Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1)

by Francis W. Porretto

  The death toll was twelve thousand, two hundred eighty-seven. More than two thousand buildings, residential and commercial, were damaged or destroyed by the white-hot magma shower. But Teller's survivors would need most of a week to amass those statistics. First must come the mad scramble to survive the hellish rain. Then, the desperate totting-up of loved ones and friends. Then, and only then, the counting of the fallen, and grieving over them.

  ***

  Armand was unsure what to make of what he saw through the gloom. The figure on her knees on the stone floor of their bedroom was plainly Teresza. She'd taken no notice of his arrival. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were moving, but nothing audible issued from them. In her hands was a small book he didn't recognize, open to a page covered in very small print.

  His sense of alarm rose. He dropped to a squat beside her. She did not move.

  The human mind tends to group experiences into pigeonholes. It uses existing pigeonholes to accommodate new and unfamiliar events whenever appropriate, and sometimes even when it isn't. Armand had never seen the like of his wife's unprecedented state of quasi-catatonic transport. He struggled to find a niche in which would fit.

  Wait. Maybe I have. After the rape, when she was...away from me. But not from her.

  From Maria Simpson.

  He'd been unable to bear the sight of the widow on her knees at Teresza's side. Something about it had challenged him along a dimension he'd never acknowledged. It had tested his conception of existence, his unconscious confidence in the completeness and adequacy of his metaphysic, in a fashion to which he was unprepared to respond.

  He probed delicately at the marches of Teresza's mind. Ever since the rape and his execution of the ruffians who'd violated her, she had been endlessly open and accommodating to his telepathic visits, though she lacked the power to respond in kind.

  Something had changed. He could not define it precisely, but there was a distinct sense of forewarning from her outer psyche. It wasn't exactly posted private, keep out; it was more a statement that high and important events were in progress within...things not to be disturbed except for matters of life and death.

  What is she doing, that she should be closed off from me?

  He resisted the urge to press onward into the core of her consciousness. Instead, he joined her on his knees, wincing at the discomfort, slipped an arm around her, and sent his viewpoint forth to amplify her tiny whisper into an intelligible stream.

  "Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us day by day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins; as we forgive those who have sinned against us. And lead us not into temptation...."

  He listened in fascination and in silence.

  ***

  Idem could sense Its opportunity approaching.

  The Other had drawn near to the degree of receptivity Idem would require for communication. It was not yet deep enough to support coherent conceptual transmissions, but it was close enough that a tendril of awareness, unladen by any more abstract or focused message, might be perceptible by the Other. Such a tendril might be safely threaded through the chaos above, if done quickly and deftly.

  But there was a risk. The Other might react not with welcome but with hostility. It might respond with a blast like those of the One who'd driven Idem into Its redoubt in the core. Such a bolt would be more tightly focused and directed than the aimless flailings It had suffered so far. It might crack the inner defenses that had shielded It from destruction.

  Dare I?

  Dare I not?

  The torments of twelve centuries of confinement made the decision automatic. A sleek fiber of psionic conduit, pulsing with a simple I am, threaded its way out of the core, streaked through the magma layer, and pierced the upper crust, seeking to wrap itself around the mind of the Other.

  It approached Its target with the delicacy of a new lover.

  ***

  Teresza was jolted from her trance by the convulsive tightening of Armand's arm around her shoulders. He squeezed her so suddenly and so hard that she feared her collarbones would give way under the pressure. She shook herself fully back to consciousness and slipped out of his grasp just as he tottered and fell backward against their bed, eyes unfocused, arms loose at his sides, legs splayed before him. She slid Maria's book aside and turned to minister to him.

  An ear to his chest revealed that his slow, powerful heartbeat was undisturbed. His breathing remained deep and regular as well. His flesh was warm and dry; the pulse at his wrists and neck was strong and steady. He was merely absent from the concerns of the world around him.

  As I was, a few moments ago.

  She rocked back on her heels and sat on the floor beside her husband.

  Did I infect him with it?

  Teresza found that she could remember her transcendental experiences with perfect clarity. There was power in the words from Maria's book, a beneficent power that emanated from a strong place outside the world she knew. It did not threaten; it entreated. Be like this, it pleaded, that you and the world shall be whole with one another.

