Children of Hope (23 page)

Chastened, comforted, I led him up the stairs. “There’s nothing special about my room. I was trying to divert you.”

“I’d like to see it.”

Around the hall, up the second stairs. I was afraid he’d be winded, but holding the banister, he seemed fine. Was my bed made? In my haste to pack I hadn’t noticed.

I threw open the door.

“
This
is your room?” His tone held wonder. He wandered in, sat slowly on the bed. “Oh, Randy.”

I crouched beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Lord. My first trip to Hope Nation, when I was a boy. I’d just become Captain, and Derek was a middy. Your plantation was controlled by the manager, Plumwell. Your dad wanted to see it, but worried the manager might do us harm. To get us in, I made up an insane story that Derek was my retarded cousin. I hadn’t warned him, and he was so infuriated he leaped at my throat. Right here in this room.” He chuckled. “Oh, that takes me back.” Abruptly he brushed a hand over his eyes.

“Don’t be upset. Please, Dad. We both miss—”

I threw my hands across my mouth, rocked.

Traitor son!

I sat appalled that I’d done it again. Was it not enough that I’d damaged Anthony, tried to do murder, made myself an exile? Must I betray Dad anew?

The Captain’s arm snaked across my shoulders. “Thank you. If I could be that, in any sense, it would ease my mind.”

I said nothing.

“Call me that, or Mr Seafort, as it pleases you. I’ll still do what I might, on Derek’s behalf. We’ll say no more about it. Now, lad. Are you ready for your oath?”

Downstairs again. Mr Seafort circulated among the families, Anthony beaming proudly. I tried to pretend that all was well, that I hadn’t made an utter fool of myself a second time the same day.

At one point Anth managed to take me aside. He put both hands on my shoulders. “Ship’s boy, eh?”

“Did you know?”

“I was flabbergasted. Clever move, though. It keeps you out of his clutches.” I had no need to ask to whom Anth referred. He regarded me, and the annoyance I’d oft seen was gone. “There’s too much to say, and I haven’t the words for it.”

“You, without words?” I tried a grin.

“Randy, your life among us is in shambles. By a miracle you’ve been given a rebirth. Use it well. Strive for your best.”

I couldn’t avoid it by a joke. “I will, Anth.”

“I tried, but I’m not Grandpa.” He grimaced. “Still, I taught you a few things about power.”

“Teach me why that frazzing Scanlen is in your living room.”

“Because we pretend we’re civilized.” A pause. “It hasn’t come to war yet. Pray Lord God it never will.”

“He’ll hate you for what I said to him.”

Anth shrugged. “I’ve been hated by better men.”

“Why did Mr Seafort come here?”

“As a gift to Grandpa. To show support for my government. As he’s shown for you.”

A silence.

“Anth, is this good-bye?”

“Perhaps … Lord God willing, I’ll see you soon.”

My tone was plaintive. “I’m about to cry.”

“Don’t. They’ll notice. Find the Captain. The festivities are winding down.” A firm handshake, and he was gone.

Dutifully, I searched. Mr Seafort was in the study. A figure was with him. My hackles rose.

Bishop Scanlen waved a finger in his face. “… heard about you from Reverend Pandeker. Heresy, he called it.”

“Declining to give the Ship’s Prayer? Nonsense. He gives it.”

“It’s your duty, Seafort, and you shirk it. As it’s your duty to surrender the boy. Not for me, for the Church. ‘Fuck you’? Ha. Fifty people must have heard it. The story’s all over Centraltown.”

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“By Lord God, I could excommunicate you! You’ll writhe in Hell!”

I blanched, but Mr Seafort merely held up a palm. “Would you put our dispute aside a moment, and answer a theological question?”

“Don’t twit me.”

“I’m serious.”

Scanlen glowered. “All right. What?”

“Does Church doctrine admit to degrees of Hell? Are some punished worse than others?”

“Hell is infinite pain, infinite horror. There can be no degrees.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m comforted.”

“How so?”

The Captain’s face was serene. “I’ve done treason, betrayal, murder, and genocide. I
know
I’ll see Hell. So no matter what I do, you can wield no threat of worse. You may not have the boy.” He caught sight of me, making myself small in the corner. “Wait in the heli. We’re leaving shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” I fled.

