The Golden Torc

by Julian May

  Only let her be happy.

  They walked into a great beamed and paneled room that was lit by brazen sconces full of honest fire. The sparkling little meta lamps were in use, too, but for decoration only, studding strange tapestries and metal sculptures along the walls. The feasting board made a great inverted U-shape, with the several hundred guests ranged along both sides of the lateral sections, standing at their places. At the far end of the chamber was the local version of the high table—actually some what lower than the two side boards so that the dignitaries enthroned there would be more visible to the guests. The wall behind the Exalted Personages had a huge reproduction of the male-head motif, crafted of gold and deeply set into a complex mosaic of the crystalline meta lights. Draperies of thin metallic fabric framed the whole emblem and merged into a canopy above the line of twenty thrones. Liveried waiters were poised behind all of the guests. The Personages were attended by a double line of servitors, much more sumptuously dressed than those who waited upon the lower orders.

  Bryan and Elizabeth walked toward the table, past the ranks of smiling nobility. The anthropologist tried to be discreet as he scanned the throng; but there were such numbers on both sides of the room, and far too many of the human women had auburn hair...

  "The Worthy Doctor of Anthropology Bryan Grenfell."

  ...And then the arbiter bibendi was presenting him, and he stepped forward and made his brief obeisance in the usual Milieu style, conscious that the people at the High Table were craning forward to study him and his female companion with an eagerness they had not vouchsafed to the four other honorees. Court etiquette evidently did not include the introduction of the Personages to him, but he had little curiosity about the glittering figures at the moment. Mercy was not among them.

  Bryan stepped back and Elizabeth, pale and strained-looking, had her turn last of all.

  "The Most Illustrious Lady Elizabeth Orme, Grand Master Farspeaker and Grand Master Redactor of the Galactic Milieu."

  Bloody hell, marveled Bryan.

  The standing guests raised their arms. Astonishingly enough, the Exalted Personages got up from their thrones and also joined in the salute. The entire assembly gave voice to a threefold hail:

  "Slonshal! Slonshal! Slonshal!"

  Hairs bristled at the back of Bryan's neck. Now that had to be a linguistic coincidence.

  The most central of the male Personages gave a small twisting gesture. From somewhere came a jangling sound, as though a chain were being shaken. Silence fell.

  "Let refreshment and fellowship prevail," intoned the male Personage. A magnificent physical specimen, he wore a white robe, completely unadorned. His long blond hair and flowing beard were dressed with exquisite care in braids and tiny thin curls. There was a distinct resemblance to the masklike heraldic emblem and Bryan knew that this must be Thagdal, High King of the Tanu.

  The tableau broke into a confetti swirl as the guests flung themselves into their seats or went dashing about to exchange fresh greetings with one another. Human waiters and rama servers began loading the tables with food and drink. The six honorees were seated on low couches opposite the Exalted Personages and all formality went by the board as the Tanu aristocrats satisfied their curiosity by asking the time-travelers a torrent of questions.

  Bryan found himself addressed by a formidable woman in white seated at the right hand of the King. Glorious red hair cascaded from beneath a close-fitting hood of golden fabric with upstanding jeweled wings. "I am Nontusvel, Mother of the Host and wife to the Thagdal. In courtesy I am your Lady, Bryan, and I bid you warm welcome to our Many-Colored Land and company. Now ... what's this I see? Confusion in you? And perhaps a fear? I would ease that if I might."

  The power of her smiling ur-mothermind was irresistible, strumming his memories like an expert lutanist. A dim control room high in a chateau tower and a face full of sweet rue. Tears at a troubadour's song. And with that chord plucked, segue into another of apple blossoms nightingales moon rising flesh warmth auburn hair and eyes of the haunted sea so fey. And then the dissonant arpeggio. But where Gaston where's she gone where through that damn time-portal into Exile. Here I go Monsieur le Chat into the deep cellar...

  Bryan's festive costume had inner pockets. Without volition, he reached a hand into the one over his breast and handed the durofilm to Queen Nontusvel. She gazed at Mercy's portrait. "You followed her here, Bryan."

  "Yes." I did but see her passing by. Till I die I see her.

