Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  “It’s our duty to intervene.” Pope Nicholai shook his head. “Still, Francis, wait a week. Give him time to consider.”

  A look of annoyance flitted over the Elder’s pudgy face. “In deference to your wishes, so be it.” He looked to me.

  I was beyond tact. “I don’t need a week. Let someone else besmirch the Navy.”

  “Nonetheless, we’ll wait. The usual press statement, outside? Earnest exchange of views? Frank discussion?”

  “Very well.” What they told the mediamen was of no concern. Mechanically, I moved with the rest of them to the door.

  I would be free at last. For years I’d sought release from the burden of office, and now it was at hand. So why did I feel not relief, but disappointment?

  Because my beloved Navy would be used for dishonorable ends. For two hundred years courageous sailors had sailed the starlanes, not to threaten our colonies, but to nurture them.

  On the other hand, the Council spoke for the Reunification Church, and the Church for Lord God. Who was I to set my will against that of the Deity? I couldn’t believe the Patriarchs had actually threatened me with renunciation. Well, they hadn’t, not in so many words. But what did Pope Nicholai mean, “discard a life of service over a small issue”? Discard my life itself? My service?

  My lips tightened. When I couldn’t reconcile my duty with the Church, it was time to leave office.

  In the anteroom I nodded curtly to Branstead and Mark Tilnitz. Security men formed their customary ring as we began our walk through the rooms of state to the holocams waiting outside.

  “Trouble, sir?” Jerence’s voice was a whisper.

  “Later.” The Patriarchs and their retinues were near.

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  The Elder of the Lutheran Church said quietly, “Bishop Saythor isn’t graced with soft speech, Brother Nicholas, but heed his words nonetheless.” A short, graying man dressed in traditional black, he wiped his brow with a starched handkerchief.

  I leaned against a marble column, letting the procession pass me by. “I’m puzzled, Reverend DeStoat. What brought on the Council’s sudden anxiety about our colonies?” I could guess the answer: the Territorials, out of office for twelve years, had been whispering in their collective ear. The Catholic sect, among others, had always favored the Terries.

  “They have more than economics on their mind.” DeStoat’s smile was wry. “In the colonies, too many wayward cults have sprung up, in disregard of the one true way.”

  “Couldn’t you settle those matters ecclesiastically?”

  His mouth tightened. “Only when colonial affairs are firmly in hand.” He lowered his voice. “The Reunification is a precious gift. If we make demands of the colonial churches we can’t enforce, our unity might be shattered. It’s a risk we can’t take. We must keep them under firm control, and the Navy is Lord God’s instrument. Take care, Brother Nicholas.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. “Defiance could jeopardize more than your Administration.”

  A warning, or a threat, barely disguised. We reached the door. Dutifully, I took my place beside Elder Saythor, letting my presence endorse his platitudes to the mediamen.

  “I hope it’s not Galactic,” said Charlie Witrek. He put another chip in the holovid, scanned it. We were in my Washington study, attacking my endless paperwork.

  I snorted. “You’re probably the only middy in the U.N. Navy who doesn’t want her. Why?”

  “She’s too big. Too many middies. I’d never be first.” The first midshipman, on any Naval vessel, had special privileges, and was in charge of his fellows. But seniority applied; the midshipman with the longest service was automatically first.

  Charlie was no doubt right; on a ship such as Galactic it would be years before he’d have hope of making first middy.

  “You’re how old? Eighteen?”

  “Nineteen in September.” Young, by civilian reckoning, but not for a middy. Witrek would have joined at fourteen or so, as a cadet. He filed his chip, reached for another. “It’s not like they’ll have a lot of ships to choose from.”

  I grunted. UNS Wellington had just left for Casanova, and Braeburn was already en route to Vega. Over seventy starships, but not more than two were in home system. A far cry from the days of the fish war, when we’d recalled nearly our entire fleet. Nowadays the Navy was desperately busy ferrying colonists outward, hauling their produce back home.

  “Mr. Seafort?” For once, he sounded tentative, unsure. “I don’t want to take advantage, but ...” He steeled himself. “Could you see that I get a ship? Not an administrative posting?”

