Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  Even I had been duped, until Dad’s brutal death opened my eyes.

  No air. Trying desperately to take breath, while his blood vessels burst, his lungs exploded his eyeballs hemorrhaged.

  While Seafort watched.

  The door slid open. “What are you crying at, you vile bastard?”

  I jumped to my feet.

  Mikhael Tamarov.

  He nodded to the master-at-arms. “See if Lieutenant Anselm’s in the officers’ lounge. If so, give him this note. I’ll watch the prisoner.”

  “But, sir—”

  “That was an order.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The master-at-arms retreated.

  The middy slid shut the door, strode to my bunk.

  I said nervously, “I hope I didn’t get you in troub—”

  He belted me in the stomach. I doubled over, retching.

  He began to swear, punctuating each oath with a blow. His knuckles slammed into my temple; I reeled, clutched the wall. A roundhouse blow to my ribs; something snapped.

  Mikhael’s face was dark; his lips bared. He hit me again and again, each time harder.

  My spittle sprayed. “Please … I was barely audible.

  I slid down the corner; he crouched with me, belaboring me without mercy. A tremendous punch slammed my head into the wall; I feared it had taken out my eye. “Stop! No more!” Methodically, he began to pound my chest, my shoulders.

  It went on forever. My blood dripped. Each breath was torture.

  Every time he worked at my ribs, red agony blossomed. Worst of all was his steady monotone, a stream of the ugliest words I’d ever heard.

  The door slid open. “Oh, Jesus, get him off! Sir, stop! Get away, or I’ll stun you! Now, sir!” Sailors struggled to pull the midshipman from the cell. He broke loose, ran at me, kicked me really hard between the legs.

  I squealed, rolled back and forth clutching myself, helpless, praying to die.

  I woke under bright lights, in a soft bed. Every limb, every organ ached. I could barely squeeze open my swollen eyes. The doctor took a step back.

  Captain Tolliver stood over me, arms folded. “That wasn’t warranted. It won’t happen again.”

  I nodded.

  He stalked out.

  I said to no one, “Where am I?”

  “In sickbay. You’ve three broken ribs, assorted contusions and abrasions. You lost a tooth, but that can be reseeded. I used the bone growth stimulator twice while you were out, and gave you calcium. The ribs will knit in a few days. Tomorrow, you go back to your cell. I’ll prescribe a painkiller.”

  I tried to scratch my nose, found my wrists fastened to the rail. “Can you let me …” I wriggled my hand.

  “No. Not a chance.” He turned on his heel.

  “Doctor?” I waited out a spell of dizziness.

  “Yes?” His tone dripped impatience.

  I forced out the words. “How is the Captain?”

  His face suffused. “In coma. Skull fracture, subdural hematoma, intercranial hemorrhage. I did a craniotomy to relieve the pressure, but …”

  “Will he live?”

  “It’s possible. It’s more likely he won’t. Ah, now it’s worth weeping over, is it? He’s always believed he’s bound for Hell. If so, you’ll meet him there shortly.” He stalked off.

  The next day, they allowed me a sponge bath; I was too bruised and swollen to stand still for a shower. Then, true to their word, they hustled me back to my bleak cell.

  I sat helpless in my silent chamber.

  No one would answer my questions, and I couldn’t hear Kevin. I didn’t have strength to cry out, to make a scene until they’d answer.

  Now, I was allowed outside once a day, to bathe. No doubt the acting Captain had intervened.

  The second afternoon, while I dozed listlessly, the hatch opened.

  Framed in the entryway, two officers I knew. Lieutenant and midshipman. The middy was dressed and groomed to perfection: shoes gleaming, slacks and shirt crisp, his tie knotted tight, his face scrubbed, every hair in place.

  He glanced at Lieutenant Anselm, emotions flickering. A deep breath. Smartly, he strode forward—he couldn’t go far without hitting the wall—and came to attention facing me. “Midshipman Mikhael Tamarov reporting, sir.”

  I gaped. The “sir” was directed to me.

  “I apologize to you for my inexcusable conduct, for my juv”—his eyes strayed to Anselm, but the lieutenants face was impassive—“juvenile tantrum. For breaking all bounds of decorum, for violating ship’s regs and common decency, and exhibiting my immaturity.” Mikhael’s face was scarlet. “Sir, my misconduct has been brought to the Captain’s attention, and we assure you I am being disciplined for it.”

