Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  “Disable it!”

  “This isn’t the holovids. Besides, in—how long, Jess?—two minutes, it’ll reach the outer atmosphere.”

  “Call Anthony! He’ll intercept them at the spaceport!”

  “Ms Skor’s on the line. Randy, I’ve gone to Battle Stations. Stand by. I need to …” Another click.

  Minutes passed that seemed hours. Why hadn’t Fath taught me how to pilot? I’d sail the launch to Centraltown myself.

  Could it handle reentry? Its shape wasn’t aerodynamic. I hardly cared. Burning up was better than pacing in a hot, useless suit, while Fath …

  I dropped to my knees. “Mik, wake up.” He’d know what to do. I shook him, to no avail. “Open your eyes. Mik, come on!”

  Nothing. Not even a groan.

  “Mr Carr.”

  I jumped. “Yessir?”

  “Is there a thrustersuit in the locker?”

  “How would I—yes, sir, there is.” Its neck clamps had left indentations in my collarbone. “I don’t know how to use it.”

  “Mr Tamarov does. When he’s recovered …”

  “They’ll be back any minute for him.”

  “You sealed the lock. They can’t get in without a torch.”

  “So they’ll get one. Sir, what about Mr Seafort?”

  “If the Captain was on that shuttle, there’s nothing we can do about it. In any case I won’t let another shuttle leave, whatever the cost. But if I challenge the Station, I alert them that we’re on to them. I don’t want to do that ’til you joeys are safe.”

  “Why’d they take him?”

  “I don’t know. Hope Nation’s goddamned politics.” The blasphemy rung in the air. “Now, when Mikhael’s awake, this is what you do …”

  At the hatch, banging, muffled curses. In a frenzy, I shook Mikhael. No response. I jabbed my suit radio. “Mr Tolliver! They’re trying to break in!”

  “Is Mikhael …”

  “Still out.”

  The noises ceased.

  “Get him suited.”

  “Why, what’s—”

  “Do it!”

  I scrambled to the locker, grabbed a full-sized suit. Wait. Did Mr Tolliver still want a thrustersuit? No time to ask. Manhandling him into a t-suit was no worse than any other. I dropped the suit, chose another.

  Mik had twice my mass, and was a dead weight. It was almost impossible to budge him. Somehow, I got his leg into his suit. Then the second. Now his arms …

  At the hatch, clunking and scraping. Working at Mik’s suit, I ignored it as long as I dared. Then I scrambled across the aisle, peered through the porthole. It violated Mr Tolliver’s orders, but the Station joeys already knew something was amiss.

  Troops, with stunners. A laser pistol.

  A cutting assembly.

  Feverishly, I hoisted Mik to a sitting position. It almost broke my back. I jammed his other arm into the suit sleeve.

  He sighed.

  “Mik! Mr Tamarov!” Lightly, I cuffed his face.

  “Let me sleep.” He tried to lie down.

  “Pa’s in trouble! He’s calling you!”

  For a moment, nothing. Then one eye popped open. Mik tried to pull himself up, fell back with a groan. “Where am I?”

  “On the launch.” I quickly filled him in, my fingers busy with his clamps.

  By the time I was done, he’d struggled to his feet. “Christdamned bastard sons of bitches—” My eyes widened as the string of oaths flowed undiminished. At last he wound down. “The tanks!”

  “You’re wearing them. The oxygen won’t flow until your helmet’s—”

  “No, you twit, the propulsion tanks!” At the hatch, an ominous hiss. “Grab them!”

  “Aye aye, sir.” I snatched them from the locker. “Hurry. They’re cutting through!”

  He clamped his helmet, checked mine. “Ask Mr Tolliver, should I break the launch free?”

  I did.

  “No, it’s too easy a laser target. Suits are smaller, and more maneuverable. The launch is expendable.”

  I helped Mik secure his propellant tanks.

  Unsteady on his feet, he lurched down the aisle. He led me to the escape hatch, almost all the way aft. Far smaller than an airlock hatch, the escape provided a second exit, on the opposite side of the craft from the lock. We folded the seat that blocked it, bent to the lever, frowned. “It won’t open while we’re pressurized.” He pushed me aside, rushed down the aisle, stumbled, fell on his face. He scrambled up, bolted to the cockpit.

