Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  Havoc. Judges and aides dived for cover. One brave media-man swung his holo, aimed at me. Onlookers rushed about. A guard keyed his pistol; I shot him point-blank.

  Another guard fell, his rifle clattering.

  I risked a glance. It was Tommy who’d fired. He looked sick.

  On the bench, the judges dived for cover.

  Alarms shrieked.

  We’d taken out half the guards. Two had raced out the rear entrance, others cowered under tables, seeking shelter. I swiveled my rifle back and forth, seeking a target.

  “No more!” The Captain’s voice rang.

  “Tommy, take him to Anselm.”

  “But—”

  I grated, “Now!”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  Stubbornly, Fath shook his head. “Not like thus. There’s been enough—”

  Yost screamed, “Look out!”

  Behind Fath, a furtive movement. I fired, missed. A bench exploded into sparks.

  The snap of a bolt. Tommy rushed the Captain, knocked him off his feet, lay atop him. He was good at that; on the street he’d done the same to me. My teeth bared in a manic grin. I opened fire, barely missed the scuttling guard. Crouching, he let off a shot. I skittered aside. The guard dived under the spectator benches.

  I called out, “Hold your fire, no one need get hurt.” Fine sentiment, Randy, but a touch late. How many have you killed today? As if to belie my own words, I took steady aim at the benches.

  “Put down your rifle, Randolph.” An old voice, and crusty.

  My eyes strayed.

  Bishop Andori, gaunt and craggy, shook off the protective embrace of a deacon. “In the name of Lord God, I abjure thee.” He took a limping step toward me.

  I centered on his chest.

  “Don’t, lad. It’s eternal damnation.” Another step.

  “As if I care.” My tone was surly, that of a spoiled child. Anth would be scandalized.

  “Care, joey. It’s all there is.”

  “Randy.” Fath’s voice was muffled. “Put down the gun.” He lay under Tommy Yost, in the dock.

  A flicker, in the corner of my eye. I whirled. The guard had risen. He sighted down his barrel. I jumped aside, stumbled over a fallen chair, threw out my arm for balance.

  A blast of white fire flung me into a table.

  Pain. The stench of roasting meat.

  I toppled, head over heels. Somehow, I kept a one-handed grip on my rifle.

  “Get him!”

  “Stand clear, Oleg!”

  Horrid, searing agony, from my shoulder to my fingertips. I gritted my teeth.

  The snap of a bolt. The table over me dissolved.

  “We surrender! Don’t shoot!” Tommy Yost was screaming. “We surren—”

  “I don’t.” Using the rifle as a crutch, I lurched to my feet. My left arm wouldn’t help. I glanced down. My sleeve was gone, and everything within. Blood, mess, char.

  I was dying, and knew it.

  A snap. The smell of ozone. Behind me, a wall burst into flame.

  Like an idiot, I tried to clutch the stock with my missing left arm. It cost me precious seconds. I didn’t have many left. I stumbled; another shot brushed my hair. I heard it sizzle. With herculean effort I tossed the rifle upward, caught it by the trigger, balanced the stock on my hip.

  Bishop Andori shouted, “GET HIM!”

  A flick of the finger set my laser to continuous fire. I poured flame and smoke and death into the benches from which the guards had fired.

  At last, I stopped, swiveled to Andori, said to the survivors, “He’s next.” My voice was ghastly. I had to clear my throat, say it again. “I’ll take him to Hell with me, I swear by Lord God.”

  The room swayed. I staggered, rifle on hip.

  Through all the carnage, Andori hadn’t moved. “Put it down, Randolph.”

  I spoke past him. “Yost, let the Captain stand. Fath, you’d better hurry.” I couldn’t keep my feet much longer.

  Fath used Tommy’s shoulder as a prop. I yearned to do the same. “Randy, you’ve done evil, and you’re sore hurt. Put down the gun.”

  Something oozed down my side. “When you’re safe. Tad’s waiting at the heli.”

  Among the deacons, a stir. My lips bared. “Try it. Any of you.”

  Andori’s hand flicked, a gesture to wait.

  Fath said, “Give Yost the gun. I’ll help you aboard—”

  “Someone has to hold them back.” It didn’t seem enough. I cried, “Can’t you see I’m done for? This was all for you! Don’t waste it!”

