Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Read online

  Smile went from his mouth. “Fin’ water main, maybe. Run to lair for new.”

  Heart wen’ thump. Lotsa pipe, big trayfo. I’d make Mids find me jumpsuits ’n stuff I could tray uptown for cansa, coin, anything. Then tray that to other tribes ...

  Big tray.

  “Pipe never been used cos’ a lot,” I said, cautious.

  “How much?”

  “Lot.” I met his eye. “But I maybe c’n get. Firs’, tell me how much. Then we have tea—coffee, I mean, ’n decide.”

  Ravan was stupe in trayfo. Bit right away. “Mids c’n pay if Chang don’ tryta skin us.” His look held warning.

  I had him, for anything I wan’. I started thinkin’, tray up, tray up more, back an’ forth, maybe even to new roof fo’ shop. Who know?

  I hesitated.

  Chang could tray lotta pipe. On other han’, Mids be pissoff, if they pay for new pipe an still find they had prollem.

  Like I told Midboy, growed man gotta decide for hisself.

  I was trannie too.

  I sighed, roof fadin’ in my mind. My voice curt. “It ain’ the pipes, Ravan.”

  He went cold. “Whatcha mean?”

  I hoped he remember I be Neut. “I mean, Mids see water stoppin’ in lair. Can’t cook, can’t drink, it be so muddy. Ya try changin’ lair, but no good. Mids gotta find water quick.”

  His eyes dangerous. “Who tolya? Pookboy? I dissim!”

  I talked quick, ’fore he blew. “Think a Mid c’n swind Pedro Telamon Chang, hah? I know. Alla lair, same t’ing. Ain’ pipes.”

  “What it be, Neut?”

  “Water. Govermen lettin’ it go off. Ain’ enough for trannies ’n Uppies both.”

  “Off?” He spat. “Now I know ya glitched. Water can’t be off. Water is always, ’less pipe fill up wid goo.”

  “Time is new. Govermen don’ care. Won’ fix old pipe.”

  “Govermen neva go inna street.” His voice all scorn.

  I said, quiet, “Not for longtime. Did, once.” Before Chang.

  His look unsure. “Changman, what we gonna do?”

  “Mids, all by self? Nothin’.” I peered into face. Couldn’ lose this chance; time runnin’ out. “Maybe, wid’ alla tribes, think of somethin’.”

  “Alla tribes? Think Broads gonna run wid Rocks? Mid with Unies? You glitch.”

  “Won’ be easy, naw. No trus’. But if everyone losin’ water, we c’n—”

  “You glitch.” He strode away.

  Ah, Pedro. Who asked you to be charga savin’ trannies? I rolled cart toward corner, where Broad tribesmen waited.

  Neuts had it too easy, some ways. Free of tribe, free to live alone, do what they want. Read books no one else care ’bout. No upbringing, no scars.

  Not a lotta trannies went Neut. Too alone for most. Those that did learned to stay clear of tribe feuds, keep mind on trayfo. But couldn’ forget, bein’ Neut was responsibility too. Others, they jus’ Mids or Broads, Subs or Easters.

  Us Neuts, we be the true trannies.

  “Whoa, traytaman.” Broad put out big hand.

  I acted annoyed. “Ya wan’ innifo? I ain’ no dumbass Mid, askin’ passby. I Neut.”

  He shrugged. “Don’ matter. Broad turf, Neut or no.”

  Was worth a try. I dug can outa pocket.

  “Thasall?”

  “Neut shouldn’t haveta pay innifo, nohow,” I grumbled. “How else gonna get trayfo, hah? Broads come ta Chang store, wanna see empty?”

  He scowled. “Might as well, Chang trayfo so high.” I got ready ta move on, done with small talk. He say, “Two cansa, man.”

  I reared back, anger real now. “Since when two cansa fo’ passby, hah? No Broad gonna swind—”

  “One fo’ each.” He pointed to cart.

  I looked. Pook was at handles, waitin’ to push. I swallowed, wantin’ to hold cart for steady. My tone went hard. “Gwan home, joeykit! Don’ need no snotnose won’ do what hetol’!”

  Boy looked at sidewalk, like tryin’ to read cracks. His voice small. “Please.” He studied my face, added reluctant, “I do whatchew say, Mista Chang. I help.”

