Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1)

by Francis W. Porretto

  She fell back. His expression held nothing she could discern.

  "Ethan, are you --"

  "All right?" he said. "I suppose so. At least, I don't feel any pain. No sense of physical violation. Most rape victims don't come out of it half this well."

  "Ethan!"

  "Save it." There was a sharpness in the words she'd never before heard from him. He rose, swung himself off their bed, and turned to glare at her.

  "You had all of me," he said. "I gave you all I am or ever was. I renounced my career, my family, my friends, even my hope of a family of my own. I wanted to protect you from things I couldn't even define. But that wasn't enough, was it?"

  "Ethan --"

  "Save it. I'm not interested in what you have to say. You're not the woman I thought you were. You're not the woman I gave up everything I cared about to care for." He waved at her imperiously. "Get off the bed and onto your feet."

  "But --"

  "Do it." He put a hand to the explosive collar around his neck. She quickly slithered off their bed and stood before him.

  He moved toward her, fury blazing from his eyes, and she edged away. "You wanted a consort. You wanted a companion in your confinement. You wanted sex, and comfort, and a distraction from your state. But you didn't want a lover." He stepped forward again, and she retreated. "You didn't want a free companion. You didn't want an equal." Step by step he forced her deeper into their apartment. "You certainly didn't want someone with notions about his own autonomy or worth."

  She slid backward before his rage until her back met the door to their bathroom. He moved forward, and she pressed herself backward against it.

  "You never wanted me," he whispered.

  She wrenched open the bathroom door, slammed it closed between them, and slid to the floor in a huddle, whimpering.

  For a long interval there was nothing from the other side but silence.

  At last his voice came, faint as the murmuring of leaves in the wind.

  "Good-bye, Terra."

  She straightened and laid her head against the door, straining to hear the click that would announce his departure from her life.

  The concussion drove the door into her, and her into the opposite wall, hard enough to shatter the sheetrock panel and impress the rocky pattern of the wall permanently into her flesh. When the deafening thunder of the blast arrived an instant later, she was already unconscious.

  Chapter 43

  Charisse had never before seen a man caught so firmly between fury and befuddlement.

  "Miss Morelon," Charles Petrus grated, "Dr. Ianushkevich and I have good and sufficient reasons for not exposing ourselves to public scrutiny."

  She looked over at Chuck, who sat next to her at the long conference table. He grinned, laid his huge hand over hers and squeezed gently.

  "It's your hand, darlin'," he said. "It's up to you to play it."

  I could swear he's enjoying this.

  "Your privacy, Dr. Petrus," she said levelly, "means nothing to me. I am here to save a hundred million lives. What might be the sole remnant of Man. How do you suppose that would weigh against your preference for anonymity?" She leaned forward and glared into his eyes. "How would it compare to your desire not to be torn limb from limb?"

  Petrus's color fled and his lips parted. He said nothing.

  "You've failed to secure my brother's cooperation, have you not? As of three months ago, when you and Dr. Ianushkevich visited him in the Hopeless enclave, you had nowhere else to turn, wasn't it so? Has anything changed since then? Anything substantive?"

  The agronomist winced. He put a hand to his forehead as if to shade his eyes from the sun. Presently, he murmured "No."

  Chuck's hand tightened on hers. His face was a portrait of confusion.

  Of course. I haven't told him about any of this.

  Time enough later.

  "Among my resources," she said in a low voice, "I number the services of the most accomplished genetic engineer on Hope. He has agreed to help me produce a child. A very special child, that has Armand's exact genetic map."

  Petrus's eyes opened to their widest stops. "A clone?"

  She shook her head. "Not quite. The child will be mine, parthenogenetically conceived and then microsurgically altered until its DNA is identical to Armand's in every respect. My engineer can do that. He can also force-nurture the fetus toward maturity, such that what would normally take nine months will be done in about five. At least, he thinks he can. But some questions remain. What use could you and Dr, Ianushkevich make of a newborn psi adept?"

