STURGIS: And Columbus sailed the ocean blue ... 500 years ago, comrades. One for America, too.
GAVRILOV: Of course. Of course. This is wonderful.
STURGIS: Right where we half expected to find it: down in the cracks.... We're taking samples. Damn. That's tough. The pick ain't gonna do her, Volodya.
KLUCKNIKOV: Let us see what [garble] diamond-bit drill?
STURGIS: Yeah, that might work. Stuff's like some incredibly tough plastic. Resilient. But it'd have to be, right? To live in this godforsaken place ... Ah. You got that micro-sabresaw handy?
KLUCHNIKOV: Here. Yes ... That looks like it will do it. I think I'll [garble] you get that specimen packed. Here, connect the life line [garble] another ten meters or so further down. I want to check out the temperature and take an atmospheric [garble] stay here much longer.
GAVRILOV: Are you descending further, Volodya? You are garbled.
KLUCHNIKOV: The outcroppings inter(garble)...reconnoitre a bit farther...[garble] on the rocks. Not amorphous, like the other, but with a kind of jellyfish radial symmetry. Like a thick pancake perhaps fifteen [garble] and two, three centimeters thick.
STURGIS: Jee-zuss. It's—it's corroding the stainless steel baseplate.
KLUCHNIKOV: Fantastic... [garbled]...that stupid specimen, Wayne. Get your arse down here and look.
STURGIS : Oxidizing the thing like a house afire.... What the hell is it? God—I think the blade's going. And the drill bit—
KLUCHNIKOV:...are quite beautiful, with flowing structures of ultramarine blue that engulf and seem to eat the green-brown [garble]...with a light of their own. Like lucite lanterns.
GAVRILOV: Volodya. Commander Kluchnikov, come in. Your transmission is breaking up and fading badly.
KLUCHNIKOV: It is a fairyland. The beauty. Wayne, come down.
STURGIS: Goddammit, Volodya, will you quit [garble] so sure this stuff can't get at us. It could be dangerous. The acids or whatever that I released when I [garble] a fuckin' vanadium-steel blade to a rusty nubbin. Do you hear me? Commander?
KLUCHNIKOV: I am coming. You will not believe [garble] right off the rock.
GAVRILOV: Exploration Team, this is Orbiter. Come in, please. Come in Exploration Team.
KLUCHNIKOV: Zakroy ebalo, Andryusha. We are too busy to [garble] life-forms of exquisite beauty. They are hard, but resilient, and some of them are biolu[garble] of them right off its rock and into my collection bag.
STURGIS: Listen ... listen, Volodya. Get up here fast, hear me? Don't touch those things. Anything that can live in this awful place—
KLUCHNIKOV: Now, then. What ails you, little [garble] so active. How did you [garble? scream?]...
STURGIS: Volodya.
GAVRILOV: Vova. Commander. Vladimir Maksimovich.
STURGIS: I'm coming. I'm coming...
GAVRILOV: The thing, Wayne. The thing he picked up. The Martian.
STURGIS: Hey. You okay, Commander?...oh ... oh, no. No.
GAVRILOV: Wayne, what's happened?
STURGIS: ...[garble]...not a user-friendly world. No. Tell 'em that, Andrei. Anyplace but Mars! Oh, Jesus. I can still [garble] fly in blue amber dissolving [garble? scream?]...on my suit like little drops of blue soup. Growing. Primordial soup is blue-green, Andrei [garble]...love you dear Ruth...[garble]...
TRANSMISSION ENDS
3
DU PAGE COUNTY, ILLINOIS, EARTH
20 JANUARY 1993
A S THE CHAIRMAN of the Republican National Committee came slowly to the point, Kieran O'Connor's attention wandered—and thus it was that he heard the unaccountable mental voice.
Desiccated embryos returned to water ... floating in aloof sadness...
"Even though some people may think it premature to consider such a matter at this early date, let me assure you that the Nominating Committee of the Republican Party does not," Jason Cassidy said. "We suffered a devastating defeat in November. The incumbent beat our ass into the dust. He's riding high on the platform of economic prosperity that the Democrats stole from us, and he's managed to convince the voters that the metapsychic peace initiative and the disarmament program are both personal triumphs."
