Prisoner's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 3) Page 7

  “C’n I have a ride?”

  “Which way?”

  “I’m going east, same as you.” Jerence seemed far more animated than the previous afternoon.

  I was dubious. “What are you doing on foot?”

  “Thought I’d walk to Cary Mantiet’s, since it’s a nice day, but since you’re headed that way anyhow...” He paused, then said politely, “I’d appreciate a lift, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” I made room for him next to me in the back seat.

  “Thanks.” He hopped in, unstrapping the knapsack.

  “What are you lugging?” I asked, to make conversation.

  Jerence shot me a suspicious look. “Nothing. Just stuff.”

  With a pang of nostalgia I remembered my thirteenth year, running free with my friend Jason, before the football riots of ’90. We had our secrets from the adult world, as did this joey.

  “Very well.” We turned onto the main road. There was no traffic in sight; outside of Centraltown I expected none.

  Alexi said, “We’ve time to make it home tonight if we try, sir.”

  I thought of Annie, and found the idea appealing. As if reading my mind, Eddie Boss drove a touch faster.

  Alexi ventured, “About that other matter I mentioned, sir?”

  I glanced at Jerence. “Later, when we’re alone.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Alexi stared out his window, brooding. “I’m glad to be out of there,” he muttered. “Too much antagonism.”

  “They have cause.”

  “But some are looking for trouble.”

  I grunted, not wanting to discuss the matter in front of the boy.

  “Ms. Triforth and Mantiet are odd ducks. I wouldn’t trust them any—”

  I said sharply, “Another time, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Alexi subsided.

  We reached the end of Branstead lands, and as the road curved we came upon the Mantiet marker that signaled the border of his estate. “Where should we drop you, boy?”

  “Outside the main gate, please,” said Jerence.

  Eddie slowed for the curve, then pumped the brakes hard. Ahead, a grain hauler was jackknifed across the road, blinkers flashing. “Careful, Mr. Boss,” I said.

  We neared the accident. The scene was deserted.

  “Where’s the driver?” asked Alexi.

  I snapped, “How should I know?”

  “Odd that no one’s here.” Jerence.

  “He’s probably gone to the manse for—”

  “Get us OUT of here!” Alexi reached across, jammed his foot on the gas, twisted the wheel. We lurched away from the truck.

  “Alexi! What in hell are—”

  A flash of white light. Stupendous pressure. A giant hand tossed our electricar into the air. A rending crash. We slammed into the bole of a huge genera tree.

  Pitched from the broken vehicle, I lay dazed, my ribs aching abominably. I coughed, waiting for the salty taste of blood, but none came. It seemed too much effort to sit. Minutes passed.

  The squeal of brakes. A door slammed, then footsteps.

  “Good Christ!”

  “Don’t blaspheme,” I mumbled.

  Someone poured water from a canteen onto a cloth, and held it to my head. I struggled to prop myself against the genera.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  I started at the familiar voice of Emmett Branstead. “Yes, I think so.” I leaned against the trunk.

  “We’ve called a heli ambulance from Centraltown.”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “Not for you,” Branstead’s tone was grim.

  Oh, Lord God. “Help me up. Please.”

  Clutching his arm I staggered to my feet. Eddie Boss sat dazed, nursing a broken wrist. Alexi Tamarov’s head was cradled in his lap.

  “Alexi?” I fell to my knees.

  No answer. Blood oozed from Alexi’s nose and ear. His mouth was half open, and his breathing was ragged.

  “No!” I eased my arm under his head, felt something soft and wet. My hand came away red. I closed my eyes.

  “What happened, sir?” Though Emmett Branstead was no longer a seaman, discipline died hard.

  I blinked. “I don’t know.” Frowning, I tried to recall. “A hauler had jackknifed. An explosion...”

  Branstead snorted. “I’ll say.” He pointed to the road. “Look at that crater.”

  “Never mind that. Look to Alexi.”

  “I’m no med tech, sir. Are you?”

  I bit back a vile reply. “No.”

  Eddie said, “My han’ all broke up.” He sounded plaintive.

  “I know, Mr. Boss.”

  “Hadda carry Mist’ Tamarov outadere, only one han’.”

