He shrugged. “A few.”
“Thirty?”
“Thirty-seven, I figure.” He sounded proud.
“Get busy. Reverse their votes.”
“Why? You can’t threaten me. I have an understanding with the Terries. Once you go down—”
“Minister of what? Resources?”
He flushed. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Resources?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” I backed the chair, to turn. “Cadet, have Mr. Branstead round up the Indie caucus.”
“What are you going to do?” Perrel.
“Hold a news conference, the moment the vote’s done.”
“To say what?”
I smiled. “Why, Howard, nothing but the truth. That you made a deal with the Terries, that you brought them thirty-seven votes in exchange for a ministry, that I find such sordid dealing despicable and wonder if the electorate will stomach it. That’s all.” I rolled a few paces, said over my shoulder, “The voters probably won’t throw you out of office. But the Terries won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. Say good-bye to a ministry. And who’d trust you, after?”
He licked his lips.
“Bring back your thirty-seven votes, and I’ll send Rob Boland to talk about the mining bill. No promises.” I strained to see over a bulky figure. “Where are the Indies?”
With some I cajoled, with others, pleaded. As the President finished the roll, one by one, members of Perrel’s cohort rose reluctantly to switch their votes. It all took time, which I badly needed. I promised the Indies support on education funding that I’d already intended to give. Sixteen votes; two refused to go along. I wheeled about the chamber, forcing down my gorge, buttonholing politicians. While Branstead snapped hushed orders into his caller, Jared Tenere raced from one aisle to another, summoning those I wished to browbeat.
They might not have liked me, but still I was SecGen; they came at my call.
As the vote narrowed, Branstead and his staff fanned out through the hall, luring others into the fold. With each vote we gained, the remainder became easier. And my chief of staff had made a heroic effort; absent Supras rushed into the chamber, recalled by suborbital from their far-flung destinations.
I careened around the Assembly chamber.
When it was done we’d won by three.
“Relieved?” Derek sat comfortably, legs crossed, nursing his evening drink.
“I suppose.” I mused. “It’s ironic; we nearly fell, over an enviro bill I don’t really support. That’s not how I’d care to go out of office.”
“Why’d you—”
“We have to give the enviros something.” The Greenhouse Gases Act was all I’d concede, though. It would play havoc with our economy, and I wasn’t at all sure it was necessary. Yet a surprising number of Assemblymen supported it.
I hated the compromise of politics. Richard Boland, Rob’s father, had tried to teach me his love of dealmaking, but I couldn’t abide it.
Across the room, Moira Tamarov drowsed in the sofa. Carla played listlessly at a video. It reminded me of unfinished business. “How was your talk with Mikhael?”
“I reminisced. At first he was surly.”
“And then?”
“He liked the part about Alexi and the Admiral. When I told him about Portia, he had to wipe his eyes. Nick, what’s this about?”
“You’ll see.” I keyed the caller. “Mr. Anselm, join us downstairs, and bring Mikhael, if you would.”
In a moment the boys appeared.
“Mr. Anselm, you were to begin exercises with the cadet. Did you?”
“Not yet, sir. This morning, we—”
“One demerit. You’ll start tomorrow.” I turned to Mikhael. “Did you like my present?”
“I guess.” He perched on the arm of a chair.
“If that’s all, go back upstairs.”
He stayed put. “All right, I liked it.”
“Very well.” My tone was frosty. “You’ll be here five more days. Every morning, Mr. Carr will tell you about your father.” I paused. “An hour of stories for every hour you exercise with the middy and cadet.”
“Forget it!”
“It’s forgotten. Go to bed.”
He stalked to the door. Footsteps pounded upstairs.
“Sorry, Derek.” I made a face. “It didn’t work.”
“He’s not an easy one. Unpleasant, snotty—”
“Like you, at his age.”
Derek colored. “Yes, you knocked some sense into me. But he’s a civilian; you have no authority over him.”
“I have to try.”
Derek said gently, “Nick, I had urgent business in Singapore. For you, I don’t mind rearranging my schedule, though it’s not as efficient. But for him ...”
