Children of Hope (52 page)

Easier said than done, one-handed.

I climbed out of the hauler, hunched my shoulders against the persistent rain, and knocked shyly at the studded front door. On my last visit, I’d climbed the drainpipe.

It was Ms Winthrop who opened. Her eyes flickered from me to my escort, and back.

“They’re Fath’s guards, ma’am. Captain Seafort’s, I mean. And mine too. Not that they’re needed, but Fath said … They’ll be no trouble, it’s not as if we’re here to—” I fell back, took a deep breath, wished my face hadn’t gone so red. “Is Judy in?”

“I was ever so sorry to hear about Anthony. You have our condolences, mine and Henry’s.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Why did I mumble? “Fath says I have to be back by six, could I see Judy?”

“Yes, of course.” She led me to the stairs. “It’s true he adopted you?

“Yes, ma’am.” I yearned to make my escape, but held my head high. “I’m his son. I don’t—didn’t think Dad would mind.”

“I can’t imagine why he should.” Her voice rose. “Judy? You have company!”

A moment later I was sitting cross-legged on her bed. We babbled at each other for five minutes straight. Abruptly, heart pounding, I caressed the back of her neck, urged her forward, and kissed her on the lips.

It was a conversation-stopper, but after that neither of us were really interested in conversation. Part of me enjoyed myself immensely, and another checked off stations on a mental card noting progress to a long-cherished goal.

With tender care, Judy had worked my shirt off around the stump of my arm. We lay side by side, her two hands and my one exploring, probing gently, luring each other ever closer to a precipice from which there was no retreat.

Judy’s mouth was sweet, my pulse inflamed, and in the distance a siren wailed. I absorbed it into my ardor, stroked her where she—

A siren? I blinked.

I sat bolt upright, ignoring the stab in my shoulder.

“Randy? What’s wrong, did I hurt—”

“My shirt!” I pawed at it ineffectually. “Help me!”

With an injured expression, she turned it the right way, offered me a sleeve.

No time. I yanked it out of her hands, flung open the door, raced downstairs. “Guards!” Shirtless, I shot through the front door, barely pausing to open it.

The hauler was empty, my guards lounging about under cover of the Winthrops’ spacious porch. I dived into the cab.

On the porch, Sergeant Martel scrambled to his feet.

I keyed the hauler’s puter. “ID Randolph Carr, fast voicerec, start engine, home!”

Martel swung himself aboard. The electricar purred, began to back up through wet grass. Our guards raced to climb aboard.

“Home, hauler, flank speed.” No, that was Navy talk. “Fastest possible speed, ignore safety.”

“Instructions logged for future review.” We careened along the drive.

“Randy, what in hell?” Martel was breathing hard.

“The frazzing siren, can’t you hear?” I pounded the dash. We were minutes from Carr Plantation, at best. I found the caller, rang home.

Martel unsheathed his weapon. “What’s it mean?”

“The dam! Balden River!”

In my ear, a maddening buzz. No answer. I let it ring as we splashed over the rutted road. Why hadn’t Anth kept Plantation Road in repair? With new paving we’d be driving at least twice as—

No, that led nowhere.

“What are you saying?” Mattel’s knuckles on the door were white.

“The dam’s a force-field. Weren’t you at the dedication?”

“What’s the dedication have to—”

“The field’s failed!” It can’t!

“Isn’t that the warning siren we test every fourth Friday?” We jounced across a huge pothole, and my shoulder slammed into the door frame. “Jesus Lord!” I gritted my teeth. “Hauler, faster!” Our main entrance was just around the bend.

The hauler slewed to a stop, water spraying from the wheels.

The road was gone. In its place, splintered trunks of massive generas, amid rivulets, soggy puddles. As far as the eye could see, wreckage and ruin.

“Oh, God.” I threw open the door, leaped into a sea of mud, lost my balance, flopped on my face. One-handed, it was near impossible to get to my feet. Somehow, I did, and slogged to slightly higher ground.

Which way was the frazzing house?

The road was here; the manse would be across the lawn, where …

It was gone.

I moaned.

Fath had been inside. And Mr Branstead. And Mom.

Not again.
I couldn’t stand it again.

Martel caught me as I charged into the morass. “Easy, joey.”

“Don’t ‘easy’ me, you goddamn—” I slammed shut my mouth. “Zack, sorry. Get me to … to where the manse stood.” I tried not to weep.

