Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  My jaw dropped. The Admiral was, after all, Fath’s superior. A word from him could remove Fath from command, former SecGen or no.

  But it was Kenzig who retreated. “You put us in an extremely awkward … You arrested the Bishop! The Bishop of the Reunified Church that underlies our government!”

  Mom hissed, “Excommunicate! Spawn of Satan!” Did she mean Fath, or me? I waved her silent. For years, she’d ranted without cause, succumbing to maudlin sentiment moments afterward. We’d learned to pay little heed.

  “Actually, I rearrested Scanlen.” Fath’s tone was dry. “Awaiting trial, he escaped custody of the Commonweal of Hope Nation.”

  “He’s still our Bishop!”

  “And a fallible human.” Fath. “Not above law.”

  Mom’s voice was shrill. “I’ll call the Home Guard!” Good; the last we knew, the Home Guard was firmly in Mr Branstead’s hands.

  The Admiral said, “Scanlen’s above civil law. Only the Church itself can—”

  “That’s at home, sir. In an independent commonweal, he’s subject to—”

  “Damn it, Seafort!”

  Fath ignored the blasphemy. “Are you in their camp, sir? Will you help McEwan recolonialize Hope Nation?”

  A long, reluctant pause. “That’s not my brief.”

  Gently, I shut the study door on Mom’s frozen glare, crept back to my seat.

  “Very well.” If Fath felt relief at the Admiral’s capitulation, he gave no sign. “I propose we help Mr Branstead’s government restore order, then withdraw.”

  “The Patriarchs will be outraged if I leave Scanlen in colonial hands …”

  “I’ll escort him home for trial. No doubt Branstead will be relieved.”

  “No, we’ll lodge no charges. You’ll make it clear the Bishop was expelled by the Commonweal, that we didn’t force him home. When will you go aloft?”

  “As soon as possible. As you’ll recall, a fish is standing off Olympiad’s bow waiting to resume negotiations.”

  “Ahh, about that … Don’t you think the matter should be referred to home system? They’ll send a team—”

  “No.” Into the silence Fath added, “I don’t think so. The aliens can’t wait. Surely you agree, sir.”

  “Well—”

  “Precisely. Is there anything else?” Pointedly, Fath looked at his watch.

  “I suppose not. Shall we enter it in the Log that you engaged the aliens in discussions of your own initiative?”

  “I have no objection, sir.”

  “Very well.” They rang off.

  “Whew.” After a moment, Fath favored me with a scowl. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” I tried to shrug, was brought up short with a stab of pain. “Are you in trouble?”

  “No doubt Mr Kenzig will be glad to see the last of me. What was that commotion in the doorway?”

  “Mom wanted—” I snapped my mouth shut.

  “Yes?”

  I said reluctantly, “Wanted you gone.”

  “Ahh.” A pause. “I should have realized. I’ll stay with Jerence.”

  “No!” It was almost a shout. “You’re my guest, Fath.” Did he understand the dishonor to Carr Plantation, to our family, if he were made unwelcome? Beyond that, far more important, he was Dad’s closest friend, the father I’d …” I swallowed hard.

  “I can’t stay if Sandra objects …”

  “Let her prong herself.” My tone was reckless.

  “Derek loved her.” His tone reproved me, as it ought.

  “I don’t—” I grimaced. “I’ll talk to her.” Perhaps she’d already have forgotten.

  “Let me know soon.” He turned back to the caller.

  I found Mom in a padded kitchen chair, staring moodily at a cup of coffee. Before I could say a word, she grated, “I wish you’d killed him.”

  It took my breath away. “Do you remember our visit, when you let him kiss your hand?”

  “Yes, I’m not senile. Seafort has charm, that beguiled your father. He has the arrogance that made him SecGen. And he had contempt for God and His Church.”

  That was utterly unfair. “You don’t know—”

  “Don’t tell me what I know, child!” She slammed her palm on the countertop, slopping a spoonful of coffee. “I know it’s mortal sin to consort with an excommunicate, and I want him out of my house!”

  “He’s my father.”

  “Derek Anthony Carr is your father!”

  Steady, son.

  Was it Dad or Fath who whispered? No matter.

  “I invited him, Mom.” I made my tone reasonable. “There’s a bond of hospitality.” She was a Carr, and before that, a Winthrop; how could she not understand?

