Privateers

by Ben Bova

  “What? Your father …”

  “It would not be a bad match, as far as he is concerned. It would bring him much prestige to have a son-in-law who is so high in the Kremlin. It would bring about closer ties between Venezuela and Soviet Russia. It would help him to impress the voters in the next presidential election.”

  “Presidential election? You mean your father …” Dan’s mind was suddenly spinning. “I’ll be double-damned. I never realized …”

  “Of course.” Lucita went on, “I have to meet the man first. And he has to propose marriage to me and beg my father for his permission.”

  She was angry, he realized. Beneath that flawlessly beautiful face there was blazing rage. She had not been frightened or worried when he had first seen her: she had been furious.

  Dan offered his arm. “Let me take you away from all this. Shall we go outside for a breath of fresh air?”

  “In the rain?”

  “Surely a house as magnificent as this has a covered veranda somewhere.”

  A smile lit her face. “As a matter of fact, there are three.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and led Dan toward the door to the front hall. Glancing back over his shoulder. Dan saw that both Malik and Hernandez were still enjoying the attentions of their separate groups of admirers. Neither of them noticed Lucita slipping off with the American capitalist.

  She led him toward the back of the house and out a French window that opened onto a broad covered veranda. The rain still poured down in solid sheets, so heavy that Dan could hardly make out the big trees and carefully tended shrubberies in the garden beyond the veranda’s wooden railing. They were alone here, the two of them, as far away from the noise and smoke of the party as if they had moved to another world.

  “I love the rain,” Lucita said.

  “I hate it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s beautiful? It makes everything look like a Japanese silk painting.”

  “Rain’s bad for business. Makes it difficult to launch a booster. Tough to land in a storm, too. I prefer clear weather and lots of sunshine.”

  She looked up at him with laughter in her eyes. “Is that how a man gets to be a billionaire? By thinking of nothing but business?”

  “It’s not merely business, seńorita. It’s my life. I would be doing this even if I made nothing at all from it.”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course.” He grinned, remembering. “In fact, for many years that’s exactly what happened. I worked hard and stayed poor.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  He felt himself frowning. 1 don’t have to justify myself to this kid! But their conversation had run aground. He looked out at the rain, heard it drumming on the roof over their heads, gurgling through the downspouts, splashing in the swampy puddles that stretched across much of the garden.

  Lucita was silent also. Then Dan saw that she was holding her arms clutched across her bosom. She looked chilled. He pulled off his dinner jacket and draped it across her shoulders. It was ridiculously large for her small frame; it went down to her knees.

  “You’ll be cold,” she protested softly.

  “Not while I’m near you.” He did not take his hands from her shoulders. She did not try to move away. Dan pulled her closer. She lifted her head toward him and he kissed her. For a long, breathless moment she melted into his arms.

  But then she edged slightly back from his embrace. “I must rejoin the party. My father will be looking for me.”

  “To introduce you to the Russian,” Dan said.

  “Yes. 1 suppose so.”

  He got the wild urge to scoop her up in his arms and go dashing through the rain with her. somewhere, anywhere, so that they could be alone and away from everyone else.

  But before he could act on the impulse Lucita slipped out of his jacket and offered it back to him. “Thank you. …”

  “May I see you again?” he asked. “Can you come to dinner with me tomorrow?”

  With a small, troubled shake of her head, “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  And she turned and headed back for the party, leaving Dan on the veranda alone.

  He got into the jacket again, then stared out at the unending rain for long minutes. She doesn’t think that would be wise, does she? She’s probably right. Then he laughed and said aloud, “But what the hell does wisdom have to do with it?”

  Chapter - SEVEN

  Feeling somewhat like an ancient Christian martyr marching into the arena to face a lion, Maria de la Luz Hernandez left the puzzled American and walked back into her father’s house. As she approached the noise and smoke of the party, however, a tiny smile glimmered on her lips.

  Daniel Hamilton Randolph. All the romantic rumors she had heard about the Yanqui billionaire had been true. He was a real devil of a man, the kind who could easily sweep a woman off her feet. Just introduced and already he took me in his arms and kissed me! She marveled at the thrill of it. It had taken all of her willpower to break free. A dangerous man. Her heart pulsed wildly at the thought of him; her lips burned with the memory of his kiss.

  There was no one she could tell about this moment, no one she could turn to for advice. As she had virtually every day for all these years, Lucita wished that her mother were alive to hold her close and counsel her. She shut her eyes and saw it all again: her mother’s beautiful face set in a determined frown of concentration as she drove the Mercedes through the worsening rainstorm; the leaves and branches littering the wet, puddled road as the wind howled and tore at the trees, bending them over so far that Lucita was terrified they would reach into the car and seize her; the truck stalled on the muddy curve; their car screeching as it spun over the shoulder of the road and into the rain-filled ditch.

  Blackness. Cold and black. Lucita remembered how wet and chilling it felt in the ditch, with water seeping in through the shattered window and crumpled door on her mother’s side. It was the cold and wet that revived her as she hung in the straps of a child’s safety harness. Her mother lay sprawled across the seat beside her. head tilted back, mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly at the car’s roof.

