by Julian May
“You trigger-happy young cretin!” Owen Blanchard came raging topside and stood in the cockpit, swaying unsteadily. Elaby had been standing on the coaming, clinging to a shroud and steering the ketch with one foot on the wheel. Now he flicked on the auto and leaped to assist the older man, whose chronic seasickness seemed ready to yield to apoplexy. “I told you to leave the porpoises alone! I ordered you!”
Vaughn lounged against the pulpit rail, the carbine tilted over one bare shoulder. He was naked except for a brief bathing slip and his overfed body gleamed with suntan emollients “I get bored on watch. I have to do something besides scan the bottom of the friggerty estuary.”
“Zap sharks or mantas!”
Vaughn shrugged “They won’t come when I call.”
“The porpoises are sentient, dammit!”
Vaughn diddled with the Matsu’s beam selector. He grinned slyly, not catching Owen’s eye. “So were the four billion non-coadunates you helped to kill in the Rebellion. Don’t come over righteous with me, pops.”
Elaby’s coercion reached out to throttle his contemporary. “That’s enough, Vaughn. Don’t pretend to be any dumber than you really are Owen warned you that the porpoises might be able to communicate with Felice. She likes animals. They’re her friends.”
“Bullshit. Porpoise farspeech isn’t loud enough to carry farther than a klom or two.”
“We don’t dare risk it.” said Owen.
“And besides, Felice is nowhere near here.”
“We’re not sure of that,” Owen snarled, “and until we are, you leave the porpoises alone!”
Vaughn’s grin widened. He was slitty-eyed in the dazzle. “Okay, pops. I’ll find me some new targets. Gotta keep sharp.”
Owen dropped onto one of the cockpit seats His face was deeply flushed and the pouches beneath his watering eyes were more prominent than ever. He said to Elaby, “I’ve managed to complete the modification on the headset. The docilization gear is as ready as it’ll ever be. But she’ll have to be pretty naive to fall into our trap.”
“And the lullaby-gun?” Elaby took the wheel again.
“Dead as mutton.” Owen produced a handkerchief, knotted the four comers, and set the improvised cap on his sandy crew cut. “After twenty-seven years on the shelf in a tropical climate . . . . you’d have more luck putting Felice to sleep with a mug of hot milk than with that thing.”
Elaby cursed. The 60,000-watt hypnagogic projector, theoretically capable of dropping a rioting mob in its tracks at 500 meters, would have rendered their conquest of Felice almost easy. “It’ll be up to you and me and Cloud, then. We’ll have to take on the monster harebrained. If only Cloud and I hadn’t worn ourselves out pushing the boat . . .”
It was April 27. The transatlantic passage had taken nearly a week longer than anticipated when the westerlies failed them just beyond the Azores. Only Elaby, Cloud, and the ketch’s skipper, Julian Morgenthaler, possessed the psychokinetic talent to generate useful winds, and they had not fully recovered from their labors in the doldrums when they were called upon again. The boat finally broke out of the stagnant air 900 kilometers off Spain; but the overworked trio still felt mentally below par, and Owen’s crippling mal de mer had returned when the wind freshened.
Owen and Vaughn, the top farspeakers in the expedition, had attempted to notify Felice of the delay. But there had been no response. After the ketch entered the Gulf of Guadalquivir, Owen and Vaughn had undertaken a painstaking overview of southern Spain. They had not found Felice, even though her deserted eyrie was easy enough to locate. For some reason of her own, the madwoman was deliberately shielding her mind from metapsychic observation. “We’ll just have to live cool and let her come to us when she’s ready,” Elaby had said. The others could find no fault with this conservative proposal.
Now the yacht cruised up the narrowing gulf in a leisurely fashion, hugging the southern shore, making for the Río Genil, which flowed down from Mulhacén. Pink sand beaches fringed with fruiting palms were separated by low headlands that led back into lushly forested foothills. On the southern horizon, poking through a layer of haze, were the Betics—Mulhacén, at 4233 meters, tipped with white in disdain of the tropical climate.
A farspoken signal came from Cloud in the galley: Mess call in ten!
