WE TRUDGED UP TO Level 1, Mik’s steadying hand on my forearm. Cool as ice, following the map he’d memorized and the occasional corridor sign, he led me to the anteroom of the Commandant’s office.
Thurman was a General in our Home Guard; naturally his receptionist would be military as well. As I sidled toward Thurman, holovid in hand, the aide frowned at Mikhael.
“You’re not Burns,” he said. Instantly Mik flung me through the office hatch, tugged at his laser. Two techs swarmed atop him.
It was Thurman himself who gave us a chance. He ran after me, slapped shut the hatch, no doubt to bar Mikhael from his office. The hatch slammed closed, cutting us off from the melee in the anteroom. I scrambled to my feet, worked the bulky stunner clear of my suit pouch.
Ignoring the laser pistol clipped to his belt, Thurman bent over the console, grabbed his caller. I leaped at him.
Perhaps he’d once been stunned, and hated it as much as I. He recoiled, spinning his chair to the bulkhead. I clambered after. Too late, he remembered his pistol. I brandished my stunner, inches from his chest, shook my head, held out a hand.
He considered refusing—you could see the debate in his eyes—but after a moment, reluctantly, he unclipped the laser pistol, handed it to me butt-first. Once I had it, I shoved my stunner in my pouch.
“You’ll never get away with it.” General Thurman’s face was bitter.
“Stuff it in a sack.” I glanced about, dazed at the pace of events.
Thurman’s office had once been the warship’s bridge. Though they’d brought in amenities over the years—softer chairs, a spacious desk, a well-stocked cooler—the reinforced bridge hatch remained a fortress, and right now it was all that protected me.
Frantic hammering, on the corridor hatch. I glanced at the console. Like Olympiad’s, it was a complicated array of lights and switches, far beyond my understanding. “Over there, by the far bulkhead,” I snarled. There was no way I could study the console with Thurman ready to jump me from behind.
“Give it up, joey. You haven’t a chan—”
I set the pistol to low, flipped off the safety, aimed just in front of his boot. The deck plate crackled. He yelped, and scuttled across the office.
“Commandant, are you all right?”
Ignoring the speaker, I unclasped my helmet, studied the console. None of the switches was marked “laser safety.”
Mik would know.
But I couldn’t open the hatch; they’d be armed and ready. “Where’s the corridor camera control?”
“What are you talking about?” His tone was surly.
“There’s always a camera outside the bridge hatch.” Else, a Captain couldn’t be sure whom he was admitting.
Thurman snorted. “It’s been broken for years.”
“Don’t give me—”
“Try it. Just to the left of that red lever.”
Cautiously, I did, my eye on the screen. Either he was lying as to the proper switch, or the camera really was broken.
“General Thurman? Sir?”
I put my mouth to the hatch. “Mikhael? Mr Tamarov?”
No answer.
I was in big trouble.
All right, how would Fath handle it? How would Anthony?
Deviously.
“I want the use of your laser cannon,” I said grandly. “How do I turn off the safeties?”
Thurman pressed his lips tight.
“How?”
His eyes took on a resolve I didn’t like. Quelling my revulsion, I took aim with the pistol. “You’d best tell me,” I said. I tried to make my voice menacing, but managed only a shrill squeak. I blushed.
“Kill me and you’ll never know.”
“Release the General, joey! We have your cohort.”
I said, “Don’t play games. Time is short.”
“Quite short. They’ll burn through anytime now.”
“You don’t know much about bridge hatches,” I said scornfully. Of course, neither did I. I hoped I was right.
“Five minutes or twenty, they’ll be along. You’ll be killed, unless you give me the pistol.”
“Where’s the laser safety?” I sighted on his face.
He met my gaze. “Aren’t you old Derek’s son? Will you kill a man in cold blood?”
“Yes. Five. Four. Three.”
Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, but he said nothing.
“Open the hatch, joey, or I’ll take you apart! This is your last warning!”
“Two. One.”
General Thurman shut his eyes.
Trembling, I put the pistol in my pouch, disgusted with myself. I couldn’t do it.
He shot me a look of triumph.
“Please, give me the codes.” My tone was plaintive. “My father’s life depends on it.”
“Who? Derek’s dead. You mean Seafort?” Thurman’s voice was contemptuous. “He’s no more your father than I am.” Cautiously, he rose to his feet. “Here, I won’t hurt you.”
“Why’d they take him?”
“For trial. All his life he’s gotten away with the most outrageous … Such arrogance, even treason. Not this time.”
I cried, “Why do you hate him so?”
He jabbed a finger outward, perhaps toward Olympiad. “He traffics with those Satanic … damn them! The fish were supposed to be dead!” He advanced on me. “He’s done for, joey. Don’t make it worse.”
“Done for?”
“The Church has him, and means to be rid of him. He’ll hang, or better yet, burn. There’ll be no appeal to home system.” Another step. He nodded to the hatch. “My men are waiting. You’re trapped; it’s just you and me.”
My voice was odd. “Yes. Just you and me.” I retreated toward the hatch panel.
Behind me, a clunk. A whirring sound. It seemed familiar.
Inexorably, Thurman advanced. “Easy there, lad. You’re young, and scared. Don’t be foolish.”
“No, sir. I won’t be foolish.” I yanked out the stunner, set it to the lowest setting, jabbed it at his midriff. He stumbled, fell twitching.
The scream of metal on metal. They were working at the hatch.
In three or four minutes, when he began to revive, my panic had escalated to near frenzy. Shuddering, Thurman managed to sit. Or better yet, burn. I touched him lightly with the stunner. He went down, all jerks and spasms.
A minute passed. “Don’t—” A voice from the grave.
