Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  “Mr. Seafort, how do you expect us to keep you alive?”

  “Oh, come now. How many assassins come here expecting me to visit with them?” Obstinately, I moved toward the gate.

  “Larry, Ezekiel, take the point! Suko, watch for darters.”

  Fuming, I let my nannies surround me as I strode past the gatehouse, along the path to the street. For a moment the clamor lulled. “Open the gate.”

  “Mr. SecGen ...”

  “Do it.” But I did it myself, thrusting into the mass of Independencers. Five hundred or so, I guessed. Well enough dressed, most of them. “What’s this about? What do you want?”

  “Freedom for—”

  “Hey, it’s Seafort!”

  “Get away from—”

  “Bring back the E.C.!”

  “Stand clear!” Karen’s tone brooked no argument. I occupied the sidewalk; pressure from my guards slowly forced the demonstrators into the street.

  I raised my voice. “How can I listen in this uproar?” I raised my hands for silence. “Have you a spokesman? Will you be quiet?” Slowly, the din subsided. “Mark, pass me that bullhorn.”

  A heavyset man pushed forward. “I’m in charge. We’re here to—”

  “I’m Nicholas Seafort. What’s your name?”

  “Uh, Franks. Maury Franks.”

  “What do you want?” I handed him the speaker.

  “Independence for the European states.”

  “All of them?”

  “I—yes.”

  I said, “Public opinion in Britain runs seventy percent in favor of union, last I looked. France is—”

  “Polls can be faked. We want a plebiscite! People, the Government has conspired for decades to hide the truth. Ever since the Austrian-Italian Merger of 2170, Administration after Administration has—”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” I snatched back the bullhorn. “I’m willing to listen, but not if you besiege my home. Certainly not if you make speeches. Bring a petition to my U.N. office.”

  “We tried—”

  “I guarantee you I’ll personally deliver an answer within three days.”

  “We’ve heard that goofjuice before. Lies, all of it.”

  “You have my solemn oath. Before Lord God.” It brought murmurs of astonishment.

  Franks blustered, but a glance showed him his congregation wasn’t with him.

  “Deliver it whenever you’re ready, Mr. Franks.” I moved toward the Earth Firsters. “What are you joeys doing here?”

  Below, Delaware merged into New Jersey. U.N. One would be landing on the East River strip in half an hour. Washington was too close to New York for a suborbital; we were reduced to old-fashioned jets, hi-trans rail, or a heli. My jet was equipped with every sort of luxury, which I never used. Nonetheless, we carried valets, a butler, security staff, my media secretary, putermen, a Naval liaison ...” I sighed.

  Mark Tilnitz selected a bottle from the bin. “Wine, sir?” He had to raise his voice over the drone of the engines.

  “And meet the Council of Patriarchs reeking of alcohol? Are you glitched?”

  “It’s not illegal, Mr. SecGen. You’re a civilian.” And I was ashore, to boot. Aboard Naval vessels, alcohol, like most drugs, was strictly forbidden. “The Beaujolais, do you think?” Tilnitz’s voice was smooth.

  Perhaps he was tweaking me to divert my disquiet; he was sensitive to my moods. I stared moodily out the window at the brown landscape below.

  In the cockpit were two pilots, a navigator, a radar defenseman. Behind them in the galley, two uniformed stewards waited, hoping I’d press a call button. In the compartment aft of us, Jerence Branstead chatted with a few favored mediamen. Farther toward the tail lounged our press secretary, the valet, and the rest of my swollen entourage.

  “It’s ridiculous.” I slapped the armrest. “An escort of seventy for a trip to the office.”

  “We’ve been through this.” Tilnitz sounded resigned.

  “Go through it again!”

  Instead of answering me directly, he raised an eyebrow. “Sir, I’m sure the Council has no quarrel with you.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Mark.”

  “Why not?”

  I glared, but after a moment his mouth twitched. I grumbled, “Why do I put up with you?”

  “Because Jeff Thorne retired.” Admiral Thorne, my former chief of staff, had once been my superior, and was one of the few who knew how misplaced was the public’s adulation. In consequence, he spoke to me without undue regard for my rank. During my second term I’d relied heavily on his judgment and discretion.

