We, crew and passengers, lived and worked in the three disks. The portion of the pencil above the disks would be our cargo holds, full of equipment and supplies for the colony on Hope Nation and for Miningcamp.
A circular passage called the circumference corridor ran around each disk, dividing it into inner and outer segments.
To either side, hatches opened onto the disk’s cabins and compartments. At intervals along the corridor, airtight hatches were poised to slam shut hi case of decompression; they’d seal off each section from the rest.
Two ladders--stairwells, in civilian terms--ascended from the east and west sections of Level 3 to the lofty precincts of Level 1. The bridge was on the uppermost level, along with the officers’ cabins and the Captain’s sacrosanct quarters I’d never been allowed to view.
Level 2 was passenger country, holding most of the passenger staterooms. A few passengers were lodged above on Level 1, and the remainder had cabins below on Level 3, where the crew was housed.
Passenger cabins were about twice the size of those given the lieutenants. Below, the Level 3 crew berths made even our crowded middy wardroom seem luxurious. Naval policy was to crowd us for sleeping but allow us ample play room.
The crew had a gymnasium, theater, rec room, privacy rooms, and its own mess.
The exercise over, Mr. Malstrom and I climbed up to Level 1. I had just time enough to get ready for my docking drill on the bridge. I showered carefully before reporting to Captain Haag. I still only shaved about once a week, so I had no problem there.
I dressed, tension beginning to knot my stomach. Though I was a long way from making lieutenant, I had no hope of eventual promotion until I could demonstrate to the Captain some basic skill at pilotage.
I gave my uniform a last tuck, took a deep breath, and knocked firmly on the bridge hatch. “Permission to enter bridge, sir.”
“Granted.” The Captain, standing by the Nav console, didn’t bother to turn around. He’d sent for me, and he knew my voice.
I stepped inside. Lieutenant Lisa Dagalow, on watch with Captain Haag, nodded civilly. Though she’d never gone out of her way to help me, neither did she lash out like First Lieutenant Cousins.
I couldn’t help being overawed by the bridge. The huge simulscreen on the curved front bulkhead gave a breathtaking view from the nose of the ship--when we weren’t Fused, of course. Now, the other smaller screens to either side were also blank. These screens, under our puter Darla’s control, could simulate any conditions known to her memory banks.
The Captain’s black leather armchair was bolted to the deck behind the left console. The watch officer’s chair I’d occupy was to its right. No one else ever sat in the Captain’s chair, even for a drill.
“Midshipman Seafort reporting, sir.” Of course Captain Haag knew me. A Captain who didn’t, recognize his own middies in a crew of eleven officers had problems. But regs were regs.
“Take your seat, Mr. Seafort.” Unnecessarily, Captain Haag indicated the watch officer’s chair. “I’ll call up a simulation of Hope Nation system. You will maneuver the ship for docking at Orbit Station.”
“Aye aye, sir.” It was the only permissible response to an order from the Captain. Cadets or green middies fresh from Academy were sometimes confused by the difference between “Yes, sir,” and “Aye aye, sir.” It was simple. Asked a question to \vhich the answer was affirmative, you said “Yes, sir.” Given an order, you said “Aye aye, sir.” It didn’t take many trips to the first lieutenant’s barrel to get it right.
Captain Haag touched his screen. “But first, you have to get to Hope Nation.” My heart sank. “We’ll begin at the wreck of Celestina,Mr. Seafort. Proceed.” He tilted back in his armchair.
I picked up the caller. “Bridge to engine room, prepare to Defuse.” My voice squeaked, and I blushed.
“Prepare to Defuse, aye aye, sir.” Chief McAndrews’s crusty voice, from the engine room below. “Control passed to bridge.” Naturally, the console’s indicators from the engine room were simulations; Captain Haag wasn’t about to Defuse for a mere middy drill.
“Passed to bridge, aye aye.” I put my index finger to the top of the drive screen and traced a line from “Full” to “Off”. The simulscreens came alive with a blaze of lights, and I gasped though I’d known to expect it. Stars burned everywhere, in vastly greater numbers than could be imagined groundside.
“Confirm clear of encroachments, Lieutenant. Please,” I added. After the drill she’d still be my superior officer. Lieutenant Dagalow bent to her console.
Our first priority in emerging from Fusion was to make sure there were no planetary bodies or vessels about. The chance was one in billions, but not one we took lightly. Darla always ran a sensor check, but despite the triple redundancy built into each of her systems, we didn’t rely on her sensors.
Navigation was based on an overriding principle: don’t trust machinery. Everything was rechecked by hand.
“Clear of encroachments, Mr. Seafort.” Technically Ms.
Dagalow should have called me “sir” during the drill, while I acted as Captain, but I wasn’t about to remind her of that.
“Plot position, please, ma’am. I mean, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Dagalow set the puter to plot our position on her star charts. The screen filled with numbers as a cheerful feminine voice announced, “Position is plotted, Mr. Seafort.”
“Thank you, Darla.” The puter dimmed her screens slightly in response. I’m not going to get into the age-old question: was she really alive? That one caused more barroom fights than everything else put together. My personal opinion was--well, never mind, it doesn’t matter. Ship’s custom was to respond to the puter as a person. All the correct responses to polite phrases and banter were built into her. At Academy, they’d told us crewmen found it easier to relate to a puter with human mannerisms.
“Calculate the new coordinates, please,” I said. Lieutenant Dagalow leaned forward to comply.
Captain Haag intervened. “The Lieutenant is ill. You’ll have to plot them yourself.”
“Aye aye, sir.” It took twenty-five minutes, and by the time I was done I’d broken out in a sweat. I was fairly sure I was right, but fairly sure isn’t good enough when the Captain is watching from the next seat. I punched in the new Fusion coordinates for the short jump that would carry us to Hope Nation.
“Coordinates received and understood, Mr. Seafort.” Darla.
“Chief Engineer, Fuse, please.”
“Aye aye, sir. Fusion drive is... on.” The screens abruptly went blank as Darla simulated reentry into Fusion.
“Very well, Mr. Seafort,” the Captain said smoothly.
“How long did you estimate second Fusion?”
“Eighty-two days, sir.”
“Eighty-two days have passed.” He typed a sequence into his console. “Proceed.”
Again I brought the ship out of Fusion. After screening out the overpowering presence of the G-type Hope Nation sun, we could detect Orbit Station circling the planet. Lieutenant Dagalow confirmed that we were clear of encroachments.
Then she became ill again and, increasingly edgy, I had to plot manual approach myself.
“Auxiliary engine power, Chief.” My tone was a bark; my grip on the caller made my wrist ache.
“Aye aye, sir. Power up.” Mr. McAndrews must have been waiting for the signal. Of course he would be; Lord God knows how many midshipmen he’d put through nav drill over the years.
“Steer oh three five degrees, ahead two-thirds.”
“Two-thirds, aye aye, sir.” The console showed our engine power increasing. Nervously I reminded myself that Hiberniawas still cruising in Fusion, that all this was but a drill.
I glanced at the simulscreen. “Declination ten degrees.”
“Ten degrees, aye aye, sir.”I approached Orbit Station with caution. Easily visible in the screens, it grew steadily larger. I braked the ship for final approach.