Floating in the lustrous sea... letting their dry blood reconstitute ... plumping out, regaining form...
Do any of the rest of you hear that voice? Kieran demanded.
Four of the five men sitting around the fireplace with him on that bitterly cold night strained their farsense, listening. The other man, Brigadier General Lloyd A. Baumgartner, USAF (Ret.), only sipped his Drambuie and stared at the Aubusson carpet in front of Kieran O'Con-nor's hearth. He wondered, in a subvocalization that was clearly perceptible to the telepaths, just when the National Committee Chairman would get to the point and offer him the 1996 Republican presidential nomination.
Jason Cassidy said, "There was a time when candidates were picked in smoke-filled rooms at the nominating convention itself. Later, primaries influenced the nomination and presidential aspirants began their campaign a year in advance." I hear absolutely zilch Kier.
Len Windham said: I don't get anything but the subvocals of our male Cinderella impatient for his glass-slipper fitting. Would you look at that noble profile? Holy Gary Cooper! And the silver cowlick will be a political cartoonist's delight.
Neville Garrett said: I don't detect anybody.
Arnold Pakkala said: Nor do I ... The domestic staff was given the night free as you ordered. There is no one in the house except the six of us.
"Today," Cassidy droned on, "the presidential nominating process is infinitely more complex and requires long-range strategic thinking. The National Committee has been working on that strategy ever since our November defeat, in consultation with Mr. Windham and Mr. Garrett, our Party poll and media specialists, and certain senior advisers."
Like Mr. Moneybags Kieran O'Connor! General Baumgartner said to himself. And now it's all perfectly clear. Why he acquired McGuigan-Duncan Aerospace and kept me on as CEO in spite of the losses I'd incurred in the Zap-Star debacle. Why his media flunky Garrett was so interested in my glory days as a Moonwalker—
And now the embryonic music starts ... peeps and squeaks and fidgets and flowing bloodhum ... a song of rebirth from death...
Kieran said: Scan the entire house and grounds Arnold. I can still hear the voice and now there's some damn music carrying over.
Yes sir.
Cassidy said, "The '96 presidential race is going to be even tougher for us than the '92 campaign. A two-term incumbent, one of the most popular presidents in history, will be able to pick his own nominee—and we know that nominee will be Senator Piccolomini."
Another self-righteous Guinea prick, thought the General.
"We could, of course, stick with our Republican candidate of last fall."
If you want to lose again, the General thought. The goddam quarterback really knows how to lose with style!
"However," the Chairman went on, "Piccolomini will be a hard nut to crack because of the success of his antinarcotics program, because of his close ties with the incumbent, and because of his undeniable personal magnetism."
So, thought the General, you can't run your bought-and-paid-for Minority Leader, Senator Scrope. He's smart but he's a nerd, and putting him up against Piccolomini would be peeing into the wind.
"We've studied a number of prospects, only to conclude that most of them do not project a suitable image. The Party will be developing a new platform for '96 in response to what we see as gathering threats to our national economy and security. The candidate we seek must exemplify that platform. He must be a man of authority, of proven courage, in tune with conservative patriotic values. A man who will confront the disasters that our experts foresee with a forthrightness unclouded by pseudoliberal globalism."
General Baumgartner straightened and frowned at the Republican Chairman. "Disasters? What kind of disasters, Jase?"
He was answered by Kieran O'Connor. "By the end of this year our Middle Eastern oil
supplies will be entirely cut off by escalating Islamic wars in the Persian Gulf and Arabia. Our re-elected Democratic President and the Democrat-controlled Congress will not dare send in American military forces. They have boasted that theirs is the Party of Peace. An American military action in support of the oil industry would be unthinkable." Arnold. Listen!
Sea czeatures ... holothurian and crustaceans sad and glad ... singing and dancing in bloody water ... a funeral dance and a birth dance...
Pakkala said: I detect no intruder anywhere within the perimeter of the estate. There is an aurora borealis tonight and you have been hypersensitive lately. Perhaps there is some metapsychic phenomenon operating analogous to the skip of AM radio waves—
Kieran said: No. Never mind Arnold.