  I could have sworn he held his breath. Any thought of twitting him vanished. “Yes, Charlie. You deserve that much.”

  A sigh. I was right. He had been holding his breath.

  Arlene faced me, hands on hips, a disapproving frown creasing her lined face.

  “For heaven’s sake,” I said. “I have to go; it’s the Von Walthers Award, and I’m the guest of honor. “They’d named the moral leadership award for Hugo Von Walthers, the legendary Captain who’d discovered the wreck of Celestina, gone on to be a colonial Governor, and ended his career as Secretary-General over a century before.

  Canceling the trip was impossible. They’d laid on the awards banquet at the Earthport Hilton. I felt vaguely uneasy about it; I knew our easing of the Charities Tax Act had played a significant role in their selection of me as this year’s recipient, though there hadn’t exactly been a quid pro quo. Not really, although Jerence had discussed it with the nominations committee. In any event, while I was aloft, I wanted to consult with Naval brass; the Council’s ultimatum made doing so even more urgent.

  Of course, now that my tenure as SecGen was about to come to an ignominious end, perhaps my consultations didn’t much matter. Regardless of what Admiralty said, I wouldn’t carry out Saythor’s policy.

  “Nicky, you’ve been pushing yourself. And the acceleration—”

  I snorted. “Since when have I had problem with liftoff?” I’d spent my life clawing my way out of one planetary gravity well or another.

  “You’re getting older.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I sought to mollify her. “I’ll have Branstead make time for a nap after we dock.”

  That brought a smile, as I hoped it would. But it faded. She said, “Don’t mock my worries.”

  “I’m not, hon, but as long as I’m SecGen, I have to keep up appearances.” I checked her expression; my reassurance seemed to have little effect. “Care to change your mind and come along?”

  “Well ... yes.”

  I did my best to hide my surprise. “Very well, get packed; we leave in two hours.” In truth, I was finding liftoff more difficult each trip, and I didn’t want Arlene along to observe me. She herself seemed to bear acceleration as easily as when she’d been a cadet eager for her first trip to Farside. On the other hand, she’d always been a fitness fanatic. She taught Philip self-defense, far more competently than I could have. She’d have made a formidable drill instructor. Even today she kept herself in fine shape.

  Normally we’d lift from Potomac Shuttleport. About half the size of New York Von Walthers, it was North America’s fourth largest spaceport. It handled suborbitals to Europe and Asia as well as the massive shuttlebuses that lifted cargo and personnel to Earthport Station and beyond.

  Unfortunately, our Secretarial shuttle was docked in New York, and Tilnitz merely laughed at my suggestion that we book a commercial flight. So we trooped into a heli, heading for Potomac Shuttleport, where we would board the jetliner that would save an hour compared to a heli flight to New York. I bore it with ill grace; I’d have preferred flying the jet heli directly to Von Walthers Shuttleport, but it couldn’t have carried the entourage mustered for my visit aloft.

  We flew over the old White House, where the American President still reigned over his regional government. Washington still bore the scars of the huge bureaucracy that had throttled it: vast white stone buil
dings in federal style and glass monstrosities littered the landscape. The remains of the Pentagon scarred miles of lowland.

  At Potomac Shuttleport Arlene and I walked the red carpet to the jetliner, followed by my numerous aides. I seethed at the fuss.

  Perhaps sensing my mood, my staff gave us a wide berth once the doors were sealed. Carlotti, my press secretary, made himself comfortable in the aft compartment; Mark Tilnitz settled with the crew in the cockpit. Arlene, knowing my moods, sat peaceably across the aisle scanning a holozine. Only Jerence Branstead, with the ease of long familiarity, sat near me, holovid in hand.

  “You wanted to review the Von Walthers seating, sir?” Seating approval for the banquet was one of the terms we’d negotiated.

  “Oh, yes. The chart?” I peered at the arrangements. The Von Walthers affair would be among my last public appearances; I might as well enjoy myself. “Have them put Kahn elsewhere. We’ve never been friends.” Besides, a seat other than at the center of the dais would thoroughly annoy the former SecGen. That sort of power was a perk of office I’d rarely exercised. “Where’s Metzner? No, put him on the dais. He supported our cuts to the U.N.A.F. budget.”

