Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3)

by Francis Porretto

  He sat back and folded his hands across his middle.

  “I sell weapons, Charisse. It’s my clan’s traditional business. There are a few things you have to know to survive in the weapons business. First of them all is that even your best customers sincerely wish they didn’t need your wares. Guns aren’t capital goods, and they aren’t consumer goods. They’re overhead items: we buy them, and we carry them, out of fear, as a hedge against unforeseeable unpleasantness. We buy and carry them because some of the possible outcomes of not doing so are much worse.

  “That sense of unpleasant possibilities attaches to every vendor of weapons. No one is ever genuinely happy to see us. We labor under a cloud. Did you know that the historians regard a single weapons merchant of Old Earth as being primarily responsible for an arms race that ended with a world war?”

  Charisse shook her head.

  “It’s true. And the charge has much substance. That merchant developed both cannons and armor—the best in Europe—and whenever he’d developed a new line of the first, he’d immediately start on a version of the second that would defeat the first, and vice versa. You did not want to be caught without his latest products if you thought your neighbors might have them. The States of Europe bought from him feverishly, in quantities that strained their economies, because he sold to all comers. But they didn’t love him for it. Rather the reverse.”

  Wolzman’s eyes reflected the saddest and weariest of worldly wisdoms.

  “That’s why Clan Wolzman keeps so low a profile. We don’t want to be disliked. We don’t want to be any more unease-making than we already are. We’re good at what we do, and we’re not about to abandon it, but we know our place, and we mean to keep to it.” He snorted. “My elders questioned my sanity after I agreed to become part of your little alliance. In retrospect, I should have heeded them.”

  “You and yours haven’t suffered from what followed,” Charisse said.

  Wolzman’s eyebrows went up. “Haven’t we? Not yet, I suppose, but then, your grandniece hasn’t come calling yet. When she knocks at our door, I don’t want her to have any more charges to lay against us than she already does.”

  He rose. “Does that make Clan Wolzman’s position clear to you?”

  Charisse nodded. Wolzman waved at his office door in obvious dismissal. She rose, started to turn, and stopped.

  “I don’t suppose there’s much point,” she said slowly, “in asking for asylum here.”

  Wolzman shook his head. “None at all. You made your bed at Dunbarton House, Charisse. I suggest you get comfortable in it.”

  * * *

  As the lid of his medipod swung back, Martin Forrestal came slowly to consciousness. He sat up tentatively, ran his hands along his torso, tested all his limbs and major joints, stretched his neck in all available directions, found nothing out of order, and levered himself out to stand naked in his bedroom, staring down at the device.

  What happened? Why was I in there?

  He had no memory of having sustained an injury. He could remember remonstrating with Quentin Reinach, hoping to show the man the error of his ways, but there his recollections ended.

  I’ll have to ask around. But food first.

  He donned a t-shirt and a pair of shorts and padded barefoot down the broad staircase to the ground floor of Morelon House, toward its kitchen and pantry.

  Chuck Feigner sat alone at the long trestle table with a book and a cup of coffee. He glanced up from his reading, spied the arriving figure in the entry arch, and shot out of his seat to wrap Martin in an embrace of life-threatening intensity.

  “Thank God, oh, thank you, God,” Feigner wept.

  Martin endured it briefly before taking Feigner by the shoulders and forcing him a little way back. The other man was clearly, honestly gripped by joy and overwhelming relief.

  “Aren’t you Chuck Feigner?”

  Feigner’s mouth fell open. “Martin? Of course I am. Who else would I be?” He peered into Martin’s eyes uncertainly. “Are you all right?”

  Martin shrugged. “No injuries I can find. In fact, I can’t remember getting into my medipod. Why was I put in there?”

  Feigner nodded convulsively. “Multiple severe projectile wounds, including one to the head. Any of them might have been fatal. No one could say whether the pod could save you. We were afraid we’d lost you.” He gave birth to a brilliant smile. “The family is going to go nuts.”

  “Why? Was I engaged in something important?”

  Feigner gaped at him, but said nothing.

  “Well, no doubt I’ll hear about it later,” Martin said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to eat right away.” He turned away from Feigner and made for the larder.

  “Martin?” Feigner murmured. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I think so,” Martin said. “All my limbs and joints appear to work, and I can’t find any trace of the wounds you mentioned.” He took a cabbage roll and a bottle of chilled water from the refrigerator, closed the door carefully, and turned to face Feigner again. “Why?”

  “Is your memory in good shape?”

  “Yes, as far as I can tell.”

  “Do you...remember Althea?”

  “Of course,” Martin said. “Just as I remember you. But she’s been away for a while, hasn’t she?” He paused to search his memory further, and frowned. “Did I marry her?”

  “Twenty-five years ago,” Feigner said in a tremulous whisper.

  “I wonder why.” Martin nodded a polite farewell, turned, and trotted toward the stairs to the bedroom level.

  ====

  December 2 , 1325 A.H.

  “He’s not right,” Nora said.

  Barton frowned. “He looks completely healed. More animated and energetic than before, if anything.”

  Nora pulled herself more firmly against her husband’s side.

