Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2)

by Francis Porretto

  * * *

  Althea followed Barton up the stairs to the bedroom level. He brought her to the door to the room that was once hers, halted and stepped aside.

  “Go on in,” he said. “It’s still yours. Yours and Martin’s.”

  She reached for the knob, drew back, and looked at him again. “What about—”

  “Charisse?” Barton grinned. “That’s my job, Al.” He waved at the door. “Go in and do yours.”

  She summoned her courage, twisted the knob, and pushed through.

  The room was exactly as it had been before her departure: uncluttered, perfectly orderly, and almost obsessively clean. Clearly, her absence had moved Martin to alter little about his habits.

  Martin sat at the foot of their bed. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. The reason was on open display: he was garbed in the traditional wedding costume most recently worn by Barton. It fit him poorly; the jacket, shirt, and trousers threatened to rip along all their seams.

  The reason for Martin’s garb and discomfort stood a few feet away, needler in hand. Althea could not remember ever seeing Nora look so fierce. She glared at Martin as if she were determined to hold him in place by the pressure of her gaze alone.

  Demure little Nora has apparently been hiding a few assets. That glare would stop a charging elephant.

  I wonder if she’s ever fired that gun.

  Nora glanced at Althea for a split second before returning her attention to Martin.

  “About time you got here.” Nora waved her needlegun at Althea’s husband. “I have no idea what you saw in this idiot that made you want him for a husband, but it’s time for you to decide if it’s still there. Yo, asshole, get up from there and greet your wife as she deserves.”

  Martin rose, the seams of the wedding costume creaking in a dissonant multipart accompaniment.

  “I’ll be heading back to my guy, if you please.” Nora holstered her needler, headed for the door, turned and smirked. “Don’t damage him, Al. He’s not as tough as he looks.”

  “I know,” Althea murmured.

  Nora shut the door behind her.

  Althea stood still and stared at her estranged husband, uncertain how to proceed. He looked just as uncertain.

  Presently she said “Well, I’m back. Is that to your liking, or not?”

  “Al—”

  “I haven’t got much to offer you, Martin,” she said, “I’m a forty year old woman whose husband departed her bed after she turned out to be incapable of bearing his children. He never explicitly said that was the reason, but it seemed clear enough at the time.” She strove to keep her tone soft, though the words remained harsh and unyielding. “Maybe it’s time we got it all out in the open.”

  She folded her arms across her breasts and waited.

  Presently he said “It wasn’t entirely my idea.” He held up a hand before she could reply. “I accept the responsibility, but...it wasn’t entirely my idea.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Charisse?”

  He nodded.

  “Because I’m sterile, of course.”

  He looked away. She closed her eyes and struggled for peace.

  Small wonder. She’s fretted over the clan’s decline in fertility for quite a while now.

  “Is there someone else, Martin?”

  He turned toward her again. “After you? There could never be anyone else.” He snorted. “Not that I wasn’t encouraged to look around. No subtlety about it, either.”

  “Charisse again?”

  He nodded. “Is the pain still there?”

  She nodded, and he dropped his gaze.

  “That was...my part of it,” he said.

  “Damn it all, I told you that I’m in control of it! Didn’t you believe me?”

  His expression became incredulous. “How was I supposed to believe that you’re in unceasing agony, that it will never go away, but that it doesn’t really matter? How would you have reacted if I’d said such a thing?”

  —He’s got a point, Al.

  Grandpere! It’s been—

  —Nearly two years. I know, I know. You needed the time to yourself. Never fear, I’d have been there if you ever really needed me.

  (grimly) I had plenty of needs!

  —Nothing you were unable to handle by yourself, dear.

  And you knew that...how?

  —I know you.

  It halted her in mid-flight.

  My self-imposed exile wasn’t for any particular purpose. Maybe it served one even so.

  —No maybes about it, Al. You are not who or what you were. You’re far more. Some of it is invisible to you yet, though it won’t be forever. Just one of the unacknowledged laws of human nature at work.

  Which is?

  —At every moment of your life, you are everything you have ever been. It’s all there, from the instant of your birth onward to this very moment. And it all plays a part.

  Even the pain?

  —Especially the pain. Let yourself feel it for just a moment.

  It sent a shudder through her. She hadn’t opened herself to the torment from her abdomen since before her departure from Morelon House.

  Are you sure about this, Grandpere?

  —Trust me.

  With some trepidation and her husband looking on in confusion, she closed her eyes, put psychic fingers to the barrier she’d built between her conscious mind and the pain from her abdomen, and lowered it for the briefest of instants.

  The spear of agony that traveled through her sent her at once to her knees, crying out for surcease. Though she’d restored the barrier with the swiftness of thought, the memory of the jolt remained with her, as awful as the pain itself.

  She realized as her senses returned to her command that Martin had knelt beside her and was clasping her in wordless terror. His body shook violently as he pressed them together.

  “That wasn’t an act,” she gasped. “It’s what the pain can do when I let it through. Until I can figure out a way to end it, I have to wall it off, refuse to feel it. But the wall is real, Martin. I can function. I can do anything I’ve ever done. Anything.” She straightened, pushed him to arm’s length, and looked directly into his eyes as she dispelled the memory of that lance of torture. “And I want my husband back in my arms. Back in my body.”

