Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  In a muddy gully, Mr Branstead waved weakly. He was lying at an awkward angle, his legs higher than his head. We helped turn him. That is, Zack and Mom and Fath did: I was a helpless, wounded, weepy child. Fath seemed not to notice.

  Mr Branstead’s face was gray. “Who else survived?”

  Fath said, “Sandra Carr. We’ve seen no one else. It was little enough warning.”

  I pawed at his arm. “How did you …”

  “The cook recognized the siren, ran screaming into the study. We ran for high ground, and were barely in time. Jerence, whom ought we call for rescue, planters in the Zone, or Centraltown?”

  “We’ll want searchers, a lot of them. Troops. Ah, there’s a heli now.”

  We waved. The machine circled once, set down alongside us, drenching us in mist and droplets. Zack Martel bent over Mr Branstead, covering him from the wind and dirt.

  Fath limped to the cabin, ducked under the whirling blade, stopped short as the hatch swung open. Deacon Hambeld, of the Reunification Cathedral. His laser pistol was aimed unwaveringly at Fath.

  Behind Hambeld, another deacon helped a familiar figure from the heli.

  Bishop Henrod Andori.

  With a growl, Zack clawed for his pistol. Deacon Hambeld swiveled, shot him through the chest. Martel’s torso dissolved in fire. He was dead before he hit the soggy ground.

  “Now, none of that.” Bishop Andori held up a peaceable hand. With the caution of age, he knelt by the corpse, made a sign of the cross. His mouth moved in silent prayer. Grunting, he got to his feet. “In the heli, if you please.”

  Mom shouldered past Fath, confronted the Bishop. “Wicked man! I’d never have told you if I’d thought you capable of such—such …” She shook her head.

  “It seems harsh, daughter, but the Lord works in mysterious ways. In, all of you. Carry that Branstead joey.”

  24

  WE DRONED THROUGH GRAY mists toward Centraltown. Hambeld had herded us into the roomy heli, pausing only to make sure we were unarmed. Mr Branstead cried out sharply as they lifted him to the cabin. Now he was stretched out on the cargo deck of the heli, ashen of face, stifling an occasional moan. Mom, Fath, and I hunched nearby, the Bishop’s men watching from the front seats. Hambeld’s pistol roved from one to the other of us.

  Zack Martel lay abandoned in mud and muck.

  “Where are you taking us?” Fath’s tone was sharp, but Andori ignored him.

  I leaned to Mom, flicked a thumb at the Bishop. “Why did you call him wicked?”

  “He destroyed us. I am among the godly, yet he destroyed our home.”

  “The force-field must have failed. The siren …”

  “Why would it fail?”

  I sat, stunned. I hated the Bishop and all he stood for, but I couldn’t accept that he could loose such havoc. I snarled, “Andori, is it true?”

  “Quiet, or I’ll kill you.” Deacon Hambeld.

  Fath hauled me to his seat.

  I was beyond that. “Andori, did you do it?”

  The Bishop peered over his shoulder. “The flood, joey? You’ll recall it was I who dedicated that dam in Lord God’s name. Fitting that I use it to accomplish His work.”

  “How many did you kill to get at Mr Seafort?”

  “The innocents are sent to Lord God’s mercy. The guilty are paying for their folly.”

  “You son of—”

  “A high price, say you? Jerence Branstead came home to meddle. Best he’d stayed on Olympiad to serve his apostate master.” Andori scratched his cheek. “An opportunity to bag them both? Surely it was the Lord’s doing.”

  The sanctimonious bastard. “What now?” I spat the words.

  “Death. A chance to plead your case before Him.”

  “For all of us? Mom too?”

  “No, she’s harmless, and means well.”

  Fath said, “Why not gun us down as you did the soldier?”

  “Ahh, an interesting point. I know the Lord’s stern hand wielded the flood, but for some, it’s too abstract. Your death needs to be a public act, accomplished by the Church Herself. And we neglected to bring a holocam. The spaceport will have one.”

  “You insane fuck!” I spat on the deck.

  “Hambeld, burn off his other arm.”

  I recoiled.

  Hastily, Fath thrust himself between us. “You want my death public? Call him off!”

  Andori sighed. “Point acknowledged. We’ll wait, Mr Hambeld.”

  Thereafter, Fath watched the deacon like a hawk, his body ever between me and the laser.