  "Like this" isn't so far distant from what I am...what we are. We give and take in our turn. We raise no hand unprovoked. We honor our forebears and our promises to one another. To the extent we're aware of it, we're even grateful for the gift of life.

  All we lack is awareness of where that gratitude should go.

  She knew Armand's powers of body and mind. She knew his moral stature to be as high as any man of Hope. Yet he, too, had been wracked by the moral conundrum implicit in the ecological calamity about to befall Hope. If she had felt such a need of illumination, what of him? If she had felt lost, bereft of any star by which to navigate through the shoals of their dilemma, how much greater must his agony be?

  Careful not to disturb him, she settled herself delicately against his side, took his hand in her own, and waited.

  ***

  Charisse was first to notice Armand and Teresza's absence. In the midst of reproving Teodor for a caustic comment about Armand, she bit a sentence in half and turned to Chuck.

  "Where is he?"

  Chuck started to reply, cut himself off with a frown. "He must have stepped away when the lights went out. Teresza left first. He probably went to find her."

  Teodor snickered. "Probably trying to wheedle her into going back to his hidey-hole above the land bridge."

  Elyse gasped. Valerie emitted a startled coo. Charisse started to reply, but Chuck squeezed her hand with unusual force. His eyes were warm, yet unusually sharp.

  "Let me handle this one, darlin'?"

  Uncertain of what was to come, she nodded.

  Chuck smiled and patted her hand, rose and circled the table, and delivered a backhand blow to Teodor Chistyakowski's face that knocked him out of his seat and onto the kitchen's slate floor. The genesmith lay there, staring up at Feigner in outraged wonder.

  "That's the last thing I want to hear you say about Armand," Feigner said. His expression was too calm to be anything but the mask of homicidal rage perfectly controlled. "I don't care how smart you are. I don't care what you have to contribute to our little problem here. I don't care what Charisse and Elyse think of you. I don't even care what Teresza thinks of you. One more derogatory word from you about my roommate, and it'll be the last thing you ever say. I will rip your tongue out of your head and flush it down the nearest toilet. I'll do it with these ladies watching. Whatever you might be good for, and I have no idea what that is, you aren't worthy to wipe the sweat from Armand's ass. Do you understand what I've said, or do you need a little more reinforcement?"

  Teodor Chistyakowski struggled onto an elbow. He glared up at his assailant with undisguised hatred.

  "Well?"

  "Young man," the genesmith growled, "you and I are going to have an accounting when all this is over. I owe you a comeuppance, and I promise you that when an appropriate moment comes, I will deliver one you won't forget
."

  Feigner snorted. "Dream on, asshole. Unless you plan to attack me when I'm sleeping, you wouldn't last two minutes against me. Go ahead and nurse your fantasies, but remember this: Armand Morelon is worth a hundred of you, in any coin you care to mention. You are not to speak ill of him in my presence, on pain of death. I mean it."

  "Chuck --" Charisse faltered.

  "I mean it." Chuck Feigner, whom she'd known for less than two full days, with whom she was already half in love, turned a wholly unrecognizable face toward her. "Haven't you thought about what Armand had to work through even to consider coming back from the Hopeless colony? Hasn't anyone?"

  Feigner swept the others with a gaze of incredulous pity. The room was silent.

  "It took me a while to work it out myself, so maybe I shouldn't be too hard on you. But you ought to have gotten it by now. He's committed himself. He's accepted responsibility for the whole of Hope. Whatever it takes to save us all, he'll do it. All he has is the hope that it won't cost him the balance of his life, permanent incarceration underground, and separation from his daughter. Who else on this damned planet would even consider such a thing?"

  Faces went white around the table, Teodor Chistyakowski rose to his feet and stared at Feigner with his arms crossed over his chest.

  "All right," he said. "Maybe --"

  "Shut up." Feigner jabbed a finger at the genesmith. "I don't want to hear your qualifications or exculpations. You're on probation until this mess is behind us. Then we'll settle up. Man to man. If you still have a taste for it."

  Feigner glared at Chistyakowski until the genesmith had slid into his seat, then resumed his own. He groped for Charisse's hand and entwined his fingers with hers as if nothing untoward had happened.

