The Final Planet
Page 29
Fergus promptly seconded the nomination, adding that General O’Neill was the only one, with the possible exception of his lovely lady, who knew enough about the two cultures to maintain the delicate links that would combine them in their glorious efforts to make this planet a happy and free place for all who lived on it.
Horor then rose to speak for the Council of Tyrone. He assured the Tarans of the warm welcome their citizenry extended to their new friends and allies, saying that as the first Taran friend, the Noble Lord General O’Neill surely should act as the Earl for at least a year. Horor was the only one who kept a straight face throughout the farce.
After that, herself asked if there were any more nominations. There were none. O’Neill was elected Earl by acclamation.
What could he do? When Deirdre solemnly asked him, “Will you accept, General O’Neill?” he responded with the shortest speech he ever gave in his life: “Woman, I will.”
There was a huge cheer from the plaza, then much good-natured laughter when his wife caused him acute embarrassment by hugging him in public.
Politics, O’Neill discovered, was much harder than war or reconstruction. In a battle, you either won or lost or ended up in a draw; reconstruction was just a matter of efficiently organizing relief and such. In government, you never really knew whether a decision was a good one or a bad one, and you usually had to be content with a compromise that most people could live with. You could never be sure whether the compromise had been wise or not until much later. Sometimes you never found out.
He and Quars met halfway down the continent within a week of his election to set up permanent communication between Hyperion and the City and to appoint Quars Regent in charge of hordi, mutants, and exiles.
“It will take a long time,” the gruff officer admitted, “but it has to be done, and it should have been done long ago. I’ll say this for you. That scene on the River when your friends showed up scared the hell out of them. They really do think you are the red-bearded god. That will help us get started in making peace with those poor folks and giving them a chance.”
“Will you be after doing it?”
“It’ll keep me busy, Seamus, but my wife says she’ll leave me if I don’t do it. Claims I’m irritable when I’m bored. By the way, I see you finally captured that lovely girl.”
“Ah, was that the way it was? Sure I thought she captured me. To listen to her tell it, I was a pushover.”
Then there was a hesitant invitation to a “small entertainment” in honor of Quars, who had recruited Samaritha into his team of hordi specialists.
“I won’t have time to go,” Seamus told his wife. “You represent me.”
“We’re both going, Seamus.” She put on her steely-eyed military face, which terrified him more than the Cardinal’s frown.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place.”
So Seamus turned on all his charm, touching hands in the friendship sign with Sammy and Ernie at the door of their quarters, hugging Carina, and swinging the pregnant hordi servant over his head, to the accompaniment of delighted clicks.
Quars’s wife was the only female at the party not expecting. The Zylongi were producing the children they had always wanted, some, like Sammy, presumably in the nick of time.
Seamus sang and told stories about his fictional adventures, the space bum once again. Forgiveness and the renewal of love, mutual, implicit, and fervent, was so easy as to be an anticlimax.
“We will not presume to invite you again, Noble Lord,” Sammy said as he and his proper woman were leaving. “We know how hard you must work.”
“If I don’t see you two once a month, I’ll have you locked up in the bowels of the monastery.”
“Very nice, Seamus,” herself had whispered to him on the way back to the monastery. “Just like the night I knew I loved you.”
“Sure I was much better tonight.”
“I should hope so, and yourself a married man.”
Good enough it was, but there was too much of it altogether. As Christmas approached, Seamus began to think about taking his woman and his child and returning to Tara as soon as they could. His weary brain had been awhirl for weeks with never-ending administrative and political crises.
I’m a poet, aren’t I?
Not a frigging politician.
He was in a vile mood on the night before Christmas when he cornered the Cardinal just before First Vespers. Tired and nervous, he ranted that he had been tricked into the job, he hated politics, he was no good at it, couldn’t imagine why they had maneuvered him to become “Earl,” he wanted out—now, not next year.
“Now, do you hear me, woman? I am sick of all your wee plots and your fey schemes and your spooky tricks. Just give me and my wife the old Dev and let us get the hell off this bloody planet!”
She let him rave. When he stopped, she said quietly, “Why would you be thinking we sent you here in the first place?”
“Musha, you sent me here to be a psychic sponge.”
“Och, Seamus O’Neill, can you be that much of an idjit still?”
He began to see the pieces falling into place.
