Children of Hope (55 page)

“Where the hell is he?”
Lieutenant Tolliver sounded beside himself.

“Seafort, here.”

“Captain, your bloody fish’s come to life. It’s spewed an outrider to attack the ship.”

“How do you know it’s an attack?”

“We don’t know it’s not, and I’ve a ship full of passengers.”

“Just one outrider, Edgar?”

“One’s all they need, sir. If it cuts through
—
”

“Steady, old friend.”

“Oh, I’m steady. The beastie launched two minutes ago. Direct for our midsection. ETA four minutes forty-six seconds. I’m at Battle Stations. In about a minute I’m going to vaporize it.”

“No! Absolutely not!” Fath lurched to his feet.

“
I can’t take the
—
”

“I’m
taking the chance!”

“Sir, my call, while you’re groundside. With all due respect.”

Fath said, “Use full thrusters, slide out of its path! You know outriders have no propulsive power.”

A refueling truck careened across the runway, pulled to a stop at the medevac shuttle, fifty yards distant.

“And then what? Let it float until it’s sucked into Hope Nation’s gravity well? Now, there’s a hostile act.”

“Match velocities. Open an airlock to our meeting corridor.”

“No.”
Perhaps it seemed too bald. Tolliver sounded apologetic.
“I can go along with that lunacy when you’re aboard sir. Just barely. But on my own
…
”

“Let me talk to him.” I tugged at Fath’s arm.

“No, son. Edgar, I’m begging you—”

“It’s not worth the risk. Two minutes. One fifty.”

I didn’t know what drove me. “There’s no time!” I reached for the caller.

Dumbfounded, Fath let me pry it from his grasp. It was no mean feat, one-handed.

“Mr Tolliver, Ship’s Boy Carr reporting.” I wasn’t one any longer, but I didn’t know how else to start. “For God’s sake, open an airlock. Don’t kill the ambassador of an alien race.”

“We’ve no idea he’s an ambass
—
”

“Of course he is, and we all know it.” I spoke so rapidly I almost gabbled. “Those things give me the creeps, especially when they
quiver.
And I saw one kill Kevin Dakko.” Was that what I wanted to say? Was I making it worse?

“Janks to Shuttle!”

I ignored the new voice, spoke to the distant Tolliver. “This is Fath’s—Captain Seafort’s life work. The most important thing he ever did.” I risked a glance at Fath, turned away hastily, ashamed of the reproach I saw. “To make peace with the aliens … it would give
him
peace at last. You know the burden he’s carried. Genocide, he thought. There’s tears in his eyes, talking to you.” Fath’s hand shot out for the caller, but I twisted away, spoke faster. “God, he’s angry now, but he ought to be. In our own way, we’ve both betrayed him!”

Fath grasped my jacket, hauled me near, snatched away the caller.

“Edgar!”

“Fifty seconds.”
A long silence.
“Mr Anselm, come about. Broadside to the Christ-damned fish.”
Broadside, they’d bring more lasers to bear.

Fath’s hand tightened on the caller.

“Open Level 3 lock! Boarding party, stand by, we’re taking in a visitor. Pray you’re right, Nick. And that joey of yours will face a reckoning. I’ll see to it.”
The speaker went silent. I swallowed.

“Shuttle, respond!”
Janks.

Wearily, Fath switched channels. “Seafort.”

“Could you contact Branstead, find out about this bunch?”
The master’s voice was low.
“Most of them don’t look military, but they’ve rifles and stunners and the like. And the crowd’s moving to the gap Yost left.”

“Will do.” Fath’s tone was grim. “Are they deacons or civilians?”

“No clerical garb, but that means nothing. We’re firing across the road from time to time, keeping their heads down. Sir, if they circle the tarmac … We haven’t enough men.”

“I don’t want anyone shot, Janks. On their side or ours.”

“My brief is to get you aloft, whatever the cost.”

“Belay that! I’m telling you to—”

“My orders come from Mr Tolliver, sir. He’s nominally in charge. Take it up with him.”

Turning from the speaker, Fath let loose a fearsome volley of oaths. I was impressed. He could teach Alex Hopewell a thing or two, and Alex had the foulest mouth in—

“If you want to help, sir, ask Branstead’s advice. Perhaps we could negotiate …”

“Right.” With a growl, Fath set down the caller.

I tugged at his sleeve. “What about Admiralty? Could Kenzig send help?”

“The Navy has no real base here. Just a few Admiralty House clerks.” Fath stabbed at keys. “Seafort speaking. Connect me to Stadholder Branstead.” A long pause, while he fumed.

At last, a tinny voice. “Hello?”

