Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2) Page 6

  “You heard about the mass driver, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Grenier regarded him as one might view a tragically slow child, so completely bereft of a rational faculty as to require the supervision of competent others all the way to the grave. “D’you really think a manned aircraft ferry will be able to compete economically with a ballistic delivery service?”

  “But—”

  “It can’t, Bart. A mass driver can fire loads at its targets as fast as it can rack them up and recharge its capacitors. Its only expense is power. I’ve got three planes and five trained pilots. The planes have to be maintained and the pilots have to be paid. Time off. Vacations. The occasional bonus for above-and-beyond. That contraption will ruin me.” He kicked savagely at an empty compressed-air tank, caught it off-center, and watched it skitter away. “All I can hope is to get out of this business cleanly before it’s ready for action.”

  Kramnik gaped at him.

  “Frankly,” Grenier said, “I wish your father had pulled it off. I was there, toward the back of the crowd. If he’d been more persuasive, I’d have backed him however he wanted. The damned Morelons have run roughshod over this community for far too long already.”

  “Is that so?”

  Both heads swerved to find Althea Morelon leaning against the hangar entrance, arms crossed over her breasts.

  She straightened, smiled pleasantly at each of them, and ambled forward. Kramnik instinctively backed away; Grenier sidled toward his rack of heavy-duty wrenches.

  “Adam! No sidearm?” Althea tsked. “Such a shame. Because if you move any closer to that rack, I’m afraid I’ll have to tear off your arm and beat you to death with it.”

  Grenier stopped.

  “If you were in the crowd, Adam, you must have heard Martin mention that we’re not going to put that parcel to the use we originally intended. We have another plot picked out for our lab, a long way from here. That’s where the mass driver will be sited, so it won’t cut into your cargo transport business in any way. But from what you just said to Bart, you have some sort of grievance against us already, something serious enough to persuade you to sign onto the embryo of a state. Care to tell me what it is?”

  “You dominate my business just by existing,” Grenier snarled. “If I want your business, I have to prioritize you above all my other customers. Let one plane load fail to make it to its destination on time, and suddenly I’m paying you penalties for nonperformance, sometimes with compensation for ruined cargo thrown on top.” He closed his eyes, shuddered briefly, and stared directly at her. “Is that the way to treat a vendor who’s stood by your clan for fifty years?”

  Althea squinted at him. “Are you arguing for the privilege of not performing to contract and incurring no penalty for it? Or are you saying that servicing the Morelon farm forces you to short-change your other customers?”

  Grenier bared his teeth at her, but said nothing.

  “In calendar 1302 alone,” Althea said, “you billed us for more than three hundred thousand dekas. Each and every invoice was paid on time and in full. I checked with Charisse before I came over. What percent of your revenues did that come to, Adam?”

  Grenier kept silent.

  “Don’t know offhand?” Althea smiled. “I suppose I’m not surprised. But that’s not why I stopped by. I was going to offer you an incremental contract. Martin and I will need heavy-lift service to make use of our new lab site, and I just assumed that you’d be delighted to have the extra business. But perhaps you don’t want to expand your dealings with a customer that burdens you so greatly already.” She turned and started to walk away.

  “Wait!”

  Althea stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Hm? Did I drop something?”

  The cords of Adam Grenier’s neck had gone tight. “I...may have spoken a trifle carelessly.”

  Althea’s eyes widened. “Why, Adam! How surprising. Your father would surely have a few words of advice for you on that score. Are you saying you’d be interested in some additional Morelon business after all?”

  Grenier nodded without speaking.

  “Adam...” Kramnik said.

  “Shut up, Bart.” Grenier’s eyes were fixed to Althea Morelon. “Standard contract?”

  Althea nodded. “The usual terms—including the performance and penalty clauses.”

  “Distance? Intervals? Load limits?”

  “The distance is 470 miles. All else is to be negotiated.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Come inside and we’ll discuss it.”

  The two of them swept past the incredulous Barton Kramnik, into Grenier’s office, and closed the door behind them.

