They faced off for the throw. “I’ll ask Father tonight, Jase.”
“What if I just showed up on the train?”
I considered it. “I don’t know.” Father would know Jason’s appearance was no accident, but what could he do? I could wander the train with Jason even without Father’s permission. Rebellion surged in my breast. I didn’t always have to do as Father said. Four minutes. The roar was deafening. The Italians lost the ball. They surged to the defense, but Archie Connelly shouldered aside all opposition. My throat was hoarse from yelling.
Abruptly Archie passed to Reggie, who just as quickly passed it back. His path momentarily clear, Archie slammed down a defenseman and aimed a great kick. The ball sailed majestically into the corner of the goal. We’d won, with less than a minute to go.
Jason and I danced on the benches, mad with excitement. The burly man in front of us spun round and snarled, “Snuff it, you twits! They disallowed the goal!”
“What?” But it was true. They’d not only voided the goal, but red-carded Archie. On the field the Cardiff team surrounded the referee. He stood with arms crossed, shaking his head.
“Fraz the Dagoes!” Across the field, joeys were chanting. Others took it up.
“Kill the ref! Kill the ref!”
“Wow, gonna be a donny.” Jason grinned with excitement. “If Reggie doesn’t watch it he’ll get tossed too!”
“He’d better not.” But matters were already past that. An Eytie player took a swing at De Ville, who lashed back.
Roars of rage from the benches opposite. Italian spectators swarmed across the field. They joined battle with Cardiff joes from the lower bleachers, well below us. Jerries waded in with their riot sticks, asserting control.
“Look!” Jason pointed to the next section of bleachers.
High in the next section, across the aisle, a couple of joey-boys had pried loose one end of their bench and were rocking the other end to break it free. Spectators, half amused, stood back to give them room. For a moment the bench held. Abruptly it broke loose. One of the joes took up the bench, swung it over his head as a shot-putter his shot. He spun three times until, dizzy, he let go and fell back.
The bench hurtled down the stands, bowling over spectators like tenpins.
Enraged bystanders leaped over benches and bodies, clawing their way upward to their attacker. Some fell or were pulled down.
I grabbed Jason’s wrist. “Let’s get out of here!”
“The closest stairs are up top!”
“But—all right!” We pushed to the aisle, threaded our way up toward the exit. Abruptly the riot leaped across the aisle like a blaze across a fire lane. Our section was full of shoving, screaming fans.
“Move, Nicky!” Jason pushed me.
Something lurched. Above us ten rows of seats suddenly disappeared.
As one, the crowd turned to the safety of the ground below. Men jumped down from bench to bench, heedless where they landed. The aisle was jammed to immobility.
Jason twisted to face downward, trying to squeeze through the mob. I hung on to his arm. The press lifted me off the ground, carried me ahead still clinging to Jason.
Our aisle ended at a rail separating the upper and lower stands. Squeezed against the rail, a woman fought with savage intensity to free herself. At her side a man braced himself against the throng. A moment later he went down. Then the woman. The crowd drove toward the safety of the field crushing those on the bottom into the rail or down to the concrete deck.
Jason’s hand tightened. “Hang on, Nicky!”
I gripped his wrist. The crowd surged. An elbow jabbed at my side; my hand tore loose from Jason’s. We parted. I clawed at the bodies between us. A man lashed out, caught me in the stomach. I doubled over, fell into a row of benches.
“JASON!!” A glimpse of golden ringlets. I clawed my way back to the aisle. Below us something gave way. The crowd lurched, arms and legs flailing. I slipped on something wet, managed to right myself.
“Jason, answer me!” The crowd swept me past the broken rail, catapulted me into the stands below. I landed on heads and arms, the breath knocked out of me. The joes I’d fallen onto threw me aside, cursing. I thumped onto concrete.
Someone stomped on my hand. I screamed, rolled under a bench. Shouts of anger and pain. A crash, and the crack of splintering wood.
Eons later, it began to subside. I lay half crushed by the broken bench. Voices. The pressure lifted. Light.
A jerry. “This one’s alive. You all right, laddie?”
I began to cry.
