The Nonborn King

by Julian May

  He said, "If Brede's meddling with the destiny of our races was presumptuous—evil—then surely the manifest results show that her action was a fortunate sin. What your philosophy would call a felix culpa."

  Elizabeth's laugh was brittle. "You're getting to know humanity quite well, aren't you? Even to playing our little casuistical games."

  "I only know," he said simply, "that the motivation of Brede and her Ship was noble and unselfish. As was her guidance of us until the end."

  "We all know she meant well. Even when she dragooned me. A lot of autarchs have been convinced that they knew what was best for their subjects. The human rebels in the Milieu had that sense of conviction. Very toplofty they were! You see, they knew for a fact that human minds have the greatest metapsychic potential among the races of our galaxy. Therefore, it was logical to them that humanity must play the dominant role in the galactic civilization. Immediately. The Milieu was far too important to be left to the guidance of inferior mentalities ... But the Milieu could not be force-fed into accelerated mental evolution, any more than children could be matured to superadulthood by the insane techniques that the rebels advocated. To force maturation is not only evil but ultimately futile—whether we speak of the advancement of a single child or the perfection of a galactic Mind."

  She showed the Tanu healer a brief glimpse of the havoc engendered by Marc Remillard and his cabal, and the price paid to restore mental equilibrium. "And this is why I am afraid..."

  "You see an analogy," he said, "between the Metapsychic Rebellion and Brede's manipulation of Tanu and Firvulag destiny. You fear that if you take Brede's place, you may abet her—sin."

  Elizabeth sighed. "If that's what it is ... Back in the Milieu, the Concilium had billions of minds to provide a consensus. The Mind knew it was right, and the rebels were wrong. But what do I know?"

  The wind rising outside the chalet made a noise like coursing beardogs on a demonic Hunt. A gust came down the chimney, scattering balsamscented smoke from the fireplace, and it was Creyn who had to block the swirling ashes, since Elizabeth seemed helpless to deflect them and even welcomed the stinging tears that they evoked. After the distraction, when she had wiped her eyes, the two of them settled down to the serious business of the night.

  It was by far the most favorable time for farsearching, when the sun—a much greater obstacle to ultrasensitivity than any storm—was blocked by the mass of the planet. At night a mind could roam more freely, delve more readily into secret places, listen to the remotest whispers, speak most persuasively to the reluctant mind's ear. Even in premetapsychic days this was common folk knowledge: Night was when the sorcerers did their work, when unseelie beings prowled and danced, and when mortal men most fitly let their consciousness rest along with their bodies, breaking free of the day's pain and tedium in dreams.

  As Elizabeth's mind linked to that of Creyn, the room around them seemed to dissolve, leaving them suspended above the tempest-washed massif of the Montagne Noire. Concentrating all volitional force into her farsensing faculty, towing him along with her as easily as a kite, she ranged afar.

  ***

  Observe and learn!

  See below us, huddled against Black Crag, small islets of life-aura marking the mining settlements. Concentrate this ultrafaculty and zoom in to view individual people, one by one or in small groups. Use this power to hear ordinary speech or the declamatory or conversational modes of telepathy. (It is virtually impossible, even for a Grand Master, to probe the deep thought levels at distance. It is also difficult or impossible to farsense a person who has erected a superior thoughtshield. There are certain artificial screening devices—for example, Brede's "room without doors" projector—that simdarly block farsight.)

  Now observe how we search for a known mind. We have stored its signature, so our coarse searching faculty can range swiftly afar, ignoring all the other auras, until we home in on the sought-for personality. And there he is!

  It is Chief Burke, asleep with the other members of his party in a camp just off the Great South Road, some thirty kilometers below Roniah. (Blessings on you, loved brothers and sisters. Rest safely and well.)

  And now, Creyn, it is your turn to work. Join me and strengthen me as we attempt a much more difficult search, pinpointing a known mind that is certain to be half-screened and wary. We will do this so insinuatively that he will not detect us. We will make no attempt to eavesdrop upon his words or thoughts.

