Intervention

by Julian May

  "He's very good on television, " Kieran admitted. "Very nearly as charming a coercer as your depraved old Dad... but also an idealist with no notion of the way the normal world actually works. He and the rest of them are in for a rude awakening, you know. "

  "No, I don't know!" Shannon flared. "Suppose you tell me. "

  Kieran got up from the lounger and regarded her with concern. She had begun to shiver again and her lips were blue. He wondered how much blood she had lost. "If you're really interested, I'll explain it to you. But not down here. I could use some coffee and brandy right now, and so could you. "

  He headed for the door and she trailed after. "I know you think I'm only a child, " she said as they approached the elevator. "Maybe I am, but you can't expect me to accept this — this scheming of yours with­out questioning it!"

  "Be sure you ask the right questions. You've led a very sheltered, pampered life up until now, thanks to the loyalty of Bayard and Louisa. Not all of us have been so lucky. I wasn't. Neither were Jason or Arnold, or Adam or Lillian or Ken or Neville, or most of the other people you so glibly designate my Mental Mafia. I wanted to spare you the horror stories. It seems I made a mistake, denying you the history of the per­secuted minority we all belong to."

  The elevator door closed as Kieran pressed 3.

  Shannon said, "When I saw MacGregor and his people do the Edinburgh Demonstration, I was just devastated. There they were, do­ing their thing just as though it were — natural. And I thought: It doesn't have to be Daddy's way, hiding the powers, using them selfishly. I could come out in the open! When more and more operant people began to reveal themselves I got so excited I thought I would die. I wanted to confess what I was, too! But I was afraid... "

  "For a good reason. "

  Her eyes were pleading. "We're different, but not so very different. The normals have been so grateful about the Psi-Eye program. The sensible ones support the metapsychic testing plan, too. The opposition is just from fundamentalist fanatics and people without the education to appreciate the good we can do. When the normals learn more about what operancy really means —"

  "They will try to kill us, " Kieran said.

  Shannon stared at him, speechless, and in that split second of appalled vulnerability absorbed the details of the peril that he projected. Then they were at the third floor of the mansion and emerged into a part of the house that had always been officially barred to her (although she had snooped through most of it when Kieran was out of town). Here were the self-contained guest suites for certain visitors; the antiseptic sanctum that housed the awesome mainframe computer with its huge data bank, connected by dedicated fiber optics to corporate headquarters in downtown Chicago; the satellite receiving station; the mysterious "recovery room" that was occupied from time to time by certain Mental Mafia recruits; and — most tantalizing of all — a locked room referred to in hushed tones by the household staff as the Command Post and by Kieran as "my study. " Shannon had never been inside it. Few people other than Kieran himself and Arnold Pakkala had.

  They stood now in front of its door, armor-plated steel without a knob or latch. Kieran pressed his right hand against an inset golden plate. There was a complex clicking sound and a single electronic chime. "Open up, " Kieran commanded, and the door slid silently aside, admit­ting them.

  Shannon uttered a low cry of astonishment.

  Her father smiled. "Do you like my study? I do, very much. You may come here as often as you like from now on. I'll reprogram the door. But please don't attempt to operate any of the equipment until I've given you proper instruction. I can begin that now, if you like. "

  "Oh, yes. "

  "Sit there while I make our coffee. " He opened a taboret and took out a Chambord. "I amuse myself by thinking of this room as the high-tech equivalent of the kingdoms of the world that Satan showed to Jesus from the pinnacle of the temple. If I were the Earth Boss, I could certainly supervise things very nicely from right here... Kona or Naviera?"

  "Kona, " she whispered. She sat on the edge of a maroon leather set­tee, looking very young. Her mental barriers had fallen completely. Kieran came to her, unwound the turban from her head, smoothed the damp hair, and kissed her crown. As he did so he slipped a subliminal command into the exposed psyche that would prevent voluntary clo­sure until he released her. It was a thing he had learned to do instinc­tively when he bonded the first hurt minds to himself — how long ago? — before her birth.

  Daddy I feel very strange.

  Relax dear baby.