  “He’ll writhe in Hell.” She sopped a puddle of coffee with her napkin.

  “For Dad’s sake, let him stay.”

  “For Derek’s sake. Yes, your real father would risk his soul for friendship.” A tired shrug, as if nothing mattered. “Risk yours, if you must.” A long, drifting pause. “Very well, I won’t throw your precious Captain out.”

  “Thank you, Mom.” Awkwardly, I gave her a one-handed embrace, turned to go.

  “It’s good you’re home.” Her voice was languid, drifting off to a far place. “I missed you.”

  My eyes stung.

  “By the way, what happened to your arm?”

  Disconsolate, I made my way back to the study.

  Fath raised an eyebrow.

  “I talked to Mom. It’s all right.” A bit of an overstatement, but …

  He seemed reflective. “She signed the adoption papers, you know. That limits our options.”

  I blinked. “How?”

  “You want me to take you aloft.”

  “Of course.”

  “As ship’s boy?”

  I opened my mouth, shut it again. I’d demanded remission of enlistment, and Tolliver had granted it.

  He followed my thought. “There’s more, son.”

  I said weakly, “The shuttle.” I’d hijacked it at gunpoint.

  “It presents a problem.” He pursed his lips. “Armed seizure of Naval property. Mandatory death penalty, and so on. Oh, don’t be alarmed, there’ll be no prosecution.” Fath’s tone was dry. “Tolliver won’t be amused, though privately he’s ecstatic that you freed me. But he’ll argue for a trial, to avoid favoritism.”

  “Try me.”

  “Yes, the Carrs pay their debts, and all that. Not this time, joey; there’ll be a finding of temporary insanity. Dr Romez won’t quibble. But it’s complicated. When you left the ship’s company, you lost U.N. citizenship, unless your adoption also separately conferred it. I think it does.” He scratched his head. “If not, by what authority do I take you aloft, or out of system?”

  “Who’ll care?”

  “Judge Hycliff, for one.” He’d given custody of me to the Church.

  “But that government was overthrown.”

  “And we restored it. See why Admiral Kenzig told me not to meddle in local affairs?” A sigh. “And of course I’ll have to reenlist you, and no doubt that will raise eyebrows as well. Oh? You didn’t think I would?”

  “It didn’t matter at the time. Now …” My eyes welled. “Thank you, Fath. Sir.”

  “Palabee too.” It was the next morning, and Mr Branstead paced our living room while, outside, sullen raindrops beat against the windows. “He and Andori have vanished. They could be in the Ventura Mountains, the Zone, Lord God knows where. It isn’t over.”

  Fath nodded unhappily. “And the troops you sent after them …”

  “I can’t be sure they’re with us.”

  “Lord damn it, Jerence, I won’t leave ’til this is settled. And I must go to my ship.”

  “Why?”

  “An alien is floating a kilometer off our port side. I do believe he’s waiting for me. That negotiation is of utmost importance.”

  “Go aloft. I’ll handle—”

  “We Defused at Hope
Nation at a critical moment to the Carrs, and I let Anthony’s life slip through my fingers. Derek would never forgive me. Randy—” Fath patted my knee. “—came within an inch of death as well. I won’t make that error yet again.”

  “I don’t underst—”

  “You’ve followed my erratic course for forty years, Jerence, old friend. I’ll see you to safe harbor.”

  Mr Branstead turned abruptly, stared a long while out the window. “Thank you.” His voice was gruff.

  I tried to stretch without calling attention, lest Fath send me out for privacy, as he had during a few of his calls. Now that Anth was forever gone, the only room I found of interest was the one Fath inhabited. The guest house brought sharp memories of Kevin Dakko; the kitchen and Mom’s patio chaise, a vague discomfort. My own bedroom seemed petty and small, a relic of a life long past.

  Fath asked him, “Will they elect you Stadholder?”

  “It’s quite possible. I’m seen as neutral, allied with none of the planter factions. And even if not, this week’s events will bestow a modicum of influence.”

  Watching raindrops dreamily descend the pane, I worked out a kink in my leg.

  “No doubt. Once Palabee’s caught, how he’s handled will—Randy, haven’t you something to do?”

