Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  “Check every cadet’s helmet clamps, then pump out the ship. Use emergency overrides to open both inner and outer hatches.” They listened intently. “You’ll find grappling lines in the lock. When we’re at rest relative to the Station one of you—Mr. Tenere—take a line across. Secure it and wait with Lieutenant Tolliver for Mr. Keene to send the cadets over. When the Station lock is full, cycle them inside and come out for more.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Keene, get the cadets ready.”

  “Aye aye, sir. What are we doing? Is this a training—”

  “Two demerits. Any other questions?”

  “No, sir!” He beat a retreat.

  Edgar Tolliver studied the gloves of his suit. “Indulge my curiosity. Is there a reason you won’t explain what you’re up to? What harm in telling them? Or me, for that matter?”

  I said hoarsely, “I’ll bear the responsibility.”

  “For what? If anything happens to you ...

  “Watch for the Station, Edgar.”

  He sighed.

  The puter. “You’ll find it about seven degrees to port, distance thirty kilometers.”

  I peered into the endless night, thought I saw a patch where no stars shone. “Any fish nearby?”

  The puter’s tone held reproach. “I’d have told you. Your standing orders—”

  “Skip it.”

  “I will approach with my lock facing the Training Station, at a distance of twenty meters.”

  “Very well, Shuttle. As soon as we’ve crossed over, withdraw to three hundred meters.” I’d need room to dock the Fusers.

  A silence. “Usually I have a Pilot. It’s not often I take my own conn.” His tone was wistful.

  My gloved fingers drummed against the instrument panel. “How soon?”

  “Approximately five minutes fifteen point three two sec—”

  “Tolliver, make sure he doesn’t ram the Station.” I twisted out of my seat.

  “There isn’t the slightest danger of contact with—”

  “Adam! Mr. Keene! Are you ready? Get your cadets lined up!”

  Some of our youngsters had trained on lines strung to the Hull outside Farside, others had not. I had no idea if any of my volunteers had been through their Station training; in my eagerness I hadn’t bothered to ask. Well, it didn’t matter all that much. They needed only to make their way across to the Station lock; I wouldn’t send them clambering Outside after that.

  When it was time, Adam gauged his distance to the Station, launched himself with the shuttle’s line secured to his waist. Moments later he had it tied to the stanchion just outside the lock. Tolliver crossed next, to help on the Station side.

  Under my irascible scrutiny Thomas Keene placed each youngster’s hands in the correct position, and eased him out the shuttle lock. Endless minutes later the last of the cadets had crossed to Tolliver’s outstretched hand without mishap. Next, the middies. Anton Thayer grinned, swung across the line with agile grace. Sandra Ekrit followed. Then Diego.

  Keene and I were last. A moment after I detached the mooring line, the shuttle’s side thrusters squirted a cloudy spray of propellant that instantly turned to crystals of ice. The shuttle drifted clear.

  Tolliver, Keene and I cycled through the lock, to find middies and cadets milling aimlessly in the corridor. I frowned.

  “Adam, run to the control cabin, check the air gauges.” The sooner we got our cadets out of suits, the better.

  The eleven Fusers were docked in a line extending around the disk. The Station had but two locks. We’d have to bring the Fusers around, a pair at a time. I keyed my radio. “Mr. Tolliver, go Outside and mate the closest Fuser to the forward bay.”

  Should I send Keene or Adam for the next boat? I knew Tenere could handle the thrusters, but Keene was first middy; if he was incompetent, better to learn it now. “Mr. Keene, dock the second ship at the aft bay.” The boy’s eyes lit with pleasure; for a few brief moments he’d be in charge of a vessel, however tiny. “Anton, give him a hand.”

  Tolliver and the two middies cycled through the lock. They would clamber around the rim of the Station disk until they reached the Fusers. Adam and I had done the same on our visit months before.

  My suit radio crackled. “Midshipman Tenere reporting, sir. The Station console shows breathable air. I’ll start checking cabin gauges.”

  “Don’t bother. Come back.”

  “But—aye aye, sir.”

  “You cadets, take off your suits. No, form a single line, first. Midshipmen, you too, over there. We’re about to conduct a special exercise.” Very special. I spoke as calmly as I could.

