Children of Hope

by David Feintuch

  I watched in awe.

  To my astonishment, Fath winked. “So, then. Admiral?”

  “I have little say in—”

  “Sir, declare yourself.”

  “Very well, Mr SecGen. I concur.”

  “Mr McEwan?”

  “It’s an outrage. The woman goes free, you and that foul-mouthed young Carr get away with the most—”

  “You’d prefer the fish? If you look south from the Admiral’s office, you’ll see ground zero, where the Centraltown bomb—”

  “All RIGHT!” McEwan muttered a curse. “If Carr calls them off …”

  “Does anyone speak for the Planters’ Council?”

  No response.

  “Mr Kaminski?”

  “Sir, our position is awkward.”

  That was an understatement. On the Station, Colonel Kaminski hadn’t yet acknowledged McEwan’s recolonialization, or the new government dominated by Bishop Scanlen, but meanwhile Mr Branstead’s administration had collapsed. And the Station was dependent on Centraltown for supplies.

  “Captain, if all other parties agree … we have no reason to object.” Kaminski’s answer was sensible, I grudgingly admitted.

  “Very well. Ms Frand?”

  “The officers who were your favorites will be set ashore. For my ship’s safety, I can’t—”

  “No, Ms Frand, you can.” Admiral Kenzig’s voice was cold. “And you’ll transport Alon Riev home. I won’t have him on my staff.”

  “Aye aye, sir. But—”

  “He burst into my office, two armed deacons in his wake. This, after I promoted him—”

  “Are there charges?”

  “Gentlemen, we’ve no time. Sarah?”

  “Very well, Mr Seafort. I concur.”

  “Bishop Scanlen?”

  Oh, Fath was deft. He’d isolated the Bishop from his supporters before soliciting his opinion.

  “You leave us no choice. My conditions are: that Church officials go about their business unmolested, that we retain supervisory control of—”

  “Shove it in a recycler, Scanlen.” Henry Winthrop, of the Planters’ Council. He seemed out of breath. “We’re at the Governor’s Manse. We’ve taken the spaceport, the court building, the utilities—”

  “By what authority—”

  “—in the name of the Branstead-Carr government.”

  “Treason!” Scanlen’s voice trembled.

  “The Cathedral is closed until church-state relations are, ah, redefined to our satisfaction. By the way, we declare you persona non grata. That goes for McEwan too. Take Olympiad home, or we’ll deport you both to Orbit Station. Don’t count on refuge at Palabee’s Venturas lodge. We’ll be having words with him as well.”

  “I—you—we’ll excommunicate—” Scanlen spluttered to a halt.

  “Mr Seafort, we’ve a mind to expel your Admiral too.”

  “Please don’t,” Fath said mildly. “Mr Kenzig’s done his best under great pressure. So, Bishop Scanlen, is it us, or the fish?”

  “Damn you to the depths of Hell!” A long silence. “What about you, Seafort? You ask so many sacrifices.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “McEwan gives up his governorship; the Church is denied your paramour, the assassin. Civilized society recoils while you trade with the devil’s minions; you’ve disenfranchised Lord God Himself on Hope Nation … and you’d sail home to the plaudits of your cronies? We know you, Seafort. You’ll scheme to wrest Olympiad from Captain Frand—”

  “I’d do no such thing!”

  “That’s as may be. You’re so enamored of the fish? Stay among them. In Centraltown, or on Orbit Station, if you won’t risk a shuttle groundside. Anywhere but Olympiad. The days and months will pass. Another ship will be along. It’s only a year.”

  “And another eighteen months home. The treaty can’t wait.”

  “But it’s recorded in Olympiads Log, isn’t it so, Ms Frand? More to the point, we guarantee it will be presented. Soon enough the Assembly will vote on your precious treaty!”

  “Fath, don’t listen. He’ll—”

  “Shush.”

  “Those are my terms, Seafort. Else Palabee and I will face Satan unaided. We’ll be martyrs for the glory of—”

  Fath rolled his eyes. “If I agree?”

  “Swear so, and I’ll accept. Not that it’s right, but because I must.” Scanlen’s tone was sour.

