by Julian May
Paul searched her fathomless dark eyes. There was no coercion in Tamara Sakhvadze, no defiance, only stone-hard endurance.
“Tamara, our world has changed. The horrors you faced have vanished forever. The Galactic Milieu is far from perfect, but most forms of injustice, oppression, and want are extinct. Human beings—operant and non—are free to fulfill their potential, to live happy and productive lives—”
“So long as their choice falls within the parameters of Milieu Statutes!” said Alan Sakhvadze, interrupting without apology. “But human reproduction is still licensed, certain religions and certain traditional lifestyles are banned, and migration to the colonial planets is hedged with onerous restrictions. Operant human beings have their liberty even more severely restricted. We’re required to develop our mindpowers to the fullest extent whether we want to or not. We can also be compelled to pursue an occupation or profession that’s deemed most beneficial to the Milieu—even if we have strong personal inclinations in other directions.”
“Humans have always been willing to accept limitations on freedom for good and sufficient reason,” Paul said. “The more complex the society, the more often the individual human ego must bow to the requirements of the common welfare. Ethics and morality must evolve along with society.”
“And you know all about ethics and morality, don’t you, boyo.”
For the first time since Paul had joined the group, Rory Muldowney spoke. The voice of the “Irish” planet’s Dirigent was mild and lilting for all that his features were deeply flushed and his eyes ablaze with some well-muffled passion. He lifted his glass high.
“Then here’s to you, First Magnate! Paul Remillard—leader of the polity … guardian of humanity’s best interests … font of swift justice … troubleshooter extraordinaire. Slainté to you, Number One! You’ll see the lot of us safely wrapped in Unity whether we want it or not, won’t you, you darlin’ noble man! All the human planets and good old Earth to boot.” He emptied the half-full glass in a single heroic belt, set it carefully at the feet of St. Patrick, and stood there swaying in his green formal wear with his head lowered between his shoulders like a befuddled bull. His bloodshot gaze never left the First Magnate.
Paul chuckled uneasily. “Rory, you’re pissed as a newt. Let me give you a shot of redaction so you can carry on with your guest-of-honor duties in proper style.”
Wagging his head in firm refusal, Muldowney surveyed the group with an expression of lugubrious rue. “Yes, by God, I am by drink taken! How else can I find the balls to speak the truth about humanity’s distinguished First Magnate?” He raised his voice to a ringing shout. “Listen, everyone! Let me tell you about Paul Remillard’s great devotion to our race … especially to the sweet females of the species.”
Patricia Castellane took a step toward him, her face gone pale with alarm. She seemed to collide with an invisible barrier surrounding the Irishman and staggered back in pained dismay. Davy MacGregor steadied her but made no attempt to intervene. A tiny sardonic smile quirked the corners of the Scotsman’s mouth. Tamara Sakhvadze uttered a feeble sound of protest. A few of the others also halfheartedly voiced disapproval at the same time that they strengthened their mind-screens to the maximum so their own thoughts would remain imperceptible.
Rory Muldowney ignored them, flinging his arms wide in a grandiose tragic gesture. He continued his oration at the top of his lungs and with all the might of his declamatory farspeech. Around him, the noisy throngs of revelers were falling into dismayed silence.
“Let me tell you,” Rory said, “about the way our First Magnate enticed a good woman away from her man and her children with his fine coercive ways! Bewitching her and then breaking her heart so all she could do was long to die. She was a Grand Master Creator, was my poor wife Laura Tremblay. So when Paul Remillard cast her away she went to a high green hill on our Hibernian world and bade every drop of blood within her to turn to solid ice.”
He projected a hideous image into the minds of his audience. The luckless Laura had not caused her body to freeze instantaneously; her body fluids had congealed more slowly once she had irrevocably commanded the fatal process to begin, expanding as they solidified. There were cries of horror and revulsion and many of the hypersensitive Gi uttered faint wails and fell unconscious.
