“We’ll cruise under thruster power until we reach Fusion clearance.” Fath spoke with calm confidence. There was no question about a ship to which he didn’t know the answer. After all, he’d captained a similar vessel for many years before my birth. Once, he’d even been on the same ship as Mom.
Across the lounge I recognized a holo star whose face adorned all the news screens. She sat with two men. They glanced our way, as if gathering the nerve to approach us.
Fervently I hoped they wouldn’t bother Fath. He hated his notoriety; all he wanted was seclusion, and peace. I pressed my forehead against the transplex porthole, trying to see around the side. “Where’s the Naval wing? Can you see the lasers fire?”
“You studied optics. Tell me.” For a moment, we were back in his study.
“The light isn’t visible of itself. But if there were dust motes ...”
“And they have warning beacons.” Father tapped his knuckles to his lips, as if pensive. Once again he checked his watch.
“Mr. SecGen, is it really you?” A well-groomed man in an expensive suit, a heavyset woman.
I wanted to shout, “Leave him alone,” but knew better. Fath would be furious.
“Yes.”
“We voted for you. I’m Darwell Reins; you’ve heard of my books, perhaps? It’s such a thrill to meet you. The Senate was so unfair, when they—” His wife’s elbow jabbed his ribs. “Well, of course you already knew ... I was wondering, if you wouldn’t mind, an autograph for our daughter?”
“Very well.” Father’s voice was stony. He took the proffered menu, scrawled his name.
“Mr. Seafort?” A starched midshipman hovered. “An honor to meet you, sir. Captain Flores asks if you’ll please come to the bridge.”
Reins gabbled, “It’s an honor; we’ll tell all our friends, it’s so wonderful to have met ...”
In the corridor Fath growled, “Who in hell is Darwell Reins?”
“I don’t know, Father.”
“That’s why I loathe leaving the compound.”
Galactic, one of the new smaller ships, had only two Levels. Our lounge was on the second, and we trudged up the ladder to Level One, the middy politely leading the way.
He said, “It’s just past the curve, sir.”
“I know.”
The midshipman blushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. SecGen. I forgot.”
Fath grunted. “It’s been a while. Before your time.”
The hatch to the bridge was open, which surprised me. I’d heard it was usually kept closed.
A burly lieutenant and the Pilot flanked the Captain’s chair. They seemed tense. A sallow man with receding hairline rose to greet us. His Captain’s insignia was bordered by a gleaming row of length-of-service pins.
“I’m Flores. It’s an honor to have you aboard, Mr. SecGen.”
“I brought my son. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course I ... Mr. Zorn, you may go.” The midshipman saluted and left.
Fath said, “Thanks for inviting us topside.”
Flores looked uncomfortable. “I intended to have you visit, but there’s a ... situation. Admiral Thorne, CincHomeFleet, sent us a signal demanding your presence forthwith. I’m to return his call while you’re on the bridge.”
“I see.” Father’s face showed no expression. “Are these joeys my guards?”
“Surely not—I hope it won’t—” A sheen broke out on his forehead. “Please, sir, I must make my call.” He keyed the console. “Comm room, go ahead.”
In a moment Admiral Thorne’s stolid face filled the screen. He seemed bloated, tired, and his eyes had baggy circles I hadn’t really noticed when we’d seen him in person.
“Captain Flores reporting, sir.”
“Is Seafort with you? Ah, I see him now. Mr. Flores, have your Log record our proceedings.”
“Corwyn, record.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The ship’s puter.
“No doubt you’re aware of the civil disturbances in New York, Newark, and Greater Detroit. Mr. Seafort demanded rather forcefully that I defy Naval policy, which I refused to do. While I didn’t place him under arrest, I don’t want him roaming Earthport raising tensions while we assist U.N.A.F. in the cities. I persuaded him to join your cruise. But Mr. Seafort can be, um, disruptive. We can’t have that.”
I was hot with indignation. I glanced at Fath, but his face showed nothing.
“Captain Flores, you are to deal with the situation as follows. Declare an emergency. Impress Mr. Seafort into the Naval Service for the duration.”
