Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  “Out of your suit.”

  “Why?” I was already undoing my clasps.

  “Mr Carr …”

  “Sorry. Aye aye, sir. But the air’s leaking out past that table. If someone opens the hatch …”

  “It won’t open against vacuum. Same reason we couldn’t get out.”

  “Suited repair party to Level 2 section eight.”

  I glanced about, with an odd stab of recognition. The corridor was like Olympiad’s, though considerably smaller and not as ornate. Well, the Station was built around an old warship. And the Navy valued tradition above all. But that meant the corridor would be divided into sections, and in a vacuum emergency … I took a few steps, peeked past the bend. Right. The section hatches were sealed. Naturally they would be, with even part of a section decompressed.

  When I told Mikhael, he shrugged. “No one said it’d be easy, but we have one thing in our favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re a bunch of provincials.” He grinned at my outrage. “Seriously, your security is awful. On Earth they’d never stand for it. Think how easy it was to get on a shuttle at Centraltown.”

  “That’s ’cause we don’t have wars and revolu—”

  “Precisely.” He unclamped his helmet. “Get rid of your suit.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. There.” He flung open a hatch across the corridor.

  I looked about. Mops, pails, a faucet. Great. Perhaps I should volunteer to clean up. After all, I was just a ship’s boy.

  “Repair party to Level 3 Section five lounge.”

  “What’s that?”

  I glanced down. “A mop handle.”

  “A club.”

  I hefted it. It would do. “Hey, sir, isn’t that stuff caustic?” I pointed to a bag of cleansing powder. A few days ago Alejandro and I had been loading supplies, and they’d made us wear gloves for the deck plate cleanser.

  “Only mixed with water.”

  I seized a bucket, thrust it under the faucet. When it was half full I ripped open the bag, dumped most of the cleanser in it. “Now what, sir?”

  “Pray there are no corridor cameras.” We trudged to the section hatch. I looked about, didn’t spot the cameras that were standard gear on Olympiad.

  We confronted the hatch panel, with its confusing array of lights. He bent, studied them. “The override isn’t keyed.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “No one’s expecting us. We can open the hatch.”

  “Wait!” I smiled weakly; it sounded too much like an order. “Sir, I’m in Naval blues, you’ve got your uniform. If they spot us we’ll stand out like trannies at the opera.”

  “We can’t be here when they come to patch the hull.”

  We exchanged perplexed frowns.

  “Hello?”

  I whirled. The voice came from behind a cabin hatch.

  “Anyone there? Is it safe to come out?”

  Mik gestured me silent. “Identify yourself.” His tone was peremptory.

  “Rolf Iverson. Electrician, third shift.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my cabin, sir. I was asleep when the alarms …”

  Mikhael wrested the mop handle from my grip. “The corridor’s aired, but we’re evacuating the section for repairs. Didn’t you hear the announcement? Come out at once.” Mik hefted the club.

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry, I—”

  The hatch slid open. Iverson was sallow, small-boned, balding. Instantly Mik swung. The mop handle caught him in the forehead. A crunch. He fell into the cabin, thudded onto the deck. Blood seeped.

  Mikhael pulled me inside, slapped shut the hatch. He knelt by the prone figure, fished out his ID card, wiped off blood.

  Desperately, I tried not to step in the spreading pool. “Is he …” I stared down, aghast. Fath lay inert on the Dining Hall carpet, his lifeblood draining. Around me, chaos.

  “I don’t know.” He pawed through Iverson’s clothing shelf. “Wear this. And that. Pay attention, Mr Carr!”

  “Yessir.” Numbly, I undid my shirt.

  In moments we were a rather unkempt pair of Station hands. Mik’s clothes were too small, mine too large. At least the shirts were the right color. I hoped nobody would notice we were both named “Iverson.”

  Mikhael ran to the janitor’s compartment, hurried back with a mop, handed it to me. “Don’t spill your bucket.”

  At the corridor hatch panel, he took up the caller, drew a deep breath, keyed it. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  “What are you …”

  He waved me silent. “Come on, someone answer!”

  The speaker blared. “Comm Room.”

