Beloved Son

by George Turner

  ‘All right; we’re broke. It was predictable but I wanted it spelled out. Now I would like a bath and the change of clothes you mentioned; by then I may have worked out some fundamental questions to ask. Homecoming as a key man in a political farce makes for tangled thinking.’

  ‘Farce?’ The Security man was not amused.

  ‘What else? Politics was always a joke – lavatory wall standard.’

  Chapter Three

  The First Night

  Never ending, still beginning,

  Fighting still, and still destroying:

  If the world be worth thy winning,

  Think, O think it worth enjoying.

  John Dryden: Alexander’s Feast

  1

  Jackson’s instinct was to keep the whole matter under cover until a recognisable shape of events emerged, but he struck immediate trouble with the Prime Minister over the question of the public right to knowledge; instinct is no argument to put to a politician. When the PM’s own Ombudsman joined the discussion Jackson was forced to retreat; Ombudsmen did not conduct policy arguments before a third party and the PM’s man made it plain that he supported his principal and there would be no private consultation. He was made to face the fact that clone-members had been located in other countries and that their existence and appearance were already newscast knowledge; discovery of Raft as clone-father was only a matter of time; he had to agree to limited publicity designed to ease the public into the situation gently as facts became known. But no melodrama; they agreed with him on that.

  The best he could achieve was a separation of events into two unconnected items. The fracas at the airfield was to be played down into an item of purely local interest, with no mention of official suspicion that hypno-drugs had been used; the whole affair was to be glossed as an unexpected interest of juvenile groups in the returning starmen, with an overtone of excitement spilling into mass hysteria and an unfortunate reaction by the civil police. (Parker, the Police Controller, would seethe with suppressed fires at being required to shoulder blame, but as a public servant he would shoulder it.)

  At least they all agreed that the abduction of Campion remain secret for the time being, if only because overt action against Security was close to unthinkable, predictably traumatic in its public effect.

  In the end the newscast of the homing of the starmen became a peculiar construct which only the self-absorbed character of the time could have permitted. The men themselves were not presented (all in good health but resting) and the throwaway nature of the coverage even allowed a playing down of the interesting but not important fact that the clone-members being sought worldwide for biological investigation were budded – if that was the word, ha-ha – from the starship’s Commander, making a piquant link with the pre-Collapse world. Then on quickly to the subject of real interest, the monopole whose nature and activation had been lost to science in the Collapse: archival research was proceeding apace and areas of industrial and national application were being examined by inter-continental groups …

  Jackson felt that a secrecy blanket would have made more sense; evasions never held together more than a day or two. The youngsters from the airfield would probably keep quiet from sheer uneasiness until the net hauled them in for questioning – and a fair number would have been rounded up by now – and after that would keep quiet because they had been told to. The student underground newspapers were the real problem, they tended to anti-authority too often just for the hell of it, but he was firmly against taking repressive action against those valuable safety valves.

  Then the silliness of the newscast wrangle vanished from his mind as he re-entered the barrack to be told that Campion had been found – on a roadside, unconscious, badly injured and abandoned. His gush of relief stung unashamed eyes; Campion was the nearest approach to a son he could ever know and confirmation of the Commissioner’s death would have broken what remained of his heart.

  In the shudder of emotion his mind ground still on procedure and method; the successful oracle inevitably becomes a calculating machine, feelings scheduled to noninterference. It became urgent that Raft be orientated, updated as far as possible on world conditions; he could be more easily milked of strictly relevant knowledge if he knew the background. His scientist crew might as well be repatriated to whatever remained of their home areas and so kept out of the dust of trouble; there would be an unholy outcry about lost knowledge if one of them was accidentally killed in local rioting.

  Senior Tech Colley, deputising for the Commissioner, saw to it that Jackson was not told of Campion’s singular remark when he had regained consciousness for a moment as they man-handled him on to a stretcher. He had said, quite clearly – four shocked Techs had heard him and not really believed it – ‘The old man’s right; we’re rotten beneath.’ And, very loudly, ‘The fucking ethic!’ Then he had muttered words nobody could catch as he drifted back to sleep.

