by Julian May
Paul was tolerant of his wife’s professional absences. At that time he was deeply involved in the burgeoning new bureaucracy of the Human Polity of the Galactic Milieu. This organization had operated in the beginning as an “apprentice metapsychic government” under the stern guidance of the Simbiari Proctorship and independent of nonmeta Earth governing bodies; but by the time Paul came onto the political scene, twenty years after the Intervention, the pupils were clamoring ever more vociferously to take over the whole school.
Pre-Intervention modes of Earth government had by that time been almost completely metamorphosed into the peculiar republican setup that the Lylmik overlords had deemed most suitable for the Human Polity. This combined the intimate citizen involvement of New Hampshire town meetings on the lowest civic levels with a kind of operant oligarchy in the highest judicial and executive branches. The whole was a tidy representational tree structure, providing a voice in government for each citizen via precinct or township, for each corporation or cooperative enterprise involving more than a thousand persons, for each metro region or city, for each zone—a region often encompassing a former small nation or state—and for each quasi-continental area, called an Intendancy. The highest level of public office, that of Intendant Associate, included both operant and “normal” humans. Nonmetas tended to greatly outnumber persons with higher mindpowers in the lower levels of government, but in the judicial system the opposite situation prevailed.
By and large, the Human Polity shaped up pretty well. Most vestiges of old-fashioned human bloody-mindedness, stubborn nationalism, and fanatical religious opposition to Milieu precepts had melted away on Earth by the fourth decade of the twenty-first century. (The infamous Sons of Earth, in their antiexotic transmogrification, were one of the few dangerous exceptions to this general rule.) Mind-reading exotic overseers and ombudsmen made most forms of political dishonesty obsolete. There was still a certain amount of traditional crime and chicanery and prejudice and injustice, but it was no longer flagrant. Law enforcement was administered by both operant and “normal” human officers, supervised by the Magistratum of the Simbiari Proctorship. The meting out of condign punishment for legal transgressions was swift, and recidivist criminals were dealt with very severely. Members of the metapsychic elite who were convicted of high felonies usually faced the death penalty.
The great majority of “normal” humanity was afire with enthusiasm for the brave new world under the aegis of the Galactic Milieu. It was, of course, somewhat humiliating for the prouder Earthlings to be governed by the humorless Simbiari race, who had been assigned to accelerate our psychosocial maturation. The exotic Proctors, after all, were green; their physiology made them the inevitable butt of cruel human humor, and their severity and jaundiced view of human weakness sometimes provoked hatred and even outright rebellion. On the other hand, poverty and other kinds of deprivation were now obsolete on Earth, the educational system ensured that most people fulfilled their potential, virtue and hard work were rewarded, there was ample leisure, and if one felt hemmed in, there were challenging new worlds to conquer on the colonial planets set aside by the Milieu for humanity’s surplus population.
The “normal” overt conscientious objectors to Milieu policies, although never coerced or directly punished for resisting the Galactic social revolution, were denied positions of power, deprived of media publicity, and eventually consigned to the ZPG reproductive class. After 2040, they were also forbidden access to the coveted rejuvenation technology and sequestered from participation in the Milieu’s garden of advanced socioeconomic and technical delights. Some of these recalcitrants managed to escape the Milieu via Madame Guderian’s notorious time-gate to the Pliocene Epoch. But for the most part, nonoperant misfits such as the religious fundamentalists and other square-peg individuals lived and died embittered and ostracized. Almost inevitably their children became estranged, even those who were educated outside the Milieu-controlled public school system; and when the children reached their majority they almost always rejected the reactionary values of their elders and opted instead for the mental testing and intensive higher education that would prepare them for life in the Human Polity.
