“A pleasure to meet you.” It was almost true. I grasped my canes, worked my way to my feet.
In Lunapolis, Dr. Ghenili’s eyes had been reproachful. “Severe damage. I tried to warn you.”
“What’s my prognosis?” I’d endured two lengthy operations, to repair the trauma I’d caused. A month, flat on my back in a rigid body cast. A ceiling I’d come to know all too well.
“You’re incredibly fortunate. You’ll walk, after a fashion.”
“With canes?”
“At first. Perhaps, with enough therapy ... He left the hope unstated. “But the matter of gravity.”
“The gravitron chamber hurt like hell.”
“And that was only ten minutes. You’ll never stand full Terran gees again. Oh, perhaps lying on your back, loaded with painkillers, but ...”
“I understand.”
“It’s feasible, in an emergency. But once you went groundside, you’d have to remain, in unending misery. Your ganglia can’t tolerate another liftoff.”
I’d be permanently grounded. “How much gravity can I take?”
“When the inflammation’s subsided, I’d guess half a Terran gee. Perhaps a touch more. Let the pain be your guide.”
“It hurts even now. Will it ever stop?” Not that I deserved relief.
“The truth? I’m not sure. I think the pain will lessen considerably. If it isn’t tolerable, we increase the pain blockers. There’s a good chance that in time ...”
Did the man ever finish a sentence?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Seafort. You brought it on yourself.”
“Aye, I did that.” By my thrashing about, aboard Galactic. By my willful disregard of His will.
“Ari Bin Yuffef.”
“You’re Israeli?”
“Palestinian.” His voice dripped with contempt.
“You’re seventeen. Where are your parents?”
“My father’s at prayer.”
“You’ve had schooling?”
“Some. It’s not mandatory.”
“I’m aware. Have a pleasant voyage.”
With a disdainful toss of his head, the boy stalked off. Nineteen months to Constantine. Perhaps he’d learn—or be taught—manners.
An Admiralty Board of Inquiry had convened to assign blame for the loss of Galactic, with eleven hundred passengers and crew. As Anselm had reminded me in extremis, Arlene, not I, had been acting as Captain when the ship foundered.
Perhaps it was that Admiralty now consisted only of those members who’d flown to Farside in response to my summons. Or perhaps there was blame enough, without besmirching the name of my wife. Arlene had merely followed orders in returning her ship to Earthport. She’d fired no weapons, even when fired upon. Admiral Hoi was held responsible, and particularly Admiral Simovich.
For eleven days Boris Simovich had held out in the depths of his innermost warrens, while U.N.A.F. troops and Navy cadets had waited patiently outside. Only after the food ran out did he emerge, shrunken and fearful, to submit to arrest.
His trial lasted three days. No political arguments were allowed, or heard. It was not at my behest that he was sentenced to hang at Lunapolis, where he’d been captured and tried. Hanging at one-sixth gee is a drawn-out affair. I was told he kicked and struggled for many minutes. A prisoner of Dr. Ghenili’s clinic, I did not attend. But General Donner, newly appointed Secretary of the U.N.A.F., did.
I turned to the attentive middy. “Why did you put in for Olympiad, Mr. Speke?”
“Same reason as Galactic.” Perhaps he realized how curt he sounded; abruptly his tone became more congenial. “They’re sister ships, sir. It’s the same cruise.”
“But Captain Stanger chose you personally. Without him ...”
“It will be different, yes, sir.” He blushed. “I know you’ve thought ill of me. That day we met ...”
I nodded. His impatience had irritated even Alexi.
“And my speech can be, ah, extravagant.” When Jared had tricked him out of his weapon, he’d responded with a torrent of foul language.
“If you were a cadet ...”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Stanger warned me about my temper. Once”—he blushed furiously—“he had me caned.”
“On the other hand,” I said, “you performed admirably when we retook Galactic. Well, no doubt the first middy will keep an eye on you.” Speke wouldn’t be senior, this cruise. The middies had been chosen with great care.
From my clinic bed I’d worked overtime signing decrees, to embed our enviro policies before relinquishing martial powers.
