Of Fire and Night - Kevin J. Anderson [147]
He looked at her and didn't need to say anything. As the awkward silence drew out, Maureen became visibly uncomfortable. She preferred to snap orders to servants and underlings, knowing that her wishes would be followed. She didn't quite know how to deal with her grandson. Finally she backed away. "I just wanted to let you know I did my best. I'll leave you to your . . . snack. We can discuss this more in the morning."
Patrick continued to eat the cheese, though he'd lost his appetite. He had already made up his mind.
He remembered the grudgingly satisfying work he had done at Osquivel. Here on "civilized" Earth, he'd been brought up to believe the space gypsies were rowdy and disreputable. No one in the Hansa had ever bothered to pay attention to what the clans could do; instead, they spread rumors and insults, portraying the Roamers as shiftless con artists who didn't deserve any respect.
Since then, Patrick had seen with his own eyes how Roamer families labored together and accomplished miracles. And he had enjoyed being with Zhett Kellum. He still regretted how he'd tricked her for a chance to escape. He hoped he could make it up to her somehow, someday.
He'd served the Earth military, worked with General Lanyan, and seen firsthand the capricious and unfair way political decisions were made. Patrick was convinced that the EDF and the Hanseatic League had caused their own problems. But from inside, Maureen simply could not see the flaws.
He went to his ridiculously spacious room, though he wasn't tired--which was a good thing, since he had a long night ahead of him. No turning back.
He changed into a serviceable outfit and packed fresh clothes, untraceable currency, and food supplies he'd taken from the kitchen. In the EDF he'd learned how to travel lightly, how to make swift decisions and carry them through. When he was finished, Patrick padded quietly through the mansion and deactivated the intruder alarms and perimeter surveillance. He slipped into the service bay where his restored antique cars sat smelling of polish and engine oil.
On the far side of the bay rested Maureen's sleek space yacht, a ship purchased by an extremely wealthy person in a time of prosperity. Had the old Battleaxe paid for it herself, or had one of her political cronies simply offered it in exchange for a plump contract? He intended to take it out on loan, use it for important work. He could find Roamer outposts, Hansa colonies orphaned by the Chairman's decrees, tell his story to anyone who would listen. He was sure he could find a sympathetic ear somewhere. A person of his lineage and status, someone with a relatively high rank in the EDF, certainly had enough credibility to make even the most skeptical person think twice. It was about time his family name was used for something worthwhile.
His grandmother had always controlled his life. Patrick Fitzpatrick III had been trapped by expectations, forced to do whatever somebody else told him. And he had already given one life to the EDF. "Now I'm going to do something for the right reasons."
He silently opened the hangar doors and climbed into the yacht, noting that the cockpit controls were far less complex than a Remora's. This vessel was designed for someone unfamiliar with the nuances of flying, certainly not made for sharp evasive maneuvers or swift battle scenarios. He could fly it easily.
The fuel tanks were full. He snorted in disgust: With such tremendous shortages, with so many colonies desperate for medical supplies and food, how did one old woman warrant a supply of ekti? Well, he would put it to good use.
Patrick powered the engines, felt the ship vibrate, and heard the reverberations building in the reaction jets. Even with the house alarms shut off, the noise was bound to wake someone up. His grandmother had always been a light sleeper--probably because of her heavy conscience.
He didn't look behind him, didn't leave a farewell note, and he certainly