Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3)

by Francis Porretto

  “The details,” Claire said, “are right in front of us.”

  “Okay, so what is it?”

  “A design,” Martin said, “for a low cost, compact, template-driven nanofabricator.”

  Claire said “Which we estimate—”

  “Whoa.” Althea held up a hand. “Where did it come from?”

  “Claire and I worked it out together,” Martin said.

  “When?”

  “In our free time these past few weeks,” Claire said. “It wasn’t all that hard, really.”

  Althea frowned. “For the Relic.”

  The others nodded.

  “Why do we need a nanofabricator on the Relic?”

  “It’s the safest place to get cracking on the nanites for the Loioc,” Claire said.

  “Hm. I wouldn’t have said they’re ‘for’ the Loioc, but you have a point. Would just one be enough to do the job?”

  Claire nodded. “I think so. It would take about nine months to turn out the whole batch, where a full-size nanofab would do it in just under a month, but I assume there’s no real hurry.”

  Maybe we should ask the man-pets of the Loioc whether there’s a real hurry.

  “Do you intend to build it here?”

  “No,” Martin said. He pulled a smaller sheet out from beneath the huge design. It depicted the unit as built, with dimensions. “As small as we’ve managed to make it, fully built it would still be just a little too large to stuff into Freedom’s Horizon. We’ll make subassemblies down here, take them to orbit, and do final assembly and verification up there.”

  “What will it cost?”

  “About eight hundred thousand, not including the consumables and post-processing tools we’ll need,” Claire said. “Those come to another million two hundred thousand.”

  That’s low cost? “Are you certain you can get the control software?”

  Claire smirked. “I already have it.”

  Martin nodded, looking pleased.

  Martin’s willingness to return to the Relic, and Claire’s unconcealed eagerness for it, set Althea back on her heels.

  I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to space just yet.

  —You did want to liberate the Loioc men from slavery, didn’t you?

  Oh, hi, Grandpere. Yes, I did and I do. But things are kinda unsettled here, in case you haven’t noticed.

  —I noticed. You’ve already done what you can do to protect the clan. You’re not ready for the next steps you’ll need to take here on Hope. Why not take your loves back to the Relic and get started on your little campaign of justice?

  What next steps on Hope are you thinking of, Grandpere?

  —You’re not ready to hear about that, either. Just get yourself and your spouses up to the Relic and get started on saving the Loioc men. It’s the only constructive course you can follow just now.

  She bridled. The tone of her grandfather’s telepathic “voice” was demeaning and worse. She could not imagine what she might have thought, said, or done to deserve such condescension.

  You know, Grandpere, I get it. Thoroughly. Right between the eyes. You can dial back the sarcasm. In fact, I’d recommend it, at least if you want these conversations to continue. Because I’m getting kinda tired of it. And whatever these next steps are that you’ve got planned for me, it’s high time we got something straight: I make those decisions.

  Althea’s sense of her grandfather’s telepathic presence ceased at once. The transition was as jarring as the impact of a thrown spear. It caused her to spasm visibly. A hand landed on her arm.

  “Althea?” The fear in Claire’s voice was unmistakable. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” she muttered. “Just fine.”

  “You...don’t seem fine,” Martin said.

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Al—”

  “I said give me a minute.” She looked down at her quivering hands, willed them to cease, and rose from the table.

  The faces before her were united in alarm.

  What on Hope do I look like to them?

  She imposed calm upon herself, degree by degree, forced the tremors running through body and psyche to yield to her will, and did her best to smile.

  “Guys,” she said, “as solid an idea as this is, I hadn’t thought about going back into space just yet. I think I’m going to need a little while longer. There’s still stuff I have to do down here.”

  Martin peered at her dubiously. “Stuff.”

