Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  As if reading my mind Sleak said, “Perhaps you should check with Admiralty, sir?”

  “No. I had a message from Fleet Ops tonight.” Sleak wiped off a look of satisfaction, but not before I’d seen it. So he’d already heard. Even here, scuttlebutt flew faster than a ship in Fusion. I said firmly, “Admiral Duhaney made clear that I’m free to act within my authority and carry out regulations as I see fit.” That hadn’t been the gist of his message, but the words had been included. They’d be in the Log, if I cared to look.

  Sleak said, “You’re sure that’s what you want to do, sir?”

  “Yes. Any objections?”

  He shook his head as if I hadn’t spoken with sarcasm. “No, sir. We’ll have to recalculate all our ... The letter is first, of course. It has to go out right away.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Tolliver, you’ll help me draft it? You’ll want to sign it tonight, Captain, so it will make the morning faxes. If you want to go to bed, I can have the middy knock when it’s ready. Then Tolliver and I can set up staff meetings for tomorrow. Even if we open another barracks we’ll have to squeeze a couple of extra cadets into each of the other dorms.”

  I watched, amazed. Sleak was deep in logistics, as if my savage reprimand were forgotten. Perhaps for the moment, it was.

  I left him to his work.

  At breakfast Tolliver looked bleary. I said nothing, knowing he could catch up on his sleep when opportunity arose. Any middy knew how to do that. After, on the way back to my office, I crossed the parade ground, stopped to watch a squad of shirtless cadets sweating at jumping jacks, sit-ups, and push-ups under the tutelage of Sergeant Ibarez.

  In the front row, Robert Boland struggled diligently at sit-ups while another youngster held his ankles. I quickly looked away. He’d get no special attention. Still, on the way back to my office I braced myself for the call to his father.

  I perched on my desk, scanned the morning’s memos. For the new dorm, Sleak had drafted a classroom instructor who’d had a barracks before; Tolliver wouldn’t have to undergo the ordeal.

  I dawdled at my console, scrutinizing figures, approving indents, rechecking the arrival dates of our last, largest batch of cadets until at last I could leave for lunch.

  In the crowded mess hall I passed Cadet Reitzman’s table, realized he hadn’t been sent to my office. Well, I hadn’t expected he would. For all their toughness, our drill sergeants usually knew when a gentle word would help. After all, their job was to help the joeys succeed, not destroy them. I looked again, noticed that the boy was absent from the hall. I assumed he’d remain so for a couple of days, until he could sit on a pillowed chair.

  Already I could observe improvements in the cadets’ demeanor, their dress and grooming. In a few weeks they would come to look like officer trainees, instead of spoiled civilian children. I spooned my soup. The discipline, the physical exertion, the sense of brotherhood of those early days of Academy were almost too much to grasp. I stared into the bowl. Almost too much to grasp ...

  A hand closed around my upper arm, hurled me from the bed to the cold hard floor. “One demerit, Seafort. You too, Sanders. Reveille sounded three minutes ago!”

  I groaned, stumbled to my feet. Arlene Sanders glanced to my shorts, grinned. Scarlet, I spun around, clawed for my pants. I couldn’t help the bulge. It wasn’t fair that she laugh.

  In ten minutes we’d be marched to breakfast. I had to hurry. I dashed into the head, waited in line for a stall. After, I grabbed a towel, ran to a sink, scrubbed myself. A few days earlier Sarge had decided Von Halstein wasn’t clean enough, had hauled him back into the head, made us all watch while ...

  I soaped my chest, under my arms. There were limits. I’d die if he did that to me. I ignored the razors sitting on the sill; I didn’t need one yet. Soon, I hoped. Some boys used them every day.

  After breakfast, the calisthenics. I didn’t mind them so much, other than push-ups. Sergeant Swopes had a way. of flicking his baton if you faltered. It stung. When we were ready to drop from exhaustion he gave us two minutes rest before leading us to the track at the edge of the field. We mingled with Sergeant Tailor’s squad from Renault Hall.

  Tailor smiled. “My turn, Darwin. Okay, joeys. Four laps today.” We groaned. Tolliver, you take the lead.”

