Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  Every moment I dawdled, the lasers were unmanned, the comm room unwatched, and the ship’s peril increased. Somewhere out there were those ... goldfish, as we called them. They seemed able to home on our ships; I had no idea how. They’d already found Challenger once. If they came upon her again, our small chance of survival would be dashed.

  And yet, keeping Mr. Tzee on watch until his forehead struck the console wouldn’t save the ship. I had to ... I didn’t know. Somewhere was a solution that was evading me, if I could but think of it.

  The knock on the hatch startled me; remembering our missing weapons I glanced at the camera eye before opening. I’d been expecting Philip, but saw Seaman Drucker. Could it already be four?

  I bade him enter. “The west hydros, Mr. Drucker. They need to be cleaned out.”

  “Yes, sir. But like I said, the machinery is all shot. We can’t grow nothing in there.”

  “Manually, we can. I want you to take two hands and deal with the mess. Haul any usable metal down to engine room stores. Save the sand. When you’re ready, we’ll rig fluorescent growlights and weld some holding tanks. I want an inventory of seeds and an estimate of how many cuttings we can take from east hydros without weakening the plants there. How soon will you be able to report?”

  He took time to think before answering, which I appreciated. I could see him grapple for the first time with the problems of command. “Depends on which sailors you give me, sir. I mean—”

  “I know. Who do you want?”

  “Groshnev and Jabour, if I could have ‘em, sir. They’re not the type who hang on to a broom to keep from falling down. Not like, uh, some others.”

  I grinned. “You’ve got ‘em. Get started; we still have a couple of hours before dinner.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He passed Philip at the hatch as he left. I listened with half my attention while the middy described his arrangements. I stared at my notes left over from yesterday. So much to do.

  I sent Philip to dispose of the body in the hold while I studied the ship’s manifest. All our cargo was useful in some way to the colony at Hope Nation; perhaps it could help us too.

  When Philip returned I took the caller. “Attention all hands. All officers and men to the dining hall. Passengers also. No exceptions, please.” I glowered at Tyre. “Come along, Middy.” Again we left the bridge. At the armory I secured another laser pistol, handed it to Philip. “Don’t lose this one.”

  He blushed deep red. “Aye aye, sir. I won’t.”

  A few moments later I strode into the dining hall, Philip at my side. Anxious passengers stood about, unsure where to sit. The crewmen, in unfamiliar territory, clustered close to the exit. Normally they’d eat below, in the crew mess on Level 3.

  The murmur of conversation ceased.

  The Chief Engineer stood, arms folded, near a group of older passengers; I made a mental note to speak to him after the meal. The transpop called Jonie huddled against Eddie Boss. Young Annie watched nearby, hands on hips in a provocative posture. She winked as I passed; I looked elsewhere. The remaining transients were isolated, or had isolated themselves, in a corner of the hall.

  I paused in the center of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Nicholas Seafort, Challenger’s Captain. Before we eat, I’ll discuss our situation. Challenger’s fusion shaft is destroyed and we cannot Fuse. We have a large supply of propellant for subluminous travel, but unfortunately there is no port, no star within reasonable distance. We expect to be rescued; Portia will send help when she reaches port.”

  There was a mounting rustle as the frightening rumors were confirmed. An older woman cried softly.

  “We have ample power, and stores of food to last three months or more. We’ll grow additional food with hydroponics, as we would if the ship were Fused.”

  “Why were we left behind?” a woman shrilled. “Your damned Navy brought us here and abandoned us!”

  “Portia is smaller than Challenger. She couldn’t take us all; her recyclers can’t handle the load.”

  The seaman Clinger stirred. “And maybe Portia won’t reach port!” Into the stir of unease he added, “And if she does, who says the rescue ship’ll find us?”

  “That’s enough, Clinger.” My hopes of conciliation were dashed.

  “Let him speak!” The demand came from a burly middle-aged man across the hall. “We want to know!”

  “Your name?”

  “Emmett Branstead.” He glared. “Let him talk! Maybe we’ll finally hear the truth!”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I said, as mildly as I could manage. Someone snickered. I realized I had to concede. “Go on, Clinger.”

