by Julian May
“We could do all that in less than six months. The only tricky part is roping the Dynasty into the project and training them to use the CE hats.”
Her eyes, fixed on the fading sunset glow, were full of misgiving. “The procedure with Denis will be extremely dangerous. Some of the metaconcert participants could be killed unless we build special safeguards into the program.”
“All the more reason for dealing with this thing as soon as possible. Before the other troubles the Milieu is facing come to a head—and are aggravated by Fury. Weren’t you the one who told me that the monster might exploit the Rebels, or foment God knows what other kind of mischief?”
“Jack, we’re proposing to endanger the lives of nine important Magnates of the Concilium—including the First Magnate himself—all on the say-so of a bibulous old gaffer!”
“I’ve known Rogi since I was in the womb. I still can’t predict when he’ll play the fuddleheaded eccentric and when he’ll do something noble and unselfish, but I do know that he’s dead honest. He loves me and I love him. Marc feels nearly the same way about Uncle Rogi as I do—and I suspect that Denis does, too.”
“So do I,” she admitted, turning away from him, “most of the time.”
They sat side by side in silence. Dusk was falling with tropical suddenness and both Venus and Jupiter were visible as evening stars. It was going to be a clear, moonless night.
“We must go ahead on this, sweetheart,” Jack said quietly.
“I suppose you’re right.” Her pseudovoice took on a resigned tone. “And Rogi’s probably right, too. About all of it. Except … what do you think about his notion that Denis saving his life proves he’s not Fury?”
“A complete non sequitur. Denis’s legitimate core persona would have no knowledge of its homicidal alter ego.”
She sighed. “That’s what I thought, too.” She paused. “An interesting thing, the theory that Uncle Rogi might be immune to Denis/Fury’s coercion because he’s Denis’s foster father. The flip side—that Denis/Fury might be immune to coercive redaction by his own children—could pose a serious problem in any healing metaconcert design.”
“We’ll have to try to work around it. Your probe of Rogi might help us to understand and counter the parent-child coercive constraint. We might also find a useful clue studying the love that sometimes must condone pain in the beloved … The Dynasty does love Denis, thank God, and I doubt that that love would be diminished if they knew their father harbored the Fury persona within him.”
“No. Their prime concern would be to heal him.”
“The only one of Denis’s children who would definitely be unsuited to the metaconcert is Anne. If she’s Fury, her dyscrasic persona could conceivably emerge during the operation and kill all the rest of the concert participants through the CE helmets. But with luck, we’ll have everything taken care of long before Anne gets out of regeneration.”
“And if Denis turns out not to be Fury?” she said.
“We can redact Anne when her body has healed, while she’s still in the tank and her mindpowers are below par.”
“Denis or Anne …” Dorothea spoke the names softly. “Which one do you think is the monster?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never tried to deep-probe either of them—unlike a certain nervy female with a titanic redactive faculty whom I could mention.”
She was visibly troubled. “When I did my mind-sifting investigation of the Dynasty six years ago, my methods were pretty crude. And I didn’t obtain irrefutable data, only a probability analysis based on temperament and overall metapsychic potential. Based upon my limited criteria, Marc was the one most likely to be Fury: a probability of 74 percent.”
“Darling, that’s utter codswallop!”
“He has the most alien mindset of the lot,” she insisted, “and the strongest metapsychic complexus.”
“Well, I won’t disagree with that …”
“Anne was the second most plausible Fury at 68 percent. Then came Paul at 64. The others were all much lower in probability. I was able to obtain only incomplete data on Denis and Lucille. The only time that I really got into Denis’s mind was at Marc’s Halloween party, when Denis and I danced.”
“And?” Jack prompted her.
“Of all the Remillards I examined, Denis was the most complex—and surprising. I couldn’t begin to analyze him in the brief time I was inside. His mind was vast! Do you know he’s a sub-functional paramount in every metafaculty?”
