Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 9

  I said, “Maybe not today. Soon.”

  “Right.” He poked me in the ribs. I yelped, pushed him away, but he wrestled me down, held my arms still. The dominance thing; Jared constantly sought reassurance that he was the stronger.

  “Let me go!”

  “Maybe.” He held both my hands in one of his, tickled me in the ribs with the other.

  “Cut it out!” I yanked loose a hand, grabbed his hair. “Let me up, or—”

  He swarmed on top of me, pushed me down on my back, sat on my hips. I wasn’t sure if we were playing or fighting. He held my wrists tight, forced my arms over my head. I kicked and bucked, almost succeeded in throwing him off.

  “No you don’t.” He pressed my wrists against the bed with all his strength. His head dipped forward, pushed my shoulder down. “Gotcha, grode.”

  “Jared, don’t. Let go of—”

  With a quick shift, he lay on top of me.

  I stiffened. “Jared—” His legs held me tight.

  He shut his eyes, rested his head on my shoulder. As if by accident, his lips brushed my neck.

  I sagged, willing my muscles to relax. An instant later I rammed my knee into his crotch.

  He shrieked, bounced off, spun to the wall clutching his testicles. He rolled from side to side, his face purple.

  I flew off the bed, backpedaled to the window, wiped the tingle of his lips from my skin.

  A sob.

  My eye fell on his puter screen. I lunged to the keyboard, keyed his drives, called up a wipe, slammed the return. I whirled back to the bed on which he thrashed in torment. My voice was shrill. “You’re a joke! We laugh at you, all of us! Father and I, even your Dad! You fail at everything, and we all know!”

  “P.T.!” A croak, that could have been an entreaty.

  My voice grew harsh. “I’m glad it hurts! That time you beat me at chess, I let you win! Look up the Lopez variations if you’re not too lazy. Your Dad’s last password is your birthday in base twelve, but you were too stupid to see it even when I told you!”

  “Please ...”

  I ran to the door. “Everyone knows you go out at night; you’re the only one thinks it’s a secret! By the way, the school asked your Dad to withdraw you! You’re the saddest grode in the compound!”

  “Wait!” Anguish.

  “I’m done wasting time with you!” I ran into the yard, almost cannoned into Mr. Tenere.

  “P.T.? Where are you—what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Bye.” I dashed to the house, tore up the stairs to my room, slammed the door.

  I sat in the corner, hugging myself, picking at my shirt. Again I wiped at my neck. Calm, Philip. Seventy-six times thirteen hundred ninety-four ... I was revving, but there was nothing I could do about it. My fingers scrabbled at my clothes.

  Chapter 12

  JARED

  WHENEVER DAD CALLED ME to eat, I went without protest. He told me to clean my room, so I did. I even made dinner, on his instructions. Now that the Old Man was gone to his brown-robe voodoo, Dad spent most of his time catching up on work at his desk in the main house. Alone in my room, I bided my time.

  I couldn’t understand why Dad had turned so vicious, especially over something so insignificant as wandering on the veranda. Each evening when he trudged up the path to our bungalow, my stomach tightened. I knew Dad hated me, and I decided the feeling was mutual.

  From time to time P.T. flitted about the lawn, but I didn’t wave from my window. Given Dad’s manner, using the caller was out of the question, and I didn’t know what I might have said to the little snark, anyway. We’d only been wrestling, for God’s sake. He went berserk and hurt me, and said some things I couldn’t really remember.

  I didn’t want to see him. I watched him through the curtains, running back and forth on the lawn with his football. He was thin and lithe. He never looked my way or smiled, though he knew I was lonely.

  For three more days I moped in my room.

  Finally I finished reloading my puter.

  I had to escape from the compound; that much was certain. Quietly I tied back into the nets, set up base camp with Rolf, revealed the idea I’d been working on. He was properly impressed, but it took him two endless days to decide if he wanted to help.

  Meanwhile, I scanned the latest issue of Holoworld. Old Boland’s speech was spread over the front screens. Good. That meant they’d be interested in my story about his plans to discount the Old Man’s influence. But I had to be careful.

  I set it up through Interlodge. Three layers of false signons, and a quick schuss through anon valley. Then a backtrack, scattering fresh snow across my trail.

  I’d written down everything I remembered of what the Bolands had said. Through Interlodge I sent Holoworld a few tidbits to whet their interest. Would they be interested in a meeting?

