"And this." Ianushkevich produced a remote control. It bore a glowing green light, a set of thumbwheels, and a single pushbutton. Mandeville winced.
"Maybe you should put that away, Dmitri. If you trigger it before I put it on, I might survive."
The corner of Ianushkevich's mouth rose. "It's not yet armed. It will arm when you put it around your neck and close the hasp. Even then, I'd have to set the wheels to the appropriate combination first. After we...depart from here, no one will touch this remote except to use it, which I very much hope will never be necessary. And of course," he added quickly, "we'll remove the collar as soon as Terra has abdicated."
Abdicated.
"After you've killed her."
"Ethan –"
Mandeville held up a hand. "There's no point in mincing words with me, Dmitri. I know how dangerous she is." He held the collar up to his eyes. "How long should I expect to wear this? Have you found Armand Morelon yet?"
Dmitri Ianushkevich sat silent, his hands on his knees, his eyes on the rough, silver-coated floor of the chamber, for a long time.
"We've found him, yes. But he hasn't yet agreed to join us, and we haven't yet found a lever that will bend him. And we don't plan to kill Terra. She'll be moved to a place where she can do no more harm. She'll be looked after for the rest of her life, but she'll never again have a chance to hurt an innocent man."
Mandeville said nothing. Ianushkevich winced and continued, "I didn't mean that –"
"I know what you meant, Dmitri. I can carry my share of the guilt for this." He indicated the collar with his eyes. "You said this will arm as soon as it's closed, correct?"
Ianushkevich nodded.
"And I imagine that you'd like me to put it on now, rather than at Terra’s apartments?" So I won't be tempted to use it against you somehow.
Another nod. "Please."
Mandeville rose and wrapped the collar around his neck. Its fit to his contours was precise. He squeezed the ends together. The mating jaws engaged with a soft click. The light on the remote in Ianushkevich’s hand changed from green to yellow.
"Let’s go."
***
Teresza rocked Valerie gently as her eyes slid closed. A yellow-white bubble of Teresza's milk glinted at the corner of the baby's mouth. Teresza laid the child down upon the woven flax of the tiny cot Armand had built for her, put a hand to her sweetly bruised nipple and rubbed it gently. At three months, Valerie was as ravenous as she'd been on the day of her arrival.
Teresza straightened and pulled her shift about her. The day was waning, and Armand hadn't returned home. He'd mentioned a meeting with representatives from Victory and Thule without saying anything about the substance of the thing, but had promised to try to be back before sunset as he left. Whether or not he beat the sunset, if dinner was to be served at its usual time, she would have to see to it.
She closed the bamboo door carefully behind her, mindful of the sleeping infant, and turned toward her garden to find Maria Simpson squatting among the rows of carrots. She appeared to be weeding.
She'd given the widow the privilege of harvesting from their gardens the very day Armand had executed her husband. It had only seemed right. Maria was alone. Her association with Nigel had left her without friends. She was in her late forties, had no skills of note, and had little chance of attracting a new protector with the charms that remained to her.
The widow looked up, and rose from her haunches as Teresza approached. Her hands were dark with soil, but she held no produce, nor was her basket nearby. She smiled gently but said nothing.
A lump rose into Teresza's throat. Every time she saw Maria, she had to suppress the urge to take the widow into her arms. What Armand had done to Nigel Simpson had been right and necessary. He might have forgiven Simpson the attempt on his life, but civilized men did not permit a rapist to live. In facilitating Teresza's violation by Marchesand and his gang, Simpson had earned a full share in their penalty. Still, she couldn't help wishing that there'd been another way, a way that would have left no collateral damage.
"How's it going, Maria?"
"Done for today." The widow waved at the soil at their feet. "You have to keep at this sort of thing. Vegetables are hard, weeds are easy."
"I know. But I meant...generally."
Maria Simpson's mouth quirked. She clasped her hands before her and smirked at the neat rows of produce.
"I eat well, I sleep well, and that bit of blanket you gave me keeps me quite warm. Or are you trying to ask if I miss Nigel?"
"Maria --"
"He was a rotter, Terry. We both know it." She jerked her head toward her hovel.
The Simpson hut was in better repair than it had been for two years. It was nearing the quality of Armand's and Teresza's home. Its walls were properly chinked, its roof boasted a thick new thatch, and its door had been bolstered and reshaped to close snugly against its jamb. Even the piles of mildewed wood and scraps of rusted metal that had stood beside the hovel, where Nigel had eternally fished for bits he could barter, had diminished to nothing. Armand had seen to all of it in the scant free time his own labors and the affairs of the village allowed him.
"Nigel wouldn't have done any of that. He tried to kill the man who did. He threatened to kill me if I gave him away. I don't regret the loss of him."
Teresza pressed her lips together and looked away.
Perhaps I shouldn't either. But it still seems wrong that she should be alone. Especially because of me.
"You worry too much, Terry. Thanks to you and...Armand, I'm living better today than I have for many years. It's not so bad, sleeping alone."
"I wouldn't know," Teresza murmured.
"How not?"
"I've forgotten." And I want never to remember it again. "But I'm glad you're happy. If you are."
