The Adversary

by Julian May

Patricia said: Come with me to Marc Helayne. He'll see that nobody harms the children. He promised. You know you can trust Marc.

  Trust ... oooh I did. We all did. In the Milieu during Rebellion and even in defeat. Trusted Marc followed Marc loved Marc. BUT HE LIED.

  Patricia said: Marc doesn't lie.

  HedoeshedoesHEDOES. Said he'd never leave us. NEVER. BUT HE GOES.

  Patricia said: Helayne he always comes back to us.

  Heliessaysdestroyingtimegatesitepreventchildrenescape! MustkillchildrenprotectHIMSELF. Butlstoplknowhowstop. KillYOU! KillHIM!

  A knife flashed in the spotlight. Helayne clung to the upper crosstrees and slowly climbed onto the rim of the bucket. Her flowing silk pajamas crackled in the wind like pennants.

  FlydownkillyouALL!

  Patricia said: You can't fly Helayne. If you jump you'll die. Chris and Leila will feel guilty. Little Joel will cry for his Nana. Don't jump. Come down and let us help you.

  DarlingChris ... darlingLeila ... preciousjoel. Hewantskill-thembutlknowhowstop. Kill the other minds. Deprive devilangel-executor of metaconcertcooperators make HIM helpless!Weak! HUMAN!...And that's exactly what I have done you know.

  This last was delivered in a tone so matter-of-fact and complacent that the seven people at the foot of the mast were momentarily taken aback. And then Steve Vanier came pounding up the after companionway ladder and emerged on deck with his brain bursting with horror. He shouted: "The Keoghs—both of them stabbed to death in sick bay! And she must have gone into the cabins that weren't locked—" Crimson images tumbled from his mind. Helayne's manic laughter pealed in the cloud-wracked sky.

  Nanomea Fox kept the spotlight steady on the swaying figure. Helayne called out in a crooning voice, "Walter! Come up, dear. Help me. I promise I won't jump if you come." The force of her coercion was an irresistible siren call. Walter, blank-faced, started for the mast as Fox and Marchand stood helplessly by.

  "No, Walter!" Patricia screamed. And then the mental tentacle coiled about her own will, commanding her to climb, and Roy, and...

  Jeff Steinbrenner whipped the carbine from Laroche's paralyzed hands and fired withoutaiming. There was a sizzling report and a bloom of light like St. Elmo's fire. Something seemed to take wing, uttering a final sound like a seabird's cry. Fragmentsof wood and metal and severed rope rained onto the deck.

  They all looked up at the broken, empty crow's nest, and then braced themselves to go below.

  ***

  As the dark armored form materialized on its improvised cradle, the docilated man sitting in the dark corner of the hold finally broke his silence. "Commodore's gig approaching! Bosun, your pipe! Mister Kramer, hoist the swallowtail of the Rye Harbor Yacht Club!"

  "Shut up, Alex," said Patricia Castellane, "or I'll phase in the algetics at max, so help me God."

  Alexis Manion subsided, but a sly smile played over his lips. He got up from his chairand strolled closer as Gerrit Van Wyk pulled the helmet hoist into position and Jordan Kramer monitored the divestment.

  When Marc was free of the armor he said, "The stasis held perfectly for three hours thirty minutes. I think I've got it licked. How did it look on this end?"

  Kramer said, "Perfect. No sign of anomalous field-warp or bilocation phenomena. We'll have Manion do an analysis in depth, but it looked mighty good in overview. How far out did you go?"

  "Eighteen thousand six hundred and twenty-seven light-years. To Poltroy. Testing my limits and indulging my curiosity."

  "Was the translation still apparently instantaneous?" Van Wyk asked.

  "Yes," said Marc. "There doesn't seem to be any equivalent of the subjective hours or days spent in the gray limbo by superluminal starship riders. I'd estimate I was in the hyperspatial matrix thirty subjective seconds on each of the d-jumps. It takes longer breaking through the superficies at each end, of course."

  He stepped into the miniature shower cabinet and threw out the pressure-envelope coverall. The water sprayed hot, sending steam clouds rising among the cable-draped oaken shiptimbers.

  "So you went to Poltroy, my beamish boy?" Alexis Manion caroled.

