Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3)

by Francis Porretto

  “It’s a big mouthful to swallow in one gulp, Al,” he said at last. “I need some time to think about it. Are you willing to abide by my decision? Once I’ve reached one, that is?”

  She stared hard at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said. “But I have a couple of questions of my own. What moved you to do this? And why now?”

  In answer she drew a folded piece of paper from a back pocket, unfolded it and handed it to him. It was a printout of a Hub page:

  The Searching Eye

  Centralians have surely noticed the sharp increase in produce being imported to our region’s stores from the large plantations to the east. Fresh corn, not a frequent visitor to our tables, seems to be everywhere, and at a price so low that locally produced grains cannot compete with it. Many a Centralian family has seen our domestic oats, rice, and barley displaced from its dinner table by imported corn.

  No question that our families’ food budgets have improved because of the change. Yet there is no gain unaccompanied by loss. In this case, the loss is twofold: of dietary diversity, and of independence from changes outside our demesne.

  What would happen to our way of life were the flood of corn to become so copious as to cause our local producers to cease growing grains entirely? Would that not put us at the mercy of the exporters to the east? Would it not implicitly accept a condition of dependence Centralian communities have never known? Can we afford to be casual about the possibility of such a development? Should we not make provisions to avert that possibility before it can be realized?

  You who read this might be thinking that no such destruction of a regional economy by a foreign monopolist has ever before occurred on Hope. And you would be correct. But is that a reason for thinking it cannot happen? That that which is unprecedented is therefore impossible?

  We will explore some of the prophylactic measures we could take against such a development in our next.

  He looked up at Althea, who stood before him with her arms folded across her breasts.

  “I ran across that yesterday while I was checking futures prices,” Althea said. “Have you ever seen the like?”

  He shook his head.

  “That’s what moved me, and why we’re here today.”

  “Althea,” he said, “what on Hope does this have to do with turning Morelon House into a heavily armed fortress?”

  She replied with a glacial smile.

  “Talk to Martin.”

  * * *

  “You upset him badly,” Martin said.

  Althea set down her hairbrush, turned and nodded. “And you?”

  Martin’s crooked grin was devoid of humor. “I upset him worse.”

  “I’m not surprised. How many of our kin know much Earth history?” She knelt before him where he sat on the edge of their bed, wrapped her arms around his waist, and laid her head against his chest. He caressed her hair. “Spooner’s beard, Martin, I wouldn’t know much of it except for you.”

  “It’s a problem.” He snorted. “Santayana would say so, anyway.”

  “Friend of yours from Sun Tzu?”

  Martin chuckled. “No, love. An old Earth thinker. Best known for his saying that ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’”

  “Smart guy.”

  Martin chuckled. “You think?”

  She cast a sardonic glance at him. “Well, from what I’ve read about the competition, anyway.”

  “Oh? Just because you weren’t there—”

  “Hey, you weren’t either!”

  He chuckled again. “Okay, okay. Point to you.”

  She squeezed him gently and laid her head against his chest once more.

  Presently Martin said “Do you think he’ll come around?”

  “I can’t say,” she said. “But I’m going to pitch the fixed-mount units to Claire’s clan either way. If they go for it, I’d say Bart will have to come around.”

  Martin sighed. “Yeah.”

  Their heads swerved about sharply as the door to their bedroom swung open. Claire Albermayer stood there, flushed and out of breath, plainly in a state of high excitement.

  Althea took her in her arms and kissed her. “I thought you weren’t going to be able to make it.”

  Claire smiled widely. “So did I, but that’s because I wanted to finish what I was working on.”

  Martin clucked at her. “Claire, what did we discuss about working far into the night?”

  “Oh, I remember all that,” she said, “but this was about a gift. I wanted to bring it with me when I came over next.”

  Martin frowned. “A gift for us?”

  Claire shook her head. “For Bart.” She reached into a pocket and brought forth a small sealed jar. “Is he an early to bed type, or might he still be awake?”

  * * *

  Barton peered at Claire in confusion. “You never said anything about this.”

  Claire shrugged. “That would have spoiled the surprise. Besides, what if I couldn’t make it work?”

  Nora pulled herself even more firmly against his left side. She seemed to be trying to prevent his stump from being visible. Althea and Martin stood by the office door, their faces unreadable.

  If it seems too good to be true...

  “Tell me about the downside.”

  Some of the excitement bled out of Claire’s expression. She set the jar down on the table between them, sat back, and folded her hands in her lap.

  “I’ve tested the process on human tissue and on a live animal, but not on a living human. The test results were all good, but that doesn’t guarantee much. I don’t know whether a living human metabolism will disrupt the effect. I also don’t know whether there’ll be pain, but it seems likely. My...animal test subject didn’t seem to enjoy it much.”

  “Could he apply it and immediately get into his medipod, just in case?” Nora said.

  Claire scowled. “I wouldn’t recommend that. The regen nanite is likely to strike the pod as a foreign invader to be hunted down and exterminated. Besides, we’re talking about replacing a severed limb. It could take weeks to run to completion. I doubt Bart wants to be out of commission for that long.”

