Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  “I know, sir.” My eyes stung. “But it wasn’t. I didn’t have to go with you.”

  “Sure you did.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Seafort. I let you down. You weren’t supposed to get a caning.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Yes, you are. Do you understand that?”

  “Of course. It hurts, but—”

  “No, listen to me. You’re all right, Seafort. Inside.”

  For some reason, I felt a desolation. “What do you mean?”

  Thorne thrust his hands in his pockets, looked away. “It’s just ... you don’t have many friends, do you?”

  “There’s Robbie, and Arlene, lots of—”

  “Joeys you really talk to?”

  I swallowed. “What is there to talk about?”

  He came close, looked directly into my eyes. “You tell me, Nick.”

  I shrugged. “Father and I—we didn’t speak a lot.”

  “But you feel the need, at times.”

  I looked to the deck.

  “You’re lonely, Nick. I am too, sometimes, but you seem to have an inner strength. You’ll get through.”

  “Will I?” The cry sprang from me.

  “Yes. It would be easier if you could ... share, I suppose. Don’t look at me like that. You give, when your friends need it. I saw you once, when Rovere was upset about Sarge chewing him out. The way you diverted him, until he got over his sulk. But I’m not talking about giving ... Again he trailed off.

  “Say it, sir.” My plea sounded almost a command. I held my breath until I saw he took no offense.

  Thorne fidgeted. “Opening up. Sharing yourself. People can’t help you unless you let them in.” He looked away. “I wouldn’t press, but I don’t know if we’ll get another chance.”

  “I’m all right, I—”

  His look was one of sadness.

  “I don’t know how,” I blurted. “I never have. Once I had a friend, Jason—” The memories flared, and I thrust them down. “I’m all right, sir. Really.”

  The young middy smiled. “Well, we had some good missions.”

  My return smile was tremulous. “Yes, sir.”

  “Hang on, Cadet. You’ll get through.” A quick squeeze, and he was gone.

  I watched him stride down the corridor, never looking back. I thought of Father, and felt a chill.

  After breakfast I left my apartment and wandered the compound. On the gunnery range, cadets practiced with their ancient laser simulator, while a few were allowed to focus an actual laser cannon locked to low intensity. Later, outside the suiting room, I watched cadets stumble through their suiting drills. Today, none turned green from the gas and clawed at his helmet.

  I wandered toward my office, brooding. Perhaps I should schedule a surprise inspection. Tolliver or Bien could help make the rounds. Was I considering it merely to alleviate my own boredom? Well, even so, the cadets could use—

  “Cadet Arnweil reporting, sir!”

  I whirled. “Don’t sneak up behind me, you young—what do you want?”

  The boy snapped a salute, tugged his gray jacket into place. “Sergeant Kinders’s compliments, sir, and there’s a visitor at the gate asking—”

  “Parents aren’t allowed entry. Have the guards send him away.”

  “—asking for you personally, sir.” He stopped to catch his breath.

  “Who is it?”

  “A Mr. ... He fished for the name. “Mr. O’Neill, sir.”

  Did we have a cadet by that name? I wasn’t sure. “Tell the guard whoever it is should call for an appointment.” I strode back to my office.

  Sergeant Kinders looked up. from his caller. “Oh, there you are, sir. Captain Higbee from BuPers on the line.”

  “Very well, I’ll take it.” I went into my private office, sat at the desk.

  A click. “Seafort? I have a Thorne, Jeffrey R., lieutenant, four years seniority. A year on U.N.S. Targon, staff at Lunapolis Admiralty, now at Callisto Base.”

  “I want him.”

  “His enlistment is up in six months. Policy is not to transfer—”

  “He’ll reenlist, he’s career Navy.” Why hadn’t I thought of Thorne before? His good humor, his occasional irreverence to tradition would be ideal. “He’s the one.”

  Animosity leaked through Higbee’s polite veneer. “I may not be able to get him for you.”

