Children of Hope (50 page)

The next morning the trial began in earnest.

“The witness will stand.”

Wearily, I got to my feet. Within my dark blue shirt, my shoulder throbbed unbearably. I was grateful; it gave me focus.

The three elderly judges wore cassocks, not uniforms, else theirs might have been a military court. Or a civilian one, for that matter. It made little difference, in a society owned lock, stock, and barrel by the frazzing Church.

“State your name.”

I said nothing.

“Young man, your situation is grave. Unless you cooperate …”

I waited.

They conferred. We argued. They threatened me with poly and drugs. I shrugged, forgetting. Clenching my teeth, I rode a wave of pain.

The Lord’s Advocate—the prosecutor—intervened. “If Your Reverences permit?” He slipped a chip into his holovid, swung it to face me.

A chipnote. To my astonishment, it was from Fath.

He lived! I could barely read for my joy.

“Randolph, I know what you face. What I face. I beg and order you, tell them what they would know. Tell them freely.”

I stared at the unmistakable signature.

And I began to speak.

In the darkening day, I drained the last of my water. The ice had long since melted.

Scanlen had interrupted me twice, once when I spoke of my staged hanging at the farm, again when I came to Anthony’s murder. I’d lapsed silent, waited out his objection, resumed where I’d left off. Eventually, after whispered consultations, they’d let me proceed in my own fashion. Perhaps they knew it was of no consequence; their forthcoming deliberations were a farce, my fate already sealed.

Now, my tale was done.

I looked about.

The holocams whirred silently in the dusk. My throat was sore and scratchy, the dark, drafty Cathedral silent but for an occasional creak. A hundred pairs of eyes searched mine.

Bishop Scanlen stirred. “Be seated.”

I sat, or fell, into my chair. My calves were tight, unyielding knots, my back ached abominably. As for my shoulder …

Yet I felt a peace I’d never known.

All my secrets were bared, all my follies revealed. For better or worse—mostly worse—I’d be judged as I truly was.

“The tribunal accepts the defendant’s confession. The proceedings are adjourned ’til the morrow.” Bishop Scanlen’s tone was flinty. “At which time we will announce sentence.”

Exhausted, dazed, I let them lead me from the Cathedral. Again, a heli crowded with guards flew me to the hospital that had become my home.

Just outside my windowless room my stern nurse had a fierce argument with the guard, and was allowed to supplement my rations. Home-baked cake. She said nothing as she served me, but her eyes held pity, and perhaps something more.

I expected to be locked alone in my room to sleep, as always, but this night guards stayed with me at all times. One even took a position directly outside the door to the bathroom when I used it.

A doctor tended the stump of my arm. Nurses read the monitors displaying my pulse, temperature, and other signs. Little was said, either to me or among themselves. Nonetheless, I sensed a tension I hadn’t felt the night before.

As they made ready to darken my room a doctor checked me once more.

“Why are you scowling?” My voice was too loud in the silent room.

“I’m not.” His tone was gruff.

“Is it because I’m to be burned?”

“That’s not decided.”

“Oh, please.”

The guard cocked an ear, listened intensely to I knew not what.

I lapsed silent, but heard nothing.

They left me with a dim night-light. I pretended to sleep, lulled by the slow steady breaths of the armed guard in the corner.

In the morning they helped me dress. I was bleary from lack of sleep. I’d brooded half the night over my impending death, decided that it didn’t frighten me. I didn’t care to live maimed, no matter how clever a prosthesis they might devise. Besides, survival would require obeisance to the Church, and nothing was worth that.

Besides, death no longer held much terror. I’d faced it once, aboard
Olympiad.
Only Fath’s intervention had saved me, and for what purpose? Perhaps I owed Lord God an extinction. I shrugged, momentarily forgetting to protect my wound.

This morning, they took me not to the helipad but to a heavily armored electricar. Deacon Hambeld waited by the door, under a sullen sky.

“What’s this about?”

No one answered. They bundled me in. We took off, accompanied by a score of Home Guards. Sirens blared.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly anxious to get a look as the terrain flew past.

Were they taking me to some lonely place where they’d shoot me out of hand? Unlikely; they could have put me to death in my hospital room and blamed it on any number of causes. Were they spiriting me away? It didn’t seem so; our route seemed destined to take us to the Cathedral, as before.

On Churchill Road, electricars lay overturned. A gutted building smoldered in the gloom.