Starting in three years, time enough to enter into contracts with the colonies, Earth would forgo virtually all harvest of its seas. It was hoped that a five-year fishing moratorium would allow the myriads of ocean dwellers to reestablish themselves. Virtually the entire resources of the Navy were consigned to ship home substitute protein. Much of it was soy-based, though on Pampas and Rolleo, beef was a prime export.
The sudden increase in demand would be a heavy economic strain; we’d be a far poorer system when we were done. Perhaps power would shift permanently to the colonies. I doubted it. Earth’s resources were simply too stupendous, her resilience a matter of legend.
At the same time, we would end once and for all the indiscriminate pouring of waste into the seas. Numerous new sewage facilities were planned. Their construction would be given highest priority, along with air scrubbers for every manufactory on Earth, without exception.
A colossal undertaking? Of course. Expensive? That was hardly the word. The trick was to spread the contracts among so many industries, so many powerful corporations, that every one of them would avidly resist any lessening of our commitment. Branstead had taught me well, and Robbie Boland.
Jerence Branstead emerged from imprisonment shaken but unharmed. The rebel U.N.A.F. unit that seized him had twice threatened him with summary execution.
Cisno Valera had disappeared entirely. He’d last been seen on the outskirts of the U.N. compound, where he’d been encamped with his troops ever since my broadcast. Some thought that as his U.N.A.F. units melted away he’d gone underground to foment new rebellion, others that he’d been shot by some joey loyal to the government.
It mattered little; he’d become a joke, a figure of derision, for his vacillation. The streets surrounding the U.N. compound had once been held by the Easters and the Fdears, two of the more formidable transpop tribes. Perhaps he’d wandered too far from camp, and met a rough justice. In some quarters I was still known as the trannie SecGen.
Even while the remains of Galactic spun slowly into the wisps of Earth’s outer atmosphere, the finishing touches were being put on Olympiad, her much vaunted sister ship. There’d been some hasty restructuring of cargo bays, to further separate—and reinforce—storage of hydrazine and bottled oxy.
A horrid waste of resources, Olympiad, but she was so far along in construction it was far less expensive to complete her than to abandon her. Scandalously opulent, even more so than Galactic, she held thirty-four hundred passengers, a crew of almost nine hundred. A city, more than a ship.
Galactic’s seven hundred surviving passengers, and much of her crew, had been transferred to the gleaming new starship.
It was too late to eliminate separate dining halls and the more spacious cabins, but my intervention caused swift upgrading of the lower dining hall, to match the decor of the upper. And cabins were assigned by the number of occupants, not by social ranking. Those who didn’t like it could wait a few years for another ship.
By the time I emerged from Ghenili’s clinic, trying not to wobble while walking on one cane, Olympiad’s loading was well under way.
Not many passengers refused boarding. In part, that was because Galactic’s tragic loss wasn’t deemed a design flaw. All Naval ships had laser shields, but none were designed to stand up to the massive laser cannon of Earthport or Lunapolis, the searing weapons that ravaged the streets of Lower New York in the Transpop Rebellion.
&
nbsp; Built to break up asteroids thrown at Earth by the fish long years past, they no longer served legitimate need. I took advantage of my military and moral authority to dismantle them entirely. Marauding fish were less of a danger than was some General or Admiral facing too great a temptation. Earth must never again be held hostage.
There is a mood in public affairs that by some mystery becomes pervasive. In the case of the rebellion, it was to put the matter behind us as quickly and quietly as possible. Reluctantly, I acquiesced. The terrorists, including all of the Eco Action League, were hanged. So were five former members of Admiralty. In most other cases I allowed clemency.
However, I was determined not to lie or evade the truth, especially as to my own responsibility. At the repeated entreaties of my chief of staff, I declined media demands for interviews. Jerence Branstead knew I wouldn’t speak so lightly of politicians’ misfeasance as public opinion would wish.