They hauled me out. “Anything broken?” Below, jerries carried bodies on stretchers to the grassy field.
I fell onto a nearby bench. “I don’t think so.” I looked around. “Where is he?” Most of the crowd had disappeared. Injured huddled together as if seeking solace. Some were bandaged, others were bleeding, many in shock.
“Who, lad?” A jerry, riotstick tucked in his belt.
“Jason.”
He shrugged. “He’s probably out by now. If you want, look on the field. The ambulances are outside, hauling the wounded to hospital.” He patted my shoulder. “Can’t stay, boy. There are others.” He turned away.
My ribs ached. I gritted my teeth, made my way to the aisle, shut my eyes. If Jason was here, I didn’t want to see him. I steeled myself, opened my eyes a crack. Nothing. Reddish brown stains on the cement steps, trampled coats and shoes strewn about. Not, praise God, a green jacket.
I made my way out of the stadium. Hundreds of injured sat or lay on the curbs. An ambulance landed; techs jumped out with stretchers. I walked down the line of wounded, searching. Jason wasn’t there. He’d be waiting with the bikes. I trudged across the concrete lot. Our bicycles sat locked, untended.
No point in going back to the grisly field. I thrust my hands in my pockets, lowered my head, stared at nothing.
Reluctant steps pulled me back to the stadium entrance. Just so I’d know he was in hospital. Nurses could be so severe, and if there was a mixup they’d argue with me. Better to say I knew that’s where he had to be waiting. I followed the signs to the lower boxes, walked unhindered across the new-chalked playing field. A jerry intercepted me. “What are you doing, lad?”
“I’m—” My tongue was thick. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Don’t touch anything,” I nodded, and he let me be. I hugged myself as I reached the first row. They’d left most of the faces uncovered. A woman stared up at me, eyes bulging, one side of her head crushed. I turned, took two steps, vomited my lunch onto the field, wiped my mouth, stomach still churning.
Jason, you won’t believe what I went through today. Searching through all those bodies, afraid you’d be among them. What is it, your leg? You’ll be walking in a week, don’t give me that. Lord Christ, you gave me a scare.
Some bodies were covered entirely. I knew from the size that Jason couldn’t be under the blanket. A baby, a small child. I fought not to retch again. Another body, covered with a carelessly thrown blanket. I hurried past, stopped.
No, it was someone else. The sleeve sticking out from the blanket was mostly brown. Only parts of it were green. That’s not you. With baby steps I inched toward the blanket. Tentatively I reached to the top, pulled it down. It wasn’t Jason’s face. I sobbed with relief.
It wasn’t anyone’s face. Just a mass of congealed blood, above a green and brown collar. I pulled the blanket away, exposing the rest of the body.
Any boy could have been wearing brown slacks, those jumpboots.
Any boy could have had golden curls. Any boy could have been wearing that green jacket, mottled with blood from the mangled chest.
Any boy.
I bent almost double, took the hand, pressed it to my side. From deep inside, I made a sound.
They found me there, hours later, in the dark.
The med techs exchanged glances. One shook his head. Kevin Arnweil’s fingers brushed the tunic of his still friend. I caught him as
he sagged, pressed his locks against my chest. He wept in silence. Sergeant Radz looked on with disapproval.
The corridor was filling with subdued cadets, restrained by the quiet commands of Lieutenant Bien. Kyle Drew, whose jump had caused the accident, was white with shock.
I said, “Send them to barracks, Lieutenant.”
“Aye aye, sir. Arnweil also?”
“Let him stay.”
A young middy hurried down the corridor, reached me and stopped. “Midshipman Keene reporting, sir. Sarge says to tell you Admiral Duhaney is returning your call.”
“Who? Oh. Very well, I’ll—” Arnweil sobbed. I took a deep breath. “Tell him I’m busy. I’ll call later.”
The midshipman stared in amazement, caught himself. “Aye aye, sir.” He scurried off.
Chapter 5
I PACED MY OFFICE, cursing my imprudence. One didn’t spurn the Admiral in charge of Fleet Ops, if one ever again wanted his favor. Cadet Arnweil could have waited. Besides, it was Sergeant Radz’s role to console him, not mine.
