carbohydrates hitting her bloodstream after a long fast. She gave a happy moan.
“Know what this means?” Patrick asked.
Glenn guessed, muffled, her mouth full, “New food crop?”
“Means we don’t have to go back.”
The adjutant in the outer office advised Admiral John Alexander Farragut, “Sir, your father is here.”
Mohammed was a whole lot less surprised when his mountain knocked on the door. That had been expected. This just could not be happening.
Not a phone call. Not a messenger.
Your father is here .
Himself.
Justice of the State Supreme Court of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, the admiral’s father was the supreme master of his domain. His Honor waited for no one. You wait on His Honor.
His Honor was waiting in the outer office.
Had anyone scanned this being’s retina and checked his DNA before allowing him on base?
This could not be good.
His Honor had made the first move.
Admiral Farragut shot across his office to open the door for himself. “Sir.”
As soon as he saw the man, Admiral Farragut knew he was real.
Justice John Knox Farragut nodded and advanced through the open door, his back straight but with an unfamiliar humbled air. His ambivalence was familiar. So was the resentment. But his enormous pride was crushed down to a civil calm.
Admiral Farragut was an incorrigible hugger, but he resisted the impulse to embrace his father. His Honor had crossed the abyss first. The son left him his personal space.
His Honor’s alpha superiority had slipped by coming here. He trudged into the admiral’s office and sat heavily.
Admiral Farragut’s first fear came out of his mouth, “Mama?”
His Honor waved that off. “Your mother’s—” He stopped before he could say fine . He said instead, “Your mother is your mother.”
But something was very wrong. The trouble had to be one of the admiral’s twenty brothers and sisters or his fruitfully multiplying nieces and nephews. Or else something was wrong with the Old Man himself, who looked beaten down.
His Honor’s hollow gaze wandered, spied the baby under the admiral’s desk. He slid from his chair, hunkered down with one knee on the floor to pick her up. He gave her a sad smile, like someone grieving while holding a new life between his hands.
Bad news wasn’t going anywhere.
His Honor looked into the button-nosed face, the petal lidded eyes. Managed a sad smile. “Now who is this?”
His Honor had been at Admiral Farragut’s wedding—mainly because Mama had threatened him with all the devils of hell and her eternal wrath, which seldom seen was nonetheless terrifying, if he did not attend.
Father and son hadn’t seen each other face-to-face since.
The admiral introduced the infant, “Your grandbaby. Patsy Augusta.”
“Patsy. For your Grandmama Winfield,” His Honor said approvingly. “And Augusta?” Of course he couldn’t place that name.
“For a Roman.”
Not approving. “Why would you give any child of mine a Roman name?”
“Sir? She’s my child.”
And here we go. The back went stiff. The familiar glower returned to the blue eyes.
And just as quickly faded. His Honor backing down.
It was terrifying.
“Who died?”
“No one. No one died,” said His Honor. Didn’t seem surprised by the question. With some reproach, he asked, “I can’t come see my son and my grandchild?”
Yes. When entropy reverses itself and time runs backward. When little Miss Muffet invites eight-legged guests to tea. When all the laws of nature break down.
“You’re always welcome, sir.”
His Honor talked for a while. About family. And when he decided it was time to go, he gave his son a huge heartfelt bear hug on his way out, his eyes tight shut. He thumped his son on the back. “My boy. My boy.”
Immediately he was gone, Admiral Farragut contacted Central Intelligence. “Can I get a personal data excavation—off ledger?”
“Since it’s you, sir,” said the agent.
Admiral Farragut said, “Can you
“Know what this means?” Patrick asked.
Glenn guessed, muffled, her mouth full, “New food crop?”
“Means we don’t have to go back.”
The adjutant in the outer office advised Admiral John Alexander Farragut, “Sir, your father is here.”
Mohammed was a whole lot less surprised when his mountain knocked on the door. That had been expected. This just could not be happening.
Not a phone call. Not a messenger.
Your father is here .
Himself.
Justice of the State Supreme Court of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, the admiral’s father was the supreme master of his domain. His Honor waited for no one. You wait on His Honor.
His Honor was waiting in the outer office.
Had anyone scanned this being’s retina and checked his DNA before allowing him on base?
This could not be good.
His Honor had made the first move.
Admiral Farragut shot across his office to open the door for himself. “Sir.”
As soon as he saw the man, Admiral Farragut knew he was real.
Justice John Knox Farragut nodded and advanced through the open door, his back straight but with an unfamiliar humbled air. His ambivalence was familiar. So was the resentment. But his enormous pride was crushed down to a civil calm.
Admiral Farragut was an incorrigible hugger, but he resisted the impulse to embrace his father. His Honor had crossed the abyss first. The son left him his personal space.
His Honor’s alpha superiority had slipped by coming here. He trudged into the admiral’s office and sat heavily.
Admiral Farragut’s first fear came out of his mouth, “Mama?”
His Honor waved that off. “Your mother’s—” He stopped before he could say fine . He said instead, “Your mother is your mother.”
But something was very wrong. The trouble had to be one of the admiral’s twenty brothers and sisters or his fruitfully multiplying nieces and nephews. Or else something was wrong with the Old Man himself, who looked beaten down.
His Honor’s hollow gaze wandered, spied the baby under the admiral’s desk. He slid from his chair, hunkered down with one knee on the floor to pick her up. He gave her a sad smile, like someone grieving while holding a new life between his hands.
Bad news wasn’t going anywhere.
His Honor looked into the button-nosed face, the petal lidded eyes. Managed a sad smile. “Now who is this?”
His Honor had been at Admiral Farragut’s wedding—mainly because Mama had threatened him with all the devils of hell and her eternal wrath, which seldom seen was nonetheless terrifying, if he did not attend.
Father and son hadn’t seen each other face-to-face since.
The admiral introduced the infant, “Your grandbaby. Patsy Augusta.”
“Patsy. For your Grandmama Winfield,” His Honor said approvingly. “And Augusta?” Of course he couldn’t place that name.
“For a Roman.”
Not approving. “Why would you give any child of mine a Roman name?”
“Sir? She’s my child.”
And here we go. The back went stiff. The familiar glower returned to the blue eyes.
And just as quickly faded. His Honor backing down.
It was terrifying.
“Who died?”
“No one. No one died,” said His Honor. Didn’t seem surprised by the question. With some reproach, he asked, “I can’t come see my son and my grandchild?”
Yes. When entropy reverses itself and time runs backward. When little Miss Muffet invites eight-legged guests to tea. When all the laws of nature break down.
“You’re always welcome, sir.”
His Honor talked for a while. About family. And when he decided it was time to go, he gave his son a huge heartfelt bear hug on his way out, his eyes tight shut. He thumped his son on the back. “My boy. My boy.”
Immediately he was gone, Admiral Farragut contacted Central Intelligence. “Can I get a personal data excavation—off ledger?”
“Since it’s you, sir,” said the agent.
Admiral Farragut said, “Can you
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