  He winced. “That was what I most feared.”

  “Hm?”

  “That I would hurt you by loving you.” He quivered as his eyes filled. “I’ve missed you so much, Althea.”

  She nodded and pulled him close again.

  “The Lord taketh away,” he gasped through his tears, “and the Lord giveth back again. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  She could make no reply.

  * * *

  Charisse’s head came up as the door to her office opened. Barton Morelon strode into her sanctum with a visible degree of reluctance and an equal resolve.

  “Yes, Bart, what is it?”

  The scion of her clan halted before her desk and regarded her dubiously for a long moment. Her irritation rose.

  If this isn’t a casual visit, he’d better get to the point at once.

  “I am here,” he said as she readied herself to speak, “to request a special meeting of the elders’ council, which I, of course, plan to attend. Would you do me the favor of calling the members together, preferably at once, or would you prefer that I do so in your stead?”

  Charisse felt the beginnings of a surge of anger.

  “What, exactly, is the reason for this request?”

  He looked directly into her eyes. “To see if the council’s opinion of our current condition is the same as my own. To suggest that our recent troubles and instabilities might have a single cause. To suggest what—or who—that cause might be, and to call for a change in clan management.” He planted his fists on her desk and glared down at her. “Will you call the meeting, or shall I?”

  She rose and returned his glare. “Do it yourself.”

  Barton inclined hi
s head in formal acknowledgement. “As you like, Charisse.” He glanced at his watch. “Expect us to convene at fourteen-thirty. I trust you’ll be there?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  He bowed, turned, and left. As the door closed behind him, the tide of Charisse’s fury flooded out of control. She screamed in frustration and hatred.

  ====

  Chapter 20: Quintember 35, 1313 A.H.

  “You’re being unusually finicky.”

  Althea’s gaze remained riveted to Freedom’s Horizon. “She hasn’t flown in six years, Martin.”

  “But—”

  “In fact, she hasn’t been out of this hangar since first flight.” She stopped and turned toward him. “Tell you what: you can pilot her this time around. Without me in the right-hand seat.”

  “Al—”

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’ve worked like a lunatic. I’ve spent a ton of money. I did not put thousands of hours and millions of dekas into a spacecraft and a mass driver just to buzz the arctic ice cap and pot-shot the Relic in my free moments.” She glanced at the spaceplane. “As soon as I’m certain she’s ready, I am going up there and taking inventory.” She folded her arms across her breasts. “You can accompany me if you like. Do you like?”

  “Al—”

  She folded her arms across her breasts. “Yes, dear?”

  “Make it a thorough inspection. Really thorough. Take a few days. Maybe a month. Let me know when you think she’s ready.” Martin shook his head and started away. Althea held up a hand, and he halted.

  “Just a second there, boy. You’re not getting away that easily. Climb into the engine bay and give your baby a going over.” She smiled sweetly. “Remind me, please: what did we get for the specific heat of reaction of those darling little pellets?”

  He grumbled, went to the aft hatch, and unlatched the access to the engine compartment. Althea returned to her scrutiny of the forward fuselage.

  He doesn’t seem to grasp the risks, Grandpere.

  —Do you, Al?

  I’d like to think so.

  —But do you? Really? Do you even know what they are? Were you aware that there has never been a reliable single-stage-to-orbit vehicle in the history of Man? Then there are the risks of space itself. Do you think you know what they are? Apart from the lack of breathable air, that is? No human being has ventured beyond Hope’s atmosphere since the Spoonerites jumped off the Relic.

  Grandpere? You do want me to do this, don’t you?

  —I certainly do, dear. But it’s rather important to me that you live through it. I trust you feel the same way?

  I think we agree on that. Any other pearls of wisdom for your granddaughter?

  —Just one.

  Hm?

  —Keep in mind that Martin doesn’t want you to do this.

  He doesn’t? Is that why he's so put out that I’m taking my time over the pre-flight?

  —Of course. He wants to dissuade you. In fact, he’s determined to do so, so from his perspective it’s pointless. A waste of time he could put to better use discouraging you from going at all.

  But—

  —Can you remember the last time you resolved on a course of action, and you were going to do it despite all obstacles and come what may?

  Yes...

  —Did anyone try to offer you advice or assistance?

  Yes...

  —How did you react, Al? Honestly, now.

  The memory of her invasion of Kramnik House and liberation of Barton surged into vivid relief.

  All right, Grandpere. You don’t have to grind it in. But why is he opposed to it? He wasn’t at the outset.

  —I’ll leave that for you to ponder in your copious free time. You could use the mental exercise.

  The telepathic exchange terminated with a jolt that brought Althea’s head up sharply.

  He’s displeased with me.

  For an instant, the pain from her abdomen broke through her psychic barrier and had its way with her. She gasped and fought to reinstitute the wall as she struggled to stand.

  I can’t afford to deal with spikes like that in flight or space. If I’m going to have to cope with this for the rest of my life, I’d better learn how to make the wall more reliable.