  Chuck's grip on her hand had become excruciating. His expression had frozen into an unreadable mask.

  "If I understood what little I overheard in the Hopeless enclave, Dr. Petrus, I must assume that Armand won't be rescuing us from the ecological death of Hope. Not wanting to die just yet, I thought I might provide you with an alternative. But before I surrender a helpless infant to the tender mercies of men who've secretly run the entire world for twelve centuries, I must be assured that he...that the alternative will be useful to you. So here I am." She bore down with all the force of her lineage and personality. "Would a newborn of Armand's genetic composition be capable of assuming the duties to which you'd hoped to attract him? Is there some program by which you could transform that helpless, unresisting infant into a new God for Hope?"

  Petrus sat silent for what seemed an eternity. Beside her, Chuck was visibly trembling.

  This is the point of no return. If I've erred, I've done so in full foreknowledge and irretrievably. There can be no forgiveness for deeding an innocent baby into lifelong slavery and irremediable death. But with the fate of Man on Hope on the line, I could do nothing else.

  She closed her eyes.

  After a timeless interval, Petrus rose.

  "We'll have to talk to Dmitri."

  He went to the intercom, lifted the handset, punched a combination and waited.

  "Dmitri? What?" His expression went in an instant from tension to horror. "How did -- Never mind. I'm coming."

  He slammed the handset back into place and whirled to face Charisse.

  "I have to go. Stay here. I'll try to be back quickly."

  "Dr. Petrus --" Charisse faltered.

  "Stay here. Or do as you please. You will anyway."

  He raced out.

  ***

  Charisse couldn't decide what to do. It was drawing near to an hour since Petrus's hasty departure, he'd given no indication of what had alarmed him, and there'd been no communication from him since. As the minutes ticked past, she edged ever nearer to declaring her gambit a failure and returning to Morelon House.

  No one else entered the little conference room. No one knocked at the door. It was impossible to tell if anyone but Petrus and the departmental secretary knew they were there.

  Chuck Feigner remained beside her, silent, impassive, his huge hand wrapped snugly around hers. He seemed perfectly content to wait with her, as if he had nothing else to concern him, no one else to see, and nothing of importance to do.

  He's a comfort. I could stand to have more of...of his sort of temperament in my life.

  She sought his eyes. He noticed, and looked a query at her, yet his deadpan remained as it was.

  "I was going to ask you something," she said slowly, "but I can't quite find the words."

  He smiled wanly. "Start with a W."

  "Hm?" She frowned.

  "Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?"

  She snorted. "How doesn't begin with a W."

  He squeezed her hand. "I'm a believer in expedient spelling. So which of those words would have led off your question?"

  "Uh, when."

  He nodded. "And after that?"

  She breathed deeply. "Okay. When you heard me tell Petrus what I propose to do, what ran through your mind?"

  The affability faded from his face. It was definite despite his deadpan demeanor. She braced herself for a storm.

  "I couldn't follow a lot of
it," he said. "But it didn't sound like you."

  What?

  "Well, if you'd been -- Hey, wait, what do you mean by that? You don't even know me!"

  His eyes narrowed, and the hint of a grin returned. He looked down at her hand, which he hadn't released since their arrival there, brought his other hand to it and chafed it gently.

  "You don't think so? You could be right, I guess. But I don't feel that way. I spent most of a school year hearing Armand talk about you, how bright you are, how pretty, how lively, how sweet-natured..." He looked into her eyes, and her face grew warm. "He read your letters the instant they arrived. Nothing charged him up like a letter from you. There was nothing he looked forward to more than that. He read them aloud to me. Then I got a second dose from Terry Chistyakowski, doubled and redoubled. She was so thrilled at the prospect of having you for a sister, Chary, she bubbled over at the thought of it." He paused. "That's what Armand called you, isn't it?"

  "My whole family did," she croaked. "Once."

