Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  I inched toward Karen’s pistol. There were consoles to burn. I clasped it in a deathly grip.

  The speaker crackled. “Lieutenant Burns, bring him to the dining hall. We’re waiting.”

  Why the dining hall? Executions were held in the engine room, were they not? Or was it just the way I’d done it as Captain? I lay dreaming.

  I’m sorry, Lord God. You pushed me too far. I can do no more, and I don’t think I care. I hate them. Stanger, Admiral Hoi, Karen. No, she’s dead. Still I hate her. Perhaps I hate You.

  A sob. I bit it back. Slowly, shuddering with each motion, I raised myself to my knees. Trying not to scream, I reached back, dragged one leg forward. Then the other.

  I couldn’t do this.

  Crooning mindlessly, I hunched my way to the bulkhead, leaned against it. Try again. It was easier, marginally, if I gave some of my weight to its panels. Pistol tucked into my belt, my shoulder rubbing the alumalloy, I worked my way on my knees to the hatch. My legs wouldn’t lift; dragging one cane, I had to raise them by hand.

  Outside. Along the deserted corridor.

  It took forever.

  We have sinned, we have sinned grievously, we are a sinner, we repent our sins ... You don’t listen. Perhaps You never did. Why, then, do I do this? Duty? Oh, Jesus, that hurt. Breathe. Hold a moment. What is duty without You? Well, perhaps You listen, now and then. But why don’t You ever answer?

  I’m sorry, I think. To tell truth, I’m not sure.

  A head poked out of a cabin. A passenger. Her eyes fastened on mine, ducked away. The hatch slammed closed.

  I inched past an exercise room. Scorched carpet, a stench that made me gag. Foot by endless foot, I crawled, the bulkhead my constant friend. My hand ached from the effort of dragging my useless legs.

  The brig. Tobrok was there, was he not? No, he was dead, with Arlene and Philip. Or awaiting execution. I’d bullied him into a fight that was not his.

  On my endless journey, I crawled past the master-at-arms’ hatch.

  Wait, Seafort. You’re forgetting something.

  Yes, you’re forgetting it’s hopeless. You’ve lost. You’re crawling to see Arlene’s purple tongue, your son’s final twitch.

  No. Something else.

  Reaching cautiously with the cane, I punched the hatch panel, over my head. I didn’t know what I sought. Inside, the console, where I’d met Tobrok. Beyond, cells. A chair. No more.

  On my way again.

  Wait. The chair. Unlike those at the laser consoles, it rolled.

  This will hurt, Lord. Will You—No. You won’t. I clutched the console with one hand, took a few breaths, let go the deck with the other. Hanging from the console, I raised myself slowly, as if trying to kneel.

  I learned what Hell would be, so very soon. No worse than now.

  Sweating from every pore, I inched toward the chair. My biceps strained. I drew myself up, bent over the console as if for a caning. My vision blurred.

  Carefully, so cautiously, I inched backward. I wouldn’t be able to do this more than once. In fact, I wasn’t sure that even once—

  The chair, at the edge of my slacks. Another inch. Another.

  I hummed to myself, eyes squeezed shut. The brig was unbearably hot. After a time I blinked, tried to focus.

  My shirt was soaked through.

  But I sat in the chair.

  With care, I reached down, grappled for my cane. If I pushed against the deck ... no, from that angle, so. And again.

  Like a deranged lover in an ancient canoe, I paddled my way down the corridor.

  The carpet made it slow going.

  “—to death for piracy and murder. The sentence will now be carried out.”

  Paddle, Seafort. Don’t get your feet wet. Lord God won’t like it. In a tippy canoe, with Saythor too ...

  I snapped awake. I was almost to the dining-hall hatch. A final lunge, that made me cough bile. I couldn’t do that often.

  I was in the hatchway. The dining-hall aisle was blocked by rows of sailors, lined in the at-ease position, hands clasped smartly behind their backs.

  Before them, Arlene stood dazed, blood matting her auburn hair. Derek lay slumped over a starched linen tablecloth. Their hands were tied behind, their mouths taped.

  A middy, the young one who’d taken my demerits. A sailor, one of Tobrok’s. All bound.

  Tad Anselm, his cadet gray stained a dull maroon, swayed as if asleep on his feet. His eyes were dull, unfocused.