  How long to the spaceport, and my end? Half an hour, at most. No, we’d been in the air a good ten minutes. I shivered, wishing the engines to slow. Outside, the rain eased.

  All too soon, we circled the spaceport, gray, grim and damp. Andori asked the pilot, “Any Home Guard?”

  The pilot grinned mirthlessly. “Half a dozen were at lunch in the coffee shop. Conrad’s joeys have them.”

  Andori snorted. “And that rabble calls itself a government. Set us down.”

  We landed with a bump, not far from the terminal. The door swung open, letting in a blast of midday heat.

  Hambeld propelled me to the tarmac. Above, the clouds began to part, and I squinted in the sudden sun, not forgetting to keep my torso between the deacon’s pistol and my remaining arm. Though I would die in a few moments, I cringed at another mutilation.

  So, God. Should I believe in You, like Fath? How can I, after what you countenanced today? You let the bad joeys destroy us, and do it in Your name. I muttered a curse.

  “Don’t blame Him.” Fath laid a gentle hand across my shoulder. “They’re men, and know no better.”

  I wanted to live more than anything, and was hateful. “Are you stupid enough to forgive? Well, it wasn’t your home, your heritage, your life they destroyed!”

  “Was it not?” Fath looked bleak. At the hatch, a cry from Jerence. Fath snarled, “Don’t hurt him!”

  Andori’s fist clenched. “In a moment, it won’t matter. Where’s the holocam?”

  Hambeld pointed. “Conrad’s got it now.” A perspiring deacon hurried from the terminal gate, past a parked cargo truck.

  Might we run for it? Fath couldn’t, and for life itself I wouldn’t try without him.

  “Line up.” They sat Mr Branstead on the hot pavement. As they released his knee he shuddered and groaned once.

  Limping, Fath moved to shield him from the sun. I stood alongside, and Fath took my only arm. I looked about, said huskily, “Good-bye, Mom.”

  The deacon set up the holocam in the shade of the heli.

  She smiled dreamily. “It’s too warm. Let’s go inside.”

  His eyes on Hambeld, Andori casually squeezed his finger, indicating Mom.

  Fath’s grip tightened. “Son, I brought you to this moment. I was insane not to send you aloft.”

  “You’d have had to drag me.”

  “A small cost.”

  The holocam began to whir.

  Andori said, “Now I, Henrod Andori, High Bishop of the Reconciliation Church, do require and accomplish the execution of—”

  Bone and blood splashed my shoes.

  I screamed.

  A deacon pitched forward, a steaming hole in his stomach.

  Hambeld whirled, searched for the unseen foe, found none, spun to Fath. He raised his pistol.

  The heli’s hull whitened, splattered molten alloy.

  Hambeld cursed, ducked clear. A bolt sizzled at his feet. Before he could move it cut him off at the knees. A dreadful shriek, cut short.

  A figure, striding from the cargo truck parked by the gate. It seemed familiar. It bore a laser rifle.

  Among our captors, only Andori was left. With startling agility, the old man stooped, snatched up Hambeld’s pistol, scuttled behind the heli.

  Deacon Conrad stood frozen, holocam whirring.

  From the terminal, shouts of rage. A soldier raced out the door, paused near the cargo hauler, took aim a
t the figure striding toward us.

  I watched, rooted to the steaming concrete.

  The cargo haulers door flew open. A man leaped down. His rifle set to continuous fire, he sprayed the nearby soldier, then the terminal doorway. From within, screams, then silence.

  Impossible. The man firing relentlessly at the terminal was … Chris Dakko.

  The striding figure neared. A woman. I squinted.

  It couldn’t be.

  Corrine Sloan, Janey’s mother. Her face was hard.

  Jerence blanched.

  She seemed the angel of death.

  Andori fired, missed her by inches.

  Without breaking stride, she returned fire. Her shot scorched the hem of his robe. He squawked, retreated with unsteady steps.

  Still Ms Sloan advanced. “Hello, Nick.” Her eyes never left the Bishop.

  “Corrine!” Fath’s voice was a rasp.

  She’d have strode through me had I not leaped aside.

  With trembling hands Andori raised his pistol. “Don’t!”

  The Bishop’s foot dissolved. He screamed, falling heavily.

  A dozen steps, and she loomed over his writhing form.

