Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (26 page)

“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
.

Before any of them had a chance to trace the communication, which had certainly not come from Marc Remillard, a nearly
invisible door in the far wall slid open and a dapper individual of small stature, exuding surplus creativity and hyperkinesis, bounded out. “Alex!” he cried. “God, it’s been too long, mon bonhomme!”

As a youth, Peter Paul Dalembert, Jr., had been the ingenious enabler who always found ways to implement the extravagant schemes cooked up by Marc, Alex, and their other bosom pal, Boom-Boom Laroche. In maturity, clever and indefatigable as ever, Peter had become the Chief Executive Officer of CEREM and Marc Remillard’s right-hand man.

Alex greeted Dalembert with restraint and introduced his Rebel colleagues.

“May I present Professor Anna Gawrys, Chairman of Cambridge University’s Institute for Dynamic-Field Studies … Cordelia Warshaw, Intendant Associate for Europe and Visiting Fellow in Cultural Xenology at Oxford … Patricia Castellane, Planetary Dirigent of Okanagon … Hiroshi Kodama, Planetary Dirigent of Satsuma … Rory Muldowney, Planetary Dirigent of Hibernia.”

“Wonderful to have you here at CEREM,” Dalembert said. Forgoing the more discreet open-palm operant greeting, he vigorously pumped the hands of the visitors. Alex rated a fond punch in the biceps. “You folks sure picked the perfect time to drop in on us! The new CE rig shell was about ready for its preliminary run and Marc decided to push the test up a couple of days so you could see it.”

Alex looked startled. “He’s got the new brain-booster working already?”

“Not quite. We’re only testing the cryogenic shell components, and they’re still in a much bulkier protoconfig than the ultimate design called for in the Keogh specs.” Peter Dalembert paused significantly. “Marc hired them away from Du Pont, you know.”

“The Keoghs?” Alex’s amazement was frank. “That must have put a nice dent in the corporate dividend.”

Dalembert chuckled. “We can afford it. Having the Keoghs personally in charge of the shell project probably halved this first phase of development. Of course, they’re cosmic-class wacka-doos, but Marc manages to cope … This way, everybody.”

The CEREM executive led them through the doorway and into a fully enclosed transport capsule. In less than thirty seconds they reached their destination, a glassed-in observation chamber overlooking a hangarlike area crowded with a confusing array of equipment. Dozens of technicians were in attendance. In the
center of the big room, brightly spotlit, was an elevated platform holding a hulking, matte-black piece of apparatus attended by acolytes in white coveralls.

“Please sit down,” Dalembert urged his guests. “The test will begin in just a few minutes. Marc timed it to your arrival.”

“How very thoughtful of the dear man,” murmured Rory Muldowney.

Immediately adjacent to their balcony chamber, and clearly visible through a transparent wall, was an elaborate command center. Inside, four men and a woman, wearing comsets, were busily speaking to computers and studying expanses of monitoring equipment.

“The guy nearest to us is Doctor Jeffrey Steinbrenner, our new bionics chief.”

As Dalembert spoke, Steinbrenner looked up and regarded them coolly. His gaunt frame had not a gram of excess flesh on it. They felt his ultrasenses flick over them in a brief, disdainful inspection before he turned back to his work.

“Lovely congenial sort of chap,” said Rory Muldowney.

Dalembert grinned. “And talented! Next to Jeff are Jordan Kramer and Gerrit Van Wyk, Professor Gawrys’s former colleagues. Inventors of the mechanical mind-probe.”

They were also prominent Rebels, which Dalembert forbore to mention.

“I know them well,” Annushka said, “although they were not exactly my academic associates. The Department of Psychophysics is not part of IDFS. It was … a considerable surprise to me when Jordan and Gerry left Cambridge University to work in the private sector.”

“We made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.” Peter Dalembert said.

Completely absorbed, neither of the psychophysicists in the command center favored the guests with telepathic greetings. Kramer was a pleasant-looking man with large features and sandy hair. Van Wyk, scuttling from one bank of diagnostic monitors to another as he muttered into his comset, bore an unfortunate resemblance to an irritable, flaxen-headed frog. It was possible for the visitors to farsense what the people in the command center were saying, but the comments were so loaded with dismaying technical jargon that they were nearly unfathomable.

“I suppose those are the precious Keoghs,” said Patricia Castellane, indicating the two other workers. A young man and woman
of strikingly similar appearance, handsome and ginger-haired, were engrossed in the displays on the consoles before them.

“Wait until you meet them,” Dalembert said. “You’ll want to keep your mindscreen at max if you know what’s good for you … Ah! Looks like we’re just about ready to begin.”

On the main floor below, a tall, splendidly muscled figure had emerged from a side corridor and was striding purposefully toward the central platform where technicians waited. He was attired from neck to toe in a tight black suit studded with monitoring receptacles and having a neck-ring seal. As he climbed onto the platform he raised a gloved hand in casual salute to the visitors in the observation booth. Their farsight showed a face with lofty cheekbones and a high-bridged nose, framed by jet-black curly hair. Gray eyes, compelling and luminous, were set deeply into shadowed orbits. The mouth was wide, lifted in an attractive one-sided smile.

Marc Remillard said:
Good of you all to come!

Even in those few brief words, his mental voice had an extraordinary effect, projecting warmth, kindliness, and an overwhelming, almost seraphic authority. Rory Muldowney found himself wondering how he could ever have tarred the man with the same brush as his rakehell father. Why, he was magnificent! He was an ideal candidate for leader of the Metapsychic Rebellion! He was—