“And thus I found her,” Rory said, canceling the ghastly vision, “deformed and lifeless, all beauty fled along with her tormented soul. Our First Magnate said he was so very sorry. He sent lovely flowers.”
Slow tears trickled down the Dirigent’s florid face. “No one was to blame at all. That’s what they said. The storms of love come and go among us human beings, and nary a one can command them—not me, not my Laura, and certainly not the grand First Magnate of the Human Polity. Still, I want you all to know what happened. Remember it when Paul Remillard speaks of ethics and morals and the greater good. I will, and so will the children Laura gave me. And now I’ve said what I had to say. Beannachtaì na Fèile Pàdraig daoibh! A happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you all.”
After a beat of utter stillness the party guests began to murmur. Some were frankly weeping. Paul, his face gone livid, took a step toward the Irishman.
“Rory, for the sweet love of God—”
Paul never finished. The Dirigent of Hibernia cocked his right arm and delivered a short uppercut to the jaw with blinding swiftness, knocking the First Magnate of the Human Polity of the Galactic Milieu out cold.
* * *
“I presume that was it,” said Asymptotic Essence.
“Indubitably,” said Homologous Trend.
“One will have to spend some time appreciating the nuances of the event,” sighed Eupathic Impulse. “A nodality exists, as Atoning Unifex implied; but one is justifiably suspicious of jumping to the most obvious conclusion.”
12
SECTOR 15: STAR 15-000-001 [TELONIS] PLANET 1 [CONCILIUM ORB]
GALACTIC YEAR: LA PRIME 1-382-693 [18 MARCH 2063]
HE WAS THERE ALONE, JUST AS THE HYDRA HAD PLANNED IT, SITTING by the fire with a cup of hot buttered rum and a magazine-plaque programmed with back issues of some flyfishing publication. His four friends were long gone. The units of the multiplex monster watched him from a darkened snowmobile parked in a lane of Alpenland Enclave a hundred meters or so from the little A-frame hut. The snowdrifts were silvered by a small, chill, illusory moon. Most of the nearby dwellings were dark.
I’m ready. Whatdoyouthink Quint?
He’s relaxed and as susceptible as he ever will be. The equipment has already been packed for the trip back to Earth tomorrow but he can easily set it up again if you’re persuasive enough.
Just watch me! I know I can do it he won’t suspect a thing to him I’m just one more casualfemaleacquaintance the selfcenteredarrogantshit—
Ooo! He’s really your kindaguy allright Maddy!
[Petulance.] I could handle him better. I’m sexier. I don’t see why Madeleine has to have all the fun.
You? Cope with a paramount? Not bloodylikely Celine he’d squash you like a roach if you went exconcert Sweetcakes.
WILLYOU2SHUTUP?
—is wellsoftened after our DREAMTHERAPY what a marvelousidea of Fury’s it never occurred to me/US that he ofallpeople would be vulnerable through that particular limbicpath.
He likes you Maddy. The consanguineal affinity is extremely powerful. There was already a softening of resolve even before I/WE worked on him … and males are so much more vulnerable than females in this respect. Even a unique male like Marc can’t completely control his hormones like the GreatEnemy can. If this ploy fulfills Fury’s expectations the effect on Marc’s psychological stability should be devastating. It’s going to take a lot to soften up the bastard but this will be a useful start. The rest of us will join you in metaconcert afterward to delete every trace of the invasion.
Until the day IWE refresh his memory.
And finish him once&forall!
If I’m not successful if he recogni
zes me or even realizes what I’m trying to do he may kill me. He could probably fry me to a cinder with his unaugmented creativity alone.
Yes. It would probably be inadvertent but the remote possibility is there if he feels himself integrally threatened he must not perceive any danger until it’s too late. Use the utmost caution.
[Apprehension.] Maddy Quint’s right be careful if IWE lost you the most powerful Hydraunit then Fury’s great scheme would suffer a terrible setback.
