Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  Philip cleared his throat. “So we can’t retake the engine room, sir?”

  “I know one way,” I muttered. My mind grappled with the obscenity I’d hatched.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The fusion drive shaft.”

  Dray looked at me with disbelief. “Clamber around outside the ship to mount an assault through the fusion shaft? Good God, are you glitched? We don’t have enough trained men to send, and how could we breach the plastalloy drive shield? It’s harder than steel, and for good purpose. It’s all that protects the engine room crew from vacuum.”

  “True. But that’s not what I meant. The launch berth is on Level 2, within our territory. We could send the launch around to the stern.”

  “And off-load the assault crew? I still don’t see how they could—”

  “No,” I said. “Seal the corridor around the engine room. Use the launch to ram the shield.”

  Dray erupted in fury. “Ram my engine room, you young pup? Hit too hard and you damage the fusion engines themselves. And you’d kill every—”

  “I know! Shut up!” The engine room would depressurize instantly, killing anyone inside who wasn’t suited. The corridor hatch seals would hold; they were designed for it. And the hydro chambers were two sections distant from the engine room; they’d be undamaged.

  Philip said, “It would kill the hostages, sir, along with the rebels.”

  “I didn’t say otherwise. I just said there was a way into the compartment.”

  Eddie growled, “You don’ care ‘bout killin’ trannies, Cap’n? They ain’ Uppies like you ‘n boss boy?”

  Philip flushed. “The Captain didn’t say that. But what should we do if the rebels pull our power lines? We might hold out a few days, while the air turns bad, we do without water, and the ship starts to cool.”

  I said, “We can store water now, and go to bottled air.”

  “For a while, yes, sir. If the rebels had no food we could outlast them. But if they hold out more than ... how long, sir? A week? ... We’d have to assault them or give up the ship.”

  He was right. Challenger was a closed ecological system. With recycling and hydroponics operating properly, we could last a long, long time. But our fragile ecosystem was utterly dependent on the energy input of the fusion engines. Despite the thickly insulated hull, without power, heat loss would begin almost immediately. And if the recyclers were cut off, our CO2 levels would mount until the air was unbreathable.

  Philip’s estimate was good. About a week. Unless we mounted an assault well before then, the rebels would win.

  I shivered. Lord God help us. In any event, there was another reason the engine room couldn’t be rammed. “Nobody would do it. It’s a suicide mission for whoever drove the launch; the controls are in the bow. Even if I ordered a crewman to ram, he’d join the rebels before he’d obey. Let’s drop the subject.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Philip. Eddie glowered at us both. After a moment Philip added hesitantly, “Pardon if I’m out of line, but if you negotiate you risk giving up control of the ship.”

  He knew his regs as well as I did; Lord God knew how many times they’d made him stand on a chair reciting them. Wardroom hazing had its merits. “Yes, I know. What else is there to do?”

  The speaker crackled. “Hey, Captain, ‘bout time we heard from you. You gonna send chow down, or we gotta make our own?”

  Philip’s troubled eyes fastened on mine.

  I mustn’t negotiate. Whatever else occurred, I must uphold the authority of the Naval Service. And my authority as Captain, for the sake of all other Captains who would follow. To sail across the void for months or years, a ship must have one unchallengeable authority. That had been drilled into me from my first day at Academy.

  The transients’ lives, and my own, were nothing compared to that principle.

  Eddie Boss muttered under his breath.

  I glared. “You have something to say, sailor?”

  “Yeah.” Eddie wrinkled his brow. “You send sojers down, fight ta get back ship, dat be war.” He hesitated. “Like, it be okay, if dyin’ be okay. You let ‘em kill trannies, dat ain war, be plain ol’ dissin’.”

  “Dissing?” I tried to puzzle it out.

  “Murder,” the Chief said sourly. “Dissin’. Joespeak.” I saw Philip’s hand ease to his pistol, but Eddie said no more.

  “Chief.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Take a couple of sailors and reconnoiter. See if they’ve blocked any of the corridor hatches near the engine room, but don’t get anybody hurt finding out. You’d better hurry.”

