He let the silence continue as long as he could. Finally he said, hesitantly, “I didn’t think I was doing that bad a job with the transpops, sir.”
“Neither did I.” My tone was gruff.
He studied me a long moment. “Then you weren’t upset with me?”
“No. Just a show.”
The tension drained from his body.
“I wanted to light a fire under Gregor and Chris.”
“You did, sir. Did you see Gregor’s face when he left?”
“It might solve a lot of problems at once. Gregor’s relations with Chris Dakko. Give Gregor a taste of command. Maybe even straighten Chris around.”
“Having Chris Dakko teach Eddie ...” Philip winced. “I don’t think either of them will like that.”
“Or they might learn how to get along together.” I spoke absently; my mind was already on the next problem.
The daily reports on fuel consumption were replaced by hourly, as our propellant dwindled. I was plagued by new doubts about shutting down the thrusters before the tanks ran bone dry. By continuing to increase our velocity we would cut almost four years off our return time.
On the other hand, did it matter? We were seventy-six years from home, at projected speed. Assuming our radio calls weren’t intercepted, we’d have to endure a seven-decade voyage. After that long, what difference would forty-seven months make?
On the other hand, what reason was there to hold propellant in reserve? The chances of Challenger colliding with any object were minute, even in the distant future when she neared the Solar System.
But if we encountered the ... fish. The aliens.
Interstellar space was vast, and it obviously didn’t swarm with fish. Yet they seemed to be able to find our ships. Telstar had been attacked, Portia, Challenger ... and other ships were missing.
I paced the bridge in growing frustration, trying to make a decision, without enough data. What good would a few hundred gallons of propellant do us? We couldn’t Fuse. We had laser armaments, but the crew was uneducated and unskilled in using them. If the fish attacked, our chances were negligible.
Yet ... several times I was on the verge of recalculating our acceleration, to expend all our propellant now. Each time I withheld my hand. My indecision nagged like a broken tooth.
I kept to myself, meeting Philip or Dray as they relieved me, eating in my cabin or on the bridge. But one afternoon, seeking coffee, I ran into Gregor in the dining hall. He sported an unmistakable black eye. I pretended to ignore it, in the time-honored Naval tradition, but wondered, what could have angered Philip so.
My head ached abominably; I was overtired, and brooding on Gregor’s problems with Philip made me more uneasy yet. This was no time for niceties; I called Tyre to the bridge.
“It wasn’t me, sir. Gregor and I get along fine.”
“Well, then?”
“Have you noticed Chris Dakko lately?”
I hadn’t. “An officer brawling with a crewman?” I cursed under my breath.
“Dakko was asking for trouble.”
“Gregor knows the rules,” I snapped. “He can’t strike a crewman to enforce discipline.” My head throbbed. Lord God, didn’t the lad have any common sense? How then could he enforce his orders with a crewman bigger than he was?
“Yes, sir. I told him that. Perhaps, sir, if you didn’t notice it this time ...”
I didn’t need a middy telling me my job. “No,” I growled. “He’ll learn the Navy way. Take the barrel down to the engine room, I’ll be damned if I’ll do it myself. Send the cadet to Dray.” After a caning, he’d be more careful.
Philip said slowly, “Are you sure, sir? He’s almost nineteen. I doubt he’s ever been struck before.”
My hand gripped the chair arm. I said coldly, “Consider yourself reprimanded, Midshipman Tyre.”
Philip stared at me in shock. Then, stiffly, “Yes, sir.”
“Leave the bridge.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He saluted, turned, and went.
I stood the watch, alone with my rage, on the verge of countermanding my orders, but watching the clock, delaying. I took a grim satisfaction in my stubbornness. Only when it was too late did I let myself recall Gregor, on the bridge, on the mattress near mine, pleased despite himself that I thought enough of him to make him an officer.
When I saw Philip the next morning I’d recovered enough aplomb to remark, “I won’t put your reprimand in the Log.”
“Very well, sir.” He sounded indifferent.