Don’t worry Parni I know what I’m doing just keep a good hold on Celine when the going gets hot I can’t have her crashing in halfcocked—
I’d never do that damn YOU!
No? You nearly fucked our snuffjob of the old Okanagon-Dirigent losing control from sheerlifeforcegluttony and we had to blow the ship to kingdomcome instead of doing the switch&feeding.
That was an accident …
WE WON’T HAVE ANY MORE ACCIDENTS LIKE THAT
No …
No!
NO!
Understand: In the physical sphere Fury depends upon Hydra. I/WE depend on Fury for our life and fulfillment. Hydra must never forget that! Now open the cabdoor Quint. It’s time for me to go.
She felt his seekersense flick over her as soon as she stepped onto the walk leading to his hut, but the convenances governing polite behavior between nonintimate operants forbade that he take any notice of her arrival until she actually tapped on the door of the A-frame.
There was an Escheresque snowman in Marc’s front yard, a fantastic Strange Loop creation of dizzying entwined spiral limbs and multiple faces. No hands could have carved it: it had been fashioned by an operant mind. Marc’s?
The area around the sculpture’s base had been trampled by small feet. The Great Enemy had been here, visiting his elder brother. She repressed a shudder.
Making certain that her mental shield was strengthened to the utmost, she forced a smile and reached for the brass knocker.
Marc opened the door. His expression was cordial and his aura benign. “Hello, Lynelle. Not celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with our little purple friends?”
“The party’s over. And not with a whimper, but with a considerable bang! I think I’d better let your family tell you about the paddywhacking, though … The real reason I came by was to wish you bon voyage. Meeting you was one of the more memorable events of my first trip to Orb.”
Marc’s asymmetrical smile broadened. “Come in—if you’re sure you’re not afraid of being compromised by associating with a scandalous character.”
Her laughter bubbled richly. “That’s ridiculous. No one was scandalized by your speech except a few dreary archconservatives. And they’re just envious because the Lylmik named a brand-new magnate to be the one and only Paramount Grand Master of the Human Polity.”
He lifted a dismissive shoulder. “The honor and two bux will buy me a tall latte at an Alpenland deli. It isn’t as though a paramount has any real political status.”
As he helped her off with her black velvet evening cape, she looked at him mischievously over her shoulder. “Oh, but he does, you know. When the most powerful metapsychic mind in the human race expresses an opinion strongly, people listen. When you spoke against the outlawing of the Rebel faction, it tipped the balance in the Concilium and helped defeat the First Magnate’s bill of attainder. Dirigent Castellane told us staffers that the gag bill might have squeaked through if it hadn’t been for you.”
Marc only shrugged.
She unbuttoned the wrist slits of her long black kidskin gloves and slipped her hands out, then fluffed up the extravagant corkscrew curls of her gorgone hairstyle. “I’m not a Rebel myself, but there are a good many people on my planet who are. They should be able to speak their minds freely. Calling an honest difference of opinion treasonous—trying to outlaw open debate—is an outrage. We might as well be back under the Simbiari Proctorship. The First Magnate made a serious mistake cosponsoring that bill.”
She was dressed in an Empire gown of white silk gauze, high-waisted, with short puffed sleeves and floating panels embroidered in silver and red. A black ribbon centered with a tiny silvery Medusa encircled her pale throat.
Together they went to the fire. Before Marc could pull up another chair Lynelle Rogers sank down gracefully onto the hearthrug, pulled off her red dancing slippers, and arranged them so that the snow-dampened soles would dry. “You should keep your walk shoveled,” she chided him, “or turn on the melting grid. Does summer ever come in Alpenland Enclave?”
“Sorry. For that, you have to go to Edelweiss on the other side of our fake Swiss mountains. Would you like something hot to warm the cockles?”
“I’d love it. Alcoholic, please. It’s cold out there.” She drew off the gloves and set them aside.
