Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (31 page)

“Sevvy, I think I know what—”

“Victor came to me again, about five years after he died. As Fury. Trying to steal my soul. I fought him again for the last time and won.”

Like Anne, Paul said to himself. Like Dorothea.
And how many others?

Severin closed his haunted eyes. There were tears on his cheeks. “Victor’s still alive, Paul. In our poor father’s brain. And I don’t dare face him again. That—that last fight took the heart out of me. This time, Victor would win.”

Paul let his coercive strength embrace his brother. “Listen to me, Sevvy. You’re not the only one this has happened to. Fury tempted Anne, too. And Dorothea Macdonald. In both cases, it pretended to be someone else to enhance its attempt at coercion. The monster is real, but it is
not
Victor. That kind of occult transference between the living and the dead doesn’t happen. Victor is gone and can never threaten you or harm you again.”

Severin smiled sadly. For the first time his wavering gaze met Paul’s steady one. “But if I believe he lives, it doesn’t matter whether or not my belief is true. I’m vulnerable to Fury—whoever it is—because of this unresolved mental trauma from my childhood. I can’t be part of your metaconcert. All throughout the practice sessions I tried to redact myself, to overcome the old fears. But I couldn’t … You can’t prove to me that Fury isn’t Victor. No one will know the truth until the metaconcert enters Papa’s mind and finds out for itself. But by then it would be too late for me—and perhaps for the rest of you as well if my mind gives way and leaves the metaconcert open to invasion by the monster.”

“That’s nonsense! I’ve told you how Dorothea strengthened the program design to prevent any countercoercive movement by the Fury persona—”

“If Fury is Victor, I’d be the chink in the dike. I’d crack and he’d subsume all of us. You know as well as I do that there are aspects of metapsychology that are still a complete mystery to us. Just ask that Hawaiian kahuna woman, Malama Johnson, about the unquiet dead! Ask her about your own wife, Teresa …”

Paul took hold of his brother’s shoulders. His voice was charged with angry intensity. “Pull yourself together, man! You’re a scientist and a Magnate of the Concilium—not a damned superstitious Pacific islander. It doesn’t
matter
whether the Fury demon is a ghost or an aspect of a deranged personality. If it lives inside Denis’s mind, we can integrate it and render it harmless with this metaconcert Will you be able to live with yourself if you refuse to give our father the help he needs?”

“I’d help Papa if I could.” Severin’s voice was flat with despair. He disengaged Paul’s hands. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

The First Magnate drew in his breath, biting off an exclamation of angry frustration. Severin, the onetime brain surgeon, had correctly assessed his own disability. In his present disturbed state he was incapable of participating effectively in any metaconcert operation. No quick and dirty makeshift redaction could possibly restore him.

“I’ll farspeak Jack,” the First Magnate said dully, “and tell him we’ll have to abort.”

M
Y TWO FAVORITES AMONG THE
R
EMILLARD
D
YNASTY WERE
Severin, the iconoclast who had first won my heart when he was a nonconformist schoolboy, and Adrien, whose sense of humor and unpretentious manner were a refreshing contrast to the relentless gravitas of Phil, Maurie, Anne, Catherine, and Paul.

Adrien had inherited the slender frame and plain features of his mother, Lucille. His hair and eyes were dark, and he wore a small mustache. In 2078 he was a Magnate of the Concilium and a consulting metapsychologist in the Panpolity Directorate for Justice. He was also one of the top strategists in the Rebel Party and had been instrumental in bringing me into the ranks. Under normal circumstances I greatly enjoyed Adrien’s company.

But my heart sank as I entered the crowded vestibule of Hanover’s Catholic church on Christmas Eve and immediately bumped into him, his wife Cheri Losier-Drake, their youngest son Cory, and Cory’s wife Norah Jacoby.

I had not seen them since Jack and Dorothée’s wedding and they greeted me warmly, insisting that I sit with them during the mass and also accept a ride out to the farm afterward. It was impossible to refuse. I was forced to be jolly old Uncle Rogi to Cheri and the young folks en clair, while more or less simultaneously listening to Adrien’s technical discussion of the upcoming exorcism on my intimate telepathic mode. My discomfort was compounded by having to express belated condolences on the death of Parnell. Cheri and Adrien had no idea that I was the one responsible for snuffing their son, the Hydra.

The majestic ceremony of the solemn high mass was no help to my dread-filled soul. I was unable to pray. I was barely able to go through the motions of singing and speaking the ceremonial
responses. When it was time for communion, I shuffled up and took the bread and wine like an automaton.

Adrien was so preoccupied that he never noticed my malaise. But Denis did. I felt his benign coercion prodding at my mind-screen, gently at first and then with increasing strength, attempting to discover what was wrong. But of course he could not. Coming back to my seat I met his concerned gaze and intimode query with a glassy smile and shook my head slightly.

No big thing mon fils, I told him. Just a touch of the holiday blues a good hot cup of cafébrûlot or some rumpunch will fix me up fine&dandy.