  Range northeast—for he is most likely in residence at his capital of High Vrazel in the Vosges Mountains. See Sharn-Mes, the new young monarch of the Firvulag, who has impudently styled himself High King of the Many-Colored Land.

  Behold the doughty general at home ... His six children roast chestnuts at the fire and use a hot poker to mull another mug of cider for their hard-working daddy. The fierce general wields a sharp obsidian blade, mutters a blood-chilling oath. We are sure of this, even though we can't hear him, from the disapproving expression on the face of his wife, Queen Ayfa, leader of the Warrior Ogresses. Again Sham's black-glass knife flashes. Chips of wood fly. The axle slips sweetly into its socket and the children cheer. Sharn sets the completed wooden chaliko onto the living-room tiles and the children crowd around the wheeled beast, each one eager to be the first to break tradition by riding the novel toy. Tradition is a frangible and sometime thing in High Vrazel these days...

  And now let us attempt the most difficult search of all: Felice.

  Consider her signature. Consider potential modes of screening. Untrained in metapsychics, her concealment mechanisms would be primitive; but the great creative potential resident in the madwoman makes refinement of technique unimportant. We will not likely succeed in our search. Nevertheless, we will try. On each and every pervigilium we will try.

  Range south. South beyond Amalizan, beyond Tarasiah. Curve westerly, afar. Beyond Aluteyn Craftsmaster's new establishment on the River Iberia. Beyond the frowning turrets of Afaliah where the grim old creator-coercer lurks behind strong stone ramparts, brooding over the broken-minded one who now sleeps dreamlessly in Skin.

  Soon it will be dawn. The approaching sun is heralded by a distinctive aetheric thunder. There is a program to counter solar ionization, but it is much more difficult than the storm-emendator. Observe and follow. Cling fast and look sharp.

  We search! This is her aura that we seek, and it is known that she hides in the Betic Cordillera, the southernmost range in Spain. Sweep. Scan. Ignore the fuzzy mental blobs of the Firvulag, of the scattered Howlers, of the tiny colonies of outlaw humans, of the occasional outpost of Afaliah dependents. Focus wide, focus narrow! Use the mind's eye and ear and the special seekersense that tunes only to the aura...

  There is nothing.

  (But why? Sharn was screened, and you found him easily.)

  Sham's powers are those of an infant. But we'll wait. The black bird flies at dawn, and sometimes it calls. When that happens, her mind opens as she listens for him, for her Beloved. She would not respond to us, but she may let fall an inadvertent clue to her eyrie's location. Then we can—

  (Elizabeth. That.)

  I see. I see and hear. Above Mount Mulhacén! Of course ... She would be holed up there! And now come forth to call.

  Culluket!

  The raven soars toward the stratosphere. The sky above the Sierra Nevada is cloud-free and lucent in dawn.

  Culluket! I know you're alive.

  She calls to him who joined with her in mutual thanatophilia, satisfying himself but unaware that her fulfillment would also come, after she had escaped from him, when she did to the helpless earth what had been done to her.

  Culluket, answer!

  See her wheeling in the high light, glistening. No mind-screens cover her now, no psychocreative wall guards her casting farsense as she seeks the hated love. But he is a redactor, a mind-changer, a mind-borer, a mind-masker. He is guileful and strong and the shadow of the bird passes over him unaware.

  Culluket ... you mus
t be there. Help me to find him, YOU!

  (Elizabeth! Has she perceived us?)

  No. Creyn, be silent!

  You helped me before. I turn again to you now! Help me find my Beloved Tell me where he is. Talk to me! Do you see me flying here? If you speak to me, this time I'll answer you!

  See her triumphal replay of the love-deed, the opening of the Gibraltar Gate. See, through her memory, exactly how the cataclysm was accomplished. O God, how. (In simultaneous relief and shock, for her power was not singular after all, but augmented.)

  Help me again. I won't hide from you. We can be friends.

  Listen, Creyn! No, wait—I must phase in still another emendator. Not only is this transmission faint, but it is also multiple: an inexpert metaconcerted effort, poorly aimed, coming from a vast distance. And it is not on the exotic thought-mode. Not on the bastard mode of the torced humans here in the Pliocene. It is on the unique human-operant mode ... God almighty, my own mode! Help me, Creyn. Prop me up, dear friend. Trace this, identify its source, find out anything you can about it...