  If I’d stroked him, I wouldn’t be in my predicament. Even knowing that, I couldn’t contain myself. “Mr. Higbee, I don’t know how to play this game. I’m no politician. But there’s two or three people I could ring who do. One by himself might not have enough influence, but I’ll bet that all of them together could clip your wings. Shall we see who has more pull, you or I?” I was astounded at my insolence. It verged on mutiny.

  A pause. I wondered who I could call, other than the Admiral. The only person of influence I knew was Senator Boland, and he would merely laugh and hang up.

  “Very well, you’ll have Thorne in a few days. It’s of no consequence.” Higbee made no attempt to conceal his anger. “I’ll look forward to assisting you again.” He rang off abruptly.

  Another enemy. I was so good at making them. Now I’d have to watch every new appointment like a hawk. I sighed, then relaxed. It didn’t matter. I was getting Jeff Thorne.

  Again the caller buzzed. “Yes?” I bit back anger. “The guardhouse, sir. A visitor is insisting—”

  “A Mr. O’Neill? We don’t take unannounced—”

  “Dr. O’Neill, not Mister.”

  Lord God. The clinic. “Send him to my office immediately. Do you have a middy to escort him?”

  “I’ll use one of your special cadets.”

  I grunted. My special cadets. Well, I’d created that problem for myself.

  I waited with an attempt at patience, but gave up after only a few minutes. I hurried out to the corridor, met O’Neill and Drew at the main door. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t recognize your name.”

  “No matter.” Well dressed, receding hairline, thin-faced. He shook hands, shot me a probing glance. “I thought it best to see you in person. Have you somewhere to talk?”

  “My office.”

  He waited until we were seated with the door closed. “Mr. Seafort, this is an unfortunate situa—”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you.” He hesitated. “You have to understand, the practice of medicine is not an exact—”

  I came to my feet, gripped the back of my chair. “For God’s sake, man, spit it out!”

  He said warily, “She’s gone.”

  “Annie’s dead?” My stomach went hollow.

  “No, gone from the clinic.” He saw my face, hurried on. “I mean, procedures normally ensure ... it’s not as if we run a prison, you understand. I want to assure you that normally—”

  “I don’t care about normal. What about my wife?”

  His forehead shone with perspiration. “Yesterday afternoon she left the grounds and never came back.”

  “You let her walk out, in her condition?”

  “Almost all our patients are voluntary. Mrs. Seafort has free use of the grounds.”

  “But she’s not on your grounds.”

  “One of our patients had his family visit. Afterward your wife walked them to the gate, strolled out when they did. We didn’t even know how she’d left until we replayed the tapes.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A light jumpsuit.”

  “Money?”

  “As far as we know she had none. All her expenses were billed to your account.”

  My fists bunched.

  “The police are looking. We called them within hours.”

  “Did you check the squatters’ shacks outside the clinic?”

  “When the police came. We couldn’t go out alone.”

  “Of course not. You might have found her.”

  “I understand your anger, Mr. Seafort. That’s why
I came in person.”

  I ignored that. “Was she upset?”

  “Her chart shows that she’s been moody, of late. But that’s natural, at her stage. Eventually her mood swings will lessen, and she may be quite placid as long as she takes her meds. But for now—”

  “She’s gone. Without money or proper clothing.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated, blurted, “It may not be as bad as all that. Your wife’s, er, background. ... she may be more skilled than most at coping with—”

  I stood, my voice odd. “Background?”

  “Well, after all, she is a trannie. They can handle the most appalling—”

  I was on my feet. “Lord God damn you!” I could strangle him. I was young enough, strong enough. He was within reach.

  “Captain, many papers have been written about the peculiar transpop subculture. It’s not—”

  I roared, “KINDERS! GET IN HERE!”

  Within seconds the door popped open, and the Sergeant dashed in, eyes wide with alarm.

  “It’s not insult, only fact that she could well survive situations that—”

  With effort, I made my voice steady. “Dr. Richard O’Neill, before witness I do call challenge on you to defend your honor! Let me know the name of your second. Choice of—”

  O’Neill didn’t move, and his voice was precise. “Though our clinic is private, we receive funds from the municipal government. As it happens, I am classified as a civil servant and therefore exempt from the dueling statutes.”

