Children of Hope (54 page)

“I think not,” said Fath. “I’d be more likely to expel him by the nearest airlock.”

The Admiral’s tone held contempt. “And you speak of obedience to orders.”

“I’d enter the matter in the Log, and take the inevitable consequences.” Hanging, he meant. I shivered. Fath added, “You know where I stand, sir. Do you relieve me of command?”

For a moment Kenzig’s fists knotted. Then, “No.”

The drone grew louder. I peered at the tarmac. In the distance, lights. They neared.

The shuttle.

“Very well.” Heavily, Fath got to his feet. “With your permission, I’ll carry on.”

“Very well.”

Fath held his salute, waiting until the Admiral responded. Then he beckoned me to follow.

“Just a moment.” Kenzig stopped us at the corridor door. “Bless it, Mr SecGen, you
have
to take the Scanlen problem off my hands. If you won’t take him as a passenger … must he go as prisoner? Who has authority to charge him?”

“You do, sir, on violation of U.N. law, though you can’t try him here. And you may remand him to the Church in home system, if he’s violated canon law.”

Kenzig hesitated. “Must the charge be explicit?”

“Yes. If it appears my personal vendetta, he might be released without trial.”

Kenzig’s tone was reluctant. “What charge would fit?”

“Subversion of a government ordained of Lord God?” Fath smiled. “I believe that violates both canon and civil law.”

“So be it.” For a moment the Admiral studied Fath bleakly. “Mr SecGen … how are you so bloody sure of your course? Are you never wrong? Have you a special conduit to Lord God?”

“Hardly, sir.” Fath saw it didn’t satisfy. “I’d rather act wrongly than sacrifice conscience to caution. It’s the only way I know.” Gently, he propelled me to the hall, retrieved his rifle.

In grim silence we trudged across the runway toward the terminal. Fath had his hand on my good shoulder. His face was gray. I wondered if he knew how much of his weight I bore.

Hoping to divert him, I said, “He’s afraid of you.”

“Of course.”

“Why, sir?”

Fath halted, rubbed his chin. “I was SecGen. You’re a provincial; you’ve no idea what that means.”

“I know you headed the entire U.N. Gov—”

“You had to see, to understand. Ask Anselm someday. Whenever I scratched my arse, they reported it in blazing headlines. I had—still have—access to near unlimited publicity. If I write my memoirs, tens of millions will read them.” He searched my eyes for comprehension, found it lacking. “Mr Kenzig fears I’ll chide him before the entire populace of home system.” He snorted. “As if I’d wash the Navy’s dirty linen in public.” An annoyed shake of the head. “Have I ever done such a thing?”

“During the Naval Rebellion you told the holozines—”

“Bah. Come along.”

Meekly, I complied.

I
T WAS A HUGE
shuttle, much bigger than I’d expected. It coasted to a stop near the terminal gate. The moment the dull roar of the engines muted, the hatch flew open. I watched, agape. Master-at-arms Janks charged down the steps, some thirty sailors at his heels. Many were from his squad, but I recognized others: hydronicist’s mates, comm watch techs, engine room hands. All were armed to the teeth. Among them were Mikhael Tamarov, Midshipman Ghent, Tommy Yost.

“Sir? Where are you?” Mikhael peered into the night.

“Here.” Fath. He gripped my good shoulder.

“Janks!” Mikhael stabbed a finger urgently.

“Got it, sir.” The master-at-arms led a mad dash across the tarmac. In a moment we were surrounded. Sailors knelt, their backs to us, rifles to shoulders, safeties off.

Fath raised an eyebrow, but it was too dark for Janks to notice. “What’s this about?”

“Protection, sir. Mr Tolliver’s orders.”

Andrew Ghent danced from foot to foot. “Thank Lord God you’re safe, sir.” His eyes sparkled.

The master-at-arms frowned. “Mr Ghent, might you see to the terminal, please?” He spoke with care, as one might, giving orders to a nominal superior.

“Aye aye—I mean, quite so, Mr Janks. You joeys … and you.” The young middy’s hand swept across the throng. “This way!” They rushed to the scorched doorway.

Fath said, “Why don’t we just board the shuttle?”

“This one’s not yours.”

“What do you—”

“Just a moment, sir.” Janks keyed his caller. “Mr Ghent?”

“Here. The terminal’s a mess. Charred bodies, and … Christ.” Heavy breathing. “Good, we have Ms Sloan. Disarmed the local joeys guarding her. What should we do with them?”

“They’re on our side.” Fath’s voice was sharp.

“I don’t want them armed.” Janks.