  He handed her the steaming coffee with a splash of fine cognac, feel­ing his energies begin to mount. He had feared there might be an insu­perable inhibition, but there was not. So, he thought, we think we know ourselves, but we don't! Perhaps all devoted fathers keep the thing repressed in the unconscious. It was as true an instinct as the other, so closely related, that bound mind to mind in perfect loyalty. He won­dered if anyone else among the operants had discovered it. He thought not. The hierogamy was an old mystery that repelled the overcivilized mind, dying with the old Celtic and Greek votaries...

  "Are you comfortable now, Shannon?"

  Her smile was dreamy. "Yes. The coffee is good. "

  "Drink it all. " He slipped off his Shetland cardigan, folded it, then unknotted the blue silk scarf he wore at the open neck of his shirt.

  "I thought the coffee would wake me up. But now I feel very sleepy. " The dark lashes fluttered. She set her empty cup aside and relaxed against the cushions.

  "You can spend the night here, " Kieran said. "I often do. It's the one place I know that I'm completely safe. The windows are armored glass and the entire room is a self-contained little fortress. Secure. "

  Shannon's eyes had closed. "It's snowing. I can see the snowflakes with my mind, blowing in the cold wind. Whenever I do that I feel so lonely. " Her face was as white as the soft velour suit she wore.

  "You aren't going to be lonely. You'll be part of our group now. " Would she remember? The others hadn't — except Arnold, whose love had been strong enough to overcome the posthypnotic suggestion. You won't remember, he told the deepest part of her soul. Not unless you want to.

  "I feel cold again, " she murmured. "A little. "

  "Let me warm you, " he said, and touched the switch that would turn off the lights and blind the machines.

  Shannon remembered.

  4

  EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, EARTH

  7 APRIL 1994

  WHEN THE GIRL came with the sandwiches, Jamie and Jean and Nigel fell to with the usual voracious appetite of the EE adept, but Alana Shaunavon didn't even seem to notice the plate in front of her. She stared out the pub window at the statue of the wee dog, faithful and melancholy in the rain. A hardy Japanese tourist focused his camera on it, took the shot, and hurried off along Candlemaker Row. Two nurses huddled under a single umbrella came into the pub for lunch, and an old man in a black trench coat moved slowly in the direction of the church­yard gate. He had a plastic carrier bag.

  Alana sighed, lifted the teapot, and poured a bit into her cup. It had gone cold.

  "Here now, we can't have that, " Nigel said. He took the pot in both hands, squinted at it with keen determination, and grinned when steam spurted out of the spout.

  "What a useful talent, " Jean MacGregor observed. "With you around the house, one wouldn't even need a microwave. Or an electric blan­ket. "

  Nigel filled Alana's cup. "So I've told this lovely lady many a time to no avail. "

  Alana smiled absently. "You want a wife, luv, and I'm not the mar­rying kind. "

  "Piffle, " said Nigel. "I won't give up, you know. Drink your tea and eat your sandwich. You'll need your strength for this afternoon's outing. It's Dallas again. Sibley and Atoka think the Super-Stealth skin formu­lation may be hidden there in a fabricating subcontractor's place."

  "How dreary. " Alana took one bite of sandwich and one sip of tea. "We've wasted five months haring about after this silly ferrite coating
process. Why couldn't the bloody stubborn Yanks simply hand the thing over to the Russians instead of daring us and Tamara's people to find it? There's so much more important work we could be doing. "

  "They're testing, " Jamie said. "Measuring our capabilities and our resolution, and making a classic American 'Don't Tread on Me' gesture. You can bet that the formulation is in a lead box walled up in a rein­forced vault surrounded by an electrified grid in the midst of an alligator pond... but we'll find it, whatever the rigmarole, and we'll send copies to Washington and Moscow via diplomatic pouch and tell the world press we've done it. Then we'll chalk up another triumph for globalism and wait for the next confrontation. "

  "Neither side really cares about the radar-invisible gunk, " Alana complained. "It's only a matter of scoring off each other. They may've thrown away their nuclear arms, but it seems they're just as determined to dominate the world as they ever were — and our metapsychic peace initiative is nothing but a referee in the charade. "

  "Did you really expect an instant Golden Age, my lass?" Jamie's smile was ironic.

