Children of Hope (24 page)

And then, Monday, more of the stultifying labor, endless rows of unyielding earth under the remorseless sun. I dug at the stubborn sod, acrid sweat trickling down my ribs.

I’d already hidden a heel of bread under my pillow, to see if the deacons would notice. None had. They served hard cheese; that would keep a day or two, even in a warm barracks.

Bread and cheese might buy me an extra day, with cool water from a stream.

I hadn’t dared leave my bed to see if the barracks door was locked at night.

Where would I go? I’d head for the Zone, of course; Centraltown lay beyond it. Perhaps Anthony would hide me, or Judy. Alex Hopewell I wasn’t sure about.

Three days passed, three days of hell.

I was becoming numbed, marching about like an automaton, singing out, “Yes, sir,” when spoken to.

Perhaps I’d die in the deep woods bordering the Zone. It didn’t much matter.

On Friday, I was breaking tufts of sod with a pitchfork when the whap of a heli sounded in the distance.

“CARR!”

I jumped back to my hoe, scrabbling frantically at the earth. Moments before, our deacon had given Jackie a vicious whack, and he was still teary-eyed. I wasn’t sure he knew that blood was seeping down his back.

“Carr, move!”
A deacon looked about from the heli door. I gaped. Our supervisor prodded me.

The small, swift two-seater had landed perhaps fifty paces distant. By its door, a squat man waited. His beard was bushy and black. A strap dangled from his hand.

I’d seen how it was done; swallowing my pride I ran across the field. “Here, sir! How may I serve?”

The deacon ran his fingers over his unshaved chin. “Turn.” He twisted me by the shoulder.

I did. He cuffed my hands behind my back.

“In.”

I struggled to climb aboard.

He punched the small of my back with the heel of his palm. It hurt. “In!”

“Yes, sir!”

“That’s better.” He helped me aboard. “Sit back, boy.”

“Yes, sir.” In the cool of the heli, I was clammy with the sweat of dread.

We lifted off, soared over the farm. We headed to an outbuilding at the edge of the complex, a mile or two distant.

Five minutes ride. From the terrain I judged that we’d left the farm proper. A clearing, with a snug celuwall outbuilding. No helipad, but grass cut short.

He set down on a bare patch near the door, pulled me out. “Let’s go.” He turned off the key, left it in the ignition.

I must not have moved fast enough; he clipped me alongside the ear. Jesus, it hurt. I trotted through the door, his fingers tight on my neck.

Inside, a small room, bare except for a bench. Two deacons. I blinked in the sudden dark. Four walls, a chair. Rough hewn beams of thick, sturdy genera wood across the ceiling.

Three deacons, one operating a holocam. It focused tight on my face.

A door opened. The Right Reverend Bishop Scanlen strode in.

“Ah, Randolph. I trust you are well?”

My hands were still cuffed behind me. “Yes, sir.” It wasn’t how I’d have preferred to answer.

“Let’s get it done.” His voice was flat.

Someone grabbed me from behind. Another slipped a rope over my neck. I squawked.

Scanlen faced the holocam. “This is what it comes to,” he said.

They threw the rope over the beam.

“NO! IN CHRIST’S NAME, NO!”

They paid me no attention. “Now.”

Two of them hauled on the rope. I was lifted to my toes.

And beyond.

They held me there a half minute, kicking, turning purple while the room swam. Then they let me down. The squat bearded deacon thrust his fingers inside the noose, forced it loose. I sucked a great gasp of air.

“Think on it,” Scanlen said to the holocam.

My feet wouldn’t hold the ground. I staggered, tumbled into a heap, choking, crying, squealing, sucking at air.

“Ease him,” said Scanlen.

In a moment my hands were freed. They dragged me to the chair, dumped me in it. I was beside myself with fear, hate, frenzy.

Scanlen knelt at my side. “This was for him, not you. Hopefully he’ll heed. Else, I’ll shrive you when the time comes.” A rough hand tousled my hair with what might have been kindness.

When I looked up, he was gone.

They let me sit for an hour, perhaps two. I was beyond thought.

“Come along, boy.” The bearded deacon.

I couldn’t stand. I flinched, expecting the strap.

They exchanged glances. Two of them reached for my hands, cuffed them, but in front. “Let’s go.” The squat, heavyset deacon pulled me up by the elbow. The two others watched from the doorway.

