Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy)

by Julian May

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Let’s walk to the farm rather than take the groundcar,” she suggested. “I’d so love to have a last feel of the dear old place before we leave.”

  “We’ll be back after it’s over,” he insisted. “For a good long rest.”

  “And then a second vacation on Kauai,” she added. “We’ll have earned it, well and truly.”

  They set off down the narrow two-rut track, which was barely damp. The native trees in the glen and on the mountainsides were aglow with colors that were nearly fluorescent in the prolonged soft twilight. When the coleus leaves were full-grown they would be the size of handkerchiefs or even larger. Now they were like crimped, velvety cat’s-ears, cerise-pink and primrose-yellow and rho-violet and magenta. Their undersides, lifting in the light wind wafting down from the extinct Forge volcano, were silvery.

  They passed the docks at the end of the loch and came up the riverside road through the pastures and fields. Terrestrial grass, mingled with vivid-orange neòinean plants, grew lush in the repellor-fenced paddocks where sheep, ruddy West Highland cattle, and miniature horses grazed with their young. Long-tailed Mesozoic rinkies flew overhead. Their wild cries mingled with the bleats and whickers of greeting that the farm animals offered to the human couple passing by.

  Hand in hand, Jack the Bodiless and Diamond Mask walked along the gravel road to her beloved childhood home. He wore jeans, a navy polo shirt, and a brown windbreaker. She had on her shining azure lamé hooded jumpsuit and the matching half-mask adorned with blue diamonds. When they finished their visit, they intended to embark immediately for Earth.

  The airfarm seemed deserted tonight. There were no eggs or aerostatic harvesters on the landing pad and no sign of workers or ground vehicles in the vicinity of the skyweed processing plant or the other outbuildings. Over by the river, the young oak tree that had sprouted from an acorn she picked up in an Edinburgh churchyard thrust out sturdy branches adorned with monochromatic, alien green. The main house, quaintly gabled and painted Wedgwood-blue with white trim, stood on a landscaped knoll high above the other buildings like a small castle on its motte. Some of the windows were already lighted. Only the satellite dishes, the NAVCON antenna, and the fairy-critter gun on the roof detracted from the structure’s archaic charm.

  Dorothea paused at the bottom of the knoll’s stone stairway. “I don’t really know what I’m going to say to him, Jack. I couldn’t refuse when he asked us to come see him, but—he’s a Rebel, even if he is my father. After what’s happened, I’m not willing to let him spoil our last night on Callie.”

  “Let’s just see what he wants,” Jack said. “If it’s a row, we can leave.”

  They ascended through rock gardens bright with golden tuft and many-colored azaleas. At the slightly higher elevation the “dry rain” unfortunately regained its normal wet properties. Jack erected a metacreative umbrella until they reached the shelter of the house’s enclosed porch.

  Janet Finlay, Ian Macdonald’s Arizona-born second wife, opened the door to them. She had declined rejuvenation, as her husband had, and her once hard-favored features had softened with the plumpness of middle age. She wore a ranch shirt in sage-green with pearl snaps, a black denim skirt, and Western boots made of Caledonian teuthis leather.

  “Evenin’, kids.” She smiled warmly as they came into the entry hall and exchanged brief hugs. “He’s holed up in his den like a sulkin’ coyote, so you might’s well go on along. You all come back into the library for coffee after you’ve had a chance to chew the fat in private. I’ll wait on you.”

  “Thank you.” Dorothea led Jack to the office wing of the big house. The workroom where Janet and Dorothea’s foster sister Ellen Gunn supervised the operation of the airfarm was deserted at this time of the evening, its cluttered desks abandoned, the computer displays and sophisticated business machines devoiced but still blinking as they ruminated electronically over cuds of data.

  When Jack and Dorothea reached the door of her father’s inner sanctum she knocked gently. A low voice said, “Aye, come in.”

  Ian Macdonald slowly turned away from the window where he had been standing. Even in the rainy dusk the view to the north was magnificent, encompassing the entire farmstead and the reach of cliff-girt Loch Tuath beyond. A Celestron light-multiplying telescope was still focused on the river valley. Dorothea realized that her nonoperant father had probably been watching her and Jack from the moment they left the cottage.

