Dee nabbed Marc during the Ladies’ Choice waltz. At first he had attempted to demur because of the difference in their heights: he was over 40 centimeters taller than she, and the black jack-o’-lantern of the CE helmet made him even taller.
But she said, “You can’t back out of Ladies’ Choice, Big Boy!” She took both his hands in hers and gave him a coercive nudge that made his eyes widen. Then he laughed at her audacity, and they swung out onto the floor together. She was so light on her feet that they seemed to complement each other perfectly, a pair of graceful grotesques, and many of the other couples stopped to watch.
But she found it impossible to get into his mind.
No fair! she said. You’ve got the hat energized haven’t you.
He said: The E16’s internal power source won’t move mountains, but it’s quite adequate to Diamondproof me. You’ll simply have to take my word that I’m neither Fury nor part of Hydra.
“A likely story,” she said aloud. She tried to pull away from him but he held her gloved hands tightly. “Let go.”
“Don’t make a scene. You wanted to dance. Do it.”
“You big bully!” The diamond mask hid her fury at being momentarily outmaneuvered, but after a moment’s hesitation she submitted.
Marc only laughed. He had not bothered to extend his augmented power to an external disguise, and she could easily see through the bulky CE helmet with its zany stuck-on features to the ironically smiling face beneath. It was safe to assume that he could see her face, too.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Dorothea Macdonald. Since you’ve had a go at probing the other Remillards, I believe it’s only fair to give me a turn with you.”
Her dancing feet never missed a beat but the eyes above the glittering mask hardened. “Try it.”
He did, gently at first and then with building intensity, calling at last upon the maximum enhancement potential available with the limited power source of the helmet. His mental probe would have cracked a Krondaku Grand Master; it did not faze the fifteen-year-old girl.
“Bonté divine! You are a prodigy, aren’t you, Diamond Mask! Your mind-screen’s as strong as Jack’s.”
“Good.”
“You’re hostile … what a shame. And we’ve just met.”
“Let’s not pussyfoot,” she retorted. “You were expecting me to do just what I did. Your CE equipment is set for the augmentation of coercion—not creativity.”
The black jack-o’-lantern nodded. “The helmet is capable of enhancing only one metafaculty at a time. Switching it over requires the insertion of a different brainboard. It’s not difficult. The original interface will be plugged back in before I perform my bag of tricks later in the evening.”
“What are you going to do to me now?” she asked calmly. “Prosecute me for felonious mental trespass against members of your family?”
“I’m going to waltz with you,” Marc said.
“No warning me off the Remillard preserves with threats of legal retaliation?”
“Your enemy is ours. Believe me! We should join forces, not work at odds. My brother Jack would like to—”
“No!” For the first time, her silver-clad body faltered. “I don’t want anything to do with that—with him.”
“He’s human,” Marc said softly. “He was very impressed by your probing this evening. He says he couldn’t have done anything approaching it without cerebroenergizing. You’re an appalling young woman, Diamond Mask. I hope the Lylmik waste no time magnatizing you. You’ll join our elite little club then, whether you want to or not.”
“If they make me a paramount, I’ll carry out whatever duties the position entails.” Her tone was stilted.
“Paramount Grand Masters have no special obligations aside from the usual duties of a magnate, but sometimes suggestions are made. It was suggested that Jack and I take a bash at the Satsuma seismic problem. We did and we got lucky. But I nearly died.”
“How?”
Marc showed her. “In this configuration, I was the prime focus, the one actually directing the flow of energies. Unfortunately, we had failed to calibrate our atypical mental potential precisely enough, and because of this the metaconcert suffered a dysergistic failure. What we call an all-systems zorch—a funny name for a not-so-funny phenomenon. The pressurized atmosphere inside the deep-drilling machine we rode in suddenly ionized into white-hot plasma because of misdirected creativity. Jack might have had a pico-sec’s warning through the proleptic metafaculty—the one that allegedly sees the future—or perhaps his mind just outraced the expanding ions. At any rate he cut out of the concert and spun a psychocreative shield around me that saved my bacon. The ionization was gone as fast as it came but the cab of the driller and part of its instrumentation were fried. The surface crew descended and rescued us within two hours. Then Jack and I modified the config of the concert, climbed into a new deep-driller, and tried again. The second time was the charm. We were able to diminish the friction within the fault zone—to ‘lubricate’ it with a creative injection of carbon—and minimize the danger of a serious quake in that area for a useful number of years.”
