Patriarch's Hope

Sergeant M'bovo replied; the boy was of his barracks. "Good attitude, willing worker, sir. Still waiting to see his Yall." Give your all, we cadets had been exhorted. Over the years the "Navy all" had become a catchword, shortened to the Yall.

"He's only fifteen." Arlene's tone was gentle. Where I was often harsh with green young middies, she tended to be more kind. Her parenting, even more than my own, had nourished our son, Philip. Of course, in his adolescence even P.T. had learned that Arlene's tolerance had limits. Lord God protect the youngster who overstepped them.

Not so many years ago, as Philip had reached manhood, Arlene and I had spoken seriously of having more children. But, with the cares of office . . . I sighed. Over my long career youngsters seemed to seek me out, as if expecting guidance or assurance only I could provide. In return, I'd gotten too many of them killed.

"Mr. SecGen?" Hazen held the file, waiting.

I snapped my attention back to our conference. "Very well, we'll see." I slid his folder into the "undecided" pile. Though a puter screen was inset into the table in front of each seat, the Navy cherished its traditions. One of them was using old-style paper folders for cadet candidate files.

The purpose of my Academy jaunt was twofold. First, Devon was one of the few places outside my own walled home in which I was free of the ubiquitous mediamen. The Academy grounds were closed, and woe betide the heli that overflew it.

My other motive was more complex. Once, as Academy Commandant, I'd selected a few cadets as special aides. It hadn't worked out; I'd gotten them massacred in one of my senseless follies. Yet my successors, blind to my misconduct, continued the tradition.

Years later, when I returned to public life as a Senator, then as SecGen, I'd tired of the self-serving blather of my politically astute assistants, and sought out younger adjutants. I'd coopted midshipmen fresh out of Academy, and to my dismay, watched them grow into political creatures as unacceptable as those they replaced.

The solution I'd devised was to select them at Academy, before they became middies, then—with an occasional exception—send them to a year or two aboard ship. Thereafter, when they were offered a shoreside posting at the U.N. Rotunda, I had at least a hope they'd remember their traditions and the discipline of Naval life. Most of them did, as long as I didn't keep them too long. My current aide, Charlie Witrek, was a willing joey, one I'd come to like, but in a week he would be rotated back aloft, and we'd bring down some middy I'd chosen in previous years.

The system worked well, overall. Of course, none of the selectees must have any idea he'd been chosen to ripen in the fleet, else he wouldn't take his shipside duties seriously. For that I needed the cooperation of Academy's staff, and of course I had it. They too wanted their minions to mature as young midshipmen, and if that weren't enough, none cared to risk a SecGen's enmity.

Still, I found the selection process uncomfortably reminiscent of Final Cull, the miserable job of choosing who, among the myriad of applicants, was to attend Academy. One of my great pleasures as SecGen had been to return to the Navy the long-sought privilege of selecting its own officer candidates.

Today, for two hours, Hazen, Arlene, and I reviewed files with the staff sergeants, noting which youngsters showed promise.

Over the years Arlene and I had developed a fine working relationship. By my authority, she sat in on many of the conferences I was required to endure. Here, at Academy, her views were particularly valuable; we'd been cadets together and shared a knowledge and love of the Navy.

I opened another folder. "What about—"

The door flew open. "Commandant!" A sergeant, his breath coming hard. A red-haired midshipman was close behind.

Hazen reared up. "How dare you burst in like—"

"We couldn't reach you; your caller was set to 'don't disturb.' We've had an, uh, accident. Suit training, the pressure room. Five cadets . . ."

I grimaced, recalling cadet days. First, Sarge had taught us how to suit up. We'd endured his drills several days in a row, skylarking when his eye wasn't on us. Then, one day, after suiting, Sarge sent us one by one into a foggy room with an airlock at each end. About half of us, when we emerged, turned green. The other half had known how to seal their suits properly.

The five cadets who'd gotten a whiff of the gas would suffer no more than a day's sore stomach and the indignity of losing their lunch. A tough lesson, but far more gentle than that of unforgiving space.

"Take them to sickbay, Gregori." Hazen shot me an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry, Mr. SecGen."

"Sir, two are dead. The rest . . . the medics are working on them, but—"

"Oh, Lord God." My voice was strained.

The Commandant blinked. "Impossible! How? What . . ."

"I don't know!" Gregori sounded near tears.

I scrambled to my feet, lurched to the door.

"Nick, wait." Arlene.

I paid her no heed. Leaning heavily on my cane, I strode through the admin wing, outside to the late-afternoon sun, along the walkway toward the classrooms, the dorms, the suiting chamber halfway across the base.