Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  I wrote to Moira Tamarov, repeating my invitation.

  Philip visited the compound almost daily, from his flat in Maryland. Slowly, finally, we began to grow at ease with each other, as once we’d been. From time to time he stayed for dinner.

  “No, Fath, it was the year you hurt your knee.” We were in a bright-lit nook in the kitchen, just the three of us. Arlene had chased out the servants, and in unaccustomed intimacy we dined on lasagna we’d prepared ourselves. Confined to my chair, I was graciously allowed to cut and mix a salad.

  “Hon, when did you teach him to shoot? Wasn’t it earlier?”

  “If P.T. says he was fifteen ...” She shrugged. Philip had an uncanny accuracy with numbers, with data of any kind. His mental gymnastics no longer surprised me.

  “You came home when I was thirteen, Mom.” Philip glanced between us. Arlene and I had separated, briefly, after the Transpop Rebellion.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I have?”

  Dutifully, he gave her a hug.

  She released him, pushed him gently toward his seat. “Twenty-four, a grown man ... where did the time go?”

  “Would you rather I was still a child?”

  “No, but ...” She looked thoughtful. “Parenting was fun, damn it. And now you don’t need me.”

  “Of course I do.” He tried to look injured. “Don’t I call you from work? Don’t I ask your advice—”

  “Yes, love. But you don’t need it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more dependent.” He held the lasagna for me to scoop. “If you don’t like my growing up, have another child.”

  I snorted. At least Philip was young enough to be thoroughly unrealistic.

  I threw myself into long-neglected affairs of state. I was working on the hefty U.N.A.F. budget when there came a knock on my study door. With a sigh, I set down the file, massaged my back. “Yes?”

  A red-haired midshipman marched in, came to attention, a gray-clad cadet following suit. “Midshipman Thadeus Anselm reporting, sir!” He snapped a salute.

  “At ease.”

  Smartly, he assumed the at-ease position, hands clasped behind him.

  “Who’s your ... ahh. Mr. Bivan.” “Danil Bevin, sir.” The boy’s voice still hadn’t settled entirely into the lower registers.

  I ignored the cadet. “What brings you here, Mr. Anselm?”

  “I’m the cadet’s escort, sir!”

  “Very well, consider him escorted.”

  “Yes, sir.” The middy hesitated. “Am I dismissed?”

  I unbent. “What are your orders?”

  “To return to Devon base when released, sir.”

  If he was like every middy I’d ever known—like myself, at his age—he’d cherish leave in a foreign town. “Very well, you’re not dismissed just yet. Have you an overnight travel allowance?”

  “No, sir.” Hazen had been stingy with his budget, it appeared.

  Well, it was my own fault, for meddling. I buzzed security. “Show the midshipman a guest room. Mr. Anselm, I require your presence over the next few days, in case”—I glowered—“the cadet needs rebuke.” If Bevin had any sense, he wouldn’t take me seriously; cadets should expect a modicum of verbal hazing. “However, you’ll not be needed until midnight each day. You need not stay on the grounds.”

  Anselm’s face lit. “Yes, sir!”

  “That’s all.”

  With Academy precision, the middy about-faced and marched out.

  “Chair, go around—oh, never mind.” I wheeled from behind my desk, faced Bevin. “See what your enviro friends did to me?”

  “They’re not my friends!”

  I rasped, “Are you looking to be caned?”

  “Not again, sir.”

  “Then watch your mouth.” I paused. “Again?”

  He flushed. “After you left, Sarge wrote me up.”

  “For?”

  “Arguing with—with my betters.” The words came reluctantly.

  “It’s not what you say, Bevin.” I had to admit the boy had courage. “It’s how you say it.” No need to chew him out, at our first meeting. “So. Tell me about yourself. You’re English?”

  “From Manchester.” A shy smile.

  “I was a Cardiff boy.” But of course he knew that. Everyone did. “A Naval family?” Many of our officers were third generation, or more.

  “Why, no.” He looked puzzled.

  “What’s your father’s occupation, then? Or is it your mother?”

