I SQUIRMED AT ANTHONY Carr’s fingers on my shoulder, but was careful not to shrug them off. We were in public, and he’d be really ticked if I made an issue of it, especially after the sharp words we’d had a day ago. So what if I told our blustering crop manager what I thought of him? At fourteen, I had little stomach for fools. Unfortunately, Anth didn’t see it that way, and today, I was on a short leash. Too bad I didn’t have Kevin Dakko to whisper with, but he’d gone home to Centraltown months ago.
In Anthony’s view, requiring a rebellious and protesting joeykid like me to attend a reception with adults was both penalty and honor. I’d resigned myself to make the best of it, and circled dutifully among the crowd of planters come to pay their respects. Even Mother was there, lost behind her dreamy smile.
Anthony frowned at Vince Palabee, who waited for an answer. “We’ve a favorable balance of trade with Earth, regardless of shipping costs.”
Overhead, Minor was just setting, and Major was near the horizon. We’d have to adjourn our reception before long; at this time of year Hope Nation grew cool at dusk. At least Eastern Continent did; I’d never been across Farreach Ocean to the Ventura Mountains, home of our mining bases as well as our most beautiful scenery. Dad had always meant to take me, but …
The stocky planter’s tone was stubborn. “Anthony, the Terrans can raise their rates at will. They’ll throttle us. And they will, to get even for the Declaration.” Dad’s Declaration, as Stadholder, that had set us free from the U.N.
My keeper smiled with genial disregard. Anth thought that Palabee was an ass—he’d told me as much—and disregarded his proposals in the Planters’ Council. Still, Anthony had to say something. If nothing else, Palabee was his guest.
He flicked a thumb at the chubby Terran Ambassador refilling his punch glass from the bowl, at the drinks table across the immaculate lawn. “McEwan is demanding we plant even more acreage; Earth will take what grains we offer. They’re desperate, thanks to Seafort.” Anthony was delighted that the former SecGen had led his planet to agricultural disaster, and saw great advantage for us in the Terran fiasco.
I shouldn’t have stared; the Ambassador caught my eye, nodded, strolled our way.
As he neared, Vince Palabee eased away. At least he knew when he was outclassed.
I sighed, braced myself for more blather. Faintly, past the burble of conversation, came the yips and squeals of other joeykids at the pond. I’d be swimming with them but for Anth’s insistence I stay where he could keep an eye on me.
He didn’t know it, but I was more relieved than annoyed. Of late, I’d felt reluctant to jump bare from the high rock with my fellow teeners. I’d get a great view of Judy Winthrop that way, but she’d also get a view of me. Since I’d turned fourteen, two months back, it made me uneasy. Not that it bothered Alex Hopewell, brash and muscular at sixteen. But, come to think of it, Alex hadn’t spent much time at the swimming hole a couple of years ago. I brightened. Perhaps I wasn’t so odd.
“First Stadholder.” Ambassador McEwan, florid and husky, raised his glass in salute.
“Sir.” Anthony gave an incisive nod, which was almost a bow. He prided himself on observing the formalities.
“Congratulations on your reelection.”
“Reconfirmation,” I blurted, with scorn. The Legislative Assembly had confirmed Anthony as First Stadholder of the Commonweal of Hope Nation. He’d been elected chief executive three years past, by the Planters’ Council, when news of Dad’s death reached home.
McEwan grunted, as if it didn’t matter. He was a Terran, and couldn’t be expected to know which end of a pig shat, but to us the distinction was significant.
Only the families, whose vast plantations were Hope Nation’s raison d’être, were entitled to select the First Stadholder. The legislature, where even common townsmen had a vote, could merely confirm, or in rare cases veto.
Anthony was still the youngest Stadholder ever to hold office. At his election three years past, the Hopewell clan had raised his age in objection, as if twenty-four weren’t fully adult. But the best word to describe Anth was “formidable.” Almost always, he got what he wanted. Even with me.
His hand squeezed my shoulder as he presented me. “You’ve met my young uncle, Randolph Carr? Ambassador McEwan.”
“Good to meet you, son.” The Terran held out a hand.
