by Julian May
But their little group needed him so badly—especially now, on the eve of humanity’s admittance into Milieu citizenship. He would certainly be part of the Human Polity’s inner circle of power, one of the operant elite. He, more readily than any of the rest of their little cabal, would be able to determine whether the Milieu and its Unity were as dangerous as her instincts prompted her to believe.
“Adrien, my dear, I have an invitation for you. I will only extend it once. This is why I called you here, so I could make this offer to you before you became a magnate—so, if you wished, you could take the oath to uphold the Milieu with a mental reservation and feel justified in conscience if later you decide to repudiate that oath. If you refuse my invitation, you will have a very perilous secret to keep, and my life will also be in your hands. I will not permit myself to be used to confirm the existence of anti-Milieu operants, much less betray them.”
She took a deep breath, released his hands, and sat up straight in her chair. “Adrien, would you consider joining with me and with others—other Magnate-Designates—whose sworn aim is the liberation of humanity from the Galactic Milieu? We plan no immediate rebellious activities, nor do we advocate violence. We intend to bring about the severance in a lawful manner when the time is fully ripe, and with no harm done to the exotics. Will you join us?”
He had lowered his head as she committed herself. Now he faced her squarely again. “Anna, in my heart, I’ve always believed that human beings must be allowed to pursue their own destiny, in freedom. The whole Unity question has bothered me for years. I never dreamed that there was organized operant opposition to the Milieu. Now that you’ve told me that there is, and that the movement has your support, I feel strongly inclined to join you. But I have to warn you about something that may make it impossible for your people to accept me. We Remillards are different from other operants. Stronger—especially in coercivity and redaction and creativity. Even the exotics are beginning to suspect it. They can’t get the truth out of us by mind-probing. We’re too powerful. The Milieu Magistratum bases its entire jurisprudence upon the infallibility of the Krondak-Simbiari technique of mind-probing—but we’re above it. This is why … you may be right about one of my family being a murderer. I wasn’t being straightforward with you before. The forensic mental examination of our family members after Brett’s murder supposedly exonerated us. In reality, it proved nothing, because we are all capable of concealing our innermost thoughts from the strongest probes the exotics are able to inflict. We’ve admitted the possibility among ourselves that one of us might be a killer, and we’re trying to deal with it. You say that you’re satisfied I’m not a murderer. But if you accept me into your group, you can never be certain of my loyalty! I’m sure you’ve probed the motivations of each other, but you’ll never be able to mind-ream me. So probably it would be best if I decline your invitation, with grateful thanks, before you disclose any compromising information, such as the identity of your associates. I’ll never reveal anything of this conversation we’ve had tonight—most especially not to any other Remillard. But I don’t see how you and your friends can risk having me as part of your group.”
“I am already aware of the difficulty you just mentioned. The Remillard Dynasty and its preeminent mindpowers are seen by my group as part of the overall problem … However, we need ascertain only one thing of you: Are you or are you not telling the truth when you respond to our pledge of loyalty? We need not probe your invincible mind for detailed information. All we need is a single indication of affirmation or denial.”
He laughed sadly. “You couldn’t even be sure of getting that.”
“Yes we can. My other secret—the scientific breakthrough that I spoke of earlier—is in Cambridge University’s Department of Cerebroenergetics. Two of my fellow conspirators have finally developed the first true mechanical mind-probe. They did not want the Simbiari Magistratum to have this additional weapon to use against humanity, so they agreed to suppress the discovery until after the end of the Proctorship.”
“Good God! And it would even work on somebody like me?”
“The psychoassay device is crude as yet. It indicates only ‘truth’ or ‘nontruth,’ as primitive lie detectors in use long ago attempted to do. Our machine works on completely different principles, of course, analyzing the total brainwave spectrum. None of the operants we have experimented upon—and several of them have been Grand Master coercers—have been able to defeat it.”
She opened the door to a compartment in the base of the console and took out a black box of modest size. Attached to it by a cable was a device resembling a baroque headset, which she handed to Adrien. He examined it with fascination.