  Silence.

  He remained at attention.

  I spat, “I hope you’re caned.” Dad had told me how much it hurt.

  Anselm stirred. “He won’t be. He’s twenty, a couple of years over the line. But he’ll be made to regret his act.”

  “What are you here for?”

  “By direction of the Captain, to see that Midshipman Tamarov carries out his orders.” A pause, then a hint of what might have been compassion. “Mr Tamarov is an officer; his word is not questioned. Merely his judgment. Is that correct, Midshipman?”

  Mikhael gritted his teeth. “Yes, sir. I’m told I showed the judgment of a small child.”

  If it wouldn’t have hurt my chest I’d have shouted with glee. The best I could do was put as much malice as I could in my smile. “Do you agree?”

  “My opinion is of no consequence.”

  “Answer him, Mr Tamarov.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Sir—” To me, politely. “—I hate you not one whit less than I did before. I chose to jeopardize my Naval career over that hate. Objectively, I have to agree that shows poor judgment.”

  I jutted out my chin. “Why’d they send you, Anselm? Were you part of it?”

  “I had no idea. If so, I’d have tried to stop him.” Lest I take too much comfort, he added, “Mr Tamarov is my friend, and I don’t care to see him in trouble.”

  “Is he?”

  “Very much so. Twenty is too old to be a cadet, or he would have been broken from officer, as I once was. Captain Tolliver nearly dismissed him from the service.”

  A pang, that might have been my ribs, or something else. A feeling I didn’t enjoy. I looked away. “I’m sorry you’re in trouble over me. You were nice to me, groundside.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Anselm said, “That’s enough for today, Mr Tamarov.”

  I almost felt sorry to see him go. “‘For today’?”

  “He’ll be back tomorrow. Every day until your trial.”

  I winced, turned away. When I opened my eyes, the hatch was sliding shut.

  I was restless all afternoon, yearning to pace despite my aches. The confinement of the tiny cell drove me to distraction; there was no place to go, nothing to look at.

  I wanted to see Mikhael again, so I could be cruel to him. He’d have to take it; I was “sir” to him.

  I hated him. He’d beaten me without mercy.

  I tried not to weep.

  That evening Mr Branstead came again. “Are you recovering?” As before, he sat on the bunk, looked up at me.

  I was eager for company, but my aches made me sullen. “Do you care?”

  “Mildly. You’ll recover from your bruises. I’m more concerned for the middy. He’s on four and four watch. That won’t last, and he’s young enough to take it. But his file will carry a reprimand; he may never make lieutenant, and is probably sick with shame.”

  “How do you know so much about the Navy?”

  “I too was an officer,” Branstead said mildly. “Captain Seafort enlisted me as cadet on UNS Victoria, the first fast-ship.”

  “On his way home from blowing Orbit Station?” After the Navy abandoned us, Seafort had remained behind. Even I had to admit that nuking the Station after luring hundreds of fish was a brilli
ant move. Hope Nation wasn’t attacked again during the war.

  “Yes.”

  “You were friends then?”

  He said simply, “Not until I gave up goofjuice.”

  I caught my breath. Goofjuice was an illicit drug, banned in all the worlds. Penalties were severe. Branstead was lucky; the euphoriac was so addictive that few escaped. It was almost beyond belief that the Navy would take a boy who’d been in its clutches.

  “How?”

  “Mr Seafort locked me in a cell.” He looked about. “It was a passenger cabin, actually. A little bigger than this.”

  I snorted. “And denied you the juice until he had his way.” That was Seafort.

  “No, he gave me a vial of juice. And told me he’d let me take the oath if I didn’t open it.” Branstead’s look was distant. “If you want to know what hell is, boy, ask me.”

  His look was so forlorn I eased myself alongside him, sat carefully. My knitting ribs still ached.

  A silence.

  “Have you used it since, sir?”

  “No, I swore an oath.”

  “People break them.”

  “I don’t.” For a time he stared at the floor. “Nick Seafort did, once. It’s haunted him ever since.” Abruptly he threw a hand over his eyes. “And now my friend, my mentor, lies in that cubicle, still as death, his broken head wrapped in gauze, and I can only sit with him, thinking the things I didn’t say when I could.”

