The Adversary

by Julian May

  "Remillard!" exclaimed the minds and voices of the Bastards.

  "I see that a bell has rung," the King remarked. His smile was grim. "Yes, she's his daughter. Marc Remillard and his ex-Rebels have been living in North America for twenty-seven years, mostly minding their own business. But not any longer. It seems the Rebels had children, and the kids decided that they'd had enough of the old folks' domination, and so they packed up and blew the homestead and came here. Cloud was first, with a handful of others. Later her brother Hagen came with all the rest of the second generation."

  "Good God," said Basil. "It's incredible! Marc Remillard was alleged to have perished in the Rebellion, together with his top confederates."

  Aiken shrugged. "Madame Guderian had a lot to answer for. I don't know if she let 'em go through willingly, or if they coerced her. Probably the latter. They brought contraband galore."

  "Oh, Your Majesty, never mind that!" cried little Miss Wang passionately. "Tell us more about reopening the time-gate—and going back!"

  "Not possible," Dimitri Anastos told her. "It's a one-way warp, Milieu to Pliocene."

  "Not," said Aiken, "if you build a second Guderian tau-field generator here. Which is what Marc Remillard's children and their friends propose to do."

  "To go home!" cried Miss Wang. "To undo the terrible error! To leave this awful place and live once again in the tranquillity of the Milieu—"

  "Oh, I dunno," said Phronsie Gillis, pulling a dubious face. "This exile has its hairy moments, but by and large I dig it. You feel like boogying back, Bets?"

  Mr. Betsy uttered a hollow chuckle. "Surely you jest."

  "The Milieu is a benevolent despotism! To hell with it!" said Pushface.

  "Speak for yourself, joker," Chazz said. "I'd be at the head of the queue for a return ticket."

  "How many of you," Aiken asked, "would go back?"

  Eleven hands rose—and then a twelfth, from an eagle-beaked man who said, "Me too, King—if you and the friggerty Angel of the Abyss are planning a little war."

  Phronsie Gillis gave him a thunderous scowl. "Any war that features ol' Marc the Paramount Badass Grand Master won't be little, Nazir! More likely it'll be terminal to the Pliocene Earth, and the Milieu'll end up never been born!"

  "No, that can't happen," Dimitri interjected with pedantic insistence. "Contrary to popular superstition, so-called alternate universes or parallel space-time lattices are impossible. One does not kill one's own grandfather and subsequently vanish! No action here in the Pliocene can alter the primary reality of which the Milieu—and all future events, for that matter—is a manifestation. According to the universal field theory—"

  "Stuff it, Dimitri," said Mr. Betsy.

  A wrangle broke out, which Aiken cut off with another coercive slap. "Those of you who would go. How many are able to pilot the Tanu aircraft?"

  Miss Wang, Phillipe, Bengt Sandvik, Farhat, Pongo Warburton, and Clifford raised their hands.

  "How many pilots would stay here?"

  Hands went up from Mr. Betsy, Taffy Evans, Thongsa, Pushface, and Stan Dziekonski.

  The King fixed Mr. Betsy with a ruminative eye. "Just what did you do back in the Galactic Milieu?"

  Betsy drew himself up in an attitude of stubborn hauteur. Basil quickly said, "Dr. Hudspeth was a researcher and test pilot with Boeing's Commercial Rhocraft Division."

  "I'll be gormed," murmured the Nonborn King. His gaze roamed over the rest of the assembled crew and the adventurers stiffened, feeling redactive probes invading their memories, trying in vain to shut the mental windows that the gray tores had opened into their brains.

  "An Oxford don who climbs mountains," Aiken mused wonderingly. "A third engineer on a tramp starfreighter ... a surgeon who did one microtomy operation too many ... an upsilon-field generator designer for G-Dyn Cumberland ... an egg-bus maintenance mechanic ... an Eskimo electronics engineer ... too bad there's no metallurgist..."

  When the King withdrew his scrutiny, Basil said, "Sir, we have been told that you bearus no ill will. Your deputy, Ochal the Harper, described you as a just and worthy ruler—given a few human eccentricities."

  Aiken laughed.

