Hands clawed; I tore through them and staggered on.
One sixty-fifth. Ten more blocks, but I wouldn’t make it. My breath came ragged. Onward I ran, closing my eyes to maintain the rhythm ...
“Move it, Seafort!” Sergeant Tailor reached forward with his baton.
“Aye aye, sir.” I lurched along the Farside track until I’d gained several steps. Sarge could easily have caught me, but I knew he wouldn’t increase his pace just to touch me. He was always fair. Still, I had to maintain my distance; one tap with his baton and I’d be sent for a caning. It befell one or another of us, not every day, but often enough. I wasn’t sure, but I suspected they’d been slowly increasing the pace.
Two laps to go. Robbie Rovere was half a length ahead, alongside Corporal Tolliver.
Could I hold out? In the months I’d been at Farside I’d felt my stamina increase, and I’d already been made to turn in my slacks and jacket for the next larger size. I wasn’t sure, but I thought my voice had deepened another notch too. Perhaps it was the food.
Sergeant Tailor was gaining again. I could sprint, probably even catch the stragglers a dozen meters ahead of me, but if I used my little reserve of energy I’d collapse before the last lap.
I stumbled, lost my pace. Tailor’s steps neared. Damn! No choice now. I dashed ahead, stopped only when I had left him a quarter turn behind. Now, I had only to hang on.
I turned into the last lap. Behind me, Sarge’s inexorable footsteps. My lungs heaved. It wasn’t fair. I’d been caned only last week. Lightly, it was true. Track canings were always light. But the humiliation was unbearable.
I staggered on. His step came closer. “Move on, boy.”
I nodded, too bereft of breath to acknowledge the warning.
The distance between us closed. He reached with the baton. I lurched forward, avoided it by inches.
Again he neared. If only I hadn’t stumbled, the lap before. Now I couldn’t last even the remaining quarter lap.
The baton reached out—
And I went down. “Ow!” I rolled in the gravel. “My foot!” I clutched my leg. “Oh, God, my ankle!”
Sarge knelt by my side. “Don’t blaspheme.” He pushed my hands away, felt the joint. “Can you move it? How about this way?”
I sobbed, “It hurts. I think I twisted it.”
That happens. You’ll be all right.” He blew his whistle to attract the attention of Sergeant Swopes.
I lay on the gravel track while the two conferred over my sweaty form. “Nothing’s broken, Nick. We’ll have the med tech check you just to be sure.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
Swopes reached down, offered a hand. “I don’t think you need the stretcher, do you?” I came tremulously to my feet. “Lean on me.” I did so. Hobbling and hopping, I made my way to the infirmary.
Bone diagnostics found no damage; the tech wrapped my foot in icy towels for an hour, then sent me back to my dorm. I showered and changed. By the time I caught up to my mates at lunch I was hardly limping.
During afternoon classes I managed to avoid the instructors’ disapproval, though my mind wandered. Sergeant Swopes let me off tray duty for the night. I ate listlessly. After dinner we trudged back to barracks for Free Hour before Lights Out. I lay on my bed.
“You all right?”
I looked up, smiled. “Sure, Arlene.”
She sat alongside me, whispered, “See Peterson? He pulled a fast one tonight.”
“What do you mean?” I leaned close.
“Were you in his Nav class? He got caught passing a note, and Vasquez gave him a demerit.”
“So?”
She looked disgusted. “That made ten, dummy. He had to see Zorn.”
“Yeah, he got caned. That’s why he’s lying on his stomach.”
“And after, he went to the Commandant’s office.”
I nodded. The unfortunate cadet would knock on the Commandant’s hatch, say the ritual words to the duty officer. “Cadet Peterson reporting, sir. Lieutenant Zorn’s compliments, and would you please cancel ten demerits.”
Sanders’ slipped off the bed, sat on the floor, her mouth close to my ear. “I saw him in the shower tonight. He wasn’t caned. No marks, not even red.”
I whispered, “Maybe Zorn let him off.”
She snorted. “Do they ever let a cadet off?”
I shook my head, puzzled. “How did he get out of it?”