  “Rolf Iverson. I’m on—” he glanced at the hatch panel. “—Level 4 section six. Must be a leak somewhere; the hatch slammed shut. The corridor’s fine. Okay if I open to come out?”

  “Ask the Commandant’s office.”

  “What’s the frazzin’ code?”

  “Twenty-four seventy-five.” A click.

  Mik punched in the code. “Iverson here, ID 70-J-446. Dunno where the problem is, but I’m in the corridor and it’s fine out here. Shouldn’t I report to the machinist?”

  A pause. “Very well. Close the hatch soon as you’re through.”

  “Right.” To me, “Bring your mop and bucket.”

  Calmly, he opened the hatch.

  We sauntered through.

  Nobody was in sight. We rounded the bend. The far hatch was closed. I said, “Where are we going, sir?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Truthful, perhaps, but not comforting. I shot him a dubious glance.

  We opened the next section hatch, sealed it behind us. “What we need,” he said, “is a map. Where are the shuttle bays—mop the deck!”

  “What?”

  Voices.

  “Mop!”

  Sweating, I bent to my task. Mik would get us killed yet.

  He threw himself against the bulkhead, idly toyed with the spare mop handle. “She was something, I tell ya. Ass soft and round, tits like—”

  Three techs in suits. With them, two soldiers. One had a pistol, the other a stunner. Unheeding, I sloshed water in their path.

  “—so I said, look, baby, why fight it? I’m the best you’ll—” Mik’s mop handle whirled round, caught a soldier behind the neck. Mik dived for the man’s laser. I thrust my mop between the other soldier’s legs. He sprawled. I grabbed my bucket, dumped the caustic cleanser in his face. A scream. He thrashed about the deck, frantically rubbing his eyes. I straddled him, pulled free his stunner.

  Mik’s laser flicked between the three techs. “No radio! I’ll kill!” A gesture backed them against the bulkhead.

  Mik tried cabin hatches until he found one unsealed. “In here!” It looked like an unused lounge; a few dusty holovids and games lay about. As we passed through, a suited tech leaped for Mik’s laser. They struggled. I touched the stunner to his side. Nothing. Cursing, I fumbled for the safety. Behind me, a suited arm wrapped around my windpipe.

  I couldn’t free myself, couldn’t breathe. I poked the stunner around my ribs, touched something, pulled the trigger.

  Suddenly my throat was free.

  The tech’s gloved fist slammed into Mikhael’s chest. The middy’s face went white. As the tech wrestled the laser from his grasp I lunged at him, caught him in the side with the stunner. He dropped. Mikhael slid down the bulkhead. Wild-eyed, I spun to the third tech.

  He backed to the wall. “No, don’t—”

  I jabbed him. He went limp.

  I ducked through the hatch. In the corridor, one soldier lay still. The other thrashed about. I stunned him, dragged him by the heels into the lounge. Then the last.

  Panting, I slapped shut the hatch. “Mik? Sir?” He couldn’t speak. I knelt by his side. “Breathe deep as you can.”

  He clutched my wrist, squeezed ’til I thought I’d scream. “It hurts.” His voice was a croak.

/>   “He caught a neural plexus.”

  “A what?”

  “A pressure point.” I extended my palm, hesitated. Was it a crime to touch an officer? Randy, don’t be an idiot. I massaged his chest, as gently as I could.

  Slowly, his color returned.

  “Now, what, sir?”

  “Should you be a tech or a soldier?” He debated. “A tech. Pick one and use his suit.”

  “They’re too big. I’ll look silly.”

  “You’ll look sillier as a soldier.”

  I didn’t like it, but he was right. Hope Nation forces didn’t enlist joeykids, as did the Navy.

  We stripped a tech of his suit, fished for his ID card.

  At a holovid console Mik called up a Station map. “Launch bays are there. Level 5.” He jabbed the screen.

  I said, “Can you pilot? Take a shuttle groundside and find Fath.” In turn, he would help us free Anth.

  “If we took a shuttle to Olympiad, Mr Tolliver could send an armed party.” He grimaced. “What’s the point? The Station lasers would get us.”

  “Where’s laser control?”

  “Two of us, attacking the laser compartment? Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, they can bypass the consoles and fire from anywhere.”

