Feintuch, David - Seafort 05 - Voices of Hope

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Port I

July 19, in the Year

of our Lord 2229

Chapter 1

PHILIP

In the soft summer evening, Senator Richard Boland paced the den of our

Washington compound. "That's not just my view, Nick. The puters say—"

Stretched comfortably on the couch, Father stirred. "Let the puters tell us what

water is available. How to use it is our problem." He brooded. "SecGen Kahn's,

these days."

I glanced up at Mom, worried the discussion would upset Path. Absently, she

stroked my neck, I leaned back against the leg of the settee. If she wasn't

alarmed, I need not be.

"In technical matters the SecGen relies on his staff," said Mr. Boland, "Kahn's

no engineer. I'm sure Philip could absorb the data as well as he."

"And faster," said Mom loyally. Across the room, Mr. Tenere, Dad's aide and

friend, nodded agreement.

I wondered if I should look into it. Even at twelve, there were few math and

engineering problems I couldn't tackle,

"The real issue is whether the new towers will be occupied before—"

Path said, "No, it's that you let puters decide matters that should be in human

hands,"

Senator Boland gave wiy with grace. "You set us a better example in your

Administration,"

Mom shot him a warning look, She hated to see Path reminded of the no-confidence

vote that had ended his tenure as U,N, Secretary-General five years before.

Adam Tenere smiled easily. "It did make for some long meetings, sir,"

Path grunted, "I suppose it comes from my Naval back-pound: you don't trust the

machinery, Reeheck everything."

None of the adults spoke, so I jumped in, "But you were proven right. When you

were Captain of Hibernia, the day they were about to Fuse with the wrong

coordinates—"

"Oh, that was just luck." But Path's eyes didn't leave me, and I basked in the

glow of his approval, "Still, I've

some amazing behavior from puters. Heroic as well as incredibly stupid."

Mr. Tenere said, "Did you hear they trapped an Arfie in Euronet last week?"

Father frowned, and I realized he was having trouble with the jargon. My psych

texts said adults were slower to adapt than the young, and objectively speaking,

I had to agree. "Artificial free intelligence," I blurted, to save him

embarrassment. "They're AI constructs that expand beyond the originating

programs and cyber into—"

"Yes, I saw the article in Holoworld," Path grumbled. "Sooner or later if we

keep letting those things loose, there'll be hell to pay."

"They're bound by the limits of the ori prog," I told him. "Unless the

programmer inserted a—"

Senator Boland said, "Robbie's sponsoring a bill on that." He seemed proud of

his son, now a U.N. Assemblyman. "The nets are too complex to control, but we

're going to require delimiters in all new AI programs. Then if an AI breaks

loose, it can't..."

A Hacker would schuss past their legislative roadblocks with a gleeful wave.

Whatever ice a puter could build, another puter could eventually crack. And some

of Jared Tenere's e-friends might try. I wasn't sure they had the skill to

succeed, but they seemed a malevolent bunch of joeys. Perhaps that's why Jar

liked them so; they rebelled in ways he only dreamed of. I thought of saying as

much, but it was past my bedtime, and adults tended to blame the messenger for

what they didn't care to hear. Any annoyance, and Mom would glance at her watch

and hustle me out.

"P.T.?" It was as if she'd read my mind.

"Aw, Mom." She'd gone parental, just as the conversation was getting technical.

My eyes appealed to Path, across the room, but he only nodded his agreement.

Reluctantly, I said goodnight, gave the expected hugs, and made my way upstairs.

Across the compound, Jared would be deep into his nightly vigil at his puter. At

fifteen, he got to stay up later. He got to do a lot of things, most of them

self-destructive. From time to time I thought of alerting Mr. Tenere, but I

gathered there

was a code of behavior involved. Certain things adults were supposed to find out

by themselves.

I sighed. I didn't have friends my own age, and learning the proper behaviors

was complicated.

My psych, Mr. Skeer, said I shouldn't worry about my emotional difficulties and

should try to act as normally as I could, but I didn't know what twelve-year-old

norm was. I'd never been there before.

I hoped the other twelves I'd run across weren't normal; that would be very

depressing.

Once, Mr. Skeer said that despite my intelligence, I had the emotions of a nine-

year-old. At the time, I was nine. I supposed my emotions were twelve now.

I'd be getting hair soon. I checked when I sat on the toilet, but there was none

yet. Once I thought I saw some coming, but it didn't grow in. Adolescent

Psychology Monthly said puberty was confusing. It'd be nice to talk to Father

about it, but I had to be careful not to upset him. He loved me very much. He

said so a lot.

