Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5)

by David Feintuch

  “They’re sure it was he?”

  “He matched the holopic we sent out, and he used my Terrex.”

  “Great!”

  “But he disappeared from the hotel. No one knows where.”

  I threw down my napkin. “How could they let—Half the metro jerries should have responded to that call. I pulled so God-damned many strings—”

  “Easy, Rob.”

  Cut short, I almost blurted, “Aye aye, sir.” After two decades, Adam still had that power over me. “Sorry.”

  Arlene chewed slowly on a roll. After a long while she sighed. “I’ll call Nick.”

  I said, “Why?”

  “We have to assume you’re right, that P.T.’s gone after Jared.”

  She took the caller. “Best get started. Those monks are stubborn, and I may not get through.”

  I held up a hand. “If this hits him hard, someone should be there. London is only three hours.”

  She nodded. “You’re right.” Her expression lightened. “I’ll get ready. Adam, if you’ll make my reservation ...”

  I grimaced. My role was to propose all the unpopular moves. “Arlene, stay here in case your son calls. Or in case you need to, ah, get to him quickly.” Lord God forbid the visions that had flashed across my mind: a deathbed, or worse, a morgue.

  “Nick needs me.”

  “So does Philip.” My voice was firm. “I’ll go.” It was the least I could do. I hadn’t slept all that well, remembering my conversations with Dad.

  “If you—I suppose—damn that boy!” She made a visible effort to relax. “All right. But if Nick gets—” She studied my face. “Rob, you’ll know what to do?”

  Adam said, “It’s all right. I’ll be with him.”

  “No,” I said. “If Jared calls, you’d better be here to—”

  He slammed his fist on the table; the glasses jumped. “Arlene will take a message. I want Jared alive, but beyond that I don’t much care about his feelings.” Abruptly, he stood. “Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “It’ll do me good to think about someone else. Arlene, would you stand by the caller?”

  “I’m not happy about it.” With a sigh, she got to her feet. “But if Philip shows up, at least I’ll be here to deal with him.” Seeing her grim expression, I almost hoped P.T. had the sense to stay clear.

  On the way to the shuttleport I’d boasted to Adam, “Now you’ll really see the perks of office.” I rang my office, had Van set up VIP connections to London and Lancaster. Adam had made no reply, and a few moments later I’d blushed scarlet, remembering he’d been personal aide to the SecGen himself, while I was a mere Assemblyman. I fumbled for an apology, but he patted my knee, smiling.

  At least, I made good on my promise. Airport personnel whisked us from parking to the President’s Lounge, where a terminal cart came to carry us, drinks in hand, directly to the gate. We had a first-class section all to ourselves, and an attentive steward.

  At London a jet heli and pilot waited on the tarmac. I wondered whose budget would bear the cost. The builders’ organization, most probably, or the water recyclers. Sometimes it was better not to ask.

  We’d each brought an overnight bag, just in case. A polite young man from the airline carried them to our heli, wished us a good flight, and disappeared. Moments later, we were airborne.

  We arrived in Lancaster at five P.M., local time.

  The Benedictine complex was surrounded by an ancient fieldstone wall similar to the one surrounding the Captain’s compound. Perhaps Mr. Seafort had never truly left his cloister.

  The monastery was on hilly ground, on which unruly clumps of grass sprouted amid a myriad of rocks. A spacious parking lot was nearly full. A trail led uphill from the lot to the gate, and the well-worn path to the buildings. There was no helipad inside the walls, so I had the pilot put us down in the lot. We asked him to wait until we emerged, however long it took.

  More cars pulled in to park as we spoke. Adam and I strolled up the hill toward the wrought-iron gates.

  No caller, no bell. A sign, that read, “Absolutely no recording devices permitted.”

  My tone was dubious. “Should we go in?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Excuse me.” A heavyset, sloppy fellow pushed past. “You joes better hurry, you want to see Vespers.” He stopped at a ramshackle shelter a few strides up the hill, spoke into the window, nodded, pulled out his wallet, dropped a bill on the rail, hurried on.

  We followed.

