Seeds

by Chris Mandeville

  Twenty-One

  Port Townsend, Washington

  “Welcome,” Kennedy said with a broad smile as Nikolai boarded the Emancipation.

  Nikolai shook the proffered hand with a firmer grip than was necessary. “Your boat is a beauty.” That was an understatement. The Emancipation was the most gorgeous yacht he’d ever seen. She was trim and sleek, with a gleaming teak deck, and aquamarine paint waxed to an icy glow.

  “Thank you,” Kennedy said. “It’s taken years to bring her back to her original glory.”

  “You did the work yourself?”

  “Primarily. I used tradesmen for skilled crafts like rehabilitating the hull, of course.”

  Nikolai nodded, appraising Kennedy a little differently knowing he’d put his own sweat into the restoration. He was glad to see the single mast looked solid and true, and the sails and riggings appeared properly cared for. The deck was pristine, with everything stowed and tidy the way Nikolai liked it. But a little too perfect. “This isn’t her maiden voyage, is it?”

  “Not exactly,” Kennedy replied. “She’s been on day sails. Several. She’s seaworthy.”

  Several. Day sails. Nikolai had to clamp his teeth together to keep from listing what could go wrong on the first voyage. This wasn’t his ship, it wasn’t his place. He reminded himself that, broken in or not, the Emancipation was his best option.

  “Is there a problem?” Kennedy asked.

  “Not at all.” Nikolai forced his jaw to relax.

  “Excuse me.” A stocky young man approached. “You asked for me, Captain?”

  “No,” Nikolai said.

  “Yes,” Kennedy said at the same time.

  “My apologies.” Nikolai clenched his teeth again. This would take getting used to.

  Kennedy half-smiled. “Mike, would you show our guest the ship? Anything he’d like to see—galley, crew quarters, and his own cabin, of course.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mike said.

  Kennedy extended his hand to Nikolai again. “Happy to have you aboard, sir.”

  Nikolai shook his hand, hoping his distaste wasn’t as apparent as his earlier emotions had been. When Nikolai was in command, he made a point of issuing orders, not asking. He couldn’t believe “yeah, sure” was an acceptable response. What kind of leader is he?

  “Hey Kennedy, when do we sail?” Mike asked.

  “Uh, I’d say in about . . . ” Kennedy looked at his watch. “A half hour, give or take?”

  “I’ll be back in twenty.” Mike gave a half salute. “Follow me,” he told Nikolai, descending the lustrous wooden steps that led belowdecks.

  Nikolai couldn’t help shaking his head. What kind of operation is this?

  Even given how immaculate the Emancipation was topside, Nikolai fully expected to see clutter below, a sure sign of an inexperienced captain. But everything was tidy. At least Kennedy had that going for him, even if he did allow his crew to call him by his first name.

  “This is the library.” Mike indicated an alcove filled with books.

  “Impressive,” Nikolai said, meaning it.

  “This lounge area used to be the engine room, but since we didn’t need all that stuff, Kennedy fixed it up for playing cards and such. Farther forward is the dining room and galley, plus a smaller lounge, a guest cabin, and Kennedy’s office. For the crew quarters, you drop down one more deck. Your room is this way,” he said, heading aft.

  “Here?” Nikolai asked, pointing to a closed door.

  “Nope.” Mike lowered his voice. “Steer clear of that room.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the cook’s. I think she’s daft. Scares me a bit. Here’s your berth.” He opened the door at the end of the hall, revealing a full-width room with portals high on both sides.

  Nikolai followed him into the well-appointed chamber, which was larger than he expected given the size of the yacht. The floors were skillfully crafted from some kind of cork, and the vanity was black granite. A desk, a leather chair, and two beds occupied the space. One bed was substantial with a headboard built into the back wall, while the other was clearly a temporary addition. “This will be fine.”

  “I should hope so. It’s Kennedy’s stateroom, but he wanted you to have it.”

  “That’s generous.” Perhaps Kennedy wasn’t as spoiled as he’d thought.