The widow's eyes misted over. She folded her arms across her breasts and turned to look over the village of Defiance.
It wasn't just the Simpson hut that had improved in recent weeks. The whole community was upgrading at a remarkable rate. All the hovels were steadily being refurbished. Tumble-down shacks whose owners had endured them unchanged for decades had drawn near to respectability. The sturdier structures were approaching the status of lower-class homes in the world to their south. The eyesores that had dotted the village when Teresza arrived were no more. It had been weeks since she'd seen a lump of trash on a public path, or a scrap of wastepaper flutter by on the breeze.
Defiance had been transformed by an outbreak of civic pride.
"We owe you," Maria said. "All of us. We're going to miss you when you go."
Teresza's breath came short. "But..." She halted and looked away as she tried to compose a graceful demurrer.
The widow's brow wrinkled. She leaned close to Teresza and peered curiously into her face.
"You are going back," she murmured. "Aren't you?"
***
Victoria didn't stir as the cipher lock on her apartment door clicked open. No doubt it was just Ianushkevich or Petrus. It was too early for lunch, so whichever it was had probably come to check her vitals and dispense a little homely reassurance. She'd gotten used to the rhythm of their visits, and had become skilled at enduring them without actually saying anything.
Nothing had stirred her from her torpor since Ethan's departure. She'd asked a couple of times, during the first weeks of his absence, whether he'd be returning soon. "Soon enough" had been the only answer she received. But two months had elapsed, and no one even mentioned him any more. There seemed little point in hoping.
As the quiet footsteps rounded the corner from the entranceway, she didn't bother to look.
"Hi, Vicki."
What?
She spun so quickly on her unmade bed that her bare legs tangled in the coverlet, making her flop onto her chest in undignified fashion. She took some time unsnarling herself, keeping her eyes fixed on him all the while, lest he disappear.
But there he stood.
; Her first impulse was to leap from her bed and enfold him in her arms. Something peculiarly somber in his expression bade her to stop.
He didn't look any different. He held himself as he always did: a little awkwardly, a little coltishly. He smiled as he always had: a little shyly, and most endearingly. Why she'd expected a change, she could never have said. But the only changes she could detect were the webs of tiny lines newly formed around his eyes, and a curious thick silvery collar snug around the base of his neck.
Her attention fastened on the collar. She was about to send out her viewpoint to probe it when he shouted, "DON'T!"
Except for the clenching of her hands, she held perfectly still. "Why not?"
"Do you want to live, Vicki? Do you want me to live?"
She said nothing.
"Believe me, I do. And I'm not the only one. Dmitri and Charles want us both to live long, healthy lives. But they fear you. You've given them a lot of reason. So they've...taken precautions."
"This," he said as he fingered the collar, "contains five ounces of a powerful plastic explosive. I can't get it off, and if you value our lives, you mustn't try. Even if we were to go to extreme opposite ends of the apartment, the detonation would probably kill you. For sure it would kill me, so I'd appreciate it if you left it strictly alone."
The silence that stretched between them was deep and painful.
"So," she finally said, "other than that, how have you been?"
He chuckled. "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?"
"What?"
"Never mind. Old joke." He went to sit beside her on her bed.
"Can we try this again, Vicki?" He folded his hands in his lap as if unsure what he ought to do with them. "I know things aren't the way you'd like them. They aren't the way I'd like them, either. But it's the lot we drew, you and I. I love you very much, and if you're willing to try, I'll do everything I can to make it work. But if you'd rather not, just say the word, and I'll be out of your life for good. Just tell me how you want it."
His sincerity was unquestionable. Every element that had drawn her to him was present and operating. It was enough to overwhelm her. His devotion, his innate appeal, and her state of bodily need clamored for her to claw off all his clothes, pull him into her, and never, ever let him go.
So she did.
Hours later, her arms snug around him, his tiny snore a comforting rattle against her cheek, she allowed herself to think again.
They want us to live long and healthy lives, says my lover, but they've made him into a safety stop in case I should have any more ideas of my own.
He had to have agreed to it. They would never have forced it on him.
I still want a baby.
She held her body perfectly still as her viewpoint quested into Ethan's flesh.
He was intact and healthy in all ways, nothing out of place...except for the tiny golden fixture that clamped off his vas deferens.
They had him valved.
Such things were not unknown, but they were very rare. Hope society practically worshipped childbearing and children. A normal man would consent to have such a thing done to him only if his fertility posed an active danger to his spouse. Her anger, well stopped down since he'd returned to her arms, surged once again.
They must have thought I wouldn't notice.
It was easily undone. The tiniest twist relaxed the stopcock that forbade Ethan's sperm to leave his testes. She needed do nothing else; she was certain.
Sleep well, Ethan. Tomorrow will be a busy day. Take my word for it.
Chapter 38
Armand stared. "She said what?"
"She said," Teresza said, hands on her hips, carefully enunciating each word, "that we have to go back. People who can't do without us are counting on us."
He fell into his chair as if poleaxed. The lattice of bamboo and twine protested at the impact, but held steady.