Son. Almost, my lip curled. I was no one’s son, and most definitely not his. For Anthony’s sake I controlled myself. Dutifully, I shook his hand.
I sometimes called Anth “cousin,” and thought of him so. He’d warned me, years ago, to play no teasing games with our relationship. In truth, I was his uncle, though he was twice my age. His grandfather was my father Derek Carr, long our First Stadholder.
I was the youngest of what Dad jokingly called his second crop, born years after his first wife Clarisse had died. My own mother, Sandra, had become a Limey, gradually abandoning religious zeal for her world of chemdreams. There was little love lost between her and Anth. Dad had kept peace between them, and when he was gone, Anthony had worked hard to be accommodating.
I suppose after Dad was killed I’d let resentment get the best of me. The next couple of summers had seen episodes of rocks through windows, slashed power cords in the night, and the like, until Anthony had, as he termed it, taken me in hand.
Sure, I resented him—what joeykid wouldn’t? He sure as hell wasn’t my father, and had no claim to my obedience. But Dad would have gone into orbit if he’d learned what I’d been up to, and with Mom inhaling Sublime nearly every evening she wasn’t attending church, there was no one to whom I could complain. No one to rein me in, either. The Mantlet twins even urged me to run away.
Hah. To where? Centraltown? Cities chew ass, and besides, as Dad used to remind me, the Rebellious Ages were long past. Our society, like Earth’s, prized order; joeykids did as they were told. Fugitive joeys faced correctional farms, and perhaps jail as well, if they were petitioned into court.
Not that I didn’t fight; I’d be damned if Anth would cow me without a struggle. And in the process, I found what I hadn’t expected: he didn’t cow me at all.
It was easier to do what he asked than to pay the consequences, so most of the time I complied. But I rather liked the world he introduced me to, one in which our planters constantly competed for power. Anthony deftly played the plantation families one against another. It was fun to follow his machinations. And of course, to be told details of affairs none of my friends imagined.
I’ll say this much for my overbearing nephew: he was frank, open, and amazingly honest. Not only did he trust my discretion, he even solicited my opinion. Though he usually didn’t follow it, he really listened. And then he explained why he’d chosen the course he had. You can’t help liking a joey who handles you that way.
“Randolph Carr,” said the Ambassador, as if tasting it. “A distinguished name.”
Lord God, I hated it when they talked down to me. Anth knew it; his hand tightened on my shoulder, in warning or sympathy.
For the Stadholder’s sake, I let it pass. “Yes, sir.” Our family tended to recycle names; “Anthony” was my dad Derek’s middle name. Randolph was my grandfather, and his father too. We all bore distinguished names; it came with being a Carr, the premier family of Hope Nation.
Turning back to my nephew, the Ambassador lowered his voice. “Regarding quotas, Mr Stadholder. You promised us more soybeans.”
“Actually, we didn’t.” A flicker of annoyance crossed Anth’s eyes. It was, after all, a party, and he didn’t care to be cornered on the lawn of Carr Plantation.
“You certainly never refused. Now I find your people never planted them. We’ve four barges in the pipeline, and the fastship brings word a liner will be along shortly. One of the big ones.”
Some of my friends couldn’t tell a barge from a fastship; they were colonials, through and through, never mind that we’d had our independence for years. I tried not to look smug. Dad had taught me about the Navy and its ships; after all, he’d served on them. Once, in his lap …
“Now, son.” Dad had sucked on an empty pipe; he said it made his teeth feel good. “How long to home system by fastship?”
I’d snuggled closer, warm and comfortable in my youthful pajamas. “Nine months. Oddmented Fusion.” I was five, and nighttime talks were part of our ritual.
“Augmented,” he corrected gently. “And by barge?”
“Three years, almost.”
“And a starship?”
“Sixteen months.” I tried not to stifle a yawn. “Unless the fish get you.” Bedtime loomed, and if I could prompt an exciting story …”
“Don’t be daft.” Dad looked down his nose, his lined face settling into a frown, but he didn’t mean it. “Nick killed the last aliens long ago.”
“What if they come back?” Once, marauding fish had even descended through the atmosphere, to attack Captain Seafort at Venturas Base.
Dad seized my wrist, raised it, tickled my stomach. “They’ll do this.”
