Which Art In Hope (Spooner Federation Saga Book 1) Read online

  "How come so late, big guy?" Charisse's smile was impossibly wide.

  "Oh, some stuff I had to do at the last minute. Nothing you want to hear about. Hey, did you know Vicki Peterson is at Gallatin?"

  "Uh, yeah." Charisse looked flustered. "Nobody thought you'd care."

  "It's okay. I ran into her just this morning."

  "Was she, uh, friendly?"

  "Yeah." A lot friendlier than I would have expected. "Do you ever bump into Connie?"

  "Not much. He keeps to himself." Charisse swept her eyes about the foyer as if she'd only just realized where they were. She sprang to her feet and tugged him up alongside her, then pulled him into the hearthroom.

  As usual in the winter, there was a large fire burning in the man-sized hearth. Its lights played randomly off the many surfaces and textures of the hearthroom. Through the large windows along the back wall, the already deep snows could be seen accumulating still further.

  Though the Morelons were many, and well dispersed over the northern continent of Hope, it was at Jacksonville that the clan stored its memories. Large display cases lined the unfinished log walls. One contained the diaries that chronicled the family's sixty generations on Hope. Others housed mementos of every significant adventure or achievement any Morelon had ever had. The largest of all was divided into airtight compartments, each filled with clippings of cornsilk. There was a sample from every harvest their farm had produced for nearly twelve centuries, each tied into a bundle, tagged and dated in a neat, uniform hand.

  On the long, rough-hewn sofa that had graced the room for a dozen generations sat Elyse and Alain Morelon. They rose as Armand and Charisse entered.

  Armand went to his mother and gathered her into his arms. Elyse was tall, slender, and graceful, and kept herself beautifully groomed. Her thick black hair smelled like a grove of Earth pines after a rain.

  "Welcome home, Armand. We've missed you."

  "I've missed you too, Mom. I'm sorry I kept you up so late."

  "It's all right, son. You're here now. Grandpere," she said as she turned to Alain, "welcome your heir as he deserves."

  Alain Morelon moved forward. His tall, slender frame seemed to glide on an unseen current. He held his leonine head back in characteristically formal carriage.

  Armand had never seen his grandfather move quickly, though the patriarch of the Morelons was as hale as any man of Hope. His pace was always stately, as if at a coronation procession. Perhaps he thought it undignified for the last of the First Settlers to be seen scurrying about. Yet no consideration of dignity muted the delight in his face at his grandson's return.

  Alain extended his hand, and Armand folded it into his own.

  "My heir has grown still further, I see. How tall now, my boy?"

  Armand grinned. "Six foot four, Grandpere. I think I'll stop, before shirts become any more expensive. What keeps you down at the main house so late?"

  "You do." The head of the Morelon clan turned serious. "How is it at university?"

  Alain's black eyes probed his grandson's. "Well," Armand said, "it's exciting, and challenging, and a lot of fun all at once. It might not have much to do with my future, but I'll enjoy it while it lasts."

  Alain nodded. "Have you chosen a course of study?"

  "Humanities."

  "Ah! We shall have an educated man to tend the corn. Well, the seeds won't mind if you recite verse as you plant, and the stalks won't object if you argue philosophy with them as you harvest. Mind you, no verse at harvest time, though."

  Armand chuckled. "How are things here, Grandpere?"

  The pleasure faded from Alain's face. "Not entirely satisfactory, my boy. We've had crop failures in two of the outlying fields, failures to ripen where none have been seen for more than four centuries. I took clippings and soil samples to the Leschitsyns at the end of the season, and they could make nothing of them. The rest of the crop was good and the loss was bearable, yet I worry."

  Armand nodded. "Might they need to be rested?"

  "They were rested three seasons ago, grandson. We will rest them again this coming season, but I doubt the use."

  Armand thought a moment more, then shrugged. "It's not a topic for year's end, anyway. Mother?" He turned back to Elyse, who stood with an arm around his sister. "Is there cider ready to be mulled over this magnificent fire? Perhaps mulled already?"

  "Armand," she said, smiling, "is it winter, and is this Morelon House?"

