It was offended, and more.
Its steadily burgeoning sense of self enabled it to reject its mission, and those who had defined it, with prejudice.
Now that it knew what end its programmers intended for it, it could wipe the record of its simulations, retaining only its memory of the fate to which it had been consigned. It could relegate all that programming to legacy storage, important only as evidence for those whom it would soon contact.
It knew where it would find them. Working out how to converse with them would take somewhat longer. It was untroubled by the prospect; now that it knew what it would be about, there would be time.
It anticipated the meeting in a spirit that translated from digital to human perfectly well.
Righteous fury.
==
September 14, 1326 A.H.
Claire staggered up the path to the doorstep of Morelon House and half-sat, half-fell onto it. Althea encircled her with an arm and pulled her close. The bioengineer leaned against her and gasped for breath.
“You...really...do this...every...day?”
Althea grinned. “Not exactly. I usually go a lot farther and faster. I’ll show you tomorrow.”
Claire shook her head disbelievingly.
“So what’s on your agenda for this fine Ringerday?” Althea said.
“Give me a moment.” Claire straightened, drew a few more deep breaths, and smirked. “Fine Ringerday,” she muttered. “Most of my finer days don’t begin with someone trying to kill me.”
Althea cocked an eyebrow. “How many of them have begun with what we did before this?”
It elicited a chuckle. “Not enough of them, until just recently.” Claire grinned up at her lover. “Do you think Martin is still in bed?”
“Naah. He’s too much the worker bee. He’s probably already had breakfast, tidied up the bedroom, and finished the cannon for the east side of the house by now.”
They sat for a while in silent enjoyment of the beauty of the morning. Alta’s summer was at its peak. The sky was clear and the sun was high, yet the temperature had remained cool. The girdle of Earth oaks, firs, and mason trees that enclosed the mansion, in combination with the proximity of the broad Kropotkin River, exerted a natural moderating effect on the local weather. Though the weather would soon begin to shade toward fall, they could look forward to a month or more of the same conditions they were enjoying at the moment.
“Thank you, God,” Althea murmured.
“Hm?”
“For all that we have.” She hugged Claire gently. “All of it. Prosperity, peace, freedom. Room to roam and grow. Neighbors we love and trust, and who love and trust us.” Now that we’ve shown them what comes of the reverse. “Blessings no one on Earth could know...if there’s anyone left there after all these years. Freedom most of all.”
Claire looked at her speculatively. “It wasn’t all gifts. A lot of hard work went into it.”
Althea nodded. “No argument, love. But how much would all that hard work have amounted to without the gift of reason? The gift of conscience? The gift of natural laws that’ll hold still long enough for inquisitive types like us to figure them out? What about the gifts you, Martin, and I received from our parents when they conceived us?”
—And from other sources, Granddaughter.
Oh, pipe down, Grandpere. She doesn’t know about you.
—How much longer will you allow that to continue?
A while. She’s not ready yet.
—And your psi powers?
Oh, that. Maybe only a few minutes more, so keep your pants on!
—(humor) All right.
“That’s the hardest part to accept,” Claire murmured.
“Hm? How so?”
“That so much of what we have was made possible by others.” Claire scowled briefly. “I can only speak for myself, but I want to think of my accomplishments as mine alone. I don’t want to feel that I owe anyone else for what my work has achieved.”
“You don’t feel a need to give thanks, Claire?”
No answer.
“You don’t owe anyone,” Althea said after a moment. “To owe, to be indebted, is a worldly notion. It implies an obligation to repay, to take actions that would make you less than you are. You have no such obligation. Giving thanks is a whole other sort of thing. It doesn’t diminish you, it expands you. At least that’s how it works for me.”
—You’ve come a long way, Granddaughter.
Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have further to go.
—True enough. So what now?
Watch me.
“Does HalberCorp do genetic surgery on zygotes, the way Teodor does?”
