INTERVENTION
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Intervention
Prologue
PART I
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
PART II
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
PART III
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
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30
31
32
Epilogue
Appendix
Copyright © 1987 by Julian May
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechan-
ical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information
storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted
by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Re-
quests for permission should be addressed in writing to Houghton
Mifflin Company, 2 Park Street, Boston, Massachusetts 02108.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
May, Julian.
Intervention : a root tale to the
Galactic milieu and a vinculum between it
and the Saga of Pliocene exile.
I. Title.
PS3563.A94216 1987 813'.54 87-4021
ISBN 0-395-43782-2
Printed in the United States of America
P 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
While many of the institutions and organizations depicted in this
book, including those devoted to parapsychology, actually do
exist, the characters are entirely products of the author's
imagination.
The quotation on page vii is from "Burnt Norton" in Four Quar-
TETS by T. S. Eliot, copyright 1943 by T. S. Eliot; renewed 1971 by
Esme Valerie Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich, Inc.
To Robie Macauley
Intervention
Evolutionary creativity always renders invalid the "law
of large numbers" and acts in an elitist way.
—Erich Jantsch
The Self-Organizing Universe
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
—T. S. Eliot
"Burnt Norton"
Prologue
HANOVER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH
17 FEBRUARY 2113
THE PROVERBIAL FEBRUARY thaw did not materialize for the 203 rd annual Dartmouth Winter Carnival, and the temperature was around—10° Celsius when Uncle Rogi Remillard emerged from the sanctuary of the Peter Christian Tavern into a blustery, festive night. Cheered by a late supper of turkey-apple soup and a Vermont cheddar omelette, not to mention a liberal intake of spirits, he was damned if he would let the Family Ghost keep him from the fireworks display. The thing couldn't possibly do anything blatant in the midst of such a mob.
The northeast wind blew leftover snow about thronged Main Street and down the tavern's stairwell. Rogi had to push past revelers who tried to crowd down the steps as he climbed up. When the full blast caught him, he gave his long red-wool muffler an extra twist to wrap it partially about his head. Thick grizzled hair stuck out of the scarf folds like a scraggly fright wig. Uncle Rogi was tall, skinny, and slightly stooped. His youthful face was disfigured by great bags under the eyes and a slightly mashed nose, which dripped when forced to inhale the arctic air of unmodified New Hampshire winters. More fastidious Remillards had long since given up pleading with Rogi to fix himself up. The family image? Ça ne chie pas!
He stood in the partial shelter of the tavern building and looked warily around. The melting grids for both the streets and sidewalks of downtown Hanover had been turned off to preserve a properly old-fashioned atmosphere for the celebration. A six-horse team pulling a snow-roller had tamped down the worst ruts; and now sleighs, farm wagons full of hay and carousing students, and chuffing antique autos equipped with antique tire chains drove toward the College Green in anticipation of the pyrotechnics display. No modern vehicles were in sight. One could imagine it was the 1990s again ... except that among the human pedestrians in their reproduction winter gear from L. L. Bean and Eddie Bauer were slower-moving groups of exotic tourists from the nonhuman worlds of the Galactic Milieu. All but the hardy little Poltroyans were snugly sealed inside environmental suits with visors closed against the harsh Earth weather. The Poltroyans romped and chortled in the stinging cold, and wore fish-fur mukluks and oversized Dartmouth souvenir sweat shirts over their traditional robes.
Rogi searched the night, using his watering eyes rather than his farscan ultrasense. The damn Ghost was too clever a screener to be spotted with the mind's eye—or at least his mind's eye. Perhaps the thing had given up and gone away. God, he hoped so! After leaving him in peace for thirty years it had given him a nasty shock, accosting him there in the bookshop just as he was getting ready to close up. He had fled out into the street and it had followed, importuning him, all the way to the Peter Christian Tavern.
"Are you still here, mon fantôme?" Rogi muttered into his scarf. "Or did it get too cold for you, waiting outside? Silly thing. Who'd notice a ghost in a crowded bar with mulled cider and hot buttered rum flowing like Ammonoosuc Falls? Who'd notice a dozen ghosts?"
Something insubstantial stirred in the tiny plaza fronting the Nugget Cinema just south of the tavern. Whirling powder snow seemed for a moment to slide over and around a certain volume of empty air.
Bon sang! It had waited for him, all right. Rogi farspoke it:
Hello again. Beats me, Ghost, why you don't simply put on a psychocreative body and sit down to supper with me like a civilized being. Other Lylmik do it.
The Ghost said: There are too many alumni operants in the Peter Christian tonight. Even a Grand Master or two. In their cups, the older ones might be unpredictably insightful.