“I do. If we can’t trust Branstead’s men …”

Janks sighed. “All right, sir.” To the caller, “Give them their weapons. Send them to Yost, to reinforce the perimeter. Mr Yost, are you on this channel?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, Mr Janks.”

“Well?”

“The road’s clear, either direction, as far as we can see. We’ve taken up positions.”

Janks grunted. “Mr Tamarov?”

“I heard. I think it’s time to send the signal. Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fath’s tone was acid. “Since I’m in command, perhaps you’d care to tell me what’s going on.”

The master-at-arms sounded abashed. “Aye aye, sir. Your special shuttle is on the way; Mr Tamarov and the pilot just sent the codeword.”

“We’ll board this one. No point in—”

“They’ve fitted the other for medevac. Dr Romez is coming groundside. You and your, um, son can’t handle acceleration without—”

“What idiot ordered this?”

“Lieutenant Tolliver, sir.” Despite his stolid tone, Janks hunched his shoulders, as if expecting an explosion.

Fath’s fingers tightened on my neck. I gritted my teeth. After a moment, his grip eased. “Well, perhaps for Randy …”

“Sir, you know liftoff did you in, last time.” I spoke before thinking.

Fath scowled. “I’ll be fine.” He tried to pace, but the circle of guards was too confining, and perhaps he hurt too much. “How long?”

“Two hours fourteen minutes.” Janks.

“We’ll wait in the terminal.”

The master-at-arms shook his head. “Too hard to defend, sir. The whole front’s those glass windows. All those doors …”

“In the shuttle, then. In an emergency we can taxi to the far side of the tarmac.”

Janks bit his lip. “Very well, sir. After refueling.” He keyed his caller, barked orders. In a few moments a truck raced across the asphalt. Only when it had rolled back to the fuel hangar did he allow us to board.

At the hatch, Mikhael gave his crispest salute, a broad grin lighting his lean face. “Welcome, sir. Pa.” He stood aside as Fath squeezed past.

“As you were. Janks, get Corrine aboard.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Mikhael stood beaming. Only when his eye strayed to my empty sleeve did his smile fade. “Oh, Randy.”

I tried to shrug, grimaced at the sharp stab the gesture produced. “I’ll be fine.” I wrinkled my brow. Hadn’t Fath said the same, on the tarmac?

Fath patted me absently, regarded Mik. “Tolliver sent you groundside?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t think he cared to risk a mutiny.”

They each stared, unyielding, until Fath waved it away, a gesture of defeat. “It’s a god-awful mess. You heard about Corrine?”

“I watched. The whole ship did.”

Fath gaped.

“They’d announced you were to be executed. Ms Skor relayed the broadcast from the Station, and Tolliv—
Mr
Tolliver put it shipwide.”

The Captain’s eyes glistened. “She has nowhere to go, Mik. Nowhere at all.”

“Surely they’d relent, once Andori’s misdeeds—”

“A Bishop.” Fath sank into a seat.

“A madman.”

“But a
Bishop.”
Fath rested his head in his palms.

“It was on the screen in crew mess,” Mik said. “Corrine strode into view, a grim avenging angel. Our joeys applauded. Rioted, more like. She stood over that frazball Andori, firing until her charge was gone …” We could hear them three Levels above, from the bridge. Joeys were still dancing and hollering. Ms Frand had a fit. Said it wasn’t right to celebrate the death of Lord God’s envoy.”

Fath’s eyes were bleak. “The Church here would burn Corrine in an instant. The same in home system, or anywhere she goes. How can I protect her? Once we go home, they’ll order me to send her groundside.”

“Refuse, Pa.”

“They’d relieve me of command. Then what? Should I seize
Olympiad
to save her?”

A new voice, from the hatch. “No. Let them take me.”

Fath leaped from his seat, winced. “Corrine!” He hobbled to the hatch. Outside, behind Ms Sloan, Midshipman Andrew Ghent surveyed the spaceport, rifle at the ready.

“In fact, it’s best it be done here. Janey won’t know, and you won’t be compromised. I’ll go downtown, to the Cathed—”

Fath took her in his arms, kissed her silent.

From the hatch, Ghent winked at me. I looked away, offended. Who was he to snigger at Fath? Ghent was only a middy, almost as lowly as a ship’s boy. Friendship or no, he was out of line. I made my eyes cold.

After a moment Ms Sloan said, “Nick?”

“You did a terrible thing, Corrine. And I love you.”

She blinked. “When did you decide that?”

“Long ago. I just wouldn’t let myself know.”

Despite myself, I turned away. His look was so lonely I couldn’t bear it.

After a time, the cockpit door opened. The pilot peered out. “The second shuttle’s in the mesophere. It won’t be long. Mr Van Peer has the conn.”

