“Drink.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.” He rested his hands on the back of my chair, turned back to the stove, made sure the burner was off. “Then you’ll go to bed.”
I sat motionless. They hadn’t let me follow Jason to the mortuary. I’d given them his mother’s name; Jason had never known his host father. His tired-eyed mother would be at the mortuary, confronting the ghastly remains of her son. Would my own host mother grieve me, if she were told of my death? She’d never known me, nor I her. Still, in some sense at least, I had two parents. Clone offspring had not even that.
“Leave your shirt out to be cleaned.”
I looked down, saw the blood on my sleeve. “Damn my shirt.”
He raised his hand to strike me, lowered it. “Not tonight. I understand.” He sat across from me. “Though I don’t approve.” He searched my face. “There are times His will is hard to fathom.”
Damn His will, I thought to say, but knew better; there were limits to Father’s tolerance. I hunched over, resolved not to speak, but in a moment sobs broke through my determination.
After a time Father’s gnarled hand slid across the table, gripped my wrist. He waited. When still I didn’t respond, he shook my arm insistently until I looked up. “Your friend didn’t live in His ways. You know I didn’t esteem him.”
“Aye.” I tried to free my hand.
“He wanted to lead you into ... vile practices. I hope you resisted. If not, your conscience will suffer.” I twisted away but Father’s grip was like iron. “Yet he was your friend, and I respect your grief. He was young enough to have, changed his ways, had Lord God given him time.”
I looked up. “That’s why you tolerated him? Because he might have changed?”
“No, Nicholas. Because he was your friend.” He released my arm. “I will pray for him, now and after. Perhaps you will join me.”
I said in a small voice, “Yes, please.”
“You’ll go to the funeral?”
I recoiled. “The what?” They couldn’t put Jason into the stony ground. That would be too cruel. I tried to swallow; my throat was full of ache. Father, hold me. Embrace me, tell me I’ll want to live again.
“I imagine they’ll bury him before you go.”
I shivered. “Go? Where would I go?”
Father stood, poured himself more tea. Mine sat cooling, untouched. “Nicholas, have you forgotten Academy?”
“I don’t want—there’s no reason to go.”
“There’s no reason to stay.”
I looked up, startled.
“It was your dream. Jason’s death is no reason to abandon it.”
I cried, “How could I leave him?” If there was a grave, it would need tending. Flowers. Weeding.
“He’s left you already, Nicholas. The flesh is nothing.”
The funeral was two days later.
Dressed in my ill-fitting suit, I stood between Father and Jason’s dazed mother, torn between calm and fits of grief. I even bent to scoop a spadeful of dirt on the inexpensive alumalloy coffin. His mother smiled at me, squeezed my hand. I was grateful she’d allowed me to give him the balsa model of Trafalgar he’d admired, to take into the dark.
When it was done we’d gone back to our silent, dreary home, where I sipped steaming tea while Father opened the Book. We read from the Psalms, and in Proverbs. Perhaps because I wasn’t comforted, he turned to Luke 18. I whispered with him the memorized words. “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”
Two days later I’d closed my bag, followed Father to the cab, climbed onto the train.
I sat listlessly, feet kicking under the bench, my scrubbed ears protruding from my close new haircut.
Academy. The sum of all my dreams.
When finally the train had stopped I clutched my bag, stepped down into the depot, waited while Father asked directions of the agent at the window.
“It’s near enough to walk. No need to waste coin on a bus.”
“Aye.” I followed Father out of the station. He paused, took his bearings, struck off down the road. I clutched my bag, heavy with my uneaten lunch, the large Bible, the printed books I’d thrust in at the last moment. I gaped at the unfamiliar shops.
We walked in silence. Occasionally Father’s hand touched my shoulder to guide me. At a busy corner I shifted the duffel to my right hand so I could clasp his with my left, but the light changed and he strode on. We crossed the slope of the commons. I shifted the duffel to my left, reached for his hand, but Father moved to my left side.
Is this good-bye, then? What will I be when next we meet? Father, what advice do you have, what comfort?
