Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6)

by David Feintuch

  “A change of policy. Radical, extreme, fundamental. We haven’t much time.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before we make the planet unsurvivable.”

  “The planet will survive.” I made my tone light. “If it gets too rough, there’s always emigration. We’ll board a liferaft.”

  He gripped my arm with an iron hand. “Be serious. For once in your life, don’t evade me on the issue.”

  I tried to twist loose, found I could not. “Let go my wrist!” My voice was ice.

  “Do as I ask!”

  “Let go!” At last, I clawed free. “That’s it, laddie. I’m going home.” I spun my chair.

  “You gave me three days.”

  I wheeled out of the restaurant. “Not anymore.” He’d laid hand on me. Were I younger ... no, were I not tied to this bloody God-cursed chair ...

  He caught me at the door. “I’m sorry.”

  “Out of my way!”

  He stood aside. I barreled past. I’d find an air taxi, or call Karen Burns. I wasn’t dependent on him. Not yet.

  He found me in the lot. “Sir, I apologize. Truly.” He dropped to one knee, to my level. “I’ll never hold you again.”

  I was shaking. “If you were a boy I’d ...”

  “I’ll let you beat me now, if you’ll forgive me after.”

  It was like a splash of ice water. I closed my eyes, willed my heart to slow. “Oh, Philip.”

  “I’m going to rev in a moment. Hold me.”

  I did. I could feel him tremble.

  When we were calm, I gave him an awkward pat.

  “Fath, there’s two more places I want to take you.”

  I sighed. “All right.” I’d have to hold my temper.

  “But if you respect me as much as I do you, you owe me an answer. Why do you reject enviro policies out of hand? Why won’t you even discuss it?”

  “Son, I—”

  He held up a hand. “No. The truth or nothing.”

  I’d raised a formidable child.

  In the sweltering parking lot, I sat and mused. Enviros were all fundamentally glitched, wanting to reverse Lord God’s changes to our world. But there was something more. I wasn’t sure why I was loath to discuss it; there was no cause for shame.

  “Philip, do you believe in Him?”

  “Yes, sir. Not quite the way you do.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but let it pass. “He is the center of my life, no matter how badly I act.”

  “I know.”

  “He made the world in seven days. I’m not sure how, or how long were the days. I also accept physics and geology.” I smiled. “And paleontology.” Father had taught me there was much we would not know. He accepted it, and therefore, so did I. “This is His world. I believe that with all my soul. But ... soon or not, it will end.”

  “You speak of the Apocalypse?”

  “What else? For the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel. Philip, don’t you see how presumptuous it would be, to try to alter His world?”

  “We’ve already altered it.”

  “But not as a deliberate act, for the purpose of change. It suggests we’re here to stay, that His promise is false. That we have to safeguard the world for infinite generations.”

  “But we do!”

  “That’s His role, not ours. To say otherwise is impertinent.”

  “We’re stewards of His—”

  “No, we’re inheritors and possessors. Lord God gave us this Earth to do with as we wished.” My voice was hot. “Ye shall inherit their land, and I will give it unto you to possess it, a land that floweth with milk and honey. And that’s what we’ve done.”

  He leaned over my chair. “Fath, you’d let the Earth go to hell for some half-baked theology?”

  “I ought to slap your face.” My voice was tight.

  Philip nodded, unmoving.

  I turned away, or tried to. “If you don’t understand, I can’t make you.”

  His voice was dull. “We’ll go on as I planned. Perhaps ...”

  “Yes?”

  “You asked if I believed. Tonight, I’ll get on my knees, as we did when I was young. I’ll pray for a miracle.”

  “Don’t blaspheme.” But my heart wasn’t in it.

  “Near Ravensburg.”

  I stretched, feeling every one of my years.

  “A valley in southern Bavaria, below the Alps. Tourists used to come from all over the world.”

  “And now the tides—”

  “Please don’t joke. Those peaks”—he pointed past rolling hills—“they’re over twelve thousand feet high.” In the distant heights, lightning flashed.

  Gloomy fields, brown grass, a lush fetid odor. A road, curving into a valley.