In bed, the lights off, I worked on irrational numbers. After a time, I drifted

into sleep,

Chapter 2

JARED

"Get away from my puter!" Dad spun my chair, his eyes blazing. "How many times

have I told you?"

I grabbed his arm to keep from falling. "Don't sneak up on me."

"Your puter's in there!" He stabbed a thumb at my room. "This is mine."

"You hiding something?" My tone was sullen.

The console chimed. "Mr. Tenere?"

Dad keyed the caller. "Just a moment, sir." He regarded me, his anger slowly

fading to distaste. "1 have a right to privacy, Jared."

I snorted. "Now you sound like the Old Man."

Dad glanced at the speaker. "Don't call Mr. Seafort that. He might hear."

"The Old Man?" I shrugged. "He is one."

He turned to his desk, rummaged for a set of chips. "Come along."

Drooping red maples swayed in Washington's muggy August breeze, offering welcome

shade as we strolled through the high-walled compound to the Old Man's home and

office. Across the river from Old Washington, nestled in the Virginia hills

incorporated into the broadened District, the compound was a public gift to the

Old Man after his forced retirement. P.T. told me the Old Man would have refused

it, had Arlene not insisted for their son's sake. The Seaforts lived in the main

house; our bungalow was on the periphery, not far from the surrounding wall.

Dad said, "Show him more respect."

What would I care about a disgraced politician, no matter how famous he'd been

in his day? I said as much.

"Oh, Jared." A sigh. I knew Dad was hung up on respect. Centuries out of date,

but U.N. Naval Academy had brainwashed him for life.

Dad smoothed his hair as we reached the patio doors. Within was a hall, and to

the right, a sunlit outer office where

Dad worked answering mail and handling the Old Man's stream of inquiries and

responses. Beyond Dad's office were the doors to the Old Man's sanctum, which

had its own entrance to the patio, seldom used.

I asked scornfully, "What are you, his trained rabbit?"

"That's it. No nets for a month!" He stalked through his anteroom office.

"Rolf and I are Unking tonight! We're schussing through—"

"Too bad."

I tugged at his arm. "If you think I'm ..." I shrugged, pretended I'd thought of

something more important.

Dad's face had that look.

I'd first seen it last month. I'd told Dad it was goddamn nonsense to haul

myself out of bed for school when Philip could sleep as long—and his expression

had gone tight as he'd moved toward me. I'd jumped back, not quite sure why.

Normally I did as I pleased, and told Dad what he wanted to hear. After all, at

fifteen I was practically grown.

"Adam?" The double doors to the Old Man's study swung open. "What is this

nonsense?" He gestured with his holovid. "I had a few questions about the

Freshwater Project, and they sent us three gig of—oh. Jared." His tone was

neutral, but just barely.

There'd been a time when the Old Man's manner to me was cordial, even friendly.

Somehow, that tone had dissipated as I grew older. What goofjuice, for me to

care what an adult thought, yet there were moments—only a few—when his delight

in his son drove me to rage. Why couldn't Dad treat me likewise? Why couldn't

the Old Man see I was every bit as good as Philip?

Dad gathered his gear. "I'll write Richard Boland directly. He'll cut through—"

"When you do, decline his invitation to the Franjee groundbreaking. Other

commitments prevent, etc." The Old Man stood aside as Dad passed. "I won't have

the media gawking at me just so Franjee can pretend I endorse his ..." The doors

closed.

I slouched in Dad's console chair. When I heard the scrape of a chair in the

study I switched on Dad's puter.

I'd broken about half his passwords, but a few were still beyond me. My e-friend

Rolf built a zarky password-cracker,

but wouldn't give me the code. He lived in Alberta, so I couldn't pound on his

door and talk him out of it. On the other hand, I hadn't told him the idea I was

working on, after reading about the latest Arfie.

Idly, as if paying no attention, I tapped at Dad's keyboard, one eye on the

screen.

The Old Man had made my challenge more interesting: he wouldn't allow an

intelligent puter in his home, not even personality overlays or voicerec. "For

years they harassed me. No more." There was no use arguing: he was stubborn

enough to drive anyone to a rebalancing ward, as he'd done to his second wife.

Naturally he never spoke of it; hormone treatment was certainly nothing to brag

about.

I stuck out my tongue at Dad's silent screen. After the net-locks on a superbox,

his passwords should be a zark. If only I could hammer his ice with a CLIP.

