Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5)

by David Feintuch

  “Naw.”

  His voice dropped. “That Uppie be one mean bitchgirl.

  Whomp me fronta alla Broads!”

  I shrugged. “I be Neut.” Tribe should know better ’n bring complaints ’bout rumb. I hadda stay outa, not take sides. On other hand, wasn’t tribe he bitchanmoan about, but Uppie. On other hand, was Fisherman’s wife he talkinabout. On other hand, I on Uppie side now. Way too many hands. I shrugged.

  Fisherman said to Adam, “This joey saw them bring Jared to the Sub.”

  Tenere took long, slow breath. “Was he hurt?”

  “Whas’ innifo—”

  I growled, “Tellim, ’fore Uppie diss ya.” Wasn’t true, but this no time for trayfo.

  Joeykit said, “Was cryin’ an’ beggin’ a lot.” He giggled. “But no shiv stick outa him.”

  Tenere gave Broad same slow warnin’ look I saw Pook give Swee in shop. I didn’ blame him.

  “Where to, sir?” Pilot.

  Fisherman said, “Four Two Square. We’ve wasted enough time.”

  Seafort wife said sweetly, “Picking us up was a waste of time?”

  “Arlene, please—”

  “You’re an insufferable bastard.”

  Dunno why I expected bolt of lightning, or worse. This was Fisherman.

  Whateva else Arlene had to say was lost in engine roar. I held strap as we lifted, wishin’ I was back in shop. They didn’ need me now, with Broad joeykit for guide. ’Course, even if he got them to stair, down below would be ’nother matter.

  Once more we landed. Four Two seemed deserted, though still daylight. I licked lips, glad I brought heart pills. “Lesgo.” I pushed open door. “Leggo Broad kit. Don’ need him, now you got me.”

  Seafort wife looked me over.

  Fisherman said hastily, “Arlene, this is Pedro Chang. Remember my telling you—”

  For a moment her gaze remained stony. Then it melted. “Of course. You were my husband’s friend, and Eddie’s. Nick says you saw Philip. Our son’s all right?”

  “Was.” Wondered why I sounded gruff.

  Her hand darted out, touched mine. “You gave him tea. Thank you.” For a moment, she thought. “Mr. Chang, what will P.T. do next?”

  I made face. “He ain’ my joeykit. No way to—”

  “You saw him last. What was his mood? Tell me about this Pook.”

  I found myself babbling private thoughts. Tol’ her how Pook almost like son. How he scared under his bravado. How he amazed at steel under P.T. soft exterior. How I figured P.T. wouldn’ stop short of bringin’ home his Jared.

  Nothing I said surprised her. At end, she nodded, pressed my hand again. “Thank you, Mr. Chang. Thank you.”

  Felt lump in throat I didn’ understan’.

  Broad joeykit said, hopeful, “Lemme go, Uppiegirl?”

  I thought she gonna agree, but she said, “Sorry, Skat. Mr. Chang may know the Sub, but you’ll recognize the joeys who took Jared. When we find him, you’re free to go.”

  “Tolya I ain’ goin’ unner!” He scrambled toward the door.

  She caught his hand, did something with his fingers that brought a sharp yelp. “Going somewhere?”

  Skat muttered, “Frazzin’ bitchgirl.” He cuddled his fingers under his arm.

  Pilot cleared his throat. “Sir, we’re in hostile territory. I’ll stay parked if you insist, but I’d prefer to circle—”

  Fisherman said, “By all means. Arlene, let’s go before they heave rocks through the windshield or dent the blades. Rob, wait in the heli while—”

  “I’ll go with you.” Uppie’s tone was curt. He jumped out.

  In min, we crossed square to under stairs. Heli threw wind and sand in our eyes as it rose.

  Two lasers among us: Adam Tenere carried one, an’ Uppie Rob ’nother. I didn’ feel safer; if Subs rushed and Uppie went down, we could all find shiv in ribs.

  Arlene, would you rather ... Rob blushed, offerin’ laser.

  “Keep it for now.” She pulled stunner from her pouch, set to high. With other han’ she kept a firm grip on Skat.

  I raised voice as we started down stair. “Yo, Sub! Chang comin’ down, wid Mens! Got innifo fo’ passby. Cool jets, no one diss!”

  Skat snorted, shook his head. “Soon as they shiv ya, I gone,” he told Fisherman wife.

