Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  I sat with her in a sunny lounge, one hand thrown casually across the back of the sofa, the other in my jacket pocket, knuckles white, fist bunched. Annie stared sullenly at the wall. “I wonder why you bother coming, Nick.”

  “I want to see you. I’d be here every day if I could.” I debated moving closer, decided not to risk it. “I’m sorry you’re angry.”

  “I ain’t angry!” She crossed her arms, turned away.

  I said gently, “Annie, I love you.” I held my breath.

  When she turned, her eyes were scornful. “That ain’t enough, Nicky.”

  My hand ached. I forced my fist to relax. “What would be enough?”

  “Nothin’. You put me in dis—this place.”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “Yes! No! Damnit, I don’t know what I want no more. You and your medicines done this to me!” I reached to her but she spun out of her seat and retreated. I watched, helpless. After a time she said quietly, “Come on, let’s walk.”

  We strolled along the footpath. Eventually she took my arm. “Nicky, I’m all mixed up. I din’ mean shout at you.”

  “I know, hon.”

  She kicked at a small stone. “Dr. O’Neill says I be gettin’ better. He’s prolly right. C’n you wait it out with me?”

  My throat ached. “Of course. As long as it takes.”

  “Good. ’Cause dere’s somethin’ I wan’.”

  I tensed. Only at moments of stress did Annie revert to her transpop dialect.

  “Nicky, I be gettin’ mad every time I see you. Dr. O’Neill, he say it don’ have nothin’ to do with you, that I’m angry at Hope Nation and the fish and all. He keeps sayin’ talk about it, and I keep tellin’ him dat jus’ make me madder, I should shut up ’til it go away.”

  “He’s right, hon.” Though the Freudian cult had long been discredited and repressed, even the Reunification Church approved of confessing sin and facing one’s fear.

  “It don’ matter if he be right or wrong, the thing is, every time I be seein’ you I get all mad again. What I wan’... She faltered.

  I steeled myself against a growing unease. “Yes?”

  Her tone was determined. “I wan’ you not to come see me fo’ a while, ’til I be feelin’ okay. It just get me all confused.” Despite her words she clutched my arm tighter.

  “Oh, Annie.”

  She turned toward me. “I mean it, Nicky. It ain’t just what I’m feelin’ dis moment.”

  “I know.”

  “I wanna keep lovin’ you. Jus’ lemme be, fo’ now.”

  “All right.”

  Softly she wiped my cheek, and her hand came away wet. “Bes’ you go now, ’fore I change my mind again.”

  “Yes.” My tone was dull. I enfolded her in my arms, kissed the top of her head. “I love you. Remember that.” I hurried off.

  An armored cab took me to the nearest heliport. I’d planned to spend several days with my wife, but found myself cast adrift. I could go downtown to the towers of Upper New York, and look down from my hotel room to the ugly streets. That held no appeal; I’d toured New York twice and hated it. I had five days leave, and nothing to do. If I returned to Academy at Devon I’d just seem to be interfering with Captain Kearsey’s final days as Commandant. Better to stay out of the way, in London. I booked myself onto a suborbital. When we landed, I arranged a room in the old and decaying West End, where were located many of the hotels that had survived the Fire of 2070.

  By mid-evening I’d settled into my room. Almost at once the hotel made me uneasy; wherever I went the eyes of the staff followed. Chambermaids and bellmen who never spoke to guests found occasion to talk with to me. Even the chef had come to my table, ostensibly to inquire if I liked the food.

  I tried going out for a walk, but was soon recognized, and had no peace thereafter. People stared. Some even pointed. Perhaps I might have avoided the worst of it by donning civilian garb, but I’d be damned if I’d skulk about as if ashamed of the Navy. I frowned at the unfortunate phrase. I was damned; Lord God would have no forgiveness for what I’d done.

  I paced my room, restless. I could run up to Farside, but I’d already scheduled a trip aloft a few days after Handover. No point in visiting Lunapolis, either. I’d just seen my old friend Alexi Tamarov settled in to his new post there, as assistant to the Chief of Naval Operations; after that hitch he’d surely be rotated back onto a ship. Good officers were scarcer than ever these days.