  He blinked, taking it all in. Then his shoulders squared. “Aye aye, sir.” He slapped open the hatch and disappeared into the corridor.

  All was silent until I picked up the waiting caller. I asked Andros, “What would I get in return for the food?” Philip gasped.

  “Ha!” The sailor chuckled with satisfaction. “Now you’re talking. You keep your lights and water.”

  “No. I want the passengers released.”

  “They’re our meal ticket, joey. Why would I give them up?”

  “For your rations. Otherwise, I won’t deal.”

  “We’ll cut your power. Think you’ll like the dark, fraz?”

  “Cut our power and I’ll kill you all.” My tone was flat.

  “And your precious street joeys?”

  “I don’t care how many trannies you take along.”

  Eddie stirred.

  Andros snarled, “We’ll kill them one by one, you bastard!”

  I said with calculated indifference, “Well, it won’t look good on my record, but it’ll be less mouths to feed. Go ahead, if that’s what you want.”

  His reply was drowned by Eddie’s roar as he launched himself. His thick fingers closed around my throat. I clawed helplessly at his beefy wrists while he flung me back and forth like a rag doll. The world faded to red. Abruptly, he stiffened and sagged to the deck.

  The mists cleared slowly. Philip Tyre carefully set his stunner to safety, replaced it in his holster.

  “Did you kill him?” My voice was hoarse.

  Philip snarled, “No, but I should have, and saved you the trouble. I set it on low.”

  “You want them dead?” the speaker raved. “I’ll show you! We’ll kill them right now!”

  I ignored the caller. Philip was right. Eddie Boss had violated a cardinal rule of Naval life. He had touched his Captain by intent. His life was forfeit. The court-martial would be a formality, nothing more. The irony was that my seeming indifference was the only possible way to save the transients, short of giving the rebels my ship. But because I hadn’t let Eddie know, I’d condemned him to death.

  The nerves of my scorched cheek sent waves of agony lancing through my face and neck. I forced my attention back to the speaker. “What’s keeping you?” I asked. “The sooner they’re out of the way the sooner I can come for you. It’s a lot less trouble than explaining to Admiralty why I had to get rid of them myself.”

  For the first time the sailor’s voice held a note of uncertainty. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Yes. That’s what I want you to think.” That quieted him while he tried to puzzle it out. That’s what they appointed a Captain for; to say any damn fool thing that came into his mind. I only knew I had him off balance.

  After a moment Andros said cautiously, “I think you’re glitched, Captain. So what I’ll do is pick one and fry him, and see what you do from there. We’ve got plenty left to bargain with.”

  The Chief strode back onto the bridge, breathing hard. “No sign of them anywhere in the corridors, sir. I didn’t go too close to the engine room. Did you see what those bastards did to my hatch?”

  “Yes.” I felt a strange relief, knowing my course at last. Light-headed with pain, I got to my feet. “Mr. Andros!”

  “Yeah?”

  “You win. At least for now. I’ll bring you food for two days. Don’t hurt the transients.”


  I could hear urgent whispering in the background. A pause. Then Clinger’s voice. “No way, Captain. Divvy up the stores and give us our share.”

  “No. I’ll buy two days to try to find a way out. Time to talk some more. That’s all.”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I dunno, Seafort, but I can smell a trick.”

  “You have my word,” I said firmly. Philip gaped.

  Clinger repeated, “No tricks?”

  “I give you my oath. Two days of good food, not tampered with, enough for all of you. Only one person will be allowed down to Level 3 to deliver it. Everyone else will remain above. I so swear.”

  The speaker was silent. Then Clinger’s voice, in a different tone. “Okay, Captain. You Uppies, I guess your oath is damn important to you. Go ahead. But we’ll be bottled tight in the engine room. There’s no way you can get in here without getting killed. Any tricks, and your trannies get it.”

  “I’ll need an hour or so to get everything together.”

  “Yeah, we’ve waited this long, an hour won’t hurt.”