“What?” The Captain was dumbfounded.
“You heard me.” Thorne’s voice was hard. “And make sure the entire ship knows what you’ve done.”
“But ... he’s the SecGen! Former, I mean. I can’t—sir, are you absolutely sure—” Flores sounded near panic. “Not the SecGen!”
“I’ve thought it out. This way, you see, Naval rules of discipline will apply.”
“Let me confine him in his—I could set a guard around ...”
Thorne’s tone became icy. “Captain, I gave an order. Carry it out.”
“Aye aye, sir. Mr. Seafort, I have no—” Flores glanced at his lieutenants for support. “Admiral, for how long? Surely not the usual five-year—”
“No, of course not. For the duration of your cruise. Say ... until Galactic docks again at Earthport Station.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I protest,” said Father. “Vehemently.”
“I imagine you do,” Thorne said. “Proceed, Captain Flores.”
Apologetically, the Captain faced Father. “Mr. SecGen, pursuant to Article Twelve of the Naval Regulations and Code of Conduct—I believe that’s the authority I need—I declare a state of emergency. I do hereby impress you into the Naval Service and require you to take the oath.”
“NO!” I jumped in front of Fath. “Let him alone, he only tried to—”
The lieutenant seized my arm, twisted it behind my back, hauled me aside. Father made no move to intervene.
On ship, a Captain’s word was law, his power boundless. He was an acknowledged representative of Lord God’s Government, and was always obeyed. I could do nothing to prevent Father’s disgrace, his incarceration in the Navy, if that was Captain Flores’s will.
And it was.
Appalled, I watched them give Father the oath that bound him to the Service.
On the screen, Thorne nodded, satisfied. “Very well, Mr. SecGen. That should settle the matter.”
Galactic’s Captain wiped his forehead, sank into his chair. “Sir, I have no idea what rank to—”
“Check Earthport’s puter for Mr. Seafort’s old file. As a reenlisted officer, he assumes his last-held rank and seniority, whatever that was. If you’ve any doubt, look to the Naval Regs of 2087. In fact, follow the regs to the letter in all things regarding Mr. Seafort; I don’t want him abused. Disobey me at your peril.”
“Aye aye, sir, of course. You understand that means we’ll have two Captains aboard.”
“A technicality. You have the conn. Get him a uniform, something close to his size, no need to make him look ridiculous—and make the announcement to your ship. That’s all. Have a pleasant cruise.” Abruptly the screen cleared.
The Pilot was carefully engrossed in his console.
I realized that my cheeks were wet, and the keening noise was my own. I sniffled, wiped my face.
Father said to the lieutenant, “Let Philip go, please. He’ll give no more trouble.”
The lieutenant glanced at Captain Flores. “Aye aye, sir,” he said automatically, and let loose my arm. I massaged my shoulder.
Fath said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like a uniform. If I’m to be an officer, I find civvies awkward.”
“Of course.” Flores was anxious to accommodate. “You’re a bit taller than me, so ...Lieutenant Bjorn, would you be so kind as to lend us a kit?”
“Of course, sir. What about insignia?”
Fath
said, “Bring them, and I’ll pin them on after. Just put me in blues.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He excused himself, hurried to his cabin.
With a pained expression, the Captain took up the mike, delivered a halting announcement to the ship’s company. He stressed Father’s years of accomplishment, and somehow made his impressment sound like a sort of honor. After, he leaned back with a thankful sigh.
The speakers said, “Shall I continue to record?”
“No, Corwyn, that will do.”
Flores fiddled with his console as the silence stretched. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I had no idea ...As far as I’m concerned, it’s an absurd formality. Feel free to go where you wish. I certainly won’t burden you with duties, or assign—”
Lieutenant Bjorn hurried in, a neatly creased uniform over his arm. Not in the least self-conscious, Father stripped off his outer clothing, donned the new. I swallowed. He looked so like his old pictures. Only the gray at his temples denoted that two decades had passed since his last command.
“Ah, that’s better.” Yet, Father’s smile was grim. “Insignia?”
Bjorn fished in a pocket. “I stopped at stores to get Captain’s bars.”