  His voice tightened. “This slaughter was in my name? No. I won’t have it.”

  “We need you. Hope Nation needs you. Anth is dead.”

  Fath groaned.

  “Andori had him shot.”

  Fath’s lips tightened.

  The Bishop shook his head. “I did not.”

  “Oh, bullshit.” The courtroom pumped, like a heartbeat. “Yost, take Fath to the heli, by force if you must. Else I’ll count to five, then kill you, I so swear. One. Two.” My grip tightened.

  Yost tugged frantically at the Captain.

  “I didn’t kill him.” Andori.

  “Then Scanlen did.” I took a step backward, and another. If I rested some of my weight on the bar … “It was all arranged. Someone called off the troops guarding the building. They sent Anth outside, where Dr Zayre was waiting with a hauler to take him to freedom. Then the guards shot him down. You even had a mediaman at the door, recording for posterity. Three, Yost.”

  Fath said only, “You’re sure?”

  Andori said, “He’s making it up.”

  “You fucking liar.” From someone, a gasp. I snarled, “Don’t tell me your guards didn’t hear the commotion below. Why didn’t they come down?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Because they were expecting it.” I wanted to wave at the slaughter, here and below. “We killed six guards in the elevator. Too many. Anth couldn’t have gotten free, unless they meant him to.”

  I was desperately thirsty, but I spat on the scorched flooring. “Shot while trying to escape. It’s so …” I searched for a word. “Tawdry. Anth would be mortified. Say your prayers, Yost. Four. Five.”

  “Come ON, sir!” The middy hauled Fath to the door. “Now! He won’t wait!”

  Fath whispered, “I can’t leave you, son.”

  “For Derek, and Anth, I beg you. For Hope Nation. Don’t let these vermin get away with it.” I swayed.

  “NOW, SIR!” In desperation, Yost propelled Fath to the door, and beyond.

  “Good-bye.” I don’t think they heard me.

  In the hall, pounding footsteps faded.

  “Nobody move,” I said.

  Bishop Andori took another step. I regarded him, trying to hold off a spreading red mist.

  The rifle grew heavy.

  “Randolph …”

  “No.” Almost, my finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Steady, son.” Derek Carr’s voice was a soft pillow.

  “I’m trying, Dad.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  From above, the whap of a heli.

  “You did your best.”

  “And what good was that?”

  “Randolph?” Andori let me touch his bony chest with the muzzle. “It’s over.”

  “Yes,” I said, and meant to shoot him. But the rifle slipped from my hip. It clattered to the floor.

  I pitched headfirst into the Bishop’s arms.

  22

  I WILLED MYSELF UNCONSCIOUS, and failed. The agony had spread beyond my shoulder, to encompass my whole being.

  You were right, Bishop. There IS a hell.

  A guard, disheveled and bloody. “You’re under arrest, you glitched little—”

  “No.” Andori. “He’s ours.”

  “But he—”

  “—killed Deacon Smathers. He’ll be tried by our law.”

  Burning. I’d endure it. It could be no worse than I
felt at this very—

  A deacon’s face loomed. Hambeld. I recalled him from the farm. His foot lashed out, thudded into my side. “You frazzing …”

  “Enough!” Andori’s voice thundered. “Get him to the hospital. Be gentle.”

  “His arm’s blown off, he’ll be dead in—”

  “The wound’s cauterized. Keep him warm, he’s in shock. Attend the injured, Hambeld, and let Lord God look to vengeance.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  After years without end, we were in a vehicle. I lay on blankets on the floor. Every jounce was promise of eternal penance to come. Hambeld crouched near me.

  My lips moved, but no one answered. I tried again. “Where’s Mr Seafort?”

  “Gone for the moment. We’ll catch him.” Hambeld’s tone was flat, as if he didn’t care whether I lived or died.

  “We?”

  “The jerries. The Home Guard. Church militia.” For a fleeting moment, satisfaction in his eyes. “Admiral Kenzig’s suspected of treachery, the spaceport’s under massive guard. There’s no way Seafort will escape off-planet.”

  There was something I ought to say, but we struck a pothole, and I tried, without success, to die.

