Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  I nodded.

  He asked, “You know who the Territorials are?”

  “The opposite of the Supras.” The other party, in Earth’s politics.

  “They’re anxious to return to power. And they’re furious Seafort let us go. The Patriarchs favor them.”

  I puzzled it out. “So Scanlen and Andori …” My eyes widened. “They want to take control?”

  “I say nothing against Mother Church. I don’t even think it, do you understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I imagine Ambassador McEwan would be delighted if we returned to colonial status. But I speak no ill of the Archbishop.” His tone was carefully precise.

  “How does …” My voice quavered. “How does excommunication work?”

  “A Bishop or the Patriarchs at home may declare it. We are a religious state, always have been. An excommunicate is barred from the Church, his property forfeit, he’s to be shunned by the community. It’s a matter of ecclesiastic law.”

  I picked at my joeykid’s shorts. Anthony, what have I done? I was a child, despite my pretensions to more. If Scanlen vents his fury at me on the Stadholder, I’ve ruined my family. Dad’s family. His life.

  Mr Dakko cleared his throat. “Rebellion against His authority—”

  “Anthony didn’t rebel!”

  “Please don’t interrupt. Though rebellion warrants excommunication, so severe a penalty is almost never invoked. In Hope Nation’s history, just once.”

  “When?”

  “A madman killed a priest.”

  “Will I be excommunicated for telling the Bishop to fu—f—” In my cowardice, I couldn’t say it.

  “Oh, I very much doubt it.” A wintry smile. “Though I’m sure he’d like to get his hands on you.” He peered out the window, at a toddler exploring a clump of bushes, and the sunny bench where his mother sat reading. “A wardship of wayward minor, that sort of thing. The courts would cooperate.”

  “What would happen to me?”

  “There are Church agencies, as well as private ones. Residential cottages, a correctional farm. It depends where you’re sent. A good beating, for a start; he’d see to that. And frankly, you deserve it. Don’t give me that crosswise look, joey. Scanlen merits courtesy as an adult, if nothing else. Perhaps back in the Rebellious Ages you could … A sigh. “Not that you haven’t set folk to chuckling in their tea, from here to the Venturas. More than a few of them wish they were free to …” His mouth snapped shut. “Well. Time to hit the office.”

  “Sir, should I go back? I mean, after I work for you today?” I wouldn’t want him to think I meant to cadge free meals.

  “Well.” He followed the road in a gentle curve. “Think about your question.”

  I blinked, through fuzz.

  “Do you see?”

  “Not really.” What did he want me to guess?

  We were outside the park. Even in Centraltown, there was little traffic. His “office” was something of an anomaly. Most everyone worked from home, except in stores.

  “Think, Randy. What happens to a joeykid caught drinking?”

  “Wayward minor. Juvie or Church farm.”

  “And the adult who serves him?”

  “Penal colony.” It went without saying.

  “And the minor who flouts authority?”

  I nodded.

  “And the adult who encourages him?”

  I was silent. Then, “Oh!” If I asked, Mr Dakko had to tell me to go home.

  Again, that quick smile that lightened his eyes. “Strictly hypothetically, mind you, I’m not sure the Stadholder’s upset you’re gone.”

  I said indignantly, “Why not?” Despite our quarrels, Anth cared about me. I was sure of it.

  “If you returned, what then?”

  “He’d give me what for.”

  “And then?”

  “We’d be friends.” With Anthony, once done, it was over.

  “And regarding the Bishop?”

  “I’d … he’d …”

  “Have to turn you over, most likely. Which now, he doesn’t.”

  “But that’s my problem, not his.”

  “Unless he has his own issues with Bishop Scanlen. Even if he were only forced to make you apologize, he’d lose face.” Mr Dakko’s voice was quiet. “Well, here we are.” He pulled up. “Upstairs, joey.”

  I was glad I’d worn Kev’s old shorts and a light shirt. Mr Dakko kept me busy moving boxes into the addition they’d just finished, and wiring in puters and other chipgear.