My caller buzzed. Ms. Obutu. “Do you have time for Mr. Radz, sir?”
“Very well. Send him in.”
He saluted, came to attention. I nodded to release him, bade him sit.
“Sir, I’d like a transfer groundside. Out of Academy.”
“Because I overruled you in the corridor? Don’t be silly.”
“No, sir.” His eyes were pained. “I failed Cadet Edwards. And Kyle Drew will go through life remembering he killed a boy because I didn’t do my job.”
“It was an accident.”
“Yes, sir. My job is to prevent accidents, especially stupid ones.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Sarge. It was a fluke.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “You can say that about any accident. Drew wasn’t ready; he even told me so. He made one clumsy jump, and I forced him into another.”
I stood to pace. “What do you want me to do?”
“Send me somewhere else, sir. Get a competent instructor.”
“No.” I held his eye until he turned away, defeated. “That’s all.”
He had no choice. “Aye aye, sir.” He stood to go.
The man needed absolution. I thought quickly. “I want a report on all training accidents in the past five years, and your recommendations on improving safety. No deadline, take a couple of weeks if you need to. And one other thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s too late for the Edwards boy. But you have two walking wounded on your hands. Kyle Drew, and Arnweil. Nurse them back to health.”
His brow wrinkled. “How, sir?”
“I don’t know; that’s what you’re here for. Drew must be sick with guilt, and Arnweil is crushed. They need you.” My tone sharpened. “You weren’t responsible for the boy’s death, but your conduct after was a disgrace. Arnweil and Edwards must have been close.”
“They enlisted together. Kevin has to learn that soldiers die, sometimes to no purpose.” Unbidden, he sat again, rubbed his hands over his face. “But he’s still a child, you’re right about that. I expected too much of him.”
I was silent. Eventually he looked up. “We don’t want to be nursemaids either.”
I said, “Find a balance.”
“Aye aye, sir. I’ll try.” He left.
Late in the evening I sighed, flipped off the console. Farside statistics swam in my head. Cadet days in residence. Number of beds. Consumables per cadet. Instructor-student ratios. Charts they’d sent me before I’d assumed my post, and as meaningless now as before.
I stretched, turned down the lights, shut the hatch behind me. In the outer office the midshipman came to his feet. Small, narrow-boned, a serious face. “You’re here all night, Middy?”
“Mr. Tenere relieves me at twelve, sir.”
“Very well.” I peered past him to the console. “What’s that?”
He blushed. “Advanced Nav, sir. It’s easier to read here than in my holovid.”
Aboard ship a middy never stood watch alone, and on the bridge he wouldn’t dare study anything but his instruments. But the caller was the only instrument this lad had to watch. “Very well—who are you?”
He snapped to attention. “Midshipman Tommy Tsai reporting, sir!” A glint of worry, lest I be annoyed he hadn’t identified himself.
“Very well, Mr. Tsai. I’ll be walking about. Call on the general circuit if you need me.” I left.
As on any Lunar installation, the domes and warrens of Farside were connected by a maze of corridors. All had safety hatches that would slam shut in case of decompression. The larger compartments, such as mess hall and the physical training rooms, were in the domes above, at surface level.
My office was near the end of the north warren, connected by corridor to the VIP lock and the classroom chambers to the south. Other passageways branched to the dorm warrens. Below us, on Level 2, were our atomics, gravitrons, recycling, and the other machinery that allowed the base to function. And, of course, housing for the techs who serviced it all.
Hands clasped behind my back, I wandered through the maze of corridors to the classrooms I remembered from my youth. Naturally, they’d be empty at this hour; the cadets would be back in their dorms, enjoying what little free time they were given before Lights Out.
“... wonder why they wouldn’t give him a ship.”
I stopped. Low voices, inside a hatchway, chatting amiably. “Maybe he didn’t want one.”
“Adam, who’d pass up a ship of his own?”
I poked my head into the classroom. A gaggle of middies. Two lounged against a bulkhead. The third was perched on a desk, legs dangling. Seeing me, they jumped to attention.
