Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 4

  Arlene and Adam spoke at once.

  “Don’t lay it at his—”

  “You’re pressing, Robert.” Adam looked abashed. “Sorry. Go on, Arlene.”

  Arlene’s head moved slightly, as if to shield her husband’s from my gaze. “It’s not Nick’s doing, and he no longer has a say in politics.”

  I chuckled, to ease the tension. “He’d still be the most quotable man on the planet, if he cared to be quoted.”

  “But he doesn’t.” Adam’s tone was sharp.

  “All right,” I said agreeably.

  Undisturbed by the silence, I gazed at the couple on the overstuffed couch. Absently, the Captain’s hand curled around Arlene’s shoulder. Still a lovely woman was Arlene Sanders Seafort.

  Their marriage in the Rotunda during the first year of his Secretariat had made worldwide headlines. As Terran First Lady, Arlene had chosen to remain in the background, helping her husband manage political chores rather than adopt public causes.

  Now, they made a devoted couple. I’d heard persistent rumors of discord, but found them hardly credible. They respected each other, a more vital ingredient to marriage than mere love. And they treasured their boy.

  A half hour before, Philip had padded into the den in his pajamas to bid us good night. As the youngster made his rounds his father watched with fondness so unrestrained I felt an intruder.

  “Good night, Mr. Boland.” P.T. embraced me.

  “You’re getting big, joey.” My voice was gruff. How does one talk to a lad almost a teener?

  “Yes, sir. Thanks again for the model.”

  I’d brought a 1:100 replica kit of U.N.S. Challenger, his father’s old ship. P.T. would probably complete it in a day or so; he had deft, fast hands and a breathtaking intelligence that left one slightly uneasy. Where I’d have pored over blueprints, he memorized the schematics with a quick glance.

  I’d given him a hug, not only because I liked him, but also because it would please his father and make him more amenable to my request. Such was politics.

  Now, I smiled at Adam. Since the Captain had retreated from public view, Tenere had become fiercely protective. My task would be difficult enough with his support; without it, I couldn’t win over the Captain. I wasn’t sure I’d want to try.

  Lord God, how I’d revered Adam.

  My first year as a cadet had been utter misery. Sergeant Ibarez was especially hard on me, perhaps to prove that my family connections carried no clout with him. My bunkies were uniformly hostile; they were certain Dad had arranged easy passage through Academy, and found constant proof where none existed.

  When Mr. Seafort had summoned me to his Commandant’s office and caned me without mercy for my misdeeds, I was undone. For weeks, sick with guilt and shame, I couldn’t find myself.

  It was Midshipman Adam Tenere who had succored me. Sarge had been decent; the Obutu woman was kind, but only Adam was close enough to my age to know what I’d felt. On long walks through the compound I’d blurted out my woes to him. He was tongue-tied and awkward, but nonetheless, he was there. Once, when he was sure no one saw, he’d actually hugged me. I cherished boyish fantasies about him, never expressed, which later I outgrew.

  I was best man at his wedding. Elena was lovely; she made me regret bachelorhood. I still missed her.

  Elena’s death had sobered Adam; after, he comprehended that life bore pain that couldn’t be eased. Some youthful quality left him, but he embraced solemn adulthood willingly enough. It was at my suggestion that he’d gone to the SecGen’s office as liaison. I’d no idea he and the Captain would become so attached that Adam would gladly follow him into obscurity.

  Looking at me across the Captain’s living room, Adam’s expression softened.

  “I didn’t mean to push,” I said humbly.

  The Captain frowned. “Pushing isn’t the issue. You know I won’t take offense, though I may refuse. But I have misgivings about your policy, and the sixty billion cost will come in part from the Navy’s budget.” He forestalled my reply. “It has to; we’re the—that is, the Navy is the U.N.’s single biggest military expense.”

  Most of the ships lost to the alien armada had been replaced. Of course, compromises were made. Many of the new ships were smaller, and therefore carried fewer passengers. Our colonial expansion was slowed, even if the Caterwaul Stations had abated the menace of the fish.

  The Seafort Administration had been steadfast in its support of the Navy, a factor which had eventually benefited our opponents in the Territorial Party. Many old-line industries that didn’t profit from the shipbuilding had gone over to them.

  That made Dad’s plan all the more important; if we could recapture the housing lobby, our campaign war chest would be fully funded. Multinational campaigns were damnably expensive.

