Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  After a time, I found myself looking forward to going home. I called Moira Tamarov, asked if there was any way I might help ease her loss. There wasn’t. Impulsively, I invited her to bring the family to Washington, as I’d invited Alexi. Listlessly, she accepted, but we left the date unsettled.

  When I’d been in the hospital some three weeks, and was thoroughly restless, I summoned my staff for a long overdue conference to wrap up our Administration. Branstead, Tilnitz, Philip, Karen Burns, and General Donner, the U.N.A.F. security specialist, met with me in a secluded room.

  I asked, “Have the Patriarchs made their announcement?” Ample time had passed since my defiance of Lord God’s authority on Earth. I assumed Mark and Branstead were conspiring to shield me from the details.

  Jerence said gravely, “I have some bad news.” He glanced at Mark.

  “Did Saythor call for excommunication?” Arlene would stand by me, if no one else, though I wasn’t sure I’d let her risk her immortal soul.

  “Not quite.” He handed me a Holoworld chip.

  I fitted it to my holovid. “Good Lord!”

  The Elder had expressed, on behalf of the Patriarchs, outrage at the Rotunda bombing, and full confidence in my Administration. His praise was more than perfunctory, it was effusive. “What’s this about?”

  “Renouncing you now would endorse terrorism. Besides, Saythor’s seen the polls. “Branstead’s tone was sardonic.

  “I—what?”

  “It’s not just the crowds outside, you know. We’re overwhelmed with letters. I put Warren to answer the E-mail, else it would have taken months.” Warren was our chief puter, who had something of a literary gift. “It started with the Von Walthers banquet, and since the bombing ... your approval ratings have never been so high.” A grin wiped the exhaustion from his eyes.

  I slammed my fist on the table. “Alexi died, and three good souls with him. Six more gravely hurt, to attain the esteem of fools. Don’t mock the dead! It’s obscene!”

  Across the table, Branstead got to his feet, loomed over me, his fingers spread on the gleaming wood. “Don’t call them fools, Mr. SecGen! I won’t have it. They respect you. Some even love you. The least you can do is respect their intelligence.”

  Taken aback, I swallowed. “Well. Um.”

  No one spoke.

  So, I would continue my labors. From a Lunapolis hospital bed, perhaps. My mind whirled. If I was to stay in office we had work to do. I asked Tilnitz, “What have we learned about the ecos?”

  “Still no sign of Academy’s Sergeant Booker. And clues in the bombing are scarce.”

  “Mark, it’s the Rotunda.” How could terrorists manage to plant a bomb in so heavily guarded a place?

  “I know, sir. We interrogated the staff and got nowhere. Valera wants to declare a state of emergency, to suspend defendants’ rights.”

  That would allow P and D questioning, without evidence of guilt. I pursed my lips. Why not? Killing cadets was horrible enough, but when the enviros bombed the U.N. enclave itself ...

  “Don’t, sir.” Branstead.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “When terrorists force Government to curtail civil rights, they win.”

  “You know so much about the subject?” My tone was sour. For generations, since the Rebellious Ages had given way to the Era of Law, civil disobedience, to say nothing of terrorism, had been almost unheard of.

  “Hope Nation had its dissidents, when I was a boy.”

  I flushed. In his distant colony, I had set civil liberties aside without cavil, to put down the colonial rebellion. “What information do we have?”

  General Donner stirred. “The bomb was old-fashioned plastique. We’re trying to trace its chemical signature. It’s in my report.”

  “Which I haven’t read. Was I the target?”

  “According to their communiqué, yes.”

  “Why so small a bomb, then? For that matter, why not a missile, or a ...” I trailed off. I’d been about to say “a nuke,” but one had to watch one’s language. Since the days of the Belfast nuke, even to suggest the use of nuclear weapons in home system was treason.

  “Lack of access, I assume.”

  “General Donner?” Philip looked apologetic. “If Father goes home ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you protect him?”

  I growled, “Now wait a minute—”

  “Of course.” Donner.

  Mark Tilnitz rapped the table. “That’s our responsibility.”