“I was afraid he might be.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t realize it himself. He seems to be a fully integrated personality—without any of the obvious quirks and defects of Paul, Anne, and Marc. But the intricacies of Denis’s mind are so profound that they actually terrified me. When I tried to dig deeper to illuminate them—pow!”
“Denis found you out?”
She nodded. “He was very kind and forgiving of my intrusion … and very firm in booting me out and slamming the screen door behind me. So my analysis was inconclusive. I had no impression of a resident second persona, however.”
“You haven’t tried to probe any Remillards since then?”
“Marc knew what I’d been up to at the Halloween party, just as Denis did. Rogi also found out that I had probed his mind. I presume one of those three told the others about my prying. At any rate, Marc and the Dynasty all set up alarm barriers specifically designed to counter my brand of imperceptible redaction. I was never able to sneak inside any of them unawares again.”
The little starship free-flew toward the southern Kauai shore, coming in only a few dozen meters above the calm, darkening water. Dorothea watched the approach with interest. She had never seen Jack’s house. Their decision to marry had been sudden, a notable shock to their relatives and associates, arrived at back on Caledonia in the aftermath of the diatreme eruption.
He had stayed with her for several weeks after the blowout, not only helping to heal her injuries but also assisting her as she personally inspected the disaster sites, coordinated relief efforts, and supervised plans for rebuilding. Their relationship had been warm but not overintimate. The fervent moments in the deep-driller following her injury, when he had declared his love, were never mentioned.
Finally, when he told her that he was overdue in Orb, where the Unity Directorate was in session, she simply agreed to his going, apparently still distracted by her planet’s troubles.
They had gone to Killiecrankie Starport together. And it was there, in the entry way of the departure concourse, that she seemed to realize at last that he was actually leaving her. An inexplicable panic seized her, an emotion totally alien to her normal grave competence.
“But what am I going to do without you?” her pseudovoice had cried. She was wearing the diamond-encrusted flying suit without its helmet. Her brown hair flew wild in the blustery wind and her eyes above the jeweled mask were suddenly wide, fearful, and unbelieving. “I need you. I don’t know why. It’s not the disaster or anything to do with my injuries. It’s me. It’s you. Oh, Jack, I don’t understand what’s happening to me—”
“I do. It happened to me a long time ago.” He took her hands, standing close to her to shelter her slight figure from the rain that had begun to pelt down. Other travelers entering the building recognized the illustrious couple and with typical Scots reticence and courtesy gave them a wide berth.
“But what are we going to do?” she asked him desperately.
On that amazing day, he had laughed and told her.
The burdens of her duties as Dirigent had prevented her from visiting Earth before the wedding. Jack said that he was having his house on Kauai prepared for their honeymoon, and she had looked forward to being surprised …
“There’s Lawai Kai, between those two headlands.” He pointed ahead to a small bay. A beautiful crescent beach lay inside, bordered by coconut, pandanus, and umbrella-shaped tahinu trees. Further inland they flew slowly over a lush little river valley encompassi
ng a string of picturesque lagoons and extensive groves of tall palms and flowering tropical trees.
“Two hundred years ago,” Jack said, “Lawai Kai belonged to Queen Emma, the wife of Kamehameha IV. Later on, it became a private estate and a botanical preserve, until Hurricane Palapala devastated it early in the twenty-first century. The valley reverted to jungle after the population exodus to the colonial planets. The Remillard Family Trust bought the place in 2073 and deeded it to me when I decided I wanted to have my permanent Earth residence on Kauai. I built a house and started restoring the ornamental plantings and the Lawai River pools. You’ll find that the place is quite modest, except for a rather snazzy lab in the basement that I use for special projects.”
“Is that where you intend to work on the special CE equipment?”
“Yes. Here and in Orb. The prototype for the coercive-redactive brainboard will be easy enough to carry around with me, but I’ll keep the modified CE helmets here. After we break the news to the Dynasty, this will be a convenient and secure place for the practice sessions.”