Right! “How’s that cove look below, Vaughn? Any reefs?” Elaby altered course to starboard.
The farsensor exerted himself minimally. “Seems clear. Drive right in.”
The chop smoothed as they came into the lee of a small promontory and glided toward the anchorage. Elaby used his PK to roll the mainsail and mizzen. He kept the jib neatly filled with his own light air.
“Coming up on fifteen meters,” Vaughn said.
“Let go the lunch hook.”
The ketch drifted broadside to, then swung her head into Elaby’s zephyr as the small anchor bit and held. When Vaughn had them snubbed down. Cloud and Jillian, duty cooks of the day, appeared carrying platters of grilled pompano, palm-heart salad with sweet-and-sour dressing, and rice popovers. To drink there was watermelon cooler.
“But without the rum.” Cloud stared pointedly at Vaughn. “Someone has been swilling more than his share, and we’re running tow.”
“What d’you expect when neither of you broads will have me?” Vaughn’s mental tone was martyred. “Grog is my only friend. And food. Pass my plate.”
The cove was a tranquil and inviting spot, sheltered and deep. A stream came splashing down a notch in the rocks at the base of the headland and flowed a short distance into roseate sand before disappearing. In the transparent waters, shoals of sizable fish came to inspect the intruding boat.
“There are worse places we could stay in,” Elaby remarked.
Jillian nodded. “Vaughn and I could take care of maintenance and foraging while you three rested up for the hunting of the snark.”
“Hey! I’m ready for a hunt right now!” Vaughn had engulfed his lunch in three minutes flat. Now he came clambering into the cockpit. “Just let me throw a few clothes on. Do a job on the dinghy for me, will you, Jill love?”
“Anything rather than you,” she told him as he disappeared below. She went to the stern and began to ready the inflatable tender.
“I heard the porpoise,” Cloud said to Owen quietly. “Its cry went though my brain like a knife. Do you really think it might have identified us to Felice?”
“I don’t know,” the old rebel said. “They’re sentient, and they communicate telepathically with each other. That’s the factor that worries me—not the death cries of the individuals. Vaughn potted three yesterday and seven the day before. Today there was only one—and it was adolescent. Inexperienced.”
“You think the word’s gone out?” Elaby asked.
“Who can say?” Owen set his nearly untouched plate aside. “Why the devil you brought that blockhead on this expedition escapes me.”
“He’s one of the original group who planned this,” Elaby said, “and the best farsensor of all of us. He may be a bit thick, but we never would have known about Felice in the first place if he hadn’t been farsensing Europe just for the hell of it last fall.”
Look. All of you. Quickly.
Jillian’s thought drew them to the stern, which had swung about to face the beach. At the edge of the jungle stood four little figures, the two largest about the size of six-year-old children and the others shorter. Their bodies, except for the faces, were clothed in smooth, tawny hair.
“Aren’t they adorable?” Cloud breathed “Are they monkeys?”
“Apes,” Elaby decided. “Dr Warshaw said we’d probably run across them in Europe. These could be Dryopithecus, ancestors to the chimps of our era. But they’re so small and upright . . . I think they must be Ramapithecus. The ancestors of humanity.”
“I get images from them,” Owen marveled. “Crude selfawareness and innocent curiosity. Like a baby two, three years old. A lot different from the inhuman sentience of the porpoises. It
reminds me of the indigenes on a planet where—”
A scarlet beam of coherent light blasted from the boat’s cockpit behind them. The tallest of the creatures toppled, zapped through the head Jillian cried out. Cloud leaped at Vaughn.
“You rotten shithead!”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she hauled him up, laser carbine and all, and threw him overboard. On the beach, the surviving ramas were frozen, gazing down at their dead companion and then at the boat. A split second later, only the single huddled shape could be seen.
Vaughn came paddling around toward the stern step, coughing and swearing. Elaby ignored him and went to soothe Cloud. Jillian plucked the marksman and his weapon from the water with a rough PK hoist. “That was nice going, Ace. Even for you.”
