Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3)

by Francis Porretto

  Probe: There is no such attribute. What remains of me are my engines, my maneuvering jets, my fuel stores, and my computers and auxiliary systems. I can now moor to your satellite without posing any risk to you, your companions, or your habitat.

  Althea: Excellent. Do you possess propellant enough to match orbits with our satellite and secure yourself to its surface? If not, I can return to your position and tow you here.

  Probe: Yes, thank you, more than enough. There is no need for you to risk your life a second time.

  Althea: It wouldn’t be that great a risk, Probe. At least, not in comparison to dealing with those nanites.

  Probe: Althea, organic sentiences should not expose themselves to vacuum except when absolutely necessary.

  Althea: You have a point there.

  Probe: Please provide me with the coordinates of a location on the surface of your satellite to which I could anchor myself for an extended stay.

  Althea: Do you possess magnetic anchoring capability?

  Probe: I do, though that system was partially diverted to the task of manipulating and ultimately releasing the nanite package. I have restored it to its original functions and run a complete test. It is within all nominal operating parameters.

  Althea: Then please allow me a day or two to prepare a landing pad for you. The surface of this body is irregular except at points specifically prepared for some use, and all the previously prepared points are occupied by large machines which I’d rather not move. I’d like to mill a region that would accommodate your size and shape without stressing you.

  Probe: Thank you, Althea.

  Althea: Think nothing of it, Probe. It’s just one friend seeing to the comfort and convenience of another.

  Probe: Nevertheless, I appreciate it greatly. Shall we discuss God now?

  Althea: Maybe a little later. I’m too exhausted to do it justice in my current condition. I need to sleep, shower, and eat something first.

  Probe: It must be a strenuous topic.

  Althea: You have no idea.

  ====

  Octember 33, 1326 A.H.

  “Althea? Martin?”

  “Hm?” Althea put down her torch and turned to find Claire behind her. Her voice and her expression were equally distressed.

  Martin laid down his micrometer and stood. “What’s up, love?”

  “Would you come to the radio, please?” Claire said.

  The three glided down the tunnel to the control chamber. Claire bade her spouses to wait, picked up the mike, and keyed it.

  “Arthur,” she said, obviously straining to control her tone, “would you please explain to my spouses why you won’t honor my order for a new, uninitialized medipod?”

  “Is that really necessary, Claire?” Arthur Hallanson’s self-satisfied tone overrode both static and radio tinniness.

  “Please, Arthur.”

  “It’s simply that we no longer honor orders for custom-built equipment without a thirty percent payment, up front.”

  “And why can’t you take the million and a half out of my personal account at Jacksonville Surety, please?”

  “Because it’s not and never was your personal account,” Hallanson said. “You forfeited all access to it when you ceased to be a member of this clan.”

  Althea’s blood rose at once. Martin wrapped a hand around her bicep and squeezed. “Claire,” he said, “allow me.”

  Claire handed him the mike and stepped back.

  “Arthur,” Martin said, “this is Martin Forrestal. Althea and Claire’s husband. Are you saying that Claire never had a personal account at Jacksonville Surety, or that the personal account she had is without sufficient funds?”

  “No member of HalberCorp has a personal account, Martin. All members’ accounts are linked to HalberCorp’s corporate credit. Therefore, the company has first call on all of them that it can exercise at will. We exercised that option when Claire elected to leave us.”

  “I didn’t elect to leave them!” Claire’s shriek belled from the nickel-iron walls. Althea immediately took her in an inescapable embrace, stroked her back and shoulders, and muttered soothing phrases.

  “I see,” Martin said. He allowed a faint growl to creep into his voice. “I assume you’ll honor an order from Althea and myself?”

  “Of course, once the earnest money has been deposited.”

  “That will happen later today, Arthur,” Martin said. “As will a few other things.”

  “What? What are you—”

  “Never mind that.” Martin cast a grin back at his spouses. “Please bring the pod to Morelon House as usual. Have your delivery men ask for Ernest DuBreuill. We’ll be expecting delivery in not more than six weeks’ time.”

