Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6) Page 4

  Bevin glanced at his sergeant, back to me. “Sir, I’m sorry if—”

  “It’s too late for that.” I clumped to the door.

  Outside, the middy came to attention. I noticed his eyes were red. “What are you bawling at?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Anselm’s spine was ramrod straight, stomach sucked tight.

  “Stand easy,” I growled. The cadet corporal’s brazen behavior wasn’t the middy’s fault. By brute force I made my tone gentle as I started down the path. “A caning?” Midshipmen and cadets were considered young gentlemen, and were subject to corporal punishment, unlike ordinary seamen.

  “No, sir.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s just ...” He swallowed. “Yesterday I helped Santini into her suit. She always had trouble with her clamps. Always.”

  “You were ... friends?” Fraternizing was discouraged, but I recalled a middy, long years past, who’d made my cadet days bearable.

  Miserably, he nodded. “What do we do, sir?” It was an appeal.

  “Our duty. It’s the only answer I know.” It wasn’t near enough; my hands moved without my volition. “Come here, boy.” Gently, I pulled his red locks close to my chest.

  “It’s not—we weren’t—”

  “I know.”

  “She tried so hard!”

  “They all do.”

  After a time he pulled loose, scuffed the earth with a spit-shined boot. “She made fun of my hair.”

  “Daring, for a cadet.” We resumed our walk.

  “She knew I didn’t mind.” He sniffled. “Seeing her lie there ...”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Blood running from her mouth.” He recoiled. “Why, sir? Why does it have to end like that?”

  “I don’t know, son.”

  His voice was almost too soft to hear. “I’ll miss her.”

  We passed the Commandant’s office.

  “Sir?” He gestured. “The helipad’s this way.” A path forked to the left.

  “I know.” I headed onward.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my duty.” As we neared the wrought-iron gates, I smoothed my hair, tugged at my tie.

  Ahead, a predatory swarm of mediamen focused through the iron rails. My face was a stone mask.

  “We’re home, sir.”

  Blinking myself awake, I peered through the foggy heli window. We’d set down on the dusty concrete pad in my Washington compound.

  Outside the walls, red maples drooped in muggy July heat. Across the river from Old Washington, the compound nestled in the Virginia hills incorporated into the broadened District. Built to resemble an old southern estate, it was a gift raised by public subscription after the end of my first Administration.

  A large home, with seven bedrooms and a plethora of verandas and porches, its outbuildings included sheds, a greenhouse, and a small cottage, all within protective stone walls.

  I’d been adamant in refusing the unwarranted gift, but Arlene’s good sense prevailed. We needed a home for P.T., and I’d had no savings whatever. “You deserve it,” she’d insisted, and at length I acquiesced.

  These days I found it a nuisance commuting to the Rotunda in New York, and I did so as seldom as possible. Naturally, when the General Assembly was in session I had to be present, at least on occasion, to defend my Government against the ruthless elitists of the Territorial Party, and those independents who would bolt us for personal gain. A vote of no-confidence in the Assembly would bring down an Administration.

  But other times I brought work home, and met with delegations and political allies in my comfortable den. If the electorate didn’t like it, they could vote me out.

  Ours was a complicated system. Assemblymen were elected from districts corresponding to regions of constituent nations, and served terms of four years unless the Government lost a vote of no-confidence or failed to pass major legislation, or unless the SecGen dissolved the Senate and Assembly and called for new elections. The Senate, on the other hand, couldn’t dismiss the Government with a motion of no-confidence, but could block legislation indefinitely. Senators were elected for six years and were maddeningly independent.

  I rubbed my eyes. Despite all the amenities and care lavished on a SecGen, intercontinental travel was wearing. I’d slept two hours in the noisy suborbital from London, but my aging body craved more. With helpless envy I recalled the lithe form I’d possessed as middy, then Captain. I’d thrived on lack of sleep, or so it had seemed.

  I yawned. “Where’s Arlene?”

  Mark Tilnitz whispered a query into his throat mike, cocked his head for the response. “Cleaning up after the Hollanders, I believe.”