  A tall, slim second-year cadet ran forward. “Aye aye, sir!”

  “I’ll bring up the rear,” said Sergeant Tailor. I made a face. If he came close enough to touch you with his baton, you were caned after the run. It hadn’t happened often, and they said Lieutenant Zorn went easy, but I didn’t want to find out.

  Afterward, we ran back to the showers. Soaping up, I looked over my shoulder, found myself next to Arlene Sanders. Her hair smelled clean.

  She giggled, and after a moment I smiled weakly. I remained facing the wall, though, until at last I screwed up my courage, turned casually. But she was gone, thrusting her way through the steamy shower room to the door and the towels beyond.

  A dark-skinned Indian boy groaned theatrically. “Oh, if she were only a civilian.” We laughed.

  After lunch and classes Sarge ran us to the training grounds, where our instructor threw suits at us from the rack.

  We had to stand holding them while they ran a training holo on the large screen overhead. “Okay, lads. Help each other put them on. Make sure your air is turned on before you attach your helmets. Then, one at a time, walk through the room to the left, meet me outside.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Our response was still ragged, but improving. Back in barracks, where we’d grown used to Sergeant Swopes’s cadence, we spoke almost as one.

  I fumbled with the helmet clamps. No, the air tank first. I waited for the hiss. Now the helmet. The holo had said something about ... clamp and turn. I twisted dutifully. The helmet seemed secure.

  I took my place in line. One at a time, Sergeant Swopes thrust us into the mysterious room to the left, closed the door again. When it was my turn I stumbled in, propelled by his shove. The room seemed unusually foggy. I walked to the door at the far side, my breath loud in my suit. The door was locked. I twisted at the handle, to no effect. After a long moment the door opened. I plodded out to the lawn, where several cadets were peeling off their suits.

  Sarge tapped at the helmet. “Off!” I fumbled for the clamps, twisted it loose. I breathed in the cool welcome air, turned to Robbie Rovere, grinned. “If that’s all it takes, I’m ready for Farside!”

  He smiled weakly, but suddenly his eyes bulged wide. He doubled over, vomited urgently onto the grass. “Jesus, what—” Another spasm caught him.

  The instructor came running over. “Get away from that suit! Around the side of the building with the other grades!” He spun Robbie around, gave him a kick. Moaning, the boy stumbled off.

  He put hands on hips. “What about you, joey? You going to give back your lunch?”

  “I don’t—” I swallowed, but I seemed okay. “No, sir. What’s wrong with Robbie, Sarge?”

  The instructor stalked to the door, pulled out another cadet. The boy turned green, clawed at his helmet. Sarge made no move to help. Suddenly the front of the helmet was splattered; the cadet sank to his knees. “They’re learning how to listen,” Sarge growled.

  Half an hour later we were lined up alongside the building, some of us still wan and shaky. The instructor’s tone was drenched with disgust. “You’re the saddest, stupidest bunch of joeys Academy’s ever had! In a week or two you’re going to be sent aloft; didn’t anyone tell you there’s no air Outside the locks? This time we were watching over you, so we gave you nothing but a tummy ache. Next time you might die!”

  Chastened, we shuffled our feet, but he wasn’t done with us. “Each of you who threw up, two demerits.” Two hours per demerit, and the strenuous calisthenics made our morning exercises seem easy. I’d done them until my muscles screamed, for infractions I couldn’t avoid no matter how hard I tried. This time, though, I was safe.

  “And the res
t of you, three demerits!” I looked up, outraged. It wasn’t fair.

  “You all watched the holo, didn’t you? Your mates were going where they needed suits. Did any of you check your mates’ clamps?” His voice rose. “Did you? Rovere could be dead now. So could Sanders, or any of you! And you didn’t help!” His look was one of loathing; his voice soared to a scream. “Next time it will be vacuum! You ever see anyone breathe space? You disgust me, all of you! Get out of my sight!”

  Later that night, we lay, numbed and exhausted, in our bunks. Across the aisle someone sobbed. I buried my head in the pillow. A voice whispered, “It’s all right, Robbie.”

  If Sarge heard us ... I lay quiet.

