Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  “Frand and Tad Anselm have the watch. They’re reliable.”

  Fath grunted.

  “The Stadholder is growing restless. He wants to go ground-side.”

  “Because of the fish?”

  “He didn’t say, but I doubt it.” Tolliver tried to scratch his nose, forgetting his helmet. “He doesn’t seem a fearful type. More likely his political concerns.”

  I said, “Anth’s not afraid.” Not of anything. He was like Dad.

  Fath scowled at me. “And who asked you?” But his tone was benign.

  “He’s my nephew.”

  “Shush. Where’s the fish?”

  “Stationary,” said Tolliver. “About a hundred fifty meters off portside.”

  “Alive?”

  “I think so. Its dots and blobs are moving.”

  “Waiting for our friend,” Fath said.

  “A pity to make it wait longer. Sir, let’s put an end to this.”

  “Soon, perhaps. Very well, we needn’t keep Anthony waiting. Level 3 lock is on the starboard side. Who aboard is a competent pilot besides Mikhael?”

  “I am,” said Tolliver. “Sarah Frand. Andrew Ghent.”

  “Too young. Send Frand. No, wait a minute. Where’s the shuttle that brought our crewmen up?”

  “Moored outside our starboard launch bay.”

  “Very well, then. Send Anthony groundside, no need to transfer at the Station. Randy, would you like a farewell?”

  I shook my head. “We already have, twice.”

  “Tell the pilot he’s to make a very wide detour around the fish. And give the Station permission to fire at once, if the fish moves on the shuttle.”

  “Aye aye, sir. How long will you keep up this …” A gesture, that took in the entire section. “… this farce?”

  “Edgar, if we can communicate …”

  “What’s to be gained? We still have no choice but exterminate them. They destroy Fusing ships.”

  “We’ll see. Keep watch ’til the Stadholder’s safe, then get some sleep. And call down to the Chief. Have him send up a supply of copper plates and an etching tool. We’re going to run out of deck for drawing.”

  “Why not pencil and paper?”

  “I think the outrider needs to taste our words, not see them.”

  “Taste your words.” Tolliver’s face took on a look of suffering, which Fath ignored.

  “Just do it, Edgar.”

  Aye aye, sir.

  When he’d gone, I yawned prodigiously, looked wistfully at the bed.

  “Not quite yet, son.”

  “What now?”

  “Have you read today?”

  “Read? Well, no, but we don’t have your Bible.”

  “Make do with this.” Fath plugged in his holovid, tapped the keys. In a moment, the screen filled with words.

  I scrolled, more or less at random. Reluctantly, I cleared my throat. I’d never get to curl beneath the sheets, unless I read to his satisfaction. “O Lord, how manifold are Thy works! In wisdom hast Thou made them all; the earth is full of Thy riches.”

  He smiled. “So is this great and wide sea …”

  “Wherein are things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts. There go the ships; there is that leviathan, whom Thou hast made to play therein. Fath, what’s a leviathan?”

  “A fish. A great fish.”

  Our eyes met.

  “Whom Thou hast made to play therein. Do you really think so, Fath?”

  “He made all creatures. I can’t say I understand why.”

  “There go the ships …” My lips moved as I read to myself. There go the huge U.N. ships bravely out to the stars, and meet the “great beasts” He sent to kill them. Does it make sense? Does the Book describe reality, or insane fantasy?

  “Read on, son.”

  I bent my head, and did.

  I begged and pleaded not to have to sweat in a vacuum suit, but Fath was adamant.

  When the hatch was opened, I dragged in half a dozen large copper plates. Fath carried an etching stylus powered by a Valdez permabattery. In his pouch was a fully charged laser.

  The outrider was waiting by our drawings. Again I stared at the meaningless blobs and lines it had created last night.

  “Good morning,” said Fath, as if it understood.

  I set down a plate, but the alien paid no attention. It skittered to the drawing I’d laboriously burned, of Fath and myself. Reducing itself, it enwrapped the drawing, “tasting” it.

  We waited.

  At length, the outrider reconstituted itself, hesitated, quivering. Then, abruptly, it dissolved into a blob on the deck.