  At first Lucita thought that her father was angry with her, as if he blamed his daughter for his wife’s death. Gradually she realized that it was grief that made him so distant, so unreachable. And guilt. As she grew older. Lucita learned that her mother had been hurrying to get to their seaside villa in time to greet the guests due to arrive for one of her husband’s political dinners. Slowly, gradually, with the unconscious instinct of a child, she won her father back to her, made him realize that she loved him and needed his protection and the assurance that he loved her and did not blame her for the tragedy that had bereaved them both. They grew closer, consoling each other, helping each other to ease the pain without forgetting their loss, to face the future together, happy to have each other.

  Lucita was thirteen when she realized that her father was a sexually active male. Suddenly she saw him as an attractive, vigorous man in the prime of his life, and she was terrified of the strange new feelings that surged through her. He must have known, or felt similar feelings of his own. because he suddenly decided to send his only child off to a convent school, far from Caracas. She went willingly, leaving her home, her father and all that was familiar to her for the discipline and austerity of gray stone walls and severe nuns who prayed, spoke and even scolded in whispers.

  But her visits home were triumphs of pampering. Her father, as if to prove that he could love her as a father should, treated her to parties and dinners and dances in her honor. Nothing she asked for was denied her. Lucita lived a schizophrenic life: ascetic discipline among the nuns and a vibrant social whirl with her father.

  By the time she left the convent to return home and begin thinking about attending a university, she knew that her father was having affairs with women. She accepted this, telling herself that no matter what Holy Mother Church instructed, a man of her father’s virility could not b
e expected to live as a celibate. Nor did she. Lucita quickly found, once she returned to Caracas, that the young men-and some older ones as well-found her powerfully attractive. She surrendered her virginity to a bold young Brazilian army officer who was serving at his nation’s embassy. He returned home a few weeks afterward and she never saw him again, nor cared.

  Now her father thought of her as a valuable possession, a piece of property that could be traded off in marriage to his advantage. Where once she had been frightened that she loved her father too much, now she found nothing in her heart for him but contempt. She would meet this Russian, this powerful foreigner whom her father wanted for a son-in-law. Yes, she would meet him and spit in his face.

  She returned to the party, sipped champagne and spoke demurely to her father’s guests, laughed at their insipid jokes and nodded when she was supposed to. It seemed like hours that she stood there, bored, angry, wishing that they would all go away and leave her in peace. The younger men gathered around her, as they usually did, but she did not enjoy being the center of their attention. She danced with a few of them, but always returned to the drawing room, where the Russian and her father held court in separate corners of the room, both of them paying her no attention whatever.

  She thought about the Yanqui, Dan Randolph, again. He was a bold rascal, just as Mrs. Andrews had said. Not pretty; not even handsome, really. But the devil twinkled in his eyes. How old is he? Lucita wondered. His light brown hair showed no trace of gray, although an American billionaire would not he above dying his hair or even wearing a toupee if he were balding. But she did not believe Dan Randolph would do so. He did not seem to be vain about his looks. He was younger than her father, of that much she was certain. It will be easy enough to find his biography and read it.

  “Lucita. there you are.” Her father’s strong, deep voice broke her out of her reverie. The men clustering about her melted back as Rafael Hernandez approached. The Russian was at his side.

  “Lucita, I have the great honor of introducing Comrade Vasily Malik, chairman of the Council of Outer Space Activities of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” Turning slightly, Hernandez continued, “Comrade Malik. my daughter, Maria de la Luz Hernandez.”

  The Russian had a good face, Lucita had to admit to herself. Broad, strong cheekbones, clear blue eyes, a boyish smile. Hair the golden color of ripening grain. He took Lucita’s proffered hand and touched his lips to it.

  “I am delighted to meet you, Seńorita Hernandez.”

  Lucita smiled back at him. “It is an honor to meet you, seńor.”

  “I had been told that you are the most beautiful woman in Caracas,” said Malik, still holding her hand. “That was an understatement.”

  Trying to sound unimpressed, Lucita replied, “You flatter me.”

  “Not at all,” he insisted. “Would you care to dance?” Before Lucita could reply, Malik turned to her father. “With your permission?”

  “Of course!” Hernandez beamed. “Of course!”

  The Russian monopolized her for the rest of the evening. None of the other men dared to interfere. Lucita danced with him and listened to his talk. She noted that he drank sparingly, unlike other Russians she had met, who swilled vodka until they were stupefied and falling down.

  To her surprise, his talk was interesting, fascinating.

  “You’ve never been in space? What a shame! You must come to the Soviet Union and take a ride on one of our space shuttles. I can arrange for you to spend a week or more aboard a Soviet space facility. Properly chaperoned, of course.” He laughed. “We Russians have a strong sense of propriety; we’re downright prudish, in fact-officially.”

  “And unofficially?” Lucita asked, accepting the bait.

  Malik made the corners of his mouth turn down. “I’m afraid there is nothing in the entire Soviet Union that is unofficial. Whatever is not specifically authorized by a law or a regulation is absolutely forbidden.”

