by Julian May
“Hah!” Rogi said, his eyes lighting up.
“It’s not camaraderie I want from you,” MacGregor said curtly. He was no longer smiling. “It’s something quite different, and you’ll cooperate or suffer some serious consequences.”
Rogi stared at him, openmouthed.
“Now, you might not be aware,” MacGregor said matter-of-factly, “of the trick certain Remillards have of shutting others out of their minds while appearing to submit to coercive-redactive probes. We’re going to be able to do something about that, as you lot will find out. It will take precious time to implement, however, the Magistratum being subject to the constraints of due process and the laws governing evidence-gathering, and such tedious things. But the Dirigent has the option to cut a few corners in a good cause. Having you here in my web, so to speak, I’m opting for a simpler and more direct method of information-gathering.”
“About what?” Rogi bleated.
MacGregor seemed not to have heard him. “The simplest and least painful option open to you is to tell me the truth freely, and then just open wide and let me see into your mind to confirm it.”
“But you’ve just pardoned Teresa and me—”
“I’m no longer interested in Teresa’s crime. It’s something infinitely more important you’re going to tell me about. You can do it voluntarily, or you can refuse. In which case I’ll be forced to apply my very own brand of mind-ream, which is still a very rough-and-ready instrument, even after the Lylmik training regimen. Now I concede that my ream wouldn’t get me much if I tried it on Paul Remillard or on his eldest son. But I guarantee it’ll turn your brain permanently to clotted porridge if you try to fight back.”
“For God’s sake!” Rogi cried. “Just tell me what the hell you want to know!”
“Everything you know about the person or persons who murdered Brett McAllister and my wife, Margaret Strayhorn. Or by God, you won’t leave this place a sane man.”
Davy MacGregor had lied.
He admitted it after Rogi had spilled his guts in a pool of muck sweat and confessed everything he knew about Fury, Hydra, Vic, baby Jack, and the seven deaths. After Rogi had recovered from the ordeal (with the help of four fingers of Lagavulin Limited Edition), Davy admitted that he would not really have mind-probed the old bookseller to the point of madness.
“Not that I’m incapable of it, old son,” the Dirigent said amiably, “because my coercive-redactive faculties have assayed out at some really filthy potential, and the Lylmik did teach me a thing or two. But I’m actually a kindly sort of chap who wouldn’t hurt a fly—and besides, my authority doesn’t quite extend to the infliction of mental mayhem, even though I do have more leeway than the Magistratum in questioning Earth citizens.”
Rogi snarled and whined about the unfairness of it all, but Davy only said he intended to get to the heart of the killings by what he suspected would be the most direct route available—to wit, Rogi himself. And while Milieu law protected Magnates of the Concilium such as the Remillard Dynasty from being mind-probed without firm grounds, a mere private citizen was dead meat if the Dirigent decided to dig.
“Now I have some information to give you,” Davy said, still smiling, “and I want you to be sure to pass it on to the members of your family. Within a month, the Human Magistratum will have a new mechanical interrogation device at its disposal that will be able to get an accurate true-or-false reading out of even the most stalwart mental screeners. Thanks to you, there are now legal grounds for questioning the seven Remillard magnates with the machine—based upon information received. If they agree to submit voluntarily to the machine here in my offices, without me having to turn the matter over to the Magistratum for the lengthy legal rigamarole, then the testing will be done under strict confidentiality. No one’s reputation will be even slightly besmirched, provided they’re innocent. Again thanks to your cooperation, we now know just what questions to ask.”
“Beautiful,” Rogi said bitterly. “I can add stool pigeon to my personal roster of guilt trips.”
The kindly façade melted from Davy MacGregor’s face, leaving Caledonian rock. “The devil take your wounded sensibilities! The only thing that matters is finding the fiends who killed my poor Maggie and the others, and sending them straight to hell. Tell that to your precious Remillard Dynasty.”
