Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  The radar beeped; I glanced into the sky. A fleet of seven or eight large helis cruised toward the farm. Shit! I ducked to the treetops. South, Randy. Head for Centraltown, before they get help. The Zone was underpopulated; they’d surely track me, but in Centraltown I could lose myself.

  What was top speed? Three hundred, by the airspeed indicator. Forty-five minutes. Too long; they’d be on me. Don’t panic, Randy. Do you have fuel? Yes, enough; the Valdez permabattery was fully charged. If only I could reach the cyclic while …

  I glanced at the radar scope. Behind me, nothing. Where was the frazzing transponder? I searched the controls. Anth hadn’t taught me that part. But if I broadcast my ID, they’d have a lock on me.

  Were they calling for help? I twirled the frequencies. The radio was strangely silent.

  CHRIST, JOEY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

  I was heading east, into the Davon Hills. Centraltown was south. Steady, Randy. You’ve a lot to do, your hands won’t reach, and—

  You idiot.

  I switched on the puter. “Set autopilot, heading Centralport beacon.”

  “Autopilot set.” The puter’s voice was brisk and impersonal.

  “Transponder off.”

  “Transponder now off.”

  I leaned back, wishing I could gnaw off my cuffs. “EST to Centraltown?”

  “Estimated arrival Centraltown Spaceport twenty-six minutes thirteen sec—”

  “Not the spaceport!” Lord God knew who’d be there watching

  “That’s where the beacon—”

  “Downtown, somewhere. Churchill Park.”

  Our course changed by a minute fraction.

  The radar beeped. Behind us, a blip, moving fast.

  “Shit.” I pounded the dash. “Top speed.”

  “Was that a query or a request?”

  “Go to top speed!” Then, “What is it?”

  “Top cruising airspeed three hundred twelve knots.”

  I peered at the screen. “We’re being followed.”

  “Noted.”

  “How fast are they going?”

  “Craft on our heading is proceeding at three hundred fifty-seven knots. Estimated intercept seventeen minutes eighteen seconds.”

  “Make us go faster!”

  “Top cruising speed is—”

  “Emergency speed!”

  “Unless a valid emergency is declared I cannot—”

  “I declare one! My life’s at risk!” If they caught me, I’d be hanged in earnest.

  The engine surged. The airspeed climbed to three hundred forty.

  I had absolutely nothing to do but pry helplessly at my cuffs. All I managed was to chafe my wrists further.

  But for the deacon’s kindness, my arms would have been locked behind me, and now I’d be wielding my hoe.

  In repayment, I’d killed him. Again I felt the bone snap, and my stomach heaved.

  I demanded, “EST?”

  “To northwest border Churchill Park, eleven minutes sixteen seconds.”

  Too long. I’d die of fright first.

  “Intercept?”

  “Nine minutes twelve sec—”

  I scrambled out of the seat, threw open the side door. A shriek of air. In the stowage space, a box. I heaved it off. Careful, Randy. You could go too.

  “What are you doing?” The puter’s tone was injured.

  “Throwing out ballast.” How heavy was the fire extinguisher? A few pounds. I dragged it to the door, kicked it loose. A few tools. Out they went. Frantically, I searched.

  Aha. At the foot of the copilot’s seat, a release. Probably to allow more cargo stowage. I clawed at it, hampered by my chained wrists.

  Why hadn’t I freed the lever before throwing out the bloody tools?

  I worked at the release until it sprang open. The seat rocked backward, almost hurling me out the door. I worked it out of its flange, manhandled it past me, kicked it out, watched it tumble down into the trees.

  The pilot’s seat was better secured; I had no way to remove it. Ah, well. Cautiously, I maneuvered the door shut. The wind’s howl eased.

  I slid into my seat, checked the indicator. Three hundred fifty-nine.

  “EST?” My voice was ragged. If they caught me …

  “Four minutes thirty seconds. I must report loss of gear to maintenance supervisor upon landing.”

  “Stick it up your CPU!”

  Perhaps the puter understood. It remained silent.

  I watched the scope. The pursuing heli wasn’t gaining, but it seemed awfully close. I clambered to the back, peered through the dome.