Central linked processors sliced through the hardest glacier, if you knew how to

couple them and had the nerve.

Luckily, in our cottage, at least I had access to my nets. Each night, I would

don my mask and gloves and schuss the white powder hills of access.

Tonight, after Dad went to bed, I'd link with a few e-friends and slalom the

gates. He'd never know, and by tomorrow, I'd talk him out of his punishment.

It always worked.

I opened some of his directories I'd already crashed. A letter to Senator

Boland, Uncle Robbie's father. Why did the Old Man bother with that old stuffed

shirt? All Boland did was make speeches. He wanted to rebuild the Navy, bulldoze

the crumbling cities to make a clean beginning, that sort of goof juice.

Yet everyone knew we had no money for the cities; defense came first. Only a few

years before I was bora, an alien armada had rained terror from the skies. We

lost cities, and suffered untold casualties. At last, now, the menace seemed

abated, but thanks to the attacks, and the Old Man's stupidity in letting two of

our colonies go free, my generation would be dead and gone before good times

came again,

"Hi."

I whirled, but it was only Philip. "Prong yourself, P.T." I

had to keep him in his place; he was only twelve. I tried to break another

code, failed.

"Try the base eleven algorithms; your Dad likes weird numbers." P.T. flopped

into a seat. "Careful he doesn't catch you."

"He's with your Old Man."

Glancing at the door, Philip frowned. "Path's in one of his moods. Someone

told him the Senate wants to reorganize Devon Academy." 4 "God forbid."

"Path has a thing for tradition." P.T. rested his chin on his hands, looking

glum. "He and Mom are fighting,"

"Again?"

"They try to hide it." His face twisted. "I'm just a kit."

Dad's birthday in base eleven cracked another file. It was only next year's

budget; nothing of interest. The Senators merely kept the Old Man informed as a

courtesy.

"Need help with homework?" Philip sounded hopeful. He studied with private

tutors, and was dumb enough to miss the drudgery of the common school Dad made

me attend.

"I never need help." Not true, but no reason to tell him. Better if he thought I

was doing him a favor by letting him write some of my essays. How unzark, his

being ahead of me. Had to be his mother's genes; couldn't be the Old Man's, I

hesitated. "I gotta write a history report by Wednesday. Anything government-

related in the last hundred years,"

"Zarks." He brightened. "Your room?"

I said sourly, "If your Mom won't have a kitten—'*

"Bail out!"

I slapped the screenblank just as the office door opened, Dad shot me a

skeptical glance. "What are you up to?"

I put on my most sullen look. "P.T. was in the other chair, so I used yours. So

sorry." I got to my feet.

"Hi, Philip," As I hoped. Dad chose to ignore me.

"Good afternoon, sir." P.T. stood. The sodding joeykit was always polite, except

with me, because he knew I'd wipe his face in the grass if he tried it.

Not that he had much choice, with adults. His Mom and the Old Man buzzed him

like flies on a trannie. I couldn't figure why he didn't Mem to mind.

Dad said, "Sorry, P.T., I forgot your holochips. Why don't you come over tonight

and—"

Footsteps, along the tiled hall. A light voice. "Kidnapping my son again?"

As Arlene Seafort appeared Dad's face lit with a smile he rarely offered me. But

I wasn't jealous. Soon I'd surprise them all.

"Not exactly. It's just... I mean, I—" Dad swallowed, shut his eyes. Silently, I

counted off five seconds with him. When his eyes opened they held a mischievous

glint. "Yes, I am. You won't see Philip again until he finishes my son's

homework."

I stared stonily at the window. Damn him; why cut me in front of the queen

bitch, just to tell me he knew about P.T.?

Her voice dropped. "How is he today?"

Dad glanced at the closed door. "Well... moody."

Arlene grimaced. "Tell me what I don't know." Her hand fell on Dad's arm.

"Sorry, Adam." She sounded weary.

"Trouble?" It was as if they had forgotten we were in the room.

"No more than usual. It's just..." Her gaze lit on P.T.S then on me, "We'll talk

later, perhaps." She bestowed a pretended frown on her son, though her tone held

no rebuke. "Philip, do your own work before you, ah, watch Jared do his,"

"Yes, ma'am."

She ruffled P.T.'s hair as she left. "Adam, join me for a drink after dinner."

"I'd like that,"

I caught P.T.'s eye and grimaced. Granted, his Mom wasn't as bad as most

seniorcits, though she had a mania for physical fitness, a carryover from her

military days. But hearing her with Dad was like a holodrama from the Romantic

Ages.