  Supervising the staff, that meant. I’d throw a fit if I saw her toting trays of glasses herself. We’d done enough of that in our private years. There had to be some compensation for the misery of public office. These days we had help with cooking and gardening, though I refused to allow anyone but my midshipman aides to maintain an office in the compound. My Rotunda staff communicated from New York via caller, nets, and fax.

  I tramped to the veranda. Glassed double doors from my inner office awaited me. I hesitated, chose instead the door to the sunlit hall where my aide’s desk was placed.

  “—like an old lion facing a pack of wolves. Look at him!”

  “Yes, I’m responsible. For my government, for the Navy, for the lives of those poor cadets. I take the obligation seriously.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Go home, and set the investigation in motion.”

  “And when you find the terrorists?”

  “Lord God willing, I’ll attend their execution.”

  “Oh, good line.”

  “He means it. Uh-oh, he’s calling on Vince Canlo.”

  “Mr. SecGen, the Independents are demanding an investigation of Galactic’s funding. Was there a deal between you and the Territorials?”

  “Watch. He blew his answer.”

  “There was an understanding. We all agreed that a strong Navy was necessary, and funding ships was the way to achieve it.”

  A groan. “We’re in for it. He admitted there’s a deal.”

  “The old man won’t lie, even if—Oh! Mr. SecGen!” Charlie Witrek, my earnest young middy, scrambled to his feet. Slower to rise was my chief of staff, Jerence Branstead. A sardonic wave.

  “Hallo, Jerence.” Safe from probing holocameras, I loosened my tie, took off my jacket. Charlie took it to hang.

  “Mr. SecGen, will you make further concessions to enviro sentiment as a result of—”

  “The question is offensive. No. We will not submit to terrorism. These people are glitched, throwbacks to a discredited age.”

  Branstead nodded his approval at the screen. “Well said.”

  “Do you support Reichschancellor Mundt’s call for a worldwide reassessment of costly pollution measures?”

  “No. The issue’s been studied over and again. We’re doing what we can. Mundt is protective of the Dresden chip works, but our measures won’t cause a shutdown.”

  I’d tried to sound conciliatory, I recalled. Mundt was a Supranationalist, a member of my own governing party, but was obsessed with protecting his nation’s industry from regulation. At times he could be difficult. And Widener, the British Prime Minister, pressed just as strongly for stiffer enviro legislation. My role as SecGen could only be to steer a middle course. The world had been debating environmental spoliation for centuries, and I saw no need to act rashly.

  “Do you view the cracks in the Three Gorges Dam with greater alarm now that—”

  “Turn that bloody thing off.” Wearily, I slumped into a chair.

  “—shifts in rain patterns filled the reservoir thirty percent above rated capacity?”

  My image faded from the screen.

  “You did well, sir.” Witrek, my staff middy. He ran fingers through his hair, but as always, every strand was in place. He wouldn’t allow it otherwise.
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  I glowered. “What would I do without your approval?”

  He grinned, knowing me too well to be fazed. “How can you stand those vultures?”

  “I hold my nose.”

  Charlie brought me a coffee, strong and black as I liked it.

  “Thank you.” A middy wasn’t a butler, and shouldn’t be treated as one. But Witrek, with quiet competence, found ways to make himself useful without being asked.

  I would miss him.

  As if reading my mind he asked, “Did you pick my successor, sir?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “I imagine it’s difficult.”

  If I said nothing, he would let it drop, but I knew he yearned for me to pursue it. “Do go on, Charlie.”

  “I mean, he’d need to be resourceful, motivated, as patient as Job ...” His tone was bright.

  “Yes, I’ve missed those qualities the last two years.” Not so, but I enjoyed our byplay. “Any word on your posting?”

  He grimaced. “Not yet.” No doubt he’d be sent to a ship of the line. I could intervene, but wouldn’t unless there was need. I wondered if he’d sought Galactic.

  “What’s on for this afternoon?”

