"I have this idea -- see how this thing would work, if the motor were strong enough to put a real charge behind the stream? It needs more power, a lot more than I can get from my pump. Could you talk to a couple of the others with working pumps about going serial with mine, just long enough to try it out properly? They don't trust me. I'm afraid I've given them some good reasons, in the past."
"Are you and Terry...happy all by yourselves? I don't mind sharing, and I know some tricks..."
"I think Wally means to kill me."
That last petitioner had displayed a facial bruise in the exact shape of a fist. A large fist. She'd allowed that there were several others beneath her shift. Armand had gone at once to the woman's hut and treated her companion to a beating he wouldn't soon forget.
It had been right and necessary. It had been satisfying, too. But when Armand added it to the other requests for his intervention in a myriad things, it completed a picture he wanted to wish away. He felt the rise of an uncomfortable intuition, the sense that he was being made into something he, his grandfather, and Arne Stromberg would not approve.
A State.
He didn't tax or coerce. He didn't emit laws for others to obey on pain of death. He didn't set standards by which his neighbors had to conduct their affairs. But the degree of deference they showed him, and the amount of guidance they expected from him, had long since passed flattering and gone on to seriously embarrassing.
He'd been asked to enforce several contracts, and to punish several miscreants. A growing number of agreements were being struck with him as witness, at the request of both parties involved. The week before, he'd been asked to officiate at a marriage, possibly the first such event in the history of the village. In the lexicon of old Earth, the people of Defiance had made him their king.
Teresza strolled silently along beside him, Valerie still clinging to her breast. It was hard to associate her with the narcoleptic wretch of a month before. She appeared radiantly healthy, unconcerned with anything beyond the three of them, at ease with her world and everything in it.
How should she feel? Valerie has given her back her life. I can't imagine how I would have pulled her out of her funk if it hadn't been for that.
The villagers had been propitiating her, as well. They brought her all sorts of little tokens of their esteem, often for no other reason than just to visit with her for a few minutes. Some who intended to entreat Armand tried their pitches out on Teresza first, asking her how her husband was likely to react. Some asked explicitly if she'd "put in a good word." Her new, more formal carriage seemed well matched to the homage she received.
Does she sense that she's been made into a queen?
They rounded the outermost loop of the village's footpaths and headed back toward the margin where their hovel sat. No more of their neighbors were in evidence.
They were a quarter mile from home when Armand heard a deep, distant roar. It was uncannily like the sound of a large reciprocating engine at a considerable remove, something that would generate about ten thousand horsepower. But there were no engines of that size anywhere north of the land bridge.
But what ocean effect would make that regular a roar? We aren't about to have an earthquake, are we?
The sound grew louder. Teresza must have heard it; her placid expression was tinged by puzzlement, shading toward fear. Her arms tightened around Valerie.
"Armand, what is that? It sounds like a heavy-duty aircraft."
He scanned the skies. A black dot had risen over the southern horizon. It grew steadily larger.
"I think...that's what it is."
Her face lit with alarm. "But why?"
Why, when no aircraft from Hope has passed the land bridge in a thousand years? Why else?
"Let's get inside." He pulled her into a trot. Valerie began to cry softly.
They were less than a hundred yards from their hovel when a twin-engine carryall plane descended onto the wash just beyond the improved part of the plain. It settled carefully onto the sandy soil, jounced once, and decelerated smoothly as it rolled toward them. Behind them, their neighbors were pouring out of their huts to gawk at the unprecedented invasion of the Hopeless enclave.
The plane rolled to a stop, slewing to port and kicking up a spray of sand. Its fuselage bore the insignia of Morelon House.
Their refuge had been penetrated. Their concealment was at an end.
***
"We'd have come sooner," Charisse said, "but, well --"
"It took a while to work out where you had to be, and then there were arrangements to be made at Morelon House," Teodor Chistyakowski said, his gaze fixed on Valerie.
Armand frowned. "Kindly let my sister finish her own sentences, Mr. Chistyakowski."
Chistyakowski turned to face him, his mouth drawn thin.
The hut was crammed solid with human bodies. Armand, Charisse, Teresza and her father barely had room to sit for the press of Hopeless around them. At least fifty of Armand's neighbors had flooded into the hovel when, after the teary reunions had concluded on the sands of the wash, he shepherded them to his home and offered them what little hospitality he could.
After turning our backs on them and fleeing civil society, they should have written us off like everyone else who's ever crossed the land bridge this past millennium. What are we, that these two should violate the only ironclad prohibition on Hope to unearth us? A prohibition they're perfectly well aware of?
"Why did you bring the carryall, Chary?" Armand said as casually as he could.
Charisse gave a half-shrug. The lines that had prematurely decorated the corners of her eyes came into relief. She glanced at Valerie again. "We didn't know how much we'd be bringing back with us...or how many."
A murmur of unease ran through the nearest of the Hopeless.
"Did you bring anything our neighbors could use?" Armand asked.
Charisse's face went blank. "I'm not sure. There are a couple of small engines in the hold, and about five hundred square yards of raw silk. Could they use those?"
Armand chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. Teresza reached across the rude table and squeezed her sister-in-law's hand.