  How ironic, I grumbled to myself. Our teachers constantly told us that we’d achieved a low-labor society, which meant more goods and services for all. On our homesteads, sophisticated AIs tended our crops. Once harvested, grains and vegetables were milled, canned, bagged, or processed in highly automated plants, until shipped aloft to the huge ships or barges that took the crops to market.

  Likewise, in our cities, few offices had more than a couple of employees; puters and their electronic brethren did the rest. At home Dad had used a few old-fashioned filing cabinets; he’d often kept paper copies of important documents, damning the expense. But in general, human secretaries and receptionists were only for the very wealthy, who were trying to show off.

  So when you needed sweat labor, as Mr Dakko did today, you turned to migrant hands if it were dormant season, or else you called on joeykids.

  I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it, but I owed him, and didn’t resent paying. And it was good practice; if it turned out I’d left home permanently, I’d have nothing but common labor to fall back on.

  Mr Dakko clearly intended to get his money’s worth. I hauled files, holovids, and chipcases, manhandled chairs up a narrow stairway, crawled behind half a dozen consoles to install surprisingly sophisticated comm gear. A short lunch break—he gave me coin and sent me to a neighborhood coffee shop—and I was back at it, testing infrared transceivers. By midafternoon I was drooping, but determined not to complain. It was a great relief when Kevin bounded up the office stairs, his school day finished.

  I appreciated his help, but his presence reminded me my own school session would start in a day or so. Did I really want to be posted as a truant? It was no light matter.

  Besides, I actually liked school. My teachers complained I didn’t listen, and often enough it was true. But math was cool, and so was physics. Even history wasn’t that bad, when someone like Anth took the trouble to explain it to me.

  Lucky Kevin: he only had to work an hour or so before his father told us we were free to go.

  As he grabbed his holovid, I hesitated, eyeing the console. “Let’s schuss the slopes a while.” Terran slang, not ours, but it was zark not to sound provincial. I slid my thumb over the ID slot, ready to log on.

  “Why?”

  “To see if I’ve been netted.” If Anth really wanted to haul me home, he’d post my flight on the nets, warning all netizens it was illegal to aid a runaway. And if he were really pissed, he’d post a reward.

  “Might as well. You won’t leave tracks.”

  My fingers dropped from the pad.

  How badly did Anthony want me back?

  After Dad’s third revolution, when we were really free, he’d ordered Hope Nations nets to disable trace functions. They were the mark of repressive government, he said, and Hope was a nation of free men. Nets were essential to modern life, and the Commonweal wouldn’t use them to trace and monitor its citizens.

  Most folk thought it was still so. But Anthony, elected First Stadholder, had quietly reinstated primary trace. I’d have to find another way. A public caller, perhaps.

  It was a new day, and a long sleep had worked wonders. Again I’d gone with Mr Dakko to his office; this time after a few hours’ labor, he’d taken me to lunch. I’d expected a nearby restaurant, but we drove to a rambling home not far from downtown. An energetic, florid woman greeted us at the carved oak door; she offered me a hand.

  “Hilda, you’re ahead of me. This is Randy, one of
Kevin’s friends. Randy, Dr Zayre.”

  “Good to meet you.” Her handshake was firm. “I’m due back at the hospital in an hour; let’s get seated.” She gave a series of brisk instructions to the micro, and led us to benches in an enclosed, sunlit nook behind the kitchen.

  Table talk ranged far and wide, from weather to politics and beyond; out of courtesy, Dr Zayre or Mr Dakko occasionally made a point to include me. Generally, I was content to sit and listen, though the conversation bored me. Over fresh salad with a cream dressing, Dr Zayre fretted about the problems of her minuscule yard. Her usual gardener had quit, seeking more highly paid plantation work. And her shed needed rebuilding and painting.

  The men and women who ran the Commonweal actively discouraged an unemployed labor pool in the city, and the industrialization they claimed would inevitably follow. It was a situation that had occupied Dad, and Anth after him. Since Hope Nation’s colonial days, there’d been tension between farm and town. Laura Triforth’s rebellion and Zack Hopewell’s successor government had wrested control away from the city, vesting real political power in the Planters’ Council.

