“I’d like that.”
I caught P.T.’s eye and grimaced. Granted, his Mom wasn’t as bad as most seniorcits, though she had a mania for physical fitness, a carryover from her military days. But hearing her with Dad was like a holodrama from the Romantic Ages.
“The Vegan resettlement?”
“Who cares.” I rolled over on the bed. P.T. sat at my puter, ready to translate my ideas into respectable prose. The arrangement suited us both; it wasn’t my fault Philip was far ahead of his tutors, while I got nothing but drudge work. What good was general ed? Puters were useful, and a zark. Dull useless facts weren’t.
Dad knew school didn’t suit me, but paid no attention. It wasn’t as if he had to send me; education was optional, and had been for a century. Hell, even the Old Man said he’d been taught at home. Try convincing Dad, though. He shrugged and changed the subject.
“Well?” P.T. prodded my bed with his foot.
“The founding of Lunapolis? Nah, I did that last time and she’ll remember. The response to the fish armada?”
He snorted. “That’s current events, not history.”
“It’s been eleven years since the last—”
“Trust me.”
“Think of something.”
“Social effects of the Augmented Fusion Drive? Too easy, I could quote it right out of D’Aubison’s book. Let’s do the Planters’ Rebellion. Hope Nation.”
“It was your Old Man who put down the revolt. How can you call that history?”
P.T.’s eyes widened. “Jar, that was before I was born.”
The Old Man’s three trips to Hope System were the stuff of holodramas, but I was thoroughly sick of it. Growing up with a living legend was no fun, especially given his attitude toward P.T. and Dad’s toward me. “It’s boring,” I said, mostly for spite.
As I hoped, Philip was outraged. “Putting down the rebellion? Blowing the Station? How can you call—”
“He did it just for the fireworks.” My tone was sour. Everyone applauded the Old Man because he nuked Hope Nation’s station to destroy a flotilla of attacking fish. But did he stop to think who’d pay to replace it? Even Dad claims taxes are too high to raise my allowance.
P.T. was indignant. “That’s not fair. Fath hated what he did.”
Yeah, sure. The Old Man gathered guilt like some joeys collect butterflies. After Hope Nation they called him a hero and made him Commandant of Naval Academy. “The Fisherman,” he was called, though never to his face. But when he got all those cadets killed, he cowered in a monastery for ten years, gnawing the marrow of his remorse.
I had a hunch the published reports left out part of the story. Someday I’d get Dad to tell me. After all, he was there, a middy aboard the mothership Trafalgar. Whenever I asked, he would only look grim and shake his head. Maybe the truth was in a file I hadn’t broken. If so, I could sell it to Holoworld for a fortune. Retired or not, the Old Man was still choice meat for the mediamen. Perhaps that was why he hated publicity.
I debated. Hope Nation had plenty of juicy incidents to hang a paper on, but my goal in life was to escape Nick Seafort’s frazzing compound, and I’d be damned if I’d glorify him. “Nah. Let’s do ...” I thought furiously. “The Hacker Revolt.”
“Revolt? They crashed the Treasury, but that was—”
“A zark.” I knew I was safe with P.T.; he’d never repeat what I’d said. In school or elsewhere, I had to keep my mouth shut. As our teachers loved to remind us, the Rebellious Ages were long past. The Reunification Church and its U. N. Government wouldn’t tolerate anarchy.
“I suppose,” P.T. said doubtfully, “we could write about the safeguards put in place since—”
“Sure. You write the intro.” I lay back.
A moment later, I came awake with a start. “Don’t shake me.”
“It’s done. All of it.”
“Already? Let’s see.” I scanned the printout, yawning.
The Hackers’ invasion of the U.N. Treasury in June 2129 was, like the barbarians’ sack of Rome, a decisive turning point in social relations. The chaos resulting from loss of half a year’s taxes shattered a growing nostalgia for the Rebellious Ages, and thenceforward most societal institutions were united behind the Rule of Law, as our era is now known.
Though stringent security safeguards have since been put in place, continued reliance on puters means that danger remains—
I grunted. “I’ll have to change some words.”
“My grammar’s fine. Run your spellcheck, you won’t find—”
“Oh, cork it.” That was the trouble. If I turned in a report using terms like “thenceforward” and free of grammatical errors, our frazzing teacher would guess I hadn’t written it. After P.T. left, I would throw in a few typos to look like I’d been too lazy to run the speller, and string a couple of sentences together. For Philip’s benefit I said grudgingly, “It’s all right. I’ll fix it up.”