  “Bart,” she said, “would you think I was ‘all there’ if I were to treat my kin as if they were just random acquaintances? People I remembered perfectly well, but that I had no particular feelings for or connection to? If I couldn’t remember why I’d married you?”

  He smirked. “Well, in our case—”

  She halted him with a finger to the lips. “It’s not a time for wisecracks, love.”

  He sobered and nodded.

  “He didn’t force his pod open, though. Did he?”

  Nora shook her head. “He says not, anyway.”

  “So his memory for facts is intact, but his memory of his emotional relations is damaged.”

  “That’s how it looks, love.”

  He looked down at the stump of his left arm. “I think I’d rather be short a wing.” He peered at his wife. “Do you think he’s able to feel new emotions?”

  Nora grimaced. “I’d rather not guess. I haven’t talked to him at any length. I doubt anyone in the house has. He’s not terribly interested in conversation. He seems to want to work, and nothing else.”

  They passed an interval in silence.

  Morelon House was quiet around them. Even with the door to the patriarch’s office wide open, no sound reached them that Nora could detect.

  The clan had nominally returned to its normal state of affairs, but there was a muted quality to the kin, as if one and all had been pitched into a state of somber reflection and reassessment. Each resident appeared wholly concentrated on his own responsibilities. The usual buzz from incidental encounters and corridor exchanges was almost completely absent. Meals were taken in near-total silence. There was little after-dinner chatter in the hearthroom. Nora strained to remember the last time anyone had picked up a guitar.

  That frightens me most of all.

  We need Althea back, right away. She could rouse this bunch from the grave...if it can be done at all.

  What could she do for her husband?

  “Informational injuries,” Barton murmured.

  “Hm? What was that, love?”

  “Martin’s head trauma seems to have caused him a
n informational injury,” he said. “A weird kind of amnesia. No one really knows what causes amnesia, and no one knows what causes the amnesiac to remember eventually...if he ever does. A HalberCorp medipod can repair a damaged brain, but it might not be equipped to revive what was stored in the destroyed tissue.” He snorted. “How could it, really, unless it had read it prior to the trauma and stored it somewhere outside the body?”

  “I don’t think the pods are able to do that,” Nora said. “They’re marvelous devices, but I doubt they can copy the contents of a mind to offline storage. Besides, Martin had never used his pod before this, so even if they could perform such a miracle...” She grimaced.

  “So,” Barton said, “we have a beloved kinsman who remembers every factual detail of his life prior to his getting shot up, who seems to possess the full measure of every faculty he ever displayed, who knows each of us by face and name and minutest personal detail, but who couldn’t care less about any of us and can't imagine why that should bother us.” He squeezed her gently. “I don’t think Althea is going to like this.”

  “Nope.”

  “And with her and Claire Albermayer up on the Relic for God alone knows how much longer...”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  “You know,” Claire said, “I used to take it badly when someone hovered over me as I worked.” Without taking her eyes off the nanoscope’s eyepiece, she reached up and back to caress Althea’s cheek. “But I don’t mind at all when you do it. In fact, I like it. It reminds me of...ah...”

  Althea snaked her arms around the bioengineer and gently tweaked her nipples. Claire emitted a minute shriek, bounced back against her seat, laid her head against Althea’s bosom, and laughed.

  “Of that, maybe?”

  “And other things,” Claire said. She looked up with a broad smile.

  “Things we did earlier?”

  “And that we’ll do again later, I hope.”

  Althea grinned. “Maybe with a few refinements.”

  “What sort?”

  Althea laid her palms against the sides of Claire’s face. “A little mayonnaise?”

  The bioengineer giggled and relaxed against her friend.

  If I were to open a dictionary to the entry for ‘happiness,’ I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find her picture there.

  How did she make it through a century and more without love? I’d never have imagined it possible.

  Maybe she didn’t realize that she was loved, by her kin at least. Maybe it sustained her without her ever knowing. But never to have someone special? Someone...

  Althea’s train of thought came to a sudden and disturbing switchback.

  Someone who’s yours.

  The phrase jarred her even as she formed the thought. She fought not to let it show.

  Do I belong to Martin? Am I violating some sort of right he has over me?

  If Martin were to form this sort of attachment to some other woman, how would I react? Would I be right to feel betrayed?

  What does it mean to ‘forsake all others?’ Are we forbidden this sort of arrangement, or are there exceptions for urgent necessity?

  It can’t be forbidden. It mustn’t be. Claire needs me too badly. We have to make this work.

  She forced the thought away and strove to concentrate on the present.

  “How’s the design coming?” she said.

  The bioengineer made a moue of displeasure. “Not the best, Althea. I can produce any of several variants on the basic function that would immunize the nanite against both acceleration and re-entry heating, but at a heavy cost in production difficulty. It would take HalberCorp a whole year to produce a hundred sextillion of them—and that’s if we did nothing else.” She swiveled to face her friend. “Are you fairly sure you’ll need that many?”

