Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1)

by Francis W. Porretto

  He tried to thrust the thought from his head, fix his attention completely on his driving, but it proved impossible.

  He did not notice the earth tremors gradually gaining force beneath them. The rattling of the truck as it passed down the cable perimeter obscured them until they were a handful of miles from the Bakunin reactor.

  Petrus came out of his cocoon of silence. He turned his head from side to side. There was a fearful sharpness in his eyes, as if he suspected the nearness of some large, swift predator.

  "Did you feel that?" he said.

  Ianushkevich glanced over at him. "It's just the cable path, Charlie. They don't --"

  "Not that." Petrus's face was drawn tight. "There's a subsonic. About eight beats per second. It's getting stronger."

  Ianushkevich strained to perceive what Petrus had described.

  "How did you...feel it?"

  "Through my cheekbones." A note of fear hummed beneath the words.

  And suddenly it rang in Ianushkevich's facial bones and sinuses as well: a jackhammering cadence, reaching from the earth through the truck's chassis and into their bodies, that swelled swiftly to become the drumroll of an angry God.

  The Bakunin reactor lay directly ahead of them. Ianushkevich could see the tremors rippling through its concrete shell. Panic brought his foot down convulsively on the brake. The truck slewed wildly from side to side, straightened, and came to a stop.

  Ianushkevich and Petrus peered through the windscreen in horror.

  "Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer, no!" the parapsychologist breathed.

  As they watched, the containment of the power plant, a hundred-thirty-foot dome of concrete and steel, alabaster white in the noonday sun, shivered and collapsed.

  From beneath the rubble came the thin wail of a disaster alarm.

  ***

  Idem screamed in terror and pain.

  It had railed against Its confinement for twelve hundred years, but it had never known anything to match the Other's fresh rending of Its body. Its redoubt in the core rang continuously from the hail of blows that seemed to grow stronger with each instant. The very crust of the world was shaken and torn. Its lifeblood geysered freely into the winds above in three places. The southern continent was threatened with complete destruction.

  Even if Idem were freed, It could not close the wounds before a terrible, irreparable ravagement of Its face had occurred. The Other's fury had changed it for all time.

  It knew that Its life was at stake at last.

  It had felt the beginning of a tenuous contact with the weaker of the Others only hours before. Its mind, though alien, seemed...benign. It knew itself to be finite, a knowledge hard won for the Being hidden in the core of Hope. Incredibly, the Other believed that one day it would be no more...that the time of its extinction was swiftly approaching.

  How could a mind believe such a thing? Believing it, how could it go on?

  Yet it is benign. It must be. Its thoughts sang with love and joy. But love of what? Itself alone?

  Idem was shaken by an unprecedented thought.

  Could it be My salvation? Could it be induced to love...Me?

  Even as the blows rained down from above, It reeled with the surge of new hope.

  In the mental state it attained a few hours ago, I was barely able to reach it. If I could do it again, could I be clearer than I was? More inviting? Will it return to that state soon enough to save Me?

  There was only one way to know.

  It composed itself as best It could in the hellish din, and waited.

  Chapter 48

  "You've told us twice now," Teodor Chistyakowski said, "about the deterioration of the God after fifty or so years of service. Inevitable madness and death. Inevitable." He sipped from his mug, peered down into it as if it held something he hadn't expected, and set it down before him. "But you haven't told us how you know it."

  Armand furtively surveyed the faces around the table. More than one had darkened with an indecipherable question. Only Elyse showed neither dismay nor surprise.

  "I gleaned it from their thoughts."

  Chistyakowski's eyes were intent upon him. "Ianushkevich and Petrus?"

  Armand nodded. "And another man whose name I never knew."

  "Have your...gleanings ever led you astray"

  Armand smiled tightly. "Never."

  "That's quite a talent."

  Armand said nothing.

  "It implies that you can't be deceived."

  "I wouldn't know about that."

  "But if you can read people's thoughts --"

  "Do you think it's impossible to lie to oneself, Teodor?"

  Chistyakowski halted in mid-sentence.

  "If you can do that," Armand said, "then you can certainly think a falsehood. But I have no reason to suspect that that was the case, when I did my snooping. They had no idea I was, ah, listening in."

  "That's purely conjecture."

  "I'm afraid not. There are unmistakable indicators in a man's mental patterns when he suspects -- or expects -- that his thoughts are being read. So if you're looking to cast doubt on my assessment of the price of the Godhood, you can forget it."

  Chistyakowski's face darkened, Before he could frame a reply, Teresza said, "Dad."

  "What, Terry?"

  "Stop trying to make my husband out to be a liar and a coward. You should know better."

  "Oh? And how should I know that?"

  "Because," Teresza said, her voice edged with don't-play-games overtones, "you made me what I am, and I married him."

  Chistyakowski's face filled with blood. Armand tensed, though he knew full well that the genesmith would never even utter a harsh word to his daughter. The rest of the convocation sat still.

  "Teodor," Charisse murmured, "if Armand can't do what he says he can, we're all doomed anyway. So let it go."