  God, I hated that. It gave me the chills.

  At length, it drew itself up.

  Where it had lain were lines, a meaningless, ovoid shape.

  “Does it understand our drawing, Fath?”

  The outrider’s skin swirled. Abruptly it collapsed again. The quivering blob on the deck exactly filled the ovoid shape.

  Hair rose on my neck.

  I pounded Fath’s back. “It understands! It drew itself!”

  “Yes.” Moving stiffly, Fath sat himself on my sketch of him. After a moment he stood, pointed to himself over and again.

  The alien skittered to its own drawing. A blob of protoplasm extended a foot or so toward its drawing, retracted. It did it again.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Fath murmured to himself as he drew. “Do you think it understands symbolic logic?” On one of our copper plates lying on the deck, Fath drew a small circle, inserted two eyes. “We need simpler drawings, something like a pictograph language, or we’ll never get anywhere.” At the base of his circle he drew a vertical line. His drawing looked like a face on a stick. Deliberately, he stood on it. Then he stood on the larger deck drawing of himself, then stepped back onto the copper plate. At last, done, he stepped back, put his arm around my shoulder.

  The outrider quivered. Then it collapsed itself onto the copper plate.

  I said, “Funny how it reads—”

  A sizzle. As if galvanized, the outrider leaped off the plate, bulges and lumps forming and disappearing in its surface. It flitted up the bulkhead, dropped down, zoomed to the hatch at the far end of the corridor, skittered from bulkhead to deck to bulkhead. Wherever it touched, the alumalloy blistered.

  “I don’t think it likes copp—”

  “Get those plates out of here, flank!”

  I bent to retrieve them.

  The alien barreled down the corridor.

  Too late, Father shouted a warning.

  The outrider swerved at the last instant, missed me by inches. I stood frozen. It raced to the section three hatch, bounced from bulkhead to hatch to deck.

  Fath gripped his laser, keyed off the safety. “Into a cabin, Randy!”

  I dropped the plates and ran.

  The pistol held at arm’s length, Fath backed through the cabin hatch, slapped it shut.

  I huddled in the corner, weeping in my helmet.

  He moaned, “Christ, oh, Christ, what have I done?” Then he shook himself, snatched up the caller. “Seafort to Bridge. We have a problem.”

  “We saw.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “At the section five hatch, at the moment. Stay where you are. I’m sending Janks to kill it.”

  “No!”

  “This is my call. You’re isolated, in no position to—”

  Fath keyed the caller. “Captain Seafort to Janks. Report.”

  “Master-at-arms Janks.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In five, approaching the section four hatch. There are six of us. Stay out of sight so—”

  “Belay that. The alien is at the far end of the corridor. You’re to enter four, take out the copper plates and jettison them. Aim your weapons, but don’t fire unless it comes at you. I’ll watch the holocam replay, and so help me, if any of you kill it needlessly, you’ll see court-martial.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”


  “Wait a moment.” Fath stabbed at the caller. “Chief Engineer!”

  “Chief McAndrews repor—”

  “Alumalloy plates, a dozen. Have them on Level 2 at the section six hatch in two minutes. Move!”

  “But—aye aye, sir.”

  “Janks, we’re in cabin 247. You’re to escort Randy—”

  “No!” I leaped like an outrider stung by copper. “So what if I’m afraid? We’re doing this together!”

  “It thinks we attacked it. You saw what it—”

  “Let me be brave! You are!”

  “Hah. My heart’s thudding so fast …” Fath shook his head. “I’ve got to get you out.”

  “You didn’t make Mikhael run away, when he was my age!”

  “What?”

  “In the fight to seize Galactic.”

  “How on earth would you know …”

  “He told me.” In my cell, when we’d spoken of Dad’s last days.

  Fath scowled. At length, he took up the caller. “Belay that last, Janks. Wait another minute for Chief McAndrews, and bring in his alumalloy plates.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Thank you, Fath.” I tried to sound mature, but a sniffle spoiled the effect.