  Basil continued persistently. "You have tantalized us with visions of a return to the Milieu and frightened us by suggesting that the Pliocene might be the scene of a renewed Metapsychic Rebellion. You have rummaged in our brains in a desultory fashion, and I presume that you will interrogate us more stringently in good time, in order to learn the location of the other exotic flying machines—"

  "Oh, I know that," Aiken said. "Cloud Remillard told me."

  "Then tell us what you intend to do with us," the don demanded. "Are we to remain enslaved? Are we mere pawns in your dealings with the young Rebels?"

  Aiken leaned back in the throne of intricately carved and gilded wood. It was a trophy, stolen centuries ago from the Firvulag by some Tanu Hunt, and the back was surmounted by a shining lion guardant with chrysoberyl eyes. Ignoring Basil's questions, the King pointed to a man who stood apart from the rest, whose dreaming face was framed by a ginger beard and who wore a surtout of crimson over a chainmail shirt.

  "You aren't one of Basil's Bastards," Aiken said. "Who are you?"

  "Only a madman," said Dougal, "seeking the savior."

  "Dougal's quite harmless," said Basil.

  "Mad?" The King seemed puzzled. "Is that why I can't probe your brain?"

  "Perhaps," said Dougal. "Or there might be another reason."

  Aiken lifted one eyebrow. "And would you like to go home to the Galactic Milieu, Sir Dougal the Mad?"

  "Sire—I am, as thou, at war 'twixt will and will not."

  "Ah," said the King. He arose from the throne and went to the long table where the food and drink were arrayed. He helped himself to more iced tea from a faceted crystal urn and began to poke through the plates of cakes, biscuits, and finger sandwiches. He said, "The adult children of Marc Remillard's Rebels have defied parental authority by coming to Europe. The elders are on their way here via windjammer, hell-bent to stopthe kids from building the Guderian device."

  "If it were done when 'tis done," said Dougal, "then 'twere well it were done quickly."

  Aiken blinked at him, then said, "Cloud and Hagen originally intended to make a pact with Nodonn. Now, of course, they've set their sights on Me. They want not only the exotic aircraft, but the lot of you to fly and maintain them. The fleet is to be used for toting them and their equipment about as they gather materials for the time-warper. I understand some of the rarer elements will have to be located through aerial surveys, then mined and refined on the spot."

  "And you intend to cooperate," Basil stated.

  Aiken popped a square of shortbread into his mouth and munched it up. "I have strategic reasons for doing so. And I want you to help me to help these young Rebels."

  "It's Hobson's choice we have," Taffy complained, "collared with these fuckin' tores!"

  Aiken sipped his tea with bowed head. "Alas, my friends—I face a certain dilemma there. Try to appreciate my position. I want this time-gate built and so do about half of you ... so you say. But what if those who don't want to return to the Milieu get sick and tired of the gate-building scheme and do a flit—or perhaps scarper with some of the aircraft? That could jeopardize the entire operation. We have too few pilots and ground-crew folks as it is, and I'd hate to lose any of you." He smiled in a winning fashion.

  "You intend to keep us torced, then," said Basil.

  "Until the time-gate's finished. But I promise that you won't be coerced or punished through them if you behave reasonably. Now how does that strike you?"

  "We'll end up having to fight off that monster, Marc Remillard!" Mr. Betsy cried. "When he arrives with his pack of metapsychic felons, those of us piloting the aircraft will face heaven knows what kind of mechanical and mental zappery!"

  "We'll have weapons of our own, and we also have some sigmas that can be installed on the ships," Aiken said. "And there
are such things as mental screens against mind-blasts."

  "I'm sure I wouldn't know," the rhocraft engineer retorted.

  Aiken grinned. "I keep forgetting. You don't know Me very well." He set down the tea tumbler and strolled back to the throne, where he struck a pose. "Let me give you a small demonstration of what it takes to be King of the Many-Colored Land."

