“Hello, Philip.” Awkwardly, I gave the boy a hug. Soon, he’d be a lanky teener. Even now, his voice was beginning to deepen.
“I finished the model you gave me. I wrote the manufacturer about the errors. Challenger had three laser turrets aft, not two. With two the model looks more symmetrical, which I suppose is why they misdesigned it.” He stopped for breath. “Here’s Mr. Tenere. Are you staying for dinner?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Aw.” His face fell. “I hoped—I’ve been ...” He fell silent. Then, in his best child-to-adult voice, “Good to see you again, sir.”
“Hi, Rob.” Adam offered his hand. “Ready for a drink?” Absently, he caressed P.T.’s neck.
“A light one.” Tenere led me toward his bungalow, the boy trailing. In a few minutes we were seated on his patio.
“Rob, I need ...” Adam swallowed. “If you could—I mean, I—” I waited, while he counted silently. Then, “Jared’s gone.”
I blurted, “Dead?” Across the patio, P.T.’s eyes widened.
“Christ, no.” Adam’s expression was bleak. “At least, I hope not. He took off yesterday afternoon.”
“You called the police?”
“This morning, when he didn’t come back.” Adam stood to pace. “I kept hoping he’d crawl in through his window, and I’d find him asleep. The jerries have his holopic on their nets, but they’re not releasing it to the public. I don’t want to bring the Commandant’s name into this. In fact, I hope he’ll never hear about it. You know what Lancaster does to his mood. To burden him now ...” He looked away, reddening. “I thought perhaps, with your connections ...”
“Of course.” My tone was gruff. “Let me use your caller.” Between Dad’s clout and my own, we’d galvanize every jerry-house on the Eastern Seaboard. The boy would be found, hauled home in disgrace. No more than he deserved; Adam was gray with worry.
I called Van, explained what I wanted, knowing the moment we rang off he’d start private numbers ringing in city halls throughout our district.
When I returned from the house, P.T. was gone. Adam muttered, “I’m grateful.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, and meant it. “What else can I do?”
“I’ve no idea. How do we search for a missing teen?”
“We let professionals do it.” I drained my cold drink, dragged my chair out of the hot sun. “On the other hand, didn’t the Captain go chasing after his first wife?”
“That was different; Annie took to the streets, fuddled by her meds. Even Jared knows enough to avoid tranni—trans-pop zones.” Again, he paced. “There must be something I could do.”
Yes, disinherit the whelp. I kept the thought to myself. “Does P.T. know anything?”
“He said if he’d known Jared was running away, he’d have considered telling me.” The wry grin of old. “That’s his word: considered. Ah, well. He’s a good joey.”
Perhaps the drink had emboldened me. “You deserve a son like him. Not Jared.” I held my breath, waiting for the explosion.
It never came. “Sometimes I wish ...” Whatever his desire, I never heard it. He sighed, got to his feet. “Thanks for the help. Can you stay?”
“Not really. Dad and I lift for Earthport Station tonight. Party business.” It was ironic that with all the ballrooms and convention centers scattered among the city towers, the Builders’ Association held its annual convention aloft at the Earthport Hilton. I glanced at my watch. “I’d better not be late to the shuttleport.”
Adam walked me to my waiting heli. “If I—when I get him back, I’ll treat him differently. I’ve watched the Commandant with Philip. As much as the boy means to him, he’s done what he thought best, not merely what his son wanted. I was never able to follow his example.”
“And now?”
His face hardened. “I’ll do what I must.”
A moment later, the compound shrank under our skids. Adam’s form faded to insignificance. Would he carry through with his resolve? Unlikely; people don’t change that easily.
A shame, for Adam. It wasn’t as if he were on his own; society’s institutions stood ready to help him deal with the boy. If it came to it, Adam could have Jared petitioned to state custody as a wayward juvenile. The Rebellious Ages of a couple of centuries past were recognized as an aberration. Until his majority at twenty-two, the boy was legally in the charge of his parent.
My visit to the compound cost me no more than an hour, so I had time to spare. I had no idea why I was ten minutes late meeting Dad, and pointedly ignored his frequent glances at his watch.
At the shuttleport our VIP status wafted us through departure formalities. Dad stowed his chipcase and holovid, strapped in for acceleration, his manner irritable.