  “Fo’ how long?”

  He sighed. “Long I stay in Chang house.”

  I cuffed him, light, so no hurt. “Push, den.” Think I got all day? Work to do!”

  Chapter 6

  PHILIP

  MOM WAS WAITING AT the chem lab at three. I climbed into the front seat, glad she’d come herself. When she was busy she might ask Mr. Tenere to pick me up, or a guard. Or send a helicab.

  “How was your lesson, hon?” She waited for an opening, pulled out into traffic.

  “Fine.” I watched her feet work the pedals. If anything happened to her, some sudden illness, I might have to drive her to a hospital. Unlikely, objectively speaking, but I liked to be prepared.

  “Homework?”

  “The usual.” Mr. Bates had thrown me an entire chapter of college text, but if I concentrated, I could sail through it in an hour or two. I was fast. It was one of my problems.

  I asked, “Are we going anywhere special?”

  Mom squeezed my hand. “What would you like?”

  That was another of my problems. Take me to the Jefferson Memorial, and I would read the documents in a few minutes, memorize the statue and want to be gone. At the Museum of Science, I could visualize better exhibits than they’d constructed, and it made me restless.

  I said hopefully, “The National Gallery?” Rodin was onto something; his sculptures had a hidden message. Each time I studied them, I came closer to understanding. But I wasn’t there yet.

  “Oh, hon.”

  I pouted. Eleven visits weren’t so many. I’d asked Mr. Skeer if Mom had attention deficit syndrome, but he said he doubted it.

  “Maybe another day, P.T.”

  “Sure.” I tried not to sound disconsolate.

  We drove past the city center to the compound. To amuse myself, I kept tally of cars and trees.

  We came to the gates.

  Thirty-seven distinct species, a hundred four models. Did that prove anything? I’d count again next week. The trees wouldn’t change much, but I’d get a better average on the cars.

  The guards recognized Mom, but didn’t wave us through. They hadn’t since the day she’d swarmed out of the car and shouted at them for five minutes straight. She was serious about Father’s safety. And his privacy.

  Jared wasn’t home from school. I went to my room and flopped on the floor. Perhaps I should take up yoga; it was said to be calming. I did breathing exercises whenever I felt my nerves frazzle.

  I wasn’t supposed to know I was genius level, but one drawback was you figured those things out. I didn’t want to trouble Fath by asking him how to handle it, because I once heard Mom tell Mr. Tenere that Father got upset easily.

  On January 12, 2223, he and I were looking at holos. I was five then, sitting in his lap, and was used to calling him Daddy, even though he was still SecGen.

  We studied the solemn picture of Grandfather, who was dead. Daddy said his father was a good man and had loved him, but didn’t know how to express affection. I asked what Daddy called him. He said, Father. I asked if he’d like me to call him that.

  If I wanted to, he said.

  It took me a week to get my mind straightened so I didn’t forget and call him Daddy. He was Father now, Fath for short. These days I didn’t sit on his lap much.

  The closest adolescent in my daily life was Jared Tenere. He was a year and eight months past puberty. He was much bigger than I. I had to be careful not to hurt him.

  Jared thought I didn’t know he went out at night. Hadn’t he heard of infrared scopes? I wouldn’t mention it, or he’d think I was spying, which I was, but just from my bedroom. My window faced his bungalow. With my lights out, he’d need an infrared himself to spot me.

  Jared tried so hard to break Mr. Tenere’s passwords. Often he succeeded; I had to admit he had a knack. But he was so good with puters that fail
ure maddened him and made him impossible to live with. Unless I was to avoid him entirely, I had to drop him a hint now and then, but I had to take care not to let him realize. Crashing Mr. Tenere’s icewall took me fifteen minutes. There was nothing in his puter worth Jared’s trouble.

  I think Jared felt a need to dominate me. One day I called up the Library of Congress and downloaded a gigameg on adolescent sexuality, to learn why. Tentatively, I concluded that he was attracted to me but didn’t know it, and repressed it into hurting me. I didn’t really mind; it was stuff like making me eat grass, and he didn’t get in that mood often. I just disconnected my mind until he was done. Irrational numbers helped.

