The Adversary

by Julian May

  A boy named Thor you say? How old?

  About two months now. He's a lovely strong child.

  Sukey looks fine. Stein looks ... older. How do they live?

  He hunts and fishes and traps. Sometimes very rarely he goes down the Garonne and sails to Rocilan to trade. Sukey is starting to pester him to take her and the child but he puts her off afraid she would want to settle near the city. Near Tanu and other humans who would find out.

  How Stein helped Felice at Gibraltar?...Does that bother him?

  He remembers. He thinks it was necessary but he remembers. It would be much worse if you were to come back into his life. Stein must be let alone like a healing wound. Look. [Image: Baby placed in cradle cries Father takeshim holds against massive deerskin-vested shoulder pats tiny back expertly dips fingertipin honeypot Baby suckles Father cuddles yellow-bearded ferocity smiles. ]

  He makesa pretty good dad.

  Your unconscious thought so

  ....A weird thing that and one I never would have anticipated. The unconscious uses what it must.

  And why Mayvar for my mother figure—and not you?

  She was right. You loved her and him too power&vulnerability statu re&puniness maturejudgment&childishim-pulse. In both. In you. Their child is father of your man. You chose your parents and gave birth to yourself.

  I love you too!

  Sisterly. I'm the Ice Queen remember?

  [Quiet laughter. Contemplation of slowly fading image.] Funny. I haven't been interested in that sort of thing lately.

  You will be. Don't worry about that.

  Save my energy for the real problems!...One piece of good news today amidst the encircling gloom: We've located Tony Wayland that metallurgist we need for the Guderian Project. Would you believe? Chief Burke and his Lowlives nabbed the guy and offered to barter him to us! All they want in return is free passage back to the Milieu and a fair shake for their bandito buddies. Of course I agreed. The Chief will be coming into Roniah tomorrow to work out details of the swap with Kuhal Earthshaker at the City-Lord's place.

  Hm. I haven't been in touch with Peo since before young Brendan's redaction. Strange that he should be willing to deal with a fellow Lowlife as a commodity.

  Tony was eager to be sold down the river. The alternative was being hanged for high crimes and misdemeanors.

  Good grief. Good night Elizabeth.

  ***

  Walter Saastamoinen came onto Kyllikki's bridge punctually at midnight to relieve Patricia Castellane at the helm.

  "All peaceful, I presume," he remarked, thumbing the key pad of the course director and studying the replay of first-watch performance events. "You're doing very well at manual for an apprentice, Pat. The director only overruled you once in the entire four-hour trick."

  "It's a relief to be able to do something besides those miserable psych-up exercises," she said. "My metafunctions aren't going to get much stronger through mental muscle flexing. More likely weaker, with my dirigent formation. But try to tell Jeff that." Her mouth was taut with resentment.

  Walter moved to the wheel, disengaged the autopilot, and let the soul of the great schooner come into him. Oh, you beauty! "Sailing Kyllikki is good for what ails both of us. I wish we could just keep going. Alter course to the south ... touch in along the coast of Africa ... round the Cape of Good Hope and go up into the Indian Ocean to see Pliocene Asia. Marc would never let us range out, after the Antarctic tragedy. But now there's no real reason why we shouldn't."

  She was making them coffee at the dispenser and now handed a mug to Walter, frowning slightly. "I don't understand you."

  "The Milieu coppers aren't going to be able to nab us if Marc succeeds with this new d-jump thing." He twiddled with the atmospheric analog unit next to the binnacle. "As I understand it, he should be able to take us all extraplanetary once he gets the thing mastered. We could cruise around until he does. Forget about fighting with the kids over the time-gate. Surely they'd be willing to delay the opening until we got safely away."

  "Would they?" Patricia's voice was flat. "I can think of at least one who might not."

  Walter ignored that. "I'm not sure I trust this little weather analoger overmuch," he said, frowning. "It's wishy-washy about the deep trough below Rockall. Doesn't want to commit itself on trend. We may have to ask Marc to do a deep scan of the system. If the storm drifts our way we could be in for an uncomfortable couple of days that could be avoided with a course change, given the proper trend data."