Conversation was impossible in the roar of the engines while the shuttle rolled down the runway. After we were airborne, our seats in the required lean-back position, I turned to him in the moments before the main engines ignited. “What’s bothering you?”
He grunted. “I hate these damned fund-raisers.”
I watched the cabin light panel. “Dad, you scheduled this yourself.”
“Don’t remind me. Just because we need the money doesn’t mean I like doing it.”
The light flashed red, saving me from a reply. I braced against my seat.
After the acceleration eased I busied myself rechecking my chipnotes. There was little our wealthy supporters appreciated more than being recognized by the politicians they courted. My notes detailed each entrepreneur’s business, location, and family members, displayed on my holovid alongside his face. A nearly foolproof system, though twice I’d been brought to a standstill by an unnoted beard.
Dad tapped my wrist. “I intend to tell them New York will be the pilot project.”
“That’ll be tricky, with half of the guests from Boston-New Hampshire. I’ll try to finesse—”
“Let’s not weasel this one.” For all his skills as a politician, Dad sometimes spoke bluntly to his constituents, and could get away with it. “Hell, it’s already begun, all but the ground-clearing. The other towers will follow. And don’t forget that two-thirds of our campaign fund comes from New York.”
My stomach gave a small flip. “Why we book our conventions halfway across the solar system,” I grumbled, “I’ll never know.”
“It’s only Earthport Station. And the Hilton is next door to the new Naval wing, so the Navy brass are invited to the buffet. The last thing we want is our two prime constituencies fighting each other.”
I pretended innocence. “I thought your constituency was the Northeastern Quadrant.”
“And these are some of its foremost citizens.” Dad peered at me. “Son, do you have a quarrel with what we’re doing?”
I dropped my bantering tone. “No. Sorry.” I brooded. “Though I’d rather we didn’t part with old friends.”
“Your Captain, again.” Dad made a helpless gesture. “What’s his last word?”
“That he’s done with politics forever, we should stop pestering him to take a stand he disapproves of, and he hopes you’ll be elected, for old times’ sake.”
“I ... see.”
I waited while Dad evaluated what he’d heard. His lips twitched with a smile. “Forthright, as always. Remind me to call Jim Wiler of Holoworld in the morning.”
His eyes revealed little. Had he already set in motion the concerted belittling of his old ally? I couldn’t tell.
“To Franjee Towers, Phase Two. Soon may they be built.” We lifted our glasses.
Admiral Jeffrey Thorne, CincHomeFleet, was genial. “And to the North American hull foundries.”
Dad’s eye met mine without expression, but I caught his inner amusement. He said, “Four new ships scheduled in the next three years. They’ll put you almost back to prewar strength.”
The Admiral didn’t bat an eye. “Yes, about half what we need today.” Arvil Peabody, a member of the builders’ group, snorted in derision. Around us, the Hil
ton’s waiters roamed with trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Admiral Thorne fixed Peabody with a disapproving glare. “The Caterwaul Stations freed our fleet to resume provisioning the colonies, but we’ve lost years of work. New exploration is at a standstill. We’ve had to postpone opening Casablanca Colony another two years.”
Suliman Franjee, the distinguished former Deputy SecGen, patted the shoulder of Thorne’s dress whites. “Come, now, Jeff. The Navy will be amply funded.”
I said, “With our firm support.” Nods, all around. Dad had won his spurs as head of the Naval Affairs Committee, over which he still presided.
Franjee said, “And mine. By the way, we’ve set our groundbreaking for October. That’ll give us a month or so to clear the site.”
A portly fellow from Hartford looked impressed. “That fast? Isn’t it twenty square blocks?”
Franjee smiled. “No voters onsite. The area has no towers.”
It was as it had always been. Politicians, by necessity, counted voting cards before taking a stand. New York had cut off virtually all services to the Bronx when the Holdouts finally lost their grip. For a long while, Holdout votes had stopped us, but now, block by block, the old Bronx was being leveled and reclaimed, its savage trannie gangs swept aside and dissipated. As would be the core city, at last.
Franjee deserved stroking, both as a builder and a party functionary. I said, “We appreciate your work for the cities, sir. Let’s hope next year you’ll be breaking ground on Phase Three.”
