Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  Then he decided I needed my hair cut—it looked fine, but there was no arguing with him—so off I went to the barber.

  I helped squads stow cargo and supplies. Well, I didn’t actually help them load, but I ran to fetch manifest chips, tie-downs, replacement lights.

  Mr Seafort abandoned his wheelchair, but walked slowly, with a hint of unspoken pain. Mr Tolliver—the Captain had heard me refer to him as “Tolliver,” and brought me up short—took up much of the burden, helping handle problems, such as smuggling, caused by the end of shore leave. As I began to see how doggedly he protected Mr Seafort, my dislike of him eased. His acid manner made it easier; I rather liked the carefully concealed humor behind it.

  Meanwhile, I discovered there were no such items as hatch solvents or cargo diffusers. I plotted dark revenge against the sailors who’d sent me on fool’s errands, until Mik explained it was a form of teasing, that it prefaced their accepting me as one of their own.

  In the evenings, a trifle lonely, I wandered the lounges with Alec, or went to Mr Seafort’s cabin. Our second day, he’d sat me down, made clear the difference between on-watch and off-duty times; during the latter I was welcome without invitation. I checked with Mikhael to see if he meant it; Mik shook his head, told me the question was absurd.

  In the Captain’s cabin, I taught Janey games or toyed with a holo. At least once each day, though, Mr Seafort bade me sit with him at his gleaming table. In what I soon recognized as a ritual, he brought out a worn leather Bible, made me open it, and read aloud.

  There seemed to be no pattern to the passages we selected. Mostly, he left it up to me, objecting only when I stumbled onto Numbers, and its interminable Hebrew census. “They may all be Lord God’s words, but some are of more interest than others.”

  Suppressing a sigh, I flipped the pages, settled on Job. “I know it is so of a truth: but how should man be just with God? If he will contend with him, he cannot answer him one of a thousand.”

  “Aye, there’s the rub. He writes the rules, and makes all the answers.” Mr Seafort shut his eyes. “He is wise in heart, and mighty in strength: who hath hardened himself against him, and hath prospered?”

  I put my finger in the book to hold my place, and closed it. “Is that what you did?”

  “It’s what I still do.” He stirred himself. “Read on.”

  My immersion in Scripture never lasted more than an hour. Often, he brewed hot tea while I read, and offered me a cup. Out of courtesy I drank it, afraid I’d develop a taste for the bitter liquid.

  Occasionally, afterward, I sat cross-legged in my cabin, musing about the changes in my life. For the time being, I was barred from Carr Plantation, even from Centraltown. Olympiad was due to sail to Kall’s Planet, then to Earth, which I’d never seen. I could lose myself in her crew, devote myself to the U.N. Navy. Mr Seafort would keep an eye on me, one way or another. Soon I’d grow up, become the adult I’d once imagined I already was.

  At fourteen, did I need a parent? Want one? Despite Mr Seafort’s assumption of what I wanted, I intended to decide for myself.

  I stared into Dad’s holo—the last he’d had taken, before his ill-fated journey—and asked myself the same question, over and again.

  I was afraid of the answer.

  13

  I RAN MY HANDS THROUGH my hair, tucked in my shirt, anxious to look my best. When they strode through the airlock I stepped forward casually. “Welcome aboard, sir,” I said to Chris Dakko. “Captain Seafort sent me to greet you.”

  “Did he.” Mr Dakko’s face was impassive.

  “Yes, sir, I’m crew now. Ship’s boy. Kevin, welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you.” Kev seemed distant, but I noticed he’d looked me over carefully. I was glad my shoes were polished, my shirt fresh-creased. For the moment, I didn’t even begrudge Mr Seafort my haircut.

  As we were still in port, Mr Seafort had decreed he’d meet our guests on the bridge, walk with them to Dining Hall. I gathered that while under way, neither passengers nor crew could approach the bridge. I wondered if that would include me.

  The Dakkos had come aboard at the Level 2 lock. Olympiad was so large we were secured to the Station at three separate locks, on three Levels.

  As bidden, I escorted our guests along the corridor. Lieutenant Anselm—it was no longer proper to call him “Tad”—had been teaching me to stand at attention and salute; on the bridge I gave it my best attempt, and was rewarded with an approving smile, hastily extinguished, from the Captain. Mr Tolliver, in the watch officer’s seat, merely glowered a bit less strongly than usual.

