Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2) Page 7

  Martin grinned. “Tradition sometimes has to give way to practicality. First, your father would never willingly approach Charisse with another suit from you. Charisse frightens him, which is probably for the best in the long run. Second, as you said just a moment ago, you ‘had no idea.’ Third, Al and I are doing a little penance for past offenses. We haven’t exactly treated you like a valued neighbor.”

  “Fourth,” Barton said, “by marrying me into Clan Morelon, you’d put Dad in a bind he’d never manage to resolve. Anything he does to harm you guys would harm me as well.”

  Althea chuckled and turned to her husband. “I told you he isn’t stupid.”

  “No,” Martin said, “just...untutored. A little rough around the edges. Nora will file those down for him, I think. But Bart, there’s one more question you have to answer, and I think we’d better leave you to answer it for yourself, in private.”

  “What is it?” Barton said warily.

  Martin reached toward him and took his right hand. Althea took his left. He did not resist.

  “Are you over Althea?” Martin murmured.

  Barton’s eyes flew toward Althea’s. She nodded.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been a tease,” she said.

  “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that you’re so...” He trailed off.

  “She is all that, isn’t she?” Martin said. “But if you’re going to be part of our family, you have to put out any torch you’re carrying for Althea. You have to be able to love your wife exclusively, forsaking all others. It can’t work any other way. It wouldn’t be fair to Nora, and the rest of the clan would never tolerate it.”

  They rose, pulling him upright with them.

  “We’re inviting you to become part of our clan, Bart,” Althea said. “Nora wants you for her own. I can’t imagine a development that would make more people happy. But you have to be able to commit to it all the way.” She squeezed his hand. “Take it to bed with you and let us know when you’ve made up your mind.”

  “I will,” he said. “But Althea?”

  “Hm?”

  “You haven’t been a tease,” he said. “You’ve been a bitch.”

  Althea’s eyes went wide. Martin’s face clouded over. “Bart...” he rumbled.

  “It’s all right, Martin,” Althea murmured. “He had to say it, and I probably deserved it.”

  “All right,” Martin growled, eyeing Barton dubiously, “but just this once.”

  ====

  Chapter 6: Sexember 12, 1303 A.H.

  “Dad,” Barton Kramnik said urgently, “they’re not going to use that parcel. Why else would Althea have contracted with Adam for long-distance haulage?”

  Douglas Kramnik glowered briefly back at him without slowing his angry stride toward Grenier Air Transport’s hangars. Barton merely tried to keep pace.

  What on Hope does he have in mind now—and how am I involved?

  He tried to fix his thoughts on Nora Morelon, her welcoming eyes and impish smile, the pleasure and affection evident in her greeting when he’d gone to visit her at Morelon House, and the shimmering prospect of leaving his poisonous birth clan for good. It proved impossible.

  I wonder how long I can put off the announcement.

  Adam Grenier emerged from the hangar with an oil-smudged cloth in his hands. He raised an eyebrow upon seeing them, but waited in silence, arms akimbo, as they drew near.

  “What is it, Doug? I thought we’d come to an agreement about your rates.”

  “We have,” the Kramnik patriarch said. “I’m not here for that.” He tossed his head at his son. “Bart told me a curious tale about you and Althea Morelon.”

  “The new contract?” Grenier shrugged. “One large load for openers, and a little haulage twice a month for a year after that. I’d have thought there was nothing newsworthy there. What’s got into your britches about it?”

  Douglas smiled tightly. “You,” he said. “And her.”

  Grenier snorted. “Yeah, I know. But you see that thing in there?” He waved at the big-belly cargo plane in the hangar. Its loading hatches were open and its cockpit stairway was extended. “That doesn’t care about my feelings. It doesn’t want to hear about my wounded male pride. It wants to be fed. It wants to earn its keep, so I can earn mine. And I can’t imagine an increase in your traffic that would compensate for the loss of my contract with the Morelons. Which I’ve already come pretty close to losing once before.”