  “One midshipman and five cadets will man each trainer. I’ll direct, from Trafalgar.” Thanks to the legacy of the Screaming Boy, I would be able to call each Fuser, but their single-frequency radios could contact only my command vessel.

  I unclamped my helmet.

  We had middies enough to launch seven trainers, though I had cadets for eight. I’d assumed the Pilot would take a boat, but he’d heard me mention the attacking fish, and had hidden until we departed.

  I myself had to be aboard Trafalgar, and I needed Tolliver with me; I couldn’t run the Mothership and direct all the trainers by myself.

  Even eight Fusers might not be enough. How could I risk it with seven? But how could I put a trainer in the hands of unsupervised cadets?

  A bump, barely perceptible, as the lock seals kissed. Tolliver had docked. In other circumstances I’d tease him about the jolt; middies were taught only a perfect mating was acceptable. During my simulation drills on Hibernia, I’d writhed in humiliation at my lieutenant’s sarcastic mirth.

  The outer airlock hatch shut; Tolliver was cycling through. I clawed free from my suit. “Ms. Ekrit, take the first five cadets onto Fuser One. Show them where to sit. They should all be able to read an instrument panel, at least. I want you clear of the lock in five minutes.”

  “Aye aye, sir. To where?”

  “A half kilometer should be enough. Be ready to dodge if another trainer drifts out of control.” With middies and cadets at the helm, Lord God knew what havoc we might engender.

  “Aye aye, sir. Will we maintain close formation after—”

  “Get aboard, Middy!” A sullen look flashed, but she obeyed.

  “Ready for orders, sir.”

  I jumped at the sound. “Where did you come from, Mr. Keene? I told you to—”

  “I docked at the aft bay, sir.”

  I hadn’t felt the bump. “Very well,” I said, grudging his competence. “You five, go along with Mr. Keene. Slater, into the lock; you can pull off your suit after.” I turned to Adam and Tolliver. “As soon as the locks are clear, bring two more Fusers alongside.”

  Soon the second pair of Fusers were mated to the Station. Fresh-faced Tommy Tsai took Fuser Three. A handful of cadets followed him aboard. As they filed past I put out my arm, blocked Kyle Drew. My hand rested on the lanky cadet’s neck, pulled his forehead against my chest. “Godspeed, boy.” I had to look away.

  His voice was bright. “I’ll be all right, sir.” He hefted the helmet slung under his arm.

  “I know you will.”

  He stepped into the lock.

  Please, Lord. Give me strength to do my duty.

  “Fuser Two to Commandant. We’re half a kilometer out.” Thomas Keene, but how had he reached me? My suit radio wasn’t set to Fuser band. After a moment I realized the midshipman had been smart enough to use his own suit radio to contact mine.

  “Very well, Mr. Keene. Radio silence until further orders.”

  Back to work.

  Redheaded Anton Thayer, the boy I’d found cavorting on his graduation day, took the fourth Fuser. Johan Stritz strode eagerly into the lock, along with four other cadets whose names I couldn’t recollect.

  I paced anxiously until boats Three and Four untied and cast off. Tolliver and Adam cycled through the aft lock for two more. Vital time was wasting; Lord God knew w
hat harm the fish had done while I dithered here on the Station.

  Several cadets still hadn’t finished pulling off their suits. One clumsy lad had his suit half off but still wore his helmet. Plebes; I should never have brought them. No matter. They’d have time to desuit aboard their Fusers.

  I was suddenly aware of the silence. I set my suit radio to scan Naval frequencies.

  “—above Lunapolis. So far I don’t see a rock but if we get too close—”

  “We will fight them on the beaches, we will fight them in the cities—”

  Guthrie Smith was the next middy in line. Once, he’d been caned for fighting with a cadet in an attempt to enforce discipline. I hoped he’d learned better. “Get ready, boy.”

  The hatch to Five opened. With Midshipman Smith went Loren Reitzman, the ungainly lad who’d balked at his oath. Four others, whom I barely knew.

  A bump. Tolliver, mating the sixth Fuser.

  “Edgar, as soon as the locks are clear take Adam out for another two—”

  My suit speaker crackled. “U.N.A.F. Shuttle 20123 to Naval Base Commandant Seafort. Query: do orders given while you were aboard apply after you’ve departed?”

  “Shuttle, stay off the caller! I have—”

  “Very well, I’ll assume they do not.” The speaker went dead.