  I leaned across my desk, beside myself. “You pompous fool, find my wife, however you have to do it! If she dies, I’ll kill you myself, if I end up in a penal colony.”

  Dr. O’Neill was pale. “As I said, I understand your anger. Even though your threats are actionable, I won’t file a complaint unless—”

  “Kinders, show him off the base, and that means NOW!”

  The sergeant didn’t bat an eye. “Aye aye, sir.” He crossed the room, bent over O’Neill, took his arm. “Come this way, sir. Right away, please.”

  I paced the office in mounting fury, until finally I flung open the door. “Call Tolliver!”

  I waited until my aide cautiously peered in. “I hear you’re on the warpath.”

  “Annie’s missing. She walked out of the clinic.”

  His manner changed in an instant. “My God. I’m sorry.” He pulled up a chair, sat without my bidding. “What do you want me to do?”

  “She sneaked out yesterday, and there’s no trace of her.” I faced the window, grappled with a sudden difficulty in speaking.

  “They’ll find her, sir. It’s just a matter of time.” He pursed his lips, thought. “You could help.”

  “Go look for her, you mean?”

  “No, of course not. Where would you search that they haven’t tried? But you could take advantage of your popularity for once. Light a fire under the jerries.”

  “I could do that.” I turned. “Get the number of the local station.”

  His sardonic smile returned. “That wouldn’t be your style, sir. Try the Commissioner of Police. The Mayor. Hell, call the Secretary-General; he’d take a call from you. Anyone would.”

  “Except Admiral Duhaney.”

  “Well, he knows you.” When he saw my eyes his smile vanished. “Sorry, I’m out of line. How high do you want to start?”

  “The Police Commissioner, if I can get through.”

  Tolliver rose. “Give me a few minutes.”

  Half an hour later, I hung up, the Commissioner’s assurances ringing in my ears. They would make every effort, highest priority, etc. I sat, biting my knuckles. Somehow, it sounded like a brush-off.

  I passed the rest of the day in an agony of anticipation. I snatched up the caller every time it buzzed, dreading a catastrophe, praying that Annie had been found.

  No word.

  At dinner I was silent. No one at my table had been told about Annie, but they knew my moods enough not to bother me. Subdued conversation detoured around me while I played with my food.

  Two days passed in endless agony. I signed reports, caned a hapless cadet who’d been caught outside the fence, ordered a cabin made ready for Lieutenant Thorne. Admiralty called, requesting me to attend the commissioning of U.N.S. Wellington, two weeks hence. I agreed. By then Annie would be found. She had to be.

  By midafternoon of the third day I was nearly beside myself. Several times I called the clinic, to see if Annie had returned on her own. I plodded mechanically through my duties.

  “Captain?”

  I swung round so fast I almost fell out of my chair. “What, Edgar?”

  “I think I found something.”

  After a moment I realized that Tolliver wasn’t speaking of Annie. I forced myself to concentrate. “Go on.”

  “Remember when Sergeant Ibarez was keeping Jerence Branstead away from his mates? He had him recheck serial numbers in the suiting room. I looked them over.”

  “So?” At the moment I didn’t give a damn about suits, or the cadets who wore them.

  “Branstead’s tallies match the suiting room manifest, but they don’t check against the invoices in the puter. It may mean something.”

  “Is the number of suits correct?”

  “Seems to be. It’s an odd discrepancy, though.”

  “It happens all the time. An order is diverted from one ship to another. Forget about it.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Why don’t I just forget about the whole audit, while I’m at it?”

  “Tolliver!” My voice was dangerous.

  Eyes blazing, he stood his ground. “You told me the bloody audit was important. I’ve gone without sleep, worked until the room spun to get out this damned report. The first time I have something that doesn’t check out, you tell me to forget it. Make up your bloody mind!”

  I retreated before his fury. “I’m sorry. I’m thinking of Annie. Do whatever you want.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” he said, barely mollified. “Any word yet?”