  “Alrighty, then,” Mike said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Anything else you want to see? I need to visit the head before I go topside.”

  Nikolai stifled a grimace. “No, thank you. I’ll get acquainted with my quarters.”

  “Alrighty, then,” Mike said again. “I’ll see ya around.”

  Nikolai latched the door behind Mike, pondering the fact that there weren’t many people he’d lend his quarters to. It indicated how serious Kennedy was about Tatiana, and Nikolai wished he’d been offered a bunk in the bilge instead.

  The smaller bed held Olexi’s bag, while the expansive one held Nikolai’s. He might as well stow his gear, so he opened the door at the aft of the room thinking it was a closet. Instead, it provided access to a tender garage, bigger even than the one on the Belle. This one held not one but two vessels—a large skiff and a two-man racing scull. Nikolai peered into the skiff and found a mast, sails, oars, life vests, and jugs of water. Watertight, self-buoyant bags were strapped below the benches. Nikolai snooped inside one and found food, slickers, survival blankets, first aid supplies, fishing gear—everything he would have packed himself.

  This was easily the most impressive thing about the fancy yacht. Any sailor who took such care with emergency preparedness had to have some sense. Kennedy inched higher in his esteem, though he was still too old for his daughter.

  Nikolai tucked his belongings into the drawers under the bed, then headed topside to help out. There was always plenty to do when getting underway.

  On deck, the crew was readying the sails. The sun was out and a breeze carried the scent of the open ocean. The familiar sounds of the ropes and riggings made Nikolai feel more right than he had since learning about his children.

  “How can I help?” he asked Kennedy who was sitting in the shade of the wheelhouse, head bowed over a clipboard.

  Kennedy looked up and glanced around. “No need, sir. We’re about ready.”

  “Surely there’s something?”

  “Everything’s in hand,” Kennedy said. “Perhaps you’d like to read a book from the library? There’s a vantage point far forward with good light and a comfortable chair.”

  Nikolai hesitated, but Kennedy didn’t look up from his clipboard, so he headed for the stairs. It never would have occurred to him to go below and laze about. But he understood a captain not wanting a passenger underfoot. And that’s what he was—a passenger.

  “Sir?” Kennedy called.

  “Yes?” Nikolai hoped he’d thought of a job.

  “I’d like to meet to go over plans. In a day or two?”

  “Certainly.” Nikolai paused, but Kennedy had said all he had to say.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he looked toward his room but couldn’t stomach holing up in the ass-end of the boat where he’d have no idea what was going on. The forward vantage point sounded marginally better, so he grabbed a book from the library and headed that way.

  In the corridor he heard singing. The familiar voice rang out from behind the galley door.

  Nikolai flung open the door. “Finola?”

  “What Stibat-Ka dares call me that name?” Cook wielded a knife like a baton. “Oh, it’s you. I’m not speaking to you.” She turned her back and hacked at something on a cutting board.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Nikolai remained in the doorway. It was wise to give her space when she was in a mood.

  Finola ignored him.

  “I looked for you to say goodbye.” He figured that’s why she wasn’t speaking to him. When she didn’t respond, he took his chances and crept up behind her. He blew lightly on her neck, making the hair that had e
scaped her updo dance across her skin.

  Her hand flew up, and Nikolai dodged as she swatted her neck. He hoped she’d turn and grin, or at least scold him, but she resumed working. Apparently his transgression—whatever it was—was serious.

  “Finny.” He used the name he’d called her when they’d been children playing together outside Mama Cook’s kitchen. “Finny, please.”

  “Out!” She wheeled around. “Get out of my kitchen!”

  Nikolai stepped out of reach of the knife, though she wouldn’t use it. At least he was pretty sure she wouldn’t.

  “Usali, dos-wail-opsh! Mos tsil! Mos tsil!” She came toward him, her face blazing red.

  Nikolai backed away. When she swore in her native tongue, all bets were off. He didn’t know for a fact they were swear words, but the meaning was clear, and he got the hell out.

  As the door slammed closed he burst out laughing, realizing the “daft cook” Mike referred to was Finola.