The operant conscientious objectors to Milieu policy were altogether another kettle of fish, whose adventures will take up a large part of these Memoirs of mine …
Three of Paul’s older operant siblings—Anne, Catherine, and Adrien—had chosen careers in Human Polity administration, training under the exotic Proctors for the day when Earth’s growing operant population would form the highest level of Human Polity government in the Galactic Concilium under an elected First Magnate. After Paul joined his sisters and brother as a member of the North American Intendancy, he rose quickly by dint of statecraft and grandmasterly mental gamesmanship to the highest rank permitted members of a client race—Intendant Associate. From his eminence, Paul coached his lower-echelon sibs, and within two years they were also Grand Master Metapsychics and Intendant Associates. Thus the first hint of the Remillard Dynasty raised its nose above the horizon of the unsuspecting Milieu.
With a minimal bit of coercion, Paul prevailed upon his remaining three brothers to jump on the metapolitical bandwagon as well. Severin abandoned neurosurgery, Maurice gave up sociological research, and Philip, the oldest of Denis and Lucille’s children, reluctantly quit as CEO of Remco Industries, the continuing fountainhead of the family fortune. Nepotism being perfectly acceptable to the ethical statutes of the Milieu (although some spoilsport humans cried foul), the seven Remillard siblings linked minds, destinies, and mental constituencies … and soared.
Denis and Lucille preferred the academic world, resisting Paul’s attempts to draw them into politics. The parents regarded their ambitious offspring with wary bemusement, but the family nonetheless remained very close. In time, all seven siblings achieved grandmasterly status and were elected Intendant Associates.
While Teresa’s musical career continued to flourish, Paul devoted himself to the lobbying effort that would culminate in the selection of Concord, New Hampshire, as the capital of Earth and the Human Polity in 2040. This feat earned him the media sobriquet of The Man Who Sold New Hampshire. Paul acquired a smartly trimmed beard to enhance his image as a senior legislator, published several books extolling his vision of Galactic Humanity, and became a fixture on the Tri-D talking heads circuit. His wit, physical attractiveness, and reassuring (to normal humanity) image as a spokesman for the “conservative” metapsychic viewpoint made him appealing to a wide spectrum of human factions—as well as to the urbane Poltroyan auxiliaries within the Proctorship, who dearly loved watching an Earthling outwit the earnest, efficient, scientifically advanced, but undeniably cloddish and dour Simbiari overlords.
Paul and Teresa’s fourth child, Luc, was born epileptic, blind, and with severe bodily deformities. The baby’s metapsychic armamentarium was enormous but nearly latent. By 2041, the year of his birth, genetic engineering techniques were able to restore Luc’s twisted little innards and useless eyes to the human norm. Complete restoration of his body would have to await the advent of puberty, when it would be possible to use regeneration-tank therapy. Redactors had less success alleviating Luc’s epilepsy, which was of a puzzling etiology; however, a device implanted in the child’s brain eventually prevented the worst of his seizures.
Luc’s travails were a source of anxiety and severe nervous strain for Teresa. It became more and more necessary for her to pamper her voice, and she cut back drastically on the number of her operatic and concert engagements. Nevertheless, her repertoire of personal triumphs expanded to include roles such as Manon, the long-neglected Lakmé, Juliette, and the Queen of Shemakha in Rimsky-Korsakov’s Le Coq d’Or—which had not been mounted by a major opera company since the heyday of Beverly Sills. Teresa’s signature role, however, remained the title character of Snegurochka in The Snow Maiden, another of Rimsky’s gorgeous but psychologically murky fantasies that was scarcely ever performed outside the Sov
iet Union until Teresa’s electrifying portrayal popularized it overnight.
Teresa’s personal and professional decline began when her next baby was stillborn, in 2043. A comprehensive genetic assay of the tangled Remillard-Kendall heritage was still many years in the future; but a number of lethal genes were identified in Teresa’s germ plasm, and both she and Paul were found to carry the so-called immortality gene of the Remillards, actually a unique polygenic inheritance that augmented the self-rejuvenation capacity present in every human being.
