Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  Patriarch’s Hope

  The Seafort Saga, Book Six

  David Feintuch

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF DAVID FEINTUCH

  THE SEAFORT SAGA

  “A delightful book, intelligent and carefully written. Discerning SF readers will devour it and wait impatiently for its other volumes to appear. Feintuch’s book, depicting a stellar navy of exacting brutality and devotion to duty, possesses much the same flavor as C. S. Forester’s Hornblower novels. Hornblower fans will probably toast Feintuch in their wardrooms.”—The Washington Post Book World on Midshipman’s Hope

  “Science fiction fans who love exciting action and adventure shouldn’t miss [it].”—Lansing State Journal

  “An excellent entertainment.”—Analog Science Fiction and Fact

  “Wonderful reading and nonstop enjoyment.”—Raymond E. Feist, author of the Riftwar Cycle

  “An excellent job of transferring Hornblower to interstellar space. Plot, characters, and action make this a thoroughly enjoyable read.”—David Drake, author of the Hammer’s Slammers series

  THE RODRIGO OF CALEDON SERIES

  “This complex, unconventional fantasy is a strong recommendation for Feintuch’s skill as a novelist. Readers who may have let a distaste for military SF prevent them from checking out Feintuch’s work should reconsider; this is an interesting writer who isn’t afraid to take risks.”—Asimov’s Science Fiction

  “Popular SF author Feintuch (The Seafort Saga) makes his fantasy debut with this adept tale of sword and sorcery . . . Compelling and charged with plenty of action.”—Publishers Weekly

  To Emili Hernandez Rovira

  My son and friend

  Contents

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  PART II

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  PART III

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Epilogue

  Part I

  July, in the Year of our Lord 2241

  1

  “... AND SO WE GATHER to commission UNS Galactic, the greatest ship ever built, the pinnacle of human interstellar endeavor.”

  Surreptitiously, to avoid the attention of the pulsing holocams focused on the dais, I eased my aching leg, fixing a glazed stare at Admiral Dubrovik’s broad back and the crowded London auditorium beyond. At my left Derek Carr smiled in sympathy.

  Would old Dubrovik ever wind down? As SecGen and nominal Commander in Chief of all U.N. forces I could have blocked his posting to Lunapolis Command, but I’d interfered enough in U.N. Naval appointments over the years. These days, I tried to limit myself to where it would do the most good. Amid the dignitaries and officials patiently listening were a considerable number of officers I’d advanced because of competence rather than connections.

  Yet also among the sober blue uniforms and starched dress whites were a few disgruntled Earth First sympathizers, disgusted that I wouldn’t support retaking the few interstellar colonies that had achieved independence. There might even have been a few enviro fanatics, although zealots of that stripe were rare in the Navy. No doubt among the audience were quite a number who didn’t give Christ’s damn, as long as no one tampered with their pay billet.

  “... not since Earth’s first convulsive leap into space two hundred fifty years ago have so many individuals, so many thousands of diverse corporations, participated in a public project.”

  And with good reason; their profits were enormous. Galactic was an error of judgment; I’d let myself be persuaded by Admiralty’s unbounded enthusiasm and Senator Robbie Boland’s deal with the Territorial Party, our opposition in the General Assembly, to give us a free hand on the Naval budget through the next Secretarial election—if we shared the lucrative construction contracts with their allies. What we needed were Alpha-class vessels like my first command, UNS Hibernia, not the vast and expensive behemoth we’d constructed.

  I grimaced past my wife, Arlene, to my old friend Admiral Jeff Thorne, with whom I’d shared my misgivings.

  Yes, Galactic, along with the nearly completed Olympiad and their two sister ships on the drawing boards, would help seed new colonies, but home system had been establishing colonies for nearly two centuries, and the existing colonies needed servicing too. I doubted it would prove efficient to send a huge vessel such as Galactic to supply Derek Carr’s home colony of Hope Nation.

  I glanced at the huge holoscreen, and the magnificent vessel that dominated its view. Lights blazing, she floated high above the planet, off Earthport Orbiting Station, at whose Naval wing she’d been built.