  ***

  Teresza stepped back as her father Teodor relaxed his bearlike embrace. Other travelers streamed out of the train and past them on either side, making for their own homes or for the ultralights that would get them there. Pilots hawked craft-for-hire over the general din.

  "How have things been, Dad?" She picked up her valise. The two of them started the short walk home from the Henryville terminal.

  "Slow. I've had to make do on tutoring, reclamation and odd jobs lately."

  "No new clients?"

  "Not lately. Alex has been getting all the business. Lately all the clients want sun resistance."

  Teresza grinned. "That's a seasonal thing. Your side of it will pick up soon."

  He shrugged. "I know. Convincing the bank is harder."

  "Want me to make some sales calls with you? Show 'em what they could have if they dealt with you?"

  Her father's eyes crinkled at their edges. "Sure, if you're willing. You were always my best advertising. How about we do a few the day after tomorrow?"

  Their talk passed to details of scheduling. Presently they arrived at their home, a modest ranch with quarried stone walls and a slate roof. Teresza deposited her bag in her room, noted that all was as it always was, and returned to the kitchen where her father was assembling a light dinner. A few minutes later they sat down over plates of cheese, crackers and fruit.

  "So what news of the ivory tower, Terry?"

  She tried to sound casual. "Nothing really new...well, maybe one thing."

  Teodor examined her face. As always when he focused on her, she fancied she could feel his enormous intelligence washing over her in a succession of cool, invigorating waves.

  "And his name is -- ?"

  Of course he'd know without being told.

  "Armand. He's a freshman, but he's really smart and nice."

  "And good looking, I'll bet."

  She blushed. "Well, yes."

  "No shame in that, Terry. What's his course of study?"

  "Uh, humanities, I think."

  Her father pursed his lips. "Hard to make much of a living from that. Unless he plans to write?"

  She popped a wedge of apple into her mouth, chewed it carefully and swallowed it. "I don't think so, Dad. His family's in agriculture. They have a big spread along the Kropotkin where they grow corn. He'll probably go back home to run it when he's done at Gallatin."

  Teodor Chistyakowski chewed at his lip. "Terry, is Armand's last name Morelon?"

  She sat back in her chair. "Yes, how did you know?"

  He emitted a laugh that was equal parts amusement and embarrassment.

  "Let's just say I'd like to check my records before the two of you start making long-term plans."

  Teresza put a hand to her mouth.

  "Oh."

  ***

  "Have you tracked the Morelon boy down yet?"

  Victoria lowered her spoon into her soup. "Just this morning, Mom. He was surprised to see me." She hesitated. "He's got himself a girlfriend."

  Elizabeth Peterson's face was cold. "See what happens when you take your eye off your objective?"

  Victoria glanced at her brother Conrad. The diminutive sixteen-year-old looked as if he hadn't heard a word of the exchange. He might have been trying to pretend he was alone in the room.

  "The 'objective' had a few ideas of his own, Mom. There wasn't much I could do about it at the time."

  Her mother did not respond. For several minutes the crackling from the hearth and her brother's slurping were the only sounds i
n the little kitchen.

  She hasn't got much idea how hard a fish a Morelon is to hook.

  "Is there someone else in your plans, Victoria?"

  Her mouth fell open.

  "No, Mom, you know I'd have said something."

  Anger flared in her mother's hazel eyes. "Would you, now? Would you have come to me and told me about him? Would you have given me the information I needed to assess him before you let your loins start doing your thinking? Would you have secured my approval?"

  Victoria clamped her lips together. Her brother dropped his spoon into his empty bowl and grimaced at their mother.

  "Mom, tomorrow is Sacrifice Day. Do we have to spoil it by fighting tonight?"

  Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer, Connie, don't put your oar into this now!

  Elizabeth Peterson rose from her chair and rounded the table to stand between her children. She grasped an ear from each head and hauled them to their feet, then dragged them out of the kitchen and into the workroom where she spent her days.

  Their family's means of sustenance stood there: a pedal-operated shoemaker's lathe and a large wooden workbench with a highbacked chair. The bench held piles of leather in various colors and sizes, heavy gauge needles, brushes, pots of glue and dye. The lathe was ancient and showed signs of hard wear.

