Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5)

by David Feintuch

  “No, sir.”

  “I can calculate your trajectory to within meters. I’ll position Melbourne so you hit our cargo holds. At two kilometers per hour you’ll do us little damage.”

  “Good. But be aware that I’m in the cockpit of the launch, and I’m unsuited. The impact will probably crush our transplex bubble.”

  “That’s not my doing. I’m not responsible for your insanity.”

  “No. Understand that if I survive, I’ll reposition the launch to try again. Or failing that, I’ll aim for Earth’s atmosphere and begin my descent.”

  “Seafort—Captain Seafort.” Reynaud’s voice was unsteady. “Mr. SecGen, or whatever I should call you.”

  “‘Captain.’ My rank was confirmed by Admiralty just hours ago.”

  “Sir, I’m thirty—God, how we admired you!”

  Father’s eyes widened. He turned to me in bewilderment.

  “When I was young my friends and I ... your face was on recruitment posters, why do you think we applied to Acad—Please, I beg you, stop this madness.”

  “Why, that’s what I’m trying to do.”

  I tugged at Father’s arm, whispered, “Halber doesn’t answer.”

  “Try again.”

  “I will follow orders, Captain Seafort. I must. Else service to the Navy means nothing.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Reynaud.”

  “Please, sir, stand aside!”

  “No, Mr. Reynaud. I will not.” Father keyed the caller, and sat silent.

  Twenty-eight minutes until we crossed the beams of hell. Three thousand sixty-four feet. And seven inches.

  I set the comm screen to scan.

  Reynaud’s huge starship loomed in the porthole.

  “—reiterated his intent to sail his launch—”

  Answer, Halber. Key the caller.

  “—London Admiralty confirmed U.N.S. Melbourne’s mission to—”

  Alongside each laser an orange beam cast its warning into the night. Dim when viewed from the side, they were growing steadily brighter.

  “Damn it, Halber.” I wilted at Father’s frown. Intemperate language annoyed him. I’d have to watch—what was I thinking?

  Earthport Station loomed.

  “—flooded with calls—”

  “Now what, Ms. Leeson?”

  “—crowd massing outside Ottawa’s Government House. Rocks have been thrown—”

  “Seafort, Kahn’s willing to make one concession. Listen well, this is all you get.”

  “Captain Seafort, Reynaud on Melbourne. Contact two minutes thirty-five seconds. Sir, please. For the love of God, stand aside!”

  Father flicked the caller. “For the love of God I will not.”

  “He’ll provide water trucks from now through the end of trannie relocation. That’s providing there’s not a single incident—”

  “Philip, clamp on your helmet and go to the stern. Brace yourself.”

  “Fath, I—”

  “MOVE!”

  “—It’s as good a deal as you can get. Tell me now, we’re running out of—”

  I stood, bounced off the ceiling, clawed my way back to the engine compartment, clenched and unclenched my fists. I would not rev. I would not rev. I would not rev!

  “Two minutes twenty. At least put on your suit, sir! We’ll send our gig to pick you—”

  “—a hastily called news conference, eleven Reconstructionist senators denounced Seafort’s political ploy to aid his old crony Richard Boland in his quest—”

  I pulled myself forward, stood behind Fath’s shoulder gripping his chair.

  “—Jed Stroyer of Holoworld News alongside the doomed Galactic launch where Captain Nicholas Seafort—”

  “—spokesman for Senator Boland issued a statement deploring the standoff—”

  “Well, Seafort?”

  “Ms. Leeson, there will be no transpop relocation during my lifetime. Good-bye.”

  Melbourne’s cargo lights loomed.

  Father sat placidly at the console. “Admiral Thorne, please.”

  “—gathered in front of the U.N. complex chanting, ‘Seafort, Seafort’—”

  “One minute fifty-five—”

  “Earthport Admiralty, Captain Wilkes here.” His voice was harsh.

  “Seafort. Give me Thorne.”

  “Sorry, he’s gone to his quarters.”

  “Transfer the call.”