“Don’t you see? He never reported to Zorn. He just waited and went to the Commandant to have his demerits canceled.”
I whistled softly at Peterson’s audacity. If they caught him ... “What’ll you do about it?”
Her look was scornful. “Me? It’s his affair, not mine. And pardon the pun, but it’s his arse if they catch him.”
“Geez.”
After she wandered off I stared at Peterson, looked away, disappointed. I’d liked him.
The chime sounded, warning the end of Free Hour. We made ready for bed.
As the bulbs dimmed for Lights Out, the hatch opened. Sergeant Swopes surveyed us in our beds. When he spoke his voice was somber. “Cadet Peterson, out of your bunk.”
The boy complied at once. He wore only his shorts. “Yes, Sarge?”
“Put on your pants and shirt.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He grabbed his clothes. I noticed he was careful not to turn his back to Sarge.
“And your shoes.”
Half dressed, Peterson waited by his bunk. Sarge walked up and down the aisle, looking at each of us in turn before he turned back to Peterson. “Report to the Commandant’s office at once.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He started toward the hatch.
“With your duffel.”
“Aye—what?”
“You heard me. Move.”
Cadet Peterson thrust his remaining clothes in the duffel, scurried out the hatch.
Sergeant Swopes walked down the aisle to Peterson’s bed, sat on the end rail, a shadowy figure in the dim light. After a moment, he spoke to the opposite bulkhead.
“Your lives are committed to the United Nations Naval Service. The Service is worthy of you. It is our hope that you will be worthy of it. To that end we exercise you, train you, teach you the skills and crafts you must know.”
He paused. The barracks was utterly silent.
“None of you would tolerate a cadet cheating his bunkmates. You know you must stand together, rely on each other without reserve, to survive the rigors of space. Likewise, your mates must be able to depend on your courage, your intelligence, your honesty.”
He stood. “You must also learn that not only your bunkmates rely on your integrity. The entire Naval Service is as one with you. Captains, admirals, lieutenants, and middies. Officers and men. Cooks and engineers. Your word is your bond, to each of them. It must always be so.”
He paused, until the tension was agony, sat again on the bed.
“You must not tolerate deceit. Not in me, not in yourselves. What is deceit? If I pull surprise inspection and you kick a loose sock under your bunk, that’s fair. It’s your responsibility to appear ready, mine to find the sock. But, if I ask, ‘Cadet, is there a sock underneath your bunk?’ you must respond with the truth. Dishonesty violates your oath of enlistment, but worse, it violates your integrity, and you will have become something you cannot long endure.”
Somewhere, a sob caught in a throat.
“What Cadet Peterson did today was despicable, but the cancer has been excised. Whether it will reoccur is up to you. You are teens, and I am adult, but together we are the Navy. You, by your acts, will decide what kind of Navy that shall be.”
He stood once more. “Does anyone have anything to say?” The room was silent. “Anyone?” He walked to the hatch, slid it open.
A voice wavered. “Yes, sir. I do.”
He didn’t turn. Still facing the hatch he said, “Yes, Seafort?”
“I lied today, when I said I hurt my ankle. I fell on purpose.”
A long si
lence. “Come with me.” He passed through the hatch.
In nothing but my shorts, trembling, I faced him in his cabin.
“Why, Seafort?”
“Sergeant Tailor was about to baton me.”
He nodded. “You were that afraid of the barrel?”
My eyes stung. “Not afraid, exactly. I just—no excuse, Sarge.”
“Belay that. The truth.”
“I couldn’t run any faster. I was looking for a way out, and I couldn’t think of anything else. I panicked.” My ears flamed.
“You threw away your integrity to avoid a few strokes from Mr. Zorn.”
“I—yes, sir.” If only I could crawl under the hatch. If he would just look away.
“I see.” He went to his file, pulled out a folder. “Read it.”
I opened the file. On the left, my picture. On the right various reports, exam grades. On top, a note, dated today. “Cadet Seafort pretended injury today to avoid the baton. Action withheld for the moment.”
