Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  Bishop Scanlen waved a finger in his face. “… heard about you from Reverend Pandeker. Heresy, he called it.”

  “Declining to give the Ship’s Prayer? Nonsense. He gives it.”

  “It’s your duty, Seafort, and you shirk it. As it’s your duty to surrender the boy. Not for me, for the Church. ‘Fuck you’? Ha. Fifty people must have heard it. The story’s all over Centraltown.”

  “We’ve had this conversation.”

  “By Lord God, I could excommunicate you! You’ll writhe in Hell!”

  I blanched, but Mr Seafort merely held up a palm. “Would you put our dispute aside a moment, and answer a theological question?”

  “Don’t twit me.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Scanlen glowered. “All right. What?”

  “Does Church doctrine admit to degrees of Hell? Are some punished worse than others?”

  “Hell is infinite pain, infinite horror. There can be no degrees.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m comforted.”

  “How so?”

  The Captain’s face was serene. “I’ve done treason, betrayal, murder, and genocide. I know I’ll see Hell. So no matter what I do, you can wield no threat of worse. You may not have the boy.” He caught sight of me, making myself small in the corner. “Wait in the heli. We’re leaving shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.” I fled.

  Hell? If he believed in it, was I right not to? Had I already consigned myself?

  Outside, night had fallen. I climbed into the heli, parked in a corner of the lawn.

  Where would they have me sleep? Surely not the cabin next to the Captain’s; Level 1 was officers’ territory. Not a crew berth, please. Not among fifty others.

  The distant blaze from the house threw enough light to examine the heli’s controls. I gripped the collective, pretended to turn the nonexistent key. I’d lift straight up, bank left, zoom over the house. No, better, zoom directly past the hall window; no wires or branches would impede me. Anth would look up, grit his teeth …

  Was I leaving behind anything I might need? I hadn’t bothered with clothes; I’d never seen Alec in anything but ship’s blues. I’d brought my favorite holovid, a small one. With it, I could keep a diary, or watch a vid.

  Footsteps.

  “Mr Seafort? Oh, you!” My tone was wary.

  Mr Scanlen, with a deacon in clerical collar. The Bishop held up a hand, peaceably. “I can’t have you leave on these terms, lad. He outwitted me; I admit it. There’s not much I can do. I wanted to wish you well.”

  I swallowed. Where was Mr Seafort? I wasn’t sure what I ought to say.

  “You need discipline and refocus. The farm is quite good at that, actually. Perhaps the Navy will suffice.”

  “Perhaps.” It wasn’t giving him much.

  “Don’t burden yourself with guilt. I forgive you. Truly, I do. As for the Captain, obviously, he has too. Go in peace.” He held out a hand.

  Cautiously, I shook.

  Something stung my wrist.

  The house lights tilted, and blinked out.

  11

  MY ROOM WAS HOT. I woke slowly. I’d had an awful dream involving Dad, Olympiad, Captain Nicholas Seafort. Midshipmen, a ship’s boy, someone named Branstead.

  My room was oddly dark. I struggled to clear my head.

  A window, with bars. Minor gleamed dimly overhead; Major must have set.

  Bars? I sat up too fast; the room spun. I hung on to the wall until it slowed.

  I was in a tiny room, no bigger than the cell in which—

  Cell. That part was no dream. If the rest was real, I’d be wearing ship’s blues.

  No shirt anywhere I could see. But my pants were blue, and looked like nothing I owned.

  I jumped out of bed, peered out the high window, tried to orient myself.

  Fields, with rich crops swaying in a soft wind. Were we in the Zone? Whose manse?

  I tried the door. Locked.

  A farm.

  The Bishop.

  Oh, Christ. “Help! Someone help me!” My voice was shrill. “Call the jerries! I’ve been kidnapped!”

  The slow tread of footsteps. A flashlight. A burly figure, one I’d never seen. The door swung open. “Stop that racket, you’ll wake the other joeykids.”

  “Where am I?”

  “The training and correctional farm of Lord God’s Reunification Church.”

  “That son of a bitch!”