I stunned him again.
After the fifth time he had a sort of convulsion. Sweating in my suit, I dragged him to the bulkhead, leaned him against it, waited for him to claw his way to consciousness. “The codes.” Waiting had given me a better idea. “All of them. Authorize me to the puter.”
“N—n—gah, no don’—” I touched the stunner to his arm.
For minutes he drooled and twitched. When he spoke I could barely make out the words. I had him repeat it over and again, until I was sure I had it right.
To the console.
No. First, a detour to the corner, to spew forth the contents of my stomach.
Wiping bile, I trudged to the console, tapped in the sequence he’d given me.
A warm contralto filled the room. “Yes, General?” Fine by me, if the puter thought I was Thurman. But my voice would give me away. I tapped, “Alphanumeric input only.”
“SET FOR ALPHANUMERIC.”
“Status, laser cannon safeties?”
“SAFETIES RELEASED.”
I typed, “Engage laser cannon safeties.”
“ENTER SUPERVISORY CODE.”
Holding my breath, I stabbed out Thurman’s numbers.
“SAFETIES ENGAGED. WARNING: LASER DEFENSES CANNOT BE ACTIVATED WITHOUT RELEASE.”
“Do not release except by authorization from this console. Override any instructions to the contrary.”
“INSTRUCTIONS ACKNOWLEDGED.”
Good. “Query: how may comm room be bypassed, for transmissions directly from this console?”
“ENTER DESIRED FREQUENCIES AND BEGIN TRANSMISSION.”
“Do you monitor incoming responses?”
“AFFIRMATIVE. I DEDUCE YOU WISH THEM ROUTED DIRECTLY TO THIS CONSOLE AS WELL.”
“Yes.” My tone was fervent. “I mean … I typed it. “Yes. Use frequency of last transmission from Olympiad.”
In the corner, General Thurman moaned. Abruptly his neck arched. His feet drummed the deck.
I tried not to hear. “Puter, do I begin talking now?”
“AFFIRMATIVE.”
“Olympiad, come in. Mr Tolliver! Someone answer!” It wasn’t very professional, but how should I know the proper drill?
A time passed.
“Mr Tolliver! Olympiad! Where are you?” I jabbed at the keyboard. “Puter, are you transmitting?”
“YOU ARE.”
“UNS Olympiad to Station, go ahead.” An unfamiliar voice.
“I need Mr Tolliver!”
“State your message.”
“You frazzing grode, this is Randy Carr, ship’s boy, and I need Mr Tolliver RIGHT NOW!”
Almost instantly, a new voice. He must have been listening. “This is Tolliver. What do you want?”
“Sir, I’m on their bridge. I mean, the Commandant’s office. They captured Mr Tamarov. I have the Commandant and his authorization codes, and the hatch is sealed. Laser safeties are locked; they can’t fire. Take the Station!”
“How?”
“Bring Olympiad! Board us!”
A silence. “You propose I sail Olympiad within range of your cannon?”
“The safeties are locked.”
“I’ve no way to know that.”
“For Christ’s sake, why would I lie?” Fath would be outraged at my language. Sorry, sir. I’m beside myself.
“Mr Carr, can you prove you’re not a prisoner?”
At the hatch, the scream of blades had stopped. But the room seemed warmer. Cautiously, I touched the hatch, yanked back my hand. It was warm. And if I listened hard, I could hear the hiss of a torch.
“Mr Tolliver, we’ve no time! They’re trying to cut through the hatch! For God’s sake, hurry!”
“Can you put Mr Tamarov on the line?”
“They have him. Or maybe he’s dead.”
“I can’t risk Olympiad. If they hit our tubes, we’re stranded; tubes can’t be repaired outside a shipyard. I assume you’re under duress.”
“But I’m not! Mr Seafort’s in trouble, they’re talking about burning him! They’ve got shuttles here!” My voice was ragged. “I’m begging you!”
“I wish I could believe you. You say you have Thurman with you? Put him on.”
I pounded the console. “I can’t. He’s … I can’t!” If I looked again at the blood seeping from his mouth, I’d go mad. His fingers twitched.
“Then we’re at an impasse.”
A breath of air. An audible hiss. The General’s fingers eased.
My eyes darted from bulkhead to bulkhead. A vent. I dived for my helmet, got it on just as a wave of dizziness caught me. I slumped.
Minutes passed, or hours. Or years. By sheer effort of will, I raised my head.
“Mr Tolliver?” My voice was muffled.
“Yes?”
“They tried gas. I’m in my suit. My tanks are good for an hour.” I fought to slow the whirling room. “Sir, the Station’s yours. I’m not under duress.”
“How can I know?”
I tried not to vomit. “Think about my cell in Olympiad. Nothing in God’s universe would make me do this against my w—wi—will.” I swallowed a lump. I was failing. It would all be for naught.
“Oh, son. How can I trust you?”
I whispered, “Fath would.” It was my last effort. I lay my head on the console.
Eons passed.
“Olympiad to Station, Captain Tolliver speaking. We’re approaching at flank speed, at Battle Stations. Open all outer locks. We demand your surrender on behalf of our allies, the Government of Stadholder Anthony Carr.”
“Randy, are you in there? Open, it’s safe now.”
I raised my hand to the hatch control, hesitated. I knew the voice, but … “Have Mr Tolliver order it.”
Muttered epithets. A few moments passed.
“Mr Carr? Captain Tolliver here. Open, as he asks.”
“Aye aye, sir.” I slapped the control. The hatch slid open. Tad Anselm and I regarded each other. Wearily, I unclamped my helmet, brought myself to attention. “Ship’s Boy Randolph Carr reporting, sir.”
