I turn sideway, an’ quick think a somethin’ else, ’less Allie see fronta my pants.
Chang still talkin’ ta Halber.
She whisper, “Why ya wid traytaman?”
“Help wid cart.” Less’n she think I be jus’ joeykit, I add, “He give me lotsa innifo, he say, please, Pook, Chang can’ do it hisself.”
Her turn ta look admire. “Lessee innifo.”
“I, um ...It’s inna lair,” I say jus’ in time. “Think Pookboy bring stuff down ta Sub, maybe lose?”
She look awe.
Krand say, all scorny, “He swind ya, Allie.”
She bite her lip, lookin’ at Krand, at me. “Swind?”
“Fo’ sure. Looka him.” He point me. “Shirt tore, full a dirt. No ring, no chain. Look like he collec’ lotsa innifo? Whatcha think, Allie?”
I think Krand look good wid second mouth gapin’ unnerneath.
Hand fall on shoulder. Changman. “Time ta go, joey.”
I real glad ta see; it mean I don’ have ta ansa Krand. “Yes, Mista Chang.” I get up, all dignify. “We be go.”
Allie get up wid me. “C’mon, Krand. Les’ goalong ta stair.”
Chang an’ Halber walk firs’. ’Fore we get ta dark place, Allie poke my arm. “Good ta meetcha,” she say.
I go proud.
Chapter 9
ROBERT
AT BREAKFAST, I REFILLED my juice. “When will he decide?”
Adam Tenere tore his gaze from the sunlit, close-cropped lawn. “Perhaps—the Commandant isn’t ... you might—I don’t know.” He rubbed his eyes.
I pursed my lips, unsure how hard to press.
Adam’s breakfast lay untouched. He poured himself a second cup of coffee. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep, Robbie.”
I said nothing. He had power to transport me back to my youth with but a single word. Robbie.
“Aah.” Adam waved away his distraction. “I gather you need a commitment?”
I nodded.
“At heart, he’s no politician,” said Adam.
He certainly wasn’t, not in Dad’s sense. Where Dad thrived in the social interchange of politics, the Captain was an intensely personal, private man. My father loved finding common ground among parties preoccupied with their self-interest. Captain Seafort searched for moral truth and viewed anything less as failure. Dad was genuinely liked by politicians of both parties. The Captain was respected, and in some circles, revered. That was all.
When at last I looked up, he said, “Long ago, when we were midship—when you were a cadet. Remember the Senators’ inspection visit?”
I had to grin. “No, but Dad told me often enough.”
“We middies figured the Commandant had lost his mind. He hated letting a gaggle of politicians overrun Farside. So he threw them all in barracks like a bunch of plebes, regardless of the political fallout. Some of them were mad as hell.”
“Dad said he had to stroke a lot of feathers that week.”
“Mr. Keene had us doing what we could to soothe them, lest they call for Marines to storm the base.” Adam’s smile faded. “You see, the Commandant doesn’t understand tradeoffs and alliances. The more you push, the more he gets his back up. And Rob, he feels you’re pushing.”
I knew to take Adam’s warning seriously.
After defeating the savage alien attack on home system, Nick Seafort had fled to a Neo-Benedictine monastery, lost in the darkness of his soul.
Ten years had passed.
Perhaps he’d be there still, if not for a visit from Eddie Boss, the transpop seaman who’d been his valet. Eddie had sought his help to protest the Territorial Party’s renewal scheme for the cities.
The Captain sent them away with sharp words, but within a month, he’d emerged to bear the relentless glare of the holocameras. He’d proclaimed his candidacy for the Senate, denouncing in the harshest terms SecGen Anjour’s cleanup of the slums surrounding the U.N. compound.
Thanks to Seafort’s stand, the Territorials were forced to withdraw U.N.A.F. troops from the streets. Trannie life resumed as it had been; that is, in filth, squalor and misery. Seafort’s term for it was “independence.”
No matter. The Captain had ridden the issue to a Senate seat for Northern England. Dad insisted the issue had ridden Seafort, but the effect was the same.
For a while, the Captain had flouted political rules with impunity, setting an example of harsh truthfulness and unyielding honesty. A doting electorate propelled him into the Secretariat, and with him, our Supranationalist party took power.
Once in office, Seafort’s refusal to be pushed turned out to be more a nuisance than a virtue. Time and again, his intransigence unraveled a bargain Dad had labored to forge.
