Magnificat

by Julian May

SEATTLE METRO, EARTH 27 SEPTEMBER 2078

  RORY MULDOWNEY, DIRIGENT OF THE “IRISH” ETHNIC PLANET of Hibernia, shifted uncomfortably in his seat in Manion’s antiquated old beater of a rhocraft and thought black rebellious thoughts about the Rebellion. The others on the Executive Council of the movement, God blast them, had committed themselves firmly to this new, disturbing course. Now, barring a miracle, they were stuck with it. His own opposition had been halfhearted because it was irrational and he knew it—just as he knew why most of the others were so enthusiastically in favor. He hadn’t dared to tell them the real reason why he opposed their choice for a new leader. They were determined to have one, and all that remained was to see if the candidate was willing to accept.

  Muldowney’s florid face twisted in a bitter little smile. And if Marc did accept, he thought, then wouldn’t I give my soul to see the look on the face of Paul Remillard—may the devil roast the prick off him!—when he finds out what his darling son has done.

  The egg said, “ETA five minutes CEREM NAVCON,” and began the descent from the ionosphere. It was nearly midnight.

  “Display CU terrain proper CEREM plant,” Alexis Manion commanded.

  “Proper CU option unavailable,” said the rhocraft. “Shall I show three-kay overview analog?”

  “Go,” said Alex. His passengers were leaning forward to study the chart that had come up on the navigation unit display. “Sorry, folks. No real-world picture of Marc’s bailiwick. It seems that he’s beefed up security since I was here a couple of years ago.”

  “How intriguing,” said Hiroshi Kodama. His gaze was unfocused as he exerted his ultrasenses. “It is also quite impossible to perceive CEREM with farsight, although the surrounding region is quite clear. I conjecture that some device such as an S-450 fuzzer is in operation.”

  “Here’s a how-dee-doo,” Alex sang softly. He posed a rhetorical question: “Now what do you suppose Marc is hiding down there?”

  “Something valuable?” Cordelia Warshaw suggested.

  “Something illegal,” said Rory Muldowney, who knew all about such things.

  The screen showed a labeled chart of an industrial park at least 120 hectares in extent. The South Fork of the Snoqualmie River ran through it, and more than a dozen sizable buildings were scattered among groves of evergreen trees.

  “That is CEREM?” Professor Anna Gawrys exclaimed. “All that? Why, it’s enormous—bigger than IDFS! I never dreamt that Marc Remillard had such resources at his command.”

  “I suppose this is just one more branch of the Dynasty’s far-flung commercial empire,” Patricia Castellane remarked.

  Alex Manion shook his head. “Not by a long shot. Marc might have had a bit of help from the family trust back in 2072, setting the thing up, but he’s been independent of the Remco conglomerate structure for over five years. CEREM is Marc’s private fief. It turns a tidy profit manufacturing conventional mental interface systems—besides providing him with almost unlimited facilities for his more unorthodox enterprises.”

  “I’ll bet there are some lovely fish in that little river down there,” Rory said.

  “Rainbow trout,” Alex confirmed. “Marc bought this particular site for CEREM so he could go flyfishing right outside the back door of his lab when he needed a break.”

  Rory gave a snort.

  Professor Gawrys seemed bemused by the huge establishment shown on the display. “I had not realized that commercial CE was so … lucrative.”

  “Better say expensive and be done with it, Annushka,” Patricia Castellane said. “It would be splendid to have Marc Remillard lending his paramount metafaculties and charismatic presence to our Rebellion—but even better to have his lovely El8 hats and brainboard components for free if it turns out that we have to fight our way out of the Milieu.”

  Hiroshi Kodama said, “Good point, Pat. Satsuma’s Geophysical Modification Unit has already coughed up more than four hundred and fifty million dollars for CEREM equipment. I dare say Okanagon has spent even more.”

  “Six hundred mil thus far,” Castellane admitted. “And we’ve budgeted another hundred megabux for the next fiscal year. Poor old Oky is just coming apart at the seams. Nothing as spectacular as the Caledonian diatreme, thank God, but enough all-around crustal instability to keep us hopping. I don’t know how we find enough spare time and money to foment Rebellion on the side.”