I hadn’t the shoes for it, but we clambered through what seemed miles of mud and debris, across what had been the front lawn. About here, where Anth had gripped me firmly, introducing me to Ambassador McEwan. And here, where old Scanlen had kidnapped me from Mr Seafort’s heli.

I slid on a slippery rock, and toppled. “Ayie!” I thought I’d pass out; the sky faded to a red haze. Randy, stop slamming your frazzing shoulder.

Martel hauled me to my feet. “You should have waited for the rest of the squad.”

A grunt was all I could manage. I jabbed a finger in the general direction of the house, but let my arm fall; nothing was there. To my right, a gentle rise that had sheltered the guest house. A few bedraggled shade trees had survived, their lower branches stripped.

Slowly, the throb in my arm ever more insistent, we made our way to the rise.

Behind a tree, a muddy figure stirred, struggled to her feet.

“He’s a wicked, wicked man,” said Mom. “He shouldn’t have.”

“Never mind about that.” My voice was harsh. Her hate for Seafort could wait. “Who’s alive?”

“What’s become of your shirt?”

“God damn it!”
I kicked the tree so hard I was afraid I’d broken my toe. Nonetheless, I screamed and raged, swore oaths for which Fath—or Dad—would have washed out my mouth. Eventually, I wound down: a volcano spews only so long. My face grimy and streaked, I sat in the mud, leaned against a bedraggled oak.

Fath was gone. And Mr Branstead. I fought the relief of tears.

Dully, I stared upward. The force of the flood had broken off low branches, stripped others. It had deposited debris in the oddest places. Above, in the crotch of a high branch, a pair of legs. Blue pants, muddied.

Naval blue.

I staggered to my feet. “Zack!” A hoarse scream.

He came running. I pointed.

One-armed, it was out of the question to climb a tree. Mattel made his way upward, while I danced in frustration.

Mom stood wearily alongside. “He shouldn’t have done it.” Her voice was ragged.

I made and unmade a fist, wishing whoever was keening would
stop.
I shifted from foot to foot, like a joeykid needing to piss.

“It’s him! The SecGen.”

An endless wait.

“He’s alive!”

My breath exhaled explosively.

It seem to take forever. Zack shinnied down, found a cup, filled it with water—a commodity we had plenty of—and made his way back up the oak.

After a time, a groan. Then a ragged voice. “Where am I?”

I could do nothing to help. Gnashing my teeth, I watched helplessly as Martel guided Fath cautiously to firm ground. A vivid bruise bloomed on his forehead and cheek.

Feet planted at last, he used my good shoulder as a crutch, and looked about. “Where’s Jerence?”

“Dunno, sir.” I wiped my nose, wishing I could stop sniffling. It made me feel so frazzing
young.

“Who has a caller?”

“I do.” Zack.

“Call him. He always carries his.” Fath reeled off the number, but snatched the caller before Martel could dial.

It rang endlessly. At last, a gritty voice. “Yes?”

“Oh, thank God.” Fath shut his eyes. “Where are you?”

“Downstream. I can’t move much. My knee’s smashed.”

“We’ll find you. How far from the manse?”

“A couple hundred meters, I think. And I slid into a culvert getting to the bloody caller.”

Fath leaned heavily on my good side as we picked our way through rubble and mud. Downstream, Mr Branstead had said. There’d been no stream alongside the manse. Not until today.

In a muddy gully, Mr Branstead waved weakly. He was lying at an awkward angle, his legs higher than his head. We helped turn him. That is, Zack and Mom and Fath did: I was a helpless, wounded, weepy child. Fath seemed not to notice.

Mr Branstead’s face was gray. “Who else survived?”

Fath said, “Sandra Carr. We’ve seen no one else. It was little enough warning.”

I pawed at his arm. “How did you …”

“The cook recognized the siren, ran screaming into the study. We ran for high ground, and were barely in time. Jerence, whom ought we call for rescue, planters in the Zone, or Centraltown?”

“We’ll want searchers, a lot of them. Troops. Ah, there’s a heli now.”

We waved. The machine circled once, set down alongside us, drenching us in mist and droplets. Zack Martel bent over Mr Branstead, covering him from the wind and dirt.

Fath limped to the cabin, ducked under the whirling blade, stopped short as the hatch swung open. Deacon Hambeld, of the Reunification Cathedral. His laser pistol was aimed unwaveringly at Fath.

Behind Hambeld, another deacon helped a familiar figure from the heli.

Bishop Henrod Andori.

With a growl, Zack clawed for his pistol. Deacon Hambeld swiveled, shot him through the chest. Martel’s torso dissolved in fire. He was dead before he hit the soggy ground.

