At last the youngsters were assembled alongside the Hull. Lieutenant Bien organized most of them into squads, set them walking along the top of the Hull from one end to another. From time to time she varied the drill, sending one group into the drive shaft, another to the prow. The Hull had no jagged edges to rip their suits, but moving from one section to another, and over the disks, was tricky. Just edging past each other could be a problem for inexperienced cadets.
At the stern, Sergeant Radz had a few cadets making practice hops in jumpsuits. All in all, I appreciated the training more now than I had as a participant.
Radz keyed to my frequency. “Sir, would you be willing to demonstrate a jump?”
“Me?” I turned in astonishment. I was hardly an expert.
Like all sergeants everywhere, he was unafraid of rank. “Yes, sir, if you wouldn’t mind. They’d listen far more closely than if I were demonstrating.”
“No, I don’t—” Wasn’t that what I was here for, to train cadets? True, I hadn’t anticipated doing it in such hands-on fashion. I sighed. “Where would you have me jump?”
“From the prow to the drive shaft, if you’d like?”
“Thanks a lot,” I muttered. If I missed, I’d sail past the stern of the ship and look a complete fool. “I may not be good enough, Sarge.” I tried a little jump, spread my legs as I settled down.
“Sure you are, sir. You passed training, didn’t you?”
“Barely.” He took my resigned nod for approval, and keyed his mike to gather the cadets. While they assembled alongside the stern I nervously gauged my distances.
Managing a thrustersuit on Luna wasn’t quite so easy as on the Training Station aloft, or outside one of the eleven Training Fusers moored at its docks. Here at Farside, you had gravity to contend with. Not all that much, but enough. You had to use more propellant, and you couldn’t merely aim for the point you wanted to reach. You had to aim beyond it, allow gravity to hold you back. And though gravity was far lower than on Earth, inertia was just as great. When I’d crashed into Hibernia’s lock I could have broken my legs, despite the zero gravity.
“... in one hop, as the Commandant will now show you. Pay attention to his angle of ascent, and the point at which he squirts his thrusters to change course. You at the end, step back another ten meters.” He waited until they’d complied. “When you’re ready, sir.”
“Very well.” I keyed my mike to the general frequency. “Watch carefully. I only intend to do this once.” If I could do it at all. I loped alongside the Hull in the peculiar floating gait appropriate to the Lunar surface until at last I was at the stern. Clutching my straps, I keyed the jets, felt the lift, and quickly switched them off. I sailed up onto the prow, almost overshooting it to fall down the port side. I snapped on my magnetronics, allowed my boots to grasp the Hull, stiffened my knees. I peered down the length of the Hull to the drive shaft, more than a hundred meters away.
What had I gotten myself into? I groaned, then realized with dismay that my radio was on the cadets’ frequency. Cursing under my breath I switched channels.
Now or never. I estimated distance one last time, grasped the straps, keyed my jets.
I had no intention of going ballistic; what I wanted was to maintain a relatively steady height over the Hull. That meant varying the power in minute increments. I lifted, bent forward to angle the jets, tried to maintain the ideal balance between upward and forward motion. Below, the Hull drifted past.
More power, else I wouldn’t have enough inertia to straighten myself and prepare for landing. Too much, damn it! Now I’d shot way above the Hull. I’d have to fire the head jets and I always hated burying my chin in my chest and firing blind. I was veering to starboard. Careful, you idiot. Keep your mind on your work.
“A touch to port, I think.” A quiet voice in my ear. “Straighten your legs, sir. Tuck your chin in. Fire about ... now. Good. Let go, orient yourself to land.”
I had it under control. I twisted my body over, fired my back-jets to slow myself, dropped slowly toward the Hull. Time to flip forward, fire a couple of squirts so I didn’t land too hard. My feet touched. Done. I flicked off the jets.
They shouted their approval, until the outraged sergeant regained charge with a few crackling words. Nonchalantly I stepped off the Hull, relied on the jets to bring me down, and almost fell flat on my face. No one seemed to notice.
Legs trembling with delayed reaction, I watched Lieutenant Bien help Radz get the youngsters in thrustersuits ready for practice. First she lined them up on the Lunar surface parallel to the Hull. Sergeant Radz walked behind, showing the joeys how to bend to achieve forward motion.