  “Sir, he—” Wilkes hesitated. “Fifteen minutes ago he resigned his command. I’ve linked with Lunapolis and London, and am following the orders of—”

  “Seafort, this is Marion Leeson, I warn you, that was our last—”

  “Thorne left word he’s not to be disturbed. I advise you I will carry out whatever instruc—”

  “Wilkes, find Jeff. Have someone stay with him ’til this is over.”

  “Captain, this is Reynaud. One minute forty.”

  “Sir, that’s none of your—why? Is he ...”

  “He’s distraught, I know him. He needs help, flank. Move!”

  “Right.” A click.

  “One minute thirty. Captain Seafort, turn your ship. I repeat, turn your ship before it’s too—”

  “—on the Holoworld shuttle. It appears a collision is imminent. Stay tuned for exclusive live coverage. Notice the launch’s transplex porthole. Our technical advisors say even at slow speed the fragile—”

  “One minute. Captain, please! fifty-five—all engines full! Engine room, flank speed! Melbourne to Earthport Admiralty, I can’t let—these orders make no damn sense; he’s in the clear, not aimed at anyone, posing no danger to anyone but himself. I won’t imperil my ship just to stop—I’ll resign if that’s what you want. I won’t do this!”

  Slowly, ponderously, the great ship began to move.

  Placidly, our launch sailed on.

  I moaned.

  “Steady, P.T. It’ll be close.” Father made no move to turn us aside.

  I rested my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait in the stern.”

  “I understand.” Like a leaf in a celestial stream we floated onward. Melbourne’s port side slid past. She began to turn, easing our way.

  We cleared her bow by twenty feet. I pulled off my helmet, trying not to retch.

  On the Station, orange warning lights loomed.

  “Father.” Eighteen minutes to traverse, by the console clock.

  “I see. Try Halber again.”

  Shakily, I eased into my seat. The caller rang. And rang.

  “Do you think they’ll hold fire?”

  “I think so,” he said. Then, after a moment, “The truth?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m old enough.”

  “It’s unlikely. I’m a two-hour phenomenon. Half the world’s asleep, the other half electrified. When I’m gone there’ll be a memorial service, regrets, hearings that accomplish nothing. Kahn knows this. He’ll wait it out. Perhaps some good will come of our stand nonetheless.”

  “Did you know from the start?”

  “I suspected it.”

  “Then why ...”

  He was silent a long time. “In some things, son, it’s not the succeeding. It’s the trying.”

  “You’d give your life for trying?”

  “For this, yes. Philip, I have only a few minutes, let me make this fast. Somehow we took a terribly wrong turn. I can’t say when. We’ve divided ourselves into Uppies and trannies, and it’s dead wrong. If we win, there’s a chance to heal. We need that desperately.”

  “For the sake of the trannies.”

  “For the Uppies. Our brightest, best joeys isolate themselves in the clouds, forgetting the world from which they spring. Forgetting the humanity in those teeming streets. They’re both dying, Philip. Uppies and trannies alike.”

  “’Lo?”

  I practically leaped from my seat. Fath grabbed the caller. “Halber?”

  Eighteen minutes. The orange glowed bright.

  “Naw. This be Pook.”

  “Who? Put
Halber on.”

  A pause. “Fisherman? Watchawan’?”

  “I want Halber, damn it! Now!”

  His voice grew sullen. “Frazzin’ Uppies think ya own da worl’!”

  “Let me, Fath.”

  “Shh. He’s being—”

  I tugged at Father’s arm. “I know him!” I took the caller. “Pookboy, it’s P.T. Where’s Halber?”

  “Peetee? Fo’ real?”

  “Please, you’ve got to help us. There’s no time!”

  “Halb be diss. Lasers get ’im.”

  “Lord Christ.” Father covered his face. “Not now. It’s not fair.” He said into the caller, “Can you tell the Subs to stop fighting?”

  “C’n fin’ a few. But why botha? Peetee, Halb go out defy. Zarky, ’xcept fo’ end. Last sec he try ta run.”

  Desperate, I tried their dialect. “Tell ’em no more rumb. Fisherman call truce.”

  “Hah.”

  Fath added, “I getcha water, make Unies pullout. Stay low, wait fo’ word. Tell alladem.”

  “Alla Subs already diss, that was jus’ fo water, an’ pull-back?”