“So what’s the flap? We need provisions, right? You gonna be squeamish about monkey stew?” Vaughn inspected the zapper, muttering, “Damn. You probably shorted it out. Now I’ll have to spend the afternoon taking it down.”
The boat was turning idly on its anchor cable in a vagrant breeze. Vaughn remained at the stern while the others came together in the cockpit, shutting him out of their telepathic colloquy. But suddenly the Coventry screening fragmented and the four broadcast stunned incredulity. They were looking once again toward the shore. Vaughn turned to see what had caught their attention.
“Hey—will you took at that sucker!”
A gigantic bird was descending on outspread wings toward the corpse. At first Vaughn thought it was a condor, because of its size; but his farsight identified it as a jet-black corvid, a huge raven. Lightly, the bird settled, cocked its head, and gave a discordant cry.
Vaughn raised his Matsu. “Maybe there’s some juice left—”
He disintegrated.
The sleek skin tightened and burst, blood boiled, muscles ripped into expanding shreds. The bones shattered in the midst of scarlet vapor, the skull last of all, with its jaws agape and grayish fog wreathing it at eye-level. The weapon clattered to the deck. The gory cloud seemed to spin like an obscene waterspout, moving out over the cove. Cleaner waters arose and merged with it, roaring; and then the entire manifestation dwindled away, leaving only pink patches of foam.
The black bird vanished.
Felice stood in the stern near the inflated dinghy, which had not been launched. She was a pallid wraith, except for her huge brown eyes. Her platinum hair was as buoyant as a great dandelion clock. She wore a vest and short kilt of snow-while chamois and there were white buskins on her tiny feet. The dark eyes looked down at the fallen weapon and then at the four adventurers, who saw impending death.
“We didn’t mean—” Jillian began.
The thirteen-meter ketch heeled to starboard with unbelievable violence, throwing the people in the cockpit into a shrieking heap. All around, the cove waters erupted. The keel smashed against the suddenly uncovered bottom and its stabilizers splintered. The water rushed back and the yacht was flung upward, gyrating wildly. Felice stood as though nailed to the deck. Eventually, the tossing calmed. The small anchor had miraculously held.
Cloud and Elaby bent over Jillian, who lay unconscious with blood leaking from her left temple. Owen scrambled to his feet, clinging to the instrument housing on the pedestal.
“It was wrong of you to kill my porpoises,” Felice said. “They’re much nicer than humans or exotics. Always kind.”
Owen Blanchard let his mind open slowly: See, I am elderly. See, I wish you no harm. See, I mourn with you the loss of your precious animal friends. See, I repudiate the cruel one and rejoice that you have destroyed him. You were right to do so. This is your world. You rule it, Lady of Animals, Goddess of the Forests, Moon-Virgin. Avenging Huntress.
“Yes,” said Felice.
May I address you, Great One?
“You are all devils.”
We have come at your invitation.
The ivory brow creased. “I don’t remember.”
From North America. We are your friends. The friends who helped you open Gibraltar. Who come now to serve you.
“But you were young when I spoke to you and invited you. Why are you old?”
To give you the help you require takes wisdom. I am wise.
These others—and the woman you struck down—are here to work with me. For you.
Felice gave Jillian a contemptuous glance. “She may die. Her skull is fractured.”
We are healers. All three of us who stand here humbly before you. We will make our companion well again.
“Really?” Felice’s deeper mind-levels revealed themselves: chaotic, a morass of raw colors, inarticulate shouts, and ravenous, hurtful need.
(Link with me! Owen told Elaby and Cloud on their intimate modes. Be prepared to follow and bolster me.)
“There are times,” Felice said, “when I feel in need of healing, myself. I have nightmares. Sometimes the bad dreams come when I’m awake now.” The threatening masses. The filth.
(Now! But cautiously ) Is it here that you suffer, Great One? Here? Or here?
“Oh, yes! How did you do that? It felt—good.”
We can do even better than that. Help you still more if you only open—
NO!!
(Good God, Owen! She nearly snuffed the lot of us’)
(Easy, kids. Stick close to me.)