“Now, it’s just a simple hop onto the Hull. You’ve practiced forward motion before. The only difference is that when you come down you’ll be a dozen meters higher than you started. Bronski, you’re first.”
A nervous young voice. “Yes, sir.”
“Jump when you’re ready.”
The boy took a deep breath, launched himself. He didn’t do badly, though he stumbled when he landed.
“Move aside a bit, and wait for Salette.” He adjusted the next youngster’s harness and stepped aside. I took the opportunity to touch helmets, my mike keyed off. “Thanks, Sarge.”
“For the backseat driving? Sorry if I interfered, sir.” He winked, turned back to his charges. “Edwards, are you ready?”
The boy’s tone was tremulous. “I think so, sir.”
“Up and away, then.”
The cadet miscalculated his bend, launched himself straight up. A yelp of surprise.
“Easy, lad. Come down and try again. Taper off your jet.”
“Yes, sir.” Edwards turned his jet off entirely, drifted down slowly at first, then ever faster.
“Squirt! A short one!”
The boy complied, slowing his descent in the nick of time. He reached the ground, flipped off his jet. “I’m sorry, sir! I don’t know how—”
A voice whispered, “You can do it, Dustin. Hang in there.”
Sergeant Radz spun around, raising a tiny cloud of dust. “Who was that?”
Sheepishly, a boy stepped forward. “Me, sir. Kevin Arnweil.”
“Two demerits, Arnweil! Maintain radio silence until you’re spoken to!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Radz shook his head. “Your buddy is right, Edwards. You can do it. Go join Bronski and Salette on the Hull.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The boy tensed, bent his knees. “I think—” Convulsively, he fired his jets. The propellant spewed; slowly he lifted, legs kicking wildly. He took too much height, but was smart enough to cut the jets and wait until gravity reclaimed him. He landed on the Hull, caught his balance. “I did it!”
“Of course you did.” Radz adjusted the next cadet’s harness. Cadet Arnweil grinned, waved approval to Edwards, but was careful to say nothing.
I smiled to myself. Only a twenty-foot leap, and both boys were exultant. Wait until we took them outside the Training Station.
“Very good, Edwards. You four, move astern a bit to make room. Drew, you’re next. Then you, Arnweil.” He adjusted Cadet Drew’s harness.
“Sir, I don’t think I’m ready—”
“Of course you are. You’ve jumped up and you’ve jumped forward. Now you’re combining the two. Bend before you jet.”
“I—aye aye, sir.” The boy leaned forward, lost his balance.
“For God’s sake, Drew! One demerit!”
“I’m sorry, sir!” The youngster stumbled to his feet. “I don’t think I can—”
“Orient yourself first. You don’t—”
The anxious boy clutched his harness, keyed his jets to full. He lifted off, legs kicking.
“Throttle down!”
The cadet bent forward toward the Hull, jets still set at full. He hurtled across the gap.
I shouted, “Cut your—”
“Look out!” Sarge waved violently at the boys on the Hull. One cadet ducked more slowly than the rest. Drew sail
ed into him at full power. Their helmets collided. A puff of vapor.
“DUSTIN!” A shriek of dismay, from below.
I launched, bent forward, sailed onto the Hull. I pulled Drew off Dustin Edwards’s kicking form, scooped the downed cadet under my arm, snapped my jets to full and launched. Endless seconds passed while I jetted toward the distant airlock. Below me, a cadet loped toward the waiting lock in a stride that took him meters off the ground.
The form in my arms had gone still.
No time to land and walk into the lock. I sailed straight in, tucked my head down, fired retros, spun about, kicked the approaching bulkhead. In slow motion I fell to the ground. I staggered to my feet, slapped shut the hatch just as Sergeant Radz sailed past to join me.
As the hatch closed the boy who’d run to the lock dived through. Radz swore a blue streak without pausing for breath. The cadet who’d followed us pounded the bulkhead, shouting incoherently. I glanced at his helmet. Kevin Arnweil, who’d been demerited for calling encouragement to Edwards.
