Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  I made sure Philip’s own rope was secure. “Step out. You’ll float, just as you’re doing here. It’s the same zero gee. Hurry, joeys are behind you.”

  The lock cycled. A figure stumbled through. “Midshipman Aaron report—Jesus, what are you doing?”

  “Two demerits. Mind your tongue. Tie yourself to the last of them. Be quick.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He brushed soot from his helmet. “There’s fire in the corridor.”

  “Out the hatch! Aaron, transmit every five minutes on emergency channels. Tell them you have—count helmets, and tell them. They’ll come for you. Keep your joeys calm.”

  “Aye aye, sir. What about you?”

  “I have a thrustersuit. Kick off hard. Try to pull them clear of the ship.” None of their suits were powered. If a gout of flame reached out ... Lord God forbid.

  Please, Sir. Philip is innocent of my sins. Send me to my punishment, if it saves my son. Please. Please.

  Please. I pushed Philip’s limp form after the others.

  My child, my brave boy, drifted unconscious into everlasting night. Would he be cold? Perhaps he’d need a blanket, as I’d given my son Nate, when I pushed his casket out of ... I swallowed.

  “Seafort, this is Cisno Valera. You’ve been impeached by the Senate. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t take the Rotunda.”

  I keyed my mike. “Hang yourself, Valera. Save us the trouble.”

  I turned to the corridor airlock. The hatch was open. I bent forward, tapped my thrusters, sailed into the lock. I jabbed the panel. The lock cycled. The inner corridor hatch refused to budge. Cursing, I reached for the spanner in its emergency panel. Making sure the airlock hatch behind me was properly sealed, I manually spun open the hatch.

  In the corridor, the overhead panels were scorched and blackened. A fine mist pervaded the air. Sprinklers don’t work as intended in zero gee.

  “Anyone here?” No bodies, thank heaven. I jetted toward the far hatch, sealed now.

  In the suiting room, something moved. I slowed, reversed course.

  Amid the empty racks Derek sat on a bench, half-suited, an annoyed look on his face. His lips were stained with blood.

  I pulled myself down, hooked a leg around the bench. “What—”

  “I think my ribs are stove.” His voice was steady enough. “The blast hurled me into the bulkhead. I was bending ...” He tried to shrug, grimaced in pain.

  I finished clasping his suit. “Where’s your helmet?”

  Derek pointed to a shattered visor. “Some joey borrowed it. Left his.”

  “The bastard.”

  “I wasn’t in condition to object.” His tone was wry.

  I looked about; the racks were empty. “There’s more suits in the next section. Or a passenger cabin; someone will have left one behind. Come.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “No.” Gently, I put my arms around him. “I prefer your company.” A gout of flame had blackened the corridor before the hatch slammed shut. Lord God knew what lay beyond the section hatch. Vacuum, or perhaps the fires of Hell.

  Keying my suit, I lifted him from the bench. Even in zero gee, the stress made him wince.

  The first cabin we came to was locked. So was the second. Desperate, I pulled free my laser and blasted the lock. Inside, a swirl of belongings, but no suit.

  I tried a third, nearer to section seven. “There’s got to be—” I backed into the corridor.

  From the corridor hatch, a crackling.

  Oh, Lord God.

  I dived into the cabin.

  Arlene was tense in the speakers. “Level 2 section seven hatch failing! Passenger alert, section in flames!”

  A gout of fire roiled past the open hatch. A blast of heat. I slapped the cabin hatch panel, knowing it was no use; I’d lasered the lock. Derek clung weakly to my neck.

  “Hang on, it’s—” Abruptly, the flames receded. “There, you see?”

  “That was close.” Derek’s face was gray with pain.

  From the far end of the corridor, a popping sound.

  I blanched.

  A rush of air.

  “NO!”

  Perhaps it was the defective launch bay hatch. Perhaps it was the hatch to five.

  The cabin erupted in a cyclone.

  Derek’s arm tightened around my neck.

  Our eyes met. In mine, horror. In his, resignation.

  Section six decompressed.

  Derek’s eyes never left mine. His bloody lips formed the words, “Not sorry.” I launched myself at the section five hatch.

