Children of Hope (2 page)

I frowned at the Balden River. Not much of a river at summer’s end, but by spring it would be a torrent. Well, last spring it had been, when Alex Hopewell and Sandy Plumwell and I had camped by the river.

Never again. In scant months our campsite would be drowned.

Please, God, quiet your Bishop. My feet hurt, and he goes on forever, and I want to go exploring with Kev.

Fooling with the atmosphere was undependable. Dad had banned all further experiments after the meteorologists blamed the horrible March 2240 hurricane on forcibly shifted weather patterns. Desalinization would do the job, but it was expensive, and would need water constantly pumped upward from the Farreach Ocean to our fields. The cost of a traditional dam would be immense. But a force-field dam … Anth had jumped on the idea, once the science was proven.

“Amen.”
Henrod Andori switched off his holovid. Thank you, God. It was almost enough to make me a believer.

I
SQUIRMED AT ANTHONY
Carr’s fingers on my shoulder, but was careful not to shrug them off. We were in public, and he’d be really ticked if I made an issue of it, especially after the sharp words we’d had a day ago. So what if I told our blustering crop manager what I thought of him? At fourteen, I had little stomach for fools. Unfortunately, Anth didn’t see it that way, and today, I was on a short leash. Too bad I didn’t have Kevin Dakko to whisper with, but he’d gone home to Centraltown months ago.

In Anthony’s view, requiring a rebellious and protesting joeykid like me to attend a reception with adults was both penalty and honor. I’d resigned myself to make the best of it, and circled dutifully among the crowd of planters come to pay their respects. Even Mother was there, lost behind her dreamy smile.

Anthony frowned at Vince Palabee, who waited for an answer. “We’ve a favorable balance of trade with Earth, regardless of shipping costs.”

Overhead, Minor was just setting, and Major was near the horizon. We’d have to adjourn our reception before long; at this time of year Hope Nation grew cool at dusk. At least Eastern Continent did; I’d never been across Farreach Ocean to the Ventura Mountains, home of our mining bases as well as our most beautiful scenery. Dad had always meant to take me, but …

The stocky planter’s tone was stubborn. “Anthony, the Terrans can raise their rates at will. They’ll throttle us. And they will, to get even for the Declaration.” Dad’s Declaration, as Stadholder, that had set us free from the U.N.

My keeper smiled with genial disregard. Anth thought that Palabee was an ass—he’d told me as much—and disregarded his proposals in the Planters’ Council. Still, Anthony had to say
something.
If nothing else, Palabee was his guest.

He flicked a thumb at the chubby Terran Ambassador refilling his punch glass from the bowl, at the drinks table across the immaculate lawn. “McEwan is demanding we plant even more acreage; Earth will take what grains we offer. They’re desperate, thanks to Seafort.” Anthony was delighted that the former SecGen had led his planet to agricultural disaster, and saw great advantage for us in the Terran fiasco.

I shouldn’t have stared; the Ambassador caught my eye, nodded, strolled our way.

As he neared, Vince Palabee eased away. At least he knew when he was outclassed.

I sighed, braced myself for more blather. Faintly, past the burble of conversation, came the yips and squeals of other joeykids at the pond. I’d be swimming with them but for Anth’s insistence I stay where he could keep an eye on me.

He didn’t know it, but I was more relieved than annoyed. Of late, I’d felt reluctant to jump bare from the high rock with my fellow teeners. I’d get a great view of Judy Winthrop that way, but she’d also get a view of me. Since I’d turned fourteen, two months back, it made me uneasy. Not that it bothered Alex Hopewell, brash and muscular at sixteen. But, come to think of it, Alex hadn’t spent much time at the swimming hole a couple of years ago. I brightened. Perhaps I wasn’t so odd.

“First Stadholder.” Ambassador McEwan, florid and husky, raised his glass in salute.

“Sir.” Anthony gave an incisive nod, which was almost a bow. He prided himself on observing the formalities.

“Congratulations on your reelection.”

“Reconfirmation,” I blurted, with scorn. The Legislative Assembly had
confirmed
Anthony as First Stadholder of the Commonweal of Hope Nation. He’d been
elected
chief executive three years past, by the Planters’ Council, when news of Dad’s death reached home.

McEwan grunted, as if it didn’t matter. He was a Terran, and couldn’t be expected to know which end of a pig shat, but to us the distinction was significant.