  If we met anywhere near the Old Man’s compound, someone might guess the source, so I needed a public place. I picked the Sheraton Skytel in New York; Dad had taken me there once and I could find my way around.

  I figured I could pass for seventeen at least, but even so, old joeybats like the mediamen might not be impressed. I told the Holoworld people I didn’t want my ID revealed and would send a messenger with the data I wanted to sell. They could give their answer to him.

  I wasn’t sure what they’d pay, but that didn’t matter. What counted was showing the lot of them. Getting even with Dad for his nastiness, and with the Old Man for being so frazzing sanctimonious. Let him fly back from his stupid monastery to a Holoworld exclusive on how he spied on his guests, and filed his notes in his personal puter. I’d decided the story would be hotter if I tied it to him.

  I wished I had something on P.T. too, but I wasn’t sure how I’d use it. P.T. wasn’t news; Arlene Bitch Seafort was determined to keep his name off the viewscreens, though once in a while, when her guard was down, they caught a few distant shots.

  They’d stopped sending mediamen over the compound after she knocked the tail rudder off a heli with nothing but a well-aimed hand laser. No one dared prosecute, and I think the other politicians were secretly glad a victim had finally struck back.

  I languished in the frazzing bungalow for days, before Holoworld bit.

  The meet was set for Wednesday at five. I’d leave Tuesday, stay overnight in the Sheraton, and have plenty of time to prepare.

  Over the weekend I worked so hard at browning Dad that he even complimented me on my attitude. It was all I could do not to laugh. At night, while he slept, I made a reservation on the Monday suborbital, billing it to the Terrex account I’d found in his puter. P.T. was right; it was my birthday he’d used. Dumb.

  Getting the card itself was the hardest part. I had to wait until Monday night; if I snatched it earlier, he might notice, though he used it only when he left the compound.

  I waited until Monday night, when he was in the shower. It took only a minute to dash into his room, fish in his pants, grab the card.

  I’d show them.

  Tuesday morning Dad woke me, as he had every day since our quarrel.

  “Time to get up, boy.”

  “Okay.” I forced open my eyes. I’d tossed and turned far into the night.

  “Now, please.”

  I sighed. In a few more hours it would be over. Why not let him think he was winning? “Yes, sir.” I sat.

  He threw his arm around my shoulder. I tried not to cringe ... His voice was hesitant. “I’ve been thinking ... remember our trip to Quebec?”

  “With Mom? A long time ago.”

  “Would you like to go again?”

  “Why?”

  “Just ... for us. I could take a few days.”

  Three or four days tied to him like a joeykit, with no way to escape? I wanted to vomit. “Zarky, Dad. We could do lots of things.”

  A hug. “Dinner’s in the freezer. Burgers and mixed vegetables.”

  “Okay.” I waited for him to leave.

  He paused by the door. “Keep up the
good behavior, and I’ll let you back onto the nets.”

  I turned away quickly, before he saw my lip curl. “Thanks.”

  He left.

  The morning passed in an agony of anticipation. I couldn’t leave; if Dad didn’t lunch with Arlene, he might eat at home. In that case I’d better be around. He mustn’t learn I’d left until I’d been gone several hours. By then would it be too late.

  Of course, there was the one chance in a thousand that he’d pick today to dine out, and try to pay with his Terrex. That’s what made life interesting, though I wasn’t too worried. I could always ditch the card and claim I knew nothing about it.

  My shuttle would leave at two.

  Noon. Luck ran against me. Dad and Arlene took their sandwiches to the veranda and sat forever. I paced my room, rucksack hidden under my bed. I could slip out Dad’s window on the far side of the house, but what good would that do? I still had to go through the gate, and the gatepath was visible from the veranda. All hell would break loose if Dad saw me outside when I was supposed to be grounded.

  If it weren’t for the gate-gawkers, I could shinny over the wall and be gone, but if I tried it, alarms would go berserk. I had to use the gate, where the guards’ job was to keep people out, not hold us in. It didn’t matter to them whether I went through to the street.

  Once I got past Dad, my way would be clear. The gawkers had no interest in me; their focus was on the Old Man and his family.

  At last, Dad gathered his plate and cup and went back to the main house. Arlene stretched and did likewise. Good; all I needed was for her to take one of her frazzing outdoor naps.

  When the coast was clear I snatched up my rucksack, loped to the gate, slowed to a walk as I reached the guardhouse. I opened the iron gate from the inside, nodded to the nearest guard as I strolled through. A few rubberneckers gaped as I went past; I restrained myself from giving them the finger. Idiots, hanging around the Old Man as if he were a saint. Seafort was a pompous ass who’d failed at politics like everything else.