  Fath thought a long while. “Very well. I swear I will not seek or accept passage home on Olympiad. I’ll remain on the Station until”—his eyes were bleak—“my banishment is lifted.”

  “Centraltown too!” I tugged at his sleeve.

  “That would be permanent exile.” Unconsciously, he flexed his spine. “But you’ll be free to visit.”

  The Bishop’s tone seemed one of triumph. “In that case I swear by Lord God Almighty that I assent to the arrangement, exactly as you’ve stated it. At least until the treaty’s presented to the General Assembly for ratification. Does that suffice?”

  Fath said, “That’s acceptable.”

  “You hear, Ms Frand? Log it, that he’ll have no room to quibble and evade.”

  Fath wrinkled his nose, as if suddenly taking in a whiff of the fish’s air.

  “I’ve Logged the whole conference, Your Reverence. And I’ll tightbeam a copy of the Log to Orbit Station, in case there’s question. Do it, Mr Sutwin.”

  “Seafort, this is Palabee. You never asked my approval.”

  Fath’s tone was cool. “I saw no need.”

  “I represent—”

  “Your own ambitions, and little more.”

  “Tell him, Fath!”

  He silenced me with a warning finger. “Is there anything else, Mr Palabee?”

  “You always were a pigheaded, obstinate—I was a joeykid, watching openmouthed, that day when you tried to block Laura Triforth from declaring the Republic. She should have hanged you when she had the chance. I call challenge, Seafort. Do you have the guts to duel? You’ve lost your ship, you’re no more than a civilian. Set forth on our soil and I’ll—”

  “You know …” Fath’s tone was reflective. “A dozen of you for one Anthony Carr would be a poor trade. He was a man.”

  I could have hugged him, and almost did.

  “NEVER MIND THAT!” Bishop Scanlon was apoplectic. “The fish! Call off the Godd—the God-blessed fish!”

  “Yes. Randy, how does their commander tell them not to attack?”

  I switched off my radio. “He can’t.”

  Fath swung toward me, something close to murder in his eye.

  “They don’t communicate long distances. Only by color swirls, or sending an outrider across. Or perhaps by hearing Fusion.”

  “Then the Venturas …”

  “The fish are decoys. They carry no outriders.” I braced myself.

  Fath looked appalled. “I gave my sworn word! How could you?”

  “Sir, you told no lies.”

  “I said we had need of haste, the fish would land shortly.”

  “Isn’t it true?”

  “That they were attacking!”

  “True, as far as you knew.”

  “RANDY!”

  “Didn’t I tell you not to leave me in charge? It was the only way I could get them …” My voice trembled. I swung to Mr Dakko. “What else could I do? You were about to kill each other!”

  “I’m staying out of—” He leaned against a swirling bulkhead, realized what he was touching, recoiled in shock.

  I wrote. “‘Big-human says yes humans trade outriders salt.’ There, Fath. Tell Scanlen I talked to the outrider—which I just did—and assure him the fish will land harmlessly. Tell him to leave them alone, in case there’s virus. That he’s free to fly to Centraltown for a shuttle.”

  “But …”

  “It’s not a lie.”

  His tone was grim. “Joey, you’ll pay for this.” To the caller, “Bishop? Let the fish land. We guarantee there’ll be no attack
…

  37

  DAYS OF COMMOTION AND disarray. Mr Dakko emerged from the fish, eyes firmly shut, yet already pondering his new business opportunities. He’d made me promise a complete list of pictographs by the next day. I would have my work cut out.

  Scanlen and McEwan made their arrangements to go aloft. Meanwhile, Mr Branstead took the first shuttle groundside, where he began his struggle to bring order out of chaos.

  The six sacrificed fish had settled on a sandy Venturas beach, where, one by one, their colors ceased to flow. After their deaths, for safety’s sake, a volunteer squad used incendiaries to sterilize the nearby shoreline.

  No outriders were found.

  Henry Winthrop led the expedition that arrested Vince Palabee at his lodge.

  I got an hour on the caller to Judy.

  Mr Dakko followed Jerence groundside, secure in his pardon.

  Hope Nation’s principal salt mine was in the Ventura foothills. Within four days the first cargo vessel lifted to the Station.