  Perhaps Mark was right. I seemed to need a goad, to puncture my moods. In earlier days, I’d had Edgar Tolliver, but he was long gone from my life, first to a Captaincy, then to retirement.

  Mark’s tone was dry. “Karen’s rather miffed with you.”

  “Why?” I knew full well why.

  “Crowds are dangerous, sir.”

  “I’m no tyrant. If the people want to kill me, I should let them, or leave office.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  I was silent, not sure whether I did.

  “You certainly startled them,” Tilnitz admitted. “But what was the point?”

  “I don’t know. I was restless. To shake up their thinking, I suppose. Make them see me as a person, not an abstraction.”

  “Oh, great. At five hundred a pop, how long ’til you win over thirty billion citiz—”

  “Enough, Mark.” I keyed the caller. “Mr. Branstead, join me, please.”

  “You rang?” Jerence must have been standing at the entryway.

  “Ask the puter for our budget for religious education for the last ten years.”

  “Surely that’s not why the Patriarchs—”

  “Do it!”

  Jerence and Tilnitz exchanged sympathetic glances. If I’d carried a pistol I could have shot them both.

  I strode down the mosaic walkway toward the Rotunda.

  The new U.N. enclave—everyone called it that, though it hadn’t been new for a hundred fifty years—stretched along the befouled East River from Thirty-eighth Street to Forty-seventh. Within its confines were housed the offices of Senators and Assemblymen, the numerous U.N. commissions, tribunals, and organizations, and envoys from our former and current colonies.

  Many were in two huge towers whose lines suggested the original U.N. building, long demolished. Between them, surrounded by manicured walkways, was the magnificent marbled Rotunda that housed my Secretariat.

  I panted, “Are we late?”

  Jerence checked his watch. “We have twelve minutes.”

  “Hmpf.” I strode faster, ignoring a warning twinge in my knee. Dutifully, my retinue kept pace. In younger days I would have increased my stride until the throng was forced to lope. It was absurd; even on the walkway I had at least twenty companions. Why hadn’t I put a stop to it in my first term?

  I glanced upward to the Von Walthers Administrative Center, on top of which sharpshooters doubtless maintained vigil.

  The sun passed behind the shadow of a looming tower. No apparatus as vast as the world government could be housed in as small a space as the U.N. enclave; only the heads of each department—Treasury, Education, Planetary Trade, etc.—maintained offices in the Rotunda.

  Unlike capitols of earlier days, we had no need to concentrate our principal offices, so departments were spread over several continents, and linked by net. Only six hundred thousand worked in the U.N. complex and its environs. Many of them were housed in huge towers, amid New York’s wealthy Uppies.

  Admiralty, as always, was based in London, and semi-independent. The Territorials had tried once to bring them into the fold, but the Navy had called in every political marker it possessed, and sent the administration reeling. No government had again attempted to rein them in.

  We neared the Rotunda steps. Within, the Patriarchs waited.

  The relationship between the United Nations and the Reunification Chu
rch was not fully defined. During the Era of Law that followed the Rebellious Ages, America and Japan had slowly lost their ability to dominate the world by financial strength. The U.N. became the only strong global institution, just as the Final War permanently changed the world balance of power by devastating Japan, China, and much of Africa.

  At the same time, the miracle of Christian Reunification swept conservative Europe, now the most influential region of the globe. The United Nations explicitly governed in the name of Lord God and His Church. Rebellion was more than treason; it was apostasy.

  “Easy, sir. Let them wait; you’re head of Government.”

  “I owe them courtesy.” They represented the Deity. On the other hand, so, by law, did I. I slowed my pace a trifle.

  Despite the acknowledged relationship, the Church had no specific rights or duties under the U.N. Charter. The Council of Patriarchs, of which the head of every major Christian sect was a member, was the principal achievement of Reunification. It governed the Church. But it did not govern the United Nations.

