by John Scalzi
Hart leaned over and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go up and unpack, and then I’m going to check in on Dad,” he said. He swallowed the rest of his drink and walked into the house.
“Subtlety still counts for something, Mom,” Hart heard Catherine say as he entered the house. If his mother responded, however, it was lost to Hart.
* * *
Hart found his father, Alastair Schmidt, in his home office, situated in his parents’ wing of the third floor, which included their bedroom, its master bath suite, attached and separate wardrobes, individual offices, library and drawing room. The children’s wing of the house was no less appointed but arranged differently.
Alastair Schmidt was standing behind his desk, listening to one of his political underlings give him a report through a speaker. The underling was no doubt in a Phoenix Home Party cubicle in Phoenix City, trying desperately to get out of the office in order to celebrate Harvest Day with his family but pinned to his desk by the baleful attention of Schmidt, one of the grand old men of the party and of Phoenix global politics generally.
Hart poked his head around the open door and waved to let his father know he was home; his father waved him into the room brusquely and then turned his attention back to his unfortunate apparatchik. “I wasn’t asking why the data was difficult to locate, Klaus,” he said. “I was asking why we don’t seem to have it at all. ‘Difficult to locate’ and ‘not in our possession’ are two entirely separate things.”
“I understand that, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus the apparatchik was saying. “What I’m saying is that we’re hampered by the holiday. Most people are out. The requests we filed are in and will be honored, but they have to wait until people get back.”
“Well, you’re in, aren’t you?” Alastair said.
“Yes,” Klaus said, and Hart caught the slight edge of misery in his voice at the fact. “But—”
“And the entire government doesn’t in fact shut all the way down even on major global holidays,” Alastair said, cutting off Klaus before he could offer another objection. “So your job right now is to find the people who are still working today, just like you are, get that data and those projections, and have them on my desk in an encrypted file before I go to bed tonight. And I have to tell you, Klaus, that I tend to go to bed early on Harvest Day. It’s all that pie.”
“Yes, Minister Schmidt,” Klaus said, unhappily.
“Good,” Alastair said. “Happy Harvest, Klaus.”
“Happ—” Klaus was cut off as Alastair severed the connection.
“His Harvest isn’t going to be happy because you’re making him work on Harvest Day,” Hart observed.
“If he’d gotten me that data yesterday like I asked and like he’d promised, he’d be at home, chewing on a drumstick,” Alastair said. “But he didn’t, so he’s not, and that’s on him.”
“I noticed he still called you ‘minister,’” Hart said.
“Ah, so you know about the election,” Alastair said. “Brandt gloating, is he?”
“I heard it from other sources,” Hart said.
“Officially, the Green-Union government is extending an olive branch to the PHP by asking me to stay on as minister for trade and transport,” Alastair said. “Unofficially, the point was made to the coalition that they have no one near competent to run the ministry, and that if they are going to screw up any one ministry, the one they don’t want to screw up is the one that makes sure food arrives where it’s supposed to and that people are able to get to work.”
“It’s a legitimate point,” Hart said.
“Personally, the sooner this Green-Union coalition collapses, the happier I’ll be, and I gave some thought to turning it down, just to watch the ensuing train wreck,” Alastair said. “But then I realized that there would probably be actual train wrecks, and that’s the sort of thing that will get everyone’s head on a spike, not just the heads of those in the coalition.”
Hart smiled. “That famous Alastair Schmidt compassion,” he said.
“Don’t you start,” Alastair said. “I get enough of that from Brandt. It’s not that I don’t care. I do. But I’m also still pissed about the election results.” He motioned at the chair in front of the desk, offering Hart the seat; Hart took it. Alastair sat in his own seat, regarding his son.
“How is life in the Colonial Union diplomatic corps?” Alastair asked. “I imagine it must be exciting, what with the collapse of relations between the Earth and the Colonial Union.”
“We live in interesting times, yes,” Hart said.
“And your Ambassador Abumwe seems to be in the thick of things lately,” Alastair said. “Dashing between assignments all across known space.”
“They have been keeping her busy,” Hart said.
“And you’ve been busy as well?” Alastair asked.
“Mostly,” Hart said. “I’m doing a lot of work with Lieutenant Harry Wilson, who is a CDF technician who handles various tasks for us.”
“I know,” Alastair said. “I have a friend who works for the Department of State. Keeps me up-to-date on the diplomatic reports from the Clarke.”
“Is that so,” Hart said.
“Not a whole lot of future in electrocuting dogs, Hart,” Alastair said.
“There we go,” Hart said.
“Am I wrong?” Alastair asked.
“Do you actually read the reports you get, Dad?” Hart said. “If you read the report about the dog, then you know what happened was that we ended up saving the peace negotiations and helped secure an alliance for the Colonial Union with a race that had been leaning toward aligning with the Conclave.”
“Sure, after you carelessly allowed the dog to be eaten by a carnivorous plant, revealing the death site of a king whose disappearance started the race’s civil war, the discovery of which threatened a peace process that by all indications wasn’t threatened before,” Alastair said. “You don’t get credit for putting out fires you set yourself, Hart.”
