Diamond Mask (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (53 page)

“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.”

The music ended and Marc and Dee applauded.

“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.

Fury. I expected you earlier. It’s a goddam catastrophe.

Is it ruined then? Your great scheme for the Second Milieu?

The other units can … carry on successfully without me until you recruit more?

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.

T
HE 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.

Mummie? You’re crying. What’s wrong?

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.

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.

Nothing has changed in our relationship. I’m as committed to you and the Second Milieu as I ever was.

Uncle Rogi is no one’s lackey, Mum. And Malama Johnson is simply a friend of his that we’re visiting—

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—

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.

I—I find that hard to believe.

No. I only want to study it scientifically from all aspects, to make certain—

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.

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—

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?

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?

You mean I must open myself?

Without reservation?

What will happen then?

That’s incredible. It’s like … the Annunciation.

With the Cosmic Mind residing inside my body.

Whose body does the Mind inhabit now?

<… What?>

The Mind. Where is it now?

Will you answer my question?

Mummie?

you
are the one responsible for the death of my poor Quentin!>

That’s not true, and you know it.

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.

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 agreed 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.”