  He stood quietly for a moment, eyes closed. Then the lids lifted and his mind's fire seemed to look out through the deep orbits. His hair stood out, lit by dancing sparks, and the glass coronet shone with an inner fluorescence. A webwork of crawling violet and amber lightnings poured down from his shoulders to his feet, sheathing his body as though he had become a living electrode. The web coalesced into a blazing nimbus, and about his head was a veritable mane of golden flames, reflecting off the gilt-wood carving of the lion above the throne. He lifted both hands and held miniature suns, and seemed to grow in stature until he towered incandescent against the ceiling beams and threatened to ignite the Firvulag trophy banners hung there. Waves of coercion and psychocreative force oscillated in the room. The Bastards' minds seemed filled with crashing sonorities. They were transfixed, enthralled by the apotheosis.

  Only Dougal retained the power of movement. He reeled forward and dropped to his knees. His face was contorted with pain and joy and tears flowed down his cheeks. "It's you!" he cried. "It's you!"

  The brief flash of uncanny power shut off as though it had been only inadvertently manifested. The little man in the golden leather suit stood there, leaning casually against the throne, his aspect quite normal.

  "Not to brag," said Aiken, "but Marc Remillard may discover a nasty surprise if he attempts to invade this continent. Remember that his power during the Metapsychic Rebellion rested in a vast assemblage of minds, which he directed in aggressive metaconcert. Here in the Pliocene he's handicapped. A lot of his old cronies are worn out. Others are unreliable—or their metafunctions aren't suited to offense. It seems very likely that if he comes against Me, he'll have to come alone. His people will try to help him, but theirefforts will be piddling compared to the kind of fighting that went on during the Rebellion. We can lick 'em—and we can build that gate! The job will be easier if you help. Will you?"

  Dougal had both hands pressed to the leonine charge embroidered on his new surtout. Still weeping, he spoke in a low voice. "Before, with your glory masked, I did not know you. None of us did. But now I see you, Asian, come to save Narnia just as I prayed. You will not abandon us to pass through the dread doorway. You will not let the dream die—"

  "Be quiet," said the King sharply; and although he withheld his coercive power, the mad medievalist subsided, sinking down with his face to the marble floor. Aiken stepped around him to survey the others.

  "Will you help me freely?" he asked, and his voice was strangely dulled.

  There was a brief pause. "Yes," said Basil at last. "Those of us who would stay in the Pliocene will cooperate for the sake of our friends who wish to leave."

  Aiken sighed. "Thank you." Behind the Bastards, the doors of the grand salon opened. Parthol Swiftfoot stood there, this time attired in full armor that blazed blue-green in the dusk. Beside him was Ochal the Harper. Their minds said:

  You summoned us High King.

  "These friends are to be conducted to rooms where they can rest," Aiken said aloud. He turned to Basil. "Tomorrow, we'll confer about an aircraft salvage expedition to the Alps. My Deputy Lord Psychokinetic, Bleyn the Champion, will lead you. You'll leave as soon as possible."

  "As you like, sir." Basil inclined his head slightly and sent a brief telepathic image to the others. Those who were still sitting arose. The Bastards began to drift toward the doors.

  Dougal roused and climbed to his feet. He pulled a linen mouchoir out of one mailed sleeve and blew his nose. The dreamy look was gone as he eyed the King and said, "If you plan to whip up Guderian's Gazebo from scratch, Asian, take my advice and get hold of my old master, Tony Wayland. I mean, extruding that bloody niobium dysprosium wire for the tau-generator alone will call for world-class boffinry, to say nothing of refining the stuff from ores. Tony ran the barium works in Finiah ... Really knows his metallic stuff, old Tony."

  Aiken was urgent. "Where is he now?"

  Dougal rolled his eyes heavenward. "Alas! He was nobbled by wicked dwarfs in the Vosges woodland, and only I escaped to tell the tale!"

  Aiken shot a telepathic instruction to Parthol, who came up and put a gently coercive hand on Dougal's shoulder and suggested, "Why don't you come along and tell me all about it?"

  Dougal suffered himself to be guided toward the door, but as it was closing, he said over his shoulder, "And thou, Asian, in thine own hand bear the power to cancel his captivity ... a parlous exchange, yet necessary, I ween." And he was gone.

  Aiken shook his head and the expression he showed to Ochal was almost helpless. "I suppose Parthol will make sense of it. Creator ingenuity ... but dammit, Occy, there's something uncanny about that big gomeril."

  "I sensed it too, High King." Thinly veiled anxiety hovered behind his social screen. "Is it well with you? We could have the North Americans wait longer—"

  "No. There isn't time. Dougal was right...'twere well it were done quickly."

