Polymath

By Francis W. Porretto

Even in his high school years, it was clear to all who knew him that Todd Iverson is special. There are no sciences, no technologies, and no arts he cannot master. There is no field of human endeavor he will leave untouched. He has the power to transform human civilization utterly, and he means to do so.

Todd does have a few little problems. For one, his mother crippled him emotionally by artificially orphaning him, abandoning him to become a nun just after his father’s death. For another, he can’t abide the idea that anyone might be better than he is—at anything. For a third, he might just be a sociopath: the most dangerous sociopath ever to be born among men.

The powers of darkness are aware of him, and they don’t plan to let him work unmolested.

But Todd will not go his way unmentored or unprotected. The most powerful creatures on Earth have resolved to complete his upbringing and bring his strength to fullness:
Malcolm Loughlin.
Christine D’Alessandro.
And Louis Redmond.

Todd will find love and deliberately forsake it.
He will know the most terrible kinds and occasions of loss.
He will enter the world of business, first as an employee, later as an entrepreneur.
And his powers will reach their zenith just as a most improbable figure takes the White House.

For Todd Evelyn Iverson has his eyes on the skies. He has resolved that Man shall leave his species’ womb at long last. As Stephen Graham Sumner and the Constitutional movement rise to prominence, he is preparing to set his foot upon the first rung of a ladder to the stars. It’s a ladder he is uniquely qualified to design and build.

Polymath chronicles the bursting of an Onteora County giant from his chrysalis to spread his wings over the world. It’s the fourth novel of the Realm of Essences series, and begins the story of an American Renaissance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis W. Porretto
• Release date: Jan 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311142375

Francis W. Porretto

Francis W. Porretto was born in 1952. Things went steadily downhill from there.Fran is an engineer and fictioneer who lives on the east end of Long Island, New York. He's short, bald, homely, has bad acne and crooked teeth. His neighbors hold him personally responsible for the decline in local property values. His life is graced by one wife, two stepdaughters, two dogs, four cats, too many power tools to list, and an old ranch house furnished in Early Mesozoic style. His 13,000 volume (and growing) personal library is considered a major threat to the stability of the North American tectonic plate.Publishing industry professionals describe Fran's novels as "Unpublishable. Horrible, but unpublishable all the same." (They don't think much of his short stories, either.) He's thought of trying bribery, but isn't sure he can afford the $3.95.Fran's novels "Chosen One," "On Broken Wings," "Shadow Of A Sword," "The Sledgehammer Concerto," "Which Art In Hope," "Freedom's Scion," "Freedom's Fury," and "Priestesses" are also available as paperbacks, through Amazon. Check the specific pages for those books for details.Wallow in his insane ranting on politics, culture, and faith at "Liberty's Torch:" http://www.libertystorch.info/And of course, write to him, on whatever subject tickles your fancy, at [e-mail]

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Francis W. Porretto

POLYMATH

A Realm of Essences novel

Copyright © 2015 by Francis W. Porretto

Cover art by Donna Casey (http://DigitalDonna.com)

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without the express written permission of the author, except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. The persons and events described here are entirely imaginary, nor are they intended to suggest or imply anything whatsoever about actual persons or events. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All locations and institutions are employed fictitiously.

Contact: [e-mail]

To Beth,

To Adrienne and Harold Streeter,

And to the greater glory of God.

Novels by Francis W. Porretto:

The Realm of Essences Series:

Chosen One

On Broken Wings

Shadow Of A Sword

Polymath

Statesman

The Spooner Federation Saga:

Which Art In Hope

Freedom’s Scion

Freedom’s Fury

The Futanari Series:

The Athene Academy Collection

Innocents

Experiences

The Wise and the Mad

In Vino

The Aeolian Fantasies:

The Warm Lands

Other novels:

The Sledgehammer Concerto

Priestesses

Love In The Time Of Cinema

Antiquities

The Discovery Phase

Prologue

Not all my charges have been by my choice.

