by Julian May
He held fast through the endless and horrific minutes, knowing only the goal. It was a star: G3-1668 in his catalog, a sun he had never bothered to name when he farsensed it more than seven years ago and rejected it because the people were premetapsychic and apparently useless for his purposes. Now, however, of the three star systems that were potential cradles for Mental Man, he judged this one to be the most promising. So he named the sun Goal, and filled his mind with it in order to forget the events that must be taking place back on Earth...
In time he reached the terminal superficies. His brain flared, drawing heavily upon the cortical augmentation reserves to suck in more energy. He spun the upsilon-field, thrust the three tons of ballast rock through it, and then followed himself. He knew hideous agony and uttered a cosmic groan. Then he hung in space, surveying the scene with his mind's eye.
A yellow star lit half of a white-swirled blue marble. It was the fourth planet of the Goal system, home of the indigenous race. He studied it with his farsense for several hours, savoring the respite from pain, then wished himself and his cargo to the surface. This time the d-jump took less time than an eye-blink and caused less discomfort than a plucked lash. The teleported rocks, for whose sake he had risked his life, lay in an undistinguished heap. Some of them were still crusted with frozen mud from the Seine estuary.
Marc forgot them. He emerged from his armor, rendered himself invisible, and walked among the unsuspecting exotic people for two days.
They were bipeds, approximately humanoid in form and approximately saurischian in derivation. They were intelligent, peaceable, and had a birthrate that was probably too low ever to admit of their attaining the "magic number" of ten thousand million living minds, the normal minimum required for coadunation. The planet had an advanced technoeconomy that kept its people prosperous and healthy. Its biomedical establishment was sophisticated enough to support the Mental Man breeding program. It was an attractive world, with an ecology as congruous to human life as any colonial planet of the Milieu. The people were a hardworking and worthy lot, with a psychosocial index that would suggest rapid adaptation to a benevolent despotism.
It was a world, he thought, that would do nicely. Here, under his aegis, Mental Man would burgeon and flourish and expand His bright dominion from star to star through the aeons to come, the all-conquering and immortal Mind.
And in six million years, there would remain not a trace of Him.
He could not pray for the desired outcome. It did not exist and would not. He wondered: Can I will it?
After two days of observation in the Goal star system, depressed to the depths of his being, Marc d-jumped back to Kyllikki. He farspoke Elizabeth on Black Crag and said:
Tell me.
She said: The children gave me their response and asked me to relay it to you.
Very well.
[Image: Daughter and son stand before hilltop stone castle rain lush grass path bordered white stones flat rock surface with Square.]
Hagen: This is Castle Gateway Papa. We're standing on the site of the time-gate leading from the Milieu to the Pliocene. The gate we all came through. We've thought about your proposition. Both of us. We've spoken to all the other children as well and conferred with the King but the decision was ours. We've decided to go back to the Galactic Milieu. Back to the world that we were born in back to the mind-family that can help us find peace. We'd never have that with you. Mental Man could never be happy in the form you envision. Not unless each mind was a saint like Uncle Jack was. And saints aren't that common Papa! You aren't one and neither are Cloud and I. We'll need a lot of help from our friends to make a success of life and so will our children. That's who Mental Man really is Papa ... our children. They're going to be human beings like their parents with bodies as well as minds. Not angels. They'll be frightened by their immortality just as you are ... and we are. But they'll be linked to billions of other minds who'll offer love and support and good counsel. We think that will suffice.
Cloud: We can't go your way Papa. Your vision is flawed. Deep in your heart I think you know it. There were so many times you could have stopped us compelled us to submit to you even killed us and taken the genes. And yet you didn't. Find out why and perhaps you'll be able to resign yourself to letting us go. Look far back into your past Papa! Understand why you cast Mental Man in this inhuman mold and tried to force yourself and your children to conform to it. I think we are beginning to see the reasons why. Eventually we'll be able to forgive you and you must do the same for us. We'll take good care of your dream and see that it's nurtured in the Unity where it belongs. It will all be for the best. Trust us Papa...