  “You failed. He’s lucky he wasn’t—”

  “We didn’t fail!” Karen Burns overrode the two of them. “But we’re lucky you survived, Mr. SecGen. It’s time you cracked down. Go with Valera’s declaration. Have Donner arrest the leaders of the enviro fringe. Only by showing the world we won’t knuckle under can we—”

  “Nonsense!” Branstead.

  “You can’t just—”

  “The law doesn’t allow—”

  I raised my voice. “Enough!” They subsided. “Karen, I won’t let the ecos push me into repression. That would play into their hands.”

  “But—”

  “Subject closed.”

  “I never got an answer.” P.T. sounded apologetic. “Can you protect Father? The ecos have struck both times in your presence.”

  “Actually, sir ...” Mark Tilnitz looked abashed. “It’s easier now that you’re less mobile. You have—had—a habit of darting off unexpectedly.”

  I fought an icy rage. P.T. clasped my hand, but I pulled loose. Mark saw my paralysis as an advantage, did he? I’d break him. I’d have him pounding a beat in Senegal. No, Eritrea was more remote.

  Somehow, before I ruined another companionship, I restrained myself. “Get me a coffee.”

  Philip jumped to comply.

  “Thank you.” But my annoyance flared anew. “Now Charlie’s gone, I need a middy. He should be doing this.”

  Branstead said, “I meant to ask Admiralty for a replacement, but I’ve had a lot to deal with.”

  I flushed. My sulky refusal to deal with matters of state had added to his burdens.

  “I don’t mind, Fath.” My son headed for the door.

  “I do. Jerence, get me our list of candidates. No, by heaven, let that bloody enviro cadet fetch and carry for a while. Show him what havoc his politics cause.”

  “Sir?” Jerence looked blank.

  “The cadet, don’t you—oh, you weren’t there. Bivan, or whatever. Bevin, that’s it, from Academy. Tell Hazen I want him seconded for special duty.”

  “Mr. SecGen, are you sure—”

  “Quite.” I allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction. The boy would learn the hard way the effect of his enviro fantasies.

  Mark asked, “When will the hospital release you, sir?”

  “Tomorrow.” I would wait no longer. Arlene hadn’t replied to my note.

  6

  ARE YOU SURE YOU want to do this, Fath?” From the wings, Philip cast a dubious eye on the mediamen gathered in the hospital auditorium.

  “No, but I must.” I knotted my tie, smoothed my jacket.

  Facing the mediamen would be, as always, a nightmare. Branstead had suggested they sneak me out in an ambulance, and announce the fact afterward. The public should be introduced to my handicap slowly, so they wouldn’t see me as a cripple.

  But I was crippled. To suggest otherwise was a lie. Disabled, handicapped, differently abled, impaired, minimally limbed, maimed, physically glitched ... all the weasel words of the past two centuries wouldn’t lift me out of this hated chair. I yearned for the day I might be free of it.

  “I’m ready.” At my own insistence I would wheel myself onto the stage alone, without the help of the puterized chair. Crippled didn’t have to mean dependent. I caught a glimpse of my security chief’s disapproval. “You inspected their gear, Mark.”

  “And we’ll be standing in front, between you and them. It’s not enough.”

  “Shoot the lot of them, the
n. It’s fine with me.” On that note I rolled myself onstage, maneuvered myself to the center of the battery of mikes and speakers.

  A blaze of lights, the whir of holocams, as the world got its first view of the new, improved SecGen. For a stunned moment there was silence. Then, cacophony.

  “Mr. Seafort, do you—”

  “Mr. SecGen!”

  “Will you be able to walk?”

  “Have you located the—”

  “MR. SECGEN!”

  They were always like that. I simply waited. When at long last the din abated, I pointed to the second row. “Ms. Searles?”

  “Sir, do you have a comment about the Eco Action League?”

  “The terrorists known as the Eco Action League will be caught and tried. I presume execution will follow.” As was fitting, the law provided no lesser penalty.

  I pointed elsewhere.

  “Does the government know who they are?”

  General Donner wanted me to claim we did, but that was nonsense. The killers knew otherwise. “Not yet.”

