Children of Hope (25 page)

My mouth worked. I had no breath to speak.

“Out!” He ran at me, pushed me to the door.

“Wait!” It was a croak.

“Get out. I’m calling the jerries!” He wheeled.

In a frenzy, I clutched him, hauled him back. “Kidnapped.” I sucked at air. “Tried to hang me, look. Love of God, Kev, help me.”

“What are you talking about? You broke our door. Dad will have a—out!”

I said, “They’re going to kill me.”

“I don’t
care
!”

“Give me a shirt and get these off. I’ll go.”

“Why should I help—”

“Because I’d help you!” It was all I knew to say. “See my neck?” I craned upward at the ceiling, to stretch it. “Rope burns!”

He paled. “You’re serious!”

“The goddamn Church! They’re insane. Kevin, get these off!” I pounded my cuffs on the table.

“How?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The shed! Come on.” He raced me outside, past the door I’d smashed.

The shed had a codelock; I danced with impatience while he jabbed at it. Finally it opened.

Kev dashed to a wall, on whose pegs dozens of tools hung. “Not a saw, no time … there it is!” He pulled down a huge bolt cutter. “Here.” He grabbed my wrists, lay them on the workbench.

“Hurry!”

“I
am!”
He got the blades around the chain between my cuffs. A squeeze. Nothing.

“Harder!”

“I’m trying.” He squeezed until his face went red. “What are those things made of?”

I was in a frenzy. “Get them off, Kev. You’ve got to!”

“Down on the floor!” I gaped, but did as he told me. Carefully, he put the cutter around my shackle, balanced it against one foot, raised his other over the protruding steel arm. “Here we go!” With all his weight, he stomped on the arm.

Snick!

The chain came apart.

I still wore a cuff on each wrist, but no matter. I could use my hands. “A shirt?”

“My room.” We raced to the house, up the stairs. He threw me a shirt; I thrust it on, yanked it closed, tabbed it shut.

“How about a jacket or a hat?” Anything, for a disguise.

“Use this.” He threw me his coat. It would be too big, but …

Pounding at the door.

I froze.

“Oh, God, hide me!”

The smash of glass. Footsteps. We stared, in mutual horror.

The footsteps pounded upstairs. I backpedaled, to the bed.

Kev took a stance before me.

Two men, breathing hard. They crowded into the doorway. “You’ll come with us.” They brandished stunners.

Behind them, a familiar voice. “Is he there?”

“Yes, Your Reverence.”

“Thank Lord God.” Scanlen appeared in the hall, behind them. “You led us a merry chase, lad.” The deacons closed on me.

Kevin said bravely, “This is a private home. Do you have a warrant? You can’t take—”

The bigger of the two deacons backhanded him with the stunner. Dazed, he sank to his knees.

I yelled, “You’ve no right! I’m a U.N. citizen!” It was worth a try.

“Get him to the rectory.” Scanlen’s voice was taut. They hesitated. “Right now!”

They hauled me to my feet, dragged me to the door.

“Kev, get word to Seafort! Tell Anth!”

Kevin moaned, looked at his wet hand. Red dripped from his forehead.

“Kev!” In a frenzy, I struck at a deacon.

He smiled through bad teeth, touched the stunner to my side.

I
GROANED, BLINKED MY
eyes into focus.

I’d learned something new.

A stunner knocks you out, and you feel nothing. It’s the instant before oblivion that’s the nightmare; a crackling surge of energy flies up your spine, and for a fleeting moment, you feel as if your head will explode.

I’d never known. I never wanted to know again. Once a lifetime was enough.

I looked about. How long had I been unconscious? It seemed near dusk. An hour or so, if what I’d heard of stunners was true.

I was shackled to an ornately carved wooden chair.

Bishop Scanlen saw me awake, and perched at my side. “Have no fear, lad. You’ll be back at the farm shortly. As soon as things settle down.”

“Let me go, God—” I took a breath. “God damn it!”

His fist closed, but he made no move to hurt me. A sigh. “We’ll have that out of you, be sure. It won’t take long.”

Inwardly, I flinched. Was the edge of a hoe sharp enough? Would a swift motion slit my throat? I couldn’t go back. I mustn’t.

Scanlen peered into the hall. “Hambeld, any sign?”

“All quiet, Your Reverence.”

“Still, double-lock the door.”

“It’s already done. Your Reverence, we weren’t followed.”

I rattled my cuffs. “Why am I so damn important? What do I matter?”

“As a symbol, primarily.” Scanlen spoke absently, his mind elsewhere.

