Children of Hope (4 page)

Not that Centraltown lacked a rough side. Folks in the Zone muttered that the city was growing too fast. Each supply ship from home system off-loaded its quota of hopeful colonists, and our own population was reproducing at a more than healthy rate. I had several grown sibs, and that pattern wasn’t uncommon.

The oldest of us was Zack, Anthony’s father. Then came Kate, and their baby brother Billy who was now turning forty, and then after a long gap and a second marriage, me. Of course, it helped that Dad had started young; he’d had his first joeykid while still a middy in the Navy, assigned by Nick Seafort as liaison to the planters after the last U.N. ships abandoned us.

When Dad was young, the spaceport had been at the far edge of town. Not now. Modular housing—plain, utilitarian, drab—sprouted everywhere. Much of it dated from the years after the fish dropped their bomb, when it was all we could afford. Many of the hastily erected buildings had since gone to seed.

I turned my mind to breakfast.

Where would I go, Judy had wondered, and her mom had interrupted before we could come up with an answer.

All the chill night, huddled in a Winthrop shed, I’d chewed at a fingernail, considering my options. At home I had credit chips from chores money, but retrieving them was too risky. I couldn’t chance Anthony getting his hands on me just yet. So I was reduced to the clothes on my back, and my wits.

And my friends. Alex Hopewell might help, or perhaps the Mantiets, but my escapade was public knowledge, since I’d erupted at the party, in full view of the community. Most any parent would call Anthony at the sight of me.

So, I’d chosen Centraltown.

Kevin Dakko and I had hit it off so well. If I could only find his house … I’d seen it once, in October, just after school started. Anth had driven me to town to spend a Sunday with Kev. It wasn’t the same between us, stuck in a tiny house with its manicured lawn, and only one lone tree on the whole place. I’d felt hemmed in, on a tiny patch of sterile land. And there was nothing I could show or teach him.

Still, he was only a year older than me, and would understand. During the summer we’d grown close, after a rocky start of half-hostile wrestling and dominance games, which he’d inevitably win. We’d worked past that into shared confidences, tentative at first, and ultimately, trust.

To get to Kev’s house, I could call a taxi. There was even a bus route. But I was utterly ’rupt, and a Carr couldn’t beg. I thrust my hands in my empty pockets, and began the long trek downtown.

The spaceport was almost deserted, as might be expected. We had little intrasystem traffic; only when the great Naval liners moored overhead did the place really come to life. Sure, mining ships shuttled between us and Three, and there were occasionally other vessels, but not enough to keep the restaurants open, except for a bar or two, and those would toss me on my ear if I even looked in.

Regardless how history holos pictured it, these days liquor laws were strictly enforced against a minor and whoever served him, here just as on Earth. It had been so for generations. Dad told me about a Plumwell cousin who’d spent six months in juvie for a tube of beer. Luckily, it was his first offense.

But nothing barred me from a restaurant, if only I had the coin.

Sometimes, for old times’ sake, Dad would take us on a lazy Sunday to Haulers’ Rest, a traditional way-stop along Plantation Road. Pancakes drowning in syrup, fresh corn, honey-baked ham. Mom would slather butter on enormous hot loaves of homemade bread and pass it …

Stop that, you idiot!

Too late. My stomach was churning. Sighing, I buttoned my jacket, bowed my head, strode on.

Kevin’s house was on Churchill Road, not far from the rebuilt Cathedral. I trudged past the huge edifice; I had no interest in its soaring spires, its rough-hewn fortress walls. As far as I was concerned, the Cathedral was enemy territory. I grimaced. So, at least for now, was our own estate. Not that I’d intended to leave it forever when I’d told off the Bishop.

Two blocks east, a block crosstown. Kev’s father had made us attend morning services; at least it helped me place the landmark in relation to his home. The Archbishop himself, old Andori, had preached; I’d dozed and squirmed through the endless ritual. Mr Dakko had shot us an occasional warning glance, though Kev told me later he wasn’t really devout.

There. Green celuwall-paneled front, solar roof.

My feet ached. I climbed the porch, rang the bell.

Nothing.

I rang again.

“All right, I’m coming!” A familiar voice that gladdened my heart. The door flew open.

“You!” Kevin gaped. “How … did your nephew bring you?” He peered past me, looking for my ride. His curly black hair rippled in the afternoon wind.

