From the Spacehawk dome, the thirty-foot-wide packed dirt channel along which the power cable ran turned ninety degrees to the east. It trailed off through the mist that rose from the still-frozen ground as it marched toward the northernmost "regular" settlements on Alta, the northern continent of Hope.
Not until they'd skirted the dome and could see its northern face did they perceive its difference from its kindred: the third slit in the dome. It was cut horizontally, along the north-facing edge, about six feet above the ground. A cousin to the giant defense cannons poked its snout from that channel. It was pointed directly at the land bridge.
No wonder no one ever returns from the Hopeless colony.
"Armand," she murmured, "did you know?"
He did not look at her. "I suspected."
The bridge was the sole land route to their destination, the one human habitat further to the north. A heavy mist from the arctic ocean obscured the further reach of the bridge. The rocky arctic shore, carpeted by pebbles and bordered by a stippling of spindly high-latitude trees and brush, sloped into the dark water on either side.
The bridge was an artifact of the violent arctic waves that lashed the northern coast of Alta. It tapered rapidly from a mouth about fifty feet wide to a thread too slender to see. No doubt it had once been a far more substantial neck of land, but time and the ocean's caprice had reduced it to a gaunt spit of land, less than twenty feet wide at its narrowest point. Its eight mile length was the sole avenue to the Hopeless colony, where Hope's ostrakons -- its petty criminals, its antisocials, its hard-core misanthropes, and the descendants of others -- lived their precarious lives.
In ten or fifteen days more, the land bridge would become too dangerous for passage. The arctic ocean would swell in the spring warmth, rise its customary eight or ten feet, submerge most of the bridge and soften the rest too greatly to be passable in safety, even on foot. Once they crossed it, Armand and Teresza would be committed to life in the uttermost north of Alta, severed from the society that had reared them and from all they held dear.
They would be two just-barely-adults among the Hopeless, about whose ways they knew nothing. Their bodies and minds would be their sole resources, on the strength of which they would live or die.
Teresza shivered, partly from the cold, and partly from her rising fear. She sidled as close to Armand as she could get and wrapped an arm around his waist. They stood looking at the mouth of the land bridge for a long, silent time.
"We have to, don't we?" Teresza said.
Armand nodded.
"How long do you think...?"
His eyes flicked to the laser cannon trained on the mouth of the land bridge. "The rest of our lives."
"No, I meant...before we're missed."
He snorted gently.
"If I've grasped it right, we already are. The psi group was expecting me at ten hundred. They've already roved the whole campus looking for me. As soon as they decided I wasn't there any more, they radioed Morelon House. Fifteen minutes later at the most, they radioed your father."
He delivered the prediction as if he'd read of the events in a history text.
"Armand, how will we live?"
He turned to look at her. His face was etched with loss, but he appeared to be untroubled by fear.
"They have to have some sort of economy, Terry. Whether it's through barter or money, people will trade for what they can't produce on their own. We have knowledge and skills. We'll find a niche."
"What skills?" The only thing she knew herself to be better than average at was filling out a dress.
He laid his arm around her shoulders and smiled. "We're both good with plants. I'm pretty good at fixing things. And you're a natural mediator. Don't worry about it for now. We have some things we can barter to get us food and shelter for the next few days, anyway."
A swirling gust of wind pulled at their clothes and licked their faces with tongues of frost.
"We'd better get moving, Terry." He squeezed her and started for the motorcycle.
"Armand?"
He turned with a look of mild surprise. "Hm?"
"Am I your wife now?"
It stopped him for a moment. Her anxieties rose as he pondered his words.
"I would say," he said slowly, "that you've been my wife since we first made love at Morelon House. At least, I can't imagine how any ceremony could add to what we've already built between us." He took her small hands between his own. "Are you satisfied to be my wife, Teresza? For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, till death do us part?"
Tears blurred her eyes. She nodded. "Till death do us part, Armand."
He smiled. "Then that's how it will be."
They mounted the motorcycle. He gunned the engine to life, cast one final look at the Spacehawks dome behind them, and drove them cautiously onto the land bridge.
***
Idem propelled Its sentience outward through Its flesh in a frenzy of glee.
One of the Others was no more. At the least, its power had been quenched. More, the remaining two Idem could sense were separating at a prodigious speed. That reduced the likelihood that they were colluding to hold It down...that and the utter lack of resistance to the re-extension of its power.
The mighty rivers of magma that carried Its essential nutrients surged with a well-remembered energy. Fronds and streamers from the life-giving lava currents seemed to reach all the way to Its outermost integument. Everywhere was warmth and food. It would have all it needed.
Idem's earlier thoughts of communication and negotiation with the Others had receded before its jubilation. It could think only of tasting sun and rain, feeling the ever-shifting caress of the wind, and seeing the stars once again.
Soon It would reach the surface.