  I decided that if Jared asked, I wouldn’t let him do sex things with me. I was saving myself, in case I wanted to marry. Girls were becoming interesting, in an abstract way. I was also starting to be able to get a hard-on, if I tried. I was too young to make babies, so I didn’t worry about it. To see his reaction, I asked Jared about his sex habits, but he got all red and changed the subject. I gather he found adolescence confusing. I hoped I wouldn’t.

  A knock. “Want a snack?”

  I jumped up as Mom came in. “Sure.”

  “Join me in the kitchen.” Her smile made me warm all over.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Father said I had to be respectful, so I was. It didn’t bother me, like it did Jared. It was just words, and getting up when adults came in the room. Easy stuff.

  I had to calm myself, thinking about discipline. Mr. Skeer said my emotions were fragile, and there was a lot I didn’t yet understand. It didn’t take a psych to see that. When I got agitated Father said I was revving too hard.

  The last time Father spanked me was two years ago. I’d decided not to do my math homework three days in a row. I was percolating, but Father didn’t realize that. He sat me down in his study, gave me a lecture on responsibilities.

  When he was done I said, “Lectures don’t help children understand adult rationales. We tune them out.”

  “You tuned me out, just now?”

  “Of course.” How could he not understand? “We need direction, not debate.” I was hoping he’d order me to my room, to do my math. It was what I felt I needed. I would refuse, and then the issue would be clear.

  “Very well.” He took my arm. “I’ll try a more direct approach.” He thrust me across his lap.

  I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me, and he didn’t. But what I couldn’t anticipate was that each slap would proclaim, I don’t like you, I don’t like you, I DON’T LIKE YOU! I wailed and kicked in escalating desperation under the sting of his disapproval.

  When he was done I lay on the carpet, sobbing uncontrollably. He waited a moment for me to stop, picked me up when I didn’t. I wrapped my arms around his neck, buried my face in his shoulder, but not before I glimpsed the worry in his eyes.

  “P.T.?”

  I held tight, let him calm me.

  He asked, “What was it I did?” He meant, what did it mean to me.

  I told him.

  Later, when he put me to bed, he sat close to the sheets, spoke soberly. “Philip, listen carefully.” I concentrated. “With you, force isn’t the answer, so I won’t use it. Instead, I’ll tell you a truth. I’m the father. I’m in charge. You’ll do as I say from now on. Whatever strange and wonderful thoughts evolve on in that little head of yours, be aware that you’re not ready to defy me, and I won’t let you do it.”

  His hand crept across the blanket, squeezed my shoulder with welcome reassurance. “P.T., you heard the wrong message, in my study. I love you, and like you. I always will. You’re my son.”

  I smothered a sob. My hand caught his.

  “Good night, son.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  He left.

  I’m not his firstborn. My brother Nate died years before I was born. The fish got him. Father doesn’t mention him often. I’m named after a wonderful hero who served with Father in the fleet. I wish I’d known him. Father says I should be proud to carry his name.

  I hope I grow up like you, Philip Tyre.

  Jared bit at his thumbnail. “Prong yourself,” he told me again.

  I gave up. “I’ll be in the house if you change your mind.” Unless he was willing to roam the puter nets with me, I’d have to finish my homework before dinner, out of sheer boredom.

  “Prong yourself.” He lay across the bed, his eyes half closed.

  Obsessive repetitive behavior is a disorder. Mentally, I summoned the data I’d downloaded from the Library of Congress. “Sometimes anger is misdirected at members of the peer group instead of—”

  “Oh, Christ.” He buried his head under the pillow.

  I’d done my best. On the way out I met Mr. Tenere. He seemed preoccupied.

  “Hi, P.T.” He gave me a friendly pat.

  “Afternoon, sir.” I stood aside to let him pass, but instead of going into the house, he stopped, studied my face.

  “Did I do something, sir?”

  “Huh? Oh, not you.” He hesitated. “Come with me.” He led me away from the cottage. “P.T., do you know what’s wrong with Jared?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. Many things were wrong with Jared. Did he mean generally?

  As if reading my mind, he said, “Is something bothering him more than usual?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His relief was evident. “What?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Philip!”

  I hadn’t meant to make him angry. I replayed the conversation, thought I saw where we’d gone wrong. “Something’s obviously on his mind. He won’t talk to me, except to tell me to prong myself. He seems obsessed with the idea. I don’t think that’s what’s bothering him, though.”