My heart beat faster.

“What?” I pawed at the nearest guard.

He slapped away my hand.

“What harm in telling me?” I tried to make my voice affable.

“Heretics.” A growl. “They’d overthrow the Government of Lord—”

“Enough.” Deacon Hambeld.

“When?” I swallowed; it sounded like a demand.

“Last night.” The deacon scowled. “Let it be. Tend to your soul.”

Our cavalcade purred through a city gone strangely quiet. I searched for other signs of damage, but saw few.

Our driver parked directly in front of the Cathedral’s iron-bound doors. My guards tried to hustle me out of the electricar, but I took my time. Let them throw me to the ground if they cared to; no doubt a hidden holocam was recording for posterity.

Overhead, a watchful heli cruised.

I smiled sweetly. “Expecting trouble?”

“Inside!”

I complied, and stopped short.

This day, the Cathedral was half empty.

As my guards marched me past the nave to the chancel, I glanced over my shoulder. Three deacons had taken up station at the massive oaken door. One pressed a caller to his ear.

Ahead, at their raised dais, my judges waited. Among the onlookers, a buzz of muttered comments.

One voice, bolder than the rest. “Let him go!”

“Silence!” Bishop Scanlen slammed down his gavel.

“He’s just a joeykid!”

“Your government’s fallen, let it be!”

Scanlen took breath to respond, but from the altar, a voice thundered. Henrod Andori, Archbishop of the Reunification Church of Hope Nation. “Lord God’s Government has NOT fallen! He is eternal, and heretics shall learn so to their dismay!”

Bishop Andori wrapped his crimson robe tight, as if against a strong wind. “Proceed.” He rapped his staff on the marbled floor.

Scanlen cleared his throat. “We, judges and prelates of Holy Mother Church appointed for the purpose and in conclave assembled, upon solemn deliberation, declare Randolph Carr guilty of acts of heresy and apostasy too numerous to detail, of the murder of our brother and servant Deacon Edwin Salazar, of assisting the flight of Nicholas Ewing Seafort—” He fairly spat the words. “Late Captain of UNS
Olympiad,
renegade, apostate, and excommunicate.”

Scanlen struck his gavel; it echoed in the ill-lit chamber like a rifle shot.

To me, “Appeal is through the hierarchy of Reunification Church. In this case, directly to the Archbishop, His Grace Henrod Andori.”

My voice dripped with scorn. “I won’t waste breath with an appeal. Do away with me.” Brave words or no, my stomach lurched. They intended to do just that.

Deacon Hambeld hurried down the aisle. “Your Reverence …” He made straight for Scanlen. A whispered conference. The Bishop stood, made an imperious gesture.

The deacons swung shut the great iron-strapped wood doors of the Cathedral.

Among the spectators, murmurs of unease. The ill-lit chamber grew dismal and drear.

Scanlen frowned. “No doubt we’ll have visitors shortly. I’ll want my vestments.” He strode to the changing rooms behind the altar.

“Hey!” I shot to my feet. “Tell me what’s—”

“Silence him!”

Someone touched a stunner to my side. It must have been set low. For a moment, I fought not to black out. From the pews, I heard a gasp of outrage, then nothing.

I tried to move my arms, could not. Wearily, I tried to blink myself awake.

I clenched my fists, but that brought only pain, and wakened me fully. My shoulder throbbed. One arm was missing—how could I forget?—the other lashed to a pew, by a leather belt. I struggled to free myself, could not. Only one hand was bound—if I could reach it with the other … but I had no other. Maddened, I gnawed at the belt to no avail.

A few moments later Scanlen emerged, wearing his red robe. From under his arm he took his gilded high hat, secured it atop his head. He wore his formal vestments, those of high mass. On occasion Anth had made me sit through the ceremony. I’d fidgeted among the crowd of worshipers, bored out of my mind.

The Bishop strode to the high lectern, where he was accustomed to preach to the multitude. “Hambeld, what news?”

The deacon, at the great doors, peered through the grating. “A troop carrier across the street. A couple of helis circling. That’s it.”

Scanlen’s smile was contemptuous. “And they’d make themselves a government? We’ll have them under lock and key by nightfall. You called the farm?”

“Yes, Your Reverence. They’re on their way.” He tensed. “The carrier is moving. Seems to be turning around.”

I looked about, wondering if the churchmen meant to defend the Cathedral with force.

