Prisoner's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 3)

by David Feintuch

I held on to the carrier door. “You did as you should.” I made my voice sharp as I turned to the techs. “You men are U.N.A.F., aren’t you? You volunteered for this duty!”

  Swallowing, Jameson turned from the blistered corpse. “He shouldn’t have tried to take your carrier, but...what’s left to fight for, Captain? It’s over.”

  Over? We had duty. While life remained—somehow, we had to...had to...What? I sank onto the carrier seat, my back to the grisly remains.

  “Sir?” Tolliver waited, but I said nothing, lost in desolation. Tentatively he said, “Maybe Rawlings was right about not staying here. Where they could hit us with rocks, I mean.”

  “They can throw rocks anywhere.”

  “But they’re aiming them here.” He peered at the sky. “Have you decided what to do?” I shook my head. “Could we go somewhere else, sir, while you think?”

  My voice was dull. “All right. You and—what’s your name? Samuels? Get his...body out of there. How far does this road take us?”

  “To the celuwall factory, sir. About twenty miles.”

  “Bring rations and water.”

  I sat in the passenger seat, head down, hugging myself while we bounced past broken and uprooted trees toward the forest beyond.

  We set up camp under a leafy canopy near the end of the road. Here, in silent virgin forest, one could imagine all was well in the Venturas.

  The others huddled near a fire Tolliver had started with his pistol. I sat alone in the carrier. Bezrel brought me coffee; I took occasional sips until it grew cold and stale.

  The day passed. Bezrel came with Q-rations. I left them untouched. When Tolliver tried to prod me further I ordered him away. After they’d all settled to sleep by the fire in blankets they’d scrounged from the rubble of the base, I remained in the carrier, staring through the windshield into the night.

  It was over. I had done my duty, and had failed. The fish were masters of Hope Nation. Sooner or later they’d obliterate Centraltown, and do whatever it was they lived for, and go on.

  I would die here.

  Annie would die in Centraltown, where I’d abandoned her.

  We had no way to reach Eastern Continent; our only heli was gone. No way to call for help; the radios were smashed. No way to fight the fish; the only laser emplacements we had were on Orbit Station, and we had no way to go aloft. The dented shuttle was locked in the ruined hangar, and even if we could get it out, it was too damaged to put us into orbit. Even if I reached the Station, I wouldn’t be of use; William fired our lasers with pinpoint accuracy on his own. The Station had no ship for me to sail, and no crew to help man it.

  It was over.

  The night air grew even cooler. I hunched in the seat of the carrier, jacket wrapped around me, struggling for a way to give meaning to what was left of our lives. A way to fight on.

  What were the fish, and why did they follow us? What did they want? How could we make them stop coming? If we couldn’t defeat them with ships and lasers, how could we prevail? Was humankind destined to fall? Were we to be driven from our hard-won planets back to dark caves, to raise fearful children who never knew bright cities? How could we stop these marauders who lunged at us from the void?

  In my desperation, I clasped hands and prayed to Lord God, though I knew full well that His face was forever turned from me, and that my prayer was worse than useless. I sat, empty and alone, until the sky lightened with the forlorn promise of morn. I raised my head, left the carrier, walked on unsteady legs to the embers of the fire. I stooped for twigs and small branches from the pile they’d made the night before.

  I froze, not daring to breathe.

  After a time, I warmed my hands at the fire in the stillness of the dawn. Tolliver woke, raised his head. I stared at him, heart pounding. I could not speak of what I might do.

  But I knew a way.

  Part 4

  May, in the year of our Lord 2200

  22

  “COFFEE, SIR?” TOLLIVER SAT beside me.

  I wrapped my hands around the steaming cup to steal its warmth. “Assemble the men.”

  “The me—Aye aye, sir.” It must have seemed an odd request; Bezrel and the two techs constituted our entire force, and were all within calling distance.

  A moment later I faced them. “We’re going back.” Samuels muttered something like an objection; I directed my words to him. “I’m your commanding officer. I said we’re going back to the base.”

  “Why, sir? It’s dangerous.” It was almost a challenge, but he’d called me “sir”; he hadn’t crossed the line to mutiny.