“Just don’t argue with me again.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He stared glumly at the simulscreen.
My irritation flared anew. “Is that all you have to say?”
He spun to face me. “What do you want me to say?” he shouted. “Just tell me, I’ll say it!”
Stunned, I could only stare.
“You told me I was free to knock at your hatch, and you tore into me when I did. In your cabin you said you respect me, you even shook hands as if we were friends. Then you chewed me out in front of Gregor and Dray like I was a rank cadet!”
He hurled his ribbed cap at the chair. “Then you told me you weren’t serious about chewing me out, except yesterday you reprimanded me, but now you tell me it won’t go on the Log! How would I know what to say to you? Nothing makes sense!” Enraged, he met my glare.
A long time passed. Finally his eyes dropped; his face grew pink; at last he said in a small voice, “I’m very sorry, sir. Please forgive what I said.”
My eyes bored into him. He fidgeted, blushed a deeper red, said humbly, “What would you like me to do, sir?”
Still I didn’t speak.
Desperate, he blurted, “Should I go to my quarters, sir? Until you’re ready to deal with me?”
“No. Stay.” I could imagine how he thought I might deal with him. Summary dismissal from the Service. Confinement in the brig. At the least, the worst caning of his life. Any middy could expect similar consequences after such an outburst to his Captain, regardless of the provocation.
The trouble was that Philip was right. I stared blindly past the glittering lights of my console. When I’d been a midshipman on Hibernia, Captain Haag was remote, austere. Coming into his presence I felt a very young middy indeed, anxious not to call his notice to myself by some foolish lapse.
But Hibernia was a fully manned ship, where three lieutenants served between me and the Captain. My contacts were primarily with the lieutenants, and even they were objects of fear and respect. Captain Haag’s confidants were his lieutenants or his friend the Chief Engineer, not a lowly middy.
On Challenger there were only Philip, Dray, and myself. Lonely, insecure, frightened, I’d come to rely too heavily on Philip Tyre, and then rebuffed the midshipman every time he responded to my demand for familiarity.
So now Philip had made a critical blunder, pushed over the edge by my contradictory demands. I’d whipsawed him until he lost control, and to punish him for it seemed morally wrong.
But not to punish him would confuse him all the more. How could I expect him to maintain the proper distance if I failed to react to even a gross violation of propriety?
“Well, now.” Coolly I studied the offending middy. “What am I to do with you?”
He mumbled, “I don’t know, sir.”
“Neither do I. Eight demerits, for a start. Work them off within the week. And I withdraw my promise to you; if you exceed ten demerits you will be caned, like any other midshipman in any other ship.”
“Yes, sir!”
“I’m sorry I confused you. We are the only officers aboard, except for Dray, so you may feel free to knock at my hatch. I may lash out at you, but that is my prerogative. Knock anyway.”
A sheen of sweat dampened his forehead; he dared make no move to wipe it.
“Philip, I respect you, as I said before. Nonetheless, I am Captain and you are a midshipman, and you’ll speak to me with courtesy. You will contain any further outbursts until you can deli
ver them to the bulkhead in the privacy of your wardroom. Is that quite clear?”
Philip nodded vigorously. “Very clear, sir.”
“You’re confined to the wardroom for the rest of the day. Reflect, if you will, on how lenient I’ve been. But I wonder if something else is bothering you, that caused you to lose control.”
“No, sir, nothing. I—I didn’t get much sleep last night, but that’s no excuse.”
“Why didn’t you sleep?”
He colored. “Gregor, sir. He—I, uh, had a long talk with him.”
“He was upset?”
Philip bit his lip before he answered frankly. “A closer word would be hysterical, sir. It took a while before I could get him to listen.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. I think he’ll be all right.”
“Very well.” It wasn’t the time to explore that situation. “Dismissed.” He fled the bridge.
