Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  A soft knock. Arlene peered through the half-open door. “You’re back with us.” She came to the bed.

  I tried to turn away, but only the upper half of my body moved.

  “Nick ...” She rested her hand on mine. I flinched, and her eyes widened. “What is it, love?”

  I pulled my hand free. “I can’t abide pity.”

  “What on earth ...” She sat, a tired expression flitting across her lined face.

  “It’s just ... I ...” I tried to turn away. “Not now, Arlene. Please.” I prayed she would leave, before I lost control.

  “Nick, whatever happens, we’ll get through this. I’ll be with you.”

  “Can’t you see I—”My voice was ragged. “Arlene, if you love me, leave me alone! For the sake of Lord God!”

  When at last I looked up, she was gone.

  For days I lay abed, mindlessly staring at the holovid. I left most of my food uneaten. Dully, I answered doctors’ questions, tried to move my limbs on their demand, allowed them to manhandle me into a wheelchair to change the bed.

  Jerence Branstead came to sit with me, tried to talk business of state; but I paid no mind. “It doesn’t matter, Jer. I’m done.”

  “With what?”

  “Office. Life.” Wearily, I shut my eyes.

  “Oh, you’ve come a long way.” His voice held something that might have been contempt.

  “From?” I wouldn’t let him goad me.

  “From Victoria, you sad son of a bitch.” From the fastship, on which we’d sped home from Hope Nation, decades past.

  I gaped. “How dare—”

  “Yes, how dare I! I know all your lines.” Jerence flung his holovid to the bed, barely missing my legs.

  “Get out!”

  “Gladly.” He stalked to the door.

  “And take your bloody holovid!”

  He strode back, snatched it from the sheets. I grabbed his wrist, stayed him. “What did you mean about Victoria?”

  “It wasn’t for the Navy that I gave up juice. It was for you.”

  I reddened. “I know.” In all the years, we’d never spoken of the mighty effort by which he’d mastered his craving.

  “I yearned to be like you. You never quit. Whatever cards life dealt, you played on.” His gaze found mine. “You always have.”

  “Thank you.” My tone was gruff.

  “’Til now.”

  “I have nothing to live for.”

  “That’s how I felt.” He’d drowned himself in juice, careless of his own destruction.

  “You were a boy, your whole life ahead—”

  “Coward!” His eyes blazed. He jerked his thumb at the window. “If only they knew.”

  “Who?”

  His brow wrinkled. “No one told you?”

  “Told me what, damn you?” An offense to Lord God, but I was beyond caring.

  He strode to the door, flung it open. “Mark, Karen, give me a hand.” He fished in the bedside drawer. “Comb your hair.”

  “Why?”

  “Do it!”

  Meekly, I complied. This was a Jerence I’d never seen.

  “Help hoist him.” He rolled a huge, heavy wheelchair to the bedside.

  “Where are we taking him?” Tilnitz positioned himself at my arm.

  “To the window.” Together, they manhandled me into the chair.

  Jerence flung open the shades. “Look outside, you selfish bastard.”

  “Easy, there.” Mark’s tone was cold.

  “Shut up. Look, damn you.”

  I peered down. My room was on the fifth floor of the hospital, in what had once been a miserable transpop slum. Twelve years ago, Earthport’s lasers had crumbled buildings, buckled streets, sent untold thousands in the district fleeing to their deaths. Now it was a mixed area, and business and middle-class immigrants were slowly taking hold, a harbinger of the city’s rebirth.

  I caught my breath. Streetside, outside the hospital gates, hundreds—thousands—of joeys had gathered. Some wore the colorful costumes of the Sub or Mid tribes, others were in casual jumpsuits. Many carried signs that were too distant to read.

  Someone pointed. The word spread. In moments they were all gazing upward. A clamor swelled to a roar.

  “Wave.”

  “Take me back.”

  “Wave. You owe them that.”

  I did. “How long have they been ...”

  “All week. More each day.”

  I waved again, pretending cheer, while my soul lay charred and lifeless. “Put me in bed.”

  “Sir, it’s time you thought about—”

  “NOW!” My tone brooked no refusal.