"And that would never do, eh? Some really big operator might see through you in the worst way!" Rogi's whisper was sca
thing and his mental façade, fortified with Dutch courage, no longer betrayed a hint of unease. "Well, I'm going over to watch the fireworks. How about you?"
The mysterious presence drifted closer, exuding restrained coercion. Oh, yes—it could force its will on him anytime it liked; the fact that it didn't had ominous implications. It needed wholehearted cooperation in some scheme again, the sneaky bastard, and very likely over some considerable span of time. Fat chance!
The Ghost's mind-voice was insistent: We must talk.
"Talk between skyrockets," Rogi told it rudely. "Nobody invited you here tonight. I've been waiting for this all winter. Why should I give up my fun?"
He turned his back and set off into the crowd. Nothing restrained him physically or mentally, but he was aware of the thing following. Bells in the Baker Library tower struck ten. A brass band was playing "Eleazar Wheelock" over in front of the brilliantly lit Hanover Inn. The leafless branches of the ancient elms, maples, and locust trees around the snowy quadrangle were trimmed in twinkling starlights. Streetlamps had been dimmed so the pseudoflames of the energy torches set up around the campus were the major source of illumination. They cast a mellow glow over the cheerful waiting throng and the ranks of huge snow sculptures in front of the college residence halls. In this centennial year of the Great Intervention, whimsical takeoffs on Milieu themes predominated. There was a flying saucer with its Simbiari crew marching down the gangplank, each exotic carrying a bucket of frozen green Jell-O. A hideous effigy of a Krondaku held out a tentacle to take a candy cane from a smiling human snow-child. Gi engaged in their favorite pursuit were posed in a Kama Sutra ensemble. Sigma Kappa had produced Snow White and the Seven Poltroyans. Out in the middle of the College Green was the festival's monumental theme sculpture: a bizarre armored humanoid like a fairy-tale knight, astride a rampant charger that was almost—but not quite—a horse. This statue was almost eight meters high.
The Ghost observed: A fair likeness of Kuhal, but the chaliko's a bit off the mark.
"The Outing Club tried to get him to be grand marshal of the cross-country ski parade," Rogi said, "but Cloud put her foot down. Spoil-sport. And you can't fool me, Ghost. I know why you showed up tonight instead of some other time. You wanted to see the Winter Carnival yourself." He groped inside his disreputable old blanket-coat and found a leather-bound flask of Wild Turkey.
There was a choong from a cleared area over beyond Wentworth Street. The first rocket went up and burst in an umbrella of pink, silver, and blue tinsel extending from horizon to horizon. The crowd yelled and applauded. Rogi moved into the lee of a giant elm trunk to escape the wind. He held out the flask. "Une larme de booze?"
Nobody noticed when the container left his gloved hand, tilted in the air, and then returned to its owner.
Good stuff, said the Family Ghost.
"As if a damned alien Lylmik would know," Rogi retorted. "Gotcha!" He took three hefty swallows.
Still seeking solace in the bottle instead of the Unity, I see.
"What's it to you?" Rogi drank again.
I love you. I wish you joy and peace.
"So you always said ... just before you gave me a new load of shit to shovel." He took another snort, capped the flask, and put it away. The expression on his face as he watched scarlet fire-flowers bloom above black branches was both cunning and reckless. "Level with me. What are you, really? A living person or just a manifestation of my own superego?"
The Ghost sighed and said: We're not going to start that all over again, are we?
"You're the one who started it—by coming back to bug me."
Don't be afraid of me, Rogi. I know there were difficult times in the past—
"Damn right! Least you can do is satisfy my curiosity, settle my mind before you start in all over again with the botheration. Put on an astral body like your damn Lylmik compères. Show yourself!"
No.
Rogi gave a derisive sniff. He took a bandanna handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his nose. "It figures. You're not a real Lylmik any-more than you're a real ghost." Wind-chill tears blurred the purple and orange comets that chased each other overhead like she-elves with their hair on fire.
The Ghost said: I am a Lylmik. I am the entity charged with the guidance of the Family Remillard through your agency, just as I've always claimed to be. And now I come to you with one last task—
"Shit—I knew it!" Rogi howled in mortal anguish. Three stunning detonations from aerial bombs announced a flock of golden pinwheels. They zoomed heavenward in a tight formation, fissioned into hundreds of small replicas of themselves, then rained down toward the skeletal treetops, whirling and whistling like demented birds. There were vocal and telepathic cheers from the crowd. The brass band in front of the inn played louder. Metapsychic operants among the students were mind-shouting the final verse of the old college song with drunken exuberance:
Eleazar and the Big Chief harangued and gesticulated.
And they founded Dartmouth College, and the Big Chief matriculated.