  Nowhere held any appeal. For years I’d lived aboard ship, occasionally taking brief jaunts ashore. It was what I knew.

  A vacation, then? There was nothing I wanted to see. I couldn’t abide an hotel. I wanted to go ...

  Home.

  I jumped off the bed. A heli, or a plane, first thing in the morning; nothing would be leaving at this hour. Or I could drive, though even today the roads through the hills to Cardiff were difficult. The only other way was ... I snatched the caller. Moments later I thrust gear into my duffel. The desk would have a rooftop helicab waiting; if I raced, I could just make it. I signed for the unused room, let the bellhop carry my bag up to the cab. “Paddington Station, and hurry!”

  The driver smiled sourly. “Sure, and I’ll hurry. One of these days some bloke will get in and say, ‘Take your time, lad. I checked out early.’” He turned the ignition and the blades whirred. We lifted off.

  Half an hour later I settled into my railway compartment. I hauled down the bed while we rambled through the endless suburbs of Extended London. We would pull into Cardiff in time for breakfast. I took off my shirt and pants, stretched out on the tiny bunk, relaxed at last.

  Father. Home.

  I slept.

  I took breakfast in the ancient railway station before ringing for a cab. I didn’t bother bargaining the fare though I knew Father wouldn’t approve of extravagance. I could afford it, and the cabby deserved a living.

  I stared out the window at the remains of the ancient foundries. Jason and I had played in these eerie vacant buildings, a lifetime ago. The cab climbed deeper into the hills, on the twisting Bridgend road.

  The cabby was content to follow my directions. When finally he pulled to a stop I got out, thrust bills at him, and waited until he’d disappeared before I faced the familiar cottage down the hill from the road. I hadn’t called ahead, knowing with absolute certainty that there was no need. If Father had gone to market, his door would be open, and if he were at home I was welcome. Except on Sunday, he would be nowhere else. It was as it would always be.

  Still, I knocked, rather than entering. I was thirteen when I’d left this place, and as many years had passed.

  The door swung open. Father seemed older, worn. He’d been washing breakfast dishes, and still wore his apron. His eyes flickered to my uniform, to my duffel. “You’ll be staying, then?”

  “Aye, for a while.”

  He turned away and I followed him into the kitchen. “The tea is hot.”

  “Thank you.” I took a cup, poured the boiling water, set the ball of tea leaves in it. I held the chain and swished it in the darkening water.

  “I’d heard you were back. The grocer told me it was in the holozines. He wanted to give me one.”

  I sipped at the tea. “Father, do you mind if I stay the week?”

  “You are home, Nicholas.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can help with the fence. Garth’s cows want my grass and my garden, as always.”

  “All right.”

  He gestured to my jacket, my crisp blue slacks. “Work will ruin them.”

  “I have old pants. The shirt won’t matter.”

  “You’ll do your old chores.”

  I nodded. Nothing had changed, or could. I’d once pleaded: Do you love me? He hadn’t answered, of course. Perhaps he didn’t know himself.

  I took my duffel into my old room, almost unchanged after a decade of absence. I sat down on the bed. The springs still creaked. They had caused me difficulty, trying to con
ceal my youthful passion from Father’s notice.

  My clothes changed, I worked at repairing the fence until Father set out a simple lunch of soup and vegetables. After, I returned to work; he rinsed the dishes before rejoining me. Later, when the gloomy sky darkened to dusk he surveyed the stretch of ragged fence we’d restored. “It’s a beginning, anyway. We could have done more.”

  “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Sorry builds no fences.” Still, his hand brushed my side as we walked to the house. “I’ll be making dinner.”

  “I could help.”

  “You’ll have to wash first.”

  “Aye, sir.” A smile twitched the corners of my mouth. He saw it, and frowned.

  After grace, we ate our cold chicken, with cucumber salad. I helped Father with the washing up, and in the quiet of the evening I sat in the kitchen to read books I’d brought, in my hand-held holovid.

