Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  Naturally, I got the nav room.

  Our first goal was an uninhabited spot between the orbits of Jupiter and Saturn, thirty-eight degrees above the elliptical. We labored at our calculations until they all agreed. That took an amazingly long time, because Van Roef kept dividing mass instead of multiplying. Finally, when even Sergeant Reese had developed an edge to his tone, we all got it right, and we passed our calculations on to the bridge. Then another endless wait, while the bridge crew completed their own chores.

  At last Mr. Reese snapped, “For God’s sake, get up and stretch; this fidgeting drives me crazy.”

  “A short drive,” muttered Robbie Rovere, a tad too loudly. Mr. Reese glared, but decided not to hear.

  If the object was to teach us the tedium of Fusion, the exercises succeeded admirably. Between jumps, the instructors divided us into squads, had us suit up, and took us a few at a time out onto the hull for exercise and training.

  I was in the second group, with Van Roef and Sanders. This time it was Sergeant Garver who went Outside with us. I’d trained on the Hull, and I’d been taken Outside at the Training Station, but clambering on the hull of a tiny boat. under cold unforgiving stars was a different matter altogether.

  My breath rasping in my helmet, I made my way back and forth between the drive shaft and the prow. Though for once Sarge had no objection, there was no small talk among us; we were all concentrating on keeping contact with the hull, and on ignoring the terrifying vastness of space.

  Before going in, we practiced airlock maneuvers. It was harder than one might think for several people in zero grav to enter an airlock, and remain oriented toward the same plane. But if we didn’t, someone’s stray kick could smash a helmet. Sarge demonstrated twice for us, and watched from inside the lock as we struggled to release ourselves from the hull, grab hold of the handrings, and pull ourselves in at a ninety-degree angle.

  Our first try was clumsy, our second better, and our third a fiasco. Van Roef managed to let go of the ring too early and set himself adrift in the middle of the airlock, feet kicking helplessly in all directions until he floated near a bulkhead and grabbed a handring.

  I climbed in with less difficulty, but Sanders, watching Van Roef’s antics from the hull, doubled over with laughter and forgot to turn on her boots. She let go of the handhold, and, by some quirk, found herself floating inches from the hull, with virtually no discernible motion relative to the ship.

  We all knew Sarge had a thrustersuit, but nothing was more frightening than being unattached and unable to reach safe haven. Without rescue, you could spend eternity in the coffin of your suit. It would be particularly maddening to be so close to the ship, yet unable to touch it. Without a T-suit, Arlene was helpless.

  She let out a scream that rang distorted in my eardrums. Van Roef kicked convulsively, bounced off a bulkhead.

  Sarge had seen it all before. “All right, Seafort, haul her in.”

  I grasped the inside ring, leaned out as far as I could, reached for Sanders’s frantic fingers, just as Van Roef’s boot slammed into the airlock control.

  The hatch slid shut. A shriek. A moment before I realized it had been my own. I twisted. A wave of agony radiated up my arm. I was caught in the hatch seals, more of me Outside than in. Arlene Sanders’s hand was inches from mine. My left arm was almost certainly broken. Desperate, I tried to free myself.

  “DON’T MOVE, SEAFORT!” Sergeant Garver’s urgency penetrated my panic.

  “Ma’am, my arm’s—”

  “Don’t wiggle! Your suit could rip!”

  Oh, Lord God. We are heartily sorry for having offended thee. I was utterly still.

  Van Roef whimpered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Shut up. Against the bulkhead.” Sarge slapped the hatch control.-No response. After a moment she cursed, tried again. “Seafort, I’ll have to reset the controls. Just a moment while I power down.”

  “Nicky!” It was an urgent whisper. “Reach out.”

  “Belay that, Sanders, he’s not to move. You’re in no danger, I’ll come for you as soon as I can.” Sarge dialed the code, waited for the light to blink.

  “Nicky, I can’t wait. Get me back now or I’ll ... lose it.”

  Tentatively, I stretched. Pain washed through my forearm. “I can’t.”

  “I’ve got a red light, Sarge! My air!” Van Roef sounded near panic.