  “I’ve got to get out of here!”

  Someone laughed, a harsh sound.

  “Crybaby!”

  “Mama’s boy!” A loud whisper.

  “He cries over a little puke, like a—”

  It was Robbie who’d covered for me when I forgot to toss my towel in the bin. When Sarge had come into the head, the towel lay abandoned next to Robbie’s sink. For some reason Robbie had said it was his own. Only one demerit, but ... My hand tightened to a fist. Leave him alone.

  Silence, then another strangled sob.

  At the end of the barracks a joker imitated the sound. Someone else laughed.

  I threw off the cover, leaped out of my bunk. “Shut up, all of you!” My voice hissed.

  Von Halstein sneered, “Gonna make us, pretty boy?”

  “If I have to.” My voice trembled. I shivered in my shorts. “Leave him alone. Pick on me!”

  “That’s too easy.” Someone giggled.

  “Keep it down, you joes. Sarge’ll hear.” Arlene Sanders.

  “Get in bed, Seafort, before we all get it.” Voices murmured assent.

  I crossed the aisle, found Robbie’s bunk. Awkwardly I pulled his blanket tight about him. “You’re all right, joey.” For a second my hand touched his shoulder. I thought to pull away, remembered Jason. I let my hand remain a second longer. “You’re okay.”

  I turned for my bunk, almost made it to the safety of my mattress when the voice came from the door. “What’s going on here?”

  Silence, everywhere. My heart pounding, I forced myself back to my feet. “Cadet Seafort reporting, Sarge. I was out of my bunk.”

  “Why?”

  I paused. It had to be the truth, but ... “I thought I heard a noise.”

  “Then you’d better guard us. Bring your mattress.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Where?”

  “Outside.”

  All was still while I dragged my heavy mattress across the barracks floor.

  “Are you finished, sir?”

  I looked up from my cold soup. “Yes.” The bowl disappeared, a salad was put in its place.

  Squads of cadets came to their feet, their meal done. At each table the cadet on cleanup duty filed past the counter, depositing trays piled high with dishes. I’d dropped mine once, and was banished from mess hall for a week.

  I stood, stretched, walked to the door. Cadets respectfully stood aside. Among them I saw Robert Boland, cheeks flushed, his gray uniform crisp, shoes gleaming. I pretended to ignore him, as a Captain would any cadet.

  On the way back to my office I sighed, knowing I couldn’t avoid the call any longer.

  I closed my door, sat at my desk, bracing myself, knowing I was about to throw away everything, for pride. I picked up the caller. “Ring Senator Boland, please.” I waited, musing. Perhaps if Duhaney hadn’t called me out so publicly ...

  It was early morning in Washington, but he was in. “Seafort? Good to hear from you.” Boland could afford to be genial.

  My muscles tensed. “I apologize for avoiding your calls.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Oh, but I do, sir. I failed to appreciate the extent of your influence.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I’ve been worried—”

  “Please let me finish. Admiral Duhaney ordered me to give you every cooperation, and of course I will. I checked on your son. He’s quite well. If you want further information, contact me.”

  “I’m most grateful—”

  My heart pounded. “Senator Boland, I underestimated you.”

  He paused. “You what?”

  “Not just your committee’s power, your own. You hold my career in your hands.”

  He was wary now. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. If you want information about your son, call. If you ask to speak to him, I’ll put you through. Feel free to drop in anytime for a visit. I will obey Admiral Duhaney to the letter. But after your first call or visit, or if I hear you’ve complained again to the Admiral, I will immediately resign as Commandant, and from the Naval Service. I so swear before Lord God Himself.”

  The speaker was silent. I added, “My future is in your hands. Forgive me for having underestimated you. You have but to reach for your caller, and my career is ended.”

  “Jesus, Seafort.”

  “Sir, you have a son to be proud of. Let him go, and let us do our job.”

  “I won’t have it any other way.” I listened, heard no answer, gently hung up the line.

  PART 2

  October, in the year of our Lord 2201

  Chapter 8

  TO MY ANNOYANCE, A midshipman again met me at Earthport Station; this time they’d sent First Middy Thomas Keene. I growled at him as if it had been his fault.