Eleazar was the fa-cul-tee, and the whole curriculum
Was five hundred gallons of New England rum!
"All my life," Rogi moaned, "haunted by a damn exotic busybody masquerading as the Family Ghost. Why me? Just a quiet man, not very clever, hardly any metabilities worth mentioning. No world-shaker, just a harmless bookseller. Most insignificant member of the high and mighty Remillard Dynasty. Why me? Persecuted! Pushed around with-out any common consideration. Forced into one dangerous situation after another just to carry out your damn Lylmik schemes and forward the manifest destiny of humanity ... unless it all hatched in my own unconscious."
Like starry dandelion puffs, colossal pompoms of Dartmouth green and white exploded high over the Old Row. The wind strengthened, stirring more and more snow into the air.
Patiently, the Ghost said: You and your family were the key that opened the Galactic Milieu to the human race. The work required an exotic mentor because of the psychosocial immaturity of Earth's people and the pivotal role of you Remillards. And while I admit that you were called upon to endure mental and physical hardship—
"You should be ashamed, using me that way. Playing goddam God." Rogi gave a maudlin snuffle. He had the flask out again and emptied it with a single pull. "Nobody ever knew I was the one—your catspaw. Always another pot you wanted stirred, another piece of manipulation, meddling with this Remillard or that one. Uncle Rogi, galactic agent provocateur! And you used every dirty trick in the book to keep me in line, tu bâton merdeux."
The Ghost said: Your family would have been aware if we had tried to coerce them, and they never would have accepted direct counsel from nonhumans—especially in the pre-Intervention years. We had to work through you. You were the perfect solution. And you survived.
A cascade of white fire poured from the sky behind the library, silhouetting its lovely Georgian Revival tower. Psychokinetic adepts among the spectators took hold of the falling sparks and formed them into Greek letters and other emblems of college fellowship. The crystal dust of the blown snow began to mix with heavier flakes running ahead of the predicted storm.
Rogi's eyes glittered with fresh moisture. "Yes, I survived it all. A hundred and sixty-eight winters and still going strong. But good old Denis had to die before he ever reached Unity, and Paul and his poor Teresa ... and Jack! My Ti-Jean, the one you exotics call a saint—for what good it does him. You could have prevented all their deaths, and the billions of deaths in the Rebellion! You could have had me warn Marc, shown me some way to stop him. You could have used me prop-erly, you cold-hearted monster, and nipped the conspiracy in the bud before it ever came to war!"
The Ghost said: It had to happen as it happened. And in your own heart, Rogatien Remillard, you know that the tragedies brought about a greater good.
"Not for Marc! Not for poor Marc the damned one. Why did he have to end that way? My little boy! I think he loved me more than his own father—nearly as much as he loved T
i-Jean. He almost grew up in my bookstore. My God, he teethed on a mint copy of Otto Willi Gail's By Rocket to the Moon!"
The Ghost said: So he did ... I remember watching him.
"And yet you stood by and let him become the greatest mass murderer in human history—that brilliant misguided man who could have done so much good, if only you'd guided him instead of using an impotent old fart like me as your puppet."
The fireworks were reaching a crescendo. Great jets of vermilion fire rose from the four points of the compass behind the trees and nearly converged overhead. In the dark at the zenith, in the midst of the glare, there appeared a dazzling white star. It vibrated and split in two and the paired lights began to orbit a common center, drawing intricate figures like laser projections. The stars split again and again; each set drew more detailed designs about the central focus until the sky was covered with a blazing mandala, a magical pattern of spinning wheels within ornate wheels, white tracery in ever-changing motion.
Then it froze. It was fire-lace for a moment, then broke into fine shards of silver that still held the wondrous pattern. The night was webbed in a giant constellation of impossible intricacy. Down on the campus the crowd released a pent-up breath. The tiny diamond-points faded to darkness. The show was over.
Uncle Rogi shivered and pulled his muffler tighter. People were hurrying away in all directions now, fleeing the cold. The band finished playing "The Winter Song" and withdrew into the shelter of the Hanover Inn, there to drink the health of Eleazar Wheelock and many another Dartmouth worthy. Sleigh bells jingled, the wind roared in the white pines, and fresh falling snow curtained off the tall sculpture of the Tanu knight on the Dartmouth College Green.
"Whatever you want," Rogi told the Ghost, "I won't do it."
He darted off across rutted Wheelock Street, dodging a Model A Ford, a wasp-colored Ski-Doo, and a replica post-coach of 1820 vintage carrying a party of riotous Poltroyans.
The unseen presence dogged Rogi's heels. It said: This is the centennial year of the Intervention, 2113, and a year significant in other ways as well.