Do you love me?
You left your cherished Cardiff to bring me to this place; I know that is proof enough.
I want to tell you I’ll make you proud. I’ll try hard, Father, truly I will.
The great iron gate loomed. I shifted the duffel again, reached for Father’s hand. It was thrust firmly in his jacket.
We approached the gates, where the impassive sentries stood stiffly at their guardhouse. I turned to Father, my throat tight. He pointed to the guardhouse, put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to the waiting gates. Gently but firmly, he propelled me toward them. In a daze I passed through the gates, clutching my duffel.
After a few unwilling steps I turned. Father strode toward the station. Willing him to glance my way, I waved to his back. He didn’t pause, didn’t once look over his shoulder before he disappeared from view. An iron ring closed itself around my neck.
I blinked back the sting, and walked alone into Academy.
Senator Boland gripped my arm. “Are you all right, Mr. Seafort? You’ve gone pale.”
I shook off his hand. “I’m quite well.” After a moment I added, “Thank you.”
I beckoned to his son. “Robert, once we’re within the gates I won’t speak to you, or take special notice of you. You understand?” He nodded. “When you’ve said good-bye to your father, come inside. Remember he loves you, or he wouldn’t be here.” I cleared my throat. “You have nothing to fear.” I nodded to the Senator, strode quickly into the compound.
Chapter 6
TOLLIVER KNOCKED ON MY door, stuck in his head. “They’re ready for the oath, sir.”
“Very well.” I stood, switched off my holo. “Care to come along?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” His eyes danced despite my disapproving frown. As if he hadn’t already gone too far he added, “I have the words on a card, sir, if you’d care to read them.”
“Tolliver!”
“I gather you wouldn’t.” He fell into step beside me. As we strode down the steps he asked, “Remember your own oath, sir?”
I stopped. “As if it were this morning.” Something in my tone dampened his smile. “And you?”
“I could show you the spot I was standing.” Somber now, we walked in silence to the Admin building. I climbed the steps, turned to the meeting hall.
“Attention!” The sergeant nearest the door stiffened as he barked the command. The other drill sergeants did likewise, along with Lieutenant Sleak and the middies. Several of the recruits made a halfhearted attempt to comply, which I ignored.
“As you were.” I marched to the front of the hall, wondering what to say. “Sergeant Radz, line them up in two rows.”
“Aye aye, sir! You, two steps forward! You, next to him. Get in line. Not so close!” In a moment, forty-seven boys and thirteen girls were in two ragged lines, arms at their sides.
My words rang out. “I am Nicholas Ewing Seafort, Captain, U.N.N.S., and Commandant of the United Nations Naval Academy. The oath you are about to give is no mere promise, no formality. It is a commitment given freely to Lord God Himself, binding you to the U.N. Navy for five years, as my wards until such time as I may see fit to graduate you. The United Nations Naval Service is the finest military force ever to be assembled at any time, anywhere.
“Those of you who wish to take the oath of enlistment, raise your right hands.” All complied at once. I cleared my throat. “I—your name—”
A murmur of voices.
“Louder, please. This is not a thing you do in shame. I do swear upon my immortal soul ...
“Do swear upon my immortal soul ...” The voices strengthened.
“To serve and protect the Charter of the General Assembly of the United Nations ...
“To serve and protect the Charter of the... One boy was trembling, perhaps in fear. Another lad’s eyes glistened.
“To give loyalty and obedience for the term of my enlistment to the Naval Service of the United Nations ...
“To give loyalty and obedience for the term of my enlistment to the Naval Service of the United Nations ...” Their voices, firmer now, echoed mine.
“And to obey all its lawful orders and regulations, so help me Lord God Almighty.”
“And to obey all its lawful orders and regulations, so help me Lord God Almighty.”
A moment of silence. “You are now cadets in the United Nations Naval Service.” I came to attention, snapped a parade ground salute, spun on my heel and marched out.
Halfway to the office Tolliver caught up with me. “Jesus, son of God.”