You already know about Christine. You know who sent her to me, what we taught one another, and what she has proved to be. She wasn’t the first person Louis Redmond placed under my tutelage.

I wasn’t ready to take responsibility for Todd Iverson. Louis surprised me by bringing him to me. At first I took him lightly. I was wrong to do so, but I didn’t learn how wrong for several years.

When a king brings a subject to you and decrees that you give that subject special attention, you should take it seriously.

#

Onteora County has proved to be far more than it appears. Even I, who thought I knew it well, have been staggered repeatedly by its potentials and the impact on the world of its great ones.

I have no explanation. Yet the evidence has accumulated beyond all dispute. This is a special place that gives rise to special people. I’ve known no other like it.

Though before I arrived in Onteora, I wandered the globe twenty thousand years and more, I’ve begun to doubt that I will ever leave here. For the present at least, this is my proper place.

#

Louis was right to bring Iverson to me. There’s no one else I’d trust to guide him. Yet it would be a kind of guidance distant from what I’ve practiced these past two millennia.

He could save the world. He would need assistance, but the main task would be his.

No, he’s not a king. He’s a noble of another kind: the sort who blazes a new trail, opens a new frontier, and steps aside so that others can find their own ways forward.

Mankind needs a new frontier. It needs to remember what it means to look outward rather than inward, to seek new opportunities, to marvel at new vistas, and to luxuriate in the sense of unbounded possibilities. To expand freely and joyously, as men did before the globe was partitioned into States.

Men need to remember the joy that comes from growth. They need room to grow if they’re to learn to love one another once again. Iverson could provide that room. He could give Mankind the stars.

Become acquainted with him.

A Failure Of Imagination

Todd Iverson nudged his Queen Rook to c1, looked up from the board, and grimaced at his opponent.

Mate in four.

The spectators filled the main room of the Onteora Public Library with a low murmur.

George Stringer’s face mottled with fury. The big senior pushed his Queen Bishop Pawn to c6, sat back, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Play it out.

The junior returned his gaze to the board and took the Pawn with his King Knight. Three moves later it was all over.

Todd rose from his seat and extended his hand to his opponent. Stringer did not take it. He shoved his chair back from the table, tumbling it onto its back, and stalked out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, the tournament director certified Todd Iverson as Onteora County, New York’s Junior Chess Champion.

#

Jussi Iverson met his son at the front door of the library and wrapped him in an affectionate hug. Todd endured it stoically.

Undefeated!

Todd shrugged. The field wasn’t all that large, Dad. Not like Manhattan or L.A. That’s where the serious chess is played. I’d probably have stood no chance in either of them.

His father grinned impishly. Why do you think I moved us here?

Come on!

I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Jussi glanced at his watch. Got time for a little ice cream before karate?

Todd smiled. I think I can squeeze it in.

They were about to head to Amici’s Ice Cream Emporium when a rage-roughened voice called out from behind them.

Iverson!

It was George Stringer. The ex-champion’s hands were balled into fists. His neck muscles were visibly taut.

Todd frowned. What’s the matter, George?

Where’d you get that bullshit opening?

Todd’s eyebrows rose. The Sozin Sicilian? It’s a well known line. Fischer used to play it all the time. From the corner of his eye, he noted that a small audience had collected around them. It’s just not popular any more.

I’ve never seen it before, Stringer growled.

Todd shrugged. It’s just old. Not old like the King’s Gambit, but forty years have gone by since it was popular. I still like it, though...Dad?

Jussi Iverson had interposed himself between his son and the much larger Stringer.

Part of growing up is learning to accept defeat gracefully, son.

Without warning, Stringer clubbed Todd’s father savagely across the face. Jussi’s eyes rolled up. He fell to the pavement and lay unmoving, his eyes closed and his nose bleeding copiously. Stringer drew back his foot for a kick. Todd darted forward, planted his feet in the prescribed stance for a horizontal twist-punch, focused on the larger boy’s solar plexus, and struck with all his force.