  A large black craft, far too close for comfort. I could see the blur of its rotors.

  “Can’t you hurry?”

  The puter’s tone was flat. “We’re at top revs. Any increase risks engine burnout.”

  “Risk it!”

  “Maintenance approval required.” Whatever that meant.

  We were over the outskirts of town. I crawled to the door, readying myself. I wished to hell I had a shirt; I’d be too damn conspicuous in nothing but sweat-stained pants and handcuffs.

  “There is no approved landing pad within half a mile of—”

  “Puter, set down at northwest corner of park in the first clearing you come to.”

  “Regulations prohibit—”

  “Screw your regulations! I declared an emergency!”

  “Setaside noted.” We swooped; I grabbed at the hand strap.

  We lost altitude fast, too fast. “Puter, are you driving?”

  “You said it was an emergency.” His tone was prim.

  As we slowed, the black craft gained.

  A lurch; we dropped a hundred feet. “Puter!”

  “Altitude three hundred feet. ETA thirty-seven seconds. Two hundred fifty feet.”

  The black heli loomed overhead.

  We were an elevator with a broken cable. The ground swooped upward. My stomach climbed to my throat.

  “ETA seven seconds, five—”

  We slammed into the ground. I threw open the door.

  Overhead, the whap of blades.

  I leaped out, sprinted for the trees.

  The black heli set down. A wiry figure leaped out, raced after me. Immediately his craft took to the air.

  I raced past a little boy; a soft beachball hit him in the head as he gaped. His father froze, eyes wide, as I chugged past.

  I had to get out of the park, but where in hell was I headed?

  A low wall at the park’s edge; I vaulted over it without a pause. I risked a backward glance; the man from the heli was a good runner. If I—

  “Aiyee!” I’d run full tilt into a bony obstacle. I untangled myself from a woman sprawled on the sidewalk, her bags scattered.

  “Sorry.” All I could do was wheeze. I clawed my way to my feet, resumed my mad dash. Where was I? What did I know of the area?

  Wait. Two blocks north was …

  Kevin’s house.

  I had to lose my pursuer. I ducked into a drive, ran through a backyard, scrambled over the fence.

  Another yard, another fence.

  An alley. Why not? I sprinted past a shed, risked another glance over my shoulder. No one. Good; I couldn’t keep this up for long.

  Overhead, the heli. But there were trees, shadows, wires … perhaps he couldn’t see me.

  I ran on, turned north.

  The heli circled, two blocks east. Oh, thank You, Lord.

  Kevin’s house was one block. Half a block. Only two more doors. I staggered up the walk, heaving for breath.

  At the corner, my pursuer whirled, looking one direction to the next.

  He faded away. I vaulted over the porch rail, bolted to the back door, hammered it with my fists.

  No answer. I banged again.

  Nothing.

  Desperate, I rammed my shoulder to the door. It was like hitting a rock. I rammed it again. Something splintered. One more time. The door gave. I threw myself in.

  The thud of ste
ps down the stairs. The inner door flew open. “What the—” Kev’s eyes widened. “Out of my house!”

  My mouth worked. I had no breath to speak.

  “Out!” He ran at me, pushed me to the door.

  “Wait!” It was a croak.

  “Get out. I’m calling the jerries!” He wheeled.

  In a frenzy, I clutched him, hauled him back. “Kidnapped.” I sucked at air. “Tried to hang me, look. Love of God, Kev, help me.”

  “What are you talking about? You broke our door. Dad will have a—out!”

  I said, “They’re going to kill me.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “Give me a shirt and get these off. I’ll go.”

  “Why should I help—”

  “Because I’d help you!” It was all I knew to say. “See my neck?” I craned upward at the ceiling, to stretch it. “Rope burns!”

  He paled. “You’re serious!”

  “The goddamn Church! They’re insane. Kevin, get these off!” I pounded my cuffs on the table.

  “How?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The shed! Come on.” He raced me outside, past the door I’d smashed.

  The shed had a codelock; I danced with impatience while he jabbed at it. Finally it opened.

  Kev dashed to a wall, on whose pegs dozens of tools hung. “Not a saw, no time … there it is!” He pulled down a huge bolt cutter. “Here.” He grabbed my wrists, lay them on the workbench.

