Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  Rand gestured toward the waiting electricart. “This way, sir.” As I passed the sparse line of officials, Fleet Admiral McKay saluted stiffly.

  At my side, Mark Tilnitz eyed each face, his glance flickering down to the hands. I supposed I couldn’t blame him, given the day’s events. I beckoned Branstead. “What’s the drill?”

  “I scheduled you a couple of hours in your Hilton suite, but that was before the, um, delay. I’ll cancel the Naval tour so you’ll have time to rest before the banquet.”

  “Nonsense.” I took a deep breath, tried not to wince. “I’ll skip the nap.”

  “You need it, Nick.” Arlene’s voice was acid.

  “I’ll decide that.” I pressed my lips tight, unwilling to quarrel in front of strangers.

  The cart rolled through bright-lit corridors, each punctuated by emergency hatches that would slam shut at the first sign of decompression. For security reasons we’d docked on Level 5, near the Naval wing, far from the civilian concourses and their shops.

  As a Captain, I’d oft walked these corridors and thought nothing of it. My knuckles tightened on my cane. I could do so again, if need be. My staff coddled me too much, and I suspected I was becoming soft as a result. I had half a mind to stop the cart and walk. In fact—

  I raised my cane. “Hold it.” Startled, the driver carefully braked. I slid off the cart. Hurriedly, Mark followed.

  All were staring at me. I couldn’t very well demand to walk, could I? I’d inconvenience Rand, the Admiral, my staff ...

  I had to give a reason for stopping. “What’s this?” I pointed to a hatch.

  “Traffic control, Mr. SecGen.” If Rand was surprised at my abrupt diversion, he gave no sign.

  “Let’s see.” I slapped open the hatch, from the access pad at its side.

  Within, a small anteroom. I peered past the startled guard. Beyond, a row of consoles, manned by techs. “Why aren’t they in uniform?”

  “They’re civilians, sir.”

  “Oh. Of course.” I felt an idiot. If I’d visited Earthport as often as I ought, I’d know better. The Navy operated out of its own wing, and the rest of the station was under the administrator’s control. “Very well.” Casually, I eased myself onto the cart. “Carry on.”

  In moments, we rolled to a stop at the closed and guarded hatch to the Naval wing. I shook hands with Rand, the station administrator, and confronted Tilnitz. “Mark, I’m in Navy territory. Get some rest. Take Arlene to the hotel. Unless ... ?” I gestured to the hatch.

  Arlene shook her head. “The hotel.”

  “Mr. SecGen—”

  “Jerence, tell Mark I’m safe with the Navy. Admiral, let’s go.” I left Tilnitz protesting.

  The conference room was spacious enough to hold the entire Board of Admiralty, fifteen in all, but we were only five, including a Captain. Gray-flecked Admiral McKay took a place across from me. Farther down the table was Admiral Hoi of BuPers, thin of face, his expression somber. Johanson of the Governmental Affairs Office was there also, and an officer I didn’t recall, whose stern blue eyes regarded me steadily.

  “Mr. SecGen, may I present Captain Stanger.”

  Oh, of course. I’d seen his holo, spread across the zines. “How do you find Galactic, Mr. Stanger?”

  “She’s wonderful, sir.” His gaze softened in a brief smile.

  I grunted. She ought to be, for what she cost. But I owed him more courtesy than that. “And the loading?” Galactic’s cargo holds were huge, and most of her stores had to be hauled from groundside, a shuttle load at a time.

  “We’re coming along well. Two months, according to schedule. “He saw me grimace, added quickly, “It’s all right, sir, really. We’re using the time to whip the crew into shape.”

  That, at least, I understood. As difficult as it was to train new crewmen, it was twice as hard when the entire ship’s company had been transferred from other vessels, and had to learn the quirks and peculiarities of a new craft.

  Admiral McKay cleared his throat, switched on his holovid. “Well, then—”

  “Would you like a tour, Mr. SecGen? We’d be honored.” Stanger waited expectantly.

  “I wish I could. I have the Von Walthers banquet—” On the other hand, my schedule tomorrow held nothing of great importance, and it was time I saw the great behemoth that was such a bone of contention. Besides, after I next met with the Patriarchs, I doubted I’d have another chance.