16
SEAMAN ELRON CLINGER HOVERED near death, his skull fractured. I ordered his hands tied to the sides of his bed, and sent Elena Bartel about her duties with orders to check on him from time to time. I couldn’t afford to spare a full-time nurse, and in his case I hadn’t the inclination.
At my bidding Kerren conducted simulated laser drills at frequent intervals, for the crewmen training in the comm room. Deke, Eddie Boss, and Walter Dakko were among those chosen for training.
Mr. Tzee paced behind the consoles as the drills progressed, correcting tie targeting on the trainees’ screens. Deke showed no interest whatsoever until Walter Dakko leaned over and quietly explained that hitting imaginary targets with the imaginary laser was just like scoring points in Arcvid. I tried to imagine Walter Dakko pumping Unibucks into an Arcvid console. Perhaps he’d been out with Chris ...
“Lord God, today is September 18, 2198, on the U.N.S. Challenger. We ask you to bless us, to bless our voyage, and to bring health and well-being to all aboard.”
I waited for the murmured “Amen” of the assembled passengers and crew. I’d led the traditional evening prayer countless times, yet even now it brought a lump to my throat.
“Tonight I have an announcement,” I said soberly. “In some three hours I shall cut the acceleration of our thrusters. We will have achieved the maximum speed we shall ever attain, and our course hereafter will be in the hands of Lord God.”
“Are we out of fuel?” Old Mrs. Ovaugh, her fear evident.
“We have some reserves with which to maneuver, Mrs. Ovaugh, in case it’s necessary. Other than that, we have spent all our propellant.”
“Could we increase our speed using it all?” It was the first time I’d heard Mr. Pierce speak.
“Yes. Every moment of acceleration increases our speed. But then we’d be entirely helpless to maneuver.”
Someone said, “But we’d be going home faster.”
I hadn’t meant to initiate a policy review. “We began broadcasting our position over a month ago, and we’ve dropped radio beacons along our route. Our transmissions will reach Earth decades before we do.”
Chris Dakko cautiously raised his hand. I nodded. “If the messages don’t get through,” he asked, “wouldn’t the extra speed make a difference?”
I sighed, knowing I should have managed to avoid this discussion. “We might cut our travel time from seventy-six years to seventy-two with the remaining propellant,” I said. “But I won’t leave the ship entirely disabled. That,” I said over rising murmurs of protest, “is already decided.”
Elena Bartel raised her hand. I was grateful the crew knew better than to speak up without permission. “Sir, what good are our fuel reserves? What could we maneuver away from, without being able to Fuse?”
“Would you care to impact with an asteroid at one-quarter light-speed?” That silenced them for the moment. “The discussion is over,” I said firmly. “Mr. Tyre, Mr. Attani, report to the bridge an hour after the meal.” I sat.
Still the angry murmurs persisted. I tried to ignore them. As the stewards began to serve the meal Mr. Tzee approached my table with diffidence. “Sir, would you consider—”
I slammed the table so the silverware jumped, as did the two elderly passengers at my side. “I will not!” I roared. “Back to your place!” My outburst silenced the hall, and it was minutes before conversation began anew.
Our dinner consisted mostly of our dwindling stores; it would be many weeks before our laborious efforts at hydroponics resulted in edible crops. Daily I’d watched crewmen haul water and adjust the lighting in the plant chambers, and I’d set an example by helping.
Cautious buds had poked their heads above the sand and had begun to thrive. They shot upward with encouraging speed, tended by men whose very survival depended on their success. Embryonic tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans were visible if one looked closely.
I’d calculated, with Emmett Branstead’s assistance, that our new crops would be ready for harvest just as our food stores dwindled to near nothing. For a time we would be on very short rations indeed, but we continued to expand our hydroponics efforts, so the food supply would gradually increase.
No one at my table spoke to me, perhaps not willing to risk another tirade. When the meal was ended, I hurried back to the bridge to relieve Dray. His salute was short of contemptuous, but not by much. He left without a word.
The readouts flashed on the console screen. Our thrusters had performed magnificently, never overheating. Still, I would be glad to power down.
