Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3)

by Francis Porretto

  Martin and Claire awaited her there.

  Althea smiled at them. “Anybody interested in lunch?”

  “Al,” Martin said, “we’ve got a couple of questions.”

  Althea waited.

  “First,” Martin said, “why the grand tour of Alta rather than heading directly here?”

  “I last touched the controls of Freedom’s Horizon seven months ago,” Althea said. “A little reacquaintance with her responses before going to full throttle seemed like a good idea.”

  I wonder if he did any proficiency flying while I was between the stars. I wonder if I should ask.

  “The fuel is awfully expensive, love.”

  Althea snorted. “I should know. I paid for it.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Was there something else?”

  Her spouses’ faces darkened at the show of impatience.

  “We’re just worried, love,” Claire said.

  “You’ve been acting strangely for weeks,” Martin said. “Pretty much since we showed you the plans for the nanofab. Claire and I have debated several times whether to ask if there’s something wrong.”

  Althea nodded. “I see. Were you afraid of offending me with the question, or of the answer you might get?”

  “A little of both,” Claire said. She looked away.

  Althea looked from one to the other and back again.

  How much can I tell them without putting them in the same frame of mind I’ve been enduring?

  “Right now,” she said, “I’m coping with a sense of pressure. I can’t get certain things out of my mind. The assault on Morelon House. The plight of the Loioc men. That garbage Hubsite that keeps accusing us of every evil motive under the sun, weakening our markets and whipping up resentment that might trigger another attack. I feel a need to finish off one or another of these things, to make room for me to concentrate on the others. I’ve been telling myself that if I can just deal conclusively with any one of them, the others won’t seem so impossible.”

  Martin’s eyes became piercingly bright. “Are you certain that all the pressure you’re feeling comes from inside you?”

  Oh, masterfully put. But you’re not going to get the complete answer.

  “No,” she muttered. “Bart and I went to a community gathering a few weeks back. It was nasty. The Wolzman and Dunbarton clans tried to stir up more resentment of us. For all I know, they’re still trying.”

  “On what grounds?” Claire said.

  Althea smirked. “That Clan Morelon is too successful. That we’ve taken possession of the Relic and monopolized the electrical power market for hundreds of miles around. And that you, Claire, are going to make us even more economically dominant with your own genius.”

  “Huh?”

  “Bart’s arm, love.”

  Claire gaped incredulously. “Why haven’t I heard about this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Althea snorted. “Are you asking why Bart and I refrained from upsetting you needlessly, because a few other people are envious of your brilliance and your achievements?”

  Claire recentered herself with a visible effort.

  “Althea,” she said, “whatever my abilities, and you know how thrilled I am that Clan Morelon has benefited from them, I don’t want to be a source of division. We have enough to deal with. Did the community make any...suggestions?”

  “I think the word you were looking for is ‘demands,’ love,” Martin muttered.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Of course not,” Althea said. “That would have made the agenda far too obvious. What they’re hoping for is a gesture of propitiation from Clan Morelon. Maybe one that would involve you, say by releasing your regenerative nanites into the public domain. But they’re not going to get anything like that no matter how loud the grumbling gets.” She waved nonspecifically around her. “That’s part of why we’re here.”

  “Are you saying,” Martin murmured, “that you think physically subtracting the three of us from the situation might cause the rancor to subside?”

  Althea nodded. “There’s a chance of it, at least.”

  “What sort of chance?”

  She shrugged.

  “Al,” he said, “I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the pressure you’re feeling than you’re telling us.”

  She fought to keep her features smoothly impassive.

  All these years, and I keep forgetting how sharp he is.

  “You’re right,” she said after a long pause. “There is. Have either of you talked with Bart or Nora these past couple of weeks?”

  Claire shook her head minutely. Martin said “Only about routine matters. Why?”

  “Because another kinsman has divorced himself from the clan, and we’re a part of the reason.”

  * * *

  They ate in near-total silence. Althea’s carefully contrived salad of greens, diced carrots and beets, and reconstituted marinated pork shreds elicited no commentary.

  Not that it deserves much. Anyway, we’re only just back.

  I know they’re upset, and I know what I told them is what upset them. That’s the easy part. How do I fix it? Ah, not so obvious, that.

  Love doesn’t really conquer all, does it, Grandpere?

  When she rose to collect the empty dishes and take them to the washing station, Martin rose from the table and followed her. Neither of them said anything until they were out of Claire’s earshot.

  “You feel responsible, don’t you?” Martin said.

  Althea loaded the washables into the ultrasonic cleanser, latched the door, and activated it. It hummed a soft, gently pulsing tune as it worked. “Some. Less than totally, but more than a little.”

  “Why, love?”

  “Shouldn’t I, Martin?” She fixed her gaze on the ready light. “After all, this menage a trois is my doing.”

  “A young man of no particular prospects,” Martin said, “spent months straining to endear himself to a sweet young woman who happens to be Clan Morelon’s scion, then backed away from her when she declined to accommodate his sexual fantasy.” He chuckled. “That’s not a very accurate portrait of our little family.”

  She leaned back against the cleanser and faced him. “Do you think the notion would have occurred to him if he hadn’t had the three of us for a model?”

