“Radio for you. Adam Grenier.”
Althea rose. “About what?”
Dorothy shrugged. “He didn’t say.” She waved Althea forward. “Come find out for yourself.”
Althea trotted down the hall to the radio alcove and picked up the microphone. “Yes, Adam, what is it?”
“Good morning, Althea.” Grenier’s voice warbled with flecks of static. “I was wondering if you were any nearer to scheduling that heavy-lift trip to the peninsula.”
“Uh, no, not really. A few things have come up. We’re likely to have to postpone it for a couple of months.”
“Oh? What sort of things?”
Why is he asking?
She fell back on the most serviceable nonspecific excuse. “Mostly family matters, Adam. Not the sort of thing I should talk about outside the clan.”
“Oh. That’s...too bad.” There was a brief pause. “I was hoping it’s something I could help with.”
It was the least convincing expression of sympathy Althea had ever heard. It solidified her suspicion that Grenier was plotting something to her disadvantage. Possibly to Clan Morelon’s disadvantage as well.
“I’m afraid not.” She decided to riposte. “Are you in financial difficulty, Adam? If so I’d be happy to work out a bridge loan for you.”
“No, not at all.” Another pause. “I’m just looking forward to having your business. It’s not just the money. It’s an opportunity to heal an old wound.”
Oh, really? “Consider the wound well scabbed over, Adam. At least on my part. Clan Morelon has always appreciated the service you provide. I’d never allow anything to degrade that relationship.” Her mouth curved in a secret grin. “Certainly not something as trivial as a squabble over a rejected proposal of marriage.”
She released the push-to-talk and waited.
“Ah. Well, you’ll keep me posted, I hope?” Grenier’s tone had cooled audibly.
“Of course, Adam. I’m sure we’ll be in touch quite soon. Be well.”
She hung up the microphone, scampered back to her office, and resumed her seat at her desk. She did not resume her labors.
Grandpere?
—Yes, dear?
Were you listening in just now?
—I was.
Well, am I seeing phantoms, or do I have good reason to worry?
—How do you expect me to know?
You read minds, don’t you? Why not read Adam Grenier’s for me?
—(humor) What gave you the impression that I read minds, Al?
You don’t? Then what are we doing now?
—Conversing.
But how is that—
—It’s not the same at all, Al. With regular people, all I can get is images—images of whatever is uppermost in their concerns. I can send a thought expressed in words to them, and they can receive and comprehend it, but they have no reciprocal capacity to speak back to me.
Then what are we—
—I told you. Conversing.
Althea’s brain whirled from the implications. It stopped on a conclusion that seemed irrefutable.
So I’m a telepath.
—Yes, dear. And much more.
There was a pause in the exchange.
—I was hoping to delay this little revelation just a year or two longer, but it appears the time has come.
“Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer,” she murmured audibly.
—(humor) I’m afraid they have no useful advice for you, dear.
Uh, okay. But how? I’m not from a psi line. I’m certainly not from yours!
—This isn’t an inheritance, Al. It’s a gift.
There was another pause.
—The greatest of all my gifts to you.
You did this?
—Long before you were born, dear.
In Spooner’s name, how? Why?
—How? I rearranged and edited a few of the genes in your zygote. The fastest and carefullest bout of genetic surgery in the history of the art. Why? Because of the mission Teresza and I bequeathed you. Believe me, you’ll need and appreciate your powers when you venture into space. Maybe a lot sooner.
Althea’s thoughts resumed their whirl. As she groped for any sort of intelligent reply, Armand spoke again.
—Trust me, dear: It’s not a burden. It comes with no obligations, certainly none from me. It needn’t separate you from others, and it will never cause you pain. It’s just a sheaf of abilities that you can call on at need. Will you be going for your run soon?
Uh, yeah. Why?
—Because it would be a good time for you to explore the other aspects of my gift to you.
How many others are there?
—We’ll discuss it later, when you’re outside and well away from Morelon House. But Al?
Hm?
—I wouldn’t tell Martin just yet.
Why not?
—Just trust me.
The psionic connection lapsed.
* * *
“What’s this about, Douglas?” Patrice Kramnik said.
The Kramnik patriarch closed his office door, returned to his desk, and seated himself without saying a word. He smiled meaningfully, first at Patrice, then at Alvah, and leaned back, his hands folded behind his head, gazing at the ceiling as if in serene contemplation.
“Douglas,” Alvah rasped, “you asked for this meeting.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Douglas said, gaze still on the ceiling. “So I suppose it would only be polite for me to tell you why I wanted you here. But then, the two of you haven’t shown me much politeness recently, so why should I feel so obliged?”
Patrice looked over at Alvah, who shrugged.
“If you have a grievance against us,” Alvah said, “state it and be done. We have other matters to attend to.”
At that Douglas’s eyes returned to them. He regarded Alvah solemnly, nodded once, drew his needlegun and fired at the elder. Alvah Kramnik’s mouth dropped open a bare instant before his head sagged onto his chest.
Patrice’s eyes flew wide as the snout of the needler swerved to point at her chest.