I closed the folder. “You knew.” I forced myself to meet his eye. “Then why didn’t you send me with Peterson, sir?”
“There was hope you’d redeem yourself.”
I swallowed, too miserable to speak. “What are you going to do to me, Sarge?”
“Me? Nothing. It’s up to Tailor.” He gestured to the hatch. “Get dressed and report to him.”
“Right now?”
“That’s what I said.”
Fifteen minutes later I was knocking on Sergeant Tailor’s hatch, barely in control of my dread. “Cadet Seafort reporting, Sarge.”
“It took you long enough.”
I blushed scarlet. “You know?”
“Yes.”
“I’m—” It seemed so inadequate. “I’m sorry.”
“But the damage is done. Do I need to lecture you?”
I looked up. “No, sir. I understand what I’ve done.”
“Is it any different from what Peterson did?”
Of course it was. Peterson had actually lied, pretended to have been caned. I’d just ... I looked at the bulkhead, past it to Father and home. Maybe, after they expelled me, I could learn courage in those rocky Welsh pastures. Perhaps even honesty, someday.
“No, sir. It’s the same. I deserve the same punishment.”
His tone was sharp. “That’s for me to decide.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sat on his bunk, shaking his head. “Would a caning do you any good?”
I blurted, “Maybe nothing would.” At his surprised look I rushed on, “I shouldn’t even be here, at Academy. I missed Final Cull. They knew I wasn’t qualified. Cane me, or get rid of me, Sarge. Do something, so I won’t hurt the others.”
“Easy, Seafort.”
I bit back tears. “It’s true.”
“Very well.” He thought for endless moments. “No caning.”
Relief and despair battled within me. “Why not?”
“You understand what you’ve done, and either you’ll do it again or you’ll mature. You won’t learn anything from the barrel.”
“You’ll punish me, though?” My tone was hopeful.
“Four demerits. And pot detail, every night for a month. It’s hard work, but it won’t occupy your mind. You’ll have time to think.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s all.”
When I was halfway through the hatch he stopped me. “I wouldn’t have batonned you, Nicky.”
“I couldn’t run a whit faster, and you kept getting closer!”
“But I hadn’t touched you, and I wasn’t going to. You were giving your best.”
I cried, “How was I to know that?”
“You were to trust me, and the Service. As I want to trust you.”
I wiped my eyes. “Why did you come so close, then?”
“I was trying for your Yall.”
I understood at last. Since we’d arrived at Academy they’d exhorted us to “give your all” at one thing or another. It was an Academy catchphrase, giving the “Academy All,” or Yall.
“I picked up the pace but you hung on. I picked it up again and still you managed. When you’re running, focus on each step, one at a time, as if it’s the only one. Don’t worry about the others to come. You have more endurance than you think. That’s what I wanted you to learn.”
“Sarge, I’m sorry. Please, I mean it!”
“I believe you, Cadet. Dismissed.”
I slunk back to my dorm.
“Git ’im! He goin’ for the jerries!”
My breath rasped. One sixty-ninth; six blocks more. I risked another glance back. One joey pedaled a rusty bicycle, a few others had rollerboards.
The boy on the bicycle pedaled furiously, swinging a heavy chain. He yowled, “Meat t’night! You be dinnah!”
I veered onto the sidewalk, but it was littered with broken furniture and debris. I yelped as my foot twisted again and I nearly lost my loose boot. I swerved back to the street. The rider came at me, chain whistling.
I stopped short, sprang under the blur of the chain. The rider crashed to the pavement. I ran on, mist seeping across my vision. I couldn’t keep going.
“Yes you can, Seafort.”
Not five more blocks, Sarge. Honest.
“Another few steps, boy.”
Dutifully, I did as I was bidden. He’d take care of me. They always would.
One seventy-second street. Eons later, One seventy-third. Most of the mob had given up. A few grinning youths loped along, waiting for me to falter.
Surely the station would be floodlit. Ahead all was dark, but to the east, a glow. Please, Lord God. Joe told me 175th. Don’t make me run crosstown. I can’t, even for Annie.
Somehow, I reached the corner. Where’s the frazzing jerry-house?