“Fine. Do your own work!” He snatched the printout from my hand, turned back to the puter. “I’ll erase it and—”
“Don’t even think about it, joey.” I tried to make my voice cold, like once I’d heard the Old Man’s, when he was still SecGen.
Philip’s finger hovered over the wipe. “Or you’ll stuff more grass in my mouth?” His tone was acid. “I don’t mind helping, you frazzing grode, but don’t ever treat me like your personal trannie!”
He sounded like ... I wasn’t sure what, or whom. “Cool jets. It’s a good essay.” He didn’t seem mollified. “Better than I’d have written,” I added with gritted teeth. Soon, I’d be out of here. If all went as planned I’d savor my revenge.
His thumb left the keyboard. I let out my breath. Tomorrow, I’d reenable the unwipe in case he pulled that again.
P.T. sulked.
Despite my efforts, my anger dissipated. With Philip, it was hard to stay mad. He had a quality that made me yearn to stroke him. I’d never tried.
“Gotta go.”
Curfews. I snorted. Dad thought I had one, too, but he didn’t know I used the hall window. “I’ll walk you back.”
It was nearly ten; the floods were turned off for the night. We crossed the darkened lawn in silence.
Our bungalow was at the far end of the drive, between the compound gates and the helipad. Not much of a home for a retired Captain, or me.
Dad had made Captain shortly after the Old Man became SecGen, and had commanded U.N.S. Vesta before Admiralty sent him to act as Naval Liaison to Seafort. When the Old Man lost his vote of confidence and resigned, Dad had volunteered to stay with him rather than return to the Navy. I don’t know why. Maybe the shuttle crash that killed Mom had something to do with it; Dad said only that an interstellar liner was no place to raise a child.
Selfish of him; it’d be a zark to have the run of a starship instead of being stuck in common school. Nobody would give me trouble as the Captain’s son.
Instead, when the Old Man retreated to Washington, Dad followed.
As we neared the main house I said, “Thanks for the paper.”
P.T. shrugged.
“I mean it.” A little butter wouldn’t hurt, for next time. “They loaded me with math and—”
“Shh!” He grabbed my arm, tugged me back.
The soft sound of voices overrode my annoyance. I strained to hear.
“No more than usual.” Arlene. “It’s that damned hadj he takes next week.”
I knelt below the dim glow of the patio light, motioned to P.T. to follow. After a moment I crawled closer.
“Hadj?” Dad’s laugh sounded nervous.
Arlene said crossly, “Whenever he comes home from that bloody monastery he’s sick from the memories, and from shame at all the parishioners crowding for a glimpse of him.”
“It’s only once a year. He needs the retreat.”
“I know!”
P.T. stirred uneasily at the anguish in her tone. I put a hand on his shoulder; he shook it off, speared me with a laser
glare that warned against touching him again.
A long pause. She added, “Perhaps more than he needs me.”
Dad sighed.
“But he does need me. When he resigned he was so ... hurt.”
Dad said, “He didn’t deserve their contempt. I know how he felt.”
“I wonder.” She hesitated. “Adam, keep this between us, but part of his hurt was his suspicion that he did deserve it.”
Dad sounded tired. “I thought he was past that.”
“He doesn’t have much confidence. His self-respect is ... fragile.”
I glanced at P.T, but his face was in the shadows.
“That’s hard on you.”
Her laugh was brittle. “I manage. For weeks after Lancaster, I look at him with adoring eyes, and bite my tongue when I want to criticize. Well, it’s not as bad as all that. But for Christ’s bloody sake, I wish he wouldn’t keep going to that place!”
Dad cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” she said presently. “No blasphemy meant.”
She didn’t have to worry in Dad’s company, but in public a remark like that could have her up for sacrilege. One had to be careful; though public piety might be fading, the elders of the Reunification Church were still immensely powerful. Last year I’d told my teacher what I thought of our stupid canon law, and got hauled into the principal’s office for a whipping. Worse, Dad hadn’t shown much sympathy.
Maybe I should report Arlene anonymously. That’d show them.
“I wish I could help,” Dad told her.
“An evening chat with you is enough.” Her tone lightened. “Let’s round up our offspring.”
I scuttled away from the house, tugging at Philip. When he was clear, I leaped to my feet, ran toward the veranda, spoke as if breathless. “There you are! We were coming to find you.” I addressed Dad. “Isn’t it your bedtime, young man?”