  As Colley pointed out, the words of a man in bone-broken agony should not be taken at surface value; there would be no point in worrying the old man with them.

  Nor, because he had in a quiet fashion a strong personal devotion to Campion, did he include them in his report to International Headquarters.

  2

  The bath and fresh clothes could wait; Raft needed rest. A too-present gravity tugged at every move now that he could not step through the centrifuge door into null-weight; his body was arguing him into tiredness. He hoped acclimatisation would not take long.

  In the small room, plain as a cheap hotel room – a gadgety hotel room with disappearing furniture and magic-eye light fixtures and windows which opaqued themselves with a pressure on the frame – he removed his clothes and stood before the full-length mirror.

  Some of the old revulsion stirred because a foreboding from the old world had come viciously true in the new, but it was a muted revulsion. Lindley had worked with precision in a short time, excising resentments, scattering sublimations before the comfort of fact.

  He thought about Lindley, about debts of gratitude and how far the most necessary interference could be tolerated, then put on the dressing-gown they had provided, stepped into the passage and knocked on Lindley’s door.

  The psychiatrist’s brassiness was no welcome. ‘Come to tan my arse, Commander?’

  Raft tried the light touch. ‘Remember Kulayev? Does your subconscious desire punishment?’

  ‘It desires a corner to curl in and lick its wounds. It desires neither comment nor friendly warning; it is aware of its offensiveness and doesn’t give a damn. Go away, Albert.’

  ‘But it will have to compromise; we shouldn’t court dislike.’

  ‘You feel you need to fit in here? Then do it. But they took England away, burned it to death and declared a national park on its grave.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Are you raving?’

  ‘No; it’s not so different for the rest of us. This isn’t home simply because it fits a certain spot on the Earth’s surface. There is no Australia here for me just as there will be no America for Ewan or Russia for Ivan or Germany—’

  ‘Slop.’

  ‘It isn’t, Jim. While we were gone our world went away. We only expected to be out of date and ignorant, but we’re foreigners.’

  Lindley shrugged. ‘So rationalise until you’ve constructed a snuggery. I was too disaffected, too intellectual to be chauvinist or even a mouth patriot. I didn’t realise I cared and now I’m hit where self-knowledge doesn’t reach. Leave me alone.’

  Raft returned to his room, refusing to worry further over Lindley. Emotional storms tend to cure themselves and individual human beings simply did not touch him strongly at sub-surface levels.

  Yet Campion – out of his depth, angry, flailing, puzzled, dedicated – had touched him deeply. But that, he thought as he stretched on the bed, was a different matter. He had a fairly coherent idea who Campion might be, almost must be, in relation to himself, but the mechanics and timing of birth did not make
easy sense. Unless –

  He was relaxing, muscle by muscle, in the total rest routine. The ‘unless’ was fantasy at the edge of sleep, when the mind wanders at will and at risk. There was only one womb from which Campion could have sprung. The face of Jeannette flickered briefly, very young and long ago …

  He slept.

  The sleep was indolence born of Earthly gravity, but it was dark when he woke. From the window he welcomed soft stars in familiar constellations, in clear air lovelier than the diamond dust fields of space. He had slept for two hours.

  He hunted briefly for towel and soap (these people had a mania for putting every damned thing out of sight) and went to the shower cubicle. More problems here, for they also had a mania for setting controls flush with the walls; there were no knobs or handles. He discovered hot and cold water controlled by a sliding thumb-strip and approved an intelligent design; anyone slipping or falling under the shower would not bruise himself or crack his head on protruding metalwork. Excellent for old people.

  What old people?

  The only person he had seen of more than middle age was Jackson. He had good recall when he chose to force it, and in recollection he charted his progress through the Security building, from the bus to Jackson’s office to this apartment, through corridors busy with civilian employees as well as black uniforms. All youthful.

