I guess not. Grandpere, what makes you so sure the lightspeed barrier can be broken?
—For now, let’s just say I have a good reason. Now if you’ll excuse me for a few days, I have some dying and a funeral to get out of the way. I’ll be in touch afterward, I promise.
Are you that sure you’ll...be back?
—Count on it.
I love you, Grandpere.
—I love you too, dear. One more thing: there’s a note inside the cover of Teresza’s book. You can leave the book for later, but you should read the note now. Then go help your parents cope.
I will.
The psionic communication lapsed. Althea laid the passbook back in the box and lifted the cover of Teresza’s book with a fingertip. It crackled faintly as it turned. Beneath it was a folded slip of notepaper, just as Armand had said. She slid it out and unfolded it. It was covered in her grandmother’s fine, careful hand.
Dear Althea,
Please don’t grieve for a long time. Armand and I have always known that this day would come. We’ve never feared it. In a way, it’s the only proper fulfillment of our lives.
There are some things Armand has never spoken about to anyone but me. It’s time you should learn them. They’ll have an impact on your future no matter what you decide to do with it. But I advise you to keep them to yourself, at least for the near term.
First, the death of the body is not the death of the individual. It just opens a door into another plane of existence. I’ve known that for many years. I learned it from the little book I left you. But getting people to open their minds to the possibility has been harder than I ever imagined. These past few years, I’ve left the job to others. I hope you’ll read the book and give it some thought. It will help to explain a lot.
Second, Armand has already had some experience with life beyond the body. When the Chaos struck, he allied himself with another entity, a planetary intelligence he calls Idem, to fight it back and restore the world. That alliance forced a merger on them, transforming their separate identities into a single fused unit. Ever since then, he hasn’t really lived in his body. He’s maintained it as a sort of vacation home, mainly to keep company with me. There are a few other people who know about Idem, but no one knows about Armand’s merger with it, except you and me. I suggest you keep both those things to yourself.
Third, we’re confident that you will learn how to break the lightspeed barrier for a reason: Idem says so. Idem is billions of years old. It remembers things about the universe that no one else has observed. It told Armand that the laws of physics haven’t always been what they are today. Armand asked whether they could be changed by a conscious agency with the right techniques, and Idem said yes, at least temporarily and in a limited area. That’s the idea you should start your researches from.
There isn’t anything more, except to tell you one more time that we love you and are unbearably proud to have you for our granddaughter. Valerie and Cameron are just as proud. Love them for us.
In having loved and been loved by you, I believe I have touched the future of Mankind. You are the best of us, the true hope of Hope and whatever might lie elsewhere. Live long, be well, and travel far, dear.
With all our love,
Your grandmother,
Teresza Morelon
Althea refolded the note, slipped it back into Teresza’s book, gently lowered the lid of the heirloom box, and wept.
==
Part One:
The Economic Means
Chapter 1: Quartember 2, 1300 A.H.
Charisse frowned at the refrigerator-size steel box that stood, lights blinking and fans whirring, beside Althea’s desk. “What on Hope are you going to use that for?” she said.
Althea grinned. “Fear not, Grandaunt. It won’t bite. I wanted it to simplify my record-keeping. I’m tired of shuffling papers.”
The Morelon matriarch appeared unconvinced. “So you’re going to commit all your records of over fifty million dekas’ worth of holdings to a machine?”
Althea nodded. “Over time. I’m looking forward to getting rid of the clutter.” She scowled at the massive filing cabinets that lined the interior walls of her office and hampered her movements, then gestured at the computer’s scanner. “That will help.”
Charisse snorted and shook her head. “Well, it’s your money. I hope you’ve made adequate provisions for backup and security.”
Althea chuckled. “So do I. But I await the proof of the pudding, as they say.” She grinned mischievously at her grandaunt, one of only four persons on the Altan continent who controlled more capital than Althea. “Let me know if you’d like me to show you how to use it.”
Charisse snorted. “I don’t need a machine to remind me that I run a ten-square-mile farm. Or to heat my office to equatorial levels.” She started toward the door, stopped, and looked back at Althea. “Do you think you’ll be coming to worship at sundown?”
Althea grimaced and shook her head. Charisse nodded in resignation and left the little office. Althea waited for the door to close and sat to begin the exploration and exploitation of her new toy.
For anarchists, we sure can be a bunch of reactionaries.
The emergence of a large-scale small computer industry on Hope had been long delayed by a simple consideration: until only a couple of decades back, there had been essentially no market for such things. Even after ten years’ development, the number of persons who were at all interested in what computers could do for them was far fewer than Althea had guessed beforehand. As a result, the machines were bulky and expensive, the software that made them usable was just as expensive, and the cost of service, in the event a computer owner should need it, was likely to make him scream in agony.
It was the one investment Althea had made that hadn’t returned her at least a sevenfold profit. Yet she stood by it: in part out of confidence that it would eventually pay a handsome return; in part out of a degree of stubbornness that regularly caused her kindred to smirk and cluck at her.
I’m gonna have to get good with this thing. I wonder how long it will take.