“Make allowances. He lost his father.”
Derek’s tone was sharp. “I lost mine.” Randolph Carr had been killed in the explosion of Hibernia’s launch. “It didn’t turn me into a ...” He paused, reflective. “Still, for months, I was in shock. If you hadn’t befriended me ...”
I sat moodily, drifting through old times.
“Nick, you have so much on your plate; why discommode yourself for him?”
“Not for him, for an old shipmate. I owe Alexi that.”
“He was my first friend, after you.” Derek stared into his glass. “In the wardroom, Vax Holser was ... difficult. Alexi helped me through.”
“Tell him. The boy.”
“It’s hard to speak of. But we were good friends. And later, after you left for Challenger, it was grim. I was afraid Alexi would get himself beached for his open contempt of the Admiral.”
“He never told me.”
“There’s a lot he never told you.” Derek was moody. “Ah, well. Days long past. Do you think you can salvage the boy?”
“Unlikely. You were his only chance.”
“Why make me work?” Mikhael, from the doorway.
I said without turning, “Why, sir.”
“Why, sir?” He spat the words.
“Because you’re spoiled and sullen, and I don’t like you. Because you’ll never see Mr. Carr after he goes home; you have a once in a lifetime opportunity you don’t appreciate. Because ...” I threw up my hands.
Derek asked, “Why me? You served with Alexi, too.”
“He’ll believe you. He’ll never be sure I’m not lying.”
“I never said that.” Mikhael was petulant.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I don’t want to exercise.”
“Then don’t, joey. Middy, what time will you start?”
“Eight-thirty, sir.”
“Be there or not, as you choose. Say good night civilly, before you go.”
Fuming, Mikhael did as I bade.
“Derek, if your negotiations suffer, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll fiddle with the transport rates, or—” My caller chirped. With resignation, I keyed it. “Yes?”
“Branstead, here. What do you think?”
“Of the vote? About all we could have—”
“The message on your puter. Didn’t you see it?”
“No.”
“Read it. You pushed him too far. I’ll talk to you after.” He rang off.
“Chair, to my office.” I was too weary to roll myself.
The message was on my opening screen.
Mr. SecGen Seafort:
It is with regret that, for personal reasons, I resign as Director of Security for the Secretary-General. I wish you the best of fortune.
Mark H. Tilnitz
“Damn.” My cavalier jaunt to New York had pushed him over the edge.
“Problems, sir?” Anselm, from the doorway.
I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud. “No. Yes. Come in and be quiet.” I keyed my night secretary, in New York. “Can you reach Tilnitz?”
“Just a moment, sir.”
A click. Another. “Karen Burns.”
“I asked for Mar
k.”
“I understand he’s left the detail.” Her voice was cool. “And I believe he went on leave.”
“Very well.”
“I’ll be in Washington in three hours. Do you travel tomorrow?”
“There’s nothing planned.”
“I knew that, Mr. SecGen.”
So. Burns, too, was annoyed at my impetuosity. Perhaps it would mean mass resignations, but I wouldn’t allow myself to be a prisoner of my security detail. In mutual hostility, we rang off. I punched in Branstead’s code. “Can we get him back?”
“Will you accept protection?”
I debated. “Jerence, security drives me crazy.”
“A short drive.” It was little over a whisper.
I whirled. The middy studied the ceiling. “I heard that. Fifty push-ups.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He loosened his tie.
“What’s going on?” Branstead.
“A minor mutiny.” Was it my wheelchair? The relaxed atmosphere of home? Something in the air? Not only Anselm, but Bevin and, for that matter, Mikhael, felt free to say whatever came into their heads.
Intolerable. Why, then, did I feel like grinning? Why did I bear the midshipman no animosity? Why did it remind me of Philip’s younger days? “Jerence, can you work a compromise with Mark?”
“So he’ll only protect you from the waist up? Oh, I make jokes, but it’s not funny. None of us want you killed.”
The middy grunted, halfway through his labors.