  I’d delay my return shuttle. Tilnitz and Branstead didn’t have to like it. “Very well, in the morning. I’ll look forward to it.” I saw McKay’s eyes were frosty. “Sorry, Admiral, on to business.”

  We ran through half a dozen routine items: staffing concerns, out-of-budget special appropriations, home fleet dispositions.

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Well?” I looked from one to another. “What is this meeting really about?”

  “Mr. SecGen ...” Admiral Hoi’s tone was cautious. “We wanted you to be cognizant of concerns shared by a great number of Naval officers.”

  I’d endured similar mind-numbing circumspection from the Patriarchs, and was thoroughly sick of it. “Speak plainly.”

  “We all love the Navy; that goes without saying. We’re concerned about Administration priorities.”

  I stirred. Why was it so difficult for him to reveal his thoughts? Perhaps Captain Stanger sensed my impatience. He coughed discreetly, and Hoi nodded in relief.

  Stanger leaned forward, his blue eyes serious. “There’s little enough money to rebuild New York, aid the ravaged Netherlands, and support the expansion of the Navy to protect us from colonial dissolution. The Navy doesn’t want funds squandered on ecological boondoggles. There, it’s said.”

  “What boon—how is this your business?”

  “Officially, it isn’t.” For a moment he dropped his eyes. “Would you prefer we didn’t speak?”

  Yes. “No, of course not. It’s just ... I was floundering. “Go ahead.”

  Stanger’s smile was grim. “All of us here are loyal to our last breath, as are all the officers we’ve spoken to.”

  “Naturally.” Why did I feel a chill?

  “Nonetheless, officers throughout the Service are troubled. I believe you’ll confirm, Admiral Hoi, will you not? Just so. The Seafort Administration hasn’t opposed the Greenhouse Gases Reduction Act, for exam—”

  “Cutting industrial emission of greenhouse gases will slow global warming, at least to a degree. And it’s only five percent.”

  “On top of four percent three years ago. But any reduction cripples our industry and will slash Government revenues. And to what purpose? Frankly, Holland is beyond saving. Cut our losses.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not just the Dutch. The same tides roil across Florida, Louisiana, Japan—”

  “A seawall is a hell of a lot cheaper, Mr. SecGen, than foolish enviro fantasy on a global scale. You see, sir”—Stanger waited for my nod to proceed—“expansion of the fleet is vital. Surely you must agree. The colonials are restless, but if trade with a single colony is disrupted, our economy could tailspin. Now, if ever, we need a firm presence among the worlds, and that means more ships. And it’s not just factory emission controls that hamper us. There’s no real proof ozone reseeding works, or—”

  “But we ought to try.” Why did I feel I was parroting the enviro line? Essentially, Stanger was right. There was little we could do to change the course Lord God had set for us. But I mustn’t tell Stanger that; he was challenging Administration policy. “We’re under increasing pressure from the enviros. Not just Winstead and his Council; now there’s the loonies of the Eco Action League. Casting aside enviro programs would be as bad as giving in to their terrorism. Can’t you see we have to maintain a steady course?”

  “I see the Naval budget in disarray. Don’t make it worse with useless enviro—”

  I said, “The Navy spent more this year than last.”

  “Yes, we had an increase, but almost a
ll of it went to Galactic and Olympiad.”

  I slammed the table. “You wanted those ships!”

  “Of course we do.” Stanger’s tone was soothing. “They can carry thousands of troops, if it comes to that. No colony will—”

  “We won’t use them to browbeat other worlds!” I reined myself in. We were far off topic. “I won’t abandon the Greenhouse Gases bill. It’s not expedient.” We’d decided, Branstead and I, to give the enviros what little we must, to keep them quiescent.

  “You’ll continue playing into the Enviro Council’s hands?”

  “I didn’t say that.” A pause. “How many officers agree with your sentiment?”

  “Most I’ve spoken to.” He passed the ball to McKay. “Sir, what is Admiralty’s view?”

  The Admiral looked uncomfortable. “On the whole, we’ve little disagreement. Mr. SecGen ...” He looked to me in appeal. “You’ve been the Navy’s staunch supporter all your life. Can you not see that this is no moment to falter?”

  I got slowly to my feet. “Is that what I’m doing?”