  “The tyranny of the market,” Douglas said, his voice flat and level.

  “You have your ways of coping, Doug,” Grenier said. “I have mine.” His gaze swerved to Barton. “It must have been a pretty slow week around your place for my deal with Althea to be the big news.”

  “Actually, Adam, it wasn’t slow at all,” Douglas said. “There’ve been developments. Clan Kramnik’s haulage needs are about to increase. We’re introducing a new line of sheets and a new line of towels. I expect them to be popular. Call it forty percent more mass per load. And I’d be willing to talk about an increase in the rates.” Another tight smile. “A modest one, mind you.”

  Grenier’s eyes remained on Barton’s. “What’s this about, Doug?”

  Douglas Kramnik thrust his hands into his back pockets and strutted about the taxiway in a peacock-like display.

  “Social and economic realignment, Adam. Righting a few wrongs. Humbling the mighty. Showing Jacksonville, and maybe the rest of Alta as well, that as ye give, so shall ye get. And,” Kramnik said, looking directly at Adam Grenier once more, “a little payback for the wound to your pride, and to mine.”

  “Dad—” Barton said.

  “Shut up, Bart.” Douglas stared directly into Grenier’s eyes. “Are you interested, Adam?”

  There was a protracted silence.

  “I’m interested in upsides and downsides,” Grenier said. “Commitments and risks. Objectives and schedules. Details. You haven’t said anything I can rely on, just yet.”

  “I’ll tell you what you can rely on,” Douglas said. “That damned mass driver. It will be built, and it will undercut your rates, and it will eventually make manned air haulage a thing of the past.”

  Grenier frowned. “Forrestal said it wouldn’t be built here—”

  “The lab won’t be built here,” Douglas interrupted, “is what he said. They haven’t deregistered the parcel. Would you care to guess what will be built there, Adam?”

  Grenier said nothing.

  “There’s an awfully nice stretch of power cable that runs right up to that tract. Ideal for charging a bunch of high-capacity condensers. So once they’ve proved out their design in wherever—”

  “Hopeless peninsula,” Grenier said.

  Douglas Kramnik’s face drained of color. “What did you say?”

  Grenier shrugged. “Hopeless peninsula. The northern tip. Why should that matter?”

  “Never mind,” the Kramnik patriarch growled. “I’ll commit the whole of my haulage to you, including the new increment, at twenty percent over our current agreement for the next two years. What do you say?”

  Barton found himself holding his breath.

  “And what do you want in return for this, Doug?” Grenier said, eyes wary.

  Douglas smiled.

  “A favor,” he said. “Just a very small favor.”

  * * *

  “You have to learn how to negotiate, Bart.” Douglas Kramnik lolled back in his desk chair, pervaded by satisfaction. “If you ever want to sit in this chair, at least. Everything is negotiable, you know. Prices, quality, quantity, times, places, bonuses and penalties and dates from and dates to. The names on the contract, too.” He folded his hands behind his head. “Even life and death, if you’re clever enough.”

  His son’s expression was difficult to read. “How clever is that?”

  Douglas smiled. “Clever enough to know whose hand holds a weapon. Clever enough to turn it on your enemy, or persuade your enemy to turn it on himself.” He straightened
in his seat and fixed his son with a monitory stare. “Clever enough to keep your eyes and ears open, so you’ll know what might become a weapon...or who.”

  Barton said nothing. Douglas pointed at the door to his little office.

  “Do you know why I keep that door closed, and me on this side of it, nearly all the time?” He waited for a reply, but received none. “Because it makes the rest of the clan think I’m out of touch. ‘He’s always shut up in his office,’ they say to one another. ‘He can’t know what’s going on.’ With the interesting result that when I find it useful to demonstrate that I do know, it surprises everyone. Yet somehow, they never learn. They keep thinking they can slip one past me...just as you did.”

