Tomorrow’s Heritage

by Juanita Coulson

  “Well, it’s what Pat said he wanted,” Todd said uncertainly.

  Roy looked as if he might cry. “He didn’t show it while they were here. Now it’s all coming out. He’s hurtin’, Todd. Poor kid.” Pat was a kid to this man who had loved and worked alongside Ward Saunder. Roy took Todd’s arm with his remaining real hand, squeezing it hard. “He needs you. He needs somebody. I don’t know what’s happening here.” Jael was sending the servant on her way, turning around, noticing Roy. Hurriedly, speaking in a teary whisper, Roy Paige finished, “He’s never gonna live to get as old as his father, the way he’s going. He’s gonna break.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ooooooooo

  A Dynasty Divided

  MORE aides and guards stood about inside the recreation lounge. They were clustered near the main door when Todd, Dian, and Jael entered. The aides immediately began fawning on Jael, ushering her and Dian toward an island of comfortable chairs nearby, offering to fetch them drinks from the bar in that area.

  At the far end of the long room, Pat stood at another, larger bar, all alone. Had he sent his aides into exile, or had they fled from his temper? He was pouring himself a drink. Even from fifteen meters away, Todd could see his brother’s hands shake.

  Todd left the women in the flunkies’ care and walked toward Pat, who was making a media production out of selecting chunks of ice from the antique bar refrigerator, dropping the pieces into his glass, splashing liquor on the marble counter top. Suddenly, he looked up at Todd. Wary, Todd stopped and waited three meters away from his brother.

  He saw what Roy Paige was worried about. Pat and Mari both had a tremendous capacity for alcohol, but they built up to an explosion point eventually, and then all hell broke loose. Pat was very near that stage now. He abandoned his meticulously built drink and eased his way around the bar. As Pat came close, Todd smelled his breath, heavy with rare pre-Chaos whiskey. Nothing but the best.

  “Damn you, you little bastard,” Pat said without rancor. His voice was slurred, the wonderful eyes not quite focused. He grinned and hugged Todd clumsily, shaking him. “Damn you for scaring me like that! You okay, kid? No singed places?” Half sincere, half clown-act, Pat examined Todd, patting his pockets, grabbing his chin, forcing him to turn his face first this way, then that. Todd bore the manhandling stolidly, considering it a small price to pay to keep Pat under control. “You must have come through pretty clean. You look clean. Huh? Doesn’t he look clean, Mother?” Pat didn’t wait for Jael’s answer from the far side of the room. He kept on rambling. “Real clean, clean enough to make me sound like a prize jackass in that cute li’l global cast you made with Miguel . . .”

  For an instant, Todd squirmed inwardly. Then he was annoyed with himself. He was reacting like a naughty kid caught joyriding in his brother’s car. “Well, any excuse to spread the good word. Hell, you do that, right?” Todd said with mock joviality, encouraging Pat to relax and laugh with him. “Besides, I had to blow off a little steam. Got pretty wild up there. Once I cooled down, I figured it was a good chance to plug my hobby. Why the glare? Hell, it’s the same thing I said a week ago when they interviewed me after that firebombing at Project Search.”

  This time the tactic didn’t work. Pat wouldn’t laugh along with him. “Nobody listened to you talking—then.” Then Pat softened the sharp words. “I’m sorry about your people, the man who got killed. . . God, I’m sorry!”

  “Jael told me you’re paying for their treatment. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I want to!” Pat declared earnestly. “We’re Saunders. We stick together. No one hurts us or our people. We knew what kind of expense that med treatment would mean . . . had to, kid.” Todd thought of the dead and injured Goddard Colonists and considered asking Pat if his generosity extended to them, too, but he held his tongue. Pat returned to the first subject. “You’re right, though. Grab the publicity while it’s hot. I’d have done the same thing. Smooth move, your calling Falco like that. Push the pet theory, huh? Isn’t that what Dad used to do? But shit, kid, don’t get yourself killed doing it. You know, 1 think it’s all because of this decoding stuff of yours.”

  He hung his head, breathing hard. The liquor was affecting him heavily. So were the pressures of the campaign. Bodyguards. Constant security. People checking his elevators and trains and fliers to make sure no hidden bombs or assassins were aboard. They probably went through Pat’s closets searching for insidious poison hidden in his clothes, too. V.I.P.s leaning on him and wheedling. Axes to grind. And always more speeches to make. Look handsome for the people. Tell them what they want to believe. Make them love you, follow you, vote for you.