[Image: Son and daughter gesture walk up path rain falls on louring stone castle barbican gate opens glimpse inner courtyard people machinery weapons SILVER HEMISPHERE FLASHES INTO BEING enveloping entire castle Golden Manikin appears.]
Aiken: I've moved the entire Guderian Project from Goriah to Castle Gateway. One of my loyal subjects has hooked up the big SR.-35 sigma generator to a pair of SR-15S that I happened to have stashed away—and now Cloud and Hagen are safe inside the sigma-field with all the others. The psychoenergetic equivalent of the stacked screens is over 900 now. You don't have enough watts to break through even if you push your creativity to the limit with the enhancer and mesh all your old cronies into the metaconcert. There isn't a weapon in the Pliocene that can puncture that silver bubble Marc. Not even my photon Spear. Not even Felice could crack it! And the only one who can activate its airlock now is Me ... You're checkmated Marc. Your children told me they'd rather die than go your way. But they aren't going to die. I've taken them under my protection. They're going to finish the Guderian device and go through the time-gate into the Milieu. Right there inside Castle Gateway under the sigma-umbrella if need be. The device will work in there. Ask Alexis Manion if you don't believe me ... I don't want to fight you Marc. I want to resolve this mess peacefully if I can and tend to some other urgent business. But if you insist on attacking the Guderian Project be assured that I'll defend it—and so will the minds that work in metaconcert with Me. Thousands of them all meshed nicely now under my command in the program you gave me down at the Rio Genii ... I know that the schooner carrying your CE-rig power supply is somewhere in the Gulf of Armorica or the Seine Delta. You've got her camouflaged with some kind of farsight fuzzer. But if you try to fight me I'll find Kyllikki one way or another and I'll nail her and nail you ... But wouldn't that be a tawdry way to end it now? Wouldn't it be more your style—and mine!—to let the Truce prevail? Sail Kyllikki right up the Seine all the way to the Field of Gold—white flag up and screens off. You and your Rebels are invited to be my guests at the Grand Tourney! Watch the games then kiss your kids goodbye and sail on back to Florida ... Think about it Marc. You have a lot of things to think about. [Fading image.]
Elizabeth said: That's the entire message. Aiken's told you the truth about Castle Gateway. He did move the Guderian Project there—in a single evening. He's regained his strength and integrated the powers of Nodonn and Mercy as well. Don't challenge him Marc. You'll only destroy the Many-Colored Land to no purpose. Yield. Please!
Marc said: They've made their decision. Now I'll make mine. It may take some time.
The farspoken voice died away, and all that was left in the aether were reverberations from faraway lightning bolts and a faint rustle of mental static.
Elizabeth sent her tightest farsight beam arrowing along the path of Marc's communication. But at the extremity there was only wind-riffled water where a great river met the sea, and starless night.
***
In the stern hold of Kyllikki, Jordan Kramer and Gerrit Van Wyk lifted the heavy casque from Marc's head, then helped him from the body armor. The other surviving magnates were there waiting: Cordelia Warshaw and Ragnar Gathen and Jeff Steinbrenner and Patricia Castellane. Off in a corner on a stool, with eyes strangely lucid in spite of the docilator, sat Alexis Manion. They waited.
Marc s
aid, "The children have declined my offer. As you know now, there can be no Mental Man without them. Cloud and Hagen and the others are at the time-gate site on the Rhône River. Aiken Drum transferred the entire Guderian Project there, and shielded it with a nine hundred-power sigma. My son and daughter have said they would prefer death to cooperation with me in the engendering of Mental Man. They intend for Him to be subordinated to the Milieu."
Alexis Manion smiled.
Patricia cried, "You can take their genes!"
"I don't know whether I can or not." He stood there in the black pressure suit, soaked with the amniotic fluid of the enhancer, blood from the electrode wounds flowing thinly down his brow and cheeks. "At the moment, I can't think of any way to break through their defenses. I'm not even convinced I should try." One side of his mouth lifted gently. "I find myself precariously tempted to virtue. "
"But, if you give it up—it's the end!" Patricia exclaimed.
Alexis Manion said distinctly:
Mon front est rouge encore du baiser de la reine.
