“After giving them the chance to do so in the first place.”
The old woman’s tone bore sympathy and concern. “You’ve been ill, I know. Are you still troubled?”
“I wish I had died on Portia with my wife, ma’am.” I was astounded I’d said it aloud.
She patted the seat next to Mr. Pierce. “Sit with me, young man.”
Shaky, I lowered myself into the chair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”
“You must have loved her a great deal.”
I looked elsewhere. “Not as much as I might have. I didn’t appreciate her until she died.” From the chair opposite, Mr. Pierce stared at me, mouth half open.
“You can live with that. You have courage.”
“You misjudge me, ma’am.”
“It took courage to cast your lot with us.”
I said harshly, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Tell me.”
Why should I unburden myself to a foolish old lady? Yet I spat out the words. “I came to Challenger, yes. Admiral Tremaine had relieved me for incompetence and insubordination. It was Challenger or be hanged. That’s what you call courage.”
Placid, she let the silence grow. Then, “Sometimes it takes courage to live too.”
I stood abruptly. “I have to go to my table.”
“You have to find peace.” The old eyes looked at me, intent. “Otherwise you’ll be no help to anyone.”
“I have to go, ma’am.” I touched my cap, turned my back on her, retreated.
Dinner finally concluded. I disengaged myself from a couple who wanted my company for inane chat, left for the bridge. I was interrupted a short way down the corridor.
“Captain Seafort!” Chris Dakko hurried after me. I waited. He hesitated, bit his lip, then flicked me a fleeting, unpracticed salute. “Please. May I talk to you?”
I knew I ought to refuse. There were channels for a crewman to approach the Captain; a direct entreaty was unacceptable. But I decided to make allowances; the boy had been a civilian a few days past.
“All right.” I led him to the Level 1 passengers’ lounge and shut the hatch. “Well?”
“Please.” He searched my eyes, as if trying to read them. “I know you don’t like me. I haven’t been nice to you ... And I know you need help.”
“Yes?”
“What you did, enlisting me against my will—”
I couldn’t let him ask. “Enough, Mr. Dakko.”
“You don’t understand.” He sounded desperate. “I can’t take it. I’m all wrong for that life. I don’t fit in with them, I never can. I—”
“Mr. Dakko!”
“I’ll help with anything you say, Mr. Seafort! Let me be a civilian again. I’m begging you. Sir! I’m begging you, SIR!” His eyes implored me, hoping against hope.
Slowly I shook my head. “If I had other options I’d take them. God, don’t you think I thought about it, before enlisting you? You’ve been impressed, Mr. Dakko, and impressed you will remain.”
“You don’t know what they’re like,” he whispered, eyes seeing only some private hell. “It’s a nightmare. I even went to my—my father. He shoved me away, said I’d chosen to be on my own, that he wouldn’t ...” His eyes closed. “Captain, sir, forgive the things I’ve said to you. Please, let me go!”
His distress moved me. Perhaps if he hadn’t mentioned his father ... I recalled the nights I’d lain awake in Academy silently beseeching Father to take me from that place.
“Mr. Dakko—Chris,” I amended gently. “You weren’t enlisted as punishment. I needed every available hand to fill the crew roster. I still do. You must remain in the Navy. I’m sorry, but that’s how it will be. You came to Challenger of your own will; these are the consequences you suffer.”
He looked away. I cleared my throat. “Now, sailor, salute as you’ve been taught and go below.”
For a long moment the boy did nothing. Then with a visible effort at self-control he came to attention, saluted, stalked to the hatch.
That night, weary from a lonely day of unending drudgery, I went to my cabin for the first time in a week. The spacious compartment was still unfamiliar to me; after all, I’d been aboard Challenger only five days before my injury sent me to the infirmary. Clean sheets awaited. Towels too; Philip had even organized the laundry service.
I felt a pang of loneliness and tried to dwell on my anger instead. Thanks to Tyre, I’d had to humiliate myself before a demented sailor who’d caused death and disunion on my ship. If he’d but carried out my orders ...
