The Nonborn King

by Julian May

  The tarpon ran again and the man followed. The next leap was halfhearted, the great body leaving the water for only a fraction of its length. Its subsequent surface struggles seemed weaker, not even raising foam. Marc could not resist calling out to the fish on the declamatory mode:

  Now you gorgeous bastard! Now I've got you...

  A powerful beam of light stabbed out of the darkness upriver. It transfixed Marc standing there in the boat, ready to make the delicate adjustment of line tension. Physically as well as mentally blind, he froze.

  The tarpon leaped.

  The fragile 6.75-kilo test tippet snapped.

  Papa we've found her we've found Felice!

  Too late, the psychoenergetic beacon died. It was Hagen's, as was the thought projection so jubilant and heedless, rapt in its own triumph. The launch carrying the young people came knifing down the bayou, then slammed to a halt as though meeting a glass wall. It fetched up wallowing and shuddering in a mass of chop some 150 meters away from the fisherman.

  Off the bow of the skiff, the giant tarpon was rolling, gulping air, savoring freedom. Marc scanned it carefully, making sure it had sustained no serious injury during the long battle, and then disengaged the hook with his PK. The fish sank slowly into the black water. Marc's farsight saw it swim off in the direction of the gulf.

  Papa...

  Cloud knew, even if her brother did not, what their intrusion had cost. Her regret and apology welled out only to strike another barrier. The metapsychic wall that had restrained the launch now dissolved and the current carried the larger craft down upon the skiff.

  Marc reeled in the slack line, watching the launch approach. The three other occupants were, as he had expected, the archconspirators among the younger generation: Elaby Gathen, Jillian Morgenthaler, and Vaughn Jarrow. These were attempting to put a bold front on their blunder. It was plain that none of them had anticipated anything other than welcome when they sped out from Lake Serene to "surprise" Marc with their news.

  The two craft met. Jillian stopped the launch with her PK, dropped the anchor, and ran to the stern to take the skiff in tow. Hagen put the ladder down, mind still asmile, stubbornly determined to tough out the faux pas.

  "Felice is in Spain, Papa, just as we suspected. Holed up in a cave on Mount Mulhacén in the Sierra Nevada." Picture. Bearing. "And, get this! She's freely invited us to come to her!"

  The wall remained up in Marc's mind. He grasped the ladder and vaulted into the launch, disdaining levitation. The young people fell back, their minds now united clumsily in apology. Only Cloud showed an overlay of genuine sorrow at the loss of the great fish.

  The children of rebellion, all in their mid-twenties, were formally dressed. There had been a party that night at Lake Serene, the culmination of which had been the successful contact with Felice. Hagen and Elaby were elegant in tropical dinner jackets; Vaughn, sporting the same outfit, managed to look disheveled and oafish as usual. Dark Jillian wore a batik pareu of soft barkcloth. Cloud's gown was as luminous as her mind, shimmering fainlly in the moonlight.

  The erstwhile challenger of the galaxy, naked to the waist and barefoot, dripping water onto the polished deck, confronted the five.

  "You were told not to come. Never to come when the tarpon are running."

  Hagen expostulated, "The hell with the fish, Papa! We've got her! Felice—"

  He broke off, hands clamped to the sides of his head, screaming. The sharp odor of vomit rose in the warm night air, and in the aether was the stench of terror as Hagen saw for the first time the true aspect of Abaddon. But then came Cloud, rushing at their terrible father with her sweet coercion fully arrayed and her redactive faculty flung wide to curtain the worst of the reality, and dull its memory.

  Hagen staggered backward and fell into the arms of Elaby and Vaughn. The fisherman, his mind veiled again, waited. Under Cloud's ministry Hagen's retching and his sobs quieted. He steadied on his feet, pulled away from the others, and stood swaying, covered in filth.

  "Papa—you—must—listen," he gasped.

  Marc had to smile at the persistence. The slight cleft in his chin was emphasized by oblique moonlight and the shadows made his heavy brows appear winged. The thick curly hair that lately had become frosted in defiance of his self-rejuvenating faculty was still sopping wet. False tears of salt water shone on his prominent cheekbones and the thinbridged nose with its finely flared nostrils.