“Now, none of that.” Bishop Andori held up a peaceable hand. With the caution of age, he knelt by the corpse, made a sign of the cross. His mouth moved in silent prayer. Grunting, he got to his feet. “In the heli, if you please.”

Mom shouldered past Fath, confronted the Bishop. “Wicked man! I’d never have told you if I’d thought you capable of such—such …” She shook her head.

“It seems harsh, daughter, but the Lord works in mysterious ways. In, all of you. Carry that Branstead joey.”

W
E DRONED THROUGH GRAY
mists toward Centraltown. Hambeld had herded us into the roomy heli, pausing only to make sure we were unarmed. Mr Branstead cried out sharply as they lifted him to the cabin. Now he was stretched out on the cargo deck of the heli, ashen of face, stifling an occasional moan. Mom, Fath, and I hunched nearby, the Bishop’s men watching from the front seats. Hambeld’s pistol roved from one to the other of us.

Zack Martel lay abandoned in mud and muck.

“Where are you taking us?” Fath’s tone was sharp, but Andori ignored him.

I leaned to Mom, flicked a thumb at the Bishop. “Why did you call him wicked?”

“He destroyed us. I am among the godly, yet he destroyed our home.”

“The force-field must have failed. The siren …”

“Why would it fail?”

I sat, stunned. I hated the Bishop and all he stood for, but I couldn’t accept that he could loose such havoc. I snarled, “Andori, is it true?”

“Quiet, or I’ll kill you.” Deacon Hambeld.

Fath hauled me to his seat.

I was beyond that.
“Andori, did you do it?”

The Bishop peered over his shoulder. “The flood, joey? You’ll recall it was I who dedicated that dam in Lord God’s name. Fitting that I use it to accomplish His work.”

“How many did you kill to get at Mr Seafort?”

“The innocents are sent to Lord God’s mercy. The guilty are paying for their folly.”

“You son of—”

“A high price, say you? Jerence Branstead came home to meddle. Best he’d stayed on
Olympiad
to serve his apostate master.” Andori scratched his cheek. “An opportunity to bag them both? Surely it was the Lord’s doing.”

The sanctimonious bastard. “What now?” I spat the words.

“Death. A chance to plead your case before Him.”

“For all of us? Mom too?”

“No, she’s harmless, and means well.”

Fath said, “Why not gun us down as you did the soldier?”

“Ahh, an interesting point. I know the Lord’s stern hand wielded the flood, but for some, it’s too abstract. Your death needs to be a public act, accomplished by the Church Herself. And we neglected to bring a holocam. The spaceport will have one.”

“You insane fuck!” I spat on the deck.

“Hambeld, burn off his other arm.”

I recoiled.

Hastily, Fath thrust himself between us. “You want my death public? Call him off!”

Andori sighed. “Point acknowledged. We’ll wait, Mr Hambeld.”

Thereafter, Fath watched the deacon like a hawk, his body ever between me and the laser.

How long to the spaceport, and my end? Half an hour, at most. No, we’d been in the air a good ten minutes. I shivered, wishing the engines to slow. Outside, the rain eased.

All too soon, we circled the spaceport, gray, grim and damp. Andori asked the pilot, “Any Home Guard?”

The pilot grinned mirthlessly. “Half a dozen were at lunch in the coffee shop. Conrad’s joeys have them.”

Andori snorted. “And that rabble calls itself a government. Set us down.”

We landed with a bump, not far from the terminal. The door swung open, letting in a blast of midday heat.

Hambeld propelled me to the tarmac. Above, the clouds began to part, and I squinted in the sudden sun, not forgetting to keep my torso between the deacon’s pistol and my remaining arm. Though I would die in a few moments, I cringed at another mutilation.

So, God. Should I believe in You, like Fath? How can I, after what you countenanced today? You let the bad joeys destroy us, and do it in Your name. I muttered a curse.

“Don’t blame Him.” Fath laid a gentle hand across my shoulder. “They’re men, and know no better.”

I wanted to live more than anything, and was hateful. “Are you stupid enough to forgive? Well, it wasn’t your home, your heritage, your life they destroyed!”

“Was it not?” Fath looked bleak. At the hatch, a cry from Jerence. Fath snarled, “Don’t hurt him!”

Andori’s fist clenched. “In a moment, it won’t matter. Where’s the holocam?”

Hambeld pointed. “Conrad’s got it now.” A perspiring deacon hurried from the terminal gate, past a parked cargo truck.