  Johanson of Governmental Affairs spoke for the first time. “Absolutely not, sir. But we’re worried about the immense pressure put on you by the enviro fringe. They’re totally unrealistic on budgetary constraints.”

  “What if ...” I was almost afraid to ask. “I don’t do as you ask?”

  “Why, sir.” Stanger’s guileless eyes met mine. “We’ll do our duty, as always. But we’ll be disappointed.”

  “Very well. See that it comes to no more than that.” My skin was clammy. “I’ll think carefully on what you’ve said. Next month when I meet with Admiralty on the budget—” But I wouldn’t be meeting with Admiralty next month. At best, I’d be retired. Or facing a heresy charge if the Patriarchs were so minded.

  “I’ll think hard on it,” I finished lamely. “Believe me, I too want the Navy strong and vigilant.” On that note, we adjourned.

  The confrontation left me troubled. Whether I viewed their remarks as threat or warning, they made clear I’d been too long out of touch with the working officers. Well, it would be my successor’s problem, not mine. Unless I chose to throw my lot in with the conservatives, mount a show of force for the colonies, and by doing so win the Patriarchs’ favor.

  “Oh, Mr. SecGen.” Admiral Hoi seemed cordial. “Could we stop at my private office? I’ve something to show you.”

  “Very well.” In the corridor, Jerence Branstead waited with my security chief. I scowled. “I thought I told you to rest.”

  Tilnitz waved it away. “My job’s to keep an eye on you.”

  Hoi was present, so I held my peace. I followed him to his hatch.

  “That way, sir.”

  “I know.” My tone was curt. A decade ago, I’d come aloft to this very office to demand Admiral Jeff Thorne put an end to the decimation of the transpops. The place reminded me of tragedies I’d as soon leave buried, of days before P.T. and I had grown apart.

  Hoi stood aside. I limped in, caught a glimpse of the huge holoscreen dominating the far bulkhead. “It hasn’t chang—Lord in heaven!”

  The Naval officer who came to his feet wore a shy grin. “We wanted to surprise—sir, are you all right?”

  I steadied myself at the console. “Yes, I ... Alexi, how have you—it’s so good to—I didn’t know—” I swallowed. “Come!”

  He extended his hand; I started to take it, pulled him instead into an embrace. “Oh, God. Lord God.” I could say no more.

  Alexi Tamarov had been a fellow middy on Hibernia when I first reported to her wardroom, a hopeful boy with the ruin of my life still ahead. Afterward, I’d made him lieutenant, sailed with him again years later, seen him through a terrible wound and the anguish of amnesia.

  I wiped my eyes. “How did ... where did you ...”

  “Melbourne docked two days ago, sir.”

  “It’s been how long?”

  “Twelve years.” Several cruises, on his part, elections and politics, on mine.

  I closed my eyes. How could it be? Where did a life go? “Let’s have a look at you.” Still slim, a finely chiseled face, wavy hair only now showing a touch of gray. “You’re Captain.” His shoulder patches told me that, but I’d already known. From time to time I watched the few names I still recalled, as they climbed the Captains’ list.

  “For six years. I’ve been out of system a year and a half. I arranged extra leave; Josh Fenner has Melbourne for the Titan run. Moira is a bit unhappy I left her with the joeykids, especially as Mikhael—is Ms. Seafort along?”

  My smile vanished at the thought of the amends I must make. “At the hotel. She’ll be delighted to see you. And we’ll have you down to—oh!”

  “What, sir?”

  “Derek’s in town!”

  His face lit in delight. “The three musketeers, together at last!” Barely more than boys, together we’d endured Centraltown’s upheavals.

  I giggled. Somehow, his presence swept away my burdens. Alexi was a good-hearted joey, and steadfast unto death. If only I’d had him with me, these cheerless years.

  Someone coughed. Dimly, I realized we weren’t alone. “Ah, Mark, you’ve never met ... Admiral Hoi, would you do the introductions?” I sank into a chair, my head in my hands.

  Once, in Hope Nation, Alexi and I had shared a tent outside the Plantation Zone. “Sir?” I’d been young, still eager, struggling to know my duty. “Sir, are you well?”

  “Of course, Jerence.” I groped for his arm. “Make time for Alexi. Fit him in, regardless of what else I have on my plate. And put him on the dais tonight.”