  “No, sir.” I tried to look inconspicuous.

  “Isn’t there anyone you’d like to see? Old friends? Once we Fuse, you’ll be gone a long while.”

  Perhaps my adventures would impress Alex Hopewell. And if Judy Win—“Oh!” I gathered my courage. “Could I go see Judy Winthrop?” If he laughed at me …

  “Jerence, is it safe?”

  “As anywhere, I suppose. The Winthrops are no supporters of Andori. And we’ll send your contingent of guards, mine will do for us both.”

  “Aww!”

  “Not without guards, son. Go wash up.”

  Easier said than done, one-handed.

  I climbed out of the hauler, hunched my shoulders against the persistent rain, and knocked shyly at the studded front door. On my last visit, I’d climbed the drainpipe.

  It was Ms Winthrop who opened. Her eyes flickered from me to my escort, and back.

  “They’re Fath’s guards, ma’am. Captain Seafort’s, I mean. And mine too. Not that they’re needed, but Fath said … They’ll be no trouble, it’s not as if we’re here to—” I fell back, took a deep breath, wished my face hadn’t gone so red. “Is Judy in?”

  “I was ever so sorry to hear about Anthony. You have our condolences, mine and Henry’s.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Why did I mumble? “Fath says I have to be back by six, could I see Judy?”

  “Yes, of course.” She led me to the stairs. “It’s true he adopted you?

  “Yes, ma’am.” I yearned to make my escape, but held my head high. “I’m his son. I don’t—didn’t think Dad would mind.”

  “I can’t imagine why he should.” Her voice rose. “Judy? You have company!”

  A moment later I was sitting cross-legged on her bed. We babbled at each other for five minutes straight. Abruptly, heart pounding, I caressed the back of her neck, urged her forward, and kissed her on the lips.

  It was a conversation-stopper, but after that neither of us were really interested in conversation. Part of me enjoyed myself immensely, and another checked off stations on a mental card noting progress to a long-cherished goal.

  With tender care, Judy had worked my shirt off around the stump of my arm. We lay side by side, her two hands and my one exploring, probing gently, luring each other ever closer to a precipice from which there was no retreat.

  Judy’s mouth was sweet, my pulse inflamed, and in the distance a siren wailed. I absorbed it into my ardor, stroked her where she—

  A siren? I blinked.

  I sat bolt upright, ignoring the stab in my shoulder.

  “Randy? What’s wrong, did I hurt—”

  “My shirt!” I pawed at it ineffectually. “Help me!”

  With an injured expression, she turned it the right way, offered me a sleeve.

  No time. I yanked it out of her hands, flung open the door, raced downstairs. “Guards!” Shirtless, I shot through the front door, barely pausing to open it.

  The hauler was empty, my guards lounging about under cover of the Winthrops’ spacious porch. I dived into the cab.

  On the porch, Sergeant Martel scrambled to his feet.

  I keyed the hauler’s puter. “ID Randolph Carr, fast voicerec, start engine, home!”

  Martel swung himself aboard. The electricar purred, began to back up through wet grass. Our guards raced to climb aboard.

  “Home, hauler, flank speed.” No, that was Navy talk. “Fastest possible speed, ignore safety.”

  “Instructions logged for future review.” We careened along the drive.

  “Randy, what in hell?” Martel was breathing hard.

  “The frazzing siren, can’t you hear?” I pounded the dash. We were minutes from Carr Plantation, at best. I found the caller, rang home.

  Martel unsheathed his weapon. “What’s it mean?”

  “The dam! Balden River!”

  In my ear, a maddening buzz. No answer. I let it ring as we splashed over the rutted road. Why hadn’t Anth kept Plantation Road in repair? With new paving we’d be driving at least twice as—

  No, that led nowhere.

  “What are you saying?” Mattel’s knuckles on the door were white.

  “The dam’s a force-field. Weren’t you at the dedication?”

  “What’s the dedication have to—”

  “The field’s failed!” It can’t!

  “Isn’t that the warning siren we test every fourth Friday?” We jounced across a huge pothole, and my shoulder slammed into the door frame. “Jesus Lord!” I gritted my teeth. “Hauler, faster!” Our main entrance was just around the bend.

  The hauler slewed to a stop, water spraying from the wheels.