  “Foul language is prohibited. To whom did you refer?”

  “That liar Scanlen! He said he forgave me!”

  “He forgives you, my son. Truly.” A step, and he loomed close. “But as you’ve been assigned to our custody, it’s our duty to train you in His ways. You don’t call a churchman a liar, boy.” His heavy fist clubbed me in the temple. I reeled. “Or a son of a bitch.” Another blow. My head hit the wall, and I passed out.

  “Eat now, or you’ll be starving by dinner.” A scrawny joeykid held up a bowl.

  Morning had arrived; deacons had come for me, dragged me to a barracks full of boys, shown me an upper bunk.

  When they’d come through the door, every joey within had come to his feet, in absolute silence.

  A boy was assigned to show me morning routine; I hadn’t caught his name. Towheaded, short, missing teeth, though reseeding was commonplace.

  “Where are we?” I kept my voice low.

  “The farm. ’Bout three hundred miles north of Centraltown. Don’ let him see us talkin’.” His eyes flickered to the deacon, standing with arms folded, at the breakfast table. “Can’ talk durin’ breakfast. Bunks all right, or field.”

  “Escape?”

  “Ain’ no roads. Only helis.” The deacon looked our way, and we subsided. I chewed the fresh hot bread. At least the food seemed decent.

  Outside, we had to form a line and walk two by two. It was a good mile to the fields. They handed us hoes. I looked about with disgust; this was work for machines. A good auto-tiller would accomplish in hours what we …

  “Get to work!” A crack, and a terrible searing pain on my bare back. I whirled. A deacon, with a thick leather strap. “Want another? Get to hoeing!”

  I dared not challenge him, not until I knew more. Despite my resolve, my eyes teared as I tore at the stubborn earth.

  I asked the boy next to me, “What are we planting this late?” Winter would soon be upon us.

  “Nothing.” He spat. “Practice.”

  God in Heaven.

  Another deacon sat by a sound system, spoke into the mike. “These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens. And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb before it grew, for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground.” He took a sip of water.

  “But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground …”

  I stabbed at the stubborn turf. The salt of my sweat stung my smarting back. If the deacon struck me again, he or I would die.

  Hours passed.

  The day dragged on, awful beyond belief. I glanced about me; some joeykids seemed numbed, others sullen. All were bare from the waist up; most wore only sandals and slacks. I was lucky to have my sturdy Naval shoes.

  As my mentor had warned, by evening I was starving. We’d been given water during the day, but not much. By the time we marched back to barracks, my mouth was parched, my lips cracked.

  Immediately, we were sent to our beds. Boys began stripping; squelching my embarrassment I followed their lead. We were herded into a communal shower, where we found bars of coarse soap.

  The towhead nudged me, pointed. A tall joey, sixteen or so, across the way. His buttocks were laced with fading welts from a strap.

  “What for?” I wasn’t sure we were allowed to talk here, so I whispered.

  “Stealin’.”

  I looked about, spotted another
whose back was a crisscross of scars. “What for?”

  “Lascivious.”

  I wasn’t sure what it entailed, but resolved not to find out.

  Outside, torn but serviceable towels. We dried off, marched back to barracks, redressed in our sweaty clothes. “Clean clothing?

  “Once a week, wash.”

  Lord God, if You exist, take me out of here! Nothing I’ve done deserves this.

  They brought dinner to the barracks table. My stomach churned eagerly, but it wasn’t that easy. First a deacon opened the Book. “They shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore.” He waited expectantly.

  The boys chorused, “They shall hunger no more …”

  Towhead jabbed me in the ribs; deacons walked among us to make sure we actually spoke the words, and didn’t mumble. Dismayed, I parroted the phrases.

  “For the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

  Ha. Not likely.

  Prayer succeeded prayer; they must have passed half an hour with such folderol. When I thought I could stand it no longer, they let us dig in.

  I had to admit the food was ample, though they were strict on how we received it; each boy had to stand in line, walk to the table with his tray before him, take what he was given, return to his bed to eat, tray perched on his lap. But, when all was done, I wasn’t hungry, and the food had even proven tasty.

