Children of Hope (64 page)

The thud of footsteps, down the corridor. Tad Anselm, Mik, Lieutenant Frand. They hadn’t bothered to suit, but Anselm wore a pistol. “Enough, Randy. You’re wanted on—”

Harry rolled off the plate. Anselm skidded to a stop, regarded him warily.

Harry began to quiver. I watched, with dread and hope.

He rolled back onto the plate. An “E.”

“Jess, a dead human! An E!”

Anselm seized my arm. “Now, joey!”

“Wait!”

The alien tasted. I tried to break free from Tad, couldn’t manage with only one arm. In desperation, I leaned over and bit him. He squawked and let go.

I cried, “What’d he write? Just tell me what he wrote!”

Ms Frand peered. “An ‘E.’ So we know ‘E’ means ‘quiver.’ It’s not much of—”

Harry flowed over the plate. As one, we paused.

He rolled clear.

A dead fish. A dead outrider. And an “E.”

I looked from one to another of us. “Don’t you see?” From their faces, I saw they didn’t. “‘E’ means ‘quiver.’ He draws a quiver when we show him death. ‘E’ for emotion! Fear. Quiver means fear, just like with us!”

Chief McAndrews burst upon us, a timer in hand. Behind him, a work party, with a fresh sheet of transplex for the barrier.

A nod from Anselm. Mikhael took my arm.

“Jess, show him ‘war,’ and an ‘E.’”

Mr Janks snagged my opposite ear.

I blurted, “Draw a fish and a ship, side by side, undamaged! And the negative sign with the ‘E.’ Make a new word for peace.”

My words grew faster, to a gabble. “Write the symbol for Fusing, and integrate it with days and months. Show how long we take to Fuse home, ask him about his own planet …”

Together, they dragged me to the hatch.

Harry watched with barely a quiver.

H
OURS HAD PASSED;
OLYMPIAD
had long since stood down from General Quarters.

Midshipman Sutwin escorted me to the familiar hatch.

“Come in.”

I pulled myself together, slapped it open, forced my legs to carry me into the cabin.

Unshaven, hair awry, Captain Seafort sat on his bed, under the holo of the section four corridor, where Anselm and Mikhael exchanged plates with Harry. The sound was turned down, though, and I had no way to know what progress they made. At least Harry was still aboard.

Fath wore uniform slacks and shirt, no jacket. He had visitors: Lieutenant Frand and Joanne Skor. Ms Skor had taken a chair opposite the bed; Frand stood against the bulkhead, hands clasped behind her.

The Captain glanced past me. “That will be all, Mr Sutwin.” The middy saluted and left.

My voice was subdued. “Ship’s Boy Carr reporting, sir.” There were rituals to be upheld. Besides, I doubted he’d want any familiarity just now.

Fath eyed me. “As you were.”

I released my salute, sagged from attention.

“Care to sit?” He indicated my bed.

“No, sir.”

“It hurts?”

Mortified, I nodded, unable to meet his eye. My rump blazed and throbbed. No wonder a middy would do anything to avoid a caning. But need he ask me with officers present?

I took a long shuddering breath that threatened to dissolve into a sob. It had been a long wait, full of dread, before Mr Tolliver chose to see me. His scathing remarks still rang in my ears. His mention of the example set by Derek Carr and Fath. His caustic comparisons of me with Philip Seafort and Mikhael Tamarov, Fath’s other children. I’d been trembling and queasy when I’d reported to the first lieutenant’s cabin after decon and treatment for my burn: post-adrenaline letdown and fear left me with a sour stomach. Perhaps the illicit liquor I’d gulped had contributed. Unexpectedly, I’d sealed my ignominy by vomiting at Mr Tolliver’s feet. His disgust was searing.

I’d had this coming a long while, he told me icily. He hoped I’d be sent groundside immediately, but first … I cringed to recall what followed: utter humiliation, bent over a table to be beaten like the child I was. I’d carried on like a joeykid, squealing and sobbing and pleading for leniency. It wasn’t just the pain, it was knowing that Fath’s closest friend, that all of
Olympiad,
held me in contempt.

Then, worst of all, the present moment: I’d been taken to my cabin to face Fath.

Ms Frand glanced my way. “Perhaps we’d better continue this later.”

“Why, no.” Fath’s tone was cool. “He ought to hear.”

“Very well, then. I believe, and Joanne and Mr McAndrews concur, that your ward—”

“My son.”