  The exchange of plates was made without incident. Tolliver assured us the alien had skittered far from our hatch. Cautiously, the Captain opened and peered out.

  The outrider quivered at the corridor’s end.

  Fath knelt, re-etched his tiny stick figure on an alumalloy plate.

  The outrider remained where it was.

  “Captain?”

  “What, Edgar?”

  “We’ve a call from the Stadholder. Would you come out before you press your luck too far?”

  “I’ll get back to him. This can’t wait.”

  Fath handed me the pistol, bade me retreat halfway to the section five hatch. A reassuring pat. He trudged the opposite way, to the section three hatch, where the alien waited.

  I aimed with care. The target light centered full on the outrider. Surreptitiously, I dialed up the power. My gloved finger hovered over the trigger.

  The outrider, at the moment, was some five feet tall. Fath walked slowly up to it, stood alongside. My breath rasped in my helmet. Please, God. Don’t let it happen. Not while I watch.

  After a moment, Father started back toward the plates. After a few steps, he stopped, looked back.

  The alien didn’t move.

  Casually, Fath retraced his steps. Again, he took a few coaxing steps. This time, after waiting, he kept going. I joined him at the alumalloy plates.

  The alien quivered. Then, with shocking speed, it raced at Fath. I fired, missed. It stopped just short of us. Fath snatched away my pistol. “What’s the matter with you?”

  I said nothing. My mouth was dry.

  Deliberately, Fath sat down on the old drawing. With an effort, he got to his feet, stepped on the stick face.

  Time passed.

  From the outrider’s trunk grew a protoplasmic, fingerless arm. Ever so delicately, the alien touched the plate, sprang back.

  I held my breath.

  It touched again. Apparently it decided the plate was safe, and sagged, allowing itself to puddle atop it.

  We waited.

  The outrider moved to the stick face. The arm formed anew. Again, for just a moment, it aimed at Fath.

  Now the outrider moved to its own drawing. The arm emerged, flopped downward, touched itself elsewhere, began to reabsorb. The upper, original end of it broke off. In a moment the arm had disappeared.

  “Fath!”

  “I know. It pointed to itself.” Quickly, Fath etched a blob into the plate. He stood on the outrider’s original drawing of itself, and then on his latest drawing. “Simple pictographs, old fellow. Do you understand?”

  The alien quivered.

  Fath knelt to draw. “We need a table. I can’t keep doing this.”

  Cabin utility tables were built-in, unmovable. I ran to the hatch, grabbed the caller. “Mr Janks, a table. Anything, but quickly.” In moments, I had it. Lugging furniture while wearing a vacuum suit is an awkward, sweaty, frustrating job. I managed it.

  I examined Fath’s handiwork. He’d drawn something close to a fish. Small, but recognizable. A blank plate lay nearby.

  The outrider tasted his drawing. No response.

  Fath drew another fish, much bigger, in more detail. Inside its outline, he drew three of the blobs that we’d agreed represented outriders. Then he set the plate on the deck.

  The alien tasted it. It drew itself up, quivering. Then it melted onto the blank plate. A moment later, it oozed off, reconstituted itself.

  On the plate was an etching. A fish; I was sure of it. But its lines were incomplete, and material flowed from within.

  Fath studied it. “A fish, but dead. Those are holes from laser fire.”

  The outrider surged back onto the plate. It roiled and … well, sloshed. The plate smoked. It took the creature a long time to accomplish its goal.

  When the alien rose, the plate was filled with etchings. From end to end, it was covered with fish, all spewing protoplasm. Somberly, we stared at the vision of holocaust.

  Abruptly the alien surged onto the plate. Acrid smoke curled. Father leaped back.

  This time, when the outrider reconstituted itself, the plate was blackened and blistered. All the drawings were gone.

  We waited.

  The alien sagged, collapsed into a puddle, remained so for over a minute. Then, once more, it regained its form.

  Father’s mouth worked. He tried to speak, gave it up, strode to the hatch.

  “Sir, what is it? Shall I call a medic?”

  Fath shook his head. “The drawing of dying fish …”

  “Yes?”

  “He erased it.”

  “And?”