  Ms Frand released Tolliver, who’d reluctantly given his parole. Mik and Tad Anselm refused, until Fath spoke sharply to them by caller. All three retained their rank and status, but were relieved of all duties. I assumed Fath would manage to get them reinstated, one way or another.

  I assured the big outrider that his salt was on its way. With his agreement—he said nothing that I interpreted as an objection—Fath and I withdrew to the Station, by way of Tommy Yost and Olympiad’s launch. Ms Frand grudgingly left it with us, in case we had further need to visit the aliens.

  The squadron of fish rejoined their leader, but stayed well clear of Olympiad. It was somewhat startling to glance out a Station porthole and see an enemy fleet standing calmly by, which I’d only seen before in holos of the war.

  At the Station, standard grav and hot showers were an unimaginable pleasure.

  Fath bunked privately with Ms Sloan. I was exiled to a cabin nearby. That was fine with me. Corporal punishment of joeykids is barbaric and cruel, especially as Fath administered it shortly after we docked. Despite my pleas, he made no allowance for Mr Tolliver’s recent caning. If I hadn’t deserved it so thoroughly, I’d have hated him more. As it was, for the first day or so I barely spoke to him. Adults snicker about joeykids having to eat standing up, but I didn’t find it funny. Morose, I browsed the Station’s library of chips, found the whole lot of them boring, ended up perusing Fath’s frazzing Bible in my bed.

  At least the Station medic was able to disconnect my ruined prosth. I hadn’t known it was replaceable at the elbow. To my dismay, Dr Romez sent over a duplicate, and Fath made me let the techs install it. I didn’t dare object; he was keeping me on a very short leash. In a moment of petulance I’d shown less than perfect courtesy to a Station tech, and Fath had taken me by the scruff of the neck and … I still blushed when I thought of it. Later I’d suggested he let me return to Olympiad but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Not without a keeper, joey. Even then, you’re best stuffed in a clothes locker and let out for meals.”

  “But—”

  “Twelve verses.”

  I’d let it drop.

  At last, a great day came. Bishop Scanlen passed through the Station on his way to Olympiad. I begged Fath to let me watch. I wouldn’t have sneered. Not where anyone but Scanlen could have seen. Fath, of course, would have none of it.

  The next day “Governor” McEwan, the Terran Ambassador, came through the lock, enough luggage in tow to fill a cargo hold. He must not have anticipated a triumphant return on the next starship.

  Fath and I visited our host fish, One-Arm, to make sure the aliens remained content. Midshipman Yost piloted the launch with excruciating care. He was rather nervous; I couldn’t tell if he was worried about showing lack of skill, or afraid of such proximity to the aliens. It prompted me to a breezy nonchalance in the airlock that faded as we neared the pulsating fish.

  Outriders emerged to escort us. For a moment or two, as one enveloped me, I felt Mr Dakko’s distaste.

  But within, all was well. A token consignment of salt was to be delivered shortly. Fath had the idea of inviting an outrider aboard the Station to observe. No one considered how he’d get there; I doubted Ms Frand would allow the alien into the launch. I was quite sure Yost would abandon ship rather than pilot him. But Fath, in a moment of pique, had told me to keep silent. I did.

  When we returned, Fath proposed to send Corrine home to Olympiad. I suspected he didn’t want her close to an alien in a vessel he didn’t control. As Orbit Station was built from one of the Navy’s obsolete ships, it was quite small compared to Olympiad. If trouble developed, there were fewer places to flee.

  But Ms Sloan wouldn’t hear of it. “Not unless they carry me. And I warn you, I’ll bite and scratch.”

  “But it’s your only chance. When a ship returns with a writ from the Church …”

  “I’ll have had three years with you. Randy, wouldn’t you like to visit the lounge?”

  “Not really, I—uh, yes, ma’am.” I made my escape.

  Later, I asked Fath, “Why don’t you make her go?”

  “Because I’m selfish. Someday, you’ll understand.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  He snorted. Then, “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll supervise the salt transfer.”

  “We?”

  “You still speak more fluently than I.” He’d been studying the same list of pictographs I’d given Mr Dakko.

  “You’d trust me not to take over the negotiations?”