“Why wasn’t your brother burnt to a crisp in the plasma blowout?”
“He was in his natural mutant form. It seems to be invulnerable. At least, nothing’s ever been able to harm him yet.”
“Thank you for the dance,” she said. Will I be expected to undertake mortally dangerous work like this if I’m named a paramount?
Marc said, “It was my pleasure, Citizen Macdonald.” Only if you feel you must. You’re free to make your own choice.
The band began to play a techno variation of “Pompton Turnpike” and Lucille Cartier and Denis Remillard materialized out of the crowd.
“Your mother insists on having a whirl with you, Marc,” Denis said. “I think she wants to make certain you’re all in one piece.” He bowed to Dorothea Macdonald. “If you’ll accept a default partner, my dear?”
“I’d be honored, Professor Remillard,” she said.
As they danced away she slipped carefully through Denis’s mindscreen, slid the probe home, and began to weave the bypass structure.
<My poor little one.>
Fury. I expected you earlier. It’s a goddam catastrophe.
<Yes.>
Is it ruined then? Your great scheme for the Second Milieu?
<No my darling boy not if you are willing to save it.>
The other units can … carry on successfully without me until you recruit more?
<They can. Some of them are not so mature and unselfish as you. They have resisted my need to regenerate. But now the need will be more than self-evident. I shall carry on. And bless and remember you always as you rejoice with Gordo in the abode of reward I have prepared for you. If you wish, you can wait until tomorrow—>
I’m ready to do it right now. Farewell Fury. Farewell SELVES …
The man known as Clinton Wolfe Alvarez died in his sleep of a massive myocardial infarction approximately three hours after he was arrested and placed in a holding cell in the Metropolitan Jail of Okanagon’s capital city. The body was not discovered until the next morning, by which time there was no possibility of resuscitating him in a regeneration-tank.
DNA analysis eventually identified the deceased as Quentin Frederic O’Neill Remillard, the fugitive son of Severin Remillard. This information was kept confidential by the Galactic Magistratum. The vehicular homicide case fabricated against the erstwhile Citizen Alvarez was classified as “solved” by the death of the suspect.
19
KAUAI, HAWAII, EARTH 2 NOVEMBER 2072
THE DREAM CAME TO HER FOR THE LAST TIME WHILE SHE WAITED ON the island with Uncle Rogi for Jack to complete his investigation on Okanagon. After two nearly sleepless nights as a result of Malama Johnson’s huna therapy, she found herself finally relaxing on the breezy lanai of the little house in Kukuiula. Her eyes closed and she slept.
<Dody …>
Mummie? You’re crying. What’s wrong?
<I’m so disappointed. In you, my dear. We had so many fruitful conversations. You seemed to be so excited about the plan for the Second Milieu and your role as the leader of it. But now I find that you’ve been consorting with the Great Enemy. You promised you’d never listen to his lies, never have anything to do with that godless inhuman tool of the Lylmik slavemasters. You broke your promise, Dody. Betrayed my trust. I’m so unhappy.>
There’s no need, Mummie. The Halloween party was a perfect chance to probe Jack’s mind. To know just what kind of threat the Great Enemy poses. You can’t contend against a foe you have no data on. Surely you realize that.
<The Cosmic All designated me to be your guide and mentor, Dody. I am the only conduit of God’s truth, the only one who can show you how to fulfill your destiny and bring about the new Golden Age for humanity. Trusting in your own judgment is arrogant and foolhardy, a sign of childish pride.>
I didn’t think of it that way.