“The official report reads differently than your interpretation, Dad,” Hart said.
“Of course it does,” Alastair said. “If I were your bosses, I would write it that way, too. But I’m not your boss, and I can read between the lines better than most.”
“Are you going somewhere with this, Dad?” Hart said.
“I think it’s time you came back to Phoenix,” Alastair said. “You gave the Colonial Union your best shot, and they’ve misused your talent. They stuck you with a diplomatic team that’s been catching lost-cause missions for years, and assigned you to a CDF grunt who uses you for menial tasks. You’re too accommodating to complain, and maybe you’re even having fun, but you’re not going anywhere, Hart. And maybe that’s fine early in your career, but you’re not early in your career anymore. You’ve dead-ended. It’s over.”
“Not that I agree with you,” Hart said, “but why do you care, Dad? You’ve always told us that we have to make our own path, and you told us that we would have to sink or swim on our own. You’re a veritable raft of tough-love metaphors on the subject. If you think I’m sinking, you should be willing to let me sink.”
“Because it’s not just about you, Hart,” Alastair said. He pointed at the speaker through which he had been yelling at Klaus. “I’m seventy-two years old, for Christ’s sake. Do you think I want to be spending my time keeping some poor bastard from enjoying his Harvest Day? No, what I want to do is tell the PHP to get along without me and spend more time with those grandkids of mine.”
Hart stared at his father blankly. At no point in the past had his father ever evinced more than the most cursory interest in his grandchildren. Maybe that’s because they’re not interesting yet, a part of Hart’s brain said, and he could see the point. His father had become more engaged with his own children the older they got. And he could have his softer side; Hart’s eyes flickered to the medal case on the wall, holding Brous’s Nova Acadia award.
“I can’t do that because I don’t h
ave the right people following me,” Alastair continued. “Brandt’s gloating because the Unionists have their share of power, but the thing is the reason it happened is because the PHP hasn’t cultivated new talent, and now it’s biting us in the ass.”
“Wait,” Hart said. “Dad, are you wanting me to join the PHP? Because I have to tell you, that’s really not going to happen.”
“You’re missing my point,” Alastair said. “The PHP hasn’t developed new talent, but neither have the Greens or the Unionists. I’m still on the job because the whole next generation of political talent on Phoenix are, with very few exceptions, complete incompetents.” He pointed in the direction of the patio, where the rest of the family was. “Brandt thinks I get annoyed with him because he’s in with the Unionists. I get annoyed with him because he’s not rising through its leadership fast enough.”
“Brandt likes politics,” Hart said. “I don’t.”
“Brandt likes everything around politics,” Alastair said. “He doesn’t give a crap about the politics itself, yet. That will come. It will come to Catherine, too. She’s busy building a power base in the charity world, rolling over people and getting them to thank her for it by supporting her works. When she finally transfers over into politics, she’s going to make a beeline for prime minister.”
“And what about Wes?” Hart asked.
“Wes is Wes,” Alastair said. “One in every family. I love him, but I think of him as a sarcastic pet.”
“I don’t think I would tell Wes that if I were you,” Hart said.
“He figured it out a long time ago,” Alastair said. “I think he’s at peace with it, especially as it requires nothing from him. As I said. One in every family. We can’t afford two.”
“So you want me to come home,” Hart said. “And what do I do then? Just walk into some political role you’ve picked out for me? Because no one will see the obvious nepotism in that, Dad.”
“Give me some credit for subtlety,” Alastair said. “Do you really think Brandt is where he is with the Unionists all on his own? No. They saw the value in the Schmidt brand name, as it were, and we came to an arrangement about what they’d get in return for fast-tracking him in the organization.”
“I would definitely not tell Brandt that if I were you,” Hart said.
“Of course not,” Alastair said. “But I am telling you so that you will understand how these things work.”
“It’s still nepotism,” Hart said.
“I prefer to think of it as advancing people who are a known quantity,” Alastair said. “And aren’t you a known quantity, Hart? Don’t you have skills, honed through your diplomatic career, that would have immediate use at a high level? Would you really want to start near the bottom? You’re a little old for that now.”
“You’ve just admitted the Colonial Union diplomatic corps taught me skills,” Hart said.
“I never said you didn’t have them,” Alastair said. “I said they were being wasted. Do you want to use them as they ought to be used? This is the place, Hart. It’s time to let the Colonial Union take care of the Colonial Union. Come back to Phoenix, Hart. I need you. We need you.”
“Lizzie Chao needs me,” Hart said, ruefully.
“Oh, no, stay away from her,” Alastair said. “She’s bad news. She’s been banging my field rep here in Crowley.”
“Dad!” Hart said.
“Don’t tell your mother,” Alastair said. “She thinks Lizzie is a nice girl. And maybe she is nice. Just without very good judgment.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Hart said.
“You’ve had enough bad judgment in your life so far, Hart,” Alastair said. “Time to start making some better choices.”
* * *
“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Brous Kueltzo said. He was leaning up against the car, reading a message on his PDA. Hart had walked down to the carriage house.
“I needed to get away from the family for a bit,” Hart said.
