Prisoner's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 3)

by David Feintuch

  “An honor I’d be happier without.”

  The old man’s tone was severe. “Lord God chooses your destiny. You do not.”

  He sounded so much like Father that I glanced up, half expecting to meet Father’s stern visage. “Lord God provides choices,” I said slowly. “We may turn toward Him or away from Him.”

  Zack Hopewell studied my face. “You’re troubled.”

  I blurted, “I am forsworn of my oath and have no honor.” An astounding admission, but he’d sounded so like Father...”

  He blinked. “Well, I asked for it. Teach me to meddle. Sorry I intruded.”

  “Better all should know.” I didn’t bother to hide my bitterness.

  “Is that why you wear the mark of Cain?”

  My hand went to my face. “It was given in a fight. I have no reason to remove it.”

  He frowned. “Get rid of it, lad. Men will judge your soul without need of external markers.”

  I had to turn away: memories of Father’s hearth were so strong. Ashamed of my indiscretion, I wandered the ornate parlor, examining the ancient imported furniture. At the buffet I helped myself to a glass of wine. Sarah Branstead said, smiling, “I didn’t know you Navy men were allowed alcohol.”

  “Aboard ship it’s contraband, ma’am. Ashore we’re free to partake.” I sipped from my glass of wine. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  Mrs. Branstead waved away my comment. “Oh, no criticism intended. I just wish it were the case in Centraltown.”

  I thought of a sailors’ bar I’d once patronized, outside the spaceport. “I wasn’t aware of a problem, ma’am.”

  “It’s getting worse. In part because of the war, partly thanks to the farmhands we’ve imported over the years. Downtown gets very nasty at night.”

  “My neighborhood seems peaceful enough.”

  “You’re fortunate,” she said primly. “Mrs. Volksteader was accosted on the way from a restaurant to her car. If another couple hadn’t come along at the right moment, she might have been in great trouble.”

  I felt a touch of sadness that Hope Nation was going the way of old Earth. “The civil authorities don’t respond?”

  “Oh, they try, but what can they do? Centraltown’s just a small town. The men ran away. Our police don’t have fancy tracking tools, like your—” Her face lit as a couple entered the parlor. “Oh, look, the Mantiets. Excuse me a moment.”

  Frederick Mantiet strode into the room, his breathless wife a step behind. Mrs. Branstead gave him a scant nod but bestowed a warm hug on the woman. The greeting completed, she brought the Mantiets to the buffet and introduced us.

  “Glad to meet you, sir.” I held out my hand.

  His stare was hostile and contemptuous. “That was you last night, eh?” He looked me up and down. “Force us into discourtesy, to put us at a disadvantage? Well, it won’t work.”

  I said evenly, “It hardly seems necessary to force you into discourtesy, sir.”

  Mrs. Branstead intervened. “Oh, I do so want you to be friends. Frederick, have you heard Emmett’s stories of Captain Seafort on Challenger? He was absolutely marvelous.”

  Mantiet muttered something under his breath. I managed to busy myself with my glass until the moment passed. After a time Alexi drifted closer and said quietly, “Do you sense hostility, sir?”

  “From some, yes.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “How many of these joes did you meet three years ago?”

  “Just Branstead and Plumwell.”

  “When Ms. Triforth joins us, the planters in this room will account for about eighty percent of Hope Nation’s revenues.”

  “So?”

  “If they’re hostile, it’s something to worry about, sir.”

  “Thanks for telling me my business, Lieutenant.”

  Alexi gulped. “Sorry, sir.” He retreated.

  From time to time I caught contemplative glances from the planters. I tried to keep my face a mask as I studied them in return. Palabee was skeptical and faintly combative, expecting some sort of negotiating session. Mantiet was thoroughly antagonistic, but I couldn’t tell whether that was because I had driven away from his manse in a rage, or from a deeper cause. Plumwell was unfriendly, but then, I’d once abused his hospitality with Derek.

  On the other side of the ledger, Arvin Volksteader seemed eager to get along with everybody; and old Zack Hopewell seemed friendly enough, in his stern, righteous way.