"Our analysts," Cassidy said, "believe that the world is on the brink of another serious energy shortage. Thermonuclear power is still two decades away. Without that Persian Gulf oil, a major depression will affect all industrialized nations. The Third World will be pushed to the brink of anarchy. Africa is certain to blow up and Pakistan is on the verge of an armed confrontation with India."
Are they right? Baumgartner asked himself. If they are, America is heading for the biggest mess since World War II—and whoever the president is, he'll find himself in the same shoes Harry Truman wore when he had to decide whether to invade Japan or drop the bomb... Christ! No magical mystery metawhoozis finagling can keep America safe from this crock of shit! Only strong leadership by a real man—somebody people could be sure wasn't trading the country off for some pie-in-the-sky Utopia scheme hatched by Commies and loopy Scotch professors and fortunetelling freaks.
A dance ... a water dance with embryos ... I've been gestating it for more than six weeks now ever since we knew Nonno was dying...
Kieran said: Oh Christ!
The ballet is a tribute to his memory ... so much more tasteful than the usual gangland obsequies ... I want you to share it ... If you like it I may finish my performance alive Daddy...
"The turn of the century," Cassidy said solemnly, "may turn out to be the most dangerous period in American history."
And one, thought the General, in which certain industries stand to make an unconscionable amount of money—especially if they own the White House. As if they could control me the way they do that sleazy little douche bag Scrope! O'Connor and Cassidy and the rest of their cabal think I'd play along ... be manipulated like poor old Ike. Just let me get into that Oval Office!
"Events may accelerate," Cassidy went on, "so as to give us a good shot at winning even in 1996 if we present a candidate with a powerful, take-charge image. A man who knows his own mind."
General Baumgartner said, "You know those mentalist freaks—those metapsychics in the Psi-Eye program—could be real trouble if they got into the political arena."
"We do know that," Kieran O'Connor said. "Party strategists have been examining the metapsychic movement very carefully. Those people represent a menace to American liberty, General. We'd expect our presidential candidate to come down hard on any suggestion that metapsychics participate directly in government."
"Fuckin' A!" the General affirmed. The others chuckled.
Daddy it's for you ... it's for Nonno ... I won't go to his funeral tomorrow but I will mourn him in the dance ... and you ... and me...
Kieran said: Shannon!
Arnold Pakkala said: Sir—your daughter!
Kieran said: The goddam voice. It's her she's here screening herself threatening I think she may know—
Pakkala said: Where is she? I'll take care of it.
Kieran said: NO. I must. We'll have to finish this— Jase! Wind up the pitch and then get him out of here! Neville you and Len take him to your place. Jase and Arnie will help you wrap him up...
"Our pollsters and analysts are eighty-six percent certain that there will be a Republican president in the White House by the year 2000," Cassidy said. "The odds are longer for '96, but worth the push. The National Committee has designated a unanimous choice for the perfect candidate. That man is you, General Baumgartner."
"Gentlemen," said the General, "I'm—I'm really overwhelmed."
***
Escaping from his guests in the library, Kieran hurried to the nearby butler's pantry, where there was a master monitor-intercom unit. He tapped 16 and the screen lit, giving a long overhead view of the indoor swimming pool located on the mansion's lower level. The chamber was dark except for what appeared to be underwater illumination of a concentrated cobalt blue. A shape suspended within the light gyrated rhythmically. From the small loudspeaker of the intercom came the nervous, deformed sound of Erik Satie's Embryons Desséchés being played on a synthesizer. Kieran tapped the code that would turn on the main room lights and the underwater lamps of the natatorium. Nothing happened.
"Shannon?"
Kieran spoke calmly into the mike. At the same time he manipulated the zoom control of the monitoring camera to magnify the image of the swimmer. She was eighteen but looked more like a twelve-year-old. Her legs were long and beautifully shaped but the rest of the body was angular, the breasts small and flat, the hips boyishly narrow. She was wearing a chaste white maillot. Her long hair swirled in an inky cloud, its normal bright Titian red masked by the Cerenkov blue of her visible psychic aura. From her extended wrists curled other diaphanous filaments that her hands seemed to caress and weave as she undulated in the submarine ballet she had dedicated to her dead grandfather.
Her wrists were cut, trailing streamers of blood.
"Shannon, I'm watching. Do you hear me?"