“As you were,” I said quickly. “What’s going on?”
One of them spoke. “Nothing, sir. Just talking.”
I gestured to the empty classroom. “Why here?”
The oldest middy shrugged. “Why not, sir? It’s just where we happened to stop.”
My fist tightened. When I’d been a cadet, we weren’t allowed to wander the base at will, unsupervised. What was the place coming to?
“Does your Serg—” I swallowed my angry reply. These were middies, not cadets, and off-duty. As aboard ship, they were free to go where they chose. “Sorry. Quite right. You’re, ah, Keene?”
“Yes, sir. First Midshipman Thomas Keene, sir. I’m sorry if we disturbed—”
“No, I forgot. You see, I never served as a middy at Academy.” Few cadets were chosen to stay on as midshipmen. I’d been posted to U.N.S. Helsinki, where—I bit off the thought.
Keene seemed uncomfortable. I wondered if he’d ever heard a Captain apologize. Unlikely. I turned to the other middies. “Mr. Tenere I remember And you?”
“Midshipman Guthrie Smith, sir.” Lean, ears that stuck out, a tentative manner.
“Oh, yes. Very well, carry on.”
Adam Tenere blurted, “Is there something we can help you with, sir?”
I turned. “What?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it—are you looking for something, sir?” I stared. He reddened. “Pardon me, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry if I—”
“That’s enough, Adam.” Keene’s voice was civil but urgent.
“I mean—aye aye, Mr. Keene.” Like any middy, he called his senior by his last name.
I raised my eyebrow, annoyed at the youngster’s effrontery. “Do continue, Mr. Tenere.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, aye aye. No offense, please, sir. I just thought, if there was someplace you were trying to find—I thought perhaps we could ... Flustered, he took a deep breath. “Please excuse me, Captain Seafort.” I said nothing. He squirmed, added desperately, “It being your first day here, was all I meant. I didn’t know if you remembered ... Of course you would, though. I wasn’t thinking, I meant no dis ...
I turned to Keene. “Is he always like this?”
The first midshipman’s tone was icy. “No, sir. Only when it’s impo
rtant he not be.” Now Tenere was in for trouble. A middy was supposed to be seen and not heard, and it was the first midshipman’s job to keep his juniors in line. Once, on Hibernia, a lieutenant had caught the younger middies frolicking in the corridor, and it was I, the senior, who’d paid the price.
Perhaps Keene had similar thoughts. “I apologize, sir. He won’t trouble you further.”
Adam studied the deck, miserable. Well, a couple of extra demerits wouldn’t hurt him, though he’d already earned four when he’d cannoned into me in Earthport Station. Ten uncancelled demerits meant the First Lieutenant’s barrel.
“Very well.” One way or another, Tenere would learn to be less clumsy, both physically and verbally. Yet, the boy had meant only to offer help. I sighed, relenting. How to divert Keene without interfering with his prerogatives?
“Actually, Mr. Keene, I was looking for someone to walk with. It’s been years since I’ve been on Farside. Would you gentlemen care to accompany me?” It would cost me my privacy, but I could think of no better way.
“Of course, sir.” There was nothing else to say. An invitation from a Captain was as a command.
“This is the simulator room, sir.” Guthrie Smith.
“Ah, yes.” The equipment was brand-new. There hadn’t even been such an installation when I was a cadet; I remembered the compartment as just another study room. Now it was used to simulate battle with the fish, using puter re-creations from Hibernia and other vessels lucky enough to have encountered the aliens and survived. I moved on.
“The nav room, sir.”
In this classroom I’d been introduced to Lambert and Greeley’s Elements of Astronavigation. At the time I’d thought that with hard work I could master Nav. Now I knew better.
I asked, “What was your best subject, Mr. Keene?”
“Engineering, sir. This year I asked Mr. Vriese to tutor me on the new fastship drive.”
“Is he still here?” He’d seemed ancient twelve years ago. He must have been at least fifty. I smiled at my innocence. “And you, Mr. Tenere?”
Wisely, the boy had said as little as possible during our stroll. Faced with a direct question, he had no choice but to respond.
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