  He said tentatively, “Are you teasing me, sir?”

  “No.” I glowered. “If you don’t want to tell me—”

  “My father is Andrus Bevin, of the Enviro Council. He’s Mr. Winstead’s deputy.”

  I recoiled. “He’s that Bevin?” I knew the name had sounded familiar.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Sneaking into my house without—”

  “I never asked to be posted here!” His face was hot. “Besides, I told you the first time we met.”

  Dimly, I tried to recall. I’m enviro, the boy had said. And so’s my father. I cursed under my breath. I would send him home to Devon, of course; I couldn’t have a spy underfoot.

  I colored. Do you want my resignation, Hazen had asked. He, too, had enviro sympathies. Not every enviro supporter was glitched.

  “He’s what, Winstead’s assistant?” Perhaps if I kept Bevin from sensitive data ...

  The boy’s head shot up proudly. “First vice president of the Enviro Council.”

  “Vice president.”

  “Yes, sir. He’s your son Philip’s boss.”

  If I dismissed the cadet, surely it would cause repercussions for Philip. Dismayed, I searched for a solution. Let the boy go, with orders not to tell anyone that ... Call Winstead, explain that the posting had nothing to do with ...

  No. I would have to make the best of it. I took a deep breath. “Did Haz—Did the Commandant explain why you were sent here?”

  “No, sir. Sarge said you wanted to keep an eye on me.”

  I smiled. “Not quite.” I explained my custom of young Naval aides. “I won’t keep you more than a few months. You’ll graduate with your bunkies.” Some of them, at least. Academy had no set graduation day; cadets were released when deemed ready.

  Bevin opened his mouth, shut it again. A cadet didn’t question his officers.

  I sighed. I really should have selected a middy; look where pique got me. “While you’re here, you may speak before being spoken to. There’ll be no penalties.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you didn’t know my background, may I ask why you picked me?”

  “I knew you were enviro. I meant to show you what your enviro cohorts did.” I grimaced. That wasn’t the only reason. “Because you stood up to me in barracks. I loathe yes-men.”

  He regarded me quizzically. “You chose me for what Sarge caned me for?”

  “Life’s like that.”

  “After I’m done here, sir ...”

  “Yes?” Impatiently, I tapped the desk.

  “Do you think—If I do well, could I be posted to Galactic when I make middy?”

  “Of all the gall!” Was there no end to his effrontery? Galactic was the prize posting of the Navy; it had the finest accommodations, the most modern instruments, the most powerful lasers, the best-equipped bridge. No doubt seasoned middies from every ship in home system were vying for a berth on her. I growled, “Have Security show you your quarters. Dismissed.”

  He saluted smartly.

  “Bevin!”

  He paused at the door.

  “Don’t ah ... it would be better ... Perhaps you shouldn’t tell anyone here you’re related to the Andrus Bevin. Some of the joeys I work with might not understand.” Why was I perspiring?

  “Aye aye, sir.” He left.

  “To the veranda, chair.” The motor purred. I struggled with the door, managed finally to help the chair maneuver outside.

  My back throbbed. I’d bee
n hoping to find Arlene, tell her of my fiasco, but she was nowhere in sight. I went back to my office, buried myself in chipfiles.

  Later, I wandered to the living room. Arlene lay curled on the couch, reading a holovid. Newsnet, it was.

  I tried to negotiate the narrow path between settee and chair. Muttering, I tried to haul the settee out of the way and nearly dislodged myself from my seat. I swore under my breath. “Hon?” I gestured at the obstacle.

  Arlene purred, “Yes, Nicky?”

  She knew bloody well what I wanted. Nonetheless, I said humbly, “I need your help.”

  “Very well.” She moved the chair.

  “Thank you.” I rolled past. “Do I get points for asking?” My tone was hopeful. “You know I hate to be dependent.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up. “Is that another apology?”

  “Yes, if it’s needed.”

  She kissed the fading scar on my forehead.

  After a moment I asked, “What’s in Newsnet?”

  “Your political obituary.” She scrolled to the head of the article. “They say you’ll resign within a month.”