  “Maybe. From what I’ve heard about his...other intended, she’s terrific in bed but not good for much out of it. Emma offered status and material comfort. Carolyn offered ongoing physical pleasure. Both were taken with him. Now that we know how shallow he is, it all fits together quite neatly.” He snorted. “I doubt that seeing a successful threesome at close range was what lit his fires. He’s probably just that way.”

  He slid forward and took her in his arms. She returned the embrace, settling her cheek against his chest.

  “I did some research, just after Claire bonded with us,” he said. “Were you aware that there are only three triad-marriages on Alta, and that all three consist of a man and two women?”

  “Hm. No, I wasn’t—and just how did you do this ‘research?’”

  “Well,” he said, grinning, “it wasn’t exactly rigorous. I posted queries on Delphications, Miscellany, and Roundabout. Only two triads responded. Of course, there have been other triads that didn’t last. Come to think of it, there are probably a few that prefer to remain completely private. Still, just now we three appear to belong to a very small group. That says something.”

  “I think,” Claire said from behind him, “it says that it takes a very special man and two very special women. And that we’re really, really lucky to have found one another.” Martin lifted Althea off her feet and swung the two of them around. “And I think you don’t need to be bashful about the subject in my presence. But I didn’t come in here to tell you that.”

  Martin beckoned her into the embrace. She flowed forward and joined it. “Then why are you here, love?”

  “Well,” Claire said, “it’s just that there’s a binary
signal coming in. The parallax resolver says it’s coming from a point about five hundred miles out-system and a little above the plane of the ecliptic. And I’m reasonably sure we’re the only humans in the neighborhood.”

  ====

  Octember 7, 1326 A.H.

  “That,” Alex Dunbarton said as he seated himself on the facing love seat, “does not look like your usual sidekick.”

  “Gentlemen,” Barton said, controlling his voice with an effort, “I’d like you to meet Emma Mackenzie Morelon, scion to Clan Morelon and my presumptive successor. Emma,” he said with a smile at his niece, “the gentleman who has yet to address you is Patrick Wolzman, the patriarch of Clan Wolzman, which makes the needleguns we all carry. The fellow who just referred to you as if you were an item of furniture is Alexander Dunbarton, the patriarch of Clan Dunbarton and the single biggest pain in my ass. Gentlemen, please excuse my ignorance of your extralineal names.”

  Emma tittered. Wolzman’s face worked as he strained to repress a grin. Dunbarton’s face tightened.

  “If you invited us here to insult us,” Dunbarton said, “I can’t see this being a productive meeting.”

  “As ye give, so shall ye get, Alex,” Barton said. “Besides, are you trying to say that you’re not a pain in my ass? That wouldn’t be too terribly plausible. Of course, you could claim that that was never your intention, but I’d have to take that under advisement as well.”

  Dunbarton opened his mouth to expostulate. Barton forestalled him with a glare and a raised hand.

  “I dislike pretense, gentlemen. This meeting is about our various clan interests.” He swept a hand around his office. “You’re here because I invited you and you chose to come. I invited you because it’s in my clan’s interest that you learn for yourselves what we’ve been doing. You came for reasons of your own. None of that licenses either of you to make insulting or sarcastic remarks about me or my clan scion. Any more of that and I’ll show you out, and we’ll all lose whatever benefits this meeting could have conferred on us, jointly or severally.”

  The visiting patriarchs twitched and rumbled. Presently Dunbarton said “All right, let’s get on with it.”

  “Gladly,” Barton said. “First, you’re already aware that both Morelon and Kramnik Houses are defended by a battery of laser cannons, including one that protects the airspace above them. Each cannon possesses a dedicated power source that’s shielded against vandalism and which can’t be disconnected from the cannons themselves. Now, those are fixed defenses. They only ward the two houses. That’s not a problem at Kramnik House, as their enterprise is entirely indoors. Here, we have the cornfields to worry about. To provide for their defense, Althea MacLachlan Morelon has contrived a set of man-portable laser weapons. They’re not as powerful as the fixed-mount systems—you can stuff only so many watts into something a man has to carry on his back—but she assures me that to stand off an invasion, they’ll be more than adequate. So I suggest you regard the Morelon and Kramnik lands as inaccessible except with our permission.”

  Barton’s visitors’ faces were rigid with fury.

  “What on Hope gives you to think,” Wolzman said, “that either of us, or anyone else in Jacksonville, planned anything of the sort?”

  “You were at the last community meeting, Patrick. You should recall it as clearly as I.”

  “No one threatened you or yours,” Dunbarton said.

  “No,” Barton said. “Not explicitly. And now, perhaps no one will do so again implicitly. You can’t take us, gentlemen. Therefore there’s no point in whipping up sentiment against us. Why not allow us to enjoy the fruits of our labors in the same peace and amity you enjoy?”

  “Especially,” Emma said, “since everything we make is available to anyone who wants it, at quite reasonable prices.”

  There was a momentary silence.

  “We differ on that, Miss Morelon,” Wolzman said. “A lot of us regard the lease charges for your power system as exorbitant.”