In spite of the genetic problems, both Teresa and Paul were determined to have many more children, just as brilliant as the first four. Their efforts resulted in two additional stillbirths, followed by two lethal-trait bearers confirmed by prenatal testing. The most advanced techniques of genetic engineering having failed to ameliorate the stigmata of the defective fetuses, they were aborted according to the guidelines established by the Reproductive Statutes of the Simbiari Proctorship. Teresa was tormented by depression during this period, suffered two brief mental breakdowns, and little by little began to lose her glorious voice. The final blow came when, in spite of all Paul’s efforts, the couple had their reproductive license revoked.
Teresa was pinpointed as the founder of the mutagene complex and received a contraceptive implant. She retired to the house in Hanover, where she clung to sanity by doing vocal exercises in futile hopes of a comeback and dreamed of outwitting the exotic puppetmasters who had imposed their benevolent despotism on virtually all facets of human life—even motherhood.
Paul was bereaved by the tragedy but more philosophical. Of course, his own seed was untainted, and he might have divorced his wife and married again. However, he was still devoted to Teresa even though the intense passion of the early years had cooled, and he was immensely proud of the surviving children. Divorce was a distasteful option, given the climate of the times and the old-fashioned brand of Roman Catholicism espoused by most of the Remillards. Paul might have followed the example of his close friend and rival European Intendant Associate, Davy MacGregor, who like many persons of superior genetic heritage had contributed sperm to the gene pool that would help populate the colonial planets with nonborns conceived in vitro. But the strict anonymity of the banked-sperm setup clashed with Paul’s sense of procreative pride. He wanted to know his children … and where there was a will, there was also a way.
He had never lacked for feminine admirers; and now that Teresa, although still beautiful, had lost her unique libidinous appeal, Paul put aside his religious scruples and set about to maximize his own genetic potential with discreet and dedicated fervor—and a good deal of willing cooperation from ladies of preeminent chromosomal content. He and Teresa still shared a bed; but as metasensitive spouses do, she knew that her husband was unfaithful.
She never stopped loving him and never reproached him. Nevertheless, it was undoubtedly Paul’s continuing betrayal of their marriage that gave a dark impetus to Teresa’s determination to have one last, supremely endowed child.
6
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD
TERESA HAD OBEYED HER ELDEST SON AND PACKED.
When I came into her music room, she was showing the contents of her soft-sided carryall to Marc. It contained a portable Tri-D, a plaque-reader, an audio player, a rolled-up Yamaha Scrollo keyboard, two Bose Dinky-Boom amps, a fleck library boîte, a power supply for the above gadgetry, a little toilet kit, a dozen cotton baby nappies, plass overpants, two terry-cloth infant suits, a swansdown bunting that had been a shower gift for her firstborn before the twins were diagnosed, a rain poncho, a ball of twine, a permamatch, a split of Dom Pérignon, and a Swiss Army Champ knife with every kind of thingummy on it but micromanipulators.
Marc was looking over this collection with frozen incredulity. She, sweetly reasonable, was explaining to her son that the twine was for tying the baby’s umbilical cord and hanging up laundry, while the champagne would celebrate Jack’s birth.
“Jack?” Marc said faintly.
“His name will be Jon—J-O-N. That’s the spelling I prefer. I’ve explained to him already about nicknames.” She acknowledged my entrance with a blithe nod. “Your Uncle Rogi may call him Ti-Jean, of course, in the Franco-American tradition.”
“Mama—all this musical stuff!” Marc protested. “I told you to pack only the essentials for survival!”
“These are the essentials, darling. I couldn’t possibly endure four long months in some dreary rustic backwater without my music.”
“But you’ve no clothes!”
She waved this off with an airy gesture. “I can buy those at the local shopping mall when I get there. Wherever there is! Meanwhile, this ensemble should be smart as well as serviceable en route. Don’t you think so, Rogi?”