  The engine whine grew louder. Almost imperceptibly, we began our taxi.

  “Now, make sure Boland’s seat is near mine. It’ll make him happy, and irritate the devil out of Rothstein.”

  My chief of staff looked askance. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “If the Terries don’t like it, they can eat in the lobby.” My tone was gleeful. After a moment Branstead smiled too.

  At last, we began our takeoff roll.

  “Now, as to the Naval brass—”

  An unexpected bump lifted me from my seat. Almost instantly, the craft braked, rocking side to side. I braced myself.

  Mark Tilnitz darted out of the cockpit. He reached past Jerence, tore off my seat belt, threw me to the deck.

  He whipped across the aisle, pulled Arlene clear. He hauled her to a seat several rows forward. He dived back to the chair I’d vacated, scrambled to lower the porthole shades.

  Swerving, the craft slowed.

  I snarled, “What in God’s—”

  Ignoring me, Tilnitz barked into his shoulder mike. “Ground team, we’ve got a scramble! Shots fired from the west. Seal the terminal!” He whirled to the cockpit. “Pilot, stay away from buildings! Roll to the far end of the field!”

  The door to the aft compartment flew open. Two burly security men dashed in. One knelt over me, protectively.

  “Stay clear of windows, Branstead! Get down!” Mark drew his pistol, peered cautiously past a shade. “No one in sight. Anyone hurt?” He glanced about. “They shot out a tire.”

  I pushed the security agent aside, hauled myself to a seat on the far side of the craft. “How do you know?” The rush of adrenaline left me shaky.

  “I saw sparks on the tarmac. Their first two shots missed. Get down, sir!” He tugged at my arm. Again, he keyed his caller. “Armored vehicle to the north end of the field. I want troops, a heli, full air support.”

  I twisted free from his grasp. “I’m as safe here as anywhere. Arlene?”

  “I’m all right.” Her face was grim. “Mark, catch them.”

  “Our joeys know the drill.” He muttered into his caller. “Mr. SecGen, we’ll take you home to the compound.”

  I slammed the armrest. “The hell you will.” I felt a moment’s guilt for my language. “I’ll not be made a prisoner by some lunatic with a rifle.”

  “Nicky—”

  “No, Arlene, I’m going to Earthport. Stay home if you’re afraid.” I could have bitten my tongue off, but it was too late. Instead of erupting, though, Arlene compressed her mouth and said nothing. I knew her outrage would be slow in cooling.

  I tried to sound reasonable. “Mark, I’ll accept protection while you sort this out. An hour. Two, no more. Then we go on to New York.”

  “This is my show, sir. Shots were fired.”

  “You heard me.”

  “And you heard me. Or I’ll resign.” We exchanged glares.

  Jerence growled, “Enough, the both of you.”

  I gaped. My chief of staff never spoke to me so.

  “Mark, he’s the boss, whether we like it or not. Mr. SecGen, stop throwing your weight around. Mark knows what he’s doing.”

  “I never said he didn’t.” Why did I sound peevish?

  In the distance, sirens screamed. Flashing lights drew close, wheeled to surround us.

  Mark’s gaze grew distant as he listened to his earplug. “Area secured. Off the plane, Mr. SecGen.”

  “Very well. Arlene?” I held out a hand, but she stalked past me.

  Tilnitz led the way, pistol drawn and ready. Surrounding me, security agents hustled me down the steps. In seconds, I was huddled inside a dim-lit armored truck.

  Mark snapped, “Go!”

  “Not without Arlene.”

  “She’s in the next car. Go go go!” We lurched off, gained speed rapidly.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “A hangar.”

  “Why there?”

  His tone held resignation. “It’s by the book, sir.”

  An hour later, I paced the cold concrete of the hangar. “I want to see the body.”

  “’Til we search every inch, the terminal’s not secure.”

  My mood was foul. Arlene was barely willing to acknowledge my existence, despite my apology. I knew my comment had been inexcusable; on Wellington, Arlene had faced attack by the alien fish without qualms. To question her courage ...

  Jerence Branstead stood by the truck, arms folded, disgusted with my resolve to be on our way to Earthport.