  Bizarre, our Church. Whippings, forced prayer, foul clothing, horrid work, and decent meals.

  Other joeys were talking over their dinner, and the deacons didn’t seem to mind. “How long have some of you been here?”

  Towhead said, “Justin, six years. Get out soon; he’s almost twenty-one. Freddy, there, been since he was nine.”

  “My God, why?”

  “Shhh, can’ say that. Stole from church plate.”

  After we were sent to the toilets, they made us turn in.

  I lay awake, half the night, plotting how I might escape. I’d seen no vehicles save a distant heli. Three hundred miles was too far to walk, especially without a stock of food. I’d probably come across streams, to drink. But if not …

  Morning came. I dragged myself out of bed with the others, bleary and aching. Prayers that seemed endless, breakfast of porridge and milk. Then the trudge to the field.

  A day passed, and another, while I watched and waited with growing desperation.

  There was no way out. Several of our deacons had stunners tucked in their waistbands. Across the field, another barracks toiled. Surreptitiously, I watched them. A scuffle; a deacon lashed out with his strap at a thin, reedy boy. He ducked the blow, resisted. Two deacons raced over. A touch with the stunner. He collapsed, and was dragged off. In a few minutes, the drone of a heli.

  “What’ll happen to him?” I kept my voice low.

  “Repentance camp.”

  “How long?”

  “Dunno. Year, prob’ly.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Ask Arno.”

  He gestured to a brawny red-haired youth, who grimaced and shook his head. “Don’t wanna go there for nothin’.”

  The day ended.

  Sunday, thank Lord God, they didn’t make us work. Instead, we were treated to prayer and lectures, and meditation, in the earnest hope we might show contrition for our numerous misdeeds. I squirmed on the hard wooden bench, trying not to catch a deacon’s eye.

  And then, Monday, more of the stultifying labor, endless rows of unyielding earth under the remorseless sun. I dug at the stubborn sod, acrid sweat trickling down my ribs.

  I’d already hidden a heel of bread under my pillow, to see if the deacons would notice. None had. They served hard cheese; that would keep a day or two, even in a warm barracks.

  Bread and cheese might buy me an extra day, with cool water from a stream.

  I hadn’t dared leave my bed to see if the barracks door was locked at night.

  Where would I go? I’d head for the Zone, of course; Centraltown lay beyond it. Perhaps Anthony would hide me, or Judy. Alex Hopewell I wasn’t sure about.

  Three days passed, three days of hell.

  I was becoming numbed, marching about like an automaton, singing out, “Yes, sir,” when spoken to.

  Perhaps I’d die in the deep woods bordering the Zone. It didn’t much matter.

  On Friday, I was breaking tufts of sod with a pitchfork when the whap of a heli sounded in the distance.

  “CARR!”

  I jumped back to my hoe, scrabbling frantically at the earth. Moments before, our deacon had given Jackie a vicious whack, and he was still teary-eyed. I wasn’t sure he knew that blood was seeping down his back.

  “Carr, move!” A deacon looked about from the heli door. I gaped. Our supervisor prodded me.

  The small, swift two-seater had landed perhaps fifty paces distant. By its door, a squat man waited. His beard was bushy and black. A strap dangled from his hand.

  I’d seen how it was done; swallowing my pride I ran across the field. “Here, sir! How may I serve?”

  The deacon ran his fingers over his unshaved chin. “Turn.” He twisted me by the shoulder.

  I did. He cuffed my hands behind my back.

  “In.”

  I struggled to climb aboard.

  He punched the small of my back with the heel of his palm. It hurt. “In!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “That’s better.” He helped me aboard. “Sit back, boy.”

  “Yes, sir.” In the cool of the heli, I was clammy with the sweat of dread.

  We lifted off, soared over the farm. We headed to an outbuilding at the edge of the complex, a mile or two distant.

  Five minutes ride. From the terrain I judged that we’d left the farm proper. A clearing, with a snug celuwall outbuilding. No helipad, but grass cut short.