33
FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD
TERESA’S OPENING-NIGHT PORTRAYAL OF THE ICY CHINESE princess Turandot, whose heart is finally softened by love, was one of the great triumphs of her career. She had wisely chosen a role that showcased her brilliance as a singing actress and a vocalist of rich and apparently effortless power. No one noticed that her voice was no longer as agile as it had been in her youth or that the exceptional high notes that had been her trademark were now few and far between. Her Turandot was a stunning comeback, and if the critics noticed that she was not the paragon of yore, they were not about to mention it and risk being lynched.
The entire family was there in New York on opening night, including Paul, and after the standing ovation given the performance, he dashed to her dressing room with tears running down his cheeks. The two of them frustrated her adoring fans and irritated the media by staying sequestered for nearly an hour. When they emerged, they came arm in arm, with dazed grins on their faces, to ironic applause and whistles. Baby Jack, who was being toted in a backpack by Marc, apparently made some telepathic remark that caused his older brother to blush to the ears.
The next day, Paul moved back into the family home in Hanover.
Teresa had signed to do seven more performances of the opera, scattered throughout October and early November, and during this time she commuted between New Hampshire and New York City, with Paul attending every performance but one. He missed the matinee on October 19, because that was the day the family submitted en masse to the Cambridge mechanical mind-ream, which was moved from Magistratum Headquarters to the Office of the Dirigent for Earth by special order of Davy MacGregor.
Not only the Dynasty but also their wives, Denis, Lucille, and Marc were questioned. (Teresa was tested the next day.) The machine was operated by Drs. Van Wyk and Kramer, and since both men were respected scientists and also magnates, the confidentiality of the procedure was erroneously presumed to be assured.
Because of the traumatic nature of the examination, only ten yes-or-no questions were asked of the examinees:
1. Are you the entity called Fury?
2. Do you know who or what Fury is?
3. Are you the entity called Hydra, or a part of that entity?
4. Do you know who Hydra is?
5. Do you know who or what killed Brett McAllister?
6. Do you know who or what killed Margaret Strayhorn?
7. Do you know who or what killed Adrienne Remillard?
8. Do you know who or what killed the four operants who disappeared in the vicinity of the New Hampshire seacoast last summer?
9. Do you know for a fact that Victor Remillard is alive?
10. Do you suspect that the Fury-Hydra murders of McAllister, Strayhorn, Adrienne Remillard, and the others have some connection to the Remillard family?
All of the persons examined answered “No” to the first nine questions and were ascertained to have told the truth.
Aurelie Dalembert the wife of Philip Remillard; Cecilia Ashe the wife of Maurice Remillard; Cheri Losier-Drake the wife of Adrien Remillard; and Teresa Kaulana Kendall the wife of Paul Remillard, answered “No” to the tenth question and were ascertained to have told the truth.
Lucille Cartier answered “No” to the tenth question and lied.
Philip, Maurice, Severin, Anne, Catherine, Adrien, Paul, Denis, and Marc answered “Yes” to the tenth question and told the truth.
Because of the overly broad nature of the tenth question, Dirigent David Somerled MacGregor appealed directly to the Lylmik Supervisors for a ruling on whether he had grounds to continue his investigation of the family. The Superviso
rs ruled that, at the present time, he did not. They also reminded him that he was not the one who would ferret out the murderer of his wife.
The results of the interrogation were sealed by the Dirigent and not turned over to the Human Magistratum.
34
SWAFFHAM ABBAS, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND, EARTH 2 NOVEMBER 2052
THE MOON SHONE DOWN ON THE DEVIL’S DITCH, AND THE inevitable wind of East Anglia rattled the windowpanes of the cottage that was quaintly English on the outside and peculiarly Russian inside. Flames crackled in the stone hearth, Mozart played softly on the stereo, and eight of the persons who had informally dubbed themselves the Metapsychic Rebels settled down with great relief and prepared to drink to the health of the newest of their number.
Anna Gawrys-Sakhvadze filled silver-mounted glasses with steaming tea from a brass samovar and had her nephew Alan Sakhvadze serve them. She herself offered a lacing of Georgian brandy to those who wished it. Gerrit Van Wyk accepted with his usual enthusiasm, and so did Will MacGregor and Alan. Hiroshi Kodama took a few drops. Oljanna Gathen, Jordan Kramer, and Adrien Remillard declined.