  Ms. Garver slapped the hatch release over and again. “Calm down, Van Roef, you still have half an hour. Seafort, the hatch is jammed.” She pounded the lock panel. “I’m going to wind it open manually. It’ll take a few minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I rested my head against the hull. God, it hurt.

  “A few minutes?” Van Roef’s voice came in a squeal. “My air is going bad!”

  “Steady, boy.” Sarge opened the emergency panel, fitted the lever to the gear.

  “Nick! Now!” Sanders bit back a sob.

  I stretched as far from the lock as I dared. “Open your fingers.” We could almost touch.

  “Seafort, she’ll be all right. Don’t stress your suit!”

  “Yes, ma’am. She can’t wait much—” I closed my eyes to the pain, stretched my broken arm. A moan. I pressed my lips tight, willed myself silent. Just another inch ...

  The God damned winder is jammed!” Sarge’s blasphemy echoed through our silence.

  “I need air!” Van Roef dived past Sarge, slapped the inner control. The red safety light flashed. The hatch stayed closed.

  Sarge flung him back across the lock. “Moron, the lock panel is defective! If the hatch opened you’d have killed everyone inside!” She keyed her caller. “Reese, get everyone suited, flank. We’ll have to pump out; I need a winch here and we can’t open or shut the outer lock. You have five minutes. And have a tank ready for Van Roef, he’s running low.” Only by pumping out the Fuser could her inner and outer locks be opened at the same time.

  I stole a glance at my air gauge. Nearing empty, but still on green. I had time.

  “Nicky!” Sanders’s eyes held something I didn’t want to see. I strained against the pinion of the hatch. If my suit ripped, I’d die instantly. Or perhaps not instantly; ! thrust down that horrid thought. Sanders was my bunkmate, and she needed help. I had no choice.

  I thrust my arm toward her, battling torment. It wasn’t enough. I recoiled, gritted my teeth, lurched from the hull. Something slipped, and I nearly passed out. Our fingers touched. I stretched the last iota, curled my finger around hers. Stretched as if on a rack, I fought dizziness, willing her closer.

  Van Roef wailed, “Never mind them, I need air! I’m on red! I can’t breathe!”

  “Come near the panel again and you won’t need to breathe. I’ll kill you myself.” I think Sergeant Garver meant it.

  Our fingers locked. Sanders plucked greedily at my hand, my wrist. After an endless moment, her other hand made contact. She hauled herself up my arm toward the hull. Even after she reached it, for a moment she clung to me as to a liferaft. Releasing the tension on my imprisoned, throbbing arm, I sagged against the lock. “You’re all right, Arlene. Just hold on.”

  She was crying. “Thank you. Oh, Lord God, thank you.”

  “You’re all right.” I repeated my inadequate comfort.

  Helmets touching, we waited together for the lock to open. “Do you have air, Nicky?”

  “Enough. You?”

  “I think so. I’ve just gone red.”

  “Sarge?”

  “We’re almost pumped out. Once I have the winch it won’t take a minute.”

  “What if ... the winch doesn’t work either?”

  Her voice was grim. “I’ll torch through the lock, if I have to. I’ll try the winch for five minutes, then get the torch. We still have more than enough time. I’m with you, Seafort. Just hold still, don’t tear the suit. How’s Sanders?”

  “I’m—”

  “She’s fine, sir. I’ve got her now,”

  Reese’s
voice cut in. “We’re pumped, Sarge. Opening up.”

  True to her word, Sarge had the outer hatch cranked open within a minute. I yelped as the pressure against my arm was released, but held still.

  “All right, there’s no break in the suit skin. I’ve turned on your boots; can you walk?” She slipped a steadying arm around my waist. Inside, we waited while air hissed back into the ship.

  They helped me strip off my suit, gently supporting my injured arm. In the corner Van Roef whimpered, unnoticed. Mr. Reese plotted a course for the Station and we Fused at once. The portholes faded to black.

  “I’ll try to set it, but I’m no med tech.” Sarge took my wrist, put her hand on my upper arm. I braced myself, cried out only once. While setting the splint she paused, reached to my face, gently brushed hair away from my eyes. Did her hand linger an extra second? “Good job, joey.” She turned back to her work.