"Charisse, this village would sell you everything it owns for one of those engines and half the silk. The only things we don't lack here are hunger and cold."
Charisse nodded. "I see. Then consider them yours to do with as you like."
Armand nodded. "Thank you. We're in your debt. But you haven't told us why you've come to visit. Is there an emergency of some sort on the farm?"
The guests fell briefly silent. Teodor looked at Charisse as if she had the right of first response, and had to use it or yield it before he would speak.
"Not an emergency, no," Charisse said. "But we've missed you. I want to say that we need you, Armand, but that wouldn't be right. We're getting by. All the same, the whole clan looked forward to celebrating your wedding and installing you as the manager of the farm. We thought you did, too."
I did.
"You've missed me," Armand said. Charisse flinched. Teodor Chistyakowski's eyes narrowed; the hand he'd rested on the table flexed into a fist. "Is it the same for you, Mr. Chistyakowski? Was it just missing Teresza, or was there something more?"
"Your attitude leaves a lot to be desired, young man," the genesmith growled.
"Oh?" Armand cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps there've been some changes you haven't been apprised of. After all, we've lived in the harshest populated environment on Hope for more than a year. We came here by choice. Have you speculated about why?"
Chistyakowski's face grew dangerously ruddy and tight.
"It seems you didn't give Teresza as much information as you might have," Armand said. "Just a few weeks ago, we were separated by force for a mere three hours, and she very nearly died of it. Granted, they were three very unpleasant hours, but she's uncommonly strong -- you knew that, didn't you? -- and she suffered no injuries worse than a bruise. I'd have expected her to come thr
ough unscathed, and in short order. But she was semi-comatose for ten days afterward. I couldn't even get her to talk to me when she was conscious." Despite his efforts at restraint, anger hummed through the words. "It was my first indication that your design for my wife might have had some unwanted side effects. But you knew that too, didn't you? You just didn't care to say so."
Teodor Chistyakowski roared and surged out of his chair, fist raised to strike.
A forest of hands immediately landed on his chest and shoulders, forced him back into his seat, and held him there. He found himself under the unfriendly gazes of many Hopeless, none of whom seemed inclined to allow him to move again.
Armand glanced at Teresza. She appeared undisturbed. Valerie slept quietly against her breast, unaffected by the momentary tumult.
"I wanted you to see that," he said. "You came here to take us back to your society, thinking that nothing but the offer would be required, that any sensible man would prefer that to this. But our decision to leave that society is not yours to reverse. We had reasons we don't care to discuss. Defiance is a community, and we've become part of it. Believe it or not, we're happy here. So if you have good reasons that Terry and I should do what no other ostrakon has done in all of Hope’s history -- better reasons than just missing us -- you'd better put them on the table where everyone can sniff them."
The genesmith opened his mouth to reply, but Charisse held up a hand.
"Enough, Teodor." Her tone reminded Armand of Alain in a moment of decision. Chistyakowski subsided at once. Armand regarded his sister with heightened attention.
The changes in her weren't confined to her expression or carriage. She'd hardened in other ways as well. He spied new tension in the cords of her neck and the muscles of her arms, enough to suggest that she'd undertaken not merely the management of the farm, but a share of its physical labor as well. The subtly haunted look she wore came clear in his vision. It wasn't all worry and fatigue. She'd lost some weight and a substantial amount of moisture from her skin. Her chin had sharpened and her cheeks had drawn inward, suggesting an age beyond her actual years. Beyond his years.
"Armand," she said, "Grandpere Alain has vanished."
"What?"
"A few months ago," she said in a voice like a funeral bell, "he took a trip by himself. Where he was going, who he was going to see, he wouldn't say. He never returned, and no one has had news of him since."
"What -- why --"
"Mom hasn't spoken ten sentences since that," she said. "Losing you was almost too much for her. Losing him was more than she could take. I don't know how much longer she'll be with us. Hallanson-Albermayer treatments can't restore your will to live." She fixed him with a look of judgment. "Is that reason enough?"
A giant's hand wrapped around his heart and squeezed.
"Terry..."
She laid a hand on his cheek. "I know. We have to, don't we?"
"I do. You don't. Unless --" He glanced at her father.
She nodded. "You know I do."
The throng around them was silent.
"But then," Teodor said, once again staring fixedly at Valerie, "there might be other factors to take into account, mightn't there?"
"What? What other factors?"
Teodor grinned nastily. "The ones arriving as we speak."
In the distance, the sound of another engine was swelling.
***
Armand strode toward the southern fringe of Defiance with a horde of his neighbors at his back. As he passed the settlement's last few hovels, an enclosed truck fitted with all-terrain tires breasted the rise in the land bridge, and came gliding down toward the outer wash where he and Teresza had first beheld their future.
The truck slowed and stopped almost exactly where he'd dismounted his motorcycle to confront Burt Marchesand's band of thugs. He waited. Two figures emerged from the vehicle, briefly scanned the area, and walked slowly toward him.
The crowd behind him murmured with renewed unease. Teresza sidled up next to him and slipped her arm around his waist.
"Where's Valerie?" he said.