  It was as if air had gone out of a balloon. Defeated, Jerence pushed the chair to my bedside. I clawed at the mattress. Mark helped lift me in.

  I grabbed my leg, hauled it on top of the other so I could face the other way. “Good-bye.”

  I didn’t hear them leave.

  After a time, the nurse brought dinner. I left it untouched. Slowly, the room darkened.

  A soft knock at the door.

  “Take it away. I’m not hungry.”

  “It’s me, Fath.” Philip shut the door behind him, pulled up a chair.

  I said nothing.

  “I hear you’ve been difficult.” His tone was light. He waited, got no answer. “I’ll be staying awhile. Shall I read to you?”

  “I’m in no mood for visitors.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Please leave.”

  “No, sir.”

  I grasped his arm, hauled him close, transferred my grip to his collar. “Do as I tell you.”

  “Not today.” Without rancor, he loosened my fingers. “Before I forget, I apologize for leaving after the awards banquet. I was ... upset.”

  “Thank you.” I tried to make my voice cold.

  He regarded me. “You’ve lost weight. Have some soup.”

  “Damn it, Philip, get out or I’ll have Tilnitz throw you out.”

  “Do it.” His tone matched mine. “He’ll have to hurt me.”

  “Mark!”

  After a moment the door opened.

  P.T. said, “My father wants you to eject me, sir. I’m going to resist.” He peeled off his jacket, took the defensive stance his mother had taught him, years past.

  “Mr. SecGen?” Tilnitz looked helplessly between us.

  I pounded the bed. This was absurd. “Enough, both of you.”

  Mark asked, “Do you want me to ...”

  “No.” I lay back, defeated. “Let him stay.” Why did my heart beat faster, more eagerly? Tilnitz left, shaking his head.

  “Eat your soup.” Philip held a spoon to my mouth.

  “I’m no child.”

  “I know, sir. Stop acting like one.”

  Grumbling, I ate, surprised at how hungry I felt.

  Afterward, P.T. read from Holoworld, then Newsnet. I lay back on my pillow, drowsing. After a time I said, “Where’s your mother?”

  “Home, in the compound.” He looked to the floor.

  “I hurt her.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His hand rested on mine. “I think she understands.”

  “It’s just that ... Philip, do you remember when Mr. Chang was dying?” We’d all assumed it would be his heart that took the old transpop, but it was a stroke that felled him. “He lay in that forlorn bed, unable to move, only his eyes showing his misery.”

  “You’re not in that condition, Fath.”

  “Close enough.” How could I explain what I dreaded more than anything else in the world? If Dr. Rains wanted to subdue me, he had but to grab my arm. I couldn’t flee, couldn’t fight. “Philip, I’m ready for the end.” I could face death, and my long delayed reckoning with Lord God, but helplessness ...

  “Goofjuice. No, that’s not strong enough. Bullshit.”

  “P.T.!” I grimaced. “You never used such language.”

  He grinned. “Jared taught me.” />
  “Ah, Jared.” I tried not to flinch at the mention of his lover. After a moment, “How is he?” Hormone rebalancing was losing some of its stigma, but the thought of Jared’s treatments still made me uncomfortable. On the other hand, in his case they’d been utterly necessary.

  P.T. misunderstood the source of my discomfort. “Fath, I’m omni, not gay.” His last attachment had been with an earnest art student, who was as fascinated with Rodin as he. She’d been determinedly pleasant, but I’d never warmed to her.

  “I know, son.” My hand crept over his. I was ashamed of what I’d let him feel.

  “I know you don’t like him.”

  Jared had caused all sorts of havoc with the nets in the Transpop Rebellion. His lawlessness had led to the death of his father, my aide and friend. Only Robbie Boland’s influence had saved Jared from a prison colony, even at fifteen.

  “I never said ... It’s just ...” I sighed. “Tell him I said hello.”

  “You could do that yourself. He’s downstairs.” P.T. said nothing more, but his eyes watched, waiting.

  “Arghhh.” What had I gotten myself into? “Not like this.” I wouldn’t have Philip’s mate see me flat on my back, helpless, “You’ll have to get me out of bed.”

  “If you wish, Fath.”

