“Your extra tanks?”
“Full.” I peered past Derek, trying to spot Earthport Station against the backdrop of stars.
Derek cleared his throat. “Mr. Seafort—”
“I’m no longer ‘Nick’?”
“Not at the moment.” His tone was grave. “Sir, Godspeed.”
“And to you.” Awkwardly, dangling my alumalloy canes, I embraced him.
I turned to the others. “No weapons. For all of us, I gave my word.”
“Agreed.” Arlene looked cross. From the rest, nods.
“Good-bye, Mikhael. I’ll see you soon.” But I wouldn’t. He’d come to grips with his loss. He had Alexi in him.
I had to pry his fingers loose.
“All right, Pilot.”
Van Peer took up the caller. “Academy Shuttle T-455 to Earthport Approach Control.”
The speaker crackled. “Go ahead.”
“We’ll be docking at a Naval bay. We have a middy aboard whom Mr. Hazen wants drilled. Permission to maneuver before docking. I’d guess fifteen minutes.”
“Outside two-kilometer docking zone, shuttle.”
“Naturally. Changing course to 025, 36, 198.”
I cycled the lock. “No radio. Nothing.”
“Understood, sir.” Van Peer’s eyes never left his controls.
I switched off my radionics, stepped into the lock.
When the chamber was pumped to vacuum, I grasped a handhold, pulled myself out of the shuttle. The lock was nearly in zero gee, which helped immensely. If I could somehow live between planets, my spine would ache not at all.
I waited, searching among the uncaring stars until I saw the blazing lights of Galactic.
There would come a moment in Van Peer’s maneuvers when he was at rest relative to the great starship. In about fifteen minutes, if all went according to plan. I had merely to let go my handhold, drift far enough to be out of range of his maneuvering thrusters. I locked my gaze on the ship.
When the time came I let go, floated dreamily into space. In a shuttle porthole, Arlene’s anxious face. I waved, but she watched me recede, unblinking, as if to etch my form into her memory.
After a time, the shuttle was gone.
Carefully, so carefully, I nudged my thrusters.
The trick was to move hardly at all.
Galactic, like Earthport itself, had numerous external sensors. But, especially near an orbiting station, space was filled with abandoned tanks, lost tools, waste packets, and other slow-moving debris that drifted endlessly, until sucked into Earth’s gravitational well. If I floated ever so slowly toward the starship, I wouldn’t register.
At any rate, that was my hope.
My rate of speed was so slow it would take me eight hours.
I’d reach Galactic at seventeen hundred.
On Tuesday. I’d promised Stanger I would be in Galactic on Wednesday.
I would be.
I meant to kill Stanger, if I could. That went without saying. I owed Lord God a life, Stanger’s or mine.
Drifting, I struggled to stay awake. Sleep was deadly; I’d have to adjust my course with the most minute of corrections, rather than change direction when I was close to Galactic. The last thing I wanted was some alert middy noticing debris homing on his ship in a great arc.
From time to time I prayed. For Mikhael, for poor Anselm, for Jared. For those I’d misjudged.
After a time my boyhood friend Jason drifted with me in companionable silence. Then Vax Holser, my great enemy, then my friend. Vax was among the first I murdered.
I snapped awake. Watch your tank, Seafort. Still green, but you’ll have to change it soon.
Where was I?
Nearer to Galactic, but still a good way off. I contemplated a quick burst from my thrusters. But I might as well activate a beacon. Or blast an announcement of my presence across all frequencies. I sighed.
Where was Van Peer’s shuttle? His instructions had been to finish maneuvers, dock for four hours, then, on Wednesday, separate from the Station.
Again, I reviewed my plan. It had one overwhelming advantage: I need not survive to win. As long as Stanger was thwarted ...
Arlene had spoken of having another child. A pity. Perhaps she’d use my stored DNA to build one. I’d be a better posthumous father than a living one. For years I’d alienated P.T., thanks to my stubborn refusal to countenance his enviro pleas. And I’d beaten Mikhael, brutalized him. If he weren’t so desperate for a model he wouldn’t have allowed it.
My death was no great loss.