“As you were. Well done, joey.” Anselm peered in, glanced at Thurman. “Lord Almighty, what did you do to him? Medic!”
“Where’s Mik, sir? I mean, Mr Tamarov.”
His mouth tightened. “In sickbay. They were pretty savage. How on earth did you take over the master console?”
I told him, giving Mikhael all the credit. I’d done little but scream into my suit, and torture Mr Thurman.
“The Captain will be proud. I’ll see your exploit is Logged.” He clapped me on the shoulder.
“Pardon.” Lieutenant Frand brushed past, dropped into the console seat with a weary sigh. “Mr Carr, the codes, before you go.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.” Dutifully, I recited them.
Outside the bridge, three of Mr Janks’s detail had taken position in the corridor, fully armed. No Station personnel were to be seen.
“Let’s go.” Anselm herded me to the corridor.
“Where?”
“Back to the ship.”
“They took Mr Seafort groundside.”
“I know. The Captain wants to send a rescue party, but there’s a complication.” He grimaced. “Admiral Kenzig forbids it.”
I stopped dead. “What?”
“Interfering in local politics. Meddling in Church affairs.”
My lip trembled. “Did you see Thurman lying on the deck? Think I did that for myself? It was for Fath! We’ve got to help him!”
“I think as highly of him as you—”
“Goofjuice!” I flung down my helmet.
Anselm’s tone was cold. “You forget yourself, Mr Carr!”
“No, you do!” I kicked my helmet across the corridor, barely missing a sailor striding past. “You told me he saved you! Who are you, Lieutenant?”
“Come along.” Now, his voice was ice. Catching the arm of my suit, he dragged me along the corridor, down a ladder, into a launch bay. He practically threw me into a waiting gig, took a seat alongside. The hatch slid closed.
I folded my arms, gritted my teeth.
Anselm said gruffly, “I’ll speak to him. Captain Tolliver.”
Satan himself couldn’t coax a word from me. I glared at the porthole, watched the Station drift away.
“I was sixteen when I met him. He saved me. From myself.” Tad turned abruptly, spoke to the empty seat alongside. “I’d ruined myself, with drink and sloth and despair. It’s as if he’d adopted me as he did Mikhael; he treated me as a son. I’m what I am because of … I’d give anything to save him.” A pause. “But Admiral Kenzig is the Navy we agreed to serve. He, and Mr Tolliver, and Mr Seafort. It’s about orders, and loyalty, and faith.”
Bullshit. It’s about Fath.
White lights, as we eased into Olympiad’s bay.
Anselm guided me from the gig. “Come along.”
“Where?” Oops. I’d vowed not to speak.
“To the bridge. And it’s ‘aye aye, sir.’”
I muttered something that might have been what he asked.
Mr Tolliver paced before the giant simulscreen.
“Lieutenant Anselm reporting, sir, with the ship’s boy.” He came to attention.
Still suited, except for my discarded helmet, I made no effort to salute.
“As you were, Tad.”
“Any word, sir?”
“From that ass Palabee. He refuses to tell me Anthony’s status. He had a Churchman by his side, someone named Hambeld.”
I blurted, “Scanlen’s man. He helped hold me at the rectory.”
Tad asked, “What news of the Captain?”
“Nothing. Kenzig’s lodged a protest.”
“With whom?”
“The Archbishop. And Palabee.”
“To what effect?”
“I gather they’re ignoring him.” Tolliver stopped his pacing long enough to glare at us. “I want to send a force groundside. Kenzig refuses absolutely.”
“Excuse me.” My voice was cold.
“Yes?” Tolliver raised an eyebrow.
“General Thurman spoke of burning.”
“Andori—the Archbishop—lodged a charge of heresy for attempting to arrest Bishop Scanlen. That would be the penalty. They’ll try him on the civil charges first.”
“Which are?”
“Crimes against humanity. Primarily, dealing with our friend the outrider.” He gestured wearily toward Level 2. “They want the fish destroyed. Which reminds me.” He took up the caller. “Ms Frand? I need you to go below and try to communicate with the outrider. Tell it to wait in its own ship. Er, in its fish. We’ll open our lock when we’re ready to resume negotiations.”
“Well … that’s a fairly complicated message, sir.”
“I know, Sarah. Do your best.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Tolliver turned back to Anselm, but I’d had enough. “When’s the trial?” My tone was truculent.
“This afternoon, at criminal court. They want it over and done.”
“What will you do?”
His tone was bleak. “What can I do?”
I said, “You have the Station’s cannon, and our own. For a start, blast the Cathedral to rubble.”
“And then all of Centraltown? Would your guardian approve?”
I shouted, “It’s not his decision!”
Anselm whirled me around. “That’s quite enough, Mr Carr!” To the Captain, “He’s been through hell, sir.”
“I know; I’ll make allowances. Randy, when we brought Mr Tamarov aboard he told us your part in this affair. I can’t commend you highly enough. I’ll enter it into the Log.”
I stared at him as if his words were gibberish.
He flushed, turned to Tad. “It seems the latest upheaval was too much for our passengers. More than a few want off.”
“Idiots.”
“That’s as may be. Some are Hope Nation nationals. I’ve pledged to Palabee not to try to slip a Naval force among them. He knows my sworn word is good, besides, we have his Station.
He’s agreed to let us land passengers at Centraltown. We have two shuttles standing by. You’re to supervise the disembarkation.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mr Carr, get some rest. Again, I commend your work. I’ll call you the moment we hear—”
“I really did well?”
“Yes.”
“Then may I ask a favor?”
“What?”