  Despite herself, she found it impossible to dislike this Russian. Until she asked:

  “Is it true that your mines on the Moon are run with slave labor?”

  For just the tiniest flash of a second Malik’s face hardened. He made himself smile almost instantly, but Lucita recognized the steel beneath the velvet.

  “They are prisoners, yes. But hardly slaves. They are Soviet citizens who have broken the law, and have been sentenced to work on the Moon. When their sentences have been served out, they are returned to their homes and reinstated in society, just as you allow convicted prisoners to return once they have served their sentences.”

  “Then they’re not exiled to the Moon for the rest of their lives?”

  “You’ve been listening to anti-Soviet propaganda; I understand that there are American capitalists here who spread such slanders.”

  “I first heard such stories when I was in school,” Lucita countered. “In a convent.”

  Malik’s smile looked brittle. “The Church still tries to stir up trouble. No, dear lady, we do not exile people to the Moon for life. And the lunar mines are not a modern version of the old Siberian salt mines-which were another capitalist myth, by the way. The prisoners on the Moon live comfortably and work with highly automated equipment. There is not a pick or a shovel in the whole complex, believe me.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  The party officially ended at nine o’clock, although most of the guests had already left by then for their dinners. Malik and the other Russians were the last to leave. He kissed her hand again and promised to call on her before the week was out. Lucita smiled graciously and said she would await his call.

  Her father walked Malik to his waiting limousine. The rain had finally stopped. He chatted amiably with the Russian for several minutes, then watched as the long black car pulled away from their front door.

  Hernandez walked slowly up the steps. A servant shut the heavy oak door behind him.

  “Well,” he asked his daughter, “what did you think of him9”

  “He is very charming,” Lucita answered.

  Heading for the dining room, Hernandez said. “More than charming, Lucita. Powerful. Important. Very important. He will make an ideal husband for you.”

  “No, Father.” she replied. “He will make an ideal husband for you.”

  He stopped and looked down at her. “Merely because it would be advantageous to me is no reason to reject the prospect of marrying him.”

  “Father,” she asked, “will it be necessary for me to love him? Or is that unimportant to your plans?”

  He threw up his hands. “Love! Women always talk of love.”

  “You expect me to marry him, to sleep with him and bear his children. Shouldn’t love be considered?”

  “You will love him, in time.”

  “I will not marry a man I do not love,” she said.

  He gave a disgusted snort. “But you have loved several men that you have not married.”

  “What has that to do with it?”

  “Everything! I didn’t raise my daughter to be a whore!”

  It was as if he had slapped her face. Lucita staggered back, feeling her cheeks burn. She had no words: her voice caught in her throat.

  “When I think of how your sainted mother must be shamed by your behavior … “

  “My sainted mother?” Lucita found her voice. “How do you think she would feel about your escapades?”

  “My

  “I know about your women! I’ve known for years! Have I ever reproached you for your behavior?” She felt tears stinging her eyes.

  “It is not your place to reproach your father,” Hernandez said icily. “In any case, a man’s standard of conduct is different from a woman’s.”

  “How convenient.” Lucita spat. “How self-serving.”

  Her father’s voice turned iron hard. “I will not put up with your abominable behavior any longer. You will marry this Russian. It is already arranged. You will marry him with dignity and prevent our family’s fine
name from being dragged in the mud.”

  “Never!” Lucita shouted, and she ran off toward the hallway stairs that led to her room.

  Slamming the door shut, she threw herself on her bed. But she did not cry. There was no time for that. She was thinking, furiously racking her brain for a way to thwart her father’s plans for her. For the first time she realized how deadly serious he was. It was not merely marrying her off for his own political advantage; he had learned about her adventures, and was determined to put a stop to them before scandal could threaten him.

  He was a powerful man, and it would be almost impossible to get away from him. But I must, Lucita told herself. 1 must escape; somehow I must get away from Caracas and live my own life. But how? Who would help me? In all of Caracas, who would lift a finger in opposition to my father?

  She thought of Dan Randolph. The Yanqui had been bold with her, but he seemed kind as well. He will help me, if I ask him to, Lucita thought.

  But a nagging memory tugged at her. The Yanqui was rumored to be in love with the American Presidents. The whispers in Caracas were that he had fled to Venezuela because he had been in love with the wife of his best friend. That friend had been President of the United States. He had died in office, and his wife had taken his place, the first woman to become president. Soon, the rumors claimed, she would call Dan Randolph to her side, to rule what was left of the United States with her.

  But before she did, Lucita resolved, Dan Randolph would help her to escape from Caracas, from her father’s domination and from this powerful Russian who was so temptingly handsome.

  Chapter EIGHT

  “But it’s an official request.” Pete Weston stressed the word. “You can’t ignore it and you can’t turn it down.”

  “Who says I can’t?” Dan snapped.

  He had been out at the launch center all morning, clambering up the spiderwork towers where the heavy boosters stood, striding through the control stations where intense teams of men and women directed the shuttles that were heading for the space station and those that were returning to Earth. Dan spent at least one day a week out at the center, which had been built on a man-made island in the Caribbean between La Guaira and Catia La Mar, just off the coast where the old commercial airport had been.