  Henceforth I’d have to travel unannounced, or better, leave orders not to send a shepherd. I wasn’t some airsick cadet who needed a chaperon, and I could carry my own duffel.

  Hours later, still cross, I cycled through the Farside lock to scowl at the duty officer waiting to greet me: Lieutenant Ardwell Crossburn. I returned his salute in silence, wishing I’d taken the effort to get rid of him.

  “Have a good trip, sir?” His tone was civil.

  “Yes.”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “Dismissed.” He turned to go. “Wait. Come to my office.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  During our long walk through the warren the stocky lieutenant was mercifully silent. In my office I set down my duffel, tossed my cap on the desk. “Do you still write your diary?”

  His brow wrinkled. “Yes, sir, but just for my own—”

  “You write about current events, as you used to?”

  “It’s my way of analyzing, sir. I think about things and—”

  “Do you talk with other officers about your writings?”

  “Well, I suppose—yes, sir. Idle conversation, at mealtimes.”

  As I feared. “Lieutenant, I order you to desist from writing in your diary any matters that do not directly concern you. I specifically forbid you to discuss anything you write with any of my officers. No, make that any officer, crewman or cadet.” No telling what the man was capable of.

  He shook his head stubbornly. “Sir, with all due respect, that’s an infringement on my personal freedom that has nothing to do with—”

  “Be silent!” I waved my finger under his nose. “Complain to Admiralty if you don’t like it. You have my leave.” I doubted they’d give him a hearing. “In the meantime, obey orders, or I’ll—I’ll—” I groped for a threat.

  “Yes, sir?” He seemed unafraid.

  I growled, “We have no ship’s launch, but if I hear you’ve asked a single question about how things are run here, I’ll make you supervisory officer of the Training Station.”

  His chest swelled. “That would be an honor, sir. I’d be pleas—”

  “In permanent residence!” That brought him up short. Several months of the year the Training Station was entirely unoccupied. He could walk its lonely corridors, writing to his heart’s content. I felt a pang of regret at my warning; now I couldn’t banish him until I actually caught him at it.

  When he was gone, I paced until my anger abated. Finally I keyed the caller. “Where’s Mr. Paulson?”
/>   “In his cabin, sir.”

  “Get him.”

  I met Paulson at the hatch, waved at a chair. “Have a good trip aloft? Everything under control, Jent?” Of course it was, or I’d have been told.

  “Cadets are all settled in, no problems.” He hesitated. “We were a bit surprised when you shipped sixty of them early, sir.”

  “We needed the space.” Lieutenant Sleak had recommended it, and I’d agreed. Better to reward our achievers with Farside than crowd the Devon barracks unnecessarily.

  “Yes, I—we’ve heard something about that.” His expression was carefully neutral. “What was Admiralty’s reaction?”

  I leaned back. “I haven’t heard from them.” Not about anything. Perhaps they were debating what to do with me.

  In the two weeks since my spectacular display of insolence, Senator Boland had not called once. Taking pity, I considered sending a brief note, but came to my senses in time. A battle once won ought not be refought.

  “How long will you stay with us, sir?”

  “A week or so.” Time to wander the base, making a nuisance of myself. Time also to revisit the Training Station, where our more advanced cadets were introduced to shipboard life. “Schedule a formal inspection later this week, Jent. Tell the sergeants, but not the joeys.” The anxiety and excitement would be good for the cadets, but no need to harass the drill sergeants as well. “Anything else I should know?”

  “I sent you the forms on the Edwards boy.”

  “I know.” I’d sent on the reports to his mother, with an inadequate note of my own. “How’s the other joe, Arnweil?” I’d had no contact with the dark-haired youngster since I’d guided him to his feet, led him to the comfort of his barracks.

  “You’d have to ask Sergeant Radz, sir. I haven’t really had contact.” He grimaced. “The only ones I see much of are the troublemakers, across the barrel.”

  “Have you used it much?”

  “Three times since term started. Twice for cadets who didn’t work off demerits fast enough, and once last week ... He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what gets into them. A cadet and a middy, fighting.”