  Yet, what fate would befall a SecGen who openly defied the Council’s command? Disavowal, surely. Only once in their history had the Patriarchs ever disavowed their own Government. Not that the infamous Van Rourke deserved any less.

  Formal excommunication was also possible. In that event one would be barred from the rites of any member sect, and all must acknowledge that Lord God’s face was turned from him. To consort with him would be treason.

  Jerence waved jauntily to the mediamen gathered on the lawn. As was my wont, I ignored the holocams and the reporters’ shouted questions. They’d learn soon enough why I was here, as would I.

  Gritting my teeth, I climbed the innumerable white marble steps to the imposing entrance. It was a show for the holocams; I could have been whisked by tram through the tunnel from the landing strip, direct to the smooth, silent lifts. But Jerence had unearthed a poll that questioned my physical abilities, now that I carried a cane, and he took every opportunity to put the public’s doubts to rest.

  Within, all was marble dadoes and mahogany paneling, interspersed with solemn portraits of long-dead leaders. I couldn’t imagine why a head of Government would want to work in such a tomb.

  My staff dutifully following along, I made my way through echoing corridors to the reception room. Jerence Branstead whispered, “Stand up for your rights,” and stood aside.

  Anderson, chief of protocol, flung open the doors.

  I stopped short. At the head of the vast oval table, where I’d expected to preside as host, sat Francis Saythor, First Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church, current Elder of the Council of Patriarchs. His hands were folded comfortably across his stomach.

  Surrounding him, in the closest seats to the head of the table, were all thirteen of the colorfully dressed Patriarchs. I’d expected that the Executive, at most, would convene. Certainly not the full Council.

  The dapper Archbishop of the Methodist Synod nodded. At his right was the Roman Catholic Bishop of Rome, robed in imperial purple and white. At his left, the elderly First President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, in an old-fashioned business suit. He glared across the polished table at his principal competitor, the President of the Reorganized Latter-day Saints.

  Saythor, rotund and pale, stroking his charcoal beard, gestured to a seat.

  Instead of taking the closest vacant chair, I strode to the foot of the table, took the seat opposite the Elder’s. If confrontation was what he desired, confrontation he would have.

  “Brother Nicholas.” Saythor’s voice was soft. “Let us pray.”

  I bowed my head. Even in conflict, Lord God must prevail.

  After the benediction, Saythor made a temple of his fingers and smiled affably. “Thank you for joining us, Nicholas.”

  Religion was a serious matter; one ought not trifle with Lord God. But the Elder had always irked me, and his behavior today was no exception. So I said, “It’s my pleasure, Francis.”

  As I expected, the use of his first name displeased him, but he made no overt gesture other than to raise an eyebrow. “The Council has concerns we wish to share.” His manner was ponderous.

  “By all means.”

  “Your Administration—you in particular—have shown unnecessary hostility to those who would protect Lord God’s most cherished planet.”

  My jaw dropped. “You want me to favor the enviros?”

  “Sarcasm is unnecessary,” Saythor admonished. “We speak of those who’d protect Earth from the ravages of her selfish colonies.”

  I frowned, still not sure what he meant.

  Stefan Wendrous, Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church, intervened in his heavily accented English. “Mr. Seafort, we’re distressed that you persecute political groups whose sole purpose—”

  “What groups? Please speak clearly.”

  Saythor shrugged at his colleagues, as if to demonstrate my obstinacy. “It’s not necessary to list them by name. Your policies—”

  “Toward whom?” I was sailing in a fog.

  The Elder’s temper frayed. “The Earth First Alliance, among others. The Committee Against Colonial Waste. The Council of Economic Realists.” Conservatives, all of them. No, reactionaries, who demanded our funding of the colonies be curtailed. Why would the Patriarchs demand I support them?

  “Now, wait a minute.” I struggled to control my tone of voice. “The Patriarchs have always favored colonial expansion. In the process we spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ throughout—”

  “Of course.” Saythor’s voice was bland. “But it’s past time our colonial children began paying back our beneficence.”

  “Began?” Derek would have apoplexy, were I to repeat that remark. No doubt the other colonial governments felt likewise. “Do you realize we’ve crippled their economies, asking them to pay for our rebuilding?”

