Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3)

by Francis Porretto

  “Dot,” Althea said, straining to retain a semblance of calm, “do you have any idea who the attacking forces are?”

  God help us if we’ve been invaded from space.

  Dorothy’s answer sounded as if she’d had to force it out against all the resistance her body and brain could muster.

  “We think it’s every other major clan within a hundred miles, except for the Albermayers and the Kramniks.” She paused. “Charisse is leading one group of them.”

  “Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer! Why?”

  “I can’t explain it, Al.” Dorothy hesitated. “Bart could, maybe.”

  “Well, bring him to the radio, for Rand’s sake!”

  “I can’t.” Another pause. “He’s in his medipod, too.”

  Althea closed her eyes and struggled against a swelling tide of rage.

  “Wounds like Martin’s?”

  “Worse. His left arm is gone.”

  It was all Althea required to dissolve what remained of her self-restraint. She set the microphone down and breathed slowly and deeply until the red haze had cleared from her vision.

  Nora must be in hysterics.

  I can’t go down there. Not until I’m sure I’m clean.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t take a hand.

  “Al?”

  She picked up the mike and keyed it.

  “I’m here, Dot. Do something for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “I need coordinates. Whatever you can tell me about the placement of the besieging forces and their respective houses. So I can help from up here.” She paused and thought swiftly. “Best would be distances and directions from the walls of Morelon House. Try to be as accurate as possible.”

  “Al, what are you thinking of doing?”

  Althea laughed, a vicious, staccato sound. “Thinking? Not much. But I’ll be doing something they won’t like at all. Look, Dot, if I don’t have the best possible measurements, I could harm our home and kin more than the attackers. Get Hugh on it. He’s got a rangefinder that’s accurate to less than a foot in a mile. And tell him that I need vectors, not just distances.” She paused again. “Have there been any fatalities?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Dot? Has anyone been killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, who?”

  “Elyse and Alvah.”

  Althea had thought she could never feel a fury to exceed what she’d felt toward the women of Loioc system.

  She’d been mistaken.

  “Get me those vectors, Dot. Make it quick. I’m going to teach a few people some harsh lessons about gravity.”

  “The gravity of their actions?”

  Althea laughed again. “Among other things.”

  * * *

  Althea slithered carefully along the ridges and whorls that covered the surface of the Relic. With every step the planetoid’s microgravity offered to yield its grip, reminding her how easily she could depart into the void.

  I never would have dreamed I’d be doing this. Another first for the pride of Clan Morelon.

  The blue-green orb of Hope beckoned to her peripheral vision. She dared not turn her head to look squarely at it, and not merely for the distraction from her rigidly controlled stride.

  It took her a slow, exhausting hour to reach the Relic’s mass driver. Her desire to have such a device near at hand had puzzled Martin, who could not imagine a need to fling rocks from the Relic to anywhere else. She’d overrode his objections on nothing more than intuition. Subsequently, she’d several times wondered if he'd been right...if the four million dekas they'd spent to build and install the facility could have been better spent on something else. Over their seven years in sperosynchronous orbit, she’d used it only once: to propel the corpse of an unlucky workman into the sun.

  She spent several minutes verifying that the cables that linked the electromagnets to the Relic’s electric power distribution system remained sound, several more confirming her memory of the launch tube's dimensions, and barely a moment on whether what she had in mind for the device was morally acceptable.

  Either it’s right, or my kinsmen are doomed to death or slavery.

  The resource pit from which her workmen had taken the metal for the hull of Liberty’s Torch was only half a mile further away, but in her half-depleted state, the slow, shuffling gait required to stay on the Relic’s surface made it seem much farther. She bore down, expelling all thought except the thought of vengeance, locked her eyes on the distant excavation site, and plodded forward.

  It took her more than half an hour to traverse the distance.