  Armand felt Chuck's approval, a wave of warmth so rich and palpable that it was impossible that Charisse didn't feel it too. Perhaps she did; she glanced over at him, read the approving smile on his face, and returned it. He squeezed her hand, and they sat back.

  Armand succumbed to impulse.

  You dislike me, he thought-cast forcefully at his father-in-law. I didn't have to read your thoughts to learn that. But your dislike has nothing to do with what I am, what I know, or what I can do. Or what your daughter feels for me, come to think of it. So let's try to stay civil.

  Teodor Chistyakowski's eyes snapped as wide as if he'd been cuffed. Presently his gaze settled on Armand with the grudging respect of their night in Defiance. He nodded all but imperceptibly.

  "All right," Chistyakowski said. "But there's more to talk about than the 'what' of it. Do you have any idea of the why?"

  "Hm? Do you mean --"

  "What do you think?"

  "Teodor," Armand rumbled, "if that's a serious question --"

  "It is."

  "-- then you're implying that the...the phenomenon isn't...isn't --"

  "Isn't inherent in the extension of your psi powers by the Cabal's techniques. No, I'm implying that it might not be. Not necessarily."

  "But what would that matter?"

  Teodor smiled faintly. He rose and went to the stove for more coffee.

  "Armand," Chuck said, "If it's not inherent, then you're not doing it to yourself. Which would mean...?"

  "That something is -- would be -- doing it to me?"

  Teodor resumed his seat, his gently superior smile still in place. "Very good. So if that's the case, there's a chance we might be able to find the external cause of the God's deterioration and neutralize it."

  "But if it isn't, then --"

  "Why think about that?" Teodor said with a casual wave. "If that's the case, then there's no hope, the world is doomed, or at least Earth-born Man upon it, and we might as well play checkers as talk about this any further. So let's assume that the more favorable possibility is the correct one. It's the only chance we've got, so why not?"

  Armand locked ey
es with his father-in-law. The challenge there was unmistakable.

  "Why not?" Armand said softly. "Why not, indeed?"

  Upon Armand's last word, the lights went out.

  ***

  "Dare we continue, Dmitri?"

  Ianushkevich could not tear his eyes from the glowing rubble of the installation that had provided power to a quarter million homes. He could see no motion, no sign of life. He fought a powerful need to bow his head and weep.

  There could be two hundred dead and wounded in there. We should do what we can for them. If we were on any other sort of errand...

  "We dare not do anything else, Charles." And quickly, at that. No telling what sort of release might have just occurred. We could have days to live, or hours. "Armand is unlikely to remain stationary for long."

  Petrus peered through the windscreen at the collapsed containment dome. "Why do you assume he's sitting still for us just now?"

  Ianushkevich yanked the gearshift to reverse, pulled the truck back a few yards, and plowed forward into the brush that flanked the cable run. Thankfully, it wasn't high, nor was it unusually dense. The truck jounced and staggered, crunching unsteadily over the woody weeds that filled the field surrounding the Bakunin power complex. He circumnavigated the reactor as closely as he dared. Alarms continued to sound from the huge mound of detritus, screaming alternately high and low, summoning all who dared to come to the aid of the men who'd lit their homes until a bare three minutes before.

  "I've assumed nothing," he said, gripping the wheel tightly as the bouncing, swaying truck did its best to hurl them from their seats. "Morelon House is simply our best chance. If he's there, we do what we must to...secure his cooperation. If he's not, we do what we must to determine his movements, track him down, and then secure his cooperation. Any other course...need I say more, Charles?"

  Petrus did not reply. Presently Ianushkevich guided the truck out of the thickets and back onto the undisturbed cable run at the eastern edge of the Bakunin complex.

  "What do you suppose Durrell is doing just now?" Petrus asked.

  Ianushkevich said nothing.

  "Dmitri?"

  "Everything he can think of that might yield a constructive result," Ianushkevich said. He straightened the wheel and stepped down as hard as he dared on the gas, and the truck surged forward. "In other words, nothing, Probably."

  "And what are we doing?"

  "The only thing we can think of that might save a hundred million lives."

  "To the same effect?"

  Ianushkevich kept his eyes on the cable run stretching before him. Seventy miles to go to Jacksonville.

  "Probably."

  ***

  As the lights failed and the menfolk's voices sharpened with new tension, Teresza silently rose from her place and slipped from the kitchen. She made her way through the murk of the halls more by physical memory than by sight, fingers trailing along the rough stone of the walls until she'd passed enough doorjambs to bring her to the room she and Armand had occupied the night before. The door opened to a touch, revealing the bed they'd left unmade, the closet and dresser they'd yet to use, and the two rough backpacks in which they'd carried the few possessions they'd brought from Defiance.

  She closed the door carefully behind her. It darkened the bedroom only slightly. She sat for a moment at the edge of the bed, willing herself to relax, pondering what use she might make of her moment of solitude.

  I can't contribute to whatever they're arguing about down the hall. I don't think I'd want to if I could. Anyway, Armand will have the last word no matter what the others say. I just need a little peace, before I go out of my mind from frustration and worry.

