The mob of mediamen and officials surged forward. They strained to touch him, to thrust cameras and mikes in his face. I expected him to bat them aside in fury, but he smiled and stood ramrod straight. The flash of lights redoubled.
When there was a momentary lull Senator Boland stepped forward, his son Rob watching. “Welcome back, Captain Seafort. You held the world in thrall.”
Fath nodded, but moved past him. He didn’t stop until he reached the outer rail. One hand on the steel, he turned to face the throng of mediamen.
“How did it feel to—”
“Did you know SecGen Kahn would back down?”
“Were you—”
“Will you—”
I fought my way through the jostling mass, to the rooftop’s far corner.
Mr. Chang regarded me. “Chaco,” he said.
“Naw. Peetee.”
A hint of a smile. “Musta got ya confuse.”
I turned to Mom. Her face was stony.
I leaned my head against her breast. My arms drew around her, locked themselves behind her back.
A full minute passed. Slowly, her hand came up to stroke my neck.
After a time, I wriggled loose. “I need to listen,” I said, “I’ll be right back.”
I squeezed through the crowd.
“No, I wasn’t sure,” Fath was saying. “How could I be?” He held up a hand for silence. Drifting closer, I found myself behind Robbie Boland and his Dad.
Fath held up a hand. “No more questions. An announcement.” Joeys poked and shushed each other, until there was quiet.
Father surveyed the crowd, his hair glistening in the haze of the night.
Richard Boland said softly, “Look. They hang on his every word.”
“You’re no slouch on a podium, Dad.”
“But I’m not the ...” He spoke the word as if strange to him. “... Fisherman.”
“What’s he up to?”
Senator Boland didn’t answer.
Fath said, “I accept Mr. Kahn’s assertion that he acted in good faith throughout, and was unaware of the degree to which power was abused in his name. He’s accepted the resignations of Marion Leeson and Will Banks, Secretary of Defense, and that is good.”
Fath paused. “But it is the responsibility of the SecGen to supervise his aides, even if he finds himself incapable of actual leadership. In this regard I fault Mr. Kahn. Thanks to his isolation and inattention, we’ve suffered over fifty thousand dead, many of them in the relentless final hours of brutal laser attacks on this city.”
The air was electric with tension.
“His administration is without moral authority. It is now clear his Administration has forfeited public support as well.” Fath’s eyes met Senator Boland’s.
“Dad, he’s endorsing you!” Rob Boland.
“Wait.”
Fath said, “There is no candidate from either party whose prime concern is the reconciliation of our people. Therefore, I declare my candidacy for the Secretary-Generalship of the United Nations. I pledge that my Administration, when elected, will act promptly to end our cities’ suffering, to integrate into our culture the hordes of urban dwellers who ...”
The rest was lost in a roar of acclaim. The surge of the crowd nearly knocked Father from the rail, but he quickly recovered, waved to the greedy cameras.
Watching the tumult, Robert Boland stood as if crushed. After a time he said wistfully to his father, “This should have been your moment.”
“Well.” Somberly, Richard threw his arm around his son. “Perhaps ... another time.”
I ducked under raised holocameras, struggled until I was within a few feet of Fath. Was it a trick of the lights, or the angle from which I peered? Was I the only one who could see the tear that crept down his cheek?
Epilogue
DATESTAMP MARCH 1, 2230
Riverview Tower School Vidclass
Greater New York, U.S.A.
Hey Mista Chang. Eng teacha say Pook s’pose ta write real letta ta someone he like, but I got two prollems. Okay, I learn ta spell my name; zarky frazzin’ deal. But writin’ what I think? Naw, I nevah be able ta do dat. And who I s’pose ta like? Midboss Karlo? Fah.
So I tol’ teacha noway, an’ she say okay ta talk a letta on vid and send it ya. I think ’bout write ta Jared Uppie, but can’t fo’ now. So, since Allie gone and Raulie busy wid clearin’ sub, you only one I know ’sides Peetee.
Ya gotta be glitch, sendin’ me Uppie school. Dunno why I ’gree in firs’ place. An’ why I gotta live in towah ’til vacaysh? Sub be only few block away. And if can’t live dere, ya shop still stand, don’ it?
Dis mornin’ some snot Uppie joey make fun a me. Riddy cool me, teacha call it. Betcha he won’ do it ’gain. I kicked shit outa him, threw ’im downa stair. Why teacha ack like it end a worl’? How else joeykit gonna learn? Leas’ I didn’ have shiv, like on streets. Gotta go ta principal office when I done here, and alia otha kits laughin’, sayin’ wow when he get holt a you.
Dunno, Mista Chang. Nigh’ time be hardest. I lie in sof’ bed lissenin’ ta joeykit Winston snorin’, and think a Sub, an Jared, and how Halber go out defy. Sometime make me wanna cry.