He got two clean mugs and added sweet butter, cinnamon sticks, and Jamaica rum, then swung the crane away from the flames and tipped the spout of a steaming cast-iron teakettle with his bare fingers.
She gave a cry of warning. “Look out! You’ll burn yourself!”
“No, I won’t.” He added boiling water, stirred with his PK, and handed the cup to her.
“Oh …” Her laughter was apologetic. “How silly of me. Of course a little thing like a red-hot iron teakettle wouldn’t faze a Paramount Grand Master Creator. I suppose you could pick up the flaming logs in the fireplace if you felt like it.”
“You must forgive my momentary breach of decorum. The potholder was accidentally burnt up when my little brother was messing around here last week and I forgot to order another. I try to conform to civilized operant behavior most of the time.”
“What a shame,” she murmured slyly. He was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of beaded moccasins over bare feet. When he had finished making his own drink she patted the rug beside her. “Sit down here with me and tell me what you’ll be doing now that the Concilium session is over. Someone said you were thinking of leaving academia and taking your E15 project into the private sector.”
He settled himself so he could look into the fire and sipped the aromatic drink. “I may as well tell you. It won’t be a secret for long. I’m resigning my professorship at Dartmouth College. The trustees and faculty have always regarded me as a maverick who doesn’t play by the rules—and that’s almost a hanging offense at an Ivy League Earth college. They’ve been scared to death by the political implications of high creativity enhancement. The fact that creativity is the most fundamental of the metapsychic powers, able to influence all of the others and embracing an enormous spectrum of faculties, shivers their livers. They’re afraid my E15 might be misused by some galaxy-class nutcase bent on causing a new Ice Age or a modification of continental drift or some such thing.”
Her eyes widened. “Does the equipment have that potential?”
“Hardly. Not even an augmented paramount mind could do those things—if it was mad enough to want to. It’s true that the E15 might be abused, but so might any number of other sophisticated devices or processes.”
“You’d find a very different attitude toward your project on my world,” Lynelle Rogers said softly. “Dirigent Patricia Castellane was fascinated when she learned about it. Okanagon is one of those planets with anomalous crustal plates—like Caledonia and Eskval-Herria and Satsuma. As I understand it, high-creative CE might eventually provide a way of stabilizing the planetary lithosphere and preventing seismic disasters—if enough grandmaster operators learn to use the equipment properly and focus shaped energies in metaconcert.”
Marc eyed her with surprise. “You’re right—but I don’t recall anything published in the literature that mentions metaconcerted CE. My own paper on the subject is still going the rounds of the journal editors and being viewed with jaundiced eyes.”
“We aren’t hicks on Okanagon. We have an outstanding science establishment and we keep a close watch on research topics that are likely to be of critical interest to our survival. Including yours.”
“I had no idea you
r spies were on to me,” he teased.
But Lynelle was deadly serious. “Metaconcerted creativity is obviously the next step once the limits of individual enhancement of the faculty are reached. One presumes that you don’t intend to limit the E15 to Paramount Grand Masters.”
“Certainly not. A grandmasterclass creator would be able to use it safely even now. The only serious hazard would be to an operator who lacked focusing ability or badly misjudged his creative talent. But it will be years before metaconcert programs can be designed for CE equipment. Even bare-brain operants are still fumbling around, trying to get the hang of choral thinking. In theory, a genuinely efficient combination of minds would produce a synergistic effect: a whole greater than the sum of the individual parts.”
Lynelle was staring at the leaping flames. “Yes. I understand that.”
“But even without multiple operators, CE creativity shows great promise for minor geophysical applications. Seismic forces are delicate and subtle. No conventional energy-beam or explosive that we have is fine enough or immediately variable enough to exert the tuned and shaped pressures needed to avert dangerous earthquakes or change the devastating nature of volcanic or diatrematic eruptions. But an enhanced mind, working like an intelligent, large-scale laser scalpel, just might do the job. Of course that’s only one possible application of creative CE. Uses for the equipment are virtually unlimited.”