  Devils? Is that you?

  Yes, Felice.

  Hello, Devils.

  Hello, Felice. We've called you for such a long time.

  I know. But I didn't trust you. I have so many enemies.

  Poor Felice. We only want to help. We did help you.

  Help me again. Show me where Cull's hiding.

  Who?...Ah. So. How interesting.

  Never mind that. Show me now!

  Dear Felice. We would if we could. But we're far away from you. Far from him, too. To find him, we'd have to come to you. All the way from North America.

  Ohhhh.

  Not to worry. We'll be glad to do it. We've been so anxious to meet you.

  No! You could steal ... could try to trick me! Just like that damn little gold swindler, Aiken Drum!

  We wouldn't do that, Felice. We're not like Aiken or your other enemies. We'll prove our friendship. We'll do more than find your lover. We'll bring him to you!

  You could do that?

  One of us is a coercer-redactor of masterclass stature. The rest of us are strong, too. And we're young, Felice. Like you! We believe in action.

  You won't mess around with ME.

  Of ... of course not. We want you to be our leader. You're stronger than any of us.

  Maybe. But when you act together ... Listen. Only one of you can come.

  That won't work, Felice. We'll need at least five to coordinate the retrieval of your Culluket.

  Five? All right. But that's all. You understand?

  Perfectly. We can help you in other ways, too, you know. And you can help us!...Now indicate your precise location in Spain.

  I'm here. Do you see my lair on Mount Mulhacén?

  We do. We'll come to you in fifteen days. Wait for us. Goodbye, Felice our friend.

  Goodbye, Devils.

  ***

  Elizabeth sat across the table from Creyn. The storm was gone. Sunbeams from the eastern windows struck the embers in the hearth, turning them into dusty white lumps.

  "When I first arrived in the Pliocene," Elizabeth said, "I farsearched the entire planet hoping to find other operant human beings like myself."

  "I remember. It was the evening that we rode from Castle Gateway to Roniah. You put a strong barrier up, but I was aware that you were ranging."

  Elizabeth slumped in her chair, her face haggard. Creyn sent a telepathic summons to Mary-Dedra, the gold-torc human woman who had once been a confidant of Mayvar, who now served as Elizabeth's personal attendant.

  The farspeaker said, "I detected only a single ambiguous trace on the human mode. It seemed to be clear over on the other side of the Earth. I knew my scan was incompetent because my ultrasenses were still convalescent, and so I dismissed that faint indication as an echo. But it was real."

  "You were unable to scrutinize it closely?"

  "Long-distance farsensing is a specialized business requiring great stamina. A healthy Grand Master can make brief stabs—something like the way human swimmers make deep skin-dives. But it's impossible to sustain the effort without special supportive equipment or help from a number of other minds." She passed a weary hand over her forehead. "Now, with your help, I should be able to gain some information about these so-called devils. But I know who they must be." God, I know too well.

  They shared the knowledge. Creyn said, "They have been out of the Tanu mind for a long time. Twenty-seven years. When the group of operant humans came through the time-gate and contended against our battle-company, we suffered a terrible defeat. The affair was expunged from the official record when the invaders left Europe. Only a few of us—most notably the late Gomnol—actively speculated on what had become of the human operants. We can guess why he would be interested! But Gomnol's farsensing ability was only moderate. He never tracked them down."

  "The rebels are in the Western Hemisphere. In a region that was called Florida on Elder Earth." Elizabeth's eyes closed and she drifted in pained abstraction. "I was only seventeen at the time of the Metapsychic Rebellion. An apprentice preceptor on an obscure little snowy planet. But I was already a part of the Unity—and I'll never forget the reaction of those three hundred billion exotic minds to the attempted coup. The Milieu had taken such a chance with us, Creyn—admitting humanity to their wonderful civilization while we were still psychosocially immature. And we betrayed their trust."

  "I understand that the Rebellion was brief, that the active phase lasted only a few months."