  “It’s over!” She turned to the holocam. “Do you hear? It’s done, now and forever!”

  “Wait!” Andori’s teeth bared in a rictus of agony. “Don’t, I—”

  “Corrine, stop!” Fath lunged toward her.

  “I do this for John.” She aimed downward, fired once. The Bishop was still. She examined her rifle, set it to continuous fire. Coolly, she aimed at the scorched figure on the tarmac, held the trigger until nothing was left but ash, smoking stains, and bits of cloth.

  At length, she turned to Deacon Conrad. “And you?”

  “Blessed Savior!” He dropped his holocam, backpedaled desperately, hands shielding his face. “I beg you, don’t!”

  “Run away!”

  He did.

  In the distance, Chris Dakko coolly loaded a recharge into his rifle, strolled to the terminal, peered inside. It seemed the carnage was satisfactory; without another glance he strode toward the heli.

  Gently, Fath eased the rifle from Corrine’s unresisting hands. “Lord God.” It might have been prayer.

  Corrine took his cheeks in her hands. “Nick.”

  He pressed her fingers.

  “Captain, get her aloft.” Mr Branstead, from the tarmac, his voice tight. “Before they—”

  “I know.”

  “Why? I’ve nowhere to run. Sooner or later they’ll have me.”

  “Nonsense, Corrine. I’ll take you home to Earth. No, the Patriarchs would—as Captain, I have plenipotentiary powers. I’ll pardon you.”

  “You don’t understand. Whatever the cost, it was worth it.”

  Mr Dakko was breathing hard. “Sir.”

  The Captain eyed him.

  Dakko drew himself up, handed Fath his rifle. Fath looked a bit nonplussed; he already gripped Corrine’s weapon.

  “Sir, I told the Holy See what they needed to overthrow Anthony Carr’s government. It led to his death. I accept responsibility. Do with me what you will.”

  “You speak of treason.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. I was half out of my mind. Of course, that’s no excuse. I’ve switched sides for the last time.”

  “Jerence?”

  Mr Branstead lifted himself on an elbow, rubbed his eyes. “Where’s Palabee?”

  “He resigned as Stadholder when you took the Cathedral. I imagine he’s lying low. The Palabees have a lodge in the Venturas.”

  “And Scanlen?”

  “Still in jail, for the moment.”

  Fath raised an eyebrow.

  “You’d best send reinforcements. My—” Mr Dakko blushed “—watchers may not be enough if the Churchmen rally.”

  “Your revolutionaries.”

  “Oh, nonsense, we were never that. Plotters, yes. For better policy. We tried to free Anthony, were you told? They double-crossed us and killed Hilda Zayre as well. Randy accused me of …” He shook his head. “No matter. I turn myself in.”

  I made to speak, but Fath shushed me. “Very well. Mr Dakko, as acting Stadholder, Jerence paroles you to my custody. And I order you to get him to hospital, flank, and stay with him until he’s tended.”

  “Sir …” Mr Dakko’s mouth worked.

  “I know, Chris. We’ve none of us done aught to be proud of. I’ll give you absolution, but not punishment. We’re beyond that. Go make it right.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” It was automatic, a response from days long past.

  The Captain smiled, his eyes grim. “And now, Jerence …”

  “I suppose it’s time.” Mr Branstead sighed. “Andori’s dead,

  Scanlen in custody, Palabee hiding. I’ll handle the rest. Go home to Olympiad.”

  Fath patted his shoulder.

  “And you’d best hurry, Nick. We’ve few enough soldiers to guard you or Corrine. Mr Dakko, I’m afraid I’ll need carrying to the terminal comm room, to call down a shuttle. In the meantime, keep Ms Sloan out of sight. The Churchmen may rally. Nick, you and the boy—”

  “—will be across the tarmac.” He pointed to Admiralty House. “Come along, Randy.” Limping, rifle in hand, he led me from the steaming puddle of blood.

  The Admiral’s aide gaped as Fath made his report. Then, he meekly asked us to wait, and disappeared.

  Afternoon had darkened to dusk. We sat exhausted in the dusty anteroom, but it wasn’t long before Admiral Kenzig emerged from his inner sanctum. Fath stood carefully, favoring his aches, set down the laser rifle he’d confiscated from Ms Sloan. He saluted, as if his uniform weren’t torn and grimy, his face streaked. “Captain Nicholas Seafort reporting, sir.”