  “Hello, Dad,” she said, when he remained silent.

  He said, “Hello, Dorrie. Jack. Why don’t we sit down?”

  Far from being a conventional snuggery, the room was almost like the bridge of a ship with tall windows on three sides. Two huge Tri-D projection maps—one of the farmlands and the other of Beinn Bhiorach Subcontinent, which Ian Macdonald served as elected Intendant Associate—flanked the doorway. The principal pieces of furniture, occupying the room’s center, were a padded swivel-chair and a massive antique Scottish table-desk crowded with reader-plaques and durafilm printouts. Near the southern bank of windows overlooking the rugged inland mountain range was a shiatsu recliner of wine-colored leather, two cabriole armchairs done in worn forest-green plush, and a pedestal cocktail table made from a sawn and polished slab of malachite.

  Ian perched his rangy frame rather awkwardly on the edge of the recliner while his daughter and son-in-law took the other two seats.

  “I’ve been delegated,” the farmer said without preamble, “by a certain group within the Rebel Party to ask you with the utmost confidentiality if there’s any way we can stave off this war.”

  “A breakaway faction?” Dorothea’s brow creased.

  “Don’t get the idea that our Rebellion is fragmenting,” Ian growled. “We’re all as steadfast as ever in our resolve to secede from the Milieu. But certain members of the Rebel Council wonder whether Marc might not have … formulated our ultimatum too rigidly. If so, I’m to let you know informally that we’re still open to negotiation. We don’t want flat-out war any more than the Milieu does.”

  “You made my brother your leader,” Jack said levelly. “Why aren’t you posing this question to him?”

  Ian did not reply directly. “I’m going to be frank with you. The Rebel Council expected Milieu capitulation to follow the Molakar demonstration. When our fifty-day deadline came and went last week without any response at all from your side, a conference of Rebel bigwigs met to discuss new options. I wasn’t there, you understand. I’m small potatoes in the Rebel hierarchy, just a body who happens to have a very important daughter. So I was appointed an informal delegation of one.”

  He stared at her in hopeful appeal, but the hazel eyes were coolly noncommittal above the mask of blue diamonds. Ian’s sponsorship of the clandestine laser-helmet factory had never been proven, but she was morally certain of his complicity and had been deeply scandalized by it.

  Jack said, “Suppose you tell us what the new Rebel options are.”

  “Aye, well, the majority of the magnates—including Marc—are prepared to conduct another cataclysmic demonstration unless serious negotiations for the implementation of human independence begin immediately.”

  “And the Rebel minority?” Dorothea asked. “Is it having second thoughts after the Molakar atrocity?”

  Ian spoke with anguished sincerity. “We ordinary folk never dreamt that Marc had contemplated such a gruesome thing! We were as appalled as you. On the other hand, if it was true that the Krondaku were getting set to blockade Earth or embargo our colonies, then they deserved what they got. But … there’s no other truly appropriate target left now, is there?” Again, he seemed to be appealing to Jack and Dorothea. “I mean, no other exotic world that just begs for smashin’. There’s only innocent planets and the Concilium Orb itself. If Marc’s CE metaconcert destroys one of them, it’ll be naught but terrorism.”

  “Yes,” the Dirigent of Caledonia said to her father. “That’s what your Rebellion has comm
itted itself to.”

  “What will ye do, Dorrie? Is there no way to put an end to it? We know that loyalist human starships of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Fleets are zipping from hell to breakfast touching down on every colonial world, but they certainly aren’t being deployed militarily. Our best intelligence guess is that the ships are just carrying bloody messages. But about what?”

  Dorothea said, “You’ve guessed correctly, Dad. We haven’t wanted to use subspace communication or ordinary long-range farspeech because of the possibility of interception, so our communiqués are being sent via courier. We can’t risk misunderstandings at this point.”

  Ian’s eyes lit up with hope. “So ye do have some nonviolent counterploy in the works!”