“Remission of enlistment.” Into the shocked silence, I said, “We both know they’re going to kill … I don’t want to sail with you after—after—” I faltered. “Please.” I looked to the deck
“Are you sure, Randy?” Oddly, Tolliver’s tone was gentle.
“Yes, sir.” I held my breath.
“Nick would want you safe, raised by friends who—”
“Please.” My voice cracked. “For him, for me, for Derek. It’s all I’ll ever ask.”
A long while passed. “Very well, granted. Go with Mr Anselm. Fare thee well.”
“And thee, sir.” At the hatchway I paused. “Tell Mik that I lov—” I couldn’t say it. “Tell him good-bye.”
Midshipman Yost led me past Corrine Sloan’s seat on the second shuttle. I stopped abruptly, still hot and miserable in my spacesuit. “You too?”
“I have to, Randy.” She sounded subdued.
“Why?”
Her eyes glistened. “The heresy charge. I was there for John. I can’t do less for Nick.”
“But you loved John.” Some races of my mind wondered from where I summoned such cruelty.
She started to answer, choked, bowed her head.
Tommy Yost stirred. “Please take your seat.”
I did, nearby. “What about Janey?” She was nowhere in sight.
Corrine’s shoulders shook.
I buckled myself in, forcing myself silent. I’d done enough evil for one life.
No. There’d be more. I unbuckled, made my way to the hatch. “Mr Anselm!”
“Now what?”
“Come with us.”
He looked startled. “It’s against orders.”
“Weren’t you told to disembark the passengers?”
“I’m sure the Captain didn’t mean—”
“You were more adventurous the day you took me to sickbay.” To visit Fath. Mr Seafort, before he became Fath.
“Is there some reason …”
My lip curled. “Don’t you want to see him?”
His glare could have melted the hull. At last, he muttered to Yost, “Tell the bridge we’re ready to cast off.” He sealed the hatch from within.
We began our journey. Solemn, a bit forlorn, I watched Olympiad recede through the porthole. I’d never see her again.
An hour passed, while I fidgeted and sweltered, wondering if I was doing right. Perhaps they’d let Fath off with a warning, or disgrace. Perhaps a few months in jail. Perhaps …
The worst part is the buffeting, as the shuttle fights the outer atmosphere, and its own velocity. By sixty thousand feet, it becomes a calm flight, no more bumpy than a suborbital.
I unbuckled. Quickly I made my way toward the cockpit. As I passed, Anselm looked up in surprise; one didn’t move about on a shuttle in flight.
I knocked on the cockpit hatch.
“What?” The pilot sounded annoyed as he swung it open. I thrust myself inside.
Behind me, Anselm leaped out of his seat.
I reached into my pouch.
Tad stopped short.
As well he ought. My laser pistol lit his midriff. I glanced at the instruments. The altimeter hovered at sixty thousand feet. I said to the pilot, “Tell the puter to fly us.”
“You can’t—”
I fired, dissolving a pressure gauge. “Move!” Fifty-five thousand.
“Puter, autopilot on!”
“Get out.” I beckoned to the hatch.
He scurried past, to the cabin. Tad edged closer. “Where’d you get that?”
“At the Station. No one took it away, after.”
Another casual step.
“Don’t, Mr Anselm. I warn you.”
“You’ll shoot me?”
My eyes met his. “If I must. I swear it.” Forty thousand.
“What are you up to?”
“I’m going to land the shuttle.”
“You can’t fly.”
“I’ll ask the puter to help. We’ll probably crash.”
“Randy, we’ve ninety passengers!” His wave encompassed them all.
“Yes. For them, not for me, I ask your help.” Thirty-three thousand.
“Doing what?”
“Give me your word as an officer—and your oath—that you won’t interfere, or try to take my pistol, or subdue me. That you’ll land as I tell you.”
“If not?”
“I’ll do it myself.”
“Good Christ.” After a long moment. “All right. I so swear.”
“By Lord God.”
“By Lord God.”
“And your solemn word as an officer.”
“Yes!” He looked ready to kill.
Twenty-five thousand. “Get in.” I stood aside as he brushed past, and lowered myself into the copilot’s seat.
“Randy, why?”
“I’m going to rescue Fath.”
“You’re insane!”
“Does it matter?”
After a moment, his lips twitched. “I guess not. Puter, autopilot off.”
“Voicerec failure. Please identify speaker.”
“Lieutenant Thadeus Anselm, U.N.N.S. ID is N-123—”
“Authority denied.”
Fath had told me of his difficulties with puters. I bared my teeth. “Puter, safety check. Where is your CPU box?”
“To the right of the copilot’s yoke, between the fuel gauge and the—”
I set my beam to low, burned the box until it sizzled.
“Jesus Christ son of God!” Tad leaped from his seat.
“Don’t blaspheme.” Odd, how much I sounded like Fath.
After that, Tad didn’t have much to say. Centraltown Control didn’t seem to notice the change in voices, and gave us our usual runway.
At fifteen thousand feet I broke the news. “We’re not landing at Centraltown.”
“Then do it yourself!”
“No, I have your word.” Heart pounding, I leaned back, closed my eyes. For good measure, I laid the laser pistol on the dash.
Almost a minute passed.
“All right, you win.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Where?”
“Churchill Park. At the southeast corner, there’s an open strip. No trees.”
“We’ll crash!”
I said, “Shuttles land VTOL.”
“With the puter’s help. I’m not good enough to—”
“Oh, I have faith. You’re better than you think.” Lord knew why I said it. Perhaps I no longer cared. “And don’t tell Approach Control.”
“They’ll know, when we change course to—”
“When Fath took me groundside, our glide path took us just past Churchill Park. Bleed off speed, lose altitude early. Hell, I landed a heli there, not that long ago.”
