Children of the Fleet (Fleet School #1)(9)

“Now is the right time,” said Dabeet.

Graff cocked his head slightly, and his smile faded to grimness. “If you were not such a preternaturally brilliant child, I would never give you an accurate answer until you came of age. But now I see that receiving the answer you ask for is as much of a test as any other test I could devise. So we’ll see what you make of it.”

Dabeet knew that Graff was hinting that the answer would be something unpleasant. But he had imagined so many possible fathers that …

“Your father is most definitely an officer of the International Fleet. He knows about you, and if you possessed the qualifications for Fleet School, you would be admitted as a legitimate child of the Fleet.”

Dabeet knew that this could not be the information that would stagger him, that would be a test of his qualifications. “You could have told this to me or my mother at any time.”

“That’s not the information that your mother withheld from you,” said Graff. “She’s been saying it all along. But your DNA also told us that you have no closer relationship to Maria Rafaella Ochoa than to any other woman with some degree of Amerindian ancestry.”

It took Dabeet a moment to register what Graff had said. “She isn’t my mother?”

“Nor your aunt, nor your cousin, nor your cousin’s cousin’s cousin. She barely qualifies as your neighbor. Neither she nor you comes from Venezuela. She is a native-born citizen of the United States, and she learned Spanish as a second language when she was about your age, and her mother was a career diplomat stationed in Ecuador.”

“But…”

“Dabeet Ochoa, at a loss for words?” asked Graff.

“Why would she…”

“Why would she devote her life to you like a mother? Why would she claim to be what she was not? Why would she lie to you? Or—and this is the most interesting question—why would a genius like you never question how his extraordinary intelligence could possibly have sprung from an above-average but not-extraordinary intelligence like hers?”

“Because she…”

“Because you lived in a world entirely of her shaping, and you showed not the slightest ability to question the basic parameters of the stories she told you.”

“I doubted all her stories!”

“You doubted the ones that sounded false,” said Graff. “That your father was a Fleet officer, that your mother’s family was wealthy—and they are, by the way. But you never doubted the ones that were most outrageous—that she is a Venezuelan yet has no trace of that accent, and that she is the mother of a son like you.”

“Did she kidnap me?” asked Dabeet.

“Now you’re flailing about, trying to turn this into some romantic or tragic farce,” said Graff. “Your real mother was unable to raise you. You were placed into the foster care system in the place where your mother abandoned you—though she saw to it that anonymous donations were made to provide for your upkeep and education. And you were lucky enough to come quickly under the care of an extraordinarily devoted and loving foster mother, who recognized your extraordinary abilities and knew that you would never reach your real potential in that place. So she brought you to the United States—legally, I might add, because she could prove that she was an American citizen, and, by claiming parentage, won you the rights and privileges of citizenship.”

“What can I … what am I supposed to do with this information?” asked Dabeet.

“Nothing at all,” said Graff. “You would gain nothing by denying her parentage, and lose much, including residency in the United States. She would also suffer, because she kidnapped you from your native country.”

“Ecuador?”

“I think I’ve told you enough to show you that knowledge you have no use for is rarely worth having. The secret, by the way, is not to avoid learning useless knowledge. It’s to make use of whatever knowledge you have.”

“Thank you for the astonishingly wise counsel,” said Dabeet.

“Sarcastic little bastard to the bone,” said Graff. He pressed down on the arms of the chair and lurched to his feet, groaning. “Oh, for the pleasures of low gravity.”

“So that’s it? You’re leaving me with nothing?”

“I left you with true information, and a serious test. Now let’s see how you use the information and try to pass the test.”

“How can I contact you when I’m ready?” asked Dabeet.

Graff was already out the door. “If you’re ever ready for anything that pertains to me, I’ll let you know.” By then he was halfway to the stairs. He moved much faster than his bulk should have allowed.

All the neighbors were outside, watching both Graff and Dabeet. Many were clustered around Mother, muttering questions or judgments. With such an audience, Dabeet dared not call out after Graff. Nor did he want to demean himself by running after him in order to ask one more question.

Besides, he had no idea what that question would be.

The car moved off. Mother headed back inside.

Do I still call her Mother? Of course I do. She sacrificed everything to bring me here, and even if she surrounded me with lies, the lies were all meant to elevate me and advance me and help me achieve my potential. What child has had a more dedicated parent than this one? She may be ridiculous, but she has earned the title Mother far more than the woman who bore me, who was, like my father, little more than a gene donor.