  Nontusvel's metapsychic tendrils came weaving solace and diversion. "But your Mercy is safe, Bryan! Successfully integrated into our fellowship. And so happy! It was as though she had been born for the torc. As though she yearned unconsciously to belong to us and searched us out over the gap of six million years."

  The Queen's eyes were as bright as sapphires, shining with an inner light, for all that they seemed to have no pupils.

  "May I visit her?" he asked humbly.

  "She is in Goriah, in that region you would call Brittany. But she will soon return to our City of the White Silver Plain and then you shall hear her tell of her life among us. And in return for this reunion, will you serve us willingly? Will you help us to gain the knowledge that we require, the insight that may be vital to our survival as a race?"

  "I will do what I can, Exalted Lady. My training has been in the analysis of cultures and the evaluation of intercultural impact and the attendant stresses. I admit that I don't understand completely what you want of me, but I'm at your disposal."

  Nontusvel nodded her winged golden head and smiled. The High King turned from Elizabeth and said to the anthropologist, "My dear son Ogmol will help you coordinate your researches. See him? That high-spirited fellow at the righthand table in the turquoise-and-silver robe, balancing the wine ewer on his head, the silly twit. There! Now he's done it ... Well, even a scholar has a right to celebrate. You'll see his more serious side tomorrow. He'll be your guide. Your assistant, damme! And between the two of you, you'll make sense out of our conundrum before the Grand Combat convenes or I'm a no-ball son of a Howler mule!"

  He guffawed hugely and Bryan, overawed, could only think of a particularly virile Ghost of Christmas Present he had seen as a child on the Tri-D.

  "If I may ask, King Thagdal—what is the basis for your sovereignty?"

  Both Thagdal and Nontusvel laughed uproariously, the King to the point of coughing. Whereupon the Queen took up a great golden cup and soothed her husband with a draft of honey-wine. When the King was restored, he said, "I like that, Bryan! Begin at the top with the authority figures. And begin now! Well, it's simple enough, lad. I've got stupendous metafunctions, of course, and I'm a wiz in battle. But my most valued attribute is—fertility! More than half of the people in this hall are my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And that's not to count the absent loved ones—eh, Nonnie?"

  The Queen simpered discreetly. She told Bryan, "My Lord Husband is the father of eleven thousand and fifty-eight—and never a Firvulag and never a black-torc among them. His germ plasm is without peer, and for this reason he is our High King."

  Bryan tried to phrase his next inquiry tactfully. "And you, Noble Lady, have a similarly distinguished reproductive history?"

  "Two hundred and forty-two children!" trumpeted Thagdal. "A record among the royal spouses. And among them such many-talented luminaries as Nodonn and Velteyn and Imidol and Culluket! And the Exalted Ladies Riganone and Clana and Dectar—to say nothing of dear Anéar! None of my other wives, not even the lamented Lady Boanda, brought forth such riches."

  And now Elizabeth entered the colloquy, saying softly, "Bryan—be sure to have His Majesty tell you about the other mothers of his children."

  "Simple enough." Thagdal beamed. "Share the wealth! Propagate the optimal phenotype, as Crazy Greggy would say. Every gold and silver lady gets a whirl with the Old Man first time around."

  Elizabeth said, "And after they're impregnated by the King, they may become the wives or m
istresses of other Tanu nobles and have children by others. Isn't that interesting?"

  "Very," Bryan said faintly. "But this—uh—genetic plan could not have been in force from the beginning of your race's residence on the planet Earth."

  Thagdal stroked his beard. His bushy blond brows came together. "No-o-o. Things were a little different back in the beginning—in the Dark Ages, so to speak. There weren't too many of us then, and I had to fight for my Kingly rights if the lady wasn't willing. But of course I won most of the time, because in those days I was the best swordsman in more ways than one. You understand?"

  Bryan said, "There was a similar custom during the ancient days of our Earth. It was called the droit du seigneur."