“—your son is a menace to
Olympiad.
He’s mentally ill, unbalanced, and wildly impulsive, apparently a sociopath, a drunk with no regard for an oath. We urge you to put him ashore.”

I sank to my bunk. Wincing, I arranged myself with the least pressure on my throbbing welts.

“Urge?” Fath’s tone was mild.

“Beg. Entreat. Implore.” Ms Frand added hastily, “I acknowledge it’s your decision, sir, but we’re none of us safe with him aboard.”

Fath rose easily in the light gravity. Raising his arm cautiously, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Joanne?”

“I concur. He’s hijacked spacecraft, shot it out in courtrooms with public officials. Today he put us in risk of decompression. To say nothing of how you met.”

My cheeks flamed.

“I’ll go further.” Her gaze was steady. “I urged Tolliver to relieve you and resolve the matter of his own accord.”

“And he said? No, pardon me, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m quite sure Edgar will present his opinion in his inimitable style. Impulsive …” Fath took a few tentative steps. “Yes, Randy is that. But I’m capable of restraining—”

“You haven’t been.” Her tone was tart.

“Please don’t interrupt, Ms Skor; I’m Captain and the office deserves courtesy.” He waved aside her muttered apology. “Yes, I’ve been injured and it’s left Randy … at loose ends.”

I stirred, opened my mouth, shut it quickly. All I could do was make matters worse.

“Sir …” Ms Skor looked uncomfortable. “May I speak freely?”

“I thought you already had.” But he waved her on.

“I know you meant well by making him ship’s boy. You meant well by adopting him. But now, place him groundside in the care of relatives. A Captain customarily leaves family ashore, and this case makes clear why. If he wasn’t your son, the boy would have been tossed in a cell or put off ship ages ago. It’s made worse in that officers are afraid to curb him lest they incur your—”

“Are
you
afraid?”

“No.” She held his eye. “I know you well enough to be certain you’d never take revenge on officers who did what they thought best. But what about lieutenants who aren’t in your inner circle? Or the middies?”

“Point taken.” Fath eased himself into his favorite chair, the only one not in use. “Shall I issue a standing order that you’re all free to beat Randy?”

“It’s no joking matter.” Ms Skor stood. “Tolliver had him thrashed, but that settles nothing. No one cares to hurt you by proffering charges, but any other joey in his shoes would face court-martial. If you were objective, you’d charge him yourself. Send him ashore.”

“I suppose Jerence could find some refuge for us …” Fath sounded reflective. “Perhaps in the Venturas … but how, Joanne? The regs are quite clear: they don’t permit a Captain to resign.”

“No one said anything about—”

“Surely you don’t suggest I cast aside my troubled fourteen-year-old, and sail away about my business?”

I gulped.

Fath eased himself from his chair, took cautious steps, bent to pat me absently on the shoulder.

Ms Frand cleared her throat. “There’s another solution.”

Fath raised an eyebrow.

“You’re aware, sir … Bishop Scanlen … while you were in deepsleep …”

Smoothly, Ms Skor got to her feet. “I’d like to make it clear,” she said, “Sarah doesn’t speak for me in this. We agreed not to raise …”

“We
have
to speak of it! We can’t go about pretending—” Frand made a gesture, frowned at her fingers, ran them absently through her hair. “Mr Seafort, are you impeached? Our Bishop says so. Isn’t the best solution that you go ashore and face—”

“NO!” I lurched from my bunk. “
I’ll
go. Not him.”

Fath’s firm hand spun me about. “You’re here to see what trouble you cause, not to interfere. Be silent!” His face was grim.

“Yes, sir!” Or should it be, “Aye aye, sir”? Was I on duty? Probably, but—

“So, Sarah.” Fath turned slowly. “You’d have me answer at last for my sins.”

Ms Frand was silent.

“And Corrine Sloan? Should I escort her to her burning?”

“She’s the reason …” Frand bit her lip. “You’re impeached for harboring
her.
What choice have we?”

“I’m quite sure in my heart,” said Fath, “Lord God doesn’t demand her trial.”

“Our Church demands it. It’s the same!”

A long silence, which I thought would stretch forever.

“No,” said Fath. “It isn’t.”

We sat alone in our cabin. Fath rested his head in his hands.

After a time I cleared my throat. “Fath?”

His tone was harsh. “Open the Bible. Memorize a dozen verses.”

“But—”

“What do you say?”

“Yes, sir!” Today, I didn’t dare trifle with him. Sweating, I padded to his bedside, retrieved the worn Bible, pawed through its pages. Something easy.