  "I'd forgotten that the place was mostly glacial during the Pliocene," Marc said. "Fortunately, the locals took me for a slumming god and lent me some furs, or I'd have had to stay in the armor. It would have spoiled the experiment." Patricia came upwith a towel and a dressing gown. "I think I finally have the d-jump program fully assimilated. I expect to work out further refinements, but the technique is quite workable now.I can take the armor with me as a safety precaution against a hostile environment, or leave it suspended in the superficies out of the way, or even send it back home to wait until I whistle, cutting off entirely from the systems at this end of the warp." He smiled, tying the belt of the robe. "It's the damnedest feeling, going superluminal without a ship. But it was even spookier actually visiting a world in the flesh that I farsaw on the star-search."

  Kramer asked, "Is there discomfort passing through the hyperspatial boundary, as one experiences on a starship?"

  Marc nodded. "I'm meshing with an upsilon-field. No matter whether the thing is generated mechanically or metapsychically, it still hurts to go through it. D-jumping does away with the extended subspace vector—the subjective time-lag spent in the gray limbo. But the pain factor seems to have its usual component—geometric increase with the distance jumped. I was nearly at my limit with the hop to Poltroy, but teleporting about the Earth is no more uncomfortable than worrying a hangnail."

  Alexis Manion cocked his head impishly and sang:

  If this is true, it's jolly for you;

  Your courage screw to bid us adieu!

  And go and show both friend and foe

  How much you dare! (I'm quite aware

  It's your affair.) Yet I declare

  I'd take your share. But I don't much care.

  I don't much care ... I don't much care.

  Marc surveyed him without rancor. "Let's get you out of that docilator and put you to work, Alex. I want a detailed study of this operation."

  He slid his powerful redactive faculty into the mind of the dynamic-field specialist to prevent severe disorientation as the mind-altering headset was removed. Manion winced, blinked, then massaged his eyelids with his fingers. The underlying hatred was there still, but it was masked almost immediately by a peculiar elation.

  He said, "We have a little surprise for you, Marc! While the cat was away, the mad mouse played."

  Patricia hurried to forestall him, running her own high-speed reprise of the shambles. Manion glowed in perverse satisfaction while Kramer and Van Wyk stood mutely by, confirming that Helayne had indeed murdered fifteen people—including Kramer's wife, Audrey, and the former Concilium magnates Deirdre and Diarmid Keogh and Peter Dalembert—before she herself had been shot dead by Steinbrenner. A few others had been wounded by the madwoman, Arkady O'Malley seriously.

  "Bon dieu de merde," breathed Marc, his mind glaring bright.

  "You could apply for that job on Poltroy," Manion suggested archly "but the natives might prefer a less graphic job description."

  Marc stood motionless. His face had gone livid and his eyes were those of Abaddon. Alex Manion's body was lifted into the air and seized by a massive convulsion. His eyes bulged and oozed blood from a dozen pinpoint hemorrhages. He uttered an animal scream at the same time that his brain flooded the aether with agony. Then he was sprawled on the planks, his limbs racked with clonic spasms, half drowned in vomit, soiled and stinking in hisown voided excrement.

  Marc looked down at him dispassionately. "Tu es un emmerdeur, Alex. It's fortunate foryou that I still have a sense of humor. You aren't seriously damaged. Do the field analysis tomorrow."

  The gabbling pain-ridden thing collapsed, unconscious. Without another glance, Marc took Patricia by the elbow, steered her past the stricken Van Wyk and Kramer, and went out to the after companionway.

  "Just say the word," Patricia said as they climbed to his cabin in th
e stern deckhouse, "And I'll deep-six that swine myself. It wouldn't surprise me to find that he was the one who gave the dope to Helayne, hoping that something like this would happen. It was hispoison that turned her against you in the first place—and corrupted the children aswell! Now we've lost the Keoghs, our top redactors. And Peter—"

  "Poor Keoghs," Marc mused. "Siegmund and Sieglinde. At least they went in style! But whoever would have thought that Peter Dalemhert would die in his bed?" He opened the cabin door and held it courteously.

  "When we found him, his eyes were open. And his face"—she projected the vision—"quite calm. A creator of his power should have been able to shield himself from Helayne's knife. If he had wanted to."