  From the airlock, shouts and thuds. I crossed the aisle, peered out the porthole. Olympiad was as distant as ever. Why couldn’t Tolliver have brought the ship alongside to save us?

  The hum of a motor. Warning lights flashed throughout the cabin. Mikhael reappeared, face flushed. His eyes shot to the airlock, from whose plating acrid smoke curled. “It’ll be close.”

  “What’d you—”

  “We’re de-airing.” He thrust me aside, tugged on the panel lever. “Olympiad, Midshipman Tamarov reporting. We’ll be out in a minute.”

  Behind us, a crackle. I muttered, “We don’t have a minute.”

  He glanced over my shoulder. “Christ.” A mighty kick dislodged the lever. Mik spun the wheel. Abruptly the hatch panel floated aside. Mik kicked it into the void. Without warning, he grabbed me, flung me Outside.

  I had no time to grab for the hatchway, the hull, anything. Utterly helpless, I shot into space, windmilling, screaming. The launch and the Station spun crazily in my visor.

  “Randy—”

  Behind me, a burst of light. A porthole dissolved. Mikhael dived through the escape, kicking off as he did so.

  He headed my general direction, but would miss me by meters. I’d float in vacuum until my air ran out and I died. My corpse would float forever in the vast womb of space.

  My eyes bulged with the frenzy of my scream.

  Mik tapped gently at his suit thrusters. His trajectory changed ever so slightly. “Hang on, joey. And stop that infernal shrieking!”

  I paid no heed, kicking and clawing at nothing in a frenzied, useless swim to safety.

  Mik caught my hand. “Sir, I’ve got hi—” I convulsed, wrapped myself around his neck, squeezed with all my might.

  We floated, rotating slowly. The Station came and went. “Let go. Randy, LET ME GO!”

  His rage pierced my terror. I loosened my grip just enough for him to manhandle me, spin me about, clutch me from behind. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  My breath came in a long shuddering sob.

  Mik reached around, changed my suit frequency to a general channel.

  “To the ship, Mr Tamarov. As fast as you—”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Mikhael. Then, “Uh, oh.” In the launch’s escape hatch, a suited figure. It aimed a laser. Mik spun me breast to breast, thrust my hands around his waist. “Hold on!” We jetted to the side.

  Hadn’t the Station trooper fired? I saw nothing. No beam, no spurt of smoke—

  No, idiot, in vacuum I’d see nothing, not even the bolt that burned me to a cinder. I shivered.

  Mik bent double, nearly snapping my spine. We veered away from the pistol’s track. On the Station, two laser turrets swiveled, found us. I croaked a warning.

  Mikhael craned his neck, spotted them, searched for Olympiad, muttered a curse.

  “What?” I wasn’t sure I could handle more bad news.

  “Station, hold your fire or I’ll blast you to hell!” Tolliver.

  Mik bent, keyed his thrusters.

  “Do not, repeat, do not fire on my men!”

  The Station shot toward us. I gasped, “Wrong way!”

  “Got to!”

  The laser turret swiveled. Mikhael jiggled his thruster levers; we lurched this way and that, spinning. The Station loomed. Its turrets followed until the angle was so depressed they could turn no farther.

  At what seemed the last second, Mik turned us, fired a full blast. It braked our momentum. We sailed into the S
tation’s hull. Mik put out his legs, absorbed our inertia as best he could. The blow loosened his grip; my back slammed into the alumalloy hull. Before I could bounce off, he caught me. His fingers clung to a handhold.

  “Why’d you go back?” To my shame, my tone was a whine. Get a grip, joey. “Mik—sir—they’ll catch us here!”

  He took my hand, wrapped it around the handgrip. “No choice.”

  “But—”

  “Quiet, Mr Carr. Bridge, Mr Tamarov reporting.” Mik sounded out of breath, as if he’d run all the way from the launch.

  “Go ahead.” Tolliver.

  “I couldn’t chance it. We’d be under fire all the way.”

  “I saw. That son of a bitch Thurman won’t answer us.”

  “We’re safe for the moment. What about Pa?”

  “I don’t know. I’m about to take the Station apart finding out.”

  A new voice crackled. “Do that and I’ll slice Olympiad to ribbons.” General Thurman.

  “Where’s Captain Seafort?”

  “Groundside. He’s charged with treason, heresy, blasph—”

  “By whom?”