  “Wishful thinking.”

  “Nick ...” Suddenly she was serious. “How long will you stay in office?”

  “Until ...” I ground to a stop. How long, indeed? I’d been sure each term would be my last, but my second Administration had been in office twelve years, through three elections. Despite my contempt for the political process—Jerence claimed it was because of it—the electorate kept my Supranationalists in power, and the party wasn’t about to abandon me. I wasn’t sure why. All too often, for their taste, I appointed Indies or Terries to vacant posts.

  If Bishop Saythor had carried out his threat, the question would be moot.

  “I don’t know. Every day, a small, quiet part of me still yearns to quit. Especially now I’m paralyzed.” I paused. “But as I told you once, I’ve grown to like power. Isn’t that despicable?”

  “Have you used it well?”

  “Yes, of cour—no, not really. I appoint my friends to office, bully the Navy, squelch the Earth Firsters every chance I get.”

  “What’s the despicable part?”

  “I ignore the wants of my party. I’m rude to the Senate.”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  “I break the rules when it suits me.”

  “Not for your own benefit. For the public good.”

  “Who am I to decide that?”

  “Who else should?”

  “The public. That’s what a democracy is about.”

  “The public is—are—fools.”

  I smiled sourly. “Jerence tells me to respect them for loving me. You tell me they’re fools.”

  Her smile was lighter than mine. “We might both be right.”

  I leaned forward to kiss her, lost my balance, ended up sprawled on her bosom.

  “Is this an advance, sailor?” Her tone was wry.

  I was helpless, and it enraged me. How else might I find myself incompetent? “God damn—” I caught myself, but my mood was shattered. I hauled my legs back onto the footpads, spun the cursed wheelchair.

  “Nick, what ...”

  “Out, chair.” I fled to my office.

  7

  PHILIP MOVED BACK HOME. He spent two energetic hours hauling his belongings upstairs to his old room, and rushed back to work. Subdued, I realized that in the years he’d been with the Enviro Council, I’d never visited his office, or even asked his duties. How must he see my indifference? Was I truly so cruel? I slipped into the den, closed the door to be alone with my turmoil.

  I’d named P.T. after Philip Tyre, a heroic young middy I’d known.

  We’d been so close, when he was young.

  One day, when my son was five or so, I had him on my lap, showing him holos of Father and the run-down Cardiff farm on which I was raised. In those far gone days, P.T. had called me “Daddy.” Solemnly, in his babyish voice, he asked if I’d like him to call me “Father,” as I had my own parent. “If you’d like,” I’d said.

  Thereafter, I was “Fath.” “Father,” when he wanted to be formal.

  With wonder and delight, I’d watched him grow toward adolescence. His goodwill was boundless, his intelligence awesome.

  He was Lord God’s undeserved gift.

  The Transpop Rebellion scarred him, in some way I never fully understood. We didn’t quite grow apart, but he became ever more moody. In his teens he adopted the enviro cause with dismaying fervor, and finally left my home in a swirl of mutual recriminations. I was heartsick over his invasion of my files. If there was anything I’d hoped to teach him, it was inflexible honesty, and the honor I’d tried to espouse before my fall.

  I’d hoped that he’d be better than I.

  My joy at his return was tempered somewhat in that he brought Jared Tenere home. I couldn’t well refuse; it would jeopardize our reconciliation.

  Well, perhaps hormone rebalancing had stabilized the Tenere boy. Time would tell. At least, he’d lost the unbearable cockiness he’d flaunted as a youth.

  What with the newcomers and other changes, my home life had developed an outlandish aspect. Each night, to my infinite disgust, security joeys hauled my weighty wheelchair up the stairs a step at a time, while I prayed fervently that nobody slipped. I was even tempted to install an elevator. Pride was one thing, a broken neck quite another.

  Danil Bevin quickly learned his way around the house, and tried to make himself useful, in his less-than-timid fashion.

