Children of Hope by David Feintuch Read Free Book Online Page B

drinking?”
    “Wayward minor. Juvie or Church farm.”
    “And the adult who serves him?”
    “Penal colony.” It went without saying.
    “And the minor who flouts authority?”
    I nodded.
    “And the adult who encourages him?”
    I was silent. Then, “Oh!” If I asked, Mr Dakko had to tell me to go home.
    Again, that quick smile that lightened his eyes. “Strictly hypothetically, mind you, I’m not sure the Stadholder’s upset you’re gone.”
    I said indignantly, “Why not?” Despite our quarrels, Anth cared about me. I was sure of it.
    “If you returned, what then?”
    “He’d give me what for.”
    “And then?”
    “We’d be friends.” With Anthony, once done, it was over.
    “And regarding the Bishop?”
    “I’d … he’d …”
    “Have to turn you over, most likely. Which now, he doesn’t.”
    “But that’s my problem, not his.”
    “Unless he has his own issues with Bishop Scanlen. Even if he were only forced to make you apologize, he’d lose face.” Mr Dakko’s voice was quiet. “Well, here we are.” He pulled up. “Upstairs, joey.”
    I was glad I’d worn Kev’s old shorts and a light shirt. Mr Dakko kept me busy moving boxes into the addition they’d just finished, and wiring in puters and other chipgear.
    How ironic, I grumbled to myself. Our teachers constantly told us that we’d achieved a low-labor society, which meant more goods and services for all. On our homesteads, sophisticated AIs tended our crops. Once harvested, grains and vegetables were milled, canned, bagged, or processed in highly automated plants, until shipped aloft to the huge ships or barges that took the crops to market.
    Likewise, in our cities, few offices had more than a couple of employees; puters and their electronic brethren did the rest. At home Dad had used a few old-fashioned filing cabinets; he’d often kept paper copies of important documents, damning the expense. But in general, human secretaries and receptionists were only for the very wealthy, who were trying to show off.
    So when you needed sweat labor, as Mr Dakko did today, you turned to migrant hands if it were dormant season, or else you called on joeykids.
    I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it, but I owed him, and didn’t resent paying. And it was good practice; if it turned out I’d left home permanently, I’d have nothing but common labor to fall back on.
    Mr Dakko clearly intended to get his money’s worth. I hauled files, holovids, and chipcases, manhandled chairs up a narrow stairway, crawled behind half a dozen consoles to install surprisingly sophisticated comm gear. A short lunch break—he gave me coin and sent me to a neighborhood coffee shop—and I was back at it, testing infrared transceivers. By midafternoon I was drooping, but determined not to complain. It was a great relief when Kevin bounded up the office stairs, his school day finished.
    I appreciated his help, but his presence reminded me my own school session would start in a day or so. Did I really want to be posted as a truant? It was no light matter.
    Besides, I actually liked school. My teachers complained I didn’t listen, and often enough it was true. But math was cool, and so was physics. Even history wasn’t that bad, when someone like Anth took the trouble to explain it to me.
    Lucky Kevin: he only had to work an hour or so before his father told us we were free to go.
    As he grabbed his holovid, I hesitated, eyeing the console. “Let’s schuss the slopes a while.” Terran slang, not ours, but it was zark not to sound provincial. I slid my thumb over the ID slot, ready to log on.
    “Why?”
    “To see if I’ve been netted.” If Anth really wanted to haul me home, he’d post my flight on the nets, warning all netizens it was illegal to aid a runaway. And if he were really pissed, he’d post a reward.
    “Might as well. You won’t leave tracks.”
    My fingers dropped from the pad.
    How badly did Anthony want me back?
    After Dad’s third revolution, when