  “At least,” Hiroshi said, “you don’t have yakuza gangsters to cope with in addition to the earthquakes.”

  “Rope your local rascals into our grand cause!” Rory Muldowney said, tipping his colleague a wink. “You might just find them to be very helpful in the procurement of certain vital commodities.”

  Hiroshi received the suggestion in cold silence.

  “Now there’s a real Irish proposal for you,” Patricia drawled.

  Rory’s face purpled with indignation. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Madam Dirigent?”

  “Read my mind, Mister Dirigent. And recall your ethnic history—to say nothing of certain major suppliers of the toys in your basement.”

  “And why shouldn’t I get the stuff wherever I can if it helps the cause in the long run? Rebellion’s not for the squeamish!”

  “Children, children,” said Cordelia Warshaw. “Let’s save our energies for the conversion of Marc Remillard.”

  “We must still decide who will be our spokesman tonight,” Professor Gawrys said.

  The five other minds immediately responded: YOU Annushka.

  “Oh, no!” she protested. “I am not at all suitable. I’ve been thinking how unfortunate it is that Adrien declined to accompany us on this mission. He would have been the ideal one to approach his nephew. I still recall his prophetic comment about Marc and our Rebel movement, made so many years ago.”

  “You are the appropriate spokesman,” Hiroshi Kodama said. “It’s fitting that the present head of our cause should offer the leadership to the chosen successor.”

  “But what if he declines? Coercion is my weakest metafaculty!”

  “There’s not a head in the galaxy who could coerce Marc,” Alex said. “We’ll persuade him to join us by demonstrating that it’s in his best interest—or we won’t persuade him at all.”

  Rory Muldowney said, “Never fear, Annushka. If we’re bound and determined to have the man, he’s ripe for the plucking. After his narrow squeak with the Polity Science Directorate at the last Concilium session, the only way he’ll be able to continue his research is with the backing of the Rebel bloc. The vote defeating the moratorium this time was a fiamin’ fluke. It won’t happen again unless the party lends a helping hand. Marc’s only chance lies in keeping opposition to his work bottled up in committee, and we can deliver the votes to insure that. So just put it to him plainly. The bastard’s a natural Rebel anyway. He belongs on our side.”

  Unspoken was Rory’s additional thought: But not as our leader.

  The professor appealed to Alexis Manion. “But surely you would be the better choice to make the proposal to Marc. You have known him since you were schoolboys.”

  “No one really knows Marc Remillard,” said Alex starkly.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Hiroshi Kodama said, “Even so, Alex, do you think he would have bothered to meet with us at all if he were not sympathetically inclined to the Rebel viewpoint?”

  “Beats me,” said Manion. “I was surprised all to hell when he invited us to come and make our pitch—and to CEREM, at that.”

  The egg continued its descent through the clear night sky. At lower altitudes the lights of Seattle Metro delineated every island and coastal feature of Puget Sound, spreading short glittering tentacles of habitation westward into the Olympic Peninsula and longer shining arms up the river valleys toward the eastern Cascade foothills.

  “I must tell you,” said Professor Gawrys in a quiet but firm voice, “that I still have deep misgivings about this mission.”

  “You agreed with the rest of the Executive Co
uncil that the movement needed more forceful leadership,” Cordelia said sharply, “and that Marc Remillard was the one who could give it to us.”

  “Yes. That’s true. Nevertheless, I am obliged to tell you what I feel in my heart. This man that we will meet tonight has the potential to transform our Rebel cause … for better or for worse. I will admit that he seems sympathetic to the principles of human freedom that we have dedicated our lives to. But as I listened to his brilliant rebuttal during the Concilium session, staving off the attempt to stifle his research, I was deeply disturbed. In the Concilium, all minds are supposed to be transparent and free of any trace of artifice or duplicity. But we humans, being ununified, still veil the innermost secrets of our hearts from each other and from the exotic magnates—”

  “We do it,” Patricia Castellane said, “because we must.”

  “Yes, because we Rebels have sincere doubts about humanity’s role in the Galactic Milieu,” the professor agreed. “But it seems to me that Marc Remillard’s mental reservations differ from our own in an important respect. I fear that his primary concern is not humanity’s right to mental freedom, but rather the defense of his own sovereign ego.”