I squealed my laughter, desperate to get away, hoping I could not.
Abruptly Dad stopped, squeezed me hard.
I hugged back, loving the smell of him.
“Barges Fuse,” he said dreamily. “Fastships Fuse. Liners Fuse. Even the fish knew how to Fuse.”
“What’s it like?”
“Perhaps someday you’ll join the Navy and find out.”
“Or go as a passenger.” Only the U.N. Navy had ships that Fused between stars; even at five I knew that. Sometimes, late at night, Dad and his friends in government discussed, at endless length, the dilemma the U.N. monopoly posed. Usually it put me to sleep, curled on the couch or in his lap.
“Randolph!”
I blinked.
“Would you like to go?” The Ambassador waited with a half smile.
I asked, “Where?”
Anthony frowned.
“Sorry, I was … daydreaming.” I tried not to blush.
“To Embassy House, and spend the weekend with Mr McEwan’s joeykids.”
Christ, no. Just in time, I refrained from saying it. I cast about for an excuse, found none. “I think so. Sounds great. Can I call after I check with Mom?”
In Anthony’s eyes, a sardonic glint; he knew a polite evasion when he heard one. “We’ll call you, Mr McEwan. Ah. Colonel Kaminski.” Deftly, he turned to the newcomer.
“Good day, Stadholder.” To me, “Randolph.”
I nodded, trying not to look cross. The Colonel was a few years older than Anth, an occasional houseguest, and was as close as a colonial planet had to a spaceman. He’d served two tours at the second Orbit Station, the decommissioned warship Earth had sent us to replace the one destroyed in the war with the fish.
Kaminski said delicately, “Thank you again for your kindness on the, er, Driscoll matter.” I wasn’t supposed to know about that. A Station hand on leave had run afoul of Centraltown authorities. The Stadholder had intervened quietly to calm the waters.
Anth merely smiled, and they fell into conversation. As soon as I could, I made my escape to the punch bowl, waited for Cousin Ellen to fill her cup.
“Ah, Master Carr.” Bishop Ricard Scanlen’s voice was genial. His hand fell on my shoulder. Jesus Christ, should I wear a mousetrap on my collar? Or bite their frazzing fingers?
Alex Hopewell was sixteen and six feet tall. Nobody ever clamped a hand on his shoulder. Why did I have to be so frazzing short? Yeah, I’d grown way out of last year’s jumpsuit, and Anthony counseled patience, but it was easy for him to say. He towered over me.
The Bishop’s mouth smiled. His eyes did not. “I didn’t notice your confirmation on the Cathedral’s schedule, joey.”
The Reunification Church practically ran Hope Nation, from its rebuilt Cathedral downtown. Dad used to have all sorts of trouble with Scanlen and Andori. It was one of the few subjects Anth wouldn’t discuss.
“Are you ready?”
I said, “Not yet.” Rituals chewed ass.
“You’re of age.” Again, Scanlen’s cold smile. “We can’t have you becoming a Jew or a heathen.”
A Jew or a heathen?
I couldn’t help it, really, I couldn’t. I gave him my best smile. “Fuck you!” My words rang out, every bit as loud as I’d intended.
Cousin Ellen dropped her glass.
Appalled, Anthony stared past Colonel Kaminski.
Across the festive lawn, utter silence.
For a moment, a horrid sense of guilt. I shrugged it off. So, the Bishop would excommunicate me. I’d go to Hell before I’d put up with him.
Ricard Scanlen gripped my arm with a claw of steel, dragged me across the lawn. “We’ll see what—” Anthony loomed, his face severe.
I wrenched loose, dashed away, caromed off Mr Plumwell. Nursing my ribs, I blundered through a gap in the hedge, raced into the woods.
Prong the Bishop.
Prong them all.
Cross-legged on Judy Winthrop’s bed, I devoured a cold leg of chicken, barely taking time to spit the bones.
Her room was done in girlish pastels, not my taste at all.
She studied me. “What’s a Jew?”
I shrugged. “An ancient cult back on Earth?” I waved it away. “Who cares?” I was sure what a heathen was, and it was insulting.