His hand seemed to sink a whole foot into Stringer’s body. The big senior froze, gaped down at Todd, and crumpled soundlessly. He lay supine on the asphalt, eyes open but unseeing.

Todd crouched over Stringer and put two fingers to his neck. He could not find a pulse.

Oh my God.

From the distance came the sound of sirens approaching.

#

The eyewitnesses were unanimous in Todd Iverson’s defense. The homicide detective sent to the scene grilled them extensively, but could not compel them to alter their narrations of events. George Stringer had assaulted Jussi Iverson brutally and first; Todd had acted in defense of his fallen father; he had struck once and once only. Presently the detective surrendered and told Todd that he was free to go.

He found Norris and Alice Stringer waiting outside the doors of Onteora County’s Second Precinct. The dead boy’s mother was consumed by grief. His father looked ready to finish what his son had started.

Todd braced himself and approached them, halted about five feet away, and bowed his head.

I’m sorry.

What happened? Norris Stringer snarled.

He attacked my father.

The fury in Stringer’s eyes mushroomed. Your father couldn’t look after himself?

It was enough to jolt Todd out of his semblance of sorrow. My father, he said tightly, is shorter and smaller than I am. He’s probably never been in a fight in his life. George knocked him cold and was lining him up for a field goal.

And he had his little weapon all primed and ready to step in, didn’t he?

Todd breathed once deeply. All his willingness to conciliate had fled. I didn’t intend to kill George, Mr. Stringer. But if either my father or your son was going to die today, I’m not sorry it worked out the way it did. He jerked a thumb at the precinct doors. Ask Detective Marshall what the bystanders told him about the incident. If that doesn’t satisfy you, I don’t know what to tell you. Now excuse me, please. Your late son put my father in the hospital with a broken nose and a concussion, it’s a three-mile walk, and I’d like to look in on him before visiting hours are over.

Stringer balled a fist and cocked it. His wife grabbed at his other arm in an attempt to restrain him. Todd immediately dropped into fighting stance, eyes fixed on the larger man.

Do you really want to do this, Mr. Stringer?

They stood frozen that way as the seconds ticked by.

A young man in business dress, about Todd’s size but somewhat older, approached from the sidewalk. He stepped between them, addressed Stringer in a murmur, and with what appeared to be the merest pressure of his fingers compelled the larger man to lower his fist. Presently the Stringers walked away, the wife clinging to the husband’s arm as if she feared abandonment.

Todd relaxed by degrees. The interloper nodded at the Stringers’ receding backs and turned toward him, face entirely composed.

The Sozin’s a dangerous variation, he said. Attacking chances for both sides. You have to be ready for anything. He waved at an old blue pickup truck parked at the curb. Would you like a ride to the hospital?

Todd gaped.

#

Were you watching the tournament? Todd said.

The interloper nodded. Part of it. I like chess. You play very well, by the way.

Do you play?

Not much these past few years. He swung the truck through a sharp left turn. Can’t take the violence.

Despite everything, Todd chuckled. Then you should stick to Queenside openings. What’s your name?

Louis Redmond.

How do you know the Stringers?

We go to the same church. Our Lady of the Pines, over on Hudson Avenue.

So does my mom.

Redmond glanced fleetingly at him. But not you?

Todd’s jaws clenched momentarily. What did you tell Mr. Stringer?

A shadow crossed Redmond’s face. You don’t need to know. Just relax about it. He won’t be troubling you.

Mr. Redmond–

Call me Louis, he said. "I’m not that much older than you are."

Louis...did you see the fight too?

Redmond nodded.

But the police didn’t interview you.

Another jag of unnamable emotion flickered across Redmond’s face. He turned into the parking lot of Onteora General Hospital, pulled up to the visitors’ entrance, and stopped the truck.

The police don’t like me, Todd.

Why not?

Redmond turned to face him. Let’s just say I hold them in very low esteem, and they know it. Never mind that. Would you like to play a game or two? Maybe tomorrow, after karate practice?

How did he know about that? Okay. Where do you live?