  Before we reached the shelter a brown-robed old fellow emerged. “Sorry, hall’s full.” He headed toward us, and the gate. “Just sold the last seat.”

  “We’re here to see—”

  “Try Matins. Seven of the morning.” He cackled through missing teeth. “Or if that’s too early for you, Novenas.”

  “But we have to—”

  “Chapel only holds seventy-five, besides us.” He shooed us toward the gate. “You’ll make me late. The Abbot doesn’t like that. Outside, please.”

  I said firmly, “We’re here to see Captain Seafort.”

  “Of course. They all are, save the Martins and the De Lange family, who come regular. That’s why the hall’s full.” We found ourselves in retreat from his insistent fuss. “It isn’t every week that you can’t wedge an electricar into the lot. Forty-nine weeks a year, two pews of visitors, then comes this!”

  “Sir—”

  “You think to enhance your status by gawking at him. Vanity. The Lord is hardly impressed, if Brother Timothy might say so on His behalf. Will you please go?”

  Adam said, “Brother, may we make a donation?” He held out a banknote.

  “Of course, but don’t think that absolves you from another in the morning. Five Unies each, voluntary tithe.”

  “Every day. You are on the wrong side of the gate, which I must lock, and I will insist that you leave now so my heart doesn’t stop in my haste to struggle up the hill. You may stare at our distinguished Brother Nicholas another—”

  I snapped, “Look here, old fellow—” Adam laid his hand on my arm, waggled a warning finger.

  My friend’s tone was conciliatory. “Brother, we’re not gawkers. I’m Commandant Seafort’s personal aide, and we have urgent—”

  Brother Timothy drew himself up, his voice stiff. “You’re on consecrated land of the Neo-Benedictine Order of the Catholic Synod of the Reunified Church. You may see a foolish old man in a wrinkled robe, but this old man represents the spiritual and temporal authority of the one true Church. The Lancaster District Police honor that authority, even if you don’t. When I use the caller in my shed they arrive in minutes, and they rarely leave without making an arrest.”

  He paused for much-needed breath. “Out, I say!” He shooed us once more, flapping the hem of his robe at our knees. “Out!”

  The corners of Adam’s mouth twitched. “Sir, my employer is Mr. Seafort. We’ve come to tell him of a family emergency. We didn’t want to break the news over the caller—”

  “As if you’d have had a cherub’s chance in brimstone of getting through!” The monk snorted, then his head cocked to one side. “What emergency?”

  “A private matter,” said Adam, stressing the second word. “But urgent. I have identification, if you—”

  “Pah!” Brother Timothy brushed past us, locked the gates together. “Papers prove nothing. Seven years ago, a demon from Holoworld had a doctor’s certificate saying he was deaf and needed to sit in the front row!”

  I thought he was immovable, but finally he gestured to the path.

  “These rules apply, or you’ll have to walk over me to get in. You let him be until the service is done. You say nothing until he chooses to notice you. If the Abbot won’t allow him to speak, then it’s settled; you try again tomorrow. Agreed? If not, I’ll call two novices who enjoy assertive physical labor.” He perched his gnarled hands on his hips. “Well?”

  “You have my oath.” Adam.

 
“Hurry, then. The Abbot waits.” Brother Timothy turned on his heel, scuttled up the hill. I had to lengthen my stride to keep pace. At the chapel entrance the old man darted to the side entrance, leaving us to go in through the weathered oak high doors.

  The chapel was indeed full. Adam squeezed into a pew in the last row; I managed to make a place on the bench opposite, ignoring angry glances. In front of the rail, the nave was empty.

  Above, a great bell began to chime.

  Five times it rang, breaking the hushed silence of the hall.

  At the side of the chapel, two scarred wooden doors opened. A line of brown-robed monks filed past, their faces concealed by the hoods of their garments. As they reached the altar each stopped, made obeisance, and continued to his place at one of the benches between the rail and the altar.

  A hiss. “That’s him!”

  “Shhh.”

  “No it ain’t.”

  “He’s—”

  I searched for the Captain among the voluminous robes, couldn’t be sure which was he.