  She found the laser torches in the equipment shack. The workmen had left the shack unlocked, confident that the contents would neither deteriorate nor disappear. She toted one into the open, hefted the business end, inspected it for any trace of corrosion or contamination, nodded, and hauled it to the edge of the resource pit.

  I don’t have the energy to drag this thing much farther. Besides, one big hole’s better than two smaller ones.

  The unwieldy device challenged her fatigued body and her still-recovering coordination. She forced herself to move slowly and deliberately. The cutting beam had a brightness temperature of millions of degrees Kelvin. It would go through flesh as easily as vacuum. Should she injure herself with it, there would be no one to come to her aid.

  Presently she found herself looking down at a mass that would make a suitable projectile: a roughly cylindrical chunk of nickel-iron that massed about fifty kilograms. The electromagnets on the mass driver would easily latch onto the squat thing and hurl it wherever she wished.

  I mustn’t assume that I can settle this thing with a single show of force. I have to be ready to make an example or two. I’ve got to make a bunch of rounds...and some of them have to be haymakers. Maybe ten times this size.

  She had a lot more work to do before she could act on her kinsmen’s behalf.

  * * *

  Four brutal hours later, Althea was utterly drained. She lay supine on the surface of the Relic, breathing slowly and deeply and praying that her aches would subside quickly. A dozen roughly cylindrical nickel-iron boulders, six of them about fifty kilograms in mass and the other six about half a tonne, lay alongside the resource pit.

  She allowed herself only fifteen minutes to recuperate.

  She dragged herself and her torch wearily back to the equipment shack, stowed it with appropriate care, and returned to the resource pit to survey the fruits of her labors.

  I might need more of the big ones, but I suppose I can always make more. Anyway, groundside they’ll have no idea how many I’ve got lined up.

  Another agonizing four hours saw the twelve boulders lined up neatly in ascending size order in the input hopper of the mass driver. She fretted briefly over whether the largest of them might be too massive for the modest device, assured herself that all would pass through the driver’s ingress tube without damaging it, and headed back to the relative comfort and safety of the Relic’s interior.

  Time to see what Dot and Hugh have put together for me.

  Her fatigue made the walk back to the sally port even more trying than previously. When she'd finally entered the pressurized tunnels and doffed her vacuum suit, her strongest impulse was to nap. She forced it down with an effort and went at once to the radio. It would be early morning at Morelon House.

  “Althea Morelon on the Relic calling anyone in Morelon House. Please pick up.” She released the key, waited a few seconds, and repeated the hail.

  “Hello, Al. It’s Hugh. You can’t imagine how good it is to hear your voice again.”

  Althea smiled grimly. “Good to hear yours too, Hugh. Do you have the vectors I asked for?”

  “Yes, I do.” He followed with a series of origin points, distances, and directions. Althea noted them down as carefully as she could, several times halting him to confirm a number whose first enunciation had been less than clear.

  “Al, what are you pla
nning to do?”

  “Never you mind, Hugh. Just tell everyone in the mansion that Althea’s on the job, and to stay strictly inside the walls. Strictly, Hugh. Not even an open window until I give the all-clear. Got that?”

  “Uh, yeah. But why won’t you tell us what you’ve got in mind?”

  Althea closed her eyes and breathed deeply, anticipating the pleasure of the retribution to come. She keyed the mike.

  “Because I know you guys, Hugh. And I don’t want you to try to talk me out of it. Would you mind bringing Nora to the radio, please?”

  “Uh, sure. Hang on a minute.”

  Considerably less than a minute had passed when Nora’s soft alto voice came over the radio.

  “Al? Thank God you’re back. No one here has any idea what to do.”

  “Believe me, Nora, I understand.” Althea paused. “How are you holding up? You personally.”

  “Just barely, Al.” There was a low, breathy sound that sounded like an incompletely suppressed sob. “I’ve been running the defenses since Bart was wounded. I don’t know how long I can keep it up.”