  Todd had often been jealous of Pat’s physical beauty, his tremendous stage presence, the women who flocked around him. After so many years, and seeing the price Pat was paying, that jealousy was almost gone. Fame was picking Pat Saunder to bits. Each greedy admirer left less of the man for Pat Saunder himself.

  “Can’t you put it on hold, kid, this decoding stuff?” Pat said. “Huh? Just let me get this damn election over with and I’ll channel funds all over the place to your de . . . decryption. Promise!”

  Todd couldn’t resist the impulse. “Are you going to send funds to Goddard, too?” he asked.

  Pat winced, his handsome face taut with pain. “I can’t! Can’t! It’s campaign strategy . . .”

  “Come on, Pat. Is it? Are things really that simple? Do you think you can turn off all the anti-Spacer hatred after the campaign’s over? As for Project Search, I meant what I’ve said all along. If my people don’t decode the message, other scientists will, and they just might bungle the job. I want the job done right, and my people are the best.” He knew he was piling too much on Pat, more than his brother could comprehend in his present condition. Piling things on him, the same way the V.I.P.s and the adoring public were.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Pat waved a hand as if to shoo away insects. Then he brightened and changed subjects again, suddenly cheerful. “Two of ‘em? Were they crack fliers? Damn! That must have been exciting, huh? Shit! I wish I’d been there. Bet you peeled ‘em off, just like we used to scrape bugs off the palms at Saunderhome.” He was vicariously enjoying Todd’s close call. They were adolescents again, reminiscing about buzzing the island, affectionate conspirators.

  “A little bit scarier than those dumb stunts,” Todd said. “They zigzagged me all over the old capitol. I almost decorated a building a few times. I started thinking maybe it was a good thing my sperm’s on file at the South Pole.” Despite the momentarily happy mood, he found himself watching Pat narrowly, looking for a reaction. Pat’s inhibitions were down. Would he reveal something, act as if he knew something secret about SE Antarctic Enclave or a computer that wouldn’t obey its programming? There was no flicker of guilt. Todd felt immense relief at that.

  Pat slapped Todd’s shoulder exuberantly. “Hey, right! We’re on storage down there, safe and sound against the slings and arrows and all that stuff. Tucked away for posterity, our li’l sperm and eggs. Good old Enclave! Dad had a terrific idea there. That’s the kind of altruism I like. Pays off. And we can brag that it’s all for the good of humanity, right?” Across the room, his aides and guards eyed him worriedly. No one gave them any orders, however, so they stayed where they were while the candidate sneered at his own campaign philosophy. “We ought to drink to altruism, kid.”

  He spun around, gesturing, nearly pulling Todd off balance. “And look at the perks! Look at this beautiful bombproof cave. Ippolito built this place on blood. That’s funny, isn’t it? The biggest arms dealer in modern history. Old bastard made billions! He couldn’t count all his money and properties.” Giggling, Pat grabbed Todd around the neck in a loose bearhug and whispered loudly, “Remember how Ippolito panicked and came running to us? Deadly disease, the doctors told him. And he begged us to put him on ice till they found a cure. Name our price—any price, he said.” Pat straightened and peered owlishly at Jael. “Oh, you got him good, Moth
er.”

  He lurched to the bar. Todd followed him, trying to get the glass away, muttering that he wanted a drink himself and would build Pat a fresh one. He didn’t have a chance to pull the switch and make a watered drink for his brother. Those pale eyes were focused and glittering, and an anger line appeared between Pat’s black eyebrows. He had reached another stage of drunkenness, one beyond slurriness and good-natured floundering. He closed a strong hand over Todd’s and forcibly took the glass back. “I want to drink a toast to our illustrious mother, the woman who made all these wonderful altruistic benefits possible.” Then he drained the glass.

  Jael was finally moving, Dian following her warily. The guards and aides hung back, trailing Jael, but not very eagerly. Pat watched his mother approach. “We stripped poor old Ippolito absolutely naked. He wanted immortality on ice, and we gave it to him—at a whopping price. Cleaned him out. Mother showed the bastard no mercy. If he’s not a Saunder, he’s shit. Right, Mother?”