He landed the ship on a small pad near one of the lagoons and they climbed out. Stars were beginning to spangle the deep blue sky. A mass of waterlilies floated in the black waters, including an enormous species with pads over a meter in diameter and fragrant flowers nearly half as wide. Along the banks were plantings of bamboo and wide-leaved shrubs with curiously shaped blooms.
“How lovely,” she said. “Everything looks so natural—but I suppose you had to work very hard to make it that way.”
“Well, yes. I have more spectacular things to show you in the gardens than this, but it’s part of my big surprise. First let’s go up to the house.”
Their bags, sustained by his PK, floated along after them as they followed a stone walk. On either hand grew gorgeous heliconias, anthuriums, red ginger, bird-of-paradise plants, and proteas, mingled with many varieties of ferns. The house, framed in flowering poinciana trees, crepe myrtles, and silk oaks, at first seemed to be little more than a quaint old wooden plantation residence with a screened porch and a couple of rambling extra wings. It stood on rising ground overlooking the lagoons.
“Why, Jack!” she exclaimed as the realization struck her. “You’re a romantic! I never would have suspected it.”
“Few people do,” he admitted, making a wry face. “And imagine my surprise when I finally figured out the awful truth.”
The porch was full of potted orchid plants. “Those are mostly gifts from Denis,” he said, keying the state-of-the-art thoughtlock and opening the front door. “Would you like to be carried over the threshold? I don’t want to spoil my surprise, but you might care to postpone the tradition for just a bit.”
“Hmm! All right.”
The door closed behind them with a faint hiss, shutting out the perfume of the gardens, and she suddenly realized that the rustic appearance of Jack’s house was a sham. The place was a stronghold, made not of wood, glass, and stone but of artfully textured cerametal, clear sheets of laserproof boron perboride, and indestructible high-molecular plass. The air was cool, filtered, and humidity-controlled. In the tiny front hallway was a wall control station for programming aerial and terrestrial alarm systems and a double-ply sigma shield.
“Good heavens,” she murmured, “Is all this for Fury and Hydra?”
“Among others. I’d prefer to talk about it later … This is the living room.” He stood aside politely so she could enter first.
She did, and stood speechless.
Table lamps and standards had switched on automatically, giving soft illumination. The place was about nine meters square, with tall windows along the side overlooking the back garden. Hung on the walls in museum-style shadow boxes were a precious tapa cloth from Tonga, a nineteenth-century Hawaiian quilt, and an intricate featherwork cloak of modern vintage. Carvings, masks, bowls, fiber-art constructions, and framed collections of shells from all over the South Pacific were wall-mounted, displayed in niches, or scattered about on tables or on the polished teakwood floor. There were scores of paintings, including one by Paul Gauguin, three by Madge Tennent, and a set of exquisite native bird studies by Marian Berger. In the place of honor above the fireplace, subtly lit, was a James Goldenberg portrait of Teresa Kaulana Kendall costumed as the Queen of the Night in The Magic Flute.
Several old Chinese rosewood cabinets had been modified to hold a stereo, a Tri-D, and impressive communications and reference equipment. There was also a tall case full of paged books. Near the room’s center a crystal container that resembled a globular fishbowl rested on a lau-hala floor mat. The furnishings, of native woods, rattan, and quietly colored hand-screened fabric, looked brand new and rather homely, considering the awesome collection of artwork surrounding them.
“This room and the lab in the basement used to be all there was to the house,” Jack said. “But I’ve made some additions. Kitchen and indoor dining area through there in the south wing.”
She nodded. It went without saying that a naked brain had no need of the usual domestic amenities. They inspected the new rooms briefly. Both were small and cheerfully appointed. The kitchen was equipped with every conceivable laborsaving device, including an automatic food-delivery system. As they returned to the living room she pointed to the mysterious empty fishbowl.
“I hope that’s not the bedroom.”
“Not while you’re in residence,” he said, grinning. “I think we’ll use it for a flower vase instead. The new sleeping chamber is across the hall. Let’s see if it meets Madam Dirigent’s requirements.”