  The road was gone. In its place, splintered trunks of massive generas, amid rivulets, soggy puddles. As far as the eye could see, wreckage and ruin.

  “Oh, God.” I threw open the door, leaped into a sea of mud, lost my balance, flopped on my face. One-handed, it was near impossible to get to my feet. Somehow, I did, and slogged to slightly higher ground.

  Which way was the frazzing house?

  The road was here; the manse would be across the lawn, where …

  It was gone.

  I moaned.

  Fath had been inside. And Mr Branstead. And Mom.

  Not again. I couldn’t stand it again.

  Martel caught me as I charged into the morass. “Easy, joey.”

  “Don’t ‘easy’ me, you goddamn—” I slammed shut my mouth. “Zack, sorry. Get me to … to where the manse stood.” I tried not to weep.

  I hadn’t the shoes for it, but we clambered through what seemed miles of mud and debris, across what had been the front lawn. About here, where Anth had gripped me firmly, introducing me to Ambassador McEwan. And here, where old Scanlen had kidnapped me from Mr Seafort’s heli.

  I slid on a slippery rock, and toppled. “Ayie!” I thought I’d pass out; the sky faded to a red haze. Randy, stop slamming your frazzing shoulder.

  Martel hauled me to my feet. “You should have waited for the rest of the squad.”

  A grunt was all I could manage. I jabbed a finger in the general direction of the house, but let my arm fall; nothing was there. To my right, a gentle rise that had sheltered the guest house. A few bedraggled shade trees had survived, their lower branches stripped.

  Slowly, the throb in my arm ever more insistent, we made our way to the rise.

  Behind a tree, a muddy figure stirred, struggled to her feet.

  “He’s a wicked, wicked man,” said Mom. “He shouldn’t have.”

  “Never mind about that.” My voice was harsh. Her hate for Seafort could wait. “Who’s alive?”

  “What’s become of your shirt?”

  “God damn it!” I kicke
d the tree so hard I was afraid I’d broken my toe. Nonetheless, I screamed and raged, swore oaths for which Fath—or Dad—would have washed out my mouth. Eventually, I wound down: a volcano spews only so long. My face grimy and streaked, I sat in the mud, leaned against a bedraggled oak.

  Fath was gone. And Mr Branstead. I fought the relief of tears.

  Dully, I stared upward. The force of the flood had broken off low branches, stripped others. It had deposited debris in the oddest places. Above, in the crotch of a high branch, a pair of legs. Blue pants, muddied.

  Naval blue.

  I staggered to my feet. “Zack!” A hoarse scream.

  He came running. I pointed.

  One-armed, it was out of the question to climb a tree. Mattel made his way upward, while I danced in frustration.

  Mom stood wearily alongside. “He shouldn’t have done it.” Her voice was ragged.

  I made and unmade a fist, wishing whoever was keening would stop. I shifted from foot to foot, like a joeykid needing to piss.

  “It’s him! The SecGen.”

  An endless wait.

  “He’s alive!”

  My breath exhaled explosively.

  It seem to take forever. Zack shinnied down, found a cup, filled it with water—a commodity we had plenty of—and made his way back up the oak.

  After a time, a groan. Then a ragged voice. “Where am I?”

  I could do nothing to help. Gnashing my teeth, I watched helplessly as Martel guided Fath cautiously to firm ground. A vivid bruise bloomed on his forehead and cheek.

  Feet planted at last, he used my good shoulder as a crutch, and looked about. “Where’s Jerence?”

  “Dunno, sir.” I wiped my nose, wishing I could stop sniffling. It made me feel so frazzing young.

  “Who has a caller?”

  “I do.” Zack.

  “Call him. He always carries his.” Fath reeled off the number, but snatched the caller before Martel could dial.

  It rang endlessly. At last, a gritty voice. “Yes?”

  “Oh, thank God.” Fath shut his eyes. “Where are you?”

  “Downstream. I can’t move much. My knee’s smashed.”

  “We’ll find you. How far from the manse?”

  “A couple hundred meters, I think. And I slid into a culvert getting to the bloody caller.”

  Fath leaned heavily on my good side as we picked our way through rubble and mud. Downstream, Mr Branstead had said. There’d been no stream alongside the manse. Not until today.