  Barton’s mouth dropped open. “I never—”

  “Yes you did, Bart. By not saying anything about Nora Morelon. Just because Althea didn’t approach you until she was sure Charisse had pulled me out of earshot didn’t mean I wouldn’t hear about it. The men on the mill floor have long ears. They’ve learned how to filter out the mill noise when listening to something interesting...and every one of them is beholden to me.”

  Douglas waited as Barton gathered himself to reply. When his son rose from his seat, he rose as well.

  “I might not be as well informed as you, Dad, but I get around a bit, myself. For example, I know what the rest of the elders think of me. I’m not happy about it, but I’m not about to wish it away. What makes you think they’ll have me for your replacement, if you ever do decide to retire?

  “Oh, I also learn things now and then by virtue of having friends outside the clan. Like Adam Grenier. You weren’t the first to think the Morelons might still put a mass driver on that plot, and you weren’t the first to think Adam would be unhappy about it. Alvah and Patrice spoke to him about it even before I got the chance to. Are you interested in hearing about the substance of their conversation?”

  Douglas kept himself under rigid control. “Go ahead.”

  Barton smiled. “They were there to drum up support for your scheme, only slightly modified. Instead of having the community try to prevent the lab out of fear of the hazards from pollutants, they were looking to agitate for a body—a commission, they called it—that would try to forestall economic harms from destructive competition.” He smiled broadly. “Adam said they were very persuasive. You would have been impressed. They sketched out this scenario where the Morelons would use their cost advantage to drive Grenier Air out of business, and then jack up their haulage rates until the community screamed for mercy. Adam came near to signing on with them. Does that qualify as ‘slipping one past you?’ How would it have served as a balm for your pride?”

  Douglas Kramnik said nothing. Barton made a mocking bow.

  “I’m going to marry Nora Morelon, Dad. She’s the sweetest creature on Alta, she thinks far better of me than I deserve, and I hadn’t the faintest idea about any of it until Althea clued me in. There’s this, too: her family is healthy. Its members aren’t continually carping and backbiting and maneuvering against one another for some sort of advantage. They love one another, and they actually want me to become a member. Do you really think I’d turn that down just to have a shot at someday running this...nest of vipers?”

  Douglas shook his head. “No, Bart, I don’t. I know you too well. But you’re not going to marry Nora Morelon.”

  Barton chuckled. “I can’t imagine how you can think you could stop me.”

  “I can,” Douglas said.

  He drew his needlegun and fired. The Kramnik scion slumped to the floor, instantly unconscious.

  * * *

  “That’s the whole bill of lading?” Adam Grenier said.

  Martin nodded. “As near as we can figure it. You said twelve thousand pounds was the limit, right?”

  Grenier nodded. “For the Guppy. If you think you’ll need more lift—”

  “We won’t,” Althea said. “That list ciphers out to about ten thousand, eight hundred.” She glanced up at the craft they were chartering. “She seems awfully small for that kind of load, Adam.”

  “You might be surprised,” Grenier said. “That’s her safe rating with all possible hazards taken into account, including things like short-field takeoffs and landings. Her lift rating is about fourteen five, and her structural rating is higher still. But ten eight is severe enough, thanks. With all the miles she’s got on her, I don’t like to tax her.” He glanced back and forth between them. “You’re both coming along?”

  “Of course,” Althea said. “That pile of crap isn’t going to do much on its own.”

  “That adds about three-fifty to the load, so we’re just over eleven thousand. Look,” Grenier said, “it’s better to be safe than sorry. Planes have fallen out of the sky for being overloaded. None of mine, but all the same, if you can avoid expanding this list any further, I’d strongly advise it.” He awarded her a wholly artificial smile.

  Something’s going on here, Grandpere.

  —Almost certainly, Al. His father was a better, more pleasant man, and he was never this accommodating.

  So how do I find out what?

  —I have no idea.

  Damn. I suppose I’ll have to ride it to the end, won’t I?

  —What if you retreat to your earlier plan?

  Martin said we wouldn’t. In front of all our neighbors, at that. I can’t make a liar out of him.