  She leveled an adamantine glare at him. “Yeah. Like putting our finances on a self-sustaining basis, so we won’t have to worry about running out of funding while we’re in space trying to save Mankind. Like helping Bart and Nora brace the clan for a boycott by our corn and power customers, so the clan can stay in business for a few more generations. Like firming up the house’s defenses, so we can be sure it’ll still be here when we conquering heroes re-enter. You know, stuff.”

  Her spouses exchanged uncertain glances.

  “Think you can let me have a few days to work through all that and get mentally prepared to go back to the Relic before we tote our medipods back to Freedom’s Horizon? Or is there a rush on you haven’t told me about yet?”

  “Althea,” Claire murmured, “we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you. We thought—”

  Althea held up a hand. “You didn’t upset me, love. It was just out of the blue, that’s all.” She grinned. “Just let me have a few days to work everything out. It’ll take a few days to get all the parts you need for this thing, won’t it?”

  Martin nodded. “A few days more.”

  They started procurement without telling me.

  She fought back a surge of anger.

  “In that case, you can let me live with this for a while. Go over that design with a magnifying glass and smoke out any elements that might not be launch-sturdy or spaceworthy. Once you're satisfied, order the rest of the components you'll need and schedule the soonest deliveries you can arrange. Oh, and tell Ernie to do a pre-launch check on Freedom’s Promise, too. I have a feeling we’ll need both spaceplanes to get everything up there in one go.”

  “Al—”

  She jabbed a finger at him. “Do it, Martin.”

  His mouth dropped open. He nodded.

  She scowled at the uneaten portion of her sandwich, turned, and made for the stairs to the bedroom level.

  * * *

  Barton had to struggle not to grind his teeth as he read:

  The Searching Eye

  The very forces that have imposed food and power monopolies upon thousands of Altan households have fortified their redoubt in an unprecedented and wholly unjustified manner. It cannot be a coincidence.

  That clan is already the richest and most powerful Hope has ever seen. Its great numbers and possession of so much wealth should confer enough security for any family. Yet it has invested hugely in what it styles “defenses” that could hold off the massed might of Old Earth itself. What can it mean?

  He who defends must either be under attack or in fear of one—and the greater the fear, the greater the exertions to which he’ll go in arming and armoring himself against it. What has Clan Morelon done to make it fear so greatly? What new adventures do its rulers contemplate that might evoke their neighbors’ wrath—and in sufficient degree to elicit an armed attack?

  We cannot know. Its grandees disdain to share their thoughts and ambitions with us lesser ones. All may yet be revealed in action, should the rest of Alta remain complacent before the advances of a proto-State that has gradually fettered the greater part of the continent under a bland and unprepossessing veneer of “business as usual.”

  The masks are coming off. Whoever this person is, he’s made it plain that we’re his target.

  After the council sees this, there won’t be any more sniping about Al and Martin’s defenses.

  His anger had found its way into his muscles. He rose, stretched elaborately, worked out the little knots and eddies of musc
ular tension that develop when one holds a single posture for too long, and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  He paused in the entranceway. Douglas and Patrice were already at work on dinner. Though they appeared casual, their movements were beautifully coordinated. Each seemed to sense the other’s needs and position without words. They functioned like a long-married couple, each knowing the other’s guaranteed reaction to an event without needing to ask. Indeed, when he held perfectly still Barton could hear them softly singing the same recently popular tune, in perfect harmony.

  If these two aren’t getting it on when they’re alone, everything I know about people has to be wrong.

  He cleared his throat gently. They started, turned, and grinned sheepishly at him, as if he’d caught them planning a practical joke.

  “Folks? Would I be fouling the gears if I were to make a pot of coffee?”

  Douglas chuckled. “Not at all, Bart. Sit, I’ll take care of it.” He set down his ladle and set to the coffee fixings.

  “You,” Patrice said, “look like you’ve been working too hard.”

  Does it show?

  He forced a grin of his own. “Well, maybe. But I have to get my chores done like anyone else. If I’m to remain your ‘most high and beloved patriarch,’ anyway. What’s for dinner?”