  I took a deep breath. Then another. I’d have to practice patience.

  Jerence sighed loudly, for the third time.

  No, by Lord God, I would not. I was about to be disavowed by the Patriarchs; I would do as I wished. “Mark, look at me.” I took his hand, placed it on my chest. “Who do you think I am?”

  “The Secretary-General.” He sounded puzzled.

  “Not Lord Christ? I’m just a man, do you agree?” He nodded. “So I can be killed despite all your efforts. I spent all my Navy years in one sort of danger or another. They shot at me aboard Hibernia, and on Hope Nation. They wounded me on Challenger. Fish hurled acid at my ships. I damn near died in the Rebellion.” I was skirting blasphemy; I’d have to rein in my tongue. I made a short prayer of contrition.

  He said, “Those days are past.”

  “Not if Lord God wills it!” I brandished my cane as if it were a laser. “I won’t go skulking about, do you hear? Show me the damn—the blessed body.”

  Mark threw up his hands in defeat. “Very well.” We piled back into the truck.

  The terminal lobby had been cordoned off. I knelt by the bloody corpse still clutching its ancient rifle. A sallow blond-haired joey, about thirty. Faded jumpsuit, with a scorched hole in the chest. Receding hair, sallow cheeks. No one I’d ever met. I hadn’t really expected otherwise.

  Around us, civilian police and U.N. security staff milled about recording the scene, note-taking, interviewing. Thank heaven, Carlotti was keeping the mediamen at bay. It was the only reason I tolerated him.

  I looked down at the vacant eyes. “Was he alone?”

  “Except for his driver.”

  “ID?”

  “We’ve taken prints and DNA. It shouldn’t be long. He’s E.A.L., though.” Mark saw my mystified look. “Eco Action League. Had a manifesto in his pocket.”

  “A new one?”

  “Fairly similar to the first.” He grimaced. “We should have been prepared. At Devon they warned they’d strike again.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Forensics has it; I’ll get you a copy.”

  I fingered the scorched jumpsuit. “Was your enviro goofjuice worth dying for, joey?”

  “I don’t think he expected to die.” Mark gestured to the outer door. “He almost got away. A car was waiting.�
�

  “Did you get a description?”

  “Oh, we have it. But in the confusion the driver bolted and escaped. I want you out of here. Have you seen enough?”

  “Yes.” I was profoundly disturbed. How could the ecos murder innocent children, attack my transport? The Rebellious Ages were long past, thank Lord God. Our population wasn’t under the heel of a tyranny; across the world, the public embraced the strictures that bound us together and made war and terror relics of history. Yes, the urban transpops had once rebelled, but they’d been driven to it by desperation, by the threat of extinction.

  Acts of terrorism were punishable by death, regardless of their success or failure. That was just. But when had the penalty last been meted? Public dissension was so rare these days ... and since the upgrade of the laser installation at Lunapolis, what point in insurrection? America’s eastern seaboard, seat of government and our primary industrial base, was so heavily protected that no earthly force could threaten it.

  I sighed. What was the world coming to? Well, it wouldn’t be my problem for long. “Get us to Von Walthers.”

  Mark led me to a heli.

  Earthport was the largest orbiting station ever built. In geosync orbit over the eastern U.S., its bays moored interplanetary vessels for Lunapolis, Deimos, and other nearby settlements and, more importantly, vast Naval starships for our more distant colonies. Its bonded warehouses stored cargo for transshipment as well as ores and grains ferried home from distant provinces awaiting transfer to Earth or other local ports. Earthport’s numerous hotels and restaurants served throngs of passengers en route to and from the sixty-seven planets and satellites on which the human race had established beachheads.

  Eleven of those outposts had been colonized during my terms of office.

  Surreptitiously I rubbed my chest, not yet recovered from liftoff. For decades, ever since my lung replacement ... ah, well.

  “Welcome, sir,” said Geoffrey Rand, civilian administrator of Earthport. “Thank Lord God you’re safe.”

  I frowned. No doubt the news zines were already trumpeting the shuttleport fiasco. “Have you met Ms. Seafort? Arlene ...” She nodded curtly, still miffed.