Nonetheless, those stories that leaked out tended to glorify my role. They ignored my stupidity in sacrificing the head of Hope Nation’s Government, to no purpose. And my callous use of cadets, mere children, to bear the brunt of our fighting. The fact that many of them emerged as heroes was no excuse; there were those who died before their time.
The media knew nothing of how I brutally rejected Danil Bevin’s plea for life, when I might have surrendered to Stanger and perhaps talked him out of his treason. Or how I hesitated that fatal moment that killed Arlene. Had I thought to thrust my cane in the hatch a second earlier ...
In all this, the Patriarchs were ominously silent.
To my infinite surprise, the Roman Catholic Bishop of Rome visited Lunapolis, and heard my confession according to his ancient Rite. After, he blessed me, and failed to rebuke my overt renunciation of Lord God. Bishop Saythor, he said, was impetuous, and my admonishment that my coin belonged to Caesar bore truth. The Church was no more than man’s attempt to understand Lord God, he told me, and I shouldn’t lay her failings at His doorstep. He kissed my dampened cheeks before he left.
Nonetheless, the Patriarchs must have found my presence as uncomfortable as I did theirs. Saythor had a number of choices: to renounce me, to ignore me, or to embrace my views. None were palatable; perhaps that was why they urged Admiralty to offer me a remarkable alternative to my Lunapolis retirement.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Come in.”
At my insistence, Charlie Witrek wore an officer’s blues, though Admiralty had placed him permanently on the disabled list.
He peered myopically across the bridge. “Ah.” He faced me, saluted stiffly.
They hadn’t done a bad job with his features, though it was disconcerting to see him with brown eyes instead of blue.
“As you were.” He relaxed; I regarded him gravely. “I’m so glad you came aloft.” I’d written two long letters, finally prevailing on him to join Olympiad’s cruise.
“Thank you, sir.” His face relaxed into a familiar smile.
“You’ve settled in your cabin?”
“Yes, sir.” A pause. “It’s a bit awkward. Not,” he added hurriedly, “that I’m complaining.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s just ... I dress like a middy, but don’t sleep in the wardroom. I call you ‘sir,’ as I should, but have no duties because I’m not on the active list and never will be. It’s ... strange. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” A bright smile. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged the knot on his tie.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that.” I leaned back. “I doubt this will work out.”
A momentary alarm. “Sir?”
“Admiralty, in its wisdom, has declared you disabled. You couldn’t possibly return to active duty.”
“No, sir.”
“Unless you were so ordered.”
He frowned. “I don’t ... are you toying with me?”
“Why, yes, I am.” I savored the moment. “Charlie, when we set sail, I am the absolute authority aboard ship.”
“Of course.”
“As soon as we cast off, I’ll recall you to active duty. I want you in the wardroom.”
“Sir, I can’t stand a watch. I don’t see well enough to monitor the instru—”
“We have eleven middies; I don’t need watchstanders. But some of them are quite young; you’ll be a good influence. And I need you elsewhere.”
He blinked. “Why?”
“Look at this behemoth.” I waved past the bulkhead, to the entirety of the ship. “We’ve three thousand passengers, Charlie. Three thousand! And more crew than—Olympiad is more city than ship, and I have to keep it running smoothly. From day one there’ll be complaints, demands, delegations, disputes ...”
His lips twitched. “Like the Rotunda.”
“Only worse, because there’s no escape. I’ll need help managing.” I’d thought it makework, when I’d dreamed up his assignment, but now I wasn’t so sure. “You know my style, and how I operate; you’re the ideal candidate. Help me.” My voice grew soft. “Please.”
“I’d give anything to ... but, sir, are you doing this out of pity?”
“No.” I realized it was true. “I need officers I trust absolutely.”
A subtle tension seeped out of his frame. “Aye aye, sir. I’ll report to the first middy. Who is he?”
“You, Charlie.” I’d arranged it most carefully. The other middies already knew, and were under orders to say nothing until I’d told Witrek.
A look of wonder, that dissolved into joy. “You mean it? Really?”
“Yes.”
“Lord God bless you. “He couldn’t contain himself, did a little dance on the bridge decking. “Nothing could thank you enough!”