  "I hoped it would be better than this," Alana admitted, looking out the window again. The old man in the black raincoat was consulting a small book and gazing about. "We don't have the specter of nuclear war between superpowers anymore, but the old East-West antagonism and suspicion are still there, and the little countries cling to their eternal squabbles. There's war in Arabia and war in Kashmir and war in Botswana and war in Bolivia... "

  "And I'll never pray at the Wailing Wall, " Nigel said, "and your tea is getting cold again, and what is so fascinating about that old chap lurk­ing about out there?"

  Alana said, "It's odd. He's subvocalizing both the words and tune of 'Amazing Grace.' I can tell he's in a great state of emotional agitation, and one would normally be able to read his thoughts like a hoarding under those conditions — but because of the hymn-singing I can't get a glimmer. I wonder if the poor old thing is lost?"

  "A kind of normal's thought-screen, is it?" Jean asked. "How inter­esting. Do you know, I think our young Katie and David may have cottoned on to that one! There've been times when I've noticed televi­sion commercials and theme songs and other nonsense cycling over and over in their sly little brains when they were obviously up to some deviltry. "

  "We'd better hope the technique doesn't catch on in diplomatic cir­cles, " Nigel said.

  "According to Denis Remillard, " Jamie said, "it already has. But for­tunately, not too many normals are able to keep it up for any length of time... I forgot to mention that Denis popped over via EE very early this morning. He had some important news. Dartmouth is establishing a Department of Metapsychology with some whacking great grants that've fallen down the chimney, and Denis is being promoted to full professor and will head the thing up. "

  "Lucky sod, " groaned Nigel. "And here we are with the University casting about for ways to put us under the U. K. Civil Service! Can't you just see our metapsychic peace initiative tucked tidily away in Whitehall?" And he sang, in an excruciating fruity tenor:

  "But the privilege and pleasure

  That we treasure without measure

  Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!"

  "Denis had some bad news, too. " Jamie spoke in a lower tone. "The bill for universal metapsychic testing of all American children died in committee. The Civil Liberties Union and the Bible-thumpers carried the day. Now the testing is to be done on a strictly voluntary basis. There was some demand that the names of the participants and the results of the metapsychic assay be made a matter of public record, but Denis is fairly certain that meta-supporters in Washington can shoot that one down by invoking the famous American right to privacy. I asked Denis if he senses any serious groundswell of antimeta sentiment building, but he thinks not. More like a blasé attitude on the part of the normals, he said — taking the mental marvels for granted the way they do space travel. "

  "We were all heroes, " Nigel declaimed, "right up until the last nukes in North Dakota and Skovorodino were dismantled! But what have we done for humanity lately?" He lifted his beer in a mock toast.

  "Denis's new book is about due, " Jamie added. "He's calling it The Evolution of Mind. He said it may shake people up. I hope the lad hasn't said anything too reckless. Sometimes he strikes me as a bit toplofty, and I don't think that would sit well with the American public. Your Yank-on-the-street tends to follow egalitarianism right out the window, pretending that people really are all created equal and deserving of equal treatment across the board. It doesn't work out that way in actuality, of course —but God help the fellow who advocates any elitist scheme. " He chomped up the remains of his sandwich and took a deep draft of Arrol's.

  "We, on the other hand, " Nigel said, "just love an aristocrat. "

  "Speak for yourself, you kosher Sassenach!" said Jean with spirit.

  A number of colorful racial slurs were exchanged in good humor, and then all of them but Alana concentrated on food and drink. She per­sisted in her abstraction until she suddenly said:

  "Will Denis's new book have an explanation for precognition?"

  "Have you had a skry, then?" Jean's face was troubled. "Not another warning?"

  "Not exactly, " Alana said. "No firm premonition, only a kind of feeling. Just now. "

  Nigel regarded the young woman with a pretense of exasperation. "She's facing her weird again, that's what. So she can get out of the excursion to Dallas. "

  "It's no joke, " Jean admonished him. "Not to anyone born and reared in the Highlands. Our own little Katie's had the Sight — and I don't mind telling you it scares me. The other metafunctions are only exten­sions and elaborations of our normal mind-powers, after all. But pre­cognition seems supernatural somehow... " She turned again to Alana. "Your feeling: was it for good or ill?"