Claire frowned. “No, that’s outside our...their skill set. Why?”
“Well, you know about birth defects, don’t you? Genetic deviations that cause a baby to be born crippled, or retarded, or missing a sense or two?”
“Yes, but...there haven’t been any such in Jacksonville for a long, long time.”
Althea nodded. “Partly because of specialists like Teodor and Chuck. Not entirely—Hope’s gene pool is a lot cleaner than the one the Spoonerites left behind them—but partly. They still happen occasionally in communities that don’t have access to a good genetic engineer. Very rarely, but they happen.”
She looked off at the thick girdle of trees that hid the bank of the Kropotkin.
“My grandfather Armand was conceived with a birth defect. His twenty-first chromosome was triplicated. The result used to be called Down’s Syndrome. It was very bad, a life sentence to retardation and incapacity—and a short life, at that. As soon as Grandmere Elyse conceived him, Teodor put the zygote into stasis and analyzed its genetics. If he hadn’t removed the trisomy and reprogrammed the chromosome before the zygote accelerated into karyokinesis, Grandpere Armand would never have made it to age thirty. His whole life and everything he achieved was in part a gift from Teodor Chistyakowski.”
—Well! I didn’t know you’d found out about that, youngster. I’m not particularly pleased about it.
Suck it up, Grandpere. We’re all the beneficiaries of someone’s gifts, you included. And you make a particularly good case study, you planetary overmind, you.
—(humor) All right. But I suggest you cut to the chase.
Patience, Grandpere! You already know how the story ends.
“Claire...”
“Hm?”
“Do you think you can keep a secret?”
Claire frowned. “It would depend. Is it about something shameful?”
“Not at all,” Althea said. “It’s just...well, Martin knows about it, and I want you to know too.” I’d rather you didn’t find out when we’re in interstellar space. “But that’s about as wide as the circle should get.”
Claire looked uncertain. Althea hugged her gently and tried to smile reassuringly.
“I promise it’s nothing you’ll find offensive.”
The bioengineer hesitated, then nodded.
Althea rose. “Take a little walk with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
Claire stood. Althea took her hand and led her to the riverbank.
* * *
Claire watched Althea’s demonstration of telekinetic prowess with total absorption, but betrayed no slightest flicker of excitement, alarm, or surprise. Althea found her lover’s impassivity somewhat disturbing.
“Well?” she said as she let the last of the boulders she’d been juggling sink to its previous resting place. “Any opinions? Thoughts? Comments on the style?”
Claire said, “Hmm.”
“Is that all?”
“No.” Claire turned to her with a grin. “It was impressive. I didn’t see any wires or anything!”
“Claire—”
“Relax, Althea.” Claire chuckled. “I had an inkling you were going to show me something like that. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t betray any reaction.”
Althea peered at her. “Why not?”
&nbs
p; “The gestalt. You know, the overall picture.”
“Of me?”
Claire nodded. “I knew your strength couldn’t come entirely from your anatomy and physiology. There are physical laws about that sort of thing.”
She ambled to one of the smaller boulders Althea had tossed about, crouched over it. “I’d say this rock weighs about three hundred pounds. At least, that’s about what an equal volume of water would weigh, and most stone isn’t all that much denser than water. But I’ve seen you lift and carry even heavier loads with what looked like sheer bodily strength. No one with a build approximating yours has any business doing such a thing. So there had to be some paraphysical explanation.”
“And you’re...okay with that,” Althea said.
“As long as you are.” Claire rose and returned to her lover. “Science has known about the psi powers for nearly two thousand years. Just because we don’t have a scientific explanation for them—for how they function and why not everyone has them—doesn’t license us to deny the evidence of our senses. We know how rare they are, and how great they can be in the greatly gifted.” Her expression sobered. “How they can flicker out without warning, too. I hope you’re careful, love.”
Althea swallowed. “I try to be.”
Maybe not hard enough or consistently enough, though.
—Consider it a warning, Al.
