Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  Could he be serious? “Who was in charge?”

  “The cadet, Johan Stritz, was in Krane Barracks, with Sergeant Tripole. The middy ... well, I’m first lieutenant. It’s my fault.”

  I snorted. When the day came a lieutenant could keep track of what middies were up to ... Midshipmen had a natural knack for trouble, as I could testify. Once, on Helsinki, I’d—“Which middy?”

  “Guthrie Smith, sir. He’s seventeen, old enough to know better.”

  I remembered a shy boy, sitting stiffly at my midshipman’s meeting, cap in hand. “What happened?”

  “He was hazing, of course. What else?” Cadets were fair game for hazing, by middies as well as anyone else. After all, they had to learn to take it. A Captain aboard ship was an absolute dictator, and some of them were tyrants. A middy who couldn’t handle unpleasantness wouldn’t survive.

  “Go on.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. Mr. Smith had a squad emptying the dining hall for a thorough cleaning. He decided Stritz was doing a sloppy job, made him crawl to the hatch and back, pushing a chair.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Then he made him do it again. The cadet had enough, and refused. So Smith took him out to the corridor, where Bill Radz found them going at each other. He called me at once, since a middy was involved.”

  “Good Lord.”

  Lieutenant Paulson shook his head. “I gave Stritz a dozen, sent him crying back to his dorm. He has to learn to hold his temper.”

  I nodded. I would have gone easy too. It sounded like the boy had spunk, if not judgment.

  “The truth is, I felt like giving Keene half a dozen for not knocking more sense into Guthrie Smith’s head. What’s a first middy for?”

  “Did you?”

  “No, but I set him against the bulkhead and reamed him so he’ll remember. And four demerits. When Midshipman Smith came in, I let him have it. He ate lying on his bunk in the wardroom for a while. Damn it, he should know better.”

  A midshipman—any officer—couldn’t maintain his authority by brute force, even with a cadet. Else a crewman physically stronger than his officer would have his own way. True, we caned middies as required, but they were considered young gentlemen and ladies, adults by law, but capable of youthful indiscretions that should be chastised. Belowdecks, sailors weren’t beaten.

  I mused, “Sometimes I wonder ...

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Whether we rely too heavily on the cane.” I realized I spoke near-heresy. “I mean, a few strokes for a really serious offense is one thing, but is anything gained by making the barrel our first resort?”

  “Our first resort is demerits, not the barrel, but, yes, something’s gained.” Paulson’s reply was without hesitation. “Cadets, and middies, for that matter, have to learn to obey their betters. Life on a starship is no zark.”

  That was true. Disobedience or inattention could be fatal, and not only for the midshipman. I shrugged. I was no wild-eyed idealist. Society had finally recovered from a century or more of coddling rebellious children, and we were all the better for it.

  “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No. See you at dinner.”

  After Paulson left I turned to my console to review a stack of reports that had accumulated since my last visit. Then, restless, I got up to walk, glad I now had room to pace without cracking my shins on low-slung coffee tables:

  I sat back at my desk, flicked on the console. The trouble, I realized, was that I had no conception of what to do, either on this particular trip to Farside, or more generally as Commandant of Academy. When I’d become Hibernia’s Captain, my goal was obvious: guide the ship safely to Hope Nation and off-load the cargo and passengers. When I’d taken charge of Academy, I had no such aim. I had only to pass time until the cadets were ready to be graduated, until another group took their place. And, even more than as Captain, I was expected to govern as a remote, unapproachable figure.

  I was the wrong man for the job. Too restless to immerse myself in minutiae better left to experienced drill sergeants, I had little to do but wander the halls, an awesome figure because of my reputation, but essentially useless.

  Well, so be it. If I was to be a wanderer, I might as well begin. Perhaps in the process I’d learn something. I left my office.

  I trudged through a deserted corridor to the classroom wing, beyond it to the barracks. Now, in nominal day, cadets were in class or in training. I stopped at Krane Hall, glanced about, saw no one. Sheepishly, I went in.

  Rows of empty beds, blankets taut, the deck spotless. Sergeant Tripole seemed to have his joes well in hand, despite the altercation between his Cadet Stritz and the middy. I closed my eyes, oriented myself, crossed to the port side, walked along the row of bunks. There. That one had been mine. It seemed smaller, somehow, as did the whole barracks.

