FREEDOM’S SCION
Books by Francis W. Porretto
The Realm of Essences trilogy:
Chosen One
On Broken Wings
Shadow Of A Sword
The Spooner Federation Saga:
Which Art In Hope
Freedom’s Scion
Freedom’s Fury (forthcoming)
Other novels:
The Sledgehammer Concerto
Priestesses
Short-story collections:
For The Love Of God
A Dash Of Spice: Erotica for Good People
Colored Shadows, Unsetting Suns
Caucuses, Cabals, Assignations and Trysts
Non-fiction:
The Storyteller’s Art: How Not to Bore Your Reader to Sleep, Tears, or Homicide
From The Bit Bucket: (A)Musings on Engineering, Supervision, and Management
An Indie Writer’s Odyssey
Francis W. Porretto
FREEDOM’S SCION
A novel of the Spooner Federation
Copyright © 2013 by Francis W. Porretto
Cover art by Donna Casey (http://DigitalDonna.com)
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without the express written permission of the author, except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. The persons and events described here are entirely imaginary. They are not intended to suggest or imply anything whatsoever about actual persons or events.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All locations and institutions are employed fictitiously.
Contact: [email protected]
To Beth
To Liz Pavek
To lovers of freedom everywhere
And, as always,
To the greater glory of God
==
“What you are speaks so loudly that I cannot hear what you say.”
–Ralph Waldo Emerson–
==
“Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We didn't pass it to our children in the bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected, and handed on for them to do the same, or one day we will spend our sunset years telling our children and our children's children what it was once like in the United States where men were free.”
—Ronald Reagan—
Foreword
Freedom’s Scion is the sequel to Which Art In Hope, which I published at the end of 2010. If you haven’t read the earlier novel, I strongly recommend that you do so before continuing on with this one. You’d expect the author to say that, wouldn’t you? But wait: there’s more!
I’d originally intended that Which Art In Hope would be a “stand-alone” story: no sequels, spinoffs, movie tie-ins, commemorative mugs, keychains, action figures, or stained glass suncatchers. However, auctorial intentions have this way of being reshaped by reader feedback. The great mass of emails I’ve received suggesting, demanding, or begging for a continuation of the Spoonerites’ saga has made it plain that there’s a hunger for more of that most unusual story about a planetful of people whose ancestors resolved to leave the State behind forever.
In all sober truth, I’ve wanted to continue the story myself, for a number of reasons. I just needed a shove. So here we are.
What strikes me most powerfully about this tale is how sharply countercultural its themes have run. Given the amount I’ve written about the importance of a conscious theme to good, memorable fiction, perhaps you’d assume that I had them all clearly in mind before I first set my fingers to the keys.
You’d be wrong.
Other prominent science fiction writers have delved into the possibilities of a society that’s resolved that there shall be no State. However, none of the ones with which I’m familiar address the sociodynamics of such a society: the forces that would shape its development, with special emphasis on those that would tend to tear it from its founding premise. For me, that’s the really fascinating thing about anarchism. You see, it’s been tried, with varying degrees of longevity and success, many times in the history of Man. Yet there are no anarchic societies left on Earth as I write this foreword.
Well, except for one: the whole of the human race.
The States of Earth exist in an anarchic relation to one another. Each has its own regional code of law, which might differ markedly from all the others. Despite several thrusts at the matter over the centuries, there is no “super-State” to enforce a uniform code of law over them all. More, they view one another as competitors in many different areas; their populations and institutions are often in sharp economic competition with one another. Thus, they are often at odds. They resolve important disputes among them through negotiation or warfare.
Yet individuals manage to move among them with a fair degree of facility and (usually) little risk. Cross-border trade is commonplace, in some places torrential. Though wars are frequent, they seldom result in major alterations to the overall political pattern. The uber-anarchy of Terrestrial society exhibits more stability than one would expect from two hundred well armed, quarrelsome States, each of which perpetually schemes at snatching some advantage at another’s expense.
No, I’m not going to lay out a comprehensive theory of political dynamics that would explain why the current arrangement of States-in-anarchy has exhibited prolonged stability. That’s a job for persons who’ve made such things their life study. I prefer to write fiction. Moreover, I can guarantee you that, if those savants were to present the world with N theories about the matter, N minus one of them would be wildly wrong...at the very least.
But to be memorable and entertaining, a story must embody a plausible causal model of human relations. A novel that’s premised on a pervasive planetary anarchy, an arrangement so distant from what we of Earth endure, must offer the reader a vision of its workings that he can accept with only a modest suspension of his skepticism.
To explain the phenomenon of consistent archism-within-anarchism over the millennia, we would need a minimum of two forces: one that draws people into archist societies, another that prevents those societies from a final coalescence. In pondering the matter, I asked myself: Given a completely anarchic society for a starting point, where would the process most likely begin?
