My numbed mind jerked as if galvanized. “Yes, you can.”
“How? God knows where they—”
“—at least a hundred thousand demonstrators snaking through Lisbon streets—”
“Not they. He. It’s Jared.”
“P.T., it’s been a long—”
“I saw him, Fath! He’s working in a tower across from Franjee. Jared’s the one who broke into the London CLIP and let loose an Arfie. He’s proud of it. I told you he knew puters.”
“The boy’s glitched.” For a moment I thought he meant me. “Arrogant, self-centered, stupid—can you find him?”
“Will you hurt him?”
“—quarters of General Ruben has sealed itself off from media—”
“Yes, if I get my hands on ...No. Not if I can arrange a pardon.” He glanced at his figures on the screen. “Hurry. Six minutes.”
“Captain, Ed Wilkes. Please, I beg you, sail to safety. In moments it will be—”
“Slow us, Fath. Give us time.” I keyed the caller.
“I can’t; they cut our propellant lines.”
“Ask them to stop firing, while we talk to Jar.”
“At the moment I have a certain ... moral authority. If I have them hold fire, it will collapse.”
I waited for my connection, sweating inside my suit.
“Pook. Watchawan’?”
“This is Peetee. What’s the code to Jared’s caller?”
“Why should I tell ya?”
“Because I’m begging.” I took a deep breath.
“Hah. ’Bout time, an Uppie come beggin’ ta trannie. Ya soun’ like Jared Washinton Uppie when I haddim—”
“Pook, please! What’s his number?”
His tone turned cunning. “Innifo?”
“—An impassioned statement from Marion Leeson. She defended SecGen Kahn’s refusal to bow to public hysteria when—”
“For God’s sake, Pook!”
Fath whispered, “Cansa. Lots.”
“Cansa, Pook. More ’n ya c’n carry.” My heart pounded.
“Laser? Boots, an’ sof’ new bed—”
Inspired, I blurted, “Pook, I’ll take you to Washington, show you our compound. My bedroom, Jared’s cottage. Everything.”
“Inside walls, where ol’ Changman took me?” A long pause. “’Kay, but don’ forget cansa. Here be numba.” Slowly, he recited a code.
“Later.” I punched in the code, misdialed. Frantic, I tried again, fingers slipping over the keypad. I flushed, tried again.
Five minutes.
“Easy son.” Father tapped the caller code himself.
A buzz. No answer.
“Come on, come on, COME ON.” I panted for breath.
Click. “Good morning. The trannie you have reached is not in service at this time.” A giggle.
“Jared? This is Philip. Listen, we need you to—”
“The sky’s black, to the north. What did they take out, a munitions dump? Funny I didn’t hear an explosion.”
“Jar!”
“Everything’s dead except the newsfeeds. They took away my nets.”
“We’re trying—”
“Just like Dad when I pissed him off.” A sob. “I’m sorry. I need my nets. How can I ... I need them, Dad! I mean, P.T.”
I stole a glance at the console. Four minutes. I panted in terror.
Father pried the caller from my fingers. “Jared? Son, this is Nick Seafort.”
“I know. You’re famous again.” He laughed, a harsh sound. “Or is it ’still’?”
“Jared, there’s no time. Where did you put the puter codes you used in the Treasury?”
“In a file. Leave me alone; I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
A long pause. “I’m playing with a razor.”
“Are you at your puter? Is that where the file is?”
Jar’s voice dripped contempt. “You must think I’m stupid.”
Father said, “I used to.” I gasped.
“Yeah, figures. Ahh!” A sharp breath. “That hurt.”
Three minutes. A hundred sixty-nine feet. The Station drifted slowly into view. Mesmerized, I stared at the throbbing orange beams.
“Jared, you showed us. But now it’s time for an end. It’s time to go home.”
“—Holoworld shuttle was apparently destroyed in a tragic—”
“I have no home. Will you flare when the shuttle burns? Think you’ll feel it?”
“Son, will you?”
A long silence.
On the caller, Jared began to weep.