The Winthrop estate bordered ours; its manse was only two miles past our southernmost marker, fronting Plantation Road. But our demarcation fence was a good five miles from Carr House, where Anthony’s reception had been given.
A long trudge, but I couldn’t drive an electricar, and I didn’t dare try to hitch. Too bad I couldn’t have swiped a heli.
After my hike I’d shinnied up their drainpipe, tapped at Judy’s window. Her room was empty; I’d had to squat on the Winthrops’ porch roof an hour before she wandered upstairs to bed, and then I’d scared the zark out of her. After she’d calmed, she’d gone downstairs, pleaded adolescent hunger, and secured my plate of chicken.
Minor had risen again, and lit the manicured yard.
Judy eyed the hallway door with some trepidation. “I’ll really get it if Mom finds you here.”
“Fine, I’ll leave.” My tone was sullen; I tried again, managed to brighten it. “Thanks for the food.” I swung my legs to the side of the bed.
She stayed me with a palm. “Just keep it quiet.” Then, “Where will you go?”
I shrugged. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have sought her counsel.
She rubbed her chin, with a look that meant she was thinking hard. “It’s not just your unc—I mean, your nephew. They’re all aghast. When we came back from swimming they were still talking about you. Where will you stay? I doubt the families would take you in.”
It figured. The Reunification Church—the only authorized church—represented Lord God Himself. The U.N. Government was His instrument, and ruled Earth and the colonies in His name. Even here in Hope Nation, the Church was paramount. And I’d cursed a Bishop, anointed by Earth’s Council of Patriarchs.
I stirred uneasily, knowing I’d gone a touch too far.
“Why’d you have to say it?”
I opened my mouth, shut it again. How could I explain? I wasn’t sure about God, but I was damn sure I didn’t believe in the Bishop. I told her so.
“Why not?”
I swallowed, not liking where her question led. My eyes sought the safety of the bedspread. “Do you remember my dad?”
“I saw Mr Carr, now and then. Not to talk to.”
I nodded. When Derek boarded UNS Paragon, Judy had been nine and would have known the Stadholder only as a distant figure. “One night, a few months before he left, I heard him on the caller.”
She waited.
“He was arguing with the Bishop. ‘Renounce,’ Dad said softly, as if he couldn’t believe it.”
“What’s it mean?”
I shushed her. “It’s something the Church does when they don’t like people.” I toyed with the bedspread. Renunciation was only a step short of excommunication.
“We could find out. Pa’s friends with Deacon—”
“That’s not the point, stupid!” I flung down a chicken bone. It bounced. Carefully, I plucked it from the bedcover. “Sorry.” Was I speaking of the bone, or my temper?
She folded her arms.
“I was listening outside his study door. I didn’t mean to spy, but … I had meant to, though. My eyes darted to hers, and away, hoping she’d understand. And forgive, added a small voice. I thrust it away. “After the call, he sat there and—and he …”
“Say it.” Blessedly, her voice was gentle.
“He cried.” I swallowed a lump.
Her fingers brushed my forearm. “Oh, Randy.”
“Later, he told me he was just tired and frustrated. And he was mad I’d listened.” Furious, more like it. Not because of what I’d overheard, but at my lack of honor in eavesdropping. He’d punished me, but he hadn’t needed to. His reproach alone made me feel awful.
My fingers scrabbled at Judy’s bed linen. “He cried. And Dad was the strongest man I ever … ever …” Abruptly I swung to my feet. “I better go.”
Her question roped me, pulled me back to the bed. “Ever find out what they were arguing about?”
“The next day he wouldn’t talk about it.” Surreptitiously, I wiped an eye. “But I won’t take any crap from a frazzing Bishop.”
Her expression made me glad and scared all at once. “It’ll settle down. If you find a place to lie low for a—”
A knock at the door. We froze.
“Judy?”
“Yes, Mom?” Her voice was a squeak.
I rushed to the window, tried to raise it silently.
Her mother’s tone was stern. “Mr Carr’s downstairs.”
Oh, Christ. I clawed the sash open.
“He wants to talk to Randy.”
How did he know?
“Randy, are you in there?”
Judy bit her lip, pounded the bed.
