Read Online On the Oceans of Eternity by S. M. Stirling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S. M. Stirling
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Chief Executive Officer Jared Cofflin yelled. “Marian! Junior! Jenny! Sam!”
You had to be specific; just “kids!” didn’t get their attention. The children had burst into the Chiefs House, home from school, and were in the middle of some game that involved thundering up and down stairs and whooping like a Zarthani war party doing a scalp dance, with a couple of barking Irish setters in attendance. Cold autumnal wind blew through the opened door, along with a flutter of yellow-gold leaves and a smell of damp earth, damp dog, woodsmoke, and sea-salt.
“Quiet, I said!” he bellowed, and snagged one setter by the collar. It wagged its tail and looked sheepish, trying to turn and lick his hand, hitting his elbow instead, putting a wet muddy paw on his leg. “You too, you fool dog.”
“Yes, Uncle Jared?” Lucy asked sweetly.
She looked like a picture of innocence carved from milk chocolate, dressed in jeans and indigo-dyed sweater, twisting a lock of her loose-curled black hair around a finger as she rubbed a foot on the calf of the other leg. Her sister Heather stopped beside her with an identical angelic expression, red-hair-and-freckles version. They were both adopted from Alba, of course. Heather’s parents had been villagers killed by one of Walker’s raiding parties—Swindapa had found her crying in a clump of trees not far from their bodies. And Lucy’s Alban birth-mother had died in childbirth; her father had been one of Walker’s renegades, a black Coast Guard cadet from Tennessee. The Islanders had found her in the remains of Walker’s base after the Battle of the Downs; by now he had to remind himself occasionally that they weren’t really twins.
Both brought their school satchels around and hugged the strapped-together books and lunch box and wood-rimmed slateboards with studied nonchalance, a gesture aimed at his subconscious, where the memory of their excellent marks presumably hid ready to float up and restrain his temper.
Might have fooled me, he thought, trying to school his face into something formidable. Fooled me back before the Event. Back then he’d been a widower, and childless. Here he was married and father of four, two of them also adopted from Alba. I should be insulted. They don’t try this act on Marian or ’dapa, much.
“What did I say about running around inside the house?” Cofflin asked.
Usually sternness came naturally to him; he had the dour Yankee visage common among the descendants of the seventeenth-century migrations that had settled Nantucket, bleak blue eyes, long face on a long skull, thinning sandy-blond hair streaked with gray. But it was hard to look po-faced at a kid having fun, especially with a close friend’s daughter who’d been in and out of your house all her life.
“Sorry, Uncle Jared,” they said together: and yes, they’d seen the twinkle he’d tried to bury. “Sorry, Dad.” his own added, in antiphonal chorus—ages ten to six, but they played together and stuck together.
Good kids, he thought, and made his voice gruff for: “Well you should be sorry. You especially, Lucy and Heather. You don’t get to run wild because your mothers are away.”
“Can we go over to Guard House and play till dinner?”
Cridzywelfa, the Alston-Kurlelo’s housekeeper, was looking after it while Marian and Swindapa were off with the expeditionary force. Which was fine, but ...
“All right, as long as you don’t wheedle too big a snack out of her and spoil your supper. Be warned!”
Cridzywelfa had been a slave among the Iraiina, back before the Alban War. Many of the newly freed had moved to Nantucket, after the founding of the Alliance and compulsory emancipation; entry-level jobs here looked good to people from that background, without kin or land. She’d learned English and settled in well, and she spoiled her employers’ kids rotten, but wasn’t what you’d call self-assertive.
On the other hand, her own two, they might as well be
You had to be specific; just “kids!” didn’t get their attention. The children had burst into the Chiefs House, home from school, and were in the middle of some game that involved thundering up and down stairs and whooping like a Zarthani war party doing a scalp dance, with a couple of barking Irish setters in attendance. Cold autumnal wind blew through the opened door, along with a flutter of yellow-gold leaves and a smell of damp earth, damp dog, woodsmoke, and sea-salt.
“Quiet, I said!” he bellowed, and snagged one setter by the collar. It wagged its tail and looked sheepish, trying to turn and lick his hand, hitting his elbow instead, putting a wet muddy paw on his leg. “You too, you fool dog.”
“Yes, Uncle Jared?” Lucy asked sweetly.
She looked like a picture of innocence carved from milk chocolate, dressed in jeans and indigo-dyed sweater, twisting a lock of her loose-curled black hair around a finger as she rubbed a foot on the calf of the other leg. Her sister Heather stopped beside her with an identical angelic expression, red-hair-and-freckles version. They were both adopted from Alba, of course. Heather’s parents had been villagers killed by one of Walker’s raiding parties—Swindapa had found her crying in a clump of trees not far from their bodies. And Lucy’s Alban birth-mother had died in childbirth; her father had been one of Walker’s renegades, a black Coast Guard cadet from Tennessee. The Islanders had found her in the remains of Walker’s base after the Battle of the Downs; by now he had to remind himself occasionally that they weren’t really twins.
Both brought their school satchels around and hugged the strapped-together books and lunch box and wood-rimmed slateboards with studied nonchalance, a gesture aimed at his subconscious, where the memory of their excellent marks presumably hid ready to float up and restrain his temper.
Might have fooled me, he thought, trying to school his face into something formidable. Fooled me back before the Event. Back then he’d been a widower, and childless. Here he was married and father of four, two of them also adopted from Alba. I should be insulted. They don’t try this act on Marian or ’dapa, much.
“What did I say about running around inside the house?” Cofflin asked.
Usually sternness came naturally to him; he had the dour Yankee visage common among the descendants of the seventeenth-century migrations that had settled Nantucket, bleak blue eyes, long face on a long skull, thinning sandy-blond hair streaked with gray. But it was hard to look po-faced at a kid having fun, especially with a close friend’s daughter who’d been in and out of your house all her life.
“Sorry, Uncle Jared,” they said together: and yes, they’d seen the twinkle he’d tried to bury. “Sorry, Dad.” his own added, in antiphonal chorus—ages ten to six, but they played together and stuck together.
Good kids, he thought, and made his voice gruff for: “Well you should be sorry. You especially, Lucy and Heather. You don’t get to run wild because your mothers are away.”
“Can we go over to Guard House and play till dinner?”
Cridzywelfa, the Alston-Kurlelo’s housekeeper, was looking after it while Marian and Swindapa were off with the expeditionary force. Which was fine, but ...
“All right, as long as you don’t wheedle too big a snack out of her and spoil your supper. Be warned!”
Cridzywelfa had been a slave among the Iraiina, back before the Alban War. Many of the newly freed had moved to Nantucket, after the founding of the Alliance and compulsory emancipation; entry-level jobs here looked good to people from that background, without kin or land. She’d learned English and settled in well, and she spoiled her employers’ kids rotten, but wasn’t what you’d call self-assertive.
On the other hand, her own two, they might as well be
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