See, I can’ figga what ya ’xpect a me here. Think I turn inta Uppie, all neat threads an polish? Ain’ gonna happen, Mista Chang. I be Pook, of Pook lair.
Okay, I hear what ya tol’ me befo’. Gotta learn how dey live, Pook, learn ta walk ’mong ’em widout be ’fraid. ’Cause trannietown changin’ and we gonna need trannies can live both worl’.
Hones’, I tryin’. Readin’ be unzark, but I learn lettas an’ soun’ out stupe words. Only few joeys laugh anymore, ’cause I fix ’em when no one look. But rest a learn stuff be grody. Who care where Belfast usetabe, or why dey drop nuke? What I wanna know, where be Washhite, and why Huds an’ Rocks always so pissoff?
Peetee come ta see me once, month or so back. His motha brought him, same Uppie bitchbroad what made us take her ta sub. She sure look diff dressed like Uppie. We talk some, Peetee and I, ’bout day I firs’ saw him wid Jag an’ Swee.
Long time ago, he say, and guess I gotta ’gree.
Dey keepin’ ya busy, Mista Chang? Maybe need help? I do watcha say, Mista Chang, hones’. Jus’ gemme outa here.
Pook.
Philip Seafort
United Nations Complex
Secretary-General’s Residence
Greater New York
March 18, 2230
Arlan Skeer, Dr. of Psych
Washington, D.C. USA
Dear Mr. Skeer:
Four months was a long time to be grounded, but Fath was firm and Mom backed him up. Not that I really expected otherwise, even if they’re not living together. Still, it’s a great relief now that I’m less of a prisoner.
I’m lonely without Mr. Tenere and Jared. Mr. Thorne is nice, but it isn’t the same. He claims he’s not sure how Fath persuaded him to become his Chief of Staff, though Mr. Thorne had, as he put it, nowhere else to go.
Rob Boland’s adoption papers became final last week. He threw a small celebration, and Mom and I went. Jared is almost through his hormone rebalancing, but he still gets weepy and dependent from the drugs. I was surprised, given Jar’s earlier claims of adulthood, to see how he let Mr. Boland comfort him. It’s odd to see Robert Boland embrace parenthood. I’d thought he never cared much for Jar.
I guess Mr. Boland will have time to learn. One night after dinner, lying in Fath’s study doing homework, I asked why Rob resigned as Assemblyman, especially as his Dad is now our Colonial Secretary. Fath just smiled and said I shouldn’t assume Robbie is done with politics. Mr. Boland’s mother is zarky. We had her to tea the other day.
When Mom came to New York we went to see Mr. Chang in the hospital. The old man fussed and growled, but I think he was pleased to see us. He seems more frail than ever, but Mom says he’s still resisting a transplant. He’s only allowing preop lab tests because Fath insisted he deal with the trann
ies until tribe councils are organized. Fath wants to make him Commissioner of Urban Affairs, even though Mr. Chang says he’s too weak for it.
After, Mom took me to see the new Rodin exhibit at Franjee Towers. When she dropped me off at home I got sort of morose and teary. I sat outside Fath’s door until he finished with the Admiral, and let him give me a hug. He said that notwithstanding appearances, he wouldn’t be surprised if Mom came home to stay. Late that night I tiptoed downstairs, and heard him talking to her on the caller. I couldn’t hear all the words, and when he looked into the hall, I pretended to be asleep, like I’d do in the old days.
But I’m less of a child. I’ll be fourteen in a few months. I’m getting hair, and I’ve been rereading my downloads on puberty. Overall, Fath has become more strict, and I don’t think it’s just the strain of politics. A few days ago I lost my temper, and he bent me over his desk and whacked me with a belt. Before last year he wouldn’t have done that. After, when we made up, he said he was determined to stay in control, and not to let me slip into adolescent sullenness. He gave me three chapters of astronavigation to take my mind off myself.
Now that the markets are settling down, I dabble in stocks again through my nets. Mom knows about it, and promises not to tell Fath.
It’s funny how things work out. Objectively speaking—Fath says I overuse that phrase, and I ought to think of another—I’m still rather upset. You helped a lot, even though I see you less often. Thanks for your home number; it gives me a nice feeling of security.
It’s kind of fun being just a joeykid again. But at night, in bed, I think about how our lives were wrenched apart. That’s when I try hard not to rev. Was the rebellion my fault? Was I responsible for Jared, and the terrible work of the lasers? You and Fath say absolutely not, I’m just a child and mustn’t blame myself.
I think they’re wrong, but we’ll see. Maybe I can escape the blame I feel. I’m not sure yet.
Filmatleven.
Philip Tyre Seafort
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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copyright © 1996 by David Feintuch
cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4532-9705-6
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Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 56