“Nah.” I managed to sound nonchalant. “Thought I’d drop by.” Let him think I could get about on my own, a full year and more younger than he. In a way, it was true; I
had
made it to Centraltown on my own. “Howya been?”

“Well, come on!” He stood aside, gestured me to the hall. “I was just fixing a snack. Want some?”

Thank you, Lord.
“I guess.”

I gazed wistfully at the remainder of the coffee cake, but Kevin seemed oblivious. On the other hand, he was absorbed in the story I’d spewed forth in response to his casual questions. I swallowed a lump. At fourteen I was almost of age, even if the law didn’t see it so. Why did I crave his counsel, perhaps even his guidance? He was just turning sixteen.

“Kev, I’m in trouble.”

His tone was gentle. “I know.”

“You heard?”

“You show up on my doorstep, your clothes wrinkled, the look in your eyes practically begging me not to turn you away … what went wrong, Randy?”

As I poured out my troubles, a leaden weight in my chest began to lift. When I was done, I stared at the table, brooding, hungry, ashamed.

“So.”

My attention jerked from the cake, so near to my plate, and so far.

“You’ll want to stay here.” It was more statement than question.

I shrugged. “I suppose.” In a distant recess of my mind, Dad frowned. Kev deserved better, not only because I needed a place to stay, but because his offer—if that’s what it was—was generous and kind. “I’d really like that. Do you think I could?” Only for a while, I added silently, until I figured what to do next.

“Fine by me, but we’ll have to ask Dad. If I invited you without his approval …” He rolled his eyes.

I nodded sourly. Parents—and older nephews—could be an intolerable burden. “He’ll be home soon?”

“Not for hours.” He threw on his jacket. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“The shop. Better chance he’ll say yes if we don’t spring it on him late at night.” He headed for the door.

Another long walk? My body groaned its protest, but dutifully I followed.

It wasn’t that far, it turned out. Just a mile or so, past Churchill Park, through the maze of downtown stores and offices. Past the Naval barracks. We were no longer a colony, but in practical terms we had little choice but to allow the U.N. Navy its downtown barracks, and its Admiralty House near the spaceport. By U.N. regs, sailors were entitled to thirty days’ long-leave after a voyage of nine months or more; the sprawling barracks was the sensible and traditional solution to housing.

I’d once asked Anth why we didn’t build high, the way the holos showed Terran cities. “Because land’s available,” he’d said. “Consider: we’ve more land mass than Earth itself, and only three cities to speak of.”

“There’s dozens of—”

“Places like Tyre, or Winthrop? I’m not talking about country towns.” He shook his head to shut off debate. “When you’re older and seen the worlds, you’ll understand.”

Hah. As if Anthony had ever seen much beyond Detour, a few weeks by Fusion. He’d toured Constantine, Earth’s newest colony. And that was about it. I’d stuck out my tongue, at his back. He’d seen, in the window reflection, and booted me from his study.

Now, striding beside Kevin, I grimaced. In truth, I didn’t always treat Anthony that well, though I’d be loath to admit it. Take last night: he’d unbent enough to admit he was in trouble, and I was compounding it by running away. Well, I wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t lost his temper and—

“We’re here.”

I peered about. We were in the heart of Centraltown’s business district, such as it was. Buildings of three stories or more cast long shadows on the scrupulously clean street.

DAKKO & SON
read the sign. It was attached to what was, for Centraltown, an imposing edifice. A full five stories, fronted in granite blocks. The door handle was ornate antique brass, and gleamed.

“Are you the son?”

“No, Dad is.” He guided me in.

The lobby was, I suppose, a typical reception area. I hadn’t been downtown much. A well-dressed young woman looked up with a welcoming smile. “Shall I tell him you’re here?”

“Please.” Kevin’s tone was tense.

We took seats. “What’s your dad do?”

“We started out as chandlers to the Navy. Victuallers,” Kev added, seeing my incomprehension. “You know. Suppliers. Then Dad bought into the grain mills, and—”

“He’ll see you now.”

Kevin shot to his feet, yanked a comb from his pocket, whipped it through his hair. He tugged at his shirt, straightened his collar. I couldn’t help grinning, though it made him frown. He strode to a closed door, peered in. “Dad?” His tone was cautiously polite.

I could find other places to stay, if that’s how it would be. Kevin actually sounded
afraid
of his old man. Where was the scorn that had dripped from his voice a few months past, when we sat cross-legged on our beds?