  Patricia was not to be distracted. "You know Hagen hates Marc. The boy is looking forward to setting the Magistratum on his father! We'll have to use force to keep that time-gate closed. Nothing else will suffice. Unless you convince the children of their danger, Walter."

  "I like sailing along the moonpath, don't you? It doesn't often happen that it works out just right that way—but when it does, it's magic."

  She slammed her coffee cup down on the chart console. "Stick your head in the sand, then! Keep dreaming that we can solve this terrible mess with sweet reason and kindly intentions. But Cordelia Warshaw and I know better—and it won't be long before even Marc has to face the truth."

  Walter's lips compressed into a hard line. He stared straight ahead, adjusting the wheel with delicate movements.

  Patricia said, "I was talking to Jordy about the teleportation of external mass. In order for Marc to carry objects situated outside his CE rig, he'll have to expand the upsilon-field generated by his mind. It means jacking up the input power to the rig—putting a greater and greater stress on his brain. He can't do it abruptly or he'll risk overload. Kramer's not even sure that Marc has the capacity to encompass an area large enough to be practicable. Then there are the passengers. Will they need life-support gear for jumps on Earth? All we have is the spare suit of CE armor, three more tons of mass for Marc to carry. The testing will take time ... But I hardly think Hagen or Aiken Drum will delay opening the time-gate while Marc solves his teleportation problems."

  "We could ask them to," Walter said.

  Patricia was at the wheelhouse door. "We will. With the X-lasers behind us, and all the concerted coercion we can lash together!" Then she was gone.

  Walter tracked her briefly to make certain that she had retired to her cabin, then scanned the rest of his shipmates. They were all either asleep or occupied with their work—except two. Marc was gone on the jump and Alexis Manion was unexpectedly at large, wandering about the main deck, pausing from time to time to swab at the bright work with a polishing rag. He was under the influence of the docilator. No one had thought to send him to bed, and only the magnates had the requisite command code. Subsidiary Grand Masters such as Walter were forbidden to interfere with the potentially dangerous Manion.

  "Poor devil," Walter muttered. The dim figure disappeared behind the night-shrouded forward deckhouse. For some time Walter brooded about Manion, whose crime had been revealing to the children the truth about their elders. Then it was time to farspeak Veikko, and Walter forgot the dynamic-field specialist as he sent his mind ranging eastward to the Alps.

  WALTER: Hey, boy.

  VEIKKO: I'm here, Walter.

  WALTER: How are things going?

  VEIKKO: One of the climbers got a touch of pulmonary edema and another has frostbitten feet. But we progress. Camp 3 was stocked today. The assault teams leave here for the big push tomorrow. Basil is still on the mountain leading the support group down, and by rights the assault party should wait until he gets back. But we're expecting Firvulag company, so they're jumping the gun. Basal delegated a Tibetan medic named Thongsa to lead the other six assaulters in a single group until they connect up with him. Then they'll split into two smaller teams as originally planned and Basil will lead them to the aircraft.

  WALTER: Sounds like this Basil hasn't had much restin the last week.

  VEIKKO: He's led just about every other support group. I can't believe the guy is seventy-two. Rejuvenated, of course.

  WALTER:
That makes him a year younger than Marc. And a couple of years older than me.

  VEIKKO: Well, we all know bloody Marc's immortal. But you look—I mean—

  WALTER: The Ocala regen tank was getting a bit obsolete. I didn't make much use of it. I'm sure this Basil is a product of more sophisticated Milieu technology if he's the climbing superman you say he is.

  VEIKKO: It must be quite a place ... the Milieu, I mean.

  WALTER: You'll see.

  VEIKKO:...Walter, are you sure you still want to try it?

  WALTER: You kids have got to have your chance.

  VEIKKO: Oh, God. But Marc might kill you.