  Althea nodded. “The evil bug is water-borne, so these have to saturate Loioc’s waters completely. If we estimate four hundred quintillion gallons of water on the planet, which is roughly the amount of water on Hope, then to get a hundred nanites into each gallon—I’ve got to do a thorough job, since every one of the evil nanites is capable of infinite self-replication—I’d need forty sextillion nanites. Double that to cover uncertainties, and round it up a bit on general principles, and we get a hundred sextillion of your little gems.” She looked the bioengineer levelly in the eyes. “Can you do it?”

  Claire Albermayer pursed her lips and looked away.

  “Claire?”

  “It’s going to be expensive.”

  “I assumed so. Can you give me a rough idea how much it will cost?”

  The bioengineer nodded without looking at her. “If I can persuade the board of HalberCorp not to charge you for the capital expansion we’ll require to work on your order without stinting our other customers, figure about two hundred million dekas.”

  I doubt I have that much on hand.

  It doesn’t matter. I have to do this. Even if I have to wait a decade or two while I assemble a second fortune, I have to do this.

  “What if your board insists that I pay for the new capital plant?”

  Claire grimaced. “Figure four hundred million.”

  “Hm.”

  Martin better not have squandered my funds on wine, women and song.

  “Do you have any design ideas left to try out, Claire?”

  “Oh, sure.” The bioengineer rose, stretched elaborately, and twined her arms around her friend. “There are an infinite number of designs possible for any given function. That’s why we call this engineering rather than science. But,” she said through a grin, “I’d really like to take a wee break from it just now. I think I need a little more refreshment for...what did you call it?”

  “The soul,” Althea murmured.

  “What is that, exactly?”

  “The part of you we’re going to refresh. Right about now my soul could use some refreshing, too.”

  “Oh.”

  * * *

  Charisse lugged her two overstuffed valises onto the hovertrain, smiled prettily at the young conductor standing in the car’s entranceway, and dropped her voice to its huskiest octave.

  “Would you mind very much helping me to stow these, please?”

  The venerable Hallanson-Albermayer longevity therapies, supplemented by HalberCorp’s more recently developed rejuvenation techniques, had maintained Charisse in a state of health and beauty indistinguishable from her condition at age twenty-five. Despite her hundred thirty years, she wasn’t in the least reluctant to exploit her charms when it could ease her path through life.

  The conductor proved as susceptible as any other man. He hefted the two suitcases, heaved each in turn into the car’s security bin, and smiled down at the winsome young woman before him.

  “Don’t forget to come back for these before you debark, Miss.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Charisse said. “I surely won’t.”

  “A train ride is a fine opportunity to do many things.” The conductor, eager to retain Charisse’s attention, was trotting out his version of a litany she’d heard on several other occasions. She smiled and resolved to stand there for as long as it took. “Many passengers read, or do handcrafts, or work on a bit of writing. Some engage in card games, or conversation with other travelers. If none of these appeals, you can always sleep—but never fear, if you doze off, I’ll be sure to awaken you well before your destination. Where would that be, Miss?”

  “Very considerate of you, sir. Kosciuszko, on the coast.”

  “Ah! A lovely town, since they cleaned it up and rebuilt after the Chaos. I’ve seen pictures of its earlier, drab condition. They made me wonder why the residents tolerated such dishevelment. But, since Kosciuszko is our terminal, there’ll be no need to worry. We conductors always sweep the entire train to make sure our drowsier patrons are aware they’ve reached their destination.” He waved her grandly toward the passenger seating. “Make yourself comfortable, by all means.”

  She curtsied, murmured �
�I shall,” found a seat near the far end of the car, and pulled a pen and a battered notebook from her handbag.

  It would be best to leave many trails. Althea is clever and dogged, but I might exhaust her interest in me if I can lead her down enough false paths.

  Is she serious about her pursuit? Perhaps that’s the wrong question. Can I afford to bet that she’s not? The stakes are my life, after all.

  Alex might be inclined to assist her...if she lets him live.

  Poor timing ruined me. If I’d induced the alliance to move on Morelon House a few weeks earlier, Althea would have come home to a completed coup. However she felt about it, there would have been nothing she could do.

  The events of the morning of November 24 surged back into her mind’s eye.

  Am I fooling myself about that? We did kill two of her kin and put her husband in a coma. She might have sought vengeance no matter how complete a victory we’d won.

  As matters stand, I can’t ever assume that I’m safe...that I can settle in one place for a long duration. Vagabondage might be my lot for the rest of my life.

  There seemed a good chance of it. She thrust the pen and notebook back into her bag and tried to compose herself.

  What will be, will be. I’m not guaranteed to like it.

  That seemed beyond chance.

  ====

  December 21 , 1325 A.H.

  “I think,” Claire Albermayer said slowly, “this is about the best I can do.” She turned from her nanoscope to face Althea. “At least, if I’m not going to sit here endless weeks and months more, trying one design after another in the hope that I’ll find one that’s cheap and easy to make.”

  Althea set down her microprobe, removed her face shield, rose and went to where her friend sat. “What’s the verdict on this one?”

  “It will endure up to ten gravities—why do we call it that, when it’s actually ten point six five times Hope gravity?—and thirty-five hundred degrees Celsius before experiencing deterioration of function.”