  The hatch was sealed. I slammed the panel. My spine contorted in agony. I slammed it again.

  Nothing.

  Derek stiffened, kicked. His hand scrabbled at my shoulder. Teeth clenched, I forced myself to watch the unbearable.

  The friend in my arms grew still. But not before I saw what eyes were not meant to witness.

  I hate You, Lord God.

  From the depths of my twisted soul, I hate You.

  22

  WEARILY, I LAUNCHED MYSELF back to the launch bay airlock.

  It was the launch bay hatch. The blast of fire had overstressed the damaged seal. Setting down my precious burden I wrenched the useless hatch out of the way.

  The bay was empty deserted. Emergency lights pulsed in the gloom.

  Breath rasping in my helmet, I bent forward, launched myself at the gaping outer hatch.

  From without, the ship seemed solid and indestructible, until one perused her more closely. A great rent in the cargo hold still spewed fire. Most of Levels 2 through 4 were ablaze, except those sections in vacuum.

  I checked my tanks. Half an hour. It would suffice.

  The hatch to the Level 1 launch bay was sealed. With a puff of propellant I drifted to the service hatch, jabbed at the lock panel. I cycled through.

  Pandemonium.

  “Purser Doorn, report! Damn it, has Doorn abandoned ship? Anyone see him?” Arlene drew breath. “Now hear this. Any sailors left on Level 3 or 4, report to the suiting party on Level 5. The fire’s nearing section nine, we’ve got to get the remaining passengers suited and out—”

  At least a hundred figures clung to the packed launch. Some joeys were suited, some not.

  Half were sailors.

  I set my suit mike to shipwide frequency. “Passengers only, on the launch!” I drew my stunner and, after an instant’s reflection, my laser. “All crew off!”

  Not a soul moved. If anything, they struggled more desperately to gain access.

  There was no pilot.

  “You! Name and rank!”

  “Prong yourself, ya frazzin—”

  I lunged with my stunner, caught him in the torso. He folded. Someone lunged at my arm; I twisted the barrel, stunned my attacker insensate. “Get those two off! You, name and rank!”

  He was barely more than a child. “Armando Flores, sir! Seaman first class.” His eyes were wide.

  “Off the launch. Give me a hand!”

  For a moment he clung to his stanchion. Then, reluctantly, he kicked free.

  Someone edged behind me. I whirled, menacing him with the stunner. Her. A woman, unsuited, mouth working in panic.

  “Get away, joeygirl!”

  She launched a vicious kick, forgetting she was in zero gee. Windmilling, she drifted off the deck, helpless.

  “All sailors off!” I brandished my laser. “I’ll count to three. One ... two ...”

  Half a dozen sailors lunged to the hatch. Twice as many clung to seats, to stanchions, to the hull. I’d have to do it.

  Gritting my teeth, I fired.

  A blast of flame and sparks. A figure jerked from a seat, floated twitching.

  Screams. Curses.

  Every sailor in the launch kicked toward the hatch. In a moment there were none but passengers aboard.

  Ten in suits, thirty without. And I had seventeen unsuited sailors. “You, with suits! Take them off. You’ll be safe in the launch.”

  No one
moved.

  “I’ll count to three. One ... two ...”

  “Wait!” A woman tore at her clamps. “You bastard!”

  “Be quick!”

  In minutes ten sailors outside the launch eagerly donned suits. I motioned to the unsuited passengers. “Crowd into the launch. It’s only for a few minutes; the air will last. Now, you sailors without suits.”

  The launch was packed beyond capacity.

  “Anyone rated to pilot?”

  A hand shot up, went down again. Armando Flores. Hesitantly, “Lieutenant Garrow is signing me off next week, sir.”

  It would do. “Get in; you’ll drive. Take her out gently, do you hear? Drift free of the ship. The Station will guide you.” I slapped shut the hatch.

  “Chief McAndrews to bridge; the fire’s almost on us. We’re retreating to the emergency engine room airlock. Power may not hold—”

  “What about us?” A suited sailor.

  “Tie yourselves together. Launch yourselves toward the Station. Use your emergency beacons.”

  “Evacuate Level 5, sections three and four! Midshipman Pyle, report by caller!” Arlene sounded haggard.