  Charlie consulted his console. “Mr. Carr’s due at five. He’ll stay the night.”

  “Good.” Despite my weariness, my face softened to a smile.

  Derek Carr, scion of an old Hope Nation family, had been an arrogant Uppie of sixteen when he’d first sailed as a passenger on Hibernia. After the death of our officers he’d answered my summons to become a cadet, a difficult role for him to fill, given my uncertainty and inexperience. Nonetheless, I’d promoted him to middy as soon as I could. We’d toured his colony together, and over the years had become steadfast friends.

  Jerence Branstead said cautiously, “Arlene’s laid on a small reception for Mr. Carr.”

  I groaned. My wife knew how little I enjoyed playing host. I could deal with visitors on business of state; as long as I stood for election I had no right to complain. But at a private party I felt as awkward as a middy in a gathering of Captains.

  “But Jeff Thorne’s invited.”

  “Oh.” I smiled. Admiral Thorne, my mentor in Academy days, had been Branstead’s predecessor as chief of staff. Now retired, he lived in London. I checked my watch. “I’d better get changed.” Leaning on the banister, I made my way upstairs. They’d offered to put in an elevator, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I was aged enough without acting the part of an old man. Next they’d have someone wiping drool from my lips.

  “They say it’s huge.” A woman of thirty or so, resplendent in a mauve jumpsuit and amethyst bracelets. I was trying desperately to recall her name.

  My eyes searched for Arlene. “By comparison, my first ship, Hibernia, had a hundred thirty passengers. Galactic carries over three thousand.”

  “That’s a small city. Her Captain must feel like a colonial governor.”

  “Captain Stanger?” I’d only met him once; he’d spent his early career in transit to one colony or another, and much of the rest of it at Admiralty in Lunapolis. “I don’t really know him.”

  “Why’d you give him the posting?”

  “I didn’t. I’m just SecGen.” The Board of Admiralty had selected Ulysses Stanger for Galactic, and I’d seen no reason to overrule them. They’d chosen him partly for his experience, and partly, I suspected, because he had political connections.

  Again, I regretted the Navy’s concentration of resources in one ship. At least she’d serve a myriad of functions. With full holds and a carefully selected complement of passengers, she could seed a new colony. Her armaments were enough to put down any colonial rebellion imaginable. And fitted with the latest model fusion drives, her interstellar speed was adequate, though not remotely approaching a fastship’s. But that couldn’t be helped; it was only the lack of mass that allowed fastships to cut months from a typical voyage.

  Arlene’s arm wrapped around mine. Her off-white gown dipped along her backbone, emphasizing the soft curves of her shoulder blades. “Nick will talk about his Navy forever,” she said, rescuing me. “Let me circulate him, Lois.”

  We drifted away. “Thanks, hon.”

  “You had that glazed look.”

  She deposited me alongside a cluster of joeys grouped around the marble mantel. Businessmen, most of them, hoping to overhear a tidbit that would enhance their interstellar commerce. But among them were Derek Carr and Jeff Thorne.

  A waiter proffered a tray, and I took a glass of sparkling wine.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Derek.” My smile broadened. How typical of him, to call me “sir” after all these years, though head of a government coequal to mine. “Did your trade talks go well?”

  “Bah,” he grumbled. “My countrymen seem to forget why we fund their legation.” A twinkle eased the creases on his lined face. “We’re going to break your stranglehold on shipping, you know.”

  Thorne raised an eyebrow. “Over the Navy’s dead body, Mr. Carr.” His tone was affable.

  That caught the attention of several listeners, so we three wandered off by ourselves. “You’ve been threatening that for years,” I told Derek. There were private interplanetary vessels, many of them. But only Naval ships traveled interstellar. It was partly a function of cost, partly government policy.

  “I saw you on holovid today, sir. You were wonderful.”

  I groaned. “Not you too.”

  “They still don’t know how to treat someone who faces them and tells the simple truth.” He grinned. “I’ve tried it from time to time. Trouble is, our planters are too devious. Prevarication is a way of life for us.”

