Free Streaking by Brian Stableford Page A

Daddy had turned into a replica of his own Daddy—and now that he was looking down at the hollow wreck of the man his father had once been, it was all too easy to imagine that he might be forced into the shoes of the departed tyrant, possessed as he had been by exactly the same obsessive ghost.
    â€œI’ll ring for Bentley, Daddy,” Canny said, softly. “It’s time for your shot. You need to rest.”
    â€œBugger that,” said the old man, hoarsely. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Right now, it’s not pleasant dreams I need. Look, Can, it’s hurting me to talk to you almost as much as it hurt me to stay awake fidgeting, fretting that you wouldn’t get here, but if I take the morphine I’ll be away with the fairies till supper-time. The least you can do is hear me out and save your smart remarks and sarcasm for someone who appreciates them.”
    â€œYes, Dad,” Canny said, meekly. He always shortened “Daddy” to “Dad” when he was making a show of being serious. He released his father’s hand and sat up straighter in his chair.
    â€œYou think I’m going to give you the usual load of crap about your responsibilities, don’t you? To your mother, the estate, the villagers. Well, I’m not. You’re not the only one who’s noticed that it’s the twenty-first century. Your mother’s as tough as an old boot and the villagers are perfectly capable of looking after themselves in spite of the fact that we’ve kept them wrapped up in cotton wool for the best part of two hundred years. The mill was never a part of the family heritage, and the patchwork pig’s ear it’s turned into is an irrelevance. It wouldn’t matter a damn if the entire folly went up in flame tomorrow, as long as the insurance was paid up. What concerns me is you, Can, and what you make of yourself.”
    The dying man had to pause for breath then, but Canny knew that he wasn’t supposed to interrupt. He waited, patiently, for his father to find breath enough to continue.
    â€œYou’ve probably always thought of yourself as a means to an end,” Lord Credesdale went on, eventually. “That the only reason I ever had a son was to renew the Kilcannon streak. And you’ve probably always thought that I resented having to share my luck with you as much as you’ve lately come to resent having to share yours with me. Well, there’s no denying it—you’re absolutely right. You were a means to an end, and I have always resented the sharing. But that’s never been the whole story.”
    Again, Canny waited out the pause.
    â€œYou’re my son, Can. I don’t know how other men feel about their sons, or other sons about their fathers, but it seems to me that nobody actually needs a streak like ours to mix up their motives and complicate their feelings. As far as I can see, it’s normal. Other people have their rules just as we do, and benefit in their own ways from sticking to them even while they seethe with frustration. I want you to get it right, Can. I very nearly didn’t, and maybe you’d say that I never did, as a husband or a parent, but either way, I want you to do better. I want you to succeed. That’s why I’m telling you, as firmly as I can. not to test the system to destruction. You’ve had the luck all your life, and maybe it won’t seem too different at first to be without it, for a couple of months or a couple of years—but in time, the cumulative effect of being without that house percentage will take its toll. Believe me, I know.
    â€œTo begin with, I dare say, a little common-or-garden bad luck might seem like a novelty. You’ll be able to bear it easily enough—but over time, it’ll wear you down. Oh, you’ll always be able to look around at your friends and neighbors, and see most of them getting by perfectly well under the dominion of