“Of what?”

“Arrogance. Yours, Anthony’s, the state’s. The arrogance of a nation that would live without God’s Government. We mustn’t allow it.”

“I’m a joeykid, for Christ’s sake!”

“You’ll be whipped for that.”

I was too desperate to care. “Answer me!” I tried to work myself free, but the chair arms were solid, unbreakable.

Scanlen sat beside me. “Actually, my boy, I suppose you deserve a response. As you said, you’re a joeykid, young, offensive, insolent. Traits many joeys grow out of. But you’ve a further liability: your family. The Carrs think they’re above God, above His Church, and they’ve raised you to think likewise.”

“Nonsense.” I had nothing to lose. His deacons would beat me to death, or I’d kill myself fleeing.

“Oh, but it’s true. Young Anthony flirts with damnation. He must be stopped, and you’re the key.”

“We’re free! The U.N. and its Church can’t—”

“Not for long. It’s time this travesty ended. Old Derek was a twisted, evil soul, and led his people to the edge of perdition. But for the mercy of the Patriarchs and their Government …”

“Sir?”

“What is it, son?”

“Fuck you, sir.”

His glare was like a laser. Almost, I flinched.

“Helis, Your Reverence!” Deacon Hambeld, from the doorway.

“How many?”

“I can’t be sure. Several.”

“Anthony Carr’s militia, no doubt. Leave the door barred. If they gain entry I’ll be ready.”

“Weapons, sir?”

“Won’t be necessary. Not in God’s house.” Bishop Scanlen strode to his desk, stood behind it.

For a long while, silence. Then, hammering blows, on the locked door.

The Bishop raised a hand, staying his deacons.

Silence.

Again, the hammering. “Open!”

No one moved.

A crackle. Hambeld leaped back. “Holy God!” His tone held horror.

The door began to smoke.

My heart thudded. I strained at the chair that bound me.

With a crash, the door fell inward, admitting sound, fury, a dozen armed men.

A voice I knew, from the hall. “It’s over. Where’s Randolph?”

Deacon Hambeld said, “He’s a ward of the Church, beyond your—”

I tried to stand, but couldn’t, thwarted by my cuffs. “Here, Anth!” My voice was shrill. “In the study!”

Anthony strode in.

Bishop Scanlen reared. “Out! This is the house of Lord—”

The Stadholder’s tone was ice. “Be silent, Mr Scanlen. You’re under arrest for treason.”

“Impossible! I am of the Church! By what authority do you—”

“By decree of the Government of the Commonweal of Hope Nation.” Anth’s fingers flicked to my temple. “Are you hurt?”

“This house is on Cathedral grounds. It’s sacred—”

“The Government is in and of the Church, of course. But you’ve never had diplomatic immunity.” He turned. “Lieutenant Skor, take him—”

Scanlen snarled, “The U.N. Navy has no authority here!”

“By our Treaty of Independence, Earth and Hope Nation are pledged to defend the other from attack. I invoked the treaty this afternoon. Ms Skor, have your men take Scanlen into custody. If any of these—these
persons
interfere, shoot them! Mr Anselm, call your Captain, tell him Randy’s well.”

“I’m not.” It was a mumble; I didn’t know whether he heard.

Anth knelt by my chair, held out his laser. “Look away.” He set the beam to low, burned through the narrowest section of the chair arm.

I was freed. For the moment. Scanlen would be back, I was sure of it. I’d never escape his nightmare.

I wrapped myself around Anth.

He tried to free himself, to no avail. In a low voice, he issued terse orders, all the while stroking my flank. Men came and went.

Outside, the hum of another heli. Silence.

Footsteps.

“WHERE IS HE?”

Was it a betrayal that I uncoiled myself from Anth, tried not to tremble?

“I’m sorry, joey.” Mr Seafort loomed in the doorway. “We couldn’t find you.”

I flew to him. “Sir, I’ll do anything you say, wash the decks, work in the galley. I’ll call you ‘sir’ or whatever you want, don’t let them take me back to—”

“Randy.”

“—begging you!” I sank to my knees. “For the love of God, I can’t stand another day of—”

“Randy.” Inexorably he hauled me upward. “It’s over. I’m sorry it took so long.”

“I can’t—took me by force, he tried to hang me—”

“I know, joey.”

“Please!”

“Anselm, a med tech, and hurry.” Mr Seafort held me close.

“Aye aye, sir.” Running steps.

“… Anything you say!” My voice was muffled. “I’ll be your son, I’ll—”

“No, joey. Not like this. Not from fear.” Fingers brushed my scalp.