Fath pinned them on.
“I brought a handful of L.O.S. pins; I wasn’t sure how long you’d been—”
“March 2195 through January 2202.” Father selected the appropriate length of service badges. “If you’d be so kind as to confirm my time against Earthport’s records?”
“That’s hardly necessary,” said Flores. “I trust your recollection.”
“But you logged Mr. Thorne’s order to follow regs to the letter, and they require it. Please humor me, sir. The Admiral’s annoyed enough with the both of us.”
“As you wish.” Flores tapped in an inquiry. In a moment he said, “Confirmed.”
With meticulous care, Father attached his pins in a neat row. “Very well, sir. I hereby report for duty as a member of the ship’s company.” He saluted.
“Acknowledged and confirmed. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Seafort, we have to ready Fusion coordinates. You’ve visited the Jovian system? It’s quite spectac—”
Fath’s voice changed. “Sir, your attention, please.” It sounded almost a command.
Lieutenant Bjorn gaped. The Pilot looked up, startled.
“Examining your length of service pins, Mr. Flores, it appears I am senior.”
“But that’s—”
“Please tell me your dates of service.”
“This is my second ship. I was promoted two years ago ... January fourth.”
“Am I senior, sir?”
A stab of worry flitted across the Captain’s face. “Only by a technicality. I still have the conn.”
“Nonetheless, by a literal interpretation of regs, I have right of command.” Fath’s eyes bored into the Captain’s.
“You’ve no right to take my ship! Not if you were impressed only to—”
“Corwyn, record. Mr. Flores, being a lawfully constituted Captain U.N.N.S. and a member of this ship’s company, I take command of this vessel by right of seniority.”
“You can’t! Bjorn, get him out of here!”
“Aye aye, sir.” The lieutenant moved forward.
Fath snapped, “Think, Lieutenant! Admiralty will not tolerate mutiny against lawful authority. You’ll be hanged.”
“Hold it, Bjorn.” Flores spun his chair. “I’m calling Admiral Thorne. Comm Room, priority to Admiralty!”
“Put down the caller.” Father’s voice was harsh.
Flores said desperately, “Let the Admiral settle this.”
“We’ll go by regs, as instructed. Look them up. Section ninety-seven. Point one, as I recollect. Read it aloud.”
Flores muttered, “Corwyn, screen the Naval Regulations, Section Ninety-seven.” He peered at the display, read with obvious reluctance. “Wherever two or more members of a ship’s company hold similar rank, seniority shall prevail, and the most senior shall be deemed of higher rank.” He seemed to shrink in his chair. “Mr. Thorne couldn’t have intended—”
“Undoubtedly. But the regs are clear. Acknowledge my assumption of command.”
The speaker crackled. “Sir, comm room reporting. Earthport says Admiral Thorne is not to be disturbed.”
“Well, Captain?” Father’s eyes burned into his.
Flores was ashen. He stumbled to his feet. “I have no choice, Mr. Seafort. I acknowledge. The conn is yours.”
“Pilot,” said Father, “turn the ship about.”
Chapter 57
JARED
I THOUGHT OF DIALING out on standard copper wire backups, but what was the point? It would be like skiing a beginner’s slope at Aspen, when I’d schussed the high Alps.
I sat, dull and exhausted.
Again I keyed to the public holos, idly flicked through the news.
“—well under control.” The mediaman looked excited. “Though he remains in London, Mr. Kahn has taken personal charge—”
“Members of Richard Boland’s Supranationalist Party are publicly supporting the police action that—”
Damn old fraz. I recalled peering through the window of the compound’s veranda, watching him scheme to prong the Old Man.
“—markets expected to reopen soon. Secretary Tai said that through one mechanism or another, catastrophic losses will be made good or reversed.”
Hah. That’ll be the day. Without my codes, they’d never identify, much less recover from, the Arfie I’d sent burrowing. And I wasn’t about to reveal the codes to anyone. Well, maybe if they paid me another fortune ...