The door was ajar, but their voices were too low for me to catch many words. Kev sounded earnest. He paused, answered a question. Once, he pointed to the lobby, and my chair. Then more murmurs. Questions. “No,” Kevin replied, several times. “No, sir.”

At last, he poked his head into the hall, gestured urgently. I uncurled myself, headed for Mr Dakko’s office.

My school—Outer Central Academy—had a principal, Mr Warzburg. His office was at the end of a long hall. If you got sent there, the best you could hope for was a stern lecture. For serious offenses you’d get really hard whacks with the strap he kept on the wall. Once, they’d caught Alex complaining about the “goddamn tomatoes” he had to process, and the crack of his chastisement echoed all the way to the ball court. Afterward, a very subdued young Hopewell had made his shamefaced way outside. Blasphemy wasn’t tolerated.

It hadn’t happened to me yet, though I’d come close.

There was that sense of dread, trudging to Mr Warzburg’s office, that I felt now. Abruptly I wished I weren’t so disheveled, that I hadn’t spent the night curled in a grimy shed.

I shuffled in. Staying with Kevin was beginning to seem a really bad idea. Perhaps if I called Anthony, made my tone sufficiently meek …

Kevin’s father tipped his chair back against the window, hands clasped behind his head. He was slim, and wore casual business dress. His plain, scarred desk held nothing but a caller and a stack of holochips.

At the sight of me he came to his feet. His hair, once black, was shot through with jets of gray. A brief smile, which softened the lines on his face. “Hi. I’m Chris Dakko.” He extended a hand for a firm shake.

I mumbled something, found I had to repeat it to be heard. “We’ve met, sir.”

“Yes, you went to church with us.” Blue eyes lit me like a searchlight.

I flushed. One’s sins come back to haunt one.

Kevin glanced between us, licking his lips.

“My son says you need refuge.” Mr Dakko’s tone was dry.

“Yessir.” My voice squeaked. I blushed furiously. “Just for a few days.” I couldn’t ask for more.

From his cracked leather seat, he studied me. “I know your uncle Anthony.”

“I’m the uncle.” Why did I sound apologetic? “He’s my nephew.”

“Ah, yes. You’re Derek’s boy.” Mr Dakko’s fingers drummed the desktop. “Have you committed a crime, Randy?”

Other than running away? “No, sir.” But that was bad enough. And in three days, when Independence Day break was done, I’d be counted as truant. It wasn’t just Anth who’d be after me.

“Are they searching for you?” Had Mr Dakko read my mind?

“I don’t think so.” Anthony’s style would be more to let me starve, until I came crawling back. And then lower the boom.

“I’ll have to tell him where you are.”

“Why?” I knew I sounded sullen, but couldn’t help it. “He doesn’t have custody.”

“Who does?”

“My mother. Sandra Carr.”

“I thought the Stadholder was raising you.”

“He is. Was.” I struggled to explain. “He doesn’t have papers. Anything he tells me, though, he has Mom’s assent.” Mom was lost to the comfort of her chemdreams, though I’d die before I told an outsider like Mr Dakko. Some matters we Carrs kept private.

“Mppf.” He rocked, folding his arms. Then, “Well, your nephew’s no great friend of mine, but I won’t hide you. If he asks, I’ll tell him you’re with us.” The ghost of a smile. “But I doubt he’ll ask.”

“Thank you.” Under his minute scrutiny, I shuffled my feet.

“More important, I won’t get trapped between the Carrs and the Bishop.”

“In what, sir?” No sooner were the words out than I realized I shouldn’t have asked.

Anth was in trouble, he’d told me, and my defiance had made it worse. I was supposed to
know
about such matters. I was a Carr, wasn’t I? Perhaps I should go home after all, and …

No. Anth had to realize I was nearly grown. I couldn’t crawl to him. He’d have to come to me.

“In anything. You can stay the night. Tomorrow, I’ll decide if it’ll be longer. But if Mr Carr tells me you’re to go home, you go. In the meantime, keep away from the Cathedral. Really, I should steer clear of you, but you’re Kevin’s friend, and your family took him in when …” He threw up his hands. “Enough. Kev will show you your room, and you’ll help fix dinner. We’ll eat when I get home.” He eyed my rumpled shirt. “You have clothes?”

I shook my head, ashamed. It wasn’t as if I’d
planned
to leave home, for Christ’s sake.