  Hope Nation was an agricultural colony, its wealth inevitably tied to the fertile land. Perhaps that was why Dr Zayre found it hard to keep a gardener at paltry wages.

  “Well?” The adults were looking at me expectantly.

  “Huh?” Furiously, I tried to recall what she’d just said.

  Ms Zayre’s tone was patient. “Would you be interested? I know the pay isn’t much, but you’d have a place to stay, and there isn’t all that much to do.”

  “As your gardener?” I finally found my voice.

  “And handyman. I work long hours, and don’t have time …”

  I looked to Mr Dakko for guidance, but he was impassive. I couldn’t stay at Kevin’s after school began, else Mr Dakko would be harboring a wayward youth, a serious offense. Even if he had no wish to turn me in, my presence would put him in jeopardy. And he couldn’t make work for me for long; I’d be dependent on his charity. Dad would hardly have approved.

  With the doctor, I’d have a real job, no matter how low the pay. And Anth would never think of looking here.

  Still, I’d prefer to be near Kev. Reluctantly, I nodded. “I guess so.”

  She asked, “Tomorrow, or thereabouts?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” If I’d be working for her, living in her home, she deserved simple courtesy. Moreover, she and Mr Dakko were friends; I owed her as much as I did him …”

  I thought back to the introductions. No, he hadn’t called me anything but “Randy.” “There’s something you should know,” I said with a grimace. “I don’t think Mr Dakko mentioned—”

  “Hilda, excuse us a moment.” Mr Dakko stood. To me, “Let’s take a walk.”

  I gaped.

  “Now, please?” In a moment, he’d steered me out the back door. “And what was that about, joey?”

  “I wanted to warn her that Anth—”

  “Do you ever think before you speak?”

  The silence stretched, until I stirred in unease. “Please. I don’t …” I shrugged helplessly. “I was just trying …”

  “You recall our talk yesterday, in the car?”

  My mind whirled. “You mustn’t advise me not to go home. But what does that … oh!”

  If Dr Zayre didn’t know I was a runaway, no one could fault her for taking me in. But once she knew … Still, I’d been trying to protect her, in my thoughtless way.

  My tone was humble. “I’m sorry.”

  “No matter.”

  “Should I come here to stay, sir?”

  His eyes softened. “Randy, the Stadholder knows you and my son are friends. Sooner or later …”

  “I’ll move to Dr Zayre’s.”

  I didn’t have much to say for the rest of lunch.

  Later, on the way home, I folded my arms, stared out the window. Mr Dakko let me brood. Abruptly, after a long while, I stirred. “Pull over, please.”

  Surprised, he slowed, pulled into a quiet lane, turned off the motor. “What is it, boy?”

  “There’s a lot I don’t know about politics.” The confession shamed me. “But I’m not stupid. I may act it, but I’m not.” I forced defiance from my tone. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

  “A lot’s going on, lad. What do you ask?”

  I stared at my shoes. “I’m just a joeykid who’s having trouble with his family. But you treat me like …” I foundered, started over. “Today at lunch, Dr Zayre never asked my last name. I’d want to know, before inviting someone to live with me. And she never asked if I knew about flowers or was handy with tools.”

  “That troubles you?”

  “It makes me think she already knew. That you’d made arrangements. That, together, you’re hiding me. Are you?”

  “If so, you’d object?”

  “Sir, Kev and I got along, but that’s no reason to risk yourself for me. Is this to hurt Anth?”

  “Why would you think so?”

  A question, instead of a straight answer. He was fencing.

  Shit.

  I sighed, knowing what I had to do. I tried my door; it was locked. “Please let me out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home, to face the Bishop.” To ruin my life.

  “Stay a moment.” His penetrating blue eyes regarded me with new wariness. “Very well, joey, you have my word. I don’t wish to harm your nephew.” After a moment, he pursed his fingers, like a spider on a mirror. “Why are you so suspicious?”

  “You have some goal. Some—” I struggled for the word Anthony would use. “—agenda. Political games, I think. I hate the way Anth treats me, but we’re family. I won’t drag him into your games.”