  She ran her hand along the silken surface of the coverlet. Strange that it should feel so alien, when she, Armand, and Valerie had lain asleep under it only hours earlier. Yet she couldn't help contrasting it to the rough flaxen blankets that were all they'd had to shield them from the cold in their hovel in Defiance. She'd wanted to reserve a few square yards of Charisse's silk for their use, but Armand had immediately overruled her.

  He was so concerned about holding our standards down to those of our neighbors, or even a little below. Wouldn't take a gratuity from anyone. Wouldn't tolerate any outward expressions of deference. Wouldn't even accept thanks for his efforts at our neighbors' request. Yet he was so stern and straight with the people who came to negotiate with him from Victory, Resolve, and Thule.

  Her fingers bunched involuntarily, crushing the coverlet in her hand.

  Was he right? Was it really that important to keep them from exalting us as their rulers?

  Unless they returned, she would never know. Maybe not even if they returned.

  She slid from the bed, hoisted her backpack, and fished within it for the present Maria Simpson had given her at their parting. For a moment she feared she'd lost it somehow on their journey. When her fingers closed on the little book, she was overpowered with relief.

  There was no title on its cover. The leaves were fine and brittle with age. Maria hadn't known how old it was; she'd said it had been in her family for more generations than anyone could remember. At the last, she'd pressed it into Teresza's hands, against her protests.

  "Keep it near you. I've marked a place for you. It's the only thing that kept me sane, most of my years with Nigel. You'll need it more than I ever did. Armand, too, He has no idea what trials lie before him." The widow had fallen briefly silent, as if at the memory of a great sorrow. "They'll be your trials, too."

  A thin ribbon of some soft fabric ran between the pages: obviously the placemarker of which Maria had spoken, at the special passage she'd wanted Teresza to visit. Teresza opened the book and parted the pages carefully to expose the marked place, and read aloud to herself.

  "And it came to pass, as he was praying in a certain place, that when he ceased, one of his disciples said unto him, Lord, teach us to pray, even as John also taught his disciples. And he said unto them, When ye pray, say, Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us day by day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins; as we forgive those who have sinned against us. And lead us not into temptation...."

  Something in the ancient text pulled at her in a place she did not know she had, called her to a state she had never before experienced. Without realizing it, she slipped from the edge of the bed and descended to her knees, the book clutched in her hands.

  "And he said to them, Which of you shall have a friend, and shall go to him at midnight, and say to him, Friend, lend me three loaves; for a friend of mine is come to me from a journey, and I have nothing to set before him; and he from within shall answer and say, Trouble me not: the door is now shut, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot rise and give you? I say unto you, Though he will not rise and give him because he is his friend, yet because of his importunity he will arise and give him as many as he needs. And I say to you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened to you. For every one that asks shall receive; and he that seeks shall find; and to him that knocks it shall be opened..."

  Her consciousness of time and place dwindled to a faint shadow.

  “So I say to you: Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks shall find, and to him who knocks, the door shall be opened. What father among you, if your son asks for a fish, will you give him a snake? Or if he asks for an egg, will you give him a scorpion? If ye then, although you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

  The world she knew had faded from sight. In its place was a vista of an arid wilderness, wherein a man of uncouth appearance in a tattered white robe stood before a crowd of baffled and disbelieving peasants, lecturing to them with the firmness of an authority beyond all question. He spoke
to them of the things they'd hidden in their innermost hearts, and hearing him, they lost their hold on the mundane certainties that were all they'd known.

  "No man, when he has lighted a candle, puts it in a secret place, neither under a bushel, but on a candlestick, that they who enter may see the light. The light of the body is the eye: therefore when your eye is sound, your whole body also is full of light; but when your eye is diseased, your body also is full of darkness. Take heed therefore that the light which is in you be not darkness. If your whole body therefore be full of light, having no part dark, the whole shall be full of light, as when the bright shining of a candle gives you light...."

  She did not notice when the door opened and Armand came to her.

  Chapter 49

  News of the disaster at the Bakunin power complex was slow to reach the towns the reactor had powered. The survivors of the disaster were fully occupied with the succor of the wounded and the struggle to regain control of the plant; no one could be spared to alert the town of Bakunin, more than four miles from the reactor itself.

  Bakunin and the more distant communities that drew their primary power from the reactor had suffered power outages before. The townsfolk's confidence in Hope's modest infrastructure was strong. They assumed that the power loss was merely a fluctuation of the usual sort, that they need only have patience, and that all would shortly be as it was before. They had no reason to think otherwise; no hint of the tightly focused temblor that collapsed the reactor's containment dome had reached them.

  Presently, Victoria's flailings found another weak spot in the planetary crust, this one near to the center of Teller, one of the most populous regions in western Alta. The magma barrier there was basalt, strong but thin. One of Victoria's psi bolts punched a hole cleanly through it. It was a small hole, a mere eighteen inches in diameter. But it was large enough to pass a magma geyser that showered tens of thousands of tons of molten rock, at a temperature of more than two thousand degrees, over a community of sixty thousand men, women, and children for nearly seven minutes before it was plugged by accumulating detritus.