  “Tolliver, dock yours at the forward—damn it!” I keyed the radio. “What orders, Shuttle?”

  “You directed me to alert you of any fish within five hundred kilometers. At that time you were still—”

  “How many? Where?”

  “Two. Distance seven kilometers, closing slowly. They appeared moments ago, so I assume they arrived by Fusion. They do not respond to—”

  “Mr. Diego! Move your cadets into Six, flank!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” The middy grabbed the first cadet, thrust the black-haired youth toward the aft lock. Benghadi, I recalled. The next two cadets ran after. A youngster from the back of the line darted forward, inserted herself behind them. “I’ll go, sir. Please let me!”

  “Who are you—all right, move!”

  “Alicia Johns, sir! Thank you!” In mess hall, she’d volunteered the moment he had. Mates.

  “Tolliver, how soon can we dock the next two Fusers?”

  In my radio, the lieutenant’s voice was tight. “Three minutes for mine, but both locks are still engaged.”

  “Mr. Smith, break away from the fore lock! Now!”

  It was an agonizing minute before the response. “Aye aye, sir. Sorry, I was seating the cadets. They don’t—”

  “Move!”

  “I am, sir! Lock is cycled, rocking the seals loose ... I have breakaway!”

  “Clear the lock area, Tolliver’s coming round!”

  “Aye aye, sir. I’ll wait for orders at half a kilometer like you told Ms. Ekrit.”

  “Good lad, Guthrie. Adam, Edgar, get moving!”

  “U.N.A.F. shuttle to Station. Three more fish within the search zone.”

  “How far?”

  “One of them is at three point six kilometers, the other two at fifty meters.”

  Fifty meters? Lord Christ. I’d told the cadets to desuit. If a fish threw now, and melted our hull—

  “Tolliver here.” Edgar’s breath came fast; clambering over the disk was hard work. “No fish in sight. Ask him, fifty meters from where?”

  “Shuttle, did you hear?” A thump, from the aft lock. Midshipman Diego was breaking free without waiting for orders.

  “Yes, I monitor all channels used by—”

  “Where?”

  “Fifty meters from me, of course. All reckoning is assumed egocentric unless—”

  “Where the hell are you, Shuttle?”

  “Three hundred meters from the Station, as you ordered.” The puter’s tone was injured.

  Still too close. A fish might be upon us before we could launch the next Fusers.

  “Guthrie Smith reporting, sir. There are fish near the shutt—”

  “Quiet, Middy!” I would give Adam Tenere one of the last two trainers. My plan had been to put unsupervised cadets in the eighth, but now we’d have no time to talk them through breakaway. Could they handle it alone?

  “Any of you had Station training?”

  A girl stepped forward, said proudly, “I have, sir. Tanya Guevire.”

  Guevire? Hadn’t someone found her in bed with—No time for that.

  “I’ve had training, sir.” I caught my breath. Kevin Arnweil, who’d seen his friend Dustin die on the Hull.

  Lord, You make it so hard. “Anyone else? Very well. Kevin, you’re in charge of Nav. Ms. Guevire will pilot. As soon as—”

  “Captain, two fish between us and the shuttle!” Tolliver’s calm held, but barely. “I’m on my way with Fuser Seven. Adam just reached Eigh—it’s squirting this way! I’m—God, I hate those things!”

  “Edgar, take Seven to the forward lock! Adam, thrust to the aft lock. Don’t bother trying to mate. Decompress your craft now!” Adam was slower at mating than Tolliver, and if a fish caught his Fuser at the lock the rest of us would die for naught.

  I stumbled as I thrust a leg into my suit. “All unsuited cadets to the fore airlock with Arnweil and Guevire! Everyone else to the aft lock. Check your helmet clamps!” They all rushed to comply. The boy who’d never removed his helmet ran to the aft lock, thrust his legs into his suit. He wouldn’t have enough time to finish; I propelled him to the fore lock, turned to Guevire.

  “Tanya, as soon as your hatch is sealed, run to the console and rock your Fuser loose. Remember how?”

  “Portside thrusters. Fore, aft, fore, aft. If the seal doesn’t break, both at once for—”

  “You’ve got it.” I clamped my helmet tight.

