by Julian May
“Oh-oh,” murmured Luc.
Denis was calm. “We’re acquainted with him.”
Just then three larger carts full of Gi went clattering by at a full gallop, the feathered passengers waving stone jugs in the air while they warbled “Cruiscìn Làn” in several different keys. It was obvious that they had brought their own supply of poteen. Under cover of the hullabaloo, Jack queried his older brother on the intimate telepathic mode.
Whatwhat about the IrishDirigent? Why you leak anxietyvibes Luco?
Didn’t you know? Muldowney was LauraTremblay’s husband and SHE was Papa’s paramour for years&years while pooroldRory grinned&bore it.
Oh …
She finally got tired of asking Papa to marry her and used her own creativity to commit suicide afewyearsago in a totally-bizarrissimo way. [Image.]
Batège! That must have hurt. Is DirigentMuldowney angry with FamilyRemillard because of—of what happened?
He never said WordOne. It seems he kept on loving Laura allthetime she was unfaithful and they had 4kids and even when she died that way after having the last baby Rory never blamed Papa it was passed off as postpartumdepression … but that’s enoughofthat morbidstuff. Just look what we’re getting into!
“Whoa, ye spalpeen!” cried the Poltroyan leprechaun, hauling back on the reins. The robot pony reared and stamped and rolled its eyes as it halted in the midst of a crush of dozens of other golden cars and laughing guests. “Lady and gents, we’re here! A hundred thousand welcomes to the Poltroyan Saint Patrick’s Day gala, and please to step down lively now so I can fetch the next batch of revelers.”
They had arrived at what appeared to be a village green at eventide, surrounded by clusters of brightly lit dwellings and inviting taverns with their doors wide open. Tricolor green, white, and orange flags and emerald banners bearing the harp of Tara flapped from garland-wound standards. Pseudoflame torches and lanterns illuminated the crowded streets and party grounds. A floodlit statue of the patron saint of Ireland looked down benevolently from a central plinth on the green, where strolling groups of mauve-complected little musicians in outlandish parodies of traditional Irish clothing fiddled and piped and harped and sang airs in clear falsetto voices. Back among the trees, which were festooned with green and white lights, were three big open areas of turf dedicated to archaic, nineteenth-century, and contemporary dancing, each with a Poltroyan band in appropriate garb. More Poltroyans dressed as servers raced to and from the cottages, bearing platters and bowls of food to a huge dining pavilion. Just beyond the village was a lighted hurling ground with a boisterous football game in progress, and a picturesque little racecourse where spectators cheered the efforts of bionic steeds.
“What a lively scene,” Lucille said politely to the driver. “You must have worked very hard to achieve an air of authenticity.”
The Poltroyan winked and tipped his green stovepipe hat. “Not too authentic. We made it Ireland as we’d prefer it to be.” He cracked his whip and drove off.
“This might be fun,” said Jack. “Can I go watch the races?”
Luc checked out the course with his farsight. “They’ve got bookies!” he exclaimed. “Come on!” The lanky twenty-two-year-old and his little brother hurried off into the crowd.
Denis and Lucille watched them go. “It’s good that Luc is finally coming out of his shell,” she remarked. “When Paul first brought him to Orb the boy hardly left the enclave except to do his junior staff work. Of course his health was still precarious then.”
“Having Jack to look out for this time has been good for Luc,” Denis said. He and his wife extricated themselves from the mass of jaunting cars and skirted the throng streaming toward the green. “It’s got him out from under Marie’s overprotective big-sisterly thumb and given him a real responsibility for a change.”
“Jack has been a handful.” Lucille smiled, remembering the boy’s escapades during the month spent in Orb. “He’s explored every square meter of the planetoid except for the Lylmik Sequestrations, and he’s pestered the life out of the family magnates and God knows how many others finding out how the Concilium operates. Keeping Jack under control hasn’t allowed Luc much time to brood or mope. What a pity the two of them weren’t close earlier in life.”