  I grimaced. After the abomination I’d committed at Farside, I’d vowed I would not lie again, regardless of the cost. It helped keep me sane.

  “Nick ...” Derek was one of the few who could still call me that. His eyes had gone serious.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “This Eco Action League. How seriously do you take it?”

  Thorne bristled. “They murdered our cadets!”

  “I don’t mean that. Overall, how seriously do you judge their threat?”

  I said cautiously, “I’m not sure. We know nothing about them.” Yet.

  “Have you read their manifesto?”

  “On the suborbital.”

  “It’s more about Galactic than the environment, did you notice?”

  “The ship’s a symbol, Derek. That’s all.”

  “I won’t tell you how to run your affairs, sir, but—”

  “Please do.” He was one of the few I’d listen to.

  “There’s an odd undercurrent to the conversations I’ve heard about her.”

  “How so?”

  “As you say, Galactic’s become a symbol. Everyone’s either violently opposed or very much in favor. For every enviro who bemoans her cost, I’ve heard a Navy man defend her, but with such contempt and hatred of the enviros—”

  Thorne said, “Joeys get emotional. Pay no attention.” I nodded agreement.

  Derek studied me closely. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” I spoke more confidently than I felt. Why in Lord God’s name had I approved the expenditure? Even if Galactic hadn’t gone over budget ...”

  “I’m glad you built her,” he said simply. Then, with a grin, “You’ll learn Galactic and Olympiad are wasted as supply ships. Their best use will be to open new colonies.” A wry smile. “And the outworlds need all the allies we can get.”

  Even as a jest, it troubled me. “Does Hope Nation need protection, Derek?” My attention wandered. The crowd was starting. to thin; I really ought to circulate, at least to say good-byes.

  “Not from you, sir. That goes without saying.”

  True. On my visit to Centraltown, their capital, I was feted as hero, revered almost as deity. I’d never gone back.

  Derek’s look was pensive. “But you won’t be SecGen forever. And even in office, you can’t manage af
fairs light-years from home.”

  I snorted. “I don’t govern your Commonweal.” Acknowledging a fait accompli, as a young Captain I’d granted Hope Nation its independence, after the Navy had abandoned the colony to alien attack.

  “Some folk wish you did. Oh, not at home. Here.” He lowered his voice. “That new Bishop the Patriarchs sent to Centraltown. Know him?”

  “No.”

  Thorne rubbed his chin. “Andori? He’s Saythor’s man, and conservative.” He snagged a cocktail from a passing waiter.

  Derek said, “We’ve locked horns half a dozen times. He’s gone so far as to threaten me with disavowal.”

  I drew breath. Disavowal was one small step short of excommunication, a deadly matter. No citizen caring to preserve his soul could have dealings with a disavowed individual. And if one were excommunicated, even wife and children were expected to shun him. “Be careful.”

  “The Bishop has less support than he thinks. Religion has waned a bit; if it came to that, I might carry a vote to disestablish the Church.”

  “Derek!” I was scandalized, and not a little offended.

  He held up a placating hand. “Only if it comes to it. Would you rather I wandered the plantations stealing corn?”

  “Lord God.” I drained my drink.

  “It’s worse on other worlds. What irks the colonies is how little you realize you need us. Your imports of food and raw materials have skyrocketed. Soon the balance of trade will be in our favor. You need our goodwill, Nick. And you won’t get it with heavy-handed threats.”

  “I never once—”

  “Not you personally, but your government. Really, you ought to visit more.”

  “He can’t.” Old habits die hard; Thorne rushed to my defense. Even in a fastship, Hope Nation was a nine-month cruise.

  I said warily, “What haven’t I been told?”

  “In the colonies, there’ve been hangings from time to time, for treason and heresy.” Derek shook his head. “In reality, for nothing more than political talk. No actual rebellion.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “The Navy, of course, backs the colonial Governors. Some of your less temperate Captains urge mass executions, or boycott. There’s a move in your Senate to rescind Detour’s independence, return them to colonial status. They say—”