  “He negated it! Then, that ritual submission. Don’t you understand? He’s suing for peace!”

  17

  MINUTES LATER, TOLLIVER AND Mikhael were with us, in our cabin refuge. Neither had bothered with a suit. Mik knelt by his father’s side.

  “I’m sure of it,” Fath said, for the fourth time.

  When no adult was speaking, I tugged at his sleeve. “Sir, I don’t quite understand …” I tried again. “Why were you upset?”

  “Not now, Randy.” Mik’s tone was harsh.

  “Oh, I’ll tell him. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. You see …” He regarded me with grave affection. “I’ve done so many terrible things. God let me kill your father, and Alexi, even Arlene. Those poor children at Academy. So many others. And the fish. Thousands, and still they came. Remember, Edgar? Our siren song, that sent them into the Sun? And still they came.”

  Not a sound, not a breath.

  “And then they stopped. A few answered the lure of the caterwaul stations, and they were gone. For forty years I’ve known I murdered a race, a species. But … I didn’t. They live!” Leaning on Mikhael, he raised himself off the bed. “For five years I’ve let love rot to hate, refusing to talk to God. And now, in the winter of my life, He confounds me.”

  After a time Tolliver cleared his throat. “That’s all well and good, but there’s an alien in section four wondering why you left so abruptly. He may take it personally.”

  “Oh, let me have my sentiment.” Fath climbed to his feet. “And my thanksgiving.”

  “A time and place …”

  “Pa, Ms Frand and I got to talking …” Mik looked apologetic. “Instead of going through decon each time you talk to that beast …”

  “What, son?”

  “Well, it would take Jess’s help, and engineering. A transplex barrier, and some sort of servo to make the drawings … wouldn’t that work better?”

  A chuckle. “Perhaps, if I had the faintest idea what you were talking about.”

  “Arggh. Look, this is the corridor. A few meters on our side of the section four, here in five, hatch, we erect a see-through airtight bar
rier. Here, between the barrier and the hatch, a servomech runs an etcher. We open the hatch. The outrider comes through to visit. You sit on our side of the barrier and draw what you want; the servo repeats it for the outrider to, er, taste. You never touch the plate; no decon, no risk of the outrider killing you.”

  “I suppose we train our roving friend to hold up its drawings for us to see?”

  “Oh, come on, Pa. Another servo. Surely Jess can program a servomech to lift a plate to the holovid.”

  “Hmmm.” The Captain scowled. Then, “How long?”.

  “To build it? A few hours, I’d think. No more.”

  Fath’s glance strayed to me. I nodded vehemently. No more humiliating decon, and I’d have a barrier between me and that god-awful quivering.

  “Mr Tamarov, you were on duty when you thought of this?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mikhael looked puzzled.

  “Very well, a commendation in the Log. I’ll post it tonight. Well done, Middy.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Mik looked like he could walk on air.

  “I admit, the decon gets to be a trial.” The Captain unbuttoned his shirt as he led us to the waiting medics.

  After decon, the Captain let himself be persuaded it was all right to leave quarantine. Time and again, med analysis had found no sign of virus. And we’d already been inoculated against all known alien organisms.

  In our cabin, we sat down immediately to a conference with the Chief, Tolliver, and Jess. The puter listened to Mik’s explanation—more coherent, this time—and offered a few useful, if minor modifications. Mr McAndrews promised to put every rating he could shanghai on the task, and left.

  Fath stretched wearily. “Find Jerence,” he told Tolliver. “He’s a diplomat; I need his advice.”

  “He’s ashore.”

  “No, he came aloft with Anthony.”

  “And went back groundside with him.”

  “Won’t anyone ever tell me anything?” The Captain threw up his hands. “Or ask my permission?” He opened a drawer, took out a dark bottle.

  Tolliver said hastily. “Now’s not a good time, Nick.”

  “Nonsense. For once, we have something to celebrate.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Fath wrinkled his brow. After a moment, “Ah, I understand. Randy, Mr Tolliver is uneasy because I’m about to offer him a drink. You’re aware liquor is forbidden on Naval vessels?”