  Todd glanced at Dian. He hoped his expression was as unreadable as hers. He was embarrassed, and he hurt for Pat’s sake. He wanted to cut through his brother’s self-loathing, but Pat had the power on full.

  “And we’re his beneficiaries. We’re going to inherit the whole damned planet—you, me, and Mari. No, I forgot. Mari doesn’t want any part of our old planet, does she? Just you and me, then, kid. And me making speeches about the wasteful consumption of Earth’s priceless resources. Look at this place! The old boy built it so no missile could touch it. Spent half his fortune to be safe, buried here, surrounded by obscene luxury. Now he’s in a frozen box, and all this is ours. Talk about wasteful consumption!”

  Pat was talking faster and faster, as if wanting to spit it all out before Jael could stop him. “They force it on me, Todd. ‘Take everything, but let me live into the future, even if you have to freeze me to do it.’ ‘Vote for my bill; don’t ask why my people are starving.’ ‘Look the other way while I enslave half my population; I’ll pay you for your silence.’ And I take it, Todd. They offer it to me, and, God help me, I take it. It’s a damnable habit now. They keep telling me there’s always more where that came from. And there is! I’m addicted! I’m living like a goddamned emperor, and I haven’t even won the election yet. They already own me, those—those leeches!”

  He gripped Todd by the shoulders, pleading. His eyes were haunted. “I’m a hypocrite, kid. But I’ve got to pay it all back. Somehow. It won’t be free. They give it to me, but it’s got strings. Oh, God! How am I going to keep all these promises I’m making? I’ve got to. I will! You believe me, don’t you, kid?”

  “Sure, sure, Pat. You always keep your word,” Todd soothed.

  Pat shook him hard, agitated. “Right! Right! I knew I could count on you to see what I’m talking about. I’m going to make it. I am!”

  “Pour some wine, Patrick,” Jael cut in. She was at Todd’s elbow, speaking in her threatening, tightly controlled voice. “Not all of us care to drink rye.”

  “Just Dad and me and Todd, huh? Like father, like Sons.” Pat’s manner turned testy. He made the words a challenge.

  “Ward never drank like a fish and then babbled . . .”

  “No? Didn’t he? I seem to recall a few evenings in our happy home when he let you know what he thought of all your wheeling and dealing and the way we were growing up. In vino veritas, and all that. Maybe Dad didn’t have as much truth locked up in his soul as I do. He couldn’t! He wasn’t a hypocrite. Hell, who cares if I babble? No one here but us Saunders and wallpaper people.” He grinned and wriggled his fingers contemptuously at the cluster of guards and aides. Then he leered at Dian. “You’re almost a Saunder, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

  Dian placated him with an assenting nod. Jael was about to continue scolding Pat when he went to rummage in the wine racks behind the bar. With a frown, Jael watched him wipe the old bottle and begin extracting the cork. His hands were remarkably steady now, Todd noticed. He hoped Pat had burned off the worst of what was bothering him.

  Not all of it. He was still an explosion looking for a place to happen. “Say, kid, ‘Rissa wants to see you. She heard the news and got worried. Wants to press the flesh and make sure you’re okay, you know. Go on. Give her a kiss and make a pass at her and cheer her up . . .”

  Jael glanced warningly at the ubiquitous security monitor cameras in the corners. “That’s not wise at the moment, Patrick. She’s probably been watching this little performance of yours, on her closed-circuit screens. She’ll be upset. Let me calm her down before—”

  “You stay away from her,” Pat said curtly.

  “Patrick, be reasonable. She’s pregnant.”

  “No!” Pat’s sarcasm would have melted the marble bar top. “Now how did that happen? Suppose it was something I did? Butt out, Mother. You play doting grandmother when I say so. Otherwise, go tend to your power brokering. You had your chance to be a frail, pregnant female.”

  Jael wouldn’t let it go, even though Todd signaled her frantically to change the subject. He sensed Pat’s rising anger as Jael pushed on. “I was much stronger when I was carrying you and the others. Carissa needs help. I have plenty of experience . . .”

  “Don’t you just! Iron woman! Drop the kids on the carpet while you’re at a board meeting, slicing a competitor into bite-sized pieces. I’ve heard it all, Mother, too many times. Carissa’s having this baby, not you. She’ll do a damned sight better job raising the kid, too, than you did with us, for my money. Lots of my money!”