“Mr. SecGen, I’ll try, but I’m with Mark on this.”
“I know, Jerence.”
“By the way, you not only won the vote, you won the zines. ‘SecGen Races to Save Administration.’ ‘Surprise Visit Turns Vote.’ ‘Seafort Saves Enviro Cause.’”
I snorted.
“I’m done, sir.”
“Thirty more. Take off your jacket.” Let the boy twit me if he must. He’d learn that all things came at a cost. Then, “Give yourself a rest if you need one.” My tone was gruff.
“We have messages of support pouring in. It’s not just Winstead’s crowd. Suddenly everyone’s behind the greenhouse bill. The Paki Prime Minister, the Filipinos. Tomorrow’s Calcutta Times calls it the most important legislation of the decade. Andrus Bevin of the Enviro Council lauds your staunch leadership. You know, the Terries miscalculated badly.”
“Hmpph.” So had we, if I’d unleashed a new flood of enviro fervor.
“It’s a groundswell,” said Branstead, as if to irritate me further. “Mothers For a Sane Tomorrow, the Swedish Better Government League, the Small Business Council—”
“All right, Jerence.” I threw up my hands. “Send me a summary.”
“Will do, sir. Congratulations.”
After we rang off, I had Anselm get himself a softie. “Have a seat. If you’re as insolent as you are, no need to stand on formality.”
He blushed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Are you sure?”
His eyes danced. “Well ... not quite, sir.”
Abruptly, his mischief recalled Alexi, as a boy. Saddened, I asked, “Do you know what’s wrong with Mikhael Tamarov?”
“Didn’t he just lose his father?”
“Beyond that.”
His tone was bleak. “Is there anything beyond that?”
I fell silent. I’d never seen the middy’s file, never thought to ask. “Tell me.”
“Three years ago. I was at Academy. The Berlin suborbital.”
I winced. A corroded engine cowling; the shuttle had been based near the Volgograd plant. Some blamed pollution. Whatever the cause, the fiery crash had left three hundred dead. We were lucky at that; the craft was only half full. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s just ...” He sought the last of his drink. “It doesn’t matter.”
I rolled myself close. “Tell me.”
He shook his head. Just as I decided to let him be, the words spewed out. “He was on his way to visit me. My first leave. We were going ... going to ...” His shoulders shook in a silent spasm.
Lord Christ, why couldn’t I have left well enough alone?
“Mr. Hazen called me in. He tried to be kind.” A sniffle. “When I saw his face, a blade twisted in my gut. I started to cry before I heard a word.”
Helpless, I squeezed his shoulder.
“My mother had died years before, all I had was a distant pair of aunts. I spent my two weeks’ leave at Devon, in a daze.” His smile was bitter. “Evenings, a middy took me out.”
A window opened. “That’s when you began to drink.”
“We found a barkeep who didn’t notice I wore gray.”
“Oh, Tad.”
“I’d been ... I couldn’t wait for Pa to arrive. My ratings, my reports were decent. More than that. He’d have glanced at them, smiled in that way he had, looked at me with such pride.” His eyes were wet. “But that’s not how it was.”
I yearned to hug him, but I was stuck in a bloody chair, and it wouldn’t be right. Not if I was SecGen and his C.O. to boot.
“And now, to whom do you show your ratings?”
A shrug. “No one. It doesn’t matter.” His tone was elaborately casual.
We’d both lost fathers at Academy. His had vanished in fire, mine simply strode away. Would he ever recover?
Would I?
“Come here, lad.” I tugged him nearer the chair. To his astonishment, I pulled him to my chest.
After a time, my jacket was damp.
10
TWO DREARY DAYS passed. Branstead toiled in New York with the aftershocks of the failed Territorial coup. I sought Mark Tilnitz, but he made himself unavailable. Meanwhile, the Victoria and Albert investigation made slow progress. We now knew a great deal more about the terrorist dead, their families, their friends, their work. But nothing about their living cohorts.