  My whole decimated family. My missing grandfather, and my absent brother, and my all but comatose mother, and all my cousins. Leaderless, except for me. And none of them call me Chary any more.

  Chuck's gaze was solemn, but curiously warm.

  "I've been hoping I would get to hear you giggle."

  "What?"

  "Armand said your giggle was the happiest sound ever heard on Hope." He caressed her hand again. "He said it was only when he heard your giggle that he knew he was home. I guess you don't have a lot to giggle about, these days."

  She started to speak, caught herself, looked away, said "I used to," and burst into a full-throated wail of grief. Her tears rushed forth in a flood as Chuck pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. She buried her face against his chest and wailed her full measure, all restraint abandoned, all her defenses down.

  He held her snugly, a mountain of comfort and gentle strength. Within the fortress of his arms, she could leave off being the mistress of a great house, to whom hundreds of her kinsmen looked for guidance and reassurance. She could forget for a little while that her body held her world's sole hope for survival. For the first time in almost two years, she was not friendless nor alone.

  ***

  Charisse had nearly fallen asleep in Chuck's arms when Charles Petrus returned.

  The agronomist had brought Dmitri Ianushkevich with him. The short, slight figure of the parapsychologist seemed to have been reduced from what she remembered. He carried himself like a man waiting to die.

  Maybe he is.

  She climbed down from Chuck's embrace, stood as formally straight as she could manage, and held out a hand.

  "Thank you for coming, Dr. Ianushkevich. I assure you, what I have to say will be worth your time to hear."

  The parapsychologist took her hand but did not shake it. Though he said nothing, made no gesture, and wore neither a smile nor a frown, a palpable wave of negation flowed from him.

  "Is there a...new problem?"

  Ianushkevich glanced at Petrus. The agronomist said, "She doesn't know," and returned to silence.

  The parapsychologist stepped forward and pulled both her hands into his own.

  "My dear," he said, "we simply don't know. We could be on the verge of utter catastrophe. Or we could have quite as much time as we thought, if not more. Terra -- our Goddess -- has just gone catatonic. She witnessed her lover's suicide not two hours ago. We haven't been able to rouse her. We have no idea what state her mind is in, or whether her subconscious will continue to protect the ecology of Hope. I'm afraid it will be some time before we do know. But even if the worst of all eventualities hasn't come to pass, I'm just as afraid that your...offer will do us no good. Our techniques can't be used on an immature brain, and the collapse will be too rapid to allow your proposed child time to mature sufficiently."

  Charisse's world telescoped down to the mournful black eyes of Dmitri Ianushkevich. She groped for Chuck's hand, found it, and pressed it to her chest.

  "Then without Armand..." she said.

  Ianushkevich nodded. "Unless we're radically wrong about how much time we have left, the planet will die."

  She stumbled backward, found the edge of a chair and fell into it as her vision went black.

  Some time later, she awoke to find Chuck peering at her expectantly.

  "How long..." She struggled to sit up straight. "How long was I out?"

  Chuck shrugged. "Maybe an hour."

  "What happened to Petrus and Ianushkevich?"

  Another shrug.

  "Did you try to wake me?"

  He shook his head. "You looked like you could use the rest."

  There's no more time for rest. I have to get Armand back here at once. No matter what it takes.

  She clambered out of the chair and stood with some difficulty.

  "Chuck, I have to get back to Morelon House." She took his hand and squeezed it. "Thank you for everything. You've been more than a friend. May I presume on our short acquaintance for one thing more?"

  "Name it," he said.

  She shook her head free of cobwebs and mustered her will.

  "I need a radio and some privacy in which to use it."

  He nodded. "I can do better than that." He held out a hand. "Come with me."

  She slammed the door of the little conference room behind them.

  Chapter 44

  The gloom was deep when the train reached the Jacksonville station.