  "Right! Right! I recall one of the dear little gorfie silvers mentioning it. Where was I?...Yes, the history thing! Well, with the opening of the time-gate and the coming of you people from the future, we tried to organize the propagation of the race more scientifically. Some of your folks were a great help along those lines. You must be sure to meet them, Bryan. I'd say they rank as near-godparents of the glorious Tanu fellowship you see here today! Dear old Crazy Greggy, of course—Lord Greg-Donnet, that is, our Eugenics and Genetics Master. And that marvelous woman, Anastasya-Bybar! Where the hell would we be if Tasha hadn't shown our decadent reprotechnicians how to reverse the sterilization of human women? Why—all of those precious latent ova would have been lost to us!" He dug an elbow into Nontusvel's junoesque torso. "And half my fun is persevering until I get that little bun safely into the oven—eh, Nonnie?"

  The Queen simpered.

  Bryan took an overlarge swallow of wine. He was conscious of Elizabeth's eyes on him. "And so—and so approximately seventy years ago, when the first time-travelers began to arrive, you started to hybridize with humans?"

  "Get it straight, son. Only the human males contributed to the gene pool at first. Tasha didn't come through until—when?—say, ten years after the gate opened. Our ladies had their fun, of course, in those early years. And it didn't take long for us to discover that human-Tanu hybrids were less likely to go Firvulag—and more likely to be carried to term by our delicate little mothers ... saving your presence, Nonnie love! Even our numbwit Tanu geneticists noticed that. Aluteyn and his people were on the lookout for someone like Academician Anastasya Astaurova. And sure enough—Compassionate Tana sent her to us with bells on! Literally."

  Thagdal indulged in another fit of jollity, quenching it with heroic drafts of wine. All around the feasting hall, spirits were rising as cups were drained and refilled. The supper consisted mostly of meat dishes in bewildering variety, together with great platters of fruit, and bread-rolls baked into odd shapes. Entertainers, announced by the arbiter bibendi, did their turns in the middle of the U of tables, and the guests responded with showers of small coins or half-chewed bones, according to the quality of the talent displayed. The Exalted Personages supped in a more refined fashion; but down near one end of the High Table, where Aiken was seated opposite two nobles attired in rose and gold, there was a good deal of rowdy laughter and cup-thumping going on.

  The Queen said, "Tell dear Bryan about our gift of the torcs, Thaggy."

  "Tell both of us," Elizabeth said, with her most Mona Lisa smile.

  The King wagged a finger at the farspeaker. "Barriers still up, little love? That'll never do, you know. Honey-wine is what you need. Is there anything else I can tempt you with?"

  Nontusvel covered her mouth and spluttered with stately mirth.

  "Your Majesty is a most gracious host." Elizabeth raised her goblet to him. "Please continue your fascinating history."

  "Where was I?...Torcs for the humans! Well, you have to understand that true fellowship between us Tanu and you people wasn't something that could spring up full-grown in a year or two. There was the genetic compatibility, with advantages that were manifest but not well understood. We bestowed honorary golden torcs on Greggy and Tasha in gratitude for their efforts. They weren't latents, as it turned out, and not all that psychoadaptive, either. And then Iskender-Kernonn came through and domesticated the animals and we gave him an honorary torc."

  "Poor dear Isky," the Queen lamented, emptying her goblet. A waiter filled it immediately. "Snatched from us by the Firvulag and their bestial coterie of Lowlives!"

  "And then about forty years ago Eusebio came through and did such brilliant work improving the rama torcs—being a psychobiologist back in the Milieu and the first person who seemed to understand the theory behind the torcs. So we gave him a gold, too, and named him Gomnol. And damned if the man didn't turn out to be a superlative latent coercer, for all that he's an ugly little runt! What a shock for us!"

  "You hadn't known about the human metapsychic latency factor before?" Elizabeth asked.

  "We are an old, old race," the Queen admitted, "afflicted with a certain scientific languor." A tear stole from one sapphire eye and trickled down her flawless cheek, splashing into the cushioned depths of her corsage. She took consolation from the cup.