  “That chairlift. It was for skiing. There’s still snow occasionally, but not enough to make the business profitable.”

  “I know the climate’s warmed; it’s true everywhere. Hauling me around the world won’t—”

  “That’s not why we’re here. Do you smell it?”

  “Yes, it’s sort of a rich ...” I sniffed. “Like a marsh.”

  “Rotting wood. Come.” He turned my chair. “Jared, care to hike with us? You too, Danil. Bring the masks.”

  I asked, “What for?”

  “It gets worse.” We started down the road.

  It was a pleasant afternoon, though the sights would be gloriously enhanced if the sun broke through the sullen clouds. We left the solar umbrellas behind. We wouldn’t be out all that long, and the weather report said gamma counts were down.

  The road had been paved, but hadn’t seen traffic for years; eager stalks of grass sprang from cracks and fissures.

  P.T. strode at my side. “This town was inhabited for two thousand years. The earliest tourists were Roman.”

  Danil squinted at the hills. “There’s no trees.”

  “Very few.”

  I said, “Global warming doesn’t kill trees.”

  “No, Fath. Acid rain does, and chemical pollutants.”

  “That’s under control. We’ve reduced emissions by thirty—”

  “No, we haven’t. We’ve reduced their rate of increase. It’s by no means the same. The trees started dying in earnest seventy years ago. Manfred Rolf was burgermeister then. He lived by the stream, in a ... never mind, you’ll see it in a moment.”

  The air was humid, but tolerable. Altitude had its advantages. I let myself relax, while Philip wheeled me along, past ancient dwellings with picturesque mansard roofs. No one was in sight. Was the town abandoned?

  “Old Manfred was a difficult man. Big bushy eyebrows, a hot temper. His house belonged to his grandfather, and his grandfather’s grandfather before him. It was built after the Last War.”

  “Did he shoot himself in the barn?”

  “Please, Fath. I’m really begging you. No more.”

  “I’m sorry.” Too late, I was contrite.

  I jounced past scraggly bushes, sodden fields, the ruins of what might have been a store.

  “He died in bed, as a man should. When he wasn’t mayor, he was a puter technician. Quite good at it, for his day.”

  I held my peace. Philip would come to the point.

  “Town business didn’t take much of his time. The only industry was tourism, and that consisted merely of the hotels and restaurants that fanned out from the square.”

  Danil stooped to pick up pebbles. Ahead, the road turned.

  “You can hear the stream. We’ll see it in a moment. All these villages started out as mill towns. Water ground the grain.”

  Near the stream, the cement roadway gave way to gravel. A crude, temporary metal footbridge had been thrown over a brisk stream whose channel was lined with large rounded rocks. Beyond was the center of town. P.T. jounced and rocked my chair across. “There’s Manfred’s house.”

  “Where?”

  “Those foundations. The flood of ’99 was the highest in memory. By
then all the lower houses had gone; folk retreated to the hills.”

  I stared balefully at the jagged stones. Floods had been with us a long time. Ever since Noah.

  The road curved sharply. P.T. strode at a brisk pace, pushing my chair.

  We turned the bend. “The last burgermeister was Hermann Rolf. Manfred’s grandson, as it happens. He lived with his wife—”

  I caught my breath.

  It was a scene of appalling devastation. Windows, doors, walls lay strewn about. Downed trees had been hurled this way and that.

  “Hurricanes? Tornadoes?”

  “No, Fath. Floods. You see, those hills used to be covered with trees. The pollutants killed them, and vegetation holds water. Each year, the floods get worse.”

  “So, one town—”

  “It isn’t one town, Fath. The wind blows from central Europe.”

  I stirred, for once on sure ground. “The Balkans are catching up at last. Finally their economies are strong enough to compete.” Coal production was up, iron was being gouged from the earth at a prodigious rate. And manufactories like the state-of-the-art chip works at Dresden were a symbol of Europe’s brave new times.

  He said, “Lung cancer deaths are up thirty-seven percent. Despite anticars.”

  I protested, “That’s worldwide.” Aghast, I realized what I’d said. Rivulets of doubt trickled through the stones of my certainty.