  I snarled, “Why did you move him?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Dunno if be fire in dere.”

  “Electricars don’t blow up, you trannie fool!”

  He stared at me without expression. “Neither do roads,” he said with meticulous enunciation.

  After a long moment I had to look away. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “Mr. Boss, Mr. Branstead, I beg you both to forgive me.”

  Eddie grinned mirthlessly. “Cap’n shook up, all of us be.” He pointed to his lap. “I put my coat unner his head, make him as comf’ble as I can.”

  “Thank you.” It was hard to meet his eye. I cleared my throat. “Where’s the bloody heli?”

  “It’ll probably be a good half hour.” Emmett Branstead.

  I cursed under my breath. My ribs aching, I paced helplessly until at last we heard blades beating in the distance. A small heli set down in the center of the road.

  But it wasn’t the ambulance. Harmon Branstead jumped out, ran toward us. “I was in the granary when you called, Emmett. What in God’s grace is going on?”

  Emmett Branstead returned his brother’s quick embrace. “I’d say an ambush. Someone tried to kill Captain Seafort.”

  My mind reeled. “What?”

  Emmett gave me a strange look. “You think we blow up roads for amusement? What did you imagine happened?”

  “Some sort of accident. The truck, dangerous cargo...”

  “We don’t use explosives here. The dirt is soft; we just sculpt it with a bulldozer. Anyway, look at the hauler.”

  The abandoned cargo hauler was twisted by the force of the blast. “What about it?”

  “It’s still there,” Emmett replied, impatient. “If the cargo had exploded, there would be nothing left of the hauler. The explosive must have been buried in the road. The hauler was there to make you stop.”

  “But why—how do you know it was me they were after?”

  Harmon said, “Who else? Your driver?”

  I swallowed, trying to take it all in. “Harmon, can you take us to a hospital?”

  Emmett said, “Wait for the medevac heli, Captain. Don’t try to move him.” I looked down at Alexi and nodded with reluctance.

  Harmon’s eye roved past Eddie to the genera under which Jerence stood quietly. Harmon crossed the distance in quick strides. He studied his son without expression. Abruptly he slapped the boy’s face. Jerence recoiled, his hand rising to his reddened cheek.

  Harmon slapped him again. “Into the heli!” Jerence bit back a sob, ran to the open door. Emmett Branstead looked grim.

  “What’s going—what was that—”

  Harmon asked, “Why were you taking my son to Centraltown?” His eyes were hard.

  “Centraltown? Nonsense; he asked for a ride to the Mantiet place.”

  “Why?”

  “To see his friend Cary Mantiet.”

  Harmon glared at me until Emmett intervened. “Frederick Mantiet has no children, Captain. Harmon, he didn’t know.”

  I took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in my bruised ribs. “What in Lord God’s own hell is this about?”

  Harmon’s shoulders sagged. He shook his head, walked back to the waiting heli.

  Emmett said softly, “My nephew was running away, Capt
ain. He’s done it twice before.” I gaped; he shrugged, as if in apology. “I assume he asked for a ride to Mantiet’s because he figured you wouldn’t take him to the city. He probably meant to hop a grain hauler the rest of the way.”

  “But why?”

  Emmett said quietly, “For the family’s sake, keep this to yourself.”

  I nodded.

  “He can’t buy goofjuice out here. Only in Centraltown.”

  I said bleakly, “His life wasted, at thirteen.”

  Emmett stared at the open heli door. “Lord God knows why. Or how he gets it. He’s on the edge: habituated, but not yet fully addicted.”

  Goofjuice. I’d seen the results of its use, years ago on Hibernia, when crewmen had smuggled some aboard. The user is quite happy while he’s sailing high. He may, with perfectly good cheer, slaughter his best friend. Perhaps afterward he might feel remorse.

  “Haven’t they tried...I mean, doctors—”

  “Everything short of having him committed.”

  Harmon emerged from the heli and hurried toward us. “Sorry about that. Personal problems. I called Centraltown; the ambulance will be here in five minutes.”

  Emmett crouched next to Alexi. “He’s still breathing, sir. He may have a chance. It’s amazing what modern surg—”

  I grated, “Who did this?”

