Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5)

by David Feintuch

  A light flickered.

  A voice rasped, “Turn it off, ya frazzin’ asshole!” Immediately the light was extinguished, but not before I made out a corridor floor, several feet above me. “Wan’ ’em ta seeyas?”

  “Cool jets, Fro!”

  “Parkas righ’ above us, fa’ Chrissake. Chaco an rest a Subs nevah came back unner!”

  “Shush, the lotta yas!” Another voice, with authority.

  I hoisted myself over the trackbed wall to the station level, straining to see past dim forms huddled in the tunnel. One end of the corridor was definitely lighter.

  “Where’s the frazzin’ unnercar?”

  “Be here when Halber decide. Jus’ guar’ the staysh.”

  Somehow, I forced myself forward. Anything was better than the madness of the dark tunnel.

  An unseen figure stumbled into me, shoved me aside with a curse.

  I groped toward the light, found myself at the foot of a stair. Above, firelight cast its dancing shadows on the stairwell walls.

  “Watchit, joeykit!” Someone elbowed me aside.

  My hand tightened on the rail. I would climb that staircase no matter what the cost. Not for life itself would I return to the black of the tunnel.

  A hand clasped my forearm. I squealed. My captor spun me around.

  A woman of the Sub tribe, her clothes a swirl of colors. “Whatchadoon here, joey? Halber said no kits near stair!”

  “I—I just—” I broke free, dashed up the stairs, thrusting through a crush of joeys gathered near the exit.

  I burst into cool night air. Outside, near the stair, a fire flickered. I tripped over something soft. A Sub tribesman, his throat cut from ear to ear.

  Across the street, a scream of torment. I peered into the night, unable to see the danger. Nonetheless, I had to move on. I walked cautiously down the sidewalk.

  A Sub sat against the ruins of a building, drenched in more blood than I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Jesus God!” The ragged voice was mine.

  His hands rested in his lap, atop his severed head.

  I backed away, spun and vomited.

  Across the street, howls and catcalls.

  Desperately I fought not to rev, knowing I had to flee this spot regardless of the consequences. I bolted into the night.

  To my right, buildings. Behind me were the stairs. Across the street, a chest-high wall ran the length of the road. Heavy brush lined the far side.

  “Here’s anotha! Gettim!” Hands loomed in the night. I swerved toward the wall. My two pursuers were dressed in rags; one brandished a rusty pole sharpened to a spear.

  I reached the sidewalk, vaulted the wall into the brambles beyond. Thorns ripped at my clothes. I tore free.

  After a time I stopped to take my bearings. I stared at the wall, hoping the tribesmen hadn’t followed.

  No one moved.

  A wild howl raised the hair on my neck. It was near.

  To my side, a soft voice. “Help me. Jeezgod, help ...”

  I put my hands over my ears to block the sound.

  From another direction, panting breaths. “Friggin’ Subs everywheah! Hit us on Fifth, bunch more at Columbcirc!”

  I dropped to the ground, curled in a ball, hoping my dark clothes would shroud me in the night.

  “We diss alladem what cross street. Couple ran back ta sub.”

  “Gonna eat their livah, come mornin’! C’mon.”

  The voices faded.

  “Chris’ it hurt ...” A moan. “Help.”

  I scrambled to my feet, raced through the grass. When I was free of the voice, I slowed, looked about.

  I was in a clearing surrounded by brush and scrub trees. Beyond, to the south and east, tower lights outshone the dim stars. Northward, few lights glowed.

  For a long time I was still.

  What should I do?

  Jared was beyond my reach, at least for now. In the morning I’d find a way to get back to the Sheraton Skytel and call Mom. Meanwhile, I had to stay clear of the madness of the night. That meant finding a place of shelter. The moans I’d heard were none of my concern.

  Nonetheless, my feet led me, slowly at first, then faster, back toward the moans. When I neared the wall I stopped, listening.

  Another groan. I trotted toward the sound.

  Bodies, in the grass. Blood. I grimaced, looked for one that moved.

  I passed a joeykid not much older than myself. Dead, beyond doubt. His left arm was gone. Beyond him two men, draped one across the other, knives still in their hands.

  Another corpse, entrails falling from his stomach. Gagging, I moved past.

  A hand snagged my ankle. I stifled a scream, fought not to pass out from sheer terror.

  “Help me, joey. Fa’ Godsake.” The corpse.