Laboriously, I made ready to switch tanks. It was an awkward maneuver, but not impossible. For a brief time I’d be dependent on the air in my suit, but that would last minutes, and the switch would take seconds. I unclamped the old tank, moved the nozzle to the new, secured the clamp. There.
When had I last changed tanks Outside? I must have been Anselm’s age, a middy. Poor Tad ... a cadet again, at sixteen? In all Academy’s history I knew of no similar demotion. A midshipman made his bed, and was expected to sleep in it. If he couldn’t cope with middy life, he washed out. Though ... I had to smile. Anselm had lost his legal majority. As a cadet he couldn’t buy liquor. Perhaps I’d done him a favor after all.
Ahead, the hull loomed. Would I need a correction?
No.
My feet would hit first. That wouldn’t do; if I jarred my spine I’d probably pass out. At the last moment I’d touch the rear thruster just so ...
Closer. I braced myself.
Switch on your hand magnets, you idiot! Do you want to bounce?
Now nudge the thruster.
Softly, gently, contact.
I clung to the huge hull, a barnacle on a whale. Where was I? Outside a disk, but which one? I was too close to tell; why hadn’t I paid attention? Only the Level 1 or Level 2 lock would do.
Don’t panic. It’ll be labeled. You wouldn’t be the first sailor to go Outside and become disoriented.
Avoiding mounted sensors, I clambered from handhold to handhold. The hull stretched into the distance. It was longer than three football fields, and I had to pull myself along a vast section of it, my canes hanging from my back.
Normally, a sailor in a thrustersuit would jet off from the hull, propel himself to his goal, and reattach. But I was most anxious not to trigger any external sensors.
Only zero gee made my labors possible.
A good hour later, I clung to a handhold near the Level 2 airlock. Carefully, I pulled myself onto the hull, clumped step by step to the sensor mounted just above the lock. I took from my pouch the one tool I’d brought: a wrench. Careful not to float into the sensor’s view, I unbolted the sensor’s housing and yanked loose the data cable.
Now, the hardest part. Waiting for some poor joey to come fix the sensor.
Just above the airlock, I hooked my arm through a handhold, and began my vigil. I might use all my air and asphyxiate before my plan came to fruition.
Seconds dragged into minutes, then into an hour. Two. I contemplated my last bottle of oxy I’d have to change while my old one was well in the green, so my attention wouldn’t be diverted at a critical moment.
Three hours.
What if I disconnected another sensor? Would it make them suspicious, or—
The outer lock indicator began to blink.
I opened my pouch.
I didn’t dare crouch down to peer through the airlock porthole. I’d have to hope there were no more than two sailors.
The lock pumped to vacuum. The outer hatch slid open. A suited figure emerged, clinging to the handhold. I pressed myself against the hull, making myself smaller.
Spanner in hand, he hoisted himself over the lock, toward the sensor by which I crouched. I waited for his mate. No one emerged.
Could there possibly be only one?
He was almost on me. No more time. Clutching the handhold against recoil, I raised my wrench high over my head, smashed it into the helmet as hard as I could.
&nb
sp; A puff of air. No time even for a scream. The figure jerked, clawed at a shattered helmet, twitched.
Forgive me, Lord. He was one of Your innocents. I call it duty, but in truth it’s murder.
His suit was standard ship’s issue, not a thrustersuit like my own. Thrustersuits were white, mag suits gray. That meant ... I grabbed his already-stiffening arm, climbed down the handholds into the lock, trailing him like an ungainly balloon.
Hurry, before some bored rating peeks into the porthole. I slapped shut the outer hatch, re-aired the lock. First my own suit, a piece at a time. The helmet. The thruster pack. The torso and legs. It was harder now, under the influence of Galactic’s gravitrons. A lance of pain; I’d twisted in the wrong direction.
Crouching below porthole level, I pulled the sailor’s smashed helmet. A gasp. My own. Soft brown hair, unseeing eyes, a woman’s face.
Gritting my teeth, I stripped off the rest of her suit. Would it have made a difference? Could I have killed a woman in cold blood?
I already had, in my foul past.