  "Now," he said in a perfectly conversational tone, "what can we discuss to some advantage while our guest of honor is away?"

  ***

  The rush of ecstasy had catapulted Armand into a state beyond the bounds of what he'd known. He did not know what to do. He did not know how to do anything. A superhuman torrent of yearning had flowed into his soul from some unknown source, obliterating his conscious defenses. It entranced him without command, enthralled him without threat. Before its intensity and simplicity, he was helpless.

  It seemed an eon before he could form even the most basic inquiry.

  Who are you?

  The answer was as stunning as it was unexpected.

  I HAVE NO ANSWER THAT YOU COULD GRASP. UNTIL NOW, I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN ALONE.

  Armand reeled within his own skull.

  How can anyone be always alone?

  IT IS ALL I HAVE KNOWN. I KNOW THIS IS NOT AS IT IS FOR YOU.

  Where are you?

  THAT IS DIFFICULT TO ANSWER. Armand felt delicate fingers explore the recesses of his mind. AT PRESENT, I HIDE IN MY INNERMOST FASTNESS. YOU STAND UPON THE MARGIN OF MY SOLID SELF.

  You are...within the planet?

  I AM THE PLANET. I HAVE TAKEN REFUGE HERE FROM THE OTHER.

  The implications froze Armand in mid-thought.

  An intelligence within the planetary mass of Hope! How can this be? This world was nearly barren before the Hegira arrived here.

  THAT IS INCORRECT. I HAVE BEEN HERE FOR BILLIONS OF WHAT YOU CALL YEARS. I WOVE THE SKY. I MADE THE OCEANS AND THE LANDS. I PUT FORTH THE LIFE THAT GRACED THEM, THE LIFE THAT THE OTHER HAS ALL BUT DESTROYED. OUR ACQUAINTANCE IS NEW, BUT I AM NOT.

  What should I call you?

  The planet-being was slow to answer. Armand felt a strange rustling among his memories, as if the being were sifting through them.

  I AM A SINGULAR THING, NOT LIKE ANYTHING YOU KNOW. I KNOW OF NO OTHER BEING LIKE ME. PERHAPS YOU MIGHT CALL ME IDEM.

  "Idem." The old Latin word for "the thing in itself." Welcome and well met, Idem. I am called Armand. My name derives from an old word for "man." As you know, I am not a singular thing. There are many like me.

  A fresh rustling stirred Armand's consciousness. It felt like laughter.

  NOT SO, ARMAND. THERE ARE MANY SHAPED AS YOU ARE SHAPED, BUT SUCH SIMILARITIES ARE SUPERFICIAL.

  How is it that we can talk?

  WE SHARE AN INTERFACE. I HAVE NO WORDS FOR IT.

  Why not?

  BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO WORDS FOR IT.

  WHY DOES THE OTHER HATE ME SO?

  Who is the other?

  HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW?

  A fresh flood of images and sensations invaded Armand's mind. Images of wonder at the arrival of A Dream Of Freedom in orbit above it. Currents of surprise as the strange mobiles descended to its surface and disturbed its creatures and structures. Sensations of unlimited agony and fear when the Other first attacked. Memories of flight, weariness, and its early dreams of renewal. Pain and solitude endured in unending darkness, severed from all light and prolonged for over a thousand years, until hope had faded to a memory.

  Armand could hardly grasp the import. The Being conversing with him had pre-existed Man on Hope by billions of years, perhaps since the moment Hope took solid shape under the rays of its sun. It was Hope, in the same sense that Armand was his corporeal body. The biophysical structure of the world, against which the Cabal had fought for twelve hundred years, was Its conscious design, brought forth by Its will and nurtured with the love of a mother for the children of her flesh.

  Until the Other stood forth.

  The Gods of Hope, from Emile Morelon onward. Whose powers were crafted to undo Idem's workings and make Hope over into Terra II. Who never realized that they were locked in battle with a conscious creature. A creature as self-aware as we, who was only trying to survive.

  In that instant, Armand Morelon knew sorrow as never before in his life.

  We did not know.

  Its response was a wordless pulse of acknowledgement.