  I was sitting on my pistol. I tugged at it, fought a wave of torment.

  Two sailors held Jared Tenere, standing, on a sturdy table. A noose was tight around his neck, secured to an overhead panel. He kicked, twisted against his ropes, struggled frantically to escape. I yanked at the pistol; my weight held it in my belt.

  Jared squealed through the skintape. I could hear it across the hall. He wrapped a leg around the sailor’s, worked the bonds tying his hands. Blood dripped from his torn wrists.

  Below, two burly sailors grappled with Philip. Gagged by skintape, he kicked and lunged in a desperate frenzy to reach Jared. His pleading eyes were fastened on his friend.

  I wrenched loose the laser, keyed off the safety. At Stanger’s nod, the sailors shoved Jared from the table. He dropped like a stone.

  I fired, downing a crewman. Another, who held P.T.’s arms. His blood gushed. Dangling, Jared convulsed and was still. Sailors dived to the deck. Screams and shouted commands. Stanger’s eyes met mine. I aimed. He ducked behind a pillar. I sprayed a wide arc where he’d stood.

  Someone, braver than the rest, lunged at my chair. A mighty kick missed me but sent the chair hurtling out the hatch. The hatch slammed shut.

  I fetched up against the far bulkhead. My back arched in a spasm. I whipped the laser in front of my face. Two-handed, I fired without cease. The hatch smoked and sizzled. A beep. I was out of charge.

  In blind fury, I lunged with my cane, rolled myself east. I’d find another laser. I paddled past a section hatch.

  “This is the Captain! Lieutenant Garrow, shut all corridor hatches. I’ll use my override codes. Watch for me; I’ll direct from the bridge. We’ll execute the rebels when that maniac is dead.”

  Behind me, the hiss of a hatch. I turned. The dining hall. A sailor emerged, braver than most, or maddened by the carnage. He brandished a laser. His wild eyes found mine. The corridor hatch slid shut. He dived through, almost losing his legs. He scrambled to his feet.

  My tone was like ice. “Drop it, joey.” I aimed my empty laser at his face.

  His eyes darted to his pistol, at his side.

  “Do it and you’ll die. Let it go.” My voice had a ragged edge that frightened even me.

  He swallowed. The laser fell to the deck.

  “Turn around.” He did. Laser in my lap, I paddled myself across the corridor. “Kneel, pick up the laser by the barrel, hand it behind you.” I’d never be able to bend without passing out.

  I fingered the second laser, turned off the safety.

  “Will you kill me?” His voice quavered.

  “I think so.”

  Kneeling, he crossed himself, bowed his head.

  I came to my senses. I took my discharged laser, rapped him sharply behind the ear. He slumped to the carpet.

  Section hatches were all shut. Even if I burned the seals, I had no strength to force them open.

  I rolled past the airlock I’d torched foolish years ago, to help my marauders aboard. Stanger’s crew hadn’t had time to repair it; warning tape plastered the entry.

  In a moment Stanger would reach the bridge to organize his manhunt. The crew would fan out, with merciless intent.

  I had one goal left in life.

  It was a long way to the end of section seven. How to force the Christ-damned corridor hatch? Meters away, I stared at it balefully.

  No. There was another way.

  Ignoring a blaze of pain, I paddled back the way I came.

  To the damaged airlock. Only the outer
hatch stood vigil against decompression.

  Past it, to the suit locker alongside. I aimed my laser, burst the flimsy latch. Straining, I hauled down a suit from a hook above my head.

  Now for the impossible part. I wrestled with the torso. Arms would be no problem, but my legs ... ?

  Gritting my teeth, I bent forward, worked the stiff suit leg over my own. I had to stop, lean against the cool alumalloy of the locker, wait for the pain to recede to a throb that threatened to suck the life from me.

  Why hadn’t they opened the corridor hatch to get at me? Were they waiting for Stanger to reach the safety of the bridge? For sailors to work their way around, attack me from both sides at once?

  One leg. Now the other. When I was done, I would somehow have to stand, to seal the suit.

  I mumbled curses under my breath, snatches of old songs, remnants of lessons Father had taught me years ago, over the worn Bible and the steaming pot of tea.

  “Damn You, God, I can’t do this alone.”