  “I don’t want him out of commission at all,” Nora growled.

  Claire started in surprise. Her gaze moved to Althea and Martin. They appeared to be struggling to repress laughter.

  “Nora,” she said, “I’m a healer. Yes, I use technology to heal. Yes, it’s a technology that few people understand, and a lot of it can be dangerous. Althea told you about the nanite the Loioc infected her with, didn’t she?”

  Nora’s eyes narrowed. She nodded warily.

  “It was the most evil thing I’ve ever encountered in a century in biotech. Pure human malice in a self-replicating package. When Althea told me how she got it, I wanted her to fly us to the Loioc homeworld at once, so I could...tell them what I think of them.” Claire smiled grimly. “The way things have worked out, I’ll be able to do a lot more than that, in time.”

  She rose, gently separated Nora from Barton’s side, and took his stump in her hand.

  “This is almost as evil. That anyone should inflict this sort of harm on a peaceable man is beyond simple condemnation. I started work on a counteragent the moment I heard about it.

  “I wish I could say there are no risks. I can’t. Everything in biotech has risks. And I wish I didn’t have to ask your husband to be the first living human subject. I must. But I can promise you this: I will be here, in this house, within shouting distance of Bart every second of every day until the therapy has run its course. I’ve brought every tool for nanotech modulation and pain mitigation I could fit into a HalberCorp hovertruck—”

  Nora nodded, face still set in the severest of lines. “I expected all that, Claire. In fact, I wouldn’t let you proceed—”

  “Wait just a minute, love,” Barton interjected. “That’s my decision!”

  “Not alone,” Nora said
. The steel in her voice was unmistakable. “You’re not a bachelor. You’re a husband and a father. That gives me a veto over your decisions to put yourself at risk. If I don’t like what I hear, I’ll use that veto, and you’ll accept my decision as final.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Deal with it.”

  Claire retreated and reseated herself on the facing love seat. A moment of taut silence passed among them. Presently Barton shook his head and chuckled.

  “The big deal clan patriarch has to defer to a higher authority at last,” he said. “Claire, can you give us your best guess at the duration, and at...whatever else?”

  Claire grimaced and looked away. She started to reply, but Althea stepped forward, a hand raised.

  “Tell them about the medipods, Claire.”

  Claire frowned. “Why?”

  Althea ran a hand along her friend’s cheek. “Just tell them.”

  Comprehension bloomed in Barton upon the instant.

  “Claire,” he murmured, “who was the first test subject for your medipods?”

  The bioengineer’s eyes widened. “Well—”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded, eyes downcast.

  “What did you do to yourself?”

  “Not all that much, really.” She would not look at him. “A few simple infections and toxins.”

  “She started with diphtheria,” Althea said in a voice of iron. “Once her pod had cleared that up, she went to hepatitis B, then to malaria and trypanosomiasis.” She sat next to Claire and wrapped an arm around the chagrined bioengineer. “After that, she progressed through low-grade cyanide poisoning, Amanita extract, and botulinus.” Althea turned to look at Nora. Her eyes stabbed into Nora’s with unmistakable force. “But that wasn’t enough for Claire. She had to know the pod would deal with mechanical injuries as well as bugs and poisons, so she lay down in it, anesthetized both of her legs, severed her Achilles tendons, and pulled the lid closed.”

  Althea rose and glared down at Nora Morelon, unofficially the second most powerful person in the clan. The smaller woman flinched before the anger in Althea’s eyes.

  “She’s never told any of her kin what she did to herself. She didn’t dare, for fear they’d remove her from her position, maybe cast her out of the clan entirely. I had to force it out of her. And now the five of us in this room are the only people on Hope who know.”

  Barton stood and removed his tunic in a single motion.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Nora surged to her feet. “Bart—”

  “I said let’s do it.” He glared at his wife. “If it kills me, you’ll have the richest clan on Alta to look after you and Annelise. If it doesn’t, I’ll be a whole man again, something I had no hope for an hour ago. I’m not going to forsake that hope for fear of some pain. That’s my decision, and it’s time for you to back off and deal with it.”

  Nora gaped at him for a frozen moment. Presently she lowered her head, nodded, and turned away.

  Barton thrust his stump at Claire Albermayer. She opened the little jar, dabbed its contents onto a cotton pad, and stood.

  ====

  Sexember 6 , 1326 A.H.

  “Are there any other matters before us this day?” Barton said. He looked around the conference table and stopped at Emma, seated at his right. “Clan scion?”

  “None, Uncle Bart.”

  “Good.” He rose. “I have one. A rather large one.”

  Faces around the table became alert.

  Barton took a deep breath.

  May God guide them. I wish I could say for sure that he’s guided me.

  “Althea came to me last week with a proposal,” he said. “She led me out along the bank of the Kropotkin and demonstrated a device she’d developed, a backpack laser unit. It was quite impressive.” He smirked. “No surprise there, eh?”

  The other councilors chuckled briefly.

  “She originally developed it for use as a tool, a cutting and welding implement. She transformed it into a formidable weapon.”