  Harmon shook his head. “We’re crossing Mantiet land. Frederick left yesterday in anger, but I can’t believe—”

  “Why isn’t he here? Didn’t he hear the explosion?”

  “I don’t know. I called the house, but he’s out. His wife didn’t know where, or how long.”

  Emmett asked, “Whose hauler is that, Harmon?”

  “I don’t recognize it. We can trace it by the transponder number or the engine serial number, if it comes to that.”

  The welcome thump of a heli grew audible. “Make sure it’s done.” My voice was tight.

  If the hauler was his, Frederick Mantiet could be seized for questioning under polygraph and truth drugs. Thank Lord God that the Truth in Testimony Act of 2026 abolished the ridiculous right to silence that had hampered criminal investigations for centuries. These days, once we had a suspect, we got answers.

  If Mantiet was guilty, the sophisticated drugs would force him to admit it, and of course we could then use his confession as evidence in his trial. If he was innocent, he’d suffer only a headache and nausea. After I’d returned home with Hibernia, reporting the death of her officers, I’d submitted to extensive questioning with the drugs and poly. It wasn’t pleasant, but it cleared me of suspicion.

  Harmon was grim. “Oh, yes, we’ll find whose hauler that is. My son was in your car too.”

  The heli landed; med techs scrambled out and hovered over Alexi. His head bandaged and supported, they eased him onto a stretcher and bundled him into the heli. Eddie Boss and I climbed aboard.

  “Find out,” I shouted as we lifted off. From Harmon, a grim nod.

  5

  “SORRY, THE ADMIRAL ISN’T here.”

  I scowled at Lieutenant Eiferts as if it were his fault. Then I sighed. “When will he be back?”

  “Probably not for a while, sir. He went up to Orbit Station, and from there he may take a ship to review the squadron positions.”

  “Why bother? They’re in the puter.” I regretted it almost instantly, but it was too late.

  The lieutenant said carefully, “I wouldn’t know, sir.” I wondered if he’d repeat my disparaging remark to De Marnay.

  “I’ve been trying to reach him for three days, Mr. Eiferts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” I left Admiralty House with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Outside, Annie crouched at the flower beds, gently fingering the geraniums. She straightened. “Will he see you?”

  “He’s not here.” I slipped my hand into hers as we walked to our rented electricar.

  “Oh, Nicky.”

  “Can’t be helped.”

  Annie had met us at the hospital, showered my face with kisses amid sobs of relief. She’d waited outside the operating room, pressing against my side, while they’d worked to save Alexi. During the five days since, she had followed me wherever possible, unwilling to let me out of her sight even for a trip to the grocer’s. “Where to?” she asked now.

  “The hospital.”

  “I called this morning. He no better.”

  I knew. I had called too. Nonetheless, I could sit at Alexi’s side. Tubes in his nose and throat, waste lines attached below the sheets, his monitors maintained their vigil. His brain waves weren’t flat; there was hope. I gathered not much hope, though the doctors, as all doctors, were reticent.

  At Centraltown Hospital we signed in at the nurses’ station and hurried to Alexi’s room. He lay unmoving. In the corner Eddie Boss stirred.

  “Eddie? What are you doing here?”

  “Wanted to wait wid him.” The seaman was gruff.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” I said gently.

  “Nothin’ you can do, neither.” Insolence, from a sailor to a Captain. And yet...” His eyes met mine until I broke contact.

  “Very well, Mr. Boss.” We sat together, and waited, hoping.

  Annie sat next to the hulking sailor. Her hand strayed to Eddie’s cast. I’d watched a med tech apply the bone-growth stimulator; Eddie wouldn’t have to bear the cast long.

  After a silent hour in Alexi’s sterile room we left. Eddie followed us to our car. “How often have you been to see him, Mr. Boss?”

  “Every day.” His look challenged me to object.

  “I didn’t think you knew Alexi that well.”

  “Back on Challenger. When dem—those Uppies were makin’ fun of us. He chase them away, sometimes.”

  “Ah.” More I hadn’t known.

  Annie opened the car door. “You gonna go see the planters, Nicky?”