  “It’s a start. There’ll be more.”

  “Subs decide, not me. Raulie prolly gonna take ova Sub. Dunno.”

  “Who they lissen to? Chang?”

  “Changman, maybe. He talk good. Filmatleven.”

  “I’ll get back to you. Philip, Ruben’s HQ!”

  Sixteen minutes left. I had to piss. I keyed the caller.

  “What now, Seafort?”

  “Give me Chang, flank.” He drummed the console. “Mr. Chang, Halber’s dead, you’ve got to take charge. Have Ruben record your voi—who else but you, that joey Pook? Explain the situation; make the tribes listen. Tell Ruben—General, come on the line!”

  “Yes?” Ruben’s voice was cold.

  “Mr. Chang will give you a recording. Get it out to the tribes immediately. Take him on the streets—”

  “I told you, we have no deal.”

  “Make the bloody recording, in case somebody comes to his senses! Do you truly want more blood?”

  A pause. “All right, but I’ll need the SecGen’s personal okay before I transmit.”

  “Be ready.”

  “And, Seafort, switch your caller channel. Captain Wilkes on Earthport is frantic to reach you. Don’t you check your circuits?”

  “Right.” A click. “Yes?”

  “Wilkes here. SecGen Kahn is standing by. We’re speaking on ultrasecure scramble. I want you to change codes to—”

  “No time. Use clear.”

  “If he agrees to demolition only from Ninety-sixth south, partial resettlement only of those trannies uprooted by—”

  Fath said, “No.”

  “They’d stop using the cannon. But a pardon is out of the question; treason will be punished. Martial law for the first six months, then—”

  “No!” Fath jabbed the comm button, set it to scan.

  “—Holoworld can’t get through to U.N. Military Command; circuits are jammed. But this just in: U.N.S. Melbourne has—”

  “—huge bonfires in Hong Kong—”

  “—says he will not be swayed by momentary public frenzy. Mr. Kahn met with—”

  “—outside the launch, where you’ll see live transmission of the final—”

  “Seafort, this is Ruben! Answer!”

  “—elders of the Church met in prayer outside the cathedral—”

  “Citizens of Lunapolis broadbanded the nets with an E-mail petition signed by nearly every—”

  “—captured trannie rebel said his gang would fight to the finish, or in his words, “rumb ’til we diss ya all, ya motha—”

  “Seafort!”

  “Yes, General? What about our water trucks?”

  “Prong the water trucks! Kahn will agree to stop the lasers, I told him we didn’t need—but there’s a condition: first he wants the Hackers. Full list of names, codes, accesses—”

  “You keep setting up roadblocks!” Father’s voice rose to a shout. “Chang can end hostilities, but you won’t broadcast his recording. The trannies will accept water and a pullback, but you won’t arrange trucks. Now you want me to stop the hacking? How in hell do I manage that in twelve minutes?”

  “That’s not my—”

  “You bastards!” Father launched himself from his chair to the back of the cabin. I cut the comm link. Behind me, Fath pounded on the airlock hatch with a gloved fist.

  “—appears to be some commotion aboard—”

  “—electricars blocking the Champs de Elysees, horns blaring—”

  “—SecGen will not comment publicly until after—”

  “—moving in for a closer look—”

  “Philip.” It was a whisper.

  “Yes, Fath.” I worked my way out of my chair, floated from handgrip to handgrip until I hovered close.

  “Sit over there, calm yourself for a moment. Make your peace with Lord God.”

  “Fath?”

  “It’ll be soon now. Pray. I find the psalms a comfort. Be quick.”

  I flung my arms around him. He pried me loose.

  I cried, “What about you?”

  “I can’t imagine any prayer can expiate what I’ve done. But if Abbot Ryson’s right, I’ll know soon.” He led me to a seat, strapped me in.

  The tinny radio of my suit blared. The cabin speakers squawked. I clutched my helmet, fought the betrayal of my body.

  “—the SecGen is strapping himself into his seat—”

  I really had to piss. Why hadn’t I taken the time to hook up the suit tubes? Because I didn’t know how, and was too embarrassed to ask Father.

  “—long delays for airtime because of the massive volume of calls—”

  Our Father who art in heaven ...