Fath disengaged himself from Corrine. “Very well.”

I whispered to Mik, “What’s that?”

“Upper atmosphere, above the stratosphere. Eighty kilometers tops.”

“Oh.” Should a ship’s boy know that? I’d be one soon. Again.

From the hatchway Ghent cleared his throat, caller in hand. “Sir?” For an instant, I thought he meant me, but his eye was on Fath. “Mr Janks’s compliments, and would you please move away from hatch and portholes?”

Fath regarded him gravely. “Is that how he put it?”

“Not quite, sir.” Ghent’s eyes danced. His tie was awry, his jacket smudged with soot.

“Well?”

“His words were, ‘Have the Captain move his bloody ass before he gets it shot off.’ Begging your pardon, sir.”

“Of course.” Fath’s tone was dry. But he moved farther from the hatch.

Minute upon minute dragged past at glacial pace. I sat near the cockpit of the stifling shuttle, sweaty, disheveled, aching. Fath disengaged himself from Corrine, had the cockpit patch him through to Tolliver. I didn’t catch it all, but I gathered their conversation wasn’t amicable. “Bloody waste of time,” was one phrase I caught, along with “I’m no invalid.”

Abruptly his tone changed. His voice dropped, and I had to lean back to hear properly. Then, I wished I hadn’t. “In your personal charge,” Fath said. And, “Randy’s been through more hell than he can endure. Have sympathy.” A pause. “Yes, I imagine I’ll be fine. I’ve had dozens of liftoffs. But in case I’m … not fit to resume command. Just in case, mind you.”

For some reason my eyes stung, until I had to hoist myself from the jumpseat, trudge to the rear of the shuttle. I stood staring at a dingy bulkhead. When Fath emerged from the cockpit, he spotted me, and for some reason came over and patted my hand as if I were a joeykid.

At last, the crackle of radios, the familiar muted roar of a shuttle. Mr Janks appeared at the hatch. “Just a few minutes, sir. The medevac will pull up close, and refuel. You’ll transfer across.”

Fath rubbed his eyes. “Any sign of trouble?”

“Yost’s squad has the road covered. He says all’s quiet.”

I found a seat nearer the open hatchway. Laser fire be damned; I needed air.

Fingers brushed the stump of my arm. Mik said softly, “Does it hurt?”

“No. Well, a little. Some.”

“Romez will fit you for a prosth in no time. You’ll see. When—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I was careful not to shrug. “It’s not … me.” And there was more. “I look in the mirror, and see what I did.”

“It will fade,” Mik assured me. “Over time—”

“I
want
to remember.” In my own clumsy, foolish way, I’d saved Fath. After I’d done naught to stop them from burning Anthony to charred, stinking meat. I swallowed. Yes, I must be made to remember.

“Oh, little brother.” Mik’s arm enveloped me. Gratefully, I sagged.

“Midshipman Yost reporting to Mr Janks!”
Tommy’s voice was shrill.
“Cars, a whole bunch of them. And cargo haulers. Men are jumping out
—
”

Janks leaped for the caller. “Where? North or south?”

“From downtown. We’ve pulled back, behind the second hangar.”

“You bloody fool, that leaves the roadway open between Hangar One and the terminal!”

The snap of a laser.
“Get down, Mapes! What should we do, sir? Retake the first hangar?”

Fath said quietly, “The middy’s in over his head.”

The master-at-arms nodded. “I’ll reconnoiter. Mr Tamarov!”

Mik jumped. “Yes?”

“You’re in charge of refueling. Get the medevac shuttle turned around.”

“Aye aye—er, right, Mr Janks.” Mik peered out cautiously, saw no enemy, leaped down the gangway, raced to the refueling hangar.

“Mr Ghent, guard the shuttle. And keep your squad vigilant,” Janks added with a scowl. “Yost left them an opening; troublemakers may break through. When we send word, escort the Captain across. If you would, please.” His tone held grudging courtesy.

“Very well.” But it was too late; Mr Janks was loping down the tarmac, rifle across his chest.

Ms Sloan stirred. “It’s me they want, Nick. They’ll let you go.”

Fath said sharply, “Don’t be a fool.” After a moment, “Do you imagine I’d leave without you?”

“
Olympiad
to Shuttle.”
A familiar, edgy voice. The pilot took the call.

“It’s not that I want to martyr myself. One of us has to survive for Janey.”

“Shush.” Fath patted her shoulder. “In a couple of hours we’ll tuck her in together.”

The pilot cleared his throat. “For you, sir.”

“Now what?” Fath flipped a key, switched the call to the speaker.