  ====

  Chapter 5: Sexember 2, 1303 A.H.

  Douglas Kramnik was torn between incredulity and outrage.

  “She bought him with that little?”

  Barton Kramnik nodded. “If I can believe what I saw and heard.”

  The clan patriarch slumped against the back of his desk chair. “If anyone else had brought this to me, I don’t think I’d have believed it. Grenier despises the Morelons. He deals with them out of necessity alone, or so he’s always said.” He cocked an eyebrow at his son. “Is it possible that they have a hold on him we’re not aware of?”

  Barton cringed. “I don’t know, Dad. He’s awfully closed-mouthed about the details of his business.”

  Douglas scowled. “Toward you, anyway.”

  “Dad—”

  His father waved it aside. “Never mind. It could be our reputation. Charisse Morelon did decline to endorse us. She was unwilling to discuss it, but I’d bet the house that it was because of the thing with the Prossers.”

  Barton grimaced. “Something that happened a whole millennium ago?”

  Douglas nodded. “They’re an old clan with a long memory. Besides, they were peripherally involved.”

  The elder Kramnik planted his elbows on his desk and propped his head on his hands.

  “Dad,” Barton ventured hesitantly, “if this is about the marriage proposal—”

  “It’s not.” Douglas smirked. “Not specifically, anyway. Why?”

  “Well...” The younger man groped for words. “I was going to say that it really doesn’t mean that much to me. Marrying Althea was just a fantasy. She’s way out of my league. Actually,” he said with a gentle snort, “she’s out of everybody’s league.”

  “That Forrestal bastard bagged her,” Douglas growled, eyes still unfocused. “A complete outsider with no wealth and no antecedents at all.”

  Barton Kramnik felt a realization form. “Oh.”

  That got his father’s attention. “What, son?”

  “I...hadn’t realized how much it meant to you.”

  Douglas peered up at him. “You hadn’t realized how valuable a marital alliance with the richest and most prestigious clan on Alta would mean to Clan Kramnik?” He straightened in his seat. “This was never about your romantic fantasies, Bart. If you hadn’t been willing to court the Morelon girl, I’d have ordered you to do it.”

  Barton was shocked into silence. His father stared at him, disapproval evident in the lines of his face.

  “You really think, if the Morelons had been agreeable, that I’d have cared about your desires? Not at all, Bart. Not for an instant. My priority is the clan’s well being and future prospects. It has to be. There’s no one else to look out for them. I’d have dragged you to the match bound and gagged if necessary—and afterward, if you had dared to utter one word of dissatisfaction with your marriage, or given one iota of indication that you wanted to terminate it, I’d have had you killed before you could do us further harm.” He stood and planted his fists on his desk. “Does that clarify where your preferences rank in my concerns, or do I have to draw you a schematic?”

  Barton gaped. His father stared at him a moment longer, shook his head in weariness, and returned his gaze to the papers on his desk.

  There came a
knock on Douglas’s office door. He called out an indifferent “What?” and rose as the door opened. Barton’s cousin Ellen stood there, her expression unreadable.

  “Uncle Doug? Would you come to the radio, please?”

  Douglas’s eyebrows rose. “Who is it?”

  “Charisse Morelon.”

  The two of them flew out of their chairs, shouldered past Ellen Kramnik, and raced down the hall to the radio alcove. Douglas snatched up the microphone and waved his son back.

  “Yes, Charisse, what is it?”

  “And a good afternoon to you too, Douglas. I trust you and yours are enjoying the weather?”

  The Kramnik patriarch scowled. “Is this a matter of any importance, Charisse? We’re rather busy here at the moment.”

  Charisse Morelon chuckled softly. “Is your mill at capacity just now, Douglas?”

  “Not far from it. Do you have a need?”

  “You might say that. Are you available today or tomorrow to negotiate a purchase order? I’d rather we did it face to face, if that’s all right with you.”