  Long time back, was lights unnergroun’. Anyone looked up, could still see wires from where they torn down. But today, dark as tomb. Took several breaths, knowin’ Subs liked to jump out an’ scare. Hoped my heart wouldn’t stop when they did.

  We got to bottom, peered into black. No sound.

  “Yo, Sub!” My voice echoed. We all stood waiting at bottom stair, reluctant to move into dark.

  With muttered curse Fisherman’s friend Tenere dug in pocket, brought out battery light, switched it on. He aimed bright beam to one side. Nothin’ but wall, leading to empty corridor.

  Light swung other direction, in dizzy arc.

  Three Sub joeys raced our way brandishin’ shivs an’ clubs. Arlene hissed. Lasers came up, red aim-lights flickering.

  “Stop!” I jumped ’tween Uppies ’n Subs.

  Lasers wavered.

  Two Subs skidded to halt few feet away. Third knocked me aside as he flew past. I fell hard. Couldn’ breathe.

  Fisherman shouted, “No!” He shoved Rob’s laser aside jus’ as Uppie fired.

  Scuffle sounds. Sub joey flew outa Uppie ring, bounced on hard floor. The other Subs circled, waitin’ for chance to rush. “Outa Sub! No one comes unner today!”

  Somehow, managed to get to my feet. “Fa Godsake, stop-pit, allayas!” I panted fo’ breath. “Got plenny innifo. Show em.”

  Angry Sub snarled, “Don’ matta, Changman! Halber say no one! Gettem out!”

  I pulled out Unibucks I got from Tenere, waved in face. “Innifo! Halber be royal pissoff if ya don’ take.”

  He shook head. “He skin me if I let ya in.”

  I stamp. “Halber didn’ mean me, stupit Subboy! I be Chang. Dincha come ta shop few days back, for carry Valdez permas?” Showin’ contempt, I threw Unibucks on filthy floor. “Pick ’em up. Halber want ’em all.” Without waitin’ for answer I waved to Uppies. “C’mon. We’ll fin’ Halber, straighten out.”

  Arlene reacted fastest; strode ’cross corridor, draggin’ Skat. Others followed.

  As she caught up to me I took her arm, rested some of my weight on her. Tried not to pant. My side hurt. Chest ached, leg too. Too damn ol’ fo’ rumb.

  As if she understood, she slowed to pace I could manage.

  Subboys came racin’ afta. One held fistful of Unibucks. “Changman, stop. Ya get me skin fa real!”

  I said with authority. “Noway. Halber unnerstan’.” Hoped it was true.

  To Uppies, I pointed down corridor. “Main meet room there. An whatever ya do, don’ turn off light.” In dark, Subs the dread a N’Yawk.

  Chapter 31

  PHILIP

  WHEN WE LEFT MR. Chang’s shop I assumed Pook would run for safety or turn on me. If he fled, I’d make Swee show me the way to the Sub. But if Pook came at me, I doubted I could beat him off yet again. He was bigger, stronger, older. My only advantage was from Mom’s lessons, and my luck was bound to run out.

  Pook insisted on bringing along cans of vegetables as gifts for his associates. Mr. Chang grumbled before giving them to him, but at the last moment, when we were at the door, he added more.

  Swee tagged along, very careful to keep my body between Pook and himself.

  “’Notha coupla blocks, Uppie. We go Sub Three Six steada Square. Fasta.” Pook was resolutely cordial, in marked contrast to the ominous look he shot from time to time at Swee. He seemed quite keyed up, a feeling I completely shared.

  For several blocks Pook chattered away, a demented trans-pop tour guide. I could understand only a fraction of what he said, and a persistent throb beat against my temple.

  “Mid turf ends here. Waitasec, Peetee. I give innifo ta Broads.” He strode off. Aut
omatically I followed; with too much head start I’d never catch him.

  Pook jabbered at a tribesman, handed him a couple of cans as a present. Swee stayed well clear of the corner, as if afraid of both Pook and his new companions.

  Two of the transpops stared at me, asked Pook something incomprehensible.

  “He wid me. We wan’ passby both ways fo’ us two.” He waved a thumb at Swee. “Okay ta diss shithead Midboy on way back.”

  Their appraising eyes flickered from me to Swee.

  Pook seemed more cheerful as we moved on, perhaps because he no longer had to lug a sack of cans. “Sub stair jus’ past Mid turf,” he told me. “Ya gonna need lotsa innifo. Whatcha brung?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t understand. It’s an interesting dialect you speak. Has anyone done a dictionary? I’ll suggest it to Mr. Frowles for a term project.”