  I managed to hold myself to a walk until I turned the corner. Then I sprinted to the end of the block.

  Sometimes tourists came in taxis, gawked through their windows and drove on, but others left their cabs to wander around the compound. During the day, ground cabs were always cruising our street to pick up yokels who finally realized there was nothing to see except the guardhouse and the shrubs.

  I stepped off the curb, hailed a cab. “Potomac Shuttleport, and hurry.”

  The driver looked me over. “Coin, joey?”

  “Sure. What do you think I am, a trannie?” I slammed the door.

  I had enough for the cab, but not a lot to spare. I’d intended to stop at a Terrex booth in the shuttleport and use Dad’s card to get some spending money. I figured after a few days he’d find it was missing and cancel it, so I’d better be prepared until the Unibucks from Holoworld came through.

  Thanks to Dad’s damn picnic with Arlene, I barely made it to the shuttleport in time. I raced to the gate, boarded just as the ramplights began to flash. I tucked my rucksack under my seat, buckled in, caught my breath as the ramp wheeled away.

  I debated trying for a drink. My fake ID looked good—hell, I’d paid enough for it at school—but if it didn’t work, a shuttle in flight was a bad place to get caught. I’d have no chance to run, and even a first offense could land me in Federal Juv. Anyway, the drinking age was twenty-one, and I wasn’t quite sure I looked it, even though I occasionally shaved.

  I settled for a softie.

  In New York I went to the nearest Terrex machine, keyed myself a wad of cash. I hadn’t had time to withdraw it in Washington before my flight. The transaction would eventually show on Dad’s statement; sooner or later he’d see I’d been to New York. Too bad I hadn’t thought of scrambling his financial passwords before I left, to gain more time.

  No matter. Once Holoworld paid off I’d head somewhere really zarky.

  Chapter 13

  POOK

  BAD TIME FOR POOK, afta Karlo cut me. I go sullen, can’ help it. What kinda Mid be Pookboy, widout upbringin’? An’ my side hurt. Can’ cry when Changman aroun’; gotta wait ’til he out.

  Every day ol’ man go wid cart, trayfo back ’n forth wid tribes. ’Fore he go, he sit by cot, ruffle my hair, ask how I feel. Allri’, I tellim. Don’ go pokin’ roun’ where ya don’ belong, he say. Res’ an’ get well. Yes, Mista Chang. I do whatchew say. He smile.

  I don’ feel so good. It too much trouble ta go up stair, poke roun’, even if my best chance ta see what Changman hide. ’Notha time. I get up slow, look aroun’ shop. Usual trayfo. If I take any, he know fas’, an’ whop me. Or maybe he jus’ looka me, make me feel bad. So I leave boxes ’lone.

  Shelves in back room fulla book. Could take lotsa; ol’ man got so many he never know, but whuffo? Who wan’ book ’xcept glitched ol’ Changman?

  Afta coupla days, I start feel betta. Nighttime, I sit wid Chang by perma, he in his rickety chair, me on low stool. He tell stories from book ’bout wayback time, when tribe called knigh’ rumb wid tribe in lair called cassel. Stupid scaretale. Wha’ kinda tribe wins rumb, an’ lettem go afta? I askim, why don’ knigh’s diss whole bunch a ’em afta they knock down cassel? Otha wise, cassel tribe go fo’ venge.

  He say, civil lashon, Pook. Whole worl’ don’ ack like trannie tribes. Dumbasses, I say; why I wanna hear ’bout glitched tribes who dunno howta ack? Dey bad as Subs, touchin’ fingas, sayin’ cool meet. Glitch stuff.

  Ol’ man sigh a lot. I sit still, lissen ta ’notha bookstory ta make ’im feel betta.

  Coupla mo’ days, I wantin’ go out. Changman say no. I go proud, say, Pook go where he wan’, no ol’ man gonna stop ’im. Okay okay, he say, an’ open door. Out, an’ don’ come back. Stupid ol’ man. I gotta do his way. Please, Mista Chang, lemme go out fo’ while. Jus’ ta walk roun’.

  He grumble lot, give me lotsa warn, don’ run, case ya fall, stay way from Karlo, stuff like dat. He think I stupe? Finally, he goin’ trayfo wid cart, an’ let me out.