“And you, Esi, my dear?” Anna poised the bottle above the glass of the newcomer. “Perhaps after your experience with our nasty little lie detector machine over at the IDFS, you would like something to calm your nerves.”
“No, thank you. My nerves are recovering nicely,” declared Esi Damatura. “But I don’t mind telling you that I’m glad Gerry and Jordy had only a single question to ask me.”
“Poor Adrien recently had to endure ten in a row from those two,” Anna said, topping off her own glass and then taking a seat. “But we will discuss that after our little toast … Hiroshi, will you do the honors?”
“It will be my great pleasure.” Hiroshi Kodama rose to his feet. They were all sitting around the fire, and the rest of the room, filled with relics of Anna’s former homes in Moscow and Central Asia, was in deep shadow except for flickering flamelight. “I have known Esi Damatura for over nine years. Even though she served on the African Intendancy and I on the Asian, we learned very early on that both of us had an abiding love for this planet and its people, and an uneasy feeling toward those who, not being human themselves, nevertheless felt convinced that they knew what was best for our human race. I was overjoyed when Esi, like Anna and myself, was appointed to the Human Directorate of the Galactic Concilium. I was even more gratified when she joined me in urging that Teresa Kendall and Rogatien Remillard be pardoned for conspiring to violate the Reproductive Statutes. Even though we did not carry the day in that infamous vote, Esi’s heartfelt defense of human reproductive freedom led me to approach her at last about the possibility of her joining our little group, and ultimately to my bringing her here tonight for the final affirmation of her acceptance. Jordy and Gerry did their duty as inquisitors, and the result is one we all witnessed … And so, my friends, I give you Director Esi Damatura, Magnate of the Concilium, Grand Master Farspeaker and Creator—and now also, of her own choice, a Metapsychic Rebel together with us.”
He lifted his glass. The others rose to their feet and drank. Then Esi proposed a toast of her own.
“To that great countryman of Adrien’s, Thomas Jefferson! For years he has been highly esteemed in Namibia, the land of my birth. Among other things, Jefferson said: ‘A little rebellion now and then is a good thing.’ ”
The others all laughed and drank. Then Hiroshi asked Adrien, “What’s this about your having to endure ten questions on the interrogation machine?”
“It was in connection with the Hydra killings. Which are by now the worst-kept secret in the Human Polity—among operants, at any rate.”
“Well, I never heard of them,” Esi declared. Oljanna Gathen, her husband Alan Sakhvadze, and Hiroshi Kodama echoed her.
“Then lean a little closer, fellow conspirators,” Adrien Remillard urged, his mental tone grim in spite of the fact that he spoke lightly, “and I’ll tell you a murder mystery to freeze your gizzards and confound your deductive faculties.”
For the next quarter hour he regaled them with details of the affair, winding up with the disappearance of his eldest daughter and the interrogation of the Remillard family by the Dirigent. Jordan Kramer and Gerrit Van Wyk already knew a good deal of the background, since they had conducted the questioning; but the others, with the exception of Anna, who already knew almost everything, and Will MacGregor, who was aware of the suspicions about his stepmother’s death, were fascinated and appalled by Adrien’s story of a metapsychic vampire named Hydra that apparently killed by inflicting seven chakra-like wounds on its victims and was controlled by an unknown human named Fury.
When Adrien finished, the young starship captain, Oljanna Gathen, said flatly: “I don’t believe it. Granted, Brett McAllister was murdered in this peculiar way. There’s no real proof Margaret Strayhorn was killed by the same person; but I’ll give that the benefit of the doubt. But the other deaths—? By your account, there is no hard evidence at all that your daughter and the others who died last summer were killed by this alleged monster. The entire story of Hydra and its fiendish puppeteer comes from the unsupported testimony—and thirdhand testimony, at that—of an infant! Has the child himself been questioned with the machine?”