“You mean you were after sending me here from the beginning to become a politician?” The ground was quaking beneath his feet.
“Whatever other reason would you be thinking? Surely not because of your self-control?” She smiled complacently.
“You mean you connived from the beginning to make me King of this place?” Anger was surging through him like the waters of a river in flood.
“King for a year.”
“Regardless.”
“Would I dare to do anything like that without consulting the Council of Tyrone? Or our own Council?” She adjusted her ruby ring, worn especially for Christmas.
“I’m no good as a politician, woman.” He was screaming at her now. “You wasted your time. I’m a third-rate poet, a fourth-rate anthropologist, and you yourself said an incorrigible, inept womanizer.”
“And a flannel-mouth braggart, I believe I also said?” A quizzical eyebrow raising slightly.
“All right, add that too!” He kicked the wall, something he hadn’t done since he was a child.
“It all sounds to me like a perfect job description for a politician, Seamus.” She ignored his tantrum. “Be sensible. You have been a decent soldier, you are brave, and you think rapidly in a combat situation, but we will not have many wars on this planet, I hope. You write decent, if not outstanding, poetry. You are good at winning people to like you and to agree with you. You charm these poor heathens every time you smile at them. That is what this planet needs.”
“I’m not good at any of it. I’ll not do it. I don’t believe that the fellas in the regiment want me to be some great damn bloody Earl.” His anger ebbed. He was ashamed at himself for acting like a baby.
“Ah, you’ve noticed how much they complain about all the mistakes you’ve made since you’ve been an Earl.” She smiled that damn complacent smile and folded her arms in satisfaction.
“They have not complained, Deirdre Fitzgerald! You’re lying in your teeth. There hasn’t been a single major complaint from a one of them, I’ll have you know. After all the work I’ve done holding this bloody place together, I’ll not have you saying that the fellas in the regiment don’t like it…” His voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying.
“Precisely my point,” she said, her triumph complete.
So he had a lot to think about through the vespers and the Mass of Christmas. Now it was late. Time to take their leave of the assembled guests in the Abbess’s room. With Pegeen leaning on his arm, he bade the Lady a formal good evening and a happy Christmas.
“You’ll do it, Seamus?” she asked, with more anxiety than she usually permitted to creep into her voice.
“Musha, Your Ladyship, the whole bloody mess was a near thing from beginning to end.” He sighed his most Taran of sighs.
“It was, Seamus O’Neill,” she conceded.
“God knows,” her sigh easily outdid his. Always the last word.
He and Pegeen went out silently into the cool, starlit night.
“Are you all right, Geemie?” she asked him, affectionately squeezing his arm.
“And why wouldn’t I be?” he protested.
“When my man is quiet through a whole evening, he has something on his mind.”
“Can’t a man do a bit of thinking without everyone in Tyrone getting in an uproar about it?”
“What were you and Holy Lady Abbess talking about when we left?”
“Ah, ‘tis a long story.” He sighed again.
“A story that could be told on the night of our Savior’s birth?” She sighed back.
Damn it, she’s even imitating Deirdre’s sighs.
“Saints preserve us, the woman’s becoming a damn religious fanatic!” he exclaimed, hugging her. “Well, it could be told, I guess, if a woman doesn’t mind finding out that her husband is the worst damn fool in the galaxy.”
“What if she knows that already and wouldn’t have it any other way?”
The Earl of Tyrone turned to mushy plum pudding. Sure, it might not be a bad Christmas after all.
In the monastery the bell chimed out a very old Celtic Christmas song. Before O’Neill began his story, he sang the carol in Gaelic for his proper woman.
God greet You, sacred Child,
—poor in the manger there,
yet happy and rich tonight
—in Your own stronghold in glory
Motherless once in Heaven,
—Fatherless now in our world,
true God at all times You are,
—but tonight You are human first.
Grant room in Your cave, O King,
—(though not of right) to this third brute
among the mountain dogs
—for my nature was ever like theirs.
Mary, Virgin and Mother,
—open the stable door
till I worship the King of Creation.
—Why not I more than the ox?
I will do God’s service here,
—watchful early and late.
I will chase the hill-boys’ dogs
—away from this helpless Prince.
The ass and the ox, likewise,
—I will not let near my King;
I will take their place beside Him,
—ass and cow of the living God!