“Very funny.” He caressed the back of my neck; I refrained from flinching at his touch.
Arlene put her hands on her hips, her tone mocking. “Philip, what mischief have you been into?”
P.T. fell into her hug. “Nothing, Mom. Jared was showing me his puter.”
Dad and I said good night, strolled back to the bungalow. At the outer door he paused. “How long were you listening?”
“Huh? I don’t know—”
He shook his head.
I followed him inside. “All I said—”
Dad spoke softly, as if resigned. “I hate lies, Jared.”
“That’s right, accuse me again. All you do is find fault. We were only—”
He turned away. “Go to bed.”
“Yeah, don’t listen. You never—”
“Now!” It brooked no argument.
I retreated, slammed my door in futile protest.
I’d show them, someday. Dad, Arlene, all of them.
Someday.
Chapter 3
POOK
FAT MAN SIGH SOFT, grab at my wrist. I holdafort, proud.
He slide down da wall, like his legs tire. I reach down, pull shiv from his stomach, watch blood spurt ’til it stop. I wipe my blade on his coat, stick it in belt.
Nobody mess wid a Mid.
I look roun’, don’ see no one inna dark. Gotta grit teeth checkin’ out his pockets. Make me feel all glitch, him still warm.
Can’ fin’ nothin’. But ya never know; he mighta had coin.
For a min I think ’bout making Mid mark wid blood onna wall. Dis be Mid turf, even if alla Rocks not know it yet.
Nah. Smarter ta leave it for Midboss, ’less Karlo think Pookboy tryin’ ta crash. Ain’ had my upbringin’ yet, but it gonna come any time now. Den I be reg Mid. Old neut Changman say I be fourteen, moreless, but he so glitch wid old, I dunno.
Sometimes Chang make me drink his tea while he rememba how Fisherman come see him, ’fore I born. Boolsheet. Ain’ no Fisherman; he jus’ scaretale fo’ joeykits.
Still, better I hang roun’ Chang’s place than onna street, special nighttime. Now dat Mids be pushin’ out Broads an’ Rocks, lotsa rumb nighttime, an’ Karlo say joeykits spose ta stay outa. I tellim I big enough, but he jus’ laugh, whop me on side a head.
Someday I show him. Alladem. Like fat ol’ Rock tonigh’, think he c’n cross Mid turf. “Fadeout,” he say, hopeful. Ri’. I fade him out bigtime.
I look aroun’, don’ see no Rocks. Back ta lair, I spose ta, but too wired try ta sleep. Careful, crouchin’ in shadows, I duck ’cross street, run roun’ corner.
Knock three time.
Nothin’.
Knock again, three time.
Voice growl, “Go away. Close.”
“It be me.”
“Dunno any ‘Me’.”
I sigh. Stupid ol’ man. “I be Pook. Lemme in ’fore Rocks gemme.”
Bolts slide open. Time be passin’. I peer inta dark, my back itchin’. Be a soun’, in build ’cross street? Dunno.
Door open. Scrunchy ol’ man in robe look down his nose, suspicious. “Watcha done, Midboy?”
“Nothin’.” I close door quick.
“Pah.” He shuffle ta table, take his cuppa, sip loud. “Joeykit thinks he’s talkin’ to dumbass Mid. Try ta swind Pedro Telamon Chang, hah?”
I sniff at pot. “Whazzat, tea? Feh.” Coffee better, when he give, even if he think tea be only fo’ special fren.
“Tea, yah.” He padded ’cross room. “Allri’, I giveya. Trayfo?”
“Ain’ got.” Anyway, I be glitch ta tray somethin’ I wan’ fo’ tea I don’ like.
“Lemme see.” He stick his nan’ in my pocket. I make face, but lettim. Coupla times he catch me holdin’ out, and whop me good. I old enough now he can’ do it, ’less I let him. Dunno why I do; I almos’ big as he.
He pat me down. “Whazzis?” ’Fore I c’n stop him, he yank out my shiv. He lean ta Valdez perma, ta see it better inna ligh’.
“Gimme!” My voice jump too high. It do a lot, nowtime.
He inspec’ shiv. “Blood? Cut?” His voice worry.
“Naw.”
He try ta hide his relieve. “Who?”
“Fat ol’ Rock joey.” I shrug.
“Why?”