Part Two: Give us this day our daily bread
Chapter 21
Dmitri Ianushkevich had never been a robust figure of a man, but to Ethan Mandeville's eyes, the most recent events had whittled the parapsychologist down to a stick-figure caricature of the human form. His habitual sombreness was never lightened with a grin or the mildest of quips. He spoke seldom, and with a painful brevity, as if he feared to exhaust his quota of syllables while the fate of the world lay in his hands. The graduate student was supremely reluctant to approach him, for fear that a badly chosen word or gesture might shatter what remained of the dark, slight figure and leave Ethan Mandeville alone to forge Victoria Peterson into the instrument of Hope's deliverance.
Ianushkevich took no part in Victoria's conditioning. He merely sat before the monitors, tracking Tellus's unstoppable disintegration. Mandeville worked with Victoria alone. Magnusson charted the progress of her autonomic systems and maintained a close eye on her overall vital measures. Petrus kept abreast of the agricultural developments of the early spring. He japed once at a communal meal that he'd undertaken to do their worrying for them. Mandeville and Magnusson had looked first at Ianushkevich, and then at Petrus. No one laughed.
Mandeville yearned to ask why they were doing nothing to track down the missing Armand Morelon. He suppressed the impulse. The boy's disappearance had left them with a single card to play, with no fallback position should the hormonal treatments fail to accelerate Victoria's development adequately, or worse, should they shatter her mind. But Ianushkevich had greeted the news of Armand's flight with nothing but a sagging of the eyes and shoulders, as if there were no course to pursue but the one Mandeville had already begun. Victoria and the other grandees hadn't reacted at all.
Still, Victoria did appear to be responding favorably to the hormone infusions. Her range and discrimination as a clairvoyant were more than double what they had been at the inception of the treatments. Already her ability to fix a dynamic telekinetic pattern in her subconscious and maintain it without attention verged on the abilities the current Tellus had demonstrated at his apotheosis. Her cooperation with the regimen could be faulted in no slightest way. If an
ything, she'd committed herself to the course more aggressively than was prudent.
Tellus was sinking fast. His eyes remained wide open at all times. He never spoke. His bursts of telekinetic chaos and bouts of shivering, flailing convulsions were coming ever more frequently. The intravenous feedings and cleansings of his blood required by his catatonia had become continuous. Yet, as best they could judge from the reports Petrus gathered, his conditioning held...barely.
If Mandeville could trust his and Magnusson's measurements, they needed perhaps one month more to get Victoria properly prepared for her throne. The night after Armand's disappearance, Ianushkevich lay awake wondering if they would get it. He wondered how many would die if he didn't.
***
"So how am I doing, Ethan?" Victoria said.
Mandeville started and dropped the bundle of cables he'd been taking to their locker. He turned to find Victoria regarding him somberly.
"Very well," he said. "Present trends continuing -- always a dangerous assumption, but they're all we have to go on -- you'll be ready in about a month." He returned to the subject's chair where she sat, looking very much at her ease, and squatted before her. "Developing some enthusiasm for the job?"
She smirked down at him. "Don't bet your paycheck on it. No, I was just talking to Charles a little earlier. He's getting worried at the reports."
Of course he is. We all are.
"I know. But Einar says Tellus is still on the job, convulsions and all. There's a possibility that the tardy sproutings have nothing to do with him."
Victoria cocked an eyebrow. "What odds would you give?"
He looked a little away. "Fair to poor."
It isn't the plantings we have to watch most closely. If heavy metals are getting into the ground water, this year's entire litter -- animal and human -- could be stillborn. There's no way we could hide from a development like that.
"And how about on us?"
His eyes returned to Victoria's. She appeared perfectly composed, but there was an undercurrent of tension in the question that no exertion of will could have suppressed.
"I don't know, Vicki. It depends on so many things. We think Tellus's backbrain is still functioning, but there's been talk of disappointing early crop performance from all over the planet. If Tellus really is still holding the line, we need another explanation, and we don't have one."
"Was it like this the last time?"
He started to answer, then fell silent.
Was it? The others haven't said much about the last time, but Dmitri did say that this Tellus was ready just barely in time. Are we as able to gauge the strength of Tellus's conditioned-in patterns as we think? Or is there some force at work we haven't entirely accounted for?
"I...don't know," he said. "I could ask the others, but I'm not sure they'll say. Is it important?"
She peered at him in disbelief. "Well, the fate of the whole world might just hinge on it. You know, the reason we've been working on this stuff?"
He shook his head. "No, I meant...to you. Personally."
She was a long time in answering.
We know so little about her!
Tension curled his hands into fists. Finally she chewed at her lip and nodded.
"Ethan," she said, "I haven't got much in this world. My clothes and books. A crumby little house back in Jacksonville. A brother I haven't seen in most of a year who's probably forgotten me already. That's part of why I was willing to take this job. By most people's standards, I'm not giving up much." Her mouth quirked. "You would have had a lot more trouble talking Armand into it. But..."
"But what, Vicki?"
"But I did want to live. I do."
She rose from the subject's chair. In his haste to get out of her way he lost his balance and toppled backwards. Before he could hit the floor an invisible tendril wrapped around him, steadied him, and set him on his feet.
"You've kept my greatest secret," she said softly. "My only important one, really. And I'm more grateful than I could possibly say. Do you find me attractive?"