Perhaps, in the Port of London scandal, if Dad and his colleagues had been less forceful in urging the Captain to hedge his acceptance of blame, the SecGen would have heeded their advice and their administration wouldn’t have collapsed.
I sighed. Seafort’s career was no longer of concern. Dad’s was.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Adam’s gaze fell again to his half-empty cup. “Rob ...”
“Yes, sir?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop. You’re an Assemblyman, not a cadet. And I’m just a retired lieutenant.”
“It’s a mark of respect, Adam, and I’m comfortable with it.”
His smile softened the lines around his eyes. “Now you sound like P.T.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. He’s a good boy.”
“Yes.” But Adam’s visage darkened, as if a cloud had passed across the sun. A moment’s silence, then, “Did you discuss anything important with your father last night?”
What an odd question. “Why do you ask?”
Adam colored. “Forgive me, that was rude. And it’s not my place to ...” He stood, abruptly. “Lord Christ, I can’t just sit here and pretend ...” He turned away.
I crossed to his side. “What’s wrong, sir?”
For a moment I thought he was about to put me in my place, like a middy would an obnoxious cadet. Then he sagged. “It’s Jared. I don’t know what to do. I’m no good as a father.”
My mouth tightened. “What’s he done?”
“I’m not free to tell you.” He thrust his hands in his pockets, studied the elegant facade of Seafort’s house. “Anyway, it’s just one more incident. God, I wish Elena was here.”
“He’s at a rough age.”
“That’s an excuse I won’t use any longer.” His tone was bitter. “I’ve made a mess of things, Rob. I’m ... ashamed.”
My hand drifted to his shoulder, rested there a moment before dropping. I owed him that, from years before. “You still have time.”
“He’s past fifteen.”
I said, “When I went off to Academy, I expected an easy time of it, because of Dad. From the start, the Captain was so ... cold, I guess. It shocked me. My connections meant nothing to him. When he called me to his office and whaled me, it was a terrible shock.”
“I know.” How could he not? He’d helped me through it.
“It helped me grow up, Adam.”
He met my eye, nodded. After a while he turned his face. “I can’t, Rob. I just ... can’t.” His tone was husky.
I felt miserably inadequate. “Lord God knows I’m no expert, but you might be stricter. Even if you won’t strike him.”
A brief grin. “I was, last night. I think I startled him.”
“Good.”
“But today I relapsed, and did nothing. It’s hard to change.”
“You’ll work it out.” How fatuous could I get? I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. To my annoyance, Adam noticed.
He stood immediately. “I’ll walk you to your heli.”
“Thanks.” Dad had left before breakfast, for a fund-raiser at the Sheraton Skytel.
“Robbie ...” He sounded hesitant. “Why is it you never married?”
My tone was light. “I haven’t yet. The time will co
me.” If someday I overcome the fear of sharing my life and intimate thoughts with another. One who might judge me and disapprove.
I smiled. “Besides, all the good ones are taken.” Arlene Sanders, for example. Arlene Seafort, these thirteen years.
Arlene Sanders had fought in the alien war, both in Wellington and after, on U.N.S. Brentley at Caltech Planet. Those who’d known her said she’d been a tough, no-nonsense officer. Once, in the worst of the anti-Naval riots after the war, she’d led a detail guarding the new Naval wing on Earthport Station, and was rumored to have killed several marauders by her own hand.
I’d never known her during our days in the Naval Service. But earlier, as a cadet in Academy, she’d been Captain Seafort’s bunkie.
Years later, when the Captain emerged from his monastery, solitary and brooding, he’d entered politics without a helpmeet.
His first wife had died aboard ship; his second, Annie Wells, divorced him during his long seclusion at Lancaster.
At receptions and diplomatic gatherings he would stand alone, nursing the one drink he allowed himself of an evening, enduring the sycophants who surrounded him. His discomfort was so apparent my heart went out to him. When his eye caught mine his expression would lighten, and the corners of his mouth would twitch as if to say, “Duty.”
I don’t know at what event he met Arlene. Shortly after, she became a fixture at his side, interposing herself between him and the worst of his tormentors.
Ever since, she’d protected him with fierce vigilance. I suspected it was more her influence than the Captain’s that kept P.T. at heel, though to tell the truth, the boy didn’t seem to mind the discipline. Though I was fond of him, I understood him not a bit. He was phenomenally intelligent, and as unnervingly forthright as his father.