Thrusting the thought to some dark recess of my mind, I began to don her suit. I had trouble working my legs into the opening; the effort sent warning twinges down my spine. The exertion left my clothes drenched, but finally I was ensconced in the mag suit. Thank heaven helmets were interchangeable. But that was to be expected; if each fit only its own suit, in a crisis, disaster could result by snatching the wrong helmet.
I cycled to vacuum, dragged the body to the outer lock. When the hatch slid open, I shoved out the sailor’s corpse, watched her tumble toward Earthport Station. In a moment my thruster-suit followed, not before I’d secured my alumalloy canes.
Close the outer hatch. Recycle. Open the inner hatch. Hopefully, if someone on the bridge noticed the lock cycling, they’d simply assume the woman repairing the sensor had forgotten a tool. Perhaps they were calling her now. No, in that case I’d hear. I was wearing her suit.
I’d chosen Level 2 for several reasons. First, it wasn’t Level 1; I’d be less likely to meet an officer before I wanted to. Second, Stanger kept only Levels 1 and 2 at reduced gravity. I’d be unable to walk if I emerged belowdecks. Last, according to Admiralty’s specs, the berth of the master-at-arms was on Level 2.
Letting my canes support most of my weight, ungainly in my ill-fitting suit, I clumped down the carpeted corridor past curious passengers, past two ratings on cleanup detail. Where was the master-at-arms? To my right, a passenger lounge. Helpful plates above the hatch identified each compartment. An exercise room. Purser’s storage.
Sweat ran down my spine. At any moment I might be stopped, my subterfuge unveiled, as I strolled halfway around an opulent circumference corridor the length of a bloody jogging track. In a stolen suit a size too small, supported by a cripple’s canes. If they caught me, would they take me to the cells or to a psych?
At last, the compartment I sought.
I slapped open the hatch, hobbled in.
In any Naval ship the master-at-arms was a petty officer, and wore a sailor’s blues. Short, muscular, swarthy, he put aside his holovid, turned from his console, rolled back his leather chair. “What do you want, Sailor?”
“Just a moment.” Balancing on one cane, I unclamped my helmet, took a welcome breath of ship’s air. “Would you help with this, please?” I unclasped the front of my thrustersuit.
A frown of annoyance as he helped peel off my suit.
He froze, gaping. Perhaps it was the Admiral’s dress whites I wore beneath.
18
“YOU ARE ... ?”
“Admiral Seafort. Stand at attention.”
Military discipline is automatic. He stiffened. I fished a chip-case from my pocket, slipped the chip Admiralty had given me into his console.
“United Nations Board of Admiralty to Nicholas Ewing Seafort, United Nations Naval Service,” I read aloud. “Effective October 4, 2241, you are reinstated into the Naval Service with the rank of Admiral. You shall command a squadron consisting of UNS Galactic, a vessel moored alongside Earthport Station, and all other ships and boats now or hereafter sailing within home system. You are to direct the said squadron in the performance of its duties as may be determined by you, until relieved of your command ...”
When done, I flipped the holovid for his inspection.
“Yes, sir?”
“Stand at ease. Your name?”
“Master-at-arms Yvgeni Tobrok.”
“I trust you’re familiar with Naval regs?” While most sailors relied on their officers’ assumption of authority, a ship’s jerry would know more of the law.
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen carefully, Mr. Tobrok. First, I hereby take command of this squadron. Second, I relieve Ulysses Stanger as Captain of this vessel, and place him on the inactive list. Third, I appoint myself in his place. Do you question either my identity or my authority?”
Beads of sweat lined his forehead. “No, sir.”
“Acknowledge my command, please. I caution you that if you err in this matter you will in all likelihood be hanged.” No doubt he already knew. An officer—or any sailor—owed unquestioned obedience to his lawful Captain. To relieve a Captain without authority was a hanging offense, and the penalty was almost always carried out.
To his credit, Tobrok hesitated. “Let me see the holovid again, please.” He read it carefully. When he was done his uniform was almost as damp as mine. “Sir, I acknowledge your authority. By your declaration, you’re Captain of this vessel. But we have to tell Captain Stanger.”