  Marc went to the built-in cooking unit and activated it, then opened a clothes locker. "I had counted on Peter's devotion to Barry and Fumiko and little Hope to counterbalance his rather blatant deathwish." His smile was distant as he tossed underwear, jeans, and a jersey onto the bed. "Another of my miscalculations. Obviously, Peter thought that I'd be unable to stop the children without harming them."

  Patricia was silent.

  "But you never did think much of the forebearance notion, did you, Pat?"

  "I'd follow any plan of yours. Do whatever you say. Always. You know that. I don't give a damn about Mental Man any more, Marc. Only you." You are my angel, too terrible to love, condescending to share your life with me, to give me fierce joy even when you have none. Why have you none? Your great scheme is still feasible. We don't need Cloud and Hagen and the other children as long as we have the genes and the brain. As long as we have you, everliving!

  "Faithful Pat." He was standing close to her, looking down from his great height, and he had let the dressing gown fall. His contours were still magnificent, but an intricate network of keloid scars, the consequence of a too-brief sojourn in the regeneration tank,covered his entire body below the neck. Only his hands and genitals had been perfectly restored.

  She came into his arms and their lips met, tasting salt and honey, setting her whirling into the bright burning maelstrom that had him as its inevitable beginning and end. In the wondrous way of master metapsychics there was no constraint of gravity between them, no barrier posed by garments, no awkwardness in the embrace. The ineffable pleasure spun her to the brink of senselessness, lifted her as on a giant wave to the ultimate conjunction. There the binary star would shine for a small eternity, she in the shouting blaze of fullfillment, he, as always, withdrawn into his abyss.

  From the beginning, Marc had warned her that there would be no love. She had willinglyagreed, leaving him solitary at the climax. But tonight his curtain had been only imperfectly woven. She had caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the brilliant corona of orgasmicrelease.

  She lay alone on the bed, having surfaced into consciousness. Recollection clamped herheart in ice. Had he been distracted because of the terrible events that had taken place?Or had his subconscious been compelled to give up the secret?

  "Marc," she whispered. "Is it true?"

  He was fully dressed, staring out the forward window of the sterncastle. The sea had moderated and was star-stippled. The sails had been hoisted by the winching mechanism and the great schooner forged ahead.

  He said, "You will tell no one. It could be disastrous to morale. The children don't know, of course. No one did, except the Keoghs—and Manion. Alex has his own reasons to keep silent."

  "How ... how long?"

  Since before the Rebellion since her death je suis le veuf a la tour abolie.

  "My God! But we thought that the Keoghs had—"

  "After Cyndia's death, they restored me completely, just as the tank restored me here." He was calm. "There is no organic dysfunction, only nonviability. My late brother blamed it on a sense of sin. I suspect rather a defect of the will, or the inevitable trauma when falling from a great height." He regarded her steadily from beneath winged brows. "The cure, if any, will be spontaneous—induced by success. We still can succeed. Mental Man will live if we prevent the children from passing through that time-gate. Ideally, we need all of them. At the minimum, my son."

  "If you had only told Hagen! Or taken precautions—"

  "Precautions were taken—and circumvented. I was too trusting during our early years on Ocala. Later, trying to compensate for my neglect, I was too stern with the children. Hagen is weak-willed. Flawed. He knows it. My attempts to intimidate him merely made him hate me. To reveal the truth ... would give him a weapon. It's a hellish mess, complicated even more by the children's alliance with Aiken Drum. But we can still succeed. If the time-gate doesn't open ... if I can prove to Hagen and Cloud that I love them, that their destiny is with me..."

  Patricia rose slowly, pushing the light brown hair back from her face, working to suppress the misgivings. "There are so few of us left to help you. O'Malley may not survive, and Fitzpatrick and Sherwoode aren't strong. If we discount those three, that leaves onlytwenty-two for your offensive metaconcert. Six of us magnates."

  "We'll manage. We have plenty of conventional weapons to counter Aiken Drum. And the d-jump capability."

  "You can't take any weapon with you inside the armor."

  He did not respond to that. She went to the cooking unit and took out his meal, then poured cups of tea for both of them. "Come and eat your supper while it's hot," she said, sitting down at the table in front of the windows. "There's ham in orange sauce, and evensome of your favorite gamma pea soup."