  “What if they don’t work? What if—”

  “If you prefer, stay here and die.” I kicked off to the corridor airlock.

  The Level 1 corridor was deserted. Emergency lights glowed gray in cold dim silence. No sign of fire.

  “Lieutenant Mains, is there a frazzing lifeboat in bay three or not? These damned sensors—”

  My suit readout flashed yellow; I was low on thrust. Best save what I had. I hauled out my canes, propelled myself from bulkhead to deck to bulkhead.

  As I neared the section hatch, it slid open. Hardly believing my fortune, I drifted through. It slammed shut behind.

  I was in section four, wherein lay the bridge.

  I propelled myself toward the corridor bend. Ahead, a thud vibrated the bulkheads. Another. Light flickered rhythmically.

  “Station, we need every launch you can muster at Level 5 launch bay. Attention rescue vehicles: we’ve two hundred passengers and no—”

  I swam onward.

  A hatch slid open. Inside, Arlene hung on to a console, awkward in her cumbersome suit. “McAndrews, are you there? Don’t abandon the power grid!” She keyed her caller. “Bay three!” She stabbed at the console. “Someone in the comm room, respond to bridge!”

  The hatch slammed shut.

  I gaped. The bridge was a fortress; nothing short of a demolition team could force it.

  Abruptly the hatch opened.

  “Arlene!” Through my suit radio, our words went shipwide; I didn’t care.

  “Watch the hatch, Nicky, the damn puter’s glitched. Must be the heat. Fire in section four below.”

  “Get out! Abandon ship!”

  “Passengers are trapped on five!”

  The hatch slammed shut, immediately opened again.

  “You can’t help them!”

  A slim figure kicked along the handholds. Cadet Anselm. “Sir, what should I do next, the—”

  The hatch shut.

  I asked him, “Any lifepods left?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The hatch slid open. Arlene said quickly, “If McAndrews feeds us power, we have the lift, I have corridor hatches. The goddamn purser jumped ship; I have middies and sailors helping joeys into suits. We rounded up a hundred fifty suits, there’s still—”

  “Hon, we’re out of time!”

  “I can save them, Nicky. Five minutes.” She slammed the console. “Goddamn readouts!” She keyed her caller. “Burris, round up more suits for Level 5, section eight! Pyle, how many? ... Sixteen, Burris!”

  Alarms flashed. No doubt they screamed as well, but in vacuum we couldn’t hear them. Arlene’s thick-gloved fingers jabbed the console. The warning lights faded. Seconds later they flashed anew. The hatch slammed closed.

  The deck under my feet lurched.

  The hatch opened. “Arlene, right now!”

  “Damn. All right.” She thumbed the caller. “Away all boats! Middies, leave off your search and—”

  The lights dimmed. Controlled by the crazed puter, the alloy-reinforced hatch began to drum open and shut with breathtaking speed.

  “How the hell do I get out?” If the hatch caught her, it would crush her to pulp.

  “Block it! A console chair!”

  Or your cane, you idiot.

  I lunged across the corridor.

  The hatch shut, its frenzied flapping stilled.

  I waited in a frenzy, to jam my cane into the opening.

  WHOOMP!

  The deck buckled. I shot into the air. Into the vacuum.

  Anselm hauled me down.

  The hatch slammed open.

  Arlene’s suit smoldered. Deck plates caromed off the bulkhead. A spinning fragment of plate slashed a jagged tear in her suit. The console burst into flame, instantly quenched. Tongues of fire licked greedily through the broken deck.

  A last puff of air, from her suit.

  The hatch slammed shut, and open.

  Arlene whipped off her useless helmet, shot me a look of longing and regret so fierce my heart turned to ash.

  The hatch slammed closed.

  I lunged toward the bridge.

  A hand hauled me back.

  “Don’t touch me! I’m Captain!”

  “No, sir. She is.”

  A staggering blast. The bulkhead bulged. The hatch burst from its panel. The bridge was a white river of fire.

  “Abandon ship, sir! NOW!” Someone tugged at my suit. “NOW!”

  I broke free. “Arlene!”

