Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  “That’s not your decision, Commander.”

  “You can’t abandon them. For Lord God’s sake, please!”

  His voice was icy. “Don’t tell me what I can do, Seafort.”

  “Who’ll be on the next launch?”

  He seemed indifferent. “Just a few more passengers. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  “The children from New York?”

  “Children? Street vermin, you mean. Yes, I’m sending them along.”

  “You can’t condemn them to a crippled vessel! I won’t accept them!”

  His tone was glacial. “Listen carefully, Seafort, because I’m recording this conversation for the Log. You are ordered to board the passengers I send you. Acknowledge.”

  “Aye aye, sir, I—Just a moment.” I swung away from the caller. Philip Tyre opened his mouth, thought better of it after I stared through him. I paced, my fists clenched.

  The Admiral had given a lawful order. He had the authority to make the decisions he’d made. Repulsive as I found them, I had no standing to object. I would obey. I must.

  I snapped on the speaker. “I protest the order, sir.”

  “Protest noted. Acknowledge your orders.”

  I do swear upon my immortal soul ... to obey all lawful orders and regulations ... an oath is a commitment of the soul given directly to Lord God ...

  I didn’t have a choice.

  Did I?

  Human rubbish, to be cast aside?

  “The hell I will!” I bellowed. “I refuse!”

  “Seafort, you’ve hanged yourself!”

  “You have no right to abandon children in interstellar space!”

  “They’re scum, but that’s beside the point. I couldn’t take everyone, so I had to choose. It’s called triage.”

  “It’s called murder!” Blazing, I stared at his image in the screen.

  He shrugged. “You have no choice. They’re on Challenger’s launch. We’re Fusing in a few moments. Pick them up or not, as you wish.”

  “I’ll open fire!” I was beside myself.

  He chuckled. “With what? I made sure your lasers were disabled. It’ll take you hours to get them working again.” He turned away.

  Legs spread, hands on hips, I stood defiantly in front of the screen. Words spewed forth from some dark recess of my soul.

  “Geoffrey Tremaine! Now I, Nicholas Ewing Seafort, by God’s Grace Commander in the Naval Service of the United Nations, call challenge upon you to defend your honor, and do swear upon my immortal soul that I shall not rest while breath is in your body. So help me Lord God Almighty!”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s a long way to Hope Nation. You’ll cool off.” The screen blanked.

  I sank trembling in my chair. On the simulscreen, the last launch left Portia. Dully, I sat and watched.

  “Sir, shall I go—”

  “Shut your mouth, Mr. Tyre.” My tone brooked no argument. The last launch drifted clear of Portia. A few spurts of propellant glided her toward Challenger. In a few moments she was alongside.

  The speaker crackled. “Challenger, ship’s launch is prepared to mate. Please cycle outer airlock.” I said nothing.

  “Challenger? Captain? We need you to open the lock!”

  I remained silent.

  “Sir, the lock; do you want me—”

  “Keep your mouth shut, Mr. Tyre. I won’t tell you again.”

  We waited in terrible silence. I stirred. “Kerren, signal Portia that I refuse entry to the launch.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Challenger, for Lord God’s sake, let us in!” The seaman’s voice held a note of hysteria. I could imagine his terror, marooned in a launch between two vessels, one about to Fuse, the other denying him entry.

  I picked up the caller. “Wait.”

  “Oh, Jesus, he’s answered! Please, Captain, open the lock!”

  “Wait.” I thumbed off the caller. Minutes passed. Portia’s side thrusters fired propellant. She drifted from us, gaining clearance to Fuse safely. I swallowed.

  Portia disappeared. With her, my life.

  I sat rocking, mired in hopeless misery. Reeling from exhaustion, I thought of my new cabin, and a bed. No, there was something I must do first. “Philip.”

  “Yes, sir!” The middy jumped to his feet, pathetically anxious to accommodate.

  “Go below. Unseal the outer lock. You remember the drill; you’ve done it many times. This time you’re alone, so be careful.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “After the launch is mated, wait for permission before you open the inner lock.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He saluted and left.

  I felt my eyes closing; I stirred myself once more. “Kerren, have you been reprogrammed to recognize me as Captain?”