Only the families, whose vast plantations were Hope Nation’s raison d’être, were entitled to select the First Stadholder. The legislature, where even common townsmen had a vote, could merely confirm, or in rare cases veto.

Anthony was still the youngest Stadholder ever to hold office. At his election three years past, the Hopewell clan had raised his age in objection, as if twenty-four weren’t fully adult. But the best word to describe Anth was “formidable.” Almost always, he got what he wanted. Even with me.

His hand squeezed my shoulder as he presented me. “You’ve met my young uncle, Randolph Carr? Ambassador McEwan.”

“Good to meet you, son.” The Terran held out a hand.

Son.
Almost, my lip curled. I was no one’s son, and most definitely not his. For Anthony’s sake I controlled myself. Dutifully, I shook his hand.

I sometimes called Anth “cousin,” and thought of him so. He’d warned me, years ago, to play no teasing games with our relationship. In truth, I was his uncle, though he was twice my age. His grandfather was my father Derek Carr, long our First Stadholder.

I was the youngest of what Dad jokingly called his second crop, born years after his first wife Clarisse had died. My own mother, Sandra, had become a Limey, gradually abandoning religious zeal for her world of chemdreams. There was little love lost between her and Anth. Dad had kept peace between them, and when he was gone, Anthony had worked hard to be accommodating.

I suppose after Dad was killed I’d let resentment get the best of me. The next couple of summers had seen episodes of rocks through windows, slashed power cords in the night, and the like, until Anthony had, as he termed it, taken me in hand.

Sure, I resented him—what joeykid wouldn’t? He sure as hell wasn’t my father, and had no claim to my obedience. But Dad would have gone into orbit if he’d learned what I’d been up to, and with Mom inhaling Sublime nearly every evening she wasn’t attending church, there was no one to whom I could complain. No one to rein me in, either. The Mantlet twins even urged me to run away.

Hah. To where? Centraltown? Cities chew ass, and besides, as Dad used to remind me, the Rebellious Ages were long past. Our society, like Earth’s, prized order; joeykids did as they were told. Fugitive joeys faced correctional farms, and perhaps jail as well, if they were petitioned into court.

Not that I didn’t fight; I’d be damned if Anth would cow me without a struggle. And in the process, I found what I hadn’t expected: he didn’t cow me at all.

It was easier to do what he asked than to pay the consequences, so most of the time I complied. But I rather liked the world he introduced me to, one in which our planters constantly competed for power. Anthony deftly played the plantation families one against another. It was fun to follow his machinations. And of course, to be told details of affairs none of my friends imagined.

I’ll say this much for my overbearing nephew: he was frank, open, and amazingly honest. Not only did he trust my discretion, he even solicited my opinion. Though he usually didn’t follow it, he really listened. And then he explained why he’d chosen the course he had. You can’t help liking a joey who handles you that way.

“Randolph Carr,” said the Ambassador, as if tasting it. “A distinguished name.”

Lord God, I hated it when they talked down to me. Anth knew it; his hand tightened on my shoulder, in warning or sympathy.

For the Stadholder’s sake, I let it pass. “Yes, sir.” Our family tended to recycle names; “Anthony” was my dad Derek’s middle name. Randolph was my grandfather, and his father too. We all bore distinguished names; it came with being a Carr, the premier family of Hope Nation.

Turning back to my nephew, the Ambassador lowered his voice. “Regarding quotas, Mr Stadholder. You promised us more soybeans.”

“Actually, we didn’t.” A flicker of annoyance crossed Anth’s eyes. It was, after all, a party, and he didn’t care to be cornered on the lawn of Carr Plantation.

“You certainly never refused. Now I find your people never planted them. We’ve four barges in the pipeline, and the fastship brings word a liner will be along shortly. One of the big ones.”

Some of my friends couldn’t tell a barge from a fastship; they were colonials, through and through, never mind that we’d had our independence for years. I tried not to look smug. Dad had taught me about the Navy and its ships; after all, he’d served on them. Once, in his lap …

“Now, son.” Dad had sucked on an empty pipe; he said it made his teeth feel good. “How long to home system by fastship?”

I’d snuggled closer, warm and comfortable in my youthful pajamas. “Nine months. Oddmented Fusion.” I was five, and nighttime talks were part of our ritual.

“Augmented,” he corrected gently. “And by barge?”

“Three years, almost.”

“And a starship?”

“Sixteen months.” I tried not to stifle a yawn. “Unless the fish get you.” Bedtime loomed, and if I could prompt an exciting story …”

“Don’t be daft.” Dad looked down his nose, his lined face settling into a frown, but he didn’t mean it. “Nick killed the last aliens long ago.”