The beams drifted closer. We’d rotate one more time, probably face the Station at the end. We moved at just under a kilometer an hour. Three thousand two hundred seventy-three point six feet. Fifty-six and a half feet per minute. Just under a foot per second. Twenty eight seconds, from porthole to stern. Time to know, and to scream.
“Jared, I’m sorry we hurt you. Come home.”
“—whole North American calling grid has collapsed—”
“I’m an adult. I don’t need you to raise me.”
“Jared, I beg you! Help us for Halber’s sake. For mine. For yours. We’ll see you through this!”
Two minutes and six seconds. From Jared, silence.
“—through the Station porthole. You can see the damaged launch slide inexorably—”
“Oh, Jared!” Fath’s tone was anguished.
“Secret Mystery Bossman Alpha Ace One.”
“What?”
“Your frazzing code. It’s filed in the London CLIP.”
Father switched on the camera. “Public broadcast now on all channels, Corwyn! This is Nicholas Seafort. We’re sailing into the laser beam. I caused my own death, and have no regrets. Forget me. Think instead of the joeys you dismiss as trannies. Their spokesman Pedro Chang has offered to tour the city and announce a peace. The U.N.A.F. has ample water trucks to supply the streeters until you work out a truce. The Hackers’ puter codes are in the London CLIP under file Secret Mystery Bossman Alpha Ace One.”
He paused, stared earnestly as if beseeching the camera. “You see, you have all the tools for a truce. If you must raise a memorial to me, let it be that. And the pardon of all concerned. I am a man of Wales, of Washington, of the tribe of Subs. If we cannot find peace in life, let it be in death. May Lord God bless us all.” He keyed off the camera.
One minute. The Station edged into view.
He breathed, “Father, I most contritely repent my sins. Have mercy on my son Philip, on those who—”
My stomach lurched. The orange beams gaped wide.
Frozen at the console, I began to shit my pants.
“—did as they thought wise. Thou art my shepherd, my—”
“Here on the Station all is silent save the steady hum of the lasers. Every porthole is jammed with watchers. Even those who oppose him are in awe of his gallant—”
“I don’t want to die.” I hardly recognized my voice. “Not ever.”
“I’m with you, son.”
“We’re too alive to die!” I clawed out of my seat, hit my head on the bulkhead. “Stop it, Fath!”
“It’s too late. The feed lines—”
Forty seconds. “I want to live! Help me! Someone help! Mom! God.” Frantic, I clawed at my helmet. Father knocked away my hand. “Not yet, Fath! Take me home!”
“—a few seconds from destruction. Here in the Station, women are crying, men pounding the wall—”
“Son—”
“HELP ME! IF YOU LOVE ME, HELP!” I shook him, kicked at the console. “I’m going to die!”
With a sob, Father launched himself to the lock, slapped at the hatch control. “Come here!”
Thirty seconds.
“—as the warning beacons light the front of the craft—”
Whimpering and wailing, I scuttled across the deck. Within my suit my soiled pants stuck to my rump. “Please!” I flew into his arms. “Don’t let me burn!” I gasped for breath, tried not
to vomit. They said if you threw up in your suit ...”
The hatch slid open.
“—callers have ceased to ring—nobody can get through and it’s too late—”
Fath said, “We’re moving slowly ... I’ll fling you stemward. If I push hard enough, it may overcome ...”
“Don’t let go!” Panicked, I wrapped myself around his trunk.
“PHILIP!” Desperate, he pried at my fingers. “Turnaround! Aim yourself out the lock!”
I twisted round. The gaping maw of the lasers beckoned.
“I’m scared, I can’t! Stop the lasers I don’t want to die God forgive me I’m a sinner please PLEASE ...” I retched. “I don’t want to die!”
“Let GO!” He wrenched loose, slammed me against the hull, grabbed my suit.
A brilliant orange light swept across the cockpit.
“Oh, God!”
Fath braced himself against the hatch, grasped my arm and leg.
My suit radio screamed. The console sparked. The radio died. From the console, a gout of flame, instantly extinguished. The hull around it dripped and melted.