The room was large, with an adjoining lanai and bathroom. The walls were white-painted, adorned with a few pieces of artwork. In one corner hung a little old crucifix carved of koawood. At its foot was a bracket with a tiny red light. The bed was of fancifully wrought brass, covered with an intricate green-and-white patchwork quilt in the classic Hawaiian style that had been Malama’s wedding present. Gauzy draperies hung at the tall jalousied windows in the French doors leading to the lanai. The other furniture was sparse: a lovely old mahogany chest of drawers and a framed mirror, a couple of ladder-back chairs, and a pair of pickled-pine nightstands with glass-shaded lamps.
“These things are only temporary,” he said. “I wanted you to decorate this room in your own way. And the rest of the house as well, if you like.”
“It’s quite lovely the way it is. I’ll just add a few things here and there. We can play turnabout when we fix up our house on Caledonia.”
He hesitated. “Would you like to see the laboratory?”
“Tomorrow,” she said gently. “It’s been a very long day.”
He opened the sliding doors to a walk-in closet. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got us some special things to wear. And then my surprise!” He turned, his face composed but his mind radiating nervous hope. “The weather is going to be perfect. I thought we might spend our first night in a grass shack I’ve built out on Pu’u Kiloia, one of the promontories beside the bay. It’s … very pretty there. The air is cool and you can hear surf beating on the rocks, and there are special flowers.”
He shook out a folded piece of soft golden cloth imprinted with a scarlet pattern. “I know how you love to make clothing. I thought I’d try it, too. This is a pa’u, a kind of Hawaiian sarong, the traditional women’s garment of the old islands. I made it from the bark of the wauke, the paper mulberry tree.”
Her eyes lit up as she took it. “It’s marvelous! As soft as silk. Thank you, Jack.”
“I have a malo for myself, cut from the same length of kapa cloth.” He gestured toward the bathroom door. “If you’d like to get ready, I’ll see to a few things and then come back and take you to the shack.”
She nodded.
He scanned her masked face anxiously. “It’s all right, isn’t it, Diamond? I mean … in traditional human sex, the male is the initiator. But if you’d rather—”
She placed two fingers against his lips to silence him and her mind suffuse
d him with warm approval. “I’d like to be a traditional bride. I think your idea of spending our honeymoon night in a grass shack is incredibly romantic and I love you.”
He smiled his relief. “I’ll be right back.”
She went into the bathroom, taking both the native garment and her wedding lei of maile. They had brought the garlands of sacred Hawaiian leaves with them from New Hampshire. She stripped off her traveling clothes, took a quick shower, and prepared her body. There were many jewel-bright flagons of tropical oils lined up on a tiled shelf, but she seemed irresistibly drawn to the delicately scented pikake jasmine. After the anointing, she wound the pa’u around herself in the way that Jack’s mind had indicated and studied the effect in the full-length mirror.
My hair should be longer, she thought.
Well—why not? On this night above all they could defy the conventions of “correct” operant behavior and please themselves. She made the hair grow until it cascaded down nearly to her hips, brown and shining and slightly waved, concealing the sides of the diamond mask. For good measure, she augmented her small breasts just a bit and enhanced her eyelashes. Then she was ready.
When she went out into the bedroom Jack had not yet returned. She dimmed the night-lights almost to extinction and stood for a moment before the crucifix, where the tiny votive light cast eerie shadows on the carved face of Christ.
Help us, she prayed. Send a real angel to watch over Jack and me and bless our marriage. It’s going to be so hard, Lord, being separated for so much of the time. Our minds can bridge interstellar space, but not our bodies. We’re human and we need to be more than soul-mates. Both of us …
They would be together only when the Concilium was in session, or on the rare occasions when their duties otherwise permitted it. From this bright beginning they would learn more and more about each other while their devotion either grew stronger or faded: Jack the Bodiless and Diamond Mask, two grotesquely atypical human persons who had improbably found love.