“What if they come back?” Once, marauding fish had even descended through the atmosphere, to attack Captain Seafort at Venturas Base.

Dad seized my wrist, raised it, tickled my stomach. “They’ll do this.”

I squealed my laughter, desperate to get away, hoping I could not.

Abruptly Dad stopped, squeezed me hard.

I hugged back, loving the smell of him.

“Barges Fuse,” he said dreamily. “Fastships Fuse. Liners Fuse. Even the fish knew how to Fuse.”

“What’s it like?”

“Perhaps someday you’ll join the Navy and find out.”

“Or go as a passenger.” Only the U.N. Navy had ships that Fused between stars; even at five I knew that. Sometimes, late at night, Dad and his friends in government discussed, at endless length, the dilemma the U.N. monopoly posed. Usually it put me to sleep, curled on the couch or in his lap.

“Randolph!”

I blinked.

“Would you like to go?” The Ambassador waited with a half smile.

I asked, “Where?”

Anthony frowned.

“Sorry, I was … daydreaming.” I tried not to blush.

“To Embassy House, and spend the weekend with Mr McEwan’s joeykids.”

Christ, no.
Just in time, I refrained from saying it. I cast about for an excuse, found none. “I think so. Sounds great. Can I call after I check with Mom?”

In Anthony’s eyes, a sardonic glint; he knew a polite evasion when he heard one. “We’ll call you, Mr McEwan. Ah. Colonel Kaminski.” Deftly, he turned to the newcomer.

“Good day, Stadholder.” To me, “Randolph.”

I nodded, trying not to look cross. The Colonel was a few years older than Anth, an occasional houseguest, and was as close as a colonial planet had to a spaceman. He’d served two tours at the second Orbit Station, the decommissioned warship Earth had sent us to replace the one destroyed in the war with the fish.

Kaminski said delicately, “Thank you again for your kindness on the, er, Driscoll matter.” I wasn’t supposed to know about that. A Station hand on leave had run afoul of Centraltown authorities. The Stadholder had intervened quietly to calm the waters.

Anth merely smiled, and they fell into conversation. As soon as I could, I made my escape to the punch bowl, waited for Cousin Ellen to fill her cup.

“Ah, Master Carr.” Bishop Ricard Scanlen’s voice was genial. His hand fell on my shoulder. Jesus Christ, should I wear a mousetrap on my collar? Or bite their frazzing fingers?

Alex Hopewell was sixteen and six feet tall. Nobody ever clamped a hand on
his
shoulder. Why did I have to be so frazzing short? Yeah, I’d grown way out of last year’s jumpsuit, and Anthony counseled patience, but it was easy for
him
to say. He towered over me.

The Bishop’s mouth smiled. His eyes did not. “I didn’t notice your confirmation on the Cathedral’s schedule, joey.”

The Reunification Church practically ran Hope Nation, from its rebuilt Cathedral downtown. Dad used to have all sorts of trouble with Scanlen and Andori. It was one of the few subjects Anth wouldn’t discuss.

“Are you ready?”

I said, “Not yet.” Rituals chewed ass.

“You’re of age.” Again, Scanlen’s cold smile. “We can’t have you becoming a Jew or a heathen.”

A Jew or a heathen?

I couldn’t help it, really, I couldn’t. I gave him my best smile. “Fuck you!” My words rang out, every bit as loud as I’d intended.

Cousin Ellen dropped her glass.

Appalled, Anthony stared past Colonel Kaminski.

Across the festive lawn, utter silence.

For a moment, a horrid sense of guilt. I shrugged it off. So, the Bishop would excommunicate me. I’d go to Hell before I’d put up with him.

Ricard Scanlen gripped my arm with a claw of steel, dragged me across the lawn. “We’ll see what—” Anthony loomed, his face severe.

I wrenched loose, dashed away, caromed off Mr Plumwell. Nursing my ribs, I blundered through a gap in the hedge, raced into the woods.

Prong the Bishop.

Prong them all.

Cross-legged on Judy Winthrop’s bed, I devoured a cold leg of chicken, barely taking time to spit the bones.

Her room was done in girlish pastels, not my taste at all.

She studied me. “What’s a Jew?”

I shrugged. “An ancient cult back on Earth?” I waved it away. “Who cares?” I was sure what a heathen was, and it was insulting.