  “The Government of Hope Nation and—”

  I hissed, “Goofjuice!” Anthony would never—

  Mik jabbed me.

  “You’ve no right, to hold a U.N. Naval officer!”

  “—and Holy Mother Church, whose authority is universal.” General Thurman sounded pious.

  I knew enough to switch off my transmitter. I touched my helmet to Mik’s. “Can they do that?”

  “They did. Shush.”

  Tolliver’s voice was cold. “Tell Stadholder Carr—”

  “Mr Carr is removed from office.”

  I blanched. “They can’t!”

  “He—I—who the hell’s in charge?”

  “Mr Palabee heads a government of national reconciliation.”

  “Put me through to him!” Tolliver sounded white with rage.

  I tugged at Mik’s arm. “Palabee’s a joke! Where’s Anth?”

  “Quiet.”

  “Call him yourself, Captain. You have the codes to the Governor’s Manse.”

  “They don’t answer.”

  “Perhaps after the trial.” Thurman was unctuous.

  “Send me my crewmen.”

  “Your Mr Tamarov … I believe he’s related to Seafort?”

  “If so, what of it?”

  “We’ll hold him, for now. Your Captain can be … intransigent.”

  A long silence. I fidgeted. “Mile—”

  “What?” His transmitter was off. His eyes roved constantly.

  “They’ve got Fath and Anthony. It’s Andori’s doing, and maybe that Terran Ambassador, McEwan. Palabee on his own would never dare—”

  “What of it?”

  “The Church hates them both. If they go on trial—”

  “Move. Handhold to handhold, like this.” Mik pulled me along.

  “Why?”

  “Joeys coming out a hatch.”

  I peered over my shoulder. Christ. I scrambled along the hull.

  Tolliver’s voice was icy. “You son of a bitch, you’ve got twenty minutes! Call Palabee. Have Seafort released, or the Station’s gone and Hope Nation’s out of the grain business!”

  I nodded. Good for Tolliver. For us.

  “We’re as well armed as you. Fire on us and you lose your ship!”

  “You leave me no choice.”

  Thurman said, “Nonsense. Let justice take its course.”

  Mik and I had put a protruding launch bay between us and our pursuers. I asked, “What do they want?”

  “We’d make good hostages; Pa’s too sentimental.” He shook his head, deep in thought. “Mr Carr.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m on duty. So are you.”

  “I don’t—yes, sir.”

  He clapped my shoulder. “Thanks. It’ll make it easier.”

  Oddly enough, it was a comfort. He’d reminded me I had duty, as did he.

  “Pa’s been taken groundside. Olympiad has launches and gigs, but nothing to breach the atmosphere. That means Tolliver can’t rescue him.”

  I waited.

  “There’s half a dozen shuttles at the Station, but Olympiad can’t get to them. That leaves us. If we see a chance, we take it. Agreed?”

  My heart pounded. “Yes, sir.”

  After a moment, a silhouette against the Station lights. A suited joey on the hull pointed our way, beckoned to unseen figures.

  “Hurry!” Mik helped me on my way He switched radio frequencies. “Olympiad, we’re being chased.”

  “Flick your suit transponders on.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Mik keyed his, then mine.

  “We have you.”

  We scrambled along the hull. I reached from handhold to handhold, trying to ignore the queasiness of zero gee.

  “Mik—sir—my light’s yellow.”

  “Oh, great.” He sighed. “We’ve got about twenty minutes.”

  We huddled at a pair of handholds.

  “More of them, sir!” I pointed behind him. Half a dozen suited soldiers. They’d come out another lock.

  He veered, pulling me along. “Bastards.”

  My breath rasped in my helmet.

  Mikhael said into his radio, “Sir, we’re … running out of time.”

  For a long moment, silence. Then, “Listen carefully. When your, ah, squadmate went to Cabin two fifty-seven, I’ll do what his visitor did just before.”

  What on earth was he saying? Abruptly my eyes widened, and I touched helmets. “Mik, two fifty-seven is where Kevin was killed! Kev is the squadmate he’s talking about. The visitor means the outrider. It burned through the hull!”

  “Don’t move an inch! Look away!” Mikhael pulled me down.

  I raised my head, just for an instant.

  Five meters from us, the hull glowed.

  Even though my radio was off, I whispered. “What good will it do?”

  “All batteries open fire!” Thurman sounded livid. “Destroy Olympiad!”