What in hell was the matter with the lock? Surely recycling couldn’t take forever. I keyed my radio, yelled, “Emergency medical to the Training Lock, flank! Decompression!” I should have thought of it sooner.
Endless moments later the inner hatch opened. Arnweil tore off his helmet. Short-cropped black hair, the faint hint of a mustache, his eyes frantic.
No med techs. I gasped, “Sickbay?”
Radz grabbed Dustin Edwards’s slack legs in one arm, pointed. Awkward in our suits, we dashed through the suiting room to the corridor beyond. Arnweil had the presence of mind to hold the hatches open.
The med techs met us halfway along the corridor, their crash cart skidding to a halt. Radz yanked Edwards off my shoulder, laid him flat, twisted off his helmet.
Blood oozed from the boy’s mouth. His eyes—
Arnweil moaned.
The eyes would give me nightmares. A tech slapped an oxygen mask over the cadet’s face, mercifully concealing them. The techs stripped off his suit, cut his shirt. The moment the paddles were secure, the techs fired. The boy’s chest muscles convulsed. There was no other response. A tech straddled the inert cadet for CPR. Another whipped off the oxygen mask, fed a breathing tube down the boy’s throat, switched on the respirator.
Arnweil whimpered incessantly. Radz, kneeling alongside Edwards, hissed, “Stop that noise!”
I stepped between the cadet and the still form on the deck. The boy darted around me, knelt at the body. “Dustin!” His voice was agonized.
Sergeant Radz watched the struggling techs, saw he could do little to help, got to his feet. “Step away, Arnweil! Get hold of yourself.”
“Let me stay with him!” Kevin clutched Dustin’s inert hand.
Radz shook his head. “You’re in the way.”
“But—”
The Sergeant’s voice hardened. “Obey orders, Cadet! Be a man! Stop that sniveling! Stand against the—”
“BELAY THAT!” Something in my voice gave him pause, as well it might. I cleared my aching throat.
“Sir, he—”
“Be silent!” Had I no sense? I was putting myself between a cadet and his Sergeant.
Kevin Arnweil, on his knees, leaned forward until his forehead touched his companion’s still hand. He moaned. The sound pierced my suit, my soul.
He wailed again.
I knelt, threw my arm across his shoulder.
I closed my eyes. Not this, Lord.
It was the biggest game of the year, and tickets had been sold out for weeks. Lord God knew how Jason had gotten ours. For a time I’d been afraid Father would forbid my going, on account of some unfinished lesson, some chore not to his satisfaction. But at last, weak with relief, I found myself peddling down the road behind Jason’s green jacket, lunch in my backpack, coins in my pocket.
We would see the Italians play the Welsh home team in the big game of 2190.
At the Cardiff stadium we locked our bikes, joined the crowds streaming toward the entrance. Lines of buses unloaded at the curb; men descended jabbering in fluid Italian. Other buses bore the logos of Manchester, East End London, Liverpool. Tough-looking joeys, who lived for football.
Jason stopped short with a look of alarm, patted his jacket pockets. “Christ, Nicky, I left the tickets home!”
“Don’t blaspheme. I saw you tuck them in your shirt pocket.”
His face lit in a grin. “Worth a try.” His golden hair threw off sunshine. We passed through the turnstiles, found our seats in the upper bleachers.
“You got coin for drinks?”
I fished in my jacket. “Two bucks.” I hauled out the crumpled unidollars.
“Now or later?”
“I don’t care.”
Jason shrugged, clasped his arms behind his head. “Let’s wait.” He studied the empty field. “New lines. Are you glad?”
“What do I care about lines?”
“No, you feeble snark. Glad that you’re going.”
I hesitated. “I guess. I’d feel better if they hadn’t sent the first letter.”
He peered across the field. They need new benches.”
“What about you? Are you glad?”
He lowered his hands to his lap, kicked at the bench ahead. A burly man tossed back an annoyed glance.
“What do you want me to say, Nicky?”
“The truth.”
“Am I glad you’re getting what you’ve always wanted? That you’ll finally get to see the stars? Am I glad my best friend is about to leave while I get to take Engineering in Third?” His eyes flashed my way, spun back to the field.
“Oh, Jase. I wish you could come.”