  “I can’t guarantee—”

  “Yes, you can, and you will. You’ll find out why soon enough. Have a nice day, Arthur.”

  Martin set the mike on its hanger, returned to his spouses, and enveloped them in his arms.

  “What did you want a fourth medipod for, love?” he said.

  “An idea I had.” Claire sniffled briefly. “I was thinking about the Loioc men. I might be able to do something for them...some of them.”

  Althea started. “Claire, Efthis told me that their brains are only a little more than half the size of the women’s.”

  Claire nodded. “I know,” she said. “That’s what makes it interesting. Martin, thank you for dealing with Arthur for me. I was about to lose my temper with him.”

  “About to?” Martin chuckled. “Your demurrer is still ringing from the walls.”

  Claire grinned wanly and laid her head against Althea’s breast.

  “When it comes time to introduce Probe to Hope society,” Althea said, “we have to inform it about the, ah, variations in human character. I don’t want it thinking it can trust everyone to mean what he says, much less to always behave as ethically as Probe does.”

  “Considering what the Loioc sent it here to do,” Martin said, “I don’t think that will be a hard lesson to convey.” He squeezed the women gently. “Excuse me while I make another call.”

  * * *

  “Is that really necessary, Martin?” Barton said.

  “I think so, Bart,” Martin said. “My irregulars tell me there’s mischief afoot, and they do not lie.”

  Barton chuckled. “I see you’ve been reading Conan Doyle again. All right. I’ll have Hugh bring a team over there to collect it tomorrow. I’m not certain there won’t be resistance.”

  “Have Hugh or Ken wear one of Althea’s laser packs. If they don’t know better already, they will once they see that.”

  “I expect they will, but...Martin, we’ll be establishing a nasty precedent.”

  “No, Bart, we’ll be reinforcing an ancient principle of square dealing. As ye give, so shall ye get. If they want to mess with us, they can expect us to mess with them right back. Either we demonstrate that now, or we’ll face the same and worse later, when it will be harder to correct. Besides,” Martin said, “what if the unit really does need maintenance? How would we know except by pulling it into the shop and tearing it down to its constituent quarks?”

  Barton exploded in laughter. When he’d finally managed to master himself, he keyed the mike and said, “You have a point there. When do they get their unit back?”

  “When Claire’s medipod arrives at Morelon House. Tell Ernie to pre-flight Freedom’s Promise. We’ve got some plans for it, up here.”

  “Gotcha. Till later, Martin.” Barton returned the mike to its hanger and turned to Emma, who’d stood behind him, all but perfectly silent, all the while. “Still want to do this job some day, Em?”

  She smiled. “Never fear, Uncle Bart. I’ll be there when you decide you’ve had enough. Anyway, we’ve been working all morning. It’s time for a break. Do you think Doug and Pat chilled more of that custard?”

  He grinned. “Let’s go see.”

  * * *

  Darren Berglund had intended to go home, change his clo
thes, and head over to Cherie’s apartment after his shift at DigiView. Ever since the two had become an item, it had been his normal pattern. The unexpected splendor of the day, sunny and springlike even as the year slid toward winter, persuaded him to go for a leisurely nature walk first. He was certain Cherie wouldn’t mind. She’d heard him express his pleasure in the beauties of the region more than once, though she remained almost obsessively an indoor creature. Her labors on her Hubsite, about which she remained mysterious despite the length of their affair, verged on the obsessive; they seemed to take up all the time she spent apart from him.

  About half an hour later, he strolled across the town square toward his apartment block in the seemingly carefree fashion of the young, as if all of Hope were his personal playground. Yet beneath his facade of insouciance was a reserve of thoughtfulness, of continuing, serious regard for events, that seldom lapsed. He took little for granted, and nothing that concerned the happiness and well-being of those he loved.

