Founder, Final Installment

Chapters 37, 38, and 39

Chapter 37

Parents, January, 2022

Call me Ted.

It’s surreal to hear a yazzer—standing in a 17th century manor house, no less—insist that Hugh call him Ted. The first time Hugh met Mr. Ransor—at their flat a couple years ago—Silvia introduced her father as Edward, which, considering what Hugh knows now, feels more appropriate. Now as Hugh offers his hand, Ted Ransor shakes it vigorously. So much is conveyed in this simple act: two men gripping each other’s hands, looking each other in the eye, setting aside for the moment whatever mutual distrust they have. Mr. Ransor’s handshake feels friendly enough, his thumb and four fingers signaling, perhaps, that a lot has changed over the past two years, that he doesn’t view Hugh as skeptically as he once did. Or maybe he’s just being polite. A lot has happened since they met—but Hugh’s circumstances haven’t changed the way he’d hoped; he’s still pulling pints and hustling for tips. And though he’s had time to digest the idea of his ex-flatmate as a gantling, his own rung on the great Bressen social ladder remains at ground-level. Maybe the thawing in Silvia’s relationship with her parents warmed up Mr. Ransor’s view of Hugh. Besides, according to Mrs. Ransor, Silvia has moved on, so there’s no reason to worry a feegie bartender will pollute their bloodline.

At this point, Camilla Ransor, dressed once again in black from head to toe, comes into the sitting area, apologizes for the interruption, says it’s lovely to see Hugh again, and asks if Newman slobbered on his pants. Hugh thought she smiled when she first entered the kitchen, but now he wonders if he imagined that. It feels like she smiled, but then Camilla Ransor has that subtle talent so many upper-class women possess of conveying warmth when none is actually felt.

“You found us without too much trouble?” asks Mr. Ransor, absent-mindedly stroking the puppy’s head. “Sometimes we don’t show up on GPS.”

Hugh assures him the Uber driver found the place just fine. “It’s a beautiful home,” he adds.

“It is a lovely old wreck, isn’t it? Christopher Wren designed it back in…”

“I told him all that,” laughs Silvia.

“Ah, and did you give him the grand tour?” asks Mr. Ransor.

“Not yet,” replies Silvia. “We’ve been catching up.”

The next few minutes are a bit of a blur. Having secured the dog, Mr. Ransor apologizes a second time for the interruption; then Mrs. Ransor comes over and stands by her husband, shooting him a not-so-subtle look that says, We should leave them alone. When they start to leave, Hugh, in a misguided effort at gallantry, blurts out, “No, no. Please stay.”

Then the Ransors look at each other as if in a genuine quandary. Silvia’s face grows tight, and Mr. Ransor’s eyes move uncertainly between his wife and daughter. Eventually, Silvia puts them all out of their misery. “Just stay for a few minutes,” she says, “so Hugh can catch you up…”

And they do stay, even though Silvia’s invitation strikes Hugh as thinly varnished impatience.

Now Mr. Ransor pulls up a chair beside Hugh and chats politely while Newman dozes at his feet. Mrs. Ransor works in the kitchen for a few minutes, then brings in a plate of green macarons she says are from her favorite bakery in Devrank Village. The four of them talk about Silvia’s January term in London, the colder than usual January weather, how everyone spent the holy days, and who is likely to win the House of People’s election. At one point, when the conversation lulls, Silvia sits up straight and announces, “Hugh is going to withdraw his ancestry claim at the Ministry.”

There is a note of satisfaction in her voice, as if she were disclosing that he just completed his doctoral thesis.

Mrs. Ransor turns to Hugh with an expression equal parts concern and disappointment. “Are you really?” she asks, her voice dropping an octave.

“I am,” he replies. “It’s time.”

“I’m so sorry, Hugh,” she says.

Mr. Ransor nods his agreement and continues stroking Newman’s head.

Do they look disappointed?

More empathetic than disappointed—the sort of reflexive empathy that prompts one to say, I’m sorry for your loss when a friend’s cat dies.