  Mikhael said, “We’re running out of air, and they’re surrounding us. He’s getting us inside. Maybe we’ll have a chance to help Pa.” A moment passed. “Help Mr Seafort.” I grinned. For Mik too it was personal, and would remain so.

  The hull plating boiled. Abruptly a speck of light.

  An idea boiled forth. I caught my breath. No time to explain. I keyed my radio, shrieked, “NO, STOP! OH, GOD, DON’T—” I jammed off my transponder, then Mik’s.

  He caught my wrist. “Are you insane?”

  A patch of hull a meter wide melted and vanished. A swirl of flotsam. Dust, papers, chips, Lord knew what else. Then nothing.

  I touched helmets. “Sir, if Olympiad tracks our transponders, so will the Station. They’ll think we’re dead.”

  In the distance, Olympiad’s lights shrank.

  “So will Tolliver.” He sighed. “It can’t be helped. Come ON!” He shoved me toward the gaping hole.

  “It’ll be hot.”

  “Only for a few seconds. Avoid the edge. Jump through. Hurry!”

  “Aye aye, sir.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. How, in zero gee, do you jump? I crab-walked to the edge of the puncture, grasped the nearest handhold, dropped my head, pushed off in a dive, as if into the swimming hole behind our manse.

  I’d forgotten about the Station’s gravitrons. They caught me halfway down. I was lucky not to snap my neck; my hands came out just in time. I somersaulted onto my back, lay there a moment, half stunned. I scrambled to my feet, orienting myself. The hole Olympiad had pierced was in our side bulkhead. I mimed to Mik to be careful. Lord knew if he understood.

  Outside, at ninety degrees to the bulkhead, Mik stepped over the hole, tapped his thruster ever so lightly. He sank. As gravity grabbed him, he fired his side thruster. It didn’t quite work, but he eased his fall. I skittered out of the way so as not to be caught in his exhaust.

  I glanced about. Some sort of
storage compartment. Cabinets. A locker. A hatch, sealed shut.

  I touched helmets. “Now what, sir?”

  “Is that table loose?”

  I gaped.

  “Does it move, God damn you?” He pushed me aside, lifted the edge of the table. Hurt, I grabbed my end. Together, we manhandled it to the bulkhead. The tabletop was just wide enough to cover the gaping hole. He dragged a cabinet, tipped it so its weight held the table to the bulkhead, grabbed me, brought my helmet close. “Sorry I swore.”

  I blinked back tears. “Thank you, sir.”

  He keyed the hatch control. Nothing. “The bloody safeties won’t let it open in vacuum.” Stymied, he looked about.

  “Mr Tamarov, my tank light’s gone red.”

  “Ah, that’s it!” He leaped to the locker. Inside, suits. Spare tanks. He dragged two of them out, pulled a clamping tool from his pouch. I turned, to give him access to my pack.

  He ignored me. I whirled. Mik was opening the spare tanks’ valves as wide as they’d go.

  Again I touched helmets, wishing I could use the radio. But then Station Command would know we were aboard. “What the hell are you doing!”

  “Steady, Mr Carr. Grab more tanks. Hurry!”

  “But—aye aye, sir!” I hauled out three more tanks. In a moment he had them open.

  “Push the table tight!”

  Panting, I shouldered the table to the bulkhead as hard as I could. Was it my imagination, or was my suit air stale? I yawned prodigiously.

  Mik abandoned the tanks, ran to the hatch, keyed the control. Nothing. He rolled his eyes, flashed me a weak smile. “Patience.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dimly, in the distance, an alarm. I blinked. An alarm meant sound. Sound meant air.

  In a moment he tried again. The hatch slid open.

  His lips moved. “Out!”

  I dashed into the corridor, Mik a step behind me. He slapped shut the hatch, checked a gauge on his suit. “It’s—” He flicked off his radio, pressed his helmet to mine, spoke over the din of alarms. “The corridor’s aired. Take off your helmet!”

  God, if he was wrong, I’d end like Dad. Desperately, I thrust away the thought. I needed air, and it couldn’t wait. I unlatched my clamps, tore off my helmet.

  Fresh, cool air.

  “Attention, all personnel. We’ve beaten off an attack by Olympiad. She’s in full retreat. We’ve taken hits. None appear serious. All stations report damage.”