“Jack’s always been Marc’s pet. But now Marc has … other matters to distract him.” Unspoken but prominent in Denis’s vestibular thoughts was a note of deepening concern. The newly confirmed young magnate had declined to come to the party, saying that he had business to take care of before the family’s scheduled return to Earth tomorrow. Denis had an uncomfortable premonition what Marc’s “business” might be, but thus far he had said nothing about it to Lucille or the others.
They walked up a little hill and found a quiet place beside a spring trickling from some rocks where they could survey the party scene. Water tinkled pleasantly into a rough basin below a carving of St. Brigit, and there was a mossy bench to sit on.
Denis loosened the black-tie formal wear that Lucille had insisted he wear, plumped himself down, and trailed his fingers in the cool water. “I think Luc will get on much better now that his physical rehabilitation is complete. He never said anything to anyone but me, but he was always worried that his own genetic abnormalities would eventually cause him to metamorphose into—something like Jack.”
“Oh, the poor boy! But surely you showed him that his genetic heritage is completely different.”
“Of course. And I redacted the irrational fears as well as I could. But Luc has too many memories of his childhood as an invalid. He never felt truly self-confident until his body and brain functions stabilized. I’m delighted that he’s been accepted as an intern at Catherine’s latency clinic.”
“Luc is a very caring person. His intellect is superior and his metafaculties are nearly up to full grandmasterly level now. He should make an excellent therapist. Overcoming his own disabilities should help him to empathize with others who need help in achieving their mental potential.”
Denis nodded. “I agree.”
“It was good of Anne to help him with his sexual identity crisis. I’m afraid Luc thought he was letting the family down by not being a breeder.”
“That’s nonsense, of course—but we Remillards have been rather a philoprogenetive lot.”
Lucille laughed softly. “Including some of you who needed a bit of a jump-start.”
She was wearing a flowing gown of black with a dramatic wide collar and cuffs decorated with pastel Caledonian seed pearls. Her dark hair was cut in a French bob, and her strongly drawn features had the bloom of youth—thanks to a third regeneration a year earlier.
Denis said, “I had sense enough to get what I needed, at any rate. Unlike a certain son and grandson who shall remain nameless! Without you, I’d have been an inhuman, heartless freak, living only for my work. With you, I became a man.” He bent across the fountain bowl and gently kissed her lips.
“Oh, yes,” she said, serious now, “and what a man!” She lifted her hand to push a strand of his blond hair back into place. “It’s been a mad and fascinating sixty-eight years, being married to you, mon brave. I don’t even want to think about what the future may hold.”
Denis put his arm around his wife and drew her close. He was ninety-six years old, but he seemed to be only a shy, appealingly gauche young man in his mid-twenties … so long as he kept his terrible blue eyes veiled. Research into the Remillard “immortality” gene complex was incomplete, but the consensus was that his body—and those of his descendants—would probably selfrejuvenate indefinitely. The prospect was one that Denis and his progeny almost never thought about, much less discussed, for reasons that were political as well as personal. From time to time some genetic researcher would take another stab at unraveling the bewildering interaction of thousands of genes that produced the immortality effect in hopes of making it available to the rest of humanity; but thus far all their efforts had failed. To the family’s great relief, most peo
ple had forgotten about this peculiar aspect of the Remillard heritage now that rejuvenation was becoming nearly universal among humans.
“Well, I suppose we’d better socialize,” Denis said with reluctance. “Let’s try to steer clear of Rory Muldowney, shall we?”
“Heavens, yes.” The two of them rose and dusted off their clothes.
There was an inscription carved on the rock above the spring. Lucille studied it, then held out a cupped hand, caught some of the falling water, and sipped from it. “There. According to this sign, now I can make a wish at the holy fountain. I wish … I wish we could all have a few quiet years for a change—without any crises rocking the galaxy or the family.” She stepped back to give Denis room. “Now it’s your turn.”
Obediently, he drank from the spring. “I wish I could do more for the Milieu. Find it in me to be the kind of statesman the Lylmik keep urging me to be.” But then he shook his head, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and briskly dried his hands. “No. Abort that wish. It would never work. I can’t bear the idea of opening my mind to a telepathic colloquium as the Magnates of the Concilium do. Masses of mentalities, exotic and human, all debating and consulting and trying to coerce others to their point of view, everyone knowing the motivation and reasoning of everyone else! No dishonesty—but no room for face-saving diplomacy or decent reticence, either.”