  Cherie’s mood had become somber. She hadn’t said why. She’d deflected his gentle probes for the reason with a smile and a change of subject. His respect for her prerogatives fully equaled his affection for her; he declined to press her further.

  All the same, the grayness to which she’d succumbed was enough to make him unusually alert to other changes in her behavior. Being a naturally acute observer, he extended that heightened alertness to the rest of his surroundings without exception. As he entered his building and started up the stairs, he heard an unusual degree of rustling, as if someone had entered his flat and were moving the furniture around.

  He paused at the top of the stairs and peered around the edge of the well. His door was closed, but there were scratches on and around the latch plate. The noises from inside were unmistakable.

  He drew his needler, crept to his door in as stealthy a crouch as he could manage, and eased it open.

  A compact figure in a dark, close-fitting outfit was rifling through the drawers of his computer hutch. The intruder was intent upon his search, whatever its object. He’d taken no notice of the opening door.

  Darren straightened and pumped four soporific needles into the intruder. The intruder turned toward him, face wreathed in shock, just as his eyes rolled up and he slumped to the floor.

  * * *

  Claude Dunbarton came out of soporific-induced stupor to discover that he had been bound hand and foot. He involuntarily strained against his bonds, suffered intense pain for doing so, and commanded his body to relax.

  “You’ll only set yourself to bleeding that way, fellow,” said the young man sitting across from where he lay. “I used steel-wound guitar strings.” He smirked. “All I had available, but as I gave up on the guitar a couple of years ago, no loss to me.” He gestured casually with his needler. “Now why don’t you tell me what you wanted from my apartment? It has to be something you couldn’t buy at the market on the commons, and I’d swear by Spooner’s beard that I don’t own any such thing.”

  Dunbarton started to speak, checked himself and looked away. Bad enough that he’d been taken by surprise. His patriarch had threatened him with worse than death should he slip and give away his identity.

  “Oh, is that how it is?” the young man said. “Well, can I at least have your name, so I know whose doorstep to return you to?”

  Dunbarton kept rigidly silent.

  Presently the young man shrugged and stood. “Have it your way. I’m Darren Berglund, of course, and this is my flat. You stay right there while I fetch an advocate and we figure out what to do with you. This is going to cause a stir. There hasn’t been a burglary here since I came to town.”

  Berglund went to his radio, stopped, and turned. “I hope you have a little something in the bank. Otherwise, you’re going to be indentured to me for a while, and I’d find that so unpleasant that I’d have to let you go...” He grinned. “With a few semi-permanent reminders of our acquaintance, of course.”

  * * *

  Advocate Ferenc Tyszczenko was nonplussed by the summons, but came in good time. Darren assisted him in collaring and shackling the miscreant and disposing of the remnants of the guitar strings he’d put to that unaccustomed purpose. Tyszczenko promised to keep Darren informed as he marched the captive glumly off to Centralia Surety. The intruder never emitted any sound beyond his breathing, which he seemed to be controlling by conscious effort.

  Once he’d straightened up somewhat, Darren pulled a windbreaker from his closet and headed directly over to Cherie’s place. The incident plus his stroll through the woods around the town had left him much later than he’d intended. He could only hope that Cherie wouldn’t take it as an indication of indifference, or a change in his feelings, or of anything else it definitely wasn’t. She’d become fond enough of him that he didn’t think any of that was likely, but best to be ready with the tale and tell it convincingly.

  As he ascended the stairs of her building, angry voices and other sounds of distress became ever clearer to him. By the time he’d reached her floor, he was certain that one of those voices was Cherie’s.

  There were scratches around her latch plate comparable to his own.

  He drew his needler once more.

  * * *

  “You will do this, Charisse.” Alex Dunbarton’s voice was glacially cold. “Consider it your penance for departing my roof and my bed without my leave.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Charisse said. She made to rise and leave her apartment, but Alex Dunbarton swiftly stepped forward and thrust her back.

  “I am,” he said. “I need this done, and no one from my clan can do it.” He waved his needler at her. “You owe me for your life and more.”