  When the mists cleared, my face was streaked with tears. My breath was shallow and it was all I could bear. Hambeld’s rough palm flitted to my brow. “We’re almost there,” he said.

  “The farm?”

  He looked at me strangely. “Hospital.”

  No matter.

  I drifted in and out of torpor, discovering new realms of anguish.

  Murmured voices. One set of eyes caught another. A grim shake of the head.

  The ceiling moved steadily. A new room. Bright lights, a cold table.

  Black.

  I woke with my torso tightly bound, and aching fingers. I tried to flex my wrist, couldn’t. It was maddening. Why had they tied my arm so tight?

  Again, I slept.

  Someone read long passages to me, in a drone. I was sedated, and barely followed. It sounded like the Bible, but wasn’t. After a time, I understood it was my indictment.

  Sleep.

  I tried to flex my sore arm. A blaze of pain. I cried out.

  A nurse tended me, her words intended to soothe.

  There’d been nothing left of my arm, not even a stump. Just a charred mass of flesh extending from the shoulder a matter of inches. They’d done their best. I’d need follow-up surgery later, to prepare me for a prosth, if …” She pursed her lips.

  I nodded. I would need no surgery.

  Hours slid into days. I discovered even the simplest competence eluded me. I couldn’t dress, had great difficulty with my clothes in the bathroom, which I was too weak to reach without help. Eating was laborious, the more so that I couldn’t cut my food unassisted. I was surly to my nurses, and wept when alone, after they changed my dressings.

  Dreary days later, a visitor.

  Mr Dakko, Kev’s dad. He looked aged and weary.

  He stared down at my swathed form. “This is what it’s come to.” His tone was somber.

  A perverse imp seized my tongue. “I’m better off than Kevin.”

  “Are you?” But there was no pity in his mien.

  My defiance collapsed. “I’ll join him soon.”

  “You’ll recover.”

  “I’ll burn.”

  A slight shrug. “You chose your destiny.”

  “Yes, sir.” I hesitated. “What news of Fath?”

  “Who?”

  I flushed. “Captain Seafort.”

  “He’s not been found. Nor Lieutenant Anselm and the middy.”

  My shoulder throbbed. “Good.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  I waited.

  Mr Dakko said heavily, “Mr Seafort is excommunicate.”

  I drew sharp breath.

  “Andori,” he added unnecessarily. “From the steps of the Cathedral. In full robes and regalia. A most impressive ceremony. The Captain’s declared apostate, an outlaw. Every Christian is duty bound to expunge him, or failing that, seize him for the Church.”

  Oh, Fath. By my lights it’s a crock of shit, but you’ll be in torment. And there’s nothing I can do for you.

  I said only, “You must be pleased.”

  “Might I ask how you reach that conclusion?”

  “The outrider.” Olympiad and its alien visitor seemed light-years distant.

  “Yes?”

  I said, “You blamed the alien for Kevin’s death. You wanted Fath to kill it. Along with all the fish we found. Fath refused. You betrayed him to Andori.”

  “Hardly a betrayal. I merely pointed out that a government sympathetic to God’s law would counter the threat of the fish.”

  “So you killed Anth.”

  “The Stadholder? I had nothing to do—”

  “Goofjuice.” My voice was shrill. “They killed him. You helped make it possible.”

  “Hilda, my closest friend, died that day! We meant to free him, the guards were paid off, they should have … somehow, it went wrong.”

  I gazed in wonder. “You don’t know?”

  “What?”

  “They murdered him. It was all arranged.” Haltingly, I related what I’d seen.

  “They must have …” he rubbed weary eyes—“… thought him too dangerous. I’m terribly sorry. Anthony Carr was a decent man.”

  “You were making omelets. What’s a few eggs?” My tone dripped scorn. “Anth, Captain Seafort, Hilda Zayre …”

  His face was stone.

  At worst, he’d kill me; I had nothing to lose. “Tell me, sir, do you despise yourself?”

  “You’re hardly one to—”

  “Imagine I’m Kevin. What would I think?”

  He shot to his feet. “Damn you!”

  “Yes, sir, there’s that consolation.”

  He thrust hands in pockets, stood as if examining the wall. “I loved him.”

  Of course. Kev was his son.