I hear, Daddy! Holothurian larvae clinging to their purring, grotesque parent ... break away break away, babies!...go free if you can and celebrate spineless triumph ... be sure to hide from the light!
"Shannon, come out of the water." Come out. COME OUT.
He exerted his full coercion while the zany electronic music tinkled and trilled. Sweat had broken out on his brow and he found that he was holding his breath, commanding her to hold hers. But the range was too great for his compulsion to take hold of her. He felt, to his horror, a reciprocal mind-clutch and a gentle warning:
No ... I must finish this dance ... come down and watch me properly, Daddy. Your creatures have gone away now ... come and share mine with me... I'll help you ... THE HOLOTHURIAN SPINS A WEB LIKE MOIST PURPLE SILK—
"Damn you!" Lashing out violently, he broke her mental shackle and erected a defensive barrier. She only laughed. The blue light was fading with the end of the first embryonic song. A ruddy glow introduced the second.
This is the dance of the edriophthalma, a crustacean with sessile eyes... of a mournful disposition, it lives in retirement from the world in a hole drilled in a cliff ... Nonno! Dear Grandpa A1 do you want me with you shall I retire behind my film of red water with my mind's eye turned inward!
"Shannon—for God's sake!"
The music was a lugubrious parody of a funeral march. The swimmer's limbs folded tight against her body and she became a fetal ball, pinkly throbbing, floating some six feet below the surface of the water. A measured stream of silver bubbles, flattened like coins, tumbled upward from her emptying lungs.
Kieran stormed through the formal dining room into the main hall and ran to the elevator. As he punched G and the door whisked shut, he felt a hot pounding begin in his chest. There was an irresistible urge to inhale, pressure on his eardrums, a scarlet fog seeping into his peripheral vision, a deadly stirring in his loins. God damn the little bitch! He'd delayed the bonding too long—
The elevator door opened. Kieran staggered along a passage walled with thermopane windows that cast wan light on the snowy landscape outside. The great house had been built into the east side of a hill and even now, in the dead of a winter's night, the metropolis over forty miles distant lit the sky like false dawn.
This is the third and final song ... the lively podophthalma have eyes on mobile stalks ... they are skillful and tireless hunters but they mus
t be cautious—their own flesh is good to eat!...Eat or be eaten, Nonno. You lived in such a world and so will I twice over ... if I choose to...
Jolly galloping music and a vision of a slender form darting zigzag through black water, leaving twin trails of golden blood behind. Kieran ran sluggishly, as though he himself were under water. It was impossible for him to breathe, harder and harder to move. He passed the exercise room and the spa and finally came to the open door of the natatorium. It was dark inside and there was a strong smell of chlorine. The synthesizer music filled the tiled chamber with clanging echoes. His mind screamed.
Shannon!
Deep in the pool was an upright, spindle-shaped violet glow. It brightened abruptly, then shot up like a submarine missile, breaking the surface with a great splash and a dazzling burst of white light. A parody of a symphonic finale blasted from the overhead speakers. Erik Satie's jocose treatment of marine life was coming to an end, and so was the sinister water ballet of Kieran O'Connor's daughter.
He was finally able to haul in a gasping breath. His eyesight cleared and he stabbed at the control panel on the wall beside him. Normal incandescent light flooded the room and the only sound was the slap of wavelets against the sides of the Olympic-sized pool. Above the middle of the water a girl in a white tank suit floated on her back, eyes closed, hair fanned out like strands of algae, arms extended cruciform. She was smiling.
To Nonno. To my Grandfather on the day of his entombment. With love from Shannon.
"Come out," Kieran told her.
Descending, she swam, using a vigorous backstroke. She climbed the ladder and stood looking up at him, pale and shivering, with tiny drops of water winking at the ends of her eyelashes. Her mind shone bright and it was impervious to either probing or coercion.
"I hope you liked my dance, Daddy. It was for you, too."
He took hold of her hands and raised them, studying the wrists. The cuts were not deep and she had not severed the tendons, but there was a steady flow of blood that mixed with the water of her dripping body to make a pinkish puddle on the travertine floor. He released her, turned, and walked out the door. "We can fix you up in the gym. Let's go."
INTERVENTION Page 44