  “And no tricks from you. No ambushes. Everyone sealed inside the engine room until the food arrives. Then, when we see the transients are unhurt, you get your rations.”

  “Tell me again you’re not planning a trick.”

  “I swear that no one will try to enter the engine room without your permission. The food will be normal rations. Only one person will be allowed below to deliver it, and he will be unsuited. You can take the rations into the engine room yourselves, unharmed. No one else will have anything to do with you or the engine room. You have my oath on all that.”

  “Right.”

  I replaced the speaker. Still dizzy, I took refuge in formality. “Midshipman Tyre.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Run to the galley and order Mr. Bree to provide rations for fourteen people for two days. Food only; they have water. Have him send a man to the bridge carrying the rations. Then run to the comm room and return with Mr. Tzee.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Can—”

  “You heard your orders.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He scrambled out the hatch.

  Dray said doubtfully, “Two days to do what, sir? The situation will only get worse.”

  “Yesh.” My words were slurring from the pain. “Yes,” I repeated with care.

  “What happens to the trannie?” He prodded Eddie with his toe.

  “No questions, Mr. Kas—Chief.”

  It took Philip less than three minutes to complete his errands and return, panting, with Mr. Tzee at his heels.

  “Now. Mr. Tyre, you and Mr. Tzee will put on your suits and go out the forward airlock. You’ll maintain radio silence. You will disconnect the power feed to the small laser cannon midships. The cannon should be bolted to the hull with three large eyebolts; I believe you’ll find a spanner in the launch berth. Bring the cannon into the airlock with you, leave it just inside the Level 1 lock. You will accomplish your task within one hour.”

  “Dray, while Mr. Tyre’s party is outside, get Mr. Dakko, who is guarding the ladder well, and go to the hold. The manifest says bin five east contains heavy electrical cable. Secure enough cable and connectors to connect a line to the high voltage outlet in the launch berth, string it along the corridor, down the ladder to Level 2, and coil enough cable at the top of the ladder well to reach down to Level 3 and around to section nine.”

  “Near the engine room?”

  “Yes. To section nine.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t think you want to question me, Dray.” My tone was odd.

  He swallowed.

  “Go,” I said. “Both of you.”

  There was little more to be done. I made my entries into the Log, signed it, turned off the screen. The bridge was silent except for Eddie’s slow, steady breathing.

  I’d turned off all Kerren’s alarms. The panel lights showed me what I needed to know; first the inner airlock hatch sliding open, then the outer, then a long wait before the laser malfunction light began to blink. When the lock began to cycle again I got to my feet. I ran my fingers through my hair and tugged on my jacket, like a green middy on his way to see his Captain. In a way, it was so.

  I waited at the hatch. Philip Tyre was the first to return, his shirt plastered to his back. Clambering around on the hull with magnetic boots took stamina. “We’ve got the cannon, sir, over there.” He pointed down the corridor toward the airlock, around the bend. “What are you going—”

  “See what’s keeping Mr. Bree, Midshipman.”

  A score of questions flashed in his eyes but his discipline held. “Aye aye, sir.” He ran off.

  Ten minutes later his voice preceded him around the corridor bend, speeding the sailor who carried a bulging duffel. I pointed to the deck. Awkwardly the seaman let go his burden and saluted. I sent him back to his galley.

  In a few moments Dray trudged back to the bridge, red from exertion. Walter Dakko was with him. “Done,” the Chief said. “The cable’s stretched to Level 2. I left you lots of slack.”

  I picked up the duffel. “Dray, check the seals on each of the corridor hatches on Levels 1 and 2 as they close.”

  “The cable will block the seals, sir.”

  “I don’t think so. The rubber gaskets should seal around the cable well enough; the hatches were designed to hold pressure even if a crewman fell so that his arm was in the way.”

  I turned to Philip. “Mr. Tyre, lock yourself on the bridge. Begin shutting all corridor hatches on Level 1 and Level 2.”

  “Sir, what are you doing? Who’s taking the food down?”

  I said, “I am.”