  “As you were, Mr SecGen.”

  “I’ve come to offer my resignation.”

  “Which Naval regs prohibit, except under precise circumstances. You learned so on a previous visit.”

  “On Hibernia, when I was a boy. Yes. Let me rephrase it. I came to offer you the chance to remove me.”

  Kenzig eyed me. “It’s a private matter.”

  “Might I have my son present, sir?”

  “Why?”

  “He’s earned it.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Certain matters … if they become public …”

  “When we’re done Randy’s going aloft. He won’t be back for years.”

  The Admiral grimaced. “Very well. Come into my office.”

  He took his seat, behind a gleaming expanse of table with nothing on it, not even a holovid. “Refreshments, gentlemen? A softie for the boy?”

  “No, thank you.” Fath shifted, impatient.

  Outside, in the gathering darkness, floodlights lit the terminal and tarmac. A band of soldiers checked their weapons, took up positions around the terminal. I wondered who they served.

  Kenzig sighed. “Whatever are we to do?”

  “It’s your decision, sir.”

  “Bah. There’s no precedent. No regs come close to covering …” Another sigh. “Your arrest of Scanlen has folk uneasy. If—”

  “Who?”

  The Admiral opened and closed his mouth, as if astonished at the interruption. “All of the devout. As it should.” He shot Fath a glance that might have been a challenge. “With Andori’s murder, Scanlen becomes Archbishop of Mother Church in Hope Nation. With Branstead’s regime in immediate danger of overthrow—”

  “I doubt that.”

  “If his government survives, Branstead will hold Bishop Scanlen indefinitely, or worse, try him for treason. The—”

  A knock at the door. “Pardon, sir.” The Admiral’s aide peered in. “The shuttle’s begun descent. ETA fifty minutes.”

  “Very well.” When the door closed, Kenzig frowned. “Try him for treason, I was saying. The Patriarchs would blame us for the fiasco.” Kenzig grimaced. “Unless we intervene.”

  “It’s an internal matter for Hope Nation.”

  Kenzig’s
voice was sharp. “So you say when it suits you. But yet you arrested Scanlen in his Cathedral.”

  “I acted on behalf of Anthony Carr’s government, not against it.”

  “Sophistry.” The Admiral waved it away. “What if I order you to storm the cells and set the Bishop free?”

  I expected Fath to ignite like a shuttle at liftoff, but he said mildly, “To what purpose?”

  “Exactly. They’d only rearrest him when Olympiad Fused, unless we saw to a change of government as well.”

  The Captain’s lips tightened.

  Kenzig said, “Ambassador McEwan claims the repeated coups show Hope Nation is incapable of stable government. He demands we return the system to colonial status.”

  “By force?”

  “If necessary.”

  I tried not to hold my breath.

  Fath’s gaze strayed to mine. “Randy, you’d best wait outside after all.”

  No! I must know the outcome. “Sir, I’d listen at the door.” I reddened, knowing it was betrayal.

  After a moment Fath sighed. “So be it. But you’ll never repeat what you hear to another living soul.”

  “I so swear.” My heart pounded.

  Fath said to the Admiral, “You speak of reimposing colonial rule. What force have you?”

  “Your crew. The Orbiting Station, and what personnel the Church might provide.”

  Fath took a deep breath. “Sir, while I hold command, neither Olympiad’s crew nor her officers will act against the Government of the Commonweal.”

  “You’d compel me to relieve you?”

  “As you recall, I came to offer you that opportunity.”

  A long silence.

  “There was a day,” Admiral Kenzig said heavily, “when the Admiral Commanding could count on the loyalty of his men. When an officer followed orders to the letter.”

  “There was a day,” said Fath, “when Church and Admiralty didn’t contemplate infamy.” He rose. “I asked you once, sir: are you in their camp, or ours?”

  “Theirs? Ours?”

  “The recolonialists, for want of a better name. Or those of us who oppose their greed. In the old days you spoke of, men like Andori and McEwan wouldn’t dare drag the Navy into their tawdry plots.”

  “I’m not blessed with the liberties you allow yourself, Seafort: I obey orders. And unlike you, I want to. If it’s U.N. policy to recolonialize Hope Nation, that’s what I’ll do.”