  WALTER: It's possible. But he might think twice. Suppose the course director autopilot broke? It's not too tricky maneuvering Kyllikki in fine weather. But given a storm—and there might be one lurking out there—this big four-poster is a bitch-kitty to steer manually.

  VEIKKO: I remember the gale in the Ross Sea!...So you think that even if you—you think Marc won't dare—

  WALTER: I'm going to try it, and hope that Marc won't kill me when he finds out. But whatever happens, happens. I don't know when my chance will come, but when it does, I'll grab it. The things are locked up tight, but I'll figure some way to neutralize them.

  VEIKKO: Oh, Walter. Oh, Daddy.

  WALTER: See that you and Irena don't get yourselves killed by the damned goblins or whatever they are. If anything happened to you, I don't think I could go through with this.

  VEIKKO: We've got the base camp all dug in and there are plenty of weapons. We'll be fine. But you—when—

  WALTER: When I can. Don't worry. Call me tomorrow if possible. Otherwise, on Tuesday.

  VEIKKO: The Tanu with us say that the Firvulag will probably quit when their sacred Truce begins at dawn on Wednesday.

  WALTER: Well—that's something. Take care, son. Someone's just come into the wheelhouse and I'll have to let you go.

  VEIKKO: Good luck...

  Walter thumbed the autopilot and turned smiling from the wheel. "Hello, Alex. Come in."

  "A wand'ring minstrel I," Manion sang, "a thing of shreds and patches." He began to rub industriously at the port-frames with his polishing rag.

  Walter said distinctly: "Alex. Stop that. Come here and listen to me."

  The doeilated man obediently lowered his cloth and stood before Kyllikki's captain.

  "You're the best PK-head of us all, Alex. And not too shabby a coercer either. I wonder if you're strong enough to get past the docilator. I wonder if your coercion can push down the command-set if I give you the proper inspiration. Listen Alex: I know how you and I can help the children! I need your help. Do you understand?"

  A broad smile spread slowly across the ravaged face. Manion sang softly:

  Am I alone, and unobserved? I am!

  Then let me own I'm an aesthetic sham!

  Walter grasped him by the arms. "Can you do it? Have you been picking away at it from the inside? You know I can't turn the docilator off."

  Alex sang:

  This air severe is but a mere veneer!

  This cynic smile is but a wile of guile!

  This costume chaste is but good taste misplaced!

  "Good man! I want you to go down to the forward hold with me—and break Marc's fancy lock."

  Alex whispered:

  With catlike tread upon our prey we steal;

  In silence dread our cautious way we feel...

  "I'm going to sabotage the X-lasers, Alex, so that Marc can't use them against the children. He'll still have the other weapons, of course. But the kids' sigma-shields can turn them aside. And there's a fair chance that our metaconcert potential has dwindled at the same time that the Little King's has been growing. When Marc finds out what we've done,he might kill us. But he needs you badly, and nobody can sail this tub as well as I can—so there's a chance. And if we make it to Europe, who knows what might happen? Marc might even change his mind about using force against the kids if the hell-zappers aren't an option anymore."

  Alex sang:

  When a felon's not engaged in his employment (his employment)

  Or maturing his felonious little plans (little plans),

  His capacity for innocent enjoyment (-cent enjoyment)

  Is just as great as any honest man's.

  With tremulous slowness, one eyelid drooped shut, then opened again. Alexis Manion had definitely winked.

  "Marc's out jumping and the rest of them are asleep or busy," Walter said. "Let's go do it right now, shall we?'" He took the physicist by the hand and led him away like a happy child.

  10

  BETS! Wake up guy! Wake up it's time to march!

  Mr. Betsy stirred. A manicured hand crept from the interior of his silk-and-swansdown sleeping bag and hooked over the opening of his balaclava, which had ridden up to the vicinity of his receding natural hairline. A finger pulled the pink knitted helmet down so that a single green eye peered from the woolen slot and read the illuminated digits on the inturned wrist chronograph: 0216. The gray tore tingled, banishing sleep.