  His second night with us, Thadeus Anselm, the middy, came staggering home past midnight, crooning a ribald ballad as he negotiated the stairs. Arlene merely giggled and went back to sleep, but if it hadn’t been too much trouble I’d have hauled myself out of bed and given him a piece of my mind. I resolved to do so in the morning, but his pale and shaken countenance dissuaded me. Some lessons were self-taught.

  Besides, his conduct wasn’t my concern. Another day or so and I’d send him home to Devon.

  Meanwhile, crowds gathered each day outside the walls. I didn’t know what they sought. No doubt they came because I was a public figure, and my injury unsettled them as a private person’s would not.

  Confined to my relentlessly helpful chair, restless and irritable, I buried myself in work. Luckily, there was plenty of that. I pored over budgets, arbitrated colonial disputes, struggled with the Dutch relief situation.

  The overriding problem was where to settle the refugees, now that most of Holland was reclaimed by the sea. Pakistan had taken in most of the Bangladeshis, but the Netherlands had no ethnic sister, and Belgium’s patience was wearing thin; she’d absorbed as many as her local economy would handle.

  Across the globe, lowlands were swamped as never before in human memory.

  The Dutch could be absorbed; even teeming Earth could find room for its refugees. But dispersal would cost the Dutch their national identity, and their leaders strenuously fought for other solutions.

  I’d already authorized putting the Hollanders at the top of the list for emigration to Constantine, the newest of our colonies. But I didn’t see how we could ship more than fifty thousand refugees over the next few years, and though that would make Constantine thoroughly Dutch, it wouldn’t make a dent in the refugee problem. Besides, the Colonial Affairs office argued vehemently against allowing ethnic concentrations in our colonies.

  A knock. “Cadet Bevin reporting for duty, sir.”

  “As you were. I’m a civilian, so we’ll relax military courtesies.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t come to attention each time you come into my bloody office!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Take these chips, file them in the case next to the holovid, where—”

  The caller buzzed. General Donner, of U.N.A.F. Security. I left the desk speaker on. If I couldn’t trust my aide’s discretion, I’d best find out now.

  “Mr. SecGen, we may have a break in the Academy matter.”


  “Go on.”

  “We’ve had that Sergeant Booker’s family under intense surveillance. Sisters, cousins, the works.”

  “And?”

  “His father’s niece Sara had a couple of odd calls. Nothing overtly incriminating, but the conversation was out of focus, as if it was in code. Discussing groceries for no reason, for example.”

  “You traced?”

  “Public callers. The first in London, the second in Manchester.”

  “So he’s in England.”

  “Sorry, sir, the voice wasn’t Booker’s.”

  “How would you know?”

  “We ran the recording past your Commandant. He’s under surveillance too, by the way.”

  I reared up in my chair. “That’s an outrage!”

  “You think so, Mr. SecGen? Who’d be better placed to arrange an accident?”

  I spluttered. “I would. Is my caller tapped too?”

  “Of course not.” The General chuckled, unconvincingly.

  If the Navy heard that its rival, U.N.A.F., had one of its officers under surveillance, there’d be hell to pay. “The Commandant was shocked when we heard about the murdered cadets. I was with him, and it was no act.” I’d stake my life on it. I hesitated. Or would I? What if ... no, I was becoming as paranoid as Donner. “Remove Hazen from your suspect list. We won’t spy on the Navy.”

  “Sir, if he’s involved in any way, even in covering up the—”

  “I’ll take responsibility.”

  His voice fell. “Yes, sir. About the cousin ... we’re going for P and D.”

  “You have an order?”

  “This evening. We have a tame judge.”

  I opened my mouth to object, thought better of it. The less I knew of our investigative techniques, the better. Sometimes these things had to be done, and no one would really be hurt. I had the rights of our cadets to consider, as well as Booker’s cousin. “Very well. Proceed.” I rang off.

  Bevin turned from the holovid. “We all want the murderers caught, but how can you send joeys to P and D with no evidence?”

  “Mind your business.”

  “A tame judge? Is that honorable?”

  I’d had enough. “You’re asking for a caning.”

  “Fine, if it would get me home to Academy.” His cheeks were flushed. “I thought, whatever else you are, you’re an honest man.”