“Can’t be done,” Jordan Kramer said. “The procedure is traumatic enough for adults. It could inflict irreparable mental damage on a baby, and this one isn’t even in good health. As I understand it, he’s undergoing therapy for nearly three dozen genetic defects.”
“The poor thing,” murmured Oljanna. “What’s the prognosis?”
“Favorable, so far,” Adrien said. “Little Jack is some kind of metapsychic Wunderkind. No one can get past his mental screens, and he’ll only let his older brother Marc examine his memories. But Davy MacGregor was willing enough to accept Uncle Rogi’s account of Marc’s examination of Jack.”
“My father,” Will MacGregor put in, grimacing, “is hardly unbiased. He nearly went out of his mind when Margaret died. He’d seize on any clue that might lead to her killer. Even something as fantastic as this.”
“The burns on Brett McAllister,” Hiroshi said thoughtfully. “They actually occurred at the seven chakra points and had a lotus form?”
Adrien said, “I saw them myself. Each brandlike pattern was slightly different from the others. They were white, ashen. The rest of the body looked as though it had been seared with a blowtorch. It was some kind of psychocreative flaming, evidently a side effect of the drain.”
“Fascinating,” said Hiroshi. “You are aware, of course, of the significance of the chakra points in Kundalini Yoga?” He projected a mental image. “But the yogi uses the seven body points in esoteric healing, or in endeavors to attain a higher level of consciousness. The vampiric Hydra has apparently perverted the yogic technique to cause a redactive outflow of the victim’s vital energies. Amazing!”
“There was a clear connection between Brett McAllister’s murder and the attack on Margaret at the Dartmouth president’s house,” Adrien said. “The strange burn on her scalp was identical to the one on Brett’s head—and if we can believe my father, Brett’s burns were identical to ones caused by Denis’s late brother Victor, a family black sheep of the deepest dye, when he murdered two people many years ago.”
“But there’s no firm evidence that Margaret was actually killed that way,” Alan said.
“No,” Will admitted. “A suicide note was found. But my father is convinced that she was murdered, and he did claim to hear her farspoken death shout saying, ‘Five.’ In his mind, this corroborates what the baby said about Hydra being a fivefold entity.”
Oljanna shook her head. “Thin. Very thin.”
“You might not think so,” Adrien growled, “if you were better acquainted with the crimes of my late unlamented Granduncle Victor.”
“Tell them, Adryushka,” Anna commanded.
“I was only two years old at the time,” Adrien said, “and I never knew Vic. But m
y older sibs, who did know him, rated him as an amoral opportunist with superior metafaculties who intended to conquer the world—and came damned close to managing it. He’d gained control of the Zap-Star laser-satellite net and one of the biggest corporate empires on Earth just before he was turned into a vegetable.”
Gerrit Van Wyk had been listening wide-eyed. “When did that happen?”
Adrien gazed into the fire, cradling the tea glass in his hands. “It was the night of the Great Intervention.”
“I was there,” Anna said softly. “It was to be the last Metapsychic Congress, the farewell gathering of the beleaguered operant leaders of the world, held at this huge old hotel in New Hampshire in the U.S.A. I attended along with my mother Tamara and my dear grandfather, and my brothers Valery and Ilya and their wives. Our final banquet was held in a chalet on top of a mountain above the hotel, and this madman Victor Remillard conspired to kill us all by manipulating a group of anti-operant fanatics called the Sons of Earth. Surely you have read about it in your history books.”
Hiroshi Kodama frowned. “There was nothing in the books about Victor Remillard engaging in psychic vampirism.”
“No,” Anna conceded. “But the entire world knows that he and a dissolute capitalist named Kieran O’Connor were behind the attack on the chalet. O’Connor’s body was found on the mountain after the Intervention, marked with the seven chakra burns. His daughter was killed in the same way, and it is certain she was murdered by Victor. We learned this only afterward, of course. Victor himself attempted to blow up the chalet, with all the delegates of the Metapsychic Congress inside. Is this not so, Adrien?”