“I won’t open to you,” Felice said peevishly “I’ve never let anyone redact me. Not here, and not in the Milieu. They wanted to, you know. Wanted to change me. But that would be wrong. If I changed, I wouldn’t be myself! I’d be lost. That’s what the mind-benders do to you. Take away your self and make you over like them. Blah self-satisfied little worms.”
Great One, we are very subtle healers. The most skillful redactors do not alter personality. They only erase hurts. Remove pain.
“Some pain . . . I like.”
That is part of your dysfunction.
“My Beloved and I share that, you know. He’s a very powerful redactor, for an exotic. Second only to that coward. Dionket.” Her attention was beginning to drift. Images formed in the maelstrom. A beautiful male face with sapphire eyes and hair like a torch. A nonhuman mental signature.
Is this your Beloved, Great One? The Culluket you wish us to bring to you?
“I love him more than life or death. He can’t be dead!” A wave of panic ignited her. “There’s been no trace of him since the Flood! If he’s died without me—if he’s dared to—then it’s all wasted! But he could be hiding. My farsense and redaction are really much weaker than my other faculties.” Abruptly, she shot a bald query: “Are you a Grand Master redactor, devil?”
(Look out, Owen.)
Of course. Shall I show you the affirmation of the Concilium? [Image.] There. Not only am I a Grand Master, but I have these two young assistants who are also powerful healers.
(That was very clever of you, Owen. You could have fooled us!)
(Felice is a child What does she know of such matters? Besides, the line between coercer and redactor is rather easily fudged . . . )
“But if you’re a Grand Master,” Felice was saying, “you could lie to me without my knowing.”
(Oh, oh.)
“Open your minds to me, devils! Let me probe you!”
Great Felice—if you damage our minds, we won’t be able to help you in any way. And you lack the skill for a benign probe. Forgive my saying so, but if you harm us, you may never find your Culluket. Or become Queen of the World.
“Queen?” The pale figure standing in the stern of the ketch brightened physically as well as mentally. A pearly halo, visible even in the tropical sunshine, transfigured her into an apotheosis of Diana. “You could make me a queen? Not just of the animals and the forests—but of the people?”
Queen of the Many-Colored Land! Everyone would love you. Humans and Tanu and Firvulag. We will make you queen, then serve you forever. All that’s needed is your healing When the nightmares and misery are washed away, your true nobility of spirit will manifest itself. Your met
apsychic powers will grow even greater. You’ll be irresistible! You will be the Goddess!
“The exotics worship the Goddess. But they say she never took on a material body. Do you think she could have? Without their knowing? Without the body knowing?”
The apparition was coming closer, gliding over the deck toward the midships cockpit with the deck paint crisping and bubbling beneath her buskined feet. Elaby mustered his creativity into an invisible shield, praying that she wasn’t emitting anything hard—and in his momentary disengagement from Owen and Cloud he became aware of the presence of the other. Watching. He could not give warning, could not interrupt Owen’s facile reassurances with their hypnotic, coercive undertones.
A Goddess. Felice. You will surely become Goddess when you’re healed.
“Well. . .what would you have to do? Show me exactly!”
We have special equipment with us, Felice. Quite different from any of the redactive devices you may have seen when you lived in the Milieu. We can forge a mental link between you and us very easily, while you remain in complete control of your faculties at all times. Your healing would take only a moment! And then all of the wrongness will vanish, leaving only glory. Shall we show you the equipment? Demonstrate it on one of us?
The girl frowned “Equipment? I thought—you could heal me working mind to mind.”
That would take much longer. And perhaps not work nearly so well. You have a very strong mind, Felice.
“I know.” Her smile was chilling.
(Elaby. Cloud. When you get the docilization equipment, be sure the power transmittal is in full phase. Watch for the marked headset )
Owen Blanchard indicated fallen Jillian to Felice. Aloud, he said, “This unconscious woman is our skipper, the one who built the boat. May we take her below and then bring the equipment up to show you?”
“I’ll carry your skipper,” Felice offered, the Goddess condescending. “I’d like to go inside the boat.”