  I bounded to my feet, ignoring a warning stab. “It’s not fair!”

  “What?” I’d drawn him from his reverie.

  “He’s a monster! Even Earth is better without him! My father was a good man, a decent man … you can’t know how good he was!” I found it hard to speak, and pounded my leg.

  “Randy—”

  “But you all love your hero Seafort, and look at me like I’m scum on a pond! Thanks to him I have to live without my father. What about me, God damn you? What about me!” My voice rose so high my throat ached.

  He frowned at my language, but said only, “Would killing him bring Derek back?”

  “Derek Carr’s murder cried out for revenge!”

  “You deluded fool.” Branstead put his head in his hands. After a moment, he stood. “We’ll talk about it again, perhaps. Right now, I’m not up to it.”

  I stopped him at the door. “Why did you come?”

  “Oh, yes. To bring you up-to-date.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The Stadholder demands to see you. Captain Tolliver refuses to allow it.”

  “Anthony knows?”

  “Randy, the whole world knows. When we broke free of the Station, it wasn’t exactly a secret.”

  “Why does Tolliver refuse?”

  “Call him Captain.”

  I swallowed my pride. “Captain Tolliver.”

  “You’re in Naval hands now, and will stay that way.”

  I frowned. “Will I be allowed to say good-bye to Anth? To my mother?”

  “If they hang you?” It sounded brutal.

  I nodded, not daring words.

  “I don’t know. A holochip, certainly.”

  I hugged myself.

  “And Chris Dakko of Dakko & Son is raising hell about his boy. Insists he’s innocent, and demands his release.”

  “Kevin had no idea. Even I—” Even I had no notion I’d try to cave in Nick Seafort’s head.

  “He underwent P and D, as you did. Captain Tolliver won’t discuss the results, but scuttlebutt is that young Dakko knew nothing.”

  “Then why is he being held?”

  “You’d have to ask the Captain.” With that, he was gone.

  The next day, as before, a med tech came, wheeling a cart with a bone-growth stimulator. I had to sit still while he ran the cool disk across my rib cage. It tickled, and made me restless. But then he left, and I was alone for another long afternoon.

  Worst of all was that I had nothing to do: no holovid, no books. Nothing to see but the God-cursed walls.

  Footsteps at the hatch. I waited cross-legged on my bed, not caring who it was. Anyone.

  Tamarov and Anselm.

  The middy marched in, stiffened to attention before me. “Midshipman Mikhael Tamarov reporting, sir. At the Captain’s order, I apologize again for assaulting you.”

  “No doubt you regret it.” My tone dripped sarcasm. “Or do you regret not finishing me?”

  “May I tell the truth, Mr Anselm?”

  “You not only may, but I require it.”

  To me, “Yes, sir, I wish I’d killed you. Then I’d be hanged and it would be over for both of us.”

  I knew he’d want me dead, but still it shook me, hearing it so baldly. “That’s how I feel about your precious Nick Seafort.”

  For an instant, he closed his eyes. Then, rather calmly under the circumstances, “Yes, sir.”

  Abruptly I tired of baiting him. “I guess …” A deep breath. “I suppose I understand how you feel. After all, he’s your Captain.”

  “He’s my father!” Mikhael’s fists were clenched.

  I gaped. “Your what?”

  “Oh, you knew.” Scorn dripped from the words.

  “You said your name was Tamarov! You lied about who you were!”

  He snarled, “And you didn’t?”

  “Steady, Mr Tamarov.” Anselm, from the door.

  “Aye aye, sir.” The middy brought himself back to attention.

  Anselm folded his arms. “You may stand at ease today.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He did so.

  We regarded each other. Cautiously I got to my feet. “You’re Nick Seafort’s son?” I tasted the bizarre, the impossible.

  “Yes, sir. My name’s still Tamarov. Captain Seafort adopted me.”

  I knitted my brow. “You mentioned ‘Pa’ … before.”

  “That was groundside. Or alone, in his cabin. On duty, he’s ‘Captain Seafort,’ just as I call my friend Mr Anselm ‘sir’ aboard ship.”