That’s the nice thing about the Hallanson-Albermayer series, though. There’ll be time. Earth isn’t about to vanish from the galaxy, and the Relic isn’t about to fall from the sky.
—And you know this...how?
Huh? Oh, hi, Grandpere. How are things in the core of Hope?
—No real news, unless you’re fascinated by magma. It’s a quiet neighborhood. How are things on top of the crust?
Same old, same old. Charisse burned the eggs again this morning. Agatha’s Victor has started teething. The Leschitsyns are talking about starting a subsidiary on Sulla. You know, stuff.
—You really shouldn’t let Charisse do breakfast, you know. She’s lethal enough at dinner time.
She hardly lets anyone else into the kitchen, Grandpere. How are we supposed to stop her?
—Eggplant.
Huh?
—Have a bunch of you gang up on her and demand eggplant for dinner. Preferably breaded and fried. Charisse hates having to fry eggplant. She might never cook again.
Hm. That would leave Cecile and Dorothy in charge of all those implements of destruction. I’m not sure the cure would improve on the disease.
—Always a risk in the Morelon dining room, Al. How are your investments looking?
Pretty good. I think it’s almost time to start on Lab One.
—Glad to hear it. But be careful with your liquidations. Too much dumped onto the market too fast could start a run.
A what?
—A run. A panic. People sometimes get funny when they hear about big sales of the equities they hold. If enough other holders start selling because they’ve heard that you’re selling, the value of your stocks could drop off the charts. They’d recover over time, but that wouldn’t do you any good, having already sold them.
Oh. Gotcha. So sell slowly, thinly, and carefully, right?
—Exactly.
—Yes, dear?
Once I’m established up on the Relic, will we still be able to chat this way?
There was a long pause in the exchange.
—I don’t know. The Relic is way up there. We’ll have to try it and see. But there are a few steps between that one and now, so why worry about it just yet?
Good point. Grandpere, I hate to be a wet blanket, but...
—Yes?
I’ve got work to do. A lot of work.
—(humor) I understand. Till later, then?
When I go for my run, okay?
—Certainly, dear. Go get rich. Strike that: get richer.
(humor) I’ll give it my best.
* * *
By midday, Althea was thoroughly sick of the computer. It did everything it was supposed to do, but the tedium involved in feeding it had thoroughly frazzled her. She thrust herself back from her desk, thought briefly about lunch, and headed to her bedroom to change into her running gear.
Spring had come early to Alta. The winter's snows had melted entirely. The Jacksonville environs was bursting with life and color. The air was pleasantly breezy, just warm enough for running in a T-shirt and shorts. It was a pleasure for Althea to close the doors of Morelon House behind her and launch herself into her daily run.
She loped easily down the path and into the tree-lined corridor that led to the bank of the Kropotkin River. She increased her pace gradually, careful not to overtax her tendons, so that by the time she reached the river's flattened western bank she was moving near to a sprinter's speed. As her feet touched the synthetic track she'd had laid there, she bore down all the way, legs pumping with all the power in them. The miles flew past, one after another, as she pushed her body ever closer to its limits.
Few others had seen Althea run. She preferred it that way. No one on Alta, and few powered ground vehicles, could keep pace with her, regardless of distance.
She exulted. As much pleasure as she drew from her investing and analysis, this was the chiefest of her joys: making full use of the extraordinary physique with which she'd been graced by heredity and Teodor Chistyakowski's mastery of genesculpting.
The genesmith was uncommonly modest about his contribution to Althea's superlative strength and speed. She'd asked him repeatedly about what genetic surgery he'd performed on her zygote. He'd said only that he'd corrected a couple of alleles that would have caused her some minor skeletal flaws. He never mentioned anything else. Whatever the balance between inheritance and skill, the result was a body more capable than the Morelon clan had seen in all its centuries on Hope.
My bio-grandmother couldn't have been a complete loser.
—Of course she wasn't, Al.
Oh, hi, Grandpere. But you didn’t know her terribly well, did you?
—As a person, no. But I can tell you this much about her: four days after Valerie was born, Nora already loved her enough to be desperate for her to have the best home she could arrange for...even if that meant she’d never see her daughter again.
That’s love, all right. I wish I could have known her.
—Understandably so. She spent less than ten minutes talking to me, and as she limped away, I said to myself, there goes the bravest woman I’ve ever met.
Braver than Grandmere?
—(humor) Well, maybe not. But brave. And tough. And clear-headed about what she could and couldn’t do for her newborn daughter. I’m sure if—
Whoa. Hold up, Grandpere. We’ve got company.
A very tall, powerfully built young man stood just off the track a few hundred yards ahead, staring fixedly at her. She braked carefully and brought herself to a standstill a few yards away from him, breathing easily.
“Welcome to the Morelon family farm. Can I help you?”
“Ah...”
She smiled pleasantly. “You do know where you are, don’t you?”
“Actually, no, I don't,” he said. “I’m new to the area. I was just trying to learn my way around when I saw you.” He seemed mildly befuddled. “Do you always run like that?”