“Um?” The blood coursed through my veins; my stride was swift.
“Nothing I ever heard ...” He swallowed. “I’ve never heard the like.”
“Don’t mock me.”
A moment’s hesitation, then his voice came quieter. “I didn’t, sir.”
“Hmpff. Come along, we have business to discuss.”
In the privacy of my office I pulled off my coat, tossed it over a coffee table. I put a chip in the holovid, spun it so we could both see. “Our budget.”
“Yes, sir.”
I indicated the expense columns. “First, keep an eye on expenses, make sure we’re staying within the guidelines.”
“Aye aye, sir. But doesn’t the quartermaster—”
“You do it. Second, I want you to spot-check that we actually receive items we’re paying for.”
He looked at me with surprise, grinned abruptly. “A sort of inspector-general, as it were?”
“That’s not funny, Edgar.” On Hope Nation I’d been appointed inspector-general, an escapade that ended with my relieving the commander of the Venturas Base, to my Admiral’s spectacular wrath.
“No, sir, of course not.”
I gritted my teeth, determined not to be bated. “Third, examine last year’s accounts. Skip the items for which we indent, that are delivered from Naval stores. Look to all cash purchases. Verify what you can, and report any anomalies.”
He watched me closely. “You suspect something?”
“Admiral Duhaney said we have sole discretion as to how our funds are spent. Our accounting system is bizarre. It’s come about because of the Navy’s cherished independence, but whoever dreamed up—” I bit off the rest, realizing I’d been about to criticize my superiors in front of a subordinate. “Just check what you can.”
“Lieutenant Sleak is systems officer, and he’s also my senior. He won’t like my stepping on his toes.”
“Try not to be obvious. If he objects, refer him to me.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Tolliver frowned, perusing the figures. “Does it matter whether we exceed the guidelines for each column, as long as—”
“The Admiral said ... I tried to recall his words. “He was anxious to catch a shuttle. We don’t have to follow the spending guidelines. And something else: theoretically we don’t have to account for the number of cadets. I had no idea what he meant, and I didn’t get a chance to ask. Follow up on it. Look at the regs, ask someone in Accounting.”
“Aye aye, sir. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment. Dismissed.”
By now the plebes would be lined up in front of the supply lockers, to be handed armfuls of gear in the age-old ritual of inductees everywhere. I leaned back, clasped my arms behind my head, rocked in the comfortable leather chair. First they’d be given gray slacks, then white shirts, then their gray jackets. Shoes and underwear on top of the pile.
They would split into separate groups for each barracks, line up in single file, awkwardly carrying their loads.
Surprisingly few officers were to be found in the groundside compound. Plebes were taken in hand by their drill sergeants, whom they would learn to obey without reservation. Officers, whom even the sergeants stiffened to salute, would be exalted beyond all understanding.
Or so it had seemed at thirteen.
“Fall in! Did I say to face left? If you dropped it, pick it up, you twit!”
He was six feet, two inches. He was burly; his voice had the menace of a wounded tiger. He was Marine Sergeant Darwin P. Swopes.
He was God.
We marched in a ragged line to Valdez Hall, a one-level alumalloy building clustered among many similar structures. Windows punctuated its clean white siding; three steps led to a wide doorway. I clutched my bundle of clothing in one arm”, my bag from home in the other.
“Single file. The first fifteen of you, stand at the foot of the beds to the right.” He waited. The rest of you, to the left.”
I stood in front of my new bed, exchanging glances with the tousled boy to my right. His grin vanished as the sergeant entered the room.
“Turn around, dump your gear on the foot of your bed, and turn back. Stand with your hands at your sides.” He waited for us to comply.
“You already heard my name, but some of you will be too dimwitted to remember. I am Sergeant Swopes. I will tell you how to address me. It is ‘Sergeant Swopes,’ or ‘Sarge.’”
“As you know, a sergeant is not normally called ‘sir.’ However, you are—” he spat the word—“children, not officers or troops. Therefore you will call me ‘sir,’ as in ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘Aye aye, sir.’ In fact, you will call anything that moves ‘sir’ unless it is wearing gray like yourselves, or unless it is female, in which case you call it ‘ma’am.’ Do I make myself clear?”
