Dagalow said, “Relative speed two hundred kilometers per hour, Mr. Seafort.”
“Two hundred, understood. Maneuvering jets, brake fifteen.” Propellant squirted from the jets to brake the ship’s forward motion.
“Relative speed one hundred fifteen kilometers, distance twenty-one kilometers.”
Still too fast. “Brake jets, eighteen.” We slowed further, but the braking threw off our approach. I adjusted by tapping the side maneuvering jets.
Our conventional engines burned LH2 and LOX as propellant ; water was cheap and Hibernia’sfusion engines provided ample energy to convert it, but there was a limit to how much we could carry. To go faster we would spend more water.
We’d spend an equal amount slowing down; nothing was free. Theoretically we could sail to Hope Nation on a few spoonfuls of LH 2 and LOX, but not in our lifetimes. How much time was worth how much loss of propellant? That depended on how much maneuvering lay ahead. A nice logistics problem with many variables.
Mine was not a smooth approach. I backed and filled, wasting precious propellant as I tried to align the ship to the two waiting airlocks. Captain Haag said nothing. Finally I was in position, our airlocks two hundred meters apart, our velocity zero relative to Orbit Station.
“Steer two seven oh, two spurts.” That would move our pencil to the left, still parallel with the nearby station. It did, far too fast. I had forgotten how little fuel is needed for a correction at close quarters. Hibernia’snose swung perilously close to the station’s waiting airlock.
I panicked. “Brake ninety, one spurt!”
Lieutenant Dagalow entered the command, her face impassive.
Lord God in heaven! I’d compounded my error by pulling away the tail of the ship, instead of the nose. “Brake two seven oh, all jets!”
The screen darkened as Orbit Station loomed into our shadow.
Alarm bells shrilled. The screen suddenly jerked askew.
My hand flew to the console to brace myself for a jolt that never came.
Darla’s shrill voice overrode the screaming alarms. “Loss of seal, forward cargo compartment!”
Ms. Dagalow shouted, “Shear damage amidships!”
The main screen lurched. Darla’s voice was urgent.
“EMERGENCY!The disk has struck! Decompression in Level 2!” I was sick with horror.
Captain Haag pushed his master switch. The alarms quieted to blessed silence. “You’ve killed half the passengers,” he said heavily. “Over a third of your crew is in the decompression zone and is most likely dead. Your ship is out of control.
The rupture in the hull is bigger than the forward airlock.”
I’d done more damage to my ship than even Celestinahad sustained. I closed my eyes, unable to speak.
“Stand, Mr. Seafort.”
I stumbled to my feet, managed to come to attention.
“You didn’t do all that badly until the docking,” the Captain said, not unkindly. “You were slow, but you got the ship into correct position. You failed to anticipate decisions, and so you had too much to do in a short time. As a result you lost your ship.”
“Yes, sir.” I’d lost my ship, all right. And with it any chance of making lieutenant before home port.
He surprised me. “Review the manual again, Seafort. As many times as it takes. By next drill I’ll expect you to have it right.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Dismissed.” I slunk out.
It was the worst day of my life.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Amanda.” She was perched on her bed in her ample cabin on Level 1, while I sat on the deck nearby.
I was off duty, and ship’s regs permitted officers to socialize with passengers. Sensibly enough, the Naval powers had decided to endorse what they could not prevent.
“Nicky, everyone makes mistakes. Don’t punish yourself, just do better next time.”
My tone was bitter. “Vax and Alexi dock the ship and come out alive. I’m the senior midshipman and I can’t.”
“You will,” she soothed. “Study and you will.”
I didn’t tell her how Lieutenant Cousins would have to coach me all over again to prepare for the drill. When he was done I’d be lucky if I could remember how to dress myself.
I writhed in disgust. I didn’t normally panic; I handled some problems reasonably well or I wouldn’t have made it through Academy. But knowing everyone’s life depended on me was too much. I knew I’d never be able to cope.
Morose, I settled into a chair. “I’m sorry I bothered you with this, Amanda.”
“Oh, Nicky, don’t be silly. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Yes, but that’s all we were. I’d have liked to be more, but there were three long years between us and she didn’t seem interested. “Why do they torture midshipmen with those drills, anyway? That’s what the Pilot is for.”
“The Captain is in charge of the ship,” I said patiently.
“Always. Pilot Haynes, like the Chief Engineer and the Doctor, is staff, not a line officer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s not in the chain of command. If the Captain fell ill, the first lieutenant would command, then Ms. Dagalow, then Lieutenant Malstrom.”
“But you’d still have the Pilot to dock the ship. Everybody can’t be sick or gone.”
“But the Pilot wouldn’t be ultimately responsible. It’s not his ship.”
“Still, it’s silly to expect boys just out of cadet academy to know how to fly the ship.”
“Sail. Sail the ship.”
“What’s the difference? You know what I mean.”
I tried to explain. “Amanda, we’re here to learn what the lieutenants and the Captain do. That’s what the drills are for.”
“I still think it’s silly,” Amanda said stubbornly. “And cruel.” I let it be.
3
“Turn that thing down, Alexi.” I got myself ready for bed.
It had been a bad day all around and I was cross.
“Sorry, Mr. Seafort.” Quickly he lowered the volume of his holovid. Just a year younger than I, Alexi Tamarov was everything I wanted to be: slim, graceful, good-natured, and competent. But he was addicted to his slap music, while my own taste ran to classical composers: Lennon, Jackson, and Biederbeck.
I regretted my temper, but still, I thanked Lord God I was senior and had the right to order the music turned low. I’d have managed somehow even if I weren’t in charge, but life had enough trials without that. As senior, I had my choice of bunks and got first serving at morning and afternoon mess, and I supposedly controlled the wardroom, though I was aware my authority was precarious at best.
In a Naval vessel, midshipmen were thrown together with little forethought. Fresh from Academy or with years of service, we were expected to live and work together smoothly.
By ship’s regs it was the senior middy’s duty to run the wardroom, but tradition gave any middy the right to challenge him. In that case the two would fight it out. Because conflicts were inevitable and their resolution necessary, officers turned a blind eye to the scrapes, black eyes, or bruises a midshipman might develop from interacting with his fellows.
Vax Holser and I had an unspoken understanding; he bullied the other middies, and we left each other alone. We both knew that if I pulled rank on him I’d have to back it up. I ignored his calling me “Nicky” with barely concealed contempt; beyond that, we both avoided the test.
Vax stirred, opened one eye to glare at Alexi. I hoped he wouldn’t start anything, but he growled, “You’re an asshole.”
Alexi made no reply.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.” Alexi knew he couldn’t tangle with Vax.
“Tell me you’re an asshole.” The trouble with Vax was that once he started he wouldn’t let up.
Alexi glanced at me. I was noncommittal.
“I don’t feel like getting up, Tamarov. Tell me.”
“I’m an asshole!” Alexi snapped off the holovid and threw
himself on his bed, facing the partition. His back was tight.