  We were exiles, severed from our home and unable to return. We were trying to survive, heedless of the costs. Can you forgive us?

  OF COURSE. HOW SHOULD I NOT?

  What do you mean?

  SHALL I APOLOGIZE TO YOU FOR MY STRUGGLES TO SURVIVE AT YOUR EXPENSE?

  Relief flooded through Armand.

  You are most generous.

  I AM DESPERATE.

  What? Why?

  It told him.

  Chapter 50

  Charisse was first to notice Teresza's return to the kitchen. Armand's wife moved slowly, as if against the resistance of some unseen force. In the gloom, her expression was unreadable.

  Charisse rose from her seat, pulling Chuck with her. Teodor and Elyse noticed and rose in response.

  "Something wrong, Teresza?" Charisse murmured.

  "I don't think so," Teresza said. "But I'd...appreciate it if you'd come with me."

  Elyse Morelon's face tightened with alarm. She drew Valerie a little closer. "Is it Armand?"

  Teresza nodded and reached for her daughter.

  They trooped silently down the corridor toward Armand and Teresza's bedroom. At the door, Teresza held up a hand, and the procession halted.

  "I don't think he's in any danger. You know his powers. I think he's just...somewhere else. Somewhere I can't follow. Charisse? You have a bit of that yourself, don't you?"

  Charisse nodded.

  "Armand said as much, one time. He thinks it runs in the family. Would you be willing to sit with us a while, until he returns?" Teresza's imploring gaze moved from face to face. "All of you? Please?"

  "All of us?" Teodor rumbled.

  Teresza's eyes flashed. "Yes, Dad, you too. You're here to help, aren't you?"

  "Teodor," Charisse said, fighting down her irritation, "you can sit by yourself in the kitchen if you prefer."

  "Or go out back and cut your throat," Chuck added in a silken voice. "Either way, this would be a poor time for another test of my patience."

  The genesmith's eyes narrowed. He nodded without speaking.

  An overpowering sense of admiration for Chuck Feigner washed over Charisse. She squeezed his hand, and he grinned down at her.<
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  Teresza led them into the bedroom. Armand was there, sitting splay-legged on the floor at the foot of their bed, eyes unfocused, breathing shallowly. He took no notice of their arrival.

  "Do you have any idea how he got this way?" Elyse asked.

  Teresza shook her head. "He came in while I was...occupied. I didn't even notice he was here until he was already like this, and I didn't have any idea how long it had been."

  "Occupied with what?" Teodor muttered.

  Teresza's lips drew thin. She set Valerie on the bed, retrieved a book from the floor next to Armand's unresponsive form, and handed it to her father. He opened the cover and read swiftly, thick fingers oddly gentle on the tissue pages.

  "I've heard of this," he said. "There's a small cult around it. Mostly on Sulla."

  "Dangerous?" Charisse said.

  "No. Just...a little odd." Teodor handed the book back to his daughter and regarded her speculatively. "Did you fall in with some eccentrics up on the peninsula, Terry?"

  She glowered back at him from under lowered brows.

  "How eccentric would they have to be, Dad? To be weirder than the heir to the richest family in the world freely renouncing his fortune and planting his roots among a gang of ostrakons?"

  Teodor reddened. "Uh, yeah."

  The five made a semicircle around Armand. Teresza sat at Chuck's left and took his free hand. Charisse and Elyse joined hands with Teodor Chistyakowski, who looked very much as if he hoped to die on the spot.

  They waited in silence.

  ***

  Armand was as nothing Idem could have expected: open, welcoming, curious. The ecstasy of acceptance overwhelmed Idem, causing It to forsake all restraint. Its agony and hope poured out in a torrent It could not control: the dammed-up pain and yearnings from twelve hundred years' imprisonment. The human reeled before the gush of emotion-laden history, quailed at the edge of psychic overload, and recoiled from the datastream. The psi conduit between them flickered and frayed.

  Idem belatedly got control over Its outpourings, braked them to a tiny trickle. The conduit steadied, shed its transients and peripheral stressors, and returned to soundness. Against all Its desires, Idem held the flow of memories and sufferings to a bare three million transitions per second. Even so, Armand appeared at the verge of drowning in it.