  He blurted, “You can’t!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He blushed bright red. “I’m sorry, I—but—I mean, you can’t risk yourself. Send a sailor, or me. Please!”

  “No. Seal yourself on the bridge.”

  He stood his ground. “Tell me what’s happening, sir ... I need to know.”

  “I’m going below to negotiate with the rebels.”

  “How?”

  “You may listen on the ship’s caller, but you may not interrupt. You’ll know what to do afterward. I don’t expect to survive. You will be in charge thereafter.”

  “Oh, Lord Jesus!” He bit his lip. “You mustn’t! I beg you!”

  “There’s no other way, Mr. Tyre. You know I can’t give them the ship.”

  “Then let’s storm the engine room.”

  “They’d kill all the trannies, Mr. Tyre. They still might, in which case they’ll also kill me.”

  “Those street joeys ... they’re not worth it,” Philip whispered. “You mustn’t go!”

  I drew my pistol. It came to rest an inch from Philip Tyre’s eye. “Seal yourself on the bridge, Mr. Tyre. It is the third and last time I give the order.”

  He licked his lips, tried to speak, sagged. “Aye aye, sir.” He walked slowly onto the bridge.

  I shouldered the duffel. “Mr. Dakko, go to the dining hall. Pass the word to all hands and passengers to suit up with emergency tanks.”

  Dakko regarded me somberly, saluted, and left.

  I walked toward the airlock. “Dray, help me get the cannon down to Level 2.” Awkwardly I bent and wrapped my arm around the barrel of the laser cannon, trying not to lose my precarious balance with the heavy duffel.

  I lugged my end of the cast alloy cannon along the corridor, stopping while Dray closed and sealed the hatches behind us. We descended to Level 2 past the snaking cable Dray had laid. I walked the laser cannon around the stairwell to the ladder to Level 3, then gratefully set it down beside the coiled cable.

  “Dray, seal off section nine on Level 2, in case they try to burn upward through the deck. Then break out a suit and put it on. I’ll wait to see that’s done. You are to remain on Level 2. You are not to descend to Level 3. Acknowledge your orders.”

  “Orders received and un
derstood, sir,” the Chief Engineer said heavily. “I’ll bring your suit back with me.”

  “No. Just your own.”

  “But—” His eyes widened.

  “Do as I say.”

  When he returned, clumping in his heavy, awkward vacuum suit, I set down the duffel at the top of the ladder and grunted with strain as I tried to hoist the cannon. It was heavier than I’d thought; I could barely manage it. The Chief must have carried more than his share of the weight. I managed somehow to haul it down the ladder.

  At the foot of the stairs I turned east along the circumference corridor. From section six, I staggered along the corridor through seven, then eight. I eased my burden to the deck just inside the hatch between eight and nine. The engine room was just ahead of me, around the bend in section nine. I retraced my steps.

  Back up the ladder. I coiled the cable on my shoulder and walked slowly backward down the stairs, playing it out behind me. Laying it carefully along the center of the corridor, I unwound it to where I’d left the cannon in section eight. I had about twelve meters length to spare.

  Dizzy now, I climbed back up the ladder once again and hoisted the duffel of rations. “Wait here, Dray. Come if I call, but only then.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  At the foot of the ladder I dropped the duffel. This time I turned west, along the corridor that circled past the engine room to where I’d left the cannon.

  I followed the corridor to the hatch between sections one and nine. I pressed the emergency close panel on the bulkhead and the hatch slid quietly shut.

  I backtracked past the west hydros, glancing to make sure the hatch was sealed. I crossed into section two and sealed that hatch behind me. I worked my way back to the ladder, in section six.

  The duffel was at the foot of the ladder where I’d left it. I lugged it east along the corridor. I sealed the hatch between six and seven, watching the hatch seals close around the cable. The rubber gaskets seemed tight. I checked the east hydros in section seven, sealed the hatch, plodded on to section eight. At the far end I stopped to finish my preparations.

  Every corridor hatch on Level 3 was now sealed, except from section eight to the engine room in nine.