  Althea thought back to the day Nora decided to compel her reconciliation with Martin. The young woman had shocked everyone in the mansion with her strength of will and determination to see things fixed.

  Maybe even herself. The clan knows her better than she does. There’s nobody stronger or tougher in that house.

  “Have things been stable overnight? No more injuries or deaths?”

  “No, we’re no worse off than yesterday, except that the coffee’s running low.”

  Althea chuckled. “Considering everything, I’d have to say that’s pretty good. You’re doing just fine, Nora. Bart will be proud of you. Take my word for it. Now, how would you like to take a hand in punishing the people who hurt him?”

  “You have to ask? Let me at them!”

  “It might be a little dangerous, Nora.”

  “I couldn’t care less.” The steel Althea remembered from that long-ago day had returned to Nora’s voice. “If I can have a hand in it, I want it.”

  Althea smiled. “I kinda thought you’d say that. Now here’s what I want you to do...”

  ====

  November 24, 1325 A.H.

  Charisse had but recently arisen, and was surveying the disposition of the alliance’s forces west of the doors of Morelon House, when Alexander Dunbarton trotted up, beckoning to her. The tension in his features turned her away from their troops.

  “What is it, Alex?”

  He indicated the doors of the mansion with a nod, and she peered toward them.

  A petite female figure had emerged and was walking toward their position, hands conspicuously empty and held away from her body. As she approached, Charisse recognized Nora Morelon. The young woman’s stride was steady but her face was expressionless.

  One of the Fitzpatrick kinsmen raised his rifle to sight on the approaching form. Alex waved it down and growled at the line to hold its peace.

  Nora stopped about fifteen yards away, called out “A few words, Charisse?” and waited.

  Charisse beckoned her closer. “Yes, Nora, what is it?” She folded her arms across her breasts. “Are you here to ask about surrender terms?”

  Nora smiled. “Not at all. I’m here to deliver an ultimatum.”

  Three dozen voices brayed mocking laughter. Charisse turned to the troops and raised a hand, and the men subsided.

  “Well, at least you’ve provided us some entertainment. An ultimatum is a demand coupled to a threat of unpleasant consequences for noncompliance. How on Hope could you possibly threaten forces six times your number?”

  Nora shook her head gently. “I’m not here to threaten. I can guarantee unpleasant consequences for noncompliance. But you have the rest of it right. Our demand is simple: Withdraw all your personnel to a distance not less than two miles from Morelon House. The penalty for noncompliance is equally simple: If you fail to do so, you’ll be wiped out to the last man.”

  “Is that so?” Charisse said mockingly. “What miracle weapon have you developed these past two days that would allow you to reverse our positions as dramatically as that?” She smirked at the cross pendant that lay against Nora’s chest. “An overwhelming new prayer, perhaps?”

  Nora’s smile faded. “I recall a time when you put more stock in prayer.”

  “And I recall when you considered the notion of God too ridiculous to bother about.” Charisse flicked a hand in dismissal. “I’ve come to agree with that earlier Nora.”

  Nora shrugged and looked aslant into the clear morning sky.

  “Do you ever look up at night, Charisse? If you’d done so late yesterday evening, you’d have seen a bright plume converging on the Relic. Morelon House got a radio hail just a few minutes later. You see, Althea’s back. And she’s not happy about this.”

  Charisse widened her eyes. “Oh! How nice for you. But what import am I supposed to derive from that?”

  Nora feigned puzzlement. “Has it really been that long, Charisse? You do remember Clan Morelon’s former scion, don’t you? What she could do? What she did, when the rest of us were too paralyzed with moral ambiguity to act?”

  Charisse shrugged. “Does Althea plan to come down from the Relic and take us on one by one? Color me unimpressed.”

  “Charisse—” Alex said. She scowled and waved him to silence.

  “Be still, Alex. I find your ultimatum ridiculous in the extreme, Nora. I can’t imagine what made you think I’d take it seriously.”