“How dare you!”
“You know, Patrice,” Douglas said, “politeness is based on another idea: respect. Respect for the prerogatives of others. An appreciation of one’s station and the limits that pertain to it. The recognition of others’ station and what it entitles them to. Tell me, cousin: what are the limits pertinent to your station, and how do they bear on the prerogatives of mine? Have you thought about that at all?”
She said nothing.
“I thought not. Let me lay it out for you, then. You have been an elder of this clan, a member of its policy-making council. That gave you a voice in our council meetings and nothing more. You don’t get to make policy on your own. You don’t get to contravene a policy already established, or a process set in motion to effectuate it.” He glanced at Alvah’s slumped form. “That’s his station as well.
“I, on the other hand, am the clan’s chief executive, responsible for its regular operations and its relations with outsiders.” He bared his teeth. “All its relations with outsiders. It’s a weighty set of responsibilities, and a man who carries it cannot allow irresponsible people to interfere according to their own lights and their own narrow interests. So when I find two of my kinsmen running around like the heads of an independent clan, scheming in secret and trying to strike their own little deals with our neighbors, I take it badly.”
He glanced down at the weapon in his hand. “It’s never been usual for us to carry our guns in the house, but I’m going to carry mine from now on. I don’t know who else on the council might be hatching plots or forming alliances outside the clan. I feel the need to be prepared to deal with any I find. You and Alvah will be my announcement of that change in procedure.” He jerked his head toward his office window. “Have a look.”
Patrice rose, moved uncertainly toward the window, and pulled open the blinds. On the front knoll of Kramnik House stood two wooden carts, each piled hi
gh with personal belongings. Hers and Alvah’s.
She turned back to Douglas in complete confusion.
“You and your lover are no longer members of Clan Kramnik. I am expelling you as of this instant. Have the decency to get yourselves and your property clear of the clan’s landhold as quickly as possible.”
“By what—”
“By what right, Patrice? By what authority?” Douglas chuckled and gestured with his needlegun. “I prefer not to argue about it. Just go. I have one more soporific round loaded into this thing. The needles after that are lethal.”
She mastered her incredulity, somehow managed to hoist Alvah out of his seat and onto her shoulder, and shuffled toward the door, feeling the pressure of Douglas’s glare the whole way.
* * *
Althea’s path toward the mansion’s doors took her past Martin’s workshop. The door was open. Her husband was wearing high-magnification goggles, wielding a microprobe, and leaning over a breadboard covered with assorted electronic components. He sensed her passage, looked up from his labors, and grinned.
“Going for a run?”
She nodded. “Want to come along?”
He snorted. “You know I can’t keep up.”
“Yeah, but you’d give me a reason to take it easy.”
Another snort. “Get out of here and embarrass the rabbits. I’ve got to get this fixed, or the Leschitsyns won’t be able to do our soil titers next month. I’ll join you for lunch.”
She smiled broadly. “It’s a date.”
“A cheap one, the way you eat.”
She chuckled and headed for the doors.
As she loped down the path toward the running track that paralleled the river, she reflected on how much her life had changed, how much bolder and surer she’d become since Martin espoused her. She found it difficult to imagine even daring to attempt much of what she’d achieved, for herself and for her clan, without her husband’s sober counsel, his unquestioning support, and his unflagging love.
Not that she was alone among Morelon women in having made a felicitous choice of mate. She couldn’t think of anyone among her married kinswomen who was less than contented with her spouse. Dorothy and Cecile seldom came to a meal without a smile. Jacqueline, Katja, and Alanna could hardly stop talking about their mates. Much of the time, Elyse, Charisse, and Valerie seemed almost delirious.
Nora’s marriage has to come off well. We can’t break a pattern that good.
—From your lips to God’s ear, Al.
Oh, hi, Grandpere. You weren’t into this ‘God’ stuff when you were alive, were you? I thought that was Grandmere’s thing.
—Let’s discuss it another time. Tell me about Nora and her intended.
Yeah, okay. I’ve got high hopes for that match. She thinks he’s superwonderful. Once he managed to look away from me, he noticed how terrific she is. You haven’t actually made Bart Kramnik’s acquaintance, have you?
—Only through your eyes, ears, and thoughts, dear. Those thoughts weren’t always generous.
Uh, yeah. Well, we both know what a...bitch I can be.
—You’re not proud of that, are you?
No. She found it impossible to repress a grin. But it sure feels good sometimes.
—That’s the great hazard of the greatly gifted, Al: the temptation to look down upon the less favored, treat them as unworthy because they can’t reach your level of excellence or accomplishment. I have a word of advice about that.
Hm? What is it?
—Don’t.
Oh.
She slowed to a halt at the beginning of the synthetic track.
Grandpere? What about these other gifts?
—Get a little further from the house and the commercial area, Al. You’re going to be doing a few things that would shock the ultralights right out of the sky. I’d rather you weren’t observed.
Like it isn’t shocking enough that I can outrun a GPV.