  Had I been happy here? I reached over, ran my fingers along the bed frame. Innocent of treason to come, of betrayal of my oath, I’d striven to please my masters, while my body and mind altered. Less and less often did my voice break unexpectedly into the higher registers; daily I ran my fingers over my upper lip, waiting for the magic moment when I could justify a shave.

  I sat slowly on the edge of the bed. Had I been happy? Well, innocent, perhaps. Was it not the same?

  I jumped out of bed, kicked at Robbie Rovere’s bunk. “Get up, Sarge’ll be here any second.”

  Robbie groaned, but sat, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, thanks.” He sat for a moment, heard the soft hiss of the hatch and had leaped to his feet before it had fully opened.

  Sarge snapped, “All right, you louts, listen up!” I grinned.

  Sergeant Trammel could call us what he wanted—and he did—but I suspected he felt something other than the professional disgust he communicated to us. There was an aspect to his look when you succeeded in a particularly difficult task; the apparently casual touch of his hand if you were on the verge of losing your temper, and your self respect ...

  “Aye aye, Sarge,” I echoed dutifully, along with the rest.

  Tomorrow we’re off to the Training Station, so today you get special instruction. After classes, go with Corporal Tolliver to assembly dome. I have some holos to show you”—subdued groans: Naval holos could be excruciatingly boring—“and then a quiz or two to see if you’ve paid attention.” He smiled grimly. “I hope some of you don’t listen, like last time. That was fun.” He left, shutting the hatch.

  Robbie lowered his voice in a rough imitation of Sarge, “Go with Corporal Tolliver to the head. I have some turds to show you—”

  Several bunks away Tolliver buttoned his jacket, favoring Robbie with a cold look. “Keep that up, Rovere. You make friends wherever you go.”

  “I try to, Mr. Tolliver.” Robbie subsided, knowing when to lay off. As a cadet corporal, Edgar Tolliver had considerable power to annoy us, if not make us miserable.

  Every barracks had a corporal, a cadet entrusted by the sergeant to make sure we got to the dome on time, or that the barracks was clean for weekly inspection. A corporal was still a cadet; he didn’t rate a “sir,” but like a middy was addressed by his last name only.

  His only recourse if we disobeyed was to report us, but a diligent corporal could exact fairly strict obedience as an alternative to a tongue lashing or worse from Sarge. Corporal Van Fleet had been nicer than Tolliver, but he’d made middy and been sent on to Prince of Wales.

  Robbie combed his hair meticulously, hoping to garner a few more days before Sarge sent him back to the barber. “What will the holo be this time?”

  I shrugged. We’d find out soon enough. I brushed my teeth, spat into the basin. Tolliver squeezed past to the next sink.

  As a rule, middies were nicer than corporals, perhaps because they had less to prove. Still, you didn’t want to get on the middies’ bad side, as their hazing could be severe. Once they’d even made me stand regs.

  Stripped to my shorts, I’d stood sweating on the wardroom c
hair groping for half-memorized passages from Naval Regulations, while below me they’d interjected scathing remarks about my physique and behavior. Rumor had it that if the middies were sufficiently irked, even the shorts were dispensed with. I hoped devoutly not to find out. Midshipman Jeff Thorne had said nothing, but he hadn’t shared the amusement of my other tormentors. As second middy, he could do nothing until his senior had had enough.

  After making our beds we marched to breakfast. Tolliver took his place in line with the rest of us; a corporal’s only authority was in the sergeant’s absence. Too bad Tolliver wasn’t at one of the other tables. Even at mealtime, I had to watch every word I said, so as not to attract his attention.

  “Hey, Nicky, why so quiet today?” Though Robbie woke slowly, once alert, he was depressingly cheerful:

  “Maybe because he’s learning some sense?” Tolliver’s tone was acid. “Then he could stop polishing lockers.”

  I flushed. That whole incident would have gone unnoticed if it hadn’t been for Tolliver. My suit had flopped over the edge of the locker so my door wouldn’t close. I’d have noticed if I hadn’t been in a hurry to get to Nav class. And Sarge probably wouldn’t have known at all if Tolliver hadn’t kept staring at my locker until Sarge turned to see what was the matter. Four hours polishing alumalloy lockers had left blisters on my hands and savage hate in my heart.