“A heli!” He swore under his breath. “If I ever get my hands on you …”
“Yes, and I’ll deserve it.” My voice was thin. “Tad, word is that they’ll burn him!”
“Shut your MOUTH!” His tone was savage. “I have to think, to land this beast!”
I patted his knee.
Maybe I’d hooked Tad’s sense of intrigue. Perhaps he cared for Fath as much as I. Laconically, he repeated back Centraltown’s landing instructions, asked wind velocity and direction, gave them our ETA.
I thought our speed was a bit high when he folded the wings back into VTOL mode, but the craft took it. He applied maximum flaps and spoilers; still we came in over the park fast and low.
“You’d better ditch that suit.”
I glanced at him, surprised. I’d forgotten all about it. Awkwardly I undid the clasps, wriggled free. “Thank you.”
“When you jump out, then what?”
“The court.”
“How far?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t all that familiar with Centraltown. “Fifteen, twenty blocks.” It was on Farnum, or one of those wandering roads.
“Do you drive?”
I flushed. “Not a groundcar.” It had been a sore point between me and Anthony, but he’d been adamant that I’d have to wait; I wasn’t of age.
“Hmpff.” He waved me silent, focused on his work. We drifted southeast, toward Churchill Road.
“Shuttle, you’re off course! What are you—”
Tad switched off the radio. “Get yourself ready.”
“For what?”
“To make your break. In minutes they’ll have a heli overhead.”
“Right.” I licked my lips.
“The pilot’s in the main cabin, and Tommy Yost. They may try to stop you.” His tone was tense. We swooped toward the trees, and the clearing beyond.
“Why warn me?”
“Don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt anyone.”
“I’ll try not.”
“Brace yourself.”
“Jesus, the trees!”
I clutched the dash, braced for a smash, and oblivion. We glided over the treetops with a meter to spare. Tad threw the engines into VTOL mode, and set us down in a roar of dust and scorched grass.
I took a deep breath, lunged to the cockpit hatch. Fingers closed on my collar, hauled me back.
I cried, “You promised!”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Sourly, he eyed me.
“What?” I had no time; I had to get to the main hatch, jump down, run like the very—“Oh!” I blushed scarlet. I snatched up the laser I’d set on the dash. “Thank you.”
I threw open the hatch.
In the main cabin, pandemonium. Colonists struggled with Midshipman Tommy Yost, who was doing his best to block the outer hatch.
“OUT OF MY WAY!” My scream brought them up short. I brandished the laser. Frantic joeys ducked behind seats, dived into the minuscule head, cowered anywhere that offered an illusion of safety.
I snarled at Yost, “Open it!”
“Open it yourself!” His glare was such that I braced for an assault.
Nonetheless, I aimed past him to the hatch panel.
Behind me, an icy voice. “Mr Yost, do as he says!” Tad Anselm.
“But—”
“THIS INSTANT!”
“Aye aye, Lieutenant!” Yost slammed a fist into the panel. The inner hatch slid aside; the outer door began unfolding itself into steps. With a snarl I launched myself into daylight, teetered on the still-moving stairs, leaped down to steaming grass.
The closest city street would be … that way. I thrust the laser into my belt, and galloped to the road.
I risked a backward glance. The shuttle stairway was down. Tad Anselm sprinted after me. The traitor, the lying … No, I’d made him swear not to interfere with my hijacking, and he hadn’t. Now he was free to do his duty. Thank Lord God that Naval officers didn’t routinely go armed, else he might burn me as I ran.
I threw a glance over my shoulder. Tommy Yost pounded after Anselm, legs pumping madly.
The courts would be … south. I veered off.
Already my breath came in gasps. I’d have to pace myself, or I’d never make it. On the other hand, in a moment or two I’d hear the whap of heli blades; Centraltown spaceport would lose no time chasing down their errant shuttle.
Behind me Tad Anselm lurched into the road, threw himself in front of a slow-moving electricar. His arms windmilled frantically. He hauled out the driver, ducked into the seat. I cursed. Now he’d catch me, and force me to shoot him. I’d do it. Nobody, nothing, would stop me from reaching Fath while I had breath. A gasp wavered into a sob.
Inexorably, Anselm’s car gained on me. My eye searched overgrown yards for a clear path; for Fath’s sake I’d try to evade Tad before I killed him.
The gun of an engine. Tad’s car loomed. He was alone. I veered to the walk, tugged out my laser. In the sky, a growing spot. A heli.
Behind us, Tommy Yost charged down the street, his face a mask of white-hot resolve.
Anselm’s electricar wavered as he leaned across the seat to avoid my shot. No, he was half up on the curb, fumbling with the door. Was he glitched?
“Away from me!” I panted. “I’ll shoot to kill!”
“Get in, you ass!” Tad flung open the door.
I gaped. Behind us, Yost’s footsteps pounded. My reluctance slowed me an instant too long; Yost launched himself at me just as I whirled to fire. He slammed me to the ground, knocking the gun from my hand. I thrashed, unable to breathe, my face purple.
Anselm leaped from his vehicle. While Yost battered me, he fell on the pistol. “Tommy, stand aside!” Tad shoved the middy off my chest, hauled me to my feet, shoved me into the car.
I wheezed. It felt as if a rock was embedded in my lung.
“Give me the caller, I’ll get the jerries in the heli!” Yost danced with excitement.
“Not quite.” Anselm set the safety, took my wrist, wrapped my fingers around the laser’s grip.
Yost’s mouth worked. “Sir, what are you—”
“I changed sides.”
“Our orders—”
“It’s the Captain. Mr Seafort.”
“Yes, but …” Yost swallowed.