  I frowned. He made it sound my idea.

  “Where’s Charlie Witrek? He’ll help.”

  Philip’s mouth tightened.

  I hadn’t seen Charlie since the blast. “He isn’t dead!” It was a plea, to Philip, or Lord God.

  “No. Blinded.” He wheeled the chair alongside.

  “Oh, Charlie!” For a moment, I forgot about my useless legs. “Where’s his room? Take me there.”

  “They flew him to Johns Hopkins.” P.T.’s tone was gentle. “Lean toward the edge of the bed. We’ll see him another day.”

  Karen and Mark helped prop me in the chair. Someone gave me a mirror, and I agreed I looked like hell. A nurse fussed at helping me shave. I ordered Philip to fetch a shirt to replace the hospital gown. Someone handed me a tie. Mechanically, I knotted it, tugged it tight.

  While P.T. went to get Jared, I smoothed a blanket over my legs. “How do I look?”

  “Like yourself again.” Mark Tilnitz stifled a yawn.

  “Is my hair smoothed? I’m not an idiot, by the way. I know I’ve been manipulated.”

  “Not by me, sir.” He opened the door. “Do you want Tenere on the permanent access list?”

  It was of no consequence; I didn’t expect to be in office long. “When he’s with Philip.” A silence. “Where’s Branstead?”

  “At the Rotunda.”

  “At this hour?”

  “He said there was work to be done. Is there anything else?”

  “Call him.” Abruptly, my voice was husky. “Ask him to forgive me.”

  The door opened. “Hello, sir.” Jared Tenere sounded nervous, as well he ought.

  I thrust out a hand. “Good to see you.” If I spoke too heartily, no one seemed to notice.

  P.T.’s eyes met mine. They glowed with gratitude.

  I said reluctantly, “All right, I’m ready for Dr. Rains.” I sat in the motorized chair, propped with pillows so my hands were free. I’d never known, until a few days past, how essential one’s leg and thigh muscles were in sitting upright. I had a great deal to learn, most of it insufferable.

  P.T. went out, spoke to the nurse. He had stayed in New York, camping out at Robbie Boland’s apartment, since the night of his visit. My suggestion that he resume his own life fell on deaf ears, and I couldn’t reveal how pleased I was.

  Arlene remained in Washington. Over the caller she was cordial, but said she’d wait to see me at home. Time and sincerity, I knew, would earn her forgiveness. I resolved to do whatever it took. I began by sending her a note of apology, of which I meant every word.

  I fidgeted, but it was only a few moments before Dr. Rains appeared. With him were three other doctors, one of whom I’d already met.

  Rains introduced his colleagues: a radiologist, another neurologist, and Dr. Knorr, an expert in space medicine. Rains regarded me warily.

  “Well?” My tone was frosty. “What news do you have?”

  He cleared his throat. “Mr. SecGen, you have a partial spinal cord transsection at the T-12, L-1 level, resulting in paralysis of the lower extremities, but—”

  “Is there any good news?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. First, as you’re aware, your paralysis is from the thighs down. A portion of the bomb casing hit you like a piece of shrapnel, but didn’t quite sever the cord. There’s partial sparing of sensation in groin and hips. That’s one reason you aren’t incontinent.”

  If I were, I would be facing Lord God’s judgment. My life was not worth preserving if it meant that indignity.

  “Nor are you impotent.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Listen, Fath.”

  “It hasn’t left you—”

  “Tell me what it has done!” I ignored P.T.’s silent rebuke. I wasn’t about to answer to a child I’d raised.

  “You have no feeling in your legs. You can’t walk.”

  “I know that. Will there be any improvement?” I tried to sound casual, but betrayed myself by holding my breath.

  “No. The nerves are too crushed to heal. I can show you just where.” He flipped on a holovid, dialed up my chart. “Here, just below your rib cage. Look where—”

  “I believe you.” Lord God, damn those enviro terrorists to Your ultimate Hell.

  His colleague Dr. Knorr pulled up a chair, leaned forward. “Mr. SecGen, you won’t heal, but there is some hope. Not much, I’ll grant you, but have you heard of the Ghenili procedure? No? Well, occasionally nerve tissue can be replicated. In some cases it’s possible to insert replacement nerve tissue and, ah, reestablish the connection.”

