Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  “Aye aye, sir. Welcome aboard.” An elegant, slim figure, graying. “First Lieutenant Jent Paulson reporting, sir.”

  Rightly, he didn’t offer his hand, but I extended mine.

  “You’re senior?”

  “Yes, sir, at the moment.” That could change, but it was unlikely to. Admiralty tended to be sensitive to the niceties of hierarchy, where possible.

  My gaze traveled to the next officer. “Lieutenant Darwin Sleak reporting, sir.”

  “Of course. Everything under control?”

  Sleak was our systems officer, and I’d met him at Devon. He’d gone aloft two days earlier, to make sure all was ready for the returning cadets. Here on Farside, he was responsible for our life-support systems: recycling, gravitrons, air purification. Groundside, he did little more than supervise Quartermaster Serenco.

  At Paulson’s gesture a thin young woman stepped forward, smiled pleasantly. “Lieutenant Ngu Bien, sir. Classroom programs and training.”

  “Very well.”

  Paulson beckoned to one of the remaining two figures, who stepped forward. “Lieutenant Ardwell Crossburn, sir. Maintenance and control systems.”

  I fought to keep the venom from my tone. “What are you doing here?”

  The short, paunchy man in his early forties drew himself up. “I’ve been here some years, sir. Since our cruise in Hibernia, in fact.”

  I grunted, too disgusted to speak. Toward the end of my first fateful cruise, Ardwell Crossburn had been assigned to me as a replacement officer, by some Captain no doubt delighted to be rid of him. Crossburn had a conspiratorial turn of mind, and a habit of asking seemingly innocent questions that suggested he would in time uncover whatever misdeeds were being concealed. Worse, he claimed to have the ear of his uncle, Director of Fleet Ops Admiral Brentley.

  “I trust you are well, sir?”

  My glare caused him to drop back a pace. Paulson and Sleak exchanged glances, but of course said nothing. They couldn’t know of the endless trouble Crossburn had caused on our long return voyage on Hibernia, until I’d cast all caution to the winds in dealing with him.

  Lieutenant Paulson hesitated, cleared his throat, moved on to the last of the group. “First Midshipman Thomas Keene, sir.”

  “Very well.” I nodded curtly, which was all the middy deserved or expected.

  “Our other middies are with the cadets, except for Mr. Tenere, here. Obviously he was able to locate you.”

  “Yes. He ran into me in the Station corridor.” Adam smiled weakly.

  “Good. Normally we don’t send a middy unescorted to Earth-port Station, but Mr. Crossburn suggested it. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Yes. Come to my office. You too, Mr. Sleak. Midshipman Keene, take my duffel to my cabin. The rest of you are dismissed.” I turned on my heel.

  It took me a moment to orient myself and set out for the Commandant’s wing. My usual haunts had been far from the warren that held the Commandant’s offices and apartment, though I’d been sent there on one memorable occasion. While Sleak trailed behind, Paulson matched my pace, wise enough to keep silent. Half the trick to being a good lieutenant was knowing when to leave the Captain alone. I wished Tolliver would take note.

  Still seething, I stalked into my new office. The sergeant at the outer desk rose. A dark-skinned woman, somewhere around forty. She saluted. “Sergeant Kina Obutu reporting, sir.”

  “You’re my staff?”

  “Staff sergeant first, sir. I run your office during nominal day. At night we leave a middy in charge.”

  “Very well.” Chairs lined the outer cabin, occasionally occupied by unfortunate cadets. I crossed to my new office, took a deep breath, flung open the hatch. Rather, I tried to. It was locked.

  I spun around, feeling a fool. “What the devil?”

  “He didn’t leave it open?” Sergeant Obutu raised her eyebrow.

  I shook my head. “Why would it be—where’s the code?”

  “The Commandant has it, sir.” Paulson.

  “I’m the Command—”

  He said quickly, “I meant Commandant Kearsey. Sorry, sir.”

  Obutu asked, “Is there a copy in the safe?”

  Mr. Sleak seemed embarrassed. “I’ll check right away, sir. Excuse me.”

  “I’ll look too, sir.” Paulson hurried after him.