I stared at my sallow face in the mirror. Again I wondered what was beneath the bandage. Some compulsion drew my hand upward. Slowly, carefully, I peeled away the edge of the dressing. When it was done I stared at my visage, a sickness in the pit of my stomach.
My wound was hideous. The skin had split and suppurated, leaving a red, inflamed scar the length of my cheek from ear to lip that radiated outward toward eye and throat. The redness would fade, but the scar would remain. I recalled Simmons, the sailor I’d killed. Was it the mark of Cain? Unnerved, I began to laugh. Laughing and crying I fell heavily on the bed, and in a mercifully short time, slept.
15
OUR DAYS PASSED WITH leaden weight. My most urgent task was to set the ship on its homeward path; we’d already delayed far too long in that. But our precious propellant could not be wasted in course corrections; we would burn at full power until our propellant was gone. Or nearly gone. Even at the cost of reduced acceleration, I felt it necessary to save some small amount for emergency maneuvering.
While thruster engines fired independently, on a vessel so vast as Challenger or any ship of the line, propellant was centrally stored and pumped to smaller tanks within the individual thrusters. Should a feed problem cause any of our jets to sputter or misfire, we’d waste irreplaceable propellant in corrections. Our thruster pumps, powered by the fusion engines that were Challenger’s main source of energy, must be reliable.
I warned Dray that I’d soon need his engine room manned and functioning, with especial attention to the pump power lines. Grimly he set about the task.
Meanwhile, I delved into our manifests, wondering which items of cargo we could jettison to lighten our load. Every ounce of mass we could eliminate would raise the speed we’d achieve before our propellant gave out. Perhaps someday, decades hence, that would make a difference as we neared the Solar System. Personally, I doubted it would much matter; despite my hopeful words to the ship’s company, I didn’t see much awaiting us except a lingering death. Unless, of course, we were rescued.
Alone on the bridge, I brooded. With more skilled crewmen, I would even consider dismembering the ship itself. What use had we for the holds, forward of the disks and the launch berth? Once we removed necessary stores, the remainder would play no part in our survival and only added considerable tonnage to our mass.
I sighed. It would be an immense labor to disassemble the ship, one probably beyond our level of skill. More important, we hadn’t the manpower to attempt such a project while also rebuilding our hydroponics and maintaining essential ship’s systems.
Besides, when it came down to it, even if we survived, would the difference in speed matter all that much? We’d be broadcasting continuously to Earth, and our transmissions would arrive home in nineteen years. What additional velocity we achieved would have negligible effect on the time of our rescue. Unless, of course, our broadcasts went unheard, which was quite possible given the vast interstellar clutter of background radiation and noise.
Well, nothing I could do about it, given our resources. I turned my attention to cargo. There, at least, we could have some effect. With our powered loading equipment a few men could easily empty the hold in days.
Challenger, like any ship, carried not only its own supplies, but freight bound for the colony it served. Admiralty would no doubt be incensed if I abandoned expensive and needed cargo, but there was little likelihood the material would e
ver reach Hope Nation even if Challenger were found, years hence.
On the other hand, assuming we were doomed to many years of sail, who could know what items we’d find useful?
I made a preliminary list, and as it happened, Walter Dakko was near when I asked Philip to review it. The middy merely acknowledged my order, but Dakko fidgeted and conveyed his unease until I glared and said, “Well?”
I know it’s not my place to interfere, but ...
“You’re right, but out with it.”
“Captain, have you considered the effect on the crew when you raise the issue?”
“What issue?”
“Having them toss overboard anything we might do without. It makes our abandonment seem so ... final.”
“You have objections to that?” I was prepared to put him in his place, and fast.
“No, I try to be a realist. But when some of the others see you acting in a way that suggests we have no real hope of res—”
Philip’s tone was indignant. “Nonsense! When the Captain gives an order, the crew carries it out. There’s no question of—”
“No, sir, of course not.” Dakko hesitated. “But you see, you’ve been telling them a rescue ship will find us, and except for the Clinger and Andros crowd, that’s been holding us together. If we’re to be found and off-loaded, what does our velocity matter?”