  To my surprise, I wasn’t dismissed; Mr Seafort clapped a hand on my shoulder while engaging in polite chat with Mr Dakko, then gently propelled me in Kevin’s direction.

  “So.” The toe of Kev’s polished shoe toyed with the decking. “You all right?”

  The adults were talking, pointing at the simulscreen.

  “Yeah.” I hesitated. “You still mad at me?”

  “I ought to be.” He reddened. “Those weeks in a cell were horrid.” Then, “You recovered from the Church farm?”

  I nodded. “You saved my life.”

  “Seafort did.”

  “You told him where to find me.”

  “Let’s stop the bullshit.” Determinedly, he met my eye. “You’ve been a really good friend. I’m sorry … things got messed up.”

  “I messed them up.”

  For a moment we regarded each other. Then his hand came out.

  Fervently, I took his grip.

  “Ready, boys?” Genially, Mr Seafort steered me to the corridor. I walked with him, slowly, down the ladder to the Dining Hall. Kevin shot me a glance from time to time. He was wearing his best clothes, no doubt under his father’s prodding, and was carefully showing off his good manners. A. fading bruise was the only reminder of the deacons’ assault.

  By now a number of passengers had come aboard, though the hall was far from crowded and many tables remained empty. At our table, Mr Seafort pulled out a seat for me, so I knew I was expected to join them. Tad, er, Mr Anselm, came down too, and of course Mikhael.

  I looked about. More officers were present than at previous meals. Some of the passengers were new arrivals—I’d seen them boarding—others were bound for Kall’s Planet, and had returned a bit early from Centraltown.

  As usual, dinner started with salad, served on a chilled plate. Mikhael had told me that, under way, our evening meal was opened by the Ship’s Prayer, but in accordance with some ancient tradition it was dispensed with in port.

  “So, Captain, how many of your crew are aboard?” It was Mr Dakko’s attempt to revive the faltering conversation.

  “Some three hundred. Little more than a third.” Mr Seafort broke a roll. “Astonishing, isn’t it? Hibernia had a crew of seventy. Who’d have thought …”

  “Is it progress?” Mr Dakko looked glum. “The economics that result in behemoths such as Olympiad only perpetuate your stranglehold on shipping.”

  “Our ships are expensive,” the Captain said.

  I recalled that Mr Seafort had been SecGen during their construction.

  Mr Dakko said, “Far beyond the resources of even the most prosperous colony.”

  “But they serve many roles. Defense, for example—”

  “Sir, we no longer need defense. The fish are long gone. In fact, it’s your Navy we need protection from. The coup on Earth—”

  “Attempted coup.”

  Mr Dakko lowered his voice. “Scanlen and his ilk—” he looked about “—they’re a product of the same reactionary thinking as—”

  Alarms shrieked. I sat bolt upright.

  “General Quarters! Man Battle Stations!” Tolliver’s voice was taut. Officers threw down their napkins, ran to the hatch. “Captain to the bridge!”

  Mr Seafort leaped from his chair, turned gray. I rushed to his side. He threw an arm over me, not from affection, but for support. “Lord Christ, that hurt. Randy, walk me to the
bridge. Hurry!”

  “Seal all locks! Prepare for breakaway!”

  We were halfway to the corridor. At the table, Kevin clutched his silverware, aghast.

  “Engine Room, full power to thrusters.”

  We made our way, slowly. Mr Dakko slid back his chair, half ran to catch us. He came up on Mr Seafort’s other side. “If you’ll allow me, sir?” He offered a shoulder.

  A second’s hesitation. The Captain nodded.

  “Disengage capture latches.”

  Mr Dakko threw the Captain’s other arm across his own shoulder, wrapped a supporting hand about his waist. Together, we walked Mr Seafort rapidly along the corridor.

  Tolliver had kept the bridge hatch open; as we entered his eyebrow raised but he said nothing.

  “Edgar, report!” Mr Seafort eased himself into his seat.

  By way of answer, Mr Tolliver dialed up the magnification of the simulscreen.