  I nodded, too furious for words. I paced the outer office, ignoring the sergeant, who stood alongside her desk with a placid expression. I was working myself up to withering sarcasm when a thought intervened.

  “Sarge, why is the hatch locked in the first place?”

  “The Comm—Captain Kearsey always locked it at night, sir.”

  “Wrong question. Why does his hatch have a lock?”

  “All our offices have them, sir.” Her expression was carefully neutral.

  I couldn’t hide my amazement. “How long has this been going on?”

  The outer hatch swung open. Lieutenant Sleak, followed by Paulson. He shook his head. “No code in the security safe, sir.”

  Obutu answered, “Since I came here, sir. Five years that I know of.”

  I glared at them both. “What else is locked around here?”

  Sleak said, “The mess hall, I think. That’s about—and the officers’ apartments, of course.”

  “Of course?” No one responded. I snarled, “OF COURSE?”

  The outer hatch opened. Tolliver saw the others, saluted. “Good aftern—”

  “Tolliver, they lock the hatches here!”

  He said only, “Good heavens.”

  Sergeant Obutu said helplessly, “Sorry, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Sleak ventured, “I’m class of ’72, sir. I remember.”

  “We’re trying to teach them to be officers! If we expect thieves in the night, that’s what we’ll get. These joeys are officer candidates, not transpop crewmen! What idiot ordered the locks put on?”

  Sleak said evenly, “Commandant Kearsey, sir.”

  “Yes. Um.” I rubbed my eyes. “It must have been the first day they told us. ‘Nothing is locked at Academy. You will conduct yourselves as gentlemen. A gentleman doesn’t take things from another’s home, or sneak into places where he’s not welcome.’”

  “Second day,” Tolliver said. “The first was haircuts and clothes and making beds, about twenty times.”

  “Whatever.” I prodded the hatch. “Get this bloody lock off. Torch it if you must. Take the locks off Admin and the mess hall and wherever else you find them. Do the same groundside.”

  Sleak said, “Aye aye, sir.” It was his responsibility, as systems officer. “Does that include the safes?”

  “Not if there are weapons or cash or confidential papers. That’s going too far.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  “My hatch first, damn it! I’ll be in my cabin!” I stormed out.

  I’d barely unpacked my duffel before Sergeant Obutu buzzed me on the caller. “Your office is, ah, accessible, sir.”

  “Is Paulson still there?”

  “Waiting, sir.”

  “Very well, I’ll be up.”

  Moments later I was back in the anteroom, restraining an urge to slick my hair and check the shine on my shoes. I took a deep breath, stepped through the threshold into my new office.

  I crossed the room crowded with furniture, eased myself into the Commandant’s leather seat, behind the Commandant’s desk. No lightning bolt struck me. I willed myself to relax. “Shut the hatch. Sit.” I pointed to a chair.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Lieutenant Paulson took a place near my desk.

  “Why is that man Crossburn here?”

  “I have no idea, sir. I presume he was assigned by BuPers.” That meant nothing. Everyone’s assignment came through BuPers.

  “How much trouble has he made?”

  “Trouble?” Paulson studied me curiously. “None that I know of, sir. He’s a trifle odd in some respects, but he carries out his
duties. He spends his spare time in his cabin, writing.”

  On Hibernia the lunatic had nearly caused a mutiny, interrogating officers and crew about the tragedies we’d suffered, writing his secret conclusions in a little black diary to show his uncle upon our return. When his inquiries had begun to imply I was an accomplice in the death of Captain Haag, I’d put a stop to it, consigning him to busywork in the ship’s launch for the remainder of our cruise.

  I drummed my fingers on the gleaming desktop. “Does he ask questions?”

  “Pardon?” Paulson leaned forward. “Questions?”

  “About the base. About incidents that have taken place.”

  He shrugged. “At times. He was most interested in the shuttle crash, two years ago. I believe he fancies himself something of a historian.”

  I snorted. “I can imagine. I want him out of here.”

  “Yes, sir. I believe you’d have to take that up with BuPers. I have no authority.”

  I growled, “I’m no cadet. Don’t lecture me on procedures.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all.”