  It wasn’t much past eleven when Adam glanced at his watch. I took the cue, and we bade good-night to the SecGen and his wife. I walked Adam back to his bungalow, chatting amiably.

  “Watch,” he said as we neared. “Jared’s light.” Through a curtained window, a glow lit the wall.

  “What about it?”

  His voice rose. “We’ll send Bennett a tightbeam in the morning. I think he’ll come around.”

  The light flicked off. Adam lowered his voice, his smile grim. “They tell me he falls asleep in class. He thinks I don’t know he’s up half the night wargaming his puter.”

  I hesitated, unsure if my opinion was wanted. Then, “Take it away.”

  “The one thing he’s passionate about?” He shook his head. “No, he’s smarter than he acts, Rob. Puters are the only arena in which he proves it.”

  “Set his hours.”

  “Why attempt what I can’t enforce?” He waved it away with a sigh. “Join me for a drink.”

  “A light one.”

  We settled on the patio outside Adam’s bedroom, on the far side of the cottage.

  Adam brought me a gin, uncapped an ale. “God, I miss her.”

  I didn’t need to ask. “So do I.”

  He gestured to the house. “She’d have prevented—that.”

  “Jared? He’ll come around.”

  He snapped, “Don’t bullshit me. You never have before.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” It was only half in jest.

  “Well, that put me in my place.” Now his smile was genuine. “Sorry, Rob.”

  I shrugged. “Jared’s what, sixteen? This is the worst of it.”

  “Fifteen, barely. I look at him and see ... you.” He added, “And others, from Academy days. The contrast is obscene.”

  “Adam, why don’t you rein him in?”

  A long silence. “I ... can’t.” Perhaps Adam saw too much of Elena in the boy’s finely chiseled face, the long dark lashes.

  Sensing his discomfort, I changed the subject. After a time we spoke of the Captain.

  “It’s painful to be near him,” Adam said. “He’s so determinedly ... sincere.” He studied my face. “You didn’t really know him when you were a cadet; he resigned after the, um, Trafalgar incident. I had the fortune to know him before.” He looked beyond me, to another time. “He took me to the Training Station, just the two of us. Lord God, what a privilege. You should have seen him then, Rob. Bold, decisive, determined to do right by us all.”

  I stirred, restless.

  “Now, he’s ... tentative. Yes, that’s the word. He’s mislaid his moral beacon. I think he was glad his Administration lost the vote of confidence.” He saw me fidget and grimaced. “Well, I can see you’re tired. Sorry to—”

  I blurted, “It’s not that. I need to use the head.” My bladder was ready to explode from the drinks I’d sipped all evening. I stood, feeling a foolish boy once more. “Back in a minute.”

  I’d been in Adam’s home often enough. I opened the screen door, headed down the darkened hall toward the bath.

  Under the boy’s door, a gleam of light.

  Perhaps it was the ale, perhaps the shuttle-lag. Emboldened, I knock
ed once, flung open the door.

  Jared, still dressed, glanced up from his puter. “Hello, Uncle Rob.”

  “Turn that off and get into bed, before I do what your father won’t.”

  He gaped. “You can’t make—”

  “Try me, joeyboy!”

  He hesitated, thought better of it. With a contemptuous flick he snapped off the puter, sat on his bed, slipped off his shoes.

  I shut the door, continued down the hall.

  By the time I got to the patio I’d realized what a mistake I’d made. I was “Uncle” only by courtesy, and had no rights with this wayward joeykid. Best not to tell Adam; it would make things worse between us, and not only did I like him, I needed his support to persuade the Captain.

  While Tenere led the conversation back to our youth at Academy, then to Elena, I sat wondering what had come over me, ordering his son about as if he were my own.

  “Remember when we couldn’t find her room at the Lunapolis Sheraton, and hollered at that fuddled old lady to open the bloody door?”

  I nodded. I had either to tell Adam or make it right with the boy; I couldn’t leave things as they were. I waited for my opportunity, excused myself once more.

  I knocked. “Jared?”

  No answer.

  “This is Uncle Rob.” I tried to quell my distaste at the title. “May I come in?”

  He must be asleep. I turned the knob, peered inside.

  The room was empty.

  Chapter 5

  PEDRO

  IT ALMOST TIME, BUT Frad not quite ready. “Ain’ even a holochip,” I grumbled. “Jus’ papah book.”