Seething, Mikhael Tamarov joined Anselm and the cadet at exercises. He stalked off after forty minutes; I gave him forty minutes with Derek.
The next day, he worked an hour and a half.
Outside my home, throngs gathered each day; tourists, the curious, the desperate. Word of my sojourn outside the hospital had spread. On a whim, I made Karen open the gate, let the seekers in a few at a time, while I sat in the courtyard.
In the afternoons I struggled through paperwork with Bevin and the middy. In three days’ time I would leave with Philip for whatever mysterious journey he had in mind. I had to clear my desk.
I had an appointment with the neurologists; to keep peace I let Karen Burns arrange the outing. Arlene insisted on going as well. With reluctance, I acquiesced. If the news were bad, I wasn’t sure I wanted her to hear. I’d have arrangements to make, preparatory to my end, that she might want to block.
I’d considered making a life of it in the chair. If that was what Lord God wanted for me ...
But I’d defied Him so often it was becoming a habit. There was no way I could earn his Hell more than I already had. So I would kill myself, rather than struggle to hoist myself on the toilet, toil to dress myself, roll about my compound dependent on aides to lift me up the stairs.
Life wasn’t so precious as that. Not when I’d sailed to the stars.
“May I come in, please?” Mikhael. His wiry hair was neatly brushed, his shirt pressed.
I gestured to a seat.
“I want more ...” He reined himself in, started over. “There’s just so much calisthenics I can handle. What if I want more time with Mr. Carr?”
“Cadets exercise two hours a day.”
“I’m no frazzing cadet!”
“Certainly not; there’s no way they’d have you.”
“That’s not fair.”
I couldn’t abide his sullenness. “Get out.”
His running steps faded up the stairs.
I toyed with, my holovid, furious at him. At myself. I wheeled out, to the foot of the stairs, opened my mouth to call him down.
A faint sound. Was it a sob?
<
br /> Bevin and Anselm were nowhere in sight. Who would lift me? With a muttered epithet I hoisted myself to the bottom step, sat facing downward. One stair at a time, I dragged my lower body upward. Halfway up I stopped, worked my way out of my jacket so as not to roast. Then I labored on my way.
At the top I met Carla Tamarov. She’d been watching. “Go down, please. Find someone to help with my chair.”
“You made him cry.”
“Yes. I do that.”
She trotted down the stairs. Sitting, I dragged myself toward Mikhael’s room. I knocked, reached up, swung the door open.
“Get—” His eyes widened. Disheveled, perspiring, I was a sight.
I hauled myself toward his bed. “Alexi would give you comfort. I don’t know how.”
“I don’t need you.” His tone was scornful.
“You do.” I was bitter. “There’s no one else.”
“To do what?”
“Help me up. I’ll show you.”
Puzzled, he helped hoist me onto the bed. I pulled my legs straight, paused for breath. I took his chin, held it so his eyes faced mine. “I’m sorry I chased you out. I loved your father. If I were dead, he’d have cared for my son too.”
He jerked from my grasp, spun to the wall.
“Your mother is ... overwhelmed.”
“I know.” His voice was muffled.
“Shall I ask her if you can stay awhile?” What was I saying? I hadn’t time enough for my daily holochips, to say nothing of the middy, Arlene, P.T. ...”
“We wouldn’t get along a minute.”
He was right. Thank heavens one of us had sense to know it.
“Don’t discredit what you were to me. And still are.” Alexi, in my Lunapolis suite.
I considered.
Mikhael looked away. “You’re scowling.”
“If your father saw how you behaved in my house, what would he say?”
“I have no idea.”
“Tell me!” I gripped his wrist.
He shrugged, but I held him tightly. “He’d ... I don’t—” Suddenly his voice became Alexi’s. “Straighten out, joey, and I mean RIGHT NOW!” He reddened.
I turned his face to mine. I said slowly, levelly, “Straighten out, joey, and I mean right now.”
“What do ... he’s gone and you can’t—”
“I did. I’ll ask your mother.”
“Ask me what?” Moira stood at the door, her daughter watching from behind.
Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6) Page 19