She nodded. “As often as I can. Usually every day.” She flowed forward and stuck out a hand. “Althea Morelon.”
He took it. “Martin Forrestal. My thanks for your welcome, especially as I had no idea where I was.” He produced a gentle smile, and Althea’s heart leaped.
He was handsome, to be sure, but Althea had known many handsome young men. He was well-spoken, but that was no more unusual an attribute than his physical attractions. Yet something about him was unusually appealing. He had more than just good looks; he had presence, the quality that draws and holds the eye even against the contrary inclinations of the viewer. He was as tall as her father Cameron and even more strongly built, yet unlike her looming, faintly menacing father, he carried himself with evident ease and a fluid grace. His bearing radiated both benevolence and confidence. He was completely focused on Althea, and she on him. She found that she was reluctant to release his hand.
A small gold cross pendant dangled a few inches below his Adam's-apple.
“Welcome to Jacksonville, then,” she said. She found it difficult to remain casual. “Do you live nearby?”
He nodded. “A little way north of the commercial strip. I’m going to build a storefront there.”
“Oh? What’s your line?”
“I fix things.”
“What sort of things?”
He shrugged minutely. “Just about everything. Machines, electronics, abused hand tools, failing marriages, badly written manuscripts, you name it.”
“Computers?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good! I’m sure the community will make a lot of use of you.” She cast about for some pretext for continuing the conversation, and fell back on an old standby. “Have you had lunch?”
He raised an eyebrow. “No. Got any suggestions?”
“Well,” she said, “we could go back to my place, but it’s a four-mile hike. There’s a fresh-fish shack just up the way, though. Straight from the Kropotkin to your table. Join me?”
“Okay,” he said. “I hope it’s not too expensive. I’m a little low on funds at the moment.”
“Not a problem, Martin.” She smiled her best smile. “It’ll be my treat.”
* * *
They sat over fried whitefish sandwiches drenched in tartar sauce, accompanied by crisp French fries and apple juice. Though he said little, he was perfectly attentive. She chattered, gossiped, and waved her hands like a teenaged girl after a school dance, and his eyes never wavered from her face. Some of the other patrons tried to feign disinterest; others didn’t bother. Presently Martin drew her attention to their half-abashed audience.
“Why are they so interested?”
Althea looked quickly around her. She giggled as several pairs of eyes swerved back to the meals set before them.
“My family’s sort of a big deal in this area,” she said. “And a lot of the other clans have tried to marry me to their scions.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “And failed, I hope?”
You hope? “Well, of course!”
He looked pleased, and she strained hard to repress a second giggle. “Then again,” she said, “it might be that there’s a new stud in town. A young and handsome one that nobody knows anything about, at that.”
He peered theatrically at her. “Who?”
“C’mon!”
He laughed. “You can’t hand me a straight line like that and expect me not to use it.”
“Jokester?”
“When the occasion warrants.”
Althea smiled broadly. “I like that.”
“Glad to hear it. So what do you enjoy, other than fried fish on chabata buns and running like a cheetah on nitro?”
“Hm, let’s see.” She pretended to ponder. “Free fall engineering. Propellant chemistry. Vacuum tech.” He sat forward, new interest kindled in his expression. “High-efficiency photovoltaics. Orbital mechani
cs.” She paused as if struck by recollection. “Oh, and making great gouting gobs of money.”
He chuckled. “Spaceflight, eh?”
“You betcha. Why not? It’s how the Spoonerites got here. It’s really kinda sad that we haven’t continued that tradition.”
He smirked. “Does one flight make a tradition?”
“Well, one really long one might!”
“Okay.” He sat back and folded his hands across his middle. “But what about the great gouting gobs of money?”
“It takes a lot to build a manned spacecraft. I want to get up to the Relic. I’ve already got a lot, but it’ll take just about all of it just to build an orbital spaceplane that can reach it, and I have some expensive plans for once I’m up there.”
He nodded. “Who’s going to design this spaceplane?”
“Who else?”
“You’re quite sure of yourself.”
She suppressed the tart reply that rose to her lips.
“Yes, Martin, I am.”
He regarded her critically but optimistically, with a definite sense of approval. His gaze teased at the possibilities circulating in her brain. Presently he nodded in a fashion that said just making sure without need of words. Warmth rose in her again.
“Have you started?” he said.
“Not quite yet. Why?”
“Think you could use a foil?”
“Hm?”
“You know, a devil’s advocate. Someone who’ll try to pick your plans apart from an outsider’s perspective, look for stuff you missed.” His expression turned markedly sober. “Spaceflight’s a chancy undertaking. When things start to go wrong, you can’t just go next door and ask to borrow some tools. I wouldn’t want to lose my new friend to an uncrossed t or an undotted i.”
She looked directly into his eyes for a long moment. “You’re serious.”
He nodded.
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, too.”
He shrugged. “To be good at fixing things, you have to be able to spot flaws.”
“This isn’t about fixing things, Martin.”
“You might be surprised.”
Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2) Page 2