<The time is growing so short! You seemed nearly ready to make the Choice. But now I suspect … that you have doubts.>
Nothing has changed in our relationship. I’m as committed to you and the Second Milieu as I ever was.
<Then why have you gone to Kauai, to consort with the Great Enemy’s two lackeys?>
Uncle Rogi is no one’s lackey, Mum. And Malama Johnson is simply a friend of his that we’re visiting—
<The Hawaiian woman is a kahuna! Don’t you know what that means, you foolish child?>
She’s a traditional Hawaiian healer. A practitioner of natural redaction. She’s been helping me with the inhibitions that prevent me from using the full spectrum of my metafaculties—
<She’s an ignorant witch doctor! A primitive thinker with no conception of the Cosmic All, who toys with malignant psychic phenomena that she doesn’t understand. Do you realize that the Lylmik have used more sophisticated variants of this “huna magic” from time immemorial in order to control the minds of their Unified slaves?>
Oh, Mum. Malama Johnson is a Catholic, just like I am. She’s a dear, harmless old soul who teaches me how to make flower leis when she’s not helping me sweep out the last of my mental garbage. She’s a kahuna lapaau, not one of the black-magic anaana kind. Her use of the higher mindpowers is restricted to her work as a healer amongst her people here in the islands.
<Dody, Dody, what a simpleminded lass you still are, for all your education and operancy. This woman Malama practices a dark, soul-destroying art that lets her control those around her. Heaven only knows what damage she’ll do if you allow her inside your mind! She’s been instructing the Great Enemy how to use an amplified version of her huna power, so that he’ll eventually be able to obliterate the human opponents of Unity. The Lylmik have concealed the existence of this ultimate mental evil from all except a handful of their most trusted servants. Jack is one of them and so is his brother Marc. There are others as well, subverting the human freedom movement on every world our people have colonized.>
I—I find that hard to believe.
<Do you? Do you really? My dearest daughter, have you finally turned your back on the holy vision I was privileged to bring you?>
No. I only want to study it scientifically from all aspects, to make certain—
<You persist in clinging to false notions of reductionist objectivity when you should be embracing the tapestry of the Whole, which is mystery! You’re a mathematician, Dody. Have you forgotten what Gödel’s Theorem tells you? Axioms cannot describe a world that is both provably complete and consistent. There is a truth that lies beyond! One that can be grasped only through faith.>
I know. I still must ask whether the Second Milieu exemplifies this truth. And whether I’m the one to promulgate it.
<I weep for you … Your lack of vision is on the verge of condemning Earth’s children to a future of mental bondage. Unless you make the Choice, humanity will never prevail against the horror that is Unity. Our race will be engulfed by the oppressive exotic Mind, and it will be your fault! For doubting. For lacking courage. For toying with uncertainty and paradox rather than making the leap of faith—the Choico.>
You know I’m not … a person of unswerving self-confidence. When you tell me I must lead the human race into the Second Milieu all by myself I feel overwhelmed—
<But you needn’t! Because you won’t really be alone. That’s the most consoling, the most beautiful thing about the Choice. Up until now, I haven’t spoken of this aspect of the glorious mystery, but now I must. Because this is your last chance, Dody.>
I—what do you mean?
<I am empowered to offer you the Choice now, for the first and only time. If you accept, you will know instantly how the Second Milieu is to be accomplished. Your doubts and fears will evaporate—together with that malignant preprogrammed response you call your guardian angel, that poisonous thing the Lylmik planted within you when you were an unsuspecting child, hoping to make you their slave.>
How … do I make this Choice?
<All that’s necessary is for you to say, “Mother, let it be done,” and mean it with all your heart and mind.>
You mean I must open myself?
<Yes.>
Without reservation?
<Yes.>
What will happen then?
<My dearest, most fortunate child! The Cosmic Afflatus will fill you—the very Life-Breath of the All. You will find yourself sharing your body with the Mind of the Universe itself.>
That’s incredible. It’s like … the Annunciation.
<No. It’s greater. The Entity dwelling within you will make you the instrument of human freedom and happiness without your having to sacrifice anything of your self. You will never be called upon to suffer. You will only know ineffable joy.>
With the Cosmic Mind residing inside my body.