  He rose, saluted, left me.

  I sat, head in hands. This wouldn’t do. I’d been on base a mere half an hour and already I’d alienated my first lieutenant. I stood to pace, thrusting aside a chair that blocked my path. I strode the few steps to the bulkhead, turned back, passed the desk, squeezed past the table. Finally I returned to my seat, took up the caller.

  “Sarge, call BuPers at Lunapolis. Get me whoever’s in charge of our staffing.” Waiting, I turned to the console alongside my desk. I called up a menu, explored idly. Personnel records, paymaster reports, supply logs. I’d have to learn the system, but I knew virtually all our data would be accessible from this console.

  I switched to cadet records, examined one at random. Everything was there, from original applications through ID photos, to the latest grades.

  The speaker buzzed. “Seafort.”

  “Captain Higbee, BuPers. What can I do for you?”

  “I have a lieutenant I want replaced, sir.” Like most Captains on the Naval list, Higbee was my senior.

  “For what reason?”

  Wasn’t a Captain free to choose his staff? I tried not to let my annoyance show. “We’ve, ah, had problems. His name is Crossburn.”

  “What has he done wrong?”

  “Nothing at present,” I said lamely.

  “I see.” A long pause. “Captain, perhaps you’re unaware of the staffing problems we’ve—”

  “The man is a time bomb. I want him off my base!”

  “Yes, you’ve made that clear; I’m afraid I can’t help you. All current assignments are frozen. Though I suppose if he’ll volunteer for the fleet he’ll be snapped up.”

  “Lord God, no. Keep him off a ship!” I pounded my forehead. What was I doing? I’d just muffed a chance to get rid of him. Still, I couldn’t inflict Crossburn on a ship of the line. He could destroy morale in no time, and if his ship encountered the aliens...

  “If he’s so much trouble, court-martial him,” said Higbee. “I’m afraid we can’t help; we’re not swapping officers until the emergency is over. Better at present to keep men in jobs they know. The order comes directly from Fleet Ops. Is there anything else?”

  “I—No, sir.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “With your permission, I’d like to speak to Admiral Duhaney.” It was insolent, but not as insolent as going behind his back.

  A pause, When he responded his tone was cool. “As you wish, Commandant.”

  “Thank you.” I rang off, stood to pace. Was I making too big an issue of Crossburn? Surely I could manage to live with him. I wondered if Farside Base had a ship’s launch. Well, I could always have him polish the Hull, half buried in the Lunar dust Outside.

  I blundered into a coffee table, barked my shin. Cursing, I retreated to the desk. “Sergeant Oba—Ob—Sarge!”

  A moment later she was in the hatchway. “Obutu,” she said calmly.

  I nursed my leg. “See if we can reach Admiral Duhaney in Fleet Ops.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” She turned to go.

  “And have someone get this bloody furniture out of here!”

  Her face was expressionless. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Out. The furniture. Have them take it.” Now I sounded a complete idiot. I took a deep breath. “Leave my desk and chair. The console, of course. That leather chair near the desk can stay, and the couch against the bulkhead. I want everything else gone.”

  “Aye aye, sir. May I ask why?”

  “So I can walk.” A Captain needed to pace. Hadn’t Commandant Kearsey ever trod a bridge? Good Lord.

  “Very well, sir.”

  Normally the mess hall would be full of cadets at their long plank tables, poised to leap to their feet when the officers filed in. Now, during term break, fewer than two hundred were seated, and the meal was more informal.

  The officers’ table was round, like those in a ship’s dining hall. It was the only round table in the room, perhaps to emphasize the difference between officers and cadets. Though we ate the same food as cadets, the officers’ meals were served by stewards, whereas at each cadet table a designated server brought trays full of serving dishes from the line to their comrades.

  Our steward passed salad and bread. When he left, Lieutenant Ngu Bien nudged Paulson. “There’s the Chambers boy. Looks like they let him back in.”

  Paulson said, “I’m surprised he can walk so soon.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “A fracas with two of his tablemates, sir. Just pushing and shoving, until Cadet Chambers lost his head and poured a pitcher of milk over them.”

  “I see.”