  The chuckles gave way to attentive silence.

  “From her demonstration, it would seem that enough of those laser units on the backs of Morelon adults would make fools out of anyone who might attempt to coerce us. She suggested that we authorize her to build a few dozen of them—”

  “At clan expense?” Patrice Morelon said at once.

  Barton nodded. “Yes, at clan expense.” Though she never said so explicitly. “They would sit in reserve against the possibility of another attack on us. I’d imagine we’d have to train in their use, but from what I saw they’re no harder to use than a needler, if a little heavier.”

  He scowled. “But Al didn’t stop with that. She also wants to build bigger ones, eight of them, to be placed at fixed points around Morelon House. Swivel-mounted and powerful enough to cut an approaching force to ribbons before it could get close enough to harm us our ours.”

  A miasma of tension formed over the Morelon elders. Expressions around the table turned grim. Several pairs of eyes darted furtively at Barton’s stump.

  “Althea does things for a reason,” Douglas Kramnik said at last. “What was her reason this time?”

  Barton pulled the Hub page printout out of his folio and handed it to Kramnik, who sat at his left. The former patriarch of Clan Kramnik read it swiftly, glanced up at Barton, and nodded.

  “Pass it along, Doug. Everyone should see it.”

  When all the councilors had seen and read it, Barton returned to his seat and steepled his hands before him.

  “Martin Forrestal said something to me yesterday. An old, old maxim about those who don’t remember history being condemned to repeat it. It’s sat with me rather unpleasantly since then.”

  He flipped his hand at the Hub page. “According to Martin, wars on Earth sometimes started over things like this.” He held up his hand. “No, it’s not an objective reason for violence. But people can get pretty strange when told that they’re facing a threat they didn’t recognize on their own. Even when there’s no real threat there.

  “Whoever wrote this clearly has it in mind to evoke animosity against ‘the eastern corn exporters.’ There’s only one such: us. If he succeeds, the least harmful outcome would be a reduction in our corn sales. I think we could stand that. But if it’s us he has in his sights, he’ll go after our power business next...and maybe the spaceplanes as well.

  “The clans Dunbarton assembled against us wanted the fusion system and the spaceplanes transferred to their control. We can’t say for certain whether our unnamed propagandist will target them in time...but they’re the only things we have that are unique to us.

  “Althea has made me fear, kinsmen. I dislike to fear. Althea fears as well. Thanks to her genius, we have the means to render our homes and businesses impregnable. Against another ground attack, anyway. I might not cease fearing completely, but I think it would help.”

  He looked around the table.

  We’re at a turning point. No matter how they decide, things will never be the same.

  “Althea has asked to draw on our discretionary funds for what she needs to construct a laser defense for Clan Morelon. She estimates a total cost of sixteen million dekas. Once our armaments are completed, she plans to offer that defense to Clan Hallanson-Albermayer, at their expense of course. I favor it, but it’s well beyond the sort of petty outlay for which I can justify giving sole consent. So I put it before the Morelon elders: Do I have your concurrence?”

  Douglas Kramnik raised a hand. “Excuse me.”

  Barton’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, Dad?”

  “Why not around Kramnik House as well?”

  * * *

  Barton found Althea in her little office, punching orders into her computer at a furious pace. She waved him in without looking away from her monitor. He moved to stand behind her and peered over her shoulder.

  “How often do you replace the keyboard?”

  She grinned. “Probably not oft
en enough. A week ago I entered an order for twenty thousand units of rum futures. I meant to buy gum futures.”

  Barton chuckled. “So? How’s the rum market doing?”

  “Okay so far. Besides, if I can’t make money on it, I suppose I can always drink it.” She shut down her trading program and wheeled around to face him, smiling broadly.

  There was an aspect to Althea Morelon that Barton had marveled at from their earliest acquaintance. Life and power, the sense of infinite possibility, radiated from her in limitless waves. In her presence he found it impossible to feel doubt or melancholy. Not only was she more alive than their other kin—far more than most persons outside their clan—it was contagious, an infectious vitality that no one who came near her could resist.

  “You have no idea how lucky you are,” he murmured.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “That I’m a married man.”

  Althea chuckled. “I thought we put paid to that a lot of years ago.”

  “We did, sort of,” he said. “But I still have to remind myself whenever I look at you.” Her eyes flared wide, and he held up his hand. “Take it as it’s meant, Al.”

  She nodded. “Okay. So: Did the council agree?”

  “They did, but not happily. They know what a huge change this is, and not just for Clan Morelon. But they recognize necessity...when it beats them over the head with a torque wrench, anyway. You’ve been authorized to draw up to twenty-four million from clan accounts, for the construction of armaments to equip Morelon House and Kramnik House both.”

  “Oh.” Althea snorted. “Of course. I should have thought of that.”

  “Give yourself a break, Al. It didn’t occur to me, either. How’s Martin doing?”

  Althea sobered markedly.

  “Overall, very well,” she said. “Claire’s helped quite a lot. I didn’t expect that.”

  “The two of you are all right, then?”

  She nodded. “And you?”