“Good Lord.” He seemed abashed. “No, eleven towers will keep us busy a while.” He corralled a waiter, took another glass.
Jeff Thorne held his peace, but when he saw his chance, he stepped aside with Dad. Curious, I followed.
“... as fast as they can be built. To carry out tasks we can’t put off, we’ve had to send nearly the entire fleet Outward. Do you realize—” The Admiral gestured east, toward the Naval bays—“that the Home Fleet hardly exists anymore? We rely almost entirely on Nick Seafort’s Caterwaul Stations. If a threat occurred in home system, we’d be hard-pressed to find a ship capable of responding.”
“Threat?” Dad’s eyebrow lifted. “Hardly likely, in this day and age. Besides, the fish are no longer a factor, and as for rebellion—” He waved toward the bulkhead, beyond which lay the spacious new Naval headquarters, replacing those the fish had destroyed in Lunapolis on the lunar surface. “Should a domestic problem occur, your laser emplacements are surely adequate to quell it. At least, that’s what your designers assured us.”
Thorne assumed the defensive. “Of course. Earthport’s in geosynch orbit. New York and Washington are always in range, and we can set four lasers to continuous fire. No enemy could survive such a bombardment. As for Europe, we could accelerate Earthport’s orbit, if necessary. Though it would be hell reestablishing geosynch, after.” He paused. “If it came to it, we could pinpoint virtually any spot within forty degrees of the equator. Have you toured the laser installation? The press office will schedule ceremonies in a month or so, but we’re already on-line, and I’d be happy to show you through.”
I groaned. Dad never missed the opportunity to visit a Naval facility.
Perhaps he heard my groan. Dad’s smile was sweet. “Rob and I would be delighted. After dinner, perhaps.”
I moved away, my lips fixed in a smile. I, too, loved the Navy, my first home. But I’d been looking forward to an early night’s rest, not another hour trudging through the mazes of Earthport Station.
Earthport was our oldest and largest orbiting station. Through its many gates flowed a constant stream of passengers and cargoes destined for our expanding colonies. Earthport received, in return, the crops and manufactured goods that ameliorated life on the home planet.
Scores of personnel worked and lived on the station. The Hilton, in whose banquet room we stood, was one of four luxurious hotels the station boasted. The “A” Concourse was dotted with restaurants of every description.
I stopped, chatted with a clutch of builders from a Carolinas cooperative, assuring them they’d get their share of commitments under the Redevelopment Act.
I knew Admiral Thorne’s concern for the Navy was valid. Earth’s prosperity depended in large degree on imports from her far-flung colonies. For that, Naval transport was essential, and the Navy had been hard-pressed ever since the invasion.
Trade continued, but at escalating prices. Derek Carr’s troublesome Hope Nation government, for example, had doubled the duties on imports from Earth, to retaliate for what he considered exorbitant shipping costs imposed by the Navy.
Such matters made the Secretariat of Colonial Affairs the second most important position in the government, more powerful even than Chief Deputy SecGen.
Even Dad didn’t know that I’d had my eye on it for years.
First, the Senate. Then my day would come.
Chapter 15
PEDRO
I FUSSED AT POOK ’til he helped me load cart. Time for ’nother trip to Subs. This time, boy didn’ complain about havin’ to go. Seemed eager.
’Til we got to Sub stairs, that was. He got real quiet, hung onto my arm as we went down. I slapped at his hand. “Prollem, Pookboy? Stair all slip wid ice?” This, in mid of hot summer.
“Dark.” He took ’nother step, hand go back round my arm. “Don’ fall, ol’ man.”
I smiled. Boy was thirteen, maybe fourteen, but had six-year joeykit in him too. I fished out my whistle, waited for Subs to come up behind, as they liked to. They entitled to their fun, long as didn’t stick a shiv in us like old.
Prancing tribesmen led us along tunnel to lair, where Halber waited. Pookboy stuck close ’til he saw couple of Sub joeykits he recognize. He sat in corner, talkin’ quiet, lookin’ my way every so often as if askin’, you here, Mista Chang?
“How many more c’n ya get?” Halber’s face gleamed yellow in light of permas.
“Many as ya wan’,” I assured him. Added quick, “If ya got enough trayfo.”
He grinned. Teeth bad, some gone. “Course. Chang be traytaman.”