“Save your career. This isn’t your fight.” He reached past me, slammed the door.
“The hell it isn’t.” Yost yanked open the door, dived behind us into the passenger seat. “I’ll come.”
Tad scowled. “A minute ago you were calling the jerries.”
The middy flushed. “If you’re helping, we have a chance.”
The wheels screamed as the treads bit. Houses flew past.
The car radio muttered and grumbled in a monotone. I turned it up. “… preliminary sparring in the trial of the former SecGen, who has so far refused counsel. The second-floor courtroom is packed with notables of Church and government, who—”
Anselm nudged me. “Do you have a plan?”
I took a shuddering breath. All my parts seemed to work. “Find him. Break him loose.”
“That’s it?” His tone was acid.
“Turn right. Oh, Jesus, Farnum’s a one-way street. Try Henderson, it’s a block past—”
Ignoring me, Anselm rocketed the wrong way down Farnum. No cars were in sight.
“I had no time to plan.” I sounded defensive.
We whirled round the corner, nearly broadsided a hauler. Behind us, an angry horn faded. “Where the hell is the court?”
“Ask the puter.” I jabbed at the map display. “Head south while I …” In a moment I had the government buildings on the screen. The court was west of Churchill, at Hopewell Plaza. I muttered directions.
Two blocks from the courthouse, detour signs hung from alumalloy horses. On the other hand, no one had bothered to set up roadblocks. On the whole, we Hope Nationeers were a law-abiding bunch. And I doubted the new government was fully in control. For all his imperious ways, Anth had been popular. Moreover, he was the legitimate head of government. Few would go over to the enemy while he lived.
Every street we tried was closed.
I peered at the map. “It’ll be around the corner. STOP!”
Tad slammed on the brakes. I nearly went through the windshield. He spluttered, “What the—”
I already had my door open. “Too much commotion, in a stolen car. On foot …” I thrust my laser into my pants, took off.
He vaulted out the door, trying to keep up with me. A rambling concrete building made good cover. I sprinted to a doorway within a few paces of the corner. My two allies were scarce a step behind.
Trying to make myself invisible, I peered around the corner.
I recognized the building; I’d seen it in newsnets often enough, and Fath had taken me there, when he came to speak. A three-story building, of poured concrete, with incongruous white columns pasted on, apparently as an afterthought. A helipad on the roof, I knew. Every trial I’d seen in the news had been held here.
A platoon of the Home Guard stood watch. A makeshift barrier in front of the steel and glass doors gave them cover. They bristled with arms: laser pistols, rifles, stunners.
My heart sank.
Crouched behind me, Tad whispered, “We can’t take on the army.”
“I know, but …” I chewed at my lip.
“A diversion?” Tommy Yost.
“No time.” My voice quavered. “I’m going in. That heli we saw landed at the shuttle to sort things out. They’ll get word to the troops here, and—”
Even as I spoke, a troop carrier pulled up to the courthouse. Its tough alloy doors swung open.
Too late. I’m sorry, Fath.
But no troops emerged. Instead, an officer gestured, issued terse commands. All I could hear was the rumble of his voice.
The Home Guards piled in. In a moment the carrier was gone.
“Now’s our chance.”
Tad held me back. “Where’s the courtroom?”
“Upstairs, the radio said.” I pulled free.
A rumble of engines. I ducked back.
Not a troop carrier, but a cargo hauler. It parked across the plaza. “Now what?” It didn’t matter. I was insane not to take the chance Providence had given me. With but one pistol …”
The courthouse door swung open. A figure appeared.
My breath caught.
Anthony. He blinked in the sunlight, rubbing his wrists.
The back doors of the hauler opened. “This way, Stadholder!” A gaunt woman beckoned. She seemed familiar. “Run, sir!”
Anth looked behind him, to the now-closed courthouse door. Then to the truck. Hurry. I could scarce breathe. For God’s sake, move. The woman—who in blazes was she—my breath caught. Dr Zayre, Chris Dakko’s ally! They’d contrived to rescue the Stadholder. My spirits soared. With Dakko’s help, we could free the Captain. Hurry, Anth. I took a step from the cover of my building, waved urgently, but he didn’t see me.
“What are you—”
“Look, Tad, it’s Anthony! The Stadholder. They’ve let him—”
The doors to the court flew open. Four guards, uniformed, with wicked laser rifles. They didn’t bother with the barrier the Home Guards had erected.
Dr Zayre screamed, “Run!”
Anth sprinted toward the truck. Its motor caught. It lurched a few feet, stopped, waiting for him to swing aboard.
Two of the guards knelt, aimed.
“Anth!”
Still running, he searched over his shoulder for my shrill scream.
Desperately I fought the hand that closed over my mouth. A relentless arm dragged me in silent struggle to the safety of the wall.
The buzz of a laser. The pavement smoked. Anth dived toward the gaping hauler door.
A shot slammed the door wide open. Hinges burst.
And another shot.
It caught Anth at the knee. His leg dissolved in a splatter of steaming blood. He fell hard, thrashed about.
He made not a sound.
I jabbed Anselm in the ribs, burst free. Weeping, I tried to aim my pistol.
A guard set his rifle to continuous fire. A laser line crept up to Anth, and through him. Anth sizzled.
A shriek of agony, blessedly short.
The smoking corpse fell back, twitched once, and was still.
The cargo hauler began to pull away. Laser fire caught the cab. A spray of blood.
Withering fire blanketed the vehicle. Dr Zayre fell out of the back, already dead. The hauler rolled slowly across the street, aflame. It nudged the curb, bumped to a stop.
From the street, silence.
Except for the pounding of my boots.