“Do we, now?” I took his chair, grateful to be off my feet.
It was a convoluted maneuver I’d performed.
A ship could have but one Captain, else its lines of authority would be muddled. By Naval regs, when two or more members of a ship’s company held similar rank, seniority prevailed. The most senior was deemed of higher rank. I knew the provision well; I’d used it to steal a vessel to put an end to the Transpop Rebellion.
Captain Stanger, a seasoned hand, had far more seniority than I’d accumulated in my relatively brief Naval career. If I’d had Admiralty appoint me a mere Captain instead of Admiral, I’d have lacked authority to relieve him, were he to resist.
As Admiral, I couldn’t command directly, but I could dismiss Stanger. I could then appoint myself to the vacant Captaincy, as I had.
Why did I bother, instead of relying on the vast powers I’d assumed under martial law?
Because of the very threat of hanging, of which I’d warned Master-at-arms Tobrok. Officers wouldn’t chance my vague claim of authority against their Captain’s, unless I dismissed him in proper Naval fashion.
They still might not. But now at least I had a chance.
“What weapons have you, Mr. Tobrok?”
“Sir, we have to log your change of command.”
“We will.”
“I can’t go against Mr. Stanger merely on your word, sir.”
“You acknowledged my command, did you not?” Unarmed, I had to secure this man’s weapons, but he could physically overpower me with ease. It was vital he accept my authority.
“Yes, sir. But”—a sheen of sweat—“I shouldn’t have. Mr. Stanger has to be informed, and your relieving him recorded in the Log.”
Tobrok was right: assumption of command must be logged, but the problem was, my doing so would alert Stanger. The Captain would hardly allow me to take over his ship; he’d already committed mutiny, a hanging offense. What matter that he defied Admiralty as well?
I cursed under my breath. All had been going so well, until I came upon this sea lawyer. No, that wasn’t fair. A conscientious petty officer, trying to do his duty.
“In due time, Mr. Tobrok. The ship’s safety—”
“Regs require it.”
“I override the regs.”
“Aye aye, sir. I insist your override be in writing and logged.”
I regarded him. “Are you changing sides?”
“There are no sid
es.” He sounded desperate. “There’s Galactic, and the Naval Regulations and Code of Conduct.”
Time was wasting, that I could ill afford. “If I find authority in the regs for not logging my assumption of command, will you be satisfied?”
“I’d have to be, sir.” Almost, I felt sympathy. He was trying at all costs to avoid the threat of hanging.
“Very well. Let me think.” As a youngster, in hazing such as Mikhael had toyed with at Farside, the middies had set me on a chair in the wardroom to make me recite regs. I’d uncovered an unexpected talent in memorizing them, that had served me well over the years.
“Section 135, General Provisions. Any ship’s officer may rely upon the apparent authority of a superior, in carrying out—no.” That supported Stanger’s apparent authority as Captain, not my own as interloper. “Disregard that.”
He waited, while I wracked my brain.
“During General Quarters routine ship’s functions may be disregarded or delayed. Section 50 something.”
“Only the Captain can pipe General Quarters, sir. Are you Captain if you haven’t logged it?”
“I bloody well am.” But my mere assertion wouldn’t convince him. “Somewhere in Section 12. Any lawful order is valid, written or otherwise.”
“Sir, no disrespect, but the question is whether your order is lawful.” He shifted from foot to foot, like a joeykid needing to use the head.
I’d run out of regs. “Your console. Can you access the ship’s puter?”
“Yes, sir, but only the Captain—”
“What’s his name?”
“Baron, sir.”
I sniffed. “Pretentious.” Puters thought they ran the Navy. “Call him up.”
“How may I help you?” A slight note of impatience in the puter’s tone.
I fed in my Admiralty chip, and my own new ID code. “Acknowledge.”
“Receipt of Admiralty orders acknowledged. Identity of Admiral SecGen Seafort confirmed through ID and voicerec.”
“Very well.” For Baron, I ran through the rigmarole I’d conducted for Tobrok: I took command of my squadron, relieved the Captain, appointed myself.
“Assumption of authority acknowledged.”
Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6) Page 33