Smiling, she lifted her hands in a wry Slavic gesture. “My—my fellow Metapsychic Rebels and I have all submitted to this mechanical inquisitor within the past month. I have been instructed to ask if you will do so as well.”
“Willingly.”
“Let me put it on you, then.”
After some minutes of adjustment, the headpiece was finally in place, with a number of very fine needles sticking uncomfortably into Adrien’s scalp. “It will render you unconscious for a brief moment,” she warned. “This happens as the reading is taken. The effect is harmless.”
“Go ahead.”
She stood before him, the black box with its controls and display held in one hand while the other poised above the device’s keypad. He felt a preliminary tingle as the thing was energized. Then:
“Adrien Remillard,” she asked softly, “are you willing to rebel against the Galactic Milieu, putting the welfare of the human race before that of a Galactic civilization?”
“Yes,” he said.
And a thunderclap of blackness seemed to crush him.
When he came to himself, Anna was smiling with tears in her eyes as she removed the device from his head. A moment later, she switched off the sigma-field. The dome of transparent dimness vanished, and several men and women suddenly entered the little laboratory and gathered in a nervous, expectant group.
Adrien grinned at them as he fingered the residually painful needle pricks. “My fellow conspirators, I presume.”
He knew three of them already. Both Hiroshi Kodama and Cordelia Warszawska were prominent Intendant Associates, and Alan Sakhvadze was Anna’s nephew, who worked in rho-field research at the IDFS.
Anna introduced the others. “Owen Blanchard is an upsilon-field researcher and President of the Academy of Commercial Astrogation. Jordan Kramer and Gerrit Van Wyk are psychophysicists at the university, largely responsible for the development of the device that just treated you so unkindly. Ragnar Gathen is a senior captain in the Civil Interstellar Force. There are two more of us, who could not be here tonight. One is Ragnar’s sister Oljanna, pilot of the superluminal starship CSS Schlaraffenlande, on which we are all scheduled to embark for Orb in a few days. She is also Alan’s wife. The other member of the group is Will MacGregor, Davy’s son, who is already in Orb with his father. We have high hopes that Davy himself may someday be willing to join us. In the meantime, we are all campaigning on his behalf in the contest for First Magnate, since he is known to be sympathetic to our prohuman point of view—if not to our ultimate aim.”
“We are most gratified to have you with us,” Hiroshi Kodama said, bowing as he took Adrien’s hand. “May we hope that you will also become a champion of human rights in the Concilium? Those of us who are Magnate-Designates have vowed to promulgate racial autonomy in open debate with pro-Milieu humans such as your brother Paul just as soon as it is prudent to do so.”
“Well, I’ll do my damnedest,” Adrien said. And then he paused for a moment as a startling thought entered his mind. “But … the person we really need in this fight won’t be able to join the group for quite a few years. And I’m not talking about Davy. I know someone whose mind is better than Davy’s—better even than Paul’s. And he’s prohuman to the core of his soul.”
“Who might this paragon be?�
�� Cordelia Warszawska asked, a trifle dubiously.
“He’s only a kid now,” Adrien said, “but when he grows up—watch out, Milieu! I’m talking about Paul’s son Marc. What a leader he’d make for this rebellion of ours!”
23
SECTOR 15: STAR 15-000-001 [TELONIS] PLANET 1 [CONCILIUM ORB]
GALACTIC YEAR: LA PRIME 1-378-584 [24 DECEMBER 2051]
THE FOUR MEMBERS OF THE LYLMIK SUPERVISORY BODY, wearing their material bodies and also cloaked in mental disguise, walked unnoticed among the crowds on the Central Promenade of the planetoid. People of all races had come out to celebrate (or do ethnological research), and the first impromptu Christmas Eve in Orb was acknowledged by almost everyone to be a great success.
“One wishes that this Supervisory Body had thought to have the Concilium inauguration a bit later in the Galactic year,” Noetic Concordance said, her handsome ebony face showing a trace of regret. “We showed a lamentable lack of sensitivity in scheduling it so that the poor humans would be obliged to be away from their home worlds during one of their most important holidays.”