“Jerence, we’ve a problem. Those hotheads you spoke of—”

I had to lean close, to hear. Was it eavesdropping, if I put my ear right to Fath’s caller? I mean, he
knew
I was listening.

“I’m not Branstead. They operated on his knee tonight. He’s under anesthetic.’

Fath blinked. Then, “Chris?”

“Yes, sir.” Mr Dakko. “Why aren’t you aloft? Bishop Scanlen’s roused a mob. They’re headed—”

“Scanlen? He’s jailed.”

“Not anymore.” Mr Dakko sounded grim. “We couldn’t hold him.”

“Jerence charged him with—”

“Physically, we couldn’t hold him. At least a thousand joeys had gathered around the Manse, Ms Carr among them. Even Vince Palabee showed up to harangue them. Some of our Home Guard deserted. Others didn’t want to fire on their own.” A pause. “Neither did we. Sir, this is thoroughly out of hand.”

Fath asked, “Is there a government?”

“I’ll ask Mr Branstead when he wakes.” Mr Dakko rang off.

Outside the hatch, shouts. Midshipman Ghent bounded in. “Sir, let’s get you to your shuttle. Mr Janks is falling back.”

“Under attack?”

“Not exactly. But Tommy Yost says they’re circling the—” He stabbed a finger toward the hangars. “His squad is gone to flush them out.” He eyed the smaller shuttle’s waiting hatch. “It’s fifty meters, sir. Can you run?”

“No.” It pained Fath to say it. He keyed his caller. “Mr Janks, have your men fall back to the large shuttle, and lift off the moment we do.”

“Negative, sir. If we let them get close, they’ll spray your ship with fire. Can’t take the chance they’ll hit something vital. Once you’re gone, we’ll be free to disengage. They’ll have no reason to hold us.”

Fath turned to Ms Sloan. “I don’t like being rushed. By Edgar, by the rebels, by the fish.” To the caller, “I’m coming out, Janks.”

“Why?”

“To talk to them.”

The middy stirred. “Sir—”

“Be silent, Mr Ghent.”

Andrew Ghent bit his lip, looked around wildly, dashed off into the dark.

Fath picked up his rifle, slipped in a recharge.

I watched, dumbfounded. Of all the officers on
Olympiad,
Tolliver had sent a pair of useless, idiotic middies … Tommy Yost, a spoiled child, and Ghent, who’d lost his head. Granted, Fath sometimes had that effect on you, but—

Pounding footsteps. Mikhael burst in, Ghent just behind. “What’s this I hear?” Mik looked outraged.

“We’ve had enough killing. I’m going to negotiate—”

“Pa, that’s goofjuice!”

I waited for lightning to strike. He was a middy speaking to his Captain.

Fath snapped, “Stand aside.”

“Listen, please.” Somehow, Mik sounded both firm and beseeching. “Forty-six sailors, all volunteers. Two shuttles. Squads of soldiers Mr Branstead can hardly spare. The whole operation’s been laid on to get you safely home. Lives are at risk—”

“I don’t
want
lives—”

“To protect yours.” Mik plowed through. “You want to head off conflict. You’re gallant, Pa; everyone knows that. But if you die trying, a bloodbath will follow. I won’t be able to stop Janks, and won’t want to. Corrine may be killed. Randy too. Along with Lord God knows how many sailors.” His eyes burned into the Captain’s. “Our only hope is to get you both onto the Christ-damned medevac, and out of Centraltown. As an officer, and as your son, I beseech you. Please!”

A long silence. Fath opened his mouth, closed it, made again as if to speak. At last he muttered, “Don’t blaspheme,” but his heart wasn’t in it.

Apparently Mikhael took it as consent. “Andy, Shuttle Two’s almost through refueling. We’ll escort the Captain aboard. See he’s surrounded every step of the way.”

“Aye aye, Mr Tamarov.” Ghent spun, issued terse orders.

A moment later we were gathered at the hatch. Fath took Ms Sloan’s arm. “Let’s go, my dear.”

“You there, fall in behind us!” Ghent’s voice was shrill as he beckoned to the stragglers in his squad. He craned his neck, trying to look every direction at once.

From the roadway past the terminal, shouts and commotion.

Our pace, brisk enough, was none too fast for our escort. Mikhael danced with frustration. “With your permission, sir!” He slipped a shoulder under Fath’s arm, supporting his injured hip.

Corrine stumbled; sailors hauled her to her feet without a pause. They hustled her around the stubby fuel truck, up the hatchway steps behind Mik, who practically carried Fath.

I piled in after.

Inside, Dr Romez saluted, a med tech at his side. “Here, Mr Seafort.” He patted one of two deeply cushioned contraptions that made sickbay beds seem spartan. They’d ripped out rows of seats to install them. Reluctantly, Fath sat himself.

