Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2)

by Francis Porretto

  “The last report was only two days ago, Charisse. Not much has changed since then. Or did you have a specific concern?”

  Charisse smiled faintly. “I know. I was more asking about the work itself. The research, the risk assessments, the dickering with the heads of start-ups.” She stretched languidly without rising from the guest chair. “I always found that part of the job too intriguing for words.”

  That wasn’t the impression you left when you offered me the gig.

  “I get the sense,” Kramnik said, measuring out his words, “that you’d like to involve yourself in it again.”

  “Yes, I would,” she said. “The way start-ups have been proliferating lately, I keep seeing possibilities that deserve serious attention. Maybe more attention than you, Patrice, and Chuck can spare them, what with all the other areas you have to track. And as I said, I have too little to do these days.”

  Kramnik looked directly into Charisse’s eyes. She didn’t flinch.

  There’s a motivation in there I haven’t heard about yet. With her, there always has been. There always will be. And until I ferret it out, I’ll be tangoing through a minefield.

  “Did you have specific ideas for new involvements?” he said.

  “Only that there are a lot of new enterprises to look into,” Charisse said. She shrugged. “Nothing beyond that.”

  Just about now, Patrice would be telling me I’m too suspicious. I wonder what Chuck would say?

  She came here uninvited and alone. No preliminaries. If she hasn’t got a private agenda, I’ll eat my desk.

  “For the moment,” he said, “it would be inappropriate for us to discuss anything specific, seeing how you’re no longer the head of Clan Morelon.” He leaned forward, smiled pleasantly, and Charisse leaned toward him in response. “But the investment council meets again on Rothbarday, at your place. I could ask Bart to attend, and we could take it up then.”

  Most observers would have missed the minuscule tightening of Charisse Morelon’s facial muscles at the mention of her successor’s name. Douglas Kramnik didn’t.

  Ah, you want this kept on the QT until you can find a way to wheedle me into opening the books to you, don’t you, Charisse? Sorry babe, but that’s not in the cards. Not with your husband ready to tear my head off and beat me to death with it if I should put even an eyelash out of bounds. Come to think of it, why haven’t you taken this up with him? Just how private is your agenda?

  The slight tension in Charisse’s features faded and was replaced by something he had never expected her to bestow upon him: a bedroom smile.

  “You’ve been a widower for some time, haven’t you, Doug?”

  He nodded, straining to repress a visible reaction.

  “It’s odd,” she said, “but Clan Morelon has been having more than a spot of trouble arranging suitable marriages for some of its young women. Much younger than either of us, of course, but Hallanson-Albermayer treatments blur that particular difference nicely.” She made a show of looking him up and down, as if appraising his potential as a stud. “I’d imagine just about any of them would consider you quite a catch...and I’d be more than happy to whisper a choice bouquet of encouraging words in the ear of your preference.”

  Maintaining an expression of polite disinterest cost Kramnik all the self-control he possessed.

  “I seldom think about the possibilities of romance these days, Charisse,” he said. “Your suggestion flatters me, of course, especially given the near-legendary beauty of Morelon women and our own...history.” He chuckled. “But now that my son is a Morelon, it would seem just a wee bit, ah, incestuous for me to shop among his cousins for a new bride.”

  Charisse lost all trace of expression. “They’re only his cousins by marriage, Douglas.”

  “Even so.” Kramnik rose and extended a hand, and Charisse took it. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about. I hope we can return to these topics in the not too distant future.”

  Charisse cocked one delicate eyebrow. “All of them?”

  Kramnik shrugged and led her unsubtly to the door. “Perhaps.”

  ====

  Chapter 21: Sexember 2, 1313 A.H.

  Barton could not refuse a request from a member of the investment council for his presence at a meeting. Nevertheless, it was still necessary that he remind himself to control his expression and watch his words when in proximity to his father. Though they had succeeded in closing the worst of their respective wounds, relations between them had remained formal and tentative.