“Already, huh?” Brous said.
“Yeah,” Hart said.
“And you still have four days to go,” Brous said. “I’ll pray for you.”
“Brous, can I ask you a question?” Hart said.
“Sure,” Brous said.
“Did you ever resent us?” Hart asked. “Ever resent me?”
“You mean, for being obscenely rich and entitled and a member of one of the most important families on the entire planet through absolutely no effort of your own and for having everything you ever wanted served up to you on a platter without any idea how hard it was for the rest of us?” Brous said.
“Uh, yes,” Hart said, taken slightly aback. “Yes. That.”
“There was a period where I did, yeah,” Brous said. “I mean, what do you expect? Resentment is about sixty percent of being a teenager. And all of you—you, Catherine, Wes, Brandt—were pretty clueless about the rarefied air you lived in. Down here in the flats, living above the garage? Yeah, there was some resentment there.”
“Do you resent us now?” Hart said.
“No,” Brous said. “For one thing, bringing that college girlfriend back to the carriage house brought home the point that all things considered, I was doing just fine. I went to the same schools you did, and your family supported and cared for me, my sister and my mom, and not just in some distant noblesse oblige way, but as friends. Hell, Hart. I write poetry, you know? I have that because of you guys.”
“Okay,” Hart said.
“I mean, you all still have your moments of class cluelessness, trust me on this, and you all poke at each other in vaguely obnoxious ways,” Brous said. “But I think even if you had no money, Brandt would be a status seeker, Catherine would steamroll everyone, Wes would float along, and you’d do your thing, which is to watch and help. You’d all be you. Everything else is circumstance.”
“It’s good to know you think so,” Hart said.
“I do,” Brous said. “Don’t get me wrong. If you want to divest yourself of your share of the family trust fund and give to me, I’ll take it. I’ll let you sleep above the garage when you need to.”
“Thanks,” Hart said, wryly.
“What brought about this moment of questioning, if you don’t mind me asking?” Brous asked.
“Oh, you know,” Hart said. “Dad pressuring me to leave the diplomatic corps and join the family business, which is apparently running this entire planet.”
“Ah, that,” Brous said.
“Yes, that,” Hart said.
“That’s another reason why I don’t resent you guys,” Brous said. “This whole ‘born to rule’ shit’s gotta get tiring. All I have to do is drive your dad and string words together.”
“What if you don’t want to rule?” Hart said.
“Don’t rule,” Brous said. “I’m not sure why you’re asking that, though, Hart. You’ve done a pretty good job of not ruling so far.”
“What do you mean?” Hart asked.
“There’s four of you,” Brous said. “Two of you are primed to go into the family business: Brandt, because he likes the perks, and Catherine, because she’s actually good at it. Two of you want nothing to do with it: Wes, who figured out early that one of you gets to be the screwup, so it might as well be him, and you. The screwup slot was already claimed by Wes, so you did the only logical thing left to third sons of a noble family—you went elsewhere to seek your fortune.”
“Wow, you’ve actually thought about this a lot,” Hart said.
Brous shrugged. “I’m a writer,” he said. “And I’ve had a lot of time to observe you guys.”
“You could have told me all this earlier,” Hart said.
“You didn’t ask,” Brous said.
“Ah,” Hart said.
“Also, I could be wrong,” Brous said. “I’ve learned over time I’m full of just about as much shit as anyone.”
“No, I don’t think you are,” Hart said. “Wrong, I mean. I remain neutral about the ‘full of shit’ pa
rt.”
“Fair enough,” Brous said. “It sounds like you’re having a moment of existentialist crisis here, Hart, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Maybe I am,” Hart said. “I’m trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. A nice thing to wonder about when you’re thirty.”
“I don’t think it matters what age you are when you figure it out,” Brous said. “I think the important thing is to figure it out before someone else tells you what you want to be, and they get it wrong.”
* * *
“Who’s giving the toast this year?” Isabel asked. They were all seated at the table: Alastair and Isabel, Hart, Catherine, Wes and Brandt and their spouses. The children were sequestered away in the next room, on low tables, and were busy throwing peas and rolls at one another while the nannies vainly tried to keep control.
“I’ll give the toast,” Alastair said.
“You give the toast every year,” Isabel said. “And your toasts are boring, dear. Too long and too full of politics.”
“It’s the family business,” Alastair said. “It’s a family dinner. What else should we talk about?”
“And besides which, you’re still bitter about the election, and I don’t want hear about it tonight,” Isabel said. “So no toast from you.”
“I’ll give the toast,” Brandt said.
“Oh, hell, no,” Alastair said.
“Alastair,” Isabel said, admonishingly.
“You thought my toast was going to be long and boring and full of politics,” Alastair said. “The gloater in chief here will positively outstrip your expectations of me.”
“Dad does have a point,” Catherine said.
“Then you say it, dear,” Isabel said to her.
“Indeed,” Brandt said, clearly a little hurt at having his toast proposal rebuffed. “Regale us with tales of the people you’ve met and crushed in the last year.”
“The hell with this,” Wes said, and reached for the mashed potatoes.