I couldn’t abandon her; it would make her troubles far worse. I gave the drainpipe a last wistful glance. With a deep breath, I strode to the door, swung it open. “Yes, ma’am. I sneaked into Judy’s room. She didn’t know I’d be here. It wasn’t her fault.” I braced myself for the explosion.
“Really.” Ms Winthrop’s eyes flicked to the half-eaten chicken, proof of my lie. “It’s late, and you’d better go.” Her tone held that careful civility parents sometimes used, outside the family.
I shot Judy a glance of commiseration, but I had problems of my own. How in blazes did Anth know where to find me? What would he do now? I had not only the Bishop to answer for, but flight from Anthony’s authority. I could look forward to a grim night.
No, by God. I’d done what I could for Judy. Now I could look after myself.
In the vestibule, my keeper leaned against a pillar, arms folded. His expression was cool.
If that’s how he’d play it, so would I. I stopped on the stairwell. “You wanted to see me?” It was the tone I might have used with a servant.
“Yes, if you don’t mind. Outside.”
“All right.” Civility worked in my favor, at the moment. To give myself every possible chance I turned, assumed my best manners. “Good night, Ms Winthrop. Sorry to have intruded.”
She nodded, her mind obviously focused upstairs. She looked ready to bolt to Judy’s room the moment we were gone.
Anthony himself seemed none too pleased. Well, not only had I insulted the Bishop, I’d embarrassed my nephew at his own reception. To say nothing of making him go begging to the neighbors in search of me. We were a small colony—a mere three-quarters of a million, spread over the plantation zones and a handful of cities. But he was in charge, the equivalent of a colonial governor.
Politely, I held the door. Anthony slipped outside. So did I, and lunged past him. I sprinted past his waiting electricar, down the darkened drive, expecting with each step his grasp on my collar.
Nothing. I plunged into the brush; at night, I’d be harder to find off the path.
At twenty paces I risked a glance backward. At fifty, I slowed. Why wasn’t he chasing me? Did he have Home Guard troops lurking in the bushes?
He sat on the edge of the porch, arms folded. “Randolph?” He raised his voice, cupped his hands. “It’s important we talk.”
Ha. It was important he whale the tar out of me, as he’d oft threatened but never done, and I wasn’t about to let it happen. Not for Scanlen, or any churchman. And he wouldn’t intend any less, after I’d mortified him at his own reception.
He let the silence stretch. Then, “Randy, I know you hear me. We’ve no time for games. Please, come sit with me. I won’t hurt you.”
I waited him out, shivering in the night breeze.
“In fact, I won’t touch you. You have my word.”
I felt a chill. This wasn’t like Anthony at all. I swallowed, impulsively risked my freedom. “For how long?” I edged my way toward the porch.
A soft sound, that might have been a chuckle. “We’ll talk as long as you care to sit with me, and then you can retreat to where you are now, if you still want to run.”
“What about your men?”
“For God’s—it’s near midnight. The farmhands are asleep, and if you think I’d rouse the government over this, you have less sense than I thought.”
“You won’t touch me?”
It was the final straw. “God curse this nonsense!” He jumped to his feet, stalked to the car. “Find me when you’re ready. Even you aren’t worth these games.” He threw open his door.
Near enough to touch, I thrust aside a juniper. “I’m here.” With a try at nonchalance I strolled to the porch.
Anth glared. Then he let out his breath, pulled something from the car, strode toward me. I flinched, half expecting him to betray his promise. But it was only my jacket, which he tossed to me without a word. He brushed past, settled on the porch slats, dangling his feet. “Thought you might be cold.”
Gratefully I slipped it on, sat cautiously by his side. The wood decking was rough, and chilled. No celuwall or plasti-panels here. Not in the Zone. We prided ourselves on old-style construction. Besides, lumber was plentiful and cheap.
Anth cleared his throat. “Let’s keep our voices down. I don’t want word of this to spread.”
“Word of what?”
“What I’m going to tell you.” He eyed me as if making up his mind, then shrugged.
“Get it over with.” I braced for the inevitable lecture.
“Fact one.” He raised a finger. “The world doesn’t revolve about your adolescent angst.”