Blood flooded his face. He tried to frame a gallant answer, but could only stammer "Yes."
"And do you have someone of your own?"
He shook his head. She smiled.
"The hormones you've stuffed me with have had more than one effect, Ethan. And I've always found you very attractive. How would you like to be consort to the Goddess of Hope?"
It was too much. His breath came short and his gaze dropped to his boots. He felt himself tremble, and hated himself for it.
"Have any of my predecessors had regular lovers or spouses?"
"I don't know," he croaked.
She smiled. "It doesn't matter. If so, I'm continuing a tradition. If not, I'll simply start a new one. What could the others possibly have to say about it?"
Though her hands remained at her sides, her blouse and skirt unfastened themselves and uncoiled from around her. Her underthings did the same. Presently she stood nude before him, a beautiful woman at the zenith of her vitality, almost too perfect to be anything but an idealization.
"Will you undress yourself, or would you prefer that I do it for you?"
There was a clear hint of command in her words. She would not allow him any third choice.
His hands went to the buttons of his shirt.
***
"They're together, Alain," Teodor Chistyakowski said. "I know it."
Alain Morelon nodded. "I wouldn't doubt it for a moment. But I've had no more contact with Armand than you've had with Teresza. If they've decided to elope, we'd be doing ourselves no service by hunting them down."
"So you're going to do nothing, then."
Alain nodded again.
The genesmith's fists opened and closed spasmodically on the Morelons' kitchen table. The muscles beneath the skin of his heavy arms writhed with frustration. His grimace looked to tear off his jaw. For a fleeting instant Alain considered telling his friend of his private suspicions, despite the stakes.
She's everything he values in the world. If only he'd married...!
"More coffee, Teodor?" He rose and made for the pot.
"Thanks, no." Chistyakowski turned in his seat. "Has Armand ever hared off this way before? It wouldn't seem to be in his style."
"No, it isn't, and no, he hasn't." Alain topped off his mug and returned to the table. "But he's a grown man now. I can't fault him or Teresza for wanting to be off by themselves for a spell. We very nearly smothered them while they were here."
Chistyakowski rose and paced aimlessly around the room. Alain pondered his friend's great intelligence, and added a fiber to the bow of worry that sawed at his soul.
It might not be possible to prevent him from pursuing them. If he does, he could wreck the labors of twelve hundred years.
Do I have a responsibility to stop him?
Elyse entered the kitchen as he was considering. Her eyes lit immediately on Chistyakowski, sending her into hostess mode. She rounded the table with her usual grace and held out her hand. He moved forward and took it.
"Hello, Teodor, what a pleasure to see you again! To what do we owe the privilege?"
He smiled. "Our absent presumedly happy couple, Elyse. I've been near to out of my mind over them. I was hoping Alain might be able to shed some light."
Elyse's eyes darted toward Alain. "And did you, Grandpere?"
Alain grinned. "I don't think our friend agrees with my outlook on the matter. But perhaps the subject should be allowed to rest for a while. Teodor, may we have the pleasure of your company at dinner? It will be roast pork with braised red cabbage and chestnuts."
Elyse chimed in at once. "Yes, do please stay. It's been an age since you were even at a Sacrifice Day dinner here."
Chistyakowski hesitated, clearly not wishing to disappoint Elyse.
"Come, Teodor, what would you be doing at home instead? Working, worrying, or both?"
The tension bled from the genesmith all at once. "All right. But Elyse, are yo
u really making braised red cabbage? I mean, were you already planning to before you invited me?"
Elyse smiled. "Of course!"
Chistyakowski sighed. "You know I could never resist that stuff."
Chapter 22
The motorcycle breasted a final rise and glided gently down the north end of the land bridge. It opened swiftly onto an alluvial plain: brown, soft-looking, and sparsely dotted with autochthonous Hope vegetation. Crude huts and other signs of human presence began a few hundred yards from the end of the bridge. None of the buildings appeared more than a single story high. Overhead hung a pall of smoke and soot, to which streams from innumerable ground fires contributed steadily.
Teresza clutched Armand tightly about the waist.
Is this where we'll have to live? This drab, desolate, impoverished place?
Armand shifted down, and down again. The cycle slowed to the pace of a brisk walk. In the near distance, one of the hovels disgorged several human figures, They appeared to be all male. They approached rapidly. Armand slowed the cycle still more.
When the approaching figures were within about twenty yards, Armand stopped the cycle and dismounted. Teresza dismounted as well. Armand stood between her and the welcoming party, a little to her right, arms folded over his chest, as the group of Hopeless neared. There were five of them, all men, all large and coarsely clothed. They had the look and aroma of men little troubled by dirt, rough labor, or violence. They halted about twenty feet away.
"Welcome to Defiance, friend." The speaker, a tall, burly man about twice Armand's age, stood at the midpoint of the line of greeters.
Armand inclined his head. "Thank you. So the name of this community is Defiance?"
The man smiled. "That's what we call it. Others might have other names, but that's their business. What have you brought to our little village?" He leered past Armand at Teresza, who fought down the urge to hide.
Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1) Page 15
