The Adversary

by Julian May

  And there it was: three stacked rocks, light against the graphitic shale and, as a bonus, a pile of old chaliko dung, sure sign that some other wayfarer had passed this spot. Brother Anatoly blessed the Lord, the marker, and the dung. His ankle throbbed, he was benighted and hypothermic and famished enough to eat shoe leather—but at least he was no longer lost.

  Fastening the lantern to his cincture, he gripped the staff and plodded on. The trail continued to rise, twisting among rock slabs as black as ink. He came to a fork. Right or left? He shrugged and turned right, onto the wider section of path. The butter-colored cone of lamplight shone on wet gravel, on tumbled chunks of gneiss, on a treacherous slickensides incline, and on ... nothing.

  "Mat' chestnaya!" yelled the priest. He teetered and clung to the staff, which skidded into a small fissure and wedged tight. Just one more step would have taken him over the precipice edge. Only the lantern's warning had saved him, and the bandit-gift staff.

  He rested on his knees, trembling in terror and relief. Cracked shale pressed through his soaked robe like dull knives, but his unrejuvenated old bones were so chilled that he felt hardly any pain. Head bowed, he mumbled an Ave in the old tongue. Somewhere down below, a mountain stream seethed and roared and a wind was rising. He looked up and saw a nearly full moon racing amid rags of cloud. The fog was dissipating—or perhaps he had simply climbed high enough to top it—and in a few minutes he had a clear view of a deep coombe threaded by a silvery torrent. The opposite wall was in heavy shadow and above it rose a ridge that culminated in a great moonlit eminence shaped roughly like an old-fashioned papal tiara. Black Crag.

  Anatoly climbed to his feet and lifted the lantern high. They could probably see him! He was well out in the open, away from any screening mass of rock, and the guardian farsensors might have been watching him for hours as he picked his way along the fog-shrouded slope. Perhaps they had even given the warning.

  In a voice raised only slightly against the wind, he said, "Good evening! I am Brother Anatoly Severinovich Gorchakov of the Order of Friars Minor. I've been sent with an important message. May I come ahead?"

  Was it only the wind—or were spectral metasenses plucking at him, feeling him out? Was exotic scrutiny viewing him with Olympian benevolence—or preparing to flick him off like some intrusive gnat?

  Was there no one up there at all, and was he simply a silly old crank with a rumbling stomach and fast-dwindling strength?

  He clutched staff and lantern and stood there swaying. Then he saw it, farther into the ravine, on his side of the stream: a tiny red light. And then a white one springing into being just beyond it, and another red one, and then many others, alternately red and white, red and white—a dotted line leading toward the head of the valley, undoubtedly illuminating the continuation of the trail. Anatoly gasped. More lights were zigzagging up the valley's far wall, pricking out a series of ascending switchbacks that snaked to the very summit of the crag. And up there, perched in lofty isolation and glowing like a basket of red-hot coals was a great structure resembling an alpine chalet. The lodge, just as Sister Roccaro had said.

  Anatoly switched off his lantern. The last shreds of the Summer Fog were gone and the mountainside lay luminous under the moon. As suddenly as they had appeared, the panorama of faerie lights and the enchanted dwelling on the crag vanished. All that remained was a single little red beacon not a dozen meters away that indicated the correct turning back at the fork of the trail. Brother Anatoly limped toward it. Before he reached the juncture the red light winked out and a white one, farther along, came on.

  "Very kind of you, I'm sure," he said. "Still, it may take me a while. You'll keep the tea water hot, won't you? And perhaps save me a sandwich?"

  The white star shone steadily. Except for the wind sighing among the rocks, it was very quiet.

  "Here I come, then," said Brother Anatoly, and resumed his interrupted journey.

  ***

  Minds still linked, Elizabeth and Creyn returned from their latest metapsychic range of Ocala Island. But instead of disengaging, they waited, hands lightly clasped across the oak table, to see if the thing would happen again. They were both turned toward the western windows. The sky beyond the balcony railing was now an extravagant blaze of stars, barely challenged by the high-riding moon.

  Creyn said: It manifests.