  She was just regaining control when her head rang with a new telepathic message.

  —You make quite a lot of assumptions, Althea. It would be well for you to question them now and then.

  She started to reply, reined it back.

  What assumptions, Grandpere?

  —You just expressed one. It was as audible to me as any thought you’ve ever had. Go back and find it.

  She thought furiously.

  That I’ll have this pain problem for the rest of my life?

  —That’s the one I had in mind.

  Grandpere, are you telling me that that nerve trunk can be fixed?

  —No, Althea. Not definitively. But what if it could be? Wholly or partially? At a price you might consider worth paying?

  “Whoa,” she murmured aloud.

  —Question your assumptions, dear. Always. I’d rather you didn’t have to learn the importance of that the hard way...as I did.

  Grandpere? Can you tell me anything more about this...possibility?

  —Only one thing, Al.

  And that is...?

  —That if your problem can be fixed, it will be up to you to fix it. No one else on Hope could possibly do so.

  The second phase of the exchange ended as abruptly as the first, leaving Althea with one hand on her belly, the other on the fuselage of Freedom’s Horizon, and a faraway look on her face.

  “Double whoa,” she murmured.

  * * *

  “How I hate this job,” Barton grumbled.

  Nora looked up from her reading matter. “Hm?”

  “Was I talking to myself again? Sorry.” He waved at the ledger open before him. “If I’d known what kind of mind-numbing, calculator-clogging, decimal-point-fiddling tedium was involved in this, I’d never have agreed to become scion.”

  His wife giggled, closed her book, circled his desk and draped her arms around his neck. “That’s what you get for being so slow on the uptake, boy. Althea didn’t want it either. You should have given that a little thought.”

  He snorted. “Scion has been a ceremonial position for so long that no one expected I’d ever assume the big job. I certainly didn’t.”

  And I had to go and get Charisse deposed. Got to try to do a little more thinking before my next crazy impulse.

  Nora giggled again. “What, the council wasn’t supposed to capitalize on having snagged a clueless victim?” She turned his chair to face her. “Someone too bowled over by the honor to put three words together for a whole day?”

  The pointed reminder of how overwhelmed Barton had been to be named Morelon clan scion pricked an embarrassed laugh out of him. He rose and embraced his wife.

  “What would I do,” he said against her cheek, “without you to tweak me?”

  “Probably pretty much what you’ve been doing today, except over at Kramnik House.” She pulled back a little and looked into his eyes. “How are things with Douglas?”

  His mouth tightened as the pleasure drained out of him.

  “Not good,” he said, and looked away.

  If Charisse had planned to neuter him utterly, she couldn’t have done a better job of it.

  “Bart?”

  “Nora,” he said, “there are some things I really shouldn’t talk about, even with you.”

  She frowned, eyes questioning.

  “I mean, I’m allowed,” he said, “but it feels wrong. An invasion of privacy. And that’s not my clan any more.”

  “He’s still your father,” she said.

  Bart nodded.

  I learned a lot more from him than I realized. How to negotiate. How to sniff out the stuff my opposite number doesn’t want known. How to time an offer
to maximize its appeal. How to delay an offer until it becomes the alternative to ruination.

  How to smile and smile and be a villain.

  And I do it all better than he ever did.

  “One of the things that’s hardest about this office,” he said at last, “is teaching myself to see an adversary while looking at a man I used to call a friend.” He smiled wanly. “Or father.”

  Nora’s face filled with confusion. “In a free market—”

  “—there are no losers, only winners,” he finished for her. “I know the mantra. It’s true, most of the time.”

  “When,” she said uncertainly, “is it not true?”

  In my head. Before the dealing starts, as I plot how to squeeze as much as possible out of the guy across the table, yet somehow send him home happy. And afterward, as I ponder how I could have milked him for even more, and make notes about how to do it the next time around.

  “Bart?” She squeezed him gently. “Sweetie?”

  “Maybe,” he said, “that’s one of the things I shouldn’t talk about.”

  Her gaze became difficult for him to face. “I don’t like the way that list is expanding.”

  He grimaced. “Neither do I.”

  * * *

  “You’re aware that I’ve retired from clan operations,” Charisse said. “Except for a seat on the elders’ council.”

  Douglas Kramnik nodded. “I sense that you’re not entirely happy about it.”

  It couldn’t be clearer if you’d had it tattooed it on your forehead.

  “Would you be?” Charisse said. “The pleasures of endless leisure are the biggest sham in existence.” She waved inclusively around the Kramnik patriarch’s office. “You must get some sort of charge out of all this. We both know how much work it is.”

  Kramnik nodded. “I won’t deny it. I like having authority. I like having my kin defer to me.” He smirked. “And I like dealing with other clan heads, having them treat me as an equal.” Especially my estranged son. “Besides, these days the mill just about runs itself. It’s a lot less work than what I do for Clan Morelon.”

  “And how is that going?”

  The inquiry was perfectly casual. As casual as the retired Morelon matriarch's posture. Far too casual. Kramnik immediately became alert.