Hell? If he believed in it, was I right not to? Had I already consigned myself?

Outside, night had fallen. I climbed into the heli, parked in a corner of the lawn.

Where would they have me sleep? Surely not the cabin next to the Captain’s; Level 1 was officers’ territory. Not a crew berth, please. Not among fifty others.

The distant blaze from the house threw enough light to examine the heli’s controls. I gripped the collective, pretended to turn the nonexistent key. I’d lift straight up, bank left, zoom over the house. No, better, zoom directly past the hall window; no wires or branches would impede me. Anth would look up, grit his teeth …

Was I leaving behind anything I might need? I hadn’t bothered with clothes; I’d never seen Alec in anything but ship’s blues. I’d brought my favorite holovid, a small one. With it, I could keep a diary, or watch a vid.

Footsteps.

“Mr Seafort? Oh, you!” My tone was wary.

Mr Scanlen, with a deacon in clerical collar. The Bishop held up a hand, peaceably. “I can’t have you leave on these terms, lad. He outwitted me; I admit it. There’s not much I can do. I wanted to wish you well.”

I swallowed. Where was Mr Seafort? I wasn’t sure what I ought to say.

“You need discipline and refocus. The farm is quite good at that, actually. Perhaps the Navy will suffice.”

“Perhaps.” It wasn’t giving him much.

“Don’t burden yourself with guilt. I forgive you. Truly, I do. As for the Captain, obviously, he has too. Go in peace.” He held out a hand.

Cautiously, I shook.

Something stung my wrist.

The house lights tilted, and blinked out.

M
Y ROOM WAS HOT
. I woke slowly. I’d had an awful dream involving Dad,
Olympiad,
Captain Nicholas Seafort. Midshipmen, a ship’s boy, someone named Branstead.

My room was oddly dark. I struggled to clear my head.

A window, with bars. Minor gleamed dimly overhead; Major must have set.

Bars? I sat up too fast; the room spun. I hung on to the wall until it slowed.

I was in a tiny room, no bigger than the cell in which—

Cell. That part was no dream. If the rest was real, I’d be wearing ship’s blues.

No shirt anywhere I could see. But my pants were blue, and looked like nothing I owned.

I jumped out of bed, peered out the high window, tried to orient myself.

Fields, with rich crops swaying in a soft wind. Were we in the Zone? Whose manse?

I tried the door. Locked.

A farm.

The Bishop.

Oh, Christ. “Help! Someone help me!” My voice was shrill. “Call the jerries! I’ve been kidnapped!”

The slow tread of footsteps. A flashlight. A burly figure, one I’d never seen. The door swung open. “Stop that racket, you’ll wake the other joeykids.”

“Where am I?”

“The training and correctional farm of Lord God’s Reunification Church.”

“That son of a bitch!”

“Foul language is prohibited. To whom did you refer?”

“That liar Scanlen! He said he forgave me!”

“He forgives you, my son. Truly.” A step, and he loomed close. “But as you’ve been assigned to our custody, it’s our duty to train you in His ways. You don’t call a churchman a liar, boy.” His heavy fist clubbed me in the temple. I reeled. “Or a son of a bitch.” Another blow. My head hit the wall, and I passed out.

“Eat now, or you’ll be starving by dinner.” A scrawny joeykid held up a bowl.

Morning had arrived; deacons had come for me, dragged me to a barracks full of boys, shown me an upper bunk.

When they’d come through the door, every joey within had come to his feet, in absolute silence.

A boy was assigned to show me morning routine; I hadn’t caught his name. Towheaded, short, missing teeth, though reseeding was commonplace.

“Where are we?” I kept my voice low.

“The farm. ’Bout three hundred miles north of Centraltown. Don’ let him see us talkin’.” His eyes flickered to the deacon, standing with arms folded, at the breakfast table. “Can’ talk durin’ breakfast. Bunks all right, or field.”

“Escape?”

“Ain’ no roads. Only helis.” The deacon looked our way, and we subsided. I chewed the fresh hot bread. At least the food seemed decent.

Outside, we had to form a line and walk two by two. It was a good mile to the fields. They handed us hoes. I looked about with disgust; this was work for machines. A good auto-tiller would accomplish in hours what we …

“Get to work!” A crack, and a terrible searing pain on my bare back. I whirled. A deacon, with a thick leather strap. “Want another? Get to hoeing!”