  He stared at me as if I’d spoken gibberish.

  Pook led me to an open square, with stairs to a subterranean tunnel. He paused, licked his lips. “Sure ya wanna, Uppie? Wait here fo’ Jared, ’stead?”

  “Is he down those stairs?”

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “Halber gottim.”

  “Come on, then.” I started down.

  Pook nerved himself and rushed down the steps. At the bottom of the stairwell, he emitted a piercing whistle. “Yo! Sub!” He seemed poised to flee to safety.

  I peered into the dark.

  Above, Swee said uncertainly, “Don’ wanna go down.”

  I said, “Wait outside. I’m sure you’ll find joeys to talk to.”

  His eyes flicked back and forth among the crumbling buildings. With a whimper he ran downstairs, and stayed close to me as we groped our way onward.

  “Hello?” I could see little more than shadows.

  “Far enough!” A voice in the dark. Swee grabbed my hand.

  “Who dere?” Pook’s voice quavered.

  “Raulie, Sub.”

  “Pook be I, what trayfo Jared Uppie ta Halber. Halber tol’ me ta comealong wid.”

  “Why dincha, joeykit?”

  “Couldn’.” Pook’s tone was aggrieved. “Hadda go back ta lair, and I got ...” He groped for a word. “Anyway, we here now.”

  “We, Midboy?”

  “My ... frien’, Peetee.”

  “An’ me.” Swee, nervous.

  “Nah.” Pook. “Dunno ’im. Skin ’im, okay wid us.”

  A squawk. “Pook!”

  “Dunno ’im,” Pook insisted. “Midboy, looks like. An’ he ain’ brung no innifo.”

  Abruptly, Swee let go my hand. Footsteps raced toward the stairs. A thud, a squeal of protest. “Gottim!”

  “PEETEE!” Swee’s voice was desperate.

  “Hold it!” My voice shot into embarrassing upper registers. With an effort, I brought it down. Summoning an image of Father, I tried to sound authoritative. “Enough! Let him go.”

  A snicker from Raulie, who appeared to be the leader. “Who say?”

  “I do. Didn’t Pook tell you we’re guests of Halber?”

  “You what?”

  Had I gotten the name wrong? “Pook, did Halber ask you to come here?”

  “Ya.” The transient seemed glad to follow my lead. “Tol’ me hisself.”

  A pause. Suddenly a light flicked on.

  We were in a rubbish-strewn corridor, surrounded by some half dozen colorfully dressed tribesmen. Halfway to the stairs, Swee stood, eyes scrunched shut, gripped from behind by a Sub, a knife pressed to his carotid artery.

  What would Fath do?

  I strode across the hall. “Put that down! Let him go, he’s with me!” I prayed for Swee’s sake that my voice wouldn’t squeak.

  Raulie nudged Pook. “Who he be?”

  “My frien’ Peetee. Uppie, like Jared.”

  I stamped my foot. “Put that knife away!”

  For a moment, they considered. Raulie said, “Take Pook ta lair; Halber’ll skin ’im if he boolsheet us. Bring Midboy too.”

  “What ’bout Uppie?”

  Raulie hissed, “Dissim.”

  “But he—”

  Raulie spat. “Frazzin’ Uppies think dey own da world! Teach ’em ta come down in Sub an’—”

  Hands clawed at my shirt. I batted them away. Swee’s captor shoved him clear to focus on me; Swee stumbled, caught himself.

  Three Sub joeys came at me. What now, Mom? How do I fight if I’m scared out of my wits? Another step back. I bumped into a wall.

  “He mine!” A wicked knife glinted. One joey was between me and the stairs; two others circled behind.

  With a sharp cry I lunged at the knife, halted my charge an inch short of impalement, spun, and dived between the two startled transpops behind me. I rolled to my feet. Only one direction was open to me: deeper into the tunnel.

  “Gettim!”

  I took off, leaving the dim light behind.

  “Run, Peetee!” The cry might have been Pook’s.

  Footsteps thudded.

  The corridor widened. I careened through a fetid chamber full of shabby furniture and strewn mattresses. Transpop joeys milled about. Behind me, the footsteps neared.

  I tore through the cavern, leaped over a broken chair, narrowly avoided a steaming stewpot. Behind me, angry shouts. I slapped at a grasping hand, catapulted over a couple entwined on a mat, dashed down a dim corridor at the far end of the room.