I turned off the sound, flipped to a newscreen that pictured the city. Huge billows of smoke drifted across midtown. I wondered if the idiots would manage to create a fireball. Enough separate fires could cause an updraft that would suck away the oxygen, leave us gasping our lungs out. That much I remembered from my frazzing ecology course.
It would serve the Uppies right, after their attack on the trannie tunnels. Towers wouldn’t be immune to a fireball, either. Including mine. I thought about it, discovered that I didn’t much care.
That disturbed me, though not greatly. I considered it. My inspired hacking had turned a police crackdown into full-scale war. The trannies were disgusting, but I supposed even they were people, after a fashion. Their deaths would be on my conscience, if in fact I had one.
The screen lurched, as the heli from which the broadcast was emanating banked sharply. The view refocused. A majestic old stone-clad building with carved and ornamental cornices broke, sagged, fell. A cloud of dust swirled.
Not all buildings burned, then. Perhaps the fires would be contained, and I’d be safe.
After a while, I tired of news. I felt grimy and stiff. No reason to stay glued to the screens; I stretched, wandered about. The guards’ locker room was down the hall. I went in, used the toilet, saw the shower. A rack of towels waited.
Well, why not? I ran the water, tested the temperature. Still hot, though I hadn’t monitored the automatic backups since I’d taken over the puter center. I stripped, stepped gingerly into the cubicle, luxuriated in the welcome hot spray.
After, I dried myself in front of the mirror, stared at my battered image. I was on my own, now. I wished I looked more, well, masculine; I’d only shaved a few times in my life. I ran my finger over the scabs on my chest. So recent, yet so long past. I wondered if the scar would interfere with hair. I’d have it removed, as had the Old Man his famous laser scar, a generation ago. Cosmetic repairs were routine.
I examined my chest more closely. The mark would stand out vivid and clear. I reached a sudden decision.
I’d keep it.
Pook’s silly Mid tribe wasn’t much, but he’d adopted me, in a sense, and he was the only relation I had. I certainly couldn’t go back to the Old Man’s frazzing compound and live with Philip. I had money now, lots of it. A new identity, courtesy of my nets. Everything but a life, a place I belonged.
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Perhaps, if he survived, I’d take Pook under my wing, show him what life was really about. Teach him manners, of course, and how to obey an Uppie.
I doubted he’d have much choice. Trannietown was crumbling before our eyes.
Anyway, it would give me something to do. School was over forever. Dad wasn’t around to nag me, to yank my nets if I disobeyed, to jump at the Old Man’s whistle.
I found myself crying. My fist hammered the tile.
Frightened, I brought myself under control. I’m too tired, I told myself. When this is over, the first thing I needed was a week’s sleep. It was just exhaustion.
I wished I had fresh clothes, but all I had were the rags the trannies had left me. I dressed, combed my hair. On the counter was a box of plastic razors. I shoved one in my pocket.
I went back to the puter room.
On the silent screen, some old fraz’s mouth moved. I watched without interest. The sooner this was over, the sooner I could get on with life.
Morosely, I stared at the silent console.
The caller buzzed, and I nearly jumped out of my seat.
I took it cautiously. “Hello?”
“Jared, be Pook! Stairs done crash in! I ran ta otha stair, can’ go up, all fire. Sheeet! Roof crackin’, can’ fin’ Halber, what I do?”
Frazzing Uppie bastards. They’d targeted the Forty Two station. “South in the tunnel. Run!”
On the screen, the word BULLETIN faded from white.
“’Kay. Where?” Pook must be on the move; his breath rasped.
Why ask me? It was his problem, not mine. I tried to think through fog. “A few blocks. Go to one of those gratings, like I climbed through when you chased me. Watch the tunnel both ways. If you see it caving in, get out to the street and run for safety.”
STAY TUNED FOR SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.
“Gotcha. Christ, Halb, where ya be?” Pook sounded plaintive. “Subs runnin’ every which way. No one know what ta do.”
“Hurry.”
“Yah.” A click, and he was gone.
I stared balefully at the holoscreen. I wanted to make news, not watch it. How long would I be stuck in this dumb tower? I didn’t really care who won, just so it was over. I fingered the razor.
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 48