Alexander Avenue, not far from here. Give me a call and I’ll pick you up. I’m in the book. We’ll go to Amici’s for a milkshake and see how we measure up. Redmond grinned. I’ll bring the board and pieces.

Todd held out his hand, and Redmond took it.

Thank you, Louis.

Redmond nodded. Go look after your father.

#

The sun was brushing the horizon when Todd finally got home. His mother awaited him at the front door.

Martha Iverson was horrified at the tale her only son had to tell. As he recounted it, she sat rigidly at the kitchen table, eyes disbelievingly wide and rosary clutched in both hands.

Presently she said, How is he?

Broken nose and a concussion, Todd said. They have to keep him overnight, just in case the concussion turns out to be serious business.

She reached across the table and took his hand. "How are you?"

Todd opened his mouth, closed it without speaking.

You knew the question was coming.

Mom...I haven’t had a lot of time to think about it, what with Dad and the police and all. Tomorrow, maybe?

She nodded. Have you had any dinner?

He shook his head. She released him and pulled a cardigan from the hall closet.

There’s leftover stew in the fridge. I’m going to Adoration. Baldur hasn’t been walked for the night. Will you take care of it?

Not to the hospital? Of course, Mom. Don’t stay out too late, okay?

Her expression became pained. Why not, Todd? Wouldn’t I be in more danger here, with you?

He winced.

Was there no other way? she murmured.

Todd grimaced. Does it matter?

It might. She closed her eyes briefly. You should come with me. See Father Schliemann right away.

Todd said nothing.

Todd, promise me you’ll tell him about this.

Why does she bother? She knows I don’t believe.

All right, Mom. Easier to give in than fight it out. Not tonight. Sunday, after Mass.

Why not tomorrow after karate?

I have an appointment. Might not be home for dinner.

His mother frowned. What sort of appointment?

He shrugged. The guy who drove me to the hospital wants to get together.

Why?

A little chess.

His mother’s eyes immediately became wary. Are you sure you can trust this man?

I think so, Mom. He stopped Mr. Stringer from squaring off with me, he drove me to the hospital, he goes to your church, and he loves chess. Let it go, okay?

Martha Iverson rose, pocketed her rosary, and departed. Todd waited to hear the front door close, and retreated to his sanctum sanctorum in the basement.

#

Todd tipped over his King and peered suspiciously at Louis Redmond. Around them, Amici’s Ice Cream Emporium was perfectly silent.

How did you do that?

Redmond shook his head. "You tell me."

Todd thought back over the course of the game.

The big surprise, he said slowly, was when you castled Queenside. That’s not Black’s usual course in that variation. The Queenside looks too open for a solid defense. But my forces were poised for a Kingside attack, and I couldn’t get them re-aimed before your center initiative became unstoppable.

Exactly, Redmond said. In retrospect, what do you think you should have done?

Gotten remobilized faster?

No. You did that about as swiftly as it could be done. I don’t think you wasted a move anywhere in that sequence, unless...? Redmond cocked an eyebrow.

Unless, Todd said, they were all wasted, because an attack on Black’s King was the wrong strategy. He smiled. It was, wasn’t it?

Redmond nodded. That’s the point of that variation. Players who choose it as White want to attack the King. Moving the target out of the way flusters them. Most can't or won't reorient. He leaned forward over the table. Not their pieces, he said, and tapped gently on Todd’s forehead. Themselves.

Todd sat back and thought furiously.

He’s showing me something I need to know.

This is good stuff.

This isn’t about chess, is it?

Redmond grinned. Yes and no. It applies to a lot of things. If you were to play that variation in competition and see your opponent veer off the beaten track the way I did, would you try a mating attack?

Not any more.

"Well, what would you do?"

Todd grimaced. I’ll have to think about it.

Good, Redmond said. That’s the point. He swept up the pieces and stuffed them into their bag, rolled up the vinyl traveling chessboard, and sat back. Chess does require that you learn some standard openings and endings, and master a few techniques, but there’s no point in the game where you can play by formula. Same thing with life generally. Stay alert. Never stop thinking. Never let your critical faculty go to sleep. And never, ever assume that everything’s been tried, that you’ve seen it all, and that there’s nothing new under the sun. He rose and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. I should get you home.