Lucille regarded him with concern. “Is that so repellent?”
“It is to me. The Concilium working relationship is wildly chaotic. It’s not at all like the order and elegance that characterize metaconcert.” He tucked away the handkerchief and adjusted his cuffs. “I realize that I should try to overcome my feelings—but I can’t. Perhaps if Unity prevailed amongst the Simbiari and the Human Polity things would be different. As things stand, if I agreed to become a magnate I’d go bats before a single Concilium session wound up.”
“Never mind. The work you’ve accomplished isn’t too shabby.” Lucille’s smile was teasing. “And you can be especially proud of our children.”
Denis turned a little away from her, gazing at the nearest danceground where partygoers of three races were jigging hilariously to the strains of “Father O’Flynn.” Only the poor gloomy green-skinned Simbiari were ill at ease, standing on the sidelines with glassy smiles and sipping from beakers of fizzy water.
“Our children,” Denis murmured. “They’re right over there, most of them. Philip and Maurie and Adrien and their wives, and Sevvy dancing with Catherine. I’d certainly like to wish peace and happiness for them. But there’s this damnable Hydra thing! We haven’t the least notion where those renegade creatures are hiding, and the identity of Fury is still a complete mystery. I’ve had no luck with my own investigations and none of Paul’s schemes to uncover the monsters has panned out, either. It seems that all we can do is wait for a new crime having the Hydra modus operandi—and pray that Davy MacGregor or Owen Blanchard or some other hostile magnate doesn’t find out about it first.”
“Paul and Throma’eloo Lek will see to it,” Lucille said soothingly. “And the Lylmik Supervisors are on our side. They know how important the Remillard contributions to the Milieu are.”
“They may not protect the family much longer.” Denis’s tone was grim. “Not with two of our sons becoming more and more vocal in opposing Unity. And now Marc has managed to rock the Human Polity to the core by defying Paul in that damned maiden speech of his before the Concilium. And he doesn’t even sympathize with the Rebel separatists!”
“Paul should not have taken Marc for granted,” Lucille said tartly. “He can’t get it through his head that Marc is a grown man now with a vital agenda of his own—and the only Paramount Grand Master metapsychic in the Human Polity.”
“Whatever that means,” muttered Denis.
“It means he’s a force to be reckoned with, my darling. Marc’s no Rebel. He believes that humanity must remain part of the Milieu in order to survive, but he also believes in intellectual freedom. That’s why he spoke up in opposition to Paul’s motion to outlaw the anti-Unity faction. People paid attention because of Marc’s rank and the brilliance of his argument. And Paul lost.”
“Fury must be delighted! … Damn Marc.”
“Nonsense. He was only standing up for his principles. I have a certain sympathy for the Rebel faction myself. We didn’t ask for the Intervention. The Milieu had to drag us into their marvelous interstellar confederation. And when we agreed to join them back in the beginning, there was never any explicit condition made that we would have to embrace Unity.”
“It was implicit. And given the relatively high power of human metafaculties, it’s a practical necessity. Luce, I’ve devoted my life to metapsychology and I’m positive that we must eventually be Unified. If—if I were part of a network of benevolent, coadunate minds, I wouldn’t feel so uneasy about the future. And neither would Sevvy or Adrien or the rest of the Rebel group.”
“But the exotics don’t seem to be able to give us a clear picture of how Unity would affect us.” Lucille’s voice was troubled.
“Unity is one of the principal goals of human evolution, as Teilhard de Chardin and so many other philosophers have maintained. It just can’t be the soul-destroying hive-mentality that its opponents claim. I know too many wise, kind, individualistic United exotics to believe that. Who would ever accuse good old Fred and Minnie of being zombies? Or Dota’efoo Alk’ai and that uxorious husband of hers? Sweet Jesus—the entire Gi race is an argument against Unity as a lockstep mind-meld!”