  It was foolish to visit until I had news to report, but soon they’d decide I was ignoring them. “I suppose I ought to.”

  “In a heli this time.” It was more a demand than a question.

  I sighed. “Yes, Annie, in a heli.” I looked at Eddie Boss. “I’d like you to look after Annie while I’m gone.”

  The huge seaman broke into a slow smile. “Aye aye, sir. No joe be messin’ wid Annie. I see to dat.”

  They’d taught me piloting at Academy, and I’d flown a civilian craft on my last visit to Hope Nation. Now, on duty, I rated a military heli. It took me a while to acquaint myself with the heavier machine and its unfamiliar equipment. A miniputer chattered bearings and weather information until I flipped a switch to silence it; I preferred to fly by dumb instruments.

  I had no anxiety as I raised the nimble craft off the tarmac and headed for Zack Hopewell’s plantation. None about flying, that is. I had no idea how the planters would react when I admitted Admiral De Marnay had made no time for them. I worked out diplomatic phrases in my head: Investigating the allegations. Reviewing their information. Deciding how best to alleviate their grievances.

  Zack Hopewell had set on a radar beacon for me, and I let the autopilot home on it. Hopewell and Harmon Branstead were waiting on the lawn when I set the machine down. Hopewell Plantation was similar to the others I’d visited, though there was a sternness, a lack of frivolity about the place that reflected its proprietor.

  I followed Zack Hopewell into his manse. Unlike Branstead, he offered no hors d’oeuvres, no liquors, but mugs of hot, steaming coffee and good soft pastries. I chewed on a roll and sipped my coffee gratefully.

  They waited.

  I addressed Zack Hopewell. “Since I spoke to you last,” I began. If only he didn’t look so much like Father...I haven’t accomplished a thing,” I blurted. “I’ve made several tries but I can’t get in to see the Admiral.”

  Hopewell snorted. “Well, at least he doesn’t offer the usual bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your candor is refreshing.” He shrugged. �
�We haven’t been able to do much, either. No one knows where Frederick is. With Dora’s permission we even searched his house, and I can verify he wasn’t there. We traced the hauler; it belongs to him and was supposed to be in Centraltown.”

  “What could Mantiet gain by killing me?”

  Harmon’s face darkened. “He called you the real enemy, remember? Said we shouldn’t waste our blood fighting among ourselves instead of you.”

  “Still, how does he benefit?”

  “If he wants to disrupt the Government, eliminating a reasonable voice would be in his interest.”

  “That’s treason!” I could conceive of murder for personal gain. But rebellion against the lawfully ordained Government of Lord God Himself? On Terra, we’d had no revolution since the Rebellious Ages ended, over a century ago. I tasted bile.

  Harmon said carefully, “I didn’t say treason. I said disruption.”

  A distinction without a difference. I was about to say as much when Zack Hopewell intervened. “In any event, Mantiet will confirm the truth when he’s caught.”

  “Yes.” I sat again, slowly. “I wish I could tell you Admiralty was anxious to correct its mistakes. Perhaps they will be, when I manage to inform them.”

  “You didn’t submit a written report?”

  “Of course. I dropped off my chip the day after I returned. But still...” I doubted De Marnay would take action unless I personally warned him of the planters’ vehemence. Perhaps not even then.

  “I don’t know what Mantiet thinks, but Laura wants to revise the Planetary Charter,” Harmon said. “Eliminate the Governorship, elect a council from among the planters.”

  “She needs to take that up with the U.N. at home,” I said stiffly. “It’s not my province.”

  “No,” said Harmon. “But you should be aware of it.”

  We broke for a light lunch, and afterward I stopped at the Palabees for a brief visit before returning home. I was revving the throttle when a call came from Hopewell.

  “A Miss Wells called, Captain. She wanted urgently to speak with you.”

  I muttered under my breath. It was folly to allow my personal life to mix with duty. I thought of returning her call, but I was leaving anyway, and would be home in an hour or so. I relayed a message to that effect and started my engine.

  Annie met me at the door, her eyes red. “Dey call here coupla hours back, sayin’ Concord be leavin’ in morning. I gotta be ready go, ten o’clock.”