  I shook my head. After the fiasco with UNS Wellington many years past, there was no thought of assembling a throng of dignitaries on ship for her dedication. We’d been lucky to escape with our lives that day, after the fish attacked. The aliens were gone now, victims of the caterwaul stations I’d devised. From time to time, in the dark nights when Lord God reproached me, I wondered whether to add genocide to the roll of my sins.

  “Could even SecGen Seafort have imagined just twelve years ago, as he began his second administration, when the world was reeling from the Transpop Rebellion and not yet recovered from the attacks of the dread fish that he did so much to abate—”

  My breath came in a hiss. Arlene’s bony fingers squeezed my right elbow in warning.

  I scowled at her. “The damned sycophant! Did you hear what—”

  My wife leaned close, the ghost of a smile smoothing the wrinkles that caressed her still-bright blue eyes. “Cover your lips, Nick. They’ll read you.”

  “By Lord God, let them. I—” Common sense finally intruded. I subsided, seething.

  To my left, a cough that might have been a chuckle. I shot Derek Carr a steely gaze that would have withered him as a Naval midshipman, but unfortunately those days were decades past. My old friend had a laser glare of his own that had held him in good stead since he’d become First Stadholder of Hope Nation, and he was unimpressed by mine.

  “... with her vast cargo holds, a crew of eight hundred ninety, transporting over three thousand passengers, bristling with armaments, she’ll carry U.N. prestige and authority to our far-flung colonies across the infinite reaches of ...”

  Derek leaned close. “He does go on.”

  I turned to Jeff Thorne, whispering. “Do you hear? Now the idiot’s making policy. ‘Carry U.N. authority’ indeed. As if we need a warship these days to deal with our own dominions.”

  “With some of them, you might.” He raised a hand to forestall my reply. “I think Dubrovik’s wrapping it up.”

  “... and so, to commission UNS Galactic, I have the honor to present His Excellency Nicholas Ewing Seafort, Secretary-General of the United Nations.” Turning, the Admiral flashed me a pleased smile, like a toddler expecting a parent’s approval.

  Welcoming applause rolled across the crowded hall, whose coolers labored to counteract the sweltering London summer.

  I groped for my silver-headed cane, hoisted myself from my seat, and winked at Arlene, graying, gaunt, and lovely. “Shall I fire Dubrovik right now?” I was half-serious.

  Her lips barely moved. “Of course, dear. The Territorials would love a martyr as a candidate, next election.”

  With a sigh, I limped to the waiting microphones.

  “Voyager is landing,” Mark Tilnitz, head of my security detail, muttere
d into his throat mike. Our heli set down precisely on the cross that marked the center of Devon Naval Academy’s pad.

  Tilnitz was an assignee of U.N. Investigations. General Donner was drawn from U.N.A.F., Karen Burns from Naval Intelligence, other security agents from New York Police Command. An odd system, but giving all services a hand in the SecGen’s protection deterred the formation of a praetorian guard, with the resultant interservice jealousies.

  I climbed out, under the sullen Devon afternoon sun. A security joey was waiting, to hover at my arm lest I slip. “Do I look feeble?” My voice was caustic. Perhaps I feared the answer. “Let me be. Here, Arlene.” I extended a hand.

  Ducking through the hatchway, she climbed slowly down the steps. “What’s wrong, Nicky? You’ve been cross all day.”

  “Nothing.” My knee ached. “I hate those public ceremonies. I forced a smile as Commandant Hazen hurried to greet us. Overhead, the helis and jets that constituted my unwieldy protection detail moved off.

  Normally, security accompanied me everywhere, but from my first administration I’d drawn the line at Academy or the Naval wing at Earthport. Under no circumstances would I allow Tilnitz and his eclectic crew to pretend I needed guarding from the United Nations Naval Service, in which I’d served so memorably. I would wander the Academy grounds unprotected, except by the Commandant or his staff. It wasn’t, after all, as if Academy were an open campus.