  Only Laura Triforth was absent.

  Sarah Branstead conferred with her housekeeper and called us in to an early dinner. The long plank table was ample even for a gathering as large as ours. I sat next to Harmon, who was at the head of his table. Alexi was across from me, and the other planters and their wives farther down the table. Some guests seemed disgruntled by their placement; it made me appreciate all the more the round tables at which officers and passengers sat aboard ship.

  Jerence, used to eating with the adults, was directed to the kitchen with his younger brothers and Eddie Boss; he obeyed with a disdainful toss of his head.

  While the food was passing I leaned toward Harmon. “I thought this was to be an introductory meeting, a social occasion.”

  “That’s what I had in mind, Captain Seafort.” He looked perturbed. “But some of them don’t want to wait; they’re ready for serious talk.”

  “I’m not quite sure—”

  “Pity I didn’t meet you on your last trip, Mr. Seafort.” Tomas Palabee, from the other end of the table. “An eighteen-year-old Captain would have been a sight to see.”

  My smile was perfunctory. “It was. I was lucky to bring Hibernia back home.”

  “And skillful.” Sarah Branstead. “Emmett says—”

  “Emmett, Emmett, Emmett.” Mantiet sounded sour. “You quote your brother-in-law as if he were Gospel, Sarah.”

  “Not Gospel, Frederick,” she rejoined. “But he’s the only one of us who’s seen Captain Seafort in his element.”

  “As he never tires of reminding us.” Palabee’s tone was dry.

  Harmon looked annoyed. “My brother is proud of his—”

  “Don’t bother to get up!” The door swung wide as a lanky middle-aged woman strode in, cape flowing. “Late. Business to attend to.”

  Harmon Branstead rose smoothly. “Captain Seafort, may I present Laura Triforth, of Triforth Plantation.”

  I stood. “Glad to meet—”

  “Yes, and all that. Well, well. The official Naval liaison to the locals.” She shot me an appraising glance. “So you’re the one who discovered the aliens?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Get on with your dinner. I’ve eaten, but I’ll sit.” She unclasped her cape and tossed it over the back of an empty chair. “Got the damp-rot licked, Palabee?”

  Conversation resumed.

  After the huge dinner we adjourned to the parlor, which had been cleared of the afternoon’s hors d’oeuvres. Alexi arranged our chairs so that he sat alongside and a bit behind me.

  Arvin Volksteader asked, “Just what do you know of our situation, Captain?”

  I said slowly, “Hope Nation supplies hundreds of millions of tons of foodstuffs for Earth. Most comes from the plantations represented in this room.”

  “That’s right. Now, we’ve tried for years to get proper representation in the U.N. Several years ago we sent Randolph Carr as a special envoy, but he got nowhere.”

  “Why do you need representation?”

  “Who ships our grain?” demanded Frederick Mantiet.

  “The interstellar liners carry some,” I answered carefully. “The barges take most of it.” Larger even than passenger vessels such as Hibernia, manned by skeleton crews, the huge, slow barges carried home grain from Hope Nation and ores from Miningcamp. A chain of barges was always in the pipeline, en route between the mother world and her colonies.

  “Yes, but who runs the barges?”

  “They’re under Naval
jurisdiction.”

  “Right!” He shook his head angrily.

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “The rates, man!” Mantiet paced the open area in the center of the parlor. “You’ve been systematically gutting us for years. You set the charges for our grain shipments and for the return shipment of our supplies.”

  “The Navy doesn’t set—”

  “Not your damned Navy, the U.N. tariff office!”

  Zack Hopewell said quietly, “This was to be a discussion, not a confrontation.”

  “We’ve had discussions, Zack! We’ve been having discussions since you were a boy. What good are they?”

  “Then why are you here, Frederick?” Hopewell’s voice was mild.

  “Don’t patronize me, you old fool!”

  Amid shocked murmurs Zack Hopewell came slowly to his feet. There was nothing mild in his manner when finally he spoke. “Frederick Mantiet, I do hereby call chall—”

  “Wait!”