  Frad breathed hard, annoyed. “Gonna trayfo’, Neut? I ain’ got all nigh’.”

  I shrugged. “I already offa two cansa fo’ fallin’ apart book. Wan’ mo’, bring mo’ book.” If he had one. Dunno. Filmatleven.

  “Got three, maybe four mo’.”

  I looked at teapot, decided couldn’ warm my cuppa ’less I gave him some. Better I waited. “Silly Broadboy think he swind Pedro Telamon Chang, hah? If he got four book, he’d brung widim. He got jus’ one.”

  “Four, tolya!” He glowered. “C’n bring lata.”

  “Hah.” I trotted across shop, messed with box like I lookin’ for trayfo. “Two cansa. One small veg, one big chicken, like I tolya.”

  His eyes flickered, and I knew I gottim. Before, I’d said two veg, one big, one little. Now he thought Chang be glitch.

  “How much fo’ otha papah?”

  “Don’ need no mo’.” Hurt tongue to say it, but hadda, if I wanted to get ’em. “I’ll trayfo the one you brung, look at others ’nother day.”

  “I c’n run get, they ain’ so far—”

  “Nah.” I pulled out cansa, put on table. “Chang got five book already, why he nee’ three mo’?”

  “Four mo’.” Now he committed. Good.

  “Okay okay, three, four, no diff. Take cansa ’n gwan; Chang don’ allow more’n one trayfo in shop atta time. Ya messin’ wid Chang biz.”

  Frad grinned, showin’ no teeth. Been in rumb. Allatime trannies fight each otha. Stupid tribes. Sad.

  I managed to wait ’til he gone ’fore I picked up book. Stranger Inna Strange Lan’. Two hunner’ year old. Mine. I clutched to chest like joeykit. Book go in backroom, Chang’s room. Book not trayfo, anymore.

  From back, a snicker.

  I raised voice. “Stupid Midboy laughin’ at Chang, hah?”

  Pook poked out his head. “When Chang ran outa cansa, he gonna eat papah?”

  I growled, “Run outa cansa, eat Midboy.”

  He snickered again, pushing aside the curtain. “You funny, Changman.” He thought about it as I headed towar’ him with look in my eye. “Cool jets,” he said quick. “Mista Chang.”

  Hadda be careful with Pookboy. He might be socio. Wasn’ sure, but didn’ think so.

  He seemed to like me, mosta time. Wanted me take care him, but would he shiv me someday, like poor Rock beggin’ for passby? Did Pook know diff, right an’ wrong?

  I went in backroom, to shelf. Put book under H, real gentle. Read later, when boy wouldn’ interrupt.

  Pook was stayin’ my house for while.

  The girl Mids called Bigsis sent him to trayfo boots for cansa. Joeykit wandered round, finally wen’ back with seven cansa. She shout at him some. Pook don’t got no control, mouthed her back, she told Karlo not enough cansa.

  Karlo got pissoff again. Pook came knockin’ at Chang house, needin’ bed. I asked him if he tryin’ to join Neut tribe stead of Mids, but he didn’ think was funny.

  What I spose to do? Send him back inna streets, he wouldn’ make it to initiation. Upbringin’, as Mids called it, where they cut Mid mark on chest.

  After while Karlo would cool jets. He was like that, hoppin’ mad, then forget.

  Wasn’t Chang’s fault. How was joeyboy gonna learn not giveaway his trayfo, unless hard way? No good tellin’ him, gotta show.

  Anyway, boots weren’t so good, hadda hole. Chang wasn’ traytaman for joke; it his biz. And Pook coulda said no.

  Pook shoved a book deeper on shelf. “What they say?”

  “Say, a Midboy don’ touch, or he fin’ hisself on street fas’.”

  He grinned. I hated when he did that. Traytamen couldn’t afford sentiment.

  “Ain’ ’fraid a you, Mista Chang.” He looked up. “Books say, ‘Looka me? Coulda had two cansa steada me?’”

  “Hah.” I patted him on back. “They tellya ’bout worl’. Everyt’ing in books. Read, ya fin’ out.”

  I waited, with hope.

  It was like tray with Frad I just finished. Hadda ease him along, wait ’til he ready. If I tol’ Pook the world of books open his eyes, let him see how insignificant was trannie life, he’d scare, wouldn’t read. Prolly was best not to push. Tell Pook books ain’t for him. Tell him keep away. Then maybe he’d want.