  The legs were on. I stretched into the torso. The helmet would wait, until I’d sealed the rest.

  “Come up unto me, and help me, that we may smite Gibeon!”

  What was I muttering? I no longer knew.

  I paddled to the lock, keyed my pistol, fired into the porthole of the ruined inner hatch. The porthole dissolved. I took several breaths to steady myself. I hooked my arm through the opening, clenched my teeth, hauled myself up by sheer willpower. Oh, God. No. I can’t stand it.

  With my free hand I clawed desperately at the suit seals, clasped them tight.

  Done, I eased myself back into the chair, tried not to black out. No time, Seafort. They’re coming for you.

  Back to the locker. Lift the helmet. Screw it on. The oxy bottle. Never mind its pouch; set it in your lap. Reach behind, tighten the clamps. Back to the lock.

  I reached through the porthole, found the lever. My cutting torch had utterly destroyed the inner hatch; it slid easily. I rolled inside.

  The outer hatch wouldn’t open against air pressure, no matter what I did. And I had no way to seal the inner hatch. For a moment I hesitated, knowing of the passengers’ lives that would be lost. But Stanger must be stopped, else his coterie would foment a dictatorship, crush the colonies, and imprison the billions trapped on Earth.

  I aimed my laser at the porthole. It glowed, dripped. Alarms shrieked. Abruptly the porthole vanished. I bowed my head against the roar of escaping air.

  All was silent, in the vacuum of the ship. Only my section was decompressed; Stanger had sealed all corridor hatches. Should I pray for the passengers I’d chosen to kill? No. It would be blasphemous.

  There were few cabins near the dining hall. Perhaps their occupants had fled. Perhaps Stanger had relocated them, away from the danger of the lock. Perhaps ...

  I’d never know.

  My breath rasped in my suit. I slapped open the outer hatch. With my cane, I pushed the chair far enough forward to grip a handhold. I launched myself outward.

  The alloy hull negated the field of the gravitron; abruptly I was weightless. The pain in my spine diminished to a sullen volcano.

  I switched on my hand magnets. My legs floating behind, I worked my way along the hull toward the bow. A hand at a time, trailing my cane, I inched forward.

  Lord God knew what Stanger assumed at this point, or planned. I was trying to escape; that much he’d figured. Would he pursue me? Would he be glad to see the last of me?

  I didn’t know.

  I no longer cared.

  20

  SLOWLY, LABORIOUSLY, I PASSED from one huge disk to another. Alongside the Level 1 disk was one of Galactic’s giant launch bays. Hand by hand, I crawled toward it.

  A lifetime later, I floated in front of a vast hatch that opened the bay to its launch. There was no way I could breach it.

  But I had no need to. Alongside was a service hatch, for crewmen working on the bay.

  I slapped the panel.

  The hatch slid open.

  Stanger hadn’t thought of securing the bridge override. But then, why should he? For safety’s sake, locks were left openable from Outside. What crewman would venture on a repair detail otherwise? To be abandoned in space, unable to gain entry ... despite my misery, I shuddered.

  I knew enough to crawl into the hatch in a prone position. Immediately, gravity pinned me to the deck. I reached up with my cane, slapped shut the hatch, waited for the lock to cycle. Panel lights flashed, at the lock and on the bridge.

  Now Stanger knows you’re here. I jabbed at the inner hatch. It slid open, just as the override light began to flash.

  Stifling a moan, I forced myself to crawl through.

  My helmet was fogged. With a curse, I tore it off. My laser was in my pouch. I clawed it free.

  Crawl, Seafort. Let it hurt. It won’t be for long.

  The launch bay was immense, but I was near the safety lock that led to the Level 1 corridor. I squirmed my way across the deck, pulling my legs with my hands.

  I passed to a realm beyond hurt. It helped me crawl faster. If I remembered, I would save one charge to blast myself to Hell. Satan could inflict no worse than I now endured.

  Behind me, the launch sat gleaming and silent. They would assume I intended to steal it.

  As I expected, the airlock sensor between the bay and Level 1 began to flash. I lay on the launch bay deck, waiting, my beam set to high. The inner hatch slid open. I sprayed the lock. Screams, muffled by suits. My laser beeped. One charge left. I clicked the safety.