  Hopewell brushed off Harmon’s restraining arm. “No, I choose not to wait. Mantiet, I—”

  “This is my home!” Branstead’s tone made even Hopewell go silent.

  Harmon Branstead appealed to Mantiet. “I’ve lived on Hope Nation all my life. It’s been a good life, all in all. We were brought up as gentlemen, we taught our sons the graces, expanded our holdings, did well for ourselves.”

  He turned to the rest of the planters. “But something is changing in us. Can’t you feel it? We’re becoming...” He groped for a word. “Imperious. We’re losing our civility of speech, as well as our patience. And I...” He broke off, apologetically wiped his glasses. “I won’t have it. In my house there will be civility. There shall be grace. Your remarks are unacceptable, Frederick, though I’m sure you couldn’t have meant them as they sounded. So I’ll have you apologize to Zack, or I’ll have no choice but to call challenge on you myself.”

  Mantiet looked from one to the other. “Are you both mad? You’d have us waste strength dueling each other rather than fighting them, the real enemy?” He gestured at me with contempt. “No, he’s not worth that. It’s evident I can’t work with you, but I’ll not waste my blood or yours. Zack, I withdraw my remark. Good day to you all.”

  He stalked out. His wife scurried after.

  “Hotheads.” Harmon Branstead shook his head. Late in the evening we sat over steaming spiced drinks at his plank table. The guests had long since departed; Alexi and the others of the household had gone to bed. “They don’t stop to reason.”

  “Not all of them,” I said.

  “Enough. Even Zack, when he gets his dander up.”

  “They’re strong-willed. Especially Ms. Triforth.”

  “Laura’s one of a kind.” Harmon shifted in his chair. “She’s the first woman who’s ever headed a plantation, you know.”

  “How did that come about? You have primogeniture here.”

  “Yes, of course.” He pursed his lips. “Her older brother Armistad was to inherit. A tragedy. A stroke at thirty-two.”

  “And she was the heir?”

  “Oh, he didn’t die. Not for many years. But he was—well, there wasn’t much left of his mind. He had no sons; there were no younger brothers, so Laura stepped in. She faced down the banks, expanded the acreage...did a hell of a job. Armistad finally died, a few years back. It’s all hers now.”

  “How many of you feel as she does?”

  Harmon looked a touch apologetic. “The grievances she cited are legitimate. You have to admit the shipping rates are abominable; our shipping costs are twice what you charge your own merchants to send their goods here.”

  “Ah.” I hadn’t known that.

  Tariffs weren’t all they’d brought to my attention. After Mantiet’s departure the discussion had ranged far and wide. Some planters were infuriated by the paternalism of the colonial Government; others worried about the quality of settlers arriving from Terra.

  What had disturbed me most of all was Laura Triforth’s sardonic description of the waste and mismanagement of our war effort. She’d paced the parlor as she spoke, emphasizing her words with sweeping gestures, while the others nodded agreement.

  “Since you were last here, Seafort, they’ve sent more ships than we’ve seen since Hope Nation was founded. Ships loaded with unnecessary machinery, useless supplies, and foolish men.”

  “Be specific, please.” I’d made an effort to sound conciliatory.

  “Fine. They’ve sent thousands of soldiers. Why? The planet hasn’t been under attack, and if it were, I doubt we could defend it from the ground. Your troops were sent to the Ventura Mountains, halfway across the world from our settlements. And to top it off, the holds of at least three of your ships were filled with—” Laura paused dramatically for effect.

  I allowed her a moment of theater. “Yes?”

  “Food! Food that we here on Hope Nation grow and send to Earth, they send back as rations! If there’s one thing we could provide your armies, it’s enough food.”

  “I agree.”

  She smiled without mirth. “A pity you weren’t in charge of planning the expedition. But there’s worse. They intend the army to be based here a long while, so they sent a huge prefab factory on one of the ships. It was supposed to turn out modular housing.”

  I sighed. All this was outside my brief and well beyond my competence. “Go on.”

  “Unfortunately, they forgot that we have no landing craft specifically designed to bring such heavy machinery down from orbit. So, we’ve had to divert cargo shuttles we needed to haul our produce, and modify them for you. Your factory was to crunch genera trees, of which God knows we have an abundant supply, and spit out celuwall.” She stopped her pacing to face my chair.