  Walking forward to the reading nook, he grinned so wide his face hurt. Even if Finola was roaring like a beluga, finding her aboard was the best thing that had happened all week.

  Twenty-Two

  Southern California, the same morning

  Pascal Worth stood just inside the closed door of his private office in City Hall, admiring his pale skin in the eighteenth century Baroque mirror he’d obtained from the Getty. He smoothed his hair, glad he’d told the girls at Services to leave the color natural. The silver looked dignified. Regal, even.

  The King of Lost Angeles. That’s what they’d been calling him.

  He heard the muted pound of the gavel and faced the door, waiting for it to open.

  “All rise for the honorable Chancellor Worth, Regent of Southern California,” his secretary bellowed from the main hall.

  The oak door swung open and Pascal remained still for a moment before stepping into the room. He was keenly aware of the two dozen people standing stiffly in front of their benches, and he took his time settling into the leather chair behind his massive desk.

  “Good morning,” he said, pleased with the deep hollow sound of his voice now that he’d had the rugs removed from the hall. He hadn’t liked the acoustics since the day he’d had them brought from the art museum at USC. “Be seated.”

  Clothing whispered as the attendees took their seats.

  “Chancellor.” His secretary, Roberto Gomez, approached. He was a slight man, hair graying at the temples, and he’d taken to wearing wire-rimmed reading glasses all the time. He stopped beside the desk wearing one of his collection of sweater vests he was never seen without, no matter the season. He flipped open the notepad in his hand. “On your agenda today we have—”

  “Later,” Pascal said. “What’s going on with the collectors?”

  “Well, sir,” Gomez said. “I regret to report that the collectors went on strike this morning after all.”

  “You were supposed to dispense with that,” Pascal said in measured tones. “I’m sure there was an exceedingly important reason you did not.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gomez adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit. “Last night I sat down with their Speaker and—”

  “What is a Speaker?”

  “The collectors elected him—”

  “Elected?”

  “His name’s Giles Premovich,” Gomez said. “He used to be a catcher on the train, so the collectors know and respect him. I think they’ll listen to him no matter how we settle their case.”

  “What case is that?” Pascal said.

  “They make a good argument for an additional hour to spend with their families. Only during the summer months when the days are longer. Premovich thinks it would actually increase productivity, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt morale.”

  “Is this Speaker present?” Pascal asked.

  Gomez nodded and gestured to a burly man in the front row. The man stood.

  Pascal opened his desk drawer, drew out a handgun and shot Premovich in the chest.

  A guttural sound emitted from the body as it crumbled to the floor. The crowd collectively drew in a breath.

  “Is anyone unclear about the punishment for sedition?” Pascal asked, the gun still in his hand. His gaze swept across their faces, pausing pointedly on Gomez’s, then he replaced the gun on its flannel pad.

  “As for the collectors,” Pascal continued. “There is no case and there will be no strike. The city will not grind to a stop because a few people want an hour to read a book. Gomez, where are the collectors now?”

  Gomez stepped forward, his olive skin greener than usual. “Marching with signs outside the north depot. They are calling it ‘the Daylight Hour strike.’”

  “How many?” Pascal asked.

  “About forty.”

  “Where’s Minou?”

  “Here, Chancellor.” The major stepped forward from the back wall. Pascal appreciated the pressed uniform taut over her small muscular frame and her dark hair pulled in a tight bun. His gaze flicked over her angular face, noting the firm jaw, the hardness in her eyes. He would get no flack from Minou.

  “Major, take your Blades and put a stop to this strike. Put the ringleaders in the Tank. Make sure my message is clear.”

  Minou saluted and marched out.

  “Gomez, give me the report from the scientists.” Pascal settled back in his chair.

  “Sorry, Chancellor.” Gomez wet his finger and turned a page. “We have Census, Security, and a written report from World Waste, but nothing from the lab.”

  “Nothing?” Pascal was not accustomed to being put off. “Who’s the Dispatcher today?”