  Jack said, “Loyalist humans are trying to find a way to resolve the matter, yes. But you can hardly expect us to discuss our strategy with you. I’ll tell you this much: Every human member of the Concilium still faithful to the Milieu has returned to his or her own planet. I myself am the only temporary exception. We don’t intend to negotiate with you Rebels and we don’t intend to fight you. What we do intend is to end the Rebellion by a means that we hope will be nonviolent. Davy MacGregor will be sending a message to Marc five days from now—but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t know about it and tell him to expect it. The gist of the response is this: The exotic races have agreed that the defense of the Milieu against the Metapsychic Rebellion is to be directed solely by loyal human magnates. Whichever side is victorious in … a certain upcoming confrontation will be granted primacy. If you Rebels win, humanity will be cut loose from the Milieu. If the loyalists win, those operants refusing Unity will be sequestered. Nonoperant Rebels will have their personal liberties restricted more drastically than they were during the Simbiari Proctorship.”

  “Who are the magnates directing the Milieu’s defense?” Ian demanded bluntly.

  Jack and Dorothea only looked at him without speaking.

  Ian rose from his seat, his face agitated by conflicting emotions. “It’s you two—isn’t it! The only loyalist paramounts! You’re going to take on Marc. But how? Do you have a CE metaconcert of your own?”

  Dorothea got up, went to her father, and took his hand. “We’re leaving Caledonia tomorrow morning. You’ll soon know the answer to your questions. All of them.” The diamond mask dissolved, revealing a plain, heart-shaped face. She kissed her father on one rugged cheek. “Goodbye, Dad. I do love you. When the time comes, make a true choice with your own heart. Don’t let Marc Remillard choose for you.”

  The hard, sharp-edged gemstones masked her again. She and Jack left the study.

  “Wait!” Ian cried. “What choice? What do you mean?”

  But neither of them answered. They hurried to the front door with him following after, made a brief apology to a bewildered Janet, and went away into the rain.

  Ian Macdonald stared dumbly at the closed door.

  “What in blue blazes is going on?” Thrawn Janet asked him.

  “They’re leading the counterassault. Against the Rebellion. Dorrie and Jack.”

  “Hellfire and double damnation,” muttered Janet. Hesitantly, she added, “Wouldn’t you call that sorta valuable intelligence? I mean, shouldn’t we notify Calum Sorley? So’s he can maybe stop the two of ’em taking off in that little Scurra starship of Jack’s? If they’re the leaders—”

  “No!” said Ian Macdonald. He whirled about, seized her by the shoulders, and shouted, “You won’t say a word about them and neither will I! Do you understand me, woman?”

  “Reckon so,” said Janet. Exerting herself minimally, she pried her husband’s hands loose, took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from his face, and then led him into the library where strong coffee and soggy scones with raspberry jam waited.

  33

  FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

  JACK AND DOROTHÉE RETURNED TO EARTH. THEY CAME together to my bookshop on a gorgeous late spring day and gave the Great Carbuncle back to me with their thanks.

  I asked them if they knew what the Milieu was going to do, now that Marc’s deadline had come and gone ten days ago.

  “We’re going to try to stop him, Uncle Rogi,” said Ti-Jean.

  He squatted on the floor of the shop, stroking old Marcel. We were in the little customer lounge up front. Tulips and hyacinths were blooming around the base of the trees along Main Street and students ambled by in shirtsleeves and light dresses. Ordinary Old World people, operant and non, had managed to put Molakar out of their minds. After all, it was far away and the victims had been nonhuman.

  Dorothée was wearing an oversized red T-shirt and white shorts that looked exceptionally bizarre with her diamond mask. She said, “We returned to Earth for a brief visit to Hawaii, and to pick up Paul. In an hour or so we’ll be taking off again in Jack’s starship.”

  “Where to this time?” I asked.

  “Davy MacGregor will give Marc the Milieu’s response to the Metapsychic Rebellion on Monday, May twentieth. He’s notifying the Rebel Council that we’re coming to the c-space of their headquarters world, Okanagon, so they’ll be able to get their armada emplaced.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, awestruck. “Will it be a space battle?”

  “Every operant person will know what happens,” she replied. “We’ll try to arrange it so that the nonoperants will as well. But this confrontation won’t be a Tri-D spectacle like Molakar. The battle will be for the Human Mind—but it will be very different from what you might expect.”