  “The bad part is”—the sailor’s voice was surly and aggrieved—“we’ll never know whether there’s a ship looking for us, or if Portia got hit too. Or if there is a rescue ship, when it might come. We could spend our lives waiting for help that never comes!”

  In the back of the room, someone sobbed.

  “And that ain’t the worst.” Clinger’s bitterness swelled. “At best, it’s eleven months to Hope Nation and eleven back to us, and we have only three months food!”

  I cut through the frightened babble. “We’ll grow what we need!”

  “How?” Emmett Branstead. “The west hydroponics chamber is wrecked, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I waited for the angry buzz to subside. “There are other ways to grow food.” Silence fell. “We have dozens of unused cabins. We’ll construct grow tanks in spare cabins. We have enough fluorescent lighting to nourish the plants.”

  Branstead shook his head. “Fluorescents don’t emit all the “components plants need to—”

  “They won’t be optimum, but they’d work after a fashion, no?”

  Reluctantly he nodded.

  “What about nutrients and water?” someone asked. “How can you pipe them to all the cabins?”

  “We’ll hand-water and feed the plants, as man did for thousands of years. Yes, it’s work, but our lives depend on it.”

  Clinger snarled, “We’ll be eating each other before this is done. Most of us are already dead, and don’t know it!”

  I bellowed, “Enough!”

  “Why? He’s right!” A younger woman with a stiff, drawn face. Murmurs of approval from the others.

  “I’m Captain here!”

  “Why should you be?” Emmett Branstead. “Our lives are at stake. We should have a say!”

  “And us too!” A deckhand. “Sir,” he added sheepishly, at my withering glare.

  “That’s quite enough,” I said with careful precision. “You men, stand at attention!” A few complied, Tzee and Akkrit among them.

  Seaman Sykes was the first to speak. “It ain’t gonna work, Captain.” Behind him, a groundswell of murmurs.

  “Belay that! I gave an order!”

  A sailor said reluctantly, “Look, Captain, it ain’t your fault, you didn’t get us into this, but why bother with all the work? We’re all gonna die anyway.”

  “We’re still crew of a functioning—”

  “No, we ain’t!” Clinger again. “This ain’t a Navy ship no more, like Andy tried ta tell you before you threw him in the brig. Look at us! Thirteen sailors, you, and that joeykid there! The hydros are all glitched; all we got comin’ out of the east banks is cucumbers and tomatoes!”

  “Clinger—”

  “But even without no food, problems, the best we can hope is to drift for three, maybe five years ‘til somethin’ goes wrong in the machinery or maybe somebody finds us. And only if that fat-assed Admiral gets through to Hope Nation!”

  I strode up to him as if I were unafraid. “And if you’re right, Clinger, and we drift three years? It’s no more than a round trip from Earth to Hope Nation and back. You signed up for the long cruise, remember? And if you knew you were going to die, you would still have duty!” I jabbed him in the chest with a stiffened finger. “We have power, we have propellant; we have passengers to attend.”

  Stubbornly he shook h
is head. “If I’m goin’ out, I want a good time first!” His laugh had a quality that chilled me.

  I roared, “Stand to!”

  Clinger looked for support, decided he had it. He folded his arms. Several others did likewise.

  From the side of the hall Philip Tyre’s thin voice cut the silence. “Carry out his order, Mr. Clinger.” His laser pistol aimed steadily at Clinger’s stomach. “You have five seconds before I shoot.” He walked forward. The gun wavered, then stiffened. “I think I’m close enough so I won’t miss.” He said nothing more.

  For a long second Clinger gaped. Then, capitulating, he stiffened to attention. Behind him, other crewmen followed suit.

  My tone was bleak. “Do you care to spend the rest of the cruise in the brig, Mr. Clinger?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then henceforth you will obey orders.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  I let it be. “Stand easy.” Turning to the passengers I said, “I appeal to all of you, men and women alike. We must have more crew; there’s no other way to handle the ship. In a day or so I’ll ask for volunteers.” I overrode the uproar. “Certainly none of you sailed with the intention of joining the Navy. The idea may seem ludicrous, but our very survival is at stake.”