  Half a dozen coram satellites lay outward of the Station, in geosync, within a few kilometers.

  Just beyond them floated a form I’d seen only in history holos.

  A fish.

  “Jesus, Lord Christ.” Mr Seafort’s voice was a whisper. “They’re dead. I killed them all.”

  Mr Dakko’s mouth worked. His fists clenched and unclenched. The alien floated before us, looking for all the world like a giant goldfish. No fins, of course, and no head, but …

  For a long moment Mr Seafort sat frozen, as if afraid. Then he shook himself. “Is the Pilot aboard?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Just our luck.” He keyed his caller. “Airlock Three, report.”

  “Confirm hatches sealed, sir. Capture latches disengaged.”

  “Airlock Two?”

  “Sealed, sir. And disengaged.”

  “Airlock One?”

  “Sealed, sir. Latches … there. Disengaged.” On the Captain’s console, three lights blinked green.

  “Station, Olympiad is casting off. Commencing breakaway.” A deep breath. Another. Mr Seafort nudged his thrusters. Then again.

  I stared at the simulscreen. Slowly, as if in a dream, the Station began to recede.

  I moved closer to Mr Dakko, afraid to breathe.

  “Edgar, take the conn.”

  At the watch officer’s console, Mr Tolliver’s hands flew to the thrusters. “Where to, sir?”

  “Jess, course to the enemy?”

  “Enemy, sir?”

  “The fish, you bloody circuit board!”

  “Coordinates 350, 18, 207.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Silence.

  “Jess, that was to you. I’m sorry.”

  “Noted, Captain. Dialogue stored for further reference. Distance two point seven three five kilometers.”

  “Laser room, report.”

  “Laser room here, sir. Lieutenant Frand.” She sounded calm enough, under the circumstances. “I have Midshipman Sutwin and two ratings. That’s it.” Everyone else was groundside, on shore leave.

  “How many consoles manned?”

  “Three, sir. The middy’s on one. I can take a fourth.”

  “Do so.” Mr Seafort keyed the caller. “Midshipman Clark, Midshipman Tamarov, to the laser room, flank.” To Tolliver, “They’re good for a console each.”

  Tolliver grunted. “I’m good for another.”

  “I need you here. Where’s Tad stationed?”

  “Comm room.”

  “They can spare him.”

  “I’m on it.” Tolliver snatched up his caller, issued terse orders transferring Anselm to the laser room.

  “Laser room, safeties are off.” The Captain slid a finger down the console screen. “Jess, Fusion safety?”

  “Calculating. Five hours seventeen minutes six—”

  “Damn, we’re massive.”

  I tried to recall my physics. Fusion safety was ship’s mass times distance from a gravitational source large enough to … my head spun. I’d barely passed that study unit.

  “We’re in range, sir.” Tolliver.

  “We’ll hold our fire.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so. How many consoles manned?”

  “Six, sir.”

  “Out of twenty-four.” The Captain’s tone was grim. “We haven’t much defense. Make sure that no matter what, we man the laser banks guarding the fusion tubes.” Then, “If we retreat, the Station’s unprotected.”

  “They have lasers.”

  “Not enough. Of course, neither have we. With so many techs ashore, our grid is pitiful. If the fish had only waited a few days …”

  “Orbit Station to Olympiad.”

  “What is it, Station?”

  “General Thurman here. Our laser defense is fully manned. Have your puter coordinate with us by tightbeam.”

  “Done. Jess, coordinate as he asked.”

  Mr Dakko shook himself. “Sir?” His tone was tentative.

  “Not now, Chris.”

  “I could man a console. You taught me yourself.”

  “Olympiad, we’ve dispatched all shuttles groundside. Withholding fire at the fish until they reach the atmosphere.”

  Mr Seafort swung his chair, stared through Mr Dakko, his brow knotted. Then, “Very well. Randy, show him the way.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” A proper response; if ever I was on duty, it was now. “Mr Dakko?” With feverish haste, I led him to the stairwell, down to Level 3, to section seven, halfway around the lengthy corridor. It was all I could do not to run.

  I rapped on the laser room’s closed hatch. Lieutenant Frand opened. I saluted. “The Captain sent Mr Dakko to take a console.”