<Yes.>
Whose body does the Mind inhabit now?
<… What?>
The Mind. Where is it now?
<WILL YOU MAKE THE CHOICE?>
Will you answer my question?
Mummie?
<So … All these years, it has been a game. You hoped to trick me, you perfidious damned child! You know who I really am. You’ve always known. And you are the one responsible for the death of my poor Quentin!>
That’s not true, and you know it.
<Shitfacedliar! Stinkingputridcunt! Mindfuckingwhore! It was your fault—>
I’d like to help, Fury. Neutralize the anger and relieve the unending pain. There must be a way to reintegrate the broken parts of you. To heal you.
…
Tell me whose body you live in.
<You’ll find out, Dorothea Macdonald. As you die. Be assured that I am going to kill you, in precisely the same way that your dear mother was killed: slowly, in the most intense mental and physical agony that human beings can experience. Wait for it! It will happen when you least expect it. Au revoir.
Rogi came out of the house carrying a tray with two frosty glasses of pineapple juice and a durofilm printout of the island newspaper. “So you’re awake after all. I was hoping you’d finally get a few hours of rest.”
Dee managed a wan smile. “I did doze a little.”
He gave her a drink and sat down in one of the other chairs with the paper. “You ought to reconsider letting Malama help you with the insomnia.”
“There’s no need. I don’t think I’ll be troubled with sleeplessness again. Malama has enough to do, teaching me the huna discipline. It’s fascinating the way she’s been able to release some of the most intractable of my residual mind-blocks in just the two days I’ve been here. Things Catherine and her people couldn’t touch.”
“Well, Jack told you she was special. He says she worked with him even before he was born. I don’t know whether to take him seriously or not. It sounds pretty peculiar.”
Dee’s expression darkened. “Jack is peculiar. I still can’t believe I agre
ed to come here and do this. You’re a very persuasive man, Uncle Rogi. If it had been only Jack urging me to come to Malama, I’d have turned him down flat.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of Ti-Jean, Dorothée. He has your best interests at heart.”
She sighed. “So people keep telling me.” She set her untouched drink aside, got up from the chaise, and stretched. Her hair was in two braids and she wore a pair of tattered shorts and one of Rogi’s gaudy old Hawaiian shirts knotted beneath her small breasts. “I think I’ll take a walk down along the shore. The surf ought to be spectacular this morning after the storm.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rogi said with a smile, throwing his newspaper aside and climbing hurriedly to his feet.
“No, thanks. I have to sort some things out in my mind. I’d really rather go alone. I know you and Malama mean well, but you two have hardly let me out of your sight since I arrived. And that’s silly. She verifies the MP ID of everyone on the island each night when her mana’s strongest. There are no Hydras here. And even if there were, I’d know them the instant they combined in metaconcert to attack me. And I’d get them.”
Rogi sat down again, glowering. “You’re too damned sure of yourself. How can you be so positive you’re stronger than they are?”
“For starters, there are only three of them now. One of the Hydras is dead. Jack will find out that the DNA of Clinton Alvarez matches that of Quentin Remillard.”
“How do you know that for certain? You been watching Jack on Okanagon with your farsight?”
“No … but I’m sure of it, all the same. And there’s another reason why I’m confident I’m a match for the remaining Hydras. They consider Jack to be Fury’s Great Enemy. If they could have drained the lifeforce from him with mindpower, they would have done it years ago. They haven’t—ergo, they can’t. My own mental defenses are at least the equal of Jack’s, but the Hydras don’t know it.”
“Smart-ass female!” The old bookseller retrieved the newspaper and took a hefty slug of his own drink—which she noted was by no means unadulterated fruit juice, as her own had been. “Go ahead and take your walk, then! But just remember there are lots more ways to eliminate people than by burning ’em up and sucking their minds with highfalutin kundalini metawhatsit! A Hydra could just drop a coconut on your head with PK, for chrissake. You’d be just as dead!”