  I paused and cleared my throat. “We will eat in the dining hall together; we don’t have staff to cook separate meals for crew and passengers. No food must be wasted; portions will be doled in advance. If you don’t want all your food, give it to someone at your table. The crew will sit separately”—I indicated an area of the hall—“and you passengers may choose your own places, for the time. The Captain’s place is here.”

  Arbitrarily, I pulled out a chair and sat. Philip automatically went to another table, his pistol thrust inside his jacket. The Chief took a third table; officers were accustomed to spreading among the passengers.

  At first I thought I would sit alone. Then the lady with the pale, drawn face joined me. So did Walter Dakko. I noticed that the transients all found tables together.

  When everyone was seated I stood and tapped for quiet. “Lord God, today is July 30, 2198, on the U.N.S. Porti—Challenger. We ask you to bless us, to bless our voyage, and to bring health and well-being to all aboard.” The words sounded hollow, even to me.

  Dinner was a miserable affair. Conversation was listless and dispirited. We dined on sparse food prepared without grace: boiled vegetables and canned meat, crackers instead of the customary fresh bread. The pale young lady, Elena Bartel, gestured at the tables around us where passengers sat. “You expect to fashion a crew out of—that?”

  I glanced; elderly faces predominated except at the tables chosen by the transpops. “What choice have I?”

  She smiled without humor, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Old Mrs. Reeves, the judge’s sister? Or that fat fellow, Conant?”

  “There are others,” I said, loath to be drawn down that path.

  “Yes. Like Olwin, the engineer. But he’s too old to adapt well, isn’t he? Fifty-something? So that leaves the few youngsters with any education. That disagreeable Dakko boy, or his angry friend Gregor. How much help would they give?”

  “There’s yourself,” I said, more to silence her than for any other reason.

  “Me?” Her laugh was derisive. “Challenger’s resident neurotic? Since the first month the other passengers always make themselves busy whenever I go to the lounge to talk. Thank God for assigned seating or I’d have eaten alone.” She flushed at my appraising glance, but persisted. “Look at me. Scrawny, uncoordinated, never even had a boyfriend, to say nothing of a marriage. I can’t even tie a shoelace without fumbling.”

  “You’re hard on yourself, Ms. Bartel.”

  She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “No, just honest, at the end. Now that we’ll be dead soon I’ve nothing to lose.”

  My tone was harsh. “You have no reason to assume that. There’s still hope of rescue.”

  “Oh, I admire you, Captain, despite my manner of speech. You’re prepared to carry on despite all odds. Maybe you’re young enough not to understand hopelessness. How old are you, nineteen? I once thought myself immortal too.”

  “I’m twenty-one, Ms. Bartel, and believe me, I know I’m not immortal. I just feel—” I paused before revealing myself to this bitter young woman. “I have my duty. Whether I’m to die or not isn’t the issue. Duty remains. It makes choices so much simpler.”

  “I envy you that.” She stared moodily at her weak soup. “You won’t get many volunteers, you know. Perhaps none.”

  “I’m aware. Hopelessness is seductive.” I played with my spoon. “You see, if we assume we have no chance, not only do we make it almost certainly true, but we live the remainder of our lives in—in a morass. In a funk. I don’t want to do that, even if I’m the only one who’ll know how I lived and died.” I found myself near tears, and lapsed silent.

  After a time she said more gently, “I’m sorry I jeered, Captain. Tend to your duty. I expect to die aboard this ship in a few weeks, when the food runs out. I guess I don’t much mind. Living hasn’t been all that pleasurable.” On that grim note our conversation faltered.

  Afterward, as the passengers dispersed, I called the crew together and set Mr. Kovaks on watch on the recyclers, Mr. Tzee in the comm room, and Mr. Sykes in the engine room. Philip had volunteered to hold the bridge; I told him he was free to sleep on watch if he needed to, but he was aghast at the very suggestion. Then, utterly exhausted, I went to bed. My last thought before my head hit the pillow was that I’d forgotten to talk to the Chief Engineer. Somehow, he had to be recalled to his duty; the engine room provided the power essential to our survival.