  Elizabeth said: Yes. Just like the other two times. Perhaps a bit more leisurely in the coalescence. More sure of itself.

  Creyn said: It is a simulacrum isn't it?

  Elizabeth said: Pray God yes friend. Let us attempt a finer analysis.

  A silhouette was materializing outside, blotting out the stars. It was the figure of a tall human male, apparently no more than seven meters away from them on the other side of the leaded window panes. Their linked farsense concentrated into a lancet-probe and explored with superlative delicacy. Were there actual molecules present—or was the thing merely a psychocreative simulacrum, a projected image no more substantial than the holograms of a Tri-D or the "sendings" broadcast by the Tanu and Firvulag? The probe was defeated by an aetheric phenomenon more subtle than a mental screen, a dynamic-field manifestation unfamiliar to Elizabeth, more absorptive than reflective.

  Creyn said: He's bluffing. He must be.

  Elizabeth said: Psychological warfare. Softening up before the real confrontation damn him.

  The man on the balcony wore a dark and glistening garment with a diagonal fastening, virtually skintight from neck to toe. Obscure embellishments, apparently of a technical nature, studded it in the region of the collarbone and the groin. The neck and head were bare and the curly hair stood out oddly from the scalp, almost like tendrils. The man's features were unmistakable and he seemed to be looking at them.

  To make certain that he heard, Elizabeth spoke on the distance-spanning intimate mode:

  Why not communicate with us Marc instead of playing games?

  The image was not quite motionless. The hair stirred and one corner of the mouth lifted by a millimeter. Tonight, unlike on the previous two visitations, the body was haloed in a faintly luminescent complex of mechanical gadgetry; around the head was a brighter nimbus of half-visible components and a hint of great flex-lines and cables trailing off into the night sky.

  Creyn said: Obviously the cerebroenergetic apparatus is again fully operational.

  Elizabeth said: They must have been tinkering with it the first two tries. Or perhaps his injuries forced him to utilize unfamiliar neural circuits—

  Did the head nod, ever so fractionally?

  Can you hear us on shortrange conversational Marc?

  The smile broadened.

  Elizabeth said: Well that's a relief. We're quite tired out from spying on you and your children and Aiken and Nodonn's invaders and the Firvulag. It's been a very wearying thirty-six hours ... We missed you last night. Were you too engrossed in watching the Great Duel to bother visiting us?...Whom were you cheering for? It was quite a setback for yourbewildering offspring but no doubt they'll come up with a new scheme in due course ... What do they really want in Europe Marc? It's obvious they have a deeper motive than simply snipping the paternal apron strings and seeking their fortune on barbar ian shores. I can't see you coming hotfoot after them for anything as mundane as that ... Your preparations must be nearly complete for the voyage by now. Even with the sigma-fields erected over the Kyllikki we can tell you've managed to stow a remarkable quantity of matériel aboard her ... Will you set sail soon?...Quite a lot of mysterious whispering on the intimate mode wafting up from Africa during the last few weeks. What do you suppose the children are up to?...

  The eyes of the phantom, sunken in deep orbits, blinked slowly. His quirked smile had faded.

  Elizabeth said: Marc you have no idea how you're complicating my job as de facto dirigent of Pliocene Earth. I doubt that Brede's plan for my godmothering her people took you and your meddling young into account ... I've told Aiken about your travel preparations and he's
quite upset. He takes his kingly duties rather seriously and I suspect that he'll resist any impertinencies with all his newly acquired might. Do you take my meaning? No doubt you witnessed the two metafunctional subsumptions he pulled off. I'm hard to impress these days—but I must admit to a definite bogglement at that little ploy.

  Were the eyes a trifle narrower, the mouth more tight?

  Elizabeth said: I want to forestall any violent confrontation between you and Aiken. Let me mediate. I could prevent disastrous miscalculations on both your parts ... Aiken is no longer the metaprodigal prankster you dealt with before you went into the tank. He's changed vastly since June. In outlook as well as in aggressive potential! He debugged the metaconcert program you gave him and he's been drilling his golds in the technique. These torc-augmented mentalities may be crude but they can amount to a respectable potential when stacked. If Aiken gathers enough people together and acquires full use of the powers he subsumed he'll be more than a match for you ... Consider carefully before you act. Advise your hothead children to do the same. We can have peace Marc! Won't you at least talk to me about it?...