“You’d have us sit here for years, waiting?” I waved it aside. “I’ll decide what’s best for the ship. The crew will do what they’re told.”
“I hope so, sir. Though I’ve heard it asked why you don’t—”
“Enough!”
“—try to repair the fusion drive. Aye aye, sir.” He fell silent.
I stood slowly, urging myself not to snarl. “Repair the drive? Impossible. Pass the word, Mr. Dakko: we couldn’t begin to tackle that sort of job ourselves. Even at a Lunapolis shipyard ... Losing my struggle, I swore under my breath, with feeling.
If he heard me, he gave no sign.
Over the next days I struggled to decide what to jettison. Should we go so far as to strip the empty cabins of their gear? Of what possible use was the ship’s launch, nineteen light-years from the nearest star? Its mass was considerable. Yet, I hesitated. Fusion drive or no, Challenger was a Naval vessel still. If I abandoned the launch, why not the laser cannon, or the console at which the crew practiced firing drills? Why keep the exercise machinery for the passengers’ lounge?
In the end I made arbitrary decisions that satisfied no one, including myself. For the morale of the passengers I left the ship intact, including all its provisions, and jettisoned only some of the heaviest cargo: tool and die manufactories for Hope Nation’s growing industry, stamped and molded alloys, and the like. If anyone objected, they were smart enough not to let me hear it.
I ordered two radio beacons put out, and waited an extra day, monitoring to make sure they worked properly. Our rescue might depend on them. Later, we’d drop more.
When at last we were ready I called Dray and Philip to the bridge and set them to plotting our course with Kerren. At last everyone’s figures agreed to several decimals. I entered our calculations on the screen.
Propulsive maneuvers were normally carried out by the Pilot, but we had no Pilot. As Captain I was assumed to have the necessary skills to maneuver a ship, yet I recalled with chagrin the ineptitude with which I’d handled docking drills as a middy. Now our lives depended on abilities I lacked.
“Dray, go below; report when you’re ready.” The Chief saluted and left, saying nothing, not even the customary “Aye aye, sir.”
Finally the engine room sent the signal.
The power of our fusion engines, unusable for their primary purpose, was channeled to the pumps feeding our maneuvering jets at the stern and sides of the ship. “Mr. Tyre,” I said stiffly, “I order you to advise me the moment you see me mishandle the ship. Don’t hesitate.”
“Aye aye, sir. I shall.”
With that as encouragement I rested my hand on the thruster controls. “Declination, fifteen.” Tiny squirts of propellant from the side thrusters brought the bow ever so slowly around. No need to waste precious fuel to line us toward home when a few extra minutes would accomplish the maneuver through inertia.
I corrected our declination and attitude, braking our rotation until we were lined up perfectly for Sol, nineteen light-years distant. I knew that as we accelerated I’d have to make numerous small adjustments; our rate of thrust would not be absolutely uniform while propellant spewed from our tubes; minute impurities in the hydrazine or corrosion of the thruster tubes would have some noticeable effect.
“Very well. I believe we’re now set to accelerate. Correct, Mr. Tyre?”
“I think so, sir. Yes, sir.”
“All ahead one quarter.” My hand closed around the smooth round ball on the console. Slowly I slid it forward, my eyes glued to the screen that flashed our position and course. Carefully I brought us up to speed, occasionally tapping the side thrusters ever so gently to correct our course.
I maintained one-quarter propulsion for over an hour, until I was reasonably sure the thrusters were operating properly. Sometimes they’d been known to cough, and at docking, tragedy could result. For us, the danger was less immediate. We faced only the risk of hurtling helplessly wide of our course, our propellant tanks dry.
“Increasing thrust to one-half.” Drenched with sweat, my arm aching from the tension of my grip, I eased the red ball forward. Challenger held true to her course. “Mr. Tyre!”
Philip leapt forward. “Yes, sir?”
“Call the engine room. Are the thrusters heating?” If I reached for the caller with my free hand, my concentration might waver.
