unreasonable, and never missed a thing.
Detour Station drifted larger in the simulscreens as the Pilot maneuvered us ever closer. Finally the rubber seals on the locks mated. We had arrived.
I thumbed the caller. “Mr. Holser, arrange a shuttle. I’ll be going planetside.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
I turned to Philip Tyre. “Where’s Mr. Carr?”
“In the wardroom, sir. I believe he’s sleeping.”
“In the middle of the day?”
“Yes, sir. I had him standing regs last night. Then he did some exercises.” His wide blue eyes regarded me without guile. “Shall I wake him?”
“I was going to take him groundside.”
“Yes, sir. I’d told him he was confined to ship during the layover for his insubordination, but of course your wishes prevail.”
“I’ll take Mr. Tamarov, then.”
“Him too, sir. Unless you countermand my orders.” As he’d spoken in front of Alexi, it was impossible for me to countermand him. Discipline had to be maintained.
I turned to Alexi. “What did you do, Mr. Tamarov?”
“I was insolent, sir,” he said without inflection. “So I was informed.”
A cruel punishment. The midshipmen had long leave in Hope Nat
ion so they weren’t entitled to go shoreside as a matter of right, but to travel so far and be denied what could be their only chance to see the colony was harsh indeed.
“Very well. I’m sorry, Mr. Tamarov. You’ll stay aboard; I’ll go alone.” As I left the bridge the rank injustice helped steady my resolve. I saw Lieutenant Crossburn coming up the ladder from Level 2.
“Mr. Crossburn, find young Mr. Treadwell—Rafe Treadwell—and take him to your cabin. Keep him there until I order otherwise.” I would keep the Treadwell twins together. Their parents be damned. Injustice was the way of the world.
Crossburn gaped. “Aye aye, sir. Don’t the passengers disembark today?”
“They’ll start later this afternoon. Do as you’re told.” I went on to my cabin.
A few minutes later I was climbing into a shuttle in the station’s launch berth. Everything about Detour Station was smaller than at Hope Nation: far fewer personnel, smaller corridors, lower ceilings. Even a smaller shuttle. This one held only twelve passengers and looked well used.
“I’ve radioed down to tell them we’re coming, Captain,” the shuttle pilot said as we drifted clear off the station.
“Thank you.”
“A ship from outside is a major event. You’re the first since Telstar, half a year ago.”
“Telstar made it, then?”
“Of course.” He waited for me to explain.
“She didn’t reach Miningcamp.”
“Where is she?”
“No one knows.” I stared bleakly at his console.
The pilot shrugged. “She’ll turn up. Anyway, have you brought us the polyester synthesizer?”
I tried to remember my cargo manifest. “I think so. Why, are you short of clothing?”
“Somewhat. We’ve made do with cottons over the years, but all the fashions are in polyester and the ladies are restless. Hang on, atmosphere is building.” In a moment the buffeting from pockets of denser atmosphere occupied his full attention.
Detour was considerably smaller than Hope Nation, smaller in fact than Earth, but its greater density made for near-terrestrial gravity. I peered through the porthole. Much of the planet was still barren, with patches of lichen and moss taking hold on the outcrops of bare rock. If I could see the patches from our height they must be huge, evidence of massive terraforming.
Midshipman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 1) Page 37