  “Sir, there’s a rumor you’ll declare martial law. Is that—”

  “We will not.” My voice was a lash.

  “Mr. Valera said yesterday a martial law bill was being drafted.”

  My Deputy SecGen had always been impetuous. I said firmly, “The bill will not be introduced.” A shocked murmur; I’d publicly cut the legs from under him. He—and the party—would be outraged. It served them right for not getting my approval.

  “Does this indicate a rift within the Supranationalists?”

  I hesitated. “No, it indicates that I’m still SecGen.”

  A wave of mirth swirled around the hall. Suddenly, I had them, and the tone of the questioning changed.

  “When will you leave the hospital?”

  “Today.” I nodded to the correspondent for Holoworld.

  “Sir, when will you resume work at the Rotunda?”

  “When there’s a meeting I can’t avoid. I prefer to work from home.”

  “Mr. SecGen, will you ever walk again?”

  I tried to look at all the holocams at once. “I don’t know.” Offstage, Branstead flinched. Well, too bad. He’d become too political. Best he remember he was a Navy man. With reluctance, I turned to an old adversary from Newsnet. “Mr. Canlo?” He, too, was entitled to a question.

  “Sir, what do you say to charges that you were negligent in the death of your aides?” From elsewhere, a sharp intake of breath.

  I’d learned over time that answering his questions directly got me nowhere. “I haven’t heard any such charges. Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “From other reporters in a bar?”

  Nervous laughter, here and there through the hall.

  Canlo held his ground. “Will you answer the question, sir?”

  “Detail your charges. How am I responsible?”

  “A bomb was placed in the Rotunda. Isn’t the Secretary-General responsible for the U.N. complex?”

  “I’m responsible for the entire United Nations.” I paused, to rein in my disgust. Lord, I hated press conferences. “That doesn’t let you sue me personally if you trip in the General Assembly.”

  Gales of laughter. Was I turning political at this late date? Heaven forbid. I added, “I take seriously the deaths of Press Secretary Carlotti and Security-Officer Bailes, as well as my great friend Captain Tamarov and communications aide VanderVort. I don’t hold myself responsible.” Or was I? Had the ecos not gone after me, Alexi would be home with Moira and the joeykids. And Charlie would be on his coveted starship. Quickly, I found another hand. “Ms. Gier?”

  Canlo stayed on his feet. “What do you say to calls for your resignation?”

  “I’ll resign when the public so demands.” Or the Patriarchs. Under my jacket, I was sweating. I glanced to the wing, where P.T., unseen, was earnestly giving the media a sustained finger. Abruptly, my equanimity was restored. “Ms. Gier?”

  “What measures are you taking to find the terrorists?”

  “We’re analyzing their writings, sifting the rubble for clues, determining who had access to the Rotunda, questioning witnesses. We’ve sought the cooperation of”—I tried not to let my lip curl—“legitimate enviro groups, to identify who among the fanatic fringe might have committed these despicable acts.” As far as I was concerned, they were all the fanatic fringe, but I wouldn’t say that. Not now.

  “Mr. SecGen, do you—”

  “I’m not finished. I appeal to every citizen, wherever located, to come to our aid. To attack the United Nations, the Government of Lord God, is an assault on Lord God Himself.” My voice trembled. “It is worse than treason. It is abominable beyond words. ‘The powers that be are ordained of God. Whosoever resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they shall receive to themselves damnation.’ Any of you who have useful information, I beg your assistance. In the holy name of the Lord Almighty, as you cherish your immortal soul, I beseech you to come forward, to escape the fires of Hell.” Throughout the hall, absolute silence. “Good day.” I turned my chair, wheeled slowly off the stage.

  P.T. met me in the wing, his eyes glistening. Without a word, he bent and kissed my cheek.

  “Son, take me home.”

  “Wait, sir. Another few minutes.” Mark Tilnitz held up a placating hand.

  “Now what?” My chair was parked just inside the hospital door.

  “Joeys are swarming out there. It’s not safe. Karen has jerries setting barriers.”

  “What do they want?”

  P.T. patted my shoulder. “To see you.”