  Armand debarked from the train gingerly, as if for his foot to touch the soil of Jacksonville would commit him to a course he might yet refuse. Standing on the bottom step of the exit stair, he glanced back over his shoulder at Teresza. She held Valerie snugly in both arms and gazed at him with a mixture of affection and concern.

  "It'll be all right," he said.

  She said nothing.

  Was that for her or for me?

  He hopped down from the train, resettled his backpack on his shoulders, and offered his hand up to Teresza. She shook her head and hopped down beside him. Valerie bounced in her arms and spat something that might have been a giggle.

  "Isn't she getting a little heavy to be doing stuff like that?"

  Teresza shook her head. "I hardly even notice the weight." She looked quickly around at the scatter of passengers descending from the train, and the torpid state of the terminal around them.

  "No cabs or ultralights," she murmured.

  "Yeah, I noticed." The lateness of the hour disturbed him. The walk to Morelon House wouldn't be unduly strenuous. They didn't have much to carry, except for Valerie. But neither of them was armed.

  I never thought how that would feel. We went without our guns in Defiance for nearly two years and never bothered about it. But here I am, back in so-called civilization, surrounded by what used to be my neighbors, and I'm unarmed and feel naked.

  "Terry..."

  "I know," she said at once. "The little bulges, right?"

  He nodded.

  "We didn't see those bulges in Defiance," she said. "The few guns up there were as likely to spit sparks and electrophoretic gel as hypersonic needles. So were we safer then, or are we safer now?"

  "I don't know," he said. "But there are plenty of guns at Morelon House. I'm going to get us both heeled as soon as we're inside."

  The path that snaked through the little gaggle of commercial buildings, that they'd walked in such leisure when first she came to visit him at his home, didn't invite them as it had then. It looked more like a gauntlet to be run than a road to welcome and security.

  "We'd better get moving," he said.

  They trudged down the path.

  The area was as he remembered it. The shops were all familiar; perhaps one or two had been repainted, but no names or wares had visibly changed. The path's guard of mason and bolivar trees was still unmixed with any Earth species, though stands of Earth firs were in plain sight not a hundred yards away. The air tasted as it usually had. The sky was no deeper dark, nor the
evening silence more ominous, than it had been when he'd strolled there as a boy. Yet it did not feel like home.

  Do I want this to be home again?

  He had no answer for himself.

  When Morelon House came into view his unease spiked. The great mansion was unnaturally still. Few of its windows were lit. He saw no movement in any of them. He heard none of the habitual evening noises of his family at play. The slate path was unobstructed, but the sense of welcome was absent from it.

  It's my home. I was never exiled from it. I'm not returning in disgrace. I'm coming back with my wife and child to shelter with those who love me.

  The door was unlocked.

  They closed the door behind them and stood there in the entranceway, uncertain. The mansion was as silent as a crypt.

  "Everyone must be asleep," Teresza whispered.

  Not unless it's a lot later than I thought.

  He broke through his reluctance and strode for the hearthroom. Teresza scampered to keep up.

  There was no fire in the great hearth. The room was dark.

  They turned and made for the kitchen, and found it the same. Armand gestured to Teresza to take a seat, grabbed some scrap paper and a few lengths from the woodpile, and built a fire in the lesser oven. Within a few minutes, the room glowed with light and warmth.

  He stood before the stove, eyes on the little fire, remembering. He'd eaten the majority of his meals there. He'd first made coffee for Teresza there. He'd announced his engagement to her there.

  He'd last seen his mother and grandfather there.

  "Armand?"

  "It's okay, Terry," he said, voice rough.

  But it's not okay. I have to hope I can make it okay.

  "Are you hungry?" he said.

  "Not really," she said. "I was hoping for an early bed."

  He turned to her. Her face, thinner and coarser than it had been those two years ago, was softened by the firelight to the luminous beauty of their betrothal day.

  "In the bed where we first made love?" he said.

  She nodded. "If it's available. But with Valerie beside us. Okay?"