A new voice. “Who’s injured?”

“He needs a sedative. He’s quite beside himself.”

“Just a moment.”

“The farm. No way to escape. Horrible. You’ve got to see. Jackie was—”

“Tad, round up the troops. Back to the farm. Armed, as before. Anthony, prepare for two hundred refugees.”

“Where?”

“Your house. It’s your problem, and should long since have been solved.” Mr Seafort didn’t sound sympathetic.

“Don’t leave me!” I beat on his chest. “If you go, they’ll grab me and—”

A sting. I yelped, pulled away my hand.

“It’s all right, son.”

“You always say that, but—”

“Truly. It’s all right.”

And, presently, it was.

Late in the evening, I stared at the floor of the Admiralty House anteroom, too embarrassed to meet Mr Seafort’s eye. “I made a fool of myself.” The drugs, whatever they were, had worked wonders. I was now only mildly apprehensive.

“No.”

“Kicking and wailing, like a baby joeykid—”

“Oh, stop.” His tone held a hint of impatience. “Get it straight, joeyboy. You may act young. You
are
young.” A hint of a smile. “We’ll talk more on ship, if Admiral Kenzig doesn’t break me down to apprentice seaman.”

I gulped. “Are you in trouble?”

“Probably.” Mr Seafort didn’t seem all that worried. Perhaps reading my mind, he added, “I didn’t quite disobey a direct order. He won’t court-martial me. Retirement, at worst, and that’s unlikely.”

“Why?”

“I might write my memoirs.”

I was still puzzling that out when Kenzig’s aide saluted stiffly, called him to the Admiral’s office.

I fidgeted for the forty-five minutes they were closeted. Mikhael was outside, behind the wheel of an electricar. Apparently he’d been co-opted as his father’s driver.

I still didn’t have a clear understanding of the affair. From what Mik and the Captain had told me on the drive uptown, Mr Seafort was somewhat irked to find me missing. At first, no one knew what had happened. It seemed Scanlen had hurried back inside, leaving only when the other guests did.

The next day, the Bishop had revealed his hand. He’d announced that I was where I was supposed to be: on the correctional farm. As our court had given custody of me to the Church, Anthony was powerless to interfere. He told Mr Seafort, who said nothing, but quietly began rounding up his sailors on leave.

They weren’t all that hard to find. After all, beyond Centraltown, how many places did seamen have to visit? The Venturas?

While the Captain was busy organizing, a deacon showed Anth a holo of my near hanging, with a stiff warning to stay out of the situation lest the hanging be made real.

The Stadholder was livid. The Bishop presented certain demands—for what, I didn’t know.

They hadn’t realized my danger, Mr Seafort assured me. Not until Anth was shown the holo.

The Stadholder’s call reached Mr Seafort while dining at the spaceport. He rose from his table and strode from the terminal, issuing a stream of orders, commandeering helis, dividing his men into squads. Within minutes, they’d set off for the farm.

It was Mr Seafort’s helis I’d spotted as I fled. They swooped down on the farm to find me gone. Immediately they turned back to Centraltown.

I’d listened to Mr Seafort’s explanation on the drive to Admiralty House. “But how did Anthony know I’d be at Scanlen’s home?”

“I read your P and D interrogation. You’d been quite close to Kevin Dakko. I called his father.” Mr Seafort shook his head. “Disgusting. They broke into his house, pistol-whipped his son … in the name of Lord God’s Church?” He’d turned away, stared moodily out the window.

Now, in the Admiralty House anteroom, I marveled at my good fortune. But for the man I’d tried to kill …

“Come along, boy.” Mr Seafort looked weary.

I jumped up. “Is it—” I gestured to the Admiral’s office. “—all right?”

“I’m still a Captain, but Mr Kenzig isn’t pleased.” I took his hand. “Let’s go home.”

“Where?”

“Olympiad.”

I squeezed his fingers. “Am I still ship’s boy?”

“Yes, son. Anthony can’t fully protect you yet. Not until …” A grimace. “Not yet.” We climbed into the car.

“What will …” My head spun. “My duties …”

“First, to take a bath. Then, to get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir.” I rested my head on his shoulder.

Mikhael drove us directly onto the tarmac, stopped at the shuttle ladder. Mr Seafort got out last, stretched, gave the shuttle an apprehensive glance. I recalled he’d once had surgery on his spine.

With reluctant steps he climbed the stairs, halted. “Wait here.” He strode to the terminal.

I glanced at the shuttle. “Will they wait?”