I was nearly atop the first guard before he heard me. Arms extended, I gripped my pistol with both hands, as if afraid of recoil. There was none, I knew. At least, not when Anth and I had shot at trees in the plantation’s silent forest.
The guard turned. He blanched.
I shot him full in the face, whirled, caught the second guard before he could raise his rifle.
Two steps away, the pavement bubbled. I danced aside, firing as I ran. Something horribly hot brushed my thigh.
A creature gone mad, I skittered hither and yon, firing without cease. A third guard went down. The fourth dived for the courthouse doors. I don’t know if I hit him. Laser fire came from within. On one knee, not far from Anthony, I fired into the doors until I heard the warning beep of my empty pistol. Then, coolly, beyond thought, I staggered to my feet, strode to the horribly burned guard, wrested the rifle from his ruined arms, began firing anew.
I only stopped when one of the sagging doors fell with a crash.
I pawed the smoking abomination that had been another guard, found a rifle, but it was beyond salvage. In the rubble of the doorway, a rifle that worked. I took it.
“Come on!” My voice seemed odd. I cleared my throat, tried again. “Anselm, Yost. Move!”
Tad showed himself, his hands held palm outward, as if in surrender. “Randy?”
“Here.” I tossed him a rifle, stooped to gather recharges. “I don’t see one for Tommy.”
“Stadholder Carr …”
“Gone.” For a moment, the sunlight misted. I wiped away sweat and grime, and could see. “Hurry. They know we’re here.”
Yost’s lips barely moved, and his voice was so low I could barely follow. “He’s glitched, sir. Can you grab the rifle?”
“I heard that. No time. Help us, or go home.”
The middy gulped.
“Well?” Why did I sound like Anth when he’d had quite enough?
“I’ll help, sir.”
I wondered if Yost knew how he’d addressed me. “Move it!” I inserted a recharge, trotted into the lobby, firing at shadows.
Nobody.
Silence.
A lift. Half a dozen guards were crowded in it. One clutched a caller.
The lift was within line of sight of the door. My beam had hit it straight on. Charred corpses, all of them. I scrounged among them, found an undamaged laser pistol among the meat.
I wondered if the guard had gotten off his call for help. I gave his pistol to Tommy, beckoned them to the next lift, sauntered after. I paused as if in reflection, bent over, and began to vomit, until all I could bring up was weak bile. Then, red of face, eyes tearing, I strolled into the lift, jabbed the button.
“Why no more guards?” Anselm’s tone was tentative. “After that fire-fight you’d think they’d be swarming …”
“I doubt they had many to begin with. The government must be in chaos.” The other reason, I was loath to speak. I took a deep breath. “We’ll go on up.”
“And then?”
“Find Fath.” It was so simple. Why couldn’t he see?
It didn’t work out quite as I intended. There were two guards outside the courtroom, and four holocameras within. Anselm made me let him disarm the guards; he was quite stern about it. I’d have argued, but I was busy weeping.
Mr Anselm’s new uniform didn’t quite fit, and to me, he looked more like a Naval lieutenant than a guard. But, face impassive, he slipped into the courtroom, came out an endless moment later.
“He’s at the bar.” His tone was low.
“What does that mean?”
“That box thing. Waist high, before the bench. He’s in it.”
“Is he hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
For a moment, I breathed easier. Then I recalled the carnage in the street. Until the moment of his death, Anth had been uninjured.
I took a deep breath. “Let’s get it done.”
Anselm’s hand stayed me. “How?”
“Walk in. Free him.”
“There’s a dozen guards, or more.”
“Kill them.”
He said, “We can’t just—”
“You can’t? I will. Where are the guards?”
“The closest are right inside the door. Others across the way. But, Randy—”
I cried, “Enough words!” Fath was in their hands. I’d done murder to get this far.
“And after, you’ll just walk out? They killed Stadholder Carr. They won’t stop at the Captain.”
I snapped, “They’ll have a heli on the roof; they don’t control the streets. You’ll pilot. Secure the heli. The middy and I will get Fath.”
“There are judges. Bishop Andori. I don’t know who else.”
“Hostages.” What was kidnapping, to the crimes I’d committed?
“But—”
If we argued further, they might dissuade me. I keyed off my safety, flung open the doors.
“… won’t participate in your sham. Do what you will.” Fath’s tone was firm. In the spectators’ gallery, old Bishop Andori watched intently.
Two guards were behind the rail, steps from the door. Three others in the corner.
The nearest guard turned, scowling at the interruption. His eyes widened; his hand flew to his pistol. I rammed the stock of my rifle into his jaw. He collapsed.
“Nobody move!” I’d intended my voice to be loud. It came out a shriek.
Fath spun in the dock. “Randy, don’t!” His command was a lash.
Havoc. Judges and aides dived for cover. One brave media-man swung his holo, aimed at me. Onlookers rushed about. A guard keyed his pistol; I shot him point-blank.
Another guard fell, his rifle clattering.
I risked a glance. It was Tommy who’d fired. He looked sick.
On the bench, the judges dived for cover.
Alarms shrieked.
We’d taken out half the guards. Two had raced out the rear entrance, others cowered under tables, seeking shelter. I swiveled my rifle back and forth, seeking a target.
“No more!” The Captain’s voice rang.
“Tommy, take him to Anselm.”
“But—”
I grated, “Now!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Stubbornly, Fath shook his head. “Not like thus. There’s been enough—”
Yost screamed, “Look out!”
Behind Fath, a furtive movement. I fired, missed. A bench exploded into sparks.
The snap of a bolt. Tommy rushed the Captain, knocked him off his feet, lay atop him. He was good at that; on the street he’d done the same to me. My teeth bared in a manic grin. I opened fire, barely missed the scuttling guard. Crouching, he let off a shot. I skittered aside. The guard dived under the spectator benches.