  Douglas looked back over his shoulder and winked. “Something new. You’ll find out along with the rest of the clan.”

  “What? My patriarchal privileges don’t extend to such knowledge?”

  “Not quite,” Patrice said. “Besides, if it turns out to be horrible, we’d rather it didn’t have a name.”

  Barton chuckled. “I suppose I can wait, then.”

  Presently Douglas brought him an insulated carafe and a stoneware mug. He murmured thanks, rose, and headed back to his office.

  It’s almost beyond belief. Those two used to be at each other’s throats whenever the Kramnik council sat. These days you couldn’t pry them apart with a crowbar.

  There isn’t a greater miracle among men than the way our clans have melded. I could hardly say who sleeps where any more.

  He reseated himself at his desk, filled his mug, and sipped in contentment. The noxious Hubsite from which he’d been reading remained on the display before him. He smirked and shook his head.

  Whoever writes this loathsome crap can’t possibly know us—any of us. Acquaintance with even one of us would prove we’re as gentle as the Quartember rains. I can’t imagine where he got such a passion for impugning us.

  Barton was into his second mugful when his office door opened. Nora entered, her face a maelstrom of dark emotions. Even from a distance it was evident that she was badly upset. He rose and went to embrace her. She buried her face against his chest.

  “What’s wrong, love?”

  “Everything.” Though muffled by his flesh, the word was perfectly intelligible.

  He nudged her gently toward a love seat, sat beside her and wrapped his renewed left arm around her shoulders.

  “Not everything, love,” he said. “I’ve got my arm back, after all.”

  A spasm crossed her face. “All right, not everything. But enough. Emma’s in hysterics.”

  He frowned. “About what?”

  “Victor proposed.”

  “Hm? And that’s a bad thing?”

  She nodded. “He has a condition.”

  He breathed deeply and braced himself. “Tell me.”

  “He wants Carolyn Reinach in their bed as well.”

  * * *

  “Have you chosen a new lead technologist yet?” Alexander Dunbarton sat back in the guest chair, legs crossed and hands folded over his knee.

  “We have,” Arthur Hallanson said tonelessly.

  Dunbarton’s eyebrows rose. “Who?”

  “Edward Hallanson. My second cousin once removed.”

  “You don’t sound too pleased about it, Art.”

  Hallanson did not reply.

  “If I were in your position—”

  “You’re not.”

  “Indulge me.” Dunbarton smiled. “If I were in your position, I’d be annoyed about the amount of proprietary knowledge Claire took with her to her new clan. Even somewhat concerned.”

  “HalberCorp’s board was aware of that consequence when we...decided on her case,” Hallanson said.

  “It didn’t concern you?”

  “Not sufficiently to result in another disposition, at least.”

  “Yes, I see. And the equipment Claire had brought to the Relic? Have you demanded compensation for it?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all, or not yet?”

  Hallanson brushed it aside. “Why are you here, Alex?”

  “To mend fences, of course,” Dunbarton said. “Would you prefer that we not do so?”

  “HalberCorp’s fences are entirely intact,” Hallanson growled. “If anyone here has any mending to do, it’s not I. Neither is it my company.”

  Dunbarton nodded. “Let it be as you say. And in truth, our incursion into your domain during the unpleasantness eight months ago was...regrettable.”

  “Do you regret it, then?”

  “I regret,” Dunbarton said, “my assumptions at that time. Not having tried to enlist you and yours on the side of justice was a serious error.”

  Hallanson peered at him incredulously. “You really think your little war band was on the side of justice?”

  “Far more so than the Morelons, Arthur.” Dunbarton leaned forward, palms against his knees. “Do you see any justice in allowing a single, extremely rich clan to hold a monopoly over both electrical power and access to the resources of the Relic? After you heard what that clan was willing to do to maintain those monopolies?”

  “If I were in their position—”

  “You’re not.”