  Andrew DeStoat, Elder of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, snorted in disdain. “The fish who attacked were instruments of Satan. It’s appropriate to require all Christian nations to undo their mischief.”

  “So you want me to crack down on the colonies?” My hand toyed with the silver head of my cane. What on earth had caused this shift in policy? I’d not met often with the Council, but they’d rarely interfered so blatantly. Their usual concerns were more likely to revolve around religious education, or criminal statutes they saw as overly lax.

  “Certainly not.” The Elder looked shocked. “However, considering the vast sums we’ve spent—”

  “Our colonies provide foodstuffs, raw materials, manufactured—”

  “—on gargantuan ships such as Galactic, it behooves us to use her well.”

  I fell silent, aghast. Never before had the Patriarchs interfered directly in Naval matters.

  “Her early voyages should both transmit our goodwill, and our insistence that Earth’s needs be met. After all, ours is the one planet in the known universe blessed by the sojourn of Jesus Christ.” He leaned forward, spoke with grave emphasis. “The miracle of Reunification mustn’t be squandered. In the colonies, unreconciled sects run wild; without our intervention, they’d do so here as well. To combat them takes funds. Our income mustn’t be jeopardized.”

  I clamped my mouth shut. The Church was infallible, though I had my private doubts about its current Elder. Still, I had to say something. “I’ll ask Admiralty to take your views into consideration.”

  “Favorably?”

  “I can’t speak for Admiralty.” I’d begun to perspire.

  “A maiden cruise to Belladonna would be a welcome start.”

  I swallowed. We’d just negotiated a new trade pact with Belladonna, giving the distant mining colony greater say in ore quotas, and granting liberal trade allowances.

  It wasn’t mere generosity on my part. Only by keeping our colonies content might we keep their support, and head off their yearning for self-government. Hope Nation was an example; years ago, I’d had to grant them independence, after
suppressing a planters’ revolution.

  We couldn’t afford another upheaval, economically or morally. Revolt against the U.N. was rebellion against Lord God. Millions of souls hung in the balance. My own understanding that I was damned caused me ceaseless misery.

  Luckily for the Navy, I had an out. “Galactic Fuses in two months for Constantine. She’s carrying the principal wave of colonists and supplies.”

  “A few months’ postponement won’t matter.” Saythor’s stern visage met mine.

  I said evenly, “Delay would be unwise.”

  “Look, Seafort.” The Elder’s tone was now openly hostile. “We’re in agreement on this.” His gesture included his colleagues. “You understand what that signifies? Representatives of all His churches concur on His will, without dissent. We have no doubt that in this we speak for Lord God.”

  That was a warning, if anything was. If I defied the Church on a matter in which they spoke for the Deity, I could be charged with heresy. Unlikely, I supposed, but quite possible. Nonetheless, I waited in stubborn silence.

  “Let me be frank,” Saythor added. “We already know the Territorials will have no scruples in furthering His cause.” No, they wouldn’t. The opposition party saw the Navy as a club with which to strike its enemies. It always had. In the Transpop Rebellion, the Terrie government had used Naval lasers to blast city streets. And they were dead set against colonial independence. Ordering the Navy to hold the colonies by brute force would be a simple solution they’d eagerly endorse.

  I hesitated, yearning to comply. But visions of the idyllic Hope Nation landscape drifted before me, and of the earnest, hardworking folk of Detour. I wouldn’t let the greed of the Patriarchs corrupt U.N. colonial policy. “I will not send a Naval vessel to menace U.N. citizens who’ve done no wrong.”

  The Elder’s fingers drummed the table. “As you wish.”

  “Brother Nicholas.” The Bishop of Rome stayed Saythor with an upraised hand. “Review the matter without haste. I pray you, don’t discard a life of service over a small issue.”

  “We speak of finance, Your Holiness.” I fished in my pocket for a coin, found only a credit chip. I held it between two fingers. “This is of Caesar, not of God. Let temporal matters arrange themselves without your intervention.”