This novel is the result.
Francis W. Porretto
Mount Sinai, NY
April 28, 2013
Prologue : Unember 17, 1287 A.H.
Clan Morelon awaited the passing of a giant.
Althea Morelon was sitting on the old masonwood sofa in the hearthroom of Morelon House, her father Cameron's arm around her, drawing what comfort she could from the fire blazing in the man-high hearth, when her mother Valerie appeared in the archway. The two of them rose as she approached.
“We saw Tad Leschitsyn leave,” Cam said. “Is Armand...?”
“Not yet. Soon,” Valerie said. Her face was puffy from hours of weeping.
“Then Grandmere won’t be with us much longer, either,” Althea said.
“That’s her expectation,” Valerie said, “but we’ve never really been sure about it.”
“Teodor is, Mom,” Althea said. “That’s pretty good authority.”
She detached herself and went to stand by the windows. A light snow was falling. It glittered against the darkness in the floodlights fixed to the outside walls of Morelon House. Little had accumulated so far, but the deep chill and thick clouds foretold a heavier fall to come and a significant depth by morning.
Life without them doesn’t even seem possible.
Though
not officially part of its leadership, Armand and Teresza Morelon had been titans of the clan. Armand’s sister Charisse, who ran the clan’s businesses and controlled its finances, had seldom made a move of importance without first consulting with her elder brother. Teresza had taken Elyse Morelon’s place as the clan’s public face among its neighbors, and had become one of the most sought-after mediators and counselors on Hope. They had been the first persons ever to return from the Hopeless peninsula. After the still-mysterious Chaos and the rebuilding it necessitated, they had supervised the reintegration of the Hopeless with the rest of Hope society. No one on Alta was more respected. No member of the clan had ever been more revered.
Althea’s mother loved them with a frightening intensity. Valerie would unhesitatingly sacrifice any other consideration to render them assistance, regardless of the reason. Not that Armand or Teresza were frequently in need of assistance. As overpowering as they could be, more often than not their influence on the household was indirect. They didn’t exactly hold themselves apart, but it was plain that they cherished their time alone with one another—that the company of others was of much less importance to them.
Given Armand’s decision to decline the Hallanson-Albermayer longevity series, and Teodor’s explanation of the unbreakable linkage between Armand’s life and Teresza’s, it seemed a logical consequence of their mutual devotion.
I can’t imagine that he wanted to die.
—I didn’t.
What? Grandpere, is that you?
—(humor) Indeed it is. Don’t let on. I haven’t done this in a lot of years, and I’m hoping everyone has forgotten about it.
I hadn’t.
—I know, Al. You’re about to get something of a surprise. A bequest, a big one. Let Teresza tell you about it as if you had no inkling, and try not to let it bowl you over.
Okay, but why—
—Partly to prepare you, and partly to explain. I didn’t want to die. It was just something that came with the job I took.
What job? You’ve never—
—It wasn’t something I could talk about, dear. Trust me, I’ve been employed full-time ever since the Chaos, and it sort of required that I let this happen.
I don’t understand.
—I didn’t expect you to. I just wanted to tell you that I love you, and that I’ll always be here for you.
Huh?
—This isn’t the last time we’ll talk this way, Al. Only my body is dying. The...best part of me will go on for a long, long time to come. And it...I will remain able to communicate this way. I hope that doesn’t upset you.
Grandpere, how could it? But why shouldn’t the rest of the family know?
—I’ll explain after the funeral. Can you wait that long for it?
I guess so.
—Then go upstairs with your mother. Terry is waiting for you.
The psionic conversation ceased. Althea composed her face to sobriety and made for the hearth. Her parents stood there exchanging murmurs.
Valerie said, “Your grandmother would like you to join her for a moment.”
Althea nodded, and the two of them ascended the stairs.
* * *
Teresza was standing by her and Armand’s bed. She turned toward Althea and Valerie as they entered Armand’s sickroom, smiled wanly, and beckoned Althea toward her. Althea glanced at her mother, who nodded and nudged her gently forward.
“Armand and I have left you something,” Teresza murmured. “There are no conditions or stipulations on it. It’s yours to do with as you please. But I...he wanted to leave an idea for you to ponder. You know about Project Omega, of course?”
Althea nodded.
“It’s now been nearly fourteen hundred years since the last intelligible transmissions. They continue to scan the galactic disk, of course, but when there’s no signal to interpret, there’s no way to reach a conclusion. Which means that we won’t know what happened unless someone actually goes there to find out.
“You have great and versatile gifts, dear. I suggest you put them to two things: physics and finance. Our bequest to you is only a start. You’ll need much more. But you’ll have time to amass it, and to crack the lightspeed barrier that compels us merely to speak into the night and strain to hear an answer. If you do that, when the time comes, you’ll be the one to solve the riddle of Earth. Will you consider that, when we’re gone?”