  “Hurry!”

  “I am!” He got the blades around the chain between my cuffs. A squeeze. Nothing.

  “Harder!”

  “I’m trying.” He squeezed until his face went red. “What are those things made of?”

  I was in a frenzy. “Get them off, Kev. You’ve got to!”

  “Down on the floor!” I gaped, but did as he told me. Carefully, he put the cutter around my shackle, balanced it against one foot, raised his other over the protruding steel arm. “Here we go!” With all his weight, he stomped on the arm.

  Snick!

  The chain came apart.

  I still wore a cuff on each wrist, but no matter. I could use my hands. “A shirt?”

  “My room.” We raced to the house, up the stairs. He threw me a shirt; I thrust it on, yanked it closed, tabbed it shut.

  “How about a jacket or a hat?” Anything, for a disguise.

  “Use this.” He threw me his coat. It would be too big, but …

  Pounding at the door.

  I froze.

  “Oh, God, hide me!”

  The smash of glass. Footsteps. We stared, in mutual horror.

  The footsteps pounded upstairs. I backpedaled, to the bed.

  Kev took a stance before me.

  Two men, breathing hard. They crowded into the doorway. “You’ll come with us.” They brandished stunners.

  Behind them, a familiar voice. “Is he there?”

  “Yes, Your Reverence.”

  “Thank Lord God.” Scanlen appeared in the hall, behind them. “You led us a merry chase, lad.” The deacons closed on me.

  Kevin said bravely, “This is a private home. Do you have a warrant? You can’t take—”

  The bigger of the two deacons backhanded him with the stunner. Dazed, he sank to his knees.

  I yelled, “You’ve no right! I’m a U.N. citizen!” It was worth a try.

  “Get him to the rectory.” Scanlen’s voice was taut. They hesitated. “Right now!”

  They hauled me to my feet, dragged me to the door.

  “Kev, get word to Seafort! Tell Anth!”

  Kevin moaned, looked at his wet hand. Red dripped from his forehead.

  “Kev!” In a frenzy, I struck at a deacon.

  He smiled through bad teeth, touched the stunner to my side.

  12

  I GROANED, BLINKED MY eyes into focus.

  I’d learned something new.

  A stunner knocks you out, and you feel nothing. It’s the instant before oblivion that’s the nightmare; a crackling surge of energy flies up your spine, and for a fleeting moment, you feel as if your head will explode.

  I’d never known. I never wanted to know again. Once a lifetime was enough.

  I looked about. How long had I been unconscious? It seemed near dusk. An hour or so, if what I’d heard of stunners was true.

  I was shackled to an ornately carved wooden chair.

  Bishop Scanlen saw me awake, and perched at my side. “Have no fear, lad. You’ll be back at the farm shortly. As soon as things settle down.”

  “Let me go, God—” I took a breath. “God damn it!”

  His fist closed, but he made no move to hurt me. A sigh. “We’ll have that out of you, be sure. It won’t take long.”

  Inwardly, I flinched. Was the edge of a hoe sharp enough? Would a swift motion slit my throat? I couldn’t go back. I mustn’t.

  Scanlen peered into the hall. “Hambeld, any sign?”

  “All quiet, Your Reverence.”

  “Still, double-lock the door.”

  “It’s already done. Your Reverence, we weren’t followed.”

  I rattled my cuffs. “Why am I so damn important? What do I matter?”

  “As a symbol, primarily.” Scanlen spoke absently, his mind elsewhere.

  “Of what?”

  “Arrogance. Yours, Anthony’s, the state’s. The arrogance of a nation that would live without God’s Government. We mustn’t allow it.”

  “I’m a joeykid, for Christ’s sake!”

  “You’ll be whipped for that.”

  I was too desperate to care. “Answer me!” I tried to work myself free, but the chair arms were solid, unbreakable.

  Scanlen sat beside me. “Actually, my boy, I suppose you deserve a response. As you said, you’re a joeykid, young, offensive, insolent. Traits many joeys grow out of. But you’ve a further liability: your family. The Carrs think they’re above God, above His Church, and they’ve raised you to think likewise.”