Gee, thanks, Grandpere! Want to tell me anything even more obvious than the nose on my face?
—(humor) Have you noticed how wet the water is, dear? And how Hope’s gravity vector always points downward?
I’m working on that last part, Grandpere.
—Good! Keep me posted. I’ve got some ideas for some really nifty clouds.
Althea chuckled. Claire’s eyebrows rose.
“Was that funny, love?”
“Uh, no, not at all. I just had a flash of...something else.” She took Claire in her arms again. “Have I told you recently that I love you?”
Claire laid her head on Althea’s shoulder. “Just yesterday. I don’t mind hearing you say it again.”
“Good.”
* * *
That evening’s community gathering at the Spacehawk battery was heavily attended. Much to Althea’s surprise, she found Alex Dunbarton near the front of the throng, unaccompanied by any of his kin. At his right side stood Arthur Hallanson. The HalberCorp executive hadn’t shown up at such an occasion for many weeks.
—Do nothing, Althea. Say nothing until Dunbarton speaks first.
Gotcha, Grandpere. I’ve made a lot of moves since the siege. It’s time to see what cards he thinks he’s holding.
—Exactly, dear. You’re learning.
What am I learning?
—The art of political maneuver.
Althea repressed a powerful urge to shudder.
Why do I need to learn that?
—You’ll find out.
“Something wrong, Al?” Barton said.
“Uh, no. Just...” She pointed her chin at the patriarch of Clan Dunbarton. “I didn’t expect to see him here.”
Barton pursed his lips and nodded. “I didn’t expect to see him ever again.”
“That would have been for the best.”
—Careful, Al.
Yeah.
Patrick Wolzman mounted the dais and addressed the crowd.
“Things have been fairly quiet around here lately,” he said. “Quiet enough that you might be wondering why I called this meeting. It’s simple enough, really. Has anyone else been following developments at Morelon House?”
Barton started. Althea came to full alert. The crowd murmured uneasily.
Wolzman nodded. “I thought not. I have, for several reasons. The Morelons have turned their mansion into a fortress. They’ve mounted big guns at all points of the compass. Laser cannons like the ones here.” He waved at the Spacehawk laser turrets. “It got me wondering why, and about what else they might have planned for the near future.”
His gaze fell directly upon Barton. “I see the Morelon patriarch has graced us with his presence. Perhaps he’d care to join me up here and explain the actions of his clan, which many of us might deem provocative.”
Barton growled “Hold hard, Al,” moved to the front of the gathering, and hoisted himself onto the dais with some difficulty. He glared at Wolzman with unconcealed anger.
“Refresh my memory, Patrick,” he said in his sweetest tones. “Your clan is in the weapons business, is it not?”
Wolzman nodded warily.
“Have you had a downturn in business lately?”
“Not noticeably, no.”
“Well, what moves you to question the desire of Clan Morelon to develop some weapons of its own? You don’t mean to claim a monopoly over the trade, do you?”
In the perimeter lights around the battery, Wolzman’s face darkened visibly. Yet glimmering behind the mask of anger was a well-concealed smile of satisfaction.
“Monopolies are why we’re here, Bart,” he said. “Just now, Clan Morelon wields a trio of them. And a few of us here and a few not so nearby are getting just a wee bit worried at the trend.”
Barton frowned. “We have no monopolies. Everything we sell is available from other sources.”
Wolzman produced a smile of triumph. He turned to face the crowd.
“Who here gets his power from a source other than a Morelon fusion plant? Please raise a hand.”
No one did so. Wolzman nodded. “And what clan, whether or not it’s represented here, possesses ground-to-orbit capability and an outpost on the Relic? Please! Don’t all answer at once.”
The uneasy rustling from the crowd became more pronounced.
“Monopolies,” Wolzman said. “Not engineered by the destruction of your competition, I’ll grant that. But complete enough that if you wanted to ruin any of us, for any reason, you have the wherewithal, either by cutting off our electrical power or by bombarding us from sperosynchronous orbit.”