  I licked my lips, crouched by his side. “What should I do, sir? You’re badly hurt.”

  A snicker, that ended in a gasp of agony. “Chris’, don’ I know it?”

  “Is there a hospital near?”

  “Oh God, you ain’ Sub!” His hands scrabbled at the grass, as if to drag himself away. “Don’ hurt me worse, joey!”

  “I won’t. I came to help. What can I do?”

  “Whassa use? Chaco gonna die anyhow. Take along buncha Parkas, maybe. Gotta tell Halber they gatherin’ Hunner’ Ten wall.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “You sound like—” A spasm hit him. His hand groped for mine, “—like Uppie, fa Godsake.”

  No use explaining the difference. “I am, sir.” I looked around. “Is there anyone who can help you?”

  “Not no more.” A long pause. “Alla Subs I brung out be dead. Halber gotta sen’ reinforce. Gahh, it hurts ...” He squeezed my wrist with desperate strength.

  I swallowed.

  “You really Uppie?” He panted, before he could say more. “Watchadoon in Park?”

  “I’m ... not sure.” I groped for a simple explanation. “I came to see Halber.”

  “Alla nigh’s, ya pick dis one ...” His grip relaxed. I thought he was dead. Then, under his breath, “See Halber, hah? Tell him fo’ me ’bout Parkas.”

  The soft pat of running feet, in grass. Instinctively, I leaned over the fallen Sub. When the sound faded, I came away with blood on my tunic.

  “I can’t tell him, sir. I—”

  “Gotta! Chaco ain’ gonna.”

  “Sir—Chaco—I’m not part of your war. Maybe I could get your friends to—”

  A cough, that ended in a wail. “Ohgod ohgod ohgod ...”

  “Oh, please, don’t die!”

  His breathing slackened. A long pause. “Bettah hurry, Uppie. Tell Halber. I can’t.”

  “They’ll kill me if—I mustn’t—what do you want me to say?”

  “Tellim ... Chaco scouted Park ... like he say.” The voice grew weaker. “Mosta Parkas ... live roun’ ol’ lake bed.”

  Silence.

  “Is that it, sir?”

  Nothing.

  “Sir? Chaco?”

  “Cold.” A sigh, that might have been a sob. “Chris’! It mean I’m goin’.”

  I could think of nothing to say.

  “Lissen, Uppie ... Halber in Sub, unnerstan’? ... Tellim when ... Sub attack at Five Nine ...” ahrr! He convulsed, panting. Sweat beaded his brow, and his voice came with desperate hurry. “We only got a few a ’em. Mosta Parkas run ta trees at nor’side. I heard ’em talkin’ rumb at Seven Nine Sub, early morn.”

  “Chaco, your speech—I can’t understa—”

  “Tellim my words like I say, joey! Rememba ’em; Halber’ll understan’ what he hear. Parkas bunchin’ at Hunnert Ten wall! Hunnert Ten wall. Hunnerten ohgod I can’t ... Hunnert ... Chris’ God in heaven!”

  It was a plea, unanswered in the dark of the night.

  I lifted Chaco’s blood-caked hand, nuzzled it with my cheek. For a reason I couldn’t understand, I kissed his fingers, dampening them with tears. “I’ll tell him.”

  �
�Uppie, ’fore you go ...”

  I made my voice steady. “Yes, Chaco?”

  “Can’... leave me here like this ... Parkas fin’ me, cut out my livah while I watch.”

  “I’m not strong enough to drag—”

  “Do me, Uppie.”

  Appalled, I opened and closed my mouth. No words would come.

  “Gotta finish me.”

  “No!”

  “See what ... Parkas done ta othas? Mercy a God, Uppie. I beggin’ ya.”

  “I’ll climb over the wall, run to the stairs, and bring your friends. They’ll carry ...”

  “In rumbtime no Sub leave lair ’xcept ta figh’. Gotta do it yaself.”

  “I can’t. Not for anything.”

  “Lissen, joeykit ... hurts godawful ...All I c’n do not ta scream ...My guts rolled in dirt; I diss fa sure. Ya gotta help me ’long.”

  My voice caught. “It’s a sin! Please, don’t—”

  “Always I hate frazzin’ Uppies ... ’cause think ya own da worl’... well ... joey ... tha’s what come wid it. Respons ...” He panted. “Responsa ... bily. Ya wouldn’ even leave a dog ta die wid guts hangin’ out. End it, fa Chrissake!”