  The light from the common hall faded. As the dark became more intense I let my fingers skim the wall, holding one arm in front of my face for protection.

  My pursuers knew the corridors better than I; even in the dark, they gained on me.

  Desperately, I increased my pace. I felt cold air. Suddenly the floor disappeared. Flailing, I fell into a hole, lost my balance. I fetched up against a cold iron rail. I wondered if I’d cracked my ribs.

  Still, the voices pursued. Shadows flashed against the ceiling; my trackers had brought a light.

  With a silent curse I hauled myself to my feet. I stumbled over a rail. I was on some sort of sunken railbed. Could I climb up to corridor level? No time; the tribesmen were almost upon me.

  Groping in the dark, holding my aching side, I staggered along the trackway.

  Calls, voices, footsteps.

  “There he be!”

  “Where?”

  “Shadow in tunnel!”

  “Don’ see nothin’.”

  “He runnin’ track.”

  Behind me, half a dozen pursuers jumped down to track level. Their light sent crazed shadows spinning.

  I spurred myself into the dark. Behind me, voices encouraged the chase.

  I ran until my chest heaved. With luck I’d outrun my pursuers.

  I stumbled over a rail and lost my balance. My head crashed into something hard. I fell on my back in a blaze of light and pain that faded to black.

  Was it time to get up? Mom was annoyed when I got a late start. I strained to see the bedroom clock, and failed. I was in absolute dark. Someone moaned.

  Disoriented, I peered the other way, realized the moan of anguish was my own. I clutched my head; gasped with pain, let go immediately. With great care, I brought my fingers up to my scalp, probed gently over an oozing clot.

  Where was I?

  It took me a while to remember.

  I was underground, in what they called the Sub. I stopped moaning, held my breath, terrified I’d hear my pursuers.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, my head throbbing, I sat up, leaned back against cold concrete.

  I couldn’t stay here. Not in the dark. Not with enraged tribesmen combing the tunnels.

  I struggled to my feet, but a spasm of dizziness left me sagging against a cold steel pole.

  I was lost in the dark beneath New York. I yearned to sink to the ground, rocking, crooning to myself. My fingers picked at my shirt. Not here, not now. I wrapped my arms around the pole and pretended it was Mom. I gritted my teeth. My forehead pulsed anew.

  I couldn’t help it. I began to cry.

>   When I was done I wiped my nose. What would Mom think if she heard me sniveling like a baby?

  In any event I was in trouble. I had to find my way out of the tunnel before my nerves gave way, and I abandoned all rational thought.

  In the process, I had to avoid the Subs. It seemed they wanted to kill me, though I’d given no provocation. Was that why they’d marched Jared belowground, to sacrifice him to their hate?

  Well, Jared was on his own. I wanted nothing more than to make my way back to our Washington compound, to face Mom’s wrath and Father’s injured reproach.

  How shameful. Hopefully, daylight would renew my courage.

  The transpops weren’t at my heels; I had no need to run. Gratefully, I tottered along the track, carefully feeling my way. Another blow on the head and I’d be completely undone.

  I wasn’t even sure which direction I was headed. I recalled reading about New York’s underground railway. It evolved during the Civil War, to help escaped slaves. Or was that in another city? I was confused, and my head ached too much to sort it out. In any event, a tunnel this large would certainly have other exits; sooner or later I’d find daylight. If I found my way blocked, I had only to turn around. Eventually I’d reach my starting point.

  My watch was luminous and spoke the time as well; it told me it was eight in the evening. It seemed like I’d been walking for hours, but I wasn’t quite sure when I’d started.

  Voices.

  I tensed, poised to run even if it meant bashing my brains on a rock.

  In the distance, confused calls. Shouts. A piercing scream.

  I backpedaled down the track until I fetched up against a pillar. My heart thumped. My fingers tore at the snaps on my shirt.

  I found myself crouched against a wall, rocking, keening, sobbing under my breath. Frantically I worked at base twelve divisions, at cube roots, at anything that would slow the racing of my thoughts.

  Mr. Skeer had given me exercises to use when I revved; dutifully, I went through the lot of them. A hug from Mom would have helped, but she was hundreds of miles away, and in no mood to hug me.

  On my own, I forced myself to calm, reassembled my protective shell until my pretense became real.

  Again, I got to my feet, moved resolutely toward the distant voices.

  Dark gave way to shadows.