  “The two things aren’t incompatible,” Alex said mildly.

  “Perhaps not,” the professor conceded. “You know Marc much better than I. Nevertheless, I wish that we had not come here. At least, not yet.”

  Cordelia Warshaw rolled her eyes in exasperation. “The timing is perfect, Annushka. We’ve needed the man on our team for years—and now we finally have an opportunity to offer him quid pro quo by forestalling any future moratorium on creative CE.”

  “If we invite Marc Remillard to lead us,” the professor said, “I am afraid that we renounce any hope of a nonviolent solution to our Rebel dilemma.”

  “You can’t be certain of that,” Hiroshi said.

  “No. It is only a feeling I have. An intuition.”

  “Most of us,” said Patricia Castellane, her steel-colored eyes dangerously narrowed, “believe that a peaceful withdrawal of humanity from the Milieu is impossible under any circumstances. Given that, Marc and his resources are—”

  “Attention! Attention!”

  With shocking abruptness, a computerized voice blared from the speaker of their egg’s navigation unit. The console display began blinking a cautionary icon.

  “Attention, rhocraft UK LPZD 44926. You have breached the restricted airspace of CEREM Limited, a privately held corporation with citizenship status in the North American Intendancy. Your vehicle has been inserted into a holding pattern. If you are not authorized to land, you are herewith ordered to exit this airspace within one minute. If you have access authorization, enter the appropriate code now.”

  Their inertialess egg had come to a complete stop in mid-air, 3000 meters above an area of dead-black ground impenetrable to the mind’s eye.

  Alex Manion began to fumble in an inner pocket of his jacket. He had put on his best outfit for the great occasion, a natty dark green nebulin townsuit, a high-collared sark, and shoes with chased-silver buckles. Unfortunately, since he had felt a chill in his chest when he, Annushka, and Cordelia flew from Cambridge University to the Shetlands to collect the other Rebel leaders at Unst Starport, he had augmented the finery with an extremely long (and slightly grubby) striped woolen scarf that he had wound several times around his neck.

  “Now what did I do with that key-fleck Marc sent?” he muttered.

  “Attention, LPZD 44926! Failure to exit airspace or failure to enter access authorization code will result in your vehicle being enveloped in a sigma-field and taken in tow by a CEREM security force tractor. Enter access code now.”

  Alex squinted at the handful of little transparent plass squares he had pulled out. “Damn. I should have sent this paper to Nature last week.”

  “Attention, LPZD 44926! You are cautioned that the CEREM corporate entity is licensed by Area 360 Air Traffic Control and the Cascadia Zone Magistratum to repel trespassers with deadly force if necessary. Enter code now.”

  “Bozhye moi!” exclaimed the professor.

  “For Christ’s sake, Alex,” Rory Muldowney said. “Feed the friggin’ fleck!”

  “Here it is.” Alex delicately inserted one of the little squares into a slot on the navigation console and touched a data-transfer pad. “No doubt about it, Marc’s yanked the old welcome mat to the general public.”

  The computerized voice dropped its belligerent tone. “Authorization code accepted. Entering CEREM NAVCON auto landing option. Please do not attempt to take manual control of your aircraft.”

  The egg resumed its smooth descent. As they passed through the attenuated dynamic-field barrier, the featureless area below was suddenly transformed into a spangled expanse of lights in a narrow valley. A network of driveways and walks spread among crowded car parks, rhocraft pads, and more than twenty sprawling buildings with windows blazing. In a few minutes they hung above an opening iris-door in the ground immediately adjacent to one of the smaller structures in the industrial campus. Most of the CEREM buildings were beautifully constructed of natural materials that harmonized with the landscaping, but this one was a nearly featureless monolithic cube some 30 meters on a side, lacking doors and windows. The egg descended into the underground docking area and all of its systems shut down. The overhead door closed and the rhocraft began to move through a dim tunnel on a conveyor.

  Hiroshi said, “There’s a very hefty internal sigma-field permeating this entire area.”

  “This cubic building is new,” Alex noted. “My old bud’s definitely up to something.”