  “It’s been fifteen hours and they’ve thrown no more rocks. We can’t stay here indefinitely, and there’s work to do.”

  Jameson stirred. “Work? At what? Everything’s wrecked; we’d just as well live in the wild until we’re sure it’s safe. They say there was a deserter once—”

  “Yes, Captain Grone. I’ve heard of him.” And met him. “You’ll go with me for now. When we’re done, I’ll give you a chance to come back here to stay.” He made as if to protest. I overrode him. “That’s an order.”

  His discipline held. “Yes, sir.”

  “Into the carrier.”

  We rumbled back along the trail. As we neared the base my fingers closed over the armrest. We maneuvered past rubble and downed trees, pulled up between the shattered admin building and the damaged hangar. “Mr. Tolliver, scout for weapons; there’ll be laser rifles somewhere. While you’re at it, find us food. Mattresses and blankets too. And tents or field equipment.”

  Tolliver looked dubiously at the bombed-out base. “Aye aye, sir.”

  “You other men come with me.” I started toward the hangar.

  The side door was locked, but we climbed through gaping holes in the broken wall. Inside, the hangar was dark and cold.

  The shuttle, one of the U.N.A.F.’s smaller models, sat in the center of the hangar bay, its stubby wings folded back. My stomach knotted as I approached; were it too badly damaged my plans would crumble. I circled the craft, stopping at the starboard side.

  The shuttle had been peppered by debris as if some great shotgun had blasted it with scraps of shot and broken nails. The pilot’s side window was completely gone. Jagged pieces of transplex were all that remained of two portholes.

  On the port side near the bow, the skin of the craft was scraped and dented. Underneath the shuttle a large chunk of cement lay on the floor in fragments. I reached up, ran my fingers across the alumalloy panels. Perhaps at that spot critical wiring ran below the skin. But if not, the damage wasn’t fatal.

  I opened the control panel, slapped open the hatch, clambered in.

  The passenger cabin was almost untouched. A few chips of concrete lay where they had fallen through the portholes, but they were nothing; the middy could sweep them up in minutes. I moved on to the cockpit. The chunk of debris that smashed the pilot’s window had fetched up against the dash. The copilot’s console was smashed; wires dangled onto the yoke. The second throttle ball was snapped clean off.

  Would the ship fly? I leaned out of the missing pilot’s window and shouted, “Everyone stand clear!” I opened the ignition keypad. If a password had been set...”

  It hadn’t. The shuttle responded to the default code. I flipped on battery power. In a moment the puter responded with a green light. “Checklist, oral,” I told it.

  A tinny voice. “Checklist begins. Portholes thirty-three and twelve not responding to sensor check; cabin pressure unachievable. Aerodynamic integrity is compromised. Damage to fuselage, port side. Copilot’s fuel gauge is inoperative. Copilot’s cabin pressure gauge inoperative. Copilot’s altimeter inop—”

  “Halt checklist. Bypass copilot’s console. Reassign all controls to pilot’s console.” Why couldn’t I talk to a puter without beginning to sound like one? “Resume checklist.”

  A few moments later the puter ground to a halt. “Fuel at capacity. Navaids programmed to anticipated location, orbit station. Craft is
inoperable due to checklist items one, two, three, nine, twelve through fifty-four, and sixty through—”

  “Cancel report. Do we have control of jet landing engine, rudder, ailerons, and flaps from pilot’s console?”

  “Affirmative.” Did the puter sound peevish?

  “Report on rocket engine damage.”

  “No known engine damage.”

  I glanced out the porthole. Bezrel stood well clear, his mouth agape. Jameson was at his side. “Low power jet engine check.”

  “Aft, stern, and starboard sensors indicate the craft is inside hangar. Engine check not possible within hangar.”

  “Yes, it is.” Our brakes would hold us. As long as I shut down after a few seconds, the hangar wouldn’t accumulate enough exhaust fumes to roast Jameson and Bezrel. If we scorched the rear wall, so be it.

  “Safety regulations do not permit jet engine check at any power level within hangar.”

  “Override safety regs.”