I surprise at dumb question. “’Cause he Rock.”
“Thassall?” His eyes anger.
“A Rock on Thirty Seven! Mid turf.”
“But what’d he do?”
“He be dere, what he do!”
Stupid ol’ man slap me hard, an’ it hurt.
I let out yelp. “Nobody whomp on Pook no mo’!” I snatch shiv.
Ol’ Changman bristle like cat some buncha scroungers figga for stewpot. “Midboy gonna diss Chang, hah?” He shuffle close, pull open his robe. “Right here, ya want to stick it. G’wan! Chang go down fas’.”
“I din say no—”
He grab holda my ear an’ twis’. I squawk. He yell, “This Chang house! No snotty Midboy tells Chang what he look at. Put dat back where I lef it! An’ stop cryin’!”
“I ain’ cryin’, ya ol’—all ri’!” I drop shiv on table. He leggo ear. Ain’ no talkin’ ta Chang sometime; gotta do what he say. But inside, he ain’ so fierce as he think. An’ he take me in, afta I pissoff Karlo.
He trot ta back room, drag out ’notha chair. “Sit. Drink tea, feel better.”
“Don’ wan’ none.” I sit.
“Wipe ya eyes an’ sip. Ain’ too hot.” He wait.
“Why ya comedown on Pook? Rocks ain’ nothin’ ta Neut.” I sniff. Can’ help it; I hate when Chang be mean.
“Tea don’ stay hot fo’ eva.” He slurp his cup.
I sip tea, keep ’im happy. Ain’ too bad.
Outside, streets quiet fo’ night. I look roun’ shop, see what Chang got new.
On chair, usual piles a clothes, all wash an’ fold. Jumpsuits, like Uppies got. Broads like ’em, but won’ catch Pook in a jumpsuit ’less he bareass widout. Frazzin’ Uppies think they own N’Yawk. Don’ wan’ look like ’em.
Buncha boxes inna
corner. “Whazzat, Chang?” His eyes go narrow. “Mista Chang,” I fix quick, ’fore he grab my ear.
He grunt, like he satisfy. “Permas.”
Valdez permas. Batries we use fo’ light, fo’ cook. Uppies, use fo’ ’lectricars an’ helis. “Why so lot?”
“So many.” He wait ’til I say it his way, which I gotta do if I wan’ him ta tell. Else, he too stubborn. “Savin’ fo’ tray-fo,” he growl.
Dat don’ ’xplain nothin’. Changman save everythin’ fa trayfo. He be a traytaman. He trayfo permas or threads or cansa fo’ trannie scrounge. He trays wid alia tribes. Even wid Subs, once in while. Not much, cause no one mess wid Subs, even fo’ tray. Usetabe, they dissya soon as ya go on they turf. Now they jus’ take yo’ trayfo, whomp on ya har’.
Inna day, even Rocks an’ Broads c’n come ta Chang’s door. One time he make me hide behin’ curtain ’cause two big ol’ Easters come. Argue some, trayfo lotsa. After, he jus’ smile ’cause I mad he make me hide. “Easters don’ wan’ tribes know what they trayfo. See ya here, they give Pookboy ’nother mouth.” He make sign cross throat.
I finish my tea. “Gotta be makin’ big trayfo, so lot—so many permas.”
“Min’ ya own biz,” Chang grumble. He fill his cup. Afta while, he shake his head. “Two month I work buildin’ truce, an stupid Midboy mess it up dissin’ Rock.”
“He be on—”
“Yah, yah, Mid turf.” Chang sip tea. “Turf fallin’ down, an’ govermen takin’ what ain’t. Still tribes rumb, fo’ nothin’.”
“Turf ain’ nothin’!”
“Hah.” He rock hisself, breathin’ hot tea. Eyes go faraway. “Cross street, down Thirty Six, big store usetabe. Mace turf.”
Never been no Mace, since ’fore I born. Jus’ ol’ man’s dream. Still, he act like they real tribe. Sighin’ inside, I nod.
“Giant store, took up whole block. They lived in. Little Mace boy came knockin’ on Chang door once, like you. Scared, mad, needed help.”
When ol’ man look otha way, I stick out tongue. I ain’ little, an’ ain’ scared.
“Eddie Maceboy wasn’t like Pook. He listened, when Chang tol’ him smarts. He learned. Ol’ Eddie knew better manners than stick tongue at Pedro Telamon Chang.”
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 2