  “I was so proud of our years together. I told everyone I’d served under him.”

  Ah. He hadn’t meant Kev, after all.

  “Do you know what it cost me to go against the Captain?” Mr Dakko’s tone was fierce. “Even now I regret the vile words I spoke to him. He deserved—deserves my respect. Even if I had to stop him.”

  If I could rise from the bed, propel him from the room, I’d have done so. I made a halfhearted effort, fell back. “What does it matter what you think now? You failed Kevin. Failed yourself.”

  A moan.

  When I looked up, he was gone.

  Four days later, they brought me by heli to the great downtown Reunification Cathedral, rebuilt after the aliens’ bomb nearly destroyed the city. Huge stone buttresses soared skyward, defending the fortress of God.

  Deep within the fenced grounds was a peaceful manicured lawn, on which we landed.

  A hand on my good shoulder guided me to the stout iron-clasped doors. I went along, docile.

  My wounded shoulder throbbed unbearably, the more so in that they’d made me wear a dark tight blue shirt, reminiscent of a uniform. I’d been too proud to complain, and regretted it.

  We strode down the aisle, past the nave, toward the ornate chancel, behind whose latticed rail my judges were assembled, under the altar.

  I’d been told Bishop Scanlen would serve as chief judge. He sat in the center, two flunkies to each side.

  The trial would be a farce.

  I looked about. They’d gathered quite an audience for their show. Many of the families were represented, though not all, and scores of townsfolk not associated with the plantations. I gazed at a sea of faces, many hostile, some curious. Chris Dakko sat in a pew, arms folded. At strategic intervals, holocams were set, tended by mediamen I recognized from Anthony’s official announcements.

  Solemn deacons set me in a makeshift dock, before a raised bench. Three judges. One was Scanlen, the others men unfamiliar to me.

  Again they read the charges.
>
  I was on trial for my life, for an attempt to overthrow Lord God’s most holy Reunification Church, His blessed Instrument on Earth, and her scattered holdings. For blasphemy, for apostasy, for a list of sins half an hour long. I yawned openly, to show my contempt.

  They paused, awaiting my response.

  How had Fath put it? I let my voice ring out, hoping it would carry to the holocams. “I won’t participate in your sham. Do what you will.”

  Judge Scanlen snapped, “Hold your tongue, blasphemer.” They conferred, whispering. After a time, they appointed an advocate on my behalf.

  I refused counsel, but they paid no heed. When my advocate bent to speak to me, I spat in his face.

  The hearing adjourned.

  In my guards’ care I rode back to the hospital, exhausted and aching. They locked me into my barred room for the night. I watched myself on replays, in the holovid. Apparently the Church Elders had opted for a public spectacle; the proceedings would be broadcast live.

  The next morning the trial began in earnest.

  “The witness will stand.”

  Wearily, I got to my feet. Within my dark blue shirt, my shoulder throbbed unbearably. I was grateful; it gave me focus.

  The three elderly judges wore cassocks, not uniforms, else theirs might have been a military court. Or a civilian one, for that matter. It made little difference, in a society owned lock, stock, and barrel by the frazzing Church.

  “State your name.”

  I said nothing.

  “Young man, your situation is grave. Unless you cooperate …”

  I waited.

  They conferred. We argued. They threatened me with poly and drugs. I shrugged, forgetting. Clenching my teeth, I rode a wave of pain.

  The Lord’s Advocate—the prosecutor—intervened. “If Your Reverences permit?” He slipped a chip into his holovid, swung it to face me.

  A chipnote. To my astonishment, it was from Fath.

  He lived! I could barely read for my joy.

  “Randolph, I know what you face. What I face. I beg and order you, tell them what they would know. Tell them freely.”

  I stared at the unmistakable signature.

  And I began to speak.

  In the darkening day, I drained the last of my water. The ice had long since melted.

  Scanlen had interrupted me twice, once when I spoke of my staged hanging at the farm, again when I came to Anthony’s murder. I’d lapsed silent, waited out his objection, resumed where I’d left off. Eventually, after whispered consultations, they’d let me proceed in my own fashion. Perhaps they knew it was of no consequence; their forthcoming deliberations were a farce, my fate already sealed.