  Mr. Betsy's telepathic voice was surly: Good grief Ookpik it can't be starting time I just went to bed!

  Bad news. Elizabeth sent word our Tanu farsensor that Firvulag coming up fast on Bettaforca. Also Basil on mountain says weather looking iffy. We can't wait until dawn to start climb. Ten minutes.

  Betsy said aloud, "Oh, friggerty fudge."

  Ookpik said: And don't forget your gun.

  Growling feebly, Betsy levered himself upright and hopped across the hut like an acrobatic caterpillar enveloped in its cocoon. He lit the hut lantern and knelt in front of the oven of the cooking unit, where his boots and outer clothing had spent the brief night toasting at fifty degrees Celsius. He checked the outside temperature and was surprised to find it hovering just above freezing. Right. Never mind the down pants and jacket for now: on with the breathable grintlaskin wet-wind gear over his layered woolies, snap on the boots, then the snow gaiters and climbing harness. To extract the perspiration from his sleeping bag, he stuffed it into the oven for a few moments and let the busy little microwaves do their work. Then the bag and down clothing went into his pack. He pulled on his mitts and grabbed ice-axe and Weatherby Magnum blaster.

  Six minutes. Mr. Betsy allowed himself a satisfied smirk as he stepped out into the alpine night.

  A warmish wind was blowing from the west and the fresh-fallen snow of yesterday had gone slushy. The camp was blacked out as a safety precaution, but Betsy saw dark shapes moving among the huts of the gold-tore soldiery. A fuzzy half-moon lit Monte Rosa with wan, greenish radiance. The massif was crowned with an unusual double cloud formation, a smooth cap curving over the highest elevation, surmounted by an elongate, eastward-trailing plume.

  After a quick visit to the latrine, Betsy came into the climbers' staging hut. Ookpik was the only one there as yet, hunched on a bench next to the grub buffeteria, drinking tea and nibbling slugs Villeroy.

  "I'm glad somebody in this outfit is quick on the aufgesprungen," the Eskimo remarked wryly. "The rest of the team are still stumbling around looking for their socks—and that includes our redoubtable leader, Dr. Thongsa. Have some tea, Bets. The French-fried slimies aren't too bad. You see that cloud on the mountain?"

  "Yes," said Betsy shortly. He dropped his gear and shucked his mittens. "Lord Bleyn was doing his best to put a good face on matters yesterday. I might have known we'd never get out of here so easily! Those Firvulag must be able to conceal their movements somehow if they've managed to come so close without Elizabeth farseeing them.

  They weren't supposed to arrive until late tomorrow. A night start over the glacier snout in warm weather like this could be extremely hazardous."

  Ookpik scrutinized a gasteropod fritter before popping it into his mouth. "That's not the only waktoo hitting the fan, good buddy. I farspoke Basil myself. Couldn't sleep."

  Betsy ladled a big dollop of honey into his tea. "I thought you couldn't broadcast more t
han a few hundred meters?"

  "I've been practicing. You'd be surprised how sheer panic jacks up the old cerebral output ... Anyhow, Stan's worse."

  "Oh, my."

  "He's a rugged old walrus, but pulmonary edema's nothing to fool around with. Getting him down to Camp Two eased his condition a little, but he's still a bagger. Basil and Taffy will have to hump him all the rest of the way on the decamole sledge."

  "How's poor dear Phronsie?"

  "Her feet are responding to the torc-induced circulation boost. She can walk, but not very fast. She wants Baz and Taffy to leave her at Camp Two and press on down with Stan. She says she thinks she could make it back here on her own, given a couple days' rest. Or we could send a rescue team."

  "If the Firvulag don't wipe out Bettaforca first," Betsy muttered. "Rescue team—? The only climbers left down here after we take off will be Cliff and Cisco Briscoe, and neither one is very strong." He pulled a dubious face and replaced a half-eaten slug on the platter. "Attrition is thinning the ranks of Basil's Bastards rather rapidly. We really don't need a premature Firvulag attack and a storm on top of everything else."