Maybe not, but he’d gone to the trouble to find me. And that brought up another point. “How’d you know to look here?”
“It’s where Judy lives. I couldn’t imagine to whom else you’d run.” A pause. “Are you, uh, physically involved with her?”
“No!” My cheeks grew hot.
It wasn’t an accusation; why did I respond as if it were? We weren’t physical, but we would be, one of these days. If I ever got my nerve up, and she didn’t refuse outright. Even in her absence, she made my nights restless.
I made my lip curl. “That’s not what you came to ask.”
“No.” His eyes searched mine. “I’ll tell you a story about the Church. Don’t roll your eyes, your father’s in it too. Still bored?”
The barb in his tone told me I’d made him angry, and he was trying to control it. “I never said I was …” I gave it up. He’d mentioned Dad, and wouldn’t have if it weren’t important. “Go on.”
“You studied religious history.”
I’d had to. Anthony made me go to school, despite my protests. I could learn what I needed at home, and it wasn’t as if schooling were mandatory.
“There’s only one Church to speak of, and one interpretation of Gospel. That’s been so ever since Hope Nation was founded.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“The Patriarchs run the Church, but here on Hope Nation, their delegate is the Bishop, and he wields all the authority of—”
“Why’d the Bishop call me—”
He slammed his fist on a floorboard. “No more interruptions, joey, or—”
“You said you wouldn’t hit me!”
“—or I’m done with you. And I don’t just mean for the night!” He waved a finger in front of my nose. “Not another word!” His eyes flashed. “You hear me?”
I stared at my shoe.
“Well?”
I mumbled, “Yes, sir.” Why did I feel relief for having knuckled under?
He raised my chin, spoke very softly. “Randy, I’m in trouble.”
My rebellion evaporated, on the instant. When all was done, we were family.
“Because of me?”
“No. But you made it far worse.”
I swallowed, edged closer.
“Where do I start?” A few breaths’ quiet. “I wish you’d known Derek better.” He sounded reflective. “Grandpa pretty well raised me, you know.”
I nodded. It was no secret.
He said, “My father was … distracted.”
My half brother Zack, a generation older than I, was an agri-geneticist, one of our best. These days he lived on his experimental farm across the Zone. It was primarily his strains of wheat that had vaulted Carr over its competition, and forced the other families to license our patented hybrids to keep up. Even today, he puttered over his workbench and wandered his experimental fields, notepad in hand. Just last year he’d developed—
“… left me to pretty well run about on my own.” Anthony’s face eased into an impish grin. “I didn’t mind, and neither did Grandfather Derek, until they found me and Emily in a barn loft. I was barely fifteen. That got me grounded to the estate for the summer.”
I’d heard it all before, from Dad. Not that I’d much cared.
“Later that week I got into a slugfest with Mr Pharen, the granary foreman, and everyone agreed I’d gone too far. They looked to Pa to settle me down, but he was pondering millet that season; he gave me a lecture and sent me on my way. So Grandfather stepped in.”
Yeah, Dad made sure his offspring were well behaved. He’d always made me toe the line, though I really didn’t mind; he had a way of mixing sternness with such obvious love, you wanted to make him proud. I think that was his secret of running the colony. Well, not a colony as such, though everyone still called it that. Commonweal was too big a word, perhaps. And besides …
“… what he confided in me?”
“Huh?” I blinked.
“You weren’t listening.” Anthony’s eyes held wonder, and something more forlorn. A sigh. “Ah, well.” He stood, ruffled my hair. “I ask more of you than your years, boy. It’s my failing.
“I’m sorry, Anth. I’ll pay better—”
But he was already striding to the car.
I ran after. “Wait. Finish.”
“I’ll sort it out one way or another.” He slammed his door, flipped the switches. “I wish you well, Randy. Truly.”
“Don’t!” Don’t abandon me.
A squeal of tires, and he was gone.
I sat on the Winthrops’ cold porch cursing him, then myself. I’d been rude, when he’d practically begged me to pay heed.
But, so what if his feelings were hurt? He’d backed me into a corner, left me no choice. Now I couldn’t go home to Carr Plantation without crawling, and I wouldn’t do that for him, for Judy, for anything in the world.