  “If you’d just calm down and be civil . . . I told you I’d take care of it,” Jael persisted, her tone dangerously patronizing. “You have your hands full with the campaign. I can take charge of this little feminine matter and see that the very best—”

  Pat grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle and raised it over his head. The bodyguards took a few steps forward, then stopped. Decisions were impossible. Whom did they protect? The shining political star, or the woman who had hired them?

  “That’s no good, Pat,” Todd warned tensely. “Put it down, please.”

  A series of emotions warred over Pat’s sharp face. “Right again, kid. It’s not the time. Not yet!” Then, quite deliberately, he smashed the bottle to pieces on the counter top.

  Reflexively, Todd wheeled, shielding Dian. Splintered glass flew. The bodyguards and aides finally had to act, They moved in on Jael, Pat, Todd, and Dian.

  “Are you hurt, sir? Dr. Foix? Did you get cut?”

  “Mrs. Saunder? Please, let me get a cloth . . .” A woman aide mopped daintily at a splash of whiskey soiling Jael’s expensive clothes.

  “Mrs. Saunder? Sir?” Pat was a smiling statue, refusing to reply, enduring their ministrations. They pried the remains of the bottle’s neck out of his fingers and examined him for cuts or blood. People swarmed around the bar and picked up shards of glass, blotting at stains, fussing. “Maybe we’d better call the medics,” one suggested.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jael said. “It seems no one is injured.” She was trembling with rage, yet not letting it erupt into tears or yelling. “Patrick, how could you?” she asked in a soft voice. “That was outrageous. A childish tantrum.”

  “But fun! Damn, that felt good!”

  “You can’t expect to behave like that after you’re elected,” Jael replied icily. “You’ll have the dignity of your office to—”

  “Wait! Just wait!” That dangerous glitter returned to Pat’s eyes. He seemed cold sober now. “Get this junk out of here,” he ordered his aides, indicating the broken glass. Then he turned to Jael. “Maybe it was a tantrum, Mother. But it’s something that’s been coming a long time. If you’re too blind to see it, I’ll spell it out for you. No, don’t put on that little tolerant sneer of yours. I’m not your baby boy any more. I’m thirty-five years old, and that’s my wife, and my baby. Not yours! Got that? Keep your damned hands off. Quit trying to live my life—and Todd’s, and Mari’s! God! That’s probably why we’re losing Mari. You couldn
’t let her be, could you? Got to run everything. Saunder Enterprises and all us little Saunders. Toe the line. Salute sharply there! And most of all, mind Mama. Not any more!”

  The bodyguards and aides began to leave, toting piles of broken glass and sopping bar towels. They looked back over their shoulders, and Todd read their mixed motives. They didn’t want to get dragged into this. But they hated to miss the juiciest part of the fight. The famous Saunder clan, screaming and slashing at one another. Todd assumed Jael had signed them on to a strict protection-of-privacy contract, or this fracas would be all over the rival media in the morning. Pat’s political opponents would love to get their hands on it.

  “Don’t you turn away from me, Mother! I’ve got one hell of a lot more to say! We’re going to settle this!” Pat didn’t stop glaring at Jael as he addressed his brother. “You don’t have to put up with this, kid. Go on, Todd. You and Dian see ‘Rissa. . .”

  Todd felt like a rat leaving a sinking ship. Dian wouldn’t let him hesitate. He knew she was right. A bodyguard shut the door on the yelling. A wall monitor screen showed Pat going at it again. Then the screen went blank. Jael or Pat had pulled the plug. The watchers weren’t going to be allowed to witness this event, under the guise of protecting them from harm. No eavesdroppers invited.

  Dian took two steps to every one of his until Todd realized he was practically running back to the private bedroom suites. He slowed down and allowed Dian to catch her breath. “Pat’s held too much in, ever since he was a kid. It explodes now and then. But never this bad. He used to be able to work things off roughhousing with me, or racing boats or fliers with Mari. Maybe he ought to hire a sparring partner, one of those bodyguards. But when would he have time for exercise now? He’s on stage all the time. And all those responsibilities. Roy Paige was right; they’re killing him. And Pat hates to lie. Political fast talk to please the crowds, sure. But hot all those promises he knows he can’t deliver.”