  He tell me, “Okay okay, silly Midboy, be here when I get back, if ya wan’ place ta sleep fo’ nigh’.”

  “Yo.” I shrug, go out in sun, blinkin’. He lock door, careful. Beck me over, I gotta stan’ still while he fuss wid tape aroun’ my cut, fin’ ’xcuse ta hug me. “G’wan, Mista Chang, I be allri’.”

  He disappear down block wid rattly cart. I look roun’, see nothin’ new ’xept dead dog someone miss fo’ stewpot, but now he be too bloat. I kick stones. I walk ta near lair, side hurtin’ some, but not too bad. Hope Bigsis come out, but don’ go too close ta lair case see Karlo.

  No Bigsis. No Karlo, eitha, so okay.

  I walk roun’, gettin’ bore. Gotta wait ’til Changman come back ta get in. Soon, now.

  Noise. Motor.

  Heli.

  Mid joeys run pas’, headin’ ta lair fo’ safe. I don’ worry. Daytime, an’ plenny places fo’ hide. Heli usual means jerries, but could also be Uppies. Once in while, touris’ set down, looka roun’, guards showin’ lasers. Mos’ly touris’ come in Graybus, winnows all bar. Dey only stop at Four Two, usual.

  Whomp of engine get loud. Lotsa dus’. Heli sets down mid of street near Chang house.

  Motor stop.

  Not jerries. Jus’ helicab wid coupla frazzin’ Uppies.

  Afta while, Mids come outa lair ’gain ta watch touris’.

  At nigh’, no Uppie Ian’ his heli inna street. We dissim, if he do. Day, even trannies walk in sun, long as stay on own turf. Uppies ain’ welc, but too stupe ta know, sometime.

  Heli door open, two joes come out. One be real big, an’ kinda wide. He look roun’ careful, den help otha one jump down. Secon’ man all starve, threads tore like trannie. But dat couldn’ be; no trannie eva got coin fo’ helicab.

  Cabbie wait inna heli. I don’ see no guard.

  Big man bang har’ on Chang door. “Yo! Changman! Openup!”

  Don’ like. How Chang gonna
keep respec’ of tribes, Uppies botha him?

  “Yo! Chang!”

  I go bristle. “Get los’, Uppie!”

  He ignore, bang again. “Wake up, ol’ man!”

  Mids be watchin’. I go proud, pull out shiv. “G’wan, outa heah!” I stan’ front a door. “Leavim be!”

  Bigman eyes go narrow, seein’ shiv. “Watchit, joeykit.”

  He won’ step back, so I come closa, holdin’ shiv low like Karlo teach. “Fly ya mothafuckin’ heli back ta towah! You too, scrawny gayfag!” They ignore, so I lunge. “Who ya think ya—”

  Bigman han’ dart out, catch my wris’, snatch shiv an’ toss it inna street.

  “Leggo me, ya frazzin’—”

  He whop me ’cross face, openhan’. Make soun’ like stick crack. I yelp.

  His mouth fulla contemp, he shove me. “Go play ’fore ya get hurt, joeykit.”

  I catch myself fo’ I fall. “Prong—” He step closer; I shut fas’. Watchin’ Mids start ta snicker.

  Dunno whatta do. Wanna go proud, but he don’ ack like Uppie; too rowd. I run ta street, grab shiv. Wonnerin’, can I take ’im? Gotta try, ’cause too many Mids watchin’. I circle, careful.

  He ask, “Where be Changman?”

  “Prong yaself!” I c’n say it now; got shiv for safe.

  Otha joe, skinny, shrug. He say, “Leavim be, kit ain’ gonna tellya noth—”

  I lunge, catchem both offgar. Stick shiv inna bigjoe’s ribs.

  ’Xcept, I don’, cause he move too fas’. Bigman catch arm, twis’. My shiv go fly. He shove me up ’gainst wall, whop me a couple, kinda easy, like he bore. “Where Changman? He still live here?”

  Squealin’, I tryta get loose. Can’t.

  Whop. “Where he be, joey?” Whop. “Ansa me!” Whop.

  I cryin’ like joeykit, can’ help it, clawin’ at his big han’ slappin’ me, when familia voice come at las’. “Okay okay, whatchadoon to my Pookboy? Wha’s up?”

  Bigman growl, “Ask ’im where ya be, is all.” Whop me one mo’.

  “Lettim go, he jus’ joeykit.” Mista Chang trot ova, paw at Bigman han’ like he ain’ ’fraid. “Leggo, said!”