  Father appeared in the doorway. “Will you join me for prayers?”

  “I’d like that.” I snapped off the holo, followed him into his bedroom. We knelt, and I closed my eyes. He spoke the Bible, rather than reading it. He had no doubt of the words.

  Somehow, the ritual brought me a modicum of comfort, though my knees ached abominably by the time we finished. Afterward, when we’d gotten to our feet, I gave him an awkward hug before going to my room. Surprised, he neither thrust me away nor responded.

  I undressed slowly, opened the window to the cool night air, and crept into bed. I lay on my back, arms behind my head, examining by moonlight the once-familiar icons of my childhood that Father had left in their place. A model of U.N.S. Repulse I’d built from balsa. My abandoned clothes, still hanging on the closet door. A souvenir banner for the Welsh national football team. I stared at the faded felt emblem. So long ago, and just yesterday.

  The game was always on Saturday.

  “Is he always like that?”

  I pedaled hard to keep up. “It’s Father’s way.”

  “How can you stand it? ‘Are your chores finished? Have you read your verses?’ Jeez.”

  I changed gears, came abreast of him, wind whistling in my hair. “I’m used to it.”

  He grimaced. Jason didn’t understand that none of it mattered. Whatever work I was given—studies, memorizing verses, chores, weeding—I could still sometimes ride with Jason. Father always acknowledged that I was free to choose my friends.

  I suspected Father disapproved of Jason not because he was a freethinker, though that was bad enough, but because we chattered like magpies and giggled over whispered secrets. Father’s house was normally silent.

  Jason and I locked our bikes to a rack in the parking lot and joined the crowd moving to the stadium entrance.

  He ventured, “We could try for beer.”

  “No,” I snapped. Some of Jason’s notions were outlandish. “You know what happened to Andrew and Llewelyn.”

  “It was their second offense.”

  “I’m not going to prison for a tube of beer.” Didn’t he know the Rebellious Ages were long since past? Society didn’t approve of wild children, and to tell the truth, neither did I. Sneaking out at night to meet Jason was one thing; at worst that meant chastisement from Father. Breaking public decency laws was quite another.

  We sat on the hard benches waiting for the game to begin. “Nicky, you gonna reapply next year?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared down at the chalk lines on the field.

  “You should.”

  I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my tone. “So they can turn me down again?”

  “You almost made it. So much work; all the forms we filled out, and then the interviews, the recommendations we got from everyone. Don’t throw it away.”

  I kicked the bench below me. “I’d have to start all over. Who cares about being a frazzin’ cadet?”

  He studied me. By swearing I’d revealed more than I intended. “You care. And so do I.”

  “Sure, it means a lot to you,” I jeered. “You’re the one who’d go to Devon, not me.”

  “Nicky, sometimes you’re an arse.” He took a stereoplug from his shirt pocket, set it in his ear.

  I turned away, furious. The teams went to their benches. A moment later a hand came around my waist and squeezed my side. “Sorry.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Nicky.”

  I pried his fingers loose. “You know I don’t like that.”

  “Don’t be pissed at me, Nicky. Please?”

  I glared at him, but my frown quickly faded; I couldn’t stay mad at Jason for long. “Okay.”

  Jason giggled. “Maybe your father will let you go to Third with me, and we end up in Engineering together.”

  “I doubt he will.” School was voluntary. It had been so for nearly a century. Unfortunately the choice was Father’s, not mine. If I had my way, I’d have gone. I knew that by studying at home over the rickety kitchen table I learned more than other joeys, but it was lonely, sometimes, with no one but Father. And after satisfying him, a public school would be a breeze.

  After a time I said, “Farside would have been nice.”

  “I know.” Jason had helped me prep for the exams, and had shared my fantasies of leaving Cardiff as a local hero. He didn’t know how I’d cried myself to sleep when the letter came, and again during the week that followed. I’d been so sure, after getting to Second Interview.

  The crowd came to its feet with a roar when Archie Connelly took the field against the Dubliners. I cheered as hard as any. Maybe this time, with luck, I could get an autograph. Once I’d been the next joey in line when Archie had turned away for the bus.