  “Nothing.” I hesitated. “Edgar, what should I do?”

  “What can you do? Wait it out.”

  “She’s alone out there.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His tone was gentle. “Sir, she’s home.”

  My fists tightened. “That’s not her home anymore. It can’t be.”

  “That’s how you and I see it.” He left the rest unsaid.

  “Those damned drugs ...

  He shook his head. “Perhaps it was better in the old days, when they left people unbalanced. Even if they were schizo and glitched.”

  I waved it aside. “I want my wife, not your theories.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m with you on that. Wait it out. It’s not as if you could go looking for her.”

  My head came up.

  After a moment I said, “Why not?”

  Chapter 12

  TOLLIVER OBJECTED VIGOROUSLY TO my leaving, and was apoplectic when I suggested going alone. To placate him, I agreed to take a middy. He picked Adam Tenere, who was groundside with dispatches. Well, the boy was well intentioned; I’d just have to be cautious in spaceport corridors.

  To the annoyance of the steward, I was on my feet the moment the suborbital landed. Adam at my side, I fumed while the ramp swung ponderously from the gate. Outside, New York was already darkening.

  Was there any point going to the clinic at this hour? Better to check into our hotel, start fresh in the morning. My Academy schedule was no immediate concern; I’d canceled all appointments, leaving Tolliver to greet Jeffrey Thorne and look after the paperwork at Devon.

  No, a hotel would drive me cabin-crazy. I needed to see the clinic, put myself in Annie’s place.

  After losing several helicabs I gave up waiting my turn and shoved like everyone else, only to end up with a cabby who argued for five minutes before consenting to fly to the Bronx.

  I settled back in my seat and glowered at Adam’s attempts at conversation. At l
ast, we set down on the visitor’s lot, as far from the fenced perimeter as the cabby could manage.

  “Sign us in at the Sheraton, Adam. I’ll meet you later.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Can’t I come—”

  “No.”

  The clinic door opened at my first knock; I’d been on camera from the moment the heli had landed. At night, security would be especially tight.

  The orderly at the desk looked up with scant effort to conceal his boredom. “Captain Seafort? I’m Jose Gierra. Dr. O’Neill was waiting, but he left for home an hour ago.”

  “My flight was delayed.” I set down my duffel. “Show me Annie’s room, please.”

  “Sorry. The rules say only the supervising physician can approve a visit. Come back tomorr—”

  I was already striding to the ward door. “I’m not visiting, I’m inspecting.”

  “You need an escort in the ward.”

  “Fine! Escort me!” I opened the door as he dived, too late, for the automatic lock.

  The orderly panted as he caught up with me. “Easy, joey. This job ain’t no zark.”

  We strode along the corridor past silent darkened rooms.

  Annie’s cubicle was as I’d remembered: spartan, tidy, white. Her few clothes were stored neatly in the tiny closet. The sheets were tucked under the mattress with hospital precision.

  I opened the bedside drawer; a brush, a comb, a chipcase. Annie’s holovid lay on the chair. I inserted a chip. A romance holodrama, of the type she loved. I looked for a chip on which she might have left a note.

  “There’s nothing to find. The jerries looked four days ago.”

  I yearned to knock out his teeth. Instead, I asked politely, “Are you married, Mr. Gierra?”

  “Sure.”

  I sat on the bed. “What’s her name?”

  “Connie.”

  “Would you care if she were killed?”

  His fists bunched. “Of course.”

  “What if Connie were wandering out there, where the gangs could jump her?”

  “Yeah, but she’s no trannie.”

  My face showed no expression.

  After a moment his sullenness faded. Slowly he lowered himself into the guest chair. “I’m sorry, Captain. You got every right to worry.”

  “Sorry I snarled at you.”

  “No matter.” He gestured to the closet. “We looked for clues, but found nothing. The jerries came, asked a few questions. Truth is they wouldn’t bother if you weren’t famous. Another lost trann—lost patient is the least of their troubles.”