  The pilot’s console switched on. A light turned green; the console beeped three warning tones; the engines caught with a sudden roar. They muted almost instantly as the puter throttled down to minimum power. Below, Bezrel and the tech held their hands over their ears.

  “Active control systems check.”

  Perhaps the puter had given up on me; at any rate, he made no further protest. Ailerons, rudder, and flaps moved ponderously as the puter went through a series of checks. “Engine off.”

  The green lights blinked off; the last echoes of the engine died. “Low power test indicates response from pilot’s console at low power, and no apparent engine damage. Control systems respond normally.”

  “Very well. End of test.” I reached for the battery switch.

  “Warning: low power engine test does not verify that engine will perform at full power. Control systems damage may become evident only at suborbital—”

  “End report.” I didn’t need to hear that; I didn’t even want it suggested. I left the pilot’s seat, stopped short. “Contact Orbit Station.”

  A silence. Then, “No contact.”

  I swallowed a chill of foreboding. The shuttle was under the hangar roof. Surely that was the reason. “Systems off.”

  I climbed down, crossed the hangar floor to the tech and the boy. “This hangar was equipped for repairs. Find me ladders and welding torches.”

  “Can I ask what for, sir?” Jameson.

  “The hangar door is jammed shut. We’re going to cut it free.”

  “That would take days!”

  I studied the door. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look at that shuttle. You expect to fly it?” The tech grimaced at the dented fuselage.

  My voice sharpened. “I expect you to cut away the hangar door. Get what we need.” I let my hand slide toward my pistol.

  “Yes...sir.” He turned away.

  Tolliver poked his head through the broken wall. He climbed through the debris, loped toward me with a grin, snapped a pro forma salute. “We’ll eat today, sir. And I found weapons. Samuels, bring in the knapsack.”

  “Good.” I studied the hangar door. “Tolliver, you’d better take charge here. These techs are not...I want the door cut away.” I turned back to the shuttle.

  “What for, sir?”

  I spun around. “You too? I gave an order!”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Tolliver seemed unfazed. “I wasn’t questioning you. I’d work better if I understood, though.”

  “You would, eh?” I came toward him, my voice menacing. His eyes were bleary. His bandage was stained with sweat and dirt. My rage dissolved. “I need to get the shuttle out of the hangar, Mr. Tolliver.”

  “You can’t launch her, sir. With the portholes out she’d break up before you could get her orbital.”

  “I know that. I don’t intend to go orbital.”

  “But...it isn’t a heli, sir. Her thrusters won’t handle low-level flight more than a few minutes without overheating.” He looked at me as if wondering if I’d forgotten.

  “I know that too. Mr. Tolliver, I want that doorway cleared.”

  His glance was skeptical, but he nodded.

  I peered upward, shielding my eyes against the glare.

  They hadn’t found ladders, but they’d brought scaffolding, which was more useful. The torches and acetylene tanks had been stowed in the hangar lockers.

  Tolliver had suggested we cut the couplings that anchored the door track to the hangar wall, but I vetoed that. The huge door was immensely heavy, and we couldn’t control which direction it would topple. And once the door fell to the ground, we’d have to cut it into movable pieces, to cart it out of our way.

  Instead, they were taking the door down a piece at a time.

  The bottommost sections were the easiest. Tolliver and a tech cut them loose; as soon as the scraps cooled, Bezrel, the other tech and I hauled them away. When the cutters showed signs of fatigue I bade them change places. Bezrel kept us supplied with water and softies he’d pried out of the dispenser.

  I didn’t have goggles; we’d only found two pair. After a time, dazzled by the cascade of white heat falling from the torches, I strolled again around the shuttle, looking for damage. Jameson detached himself from the others and wandered after me. I waited, steeling myself for more objections.

  He kicked the pavement. “Sorry about how I’ve been acting,” he said. “It’s just—we knew the risk of staying behind, but when you actually face it...it’s harder.”

  I nodded, much relieved. “I know.”

  “The fleet’s gone, the base is gone...the fish wipe out whatever we put against them.” He shivered. “Is the colony doomed, sir?”

  “It may be,” I said. He deserved honesty. “But we’re not dead yet.” I crossed to the hangar’s side door, found I could open it from the inside. “Let’s get some air.”