I trotted along, sniveling, my throat burning like fire.

Ahead waited the heli, to take me back to the farm. To hell.

The deacon swung open the door. I made as if to climb in, stumbled. It took me a step backward. A pace toward the door. I let loose the hardest kick I ever launched, right into his crotch. My sturdy Naval shoe buried itself in flesh.

He gasped. His eyes bulging, he doubled over. I raised high my chained wrists. An arc flashed in the sunlight. My steel cuffs slammed into his neck. Bones snapped. He dropped like a stone and was still.

I scrambled into the heli, slammed shut the door, clicked the lock. Gibbering, I tried desperately to pull myself together.

Could I pilot with my wrists cuffed?

The two deacons sprinted to the heli. I turned the key, switched on the engine. Ever so slowly, the rotors began to turn.

One deacon knelt by his comrade, the other slammed into the door. It held. He brandished a stunner.

Come
on,
heli.

I watched my rotor speed.

The deacon ran to the pilot’s door. Locked. He hefted his stunner, smashed at the window.

In a moment I’d have lift.

The window splintered.

I grasped the collective, just managed to reach the cyclic.

Shards of plastic splattered my lap.

The deacon rammed his stunner through the broken window.

LIFT.

The stunner brushed my side; I flinched clear in the nick of time.

We were off the ground. The deacon wrapped a foot around the runner, tried desperately to stun me.

I soared into the sky.

The deacon’s face pressed against the remains of the plastic.

Our eyes met.

Deliberately, I rammed my foot on the rudder, twitched the cyclic.

Abruptly we banked, and his face was gone.

The sudden lightening of our load threw me upward. Shuddering with relief, fear, Lord God knew what, I scrambled to keep us aloft. Damn it, a heli needed two hands. I was busier than a one-armed … what had Dad called it?

The radar beeped; I glanced into the sky. A fleet of seven or eight large helis cruised toward the farm. Shit! I ducked to the treetops. South, Randy. Head for Centraltown, before they get help. The Zone was underpopulated; they’d surely track me, but in Centraltown I could lose myself.

What was top speed? Three hundred, by the airspeed indicator. Forty-five minutes. Too long; they’d be on me. Don’t panic, Randy. Do you have fuel? Yes, enough; the Valdez permabattery was fully charged. If only I could reach the cyclic while …

I glanced at the radar scope. Behind me, nothing. Where was the frazzing transponder? I searched the controls. Anth hadn’t taught me that part. But if I broadcast my ID, they’d have a lock on me.

Were they calling for help? I twirled the frequencies. The radio was strangely silent.

CHRIST, JOEY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

I was heading east, into the Davon Hills. Centraltown was south. Steady, Randy. You’ve a lot to do, your hands won’t reach, and—

You idiot.

I switched on the puter. “Set autopilot, heading Centralport beacon.”

“Autopilot set.” The puter’s voice was brisk and impersonal.

“Transponder off.”

“Transponder now off.”

I leaned back, wishing I could gnaw off my cuffs. “EST to Centraltown?”

“Estimated arrival Centraltown Spaceport twenty-six minutes thirteen sec—”

“Not the spaceport!” Lord God knew who’d be there watching

“That’s where the beacon—”

“Downtown, somewhere. Churchill Park.”

Our course changed by a minute fraction.

The radar beeped. Behind us, a blip, moving fast.

“Shit.” I pounded the dash. “Top speed.”

“Was that a query or a request?”

“Go to top speed!” Then, “What is it?”

“Top cruising airspeed three hundred twelve knots.”

I peered at the screen. “We’re being followed.”

“Noted.”

“How fast are they going?”

“Craft on our heading is proceeding at three hundred fifty-seven knots. Estimated intercept seventeen minutes eighteen seconds.”

“Make us go faster!”

“Top cruising speed is—”

“Emergency speed!”

“Unless a valid emergency is declared I cannot—”

“I declare one! My life’s at risk!” If they caught me, I’d be hanged in earnest.

The engine surged. The airspeed climbed to three hundred forty.

I had absolutely nothing to do but pry helplessly at my cuffs. All I managed was to chafe my wrists further.

But for the deacon’s kindness, my arms would have been locked behind me, and now I’d be wielding my hoe.

In repayment, I’d killed him. Again I felt the bone snap, and my stomach heaved.

I demanded, “EST?”

“To northwest border Churchill Park, eleven minutes sixteen seconds.”