  "I — I don't know. I've never felt anything like it. It wasn't frighten­ing. No vision, no notion of an event impending. Perhaps just the op­posite. " She gave a small laugh and once again turned to the window. The old man was stooped over, rummaging in his carrier bag while the rain beat on his exposed neck. "He's still singing the hymn, " Alana noted softly. "Still upset. Perhaps it's his precognition. "

  "Funny you should ask about the theoretical aspect of the Sight, " Nigel said. "I was defending the crystal-ball effect as a legitimate metafunction to Littlefield and Schneider just the other day. It has to be a warping of the temporal lattices producing a wormhole in the contin­uum through the agency of the seer's own coercion. In theory, one could catch glimpses of the future or the past quite as readily as contemporaneous remote-viewings in the here and now. It's a matter of willing — coercing — a momentary plication of time rather than space. "

  "But how, " Alana said slowly, "can you explain the unpremeditated glimpse of the future? The vision one doesn't ask for?"

  Nigel looked uncomfortable. He swirled the last of his beer in the bottom of the glass. "It's hard to explain that through dynamic-field theory, I admit. You see, the temporal nodalities that we call 'events' require instigating forces. Causes, if you like. But if the unexpected premonition doesn't originate in the coercivity of the seer, we must ask just what the source of the coercive vector is. It could be another person. It could be the collective unconscious of humanity, if you want to accept Urgyen Bhotia's theory. "

  "Or it could simply be angels, " said Jamie MacGregor.

  Alana started. "Oh, you're putting me on!"

  He was rummaging in his notecase for the Parapsychology Unit's credit card. Discovering it at last, he waved it at the barmaid. "If you eliminate the coercivity of the seer as the instigator of Sight, and elim­inate the coercivity of other people — using the term in its broadest sense to mean 'sapient entities inhabiting our physical universe' —then you are left with an enigma. An extradimensional genetrix. An initiat­ing force outside the eighteen generative dynamic fields, but neverthe­less congruent to the three matrix fields. "

  The barmaid took Jam
ie's card away. Her face had an old-fashioned expression.

  "Are you speaking of God?" Alana asked.

  "Not necessarily, " said Jamie. "The Universal Field Theory doesn't define God, or the Cosmic All, or the Omega, or whatever. But if such an entity exists outside our physical universe, then it must have a method of relating to that universe. Denis Remillard believes in God and suggests that an integral sexternion — or a whole gaggle of them — operates between the All and the dimensional construct we call the physical universe. He says the sexternions already have a perfectly good name in religious tradition: angels! Word means messenger. " He signed the credit-card slip with a flourish and pocketed his copy.

  Alana peered at him with suspicion. "Do you mean to say you really believe second sight is instigated by angels?"

  Jamie shrugged. They were all rising from the table and going after their raincoats. "I didn't say that. I said it was a theory, and one of Remillard's to boot. You can think as you like, lass. "

  "Do you still feel fey?" Jean asked Alana solicitously. "You're dread-fully pale and you didn't eat a thing. "

  "It's a blank, " the girl whispered. She tried to smile. "There doesn't seem to be anything beyond. "

  "Take my arm, " Nigel urged her.

  Alana's eyes slid away. "I'd really rather not. Please, Nigel. "

  "No problem, " he said easily, and held the door open.

  The two women went out into the rain.

  By the churchyard gate, the elderly man was now kneeling on the pavement, rooting in the plastic carrier bag and muttering. He had lost his hat and the rain soaked his thin white hair and ran down his fur­rowed cheeks. He looked up wildly and froze as he saw Alana.

  There shah not be found among you any one that useth divination, or an enchanter, or a witch! For all that do these things are an abom­ination unto the Lord: and because of these abominations the Lord thy God doth drive them out from before thee!

  Alana stopped as the cry flooded her mind and tried to crowd Jean back into the pub doorway with her body, but she was not quick enough; the machine pistol that the old man pulled from his bag spat five sudden gouts of yellow fire and woke thundering echoes up and down the an­cient street. Alana crumpled, her face turned scarlet and formless, dead before she reached the ground. Jean took only one bullet, but that was in the neck, and she fell back into Jamie's arms with her life fountaining onto the rain-darkened granite pavement.