  "They have followed our instructions with complete docility and await your pleasure. Would you believe that they've brought five tiny toddlers along with them?"

  "I'm ready to believe almost anything these days," Aiken remarked. "You got the big sigma from Hagen Remillard without any hassle?"

  "Yoshi is supervising its installation up in the gallery right now, High King."

  "Good." Aiken strode to the throne and dropped into it. "We want to be damn sure no unauthorized parties eavesdrop on this next little confab."

  "Do you have any other commands?"

  Aiken waved a hand. "Just get some grays in here to spiffy up the tea table, then bring on the Children of Rebellion."

  Ochal saluted and would have withdrawn, but the King suddenly said, "Do you remember the night I first came to Muriah—King Thagdal's crazy feast, and the show-and-tell we newcomers put on so you could bid for our services?"

  "I remember, High King." Ochal's mouth twitched. "What a wild affair that was! And now I see that it was your opening move in the great game."

  Aiken seemed to be staring into the far distance. "There was a little human redactor woman, a silver, who sang. Do you remember?"

  "I hear her still in memory, Shining One."

  Please, said Aiken.

  And later, when the North Americans came apprehensively into the sigma-sheltered salonto meet the terrible King of the Many-Colored Land, they saw a little man sitting on a large lion-crested throne, and at his feet a faerie knight enarmed in amethyst, singing andplaying "All Through the Night" on a jewel-starred harp.

  ***

  When he was certain that the silver-tore castellan and his minions were gone, Basil Wimborne went out onto the balcony of his bedroom, located the Pliocene Polaris, and oriented himself as best he could. The massif of the Flaming Mountains lay between Calamosk and Black Crag and his farsensing ability, even when he was wearing gold, had been only meager. But Elizabeth was a Grand Master, and there was a chance she would hear his feeble gray call.

  He closed his eyes, placed his fingers on the warm metal about his neck, and channeledall his psychic energy into the hail:

  ELIZABETH...

  Basil! O mydear mydear we thought you dead. CloudRemillard&Nodonn took Bastards&all in aircraft Afaliah.

  But you safe? And others? Safe now yes. With Aiken Calamosk. You know RebelChildren come?

  Yes. And I know theirfather won't be far behind. Aiken&Children plan use us&aircraft. We agreed.

  But Basil ... since you wear gray I presume the others do also and you have been forced to cooperate. There is danger. Aiken will make enemy of Marc by allying with Children. You will be caught in metapsychic quarrel. Better perhaps that I demand Aiken free yo
u—

  Elizabeth don't you know?

  ?

  Why Children come ally with Aiken?

  ...To escape parents flex muscles mingle other minds—To open time-gate from this side.

  ...

  Elizabeth?...Elizabeth?

  Yes Basil. How they plan do this?

  Build Guderiandevice. They can if Aiken helps.

  Marc will do utmost prevent it.

  Children 5tons Milieu weapons + aircraft hope win. Aiken says Marcweaker him.

  My God.

  What do? WHAT? We giveup aircraft Lowlifefreedomhope doomed—Elizabeth help us tell us what do!

  I don't know Basil I must consider so many factors now this be patient obey Aiken for now I'll contact you via intimode thoughtbeam after I have time think time think O God an open gate!

  Elizabeth do one thing.

  Yes Basil?

  Tell PeopeoMoxmoxBurke HiddenSprings.

  ...Verywell. But there is little chance his people can get to aircraft hidden Alps ahead Aikensponsored group—

  Nonono DON'T ask him try that! No. Tell him opengate. Help him resolve inaction/dilemma/fear. Peo fear?

  Peo?

  Elizabeth you meditated BlackCrag long while we waited hoping advice. None. Aircraftscheme seemed onlyhope protect Lowlives Firvulag&Aiken freedomthreat. Peo wanted use aircraft invade Roniah obtain Milieuweaponry for deterrent. We almost ready go when Nodonn came. Now ... what now? What hope? Can you not advise?

  Basil I don't know what Aiken plans or Marc. Firvulag will continue brushfirewar pattern at least until Truce. I cannot advise Peo anymore than you. Not yet.