  My emotions made me reckless. “I’m good at polishing, Mr. Tolliver,” I said. “I could spit-polish your shoes, if you like.”

  Now it was Tolliver’s turn to redden. He’d had Arlene Sanders polish his shoes as penalty for some imagined slight, and had discovered too late that Sanders had deposited far more spit inside the shoes than she’d brushed off the tips.

  Tolliver seemed in good humor, though his eyes were sharp. “No thanks, Seafort. Where I really could use your help is getting ready for inspection tonight.”

  I grimaced. Well, I’d brought it on myself. Now Tolliver would have me tag along as he sauntered through the barracks, and every speck of dust, every imagined blemish, would be mine to correct. I knew he’d pay particular attention to the stalls in the head, and I could do nothing about it.

  For much of the day I labored at Nav, listened dutifully to a lecture on the mysteries of the fusion drive, and managed in Colonial History to show Mr. Peretz I’d read at least part of the chapter. Then lunch, Off Hour, and the rigorous daily calisthenics a cadet never escaped.

  Later, we convened at barracks, marched to assembly dome, and settled in for holovid instruction. The first holo might have been entitled Ten Obvious Ways to Avoid Getting Killed on a Station,” and the second, “In Case You Weren’t Listening to the First.”

  Admonishments ringing in my ears, resolved never to exit a Station lock without a clamped helmet or to stroll in front of a laser during fire practice, I changed for dinner. At table I kept a low profile, hoping Corporal Tolliver had forgotten my impertinence at lunch.

  He hadn’t.

  After dinner I followed him through barracks, broom and dustpan in one hand, mop and bucket in the other, damp rag draped over my arm. How dirty can a barracks get that is cleaned almost every day? One might be surprised, unless one knew Edgar Tolliver. I wiped imaginary dust, swept the aisles, pretended not to know he was going to call me next into the head.

  “Is the shower a tad moldy? What do you think, Seafort?” There was no right answer, and we both knew it. But there were tricks to dealing with a cadet corporal, and I used one of them. I peered at the spotless bulkheads. “I think you’re right, Mr. Tolliver,” I said with enthusiasm. “They ought to be scrubbed down. Do you want me to get started?”

  He frowned, but played out the game. “Yes, I think so. Let’s check the stalls first.”

  The toilets were cleaned twice daily by those cadets who had earned Sarge’s disfavor, so I knew they wouldn’t be offensive. I also knew their condition wouldn’t affect Tolliver’s decision in the slightest.

  “Look at this, Seafort. Can’t let Sarge see that or we’ll all lose an Off Hour. Scrub them out, will you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Toll—”

  He tore off a small piece of rag. “By hand.”

  “Of course, Mr. Tolliver.” Damn him. Humiliating, and my knees and back would ache after. I smiled.

  The next trick was harder. It was all in the tone; the words had to be absolutely guileless, if repeated to Sarge. I said brightly, “I’m glad you point these things out, Mr. Tolliver. Not many barracks have a corporal who knows as much about dirty toilet stalls as you do.” He eyed me, but I beamed pleasantly. I beamed like a cheerful imbecile.

  Still, he was the one about to stroll out of the head, and I was the one who’d get to scrub the barracks stalls for an hour or two. “I’ll check back, Seafort,” he said. “In case there’s something we missed.”

  I bent to my work, slapping at his face with every swipe of the rag.

  Half an hour later, he was back. “Enjoying yourself, Seafort? It’s nice you’ve found work you’re suited for. I’ll try to give—”

  “Attention.” The voice was quiet, the tone agreeable, but Tolliver leaped to attention, his back ramrod stiff. I scrambled to my feet and dropped the rag, pressing my arms to my sides.

  “What’s up?”

  Tolliver said, “Nothing, Mr. Thorne. We were cleaning the head for inspection, sir.”

  Midshipman Jeffrey Thorne clasped his hands behind his back, peered into the stall. “Very presentable. Mr. Seafort does a good job.”

  “I was just telling him that, sir.”

  “Yes, I heard.” Thorne prodded the bucket of soapy water. “We’re all proud of you, Tolliver.”

  Something in his tone made Tolliver’s lips press tighter. “Yes, sir.” Imprisoned at attention, he could do nothing.