“Keep an eye on Speke, by the way. He needs steadying.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He shook his head, still dazed. After a moment he dabbed at his eyes. “Look!” He laughed aloud. “Look what I can do!”
Why did I accept Olympiad?
I don’t know.
It was time I ceased to be SecGen. After martial law, the populace needed someone more ... well, more clement. From a brooding retirement I would dominate the Senate’s deliberations, the Assembly’s every vote, whether I wanted to or not. If I stayed in home system, I couldn’t avoid the media forever, and sooner or later I’d be asked a question that forced me to reveal my opinion of the cowards who populated our government.
And where could I go? Certainly not home.
I had no home. My Washington compound had been bombed out of existence. Cardiff was a fetid nightmare. I fervently hoped Philip would have his wish, to end his days there. Besides, I couldn’t go home to Earth again. I’d live in torment, unable to lift off to gentler climes.
Arlene had said it first, though it was the stuff of my dreams. The only contented days of my life had been on the bridge of a starship. Derek understood; that’s what had drawn him to his death. Of the same mind, Arlene had resumed her uniform without a moment’s hesitation, served happily, and sacrificed herself to save hundreds.
Even now, I dreamed of my lost youth. The physical exuberance, the unmitigated joy of being. The joy of a life unspoiled. But Arlene was dead, forever lost. My life would not, could not, ever hold joy. I felt empty within, scoured clean of passions. It brought a curious freedom.
I couldn’t return to my youth, but some small part, I would reclaim.
“Sir, capture latches ready to disengage.” Pilot Van Peer. To my astonishment, he’d survived the destruction of Academy’s launch by the simple expedient of jettisoning himself the instant Stanger’s first laser struck. He’d clung, in his thrustersuit, to Galactic’s hull until he judged it safe to set out for the Station. He liked chess, I recalled, as did I. Perhaps, during the long silent watches ...
“Very well.” I keyed the caller. “Departure Control, Olympiad ready for breakaway.”
“Proceed, Olympiad. Vector one five nine from Station. Godspeed.”
“Pilot, take her o
ut, and set course for Fusion safety.”
My resignation as Secretary-General was transmitted to the Assembly, and would be effective the moment Olympiad Fused.
“Sir, Mr. and Mrs. Catharta and their children.” Midshipman Rafael Delgado, sixteen, dapper and assured. Brilliant in nav and math, his file said. We’d see.
“Very well.” I swiveled.
“A pleasure to meet you, Captain.” Hector Catharta held out a callused hand.
I took it. We chatted awhile, about his work as hydronicist and agrobiologist. His wife was a lovely woman, a poet. Their four children were unformed as yet, and squirmy. I was glad when they left the bridge, though I couldn’t fault their manners.
“Pa!” Mikhael Tamarov burst through the hatch, Cadet Anselm a step behind. “The lounge has Arcvid!”
“Wonderful. “My tone was sour. I ignored his breach of protocol; I’d opened the bridge to passengers this day. As for the cadet, he was off duty, and I would allow him almost anything. Except alcohol.
“It has a dual console!” Mikhael’s shirt was damp from exertion. A stylish new tunic, one of several I’d selected for him, in the expensive Earthport shopping concourse. I smiled; we’d have ample time to encourage grooming. He exulted, “Tad plays too!”
“Very well. An hour of Arcvid for every hour of calisthenics.”
A squawk. “That’s not fair!”
“Such is life.” If I didn’t impose such a rule, he’d soon become a glaze-eyed, finger-clenched Arcvid addict.
“You can’t do that!” His eyes blazed.
I said nothing. After a time he fidgeted. “I take it back, Pa.”
Still, I waited.
He wilted. “Sir, please. I apologize. An hour for an hour.”
I tousled his hair, gave him a casual hug despite the undisguised curiosity of the lieutenant and Pilot on watch.
Mikhael had mounted an impressive campaign. An alarming number of costly vidcalls to Moira, in Kiev with her daughter. Tearful pleas, to me. Promises of good behavior. At last, he’d secured our mutual consent.
Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6) Page 46