There. The next block east, lit against the night. Encircled by a high chain-link fence, the station seemed a fortress. Surrounding buildings had been cleared away so it stood in a great open square.
Gasping, I staggered to the fence. Two youths closed in on me, taunting. “He wanna fin’ jerries!” A hand snatched at my shirt.
The snap of a laser. My attacker dropped. I flinched, realized the shot had come from the station. The other youths dodged across the street into the dark.
No gate. Exhausted, I grasped the fence to hold myself upright. A sizzle.
I shrieked with pain, nursed my scorched hand. Across the street, jeers of laughter. Weeping, I lurched along the sidewalk. A high gate. Thank Lord God.
I flicked a finger at the bar. No charge. I rattled it with my good hand, looking for a buzzer, a camera. “Help me!” I’d intended a shout, barely managed a croak.
A speaker I hadn’t noticed, on the top of the gatepost. “Off the gate, trannie! We’re closed until morning.”
A rock crashed into the fence. The hunters, behind me.
They’re after me!”
“We’ll cover you to the corner, then you’re on your own.”
“I’m Nicholas Seafort! OPEN THE FRAZZING GATE.”
“Dey no help!” A youth more daring than the rest scuttled to the center of the street, hefting a brick. “I eat you!”
A new voice, tinny in the speaker. “It’s him, the one Commander Chai said to watch for! Open the gate!”
“Comeon, sailaboy!” A brick spun toward me, struck a glancing blow on my forehead.
I stumbled, and the world spun.
“You be dinnah!”
Black.
“Are you all right, sir?”
I lay on my back, cold cloth on my forehead. A bright lit room. I focused on the young face looming over me, the blue uniform. “You’re a jerry?”
A momentary frown. “I’m a police officer, yes, sir. Patrolman Wesley De Broek.”
“I’m in the stationhouse?”
“Fifth Consolidated Precinct, One seventy-fifth Street Station.”
I lay gathering my wits. “Help me sit.”
The young patrolman put one a
rm behind my neck. “Easy, Captain. You’ve had a rough time.”
“I’m all right.” I think.
“I’ll tell Commander Chai you’re awake.”
“Wait a minute.” I took stock. My hand was swathed in gauze. Shirt ripped across the front. No jacket.
Across the room was a wall mirror. I peered at it. Good Lord. On my forehead, a blue lump. My nose was bloodied, my lip swollen. I giggled. “Just like the cover of Holoworld.”
“They made a mess of you, sir. You’re lucky, though. Some of the Holdouts, after the trannies are done with them ...
“I see why you don’t open the gate.”
“Yes. Well.” He looked embarrassed. “No one imagined you’d stroll to the stationhouse in the middle of the night. Jensik figured the word was out, and the trannies were playing with us.”
“I see.”
“We knew you were out there somewhere. Some Brit lieutenant’s called half a dozen times. He’s been raising hell.”
Ah, Tolliver. I didn’t know you cared.
I limped to a chair. “Mr. De Broek, this place ... My gesture took in the whole district. “The government’s lost control. Why don’t they abandon the area or send in the military?”
Patrolman De Broek stuck his hands in his pockets, stared out the reinforced window. “I have no say in that, sir. In my opinion, we should shut down the stationhouse. Give the Bronx to the trannies, fall back to Manhattan. If we consolidate our strength, we can hold some of downtown. Under the towers, at least.”
“Why don’t they?”
“The Holdouts still have their voting cards, as long as they scrape up the taxes. With land values fallen to nothing, they can afford to hang on to their cards. It’s their only hope of even minimal police protection.”
“Can you do anything for them?”
“During the day we fly patrols over their stores. We even hold most of the roads. At night, you see how it is.”
“Surely you have enough firepower to—”
“Our heat seekers and smart bombs could kill anything that moves. But unless we’re prepared to blast our way out, we’ll lose a heli, like last November. Three officers killed.” De Broek rubbed his face. “Some of what we see is ... beyond belief. Even for me, and I’ve been a jerry six years.” He went silent.
Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4) Page 25