  Marc refused to accept the data proffered by Hagen's mind. "Tell me," he demanded.

  "She—she's agreed to let us come to Europe. To meet with her. We promised we would help her locate and destroy some Tanu redactor who put her to the torture. Papa—you've got to let us go!"

  The mind-vise settled softly into place once again and exerted minimal pressure, causing the young man to catch his breath in apprehension. He was a less emphatically drawn replica of his father, without Marc's bull neck and dark-socketed eyes. Like his sister, Hagen had inherited the reddish-gold hair of the long-dead Cyndia Muldowney—and her reckless perseverance as well. "It's a priceless opportunity for us! Felice can be manipulated, I tell you. If we can trick her into accepting some of your docilization equipment, then Elaby and Jillian and cloud and I have the watts to pin her down! It'll be dangerous, since she'll only let five of us get close to her. But if you advise us on tactics through farspeech, I know we can bag her."

  The brain-screws tightened. Hagen groaned and clenched his fists until the nails bit into his palms. He felt cloud's ameliorating redactor ready itself to assume the full pain-burden if need be.

  "Five of you," Marc repeated.

  "Only five can come, she said. I don't know whether she's telling the truth about being able to detect any extras, but we daren't chance it"

  "You and cloud, Elaby and Jillian—and Vaughn for the farspeech conferences, I presume."

  "Yes."

  The gentle one-sided smile grew more chilling. "And what will you do with the dragon—presuming you can subdue her?"

  "Use her to dominate Europe! To force Elizabeth to raise all of us to adept status—full coadunation!" Papa we can't stay here rotting with you oldones we can't we won't we'll die here on this damnisland!

  The mind-clamp eased. Marc spoke mildly. "I had planned to begin training you this summer to assist me in the star-search. Of all the second generation, you have the greatest potential competence—the stamina combined with broad-spectrum metafunction."

  "Damn you!" screamed Hagen Remillard. "Won't you ever admit that there's nobody out there? This Pliocene galaxy's too immature for coadunation of its Mind! You're alone, Papa—you and the rest of them. And we're alone with you! This Elizabeth is some kind of a Grand Master preceptor who can at least put us on the first steps toward coadunation right here on Earth."

  Marc turned to his daughter. "And you think that my way is futile, too?"

  She threw open her uttermost mental depths: Yes Papa. There is no coadunate nonhuman race in this galaxy to rescue us from exile. All that there is is here.

  "And you support this kidnapping foray? This buccaneer's raid?"

  Cloud turned away, walls again in place, voice incisive. "There are other human beings in Europe. People of our culture, who would sympathize with our aims. Now that the Flood has undermined the Tanu society, it seems likely that the entire region will fall under Firvulag domination if we don't intervene. And the Firvulag are operants, Papa. Remember that Their mental development has been stalled by pig-headed custom up until now, and they've never learned to act in true metaconcert because of individualist traditions. But their attitudes are changing rapidly. Even if the Tanu are led by Aiken Drum, they are too greatly outnumbered by the Firvulag to prevail. But humans and Tanu together could withstand the Firvulag easily with our help."

  "And with some of the weaponry you have stored away," Hagen added.

  Marc said, "There is something else in Europe."

  The five young people stared at him.

  "The site of th
e temporal singularity. The time-gate."

  Opacity.

  "Your real ambition is to reopen it From this side. That's the ultimate goal of this entire adventure! Did you really think you could conceal the truth from me?"

  Resignation, a perverse relief, flooded Hagen's mind. "Of course you're right Papa. We'd do anything to have what you threw away!...Now kill me if you think it'll help coerce the others into believing in you. But it won't you know."

  Before Marc could react Elaby Gathen thrust Hagen aside. His thought-projections burst forth in a compelling blaze, as irresistible as it was unexpected, staying Abaddon's wrath just long enough to provoke curiosity and a wry appreciation. In that illuminating instant Marc knew that the plan of conquest the search for Felice, the time-gate design—all of it—was not Hagen's conception at all, but Elaby's. Elaby Gathen the unobtrusive one, the efficient one, the synthesizing one. The clever one who now waited with mind wide-open for Marc's redactive probe (and who did not flinch at the brutality of it). Elaby Gathan who dared to love his daughter and exert puppet-mastery over his son. In the young man's mind was sincere respect for the leader of the Metapsychic Rebellion, together with regret for the great dream gone agley. But there was also in Gathen a determination, as implacable as Marc's own, that he and his young contemporaries be given the chance to direct their own fate.