  I paced, half beside myself. Then, “Sir, this was once a ship?”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “On Olympiad, Fath—Captain Seafort—had to release the laser safeties from the bridge before Mr Dakko could fire.”

  Our eyes met.

  “Where’s the Commandant’s office?” He bent to the screen, answered his own question. “Level 1. The lasers would be under the Commandant’s sole control. They’d have to be, especially after the fiasco at Earthport.” Control of the Station’s laser cannon had enabled the Navel rebellion Dad had died to quell.

  Coolly, Mikhael entered a soldier’s ID, read from a list of caller codes. “Wish me luck, brother.” He took up the caller. Then, “No, their readout tells them where it’s coming from. Hurry.”

  He led me on a race back to section six. He used the caller at the corridor hatch. “Staff Sergeant Burns, sir. I’m bringing Technician Ouward. He has an artifact General Thurman ought to see.”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you cleared?”

  A splutter. “For what?”

  “They found it Outside, with those Navy grades’ bodies. A holovid. The screen has a map, showing the route to—no, this is for the General himself. He’ll decide who ought to know.”

  A pause. “He’s in his office.”

  “I’ll bring Ouward up.” Mikhael rang off.

  In moments we were redressed. I wore the smallest of the suits, and still swam in it. Mikhael wore the outfit of Sergeant Willard Burns, Hope Nation Home Guard. He holstered his laser.

  “What’s the plan, sir?”

  “Find the laser safety, make sure it’s off, call Olympiad.” Mik tucked the stunner into my work pouch.

  “Right.”

  We started on our way. He matched his pace to my necessarily slower one. “Don’t forget your codes.”

  “367-T-491.” I bobbed, barely able to see out of the helmet. “Sir, we’ve had incredible luck so far. If we don’t both make it …” I drew breath, hardened my resolve. “Save Fath, whatever else. And tell him I’m sorry for how I acted. I never had the chance.”

  “He knows.”

  “Tell him.” In a helmet, you can’t wipe your frazzing eyes.

  21

  WE TRUDGED UP TO Level 1, Mik’s steadying hand on my forearm. Cool as ice, following the map he’d memorized and the occasional corridor sign, he led me to the anteroom of the Commandant’s office.

  Thurman was a General in our Home Guard; naturally his receptionist would be military as well. As I sidled toward Thurman, holovid in hand, the aide frowned at Mikhael.

  “You’re not Burns,” he said. Instantly Mik flung me through the office hatch, tugged at his laser. Two techs swarmed atop him.

  It was Thurman himself who gave us a chance. He ran after me, slapped shut the hatch, no doubt to bar Mikhael from his office. The hatch slammed closed, cutting us off from the melee in the anteroom. I scrambled to my feet, worked the bulky stunner clear of my suit pouch.

  Ignoring the laser pistol clipped to his belt, Thurman bent over the console, grabbed his caller. I leaped at him.

  Perhaps he’d once been stunned, and hated it as much as I. He recoiled, spinning his chair to the bulkhead. I clambered after. Too late, he remembered his pistol. I brandished my stunner, inches from his chest, shook my head, held out a hand.

  He considered refusing—you could see the debate in his eyes—but after a moment, reluctantly, he unclipped the laser pistol, handed it to me butt-first. Once I had it, I shoved my stunner in my pouch.

  “You’ll never get away with it.” General Thurman’s face was bitter.

  “Stuff it in a sack.” I glanced about, dazed at the pace of events.

  Thurman’s office had once been the warship’s bridge. Though they’d brought in amenities over the years—softer chairs, a spacious desk, a well-stocked cooler—the reinforced bridge hatch remained a fortress, and right now it was all that protected me.

  Frantic hammering, on the corridor hatch. I glanced at the console. Like Olympiad’s, it was a complicated array of lights and switches, far beyond my understanding. “Over there, by the far bulkhead,” I snarled. There was no way I could study the console with Thurman ready to jump me from behind.

  “Give it up, joey. You haven’t a chan—”

  I set the pistol to low, flipped off the safety, aimed just in front of his boot. The deck plate crackled. He yelped, and scuttled across the office.

  “Commandant, are you all right?”