Teresa was not a tall woman, but she gave that impression—larger than life. She wore a stylish polished-cotton jogging suit of her favorite Kendall green and had tied back her shining black hair with a matching green silk scarf. Flung over her shoulders was a hooded sweater of fauve cashmere. She wore medium-weight Raichle hiking boots on her feet. It was a fine outfit for a jaunt up Mount Moosilauke with the Dartmouth Outing Club; but for wintering in the depths of the B.C. mountains …
My gaze slid away from hers, and I kept my thoughts hidden. “Uh—Teresa, didn’t Marc explain that this place you’re going to is a howling wilderness? No malls. No stores at all. Not even a trading post within a hundred kloms.”
She shrugged. “Then I shall simply have to throw myself upon the charity of the local inhabitants.” She flashed that brilliant smile of hers. “Perhaps I can give little concerts or music lessons in exchange for warm clothes and such.”
Marc almost shouted, “Mama, the only local inhabitants in the Megapod Reserve are them.”
“Oh,” said Teresa. Her exquisite brow knit in a frown of resolute determination. “Well, I’ll get along somehow. I was a Girl Scout, you know.” She held up a boîte the size of a deck of playing cards. “My fleck library has some excellent references. Along with my opera videos and music recordings and vocal scores, I’ve duplicated all the books and movies in our family collection downstairs and called up some more from the public library that I thought might be useful. Camping and Woodcraft by Horace Kephart sounded wonderfully pioneering from the catalog synopsis. And I couldn’t resist some survival books by Bill Riviere and Bradford Angier that I remember reading when I was little and went to stay at Gran Elaine’s summer cottage in Maine. Such wonderful Franco-American names those authors have! And for literary atmosphere, I have Walden and The Call of the Wild and The Complete Poems of Robert Service.”
“Mon cul,” I muttered.
Teresa didn’t even hear me. She sailed serenely on. “The matter of the birth should be easy enough to manage with my training in Lamaze and the obstetrics book I processed into the flecks. Jack says he’ll be born easily. He’s going to be a small baby. He doesn’t quite understand my explanation about the diaper thing yet, but I’m sure it’ll sort itself out once he’s actually free of the amniotic fluid and experiencing the concept of dryness. And he won’t really need many clothes inside the house if I keep the heater turned up high, will he?”
“What heater?” I barked. I had been listening to her idiotic prattle with openmouthed horror. “What house? The place is nothing but a broken-down log cabin with a rusty old iron stove, for God’s sake, and it’s been disused for nigh onto forty years! You’ll have to cut wood—”
Teresa flourished her Swiss Army knife. “Fortunately, it has a very sharp saw blade! Of course, I’ve never had to use it yet, but I expect I’ll learn how very quickly. And there would be lots of dry branches just lying about, wouldn’t there?”
“Plenty,” I said gently. “Only thing is, by the time winter comes, which will happen around the beginning of November at that latitude, the wood will be under three or four meters of snow.”
Marc was even more mentally opaque than usual. Maybe the enormity of
what he contemplated had finally penetrated that supremely self-confident young ego. He turned to me, a sudden awful decision making his mind blaze.
“I thought you’d just help me take Mama there, Uncle Rogi. She assured me that she’d be able to cope if I fixed her up with plenty of supplies. But I realize now that we’ll have to work things out another way. You’re going to have to stay in the cabin with her. You know all about wilderness survival and that stuff.”
I simply stood there, stunned, with my mind bleeding dismay and pullulating blue funk, while the two of them exchanged nods of agreement.
Marc said to me, “We can pack a few more clothes for her, at least. As for you—I’d planned a provisioning and equipment-buying stop. We’re using your camping gear as a basis, and you can make a list of the other stuff you’ll need.”
Teresa said, “If I’m allowed to take more of my own things, I want my nightgown and a robe and slippers. And if it’s really going to be cold, the big down comforter. You’ll love that, Rogi, for long nights sitting in front of the fire! We can squish it into a tiny bundle and it won’t take up any room at all in the luggage.”
I finally managed to overcome my vocal paralysis and blurted, “Now, just a damn minute! We’re talking four months in the wilds? What’s going to happen to my bookshop—”
“Miz Manion will take care of the shop,” Marc said, “just as she always does when you’re out of town.”