  “Nonsense.” I had nothing to lose. His deacons would beat me to death, or I’d kill myself fleeing.

  “Oh, but it’s true. Young Anthony flirts with damnation. He must be stopped, and you’re the key.”

  “We’re free! The U.N. and its Church can’t—”

  “Not for long. It’s time this travesty ended. Old Derek was a twisted, evil soul, and led his people to the edge of perdition. But for the mercy of the Patriarchs and their Government …”

  “Sir?”

  “What is it, son?”

  “Fuck you, sir.”

  His glare was like a laser. Almost, I flinched.

  “Helis, Your Reverence!” Deacon Hambeld, from the doorway.

  “How many?”

  “I can’t be sure. Several.”

  “Anthony Carr’s militia, no doubt. Leave the door barred. If they gain entry I’ll be ready.”

  “Weapons, sir?”

  “Won’t be necessary. Not in God’s house.” Bishop Scanlen strode to his desk, stood behind it.

  For a long while, silence. Then, hammering blows, on the locked door.

  The Bishop raised a hand, staying his deacons.

  Silence.

  Again, the hammering. “Open!”

  No one moved.

  A crackle. Hambeld leaped back. “Holy God!” His tone held horror.

  The door began to smoke.

  My heart thudded. I strained at the chair that bound me.

  With a crash, the door fell inward, admitting sound, fury, a dozen armed men.

  A voice I knew, from the hall. “It’s over. Where’s Randolph?”

  Deacon Hambeld said, “He’s a ward of the Church, beyond your—”

  I tried to stand, but couldn’t, thwarted by my cuffs. “Here, Anth!” My voice was shrill. “In the study!”

  Anthony strode in.

  Bishop Scanlen reared. “Out! This is the house of Lord—”

  The Stadholder’s tone was ice. “Be silent, Mr Scanlen. You’re under arrest for treason.”

&nbs
p; “Impossible! I am of the Church! By what authority do you—”

  “By decree of the Government of the Commonweal of Hope Nation.” Anth’s fingers flicked to my temple. “Are you hurt?”

  “This house is on Cathedral grounds. It’s sacred—”

  “The Government is in and of the Church, of course. But you’ve never had diplomatic immunity.” He turned. “Lieutenant Skor, take him—”

  Scanlen snarled, “The U.N. Navy has no authority here!”

  “By our Treaty of Independence, Earth and Hope Nation are pledged to defend the other from attack. I invoked the treaty this afternoon. Ms Skor, have your men take Scanlen into custody. If any of these—these persons interfere, shoot them! Mr Anselm, call your Captain, tell him Randy’s well.”

  “I’m not.” It was a mumble; I didn’t know whether he heard.

  Anth knelt by my chair, held out his laser. “Look away.” He set the beam to low, burned through the narrowest section of the chair arm.

  I was freed. For the moment. Scanlen would be back, I was sure of it. I’d never escape his nightmare.

  I wrapped myself around Anth.

  He tried to free himself, to no avail. In a low voice, he issued terse orders, all the while stroking my flank. Men came and went.

  Outside, the hum of another heli. Silence.

  Footsteps.

  “WHERE IS HE?”

  Was it a betrayal that I uncoiled myself from Anth, tried not to tremble?

  “I’m sorry, joey.” Mr Seafort loomed in the doorway. “We couldn’t find you.”

  I flew to him. “Sir, I’ll do anything you say, wash the decks, work in the galley. I’ll call you ‘sir’ or whatever you want, don’t let them take me back to—”

  “Randy.”

  “—begging you!” I sank to my knees. “For the love of God, I can’t stand another day of—”

  “Randy.” Inexorably he hauled me upward. “It’s over. I’m sorry it took so long.”

  “I can’t—took me by force, he tried to hang me—”

  “I know, joey.”

  “Please!”

  “Anselm, a med tech, and hurry.” Mr Seafort held me close.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Running steps.

  “… Anything you say!” My voice was muffled. “I’ll be your son, I’ll—”

  “No, joey. Not like this. Not from fear.” Fingers brushed my scalp.

  A new voice. “Who’s injured?”

  “He needs a sedative. He’s quite beside himself.”