There was a ragged chorus of “Yes, sir.” I began to sweat in my heavy flannel shirt.
“The correct response is ‘Aye aye, sir.’ If you’re asked a question, the answer might be ‘Yes, sir.’ When you’re given an instruction, the answer is, ‘Aye aye, sir.’”
Across the aisle a hand wavered. Sergeant Swopes glared. “Well?”
A tall, gawky boy whose ears stuck out at angles. “You asked if you made yourself clear. That was a question, wasn’t it? So shouldn’t we say ‘Yes, sir’?”
Sarge smiled. He sauntered to the ungainly boy. “Name?”
“Von Halstein. Erich Von Halstein.”
“Erich Von Halstein, run around the outside of the barracks seven times. I want you back in two minutes. Move!”
The boy gulped, “Yes, sir!” He scrambled to the door.
Sarge roared, “Come back here!” The cadet skidded to a stop, ran back. “Was that a question or an order, boy?”
“Uh, an order, sir.”
“‘Sarge’ will do. As you so wisely pointed out, you respond to an order with ...?”
“Aye aye, sir!”
“Good. Since you already knew, three demerits for disobedience. You’ll work off each demerit by two hours of calisthenics. Meanwhile, around the barracks! Get moving!”
“Yes—aye aye, sir!” He ran out the door.
As the door swung closed Sarge muttered, “I hate sea lawyers.” He turned to the rest of us. “Any more questions?”
After the perspiring and frantic Von Halstein had returned—and received another demerit for tardiness—Sarge had us move the items we’d brought from home to our pillows, leaving the gear the Navy had issued us at the foot of the bed. “You will now, each of you, strip off everything you are wearing, put it on your pillow, and head for the showers. Towels are on a rack in the head.”
I blanched. Everything, in public? Amid girls? Impossible; I couldn�
��t do it.
“After you shower I will choose two cadets at random for close physical inspection. Lord God help you if I’m not satisfied with your cleanliness. Move!”
I hesitated just long enough for Sarge’s eye to stray in my direction. Mortified, I began to strip. The room was absolutely silent except for the scrape of shoes and the rustle of cloth.
Covering myself as best I could, I stumbled to the shower room with the rest of my squad. Most of the boys were too embarrassed to steal looks at the girls among us. I scrubbed with diligence, praying fervently that Sarge not choose me for inspection.
By the time we returned to our bunks, towels tied securely around us, Sergeant was almost done with our gear. A few items remained on my pillow: my books, my chips, the paper. The clothing I’d worn was on the floor, along with my bag.
“You will dress in your cadet clothing. Then you will pack the bags you brought from home with everything I put on the floor. Those items go into storage. Anything left on your pillow you will put in your duffel, which you will stow under your bed. Return the towels to the head, and when you’re done, fall in outside and I’ll take you for haircuts. Oh, yes. You ... and you. Come here.”
He hadn’t chosen me. I was dizzy with relief.
Numbed and docile with shock, we followed Sarge from barber to mess hall, and back to barracks. We spent the entire evening stripping and remaking our bunks, until every bed was made to his satisfaction.
“Lights Out will be in half an hour. You will be in your shorts, ready for bed. Anyone wanting to use the head must do so before then.” I closed my eyes, sick with dread. The toilets were set in a row opposite the sinks, with no fronts to the stalls. I knew I’d be unable to relieve myself, perhaps for days. “I’ll be back just before Lights Out.”
When Sarge returned, boys and girls were talking quietly across their beds. I sat alone, yearning for solitude, for my creaking bed in Father’s familiar home.
Sarge’s voice was surprisingly gentle as he turned the lights down. “You, sit on that bed. You too. I want both of you over there.” In moments he had us sitting three to a bed, apparently at random. I sat stiffly, trying not to rub shoulders with the shy girl whose arms were crossed over her short white T-shirt.
Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4) Page 11