Children of Hope Read online

  Children of Hope

  The Seafort Saga, Book Seven

  David Feintuch

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF DAVID FEINTUCH

  THE SEAFORT SAGA

  “A delightful book, intelligent and carefully written. Discerning SF readers will devour it and wait impatiently for its other volumes to appear. Feintuch’s book, depicting a stellar navy of exacting brutality and devotion to duty, possesses much the same flavor as C. S. Forester’s Hornblower novels. Hornblower fans will probably toast Feintuch in their wardrooms.”—The Washington Post Book World on Midshipman’s Hope

  “Science fiction fans who love exciting action and adventure shouldn’t miss [it].”—Lansing State Journal

  “An excellent entertainment.”—Analog Science Fiction and Fact

  “Wonderful reading and nonstop enjoyment.”—Raymond E. Feist, author of the Riftwar Cycle

  “An excellent job of transferring Hornblower to interstellar space. Plot, characters, and action make this a thoroughly enjoyable read.”—David Drake, author of the Hammer’s Slammers series

  THE RODRIGO OF CALEDON SERIES

  “This complex, unconventional fantasy is a strong recommendation for Feintuch’s skill as a novelist. Readers who may have let a distaste for military SF prevent them from checking out Feintuch’s work should reconsider; this is an interesting writer who isn’t afraid to take risks.”—Asimov’s Science Fiction

  “Popular SF author Feintuch (The Seafort Saga) makes his fantasy debut with this adept tale of sword and sorcery . . . Compelling and charged with plenty of action.”—Publishers Weekly

  To Don, who knew where I was going,

  even when I didn’t.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  PART I: September, in the Year of our Lord 2246

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART II: December, in the Year of our Lord 2246

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART III: January, in the Year of our Lord 2247

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Prologue

  “THE WITNESS WILL STAND.”

  Wearily, I got to my feet, looked about the vaulting Cathedral.

  Within my dark blue shirt, my shoulder throbbed unbearably. I was grateful; it gave me focus.

  The three elderly judges wore black cassocks, not uniforms, else theirs might have been a military court. Or a civilian one, for that matter. It made little difference in a society owned lock, stock, and barrel by the frazzing Church.

  “State your name.”

  I said nothing.

  “Young man, your situation is grave. Unless you cooperate …”

  I shrugged, forgetting. Clenching my teeth, I rode a wave of pain.

  The Lord’s Advocate rose from behind his ornate carved table before the dais. “Your Reverence, may I?” He took the Bishop’s silence as permission. “Sirs, he’s stubborn and sullen, but no need to badger him over trifles. We know his identity; what we want is his account of the night of November 19, 2246. An account of murder, apostasy, treason.” He turned to me. “Randolph, I charge you, speak!”

  I pressed my lips tight.

  “You try to protect him?”

  They could ask ’til the Second Coming. I’d say not a word.

  “Of course you do,” he answered himself, “and you imagine silence is your servant. If Their Reverences order you to testify, will you? Surely you can tell us that.”

  “No. I won’t.” My defiance brought infinite relief.

  “You’ll be subjected to polygraph and drugs. The truth will out, joey.”

  “You can’t use my P and D to convict others. Just me.”

  “Under canon law, we can. Higher edicts apply.”

  Perhaps this time I could thwart the drugs and polygraph. Or find a way to die. In my current state, it ought not be hard.

  The Advocate’s tone was gentle. “P and D is a misery, and for naught. We’ll learn what we must; in trial for heresy we can allow no bar. Tell us.”

  I cherished the fever that ate at my bones. I took a deep breath, to speak words that would transport me beyond deliverance. “Stick your trial up—”

  His hand shot forth, palm raised. “If not for us, for Lord God. Speak.”

  The somber Cathedral was a haze of red. I managed to shake my head.

  “Very well. If Your Reverences permit?” He slipped a chip into his holovid, swung it to face me.

  I squinted, punched in my private code, waited for the screen to clear.

  “Randolph, I know what you face. What I face. I beg and order you, tell them what they would know. Tell them freely.”

  I stared at the unmistakable signature.

  My voice was hoarse. “Where did you get this?”

  “It came today.” The Advocate permitted himself a rueful grin. “By net.” He studied my eyes. “If not for us, if not for God Himself … then, for him?”

  My cheeks were damp. I cared not. “Very well.” I would obey, of course. What choice had I, after all we’d endured?

  “That Tuesday in November, when you—”

  “No.” I sought to make my voice firm. “From the beginning. It will take a while.” With a fumbling hand, I poured ice water from the beaded pitcher.

  PART I

  September, in the Year of our Lord 2246

  1

  UNS PARAGON BECKONED AT the end of the corridor, its gaping lock mated to that of Orbit Station.

  The Stadholder of the Commonweal of Hope Nation paused at the hatchway. He gave me a fierce hug, same as always. “Take care, son. Be good and I’ll bring you home an elephant.”

  I broke into a silly grin. Even at nine, I knew it was impossible. Behind me, Mom laughed softly.

  The smile faded from Derek Carr’s eyes. “You’ll be … Lord help us, almost eleven when I’m home.” His eyes glistened. “Nearly grown.”

  I swallowed, made a manful effort so he’d be proud. “Bye, Dad.” I stood tall.

  “Always remember I love you, son.”

  In another realm, a voice said, “Randy?” Insistent fingers prodded at my forearm. “They’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Go ’way.” I buried my head in the pillow, desperate to lose myself again in my dream.

  “The ceremony won’t wait—”

  I launched myself flailing from my bed.

  Kevin Dakko fell back from my onslaught. “Easy, joey!”

  I caught him a hard one in the temple. He squealed with pain, took a deep breath, charged full at me. In a moment we were rolling on the floor.