  Emma’s elfin face clouded over. “You know,” she said, “I’ve learned a lot about finance since I apprenticed to Uncle Bart. Especially about return on investment. Our total investment in the research and development of those power stations came to just over three-quarters of a billion dekas. As matters stand, Clan Morelon’s return on that investment is less than half a percent per year—and that’s omitting the cost of fabrication and maintenance. From that standpoint, leasing you those stations comes very close to being an act of charity. Besides, electrical power is still available from the Spacehawk grid, and that’s free.”

  Dunbarton smirked. “And interrupted twice a week for four eternal hours at a stretch.”

  “Free stuff can be like that,” Emma said. “You could ask the commanders at the Jacksonville battery to forgo the readiness tests from now on.” She smiled sweetly. “Given your position, I’m sure they’d grant you a respectful hearing.”

  Dunbarton’s eyes narrowed. He nodded at the Morelon scion in newly awakened respect.

  “Emma...” Barton turned a monitory gaze on her.

  She’s developed an edge. She might be spending a wee bit too much of her time with me and Nora. A clan head does have to be tough, but...she’s young yet.

  Emma nodded. “I’ll let it rest there. But don’t you think they needed to hear that?”

  “Well...maybe,” Barton said. “All the same, there’s no need to belabor the point.”

  “But,” Wolzman said as he sat forward, “there is one item you continue to keep to yourselves: the treatment that restored your arm. Were you sincere when you said you planned to commercialize it?”

  “Perfectly sincere,” Barton said. He went to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and withdrew two small jars. “We haven’t finished the required analyses, though. They’re likely to stretch into next year. There are other considerations as well. But, as Clan Morelon has an obvious interest in maintaining good relations with its neighbors, I decided on a sort of pre-release.”

  He handed one jar to each visitor.

  “These, gentlemen, are the other reason I invited you here. The vessels you hold contain one half-ounce each of Claire Morelon’s regeneration nanites. She tells me they’re capable of restoring one lost appendage. Any appendage, but only one each, so keep your hands and feet away from hungry machinery. You’ll want to anyway; I can tell you from personal experience that limb regeneration is not a pleasant process.”

  “Do they...breed?” Dunbarton said.

  Barton shook his head. “They’re non-replicating.”

  Wolzman peered at the thick band of wax that held the lid of his jar closed. “Why the hermetic seals?”

  “They’re sealed against contamination and degradation. In all honesty, we don’t know whether exposing the contents to ambient conditions would harm them at all, but Claire thought it best to play it safe. Open it only when you’re ready to use it—and remember, one regeneration is all the contents of the jar is good for. Don’t waste them, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you,” Wolzman muttered.

  Dunbarton looked up accusingly.

  “One regeneration? That’s all?”

  Barton nodded.

  “While you Morelons have an absolute guarantee against any maimings you might suffer?”

  Emma rose and glared down at Dunbarton, arms akimbo. “Is that how you and yours reply to a gift?”

  “Peace, Emma,” Barton said. “Alex, what you and Patrick hold in your hands cost Claire four hundred thirty thousand dekas and two weeks of uninterrupted labor to make.”

  “Well,” Dunbarton said offhandedly, “Clan Morelon can certainly afford it.”

  Barton ground his teeth as he struggled to control his rising temper.

  “I did mention that there are other considerations, Alex. Those two jars contain the whole of our regen stock. No other trace of it exists on Hope. Moreover, that’s all there will be until Claire comes down from the Relic, which we don’t expect to happen any time soon.”
<
br />   Wolzman paled. Dunbarton’s eyes widened. Barton grinned nastily. “After Patrick’s neighborly little soliloquy at the September community meeting,” he said, “I decided that it would become a gift. Specifically, to the two of you. So you see, at this time Clans Dunbarton and Wolzman are now the only families on Hope with the power to regenerate a lost limb, while we of Clan Morelon are exposed to the mercies of time and chance. I intend that our neighbors hear about all of that at the earliest possible moment. Now, if you’ve delivered all the insults, denigrations, and imputations you came equipped with, may I have the pleasure of escorting you the hell out of my home?”

  * * *

  “Do you think we accomplished anything?” Emma said.

  Barton shook his head. “Uncertain at best, dear.” He stared briefly at the tall oaken doors to the mansion. “I’m beginning to think it was a fool’s errand from the start.”

  Emma put a gentle hand on his back. “Maybe not, Uncle Bart. You tried your best. Sometimes the reward comes long after the effort.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Do tell! And where did you pick up that bit of wisdom?”

  She giggled, suddenly appearing about twelve years old. “Couldn’t I have thought of it all by myself?”

  He smirked. “All right, I’ll give you that. Let’s just say that, given your age, it struck me as against the odds. Never mind.” He encircled her with an arm. “It’s been long enough since lunch. Let’s hit the kitchen and see if Doug and Patrice have made a fresh batch of brownies.”

  The luck of Clan Morelon is just as important as its work ethic. It was a momentary pulse of intuition that made me fix on this extraordinary young woman for my scion. No doubt it was much the same that convinced the council to confirm her.

  It helped to offset his disappointment at the hostility and recalcitrance of his visitors, but only slightly.