I called out, “Hold your fire, no one need get hurt.” Fine sentiment, Randy, but a touch late. How many have you killed today? As if to belie my own words, I took steady aim at the benches.
“Put down your rifle, Randolph.” An old voice, and crusty.
My eyes strayed.
Bishop Andori, gaunt and craggy, shook off the protective embrace of a deacon. “In the name of Lord God, I abjure thee.” He took a limping step toward me.
I centered on his chest.
“Don’t, lad. It’s eternal damnation.” Another step.
“As if I care.” My tone was surly, that of a spoiled child. Anth would be scandalized.
“Care, joey. It’s all there is.”
“Randy.” Fath’s voice was muffled. “Put down the gun.” He lay under Tommy Yost, in the dock.
A flicker, in the corner of my eye. I whirled. The guard had risen. He sighted down his barrel. I jumped aside, stumbled over a fallen chair, threw out my arm for balance.
A blast of white fire flung me into a table.
Pain. The stench of roasting meat.
I toppled, head over heels. Somehow, I kept a one-handed grip on my rifle.
“Get him!”
“Stand clear, Oleg!”
Horrid, searing agony, from my shoulder to my fingertips. I gritted my teeth.
The snap of a bolt. The table over me dissolved.
“We surrender! Don’t shoot!” Tommy Yost was screaming. “We surren—”
“I don’t.” Using the rifle as a crutch, I lurched to my feet. My left arm wouldn’t help. I glanced down. My sleeve was gone, and everything within. Blood, mess, char.
I was dying, and knew it.
A snap. The smell of ozone. Behind me, a wall burst into flame.
Like an idiot, I tried to clutch the stock with my missing left arm. It cost me precious seconds. I didn’t have many left. I stumbled; another shot brushed my hair. I heard it sizzle. With herculean effort I tossed the rifle upward, caught it by the trigger, balanced the stock on my hip.
Bishop Andori shouted, “GET HIM!”
A flick of the finger set my laser to continuous fire. I poured flame and smoke and death into the benches from which the guards had fired.
At last, I stopped, swiveled to Andori, said to the survivors, “He’s next.” My voice was ghastly. I had to clear my throat, say it again. “I’ll take him to Hell with me, I swear by Lord God.”
The room swayed. I staggered, rifle on hip.
Through all the carnage, Andori hadn’t moved. “Put it down, Randolph.”
I spoke past him. “Yost, let the Captain stand. Fath, you’d better hurry.” I couldn’t keep my feet much longer.
Fath used Tommy’s shoulder as a prop. I yearned to do the same. “Randy, you’ve done evil, and you’re sore hurt. Put down the gun.”
Something oozed down my side. “When you’re safe. Tad’s waiting at the heli.”
Among the deacons, a stir. My lips bared. “Try it. Any of you.”
Andori’s hand flicked, a gesture to wait.
Fath said, “Give Yost the gun. I’ll help you aboard—”
“Someone has to hold them back.” It didn’t seem enough. I cried, “Can’t you see I’m done for? This was all for you! Don’t waste it!”
His voice tightened. “This slaughter was in my name? No. I won’t have it.”
“We need you. Hope Nation needs you. Anth is dead.”
Fath groaned.
“Andori had him shot.”
Fath’s lips tightened.
The Bishop shook his head. “I did not.”
“Oh, bullshit.” The courtroom pumped, like a heartbeat. “Yost, take Fath to the heli, by force if you must. Else I’ll count to five, then kill you, I so swear. One. Two.” My grip tightened.
Yost tugged frantically at the Captain.
“I didn’t kill him.” Andori.
“Then Scanlen did.” I took a step backward, and another. If I rested some of my weight on the bar … “It was all arranged. Someone called off the troops guarding the building. They sent Anth outside, where Dr Zayre was waiting with a hauler to take him to freedom. Then the guards shot him down. You even had a mediaman at the door, recording for posterity. Three, Yost.”
Fath said only, “You’re sure?”
Andori said, “He’s making it up.”
“You fucking liar.” From someone, a gasp. I snarled, “Don’t tell me your guards didn’t hear the commotion below. Why didn’t they come down?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Because they were expecting it.” I wanted to wave at the slaughter, here and below. “We killed six guards in the elevator. Too many. Anth couldn’t have gotten free, unless they meant him to.”
I was desperately thirsty, but I spat on the scorched flooring. “Shot while trying to escape. It’s so …” I searched for a word. “Tawdry. Anth would be mortified. Say your prayers, Yost. Four. Five.”
“Come ON, sir!” The middy hauled Fath to the door. “Now! He won’t wait!”
Fath whispered, “I can’t leave you, son.”
“For Derek, and Anth, I beg you. For Hope Nation. Don’t let these vermin get away with it.” I swayed.
“NOW, SIR!” In desperation, Yost propelled Fath to the door, and beyond.
“Good-bye.” I don’t think they heard me.
In the hall, pounding footsteps faded.
“Nobody move,” I said.
Bishop Andori took another step. I regarded him, trying to hold off a spreading red mist.
The rifle grew heavy.
“Randolph …”
“No.” Almost, my finger tightened on the trigger.
“Steady, son.” Derek Carr’s voice was a soft pillow.
“I’m trying, Dad.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t be.”
From above, the whap of a heli.
“You did your best.”
“And what good was that?”
“Randolph?” Andori let me touch his bony chest with the muzzle. “It’s over.”
“Yes,” I said, and meant to shoot him. But the rifle slipped from my hip. It clattered to the floor.
I pitched headfirst into the Bishop’s arms.