Lucille giggled. “Do you know Uncle Rogi was propositioned by a Gi last week—and almost succumbed?”
“No!”
Lucille took her husband’s arm. “I’ll tell you the whole story. But first I want you to take me into that cute little shebeen down there and get us both a nice drop of Black Bush.”
“Whatever you do,” Luc warned his little brother, “don’t let yourself exert mindpower on the robot horses. They’re bugged, and any PK or creative meddling by the spectators will disqualify the entry.”
“I understand,” said Jack. He clutched the receipt the Poltroyan bookie in the orange-checked suit and green bowler hat had given him. “One places bets according to the fictional handicap information provided in the form-plaque, analyzing past performance of the horse, so-called breeding, and the other factors. It was rather complex, determining the best entrant, but I solved the equation. The winner will be Tipperary Tensor even though he’s rated 30 to 1.”
“We’ll see, wiseass,” Luc growled. He had bet on Shillelagh Sprig, the favorite.
The small mechanical equines with their Poltroyan jockeys were at the post, pawing and snorting. A bell chimed and they were off to the screams and plaudits of the crowd, kicking up clouds of dust and moving as realistically as living animals.
At first Shillelagh led by two lengths. Tipperary Tensor was third going into the turn and fell to fourth in the back stretch. The second runner, Knockmealdown, began to overtake Shillelagh Sprig, whereupon Tipperary Tensor’s jockey guided him outside the bunched front-runners and plied his whip. The spectators gave a collective shout of surprise as the long shot suddenly pressed forward, passed number three, Wild Oscar, and continued to accelerate in the last turn. Thundering into the home stretch, their tiny legs twinkling, Tipperary Tensor, Knockmealdown, and Shillelagh Sprig were neck and neck. But at the finish Tipperary pulled away and was the clear upset winner by half a length.
“I told you so,” said Jack smugly.
Luc grunted in disappointment and tore his ticket into pieces. “Self-congratulation at the expense of another person is odious.”
Instantly contrite, Jack offered to show his brother how he had calculated the winner.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Luc said. “What does matter is that you learn how to behave in a polite and kindly manner. It makes no difference how smart and talented you are: if you behave like an asshole you’re either thoughtless and immature or acting with deliberate or unco
nscious aggression. In either case, people won’t want to socialize with you.”
“But Marc is rude to me rather often—and to others as well—and no one ostracizes him. People may get angry with Marc, but they still admire him. I can tell. I do it myself.”
“Marc is different.” Luc spoke bitterly. “Marc’s magic. He doesn’t have to play by the rules like the rest of us poor chumps.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jack demanded. “Is magic some kind of super-coercion?” Open your mind Luco and let me analyze the thought!
NO! … Oh well maybe later. I’m jealous of him you know and I have other mixedup feelings about him that you’re not ready to understand.
They were trudging side by side to the bookie’s stand for Jack’s payoff and the racecourse was becoming more crowded by the moment. All at once Jack halted and stood staring at a group gathered around Tipperary Tensor and its jockey, who were being adorned with green carnations and orange roses.
“Look. There are Marco’s four friends. Can I tell them that I won?”
Luc tightened his lips fastidiously. “Well, if you must. But I don’t really care for their company very much. That Boom-Boom Laroche is a vulgar barbarian, and Pete Dalembert acts so snotty and superior.”
“Marc’s going to make Pete the Chief Executive Officer of his new private CE laboratory,” Jack said casually. “And Shig Morita will be in charge of development and manufacture.”
“What?” Luc was thunderstruck. He grabbed his little brother by the arm and swung him into an alcove behind the saddling enclosure. “Marc is leaving Dartmouth College?”
Jack nodded. “I heard him bespeaking his friends. They had a thought-screen up, but it was easy for me to get around it. Marc is tired of having the college threaten to limit his CE research. He asked Alex Manion and Boom-Boom to work with him, too, but they said they have to do some other things now. They said they’d think about joining Marc later.”
“But what the hell is Marc going to do? Where will he work?”