  “Done.”

  Two levels below, Earthport’s corridors were wider, the fittings more stylish, as befit public areas. Our cart slid to a halt at the Hilton’s main hatch, resplendent in gold trim.

  I waved cordially to the gawkers, delighted to have Alexi at my side. We made our way into the crowded auditorium. The audience had undergone stringent security checks, beyond those they’d already endured to reach the Station.

  Half an hour later, in view of the hundreds who’d paid astronomical sums for the privilege, and watched by millions on worldwide nets, I toyed with my roast chicken and peas. I was thinking of Arlene, wishing I could discuss with her Stanger’s assertions, and regretting my vile accusation of cowardice, but she was in the front row, having steadfastly refused the dais.

  Somehow, I’d have to undo my folly.

  Senator Rob Boland leaned close. “I hope I won’t embarrass you tonight.”

  “You won’t if you tell truth.” If he weren’t up for reelection, I wouldn’t have agreed to his giving the principal address. But Robbie Boland had served well in his father’s old Senate seat, and deserved another term.

  We’d long since set aside our differences over the transpops, and his moral failure to support them. Politics required me to be practical. His help was instrumental in shepherding through the Senate many bills that our party thought important.

  At the far end of the dais, former SecGen Kahn chewed stolidly.

  Robbie reached across my plate to offer Alexi a hand. “Mr. Tamarov, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “A pleasure, Senator.”

  “You served on his first ship, right? How I envy you.”

  “How so?” Alexi shot me an apologetic glance, but I didn’t really mind them talking past me.

  “I met Mr. Seafort when he was Commandant.” Boland had been a cadet then, in my care. “But you knew him when he was young.”

  “We were all young then.” Alexi smiled at the memory, turning to me. “And now, look at you.” He read from the glittering emblem on the screen behind the dais. “The Von Walthers Award for Moral Leadership.”

  “Lord Christ, Alexi. Er, sorry.” For an instant I bowed my head in contrition. “Don’t you realize it’s all political? How could I actually deserve this?”

  “How could you not?”

  The lights dimmed; the chairman rapped on the podium, began his intr
oduction. I tried to achieve a look of polite interest.

  First he had to thank the event’s organizers. Then he handed off to Anton Bourse, the world-famous holo star, who gave the world’s millions a capsule biography of Captain Von Walthers. Next, the head of the Von Walthers Foundation spoke of their charitable work, and of the award they sponsored.

  My polite smile began to congeal. I covered my mouth with my napkin.

  Alexi whispered, “Patience, sir. It won’t be long.”

  I grunted.

  His eyes glowed. “I had no idea when Melbourne docked that you were getting the Von Walthers. It’s so fitting.”

  “You’re an innocent.”

  “Don’t you understand, sir? I’d have dropped out years ago if not for your example. Even today, middies revere you. I can’t tell you how good it feels to know the public feels the same.”

  “Alexi, how often must I tell you? We engineered this, Branstead and I.” I turned away, took a cautious sip of wine. Through the glass, one of the lights looked like a porthole. I toyed with my goblet. Like a porthole at UNS Helsinki’s aft airlock.

  I strode down the Level 2 corridor. Up the ladder, turn left. Sixteen, green and awkward, I was a nervous young middy reporting for the first time to the bridge. I’d not yet met Mr. Hager, the first midshipman who’d control my destiny, or the Captain, so far advanced on the ladder of life that I was sweating in anticipation of our coming encounter.

  I had to make a good impression. My whole career depended on it. All my striving, all my training, had led to this interview.

  Help me, Lord God. I am Yours, wholly. I dedicate my service to You.

  My footsteps slowed. I was outside the bridge.

  Clutching my orders, I smoothed my jacket, ran a hand through my close-cropped hair. This is it, Lord. My career starts in this moment.

  Help me make it right.

  Help me to be proud.

  A round of applause. I looked up, startled. Robbie Boland slid back his chair, strode to the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is a sobering honor to be here tonight. For our honoree is a comrade, an old friend, my late father’s long ally, my ...” He hesitated. “My mentor. The man who showed me right from wrong, who was”—a rueful smile—“responsible for my political eclipse.” That brought friendly laughter.