Hugh shrugs his shoulders; Camilla Ransor frowns and looks as if she might come over and hug him, but then doesn’t.

“I’m sure you must be disappointed, Hugh,” she says. “But don’t let that keep you from pursuing what you want in life.”

Hugh almost laughs out loud. It’s ironic advice, considering Camilla Ransor must suspect that what—or, rather, who—he wants is sitting right beside her. Maybe if she knew Hugh’s master plan for the day, Mrs. Ransor wouldn’t be so encouraging. There’s no way her remark was meant as an encouraging dog whistle—not after what she said about social conventions and marrying within your class. Hugh looks at Silvia to see how the remark landed with her, but she is watching her father rub Newman’s belly and doesn’t seem to have heard.

As the conversation continues, Mr. Ransor seems to grow more curious about Hugh’s claim. He asks if the Ministry had been of much help, if Hugh contacted anyone from the Godor family, and if he had the option to reopen his claim in the future. Every now and then, Mrs. Ransor poses a question of her own until, at last, Silvia exclaims, “Oh my god, can we give Hugh a break from the questions?” At which point, both parents apologize, and Hugh says he appreciates their concern but is feeling just fine about the decision—better than fine, actually.

He goes on to clarify that the decision to drop the claim hasn’t been particularly gut-wrenching. Regardless of Propago’s tactics, he explains, he knew he’d hit a wall obtaining a DNA sample from a Godor. Then, when Callista F. reminded him that his 180-day window for completing the claim process would soon close, the decision largely made itself.

“But I learned some brilliant stuff about my family,” he concludes. “Which sorta made it all worthwhile.”

At just before 4 PM, Mrs. Ransor stands up and addresses her husband. “We’ve stayed too long, Ted. Let’s let them finish catching up.”

Before they can go, though, Hugh jumps up and announces that he’s the one who’s overstayed his welcome, and it’s time for him to leave. It’s another stupid, awkward move on his part, and he regrets saying it the instant he sees the look on Silvia’s face. But the die is cast, and he figures he can say what he came to say outside, even if he has to rush it.

When Hugh shoulders his backpack, Mr. Ransor shakes his hand and squeezes his shoulder in a fatherly sort of way; and Mrs. Ransor comes over and gives him the hug she’d feinted at earlier, all of which feels nice but, again, surreal. Now Hugh takes out his mobile to order an Uber. Mr. Ransor offers to drive him to Devrank in the Rover, but Hugh declines because he’s already feeling embarrassed for having announced his departure so abruptly. Silvia shoots him a reproachful look for turning her father down, but says nothing.

After Hugh says goodbye to the parents, Silvia slips on a puffer vest and leads him out the front door to the driveway. It is twilight now, and the winter sun has already descended below the treetops. The air has grown cooler as well, and when Silvia steps outside, she tugs the zipper of her vest up to her chin.

When Hugh announced his departure, he assumed the nearest Uber would take at least 15 minutes to reach Chale House—time enough to speak his piece. But now the app indicates only a three-minute wait: a mere 180 seconds to unburden himself while walking from the house to the road. They have just rounded the bend and can see the gate when Hugh turns to Silvia. “I’m glad you reached out, Sil.”

She smiles and keeps walking.

“‘Cause there’s a lot to say…”

Another smile, this one more enigmatic.

As they walk, he glances at her face in the failing light, the glassy orb of her eye, the curve of her cheek, the serious lips. She must know he’s looking at her, but her mien has grown colder.

Say it.

Now they have reached the gate. He takes out his mobile to check the Uber: one minute. Silvia removes a remote control from her vest pocket and opens the gate. She continues not to make eye contact, and when the gate stands open, Hugh turns to her with a thousand urgent thoughts crowding his mind. For precious seconds, he looks at her, uncertain where to begin. In her face, he recognizes, all over again, that look of crestfallen resignation.

“There’s your car,” she says, gesturing at the road behind him.

He turns to see a dark blue sedan approaching.