After a moment he shrugged. “That’s life.” His hand dropped for a moment to my leg. I tried not to stiffen. I reached to pry off his hand, instead clasped it for a moment in mine. It cost little to give him that.
“They’re coming on!” I jumped to my feet as Archie Connelly lumbered out. Not the fastest man on the team, but it took a tank to stop him.
I waited impatiently through the anthems, and joined the roar of approval as the teams lined up for the kickoff.
“Nick? I’m glad for you. Really.”
Reggie booted the ball past Connelly, shouldered aside an Italian guard. I reluctantly tore my gaze from the field. Jason’s eyes glistened. “Thanks, Jase. I’ll miss you.”
“Four days.”
“Aye.” My bag was already packed; no change of clothes, we’d been told, no need even for a toothbrush. Just my favorite holochips, paper for writing to Father and Jason in case I couldn’t get to a fax console. A few pictures.
Ten minutes into the game, the Italians scored. Reggie and Archie seemed disconcerted by their opponents’ sudden shifts. They played on, ignoring howls of glee from the Italian fans.
“How are you getting there?”
To Academy? Father says by train.”
“It’s only an hour by plane.”
“That’s what I told him. He said there’s no need to race through the air.”
We surged to our feet as our right back intercepted the ball. He booted it to Couran in center after a lovely bit of foot-play. I wasn’t looking forward to a long subdued train ride with Father, who would discourage any excitement I displayed.
The period ended with the Italians ahead, 2 to 0. Jason slipped on his green jacket, ran up to the stand for our drinks. The crowd was so thick that halftime was nearly over when he returned. I unwrapped my sandwich, sipping at the softie Jason had brought.
He nudged me. Try some of mine.”
“I have plenty.”
He thrust his cup at me. I took a sip, and gagged. “Jesus, where’d you get this?” I shoved it back into his hand.
“Don’t blaspheme,” he mimicked.
“Tell me!”
“Angus Terrie was up there.”
I drank from my own cup. “You’ll get us arrested!”
“Don’t be such a droob.” He took another swig of
beer. “Have a little fun, Nicky. What's life for?” He waved the cup.
I hissed, “Put it down!” If he spilled it, some busybody might smell alcohol and call the jerries. I could get booted out of Academy before even reporting there. Sometimes Jason had no sense.
People brushed past to their seats. The players were taking the field. I finished my lunch, sipped nervously at my softie.
“I talked to Ma. She’d loan me coin for a ticket if I wanted to go.”
I stared at him. “You mean, to Devon? With Father and me?”
“Would he let me come?” No need to ask whether I’d want him along.
The second half began. Could I convince Father? Though he didn’t care for Jason, he knew I did. I’d have to pick my time, ask in just the right way. What a different trip it would be. I couldn’t wait until the last minute to ask, though. I’d have to plant the idea ahead of time.
“Oh, no!”
The Italians had stolen the ball again, and were working it downfield. Reggie closed in on his man, who had the ball.
In a daring move Archie Connelly abandoned his own man and double-teamed the Italian. Their left forward raced over to help. In the confusion Archie and the Italian ball carrier bumped together. The Italian went down.
Whistles shrilled and the play stopped. On the field men were gesturing. The ref flashed a yellow card, indicated Archie.
“Violent charge?” Jason was indignant. “The Dago ran into him!”
The crowd didn’t like it, either. Boos erupted through the stands, except in the Italian sections. The Eyties took a free kick, ran the ball to our back line, lost it. We blitzed through their defense, scored. Jeers and catcalls pelted the Italian team.
“Just twenty minutes left.” Jason bit his lip. The Welsh had to come out on top to make the finals. A tie wouldn’t do.
Ten minutes passed in inconclusive play. The crowd grew more fervent. Jason, thank heaven, had finished his beer. I stashed the incriminating cup between seats, where it could have been anyone’s.
A hoarse yell from behind us. “Go on, Archie! Get the frazzin’ Wops!” I frowned, but somehow Archie heard the call, and waved. Our bleachers responded with a mighty roar.
With a few minutes to go, Cardiff got the ball downfield. De Ville passed to Reggie, who lumbered in to kick a goal from twenty feet. We were tied.
Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4) Page 7