  Douglas swallowed visibly. “I’m available now. Would you like to come over here, or would you prefer that I come there?”

  “Oh, we’ll come to Kramnik House. Expect us in about twenty minutes.”

  “‘We,’ Charisse?”

  “Yes, Douglas. Althea and Martin are coming with me. They have a little present for you, and I think you’re going to like it.”

  * * *

  Douglas took the shuttle hesitantly from Althea, as if there might be a reason to fear it.

  “I’ve never seen one this shape or this lightweight,” he said. “And why the fins?”

  “An idea of mine,” she said. “Notice the curvature. I experimented with a few different geometries before I got one that would spin controllably. This was the best of them.”

  Barton watched in silence, uncertain what was really transpiring. He found it difficult to keep his eyes off Althea Morelon and her incomparably vital clan matriarch.

  “What will it do that a conventional shuttle won’t?” Douglas said.

  Althea produced a wicked grin. “Fly about fifty percent faster, and with no risk of a hangup. If you’re willing to stop one of your looms, I can demonstrate it for you.”

  Douglas glanced swiftly around the mill floor and pointed to a loom at the far end of the hall. “That one is within about three minutes of the end of its run. How long will you have it out of service?”

  “Ten minutes at most,” Martin said. “Okay with you?”

  Douglas hesitated, then nodded. Althea and Martin went at once to the machine he’d indicated. He started to follow them, but Charisse laid a hand on his arm.

  “Stay with me, Doug. They don’t need our supervision, and we have a few things to talk about.”

  “Oh? What sort of things?”

  Barton edged closer.

  Charisse smiled thinly. “Politics and business.”

  The Kramnik patriarch stiffened slightly. “I’m really not disposed to discuss—”

  “But you will,” Charisse said. Her eyes flashed. “And right now, at that. What you tried to do to my clan went well beyond insulting, Doug. A hefty part of the community was offended by it.”

  “Oh?” Douglas folded his arms across his chest. “And what do our neighbors propose to do about it?”

  “Ask rather,” Charisse said, unperturbed by the display of hostility, “what I propose to do about it.”

  Douglas’s face reddened, but he kept silent.

  “First,” Charisse said, “be aware of this: Clan Morelon will never tolerate the imposition of a State on our region, no matter the reason nor the degree of support for it. If Martin was correct about your covert intentions, you can bid them a fond farewell. Any indication that you intend to try it again will evoke a response you won’t enjoy.”

  “Are you threatening my clan?” Douglas snarled.

  Charisse smiled brightly. “Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer! No, Doug, of course not. I’d never dream of doing such a thing. I’m threatening you, personally. I doubt that the other Kramnik elders approved of your little gambit any more than I did. I think I could persuade them to depose you if you were to try it again. Failing that, there’s always assassination. Don’t tell yourself I wouldn’t ‘descend’ to that depth. I’d sleep quite soundly afterward, I assure you. Keep all that in mind while you’re hatching your next scheme.”

  The Kramnik patriarch had gone completely rigid from outrage. “You Morelons have no morals at all,” he growled.

  Charisse chuckled. “Au contraire, mon vieux.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Now to business. I’d like to negotiate a bulk order with you for linens and towels. I have a ten-year agreement in mind. Will your other commitments allow you to entertain a new one of that magnitude?”

  Barton gasped. Charisse’s gaze flickered briefly to him, then back to his father.

  “If you’re serious,” Douglas said slowly, “I could rearrange part of our schedule to accommodate a bulk order, especially one with that kind of persistence. But Charisse,” he said, “don’t think you’re going to buy my good will that cheaply.”

  Charisse Morelon frowned, a teacher’s reaction to an error from a student from whom she expected better.

  “Who said anything about your good will, Doug? If it were for sale, I wouldn’t be interested. I’m here for textiles and nothing else. There is, of course, a stipulation: the quality has to be up to my standards. From what I’ve seen of your wares, you’ll have to raise yours quite a bit.” She jerked her chin at the loom on which her kinsmen were at work. “Althea tells me that will help.”