  “This is the Captain. He’s in the launch bay. Panner, Gosset, assemble a squad of twenty and meet me in section seven; we’ll end this. If you see him first, shoot to kill.”

  I crawled on, toward the lock. Into it.

  Over a smoking body.

  I jabbed the inner hatch. Both sides were pressurized; no need to cycle. The hatch opened.

  The corridor.

  I was near the bridge; that much I knew. But which direction was it?

  West. It had to be west. I had no strength to be wrong.

  The corridor was empty. That was to be expected; the crew had been sent to the dining hall. But someone would man the bridge. Garrow, Stanger had said. A lieutenant.

  I used the tried and true bulkhead method, lifting one leg at a time with my hand. Admiral SecGen Seafort, practicing his distinguished crawl. Singing to himself. Reeking of the sweat of torment.

  A lump on the decking ahead. No time to look. Move, Seafort. You’re about played out.

  I flopped the last few meters to the bridge.

  Trembling, I lay on the deck plates, facing the sealed hatch.

  To my right, a body, horribly burned. I could barely discern that the charred uniform was gray.

  Sightless eyes, an unmarked face contorted in agony.

  I made a sound.

  My hand crept out, clasped the limp hand of my Danil Bevin.

  Together, we lay in the corridor outside the bridge. From time to time I checked the safety of my laser, rechecked the charge.

  I failed you so. I failed You. You were only a boy. I snatched you from Academy. I mocked You. I’m sorry, Danil. Or is it Lord? I’m very tired. Both of you.

  You left him in my charge, and I destroyed him, as I destroy them all. Why didn’t You stop me?

  I patted Danil’s cold wrist. All will be well. I’ll get you a fresh set of grays. Tad will brush off the char.

  Lord God, I hate You for not stopping me. Always, You could. You turned Your face from me, but why from him? He was one of Yours.

  The corridor was silent and still.

  My chin on the deck, I drowsed, a meter from the thick alloy bridge hatch. My pistol, in my right hand, aimed straight ahead. From time to time I toyed with the idea of turning it to my face, and joining Danil and Jason. If they’d have me.

  Danil’s voice piped. “Do you think—if I do well, could I be posted to Galactic when I make middy?”

  The nerve of him. Well, I�
�d shown him. I’d granted his wish. He’d never be posted anywhere else.

  Some of us are Satan’s instruments.

  Cast forth lightning, and scatter them: shoot out thine arrows, and destroy them.

  One shot left. My finger tightened.

  Hot knives twisted in my spine.

  Danil slid to his knees at Jason’s grave, his small form brushing mine. Have you met, you two? Will you speak of me? Will you revile me, as you should?

  Reassuringly, I squeezed Danil’s hand. I would resist the temptation to live. Slowly, the barrel of the pistol turned. It crept toward my eager mouth.

  The bridge hatch slid open.

  A pair of gleaming boots.

  My wrist turned. I squeezed the trigger. The boots dissolved in a flash of fire.

  A thud. Captain Stanger’s cheek hit the deck. His eyes bulged. He shrieked. Flopping on the deck, over and again, he shrieked.

  Someone slapped the panel. The hatch slid closed.

  I lay on the throbbing deck, caressing Danil’s hand.

  “Captain Seafort?”

  I made no answer.

  “Sir, hold your fire. Please, sir.”

  I couldn’t move. The torment in my back had passed to another state. I was mercifully numb.

  “I read the Log, sir, when I entered the Captain’s death. I want to come out. I’m unarmed. That is, I’ll leave my pistol on the console. Do you hear me?”

  I lay silent, my cheek on the cool deck. He could come out if he wished. My laser was discharged. All I could do was bite his toe.

  The hatch slid open. I was eye to eye with Ulysses Stanger. His were dull, unmoving. Mine flinched.

  From around the hatch, a head peeked. “Sir? Don’t—Lieutenant Avram Garrow reporting for duty.” The bulk of his body was shielded by the bulkhead.

  Something stirred, calling me back from a great distance. “You knew.”

  “Knew what, sir?”

  “What Stanger was up to.” My laser sought him.

  “We all—not really. He was Captain. What could we do?”

  The ready excuse the Navy—all of us—wore as a protective garment. Satan, get thee behind me.

  “Take responsibility. Relieve him.”

  “He had Admiralty’s blessing, didn’t he? They’d have hanged—”