"The Vegan resettlement?"

"Who cares." I rolled over on the bed. P.T. sat at my puter, ready to translate

my ideas into respectable prose. The arrangement suited us both; it wasn't my

fault Philip was far ahead of his tutors, while I got nothing but drudge work.

What good was general ed? Puters were useful, and a zark. Dull useless facts

weren't.

Dad knew school didn't suit me, but paid no attention. It wasn't as if he had to

send me; education was optional, and had been for a century. Hell, even the Old

Man said he'd been taught at home. Try convincing Dad, though. He shrugged and

changed the subject.

"Well?" P.T. prodded my bed with his foot.

"The founding of Lunapolis? Nah, I did that last time and she'll remember. The

response to the fish armada?"

He snorted. "That's current events, not history."

"It's been eleven years since the last—"

"Trust me."

"Think of something."

"Social effects of the Augmented Fusion Drive? Too easy, I could quote it right

out of D'Aubison's book. Let's do the Planters' Rebellion. Hope Nation."

"It was your Old Man who put down the revolt. How can you call that history?"

P.T.'s eyes widened. "Jar, that was before I was born,"

The Old Man's three trips to Hope System were the stuff of holodramas, but I was

thoroughly sick of it. Growing up with a living legend was no fun, especially

given his attitude toward P.T, and Dad's toward me, "It's boring," I said,

mostly for spite.

As I hoped, Philip was outraged, "Putting down the rebellion? Blowing the

Station? How can you call—"

"He did it just for the fireworks," My tone was sour. Everyone applauded the Old

Man because he nuked Hope Nation's station to destroy a flotilla of attacking

fish. But did he stop to think who'd pay to replace it? Even Dad claims taxes

are too high to raise my allowance,

P,T, was indignant, "That's not fair. Path hated what he did,"

Yeah, sure. The Old Man gathered guilt like some joeys collect butterflies.

After Hope Nation they called him a hero and made him Commandant of Naval

Academy. "The Fisherman," he was called, though never to his face. But when he

got all those cadets killed, he cowered in a monastery for ten years, gnawing

the marrow of his remorse,

I had a hunch the published reports left out part of the story. Someday I'd get

Dad to tell me. After all, he was there, a middy aboard the mothership

Trafalgar, Whenever I asked.

he would only look grim and shake his head. Maybe the truth was in a file I

hadn't broken. If so, I could sell it to Holoworld for a fortune. Retired or

not, the Old Man was still choice meat for the mediamen. Perhaps that was why he

hated publicity.

I debated. Hope Nation had plenty of juicy incidents to hang a paper on, but my

goal in life was to escape Nick Seafort's frazzing compound, and I'd be damned

if I'd glorify him. "Nah. Let's do..." I thought furiously. "The Hacker Revolt."

"Revolt? They crashed the Treasury, but that was—"

"A zark." I knew I was safe with P.T.; he'd never repeat what I'd said. In

school or elsewhere, I had to keep my mouth shut. As our teachers loved to

remind us, the Rebellious Ages were long past. The Reunification Church and its

U. N. Government wouldn't tolerate anarchy.

"I suppose," P.T. said doubtfully, "we could write about the safeguards put in

place since—"

"Sure. You write the intro." I lay back,

A moment later, I came awake with a start. "Don't shake me."

"It's done. All of it,"

"Already? Let's see." I scanned the printout, yawning.

The Hackers' invasion of the U.N. Treasury in June 2129 was, like the

barbarians' sack of Rome, a decisive turning point in social relations. The

chaos resulting from loss of half a year's taxes shattered a growing nostalgia

for the Rebellious Ages, and thenceforward most societal institutions were

united behind the Rule of Law, as our era is now known.

Though stringent security safeguards have since been put in place, continued

reliance on puters means that danger remains—

I grunted. "I'll have to change some words." "My grammar's fine. Run your

spellcheck, you won't find—"

"Oh, cork it." That was the trouble. If I turned in a report using terms like

"thenceforward" and free of grammatical errors, our frazzing teacher would guess

I hadn't written it. After P.T. left, I would throw in a few typos to look like

I'd been too lazy to run the speller, and string a couple of sentences together.

For Philip's benefit I said grudgingly, "It's all right. I'll fix it up."

"Fine. Do your own work!" He snatched the printout from my hand, turned back to

the puter. "I'll erase it and—"

"Don't even think about it, joey." I tried to make my voice cold, like once I'd

heard the Old Man's, when he was still SecGen.