  Hallanson smiled frostily. “Indulge me,” he said. “If I were in their position, I might not have permitted your troops to return to their homes unscathed. I might have chosen to rain hot wrath down upon the lot of you. Althea Morelon certainly proved her ability to do so. Why she stayed her hand after you killed two of her kin and severely wounded several others, I can’t imagine.”

  Dunbarton chuckled and sat back once again.

  “Apply the foresight you habitually use in business to the probable consequences of such a wholesale slaughter. Althea knew she would have to re-enter sooner or later. Yes, she could have eliminated us to the last man. In doing so, she would have established beyond all question that she’s the most violent and dangerous person alive today. Given that, do you really think Jacksonville and the surrounding districts would have stayed their hands? Most of eastern Alta would have leagued against the Morelons. They’d have had no respite until they turned her over to justice.”

  Hallanson looked at Dunbarton steadily for a long moment. A thin smile formed on his countenance.

  “You keep using the word ‘justice,’” Hallanson said at last. “I don’t think we agree on its meaning...or on who can plausibly claim to be its agent under conditions such as the ones you’ve described.”

  “It would seem,” Dunbarton said, “that you’ve made your peace with being the property of Clan Morelon.”

  “What on Hope are you—”

  “They own this district, Arthur, and a goodly distance around it. They could destroy everyone and everything around them in any of several ways. The power to destroy a thing and not be held to account for it is the ultimate demonstration of ownership of that thing. As long as Jacksonville and environs are unwilling to check their excesses or rein them in, they will hold exactly that power.” Hallanson’s face clouded over. Dunbarton rose. “Thank you for your time, Arthur. I learned several things this afternoon—things I very much wanted to know. Can you say the same?”

  ====

  September 20, 1326 A.H.

  “Look,” Victor Kramnik said, “if it works for Al, Martin, and Claire, why shouldn’t it work for Emma, Cal, and me? Are we inferiors or something
?”

  “Doesn’t it disturb you at all that the suggestion reduced Emma to tears, Victor?”

  “She’s only just met Cal. She’ll come around.”

  Barton suppressed the tart response that rose to his lips. He glanced at his wife. She sat with her arms crossed over her breasts. Her expression merited being carved into marble, put in a museum, and graced with a bronze plaque: Irata, Goddess Of Extreme Displeasure.

  At least she won’t say “I told you so.” She never does.

  “How old are you, Victor?” he said.

  The young man’s brow wrinkled. “Twenty-eight.”

  “And what do you do at Kramnik House? For the house business, I mean?”

  A shrug. “Pretty much what everyone else does. Feed the looms. Lubricate ‘em in the morning and fix ‘em when they hang up. Offload the fabric and package it for shipment.”

  He’s being pretty casual about a lifelong commitment. To two women, no less.

  “And your stipend for this labor?”

  Victor Kramnik frowned as if the question were unprecedented and unjustified.

  “Three-fifty a month. Why? We don’t do dowries any more, and they used to go in the other direction anyway.”

  “Well,” Barton said, “there’s a little matter of a husband's responsibility to maintain his...wives. I know very little about Clan Reinach, but Emma Mackenzie Morelon, our clan scion and the presumptive successor to my position, receives one thousand dekas per month for her duties, which are proportionally weighty and serious.” He leaned forward and locked gazes with the young man. “Does it trouble you at all to be on the short end of that comparison?”

  Victor shrugged. “I can’t see why it should. I asked her if she expects to stop working after we’re married, and she said no.”

  Oh, you did, did you? Was that before you demanded that she accept a menage-a-trois with a woman she barely knows, or afterward?

  “It’s traditional in our clan for the husband to commit to the material support of his wife in perpetuity, no matter what she elects to do with her time. And to the support of the children they produce. You’re talking about taking on two wives and whatever children they bear you. Are you quite certain you’re up to that kind of load, young man?”