The pews, except for mine, were empty. How long had I been unconscious? Not long, barely time for Scanlen to don his robes. Time enough for the deacons to shoo out the spectators. No doubt the townsmen were glad to go, glad not to choose between Church and civil authority.

Between Church and government … I shook my head. How long was it since men had last faced such a choice?

At the door, Hambeld licked his lips nervously. “What if they try to force their way in?”

“Tell them this is Lord God’s house.”

“But, Your Rever—”

Scanlen said firmly, “Only Anthony Carr was insane enough to attack Mother Church, and he’s gone to his just reward. Apostates or no, these weaklings wouldn’t—”

Hambeld leaped aside.

An earsplitting crash.

The great oaken doors splintered, reeled drunkenly on their hinges.

“Jesus!” The deacon scrambled to safety.

The crumpled nose of a troop carrier rolled into the Cathedral.

Armed men emerged.

“Stop!” From his high perch, Bishop Scanlen’s voice rang in the nearly empty hall. “In the name of Lord God, stop!”

The rush of troops slowed.

“Take your weapons from this place!” Scanlen’s tone was commanding. “Now, or face damnation. For I, Ricard Scanlen, Bishop of the Reunified Church of Jesus Christ, declare excommunicate from Holy Mother Church and from Lord God Himself every man who sets hostile foot in this edifice!”

It brought every soul to a halt.

Tentatively, Hambeld moved toward them, as if to usher them out. The invaders exchanged uncertain glances.

A voice said softly,
“I’m already damned. I’ll do it.”
Nicholas Seafort, in a Captain’s dress whites, strode toward the nave, laser pistol in hand.

Scanlen intoned, “By the power invested in us, we do declare thee—”

Fath smiled, a grim expression that did not light his face. He aimed and fired. A corner of the lectern burst into flames.

The Bishop gasped.

Captain Seafort said, “I arrest you in the name of the Government of the Commonweal of Hope Nation. The charge is treason.”

“What government?” Scanlen’s tone dripped scorn.

“Ours.” Jerence Branstead appeared from behind the troop carrier, his laser rifle held steady.

“Bah, you’re not even a—”

“What? Citizen? I most certainly am.”

Scanlen took a deep breath, reconstituted his authority. “Get out of my Cathedral!”

“Not yours, sir.” Fath’s tone was ice. “Lord God’s. It’s a distinction you find hard to grasp. But—”

Why was Scanlen debating them? Obviously, Branstead and Fath wouldn’t back down now. Abruptly I realized: the Bishop was playing for time. I swarmed to my feet, almost dislocated my remaining shoulder as I wrenched helplessly against the restraining pew. “Fath, sir, he’s called help from the farm. Deacons, they’ll be armed—”

“No doubt. Are you hurt, son?”

“No, not—I mean, I was, before. My arm is—”
Never mind that, you idiot!
“Fath, be careful or they’ll …” Suddenly I was crying, and could say no more. I stamped my foot.

“There, son.” As Fath walked slowly to the nave, his pistol never wavered from the Bishop. His arm came around me in a brief, gentle squeeze. Eyes on Scanlen, he clawed with his free hand at the belt that bound my one wrist to the pew, managed at last to unbuckle it.

I flexed numb and swollen fingers. “I told them everything, Fath. As you said.”

“You made me proud.” His eyes glistened. “Son.”

I hiccuped and sobbed, ashamed of my youth.

From the aisle, Jerence Branstead cleared his throat. “Captain, take this—this
person
—” A wave of his rifle. “—into custody.”

For a moment I thought he meant me, but Fath patted my shoulder, gestured to the Bishop. “Mr Anselm! Seize him.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Tad strode down the aisle, Tommy Yost in tow.

Scanlen backed away. “I’m immune from civil prosecution. You can’t—”

“Watch us.” Anselm grabbed his arm, halting his flight. “Where to, sir?”

“Jerence?”

“The Governor’s Manse, I suppose. I won’t trust him out of my sight.”

“Right.” Anselm spoke with unaccustomed solemnity. “Bishop Scanlen, by order of Acting Stadholder Branstead, I do arrest you.”

He led the dazed Bishop to the shattered door.

Fath snapped, “Just a moment. Where’s Andori?”

“Behind the altar.” I looked about.

The Archbishop was gone.

“Tad, find him!” He turned to Mr Branstead. “Have you need of me? I want Randy at hospital.”