  I warmed my cuppa tea, sat by Valdez perma, sipping. Wasn’t easy bein’ traytaman. Hadda weave my way ’tween tribes, takin’ sides with none. An’ always remember use right talk.

  Trannietalk, for tribes. Natural; I trannie born. Don’ use big words, keep tenses simple, like before I found firs’ cobwebby books and sat to read by light from gaping hole in roof. Never make mistake talkin’, or tribes’ll hear an’ think I got high pretenses. Won’t trust.

  Book talk for books. When author friend speaks, answer him same way. What you referring to, Ayn Rand, when you say selfish? What was so terrible about London, Charles Dickens? I’d tray it for Lower New York in a minute. How Chang would talk, he be Uppie.

  An’, Changtalk for inside Chang. Prolly closer to Uppie talk now, with alla books. But not quite. More easy in it than book talk.

  Made head spin, sometimes, but used to it now.

  Pook stirred. “Don’ need nothin’ in book. Wan’ know, ask Karlo.”

  “Yah, ask Karlo. He know lot more’n Chang.” Joeykit hopeless. Why I bother with him? Dunno.

  In morning I got out wheelcart, made boy loadup permas in outer room. Eat Chang’s food, gotta work. Fair, but he didn’ like. Went sullen for while.

  Hot summer, but I put on coat so have pockets for innifo.

  “Whereya go, Mista Chang?”

  “We, Pookboy. You be comealong.”

  He made face. “Naw. Stay.”

  Maybe lose him, but time to settle; he old enough now. I went to him, touched his face, gentle. “Lissenup, little Midboy.” He waited. My throat went dry; longtime I lived alone. I liked havin’ someone talk to. Even Midboy, who wouldn’ look at book.

  I said stern, “Wasn’ me, asked Midboy come knockin’ at Chang door. Boy still wanna stay, okay okay. Or he c’n ask Rocks fo’ place to sleep.”

  Vein in his forehead throbbed.

  Couldn’ stop now. Too late. “Midboy almos’ growed, gotta decide for hisself. Onna street, tell Chang go prong hisself. But in Chang’s house, yes Mista Chang, I do whatchew say, I help. Midboy got choice.”

  Boy’s
eyes sliced through Chang like shiv.

  I shrugged, like didn’ matter. “Midboy think Chang’s life be all sippin’ cuppa? Trayfo be har’ work. You help, or get los’.”

  He said shrill, “Don’ need glitch ol’ Neut! Keep ya cansa! I take care a self!” In rage, he kicked over table. Teapot and cups went flyin’. Steam rose from wet floor.

  I didn’ move.

  “Lucky I don’ dissya, Changman!” His face red, he clawed at locks. “Maybe will, nextime!” Got door open. Out. Slam.

  I sighed, muttering to self as I cleaned up mess. Chance I hadda take, but sorry I lost.

  Put table back in place. Midboy gonna be allri’, I tol’ self. He has shiv, he plenny rowd.

  I washed cup, refilled pot. Water ran rust today, an’ real low. Usetabe, have a problem, soonalate, govermen fix. Now they didn’ care. More water for Uppies.

  At last, I ready. Wheeled cart to door. Draped it with cloth coverup.

  Bright day, hot and sunny, an’ everyone knew Chang be Neut. Still, I opened door careful. A few people aroun’, none too close.

  Went out, locked three locks. Took chalk from pocket, drew eye on steel panel. Didn’ mean nothin’, but tribes weren’ sure.

  My shop on Thirty Five. Mid turf, now. Rock, usetabe. Rocks got pushout down to Thirty Three. Secon’ time; ’fore that they was Americas an’ Fifty Four in Rockcenta. I pushed cart to corner. Heavy.

  “Watcha got, traytaman?” Ravan, a boss Mid, come alongside.

  “Got enough sense to min’ my own biz.” My voice gruff. Ravan grinned. Everyone used to my talk.

  He walked with me. “Any good trayfo?”

  “Usual.” Wondered what he want.

  “Whatcha lookin’ fo’ special?”

  “Don’ make no diff. Bring it, Chang trayfo.” I turned corner, started uptown. ’Nother block, would reach Broad turf.

  Ravan asked, casual, “Chang got new water pipe?”

  No, didn’ have, but knew where to get. Not copper, like old, but heavy plastic snapons, like in towers. Careful, Pedro. I stopped, looked him over. “Whaffo Mids wan’ water pipe, hah?”