Althea looked down at the husk that had been Armand Morelon and soon would be no longer. “Did Grandpere really want that for me?”
“Among other things, dear. Mostly, he wanted to watch you become what you are. In that regard, his wildest dreams have been fulfilled. Think about it, please?”
“I will, Grandmere.”
Her grandmother pulled her close, kissed her, and nodded toward the bedroom door. She and Valerie exited and descended the stairs in silence.
* * *
Cameron awaited them in the hearthroom.
“End of an era,” he said.
“More than you know, Cam,” Valerie said. “Where are Charisse and Elyse?”
He shrugged and drew her into an embrace. She rested her forehead against his chest.
Morelon House wore a cloak of stillness utterly unlike its habit on a normal winter evening. Armand’s impending demise had propelled the entire clan into somber, silent reflection and remembrance.
“Mom,” Althea said, “do you know anything about this bequest?”
Valerie turned toward her and nodded. “It’s already in your room.”
“Should I...?”
“Of course.” She returned to hiding her eyes against her husband’s massive chest. Althea left them silently and scampered up the front staircase to her bedroom.
On her bed was a small, weathered wooden box with a hinged lid. The Morelons had used such boxes to convey heirlooms from parent to child for many generations. She sat beside it, lifted it into her lap gingerly, and tilted back the lid.
The box contained three items: a bank passbook, an old leatherbound volume, and a small lavender-tinted envelope.
Althea ran a fingertip delicately over the cover of the leatherbound book. She’d seen it before. It was incredibly old, and much too fragile to handle casually. Teresza had cherished it beyond all her other possessions, and had devoted considerable time, effort, and money to reproducing its contents for distribution. Something like a cult had formed around it.
I know Grandmere wanted me to read it, but...not just now.
She picked up the little envelope and puffed it open. Two small photographs fell out. One of the photos was plainly of Armand and Teresza in their youth, standing before the door of Morelon House with their arms around one another and smiling brilliantly. The other was of a woman she’d never before seen, apparently of late middle age and badly worn by the passage of time. She turned it over to find a few words of text on the back.
Nora Desjardins, 1173—1221. Valerie’s birth mother. Taken 4/23/1216.
A tremor went through her. She’d known for many years that Teresza was not her biological grandmother. After she’d begun to inquire into the many differences that set her apart from the rest of the Morelon clan, Armand told her of Valerie’s origins. He said that Valerie’s mother had given her to him and Teresza to raise because she wanted only the best for her infant daughter. But they’d been fated never to meet: the harshness of life on the Hopeless peninsula had foreshortened her biological grandmother’s life.
She slipped the photos back into the little envelope, picked up the passbook, opened it, and gasped.
It was a record of an account in her name at Jacksonville Surety. It contained five million dekas.
Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer!
—Now imagine how stunned you would be if I hadn’t prepared you a wee bit.
Uh, yeah. I think I see the finance part, but how does it tie in with physics?
—You don’t expect to build a starship out of parts lying around the kitchen, do you?
H
m. I guess not. So this is seed money?
—Exactly. This will jump-start your investing activities, equip your early labs, pay for your Hallanson-Albermayer treatments, and keep you eating while you finish preparing and begin your researches. Even to get up to the Relic, you’ll need a lot more.
Is that the first step?
—It’s just a guess, but I think so. There’s still some uranium ore in the Relic. More than enough to power an orbital lab. You’ll need an orbital lab to crack lightspeed, and the Relic itself should provide you with a lot of the stuff you’ll need for a deep-space vessel. But you have to get up there first.
You really want me to do this, don’t you, Grandpere?
—Really and truly, Al. As far as anyone knows, we’re alone in the galaxy. Omega hasn’t heard a peep from Earth for nearly fifteen hundred years. Someone has to find out what happened to our homeworld, just in case whatever happened there could happen to us. Thing is, you might need billions of dekas to invent and build a ship. And it has to be a superluminal ship. The Spoonerites rode the Relic for more than half a millennium to get to Hope. I don’t think you want to be out in space that long.
Uh, no. Okay, got any suggestions for a plan of attack?
—Of course! Finance first, make the pile we’ve left you into a much bigger pile. That will take a while, so be patient and don’t take too many big risks. Then do some basic research. Then build yourself an intrasystem vessel using conventional drives, get up to the Relic, build yourself a serious lab, and get to work on a superluminal drive. Once you’ve got that, you should be able to parlay it into enough money to finance the construction of a starship.
Sounds good. Wait a minute: what about energy and reaction mass for propulsion?
—(humor) Did you think I was going to leave you with nothing to do, Al?
Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2) Page 1