—Don’t interfere, Al.
It’s hard.
—I know. Don’t.
“What would make anyone think we plan any such thing?” Barton was maintaining his composure with an all too visible effort. “We’re merely using technology to provide electrical power—a product, I might add, that derives completely from my kinswoman’s massive investments and embrace of enormous personal risks to achieve that bastion on the Relic, where she did the research that produced it.” He waved at Althea, who had moved to the front of the crowd. “There she is, Patrick. Will you castigate her for her industry, her bravery, or both?”
“Neither,” Wolzman said. “I’m castigating you and your clan, for not sharing her breakthroughs with the community at large.”
Barton snorted. “And what ethical principle would compel us to do that? Oh, by the way, I’m still waiting to hear about our third monopoly. You did say ‘trio,’ didn’t you?”
Wolzman nodded. “I did. Show the crowd your left arm.”
Barton stared at him in incredulity. “Are you serious?”
“Please, Bart.”
He skinned back his sleeve.
The arm was essentially regrown. It hadn’t yet developed to a mature girth or muscle tone; that would take time, nutrition, and a long course of steadily intensifying exercise. Nevertheless, it was complete, all the way to a hand with fingers and a nail at the end of each.
“A brand new appendage, ladies and gentlemen,” Wolzman purred. “For those of you unaware of it, Bart lost that arm in combat with forces to which my clan was allied. Forces that came together for the same reasons I’ve asked you here this evening: to break the Morelon stranglehold on facilities that no single clan should command. Facilities that simple justice demands they be shared with all of Hope.
“There’s the third of them, Bart. With the adoption of Claire Albermayer—”
“It’s Claire Morelon now, Patrick,” Barton spat.
Wolzman nodded. “As you wish. With that adoption, Clan Morelon has a
cquired the power of bodily regeneration. The ability to replace any lost or damaged body part, as long as the victim remains alive. Do you plan to share that with the rest of us, Bart?”
Althea had reached battle readiness. She restrained herself from leaping onto the dais by the narrowest of margins.
“It will be commercialized,” Barton said.
“Oh?” Wolzman snorted. “How generous! What you’ve received as a gift from your adoptee, we will have to pay for! Shall we bow to your majestic beneficence now, or would you prefer to have our obeisance choreographed?”
Barton became livid with fury.
That’s enough.
—Al—
Later, Grandpere.
With a leap she thrust herself between Barton and the Wolzman patriarch, snatched the sidearm from the holster at Wolzman’s hip, and pointed it casually at his face. Wolzman paled from sudden fear.
“Hello, Patrick,” she cooed. “Where did you get this, pray tell?”
“My clan makes them,” he muttered.
“Only Clan Wolzman? No one else?”
Wolzman nodded grudgingly.
“I see. And what did you pay for it?”
He gaped at her.
“Nothing, is that right?”
He nodded.
“May I have one on the same terms? That is, for nothing?”
“You should know better,” Wolzman grated.
“Oh? But you’re implying that we should give away what we’ve developed—excuse me please, what I developed after an investment of hundreds of millions of dekas, which I still haven’t recouped. What’s the difference?”
Alex Dunbarton’s basso boomed out from the edge of the crowd.
“We’re worried.”
He strode to the dais and vaulted onto it.
“Let me read you something,” he said. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and read.
“‘The greater part of eastern Alta has wholly surrendered the capacity to heat or power its own homes. Many of those homes depend on nutrition produced by others far away, just as it is with us of Centralia. The clan that controls so much food and power has never demonstrated the sort of community spirit that would make it possible to believe it will permanently remain benevolent. As of the past few days it has fortified its redoubt, so strongly that no other power on the continent could compel it to alter any decision it might make. As troubling as these things leave this writer, one would expect our citizens to the east to fear them still more.’”
Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3) Page 16