I waited.
“Maybe seventy, eighty mo’.”
My eye went up. “What you up to, Halber Sub? Gon’ restart whole sub line?”
He looked dark. “How you know ’bout startin’ sub?”
I was smug. “Wanna swind Pedro Telamon Chang, hah?” Maybe no one tol’ Halber the Maceboy who rode sub with Fisherman long time past was my Eddie.
“Chang ...” He looked pensive. “What you said, callin’ alia trannies fo’ meet. How we get tribe bossjoes ta join?”
I concealed my joy. “Dunno for sure. Why care alla sudden now?”
He brooded. “Lotsa tribe be pushout, late. Dunno why, but soon we won’ know who ’bove us.” He spat. “Bronx, nothin’ but Crypsnbloods. Blue bandannas, tattoos, is all. No brains, no tribe. Jus’ hate. Don’ wan’ see ’Hattan go same.”
In corner, commotion. Sub joeykits fussed. Sounded like mini rumb buildin’. Halber got up. “Chaco, whomp doze kits! Keepem shush!” Sub tribesman hurried. Halber held out hand, tellin’ him wait. He asked me, “Wanna shush ya kit separate?”
“Nah.” Pookboy gotta learn, ’fore he push someone too far.
Yelps, then silence. Halber sat. “How many Neuts ya know?”
I raised eye. “Some.” Why he ask?
“Can ya Neuts get word ta tribes we guarantee bosses be safe if dey come down inna Sub? Alla tribes listen?”
Careful, Pedro. Wanted Halber’s cooperate for plan. “Need guarantee Subs can’ break.”
He thought it over, cautious. “How?”
Time to stroke. “Course, Sub word good enough fo’ Chang. But unnerstan’, otha tribes ’fraid a Sub. They won’ go in tunnel ’less ... I waited, ’til he got impatient. “’Less ya put Sub joes fo’ guarantee.”
He looked shocked. “Subs on street? Outside?”
I nodded.
“Boolsheet.”
Time to push. “Your
joeys ’fraid?” His hand went to shiv, like I ’xpected. I sat still. “’Cause, ’fraid is only reason not ta off a tribe joes as hostage.”
If he was Karlo of Mids, I never would of tried, but knew Halber had some sense. His anger abated slow. “Hold ’em where?”
“Dunno. Don’ matta, actual. Let tribes decide. When bosses safe home, Subs go free.”
“How many?” He was tastin’ idea. Good.
“Bunch.” Enough so Subs didn’ get idea of doublecross.
“No Sub joeykits go,” he warned. “An’ not too many.”
“Can work out.” I patted his knee. “Leave to ol’ Chang. When?”
On way back, Pookboy was pouty. I fussed at him, to keep him alert. An’ maybe take his mind offa.
“Lemme be, Mista Chang.”
“Don’ see no blood,” I teased. “He jus’ whomp you some. No worse’n Midboss.”
“Ain’ dat.” He pulled cart over curb. “Din’ hurt none.” Went shy. “Allie said she gonna show me tunnel, but couldn’, wid Sub bosses watchin’.”
“Whas so special ’bout tunnel? Alla Sub be tunnels. One like ’notha. Hey! Spill cart an’ I whop ya good!”
“Ain spill,” he grumbled. “Dunno whas’ so special inna cart.” Waited, while we pass through to Broad turf. Two cansa, like always. Damn innifo. We walked on.
“Allie say—” He lowered voice. “Sub gettin’ ready to open Parka tunnel, fo’ sprise. I ain’ spose ta tell.”
Had to know more. Only one way, with Pook. “Don’ talk nonsense, joeykit. Subs ain’ gonna trayfo wid Parkas.”
“Almos’ ready ta unlock stair, she say. Edge a Park. Lotsa Subs moved near ta live, unner. Be ready when.”
What was Halber up to? The Subs were feared ’cross city, as should be. Very rowd tribe. But Parkas ... animals, they were. Like Crypsnbloods in Bronx. No one went near park, didn’ matter day or night. Centrapark was all overgrown high trees and bush. Trannie go in, don’ come out. Uppie neither.
If Halber planned to open tunnel entrance, edge of Park, he had somethin’ in mind. Dunno what. Filmatleven.
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 11