  The Abbot, a wasted old soul whose robe bore a red sash, opened the Bible, began to read in a gravelly voice.

  At thirteen, I’d idolized the Naval Service, as exemplified by Captain Nicholas Ewing Seafort. When, toward the end of my first year at Academy, he’d turned his back on duty and career and plunged into a monastic life, my interest in matters religious had been aroused.

  For a time, with the zeal of an adolescent, I’d imagined throwing off my own Naval servitude with some dramatic gesture, and presenting myself to a monastery as a novice. Presumably, one in Lancaster, though I couldn’t picture the actual haven to which the Captain had retreated.

  Adam Tenere had helped steady me, for which I was eternally grateful. Nonetheless, I couldn’t approach a religious service without painful awareness that my faith could not possibly match that of my adopted father.

  As a result, I rarely attended services, except when political considerations made it expedient.

  Somewhere, among the bent backs, amid those robed figures who chanted responses and from time to time knelt in obeisance, was the man we’d come to see. Though I’d visited his home not two weeks past, here he seemed somehow transformed, the more so in that I couldn’t pick him out from his brethren.

  A few in the visitors’ pews seemed absorbed in the ritual. Others fidgeted. One old man, seated ahead of us on the aisle, looked not at all at his Bible; he rocked back and forth as if the pew were a favorite seat. His jumpsuit had an odd cut, as if years out of date.

  What must the Captain feel, returning to his former home under such intense scrutiny? Surely he must be used to it; he’d been subject to the same mistreatment during the years he dwelled here.

  A few rows ahead two women had given up all pretense of interest in the service. Nudging each other, they pointed openly. The old Abbot’s glare did little good; at length, he beckoned to two tall figures, indicated the offenders. The two hooded men crossed the rail, stood at either end of the pew where the women sat, arms folded.

  Silence prevailed.

  At last, the service was done.

  Again, the bell tolled. The monks stood, knelt in turn before the cross, filed out.

  This time they passed the rail, moved toward the rear of the chapel. Their faces were visible.

  I caught Adam’s eye. He nodded.

  “There he is!” One of the women thrust out a paper and pen. “SecGen, would you—”

  Another monk, without haste, interposed himself between the Captain and the woman. His shoulder brushed aside the outstretched paper.

  “Look at his eyes!”

  I wanted to smother the murmurers. Did they imagine he couldn’t hear?

  The old man I’d seen rocking hauled himself to his feet, leaned into the aisle, said clearly, “In name of your people, stop!”

  The Captain’s gaze flickered to his face. Recognition. Stonily, he turned his head away. A novice pushed past the onlookers, grasped the old man’s shoulder, thrust him down. “Quiet, please. The monks are not to be disturbed.”

  The old man’s voice was hoarse. “In name of Eddie Boss, and Mace. And Subs! For them, not me! I ask!”

  The Captain took two more steps, until he was nearly at Adam’s row. His eyes were pained. He turned. “Please, leave me alone.”

  “Cannot. A few words. Must!”

  “No, I—” The Captain bowed his head. His hands became fists. Other monks filed past.

  The old Abbott neared. “Come along, Brother Nicholas.”

  “Yes, Father. This man, he’s ... from a long time ago. He wouldn’t be here unless—may I be permitted?”

  “Are you sure it’s what you want?”

  “No, sir. I’m only sure I must.”

  The Abbott grunted. “In the garden.” He continued on his way. Behind him, so did the Captain. He passed within a foot of Adam, who said nothing.

  The old man shook off the novice’s restraining hand, pushed to his feet, followed.

  I shoved past the parishioners to the aisle, called out, “Sir, I—”

  Fingers closed on my arm, with a grip of steel. Adam Tenere. “No.”

  “But, why? He’s—”

  “My oath. He chose not to notice me.”

  My tone was bitter. “That foolish old man didn’t bind himself by a vow. Who in God’s name is he—”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Well, I gave no oath. Come, I’ll catch his eye.”

  “Rob.” Stern, as a midshipman to a cadet.

  I fell silent.

  “After he’s done with the seniorcit, he may see us. If not, tomorrow.”