  “Well, at least we won’t have to worry about security at our meeting with the man,” Rory Muldowney said.

  “Marc’s private offices in the main executive block are perfectly thoughtproof,” said Alex. “I suspect he’s meeting us in this high-tech fortress for another reason altogether.”

  “What could that be?” the professor asked uneasily.

  “We’ll find out pretty soon,” said Patricia Castellane. “We’ve arrived.”

  Their craft had come to a halt in a parking bay and its hatch rolled open. They had been conveyed into a reception dock with wood-paneled walls and a carpeted floor. Brass urns held ornamental foliage plants, and in spotlit niches were pieces of Dale Chihuly glass sculpture and ancient wooden dance-masks of some Pacific Coast native tribe. The battered old Mitsubishi egg that Alex refused to part with looked woefully out of place compared to the luxurious executive flying machines parked in the bays on either side of it.

  The dock appeared to be deserted. As they climbed out of the rhocraft Annushka Gawrys looked about with a touch of apprehension and said, “The aetheric vibrations in this building are most peculiar.”

  “Now don’t start fretting again,” Cordelia said. She had on a maroon zenil skirtsuit with matching thigh-high boots and a pert white beret.

  “I am a very old woman,” the professor told her curtly, “and I’ve earned the right to fret when the situation warrants it.” But then she gave a wry shrug, took a small mirror from her handbag, and began to tuck a few wayward strands of hair back into place.

  Anna Yurievna Gawrys-Sakhvadze, youngest child of the metapsychic pioneers Tamara Sakhvadze and Yuri Gawrys, had been born in 1980. Thanks to two courses of rejuvenation she appeared to be in her mid-forties, a near-contemporary of her younger companions. Her blunt features were softened by lustrous auburn hair confined in a fashionable coil at the nape of her neck. She wore a classic Chanel costume, a pleated navy blue skirt and a jacket trimmed in white braid. At her smooth throat was a strand of lapis lazuli beads.

  The Council members from offworld were more casually attired. Patricia Castellane was dressed in a somber narrow poncho and leggings of black crushed velvet, and a gray cashmere turtleneck sweater. Hiroshi Kodama and Rory Muldowney, who had arrived on separate starships that morning from their home planets, had on simple warm-up gear and Romeo shoes.

  “Marc�
��s not an ogre,” Alex Manion said to the professor. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  Annushka switched to declamatory mindspeech: I know Remillard is not an ogre. He is worse: He is a charming enigma and I have learned through long experience that such lifeforms can be dangerous!

  Alex said: A lot of that Byronic façade is compensatory. It’s not easy being a paramount and it’s even tougher being a member of a family that’s pressured you to do things their way from the time you were a little kid.

  “Ochón ó,” Rory murmured in mock sympathy. The poor lad! I suppose it was his mean old dad—the devil hoist him!—made him what he is today.

  Alex threw the Irishman a glance of pity and said: Marc’s feelings toward Paul are probably an echo of your own—and for a similar reason.

  Rory seemed taken aback by the idea, then he frowned and said aloud, “Y’know, I never thought about it quite like that before.”

  “Start thinking, then,” Patricia Castellane suggested. “For a change of pace.”

  “Please!” Annushka begged, before Rory could deliver a furious riposte. “We must not wrangle.” I insist that we present a united mind to Marc Remillard. If there is anyone who cannot do that then I entreat that person to withdraw from the delegation.

  Alexis Manion smiled coolly at the Dirigent of Hibernia and said: You can take the egg back to Seattle and wait for us at Jazz Alley if you prefer.

  “Aw, shite,” muttered Rory Muldowney. You know damn well I’m with you. I’ll kiss the spailpín’s bum if you want me to.

  Hiroshi Kodama said: One hopes that will not be necessary. But if it is we should certainly make a video for posterity.

  Everyone else, including Muldowney, roared with laughter.

  Then Cordelia said, “I wonder how much longer Remillard is going to keep us waiting here?” With the closing of the conveyor tunnel gate there seemed to be no way out of the subterranean reception area and no indication that they were expected. “Alex, don’t you think you’d better give a farshout and let these people know we’re here?”

  Hang on! said a telepathic voice. I’m on my way.