Philip's finger hovered over the wipe. "Or you'll stuff more grass in my mouth?"

His tone was acid. "I don't mind helping, you frazzing grode, but don't ever

treat me like your personal trannie!"

He sounded like ... I wasn't sure what, or whom. "Cool jets. It's a good essay."

He didn't seem mollified. "Better than I'd have written," I added with gritted

teeth. Soon, I'd be out of here. If all went as planned I'd savor my revenge.

His thumb left the keyboard. I let out my breath. Tomorrow, I'd reenable the

unwipe in case he pulled that again,

P.T. sulked.

Despite my efforts, my anger dissipated. With Philip, it was hard to stay mad.

He had a quality that made me yearn to stroke him, I'd never tried,

"Gotta go."

Curfews. I snorted. Dad thought I had one, too, but he didn't know I used the

hall window. "I'll walk you back."

It was nearly ten; the floods were turned off for the night. We crossed the

darkened lawn in silence.

Our bungalow was at the far end of the drive, between the compound gates and the

helipad, Not much of a home for a retired Captain, or me.

Dad had made Captain shortly after the Old Man became SecGen, and had commanded

U.N.S. Vesta before Admiralty sent him to act as Naval Liaison to Seafort. When

the Old Man lost his vote of confidence and resigned, Dad had volunteered to

stay with him rather than return to the Navy. I don't know why. Maybe the

shuttle crash that killed Mom had something to do with it; Dad said only that an

interstellar liner was no place to raise a child.

Selfish of him; it'd be a zark to have the run of a starship instead of being

stuck in common school. Nobody would give me trouble as the Captain's son.

Instead, when the Old Man retreated to Washington, Dad followed.

As we neared the main house I said, "Thanks for the paper."

P.T. shrugged.

"I mean it." A little butter wouldn't hurt, for next time. "They loaded me with

math and—"

"Shh!" He grabbed my arm, tugged me back.

The soft sound of voices overrode my annoyance. I strained to hear.

"No more than usual." Arlene. "It's that damned hadj he takes next week."

I knelt below the dim glow of the patio light, motioned to P.T. to follow. After

a moment I crawled closer.

"Hadj?" Dad's laugh sounded nervous.

Arlene said crossly, "Whenever he comes home from that bloody monastery he's

sick from the memories, and from shame at all the parishioners crowding for a

glimpse of him."

"It's only once a year. He needs the retreat."

"I know!"

P.T. stirred uneasily at the anguish in her tone. I put a hand on his shoulder;

he shook it off, speared me with a laser glare that warned against touching him

again.

A long pause. She added, "Perhaps more than he needs me."

Dad sighed.

"But he does need me. When he resigned he was so ... hurt."

Dad said, "He didn't deserve their contempt. I know how he felt."

"I wonder." She hesitated. "Adam, keep this between us, but part of his hurt was

his suspicion that he did deserve it."

Dad sounded tired. "I thought he was past that."

"He doesn't have much confidence. His self-respect is ... fragile."

I glanced at P.T., but his face was in the shadows.

"That's hard on you."

Her laugh was brittle. "I manage. For weeks after Lancaster, I look at him with

adoring eyes, and bite my tongue when I want to criticize. Well, it's not as bad

as all that. But for Christ's bloody sake, I wish he wouldn't keep going to that

place!"

Dad cleared his throat.

"Sorry," she said presently. "No blasphemy meant."

She didn't have to worry in Dad's company, but in public a remark like that

could have her up for sacrilege. One had to be careful; though public piety

might be fading, the elders of the Reunification Church were still immensely

powerful. Last year I'd told my teacher what I thought of our stupid canon law,

and got hauled into the principal's office for a whipping. Worse, Dad hadn't

shown much sympathy.

Maybe I should report Arlene anonymously. That'd show them.

"I wish I could help," Dad told her.

"An evening chat with you is enough." Her tone lightened. "Let's round up our

offspring."

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PortIJuly19,intheYearofourLord2229Chapter1PHILIPInthesoftsummerevening,SenatorRichardBolandpacedthedenofour\Washingtoncompound."That'snotjustmyview,Nick.Theputerssay—"\Stretchedcomfortablyonthecouch,Fatherstirred."Lettheputerstell\uswhatwaterisavailable.Howtouseitisourproblem."Hebrooded."SecGenK\ahn...

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Feintuch, David - Seafort 05 - Voices of Hope

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