  By now the first group of cadets would be reporting to Devon. Rather than cope with hordes of confused plebes, the authorities had recruits show up on staggered dates. Or, as scornful middies were said to remark, the plebes came staggering in. Like most Navy-struck boys I pored over the frequent articles in the holozines.

  We lost, five goals to two. Archie had been shaken up in a collision that earned Riltz a yellow card, and gave no autographs after the game. Disconsolate, we trudged back to our bikes. Jason already had our tickets for next week’s big game, against the Italians. The one we’d been waiting for.

  We stopped at McCardle’s for shakes and synthos. In a glum mood, I swirled the glass back and forth, while the holovid blared overhead and Jason chattered about our side’s missed goals. If only Reggie hadn’t missed the easy block, if the Micks had just—

  Jason’s fingers tightened on my arm. Annoyed, I twisted loose. We had an understanding about his affections, yet twice today he’d—

  “Listen!”

  I gaped at the holovid. “... when the suborbital went down. Airport officials say the craft had lost an engine but the pilot was expected to land safely with the remaining two. Debris is scattered across several runways, and Heathrow traffic has been diverted. Among the passengers was Dr. Raphael Tendez, inventor of the Hodgkins vaccine. Also aboard were twenty-eight cadets reporting for admission to the U.N.N.S. Naval Academy at Devon—”

  “Lord God!” I was on my feet.

  Jason stared at me white-faced. “It would have been you, Nicky.” His eyes glistened.

  “Come on!” I grabbed my jacket.

  “What’s the—”

  “I want to go home!”

  “But—”

  “Now!” I ran outside, unchained my bike. Jason fumbled for a coin, inserted it in the holovid, waited impatiently for the chip to pop out below.

  I was already pumping up the hill, all my effort in the strain of the pedals, grateful for the opportunity not to think.

  It was several minutes until Jason, panting, began to catch up. “Wait!”

  Head down, I pumped madly, eyes fixed on the mottled pavement streaking below.

  “Nicky, slow a bit!”

  Reluctantly I coasted until he pulled alongside. He gasped, “What in hell is the matter with you?”

  “Shut up.”

/>   “Nicky? Are you crying?”

  Deliberately, I swerved, knocking Jason onto the grassy shoulder. As he tried to right himself I smashed into him again, throwing both of us onto the soft grass. I untangled myself from the bicycle and swarmed over him, pummeling him with blows to the shoulders and sides.

  He threw me aside, his temper well and truly ignited. “Get off me, you frazzing arsehole!” I wrestled him down again, climbed onto his chest. He bucked and kicked. Finally he yanked free an arm and caught me a staggering blow on the side of the head. “Ow! Jesus!” He nursed his hand. “Christ, you’ve broken it!”

  “Good!”

  “I mean it, you stupid grode!”

  I loosened my grip. “Let me see.”

  “Get off first!”

  I rolled aside. He kicked me in the stomach, for evenses, as he called it. I doubled over, but he made no attempt to follow up his advantage. He buried his knuckles under his arm. “Damn!”

  When I could breathe properly I said, “Let me look.” Reluctantly he extended his wrist. “Can you move it?”

  He wiggled his fingers gingerly. “I think so.”

  “Then it’s probably not broken. Can you ride?”

  “If my bike’s okay.” He wiped his face. “Jesus, why’d you do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t—Nicky!”

  Ashamed, I looked down. “I’m sorry, Jase.”

  “Sorry? You drive me into the ditch, beat me up, break my arm, and all you can say is you’re sorry?”

  “I’m sor—” What was wrong with me? How could I have done such a thing, and to my best friend? My only friend. “I mean it, Jason.” I looked up, but already he was laughing, in that way he had of changing like a summer storm.

  “Give me a hug, then.”

  “I’m not a gay, Jase. You know that.”

  “But you owe me.” He held up his swelling hand.

  “Arghhhh!” I pulled him to his feet. Shyly, making sure no one was driving by, I embraced him. He let his head rest against my shoulder. There, you satisfied?” I drew back.