I blinked away my reverie as Adam and I crossed the lawn to the house. I picked up my bag. At the helipad I took his arm. “Dad’s really anxious about the Cities Redevelopment bill. We need to know what the Captain says as soon as possible.” Before Dad burns his bridges and destroys an old friend.
“I’ll mention it again. Let me pick my time.”
“Hurry,” I said. I boarded.
Chapter 10
PEDRO
POOKBOY CAME, POOKBOY WENT. Maybe he made up wid Karlo, maybe didn’t. Every day or so he came by. I asked if he be back wid Mids, but he only shrugged. Maybe foun’ himself ’nother place to stay, but that wouldn’ be Mid way. They be lair folk.
I took long trip uptown, to get rest of permas that Halber Boss Sub asked for. I worried ’bout what he’d do after he had enough, but figured it was worse not to give.
Nex’ day I loaded cart, started haulin’ permas to Sub. Pookboy came runnin’, to ask if I wanted help. Silly Midboy, tryta swind Pedro Telamon Chang. Naw, I said, do fine myself. He ended helpin’ for free, ’steada for trayfo. Dunno why he wanted to comealong, but was in his eyes; he couldn’ hide it yet. He never make a traytaman. After, I gave him cansa anyway, jus’ because.
Leas’ I could read in peace an’ quiet, with no Pookboy prowlin’ shop like nervous cat. Didn’ know whassa matta that joeykit; he couldn’ sit still a min. I read through three books Frad brought back to trayfo. Dunno why Lenin try to write philosophy; his politics was bad enough. A waste of my cansa.
Everyday, I read holozine, but didn’ need daily newschip to watch pipe water go browner. Meantime, ol’ Sen Boland gettin’ his bill pass. He wouldn’ need to send govermen to pushout trannies like SecGen Anjour, years back. Tribes’ll jus’ dry up an’ blow way.
Not yet a problem for Chang; I had big catchbasin on roof, filtered, ’lectric fence round it with lotsa permas for charge. For years tribes knew not to mess wid Pedro Chang. Even Neut could diss tribeman, if catch him takin’ his stuff. Hard, but gotta be. Else, they steal all I got.
I checked drainpipes that ran from roof to big cistern in cellar. No breaks. Enough water for two, three month, long as I boiled. An’ long as desperate trannies didn’ learn about it when they went dry. Maybe, if lucky, tribes could last ’til summer end. Winter bring lotsa rain. Maybe get through ’til next summer.
Nighttime I sat in chair by Valdez perma. Tea was hot, shop quiet.
Marx an’ Lenin right ’bout one thing: organize. Trannies of world, unite. Only way, but I couldn’ get them listen. Ravan thought I glitched, tellin’ him water stop. Halber listened, maybe believed. He didn’ say what Subs do.
Subs were my bes’ chance. Sub tunnels went throughout, unner. All tribes respected Subs. No one ever went unner, even if stairhole sat unguard. Invader skinned alive, for warn. Like Halber said, no one mess with Subs.
They could lead tribes. United, trannies might make govermen listen.
Knock on door.
I never opened at night. Tribes respected Neut, usual. But nighttime, maybe some lonah come see what traytaman hide ’bove shop. Ol’ traytaman ain’ gonna object, lyin’ on floor with shiv in chest.
Knock again, loud.
They knew I inside, no point sayin’ nothin. I went to door. “Go ’way, we close.”
“It be Pook.”
“Don’ care ya Arthur King of England, we close.”
“Lemme in, Changman.”
I bristled. “Pah. Coulda come in day, ’fore dark. Too stupid ta know Chang’ don’ open inna nigh’? Go way!” I wen’ back to chair.
Voice come from door, subdued. “Please, Mista Chang. Pookboy do whatcha say.” Pause. “Please.”
Hair on neck rose. Somethin’ wrong. I hurried to back room, opened hide place, took out special item I saved years back. Trotted to door. “Whoeva be wid Pookboy, don’ mess wid ol’ Chang!. He showya!” I unbolted latch, then ’nother.
Finally, had door unlocked. Opened last bolt, swung door open, ready.
Jus’ Pookboy, by hisself.