  Marc said, "I wish I had noticed you before. Before all this had solidified."

  Elaby Gathen said, "Sir, we have Guderian's entire body of data in the computer archives. We have the technological parameters and the manufacturing specs for all components of the device. If we gained control of Europe, we'd have access not only to the time-gate site, but to the raw materials Guderian used, the rare earths and the niobium and cesium that are inaccessible in Pliocene North America. Based in Europe, we could compel the assistance of whatever Milieu technicians still survive among the time-traveler population. It would take time and organization, but Guderian's device could be built."

  Marc laughed. "Thus effectively setting up a two-way gate. And you expect me to agree to this? The agents of the Magistratum have no interest in you children. But I assure you that even after twenty-seven years, they would have a lively interest in me!"

  Elaby's mind and voice evoked the most exquisite tact. "After we've passed through to the Milieu, we would naturally arrange for the destruction of both pieces of apparatus. The sites themselves could be obliterated. You know that there's a unique geological factor at work in the generation of the singularity, restricting it to that small region of the Rhone Valley. If the geology is significantly altered, the time-gate will be permanently closed."

  "You'd still be safe, Papa," Cloud said, moving close to Elaby. "And we..." Her voice trailed away, but her mental speech completed the phrase: We could go home.

  Elaby Gathen said, "You could supervise the demolitions on the Pliocene end of the time-warp yourself, sir."

  The launch turned on its cable. The tide was rising in the estuary, countering the sluggish flow of the Suwanee. Soon the tarpon would leave their feeding in the gulf reefs and come up the river again. But Marc had lost interest in the big fish now. The frustration coming just at the brink of victory had left him tight-coiled and cheated of catharsis. He had failed to master the adversary, and now it was gone. To begin all over again was insupportable.

  Gathen was outlining his scheme with cool reasonableness. "We'll need two days to gather equipment and finish stocking Jillian's ketch in Manchineel Bay. The actual voyage to Europe will take up to eleven days. Phil says the Atlantic weather systems are perfect. There'll be no adverse winds to counter our PK. Vaughn will keep you informed of our every move. Once we've contacted Felice, you can advise us precisely how you wish us to carry on."

  Marc said, "All of you may go—except Hagen."

  "Papa—no!" the son cried.

  The eyes of Abaddon burned under winged brows. "This escapade is highly dangerous—foolhardy, even. You have badly underestimated Felice. But I know her only too well, since I was the one who forged the metaconcert linkage. Your plan of binding her with the docilization equipment is futile. None of the devices would hold her—any more than they'd hold me!...You'd have to use guile, act on her unsane aspects and force her to chain herself."

  His mind turned to Cloud: You would have the redactive skill Daughter virtually equal to my own. I am not sure you would have the courage.

  She replied: Papa I would do anything to reach this goal.

  I know.

  His cast of mind darkened, sorrowing. He would have to let her go, even if this venture led to her death. He dared not risk her taking Cyndia's way. The daughter was lost. But the son—

  "Why must I stay here?" Hagen demanded truculently.

  "In case the others fad. There must be a successor for the star-search."

  The young man raged, "You old fool! Can't you ever stop living in a dream world? I'll be damned if I spend the rest of my life shackled to that fucking equipment, hunting for something that doesn't exist!"

  The other four drew back, appalled. There was an intolerable flash of light and a gush of heated air. Hagen's body wavered, melting in the effulgence. His cries rose in pitch, changing to harsh, rhythmic hisses. Something huge and silvery, burning in a coat of astral fire, fell over the stern of the launch with a colossal splash.

  Marc said to Elaby, "You will take Owen Blanchard with you to Europe in Hagen's place. He was the best of my coercers in the Rebellion and he'll do for a backup farsensor in the all too possible event that something happens to Vaughn, here. Owen will carry my own authority, and he'll see that I receive an accurate account of your actions."