  And they had without exception scrutinised the Columbus party with that politely veiled curiosity which impinges like the dart of needles. Why? The starmen were not celebrities; that had been ground into them. Could the curiosity have been for six men, in a group, all plainly between forty and fifty years of age? It seemed a grotesque question but needed an answer.

  The room had been visited while he showered. (How many had pass keys? Even surveillance-for-your-own-good should offer a pretence of privacy.) On the bed lay a pile of black clothing with a note: ‘Security thinks these more suitable than civilian clothes. The uniform may afford a measure of protection under presently unpredictable circumstances and will open many doors should you find yourself in need of help. A. White.’

  His upsurge of irritation was irrational; a second thought – of Campion twisting and plunging head-high above the storm – welcomed protection.

  The uniform was a one-piece overall, zippered from crotch to throat, gold piped at all seams and lettered ‘IS’ in gold on shoulders and breast-pocket flap. A heavy leather belt went with it, with holster clips but no holster; he was protected but not given self-protection. The black buckle featured a golden hand grasping what might be a golden olive branch. It was gaudier than the silver piped uniforms he had so far seen and was probably a dress overall. It looked too small for him but that was illusion caused by the exactness of the fit. Closing the zipper he was encased with contour closeness.

  Suspiciously he struggled out of the sleeves, dropped the top and craned to see the inside of the collar. In the traditional place was a small cloth insert lettered ‘I. Campion’. He might have known. Yet the fit was too good; they were not clone-brothers.

  He pondered again what they might be, considering possibilities little to his taste; Heathcote, with all his old-maidishness, had been capable of a frustrating cold-bloodedness when research dictated.

  The wall buzzed at him. He had been briefed on use of the intercom, and spoke to the air. ‘Raft. Who is it?’

  “Jackson. Have you eaten?”

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘There’s a dining-room on the ground floor. Meet me there right away.’ There was a short silence. ‘Should say please, I suppose, but I’ve a head full of other things.’

  ‘I’ll come now.’

  ‘Good.’ Jackson added roughly, not covering the break in his voice, ‘They’ve brought Ian back.’

  ‘Campion? Is he all right?’

  ‘No. And somebody will pay for it.’

  Raft said distinctly, ‘I have been thinking about him. Exacting payment may be my business.’

  Jackson snorted. ‘No heroics! You aren’t in your home backyard.’

  The wall buzzed again; Jackson had cut him off. Heroics? He had none in mind; all he had was a generalised sense of responsibility for Campion, not fully rationalised.

  He zipped up the suit again. The black shoes also fitted, which was unlikely; he had noted that Campion’s hands and feet were neater. They might have been matched against his own by the quartermaster. There was headgear too, like an old-time service forage cap which could be unfolded to be worn with earflaps against cold. He stuffed it into the buttock-pocket of the overall and casually destroyed the line of the tightly fitting dress uniform by cramming the pockets with a balled-up handkerchief, a couple of notebooks and other oddments. Lindley had removed his preoccupying repulsion but had not been able so quickly to replace it with a positive feeling for appearance.

  Jackson waited for him at the dining-room door, now wearing a garment like a belted caftan. With, of all damned things, a sporran.

  ‘I’ve ordered steak. The staff’s finished and we aren’t popular.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  The dining-room might have seated two hundred. At a table by the service entry they were waited on by a youngster in green silk kneepants, a scarlet cummerbund and soft scarlet shoes and nothing else, who served them with professional rapidity and total lack of ceremony. Fatherly Ombudsmen were apparently nothing in his young life though he had a covertly appraising glance for Raft.

  ‘That the lot?’

  Jackson said, ‘Thanks, Joe; nothing else. We’ll clear up for ourselves.’ The boy hovered. ‘What is it, Joe?’

  ‘Just –’ He flushed and asked Raft, ‘What’s Barnard’s Star like, Commander?’

  Raft smiled and said deliberately, ‘Like dark red thunder, brooding.’

  The boy’s eyes lit. They might not want the stars but they could still itch to romance.

  Jackson said, ‘Since your ear is surely tuned to the underground, tell me what rumour says of Commissioner Campion these days.’