“Well, the Poltroyans and the Gi have atoned for our inadvertent solecism,” Homologous Trend said. He neatly dodged a group of merrymakers being pursued by a white-sheeted figure topped with the skull of a horse, which was doing its best to bite people.
“Trust those two races to be perfervid sentimentalists,” said Eupathic Impulse. “But one must admit that the gesture was an admirable one under the circumstances, and it must have involved a considerable search of the ethnological data banks.”
“What a surprise to find this fantastic scene sprung up overnight on the Promenade!” said Asymptotic Essence, shaking her head in bemusement. “But one seems to recall that the element of surprise is traditionally part of the Christmas season. The humans certainly seem overjoyed at the gesture. Especially the little children.”
The entire circular park area surrounding the great Galactic Concilium Chamber had been transformed into a holiday fairgrounds dedicated to the Earth celebration, and the Poltroyans and Gi had outdone themselves in making the spectacle as cosmopolitan and authentic as possible. There were even fireworks going off near the Simbiari concourse. The most prominent exhibition was a grove of gigantic Christmas trees, each done in a different human national style, fancifully decorated and sparkling with lights.
“One recollects that the illuminated tree with its ornaments was originally a German custom,” Noetic Concordance remarked. “But by the time of the Intervention, virtually every ethnic group on Earth—even non-Christians—had adopted some variant of it, together with the celebration of Christmas itself, which was transformed from a purely religious commemoration into a secular holiday embodying the universal elements of gift-giving, feasting, conviviality, and family togetherness.”
Prancing troops of goggle-eyed Gi, dressed in red or green velvet tunics trimmed with white fur and wearing pointed hats with white pompons, circulated among the crowd of tree-admirers handing out candy canes, Satsuma oranges, cookies, sugarplums, fruitcake, gingerbread men, marzipan fruits, and other goodies.
“Look, Mamushka!” cried one little girl, who had just been given a sugar pretzel by a simpering Gi. “It’s Big Bird! Just like on the Tri-D!”
“A favorite nursery school fantasy character, one assumes,” Trend murmured to his colleagues. “How thoughtful of the Gi to put clothes on for the festivities, even if it makes the dear things look sillier than ever.”
“One is what one is,” said Asymptotic Essence. But the others had not failed to notice that she had arranged the straight black hair of her body’s head into an elegant coiffure for this evening’s jaunt and created a striking Oriental dress of emerald hue to complete the effect.
“By the Prime Entelechy …!” Eupathic Impulse pointed to an elaborate assemblage of Poltroyans which had attracted a particularly large crowd of spectators in an area just beyond the trees. “What would one call that?”
“One perceives that this is a reenactment of a Neapolitan presepio,” Noetic Concordance said, after a fast consultation of Orb’s historical records, “an ornate folkloric interpretation of the Nativity manger myth. Such scenes are popular among practicing Christians, particularly the Italians. This particular style includes anachronistic Italian villagers of Earth’s eighteenth century, mixed in with the angels, the Three Wise Men, and the other traditional figures. The originals were sumptuous miniatures, often hand-carved by the nobles of Naples themselves and dressed in beautiful costumes enhanced with real lace, precious metals, and jewels. The Poltroyans have simply—er—scaled the presepio up a bit, turning it into a tableau vivant.”
The four Lylmik entities moved on through the crush of spectators, now and then accepting some item of Christmas food from Gi or Poltroyans in costume. Most of the latter were dressed as diminutive avatars of Santa Claus.
“If one looks about,” Concordance said, “one may discern Poltroyans dressed to represent a multitude of different aspects of the elderly male giver of gifts. The French personage is called Père Noël, and in Britain he would be known as Father Christmas. Over yonder we see an exemplar of Grandfather Frost, traditional to Russia and the Ukraine and often assisted by a female dressed in white, sometimes called the Snow Maiden. The Chinese character is named Old Man Christmas. Some Japanese favor Santa Claus, while for others the gift-giver is the jolly god Hoteiosho, who is said to have eyes in the back of his head, so he can see if children have been bad or good …”
“Kurisumasu o-medetō!” cried the lavender-faced Santakurosu, mistaking Asymptotic Essence for a Japanese woman and giving her a little orange.