  I lurched to my feet, staggered away. Lord God, help me. Stop me from doing what he asked.

  I walked off.

  “Don’leave, Uppie!” Terror.

  It’s remarkable, objectively speaking, what one can accomplish if one closes off a compartment of one’s mind.

  One can stand, and stretch in the sultry evening breeze to flex the aching muscles of one’s back.

  One can close his ears to the ebbing pleas of a gutted tribesman, while searching aimlessly for a rock or stick.

  One can find a thick broken branch that would accomplish the unspeakable, and saunter back to a bloodstained stretch of grass.

  One can stoop to kiss a sweaty forehead, hear impassively a final plea. “Rememba my ... face ... Uppie ... an’ carry Chaco inside ...”

  One can raise a branch over one’s head, bring it downward with all one’s strength in a whistling arc that ends at the terrified eyes, and squeeze the shoulder while the blood of the shattered skull seeps under the soles of one’s brown leather boots.

  One can amble away without a care in the world, push through the thorns, slip over a cold stone wall.

  One can stroll across the firelit street as if unafraid of anything on Lord God’s earth, to stand over the dark recess of the Sub.

  “I have—” My voice wasn’t quite right; I tried again. “My name is Philip Tyre Seafort. I have a message for Mr. Halber.” My voice echoed from the crumbling brick of the darkened edifices above.

  Behind me, muffled sounds. I turned. A shaggy head peered over the park wall. I turned back. “Do you hear me?”

  From the stairs, a growl. “Sho’, Parka. Jus’ come on down.”

  A hiss. “Shh. Don’ talk ta him!”

  “I’m not a Parka. I need to see Halber.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, watched a Parka leap over the wall. “I’m coming down.”

  “Dissya if ya do.”

  “All right.” It didn’t matter. I hoped they’d let me deliver my message first. Chaco would want that.

  Behind me, running footsteps. I paused at the top step. Below, dim faces glowed in the reflected light. Gripping the rail, I started down.

  A cry of rage. Behind me, a figure loomed. He thrust a pike down the steps. An instant before it impaled me I was snatched aside, slammed into the stairwell wall to tumble unnoticed to the landing.

  Half a dozen wild-haired Parkas threw themselves into the chasm, knives and clubs flailing.

  A frenzied melee. Someone trod on my arm. My cry was lost in the roar of a mass of Subs charging upstairs in a mad counterattack.

  The battle grew desperate. The stairs grew slippery with blood, most of it from the attacking Parkas.

  In a few moments silence reigned anew, except for the gasping breaths of the defenders.

  Someone hauled me to my feet. “Tribe, joey?”

  “My name’s—”

  A cuff, that rattled my teeth. “Tribe?”

  “—Philip. I’m an Uppie, from Washington.”

  “Dissim!”

  Blood dripped into my eyes from my reopened gash. I made no move to wipe it, or to free myself. After Chaco, I knew there was worse than death. “Do it, then. But I have a message for Halber.”

  “Boolsheet!”

  “From Chaco.”

  “Where he be?”

  “Dead.”

  “Parkas dissim?”

  I took a deep breath. “I did.”

  Someone seized my chin, hauled it back, catching my head against his chest. A knife glinted. Its sharp edge nicked the skin of my throat. I closed my eyes.

  “STOP!”

  A frozen moment, in which the only movement was the slamming of my heart.

  “Let joeykit tell Halber what he wan’. Dissim afta.”

  “Halber ain’—”

  “Be here in a min. Lissen!”

  From under the earth, a screeching rumble that increased in strength. After a moment, it came to a stop. Chattering, exuberant voices came near.

  “See? Halber brung help.”

  “He royal pissoff if he see ya let Uppie come unner.”

  “Don’ matta. Gonna dissim inna min.”

  In seconds we were surrounded by jabbering tribesmen dressed in lurid, discordant colors.

  A hand seized the nape of my neck and guided me firmly through the throng. We strode down a dark corridor, down another set of stairs.

  Light. The hum of a motor.

  I saw the sunken track I’d stumbled along in the dark. Now it was lit by a humming car nearly the size of a Hitrans train, waiting with open doors. Transpop joeys milled about a burly figure. He moved slowly through the throng, issuing directions, pointing from time to time down the track.