"I left her with Charisse."
Armand tensed. "Did you tell her --"
"No."
One of the approaching men was of middle height and build, with sandy hair and no other distinguishing features. He was unknown to Armand. The other's short stature, slight build, and midnight black hair gave him away when he was still fifty yards distant. It was Dmitri Ianushkevich.
They approached tentatively, as if the large crowd represented a threat.
Maybe it does.
"Dmitri!" Armand hallooed. "So good to see you again. But what brings you to this part of the world? Don't tell me you need a new God so soon?"
The two halted and stood silent.
"We thought you might know," Ianushkevich said, "but we couldn't guess how much. Is that why you fled?"
"Why do you ask?" Armand said. He spread his arms to encompass the village of Defiance and its tattered citizens massed behind him. "Surely the accommodations here are reason enough for a long visit!"
A faint sighing of wind was all the answer he received.
Teresza looked up at him in puzzlement. "Are they why we're here?"
He nodded.
Ianushkevich's unnamed companion cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Mr. Morelon, but might we continue this conversation somewhere else?"
Armand's eyebrows went up. "We haven't met, have we?"
"No. My name is Charles Petrus. I'm an agronomist."
"Mr. Petrus, I'm not sure I want to continue this conversation at all. You and Dmitri are up here to bring me back to your God-developing program, aren't you?"
"Yes," Petrus boomed, "we are." He drew himself up. "We are the
Inner Circle of the Cabal. We are the guardians of Earth life on this world, every cell of it. For twelve hundred years, our labors have ensured the flourishing of Man on Hope. We do what we must, always toward that end. Today the planet is in need of something only you can provide, Mr. Morelon. Since you know what we do and why, you can't claim ignorance of the urgency of the effort. So either submit to us in the name of humanity, or accept the onus of Man's complete extinction from this world -- your Hopeless friends included." The crowd buzzed in confusion.
"Dmitri," Armand said, "would you care to elaborate on Mr. Petrus's statement?"
The parapsychologist smiled sadly. "It's as he said, Armand. Victoria Peterson has gone insane. Whether from the apotheosis or some other cause, she's blossomed into full-scale paranoid megalomania. She's already committed two murders, and is an obvious danger to everyone around her. If she follows the pattern of...of her predecessors, she's got about a year to live -- a year during which she'll lay waste to everything her powers can reach. So yes: we need a new God, and you're the only candidate qualified to assume the position."
Armand set his viewpoint free of his body and sped it toward them.
Ianushkevich and Petrus both carried needleguns. Both were loaded with soporific rounds. Perhaps they'd planned to take him by force or stealth if he refused to cooperate freely. Their truck was empty of everything but food and clothing, but they'd brought plenty of both of those.
Two twists of telekinesis, and the threat of forcible abduction was neutralized.
"Gentlemen," he said, "did you come with contingency plans in case I failed to see things your way? I can imagine a couple my neighbors and I might not find agreeable."
Ianushkevich said nothing. Petrus smiled.
"Why, yes, we have," he said, and brought forth his needler. The crowd of Hopeless buzzed again, this time with a mixture of anger and alarm.
Armand laughed, slipped out of Teresza's grasp and strode toward Petrus with a score of his neighbors in his wake. He halted with the muzzle of Petrus's needler flush against his breastbone. The agronomist's expression had gone from calm assurance to perplexity.
"Pull the trigger."
Petrus hesitated. Armand snatched the gun with a flash
of his hand, put the muzzle to his head and jerked the trigger back dramatically. Nothing happened. He pulled again, and again, with no consequence, and tossed the disabled weapon to the ground.
"Be glad of that, Mr. Petrus. If your gun had done so much as muss my hair, these fine people would have had you for dinner -- as the entree. You've walked into a situation you understand in no slightest degree. Are you quite sure you'll be able to walk out again?"
Petrus's face was ashen.
"Dmitri," Armand said in a cutting tone, "does this man know anything at all?"
"Please, Armand." Ianushkevich’s voice cracked. "We're not here for ourselves. If you know anything at all, you know that."
Armand turned to face the villagers massed behind him. They were barely under restraint, visibly ready to lynch. He could read readiness to violence in every face.
"Friends," he said as calmly as he could, "may I welcome these new guests and offer them the hospitality of Defiance? Will you assist me in making them...comfortable?"
A murmur passed over the crowd, but no one objected.
Armand nodded. "Then let's retire to my home, where our other two guests are waiting. You see, Dmitri," he said, "you're not the only ones who came calling today." He gestured toward the western wash, where the Morelon airplane sat.
Ianushkevich's eyes went wide. Armand turned and walked back to his hut.
Part Three: And deliver us from evil
Chapter 34
Ianushkevich swung the truck around and gunned it toward the land bridge. As it entered the mouth of the passage to civilization, he threw a last glance backward at the village of Defiance. Armand, Teresza, and their retinue were still standing at its outskirts, watching their departure.
Beside him, Petrus was on the verge of tears.
"I can't believe they sent us packing," he said.
Ianushkevich guided the truck carefully over the steep rise and onto the neck that would return them to the society they'd left.
Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1) Page 23