  Despite my fatigue, or perhaps because of it, I slept poorly, and morning found me bleary and irritable. I went immediately to the bridge. Philip Tyre, sleepy but awake, came politely out of his seat. “Good morning, sir.”

  I made my voice pleasant by brute force. “Morning, Mr. Tyre.” I stared at my console. I needed coffee. “Hold the watch a while longer, Mr. Tyre. I’ll relieve you soon.”

  I made my way to the officers’ mess. There was no coffee made; I rummaged in the stores and started a pot. I paced while it brewed, then poured myself a cup. I sipped the hot brew without waiting for it to cool, anxious to get to the bridge to relieve Philip.

  As I reached for the mess hatch it swung open to admit the Chief, rumpled and unshaven. I fell back. “Oh. Mr., uh, Chief. I was wanting to talk to you.”

  He sized me up with a skeptical stare. Finally he said, “I’d rather have coffee first, if you don’t mind.”

  I waved. “Help yourself.” Under other circumstances I would have found his remark intolerably rude, but there was no reason to antagonize him further.

  He took a cup. “Did you make this stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  It seemed to meet with his approval. “At least someone has some sense around here.”

  I sat back down at the long table. After a moment he joined me. I tried furiously to remember what he was called. Finally I gave up. “I don’t recall your name.”

  His smile was grim. “Andreas Kasavopolous. Chief Engineer Kasavopolous reporting, sir.”

  “They call you Andy?” I guessed.

  “No.” He stared moodily at his coffee. “No, they don’t.”

  “Well, Mr., er, Kasavopolous, I—”

  “They call me Dray.”

  I sighed. This was going to be difficult. “Tell me, Dray,” I said harshly, “how long have you been a drunk?”

  He tried to hold my eye and failed. He busied himself with his coffee cup in lieu of a reply.

  “I asked a question, Chief.”

  He hesitated as long as he dared, then muttered, “I dunno, Captain. I just kind of fell into it.”

  “What would it take for you to fall out of it?” My tone was curt.

  He shrugged. “Damned if I know.” At my look of disgust he grinned. “What’cha gonna do, Captain? Brig me? I thought you nee
ded me to stand watch.”

  I was outraged. Whether or not I deserved respect, my rank required it. I couldn’t imagine what would have befallen me in my days as a midshipman if I’d spoken so to my Captain. “Remember who you’re talking to!”

  He chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah, another reject from the U.N. Navy. What’d you do to piss them off, Captain? Forget to polish your service pins?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Or they catch you with some bimbo in your cabin?” That brought me to my feet, fists clenched. He fell silent. I stared through him a long, eerie moment while he licked his lips uneasily.

  Blind with consuming rage I lurched to the ship’s caller and paged the bridge. “Mr. Tyre, report to the officers’ mess, flank. Seal the bridge behind you.”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  “Captain, I—”

  I hurled my half-empty cup at Dray’s head. He ducked away, drenched with lukewarm coffee. I snarled, “It would be wise to say nothing, Chief Engineer!”

  A moment later the hatch flew open. Philip Tyre came to attention, his uniform rumpled, eyes bloodshot.

  “As you were! Do you have your laser pistol, Midshipman, or have you lost it again?” My tone struck like a blow.

  He pushed his jacket aside. “It’s in my—”

  “Give it here.” Wordlessly he handed it to me. “Fully charged?” Pale, he nodded. “Let’s check,” I said, aiming it at the deck. I thumbed the release; with a crackle the smell of ozone filled the room. We stared at the scorched and smoking deck plate. “Get yourself back to the bridge, Mr. Tyre; you’re on watch!” With a mumbled acknowledgment the boy fled.

  I swung to the Chief Engineer. My gun came to rest at his head. “Put your hand on the table, Chief Dray.”

  He complied at once, a sheen of sweat on his broad forehead.

  I seized his wrist with my free hand, bent it to the table, put the pistol to his hand. I croaked, “You asked why I’m here? Those fools said I was psychotic! What do they know? They hushed up the business with those sailors and got me off the ship!”