In the morning I’ll bring Him water.
—I’ll sweep God’s Son’s poor floor.
I’ll light a fire in my cold soul
—and curb with zeal my wicked body.
I’ll wash His poor garments for Him,
—and, Virgin, if you let me,
I’ll shed these rags of mine
—as a covering for your Son.
And I’ll be the cook for His food.
—I’ll be the doorman for the God of Creation!
On behalf of all three I’ll beg,
—since they need my help to speak.
No silver or gold I’ll ask
—but a daily kiss for my King
I will give my heart in return
—and He’ll take it from all three.
Patrick, who through this Child
—by grace got Jesus’ crozier
—O born without body’s bile—
—and Brigid be with us always.
Patron of the Isle of Saints,
—obtain God’s graces for us.
Receive a poor friar from Dún
—as a worm in God’s cave tonight.
A thousand greetings in body tonight
—from my heart to my generous King
In that He assumed two natures
—here’s a kiss and a greeting to God!
Look for these TOR books by Andrew M. Greeley
THE FINAL PLANET
GOD GAME
“Greeley’s talent for spinning a good, lusty yarn is undeniable. Fans of his first science fiction novel, GOD GAME, will want this.”
—Library Journal
“Greeley is a hell of a good writer. His naturalness and right-on characterization make his fiction very real.”
—Science Fiction Review
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Priest, sociologist, author and journalist, Father Andrew M. Greeley built an international assemblage of devout fans over a career spanning five decades. His books include the Bishop Blackie Ryan novels, including The Archbishop in Andalusia, the Nuala Anne McGrail novels, including Irish Tweed, and The Cardinal Virtues. He was the author of over 50 best-selling novels and more than 100 works of non-fiction, and his writing has been translated into 12 languages.Father Greeley was a Professor of Sociology at the University of Arizona and a Research Associate with the National Opinion Research Center (NORC) at the University of Chicago. In addition to scholarly studies and popular fiction, for many years he penned a weekly column appearing in the Chicago Sun-Times and other newspapers. He was also a frequent contributor to The New York Times, the National Catholic Reporter, America and Commonweal, and was interviewed regularly on national radio and television. He authored hundreds of articles on sociological topics, ranging from school desegregation to elder sex to politics and the environment.Throughout his priesthood, Father Greeley unflinchingly urged his beloved Church to become more responsive to evolving concerns of Catholics everywhere. His clear writing style, consistent themes and celebrity stature made him a leading spokesperson for generations of Catholics. He chronicled his service to the Church in two autobiographies, Confessions of a Parish Priest and Furthermore!In 1986, Father Greeley established a $1 million Catholic Inner-City School Fund, providing scholarships and financial support to schools in the Chicago Archdiocese with a minority student body of more than 50 percent. In 1984, he contributed a $1 million endowment to establish a chair in Roman Catholic Studies at the University of Chicago. He also funded an annual lecture series, “The Church in Society,” at St. Mary of the Lake Seminary, Mundelein, Illinois, from which he received his S.T.L. in 1954.Father Greeley received many honors and awards, including honorary degrees from the National University of Ireland at Galway, the University of Arizona and Bard College. A Chicago native, he earned his M.A. in 1961 and his Ph.D. in 1962 from the University of Chicago.Father Greeley was a penetrating student of popular culture, deeply engaged with the world around him, and a lifelong Chicago sports fan, cheering for the Bulls, Bears and the Cubs. Born in 1928, he died in May 2013 at the age of 85. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Song of the Wild Geese
Technical Specifications: TIPV/IONA
Part One: The City
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Two: The Country
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Three: The Festival
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapte
r 27
Tor books by Andrew M. Greeley
Praise
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
THE FINAL PLANET
Copyright © 1987 by Andrew M. Greeley
All rights reserved.
Published in association with Warner Books
First TOR printing: May 1988
A TOR Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
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New York, N.Y. 10010
ISBN: 0-812-58338-8
CAN. ED.: 0-812-58339-6
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eISBN 9781250237347
First eBook edition: December 2018
* The Irish soldiers of fortune who “flew” from Ireland to escape English tyranny and continue to fight for Irish freedom. At the time of the Peregrinano of the Iona, the term had been extended to include all pilgrims who bore weapons.