"Counting on us? Are you sure she meant us, Terry?"
His wife's eyes flared in sudden anger, but she held her tongue.
What could she have meant? That I'm obliged to give myself over to the Cabal for its use in their God program? Or that my family and clan have a call on me that trumps my responsibilities here?
His head ached. His hands, which hurt from yet another beating administered to someone he hardly knew, rose to rub at his temples. He desperately wanted the conversation to end, but he knew there was more to come. He knew equally well that Teresza would not forgive him for abbreviating it.
"Terry," he said in a tone of supplication he hated to hear from himself, "you know what would happen if we were to go back."
She shook her head gently. "Only that my father and your family would be ecstatic to see us again. Beyond that, what do you have in mind?"
My enthronement and incarceration as God of Hope. Permanent separation from you and your death from the estrangement, or our enclosure in a cell we'll never be permitted to leave.
"Terry," he said softly, "do you want us to be parted forever?"
Her mouth fell open. He nodded.
"Because that's what it would mean. One way or another, the Cabal would have me. Whether it was by force, or guile, or my own stupid pride, they'd have me in that cell. We'd have no future except as inmates of a subterranean prison I could never leave." He nodded toward Valerie, asleep on the little cot he'd built for her a few days before. "You'd have to surrender Valerie to the care of others. Probably my family, your father isn't really suited. And we'd never have another child to love, for as long as we live." He heard and hated the whine beneath his words, but pressed on. "Is that what you want from our lives?"
Tears formed beneath her wide blue eyes and dripped down her cheeks. "I -- I didn't --"
He rose and pulled her trembling hands into his own. "I know, love. You have to force yourself to think about that kind of thing. It doesn't come naturally to me, either. But that's the future we'd face. The two of us imprisoned in a subterranean cavern, and Valerie in the hands of others, never to know our love. For ever and ever, or until we're lucky enough to die."
The tremor in her hands swept over her whole body, and she collapsed sobbing into his arms. He held her, stroked her back and shoulders in the way she loved, and waited for her storm to pass.
She's at least as smart as I am. Why did I have to lay it out for her that way?
Presently she calmed and sagged against him. With all the gentleness he could manage, he lifted her into his arms, carried her to the bed they shared, and laid her down upon it. Her anguish and fatigue had emptied her, leaving only the peace of exhaustion.
He straightened and stood looking down at her for a long while. When he was certain she'd passed into sleep, he turned and headed for the door. The garden needed work, and it was as good an opportunity as any.
"Armand..." she said in the muffled tones of sleep.
He whirled.
"What, love?"
"We still have to go."
He gaped. She turned toward the wall, away from him, and resettled herself. From her lips came the faint buzz of her snore.
***
Ethan woke slowly to a bedchamber still dark. He knew without looking that Victoria was not in the bed next to him. A glimmer of light from the corridor that led to their bathroom told him where she was. The light was accompanied by faint, repeated sounds he couldn't identify.
As they had at every awakening since his return, his fingers went to the silver collar around his throat. It was still there.
Of course.
Two weeks had elapsed and Victoria had said nothing more about it. She'd said little enough about anything.
The contrast between Victoria as she was and Victoria as he'd known her was striking. Since his return, she hadn't made any demands. She hadn't vented any complaints. Her previous demeanor had given way to something so alien that, except for the familiarity of her body and the heat of her lovemaking, he'd have sworn he was sleeping next to someone else.
More mysterious was the change in her diurnal cycle. Before he absented himself, she'd luxuriated in the lack of a need to leave their bed. Several times she'd laughed at his compulsive early rising, reminding him on several occasions that his days of hectoring undergraduates and scurrying for professors were permanently behind him. Yet she'd been out of bed before him, in solid darkness, every day for ten days running.
She's my whole world. Just like before.
His monochromatic existence had grated on him, for a time. He'd harbored ambitions once, not much different from any academic's, of distinguishing himself in his field, winning prestige, professional elevation, and the admiration of his peers for his insights. He'd been certain that his steady penetration into the special neurological patterns that accompany the use of cliches would lead to a major breakthrough in neurolinguistics. It hadn't been just another starry-eyed graduate student's fantasy; his dissertation advisor had thought so, too.
All that was lost for good. He'd paid it over to be consort to a goddess. As high as the price had been, he'd do it again. He'd told himself so quite frequently.
And here I am today, lying awake in the dark, two hundred feet below ground, with an explosive collar locked onto my neck and a lover who's just about ceased to talk. Wouldn't Mom and Dad be proud!
After two months away and a chance for a clean break, I've returned to where I started.
Angrily he thrust the thought away and swung himself out of the large bed. His bare feet sank into the plush carpeting with a familiar sense of pampered luxury.
Admit it, you fraud. It's not a bad life. All you lack is the sun and a regular newscast.
And your friends. And your career, your dreams, and your hope of a family.
And your freedom.
He thrust the thought away and padded down the hall to their bathroom. The door was ajar, light streaming past the jamb. The muffled sounds he'd heard from their bedchamber crescendoed as he drew nearer, then fell abruptly silent.
Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1) Page 26