  “Here, sir.” Captain Aaron Brandt rose, towering over the others in the back row. Pascal had been keeping an eye on Brandt as he climbed the ranks. His level-headedness and loyalty were impressive, not to mention the speed the lanky man could produce on skates.

  “Brandt. Good,” Pascal said. “Send a second team of Blades out to Irvine to fetch Professor Emery. I want to see him right away. Go.”

  With no news from Irvine, nothing else seemed interesting. Pascal checked his Rolex and decided to get in a tennis match before lunch. “Gomez, unless there’s something pressing, give me Census and put the rest in my office.”

  “Yes, sir. Census says three dead, one born overnight. Unfortunately one of the dead is the dentist,” Gomez said.

  “The dentist? Can I assume the apprentice is up to speed?”

  “I’ll find out, sir.” Gomez took a pencil from over his ear and jotted something on the page. He continued. “One of Ms. Ford’s girls tried to leave. She was reacquired without injury and is in Rehab House. The biggest news is that two new missionaries arrived late last night.”

  “Are they talking?” Pascal leaned forward, interested but not hopeful. Gomez shook his head. “Of course not.” They never talked. “Anything else that can’t wait?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Send for Ms. Ford. Have the massage table set up in the cabana by the tennis courts, and show her there. She’ll be joining me for lunch. Tell Chef I want stew with carrots and potatoes.” After some exercise and a massage, maybe he’d see a new way to go about solving the puzzle of the missionaries.

  Twenty-Three

  Lost Angeles, Pascal’s cabana

  Pascal handed his tennis bag to an attendant who scurried away closing the cabana door behind him. “Ms. Ford—Ellianna—I’m glad to see you.”

  “You too, Chancellor.”

  Ellianna stood alongside the massage table in a sleeveless shift. Pascal’s gaze slid down lithe arms whose grace belied their strength. The silk of her dress hung loosely, and he imagined tight thighs and firm breasts beneath. For a moment he allowed himself to consider running his hands along her curves, the feel of her lips and her long black hair hanging in his face as she sat astride him.

  “Shall we begin?” she asked.

  Pascal knew she would give herself, and not out of obligation.

  He pulled off his shirt, dropped h
is athletic shorts, and wrapped the towel she offered around his waist. He sat on the table and closed his eyes as she sponged his chest with jasmine-scented water. Yielding to the pressure of her touch, he stretched out on his stomach along the table. His breathing slowed as she kneaded oil into his skin, erasing the tension in his neck.

  Ellianna’s hands worked down his legs and lingered on his feet, finding the pressure points that eased his mind as much as his muscles. He felt himself teetering on the edge of sleep, so he turned to his back and was awakened by the scent of lemongrass. Ellianna knew his desires as well as he. Her hands drifted across his chest and up his neck, then smoothed his forehead. As she worked on his temples and jaw, his thoughts cleared. In his mind’s eye he saw all his concerns distilled down to essentials and filed away. Until only one remained.

  “I haven’t received an update from Irvine,” he said without opening his eyes.

  “No?” Ellianna said, her fingers still massaging.

  “If there was progress to report, I’d have heard by now.”

  “Perhaps. But the scientists are not the only way to get what you’re looking for.”

  Pascal opened his eyes. “The new missionaries? What have they said?”

  “Nothing, of course. After everything we’ve tried, I’m convinced none of the girls know how to get back home. Except one.”

  “Who?”

  “Justine, my assistant.”

  “She’s been here for years. Why haven’t I heard this before now?”

  “Because there’s been nothing to report. But I’ve always had a feeling she knows more than the others. That’s why I’ve kept her close.” She trailed her fingers down his cheek.

  He grabbed her by the wrist. “You should have told me.”

  She winced and tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go. “Pascal, I—”

  “You have no idea the decisions I make, the complex machinery of my job. Everything is connected in ways you can’t begin to understand.”

  “You’re right, I had no idea. Please, accept my apology.”

  He let go of her wrist and relaxed back into the table. “It’s just that, had I known this sooner, I might have approved the application for her to marry one of my up-and-coming officers. To keep her close.”