They were nearly at the Iversons’ home when Todd thought to ask What do you work at?

Redmond didn’t take his eyes off the road. I program computers.

Where?

Onteora Aviation.

Todd snorted gently. That’s where my dad works, too. Seems like everybody in Onteora works there.

Maybe twenty percent of the employed people in the county, Redmond said. It’s not a bad place. Not to break in, anyway. You're what, seventeen?

As of last month.

I’ve been at OA since I was sixteen. I worked there part-time while I finished high school. He pulled the truck into the Iversons’ driveway, set the parking brake, turned to face Todd and grinned crookedly. I’m twenty-eight. I guess I forgot to leave.

Louis... Todd hesitated. Do you think you could get me in there?

Redmond’s expression became solemn, measuring.

Are you any good?

I think so.

There was a moment’s silence.

You go to Foxwood High, don’t you?

Todd nodded.

Any after-school activities?

Nothing mandatory.

Good. I’ll meet you at the school’s front doors at three-thirty Monday afternoon. Don’t be late.

Todd nodded again and held out a hand. Redmond took it.

Thanks, Louis.

My pleasure.

#

Martha Iverson guided her husband to the living room sofa as if she feared to let him walk unassisted. Jussi scowled through his bruises, settled onto the couch, picked up the remote control and started flipping through the channels. Todd immediately beckoned her back to the kitchen and urged her away from the archway.

He doesn’t know what I did, he murmured.

You didn’t tell him?

He shook his head. He doesn’t need to know.

His mother’s eyebrows rose. "Why shouldn’t he? Aren’t you proud?"

Mom, he said in an even softer tone, I did what I thought I had to do. Maybe I overreacted, but the way things were headed—

Never mind, Todd. She glanced back toward their living room. Jussi Iverson was focused on the television, apparently paying them no mind. You have to expect him to find out eventually. What then?

Then is then. Please don’t upset him.

All right, she said, "but you’d better start thinking about what you’ll say to him when he does find out. And what you’ll tell Father Schliemann tomorrow afternoon."

A spike of anger passed through him. He forced it down and counted to ten.

Mom, you know those little booths where they hold confessions? Do you know why they use those little booths? She frowned, and he peered directly into her eyes. It’s because those conversations are supposed to stay private. Like this one.

Todd—

Stay out of this, Mom. Despite his best efforts, a monitory note crept into his voice. This is between me and God.

She snorted. Who you don’t believe in.

Whatever.

#

Father Schliemann heard Todd out without a single interruption. It unnerved him more than if the pastor had peppered him with questions. Throughout the narration, the priest maintained an expression of polite interest that revealed nothing.

Todd wound down, sat back on the old brocade sofa, and crossed his arms over his chest. You’ve been awfully quiet, Father.

Schliemann smiled faintly. I was listening.

As if you’d heard it all before.

I had. Friday, after the Adoration.

Todd peered at him. But Mom didn’t see...

Not from her.

Then—

Forget about that for the moment, Todd. Schliemann sat back in his easy chair and clasped his hands over his knee. Your version matches the one I heard Friday. I was curious to know whether it would diverge in any significant way. That would have told me something about how the event affected you. But I know as little about that now as I did before you started.

The muscles in Todd’s neck tightened. You must put a lot of trust in whoever you spoke to Friday evening, Father.

The priest nodded. I do.

Schliemann gazed directly into his eyes, his expression unchanged. Todd rose and stood awkwardly in the center of the rectory sitting room. He couldn’t decide what to look at or what to do with his hands.

I’m supposed to feel awful about having taken someone’s life, aren’t I? Everybody seems to think that. So if I don’t, there must be something wrong with me.

It’s not quite that simple, Todd. Schliemann sat forward. "Are you saying that you don’t feel awful about killing George?"