Irritated at Dray’s manner, I called up the day’s laser firing drills while waiting for my officers. Two shifts of sailors had practiced today. Naturally, more than one work detail was trained for each of our critical tasks, in case crewmen were put out of action. I followed the book in that regard, though I saw little point in it. If comm room personnel were knocked out, for example, the ship was almost certainly lost. The aliens would inject their viruses, hurl the acid that ate through our hull.
Walter Dakko, Ms. Bartel, and Deke continually improved their scores, as expected. The other group—young Jonie, Mr. Kovaks, and a transpop called Ratchet—wasn’t doing as well. I made note to have Mr. Tzee spend extra time with them, then remembered I’d just screamed at Mr. Tzee in front of the ship’s company. Heaven knew what cooperation I would get from him henceforth.
A knock; I opened the hatch without looking to see who it was. Philip saluted stiffly. “Midshipman Tyre reporting, sir. Permission to—”
“Come in.” I went back to my console. I’d noticed in the Log that Philip was slowly working off his demerits, dutifully logging each session in the exercise room. Since our confrontation four days earlier, he had retreated into stiff formality, but without sullenness. I matched his manner. “Would you care to sit, Mr. Tyre?”
“Thank you, sir.” He took his place at his console, proper as a green young middy on his first watch. I wondered what I might say to relax him, then beat a hasty retreat. I had caused Philip enough problems.
A few minutes later another knock. “Let him in, Philip.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He jumped as if shot.
Gregor Attani came to attention in the corridor just outside the bridge. His salute was perfect, as if practiced for hours before a mirror. Perhaps it had been. “Permission to enter the bridge, sir.”
“Granted.”
“Thank you.” The cadet’s voice was icy, the words ejected as if through unwilling teeth.
“Stand here, Mr. Attani. Behind the console.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
I suppressed my annoyance at the frigid response. “I called you to the bridge to witness powering down the thrusters. Should our journey run its course, this will be remembered as the moment that changed Challenger from a powered ship to a missile. I thought you would like to be present.” I took the caller. “Engine room, prepare for power-down.”
Dray’s response was immediate. “Power-down, aye aye.” Knowing what was to come, the Chief must have been standing by the caller.
It was done. We hurtled through nothingness at some seventy-one thousand statute miles per second, and would continue for over seventy years. Our choice was made, and we had to live out the consequences. Unless our transmissions were received at home, I would emerge from Challenger as a doddering old man, if at all. A mere two generations would pass before our rescue.
“Lord God preserve us,” I said, chastened.
“Amen.” Philip seemed affected as well.
The moment passed. In a lighter tone I said, “Well, back to everyday problems. Mr. Tyre, have you reorganized the recycler’s watch yet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you begun teaching the cadet navigation?” I nodded at Gregor.
“Yes, sir, just yesterday. Chapter One of Lambert and Greeley.” We’d all started with The Elements of Astronavigation, believing L & G impossible to master, learning with dismay that it was just the forerunner of more daunting texts.
“Very well.” Instructing cadets and middies was the job of a senior lieutenant, but Philip was competent in navigation and our only available teacher.
I groped for some genial remark to offer Gregor, then decided he was letting his resentment show too clearly. Perhaps I’d overreacted in having him caned. Still, he ought to have the sense not to show his feelings. I was, after all, Captain.
“That’s all.”
“Thank you for having us, sir.” Philip’s tone was polite, his manner exemplary. He turned for the hatch. Gregor said nothing. His salute was perfunctory.
Beans and other vegetables had been planted, the new crew broken in, the rebellion crushed, the ship set under weigh for home. Our most pressing tasks accomplished, we settled into a dull shipboard routine.
Now we faced the demands of a daily struggle to survive: the drudgery of hauling water to the cabins in which our precious plants grew, tiring hours of laser practice by our new crewmen, the constant toil of laundry, food preparation, maintenance, and repairs.
Challenger's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 2) Page 32