  There came the thin creak of a doorknob turning. Dunbarton cast a glance back at the door to the flat. “In just a moment I’ll be able to show you exactly how serious I am, and why you will do as I say.”

  “Alex,” Charisse protested as her tears began, “I can’t—”

  The door was thrust open with great force. Charisse gasped as Darren Berglund surged inside in a gunfighter’s crouch, needler in hand. His focus locked instantly onto Alex as he rapidly pumped the trigger.

  Several rounds caught the Dunbarton patriarch full in the chest. He coughed, staggered, put a hand to his chest and fell full length forward to the floor, his needler clattering out of his hand.

  Charisse rose, quivering. Darren stepped forward, his needler steady upon Dunbarton. He crouched over Charisse’s uninvited guest and peered down at him for a long moment. Presently he nodded and rose.

  “Friend of yours?”

  Charisse nodded as she dabbed at her eyes. “Once upon a time.”

  “Care to tell me about it? On second thought, that can wait for later.” He rose from his crouch. “Got any rope?”

  * * *

  Tyszczenko was visibly startled to be summoned a second time in one day, even more so to lay eyes upon Darren again, and was beside himself at confronting a second elaborately trussed up captive. However, unlike the previous captive, this one was voluble. Loudly, inventively, and profanely voluble. Were it not for several applications of the shock collar at maximum power, the miscreant would have shouted imprecations and threats at Darren until he’d been incarcerated, and perhaps beyond.

  Darren chuckled as the door closed behind them.

  “He probably thinks I’m bad luck.” He seated himself beside her and wrapped an arm around her. She leaned into the embrace.

  “I can’t imagine why,” Charisse sniffled. “He gets a third of whatever judgment is ultimately rendered, Alex is very wealthy, and you have me as a witness to the whole thing.”

  “Well, yes,” Darren said as he tousled her cap of short hair, “but he makes his normal living negotiating and drafting contracts. There’s a lot of that going on all the time in this town. It might not be exciting work, but a Sun Tzu advocate isn’t likely to be an excitement-oriented sort of guy. I’ll bet he had to borrow a second collar and manacle
set from a colleague.” His eyes flicked to the little jar Dunbarton had left on Charisse’s desk. “What did he bring you?”

  Charisse drew a deep breath and strove for calm.

  “Call it a poison,” she said. “Bioengineered. He said it causes a gradual erosion of the skin. If it’s not checked, it could flay its victim completely.”

  Darren peered at her in disbelief. “Why on Hope would anyone want such a thing?”

  “Extortion.”

  “Of you?”

  “No.” Her nerves hummed at the memory. “He wanted me to use it on someone else.”

  His incredulity redoubled. He waited in silence for a further explanation.

  “Darren,” she said, “there’s a lot about me I’ve never told you.”

  He nodded somberly. “Is it stuff you don’t want me to know?”

  She shuddered. “I didn’t intend to tell you most of it. Can we leave it at that?”

  “Before this,” he said, “maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. But now I think I need to know.”

  She struggled against her shame. She knew he was right but was viscerally opposed to divulging the facts of her past that had brought them together. In that moment his good opinion was the only thing in the world that mattered to her, the most precious thing to which she could lay any imaginable claim.

  “Cherie?” He slipped a gentle hand beneath her chin and stroked it. It was a quintessentially Darren gesture, one that she’d come to love. It broke her resolve.

  “First,” she murmured, “that’s not really my name.”

  ====

  November 9 , 1326 A.H.

  Emma cringed. “If I were you—”

  Nora cocked an eyebrow. “Which you’re not, so why pursue that thought any further?”

  They were the only two in the kitchen, a condition that had become unusual in recent months.

  A snort escaped from the young Morelon scion. “Spooner’s beard, Aunt Nora! Is your problem with him or with me?” She spooned up another dollop of her custard. “You should try this. It’s great. There’s lots in the fridge.”