  "I married for love," Elizabeth said softly. "These are the proceeds. Your father died when I was still a young woman, before Conrad had even learned to walk, and this was what he left me. There was no one who wanted a widow with two infant children, not then. I had to learn how to make shoes, and then I had to make them. I've made them for fifteen years. There's not much profit in making shoes, children. We stand today where we stood the day your father died. If I were to die today, this house and that lathe would be all I could leave you."

  She stepped back from her children and glared at them in turn. "Whose sacrifice shall we celebrate tomorrow, my dears? How about mine?" She held up hands roughened and hardened by the abrasions of lathe and leather. "How about the sacrifice of my youth, and the pleasure I might have had from it? How about the sacrifice of the ease and plenty I might have had, if your father hadn't gotten drunk and fallen into the Kropotkin fifteen years ago?

  "They're the last sacrifices I intend to make in this life. Victoria, you will marry well enough to see to us for the rest of our lives, or I'll see you die a virgin. Conrad, you can make shoes if you like, or follow your father into the river, but never, ever think to tell me that my concerns are misplaced."

  Conrad's brow creased. "I didn't mean it that way, Mom, but --"

  Elizabeth Peterson's face blazed with fury. Her palm cracked across her son's mouth. He yelped and staggered back from her, then fell silent and rubbed his face.

  "Enough. Go to your room."

  Conrad did as he'd been told, and Elizabeth Peterson focused on her daughter.

  "You'll do as I've told you."

  Victoria said nothing.

  "You will!"

  Elizabeth's eyes blazed again. Invisible hands pressed against Victoria's chest, shoved her against the workroom doorjamb, crushed her breasts against her ribcage and began to squeeze the breath out of her. She caught herself on the edge of panic, leashed her fear energy and poured it into her mental engine, and fought back against her mother's thrust until she could fill her lungs again. Her mother smiled grimly.

  "You're getting stronger, Vicki, but you have a distance to go, yet. You'll do as I say, girl. Now go to your room and stay there."

  She did.

  Chapter 5

  Dmitri Ianushkevich watched the gaunt, gaudily garbed, feverishly gyrating figure on the monitor screens in silence.

  Tellus darted from one side of his bedchamber to the other, his eyes roving the great room in a continuous search for invisible enemies. His hands never relaxed out of fists. Once he stumbled and went to his knees. He rose immediately, head swiveling. His knuckles left faint trails of blood on the polished stone.

  The God of Hope had not left his bedchamber in over two months.

  He's very nearly done, and we still have no one to replace him.

  Six hundred years of practice were all that allowed Ianushkevich to frame the thought without lapsing into panic.

  The door of the monitor room opened and closed. He turned to find Einar Magnusson's giant form behind him. The biophysicist was staring into one of the monitors over his head.

  "Any deterioration?"

  Ianushkevich shrugged. "No. No improvement, either."

  "There never is." The huge biophysicist took a seat beside him, eyes fixed to the monitors.

  "Are they making any progress upstairs?"

  Magnusson smirked ruefully. "In twelve centuries on Hope, there has never been a successful human cloning, Dmitri. That would be a deus ex machina for certain."

  Ianushkevich nodded. "I can't help hoping. It would mean a permanent solution."

  "We all hope."

  "Any further reports from the field?"

  "One." Magnusson's face clouded. "The Morelons are having unexplained crop failures. Two large fields, about a hundred sixty acres in total. If it were anyone else, I'd feel a lot better, but Alain Morelon still watches over those fields."

  "He'll know."

  "Assuredly." Magnusson indicated the monitors with a jerk of his head. "Dmitri, surely you can come up for Sacrifice Day dinner. He's not likely to hurt himself."

  Ianushkevich grinned without humor. "I wouldn't feel right about it, Einar. Could you have someone bring a plate down for me? I'd appreciate that."

  "Certainly. What about him?"

  Tellus continued to dart about his chamber as if straining to elude a horde of unseen attackers. He'd gone back to muttering.

  "Don't bother. He wouldn't even notice."

  "He might."

  "If he did, he'd cast it against a wall and accuse you of trying to poison him. His nourishment comes through a needle now, while he sleeps. Probably for the rest of his life."