  “I’d like your friend Seafort to read us some regs again. Mind if I take him from you?”

  Tolliver’s look held pure malice. “No, sir, not at all.”

  “Good.” Midshipman Thorne glared at me. “Leave the bucket, Cadet. Left face. Forward march. Left face. Halt.” I did as I was told, and ended up facing the entry to the head.

  Thorne strolled over to Tolliver, fingered the corporal’s crisp gray jacket. “I’ll see you again, Cadet Tolliver. You may put away the supplies. Or, if you like, finish the job yourself.”

  He patted Tolliver’s shoulder. “All right, Seafort, forward march.” He marched me through the dorm to the outer hatch. The other cadets watched with sympathy. No one wanted to be singled out for a middy’s hazing.

  The hatch closed behind us. At his orders I strode down the corridor to the first turn. “That’s far enough, Seafort. As you were.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I eyed him, smiling tentatively.

  “I should have made him scrub the toilet, but I couldn’t undercut him in front of you.” Thorne grimaced, then brightened. “Did you see the look on his face?”

  “Yes, sir, in the mirror.”

  “Belay that bit about standing regs. I’m putting together another mission. You care to volunteer?”

  He was my senior; he had no need to ask me, but I wouldn’t have passed it up for the world. “Yes, sir!”

  I don’t know how I’d been lucky enough to be chosen for Jeff Thorne’s fabled “missions.” Until the night the middies made me stand regs he’d taken no notice of me. After they’d let me go, Thorne had seen me back to barracks.

  In a service corridor, he’d taken me aside, said a few kind words. Wary of all midshipmen, I made no reply. As if he hadn’t noticed, he strolled, hands in pockets, chatting about the Navy, his experiences as a cadet, his own hopes, until at last he’d drawn me out. I told him something of Cardiff, and Father. I’d even casually mentioned Jason.

  The first mission had come a week later. Others had followed.

  Thorne glanced both ways, whispered, “I’ve got Bailey from Reardon Hall and Justin Ravitz waiting by the wardroom. You know them?”

  “I know Justin, sir.” I
trotted along, trying to keep up with Jeff Thorne’s long stride. “What’s our mission?” Last time it had been to spy, belowdecks, on the techs manning the gravitrons. I’d learned it was the perennial goal of the wardroom to reach the control room unseen, bring the gravitrons slowly off-line, and enjoy the resulting havoc. They’d never succeeded.

  Thorne made sure the corridor was empty, lowered his voice. “Mess hall.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I don’t know why we only got one slice of apple pie for dessert, when so much was left over. And there should be ice cream in the cooler.”

  His smile was infectious; I found myself grinning like an idiot as I did my best to keep up with his stride. Mr. Thorne could be firm if we didn’t listen at training, but at heart he was one of us.

  Half an hour later Bailey, Ravitz and I girded ourselves at the cutoff for the corridor to the mess hall dome. Thorne peeked around the corner. “Go!”

  We sprinted down the long corridor. As an officer, Mr. Thorne could go where he wished, but we cadets were a different matter. Though, if we were seen, he’d cover for us, wouldn’t he? Better not to find out.

  At mealtimes the mess hall hatch was left open, but this late in the evening it was shut. “Is it coded, sir?”

  “The mess hall? Don’t be silly.” He touched the pad, hesitated. “Let me look in first.” As the hatch slid open he cautiously peered in.

  “All clear!” It was a whisper. We slipped inside the darkened hall. I looked up. Farside was halfway through the long Lunar night; the open filters revealed the bright cold gleam of a billion stars.

  We huddled at a familiar table. Thorne beckoned us close. “If we’re found here by the tables, I can claim I was hazing you, though I really shouldn’t be in here at this hour. But if we’re caught in the galley, we’ve all had it.” He eyed his fellow conspirators. “Bailey, guard the hatch. If anyone approaches, snap your fingers loudly. Can you do that?” The boy nodded. “Then duck under a table over there where it’s darker, and hope no one sees you. If things go wrong, try to get back to barracks.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Bailey grinned with excitement.

  “Inside the galley we won’t be able to hear Bailey, so, Ravitz, you stand just behind the serving rail and relay the signal. Anyone comes, snap your fingers at us and duck down. I’ll snap back to tell you we’ve heard.”