  I looked about. A tall iron fence surrounded the compound, meeting itself at the guardhouse gate. As always, mulberry and juniper abounded, tended by Academy staff and cadets. Above, tall maples lent their shade. Devon Academy had once been far from town, but shops and pubs had sprung up to serve it. Still, our buildings were set well back from the fence, obscured by the extensive plantings, which allowed a modicum of privacy.

  Arlene and I had just escaped the huge reception that followed my dedication of Galactic, and my cheeks were sore with the aftermath of my frozen smile. At least, standing about greeting dignitaries, I’d had time for a few amiable words with Derek Carr, before he went off to rejoin his Hope Nation trade legation. I’d be seeing him again in a day or so, at my retreat outside Washington.

  “Welcome, Mr. SecGen.” Hazen came to attention. Florid, the hint of a paunch lurking underneath his Naval blues, he still managed to look distinguished, a few touches of gray gracing his locks.

  I returned his salute. “As you were.” For a moment my heart eased. Devon was home to me. I frowned. Had been home, before my betrayal had forfeited all claim to it. Hastily, I turned my thoughts elsewhere. I’d made my peace with my transgressions years before, or thought I had. Either Lord God would forgive me, or He would not.

  As we walked the unchanged footpath to the administration building I scrutinized the Commandant I’d met but once, at a Rotunda reception. Once, the Navy had been my entire life, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of allowing the Board of Admiralty to appoint a Commandant I didn’t know well. But since the Trans-pop Rebellion, I’d been ever more preoccupied with civilian issues, and the nurture of our economy.

  I cleared my throat. “You’ve met Ms. Seafort, I believe?” Arlene, knowing me well, smoothly took over the conversation while I brooded. A former officer herself, she knew Academy as well as I.

  We strolled past the Commandant’s quarters I’d once occupied, past dorms I’d inhabited as a cadet. Knowing my wishes—my aides had made them clear—Hazen hadn’t interrupted Academy routine to put the cadets on show for me; his charges were at their usual classes. Nonetheless, the compound seemed almost deserted. Typically, a handful of cadets could be found scurrying about on special duty or, as punishment detail, set to manicuring the lawn with meticulous precision.

  The Commandant seemed to read my thoughts. “I canceled outdoor activities, Mr. SecGen.” He glanced upward, shading his eyes. “Sorry, I should have brought lined umbrellas.”

  I snorted my disdain. “I don’t need shielding.” Nonetheless, I hurried my pace.

  “We’ve a radiation alert for the rest of the week, despite the seeding. If the gamma count gets much worse I’ll send most of the joeys to Farside.” Lunar Academy, whose warrens were on the far side of the moon, where cadets did advanced training.

  “Over time, it’s getting better.”

  He shrugged. “So they say, but were you ever kept indoors at Devon?”

  “That was a half century ago.” I made a face. “Things change.” To my relief, we were nearing the Commandant’s quarters. My knee throbbed, and besides, I wanted Arlene out of the newly menacing sun.

  “How about Grierson?” I looked across the gleaming rosewood conference table.

  Sergeant M’bovo replied; the boy was of his barracks. “Good attitude, willing worker, sir. Still waiting to see his Yall.” Give your all, we cadets had been exhorted. Over the years the “Navy all” had become a catchword, shortened to the Yall.

  “He’s only fifteen.” Arlene’s tone was gentle. Where I was often harsh with green young middies, she tended to be more kind. Her parenting, even more than my own, had nourished our son, Philip. Of course, in his adolescence even P.T. had learned that Arlene’s tolerance had limits. Lord God protect the youngster who overstepped them.

  Not so many years ago, as Philip had reached manhood, Arlene and I had spoken seriously of having more children. But, with the cares of office ...” I sighed. Over my long career youngsters seemed to seek me out, as if expecting guidance or assurance only I could provide. In return, I’d gotten too many of them killed.

  “Mr. SecGen?” Hazen held the file, waiting.

  I snapped my attention back to our conference. “Very well, we’ll see.” I slid his folder into the “undecided” pile. Though a puter screen was inset into the table in front of each seat, the Navy cherished its traditions. One of them was using old-style paper folders for cadet candidate files.