  “Why?” A foolish question. Crowds haunted me everywhere. It was the reason my compound needed walls. Ever since I’d sailed Hibernia home ... I’d spent my life trying to escape them.

  And look where it got me. I snapped, “Open the door.”

  Mark shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Now.” I rolled to the entry. “Let them have me.”

  “Fath?”

  “It’s all right, Philip. Onward, chair.” Before they could stop me, I pushed open the door, rolled into the dusk.

  Karen and her detail raced across the lawn. “Mr. SecGen—”

  They’d strung police barriers from the door to the lot in which my heli waited.

  A muted roar. The throng surged forward, broke through the barricades. My security joeys formed a circle around my chair, faced outward with lasers drawn.

  I clawed at Karen. “Don’t fire! Hold!” Desperately, I slammed my chair through the wall of my guards. “On, chair. To the street.” I risked a glance back. With looks of horror, Karen and Mark scrambled after me, the rest of the detail trailing behind.

  I rolled to a stop. A blizzard of frantic hands. Someone held out his arms, made a barrier. “Give him air!”

  I clutched at fingers. “It’s all right. Thank you for coming.”

  “Mr. SecGen—”

  “We’re praying for—”

  “I waited all day—” His hand darted out, back again. I offered mine, and he seized it.

  “I’m all right. Thank you.”

  “I’m so sorry, what they did—”

  “Go with God.” I squeezed a wrist. An elderly man blinked back tears.

  Mark cannoned into a stocky joey looming over me, shoved him aside.

  “NO!” Somehow I made myself heard. “Surround me if you must, but leave a space open. Let them through a few at a time.” I adjusted the blanket over my useless knees. “Thank you. I’m all right.” I grasped eager hands with both of mine. “Thanks for coming, joey.”

  Slowly, with curses, with rage, my security organized the chaos into an impromptu reception. The word was passed down a line of awed well-wishers, and a line formed, impatient at first, but calmer, as it became known I would remain.

  Two full hours and then some, I sat in the misty lot, until the last hand was clasped, the last shoulder squeezed with silent reassurance.

  Wearily, I flexed my finger
s.

  P.T. stared down at me with respect, and something more.

  “What is it, son?”

  “It’s as if ... You’ve heard of the king’s touch?”

  “I didn’t heal these poor joeys.”

  “Perhaps inwardly.”

  Mark said heavily, “As SecGen you have no business exposing yourself.”

  I thought a moment. “As SecGen I have no business not.”

  In the compound, all was familiar, yet strange. Simple tasks such as getting me upstairs to my bedroom had become immensely complicated. I bore it, determined I wouldn’t be forced to live out my life in the cursed chair.

  Still, bit by bit, I learned to get around, to maneuver through doorways. Sometimes I let the chair do the work, other times, stubbornly, I insisted on navigating myself. We rearranged furniture to ease my passage. My body seemed healed, except within. Lower back pain made me irritable, and I tried not to lash out. It would fade in a while, they’d told me, and in the meantime I had pills, though I’d vowed not to use them.

  Arlene was stiff at first. “You recall denying you built a wall I couldn’t penetrate?”

  “You said that at Derek’s reception.” I paused. “Hon, in the hospital, when I found I was paralyzed, I was beside myself. I’m truly sorry.”

  “I tried to give you space. You needed to lick your wounds in solitude.” A pause. “And I was hurt. You thrust me away, when I wanted to give you ease.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  At length, her hand crept to mine.

  Over time, the calm she offered was her greatest gift. I let myself go, muttering and wincing at the wearisome pain, until I saw her rubbing her own spine in unconscious sympathy. From that moment on, I tried to hide my discomfort, and hers seemed to ease.

  My relief at returning home faded. I longed for recovery, and worked dutifully with the two therapists who made daily visits. Mark Tilnitz scrutinized their security files, and refused to leave the room when they were present. I made a note to give him my special thanks, and asked Arlene to find a suitable gift. Since I’d been rushed to the hospital, he’d devoted himself to me utterly. These days dark circles lined his eyes, and he bore a haunted look.