  He entered the small meeting room just as the clock struck 0800. The councilors were already there. Chuck Feigner rose, indicated that Barton should take the place at the head of the table, and seated himself again.

  “Doug told us that he’d requested your attendance, but not why,” Feigner said, “so, as we’d rather not take up any more of your time than we must, I’d say the floor is his for the moment.” He turned to Douglas Kramnik with a look of expectation. “Doug, it’s your deka.”

  Douglas began to rise, but before he could speak, Bart raised a hand, and the elder Kramnik settled back into his seat.

  “I don’t remember if I’ve said this before,” Barton said, “but even if I did, it can’t hurt to repeat it now and then. I’m just the clan’s administrator—a man who does a particular job around here. I don’t deserve special deference, and I definitely don’t want it.” He grinned. “We’re all busy at one thing or another. Don’t mistake my responsibilities for a special status that should demand unusual privileges or respect.”

  Don’t think of me as Charisse with a penis.

  The three councilors exchanged furtive glances. Clearly, Bart’s subtext had reached them.

  “Well,” Patrice said, “you do chair the elders’ council.”

  Bart nodded. “Yes, I do. But that’s just part of the job. Someone has to keep things orderly at those meetings.” He grinned. “You know how contentious they can get, Patrice. Charisse used to do it. I guess when she...retired, the council assumed I’d pick up where she left off. They never actually asked me, but it did come sort of naturally.” He turned to his father. “Dad?”

  Douglas looked at him curiously, as if he’d seen an aspect of his son’s character he’d never appreciated before. He rose slowly, shrugged and squared his shoulders as if he were about to assume a heavy burden.

  “Actually, this is about Charisse,” he said. “She came to see me at Kramnik House the day before yesterday. Expressed a desire to get involved with our duties. Said something about how there are so many start-ups that deserve attention that we could use her efforts looking into them.” He looked pained. “I had no idea what to say, so I did what I could to put her off. Told her that I’d take it up with this council...and you, Bart.”

  Patrice and Chuck’s eyes went directly to Bart’s as Douglas Kramnik resumed his seat.

  Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer. Charisse wants back in? After her last set of stunts?

  “I know,” he said slowly, “that you think of yourselves as answering to me for how you handle the clan’s money.” He grinned faintly. “I don’t see it that way. You answer to the whole clan, not to me personally. I’ll grant that that’s a bit nebulous. That when the clan speaks with one voice, it’s usually through me. But I have to tell you, just because I run the farming operation—and not all that well, at least not yet—doesn’t mean I’m competent to judge your choices with our investment funds.”

  The councilors exchanged amused frowns.

  “Bart,” Feigner said, “there’s only so much forelock-tugging we’ll allow you. No, you’re not a king. Yes, your duties are primarily administrative, and only secondarily policy-making. But this council needs oversight. We have to answer to someone—and your acquaintance with the details of the farming operation, particularly its dekas-and-cents aspects, makes you the most suitable person for the job.” He smirked. “Charisse bequeathed you more than just the chairmanship of the elders’ council, whether you like it or
not.”

  Barton could not repress a groan. It elicited a giggle from Patrice and naughty smiles from the other two.

  “Althea was right,” he said. “No one in his right mind would want this post.”

  Patrice donned a mysterious smile. “That tells us quite a lot about the person who accepts it, doesn’t it?”

  Barton buried his face in his hands as raucous laughter circled the table.

  “Now,” Feigner said when decorum had returned, “what shall we do about Charisse’s request?”

  * * *

  “What we’ve tried to do with this,” Claire Albermayer said as she led Althea through the lab complex, “is break the question how healthy is he into a few billion smaller questions.” The bioengineer halted them before an oval object that stood beside a large workbench and a bank of chromatographs and mass spectrometers. It was about the length and width of a large coffin and about three times as deep as it was wide. Albermayer flipped back the lid of the thing and gestured at its inner surface. “Look closely and tell me what you see.”

  “May I touch it?” Althea said.

