Robb McLaren was giving his report, but Javas had paid attention to only half of what his son’s Master had been saying.
“Sire?” McLaren asked. The man was well trained, among the finest parenting Masters the Empire could produce, and knew as much about when to intrude upon his Emperor’s private thoughts as he did about raising, and teaching, his only child.
Javas turned sharply. “I can’t believe you allowed him to slip through the shielding,” he snapped, causing the attendant standing at the doorway to jump slightly. “I’ve checked with security all the way up to Glenney, and he assures me that all shielding was not only in place, but that it had been doubled since the last time he slipped out.”
“That’s true, Sire,” McLaren replied, his voice, as always, level and near monotone. Javas often thought that a bomb could go off under his chair while he was speaking and the Master’s voice would continue as if nothing had happened. “However, he has become quite skilled at manipulating the security systems—not to mention everything else connected with the main computer. I shouldn’t be surprised if the current software of the House systems bears little resemblance to anything of its original programming. He has become that adept.”
Javas considered McLaren’s words. He looked idly at the Master, and reflected on how much the man reminded him of Montlaven, the tutor that he and his brothers shared when they were growing up at Woodsgate.
Chosen from among the Earthers, as Montlaven had been, McLaren dressed as the Earthers dressed and held many of the same customs and antiquated ideas about natural progress—he did not partake of rejuvenation, for example—and yet Javas seemed to feel a greater understanding of him than he’d ever felt with Montlaven. Of course, he reasoned, I am an adult now, and a parent, and I see those things that only a parent sees. Perhaps I see, and appreciate, things that were invisible to me when I was a child.
“I suppose I should be grateful, then, that his education in technical matters has exceeded his other pursuits?” He stood, and leaned on the ornate railing of the balcony overlooking the Woodsgate grounds and the Kentucky countryside.
McLaren cleared his throat and stirred uneasily for the first time during this discussion. “Well, uh, I am most impressed by his grasp of technical science, but I…”
“Yes?”
The Master paused, then began in a tone that almost conveyed embarrassment. “He is… headstrong, stubborn.” McLaren looked about nervously, trying to avoid the steady gaze of his Emperor. “If I may be so bold… I knew Joseph Montlaven and, as I expected to someday be made Master for your son, we compared notes frequently.” He stopped, fidgeted with the cup of coffee on the low table before him. “Neither you nor your brothers were this impetuous. I’ve never seen a personal drive or determination of will to match Prince Eric’s.”
“He gets it from his mother.”
“But, Sire—” Javas cut him off with a wave of his hand and immersed himself in the pristine beauty of the country-side. He smiled at the news that his son showed the proper strength and incentive to be his heir but, at the same time, he was concerned for the boy’s safety. Unlike the cultured, highly civilized life-style of the Moon, where the seat of Empire was located, activities like those in McLaren’s report could easily lead to an early death on a rough planet like Earth.
“I understand, Robb,” he said. “I’ll speak to him of it.” McLaren, aware that the Emperor had just ended this meeting, rose quickly and was escorted from the balcony by the attendant.
Many things had changed at Woodsgate over the years: New buildings had appeared and old ones replaced; interior furnishings and color schemes had gone through countless redesigns; even the stable had been relocated to the other side of the grounds when moving the seat of the Empire required the shuttle landing pad at the estate to be enlarged. Only the garden remained exactly as Javas remembered it from his youth. The Emperor strolled the gently sloping grounds and looked out over the wide expanse of green, the otherwise smooth spread of Kentucky bluegrass dotted here and there by scattered karst. The limestone outcroppings gradually increased in number and size, and finally became a high ridge a hundred meters to the east. There were caves in the outcroppings, and Javas remembered the time his older brothers had taken him along on an underground exploration that had both fascinated and frightened him—much to Montlaven’s distress—years earlier. Javas sat on a large outcropping and tried hard to remember exactly how long ago that had been. He had taken no rejuvenations, of course, since he’d become Emperor; but how many times had he renewed before that, and how many years had passed since he’d run these grounds as a child?
“Father!”
Javas turned at the sound and watched his son as he ran down the flagstone path leading from the main house. He’d seen his son as frequently as his schedule and Imperial duties allowed, of course; but the holoconferences held in his personal chamber on the Moon, no matter how lifelike or real they might seem at the time, still could not take the place of actual contact. The boy had grown since he’d last been this physically close to him—when? Spring? Javas shook his head self-consciously and promised himself for perhaps the hundredth time that he would make a stronger effort to return to Woodsgate sooner. Next time.
Eric ran easily, effortlessly, across the grounds with a grace and agility that reminded Javas immediately of Adela. Eric looked much like his father and had inherited much of his physical strength and abilities, but the boy favored his mother in most other respects. His hair was very dark, like Adela’s, and his build and features were small for his age. Eric’s hands showed his mother’s delicate fingers as he waved excitedly in greeting. Above all else, it was his unbound enthusiasm that reminded him most of his mother. Adela de Montgarde, at this moment approaching a planet nearly twenty light-years distant, would be very proud of the son born four years after her departure…
“Father!” Eric leaped forward, knocking Javas to the ground. It was a game they had played for years upon greeting each other after a long absence: Eric would jump and attempt to tackle his father, who, more often than not, would eventually allow the boy to topple him to the grass, where they would wrestle until exhausted. As the boy tried now to pin him to the ground, Javas remarked inwardly that Eric had grown even more than he had thought; his compact frame hid greater strength than a casual observer might at first suppose. Flat on his back in the sweet-smelling grass, Javas realized that either the boy was getting a bit too big for this game or he was getting too old.
As Eric almost succeeded in holding him down, Javas pushed firmly—but carefully—with his leg, sending his son flying backward to land on his rump with an audible plop, which ended the impromptu wrestling match with fits of breathless laughter from both of them.
Javas stood, brushing himself off, and extended a hand to help Eric up. They stood a moment and shook hands, and Javas was pleased at the firmness in the boy’s grip.
“Hello, Eric. It’s good to see you.” Javas opened his arms and father embraced son. Over the boy’s shoulder, Javas saw McLaren appear briefly on one of the main house’s many balconies. It was difficult to be certain from this distance, but it looked like the ever-serious Master had been grinning from ear to ear.
“Welcome home, Father.” Eric knew better than to ask how long the Emperor would stay this time.
They talked idly for the better part of the next hour as they walked the grounds of the estate. Eric was deeply involved in what he was learning, and spoke excitedly about how he had progressed in the previous six months. Javas noted with satisfaction that, while the boy discussed his successes with unabashed pride, he did not give in to the obvious temptation that all young boys have to exaggerate; Eric’s description of his schooling closely matched that given him earlier in the day by Master McLaren.