Too long. I’d die of fright first.

“Intercept?”

“Nine minutes twelve sec—”

I scrambled out of the seat, threw open the side door. A shriek of air. In the stowage space, a box. I heaved it off. Careful, Randy. You could go too.

“What are you doing?” The puter’s tone was injured.

“Throwing out ballast.” How heavy was the fire extinguisher? A few pounds. I dragged it to the door, kicked it loose. A few tools. Out they went. Frantically, I searched.

Aha. At the foot of the copilot’s seat, a release. Probably to allow more cargo stowage. I clawed at it, hampered by my chained wrists.

Why hadn’t I freed the lever before throwing out the bloody tools?

I worked at the release until it sprang open. The seat rocked backward, almost hurling me out the door. I worked it out of its flange, manhandled it past me, kicked it out, watched it tumble down into the trees.

The pilot’s seat was better secured; I had no way to remove it. Ah, well. Cautiously, I maneuvered the door shut. The wind’s howl eased.

I slid into my seat, checked the indicator. Three hundred fifty-nine.

“EST?” My voice was ragged. If they caught me …

“Four minutes thirty seconds. I must report loss of gear to maintenance supervisor upon landing.”

“Stick it up your CPU!”

Perhaps the puter understood. It remained silent.

I watched the scope. The pursuing heli wasn’t gaining, but it seemed awfully close. I clambered to the back, peered through the dome.

A large black craft, far too close for comfort. I could see the blur of its rotors.

“Can’t you hurry?”

The puter’s tone was flat. “We’re at top revs. Any increase risks engine burnout.”

“Risk it!”

“Maintenance approval required.” Whatever that meant.

We were over the outskirts of town. I crawled to the door, readying myself. I wished to hell I had a shirt; I’d be too damn conspicuous in nothing but sweat-stained pants and handcuffs.

“There is no approved landing pad within half a mile of—”

“Puter, set down at northwest corner of park in the first clearing you come to.”

“Regulations prohibit—”

“Screw your regulations! I declared an emergency!”

“Setaside noted.” We swooped; I grabbed at the hand strap.

We lost altitude fast, too fast. “Puter, are you driving?”

“You said it was an emergency.” His tone was prim.

As we slowed, the black craft gained.

A lurch; we dropped a hundred feet. “Puter!”

“Altitude three hundred feet. ETA thirty-seven seconds. Two hundred fifty feet.”

The black heli loomed overhead.

We were an elevator with a broken cable. The ground swooped upward. My stomach climbed to my throat.

“ETA seven seconds, five—”

We slammed into the ground. I threw open the door.

Overhead, the whap of blades.

I leaped out, sprinted for the trees.

The black heli set down. A wiry figure leaped out, raced after me. Immediately his craft took to the air.

I raced past a little boy; a soft beachball hit him in the head as he gaped. His father froze, eyes wide, as I chugged past.

I had to get out of the park, but where in hell was I headed?

A low wall at the park’s edge; I vaulted over it without a pause. I risked a backward glance; the man from the heli was a good runner. If I—

“Aiyee!” I’d run full tilt into a bony obstacle. I untangled myself from a woman sprawled on the sidewalk, her bags scattered.

“Sorry.” All I could do was wheeze. I clawed my way to my feet, resumed my mad dash. Where was I? What did I know of the area?

Wait. Two blocks north was …

Kevin’s house.

I had to lose my pursuer. I ducked into a drive, ran through a backyard, scrambled over the fence.

Another yard, another fence.

An alley. Why not? I sprinted past a shed, risked another glance over my shoulder. No one. Good; I couldn’t keep this up for long.

Overhead, the heli. But there were trees, shadows, wires … perhaps he couldn’t see me.

I ran on, turned north.

The heli circled, two blocks east. Oh, thank You, Lord.

Kevin’s house was one block. Half a block. Only two more doors. I staggered up the walk, heaving for breath.

At the corner, my pursuer whirled, looking one direction to the next.

He faded away. I vaulted over the porch rail, bolted to the back door, hammered it with my fists.

No answer. I banged again.

Nothing.

Desperate, I rammed my shoulder to the door. It was like hitting a rock. I rammed it again. Something splintered. One more time. The door gave. I threw myself in.

The thud of steps down the stairs. The inner door flew open. “What the—” Kev’s eyes widened. “Out of my house!”