  "But, sir, he's so frail," Elaby began to say.

  "Then you'll take very special care of him!" Marc thundered. "Blanchard goes."

  "Yes, sir."

  Cloud's mind was weeping. "Papa, poor Hagen..."

  Marc's hand suddenly held a severed leader with a big artificial fly dangling from it. Among the grizzly streamers and scarlet hackle was a glint of pointed steel. "Don't worry about him. I've decided to begin training him tonight instead of waiting until summer."

  Out on the black water, a tarpon rolled and gulped air, making a patch of glistening bubbles. The fish's scales had an eerie luminescence. Marc Remillard observed the creature with satisfaction. He began to climb over the transom back into his skiff.

  "I'm sure Hagen will be ready to settle down and apply himself to his education. After he's had a little time on the hook."

  ***

  THE END OF PART ONE

  PART II

  The Grand Loving

  1

  IN THE EARLY WEEKS of the Postdiluvium, Sugoll of Meadow Mountain sought and obtained full franchise for his subjects, the deformed outcast Firvulag known as Howlers. These mutants, who had split off from the main body of Little People some hundreds of years previously, now once again pledged fealty to the Firvulag throne at High Vrazel and ratified the election of the co-monarchs Sham and Ayfa. Sugoll also agreed to abide by the Firvulag-Lowlife Entente engineered by the late Madame Guderian and King Yeochee IV, as well as the armistice between the Tanu and Firvulag that had been promulgated by the usurper, Aiken Drum.

  Because of the isolated location of his domain east of the Black Forest Range, Sugoll remained unaware that Firvulag forces continually violated both peace accords all during the winter months, attacking Tanu cities and Lowlife settlements and putting the blame on renegade Howlers. King Sham and Queen Ayfa otherwise gave little serious thought to their remote mutant subjects until early in January, when the following communication was delivered to High Vrazel:

  TO THEIR APPALLING HIGHNESSES AYFA AND SHARNMES, Sovereign Lords of the Heights and Depths, Monarchs of the Infernal Infinite, Mother and Father of All Firvulag, and Undoubted Rulers of the Known World.

  FELICITATIONS FROM SUGOLL, Lord of Meadow Mountain and Chief Among Those Called Howlers, Your Obedient Vassal.

  May I humbly
invite you to rejoice with me upon the occasion of my nuptial celebration, in which the Most Exalted Creative Lady Katlinel the Darkeyed, late of the Tanu High Table, condescended to become my spouse, for which grace praise be to Téah the Almighty. Know now, Highnesses, of a matter of gravity that has claimed my attention for many months and lately approaches full resolution: In times preceding the last Grand Combat there came to my lands an expedition of Humans under mandate of your lamented predecessor, Yeochee IV, seeking the site of the legendary Ship's Grave. A certain scientist of this party vouchsafed to me information that has proved to be of vital import to my people.

  Namely: That our principal settlements in and about the Water Caves of Meadow Mountain have inadvertently been located adjacent to deposits of dangerously radioactive minerals; and these have, in the course of our centimes of sojourn, affected the germ plasm of my people, occasioning deleterious mutations whose melancholy manifestations are only too well known.

  The hypothesis of this scientist was subsequently confirmed by another, Lord Greg-Donnet Genetics Master aka Gregory Prentice Brown, formerly of Muriah and now an honored citizen of Meadow Mountain, who was paramount among the human genetic specialists in the Many-Colored Land and who once held a prestigious position in a noted medical school of the Galactic Milieu.

  Greg-Donnet has, during the past month, undertaken an analysis of our situation with a view toward amelioration. You will rejoice with us, Highnesses, when I tell you that there is indeed hope now for our poor afflicted people. Some might be restored to an approximately normal aspect through a modification of the Tanu "Skin" healing technique if suitable practitioners among our erstwhile Foe can be persuaded to cooperate with us. Others of our mutant subjects must look to the future, which may see the normalization of generations yet unborn by the abolition of teratogenetic factors, by genetic engineering, and by other eugenic measures—some of which may be implemented even now under your benevolent auspices.