  “Unfortunately, they forgot we have no roads in the Venturas to bring raw trees to the factory or carry the modular housing units to their bases.” She glared as if it were my fault.

  “I’m sure all that can be—”

  “The factory was cleverly designed; it’s powered by any heavy-duty electric power source. Unfortunately, they forgot we have no generating plants in the Venturas.”

  I listened with growing uneasiness.

  Laura smiled again. “Oh, we didn’t let your soldiers freeze or go homeless, though we had to divert valuable manpower during our harvest season. I won’t mention the laser installation built in the Venturas, also without a proper power source. If we hadn’t sent them an emergency fission generating plant...” She sighed. “And perhaps you noticed the vast stockpiles of war matériel sitting on the tarmac at Centraltown, with no convenient way to get it to the Venturas and no need for it when it arrives?” She paused for breath. “The worst is that our land taxes have more than doubled to pay for it all!”

  “It’s only fair for you to help defend—”

  “What defense? Your army sits safe and useless in the Venturas!” From the other planters, sounds of agreement.

  I asked, “Have you brought all this to the attention of Unified Command?”

  “Once. They patted me on the head and told me to mind my own business.” She ran her fingers through her short, curly hair. “I’ll tell you what is our business. It’s the loutish, unmannerly sailors and soldiers and greedy civilians who are taking over Centraltown.”

  “Now, Laura—”

  “I didn’t mean him, Harmon. Sorry, Captain, if that seemed personal. But Centraltown was a small town, and we liked it that way. Now, it isn’t even safe after dark.”

  “You people are more of a menace than your mysterious aliens!” Plumwell, my old adversary at Carr Plantation.

  “Be fair,” Harmon Branstead interjected. “Centraltown’s problems were on the rise for years before the military buildup. Ever since we started hiring temporary workers for harvest rather than keeping resident field hands. All winter, they—”

  Laura said wearily, “All right, Harmon, the migrants contribute. But the soldiers make matters worse.”

  I got slowly to my fe
et. “I can’t respond to all you’ve told me, but I’ll take your complaints to my superiors. I promise I’ll get you answers.”

  “When?” Zack Hopewell was blunt.

  “I don’t know. I have to go through Admiral De Marnay, and he’s a busy man. As soon—”

  “I told you we’re wasting our time!” Laura Triforth knotted her fists. “Mantiet may get carried away, but essentially he’s right. They haven’t listened, and they never will.”

  Zack Hopewell said, “Sit down, Laura.” His tone brooked no argument. Surprised, she turned to face him. Their eyes locked, and after a moment the woman gave way. Muttering, she sat.

  “The lad deserves a chance,” Hopewell said gruffly. “We’ve waited so long there’s little to be lost by waiting a few days longer.”

  “Days?” said Laura with scorn.

  “Or weeks. He knows our grievances, and he knows we want things put right. Let us see how he handles himself.” He glowered until he heard murmurs of assent.

  Now, at night, sitting across the plank table from Harmon, I doubted I could be of any help. If only they knew how hard I’d found it to get through to the Admiral...

  Harmon checked his watch. “I was hoping Emmett would be back this evening, but it doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see him in the morning, before I go.” I bade him good night and went to my room.

  In the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Volksteader drove over to join us for breakfast and see us off. After an ample meal we strolled along the drive, chatting. Mrs. Volksteader attached herself to me, chatting with animation about matters of no consequence. I noticed her husband take Alexi aside and speak urgently, glancing once in my direction. After, Alexi, his lips compressed, hurried to rejoin us.

  After our stroll we said our good-byes, piled into our electricar. As Eddie drove down the long, shaded lane toward the main road Alexi said, “Sir, I had the oddest conversation with Arvin Volksteader.”

  “Go on.” Just ahead I spotted a slim figure trudging down the drive. “Who’s that, walking this far from the manse?” As we approached I recognized Jerence, a bulky knapsack strapped to his back. Eddie slowed, and the boy waved us down. I bade Eddie stop.