  “Yes, sir.” A smooth baritone.

  “Very well.”

  “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  I said sharply, “I’m in no mood for small talk.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He seemed faintly hurt, and made a sound as if he were clearing his nonexistent throat. “I have a message for you.”

  “From whom?”

  “A recording. Captain Hasselbrad instructed me not to deliver it until Portia Fused. Are you ready for playback?”

  “Yes.”

  The screen flashed to life. Captain Hasselbrad’s grim features stared at me. “You’ll hear this when it’s too late to help, but by God I’ll tell you. He planned to seize the first ship that appeared, regardless of whose it was. It was your bad luck Portia arrived first. When the fish beast got our fusion tubes he went a little—yes, a little crazy. I think so, but I’m not sure. He planned it all out, your approach from the port-side where the damage was invisible, the transfer of crew and passengers, the whole bloody job.

  “Maybe I should have relieved him. I don’t know. You’ll find my written protest in the Log. It did no good, of course. I forced him to transfer seven tanks of propellant from Portia to Challenger. Maybe it will be of some help. He cleaned out most of the drugs from your infirmary.”

  On the screen Hasselbrad looked down at his hands. “A glob the aliens threw penetrated Challenger’s hydroponics chambers. It wrecked the nitrogen control machinery, but worse, it decompressed the west hydro compartment. What wasn’t destroyed we threw away for fear of contamination. Since the attack we’ve been on short rations from east hydros, and living off stores.”

  He stared into the camera. “Seafort, the Admiral ordered most of Challenger’s food reserves transferred to Portia. When I heard of it I canceled the transfer, but most of your remaining stores had already been carried across. I was already on Portia, so I don’t have an inventory. You don’t have as many passengers or crew as we did; I hope he left you enough food.”

  He swallowed. “I know what I should have done. I should have volunteered to remain with my ship. I didn’t suggest he transfer me to Portia, but I didn’t object either. I’m sorry, I—” He looked straight into the camera. “At my age, I can’t handle the uncertainty and the helplessness. I can’t. So it has to be you. Godspeed, Mr. Seafort. I’m sorry, for what we’ve done.” The recording went dead.

  “Would you like to hear it again, Captain?”

  “No.” I rocked in my chair. “Kerren, did you record my communications with Portia?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Play them back.” I leaned back and listened to myself shouting at the Admiral, out of control. “It’s called murder!” I closed my eyes as Tremaine gave his direct command. “You are ordered to board the passengers I send you.” I heard my reply. “The hell I will! I refuse!”

  My tone held anguish. “Turn it off.”

  “It’s not finished, sir, there’s—”

  “TURN IT OFF!” I bit back a sob.

  Blessed silence.

  The hatch opened. Philip. “Permission to enter bridge, sir.” I waved him in. “The passengers are all boarded.”

  “Very well.” My voice was dull.
/>   He waited expectantly. After a time he prompted, “Sir, what are your orders?”

  “Orders?” I found it hard to concentrate. “I have no right to give orders.”

  “What, sir?”

  I said more loudly, “I’m not fit to give orders. I’m a mutineer.” I opened my eyes. “Do as you wish.”

  “Please, sir, where do we start?”

  I lay back, head against the rest, my eyes closed. “Well now, Middy. We’re drifting at a rendezvous with our fusion drive in ruins, and we think the rest of the squadron has passed us. I have you, an eighteen-year-old midshipman nobody wants. I have a drunken Chief Engineer whose name I neglected to learn while I was slapping him.

  “Care for more?” My smile was crooked. “Locked in crew berth one are a handful of crewmen selected for their behavior problems, probably out of their minds with fear. Meanwhile, about forty deceived trannies are roaming the ship, no doubt terrorizing the other castaways by their presence.”

  Philip swallowed.

  “The Admiral was kind enough to disable our lasers. Half our hydroponics are gone. Portia relieved us of most of our food. I don’t have the combination to the bridge safe or the code to open the crew berth hatch, or the keys to the armory. I’ve no idea if we have enough personnel to run essential ship’s systems. So, tell me, Midshipman Philip Tyre: where do we start?”