  The shape out on the balcony was dissolving into a star-punctured wraith even as she persisted in her futile pleading. She shifted from the short-range to the distance-spanning mode, calling Marc's name, then broke off. The vision shimmered and disappeared without a trace.

  The mental linkage between Elizabeth and Creyn severed. She exclaimed, "Damn the man for his arrogance! Damn him!" She lowered her head onto her arms and burst into tears.

  Creyn the Redactor came to her and knelt beside her chair. She found herself clinging to him while pent-up anxiety and exasperation poured out of her; the old temptation to withdraw loomed more ominously than ever before.

  The Tanu's mind was discreetly closed. There was only his enormous physical presence, the strong embracing arms, the chest warm and superhumanly broad, the steady exotic heartbeat.

  When she stopped weeping, she said, "I'm a bloody idiot."

  "The release is good for you. Very human. Very Tanu, too, for that matter."

  "I've done the best I could. When I woke up after the Flood at Redactor House and took this job on, I really intended to do my best. Back in the Milieu, the job of dirigent—planetary overseer, that is—traditionally went to the person who didn't want it. And God knows, that's me! But ... I'm bungling it, Creyn. Can't you see? All of you think that a Grand Master Farsensor and Redactor should be a meta-psychic wizard, an all-wise demigoddess. But I was only a teacher back in the Milieu, not a trained administrator or a socioeconomic analyst. How can I be the ombudsman and arbiter for a crazy mixed bag of factions like this?...And now this wretched galactic Napoleon coming at me from his North American Elba!...Brede called me the most important woman in the world. What arrant nonsense! Look at the terrible mistake I made with Felice. I had no idea how to deal with a dangerous personality like her. Aiken's successful intervention was entirely his own idea ... And soon he'll be coming here, wanting me to help reintegrate his mind. The subsumption has given him a case of mental indigestion that could lead to a breakdown if he doesn't get help soon. What shall I do? If I integrate those faculties he stole, he might turn into another Felice. If I let him fall apart, Marc or his children will have a free hand! I don't know how to handle situations as complex as this, Creyn. I'm wrong for the job. A dirigent in the Milieu has a vast support organization—the enforcing arm of the Magistratum, all the resources of the Concilium to advise, the Unity to strengthen and give solace. But I'm all alone."

  He said, It would help if you could love us.

  She shrank from him. As always when he dared approach this dangerous ground, the mental wall sprang up.

  He said, You could learn make a beginning with one who loved you.

  Creynmyfriend no I don't can't no...

  He spoke aloud. "It's the way of both our races to need the beloved other. Not to strive alone. You know that I've loved you almost from the first time we met in Castle Gateway. Neither of us was a willing solitary then. It was the death of your Lawrence as much as the apparent loss of your metafunctions that drove you to exile. And I myself was widowed scarcely a year when you came to us. I could only stand back then, watching you being used, a pawn of the Great Ones. But later ... when I was able to serve you, to help on the exodus from Aven, to assist you here at Black Crag ... in all my life I've never been happier. My heart aches to share it with you."

  The walls were high and adamant, but she had her arms tightly around him. He said, "Listen to what your body says. Neither Tanu nor human is mere disembodied mind. You knew love's dual expression once, back in the Milieu with your husband, and it helped you to love the thousands of children you taught. Now you live in another world ... but you can learn to love again."

  She spoke gently. "You're the dearest friend I have. I know what you're offering, what you hope to do for me, even though you know I don't love you in a sexual way. But it can't work—"

  "It has for others, in your world as well as mine." His mind-tone reflected wistful self-mockery. "And we redactors aren't without skill in such matters."

  "Oh, my dear." Her head lifted and they drew apart. The tears had started again; impulsively, she showed him a glimpse of burning memory. "If it could only be so simple! But you said it yourself: I did love once. If only I hadn't already known a real marriage in the Unity..."

  "Is the gulf so great?" he cried. "Am I so far beneath you—so inferior?"