  I didn’t think I’d said anything funny, but Mr. Tenere smiled. “Keep your ears open. Let me know if you figure it out. I’d like to help him.”

  I liked the idea of being a co-conspirator. “Yes, sir. What has he told you?”

  “Hardly a word, but he’s slamming a lot of doors and he skipped five classes this week.”

  I caught my breath. Jared was a throwback to the Rebellious Ages of the twentieth. Today, no self-respecting school would put up with that behavior. If Jared were expelled, his Dad would have his hands full trying to place him elsewhere.

  I told him I’d do my best, and ran back to the house.

  Chapter 7

  JARED

  DAD HAD BEEN GIVING me strange looks ever since Uncle Robbie left. At first I thought he discovered I was skipping school, but after a while I stopped worrying.

  Most of Dad’s attention was on a series of meetings he was arranging for his lord and master, the Old Man. Politicians set their helis down in the courtyard; Seafort emerged from the house to escort the old frazzes into his study. They all wanted the ex-SecGen on their side, though he’d resigned in disgrace ’cause he couldn’t keep his own joeys from robbing the till.

  I avoided the lot of them, making sure I was just civil enough not to attract notice.

  At night, I took my revenge.

  The main house had been part of an old Virginia estate. White columns, ivy. Visitors stayed in the upstairs bedrooms on the east side. A second-story veranda crossed the rear of the mansion, over the Old Man’s office and study.

  The guest bedrooms had fancy doors with diamond shape panels; you could throw them open to sit on the portico overlooking the compound, enjoying the breeze. Guests did that in the fall, but in summer, people stayed inside with the air turned high.

  Thanks to my friendship with P.T. I had the run of the main house. So, from time to time I’d wander into empty guest bedrooms and set the curtains open just a crack.

  After dark, when the house quieted, I would shinny up the pipe and climb over the rail onto the portico. I’d walk on tiptoe, in case the Old Man was working late in his office. I didn’t bother with a fancy pickup. Just an old-fashioned mini laser-mike aimed at the glass.

  Once I got to
watch Senator Reevis pronging his admin aide. Her nails scratched his back, her voice was hoarse as he sawed away at her. Enough to make you puke.

  The next night I had my holocamera ready, but they didn’t do it again. Just my luck. One call, and I’d have had a dozen mediamen waving Unibucks to get me out of this place. That’d show Dad, with his frazzing, “Make dinner tonight; you have nothing better to do.” Did he think I’d be his trannie for a lousy ten Unibucks a week?

  Too bad the veranda didn’t run past P.T.’s room. I’d have loved to see what he did in bed at night. The way he sidled up to me sometimes, it’s like he was asking for it. I should have taught him a lesson.

  Today Old Richard Boland flew in for dinner with Uncle Rob, another one I could do without. The nerve of Mister Assemblyman Boland, bursting into my room like he owned it. Luckily, I was still at my puter. If I’d already climbed out the window ...

  Tonight, it would just be Senator Boland and Robbie, a pair of gasbags, but it was worth a try. I might pick up something useful. Late in the evening I circled the house. The first floor was dark except for the Old Man’s study. Upstairs, lights shone in both guest rooms.

  I tried the Senator’s bedroom first but heard nothing. I crossed the veranda, detoured past the deck chairs, pressed my scope to the glass.

  Voices. I peered through the opening I’d left in the curtains.

  Old Richard Boland sat in an easy chair, swirling a drink. He’d thrown his coat on the bed, unlaced his shoes. Uncle Rob was in the chair opposite.

  “... warned you not to push him,” the son was saying. “He hates that.”

  The Senator made a face. “We could use his help.”

  “You’ve narrowed the gap to, what, five votes? It’s not worth antagonizing—”

  “Rob, the tower people need the water that’s pouring through those broken mains. They can’t wait any longer now the Delaware’s lost to the New England reclamation—”

  “Dad, I know—”

  “As a stopgap we’re diverting more from the old system, but Franjee’s told everyone we’ll get them more. They’re primed to jump on our bandwagon, and if we don’t get in front and lead, we’ll lose them. Reconstruction’s the way to frame the issue, but the damn bill has to clear the Senate!”