Well...

You don’t, do you?

No, I guess not. But it feels wrong to say it.

So by the rules as you understand them, Schliemann said, you must be a monster?

Todd frowned. What rules?

Aren’t there rules? Killing is supposed to make you feel horrid, isn’t it? I thought you said so yourself, just a moment ago.

But—

But there have to be exceptions? For people defending themselves or their loved ones?

Well, yeah!

The law makes those exceptions, at least some of the time. Do you think God does too?

Todd thought it over for a moment, looked the priest in the eyes, and nodded. Do you?

Think so? Of course. God is just. He denies no man the right to defend himself or innocent others. If you must kill to do so, then you kill. All the same, Schliemann said, "it would be better if you felt at least a little horrid."

Todd couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Why?

The priest’s smile faded completely. He went to the west-facing window, made a minute adjustment to the blinds, and peered out at the street.

"Because killing, even necessary killing, is a terrible thing. You don’t want to get to like it. Because there are a lot of people who’ll judge you, not according to the propriety of your act, but according to how you conduct yourself afterward. And because you certainly don’t want other people asking you for ‘special help’ with their little problems."

Oh.

Do you have anything else to confess?

I didn’t think of this as a confession, Father.

Then it wasn’t. But should you feel the need—

I know, Father. Todd forced a smile. Thank you.

#

At the door to Onteora Aviation’s Engineering Center Todd hesitated and glanced over at Louis Redmond. Redmond smiled pleasantly and somewhat mysteriously.

Cold feet?

I was just wondering, Todd said slowly, whether I should have worn a jacket and tie.

Redmond chuckled. It’s a casual environment. Don’t go by me. He looked down at his own ultraconservative outfit. I dress this way because I’m terrible at picking out clothes. He strode to the tall glass doors, pulled one open, and waved Todd inside.

Within seconds Todd was lost in a rabbit warren of multiply-intersecting corridors formed by gray fabric partitions, punctuated now and then by the opening to an office cubicle. In each such cubicle sat a man, quite rarely a woman, punching a keyboard or intent upon some printed matter. Few of them looked up as they passed.

Redmond drew them to a halt outside a cubicle that was appreciably larger than the majority, bade Todd wait with a raised hand, and coughed in that special way intended to alert another person to one’s presence. The occupant raised a long, pale face topped by a thin covering of white-blond curls, found Redmond, and smiled.

What’ve you got there, Louis?

Candidate intern, Redmond said. High school junior, smart kid, articulate, plays a good game of chess, seems okay in all the other ways too. Care to test him?

Sure. Come on in.

Todd, Redmond said as they approached, This is Rolf Svenson, my supervisor and one of the sharpest engineers you’ll ever meet. Svenson’s smile brightened visibly at his subordinate’s praise. Rolf, I’m pleased to introduce Mr. Todd Iverson, recently crowned Onteora County’s junior chess champion.

Svenson rose and held out a hand. Welcome to OA, Mr. Iverson.

Todd took the proffered hand and shook it with what he hoped was the appropriate balance between confidence and humility. Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.

Any relation to Jussi Iverson over in Prototyping?

My dad.

He’s a very good man, Svenson said. He waved at a metal guest chair. Have a seat. I’ve got it from here, Louis.

Redmond nodded. Wring him out and buzz me when you’ve made up your mind. He strode away to parts unknown.

When Todd had seated himself, Svenson leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. How long have you been programming?

Four years or so, sir.

You can call me Rolf. We’re casual around here.

Todd nodded. And I’m fine with Todd.

I figured. So: what do you really enjoy about slinging code?

Enjoy? Todd paused to think. Well, the learning involved, for one thing. The sense of accomplishment from getting something to work right. And once in a while, the sense that I’ve done a Star Trek.

Hm?

You know, boldly going where no man has gone before.

Oh. Svenson chuckled. Is that your vision of your future? Bringing new things into the world?

Todd started to reply, checked himself. Svenson waited.

Now that I think about it, he said, "it probably