  He set down on a bare patch near the door, pulled me out. “Let’s go.” He turned off the key, left it in the ignition.

  I must not have moved fast enough; he clipped me alongside the ear. Jesus, it hurt. I trotted through the door, his fingers tight on my neck.

  Inside, a small room, bare except for a bench. Two deacons. I blinked in the sudden dark. Four walls, a chair. Rough hewn beams of thick, sturdy genera wood across the ceiling.

  Three deacons, one operating a holocam. It focused tight on my face.

  A door opened. The Right Reverend Bishop Scanlen strode in.

  “Ah, Randolph. I trust you are well?”

  My hands were still cuffed behind me. “Yes, sir.” It wasn’t how I’d have preferred to answer.

  “Let’s get it done.” His voice was flat.

  Someone grabbed me from behind. Another slipped a rope over my neck. I squawked.

  Scanlen faced the holocam. “This is what it comes to,” he said.

  They threw the rope over the beam.

  “NO! IN CHRIST’S NAME, NO!”

  They paid me no attention. “Now.”

  Two of them hauled on the rope. I was lifted to my toes.

  And beyond.

  They held me there a half minute, kicking, turning purple while the room swam. Then they let me down. The squat bearded deacon thrust his fingers inside the noose, forced it loose. I sucked a great gasp of air.

  “Think on it,” Scanlen said to the holocam.

  My feet wouldn’t hold the ground. I staggered, tumbled into a heap, choking, crying, squealing, sucking at air.

  “Ease him,” said Scanlen.

  In a moment my hands were freed. They dragged me to the chair, dumped me in it. I was beside myself with fear, hate, frenzy.

  Scanlen knelt at my side. “This was for him, not you. Hopefully he’ll heed. Else, I’ll shrive you when the time comes.” A rough hand tousled my hair with what might have been kindness.

  When I looked up, he was gone.

  They let me sit for an hour, perhaps two. I was beyond thought.

 
“Come along, boy.” The bearded deacon.

  I couldn’t stand. I flinched, expecting the strap.

  They exchanged glances. Two of them reached for my hands, cuffed them, but in front. “Let’s go.” The squat, heavyset deacon pulled me up by the elbow. The two others watched from the doorway.

  I trotted along, sniveling, my throat burning like fire.

  Ahead waited the heli, to take me back to the farm. To hell.

  The deacon swung open the door. I made as if to climb in, stumbled. It took me a step backward. A pace toward the door. I let loose the hardest kick I ever launched, right into his crotch. My sturdy Naval shoe buried itself in flesh.

  He gasped. His eyes bulging, he doubled over. I raised high my chained wrists. An arc flashed in the sunlight. My steel cuffs slammed into his neck. Bones snapped. He dropped like a stone and was still.

  I scrambled into the heli, slammed shut the door, clicked the lock. Gibbering, I tried desperately to pull myself together.

  Could I pilot with my wrists cuffed?

  The two deacons sprinted to the heli. I turned the key, switched on the engine. Ever so slowly, the rotors began to turn.

  One deacon knelt by his comrade, the other slammed into the door. It held. He brandished a stunner.

  Come on, heli.

  I watched my rotor speed.

  The deacon ran to the pilot’s door. Locked. He hefted his stunner, smashed at the window.

  In a moment I’d have lift.

  The window splintered.

  I grasped the collective, just managed to reach the cyclic.

  Shards of plastic splattered my lap.

  The deacon rammed his stunner through the broken window.

  LIFT.

  The stunner brushed my side; I flinched clear in the nick of time.

  We were off the ground. The deacon wrapped a foot around the runner, tried desperately to stun me.

  I soared into the sky.

  The deacon’s face pressed against the remains of the plastic.

  Our eyes met.

  Deliberately, I rammed my foot on the rudder, twitched the cyclic.

  Abruptly we banked, and his face was gone.

  The sudden lightening of our load threw me upward. Shuddering with relief, fear, Lord God knew what, I scrambled to keep us aloft. Damn it, a heli needed two hands. I was busier than a one-armed … what had Dad called it?