  The bioengineer shook her head vigorously. “Never touch one unless you intend to purchase it—and this one isn’t for sale.”

  Althea dropped to her knees alongside the medipod and peered as closely as she could at the inner surface of the thing, where a human body would repose when under its care. She saw only a smooth, seemingly pliable white surface, such as might have been formed from a soft plastic under heat.

  —You have more than one way to see, Althea.

  (humor) I know, Grandpere. One sense at a time. Bear with me.

  She closed her eyes, detached her viewpoint, and drove it into the white material. It immediately decomposed into uncounted numbers of smaller devices. She commanded her viewpoint to pursue them at their own scale, and immediately they swelled in her mental vision.

  Some of the little machines bore obvious functions such as massage or infusion. Others appeared to be sensors of some sort, though Althea’s knowledge of medicine was too basic to deduce the specifics. They interlinked horizontally and in delicately staggered layers that implied a complex overarching design, one far too intricate for her to grasp.

  “It’s—”

  —Careful, dear. I don’t think you want Hallanson-Albermayer Corporation to know about that, at least not just yet.

  Oops. You’re right, Grandpere. Thanks.

  —De rien, ma cherie.

  “—completely smooth. I don’t see any components at all.” She rose from her crouch and turned to face Claire Albermayer, who wore a look of satisfaction that fell just short of infuriatingly smug.

  “I’m not surprised you couldn’t pick out the details,” the bioengineer said. “They’re nanoscale. Sensors, osmotic infusors and extractors, heating and cooling elements, transverse actuators, and chained normal-vector components for deep therapies.” She gestured to Althea to follow her. The two departed the lab and returned to Albermayer’s office.

  When they had seated themselves, Althea said “I knew you’d made big progress on the rejuv techniques, but I didn’t hear the least hint about this other thing. Are they related?”

  Albermayer nodded. “Quite closely. Our earliest work in rejuvenation was focused on the skin. In the usual case, a person in his fifties or sixties is fairly healthy, but would prefer the elasticity and sheen of skin he had in his twenties. That gave rise to the development of the actuator nanites. After that, we turned to the detection and correction of radical build-up in cell fluids, then to electrochemical and neurodynamic analysis, metabolic balance, and all the rest.”

  The bioengineer steepled her hands before her and leaned forward. “The problem we faced at that point was the uniqueness of every human body. It turns out that ‘health’ means something different to each of us. There are no stock solutions. With the possible exception of identical twins, the specific collection of therapies required to attain, maintain, or regain a condition of optimal health is something no one can share with anyone else.

  “That’s why I forbade you to touch the pod, Althea. Among its sensors are a subset that samples and analyzes your DNA, such that the pod’s software would be able to attune itself to your specific needs. An uninitialized one would be permanently yours forever afterward. That particular one is attuned to me.”

  “So, then,” Althea said, “if someone other than you were to lie down in it by mistake, what would happen to him?”

  Albermayer shuddered. “Nothing good. He’d be rendered unconscious, slowly dissolved into his constituents, and stored in the pod’s resource base, to be used on the true owner as necessary. That’s best guess, of course.”

  “Hm? You’re not sure?”

  The bioengineer stared at Althea in shock. “You don’t think we’re about to test that hypothesis, do you?”

  “Uh, no. So what won’t it cope with?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What bodily ailments are beyond its powers to fix, Claire?”

  “Oh.” Albermayer produced an infuriatingly superior smile. “At present we only know of one such.”

  “And that is?”

  “Death.”

  Grandpere...

  —I know, dear. But—

  Make sure it’s reliable first. I know, I know.

  —(humor) Don’t forget to ask about the price.

  Excuse me? Do I strike you as having suddenly gone brain-dead, Grandpere?

  —Not at all dear. Just a bit excited.

  (humor) Okay.

  Althea shook her head. “Your little toy would seem to kill the market for your longevity series.”

  Albermayer nodded. “For anyone who owns one, it would be all he’ll need to stay youthfully vigorous and attractive in perpetuity.”