J'ai rêvé dans la grotte où nage la sirène...
Marc nodded in agreement. "And the siren still sings and holds out the promise, and I'm addicted to the kiss of the vampire-queen."
Patricia said, "You're exhausted. You should sleep. Later you can consider what might be done."
The other magnates added a murmur of half-voiced thoughts. All of them hid behind thick mental walls.
Marc said to Ragnar Gathen, "We'll sail up the river. I've been told that it's navigable for several hundred kilometers. How are the solar impellers holding up?"
"Very well," said the former starfleet strategist.
"Have Walter take us up at a modest cruise speed, then. We're in no hurry. Maintain the camouflage—and be sure it's dense enough to foil aerial surveillance as well as farsight scan."
"We'll be secure enough," Gathen said, "unless one of the King's people actually eyeballs us from the riverbank."
"We ought to make certain no stray thought betrays our position," Patricia said, glancing at Manion.
"I'll count on you to take care of that," Marc said. Cordelia Warshaw asked, "Do you have any further orders for us?" "Relax," Marc told them all, the famous smile overriding the desolation in his eyes. "I myself intend to go fishing."
5
DURING THAT TRUCE before Nightfall, it seemed that almost everyone in the Many-Colored Land was on the move.
The Tanu had always flocked to the games; but this autumn, the King issued an extraordinary proclamation, commanding that every human—even those who customarily remainedat home caretaking the cities and plantations and other establishments—must attend the Grand Tourney. So they all came out to enjoy the holiday, people torced in gold and silver and gray, and the lowly bareneck serfs as well. The cities, with the exception of the capital and Roniah, which hosted the travelers, were left almost deserted but for the faithful ramas. The King's invitation was extended to outlaw humans, too, and they came trickling out of the Spanish wilderness, the high Helvetides, and the Jura. The royal wordreached into the swamps of Bordeaux and the Paris Basin and the haunted forests of darkest Albion. Drawn as much by the prospect of fun and free food and drink as by curiosity over the import of the King's decree, more than 45,000 human beings set out for Nionel and the Field of Gold—virtually all who resided in Pliocene Europe. Of them, perhaps 1500 were operant golds and twice that number were torced with the precious metal but lacking in significant mental powers. There were 4200 silvers, some 8500 grays, and under 20,000 barenecks who had willingly accepted Tanu servitude. The free Lowlives numbered about 8000, but more than half of those were already residents of Nionel.
Tadanori Kawai was among the few who heard the King's proclamation and politely demurred. He wished to husband his failing strength, and there was considerable work to be done preparing Hidden Springs for the rainy season.
Stein Oleson heard the proclamation and ignored it. His Viking intuition told him what the Fimbulvetr presaged, and he knew that the Field of Gold was no place for him or his family.
Huldah Henning, away on the Isle of Kersic, never knew of the royal announcement at all, nor would she have accepted its invitation. She was in her eighth month, and the tri-hybrid son of Nodonn Battlemaster rode turbulently in her womb.
To his metapsychically operant subjects King Aiken-Lugonn sent a more somber message: Attend the Tourney, ready to cooperate in metaconcert, or risk the Foe's conquest of our land.
The response was one of overwhelming fealty. Every gold-wearer in the kingdom who was not at the threshold of Tana's Peace or in Skin set out obediently for Nionel: some 2400 pureblooded Tanu and less than 5000 hybrids. Together with the operant human golds and silvers, the minds pledged to the King's service in the event of Nightfall totaled just over 13,000.
Not counting the Howlers, there were more than 80,000 Firvulag.
***
On a day in mid-October, when the Roniah Fair was at its height and the air quivered in thirty-five-degree heat and thunderheads skulked about the flanks of the steaming Mont-Dore volcano, the fearsome prodigy appeared!
Travelers on the Great South Road craned their necks and came to a standstill, peeringinto the dazzling afternoon sky. Their minds and voices uttered cries of amazement, surprised recognition, or near panic—according to whether the observer was Tanu, human, or Firvulag. Chalikos, hellads, and the motley collection of hipparions and half-tamed antelopes that the Little People rode or drove spooked as they caught sight ofthe thing. The highway, the Roniah fairgrounds, and the adjacent campsites were thrown into an uproar of plunging beasts, laughing humans, bemused Tanu, and outraged Firvulag.