I grabbed his arm, pulled him in, slammed door. “Whatcha messin’ roun’ in middle of nigh?” I took his ear, twis’. Only way make him listen, sometime. “Wanna stay Chang shop, I work ya! Work all nigh’, work all day!”
“Yes, Mista Chang.” He didn’ pull ’way like usual.
I let go, worried. “Whassamatta, Pook?”
He turned sideway. I took in breath real fast. “Lor’ God King of Universe, savanprotec’ him!”
I hauled him to table with teapot, grabbed cloth I use for wipe, mopped at bloody mess underneath arm. “How bad it be? Siddown, Pook. We gotta take off shirt.”
He saw what I put down on table; eyes went wide. “Chang got laser? Howya fin’?”
Shouldn’t of let him see. Meant trouble, later. “Sit. Get you fix ’fore you go faint.”
He siddown, obedient. That worried me more; meant he hurtin’ bad.
I fumbled at shirt with old man’s fingers, gave up. I patted him down, found his shiv, used it to cut away shirt. Found myself babbling. “Don’ worry ’bout thread, Pookboy. We getcha ’notha.” His side looked tore. “Gonna be allri’. Chang fix ya up.” I poured hot water onna cloth, dabbed. Boy hissed, stiffened, sat quiet. Blood oozed.
I took his bare shoulders in hands, squeezed gentle. “I go get meds ta fix. Stay still, okay okay?”
He nodded. He shivered, winced with pain it brought.
I ran to back room, grabbed perma for light, hurried up stair.
Trannies don’ use meds, usual. No point my keepin’ them fo trayfo; tribes can’ afford, an’ they figure if it their time to die, they go. Usetabe, hospitals in city took trannies, Uppies, anyone.
Usetabe.
By time I got to thir’ floor, heart goin’ slam. Couldn’t help Pookboy if I dead upstair. But couldn’t lettim bleed out. Medkits. Had two cases, where they be? Think, Pedro. Don’ go senile jus’ yet.
Inna corner. I trotted across dark creaky room, detourin’ rotted places. Fumbled for box, pulled out medkit with trembling hands.
Stopped to take two breath, top of stair. Can’ fall down stair now, no time. I came down, careful. Pook sat in chair, looking at light. Eyes wet.
Workin’, I fussed at him, to sound normal. “Stupid Midboy get hisself cut. Learn ta stay in lair at night, don’ get inna rumb.” I swabbed wound, gentle as I could. “Joeykit can’t roam roun’ nights, or he get diss. Stay in lair.”
“Been.”
I glanced up. “Cut in lair?”
He nod. “Karlo.”
“Aiee. Joeykit gotta min’ manners, he wanna be growed Mid.” Skin sliced, but didn’ see nothin’ go through ribs. Maybe not so bad. Time would tell; filmatleven. “Pook can’ mouth off allatime.”
“Yes, Mista Chang.” Docile.
As I worked I thought with hate about frazzin’ system. Coulda been pretty Uppie boy, this trannie joeykit. Slim, nice face ’xcept for old scar over eye. If life been different, coulda gone to fancy Uppie school, live in tower. Or, born outa city, coulda growed to do honest work for Uppies. But he’ll be nothin’, maybe die ’fore he ever shave.
I washed his side again, this time with disinfectant from kit. Boy whimpered.
“Easy, Pook. Almos’ done.”
“Cold.”
“Shock, maybe.” Dunno; I ain’ medtech. Was wonderin’ why bother to clean wound; germs prolly already inside. Boy was filthy, as usual. Gotta ’xpect, livin’ inna street. Trannies can’ help it, don’ even notice smell no more.
In Uppie clinic, he’d get skintouch cloth, and heal fast. I didn’ have, couldn’ keep it. It spoil fast. Thought of sewin’, old fashion way, but figured tape’ll hold, an’ sewin’ would hurt boy too much.
From kit, I took broadspec antibi. “Swallow.”
“Whazzit?” He wrinkled face, looked at it suspicious.
My hand went up to cuff him, stopped. Not this night. “Make ya feel better.” Obedient, he took. I poured tea, dumped in lotsa sugar. Nevamind cost. Made him drink. Maybe it help shock:
I wrapped him with gauze. “I gotta pull tape tight, Pook.” I tugged. He yelped, push my hand away.
“Hol’ still!”
“Leave it ’lone; I be okay!”
Enough was enough. I rapped him onna side of head. “Yes, Mista Chang!”
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 7