Their last seconds together tick by rapidly. The car stops on the shoulder of the road; Silvia hugs him half-heartedly; he slides into the backseat, setting his backpack beside him. Then, as Silvia turns toward the house, he rolls his window down and calls out, “Wait a second, Sil,” but she doesn’t hear him or at least doesn’t turn around. As the Uber pulls away, he sees her reach back and gather her hair into a ponytail, then drop it loose against the nape of her neck.

Fifteen minutes later, Hugh’s car arrives at the Staneart West station, slowing to a stop behind a taxi queue outside the front entrance.

“Alright, mate,” says the driver. “Have a lovely evenin’.”

Hugh rouses himself, then looks out the window at the entrance. Across the sidewalk, commuters course through the sliding glass doors on their way to the parking lot or taxi queue. All along the curb, cars idle in clouds of exhaust.

“Right,” he says to the driver at last. “Thanks for the lift.”

Chapter 38

The Gate, January, 2022

It’s been at least 20 minutes since the taxi dropped him off, and he is still standing here in the dark, on the shoulder of this country road, his mobile in hand. Twice now, he texted to say he’s here. When he received no reply, he tried calling, but there was no answer. Now his phone is running low on power, and he debates whether to persevere and risk being stranded here, or, with his last few minutes of battery life, order an Uber and admit defeat.

The sun has fully set now, and all that remains of the January day is a fringe of silver along the western horizon. Not one car has passed since he came back, so hitching a ride to the metro station likely isn’t an option. It’s one of those burn the ships moments, he decides, then calls again.

After two rings, an answer.

“Hugh?”

“Hey.”

“Are you on the train?”

“Not exactly.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m outside your gate.”

Silvia says oh my god and give me a second, then hangs up. A moment later the electric motor clicks and whirs, and the gate swings open with a plaintive creak. Seconds after that, Silvia appears from behind the cedars at the driveway’s bend, dressed the same as before, but now with shearling slippers that scuff and crunch on the pea gravel as she approaches.

Hugh steps tentatively through the gate and makes his way toward her, but when Silvia stops ten meters away, he does as well. He can’t make out her expression, but her arms are crossed against her chest and her hips cocked.

“Are you completely mad?” she asks. “How long have you been out here?”

“A little while,” he replies, now wondering if he’d been rash to burn the boats. “My phone’s almost out of power. I thought I’d have to walk back to the station.” He laughs, hoping she’ll see the humor in his predicament.

Stone-faced, Silvia gestures at the gate. “Or you could’ve hopped the fence…”

Definitely not happy to see me.

“I guess I was hoping you’d come outside,” he ventures. “So we could finish our conversation.”

She shoves her hands into her coat pockets and shrugs. “You seemed in such a big hurry to get home.”

He steps closer to her and sees now that her expression is not exasperation so much as wariness.

“I guess I didn’t finish,” he replies. “‘Cause I got sort of caught up in trying to impress your parents. And then my ride showed up so fast…”

“Your ride?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “But I came back…”

Silvia shifts impatiently from one foot to the other, and Hugh’s determination begins to waver. Seeing her remain so aloof, he becomes conscious, once again, of the countryside’s unsettling quiet and his own, stammering awkwardness. He feels his body brace reflexively for the panic that typically strikes in such a moment, for the nattering voice, the winking eye. But none of that happens. And with every passing second, it dawns on him that Silvia and he are alone together on this driveway. She is standing just meters away, waiting for him to speak; and nothing—neither his usual anxiety, nor the cloudless sky, nor the wind itself—will interrupt them.

He has only to summon the words.

“I came back,” he says at last, “‘cause all that stuff is over now, you know? The claim, the Tullia obsession, all the angst about my past. I feel like I’m seeing things clearly for the first time since my parents died.”

“I’m happy for you…” replies Silvia loftily, but he cuts her off.

“Look, I wanna be with you,” he says. “I’ve always wanted that—I’m just sorry it took so long to say it.” He takes a step forward, his hands hanging at his sides. “And if I’m too late, then I’ll have to live with that. I just wanted you to know.”