  "As Nonnie says," the King resumed, "we're an ancient race. Rather decadent in certain disciplines, I fear. And our own small faction—which as you may know fled our home galaxy under duress—was even less scientifically inclined than the common ruck of Tanu ... No, except for Brede (who doesn't really count), we didn't understand how the torcs worked to make our own metafunctions operant, and we didn't try very hard to understand the powers themselves. They were there, if you follow me. We didn't worry overmuch about the whys and wherefores, so human latency came as a complete surprise. As Gomnol pointed out, you humans didn't know your own minds and bodies for ninety-nine pip niner per centum of your racial history, either! So don't sneer at us. Where was I?...Oh, yes. Latent humans. Well, when Gomnol got his golden torc and went meta, he connected the whole thing in a flash. The Tanu are latents and so are normal humans—some more, but most very much less, even to the point of nullity. In your future world, the babies that are potential operants are detected and later trained up by farsensing and redactive practitioners such as this Illustrious Lady." He gave a courtly nod to Elizabeth. "Since no operants came through the time-portal in those days, and since our torc-enhanced powers are shaky in detecting human latents, Gomnol decided that we must make ourselves a mechanical device for mental assay of the human population. He worked out the gadget that tested you folks back at Castle Gateway. We have others at our principal cities to catch the latents that elude us because of mental turmoil during the initial testing. There are a fair number of slip-throughs." He scowled thunderously. "Including one that was an unmitigated disaster! Where was I?...Gomnol's brainstorm! Understand now—this chap is an inspired psychobiologist. He knew it would be dangerous to put gold torcs on human latents who weren't wholeheartedly assimilated into our fellowship."

  "There are always," the Queen interposed darkly, "ingrates."

  "So Gomnol conceived the silver torcs, with their built-in psycho-regulators. And shortly after that, the gray torcs—to be used by so-called nonlatent humans who could stand very low-level metapsychic involvement. A whole new world of fellowship was born! Beginning in Gomnol's time, when it became possible to mass-produce the gray torcs—well, produce them with relative speed, at any rate—we of the Tanu were able to seize the ascendancy on this world. The vile Firvulag, those shadow-siblings of ours, were no longer able to contend with us on a virtually equal footing. We had armies of loyal human grays to crush their superior numbers! We had human mothers to counter the vulgar fecundity of their coarse little women! We had the noble silvers—our operant allies-mental! And as time went on, many of the silvers were advanced to full citizenship and given gold."

  This can be done without psychic injury torcexchange?

  Certainly cherishedElizabeth silvertorc removed without danger after gold in place.

  "And think! The brilliant gray technicians have improved our economy by devising more efficient means of transport and goods production! Thanks to the mourned Lord of
Animals, Kernonn, we have beasts to ride and beasts to haul and beasts to guard us from Firvulag depredation. And perhaps best of all ... we have hybrid human champions in the Grand Combat." The King paused. He leaned across the table, upsetting his cup in the process, and took one of Elizabeth's hands.

  "And now, Tana's bounty surpasses itself. She has sent us you."

  Queen Nontusvel seemed to radiate a lunar benevolence. There was a different glow in the deep green eyes of Thagdal.

  Impervious and calm, Elizabeth repeated, "And now Tana has sent me. But in our own world, the gifts of God are often ambiguously given. You don't yet see me as I am, King Thagdal."

  "But that will come, dearest Elizabeth. You shall go to the most noble of us all for your initiation into our ways—to the Prescient Lady Brede Shipspouse, she of the Two Faces and the poetry. Brede will teach you and you will teach her. And in good time you will go to Tasha-Bybar and then you will come to me. Dearest Elizabeth."

  "Dearest Elizabeth," came Nontusvel's echo. Surely it was as full of goodwill as it had ever been.

  "A toast!" bellowed Thagdal, leaping to his feet. His cup had been speedily righted and replenished.

  "A toast!" the several hundred guests shouted back. The arbiter shook the chain of silence.

  "To the Tanu race and the human race! In fellowship, in communion, in love!"

  The feasters raised their great golden goblets. "Fellowship! Communion! Love!"

  "With an emphasis on the latter!" called out Aiken Drum.

  There was laughter and shouting and a great swallowing and spilling of wine, with many a soggy embrace and a sipping from lip to lip. The royal couple, inflamed by the drink and festivity, now clung to each other murmuring and snorting. A corps de ballet of human women and men, dressed alike in bold magpie leotards, appeared as music struck up and began to lead the throng in elaborate contredanse patterns.

  Elizabeth whispered to Bryan, "I'm going to have to leave you for a while. I must look into them while their inhibitions are down. If you like, I'll share the data with you later." She gave him a solemn moue, then closed her eyes and withdrew to some mental vantage point.