  “Get off!” I bucked and heaved to dislodge Kevin’s weight from my chest, but he was fourteen, a year older than I, and outweighed me by ten kilos.

  “Not ’til you calm down.”

  “Prong yourself, you frazzing—”

  He raised a fist, but after a moment shook his
head. “Nah. I like you, actually.”

  “Then get off!”

  “Lie still.”

  Fuming, I did as he ordered.

  Only when I was supine and passive did he roll off me. “What was that about?”

  I mumbled, “I was dreaming.”

  He smirked. “Judy Winthrop?”

  “No, you goddamn—” I swallowed. I was furious, but there were limits. I really ought to curb my foul language, but some recess of my mind enjoyed the discomfort it caused. Though, if Anthony or any of the plantation staff heard me …”

  “What, then?”

  I studied the thick, scarred planking. “Dad.”

  “Aww, Randy.” For a moment, Kevin’s hand fell on my shoulder. Sullenly, I shrugged it off, but felt better for it.

  The dream came often, bittersweet and awful.

  Mom and I had gone aloft to the Station, to see Dad off. The fastship Paragon would Fuse the nineteen light-years to Earth in a mere nine months. Dad hated to go, but his personal touch was needed for trade negotiations. Earth was Hope Nation’s principal grain market, and we’d been battling for decades to reduce shipping rates in the teeth of the U.N. Navy’s monopoly.

  And so, with a cheery wave, Derek Carr strode into the starship, and from my life. A year later, when Galactic foundered, he’d been aboard, at the behest of his frazball friend Nick Seafort. They say Dad died of decompression. Sometimes, when I couldn’t help myself, I imagined what he’d looked like, afterward.

  I flopped on my bed, pulled on my socks. “Sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “You didn’t do anything.” And I shouldn’t have attacked him. But in my dream Dad’s smile had been so close, his voice so warm …”

  “I’m sorry he died,” said Kevin.

  “You never knew him.”

  “I didn’t have to. I know you.”

  I took a long breath, and another, at last truly ashamed. “Did I hurt you?”

  “A bit.” He rubbed a red mark on his temple. A fist-sized mark.

  I stared glumly at the new day. “Three more weeks.”

  “The summer went fast.” Kev, a city joey from Centraltown, was a summer intern, sent to the Plantation Zone on a government program I’d thought nonsense, until I’d met him. He’d taken to life on Carr Plantation like a fish to water, though I’d had to teach him nearly everything.

  I gathered my courage. “I’ll really miss you.”

  “Jeez, thanks.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell Anthony you’re on your way.”

  “Fast as I can.”

  Kev’s footsteps faded down the stairs.

  I climbed into my pants. The Balden Reservoir would be dedicated today, and the massive force-field damming Balden River switched on. Water would soon accumulate behind it, freeing our plantations forever from dependence on rain or irrigation pumps. I sighed. I supposed I ought to be interested. Hell, I was interested. If only Kev hadn’t interrupted my dream.

  I’d have to wash, or face Anth’s reproof. Gradually, in the last year, my grown nephew had taken charge, as Mom slipped more and more into her religious zeal and Sublime-induced chemdreams. In her better weeks, she was active in the Sisters of Faith Cathedral Auxiliary, to Anth’s discomfort.

  I ducked into the bathroom, studied my face, yearning for the first signs of fuzz. Damn it, I was already thirteen. What was my body waiting for?

  Staring sullenly at the sluggish stream, I shrugged off Anthony’s consoling hand.

  “Because I give waters in the wilderness and rivers in the desert, to give drink to my people, my chosen.” Why must old Henrod Andori go on so? The Plantation Zone had no desert, and the Balden Valley was hardly a wilderness. Hell, our manse itself sat at the lower end of the valley, and look at the green of our lawns. All right, the valley had no power grids, and its only road was a rough trail, but … “These people have I formed for myself; they shall shew forth my praise.” The gaunt Archbishop eyed us, bent anew to his text. I rolled my eyes.

  The reservoir would be quite something, despite old Andori’s blather. It had been Dad’s idea, originally. Hope Nation had water to spare, but the plantations that were our mainstay—like Carr, our home—were slaves to rainfall and the water table. We had three choices: atmospheric diversion via shifting solar shields, desalinization, or a dam.

  Andori scrolled his holovid to a new chapter. I nudged Anthony. “No more! Make him stop.”

  “I can’t.” Anth’s lips barely moved.

  “What’s the point of being Stadholder if you can’t—”

  “Shush. Scanlen’s watching.”

  “So?” But I subsided nonetheless. The Bishop of Centraltown was a powerful figure in his own right, and Andori’s deputy in the hierarchy of the Reunification Church. Mother Church ran Centraltown, and to all intents and purposes, Hope Nation.

  I frowned at the Balden River. Not much of a river at summer’s end, but by spring it would be a torrent. Well, last spring it had been, when Alex Hopewell and Sandy Plumwell and I had camped by the river.

  Never again. In scant months our campsite would be drowned.

  Please, God, quiet your Bishop. My feet hurt, and he goes on forever, and I want to go exploring with Kev.

  Fooling with the atmosphere was undependable. Dad had banned all further experiments after the meteorologists blamed the horrible March 2240 hurricane on forcibly shifted weather patterns. Desalinization would do the job, but it was expensive, and would need water constantly pumped upward from the Farreach Ocean to our fields. The cost of a traditional dam would be immense. But a force-field dam … Anth had jumped on the idea, once the science was proven.

  “Amen.” Henrod Andori switched off his holovid. Thank you, God. It was almost enough to make me a believer.

  2

  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.<
br />
  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.