  Adam Tenere, his voice taut with tension. “Sir, my mooring line is unhooked; I’ll be right there. What should I do if that fish comes at me?”

  “Try to evade, or abandon ship at once if it throws at you.” I grimaced; I’d wish nobody the death he faced.

  “Shuttle!”

  “Yes, Base Comm—”

  “Turn on your lights! Begin maneuvers. Full spin, X axis. Hold for one minute, then commence spin on Y axis!”

  A second’s pause. “That might attract the fish. I am charged with self-preservation unless—”

  “This is an Unless! Do it, or ... I groped. “By God, mister, I’ll have your circuits up for court-martial!”

  I heard Tolliver snort. Well, I couldn’t think of anything better.

  “Commencing maneuvers.” The shuttle.

  A bump, not gentle. “I’m docking Fuser Seven, Captain.” Tolliver. “I’ll have—come on, damn you!”

  “Edgar, the second you’re mated, come in and help me transfer the suited cadets to Fuser Eight!”

  “Will do, but that bloody fish is still nosing around Adam. About sixty meters distant.”

  I made a final check of my suit. Another bump, from Outside. The lock light flashed; Tolliver had mated. The slim youngster I’d pushed to the forward lock zipped his last suit seal, twisted his helmet clamps just as our inner hatch slid open. “Into the trainer, all of you!”

  I herded the six cadets to the lock. In the confusion the boy who’d resuited evaded my arm, dashed instead to the aft lock. Well, he was suited and we’d need him for the last Fuser.

  The forward lock shut, cycling the cadets to Seven.

  I slapped open the aft hatch. “Everybody in!”

  A girl hesitated in the corridor. “Fish are out there!”

  “Get in the lock!”

  “Not with those things outside!”

  I lunged at her; she backed away.

  “Come along!” I stepped into the lock, where Tolliver and the remaining eight cadets crowded.

  Adam, in my helmet. “Sir, this bloody fish is squirting toward the Station!”

  No time to deal with the terrified girl. With the fish approaching we might not have time to launch Fuser Eight.

  I slapped the lock shu
t. “Hang on to the safeties!” I yanked the emergency release. The outer hatch popped open; I felt myself pulled out by the rush of escaping air. One boy lost his grip on the safety bar; I managed to grab his arm while hanging on to the safety with my other hand.

  “Adam!” I leaned out into space.

  “Right here, sir! Stay clear until I get this thing stopped.” Fuser Eight drifted closer, huge from the perspective of a suited figure in its path. I ducked back into the lock.

  The middy. “Cabin air is blown, sir. I have my hatch open.”

  “Base Commandant, four fish are within fifty meters. May I break off maneuver and retreat ?”

  “All right, Shuttle. See if they follow. If not, reengage.”

  “That’s not the purpose of retreat.” The puter’s tone was plaintive.

  Two quick squirts from Adam’s forward thrusters. Fuser Eight came to rest relative to the Station. “Adam, throw a line!” I waited for him to appear in the Fuser’s gaping lock.

  I cursed. He was taking too long. Someone would have to jump across, help speed things up. Could I launch myself and manage not to miss the Fuser? If I guessed wrong ... I braced myself against the lock.

  Adam clambered into the Fuser lock, a magnetic line draped over his arm. He uncoiled it, swung twice, let go.

  The line would miss our lock by at least a meter. If the magnetic disk struck cleanly it would cling to the Station’s hull. Otherwise Adam would have to reel it in and try again.

  With the maddening slowness of free fall, the line sailed toward the hull. I gripped the safety bar, leaned out as far as I could.

  The disk struck the hull a glancing blow and recoiled.

  I lunged.

  The line caressed my fingers, slipped free. “HOLD ME!” I let go the bar, grabbed at the drifting line. Momentum carried me outside the lock. Adrenaline clutched my stomach. My fingers closed around the line just as a hand grasped my ankle.

  “Next time, warn me!” Tolliver grunted with effort as he hauled me back.

  I twisted, clamped the disk securely to the hull. “You, cross the line!” I shoved a cadet forward. He placed one hand on the line, then the other. A deep breath, a sob. Eyes screwed shut, he worked his way across. Adam Tenere pulled him into the Fuser.

  A young voice, in my ear, surprisingly firm. “Cadet Guevire reporting from Fuser Seven. Am breaking away as per orders.”