  “Or Marc,” Ti-Jean appended. He tugged Marcel’s soft ears one final time and then stood up. “We can’t stay any longer, Uncle Rogi. Thank you for all you’ve done for Diamond and me. Be sure to hang on to the Great Carbuncle.”

  Before I knew what was happening he folded me in an embrace. Then Dorothée took off her diamond mask and kissed me goodbye. Her face was very beautiful.

  The events I will relate to you now have come partly from my own memories and partly from information received.

  The long trip to and from the Concilium session on Orb had taken a severe physical toll on Paul, and he was recuperating in the old Remillard house around the corner and down the block from my bookshop, where Lucille still lived. Jack and Dorothea found him in the sundappled back yard, relaxing in a lawn chair with a plaque of War and Peace. When they expressed surprise at his choice of reading matter he only laughed.

  “I never got around to reading this and I’ve always regretted it. I’m about halfway through, and I figure to finish it off during the voyage to Okanagon. If there’s time, I’ll also try to read Milton’s Paradise Lost. I’ve heard that the villain steals the show.” He started to get up. “I’ll be ready to go in a jiffy. I’m already packed.”

  Jack restrained him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait for just a moment, Papa. I’m sorry, but Diamond must do a redactive scan of your faculties. To be sure.”

  Paul gave a martyred snort. “Go ahead.”

  She placed both hands on his head. He tensed, then cried out softly and subsided into the chair, momentarily insensible.

  Jack said, “How does it look?”

  “He’s deeply fatigued and the psychic energy level is very low. But the neural structures are fully regenerated.”

  Paul stirred and snapped back to full alertness. “Well? Was I all right? All systems back on line and ready for action?”

  Dorothea nodded. “Your vitality is still below par, but your armamentarium is structurally adequate for the confrontation.”

  “Good. I’ll get my stuff and we’ll be on our way.” He got up and headed for the house.

  “Papa, you don’t have to do this,” Jack called after him. “We may not even need a telergic transfer monitor.”

  Paul looked back over his shoulder. His face was sober. “But if you do need one, you’ll need him very badly. I may not be good for much, but that’s one job I still can do. Wait here.” He went in through the kitchen door.

/>   “You mustn’t try to dissuade him, Jack,” Dorothea said. “He loves the Milieu with all his heart and soul and he has a right to participate.”

  “But he looks so tired and ill, Diamond. His aura’s even more diminished than it was in Orb.”

  “He’s strong enough and it’s what he wants to do.”

  Jack sighed. “Yes.”

  The back door opened and Lucille Cartier came out into the yard and greeted them.

  “Everyone is ready,” she said quietly. “I don’t think there’s a loyal soul in Hanover who isn’t preparing for Saint Augustine’s Day.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it?” Jack said, his expression bemused. “How very Shakespearean! Let me see, how will it go? ‘This story shall the good man teach his son; / And Saint Augustine’s Day shall ne’er go by, / From this day to the ending of the world, / But we in it shall be remembered—/ We few, we happy few, we band of brothers …’ ”

  “Don’t be concerned about us here on Earth,” Lucille said. “Your instructions will be followed scrupulously—even if we don’t understand them.”

  “The other worlds are ready, too,” Dorothea said, “hoping and praying for victory. The whole thing’s a prayer, in a way.”

  Lucille smiled. “Denis thought so, when we were together on top of the mountain just before the Intervention. I like to think he’ll be with us on Saint Augustine’s Day, too.”

  They said their farewells. Then Lucille went off, dry-eyed, and Paul emerged from the house with a small carry-on bag, ready to go.

  On 27 May 2083, Earth time, a very small starship broke through the upsilon-field superficies into the c-space of the planet Okanagon, which hung in the sky like a brilliant clouded azure lantern some 400,000 kilometers distant. The colonial world had only a tiny natural moon, Chopaka, but more than two hundred artificial satellites orbited it in a sparkling swarm.

  When the vessel had achieved a synchronous orbit above the planet’s equator, it disgorged a tiny shuttlecraft, which moved off until it was 50 kilometers closer to the planet.