  As if understanding, P.T. patted my shoulder.

  We picked our way through rubble. A few raindrops splashed.

  “Hermann Rolf lived there, above the stream. He was sixty when he married; she was nineteen. They were deeply in love.”

  “Brake, chair.” I looked over my shoulder. “Son, how do you know these things?”

  He knelt by my side: “That’s what I do, Fath.” His tone was sober. “It’s my project, when I’m not analyzing Winstead’s stats. I do research for the Enviro Council, to put a human face on the disaster. Some of their P.R. joeys make it up. All my stories are accurate.”

  He was so solemn I yearned to hug him. Of course they were accurate. This was P.T., the boy I cherished.

  “I speak to survivors, to descendants. I find pictures, read old records. It’s much more interesting than stat analysis.”

  “You can do anything you set your hand at.”

  The rain picked up. I wrapped my jacket tighter.

  “Mostly.” He was free of false modesty. “Her name—Frau Rolf—was Marlena. She played piano like an angel. Had taken lessons since she was five. No children, but they kept hoping, despite the difference in their age.”

  I steeled myself. “What happened to him?”

  “They had six years together. The spring of 2219, Burgermeister Rolf attended a party conference in Berlin. It was a bad season for rain. Most of Europe was drenched.” He glanced at the grim sky, the brooding peaks, above which ominous lightning flashed. “In fact, we should get going.”

  “Finish.” After my derision, I owed him that.

  “What’s to say? A terrible storm swept the hills. The callers were out, he hurried home. Three days later when they dug out the house, they found Marlena wedged under the bed clutching a bisque doll. She’d drowned in mud.”

  “Lord Christ.”

  “Amen. It broke him. He’s still alive, at a nursing home in Munich. I’ll take you to see him if you like.”

  “No. Please, no.”

  Surreptitiously, Bevin ran a sleeve across his eyes. As if by chance, Jared’s arm fell across his shoulder.

  A slow roll of kettledrums in the distant hills.

  “They didn’t need a mayor after 2219. No one wanted to rebuild. Fath, it was the trees. Tall leafless stalks line those ridges mile upon mile, like ghostly sentries of His creation. Saplings struggle, and fall half-grown. When the wind is right ...” His voice was ragged. “I wish I could show you. Today we don’t need a mask.”

  “I believe you.” I could barely hear myself.

  “I collected cards, pictures, holos. I couldn’t stop. Bavaria was so beautiful, Fath. This was Eden.” He tried to speak, fell silent.

  Jared took his arm, led him to a secluded pile of brush. I huddled within my coat, watching raindrops strike the gravel.

  After a time Danil said, “Do something, Mr. SecGen.”

  “What, boy? Send cadets to replant the mountainside? Close the Dresden plants? Ruin Eastern Europe?”

  “We already did that.” His tone was bitter. “My father thinks the only way to save—”

  “Don’t start. I warn you.”

  “Sir, I—Aye aye, sir. May I speak my mind?”

  “No.” I could abide Philip’s passion; he was my son. But not an enviroist lecture from the cadet. Not today.

  Footsteps.

  “Sorry, Fath.” P.T.’s tone was brisk. “You’re soaked. Let’s get moving.” He turned my chair. Danil, impatient, ran ahead.

  My legs were sopping, but I couldn’t feel them. I’d have to be careful to avoid colds. Any injury, for that matter. Without sensation, I risked—no, it wouldn’t come to that. In two weeks’ time I was to see Ghenili. Surgery would follow within days. If it went wrong, I’d make an end.

  “The whole valley’s abandoned?”

  “Mostly. A few farmers eke out—”

  Danil’s shrill voice rose. “Hurry!” He dashed our way. “Sir, the creek ...” He skidded to a halt. “The water’s much higher. Louder too. I don’t like it.”

  “Shit!” P.T. pushed harder. “Jared, run ahead.”

  “I stay with you.”

  I snapped, “Are you all glitched? No one stays. Chair, faster. Across the bridge. Don’t throw me out.”

  “I can’t judge—”

  “Stop if you hear me yell from the ditch.”