  After, I sat on my bunk in the tiny wardroom crowded with subdued cadets, sipping hot cocoa. Arlene Sanders came close. Thanks for helping.”

  I rested the cocoa on my knee. “No problem. I was just standing around with nothing to do.” I stumbled to a halt, realizing my humor was out of place. She helped me to my feet, embraced me. I hugged her awkwardly with my one good arm. For a moment her head rested on my chest. We separated. I sat quickly, odd and unexpected feelings rising.

  We Defused, and Mr. Reese began maneuvering us to our bay. Sarge loomed in the wardroom hatch. “Mr. Seafort, in the airlock I ordered you to hold still so you wouldn’t tear your suit. You didn’t. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I stood. “No excuse, Sarge.”

  “Two demerits, when you’re healed. Sanders, you were never in trouble. I would have retrieved you the moment the lock was open. You risked Seafort’s life for nothing. Come with me.”

  Her face set, Arlene followed into the other cabin. After a few moments we heard her yelp as the strokes fell.

  The day after we returned to base, Cadet Van Roef was shipped groundside. We never saw him again.

  “Is your arm all right, sir?” Adam Tenere sounded anxious.

  I realized I’d been rubbing my forearm. “Of course.”

  The boy looked wistfully at the thruster controls.

  I needn’t be a mind reader to guess his thoughts. Every middy yearned for that rare opportunity to pilot a craft. It was as close to making Captain as most of them would ever get. “Not a chance, Mr. Tenere.”

  “I didn’t say anything, sir.”

  I snorted. “You didn’t need to.” I punched in the startup codes, waited for the boat to come up to full power. I checked the screens. I wouldn’t care to be adrift in an undersupplied, underpowered Trainer. I touched the silent speaker. Even a Fuser’s communications were disabled; her caller had but one frequency.

  It had been so for some seventy years, ever since the Screaming Boy affair. Five cadets had stranded themselves too close to Mercury to Fuse; their N-waves were distorted by the nearby gravitational mass. The cadets’ desperate cries for help across every band had utterly unnerved the cadets in the other Fusers, and made the matter a sensation for the holozines even though a rescue ship was speeding to the scene.

  The embarrassing incident had enraged the Commandant, who ordered the radionics on every training vessel set to its own single classified frequency, decodable only by the Station and the command ship.

  Despite the wrath of their Commandant, the boys were fortunate they hadn’t Defused so close to the Sun that their heat shields couldn’t cope. Such a potential disaster was one reason we always checked and rechecked Fusion coordinates with meticulous care.

  I ran systems checks, powered down. “Let’s go.”

  We reseated the hatch. Outside, the midshipman asked, “Where to, sir?”

  “Mother. The Fifth one down the line.” On occasions when several squads of cadets practiced at once, they were accompanied by Trafalgar, a fully powered command vessel, generally nicknamed Mothership. More than once, she had towed home a Fuser that had squandered its propellant before reaching the docking bays. It was not a distinction to be sought.

  We negotiated our way across the flat of the Station disk, past the obstacles of our radionics and sensors. Finally, we clambered into Trafalgar’s lock.

  The Mothership was substantially larger than the trainers, but though she had gravitrons and fusion drives, she wasn’t designed for interstellar travel. No hydros, minimal stores. She took a crew of seven. Instead of the usual circumference corridor, her lock opened into a cabin that stretched from starboard to port, at the forward end of which was the bridge.

  At the console I checked atmosphere, unclamped my helmet and stripped off my suit. I stretched luxuriously. Adam took his place at the second officer’s chair, automatically straightening his tie. I smiled; Trafalgar’s was hardly a real bridge, and the middy wasn’t reporting for watch.

  I leaned back. “Power up.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The boy studied the console for a long anxious moment.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “If you blow us up I won’t be around to complain.”

  His smile was strained. “Aye aye, sir.” My remark had a purpose, however unpleasant. A middy had to learn to cope with pressure. If he was on the bridge when a fish loomed ... my hand tightened on the armrest.

  Tentatively he tapped a sequence of commands. Figures flashed across the console. After a moment the lights brightened. So did Adam. “Power-up achieved, sir.”

  I wouldn’t let him cast off, but no harm in continuing the exercise. “Bring the thrusters on-line.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  I watched from my own console. “Check airlock seals.”