  “But you already have.” In his face, sympathy. “The Right Reverend Scanlen is furious, and demands your return. You embarrassed him in front of everyone who matters. He named you wayward today, in a rather stiff note to the authorities.”

  Bile rose, and burned my throat. I swallowed convulsively. “Then I’ll turn myself in.”

  “Ah, but the Stadholder doesn’t want you in Scanlen’s hands. He can’t say it aloud, but we know. If the Bishop gets you, he has Anthony.”

  “Once the Church has me to punish, I’m no issue.”

  “Except to your nephew.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “He values you. Once the Church has you on their training farm, he’ll agree to anything they demand. Because every day you’d face the strap, a solitary penitence cell, even a fatal accident in the night.”

  “Why do you care?” I was unbearably rude.

  “About you? You’re my son’s friend, but that doesn’t signify so much. Look at me, joey.” He waited. “Now, please. Into my eyes.”

  “Yes, sir.” His tone was something like Dad’s when I’d irked him.

  His gaze wasn’t unkind. “I’ll speak frankly, as you demand. We all wish you hadn’t provoked a cris—no, a situation. Anthony Carr has been in a delicate dance with the Church, as was your father, Derek. My friends and I prefer that he emerge independent. If you go home, you’ll destroy any chance of that.” A pause, and he plunged on. “You asked for honesty? Very well: our interests and his don’t coincide in all things. In some matters we will oppose the Stadholder with all means at our disposal. But this isn’t one of those matters; in that, you have my promise. So the doctor’s home is your refuge, if you wish. As is mine.”

  I couldn’t help myself. A lump in my throat, I reached across and took the comfort of his hand.

  4

  “ANOTHER SOFTIE?” KEVIN LOUNGED on his bed. We’d walked home from Dakko & Son; when his father came home, we’d tell the kitchen micro to heat dinner.

  “Nah.” I reddened. “Er, no thanks.” We might be friends, but I was his guest, sort of. Dad and Anth both had strong ideas on courtesy between guests and hosts, and I agreed. Even a narf like Bishop Scanlen deserved … for a moment I squirmed. Well, he’d insulted
me first, and deserved what he got, even if it made more trouble than I’d intended.

  But living in Kevin’s house, I couldn’t be rude. It wouldn’t be long, though, before I’d have to go to Dr Zayre. I sighed. No doubt she’d be kind, but Kev was near my age, and we’d become as close as we’d ever been.

  “I better get my work done.” He swung to his puter, climbed onto the net, schussed into a series of his trig problems.

  I watched, half interested. Then, “Ever look me up?” I tried to sound casual. If I’d been netted, his look-up would reveal it.

  “What’s to see? Are you famous?” A derisive snort.

  “No, but …” I grabbed at deception. “Dad put our family bios up, years ago. See if they’re still there.”

  “I’m busy.” He was calculating a sine function. I’d have to read the problem to understand it, and I didn’t want to bother. His glance flickered my way. “Unless there’s some reason …?”

  I tried not to betray my tension. I could tell Kev my worry, and of course he’d check me out on the nets. I needed, really needed to know.

  On the other hand, it was in strictest confidence that Anth had told me he’d reinstated tracing. It was a sign of his trust. Explaining why I needed Kevin to schuss for me would betray Anth.

  I sighed. “Nah, forget it.” I leaned back. Perhaps I could call Judy Winthrop. If her mother let her near a caller. I couldn’t escape another sigh. I’d gotten Judy in hot water with her family, and put Kev at risk just being around him. As for Anth, I didn’t even want to think of the difficulty I’d caused.

  Perhaps I should spend my time with our enemies, and cause them the trouble I made for our friends.

  Darkness had fallen, dinner was done. Kevin schussed the byte-bit slopes, his homework finished. Across the room, Mr Dakko browsed his holovid, his feet propped on a hassock.

  Perhaps it was kindness, perhaps Mr Dakko had had a quiet word with his son. Whatever the cause, Kev had dropped what he was doing and explored the nets, with me as target. Without saying anything, he’d shown me the results.