  She wept, completely sealed in.

  He said, "You raised Brede to operancy, even started to initiate her. Do the same for me. In time we could forge a Unity of our own!" He was no longer holding her but standing upright, a towering red-robed figure with rubies and moonstones gleaming in his belt and a golden tore around his neck.

  "Brede wasn't a Tanu." Elizabeth's voice was dull. Slowly she rose from her chair and went to the fireplace where the logs of stone-pine had fallen apart and were fitfully aglow. Using the hook of the poker, she pulled them back together, then worked the leather bellows until a few small flames sprang up. "Brede belonged to a more resilient race. In some ways more human than yours; in other ways, less. She was incredibly old and this gave her mind a monumental fund of endurance. And she was the Shipspouse! Her mate left her a special legacy that engendered the mind-expanding ordeal that we shared. Shared, Creyn!"

  He nodded. "My own pain is not sufficient..."

  "I don't know any way to strengthen you so that you could survive the ascent to operancy. So that I could survive it with you. Can you understand what I'm trying to tell you, my dear? Look into me very carefully. What an adult latent like yourself would have to go through in order to open those new mental channels—"

  "I'd suffer anything to make you love me!"

  "You'd die. I'm incompetent! It's beyond me! I can't make you operant any more than I can save poor Mary-Dedra's black-torc baby. Don't you think I would set all your minds free if I could? If I only could..."

  Somehow she was clinging to him again and they stood at the eastern windows. He said: Don't give up Elizabeth. Don't be tempted by the fire. Endure. If you can't love then be consoled by the devotion of those who need you. Pray for a resolution.

  Elizabeth laughed out loud. "Brede waited fourteen thousand years to die. Will I have to wait six million?"

  His long fingers touched her swollen eyelids, drying tears and leaving coolness. "Turn your thoughts. Look at the stars and compose yourself. Downstairs they're waiting for us, and have been for hours."

  "Poor Minanonn. I don't know what to tell him, either."

  In spite of herself, she found her eyes drawn to the sky. "How strange! That tight grouping of very small stars, down near the horizon. I wonder if they could possibly be the Pleiades? It was a funny little cluster four hundred light-years from my home planet of Denali, and the same distance from the Old World—from Earth. We colonists were very sentimental about it."

  "We and the Firvulag have a similar symbol
ic constellation that we call the Trumpet. See there? Just above your Pleiades. Our galaxy is so remote that it is invisible, even in the telescopes brought by time-travelers to this Many-Colored Land. But we know that Duat lies out beyond the mouthpiece star of the Trumpet, uncounted light-years from Earth."

  His arm was around her shoulder. He drew her toward the alcove opposite the fireplace where the force-field projector called the room without doors had formerly been installed. Now the little niche was empty except for another pair of gifts from the Shipspouse: a picture of a barred-spiral galaxy trailing two great arms, and hovering in front of it, an abstract sculpture of a female figure.

  He said, "We trust—Minanonn and I and the rest of the Peace Faction—that Tana is truly caring. That there is a greater evolution than that of the physical universe, of body, of mind. That there is an All toward which creation yearns, which each generation perceives ever more clearly, and in doing so, approaches. Those following the old battle-religion see the all in All as achievable only in death and annihilation. Hence their myth of the Nightfall War, which we thought would first engulf our tiny breakaway group of Tanu and Firvulag, and later destroy all the rest of the Duat worlds as well."

  She said, "Brede spoke of it, and its being rooted in the tores. She told me how the ancestral Tanu introduced the tore technology to the other Duat races, and how this was eventually seen by her as a meta-psychic catastrophe, dooming the Mind of your galaxy to a dead end. And her intuitive insight was correct, Creyn. The tore— any artificial mind enhancement that becomes a permanent crutch—is an intrinsic bar to Unity. Marc Remillard and his people proved that in the Milieu."

  He said, "Those of us who trust believe that even this terrible paradox, the dead end of the Duat Mind, fits somehow in the greater pattern—and will be resolved."

  Elizabeth turned her back on the statue and the star-whirl and moved to the fire. She took up a bronze poker and jabbed half-heartedly at the embers. A few sparks flew.