Denis nodded. A minute later he and Lucille exchanged knowing glances and I knew they would cook up some kindly plot intended to restore my spirits. It would never do to have Uncle Rogi play the party pooper at the Christmas réveillon.

There was a monumental traffic jam in the egg-park after mass let out. The robot-navigators in the rhocraft of the parishioners, unable to respond safely to the conflicting commands of several hundred pilots all in a rush to enter the same airspace, kicked everybody’s system into emergency override and forced the eggs to take off one at a time. The result was that we got to Marie’s place sometime after the other family churchgoers, who had traveled in groundcars.

The farmhouse was postcard-pretty in the continuing snowfall, framed by dramatic pine trees and leafless mutant elms. Two small evergreens flanking the front door were decked with tiny lights, and the house windows and sodium yard-lamps cast a mellow glow on the white blanket covering the lawn and the winter-fast meadows.

Adrien parked his egg out next to the barn and we tramped through the shallow drifts, bearing our small sacks of presents. Marie and the others greeted us at the door with shouts of “Joyeux Noël!” Only Paul and Severin had not yet arrived. The other members of the Dynasty were there with their spouses, and a few adult grandchildren were also in attendance: Phil and Aurelie’s youngest daughter Marianne and her husband Hans Dorfmann; Cat’s twins, Ron and René McAllister-Remillard; Maurice and Cecilia’s son Roland with his wife Maio-Ling Wu; and Paul’s son Luc with his spouse Ken Macdonald.

The usual happy holiday bedlam prevailed for some time, with people shouting greetings, oohing at the big Christmas tree, embracing Denis and Lucille, and commenting on the weather. Thanks no doubt to sub-rosa prompting from Denis and Lucille,
I was also made much of. The younger females flirted with me and told me how well I was looking, while the young men shared their freshest naughty jokes. Then one of the grandchildren wondered what was holding up Paul and Severin, whereupon Marie neatly distracted everybody by throwing open the dining room doors upon a sumptuous buffet. Nary a traditional Franco-American goodie was to be seen—hélas!—but I forced myself to fill a plate with Buffalo wings, gorgonzola dip, Poltroyan pickled tariji eggs, dim sum, curly fries, kidney bean salad, and walnut-maple-fudge torte. I carried my little supper, along with a large mug of hot buttered rum, to a chair half-concealed by the Christmas tree. I was sick and tired of being cheered up and wanted to be left alone.

After I’d tucked away most of the food I sent my seekersense gingerly sniffing toward the door leading to the farmhouse cellar, which lay at the far end of the front hallway.

Badaboum!
A near-irresistible little compulsion grabbed hold of me: I didn’t really want to look into the basement. Heavens, no! It was utterly prosaic and uninteresting. What I really wanted to do was check out the antique blown-glass ornaments on the tree: the animals, gnomes, angels, magic mushrooms, fruits, and vegetables that Lucille had collected all her life. Remember the old game? The first one who finds the pickle gets a big candy cane—

I broke through the coercive device and ran smack into a veritable bombproof thought-barrier. The entire basement area was impervious to farsensing, veiled by some sort of sophisticated mindscreening machine.

So much for checking out the redactive operation in advance! I’d find out what was down there at the same time Denis did.

I settled back again, studying the tree the way I was supposed to do. (The compulsion was so neatly done it had to be an artifact of Ti-Jean’s.) I finally found the ornamental pickle, but instead of rewarding myself with candy I went back to the dining room and ladled out another steaming mug of rum.

Paul and Severin finally got there when the party had already been in full swing for over an hour. Both of them came in burdened with sacks of presents, shaking the snow from their clothes, bellowing the best wishes of the season in rusty Canuckois. Paul was as suave and hearty as ever, but Severin was clearly on edge, guarding his mind like a junkyard dog and laughing too loudly at Paul’s witticisms. Marie saw that the late arrivals both got something to eat and drink, and then it was time to pass out the presents.

Our family has never believed in elaborate gift-giving, and Lucille had long ago insisted that the réveillon be an occasion for the exchange of only modest tokens. One was permitted to inspect the loot with deepsight, but opening the gifts was forbidden until after one went home—thus avoiding a mess of torn wrappings. Book and music flecks were perennial favorites, being tasteful and easy to tote in quantity; so were tiny flacons of perfume, micro-bottles of exotic booze, Gi friendship rings and other knickknacks from faraway planets, and (for the fun-loving adult contingent) psychedelic poppers. That year I was giving little silver Bic plaque-stylos. You can never find one when you need one, so you can never have too many.

While the gift swap was going on, along with much laughter, appreciative remarks, and the occasional groan (Luc and Ken gave ghastly antique Nicole Miller neckties to the gents and equally atrocious old Hermès scarves to the ladies), Marie brought out a big silver bowl of eggnog with crystal cups, which she set down for Lucille to serve in front of the fire. Paul threw more logs on the grate and somebody put out the lamps so that the only illumination came from the Christmas tree and the leaping flames.