  She looked past me, over my shoulder. “You’re Navy?”

  “Former. I don’t believe the consoles have changed much.”

  “Come in.”

  Mr Dakko brushed past me without a word of thanks. The hatch shut in my face. Disconsolate, not knowing if I had an assigned duty station, I made my way back to the bridge.

  No one had bothered to reclose the hatch. I crept in.

  On the simulscreen, the alien loomed. It appeared to be lying dead in space, but on its surface colors pulsed. It still lived.

  “Surely it sees us.” Tolliver.

  The Captain said, “It’s making no move to throw.” In the holos I’d seen, the fish would grow an appendage, a ropy arm, that spun slowly at first, then faster, until it detached and spewed acid onto its target.

  “Shoot, sir.”

  “This is Thurman. We’re taking the shot.”

  “No, wait—”

  I watched the simulscreen in horrified fascination. But you can’t see a laser.

  A hole appeared in the fish’s side. Something—blood, protoplasm—spewed.

  The fish pulsed, disappeared.

  I crowed, “They got him!”

  Tolliver whirled. “Be silent!”

  Minutes stretched into a quarter hour, a half. I tried not to fidget.

  Tolliver said, “All shuttles are groundside; we can call up our crew.”

  “They’re scattered throughout the continent.”

  “Not really, sir. Get word out in Centraltown—”

  “And if fish attack an incoming shuttle?”

  “Christ, that would be a horror.”

  “Don’t blaspheme.”

  From Tolliver, a grunt.

  The Captain said, “No doubt Thurman’s already told the Stadholder, but have our comm room send him confirmation. And ask Admiralty House to round up our crew. First chance we get, we’ll call them aloft.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Then, “This is the first fish seen in ages. Why now?

  “Lord only knows.”

  No. They were wrong.

  I hesitated; they’d ordered me to be silent. But they had to be told. A deep breath, before the plunge. “Begging your pardon, sir. But a fish was seen a few weeks ago. I’m sorry I spoke.” Inwardly, I cringed, bracing for their explosion.

  Mr Seafort’s expression was odd.
“Where, Randolph?”

  “Near Three. A local mining ship.”

  “Randy, are you making this up? Do you need attention?”

  I said indignantly, “No, sir. Ask Mr Anselm or Mik—Mr Tamarov. They heard. Groundside, at the terminal. The naval desk, the day I met them. They were joking about local officers and—” I was babbling; I clamped my lips shut.

  Mr Seafort keyed his caller. “Lieutenant Anselm to the bridge.” He put his fingers together. “Fish, in system, and I wasn’t told?”

  It wasn’t long before Tad appeared, breathless. He confirmed what I’d said.

  “That fish by Three, did it throw?”

  “I heard this thirdhand, sir, from an Admiralty clerk. It was gossip about a local ship. Everyone discounted the report; why would a fish confront us without throwing?”

  “Very well. Thank you. Dismissed.” Mr Seafort took the caller. “Now we ask Thurman.”

  It took an hour or so, but finally we had the story: an intrastellar ship, a green comm crew. Had they seen a fish, or an unidentified blip? They used their only laser, and the object disappeared. They’d made a report, but it was played down. No, discounted entirely. No one wanted to look foolish. And no fish had been seen in decades.

  Tolliver said, “Sir, if they’re back …”

  An alarm clanged; Jess came to life. “Encroachment, three hundred meters to port! Nonmetallic. Closing seven meters per second, advise—”

  “Tolliver, fire portside thrusters. Get us out of here! Laser room, do you have a shot?”

  “Switching consoles, sir. A few seconds.” Ms Frand sounded harried.

  Tolliver urged, “Shoot the moment we’re able, sir.”

  “We’ll have to. He’s too close.”

  Tolliver rammed the thrusters to full, but the fish had brought its own inertia. It gained on us.

  Its skin seemed to swirl, become indistinct.

  “Sir, it’s forming an—”

  “I see it.” The Captain’s voice was grim. His fingers stabbed at the console. “All personnel to suits! Closing corridor hatches.” The bridge hatch slammed shut behind me.

  Each circumference corridor was interspersed with hatches, at the end of every section. When closed, they blocked movement through the corridors. For that reason, even at Battle Stations, they were kept open.