  Ignoring the speaker, I unclasped my helmet, studied the console. None of the switches was marked “laser safety.”

  Mik would know.

  But I couldn’t open the hatch; they’d be armed and ready. “Where’s the corridor camera control?”

  “What are you talking about?” His tone was surly.

  “There’s always a camera outside the bridge hatch.” Else, a Captain couldn’t be sure whom he was admitting.

  Thurman snorted. “It’s been broken for years.”

  “Don’t give me—”

  “Try it. Just to the left of that red lever.”

  Cautiously, I did, my eye on the screen. Either he was lying as to the proper switch, or the camera really was broken.

  “General Thurman? Sir?”

  I put my mouth to the hatch. “Mikhael? Mr Tamarov?”

  No answer.

  I was in big trouble.

  All right, how would Fath handle it? How would Anthony?

  Deviously.

  “I want the use of your laser cannon,” I said grandly. “How do I turn off the safeties?”

  Thurman pressed his lips tight.

  “How?”

  His eyes took on a resolve I didn’t like. Quelling my revulsion, I took aim with the pistol. “You’d best tell me,” I said. I tried to make my voice menacing, but managed only a shrill squeak. I blushed.

  “Kill me and you’ll never know.”

  “Release the General, joey! We have your cohort.”

  I said, “Don’t play games. Time is short.”

  “Quite short. They’ll burn through anytime now.”

  “You don’t know much about bridge hatches,” I said scornfully. Of course, neither did I. I hoped I was right.

  “Five minutes or twenty, they’ll be along. You’ll be killed, unless you give me the pistol.”

  “Where’s the laser safety?” I sighted on his face.

  He met my gaze. “Aren’t you old Derek’s son? Will you kill a man in cold blood?”

  “Yes. Five. Four. Three.”

  Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, but he said nothing.

  “Open the hatch, joey, or I’ll take you apart! This is your last warning!”

  “Two
. One.”

  General Thurman shut his eyes.

  Trembling, I put the pistol in my pouch, disgusted with myself. I couldn’t do it.

  He shot me a look of triumph.

  “Please, give me the codes.” My tone was plaintive. “My father’s life depends on it.”

  “Who? Derek’s dead. You mean Seafort?” Thurman’s voice was contemptuous. “He’s no more your father than I am.” Cautiously, he rose to his feet. “Here, I won’t hurt you.”

  “Why’d they take him?”

  “For trial. All his life he’s gotten away with the most outrageous … Such arrogance, even treason. Not this time.”

  I cried, “Why do you hate him so?”

  He jabbed a finger outward, perhaps toward Olympiad. “He traffics with those Satanic … damn them! The fish were supposed to be dead!” He advanced on me. “He’s done for, joey. Don’t make it worse.”

  “Done for?”

  “The Church has him, and means to be rid of him. He’ll hang, or better yet, burn. There’ll be no appeal to home system.” Another step. He nodded to the hatch. “My men are waiting. You’re trapped; it’s just you and me.”

  My voice was odd. “Yes. Just you and me.” I retreated toward the hatch panel.

  Behind me, a clunk. A whirring sound. It seemed familiar.

  Inexorably, Thurman advanced. “Easy there, lad. You’re young, and scared. Don’t be foolish.”

  “No, sir. I won’t be foolish.” I yanked out the stunner, set it to the lowest setting, jabbed it at his midriff. He stumbled, fell twitching.

  The scream of metal on metal. They were working at the hatch.

  In three or four minutes, when he began to revive, my panic had escalated to near frenzy. Shuddering, Thurman managed to sit. Or better yet, burn. I touched him lightly with the stunner. He went down, all jerks and spasms.

  A minute passed. “Don’t—” A voice from the grave.

  I stunned him again.

  After the fifth time he had a sort of convulsion. Sweating in my suit, I dragged him to the bulkhead, leaned him against it, waited for him to claw his way to consciousness. “The codes.” Waiting had given me a better idea. “All of them. Authorize me to the puter.”

  “N—n—gah, no don’—” I touched the stunner to his arm.

  For minutes he drooled and twitched. When he spoke I could barely make out the words. I had him repeat it over and again, until I was sure I had it right.