Children of Hope (79 page)

I said, “At home you’ll have first word, as he called it. The Bishop will be livid.”

“Oh, worse than that.
The wicked shall see it, and be grieved; he shall gnash with his teeth, and melt away.”
Fath didn’t look overly troubled. “You’re puzzled? Read Psalms. Memorize a dozen verses a day.”

“Fath!”

“What else have you to do? Arcvid with Yost? Enlighten your soul, then play.” He softened his edict by ruffling my hair.

Dad, I’ll always miss you. But he’s truly my father now.

The fish drifted closer. I could make out individual swirls on their mottled skins.

Soon, we’d be on our way.

The cost to Hope Nation would be great—two years of Mr Dakko’s transport credit, and Mr Branstead’s government would have to make do with a temporary Station, cobbled from shuttles and launches lashed together—but the alternative was inevitable defeat.

For days, shuttles had been uplifting foodstuffs, supplies, gear, everything the few of us would need for months of travel. Janey, Corrine, Fath and I, Tommy Yost. Five techs who’d volunteered for mankind’s new adventure.

Mr Branstead had thoughtfully uploaded holos of the Church correctional farms, and close-ups of the children delivered from them.
Olympiad
’s Log was safely stored in our puter banks, along with Bishop Scanlen’s vicious taunts, which Colonel Kaminski has been kind enough to record. In six months—nearly a year before
Olympiad
—we’d Defuse in home system. By then, I’d be a well-trained comm tech, and manning the Comm Room, I’d have a box seat for the Church’s long-awaited comeuppance.

A console light flashed. Proudly, I answered. “Orbit Station, go ahead.”

“Randy? Chris Dakko. I just wanted to wish Mr Seafort Godspee—”

The screen blanked.

We were Fused.

So.

After a time, I switched on my holovid, scrolled through dull, endless verses.

I suppose I believe in You, You old fraz; You leave me no choice. But I hate what You did to Dad. I hate that You’ve tortured Fath. And You weren’t all that kind to me, You know. I have nothing good to say to You. But I’ll read. I’ll try to understand.

Someday, we’re going to have a talk, You and I.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 2001 by David Feintuch

cover design by Michel Vrana

978-1-4532-9565-6

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