  “—fires burning out of control from Seventy-Third south to—”

  “—confirmed the tales of dead refugees in the tunnels—”

  Why wasn’t there a bathroom? I didn’t think I could—

  Hallowed be thy name ...

  “—town hall will fly flags at half mast in memory of—”

  “—Seafort’s wife is escorting the trannie delegate Pango Chang, a prosperous bookseller—”

  Thy kingdom come, thy will be done ...

  “—eight minutes until—”

  “—Lunapolis Admiralty confirms there will be no ceasefire regardless whose ship—”

  “—moving in for a close-up of these last—”

  On earth as it is in heav—

  A stupendous crash. My head slammed back against the porthole. Scraping, along the far side of the hull. A hiss of air.

  “P.T., YOUR HELMET!”

  I popped it on my head, clawed at the clamps.

  Between my legs, a pleasing warmth. Then, horrified, I realized what it was. I’d wet myself. Please God, no.

  “Fath, what hap—”

  “Those God damned mediamen!” His voice came through the suit radio as he sealed his own helmet.

  I ran to look, bounced off the hull, scrambled as best I could to the cockpit.

  Stars drifted lazily past the porthole.

  Fath’s fingers flew. “God knows what they did to our momentum.” Figures flashed on the screen.

  The shuttle drifted past, a rent in its side. Lazily, it turned on its axis. From its portside aft thruster, a spew of propellant. I watched appalled.

  “Her thrusters jammed. She’s got rear and side thrust both.”

  Ever faster, the media shuttle spun toward the Station.

  “—Association of Retired Veterans opposes any concessions to—”

  “Shuttle, this is Earthport Traffic Control, you’re sailing into the laser beam, change course flank to—”

  Orange light swept the Holoworld shuttle. Her stern glowed red, and seemed to sag. Sparks, a puff of air. A red tongue of fire. A split ran along her hull as she floated through the deadly laser light. Abruptly the cockpit melted and was gone.

  I to
ok a deep shuddering breath of the reeking pungent air of my suit. “Oh, God.”

  Six minutes.

  Fath cursed. “Our propellant lines are cut. I won’t attempt an adjustment; we’d only get about four seconds of burn. She knocked us askew, but we’ll still get there.”

  “How soon?”

  “I don’t know; we lost about half our velocity. Nine minutes.” Father reset the console clock, turned toward the camera. “I’ll make one last statement, a harsh one. We’ll leave them regretting the tribes, not us. Corwyn, general broadcast on my signal.”

  “Seafort, this is Kahn.”

  Father’s hand froze.

  Captain Wilkes’s tone was urgent. “Do you read, launch? I’m relaying the SecGen.”

  My hand crept to the comm switch.

  Fath said, “Yes, Mr. Secretary-General?”

  “You’re an egomaniac. We’re far better without you.”

  “You must be busy, sir.” Father’s tone was cool. “No need for me to disturb—”

  “I’ll trade you Hackers for lasers. You’re down to minutes. Yes or no?”

  I listened dully, my pants drenched, wanting only to crawl away in shame.

  “A pullback? Restored services?”

  “That’s impossible and you know it.”

  “Sir, I’ll get their agreement to a truce. You get access to the streets; they get to live. I can’t help you with the Hackers; I don’t know who they are. Lock them out of the nets while you—”

  “God damn it, we can’t! We spent two days trying to rebuild the Treasury and it keeps imploding! There’s something wild inside and no way to trace it without further corrupting the data. I want their balls. Public hanging, and as far as I’m concerned that’s a mercy. I’d skin them alive if I had the—”

  “You’d make a good Sub.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, sir. I’ll try to locate the Hackers, but I doubt it’s possible. In any event, they’re to be included in the general pardon.”

  “You have to give me something, Seafort. Politics is the art of the possible.”

  Father gazed at the Station. “Sir, I can give you nothing. Morality is ... the art of the absolute.”

  “Christ damn you.”

  “Good day.”

  I closed my eyes to the drift of the station. It made me dizzy.

  “—Assembly meeting in emergency session, though fewer than half—”

  Fath muttered, “The art of the possible? He knows there’s no way on God’s earth I can find—”