  A vein in my temple throbbed. Who was Adam to reprove my conduct? I was Assemblyman from Seaboard Cities, and he was but an aide to a failed politician who—

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, sir.” I couldn’t help it. Anyway, he was right.

  We waited in the chapel doorway while the other visitors drifted toward their cars. The Captain, perched on a stone bench some twenty yards from us, listened intently, asked a question or two. The old man spoke at length.

  The Captain stood and paced. He said something to the oldster, shook his head.

  “Please.” The one word carried in the hot summer breeze.

  Again the Captain shook his head. He rested his hand on the old man’s shoulder, as if in apology, shook his head once more. “No. It would mean—No. Never again.” Without a glance back, he walked through the archway, into the priory.

  Dejected, the old man hobbled down the hill to the gate.

  “That tears it,” I muttered. “We’ll have to raise all sorts of ruckus to see him now.”

  “We’ll wait, as we promised.”

  “Jared and P.T. are—”

  “Think of the time. It would be after midnight when we got home. What could we do?”

  I kicked at a pew. “What was the point of coming, if we have to wait until—”

  “Excuse me.” The young monk, his hands folded as if in humility. “Services are over. Visitors are requested to leave.”

  My impatience grew too great to bear. “We need to see the Capt—”

  “We were on our way.” Adam’s fingers closed around my arm. “When is the gate opened in the morning?”

  “At dawn.”

  “We’ll be there, with a message for the Abbot.”

  The monk bowed slightly. Adam led me, still protesting, from the chapel.

  Outside, my wrath exploded. He heard me out, shrugged. “So P.T. has another night to come home on his own. Maybe we won’t need to bother the Commandant.”

  “And Jared?”

  “There’s nothing I can do that we haven’t set in motion.”

  Calling ahead, we found rooms at a passable hotel. From my room I called Arlene. She’d heard nothing about either joey.

  My next call was to Dad. He gave a low whistle when he heard why we’d gone to Lancaster. “A pity for Seafort. The boy means a lot to him.”

  “
Yes.”

  Dad hesitated. “Rob, you’re best out of this. Either way, there could be repercussions.”

  “What kind?”

  “I’m not sure. If Philip is dead, there’ll be a backlash against the trannies. Do we want to be associated with it?”

  “They’re blocking our towers.”

  “Of course, but let the Territorials take the blame. And if P.T. is found, who knows what the SecGen’s reaction will be.”

  I said, “All the more reason to stay close. I might be able to affect the outcome. Besides ...”

  He waited, but I didn’t finish. “Yes?”

  “They need me, Dad. He and Adam both.”

  I knew what thoughts permeated his silence. I still hadn’t learned to separate politics from emotion; we’d had that argument before. On the other hand, years ago, Dad had alienated a powerful Senator to save the Captain from blackmail. What political benefit had he seen in that?

  We talked a while longer, and I rang off. Jet-lagged, I set the alarm for four in the morning, and drifted to sleep.

  The eastern sky held a hint of light; unseen birds called briskly to one another. I yawned. “I thought he said dawn.”

  “Patience.” Adam looked haggard. The long wait for his son must be taking a fearsome toll.

  “If we can get through to Nick, we could be in Washington by noon.”

  “I hope so. Arlene was beside herself this morning.”

  “Any news?”

  “Nothing. And my Terrex hasn’t been used again.”

  I wasn’t sure that was good. While I thought it over I spotted a brown-robed figure trudging to the gatehouse. “There!” I pointed.

  Adam was out of the heli, striding to the gate. “Good morning, brother. We’d like to see the Abbot.”

  The florid monk shook his head. “Write for an appointment.”

  “Reverend brother, that’s not possible. Kindly tell your Abbot that Mr. Tenere requests his permission to see Brother Nicholas, on a mission that ought not wait.”

  “You’ll have to—”

  “Ask.” Adam spoke with quiet assurance. He folded his arms, leaned back against the fieldstone wall.

  The monk hesitated. “Wait outside, along the path.”

  A few minutes later he returned, escorted us up the hill, to an ivy-strewn edifice adjoining the chapel.