  My captor propelled me forward, threw me at the man’s feet. “Gotcha a frazzin’ Uppie.”

  “In Sub?” The joey’s voice held disbelief.

  “Came down stair like he own it. I want ’im, afta, fo’ skin. He diss Chaco.”

  From deep in the leader’s chest, a growl.

  “Said he hadda talk ta ya firs’.”

  “Pickim up.” Someone hauled me to my feet. “Allri’, joeykit. Watcha wan’?”

  I said shakily, “I have a message for Mr. Halber.”

  “Halber be I, Boss Sub.”

  I shook myself free from my captor, planted myself before him as if reporting some misdeed to Fath in his study. “I met one of your joeys, outside. He was wounded, and wanted help.”

  “So ya dissim!” The Sub who’d hauled me down the steps.

  “That was after. Chaco made me promise to tell you the Parkas—”

  “Why din’ he—”

  Halber stirred. “Shut face, Krall!” To me, “G’wan.”

  “I was in the park when Chaco grabbed me. His stomach was ...” I swallowed. “He couldn’t move. I could barely understand him. He said to repeat his sounds, and you’d know what he meant. The Parkas who lived around the old lake moved to nor’side when you attacked. They’re gathered someplace that ...” I wrinkled my brow. “At Hunnert Ten wall. That’s what he kept saying.”

  Halber frowned. “Were movin’ to ColumbCirc, last day-ligh’.”

  “Yes, sir. Hunner’ Ten wall is where they are now. Massing for a big rumb at Seven Nine Sub.”

  Halber’s eyes were like twin lasers. “Tell me all, ’gain.”

  I did.

  “An’ about dissin’ Chaco.”

  I licked my lips. As the words poured out, a fragment of my mind marveled at my dispassionate tone, my clarity of speech, the remorse I neither showed nor felt.

  Chapter 32

  JARED

  THE BOY KRAND CURLED up against the wall throwing pebbles.

  I slumped on the chilled bench of the understation, nursing my throbbing cheek.

  I tried to b
link, but one eye was swelled shut by the force of Halber’s blow. I whimpered. Allie shot me a sympathetic look. Only she, of all the trannies, understood I couldn’t make out Halber’s jabber, and had persuaded him to slow his speech.

  Everyone hated me, even Dad. He’d all but turned me in to the jerries by putting an alert on his Terrex; if he’d cared a whit for my survival, he’d have let me use his card until I got on my feet.

  It was how the world always treated me. In school the teachers paid me no mind, shoving their assignments under my nose as if that was all that mattered. Holoworld had tricked me. Even the skytel had betrayed my trust: I was a guest, not some filthy trannie to be chased into the street. Old Man Seafort despised me, and that hurt even though I knew he was only a pompous old has-been. Hell, even P.T. looked down on me, though I ran rings around him with my puter nets.

  Now I was robbed of clothes, lost deep in trannie tunnels.

  The greatest adventure of my life had turned to shit.

  As to Pook ... my lip curled. To him I wasn’t even human, just booty whose clothes were to be parceled out to the highest bidder. His ‘capture,’ he called me. He’d sliced my chest, fed me dog food from a can. True, he’d made a pillow out of his lap, calmed me in the elevator with a desperately needed touch.

  But just as I was getting used to his ways, he’d given me to Halber and his vicious Subs, with their mad idea of bringing down the towers.

  Who did Halber think I was, a Hacker? For a hundred years, since they’d wiped the accounts at U.N. Revenue, Hackers had been despised and hunted.

  Because they’d had the right idea. Bring it all down.

  The social order Dad and the Old Man supported was beyond contempt. In the Old Man’s very guest room, Uncle Robbie and his precious father plotted their political schemes. They would sacrifice the Old Man in a minute if he stood in their way.

  Halber was right; let the U.N. die in revolution and fire; if the process destroyed him and his trannie scum, so much the better.

  I wondered how much trouble I could make, if I really tried. Alone, not all that much, but the trick was in having the right e-friends. If they could do half what they bragged ...

  When the Unies caught me, it would be the prison ship at Callisto, or a penal colony.

  Not that I cared.

  With no more than a dumb terminal I’d cracked Dad’s Terrex account. If the trannies could access the nets, I’d have access to Rolf’s password breaker and Fiona’s ID simulator. I’d met them on separate slopes, and neither knew about the other. I’d seen instantly how powerful they’d be together, but kept the information to myself.