  “I’ll have to relieve Samuels in a minute.” He followed me outside.

  “How long have you been in system?” It gave me something to say.

  “Ten years.” He kicked at a surviving strand of grass. “I was in Engineering on the Station, then in Centraltown. They sent me here a year ago.”

  I grunted. “You’ve seen the place grow—”

  “You were right to relieve General Khartouf.” He averted his gaze.

  “I shouldn’t discuss that.” I realized how fatuous that sounded in the rubble of the ruined base. “In any event, he’s long gone. Mr. Eiferts would have made the base ready, if he’d had time.”

  “He was a mover.” Wearily, Jameson sat on the grass. He chewed at a blade, squinting at me. “We needed the generator fully on-line. If the Navy had stayed awhile longer—” The blade of grass dropped from his mouth.

  “They did their best.”

  Jameson swallowed, pointing at my shoulder. “Oh, Jesus!”

  I slapped at my jacket. A spider? A snake? No, idiot, Hope Nation has no animal life. “What are you—”

  His mouth working, Jameson lurched to his feet, fled to the hangar.

  What was wrong with the man? I turned, saw nothing. My glance strayed upward.

  “Lord save us!” I raced to the side door, as if the hangar’s pitiful shelter could protect us from the living dirigible a thousand feet above.

  I slammed the door behind me. “Tolliver! Break out the arms!”

  For a moment he gaped. “What’s—Aye aye, sir!” He scrambled off the scaffold. In the corner, Jameson retched.

  “Laser rifles! Shoulder missiles! Anything!” I was beside myself. Bezrel seemed confused. “Move, boy! Grab a gun!” I realized I had nothing but my pistol. Did it even have a charge? My hand fumbled at my holster. The green light glowed when I pressed the test. Charged or not, a puny pistol wouldn’t do much good.

  Tolliver raced back, a laser rifle in hand. “What is it, sir?”

  “Fish!” I crouched to the opening we’d cut in the bottom of the hangar door. I gestured skyward.

  Tolliver clutched the rifle as if a treasure
d toy, but shook his head. “Rifles won’t bother anything that big, sir.”

  The fish pulsed, its skin changing color briefly. It drifted lower.

  Bezrel raced back with a pair of laser rifles. I grabbed mine, flipped the safety, and waited for a full charge. When it beeped I knelt at the cut-away opening under the huge hangar door. I aimed at the underside of the fish. When I fired, colors swirled. A portion of the fish’s body seemed to deflate. Then the outer skin seemed to flow over itself, and the hole was gone.

  “My God.” Tolliver dropped onto one knee. He squeezed off a long burst that put an angry slash in the side of the fish.

  The fish settled ominously lower.

  I said, “Jameson, where’s Samuels?”

  “Running for the woods, last I saw.” The tech’s voice was acid.

  “Bezrel, come outside with me. Tolliver, you and Jameson cut those bloody track couplings off. Let the hangar door fall where it may.”

  Tolliver said doubtfully, “If we cut the door loose we’ll have no protection, sir.”

  I pointed at the bottom four feet they’d already severed. “What protection does this leave?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Hurry.”

  I ducked under the door and glanced up. The fish was a mere two hundred feet over the field.

  From inside, Tolliver’s voice. “Why are we trying to free the shuttle, sir?” He added, “I’ll do it, but I’d like to know why we’re suiciding rather than running for safety.”

  “We can get away in the shuttle.”

  “It’s built for orbital flight, not—”

  The fish lurched lower, its stern blowhole working. I growled, “Don’t you think I know that? Cut, Tolliver! Quick!” I sprinted toward the parade ground. Bezrel followed with his rifle. “Fire!” I gasped.

  “Where should I aim, sir?” He dropped to his knee, aiming.

  “Anywhere!” My beam burned a new hole in the descending fish. Above it, a ropy mass formed and began to swirl.

  The fish jerked, but drifted ever lower. Its tentacle swung. I warned, “Don’t let that hit you, boy! Jump clear if it lets fly!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Our laser fire raked the side of the great beast. Its skin began to repair the holes; the fish sank lower, tilting aft. Its appendage swung around, broke loose, sailed toward us.