Lost Era 05_ Deny thy Father - Jeff Mariotte [9]
“Not real recently, no sir.”
“I get the impression that you two aren’t particularly close.”
“Not terribly, sir.”
“Nonetheless, today, as you might be aware, is Father’s Day. It’s a custom on this planet, a day on which people honor their fathers, without whom they wouldn’t be here. You’ve heard of it?”
“Yes, sir.” Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Where’s the anvil? he wondered. This felt like one of those times, as in the old Earth cartoons his squadron member Estresor Fil watched incessantly, when an anvil was surely going to fall on his head.
“So I thought that perhaps it would be a good idea for you to maybe go see him, give him a call. You know. Honor your father.”
“Yes, sir,” Will said again. “I’ll try to do that, sir.”
The expression on Admiral Paris’s face showed that he understood just how little truth there was in Will’s promise. He even started to shake his head sadly, but then caught himself and turned it into some other head motion, as if he were looking around the room to see if any of the cadets had forgotten anything.
I guess that’s the anvil, Will thought. The old man’s disapproval. I can live with that.
“Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.
“That’s it, Mr. Riker. Good day.”
“Thank you, sir.” Will turned and hurried from the room, which had become suddenly hot and oppressive.
Will didn’t talk to Kyle Riker. He didn’t, on those rare occasions when he thought of him at all, think of him with any special fondness, and he certainly didn’t think of him as “Dad” or “Pop” or any of the other endearing nicknames people had for their fathers. Kyle Riker was a person his mom had known once, a genetic donor, a man with whom he’d shared a few pleasant moments of his childhood, and a whole lot of stiff, awkward times. When he thought about those days, he thought mostly of the long silences, or of times when Kyle Riker would stare at him, as if trying to fathom how his young brain worked. The connection between them was biological, not emotional.
Father’s Day. Will let out a bitter laugh, then glanced about quickly to see if anyone in the spectacular garden had noticed. Coast clear, though. There were a couple of cadets coming toward him, but they were engaged in conversation, and far enough away that they probably couldn’t have heard him.
Kyle Riker had raised Will from infancy, if “raised” was the word for it. Will tended to doubt it. “Tolerated,” maybe. Certainly, he had fed and sheltered the boy. But he was never cut out for parenthood. Having to do it by himself, after Will’s mother had died during his second year, had proven far too difficult a task for him. Finally, during Will’s fifteenth year, he had given up altogether. His work for Starfleet had been taking him away more and more anyway, and at that point he took an extended off-world posting, leaving Will behind for good.
So Father’s Day, while it might mean something to others, was pretty much a nonoccasion to Will. There had been times when he’d even considered losing the Riker name. He’d decided against that-what else would he call himself? He’d have to make something up, and that wasn’t the kind of thing he believed himself to be good at. If raising myself taught me anything, he’d tell people, it’s pragmatism. I don’t like to waste my time with a lot of foolish nonsense.
Ignoring the sky overhead, pink bruising into indigo, ignoring the fresh, sweet scent of dozens of trees, grasses, and flowering plants, ignoring even the gentle breeze that blew in off the bay, fluttering leaves and flags alike, Will Riker turned his focus away from all extraneous distractions and headed for home. Tomorrow was his final project in Admiral Paris’s survival class, and it would