  “I’m not programmed to comply with distant commands. Only when you’re sitting—”

  We jounced over a rut. “Reprogram, then.” All my life, puters had plagued me. I hated them.

  Bevin had been right. The burble of the brook was definitely louder. We neared the metal bridge. Under it, torrents swirled and eddied. The rocky walls of the channel were submerged. White froth licked at the bridge supports.

  “Holy Christ, it’s moving!” Jared licked his lips.

  “No.” I ordered the chair to slow, approached cautiously. “Just vibrating. Help me across. This bucket of chips may miscalculate.”

  “My guidance systems—”

  “Stow it, chair.”

  Water frothed and churned, barely a foot under the decking.

  Philip was calm. “Fath, I’ll run across and get the heli. I can re-land here.”

  “No need. Boys, on three. One ... two ...” I spun my wheels.

  They raced me onto the bridge. A wheel caught; my chair lurched. I pitched to the deck, struck my head.

  Thunder rattled. I lay dazed. Water splashed my chin.

  “It’s moving!”

  A plate shivered under my ear. The bridge lurched. I rolled, caught myself at the edge.

  “Hold him!”

  I clawed at the rail. Philip snagged one arm, Jared the other. They dragged me from the edge.

  “I’m all right.”

  The bridge wasn’t. Wavelets splashed on the flooring. “What’s—”

  “It’s rained hard in the hills.” Philip.

  “Put me in the chair!”

  “No time. Pull, Jared!” Together they half dragged, half carried me to the bank. Danil danced helpless around us.

  I called, “Chair, roll! Now!” Without a passenger, the chair careened off the bridge, sank itself in mud. Bevin ran to dislodge it, worked it free. Water dripped in my eyes.

  The bridge groaned.

  “We need high ground!” P.T. spun, looked about.

  “Put me down!” They still held me; I was helpless. I tried to wriggle myself free. As one, they let me go. I flopped in the mud, knocked my head yet again. “P.T., start the god—the heli. Did you hear me. Move! Jared, put me in the bloody chair!�
��

  Philip sprinted.

  “Cadet, I lost a shoe. Do you see it?”

  To my horror, Danil darted onto the bridge, scooped it up. I was a fool. He raced to safety.

  Grunting, Jared dragged me to the chair, heaved me in.

  I flopped in my seat, squishing, mud-soaked. I wiped water from my forehead; my hand came away red.

  Angry white swirls chewed the banks of the creek.

  “Chair, to the heli!” We reeled down the road to the higher ground on which we’d landed the heli.

  Philip jumped out, threw open the door. “You’re injured?”

  “No.”

  The chair said reproachfully, “If you’d let me guide myself, I wouldn’t have overturned—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Philip gave it a mighty kick that dented a wheel.

  I caught his hand. “I’m not hurt, son. Truly.”

  He stifled a sound.

  They worked me into the heli, like a sodden sack. Danil pawed through my gear, emerged with fresh trousers. Minutes later, the engine running, I sat shivering before the heat vent, holding a handkerchief to the cut on my scalp.

  Philip strapped himself in.

  I muttered, “I could use a drink.”

  “So could I.” Danil.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You said you didn’t.”

  “Today I’d start.” His gaze was defiant.

  When we lifted off, the bridge still stood, engulfed in turbulent eddies.

  12

  WE’VE GOT THEM.” GENERAL Donner sounded triumphant.

  I stared at my caller, biting my lip. “How can you be sure?” I lay on my bed in a posh Munich hotel. A warm bath had done wonders, though getting myself out of the tub unaided had been a battle. Afterward, I’d flopped on the bathmat like a beached fish.

  “We monitored every call every joey made, who had anything to do with the dead terrorists, or Booker’s family. The puters watched for patterns.”

  I asked, “Only seven?”

  “There have to be more. That’s why we haven’t picked them up.”

  “It’s a risk.”

  “To a degree, Mr. SecGen. But they can’t sneeze without our knowing. We’ve parabolic mikes, sensors above and beneath their flats, wires in their cars, agents following everywhere.”