  My head was spinning. “Seafort adopted a middy?”

  “Of course not. It was—” He twisted his head. “Tad—Lieutenant Anselm—how should I explain?”

  Anselm’s lips twitched. “Start at the beginning, speak slowly, and don’t assume he knows any details.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Mikhael gathered himself. “When I was fifteen my father died in the Rotunda bombing, where they tried to kill Mr Seafort. I was … very upset. I hadn’t seen Alexi in years, and was so looking forward to his leave. I hated Mr Seafort for taking away my chance—”

  “Stop it!” My voice was shrill. “Get out!” I launched myself from the bed, propelled him to the hatch. “Get away from me!”

  Anselm swept me off my feet, laid me on the bed, held me in place. “That won’t do, joey.” He studied me. “Why do I see tears?

  “Get off me!” I spun on my side, away from him. My voice was unsteady. “Don’t mock me.” I forced the word. “Please. Just don’t.”

  The middy said plaintively, “Mr Anselm, what did I—”

  “Wait, Mik.” To my astonishment, the lieutenant patted the small of my back. “Mikhael meant no harm. It’s what he felt. I was there.”

  “Where?”

  With a sigh, Anselm recounted Seafort’s last days as SecGen. He described his own drunkenness as a young middy, Mikhael’s despair when his father was killed, Seafort’s dogged efforts to reclaim them both while Earth tumbled toward revolution. Seafort took Anselm onto his staff, along with a cadet named Bevin. At that, Tad’s eyes glistened, and for a moment he was still.

  Then, a smile to Mikhael, and Anselm turned to me. “Mr Seafort called in Derek Carr to tell Mik stories of his father Captain Tamarov in the old days. Poor Mik didn’t know what to make of it. He so wanted to hear the stories, but he was annoyed at Mr Seafort for reining him in …”

  I blurted, “Dad told me about a Tamarov once. When he was a cadet on Hibernia.”

  Mik said softly, “That was my father. They served together in Portia too.”

&nb
sp; Anselm cleared his throat, resumed his tale. While Seafort battled to steer clear of enviro fanatics and Naval reactionaries, Anselm was so unruly, he had been broken to cadet. Then, the expedition to Lunapolis, for risky surgery to undo the SecGen’s paralysis. While they were aloft, disgruntled officers attempted a coup and seized Galactic. Nick Seafort arranged to go aboard to clear the way for a small party of civilian raiders, and Dad insisted on going along, over Seafort’s vociferous objection. Dad even smuggled Mikhael aboard, lest the boy harm himself from fear of abandonment.

  Dad and Anselm—and Mikhael—fought alongside Seafort to save the ship. By now Dad was a lieutenant—he’d made the Captain reenlist him.

  After they won, they used Galactic in a maneuver to recapture Lunapolis and Earthport. When the rebels fired their laser cannon, the ship was lost. Dad had died a hero, helping others into their suits.

  The tale wasn’t new to me, but when Anselm lapsed silent, my cheeks were damp.

  He handed me a handkerchief, and the small kindness undid me utterly.

  At length, I struggled toward composure. Casting about, I said, “What is four and four watch?”

  Mik colored. “Four hours on, four hours off, twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Tolliver makes you do that? For how long?”

  “ ’Til we reach home port, he said, but I hope he doesn’t mean it.”

  Anselm said quietly, “Mr Tolliver was quite upset. We’ll have no criticism.”

  “None meant, sir.”

  “Well, I criticize.” To my astonishment, I giggled. “What can he do about it, hang me?”

  “Yes, if Pa dies. I mean, Capt—Cap—” Mik’s face crumpled.

  Anselm was off the bed, at the hatch. “Good day, Mr Carr.” He swept Mikhael through, slapped it shut.

  Mr Branstead came again, in the evening. His eyes were hollow. “Nick is on life support.”

  I said humbly, “I’m sorry.”

  He snorted.

  “I’m sorry you may lose a friend,” I added. “I’m sorry I’m the cause. My hating him doesn’t alter that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it true that Mr Seafort had Dad help Mikhael?”

  “Derek was glad to do it. It disrupted his trade negotiations, but he and the SecGen were such friends that it didn’t matter a whit.”

  I stared at the floor.