  As she finished, Martin closed the cover over the loom controls, pressed the start button, and stepped back. The big machine surged immediately into action. Within seconds it was clear that it was outpacing the other looms by a considerable margin. Fabric was rolling onto the output ramp at unprecedented speed. Yet it was making less noise than it had previously, and less than any other loom on the floor.

  Douglas and Barton Kramnik scurried toward it.

  Althea’s new shuttle flew back and forth through the wefting passage so quickly that it was barely visible. It made no sound beyond a faint swooshing from its passage. The loom seemed to have found an overdrive gear.

  Barton lifted a flap of the output and fingered it. The smoothness and fineness of the weave was unprecedented. “Dad,” he said, “we’ve got something new here.”

  Douglas passed a hand over the sheet of cloth. He turned to Althea with an accusation in his eyes.

  “How long have you been keeping this a secret?”

  She giggled. “About a week. I only started working on it after your meeting.”

  The Kramnik patriarch gaped at her.

  “How many looms are you running just now, Doug?” Martin said.

  “Sixteen,” Douglas said. “Why?”

  “So we know how many more of these to make, of course,” Martin said. “But for best results, you’ll have to allow me the final laying-on of hands. The looms have to be retuned for the higher speeds and finer wefts.”

  “Why?” Barton cried. “Why are you doing this for us?”

  “For the benefit of Clan Kramnik, Bart,” Charisse said. “So you can make your goods faster and better, and lower your prices, and properly service your new account with my clan.” She peered at him theatrically. “You do expect your clan to continue in the textile business, don’t you?”

  No one spoke. Presently Charisse beckoned Althea and Martin to her, and wrapped an arm around each one.

  “Martin said something unpleasant at your meeting, Doug. He implied that if pressed, Clan Morelon would defend its rights and property with force. That’s exactly correct, of course. But we know we could never muster an absolute, unchallengeable preponderance of force, that couldn't be overcome under any circumstances.” She gave Althea and Martin a gentle squeeze. “So we’re doing what we can to lever
age our other assets. When you think of going up against Clan Morelon for any reason, think about these two. Think about what they’ve done for you, and what they could do to you. If I have to say more than that, I’m talking to the wrong Kramniks. Now let’s you and I retire to your office and talk dekas and cents.” She released her kinsmen and strode toward the hallway to the Kramnik living quarters. Douglas immediately followed in her train.

  Barton started after them, Martin raised a hand, and he stopped.

  “Are you willing to chat with us for a bit, Bart?” Martin said softly.

  Barton peered at him, suspicions rising. “What about?”

  Althea smiled gently at him. “A proposal of marriage.”

  * * *

  Barton was almost unable to speak.

  “She thinks I’m handsome?”

  Althea nodded. “Her exact phrase was ‘hotter than fresh lava.’ You have talked with her, haven’t you?”

  Barton nodded.

  “And you didn’t get a sense of that?”

  “No, not at all. But...” His thoughts flew beyond his control. “How old is she?”

  “How old are you?”

  Barton hesitated. “Thirty-seven.”

  “About sixteen years younger than you. Does that matter?” Martin said. “Hallanson-Albermayer treatments—”

  “Clan Kramnik can’t afford them.”

  “All Morelons get them, Bart,” Althea said.

  “But—”

  “You would become a Morelon,” Martin said. “The same as I did.”

  “But you still go by Forrestal.”

  “And you would still go by Kramnik,” Althea said. “We don’t insist on a name change. But you would move to Morelon House. Your children would be Morelons. And,” she said, measuring out the words, “you would forfeit your scion status in Clan Kramnik.”

  Barton started to expostulate, clamped his lips together.

  “Does the idea upset you?” Althea said.

  “No...no.” His gaze traveled the mill, lighting briefly on each of the looms. “Nora’s very pretty and very sweet. I’m just...surprised, that’s all. I had no idea...” His brow furrowed. “But why are you proposing this? It’s not at all the way we’ve been doing things.”