  “Assuming it keeps working, of course.”

  “Of course. But our nanotech is quite reliable. And service would always be available from us for any unforeseen developments. For a price, of course.”

  “Of course. How much?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s the price, Claire? I want one. No, make that two. And as soon as possible, at that. Assuming it’s passed all your durability and reliability protocols, of course.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, if it’s ready to leave your labs. Is it?”

  “Yes, it is. But you’re the first person to ask to purchase one. Two. Let me think a moment.”

  Claire Albermayer blinked once. She looked off into space, eyes unfocused. Althea waited as patiently as she could.

  Presently the bioengineer said “You’re quite certain you want two?”

  Althea nodded. “Plus whatever assistance we’ll need in initializing and provisioning them.”

  “In that case,” Albermayer said, “I think I can hold the price down to sixteen.”

  Althea grinned widely. “Well, all right! Sixteen thousand dekas for two magic health pods, coming right up.”

  As she crouched to retrieve her purse, Albermayer held up a hand. “No, Althea.”

  “Hm?”

  “Not sixteen thousand. Sixteen million.”

  “Oh.” She opened her purse. “Will you take a check?”

  “Well, considering that it’s from you personally rather than your clan...”

  “Don’t go there, Claire.” Nettled by the bioengineer’s condescension, Althea’s pride in her own intellect and achievements rose to shine from her face. “I believe you mentioned that you knew my grandfather Armand. Quite a serious fellow, wasn’t he?”

  Albermayer’s brow furrowed. “Yes, he was.”

  “I’m just as serious. It would be wise of you to treat me that way.” Althea drew her checkbook from her purse and wrote a draft for the full amount. “I want a printout with the dimensions, specifications, power consumption idle and in operation, requirements for provisioning, maintenance schedule, and anything else relevant to the use, care, and feeding of this dingus, as soon as possible. Err on t
he side of inclusion. If you’re unsure it’s relevant, put it in the printout. Time to delivery?”

  The bioengineer looked off again. “I think I can have the first one ready for you by the end of Octember or the beginning of November. The second one would follow about three months afterward.” She frowned. “Did you really just write a check for sixteen million dekas?”

  “Indeed I did. To your clan.” Althea tore the check from the book and passed it across the desk between them. “Have someone take it to Jacksonville Surety immediately after I leave. I guarantee that they’ll honor it without batting an eyelash.” Althea rose and smiled frostily. “I’ll be waiting for my merchandise.”

  * * *

  “This is quite unexpected,” Alexander Dunbarton said. He waved Charisse into a guest chair and seated himself at his desk. “Why didn’t you radio?”

  Charisse shrugged. “Some subjects shouldn’t be blatted out over a frequency anyone might accidentally tune into.”

  The Dunbarton patriarch frowned. “Which of us is in trouble, Charisse? Because I have no idea what you’re hinting at.”

  “Not trouble, Alex.” Charisse smiled wanly. “Boredom, nothing more. You’re aware that two years ago I resigned as head of Clan Morelon?”

  Dunbarton nodded. “No one expected it. The shock waves traveled quite a distance. They’re still reverberating in some households.”

  “Now why would my decision to retire to a life of private contemplation have shaken so many other clans?” Charisse’s smile became impish. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone but my kin would even have taken notice.”

  Dunbarton snorted. “If I were to retire, not even my kinsmen would notice. Your tenure as head of Clan Morelon was quite another matter. If anyone in Jacksonville remembers a time before you, he must be a Morelon.” He leaned toward her. “But you must tell me, Charisse: did you jump, or were you pushed?”

  A chill went through Charisse Morelon. She said as steadily as she could manage, “What makes that question rise to your lips?”

  Dunbarton’s lips twitched. “You do. I’ve known dozens of clan heads. Not one of them has ever approached the degree of influence you wielded, or came near to your assertiveness in using it. I could never have imagined that you’d give up your position short of death...until you actually did so.”