I knew Dray would report any malfunction instantly, but I had grim memories of the terrible day the thrusters on Hibernia’s launch had exploded. Hibernia had lost her Captain and two lieutenants. The event had shaped the course of my life, had won Amanda and lost her forever, had made me brittle, lonely, and bitter.
“Temperature normal, sir.”
“I’m going to three-quarters thrust.” Each second we accelerated increased our velocity, until eventually we would reach nearly a quarter the speed of light. The sooner we achieved this velocity, the greater chance we had of seeing home. But our maneuvering jets weren’t designed to operate at full thrust for long, and we would need to fire the thrusters for almost a month to achieve our maximum speed. I dared not bring us to full acceleration too quickly.
Our maneuver would have been impossible had not Captain Hasselbrad transferred much of Portia’s propellant to Challenger to ease his guilt in deserting us. Nonetheless, we would run out of propellant before we could achieve truly significant velocity. We would then face helpless years aboard an unmaneuverable vessel.
My wrist ached. I watched the numbers flash on our console, carried out to impossibly long decimals. The slightest variation from true course at the beginning of our trajectory would multiply into drastic and irremediable error as we progressed.
When we’d achieved three-quarters acceleration I pried my nearly numb hand from the ball. Now we could do nothing but wait, and be ever vigilant to jump to the side thrusters, to make any corrections Kerren did not. I wondered if I dared leave the bridge during the month to come.
There was at least one assist I could give to our morale. I picked up the caller. “Attention all hands and passengers. As you may have noticed if you looked out the portholes, we maneuvered the ship into position for acceleration. A short while ago I began firing our thrusters. We are on our way home. It will be a long, long voyage, but with the grace of Lord God we will, someday, see Terra again. That is all.”
I replaced the caller and leaned back, the perspiration grown chill on my shirt. To my right Philip stood grinning with pleasure at our accomplishment.
Recalling his abuse of my prerogatives while I was disabled, I stared at him, expressionless, until his elation faded. “You may go, Mr. Tyre, until your watc
h.”
He met my gaze, his eyes now bleak. “Aye aye, sir.” He left.
Dray’s relations with me were now coldly correct, absolutely unforgiving. He ran his engine room, carried out what responsibilities I assigned him, kept entirely to himself.
My relationship with Philip was virtually nonexistent. During the ten days since I’d left the wardroom in blind fury I’d avoided all casual contact with him, and spoken to him with icy formality when unavoidable.
Philip, Dray, and I had rotated watches for an endless week, relieving each other without conversation, at least, when I was present. I presumed the midshipman and the Chief were more congenial to each other than either was to me. I could imagine what they said about me in private.
Philip Tyre performed his duties with diligence and energy. He took an active hand in training our new recruits, and under his tutelage they began to take on the appearance and manner of Naval crewmen. Emmett Branstead and Mr. Dakko no longer spoke out of turn, and would have been reprimanded sharply if they had.
The transients who joined the crew formed their own subculture, until we dissolved it by merciless integration. They weren’t allowed to eat together, bunk near each other, or pass free time in each other’s company, but only among the other members of the crew. Resentful at first, they slowly began to adapt. Deke, who’d been beaten senseless by the deckhand Akkrit, now exiled to section four, was the last to respond, but after days of sullen withdrawal he too began to emerge from his shell.
Meanwhile, alone in my quarantine of the spirit, I sat brooding on the bridge.
Gregor Attani came to attention, all eager creases and backbone.
“Stand easy, Cadet.”
“Yes, sir. Reporting as ordered, sir. We’ve apportioned all the remaining food into thirty-five lots and stowed each in a separate bin, labeled by weeks. Thirty-five weeks, sir. Less food in the later weeks’ bins, as you ordered.”
“Very well, Mr. Attani. Dismissed.” I watched him go. A cadet reporting directly to the Captain; another cherished Navy tradition by the boards. A cadet was considered the lowest of the low, a trainee devoid of civil and personal rights, the ward of his superior officer. By custom a Captain did not deign to notice a cadet’s presence, far less speak to him. He would certainly not assign a cadet to carry out important tasks. But Gregor, at eighteen, was five years older than the typical cadet, and in any event I had no one else.
Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Page 30