“O-sewa-sama deshita!” Essence said, bowing.
“That interesting variant over yonder is known in Poland as the Star Man,” Concordance continued, “perhaps representing the survival of a pagan deity adopted by Christians through association with the star of Bethlehem … In many nations, Saint Nicholas, a generous ecclesiastic, is the yearly gift-giver, and he may or may not be associated with the Christmas celebration. Sinter Klaas, the Dutch Saint Nicholas, from whom the now archetypal Santa Claus was derived, is depicted by that entity over there wearing the bishop’s costume. Note that he is attended by a shadow figure, in this case called Black Peter, who once would have delivered punishment to bad children rather than gifts. The motif of punishment contrasted to reward is a common one in the gift-giver myth, although in modern days all human children are considered to be ‘good’ at Christmastime. In parts of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, gifts are distributed by an angelic impersonator of the Christ Child himself, Christkindl or Kris Kringle, also accompanied by a demonic sidekick. And look there: In the Scandinavian countries, Christmas presents come from gnomish creatures such as those, called Julnisse, Jultomten, and Julesvenn, displaying a more obvious derivation from non-Christian traditions.”
The four Lylmik Supervisors paused at another well-attended theatrical spectacle, a quaint dwelling situated amidst artificial ice and snow, from which numbers of Poltroyans dressed as elves carried gaily wrapped presents to a waiting sleigh harnessed to eight small quadrupeds.
“The one in the red suit, white beard, and black boots is the most typical representation of Santa Claus,” said Concordance. “So numinous and so well publicized has this originally North American figure become that he is rapidly replacing the other gift-givers in most parts of the Human Polity. He has, of course, no religious significance whatsoever.”
Suddenly the small children in the crowd began to shout with excitement.
“Look there,” Homologous Trend pointed out. “That elf character is bringing out another robotic animal to harness up ahead of the octet. What an unattractive thing! Is it meant to be a mutant? No, it can’t possibly represent an actual creature …”
“That,” said Concordance with a sigh, “is Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the invention of a minor American writer named Robert May. The Infinite only knows why the beast has become f
irmly ensconced as part of the Christmas myth. One would not dream of boring one’s fellow entities with the pathetic fable of Rudolph, which is basically a distortion of the Ugly Duckling motif. Let it suffice to say that human children’s fondness for Rudolph indicates an inherent darkness in their psyches.”
Nonsense! said a cheerful mind-voice, with which they were all too familiar.
“Greetings, Unifex,” said the four Supervisors.
The oldest of them all, wearing human disguise with considerably more flair than his fellow entities, joined them from among the noisy throng, where the Poltroyan elves were now leading the children (and many of the human adults) in a Rudolphian carol of excruciating banality. With his twinkling gray eyes and rosy cheeks, his smartly barbered white beard and hair, and his well-cut maroon three-piece suit with a sprig of holly in the buttonhole, Atoning Unifex might have served as the prototype for Santa Claus as boulevardier. He even flourished a matching top hat.
“Shall we move on?” Unifex suggested. “The music is much better further along the Promenade, where the Brits and the Germans have got together with some Gi wassailers.”
“One hoped you would soon make an appearance,” Impulse said, his face gone stiff as he tried to prevent the balky musculature from betraying intimations of disapproval. His face was Caucasoid, and he was dressed in a fashionable cape and suit of gunmetal and coral lumasheen. His fellow male, Trend, who was brown-skinned, wore a lounge suit of charcoal worsted with a pink shirt and a paisley tie. “Two urgent matters require the consideration of this Lylmik Supervisory Body,” Impulse continued, “but with the First Supervisor incommunicado—”
“I’ve had business of my own to attend to. But I’m ready to give you my full attention right now … My, isn’t this a grand Christmas fête? One must remember to congratulate the Gi and the Poltroyans.”