  —I know.

  “When do you think you could fit us in?” she said.

  Grenier waved unconcern. “You get your stuff together, get it over here, and I’ll take care of the rest. There’s enough slack in the scheduling to squeeze in one flight just about any time from now through November. Oh, and don’t worry about the loading. My crew will see to all of that. They understand the issues quite well.”

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think we wouldn’t?”

  A quick flicker of the eyelids was all the reaction Adam Grenier produced. It was enough.

  “Well, maybe you do,” he said. “But do you want the responsibility for a possible midpoint fuel shortfall because of unbalanced aerodynamics? For a plane that has to turn around before it’s delivered its cargo? If you load, it’s on your shoulders. If my guys do it...?” He shrugged.

  We’re being set up for a fall.

  She glanced at her husband. He shook his head microscopically.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ll be back in touch when we’ve assembled all this junk and have arranged to truck it over.” She stuck out a hand. “Thanks for being so helpful, Adam.”

  His plastic smile was still fixed in place. “Not at all.”

  * * *

  As they exited the tree-lined corridor from the commercial strip and turned onto the pathway to Morelon House, Althea halted her husband and turned to face him. “I can’t figure out what he’s planning, can you?”

  Martin gazed at her ruefully. “I’ve been thinking about that and nothing else, love. But I’m dead certain it’s nothing we’d enjoy.”

  “So what now?”

  He grimaced. “I don’t know. Postpone the trip, for sure. How to get our initial load up to Thule? Frankly, I don’t think we have much choice. Our clan had heavy-lift capacity at one point, didn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, but we sold the plane when Adam’s dad set up shop here. Charisse said she was happy to get rid of it. It made more sense to hire it out, so we wouldn’t have to maintain a plane and train pilots.”

  She glanced at the entrance to Morelon House. The old mansion looked as sturdy as ever. It presented an appearance of immutable strength to all who saw it. Yet it had begun to seem to her that the clan had undermined that strength in several ways, with several decisions. None of them had been fatal; indeed, when each was made, it had appeared to be the obvious choice. Yet in combination, they had rendered Clan Morelon massively dependent upon the wills and skills of a multitude of outsiders...persons who might not be as available or dependable as one would hope.

  —That�
�s the downside of the division of labor, Al.

  Yeah. I can see that, Grandpere. But how could we have avoided it?

  —By resisting all the temptations to specialize and to make use of specialists. By purchasing absolute self-sufficiency at the price of economic advantage. Which, incidentally, no clan or society known to history has ever managed to do.

  The incentives are too strong, aren’t they?

  —Judge for yourself, dear. Put yourself in Charisse’s place at the point when Jack Grenier moved into the area and started offering his services around. Would you have done as she did, knowing only what she did at the time?

  Probably. If there’s a lesson in this—

  —If there is, Al, no one has ever drawn it. The division of labor is the one and only path toward general prosperity. It can go to an incredible depth. A frightening depth. And it is utterly reliant upon the character and good will of the specialists. Let one critical specialty be corrupted by political forces, or conceive of a grudge against some other group, or even decide that it can rape its customers without fear of reprisal, and the destruction spreads faster than anyone can act to check it.

  “Al?”

  “Hm? Oh, sorry, love. I was just woolgathering.”

  Martin peered at her uncertainly. “You were shivering as if you’d just been pulled out of the Kropotkin. In Unember.”

  She shrugged and smirked. “It’s just getting a little chilly now that the sun’s going down.” She glanced toward the mansion. One by one, its windows were being illuminated from within. “I have to learn to schedule my flights of fancy a little better.”

  “Hm.”

  They turned and continued up the path to Morelon House.

  Grandpere, can I tell him?

  —No, Al. Not now.

  When, then?

  —Maybe never.

  ====

  Chapter 7 : Sexember 13, 1303 A.H.

  “Al?”

  “Hm?” Althea looked up from the computer to find Dorothy Morelon in the doorway of her office.