I peered out the hatch. Sweating, panting for breath, Andrew Ghent leaned against the gangway. He grinned. “Never saw the Captain move so fast.” I made my face cold, but he paid no heed. “Except the time Mikhael reported in drunk and threw up all over—
oh
!” He looked perplexed, winced, and crumpled at my feet. A ragged hole in the small of his back smoked and sputtered.

Below, on the tarmac, his squad scattered like leaves in a wind.

The middy drew himself up on an arm. He coughed. Blood welled from his lips. Anguished eyes met mine. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged.

I threw myself down the gangway, got my arm around him. It was impossible to lift him, one-handed.

With a mighty wrench, I got him across a knee, shifted my grip. My shoulder blades blazed in protest. I panted. It was but three steps to the safety of the hatch. I called out, but no one heard.

The railing sizzled, raining molten droplets on my wrist.

Red-faced, unable to breathe from the strain, I inched toward the hatchway. Pilot Van Peer stood inside, watching Romez.

The middy’s feet caught on a step. With a mighty heave, I broke loose, stumbled into the shuttle.

Romez was adjusting Fath’s straps. “—a relaxant. It will take almost immediate effect and—good Christ!”

I stood swaying, Andy Ghent hanging inert from my arm.

Mikhael dived across the corridor, eased the middy to the second bed. Pilot Van Peer ducked into the cockpit, jabbed at switches. “Fuel truck, break free! Get clear!”

Ghent tried to speak, choked, spewed blood. Romez swung him onto his side, tore the back of his jacket apart with a mighty yank.

“Orbit Station, Van Peer reporting, we’re under attack, lifting in a moment. Puter!”

“Shuttle puter respon—”

“Emergency override all systems, calculate for VTOL lift, low trajectory to the north ten miles, gain altitude, revert pattern to achieve orbit!”

“Shuttle, Joanne Skor on the Station. Tolliver says he has his hands full, and wants to know where’s the Captain.”

Van Peer said, “On board, ma’am.”

Andy’s fluttering palm smeared the blood from his shirt. He frowned. “Can’t report like this,” he said, to no one in particular. A cough seized him, and he fought for breath.

Romez took one look. Swearing in a steady monotone, he fumbled for bandages. “Hearns, IV line, flank!”

The med tech threw open a case, bared Ghent’s arm.

Fath’s hands scrabbled at his straps, unbuckling himself.

“Fuel truck, respond!” Van Peer drummed his console.

No answer.

“I’ll tell them, sir!” Mikhael raced down the gangway, arms pumping.

“Hang on, Andrew.” Fath’s tone was a rasp. He lurched across the aisle.

I flexed my aching forearm.

Ghent’s fingers shot out, grabbed my wrist. Like a rag doll, I sank to my knees. The middy and I were face-to-face. His lips moved.

“What?”

He said it again. I leaned close, heard nothing.

A fit of coughing. A glob of dark blood spattered my shirt.

“Out of the way, Randy!”

“Tell me.” I wasn’t in the way. Not really.

Ghent’s face was purple. Somehow, he cleared an airway. “—ember me, Randy!” A plea.

I gaped.

His eyes were intense. “Remember me. Who I was.” It was almost the voice I knew.

“I will. Oh, I w—”

And he died.

I knelt dumbly, amid chaos.

Fath’s voice was a dull monotone. “Waste. Utter waste!”

Romez was at Fath’s side, his tone coaxing. “Captain Seafort, get back in your—”

Through the porthole, lights swung. The fuel truck, disengaging.

“Hatch closing!” Van Peer.

“Not without Mik!” Fath stumbled to the hatch, jabbed the stay. “We’ve lost Ghent, I won’t allow more—”

On the tarmac, the truck rolled clear, turned toward the hangar.

“Get away from the hatch!” Romez practically knocked him aside.

Fath wrestled free. “Mikhael!”

“He’s in the truck!” Romez reached past Fath, to the control.

I stroked Andrew’s forearm gently, so as not to hurt him.

“No, he’s not!” Fath pointed. “Hurry, Mik!”

Mikhael Tamarov charged up the gangway. “Get rolling, there’s a gang of them firing from—”

A stupendous blast. The sky lit to day.

A massive shock wave thumped my chest. It lifted Mikhael through the hatch, slammed him into Fath. They sprawled, Mik on top.

I lay, stunned, half deafened, my head resting on Ghent’s bloody shirt.

Romez hauled Mik clear, knelt by Fath.

Mikhael stumbled to a porthole. He stared at an immense smoking crater, not far from the hangar door. “They got the truck. Pilot, what damage? Can we fly?”