Silvia crosses her arms again, and sighs. “Oh, god, Hugh…”

“I know. I’m an idiot…”

“You string me along for two bloody years,” she begins. “And then you wait for—honestly—the strangest possible time to come around?”

Hugh laughs. “You know me, Sil. I have a way of making things more complicated.”

Silvia continues to watch him guardedly, showing no inclination to come closer.

“So the founder thing is over now—the claim and Tullia, and all that?”

“All over,” he promises.

“And you’re okay being a feegie—and with me being who I am?”

“I’m fine with all of it,” he says.

Silvia sighs again, this time more deliberatively as if a judgment is imminent. “What about salmon,” she asks after an unbearably long pause. “Are you okay with that?”

“Salmon?”

“Poached salmon,” she replies, coming closer now and taking his hand. “‘Cause it looks like you’re eating dinner with us tonight.”

“Am I?” laughs Hugh.

“And if you don’t run away during dinner,” she says with a growing smile, “I’ll drive you home myself tonight.”

“That would be brilliant.”

When Silvia takes a step toward the house, Hugh does not immediately follow her. She turns back to look at him, and her expression in the failing light recalls the night she came to his bedroom—the set of her jaw, the intensity of her gaze. He is suddenly overcome by his habitual disbelief that a moment like this—any turn of good fortune, in fact—can last without the fates exacting some terrible price.

“You don’t want to come in?” she asks, her smile faltering.

Still holding her hand, he replies, “Yeah, of course.” Then, studying her face as if memorizing its every contour, he adds, “Just give me a second.”

She smiles, laughs bemusedly, but does not rush him.

At last, when he has drunk this moment to the lees, he squeezes her hand and lets her lead him down the driveway toward Chale House.

Chapter 39

The Ministry, January 2022

In 27 years, Hugh has never been inside the capitol complex at Doma Lage. He had the chance, once, in primary school when his teacher organized a field trip there, but he got the flu the day before and missed it. Other than occasionally passing the complex on the V2, he has no knowledge of the place, except to notice, like everyone else in Bressen, how comically out of place its gothic revival architecture looks in a city of medieval limestone. Back in the early 2000s, when Bressen’s urban planners renovated the capitol building, they overhauled the entire left bank, replacing parking lots and modular office buildings with a plaza and riverside park. With a century of soot power-washed off the red brick exterior, the palace is vastly more attractive. But even now, as clean and modernized as it is, the building retains, at least for a feegie like Hugh, a stark, forbidding quality.

Be that as it may, Hugh’s paperwork must be signed and notarized in person. So he set out this morning to complete this final step of his ancestry journey—to put in writing the dead end he acknowledged weeks ago. At this point, terminating the claim no longer feels like an admission of defeat. He found what he found, and no amount of governmental resistance or red tape or intimidation proves him wrong.

It just proves him powerless.

But that’s always been the storyline in Bressen.

A few minutes after Hugh boarded the train to Doma Lage, his mobile rang. It was Silvia calling to arrange details for Saturday, when she’d be moving back into their flat. She also wanted to confirm, once again, that Hugh wasn’t working that night—so they could celebrate. He promised that, no, he wasn’t working and that he’d have called in sick if Moira tried to schedule him. Silvia laughed at that, the way she used to, before things grew so tentative between them. After he hung up, Hugh looked out the train window and smiled—maybe just to himself, but it felt like he grinned so stupidly people might think he was high.

A short time after Hugh hung up with Silvia, the train slid into the Doma Lage station and stopped with a hiss.

The metro station, renovated at the same time as the palace, lies beneath the capitol. When Hugh takes an escalator from the train platform up to the plaza, he finds himself surrounded by the lunch-time crowd queueing up at food trucks for Korean barbecue, Indian dosas, or fish tacos. Making his way through the crowd he proceeds to the main entrance and into the cavernous Victorian lobby. At the security queue, he presents his ID to the guard, sets his coat and backpack on the conveyor belt, and proceeds through the metal detector. After being cleared by security, he checks an interactive map for the Ministry of Genealogy, located in sector W-7A, West Palace.

