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Voices of Hope
The Seafort Saga, Book Five
By David Feintuch OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1996 David Feintuch
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9564-9
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 Fath. 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—"
Fath said, "No, it's that you let puters decide matters that should be in human hands."
Senator Boland gave way with grace. "You set us a better example in your Administration."
Mom shot him a warning look. She hated to see Fath 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."
Fath grunted. "I suppose it comes from my Naval background: you don't trust the machinery. Recheck 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 Fath's eyes didn't leave me, and I basked in the glow of his approval. "Still, I've seen 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," Fath 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 efriends 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 Fath, 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. "I 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 linking 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 goofjuice.
Yet everyone knew we had no money for the cities; defense came first. Only a few years before I was born, 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. "Fath's in one of his moods. Someone told him the Senate wants to reorganize Devon Academy."
"God forbid."
"Fath 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 seem 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., 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. Fath 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.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Voices of Hope by David Feintuch. Copyright © 1996 David Feintuch. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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