  Philip stammered, “Sir, you’re the Captain!”

  “Of what, Middy?” My tone was grim. “Tell me, of what?” He made no answer. I opened my eyes, saw the incipient panic behind the boy’s gaze. My self-pity dissolved in shame. “All right,” I growled. I essayed a small and unsuccessful smile. “That’s the downside. But we’re alive. Let’s see what we can do for ourselves. Come below with me.” I stood.

  “Yessir!” Philip’s relief was clear. We left the bridge, sealing the hatch with an ID code. I downed the ladder to Level 3, Philip trotting close behind. At the foot of the ladder I bumped into a passenger, recoiled. “What in God’s own Hell are you doing here?” I roared at Walter Dakko.

  He stepped back from my fury. “Captain, where’s all the crew? Why are most of the cabins empty?”

  I grabbed his collar. “Why are you here?” I shoved him against the bulkhead. “Answer!”

  “Chris,” he said in a tired voice. “Chris and that Attani boy. Without telling us they sought out Portia’s new officers and asked if they could transfer to Challenger for the rest of the cruise. To get away from you. The Admiral obliged them. When Galena and I found out, we agreed I should transfer too; Chris is too young to be alone. So I did.” He glared at me. “Now it’s your turn. What’s going on?”

  “Portia’s Fused and gone. Our fusion tubes are wrecked. We aren’t going anywhere. We’re derelict.”

  He closed his eyes. “Oh, you foolish boy,” he whispered. After a moment he asked bleakly, “Is there any hope?”

  “Of rescue, perhaps. I don’t know.” I left him.

  From within crew berth one came frantic pounding. I found the code to unseal the hatch posted on a slip of paper next to the control. I tapped in the figures.

  Philip stirred uneasily. “Shouldn’t we be armed, sir?”

  “It won’t be necessary.” If it was, we were doomed anyway. “Stand back.” Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the hatch. I assumed the at-ease position directly in front of the hatch, hands crossed behind me.

  As the hatch slid open a mob of desperate men surged forward. “STAND AT ATTENTION!” I bellowed. In shock and surprise they fell back. I strode forward. “I’m Mr. Seafort, your new Captain. You! Form a line to that side! Move! The rest of you, over here!” I shoved one man aside. “Line up, or I’ll have you at Captain’s Mast so fast you’ll get friction burns!”

  I was fortunate; old habits of discipline asserted themselves. In a few moments the men stood in two ragged lines to either side of the main aisle.

  “Midshipman, take the name of anyone who moves!” Philip scurried in, snatching the paper with the hatch code on it for a writing pad. Resourceful.

  I glared at my forlorn remnants of a crew. “You were sent here by order of your superior officers. How dare you make such a ruckus? We’ll have no more of that.” I paced, as if on inspection. “Identify yourselves. One at a time.” I nodded to the man at the end of the line.

  “Recycler’s Mate Kovaks, sir.” I nodded. Good. His skills were crucial.

  “Comm Specialist Tzee, sir.”

  “Seaman Andros.”

  “Sir!”

  He looked contemptuous. “Sir? Oh, yeah, sir.”

  “Write him up, Mr. Tyre!” Philip scribbled his name.

  “Lotta good that’ll do you, Captain,” muttered Andros. “This ain’t no Navy ship no more.”

  I didn’t hesitate a second. “Mr. Tyre, escort him to the brig!”

  “Aye aye—”

  “Do that, pretty boy!” sniggered Andros. “I’d liketa get alone with—”

  I pivoted on my left heel. My roundhouse blow to the jaw caught him completely unawares. His eyes rolled up as he crashed to the deck. A fierce pain lanced up my arm; I was afraid I’d rebroken my hand. Cautiously I flexed my fingers and decided I had not. “Continue, please,” I said calmly, as if clubbing a crewman unconscious were an everyday affair.

  I paced while they identified themselves. Fourteen men in all, including Andros. Five were transferees from Portia: Andros, Clinger, and three steward’s mates. The other nine included one man from Challenger’s engine room, two hydroponicist’s mates, a purser’s mate, and five deckhands with few advanced skills.