  "I ordered it up thinking that I'd be celebrating a successful long jump." He took a spoon and studied the steaming bowl. "Just three pouches left after twenty-seven years. Habitant pea soup in the Pliocene. A touch of New Hampshire aboard a windjamming bateau ivre!" He shook his head slightly and began to eat.

  Patricia drank her tea without attempting to touch his thoughts. After a time she began speaking in a low, urgent voice. "I understand now why you opposed those of us who wanted to counter the time-gate threat with force against the children. You were never reallyafraid of retaliation from the Milieu at all, were you?"

  He made a dismissive gesture. "It was a smokescreen. A necessary deception, I thought.Aimed primarily at the children, and at the more dubiously loyal of our own generation."

  "I thought so. So you could listen to all our bloodthirsty talk about killing the children if necessary—even pretend to consider the option—but all the while you knew you'd have to find another way."

  "I have," he said. "Destruction of the deep rock formations around the site. It's simple and humane—"

  "And Alex Manion says it can't possibly work."

  "What?" Marc lay the spoon down. She felt the power of his coercion engulf her. Willingly she threw open her memory to show the complex mathematical equations exactly as the dynamic-field specialist had shown them to her.

  "Alex calls this the theory of the persistence of temporal event nodes. In essence, you can't destroy the time-gate site here in the Pliocene because we know it still exists six million years from now, in the Milieu we all came from. Ergo, your hope of demolishing the formations, upsetting the geomagnetic factors in the tau-lattice, is futile. No paradoxes allowed. Reality is. Past, present, future—"

  "—and all held secure in the hand of God," he finished for her, mouth lifted in the famous smile. "Once I believed it."

  "I never did! And I don't want to believe it now. But Alexis Manion does, and he was the best dynamic-field theorist in the Milieu."

  "Damn him to hell ... Pat, do you know whether he's spoken to any others about this—this theory?"

  She lifted helpless hands. "I'm afraid there's no doubt of it. He probably made use ofevery moment that he wasn't docilated." She spoke with desperation. "Could Alex be mistaken?"

  "No. But he could certainly lie." Marc's face was bleak. "I'll find out tomorrow. But even if he's telling the truth as he sees it, I'll keep that gate from opening!"

  "But how?" she cried. "Marc, talk to us about this! Confide in us, as you used to
. We all feel lost! You've been so absorbed—first in the star-search, now in this d-jumpbusiness. We're loyal and we want to follow you but we don't see how we can deal with this situation. We've waited so long and now there are so few of us left..." Help us! We have put all our trust in you. Calm our fears. Say you won't d-jump to another world and abandon us.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. His skin was warm, the fingers youthfully perfect, and the mental contact invincibly reassuring.

  "Abandon you? Never. I have something quite different in mind. Right now, there are still urgent matters that I must attend to. However, I promise to make myself available again—not just to you mag nates, but to everyone. We'll have regular conferences, starting tomorrow. And I have good news. I'm gaining the confidence of the masterclass woman, Elizabeth Orme. And I've made a start on Aiken Drum, too. Now that the d-jump is nearly perfected, I can begin pressuring him in earnest. Before he knows it, we'llhave Kyllikki moored in shallow water off Breton Island opposite his castle. With our sigmas in place, the ship will be an impregnable threat."

  "The children have the big force-shield—the SR-35."

  "And we have my battery of X-lasers that will cut through any portable screen ever built! Aiken Drum will capitulate, I tell you. And with him on our side, the children will be checkmated. There are other ways to insure that the time-gate never opens. We can destroy the laboratories, after giving warning so that the children can evacuate them. If I wipe out the schematics and certain irreplaceable pieces of manufacturing apparatus—fleck-etchers, photonic alloying machines, mind-controlled micromanipulators—no one will ever build the Guderian device here in the Pliocene. Eventually the children will come to their senses."

  "Marc, they won't want to return to Ocala."

  He laughed. "Let them spend a few years as subjects of Aiken's barbarian kingdom, then! We can make d-jump visits on holidays, provided we're in the neighborhood of Earth, andrenew our invitation at intervals."

  He showed her what was in his mind and she gasped.