  Joe looked uncomfortable but answered, ‘They say he’s been in some sort of accident.’

  ‘Who say?’

  ‘No one specially; you know how word goes round.’ Jackson made a disgusted sound. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Yes. Piss off now; we’ve got all we want.’

  Joe vanished. No cross-my-heart stuff there, Raft noted; Joe might be worth cultivating for additional points of view.

  Jackson sighed, ‘So much for cover-up; the story will be all round the Town by now.’

  They ate in silence, one ruminative and the other impatient, until Raft asked, ‘Now what?’

  Campion lay still, immobilised by multiple fractures. They had taken the pain away and would not let it return but they could not smother the hellfire in his mind. Only the psychlinicians could do that and he had no intention of allowing their dampings and erasures; this experience, however shattering and traumatic, must be preserved, scanned, dissected, until he understood every moment and meaning of it. As yet he could only cry out in distress as beliefs and trusts withered.

  He saw the faces of the youngsters with a clarity beyond true recall, with the clarity of insight, not only their howling, murderous faces but the minds behind them; he felt still not only the bruising and wrenching but the impact of focused hate.

  They were the youngsters to whom he and a whole generation dedicated their lives, for whom they groomed and sleeked the world, and they had turned on him like jungle beasts. They had meant to kill him. Not cleanly, but with their hands and feet.

  Training had held through shock and pain and he had known that the youngsters were hypno-drugged; almost he could smell the stuff in their crowding sweat. He had known, too, that some others were protecting him in their fashion, big men who fought off the mob and carried him out of the press, men with his own face lightly disguised.

  At first he clung to hatred for those who had drugged and perverted the youngsters he had been raised to love and guard. Later he faced the trut
h that drugs and hypnosis can only arouse what already exists.

  They had wanted to kill him.

  He needed Jackson now, now, now, with wisdom and answers.

  ‘Now this first, I think,’ the old man said. ‘Who was Jeannette Campion?’

  As an opening round it fizzled. Raft chewed impassively, swallowed and said, ‘Was? Is she dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was my daughter; Campion was her mother’s name. I thought of her when I realised Ian’s likeness to me.’

  ‘He is her son.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘We don’t know. You’ve come home a grandad.’ This was not necessarily the answer and Jackson nibbled at it obliquely. ‘Ian was afraid he was a clone from you. Is that correct phrasing, or is clone a collective noun?’

  ‘It is. He isn’t.’

  ‘As you say. Still, we had to trace his birth. He was raised as a state ward, like thousands more; he didn’t know his parents. He was born in ’98 when confusion was still rampant and records a matter of chance. My secretary located a sort of birth certificate – just a book entry really, carrying the mother’s name. Father unknown.’

  ‘And the father must have looked a lot like me, eh? But I didn’t leave any son to fill in with a little incest. When did she die?’

  ‘Also in ’98.’

  ‘Ah.’ It was a peculiarly blank sound even from so phlegmatic a man. ‘I saw her only once. I didn’t know she existed until just before we left Earth; her mother brought her because the kid had asked to see me. Daddy in the sky, pie in the sky, who knows a kid?’ He chopped angrily at his steak, hating what he had to say and determined to say it, rejecting and suffering guilt in the one process. ‘I had no feeling for the girl. How could I? Somebody you’ve almost forgotten shows up at a time of maximum involvement, shoves a sixteen-year-old under your nose and says she’s all yours! Her mother and I weren’t married; we weren’t even lovers; we were just a couple of brats who had a stray shag at a party – teenagers – and copped it unlucky.’ Jackson revelled quietly in colloquialisms as dead as their era. ‘Our parents fixed it up; or mine did, they were the ones with the money, and we didn’t see each other again. There was no reason we should; it was just a fun thing that went sour. Then they had to turn up at the last wrong moment, all enthusiastic about Dad chuffing off to the stars, and it was embarrassing because I couldn’t respond with an interest in them. Only when they’d gone I felt something of what they must have felt and recognised what my reaction should have been, but sometimes I think all the affectionate facets were bred out of me. I respond so little.’