  He set down his holo. “At times,” he said, “I find your manner tiresome.”

  I had the grace to blush. And the wisdom to shut my mouth.

  I needn’t have worried about how we’d bring across the outrider. His fish brought him. It drifted ever closer to the Station, until it was but a few meters distant. I wished I’d been in the control center; Colonel Kaminski must be beside himself.

  I was glued to a porthole, watching. The fish’s skin swirled, grew indistinct. An outrider squeezed through. I shook my head, wondering how they did it. As far as I’d been able to tell, the fish had no loss of pressure when the membrane opened.

  The outrider launched itself toward the Station hull. Fath confirmed his arrangements with Colonel Kaminski, and hurried to the airlock nearest the alien.

  The outrider came aboard.

  I wasn’t about to tell Fath, but I did wonder whether this was one of his better ideas. “To normalize relations,” he’d said, but outriders had been known to carry viruses. True, Fath and I and Mr Dakko had tested clean when we’d gone through the station’s decon after our session in the fish.

  Colonel Kaminski, rallying, sent Centraltown and Olympiad encouraging bulletins of the outrider’s visit, and Fath even posed with the alien before the holocams. He loathed publicity; I’d never realized how important it was to him that relations start off well.

  “Big ship no-Fuse, no-go,” was how we’d originally described the Station, before assigning the phrase a symbol. Fath showed the alien around, though I suspected the Station’s maze of corridors made as much sense to the outrider as the fish’s membranes did to me.

  “Tell him more salt will be here soon,” Fath ordered, and dutifully, I did. In fact, a cargo shuttle was even now making its way to the Station.

  But the first vessel that docked was a launch from Olympiad.

  We left the outrider a tub of nutrients—hospitality was an important tradition to nourish—before we passed into the next section to greet our visitors. Familiar figures strode down the Station corridor: Mikhael Tamarov, holding Janey’s hand. Behind them, Midshipman Yost shouldered an overstuffed duffel. Janey broke loose, hurled herself at Fath.

  Mik’s eyes were sunken. He snapped a salute, but Fath waved it away, pulled him close.

  “Pa, I thought of resigning, but—”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “When we get home, I’ll get in touch with Philip. He and Senator Boland will help—” />
  “Yes, son, do that. But for the cruise home, exemplary conduct. Don’t give them excuse to—”

  “Tad Anselm’s waiting for a chance to relieve Frand. What goes around comes—”

  Fath gripped his arm so tightly that Mik winced. “Under no circumstances! Make him understand they’ll hang him. Naval politics has become about as ugly as …” He shook his head. “Mik, his life is in your hands.”

  “I’ll try, Pa.” Mik’s tone was sober. He searched Fath’s eyes. “Three years, home and back. God, I’ll miss you.”

  Fath smiled. “You’ll be nearly grown.”

  Mik was twenty, but took the jibe without annoyance.

  “Why’d you come, son?”

  “I have your gear, but mostly to bring Janey. Since you and Corrine are here …”

  “Of course. I was going to make arrangements with Ms Frand.”

  “She said it had to be now.”

  Fath looked pensive. “Oh, did she?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mik looked over his shoulder. “You. Come here.”

  “Me?” My voice squeaked. Tentatively, I eased within his range.

  He swept me into a rib-cracking hug. “I’ll miss you. Take care of Pa.” It was a whisper.

  “I’ll try—no. He takes care of me.” Trying to take care of Fath had gotten me in most of the trouble I’d landed in.

  “Please, Randy. Don’t fight him.”

  That I could promise, and did.

  Mik said to Fath, “I have to go, sir. Ms Frand wants her launch.”

  “What’s her hurry?”

  “We’ll be sailing to Fusion safety.”

  “Hmm. Very well, you two. Get going.”

  “I’m staying.” Tommy Yost looked sheepish. “Mr Tamarov pilots home. I mean, to Olympiad.”

  Fath raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Yost shifted from foot to foot. “It’s … well… I asked for transfer to Admiralty, sir.”

  “There won’t be another ship for ages.”

  “I know, but …” His eyes darted to Mikhael. “Sir, is it all right to say?”

  Mik nodded.