  My heart leaped. “Some cases?”

  “Yours might be one.”

  “Do it.” Anything to be out of this hated chair.

  “It’s not that simple. First, we have to wait for the trauma to dissipate. Then—”

  “How long?”

  “Months.” He saw my despair. “A few weeks, at any rate. Tissues are swollen, the nerve ends are still dying. When that’s settled, as it were ...”

  They’d examine me again. If the gap wasn’t too wide, they would operate. In most operative cases, over time, the subject would regain sensation and motor function. The procedure had been discovered by researchers in Lunapolis trying to aid survivors of the fish war. When the warrens had been bombed, the result was similar to the collapse of coal mines. Spinal injuries were common. Loath to transport paraplegics groundside by shuttle, the medical community treated many survivors locally.

  Dr. Ghenili and his team tried their new procedure on hopeless cases, and found encouraging results. They’d refined their techniques, studied how the nerve tissues slowly reknit. Eventually they’d devised protocols to determine which patients were suitable candidates.

  “And I might be one of them?” Despite myself, my pulse quickened.

  “There’s a possibility. We have no way to tell. But there’s a catch.”

  I shot P.T. a glance of dismay. There was always a catch.

  Ghenili’s achievement galvanized the neurological profession. Eagerly, surgeons all over Earth tried to replicate his results. And failed.

  Yet, on Lunapolis, he continued to have success. They finally discovered the cause. Nerves reknit only in zero to one-third Terran gravity. At one gee, Earth normal, the inserts slowly died.

  “What about after? Can the patients go home?”

  “After full recovery, yes.”

  Dr. Rains intervened. “We’re way ahead of ourselves, you understand; you may not be a candidate at all. If you are, the period after the operation is critical. You’d be bedridden for weeks. Then very limited movement. Any strain ...” He shook his head.

  “That’s fine.” I’d soon be done with publi
c life, and if they’d operate, I’d be free to devote myself to recovery. “How soon can I leave the hospital?”

  “You’ve been resisting physical therapy. We need to—”

  “Answer my father’s question.” P.T. spoke softly, but in a tone edged with steel. I’d known a drill sergeant to speak so to cadets. They’d leaped to obey.

  “In a few days. He needs to bond with his chair, to learn the mechanics of daily—”

  “Very well.” I waved it away. I would undergo Ghenili’s operation, or kill myself and go to Hell. “Bring in the therapists.”

  I passed two days in a haze of impatience. I learned to hoist myself from chair to bed, bed to chair. I found out why the motorized chair was so massive, so heavy. Fitted with Valdez permabatteries under the seat, visual sensors fore and aft, it had a speaker in one arm, a pickup in the other. The chair’s frame itself incorporated the cybernetic brain. It would take me where I told it to go. The contraption was more puter than chair.

  Not as versatile as a ship’s puter, it had to learn to understand me. Naturally, it had a program for that. “Say a few sentences, please.”

  “What?”

  “Anything.”

  “My name is Nick Seafort.”

  “More.”

  “I was born in—this is bloody nonsense!”

  “Referent not understood. Say a few sentences, please.”

  I swore. “What can I—all right. I, Nicholas Ewing Seafort, do swear upon my immortal soul to preserve and protect the Charter of the General Assembly of the United Nations, to give loyalty and obedience for the term of my enlistment to the Naval Service of the United Nations and to obey all its lawful orders and regulations, so help me Lord God Almighty.”

  A pause. “Syntax integrated. Linguistic idiosyncracies assimilated.”

  “Whatever the hell that means.”

  “It means I understand you. Waiting for input.”

  I practiced dressing, hygiene, all the tricks that the normal world was unaware paraplegics had to master. At night, I had unbearable dreams of loping through the wind, though my knee hadn’t allowed me more than a steady, painful walk for years.

  Yet, slowly, I began to accept that life would go on. I called Baltimore, got through to Charlie Witrek’s room. Over the phone he was determinedly cheerful, though Lord God knew what it cost him. Transplants might be possible, he said. They were waiting for a match.