He finds the ministry ten minutes later, after traversing two concourses and an escalator. Inside the lobby there are computer workstations in glass cubicles positioned all around the perimeter, several of them occupied by people who, most likely, are researching their own family trees. Making his way to the reception desk, Hugh presents himself to a young man seated there.

“I’ve got a 12:15 appointment,” he announces. “To file a claim termination.”

The man looks up from his computer. “Go ahead and scan the QR code we sent you at the kiosk, and we’ll get you all checked in.”

Now Hugh goes to the kiosk at the end of the reception desk and finds his mobile in his jacket. After checking himself in, he finds a seat near the reception desk. Seconds after he takes a seat, his mobile chimes, and he sees a text from Silvia.

I haven’t stopped smiling since I saw you standing outside the gate in the dark.

Hugh smiles as well.

Me, too, he replies, adding a heart emoji.

Are you there yet?

yeah. should go pretty fast. Then he thinks for a moment and adds, feels really right.

Silvia sends three red-heart emojis in response to this.

Just as Hugh is about to put his phone away, he notices an email has arrived in his in-box. The sender’s address is tarph4032@live.com, which he doesn’t recognize, and the email has no subject line, which makes him suspicious. When he opens the message he sees there is no note—just a single PDF attachment with a numerical title. He’s heard of these sorts of scams before: Spammers send a mysterious attachment that, when downloaded, launches some sort of malware. He is about to delete the message when he notices something about the sender’s address, then decides to open the attachment after all.

The document, which takes a few seconds to download, is some sort of memo or report, densely worded and difficult to make out on his mobile screen. When he zooms in, however, he can make out the Ministry of Genealogy seal at the top of the document. Puzzled, he further enlarges the text and begins reading. He recognizes his case number listed prominently in the memo subject line, along with an unfamiliar “referent ID.” A data table halfway down the first page refers to “samples,” one from a Claimant, another from a Referent, each with an identification and source. The analysis is dated 7 January 2022.

He scrolls to the end of the first page where, under the heading Conclusion, the letter reads,

Claimant is NOT EXCLUDED¹ from co-descendent patrilineage consistent with Referent profile.

At the bottom of the first page, the document is signed by two Ministry scientists.

He reads the page a second time but can make no sense of it.

Hoping for a glossary or plain-English explanation, he scrolls through the document and finds a chart, printed in color, with two headings, Claimant and Referent, beneath which are columns labeled Locus and Allele Size. Some Allele figures are circled in red, and where the circled Claimant value equals the circled Referent value, a green check mark confirms the match.

He looks at the next page, and the next.

More data tables, none of them clarifying.

On page 4 he finds the endnotes, 17 of them in tiny type. The first note addresses his question.

¹A finding of Not Excluded indicates a genetic match probability of >99.99%.

He sets his mobile down for a moment and stares blankly across the lobby. After a moment more, he picks it up again and re-reads the endnote.

Not Excluded

Then, from a nearly forgotten place in his mind, he hears a voice.

Excluded.

Rooted.

Booted.

He feels himself growing lightheaded, then realizes he’s not breathing deeply due to an invisible fist pressing against his windpipe. He tells himself to take deeper breaths, then picks up his mobile and hurriedly taps out a text message:

got your email. not sure what it means.

He’s just reviewing the report a second time when Tommy’s reply comes through.

Ministry ran your DNA profile against Milo Vorsen, cousin of the political family and a colleague at Holt. He agreed to the test as long as he wasn’t named publicly.

Now a bass drum begins to thud in Hugh’s ears; a second later, the muscles around his left eye squeeze into a spasmodic wink.

Friend.

Send.

End.

He wants to ask what Not Excluded means but, before he can, Tommy sends another text.

You’re a Godor, Hugh. Ministry verified.

Then a third text appears.

Congratulations.