  “Caned, of course. By the Commandant himself. He’s been fed on the corridor deck outside mess hall for the last two weeks.”

  Appropriate. Cadets had to learn to conduct themselves like officers. Only in the privacy of the wardroom could middies release their natural tensions in horseplay. Certainly not in front of their betters. Though once, when Cadet Corporal Tolliver had pushed me too far ... I pushed away the thought.

  “You’ve kept our troublemakers aloft, then?”

  “Leave was denied for the problem joeys, and the few others with no good place to go, sir.”

  “How are we keeping them busy?” Until the new term, classes wouldn’t be in session.

  Ms. Bien. “Bill Radz and I are taking them Outside this afternoon.”

  “The whole lot of them?” She nodded. Well, the discipline and exercise would do them good. I remembered my own tremulous first steps with magneboots, on the Hull.

  “Would you like to come along, sir? We’re giving some of them thrustersuits, and they’ve all heard about your jet into Hibernia’s lock.”

  I gagged on my coffee. The huge alien form had emerged from behind Telstar. Our sailors were helpless in the gig. The acid. Fuse, Vox. Fuse the ship.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  In desperation I’d jetted my thrustersuit full bore toward Hibernia’s lock, tried to do a fliparound as Sarge had once shown us, waited a bit too long and crashed into the airlock with bone-jarring force. Still, I’d gotten there, and Vax Holser had instantly Fused.

  “Of course I’m all right.” I wiped coffee from my chin. Despite the later incident, the freedom of a T-suit was one of the few joys I remembered from cadet days.

  I looked up. “Yes, I’d like to go along.”

  Two hours later, at the training lock, I was perspiring in my thrustersuit, trying to conceal my impatience. Suiting nearly a hundred frisky teens called for the patience of Job. The two officers assigned to the task were coping as well as could be expected. Even with the full cooperation of the eager cadets, it took time to recheck every clasp, every helmet seal.

  “Stand still, Johns! Is there a spider in your suit?” Sergeant Radz gave her helmet a final twist.

  Behind me, a youngster giggled.
I snapped, “Be silent!”

  “Aye aye, sir.” A chastened tone.

  “Cadet Drew always laughs, sir.” Radz favored him with a withering frown. “I’m sure he and I will find something funny in barracks tonight.”

  The boy gulped. “I’m sorry, sir.” He was almost as tall as Sarge, but his voice was barely broken.

  I grunted, turned to the training lock. Though it was far larger than the VIP lock we’d used from the shuttle, the cadets’ suits were bulky, and it had to cycle three times before we were all Outside.

  The officers broadcast to the cadets on one frequency, using a second to communicate among themselves. Now, as an adult, I could appreciate the logistics necessary to maintain order.

  While waiting for the last cadets to emerge from the lock I kicked at the Lunar dust. It spurted lazily and fell in slow motion, a foot away. I looked around with a twinge of guilt. When I was a cadet it would have brought me a rebuke, though I was never sure why. Lord God knew there was plenty of dust to kick.

  “By twos, now.” I jumped as my radio blared. “To the Hull. Maintain your distance.” I hung back with Lieutenant Bien as the troop dutifully started forward. North of the lock stretched the familiar pockmarked terrain, unchanged since Farside Base was built and for eons before.

  To the south sat the Hull, a life-size replica of a ship of the line, half buried in the Lunar surface, so that from stern to prow only the upper half of its length protruded.

  A U.N.N.S. starship was shaped like a pencil with two or three foam rubber disks slid down to its midpoint and pressed together. Forward of the disks were cargo holds; aft were the lower engine room and fusion motors, tapering to the fusion drive shaft at the very stern. The disks held cabins, crew quarters, exercise rooms, and the hydroponics and recycling that sustained our lives.

  Generations of cadets had clambered over the Hull, learning first the mere trick of walking, and later, how to carry tools and power packs they might need if sent Outside for repairs. At the end came the T-suit training.

  All of today’s group had mastered at least the art of walking, though many had an ungainly lope, and a few still carefully regulated the size and timing of their steps. But none crashed into the cadet ahead, or sprawled facedown in the dust.