  “No! You can’t!” Somehow, Anselm barred my way.

  I yanked free my laser, aimed at his head. “MOVE!”

  The boy recoiled. I brushed past, dived to the volcano of the bridge.

  From behind, arms enveloped me, knocked the laser from my grasp.

  Fighting, crying, screaming, I was dragged backward along the shattered corridor.

  In my helmet, a cacophony of terror.

  “Abandoning Galactic’s engine room, send assistance! We’re five holding on to a pod—”

  “Help me! Help me! Someone help—”

  “—Level 5 lock and it won’t open! Can anyone hear! I’m trapped in—”

  “—on fire and we’re burning, Christ we’re burning up the heat hurts—”

  Level 2. I had no recollection of the journey.

  The ladder to three.

  “Wait! Let me get Derek!”

  No response, just the relentless pull on my suit. Dully, I struggled to break free. My legs wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Two minutes’ air left. Is my beacon working? I can see the Station. The readout’s flashing red, why don’t you ans—”

  “—Machinist’s Mate Vinson in the gig. How do I steer this thing? Where the fuck are we?”

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in—”

  An airlock. Its hatch wouldn’t respond.

  A corridor drifted past. My breath rasped in my foggy helmet.

  “Anaconda’s launch unloading at the Station. We’ll be back as soon as—”

  Galactic’s lights flickered.

  A corridor hatch, hanging crazily from one socket. The cadet pulled us through. “Almost there, sir.”

  “Christ I’m lost. I’m spinning, everything’s a blur!”

  “Let me go! I’ll break you. I’ll cashier you. I’ll—”

  “Mama!”

  “Almost there.” His voice was soothing.

  A gaping hole in the hull. Anselm disappeared.

  Free at last, I tried desperately to orient myself. Which way to the bridge?

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

  Where were my canes?

  “No more air and I—”

  The relentless cadet kicked his way from a passenger cabin, with a blanket. He draped it over the ragged gash in the hull.
“Careful, sir. Don’t touch where it’s sharp.”

  Derek, old friend. Arlene, my love. I won’t leave you. I promise. I swea—

  “Now, sir!” He pushed me to the hole. Into the night. I flailed in unexpected terror, but his fingers were firm on my wrist. In a moment he slipped through after.

  “—for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff—”

  “Galactic, Earthport Control. Say again your condition. We are sending every possible—”

  “Sir.”

  We drifted from the stricken ship.

  “Sir!”

  My voice came from far, far away. “What is it, Anselm?”

  “Key your beacon. Have you any propellant?”

  “Some.”

  “I know you’re in shock. Can you aim your thrusters?”

  “—goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house—”

  “Yes.” My voice was weary.

  “—of the Lord—” Very softly, “forever.”

  My tank gauge blinked a warning. I sighed with regret. Ten minutes: enough to reach Earthport. Even oblivion was denied me.

  I gathered the boy to my chest. He wrapped himself around me, hugging tight, his helmet in the crook of my shoulder. I sighted on the distant Station, keyed my rear thruster.

  Silent, lost in our separate miseries, we watched the stricken ship diminish. From time to time a detonation wracked her bowels; a flare of light, that slowly faded.

  She was so great an undertaking, so proud a vessel. So many hopes had ridden in her. So many lives.

  Abruptly her lights flickered, and vanished.

  Together, as one, Anselm and I sailed toward the Station.

  A tremendous explosion, aft of the disks. Tongues of fire licked the night. Galactic’s hull crumpled. Spewing a gout of propellant, the aft third of the great ship broke away. It spiraled toward the blue sea of Earth.

  Absently, I stroked the boy’s shoulder. “It’s all right, lad.” One of us wept. I wasn’t sure which.

  Reluctantly, wearily, I turned my eyes to Earthport Station.

  Epilogue

  “AN HONOR TO MEET you, sir.”

  I acknowledged what was meant as a compliment. “So you’ll be off to Constantine. What’s your specialty?”

  “Crop engineering. Now that Earth’s doubled its agricultural imports ...” A quick smile, at her husband. “Fallon is an A.I. psych. He’ll be monitoring puters for psychoses.” She shifted. “Well, I don’t want to take up your time.”