  Magnusson turned pale. "No one told me. How long since his last solid food?"

  Ianushkevich hesitated. "Eight days, I think."

  "We're doomed. It doesn't matter whether the cloners succeed or not. Not one of them has ever lasted more than six months on intravenous, and we still don't have a candidate."

  Ianushkevich surged out of his chair and took his colleague by the shoulders. "We're not doomed, Einar. We're hard pressed. We've been here before, you and I. His predecessor, remember? There was no one, and we'd started intravenous on her, and then he turned up. He responded faster and better to the conditioning than any previous candidate. There weren't even any local shortages to cope with. So gather up your courage and your endurance and keep them in hand. We're going to need them."

  Magnusson met his eyes briefly, then nodded.

  "Go have dinner with the others, Einar. Give them my regrets. Just send me down a plate. Don't forget the cranberry sauce." Ianushkevich turned back toward the bank of monitors.

  Tellus was spinning continuously, trying to see before him and behind him at the same time. His eyes were fevered.

  "Dmitri, how do you stand it?"

  Ianushkevich stared into the unseeing monitors.

  "My family is Russian, Einar. The lot of the Russians of Earth was not a happy one. We were blasted by nature, decimated by despoiling hordes, and crushed under the weight of one tyranny after another. We learned to think of privation and horror as regular components of our lives. It sank into our genes and became a legacy of melancholy that passed down the generations, until the blood was thinned by admixture with that of others from more cheerful climes. But my family is almost pure Russian. We have never had any lightening of the gloom in our souls. And so I look at him, and I contemplate our future, and I think, since the Sacrifice, and the Hegira, and the twelve hundred years, what has really changed?"

  Quiet footsteps announced Magnusson's departure. Ianushkevich went back to watching over his charge.

  ***
/>   The great hearthroom of Morelon House had been made into a dining hall. Three large tables were brought in, and seventy-two places were set. At sundown the celebrants swarmed in and the tables began to groan with food and drink.

  There were five roast turkeys and a huge tureen of cranberry sauce. There were seven varieties of bread, nut and grain stuffings. There was wild rice, and onions in cream sauce, and an enormous bowl of spinach in crumbled cheese. There were more corn dishes than anyone could count, and each one was unique and delicious.

  For an hour the assembled Morelon clan and its closest friends ate and drank and reveled in the warmth and plenty of the hearthroom. Eyes were bright, smiles were wide, and appetites were substantial. Many a joke was told through a mouthful of food, and no one took notice, except to laugh.

  It was Sacrifice Day, the winter solstice of Hope.

  At the head of the largest table sat the traditional trio of hosts: paterfamilias Alain Morelon, with his granddaughter Elyse, the clan matriarch, at his left hand and her son Armand, the heir designate, at his right. Elyse had summoned the others to the feast, had welcomed each of them at the door, and had shown them to their places at the Morelon table. When the evening was done, Armand would take each one to the door and bid him goodnight.

  If Alain ate and talked less than the others, it was not for lack of holiday spirit. He was preparing himself for a duty he had discharged every Sacrifice Day for twelve centuries, a duty that would be his for as long as he lived.

  About two hours after sundown, when the din of celebration had begun to subside, Alain rose, and the table lapsed into perfect silence. His gaze marched down the long tables, lighting briefly on each of his relatives and on each of the extrafamilial guests. From the moment he stirred himself to rise, all were silent. All gave him their absolute attention. He pulled himself erect.

  "Today is Sacrifice Day," he rasped. "Hope has no police, no legislatures, and no man-made laws. Our rule is simplicity itself: 'An it harm none, do as thou wilt.' Yet there is a tradition among us that a certain story be told at nightfall this day, in the hearing of all. Individualists that we are, I know of no man who has ever broken it.

  "You who are born of Hope do not know of the State. It is an institution of old Earth, which we have left behind forever. Its form and its genesis varied. Its methods of operation did not. The State existed to legitimize those acts which no individual would be permitted by his neighbors to commit. Its minions killed, raped, and stole what they would. The masters of the State presumed to dictate what they, in their arrogance, called laws. They compelled and forbade all other men, with superior force as their only justification.