  The purpose of my Academy jaunt was twofold. First, Devon was one of the few places outside my own walled home in which I was free of the ubiquitous mediamen. The Academy grounds were closed, and woe betide the heli that overflew it.

  My other motive was more complex. Once, as Academy Commandant, I’d selected a few cadets as special aides. It hadn’t worked out; I’d gotten them massacred in one of my senseless follies. Yet my successors, blind to my misconduct, continued the tradition.

  Years later, when I returned to public life as a Senator, then as SecGen, I’d tired of the self-serving blather of my politically astute assistants, and sought out younger adjutants. I’d coopted midshipmen fresh out of Academy, and to my dismay, watched them grow into political creatures as unacceptable as those they replaced.

  The solution I’d devised was to select them at Academy, before they became middies, then—with an occasional exception—send them to a year or two aboard ship. Thereafter, when they were offered a shoreside posting at the U.N. Rotunda, I had at least a hope they’d remember their traditions and the discipline of Naval life. Most of them did, as long as I didn’t keep them too long. My current aide, Charlie Witrek, was a willing joey, one I’d come to like, but in a week he would be rotated back aloft, and we’d bring down some middy I’d chosen in previous years.

  The system worked well, overall. Of course, none of the selectees must have any idea he’d been chosen to ripen in the fleet, else he wouldn’t take his shipside duties seriously. For that I needed the cooperation of Academy’s staff, and of course I had it. They too wanted their minions to mature as young midshipmen, and if that weren’t enough, none cared to risk a SecGen’s enmity.

  Still, I found the selection process uncomfortably reminiscent of Final Cull, the miserable job of choosing who, among the myriad of applicants, was to attend Academy. One of my great pleasures as SecGen had been to return to the Navy the long-sought privilege of selecting its own officer candidates.

  Today, for two hours, Hazen, Arlene, and I reviewed files with the staff sergeants, noting which youngsters showed promise.

  Over the years Arlene
and I had developed a fine working relationship. By my authority, she sat in on many of the conferences I was required to endure. Here, at Academy, her views were particularly valuable; we’d been cadets together and shared a knowledge and love of the Navy.

  I opened another folder. “What about—”

  The door flew open. “Commandant!” A sergeant, his breath coming hard. A red-haired midshipman was close behind.

  Hazen reared up. “How dare you burst in like—”

  “We couldn’t reach you; your caller was set to ‘don’t disturb.’ We’ve had an, uh, accident. Suit training, the pressure room. Five cadets ...”

  I grimaced, recalling cadet days. First, Sarge had taught us how to suit up. We’d endured his drills several days in a row, skylarking when his eye wasn’t on us. Then, one day, after suiting, Sarge sent us one by one into a foggy room with an airlock at each end. About half of us, when we emerged, turned green. The other half had known how to seal their suits properly.

  The five cadets who’d gotten a whiff of the gas would suffer no more than a day’s sore stomach and the indignity of losing their lunch. A tough lesson, but far more gentle than that of unforgiving space.

  “Take them to sickbay, Gregori.” Hazen shot me an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, Mr. SecGen.”

  “Sir, two are dead. The rest ... the medics are working on them, but—”

  “Oh, Lord God.” My voice was strained.

  The Commandant blinked. “Impossible! How? What ...”

  “I don’t know!” Gregori sounded near tears.

  I scrambled to my feet, lurched to the door.

  “Nick, wait.” Arlene.

  I paid her no heed. Leaning heavily on my cane, I strode through the admin wing, outside to the late-afternoon sun, along the walkway toward the classrooms, the dorms, the suiting chamber halfway across the base.

  By interfering, I was muscling in on Hazen’s prerogatives, but anxiety drove me onward. Cadets didn’t die in suiting practice. Not at Devon. Farside was another matter; there was no appeal from the laws of vacuum. If some of our charges were dead—I took a deep breath—Academy faced a scandal. Someone had been unforgivably negligent. And the Commandant would write letters this night, that would ravage families’ lives.