  I stood in the center of the passageway. “We are a Naval vessel under Weigh in wartime conditions. We will maintain Naval discipline at all times. Understood?”

  Sullenly, they murmured their assent.

  “You, Drucker and Groshnev! Carry Mr. Andros to the brig. Mr. Tyre, put him in a cell and secure the brig. Return here immediately.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The two seamen hoisted the unconscious Andros by his arms and legs and followed Philip from the compartment.

  I held the men at silent attention until the party returned from the brig. When at last they filed in, I snapped, “At ease, all of you.” They relaxed. “As far as I know, you are Challenger’s only remaining crew.” They didn’t like that, and I could hardly blame them. I began to pace. “Our first task is to take stock of the ship and its resources. Mr. Kovaks, are the recyclers ready for inspection?”

  He gaped. “Inspection? Are you serious? We’ve been left here to die!”

  “Not if I can help it!” I was losing control of the situation; time to improvise. “All of you, come along on the inspection tour. Explain our problems. We’ll start with recycling, then move on to the hydros. Then the engine room and the comm room. Let’s go!”

  They seemed reluctant to leave the berth they’d been so desperate to escape. “Mr. Tyre, get a clipboard from the purser’s office and make notes of what these men tell us. Mr. Kovaks, I presume the puter is still monitoring?” Casually I moved toward the hatch.

  “Yes, sir,” he said automatically. Then he swallowed. “Power to the recyclers wasn’t interrupted when we got hit.” He followed me into the corridor. “The lower engine room was decompressed; that’s when the five joes got killed, but the fusion motors still produce internal power. Gauges were normal last I checked, yesterday sometime. I’ve been locked in there”—Kovaks pointed bitterly to the crew berth—“ever since.” The other men were gathering in the corridor behind us.

  “I know,” I said. “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again. You men, keep up or you won’t be able to hear. Kovaks, think you know the monitoring drills well enough to train a couple of other joes?” He nodded.

  In a few moments we were clustered in the recycler chambers. “Better run a check now, Mr. Kovaks.”

  The seaman seemed more docile now that he was at his familiar station. He ran pressure tests and checked the gauges against the norms on his worksheet. “Recycli
ng checks out, Captain.”

  “Very well. Take me to west hydros.”

  The sailor Groshnev objected, “It’s east hydros that are operating. We—”

  “I said, take me to west hydros. What’s the proper response to an order?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “I need your help to restore the ship,” I snapped. “But we’ll maintain discipline. We’re under a lot of tension and you’ve just been freed from unwarranted imprisonment, so I’ll overlook your discourtesy, one time. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” He seemed chastened.

  “Very well. West hydros.” When we arrived I wished I hadn’t given the order. The ruin there was almost absolute. A ragged but adequate airseal covered a wound in the hull, but machinery was overturned, and bent tubing and broken hoses lay scattered about. Empty water tanks lay on the deck amid clumps of loose sand and dirt. Of the plants, nothing remained.

  “That shapechanger scuttled in here,” someone muttered.

  Seaman Drucker turned angrily. “We went through Class A decontamination! You even helped, you dumb grode! Remember how Lieutenant Affad supervised? Ultraviolet wave, chemicals, the works. We’re safe here.”

  “Seeds? Plant stock?”

  “There’s seeds in the stock drawers, sir. And a few plants in the cutting room, but no way to grow them. The machinery’s a mess.”

  “We have piping, hoses. We can make tanks from scrap, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” Drucker looked bleakly at the wreckage. “The machinery was never designed to handle decompression, sir. The sensors to the puter are out, and most of the feed valves are jammed or blown. We can make elementary repairs, but this ...”

  “Very well.” I motioned to the hatch. “East hydros.”

  The east chamber appeared to be flourishing. Growlights overhead softly hummed; beneath them tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables grew peacefully. Somewhere in the background water dripped; the sensor lights glowed soft green.

  “Looks the way I’d expect,” I remarked. “Anything wrong here?”

  “Yes,” Drucker said, his tone ominous. He brushed aside the leaves of a tomato plant growing in a wet sandy tank, and pointed.