I shrieked, a horrid endless sound that came from my blackened soul.
In slow motion, the melt moved sternward.
I broke free, leaped screaming onto Fath, clung with arms and legs.
Father staggered, let loose the hull. Beyond frenzy, I bucked in what might have been a convulsion.
Across the cabin, a tank of oxygen exploded with a great gout of silent flame.
I shrieked without end.
We toppled out the hatch. Father’s desperate kick pushed us faster. We floated toward the stern of the dissolving launch.
It glided past, ever so slowly, into the cruel orange light.
I screamed my throat raw.
“Don’t son. I’m with you. Hold tight. I love you. Rest your head.” Somehow, the words penetrated my dread.
“Are we—is it—moving toward—”
“Yes. A few more seconds. Don’t look.”
I raised my head. We were less than seventy feet from the maw of a laser. Like a row of soldiers, the massive cannon lined at silent, deadly attention. “Hunngh!”
“Look away, son.”
Closer we drifted. I craned my neck. Of the launch, only scattered debris remained. Pieces of the craft sailed into the light of the second laser. They glowed, dissolved, were gone.
“I love you, Father.”
“And I you.”
“I’m sorry I ... I’m sorry.” I panted desperately for breath.
“I know.” Almost, I could see past the edge of the deadly tube to the mystery within.
I whimpered, clung tight.
The warning light flickered.
We drifted into range. My leg would cross first. Desperately, I twisted aside, to no avail.
I crossed in front of the cannon’s beam, my head buried in Father’s chest.
Nothing.
I waited for agony.
None came.
From Father, a long shuddering sigh.
I looked up.
One by one, the warning beacons blinked out.
We were full in front of the first cannon.
And we lived.
“Thank You, Lord,” Father whispered. “Thank You, thank You.”
My suit stank, and I was desperately hot. Sick. Disoriented. Yellow light flashed in my eyes, and the red of blood. I panted.
“Fath, I’m ... ill” I couldn’t speak very well.
He looked into my face. “What’s the—oh, damn it!”
The world spun. “Take me home.” My voice was small.
“Let go. Now. This instant!”
Wearily, I unclasped my legs.
His breath rasping, Fath turned me around, fiddled with my suit. “Careless. Stupid.” For a moment I thought he’d push me away, but he scissored me between his legs, held tight. “Inexcusable!”
Panting, I clawed at my helmet. Outside was fresh air. Cool, inviting. If I could only get at the clamps ...
“Stop that!”
“It’s hot ...” But my hands fell away.
Fath grunted, twisted sharply. “There it is.”
“What, Fath?”
Again he fiddled with my suit.
I floated inert, almost beyond caring.
An oxygen tank drifted past. How had it survived the hellish fire?
I panted. The stink of my waste was unendurable.
Cool air. I sucked greedily.
Fath’s legs eased their grip. After a moment he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around me in a protective hug.
My head began to clear. The lights receded.
“Oh, thank you.” I gasped, took in endless breaths.
We drifted past the Station. I wondered if they’d come for us.
Behind me, his head close to mine, Father began to pant.
Again, time was a blur. I recalled stabbing the unfamiliar controls of my suit caller. “I’m Philip Seafort and my father’s with me, come get us he has no air for God’s sake hurry we need air!”
I babbled my pleas incessantly, not knowing on what comm channel they’d be heard.
Fath’s tone was reproachful. “It’s one thing to ...”
“Help us someone, bring oxygen for Captain Seafort for God’s sake hurry!”
“... sacrifice ... life,” he panted. “But, son ... never ... waste it ...”
We drifted.
It seemed eons before there came the blinking light of a thrustersuit.
We sailed to the Station, two techs guiding Father’s inert form, a third hauling me along by the wrist. Fath’s suit had a fresh tank, but his radio was silent, unresponsive to my pleas.
Medtechs met us at the airlock with a crashcart. They pulled his helmet the moment the lock pressurized. I leaned unnoticed against the bulkhead, weeping, until at long last Fath stirred, muttered a curse, and pawed at his oxygen mask.