I dared not challenge him, not until I knew more. Despite my resolve, my eyes teared as I tore at the stubborn earth.

I asked the boy next to me, “What are we planting this late?” Winter would soon be upon us.

“Nothing.” He spat. “Practice.”

God in Heaven.

Another deacon sat by a sound system, spoke into the mike.
“These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens. And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb before it grew, for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground.”
He took a sip of water.

“But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground …”

I stabbed at the stubborn turf. The salt of my sweat stung my smarting back. If the deacon struck me again, he or I would die.

Hours passed.

The day dragged on, awful beyond belief. I glanced about me; some joeykids seemed numbed, others sullen. All were bare from the waist up; most wore only sandals and slacks. I was lucky to have my sturdy Naval shoes.

As my mentor had warned, by evening I was starving. We’d been given water during the day, but not much. By the time we marched back to barracks, my mouth was parched, my lips cracked.

Immediately, we were sent to our beds. Boys began stripping; squelching my embarrassment I followed their lead. We were herded into a communal shower, where we found bars of coarse soap.

The towhead nudged me, pointed. A tall joey, sixteen or so, across the way. His buttocks were laced with fading welts from a strap.

“What for?” I wasn’t sure we were allowed to talk here, so I whispered.

“Stealin’.”

I looked about, spotted another whose back was a crisscross of scars. “What for?”

“Lascivious.”

I wasn’t sure what it entailed, but resolved not to find out.

Outside, torn but serviceable towels. We dried off, marched back to barracks, redressed in our sweaty clothes. “Clean clothing?

“Once a week, wash.”

Lord God, if You exist, take me out of here! Nothing I’ve done deserves this.

They brought dinner to the barracks table. My stomach churned eagerly, but it wasn’t that easy. First a deacon opened the Book. “
They shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore.
” He waited expectantly.

The boys chorused, “They shall hunger no more …”

Towhead jabbed me in the ribs; deacons walked among us to make sure we actually spoke the words, and didn’t mumble. Dismayed, I parroted the phrases.

“For the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

Ha. Not likely.

Prayer succeeded prayer; they must have passed half an hour with such folderol. When I thought I could stand it no longer, they let us dig in.

I had to admit the food was ample, though they were strict on how we received it; each boy had to stand in line, walk to the table with his tray before him, take what he was given, return to his bed to eat, tray perched on his lap. But, when all was done, I wasn’t hungry, and the food had even proven tasty.

Bizarre, our Church. Whippings, forced prayer, foul clothing, horrid work, and decent meals.

Other joeys were talking over their dinner, and the deacons didn’t seem to mind. “How long have some of you been here?”

Towhead said, “Justin, six years. Get out soon; he’s almost twenty-one. Freddy, there, been since he was nine.”

“My God, why?”

“Shhh, can’ say that. Stole from church plate.”

After we were sent to the toilets, they made us turn in.

I lay awake, half the night, plotting how I might escape. I’d seen no vehicles save a distant heli. Three hundred miles was too far to walk, especially without a stock of food. I’d probably come across streams, to drink. But if not …

Morning came. I dragged myself out of bed with the others, bleary and aching. Prayers that seemed endless, breakfast of porridge and milk. Then the trudge to the field.

A day passed, and another, while I watched and waited with growing desperation.

There was no way out. Several of our deacons had stunners tucked in their waistbands. Across the field, another barracks toiled. Surreptitiously, I watched them. A scuffle; a deacon lashed out with his strap at a thin, reedy boy. He ducked the blow, resisted. Two deacons raced over. A touch with the stunner. He collapsed, and was dragged off. In a few minutes, the drone of a heli.

“What’ll happen to him?” I kept my voice low.

“Repentance camp.”

“How long?”

“Dunno. Year, prob’ly.”

“Is it bad?”

“Ask Arno.”

He gestured to a brawny red-haired youth, who grimaced and shook his head. “Don’t wanna go there for nothin’.”

The day ended.

Sunday, thank Lord God, they didn’t make us work. Instead, we were treated to prayer and lectures, and meditation, in the earnest hope we might show contrition for our numerous misdeeds. I squirmed on the hard wooden bench, trying not to catch a deacon’s eye.