  "True. Nevertheless, the scars took years to heal. It was humanity's most profound humiliation ... The Human Polity acted as ruthlessly as it had to do to put down the conspiracy. There was great suffering among the innocent. In the end, though, the Milieu was stronger than ever."

  "Another felix culpa?"

  She opened her eyes and regarded the exotic man quizzically. "Human history seems to abound with them."

  An inner door opened. Mary-Dedra, carrying a tray with breakfast, entered with a diffident mental greeting. Creyn rose to leave.

  "Will you be strong enough to range out again tonight?" he inquired.

  "Oh, yes." Elizabeth was resigned. "We'll have to track Felice's devils to their home ground. Count them, identify them positively if we can, then decide how best to counter their threat. You rest up and join me at seven." She smiled mordantly. "Then we'll try our first little trip to hell and gone."

  13

  IN A BAYOU of the Suwanee on the west coast of Ocala Island, it was two o'clock in the morning. The gigantic silver fish was quiet for the moment, sulking deep in the moon-dappled black water, taking a recess from its contest with Marc Remillard.

  For sixteen hours the bulldog tarpon had fought to break free of the pertinacious tether linking it to the man. The tarpon was 430 centimeters long and weighed 295 kilos. Set in one corner of its jaw was a 5/0 hook with a strongly armored leader (for the tarpon of the Pliocene Epoch had sharp teeth). The tippet, that section of the line that actually held the fish, was so weak that it could be snapped by a 7-kilo weight. Nevertheless, the tarpon had been unable to free itself, so great was the skill of the angler who had played it Now both man and fish were reaching the limits of their endurance. Before long, either the fisherman would make a mistake in judgment betrayed by his agonized muscles, and the line would break—or the tarpon would succumb to syncope and float helpless at the end of the fatal thread while the gaff descended.

  Marc eased the butt of his big flyrod in the heavy leather cup of his belt waiting for the fish to recommence the fight. The only sounds were distant splashes of leaping mullet and the squawk of a night heron. Marc's breathing was slow and controlled as he exerted a biofeedback maneuver to flush fatigue products from the cells of his burly shoulders and arms. His ultrasenses were deaf and blind. He could not perceive the lurking tarpon's movements because he would not. Even at this climactic juncture, he gave the fish the sporting advantage he deemed suitable: He did not track it with
farsight nor attempt to coerce its movements, nor exert any psychokinetic force upon it nor strengthen rod, reel, or line beyond their normal specifications by means of his creativity. In one way only did Marc deviate from the angling technique of nonmetapsychics: He fished alone, and so he exerted mental power to steady the skiff so that it would not founder during the struggle.

  Now Marc was aware of a subtle change in the tension of the line. One moment the water of the channel was as flat as a pool of ink—and the next it blew open with volcanic violence. An immense writhing shape, glistening under high moonlight, cannoned more than six meters into the air, turning end over end. Its saucersized eyes reflected a furious orange and its gill covers ratded like a gigantic raganeda.

  Marc bowed to the fish, lowering the tip of the flyrod to ease the line while it was vulnerable in the air. The great silver creature crashed back into the water with a splash like a falling grand piano. A split second later it was up again, twisting and thrashing in a second leap. The skiff rocked. Streaming with water from head to toe, Marc shouted encouragement to his adversary. It was the largest tarpon he had ever hooked, and it was nearly his.

  The fish ran at him. Marc took in slack. As he expected, the tarpon erupted again, this time in a soaring saltation that carried it on an impact trajectory with the skiff. Laughing uproariously, Marc sent the craft whizzing out of the way—just barely. The tarpon's reentry sent a wave over the gunwale that half filled the boat. Marc banished the water with his PK a moment before the tarpon came up on the opposite side and whirled on the surface like a runaway dynamo, trying to throw the hook.

  It went down again and the reel whined as the fish raced for the flats on the left side of the channel. Marc guided the skiff after it, alert for the next leap. And it came, with the enormous plated body climbing up, up, as if in slow motion, tossing diamond drops to the moon in an expanding cloud, clashing its jaws, uttering an explosive grunt at the top of its leap, and then falling back with an impact that nearly sent Marc overboard. But the hook was still secure.