It was only then that I stripped off my suit and the unspeakable clothing beneath.
Someone found a blanket, and escorted me to a washroom. I cried all the while I cleaned myself.
When I’d come out, sniffling, wrapped in my cover, someone led me by the hand to the Admiralty suite. I’d found Fath sitting with Mr. Thorne in the anteroom of the Admiral’s former office.
“Not a close call, a miracle,” said Thorne. “You don’t know the trouble Kahn had getting through. Thanks to you, callers are out through most of Europe.”
Father closed his eyes, as if exhausted.
Thorne added, “I only caught the end of his address. Until Ed rang, I ... wasn’t interested.”.
“Quite an about-face.”
“Me? Oh, you mean Kahn.” Thorne’s face brightened. “He bought your whole program. U.N.A.F. pullout, pardons for all, water deliveries start Monday. Under police guard, of course. He claims the military overreaction was ordered by Leeson’s crew while he was out of touch.”
“Someone will have to help Chang deal with the transpops. His temper is a bit frayed.”
“Yes.”
“So, then.” Father glanced to the closed office hatch. “Who handles my arrest? Ed Wilkes?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t toy with me. What will the charge be? Mutiny?”
“Well, there’s the matter of the pardon. Captain Wilkes!”
The office hatch slid open. “Yes, sir?”
“What was Kahn’s phrasing about the pardon?”
“Let me get the printout.” In a moment Wilkes was back. “‘... grant a full and complete pardon to all persons, civil and military, for any and all acts in relation to disturbances in the City of New York and environs—’”
Fath frowned. “But I said—”
“Let me finish. ‘Protests thereat, military countermeasures taken, destruction of property, death of persons, et cetera, et cetera.’”
“Excluding me! I made that clear.”
“Yes. I recorded and logged our entir
e conversation; it’s available in case anyone asks. Unfortunately, in the confusion, I failed to pass on that detail.”
“You what?” Father got to his feet. “Damn it, Jeff—”
“It was an error,” said Thorne testily. “Under pressure, a man can do only so much.”
“An error.” Father grimaced in disgust.
Thorne’s eyes brimmed. He crossed the room, enfolded Fath in an embrace. “Go with God’s Grace, Mr. SecGen.”
“And you, Jeff.”
“We’ll be landing soon. How do you feel?”
“All right,” I started to say, but the steward wasn’t talking to me.
Fath rubbed his eyes. “I have a splitting headache.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“Or worse. Think I still have all my brain cells?”
The steward’s smile was awkward. “I’m sure you’re quite well,” he murmured, and moved on.
I let go of Father’s hand long enough to finger my stiff new blouse. Blue wasn’t my favorite color, but I was grateful not to have to travel nude.
I told Fath, “I was utterly hysterical.” It was as if I spoke of someone else.
“Death is hard. It’s all right.”
“You weren’t afraid.”
“Oh, nonsense.” He leaned back. “I just wasn’t as ... loud.” Despite myself, I grinned.
As the shuttle’s buffeting began, I said, “Why are we flying to New York instead of home?”
“I have ... unfinished business.”
“Do you think ...” I gave Fath’s hand a squeeze. “You’ll be as glad to get back to the compound as I will? To the privacy of our walls?”
“Privacy. I’d like that.” Father’s tone was bleak. “More than anything in the world.”
The heli set down on the Franjee Tower rooftop in the glare of a hundred holocamera lights. In the corner, near the elevators, Mom waited, her hand on old Mr. Chang’s arm. He looked frail. She looked haggard and grim. I swallowed, fearful of the reckoning ahead.
The blades slowed. General Ruben said something behind his hand to Senator Boland, and beckoned a soldier to bring forward a stair.
As they opened the door Father took a firm grip on my arm.
“Sir, you don’t have to hold me. I won’t run away.”
“You’re sure of it?”
“I swear by Lord God, sir.” I held his gaze. At length, satisfied, he let go my arm and stepped into the evening haze.
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 55