  “Airlocks sealed, sir.”

  “Fusion readiness, please.”

  “Aye ay—but, sir, we’re still moored to the Station.” If we tried to Fuse now, we’d destroy our ship, and the Station as well.

  “I know, we’re not going anywhere.”

  “Readying for Fusion, sir.” He slid his finger across the screen; the green line followed.

  Normally, at this point, the engine room staff would be monitoring N-wave generation, making sure we were within tolerances. Unstaffed, we’d have to rely on the puter, and that simply wasn’t done. “Shut down, Adam.”

  He sighed. “Aye aye, sir.”

  As the fusion motors dimmed, the green console light faded. No, I wouldn’t take him Fusing, but there was no reason the two of us couldn’t make a short run on auxiliary engines. The middy would be in seventh heaven, and the practice would benefit him when—

  The speaker crackled. “Station Puter D 1004 to Trafalgar, respond please.”

  I snatched up the caller. “Trafalgar.”

  “Farside Base on-line, for the Commandant.”

  I looked to the middy. “Your comm check, most likely. Don’t forget to call them back when we reboard.”

  Adam shook his head. “It’s early yet, sir, and they wouldn’t ask for you on a comm check.”

  “True.” I hesitated. I could give the youngster his chance at the controls, return the call later. Farside could handle things without me for another hour. “Tell them—” No, better to get it over with. “Relay to Trafalgar, please.”

  Moments passed. Sergeant Obutu. “Sir, your Mr. Tolliver, groundside. Shall I patch him through?”

  “What does he want?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Very well, put—” I stopped. Not, “He didn’t say,” but, “He wouldn’t say.” She’d asked and Tolliver wouldn’t tell her. Odd, even for my eccentric aide.

  “Seafort here.”

  Seconds hesitation, while the voice was relayed from Devon. “Lieutenant Tolliver reporting, sir. I need you groundside.”

  I stared unbelieving at the speaker. A most peculiar summons indeed, from a subordinate to his Captain. “You what?”

  Adam gave his rapt attention.

  Tolliver’s voice was taut. “We need you here ASAP, sir
. Please come directly.”

  Had he lost his mind? “Full report, Lieutenant! What’s going on?”

  “Aye aye, sir. This, uh, isn’t a secure line.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Remember your report from Challenger, sir? The holozines had it as soon as Admiralty.” Tolliver was right; with modern technology our news media could intercept and decode most interplanetary transmissions.

  “I’m at the Training Station.” My tone was petulant. “Can’t you tell me now?”

  “Yes, if you insist.” Tolliver’s voice had an edge. “On the other hand, you could trust my judgment.”

  On the other hand, I could cashier him. This was rank insolence. “Does First Lieutenant Sleak know about this rigmarole?”

  A long pause. “No, sir. And there’s no point in telling him.”

  I muttered, “Tolliver’s gone round the bend.” Adam Tenere studied his nails. “Very well, Edgar, I’ll be down shortly. By Lord God, this had better be worth it!”

  “Arrange a special shuttle with Lunapolis Transport, sir. Don’t wait for the nightliner.”

  Enough was enough. “Don’t give me orders, Tolliver.” I rang off, seething. “What are you staring at, Middy? Call up Farside, we need the shuttle!”

  “Aye aye, sir. You were just talking to Far—” Adam saw my expression, subsided just in time. Moments later, he had Sergeant Obutu back on the line. She told me Mr. Trayn’s shuttle would need to refuel before returning.

  “Wonderful.” Three hours, at minimum, probably more. “Suit up, Mr. Tenere. It’s back to the Station”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Tenere grabbed his suit, politely handed me my own. One leg in, he stopped short. “Sir, if time is important ...

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t we take Trafalgar, meet the shuttle over Farside?”

  “That’s ridicu—” I pondered. If we left immediately, we could be above Farside by the time the shuttle lifted off. “No, there’d be no one to return Trafalgar to the Station.”

  “I could, sir.” He scanned my face, saw the refusal, fell back to a second position. “Lieutenant Paulson or one of the sergeants could come on the shuttle, change places with you. He and I could sail back here and wait for the shuttle to pick us up.”