It looked at first like a dark, floating fish. It had stubby fins and a needle nose and seemed to swim down through the heat-thickened air with sinister deliberation, becomingmore and more enormous as it neared the earth. Purple strings of fire, like a dimly glowing net, enshrouded it. (And revealed to the former Milieu citizens that it had to be noneother than a rhocraft, albeit one of highly unorthodox configuration.) A terrified dwarf shot a bolt of psychoenergy at the thing hovering overhead, and his countrymen wailed aloud, fearful of retribution.
All that happened was that a vent in the thing's belly opened. It seemed to lay thousands upon thousands of buoyant yellow eggs, cascading them over the crowd like a hen-salmon strewing her redd. The aircraft glided to and fro, discharging its bounty; and a different sort of cry arose from the throng when it became clear that the spawn of the sky-fishwas nothing more than balloons. Each one, when popped, yielded candy or cold fruit or a petit four or a liqueur-filled sugar shell. (And a few of the Tanu whispered, "Mercy-Rosmar!" remembering her gentle manifestation of power at the last Grand Combat.)
The cynosure of all eyes then lifted its pointed snout to the zenith and hung stock-still in midair, not more than 150 meters above the mobbed fairgrounds. It appeared to be gargantuan, like a flanged broad arrow, black beneath the violet flickering. From the openbelly hatch now came a flood of balloons like lustrous grapes. They seemed to be self-animated, and darted and swooped and soared in the sky like frenzied protozoa.
The aircraft proceeded to shoot them down. A blue-white ray lanced from its nose, while green, red, and yellow beams spat at a dozen different angles from the leading edges ofthe fins. There were sharp detonations. The people screamed. Puffs of multicolored smoke dissolved to wraiths of perfume and a shower of confetti glitter.
The upright dark thing began to change. Its stubby fins expanded into wings and it tilted so that all the observers could see a glowing golden emblem on its underside, the hand of King Aiken-Lugonn. Then the emblem also changed. The impudent digit gave way to a hand fully open and apaumy, with the fingers together in the dignified gesture that most humans recognized as the greeting between operant citizens of the Milieu.
The aircraft began to rise swiftly then, and there was applause from the King's subjects and scattered mental cries of "Slonshal!" But the
n they all fell silent, for the ship emblazoned with the golden hand took its place at the point of a V-formation of others identical to itself that came gliding up from the south at an altitude of several thousand meters. There were twenty-seven flyers altogether, small against the sky like a flight ofwild geese. They stayed in view of the Roniah multitude for five minutes before going full inertialess and vanishing in a thunderous sonic boom.
***
Dougal, sitting in the copilot's seat, vented a bemused sigh. "I might not this believe without the sensible and true avouch of mine own eyes ... Just how the devil did you manage that caper, my liege?"
Aiken laughed. "Creativity, lad. Sleight of mind. An illusion here, a genuine manifestation there, a scary black cerametal machine that's all too real, and a spot of royal marksmanship to dazzle 'em with science at the finale."
"Extremely gaudy," said Mr. Betsy, making a prissy face. He lounged in the navigator'sstation of the flight deck, attired for the occasion in a mauve flying suit all slashed with gold zippers, a bouffant red wig, and a discreet little diadem with cabochon amethysts. "A great bluff, that's what it was."
"I prefer to think of it as a show of strength," said the King. He grinned over his shoulder at the Flight Instructor Royal.
Betsy said, "The eighteen pilot recruits were pushing their luck just to carry off a straight and level flyby, and you know it. We'll be doing well to whip them into a minimally competent check-out state by Tourney time—much less teach them aerial combat technique."
"I have every confidence in you," the King said. "Look how well you taught Me!" He picked up the RF com and said to his squadron, "Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Our air show was a great success. Let's hope it heartened our friends and discombobulated the Foe. You may now return to Goriah base and take the rest of the day off."