—No, it isn’t. You’re special, Al. There’s never been anything like you before, on Earth or on Hope. If you let all your...specialness be fully visible, you’ll become the target of a lot of attention. I promise you, you won’t like it. Keeping your extra abilities to yourself will be your only protection against that. Get used to it.
No other thought could have sobered Althea the way that one did. She propped her hands on her hips, turned, and looked back the way she had come. She saw nothing but the twin rows of Earth oaks that lined the corridor back toward Morelon House.
—Aren’t you going for your run, Al?
A bubble of some unpleasant emotion rose through her. She held it down as best she could and forced herself to consider.
Presently, Grandpere. I have a couple of questions first. Did your extra powers make you the target of a lot of unwanted attention?
—Emphatically yes.
And what did you do about it?
The reply was slow in coming.
—Something I’d rather not discuss even with you, dear. It still shames me to remember it.
Oh, come on. You were the most beloved person on the whole planet. You couldn’t have done anything that—
—Yes, I did. And let’s drop the subject now. Get back into motion. We have a lot to cover, and we’re not going to do it here.
Grandpere—
“Althea!”
She whirled back toward the corridor to find Martin approaching, out of breath and visibly upset. She went to him at once and took him in her arms.
“What is it, love?”
“Come back to the house,” he said, still puffing. “Please. Nora’s hysterical. She just radioed Kramnik House to talk to Bart, and Douglas wouldn’t let her speak to him.”
Her eyes went wide. She nodded brusquely and took off at top speed back toward the mansion.
* * *
“Bart’s just fine,” Douglas Kramnik said. “He’s just not coming to the radio.”
The muscles in Althea’s face tightened. “By your decision.”
“Yes, by my decision. I could have lied to you, Althea. I could have told you that he’d changed his mind about your little love match. I simply see no reason to do so.”
Charisse took the microphone from Althea’s hand. “And why is that, Doug?” she said.
“Because I won’t have my son, the scion of our clan, leave his clan and his status behind to become a member of a clan I despise. A clan that despises us, that’s treated Clan Kramnik like some sort of lesser species. A clan that’s had innumerable opportunities to show remorse for past slights, but has elected to hold itself above every other creature on Hope. How could you imagine that I might react any other way?”
“I imagined,” Charisse said tightly, “that having received a gift from our hands that will easily increase your revenues by fifty percent, you might think with your reason rather than your carefully nurtured resentments. That having been offered a marital alliance with Clan Morelon, you’d see the social and economic advantages of the match as weightier than whatever satisfaction you’re getting out of your animus toward us.”
“That’s as may be.” Douglas Kramnik’s tone betrayed no inclination toward compromise. “Bart will remain here in Kramnik House—”
“Against his will.”
“Yes, against his will and incommunicado, until I’ve broken him of his romantic fantasies and reoriented him toward his duties. You denied him Althea, Charisse. You won’t win my good will or the friendship of my clan by offering him your empty-headed grandniece as a consolation prize. Good day to you.”
The sudden silence was an exclamation point of anger and malice. Charisse hung up the microphone and leaned against the wall. Her face had gone slack with fatigue.
“He’s keeping Bart prisoner,” Martin said.
“He is,” Charisse murmured.
“To salve his pride,” Althea said.
Charisse nodded.
“Can he do that?” Martin said.
Charisse looked at him resignedly.
Althea rose from her squat before the radio.
“I can,” she said.
==
Chapter 8 : Sexember 13, 1303 A.H.
“Al—”
“It’s going to happen, Martin.” Althea bent over the huge retort, rotating it slowly and carefully as she dripped ammonia into the mass of peat and watched for the telltale color change. “You can help or you can stay out of it. Frankly,” she said, “I’d recommend the latter.”
“Why not at least talk to Patrice and Alvah first?”
“Do they have tactically useful information?”
“Well—”
“I didn’t think so,” Althea said without looking up.
Martin’s voice was thick with worry. “How do you know you won’t have to hurt some innocent third party?”
“I don’t.”
“But then—”
“Martin,” she said, careless of the growl that seeped into her tone, “I am doing this.”
He fell silent, watched her for a moment longer, and departed. She fixed her thoughts on explosions and flames.
The more, the better.
* * *
She strode up the walk toward Kramnik House with the step of an avenger.
—Al—
Not now, Grandpere.
—Now is the only time, Granddaughter!
The intensity of the telepathic “shout” stopped her a few feet from the mansion’s door.
All right, what?
—You’re about to take a step you’ll never be able to retract. I guarantee that everyone on Alta will learn about it in less than an hour. Have you thought through the consequences?
What consequences, other than Bart’s freedom and his future?
—These: If you pull this off, how will your neighbors’ attitudes toward you be changed? Who will Jacksonville look to for the resolution of future unpleasantnesses? What impact will that have on the rest of our clan? On the future of your enterprises, in this area or anywhere else on Hope?
I don’t see how it matters. No one else is likely to step forward. Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer, no one else around here is willing or able! Should I hang back from this because there’ll be a price to pay? Allow that self-absorbed bastard to imprison an innocent young man because there might be a few repercussions?
Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2) Page 8