He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth—No, not that! Hurriedly, I looked through other verses.

Fath muttered.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“It is the same.” His eyes were bleak. “If not, why did He bring His congregations together? You know the story of Babel?”

“And they said go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven.”
Genesis eleven something; Fath had made me memorize it one evening when I’d been especially sullen.

“Just so. And He came down, to confound men’s speech, that they be scattered, and their hubris forestalled.” Fath rose, to pace easily in the lightened gravity. “Consider the Reformation.”

The
what?
I managed not to shrug.

“I’ve always thought it an echo, a parallel, as it were, of Babel. The Lord divided Christianity into myriad irreconcilable sects, that none of us be too sure we knew His Word. But if that’s so, what of the miracle of Reunification?”

It didn’t seem to call for answer. I kept my eyes on the Bible, taking in not a word.

“Don’t you see, son? Nigh on two centuries past, He relented. The Catholic-Episcopalian reconciliation, the Baptist embrace, the Great Conclave, the final exclusion of the heretic Pentecostals …” He paused before my bed. “With His blessing, we built us a tower, and saw His Word with the same eye. That tower—His latter-day gift—is the Church in which we worship. The Reunification Church. That it exists is proof of His blessing. How can it not speak for Him?”

Slowly, I closed the book, knew I didn’t dare say my mind. “I’m only a glitched joeykid,” I said bitterly. “What I say doesn’t matter.”

“Except to me.”

I climbed off the bed, my rear smarting. “All that … what’s that word you taught me? Sophistry. It’s all bullshit, Fath. They’re evil. You know it!”

The fierce light of his eyes surveyed me like giant searchlights. Slowly, they dimmed. “Misguided perhaps.”

“Anthony’s murder. The prison farms. Corrine’s fiancé, John. Now, Mr Branstead.” My voice was inexorable.

“A few men are twisted. But the soul is the soul of Chri—”

“Evil!” I spat out the word. “They drove my dad to tears. Derek cried!” It was the unforgivable sin. “Even he couldn’t forgive—”

“Local men, far removed—”

“The Patriarchs, themselves! Their greed and lust for power brought about the naval rebellion. Thanks to them,
Galactic …
” I swiped at damp eyes, ran a sleeve across my nose. “If it weren’t for them, your Arlene would … and Dad … I couldn’t go on.

“You never heard me say a word against …”

“Mikhael told me.” Had I betrayed a confidence? Too late, now.

Fath shook his head. “He wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Hiding villainy doesn’t erase it.” My voice grew shrill. “Where’s the famous Seafort courage? Where’s the example you’re supposed to set? How am I to know truth if you won’t admit it?” I’d get another beating. And deserve it.

His voice was a whisper. “Do you know what you ask?”

A knock at the hatch. We both swiveled. Muttering an oath, Fath went to open it.

“Hallo,” said Edgar Tolliver. “Am I interrupting?”

Wearily, Fath stood aside. “What brings you?”

“I wanted you to hear me out before you forgave him.” Mr Tolliver eyed me with distaste.

“Have your say.” It was a growl.

“You won’t proffer charges; it’s not in you.” Tolliver made it a statement, not a question. “So the issue is how to safeguard
Olympiad,
inasmuch as Ship’s Boy Carr is a lunatic.”

“Please …” Fath trudged to his bunk, eased himself onto it. I tried to make myself small.

“Sir, do you think for a minute he’ll obey you more than the rest of us?”

“No doubt you propose a solution?”

“You won’t set him ashore, as Frand and Skor would like; I told them not to bother suggesting it. Would you let me write him up? Appoint any officers you wish as court. They’ll be fair.”

“I can’t stop you.”

“Nonsense.” Tolliver’s tone was gentle. “I won’t hurt you so deeply as that.”

Fath covered his face. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. “You’d better go.”

“In a moment. Does he understand what he’s done?”

“We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“Hmmm.” Tolliver eyed us. “He’s been weeping, and you’re too upset to meet my eye. What’s Sarah Frand said to you?”

“I don’t care to discuss—”

“The stupid twit brought up Bishop Scanlen’s proclamation?”

“Edgar!”

“You’re only hours out of deepsleep, and shaky; she had no right. Now, as for Randy …” He folded his arms. “Remove him from the ship’s company. Bar him from all areas where passengers are banned, including Level 1, where he’s too near the bridge. No matter what, keep the boy as far as humanly possible from that bloody outrider. Assign him a cabin belowdecks, join him for dinner, or whenever else you choose. Then we might make Kall’s Planet alive.”