  Nora nodded slowly, as if Charisse had unwittingly confirmed some proposition she’d resisted until that moment.

  “As you like,” Nora said. “Althea thought you might react that way. We told her about Elyse and Alvah, you know. She’s unbelievably angry. As soon as I return to Morelon House and give her your response, she’s going to provide a demonstration of her capabilities. She called it a warning shot. She’s assured me that you won’t mistake it for anything else. It won’t harm you...well, not fatally, anyway...as long as you remain in your current positions, so I suggest you all stay right where you are for three minutes after I depart. I’ll come back for another quick chat afterward. Althea predicts that you’ll be a lot more reasonable at that point.”

  Nora glanced upward once more, returned her eyes to Charisse’s, and nodded again.

  “Frankly, I think Althea wants you to refuse her offer. But in case you and your...friends...do decide to see sense, she told me something else. A message for you, Charisse: Run.”

  Charisse frowned. “What?”

  “That’s her advice to you,” Nora said. “Run. Run far and fast. Hide among people who have no idea who you are or what you’ve done. Because if you don’t, she’ll find you. She means to find you anyway, and I have no doubt she will—we’re talking about Althea, after all—but running might buy you a few more weeks or months of life.” Nora spread her arms. “And that’s the end of the ultimatum. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to Morelon House and radio Althea that she can let loose.”

  Charisse’s fury surged. She started toward Nora, but Alex clamped a hand on her forearm and halted her. Nora smiled, turned, and walked casually toward the mansion. Charisse glowered at her as she receded.

  “Do you want me to order her shot?” Alex asked.

  Charisse forced down her rage and shook her head. “I want to see what this ‘warning shot’ business is all about.”

  He shrugged.

  * * *

  Alex Dunbarton was first to detect the high, shrill whine of the incoming projectile. He cast his gaze skyward, his eyes went wide, and he went immediately to ground, hands clasped over his head. Charisse became aware of the crescendoing whine immediately thereafter, glanced at the sky, and screamed as Althea’s warning shot struck home.

  She had routed just under two hundred megawatts—nearly the entire output of the Relic’s fission-powered generating turbines—into the mass driver’s capacitors, kept the current
flowing until the giant electrochemical cylinders screamed from the stress of retarding the charge, and released it all into the launch of the fifty-kilogram mass. It had yielded a muzzle velocity of over two hundred miles per second. Though the shot had lost much of its energy to friction as it traversed Hope’s atmosphere, it retained a kinetic energy of over forty gigajoules: roughly the equivalent of ten tons of TNT. It traversed the distance to its target in just over a minute and released its energy all at once upon impact with the surface of Hope, three hundred yards behind the lines of alliance troops.

  The shock of impact was accompanied by an instantaneous overpressure wave of slightly more than a pound per square inch. It propagated through Hope’s atmosphere at roughly two hundred fifty miles per hour. The pulse was sufficient to knock down anyone standing within half a mile of the point of impact and temporarily deafen everyone within that radius. Several alliance troops screamed, clapped their hands to their ears, and brought them away to gawk at bright traces of blood.

  Morelon House trembled from the blast, but did not totter or crumble. Three windows in the west-facing wall sang and shattered. No other damage was visible from where Charisse lay in overpressure-induced agony.

  It was several minutes before Charisse’s hearing began to return, albeit hollow and with many after-echoes. She rose shakily to her feet and looked back at the point of impact, while Alex Dunbarton writhed on the ground beside her.

  The round had left a smoking crater fifteen feet across in the loam. Detritus from the blast could be seen all around. Several nearby trees had been felled. A couple of them had been reduced to splinters.

  The sky above remained clear and bright. It gave no sign that a harbinger of mass death and destruction had just carved a passage through it.

  Nora Morelon had stepped once more through the doors of Morelon House. She strode casually toward Charisse’s position, apparently unsurprised by the devastation.

  Beside Charisse, Alex Dunbarton rose at last to his feet. His face was pale.