INTERVENTION

by May, Julian; Dikty, Ted

  She followed with complete docility. The trainer's cubicle in the elaborately equipped exercise room provided hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and bandages. He sat her on the massage table and wrapped her in a voluminous towel before tending her wounds, closing the lips of the cuts deftly with butterfly tapes and finishing up with gauze and temporary cuffs of waterproof plastic wrap.

  "Now you can take a hot shower without spoiling my first-aid job." His voice was gentle.

  "Thank you, Daddy." She eyed him askance. "You won't make me go to the doctor for stitches, will you? I can heal myself easily enough. But I had to have ... the effect."

  "You had to scare the living shit out of me," he told her in a level tone, turning to rinse his hands of her blood.

  "Have it your own way."

  "How did you get out here from Rosary at this time of night?"

  "I took Tippie Bethune's car and just drove out, then hid the car in Goldman's orchard and walked up our driveway. You were all so busy with your low politicking that it was easy to fudge your minds and sneak inside. I sang only for you. Don't you know about the intimate mode of farspeech? You can aim it at only one person."

  So she knew about his plans for Baumgartner! "There'll be hell to pay when the college authorities find out you skipped."

  She shrugged. "I'll take my shower now."

  When she was gone, Kieran took several damp towels and went to clean up the gory traces she had left on the floor. The members of his domestic staff were well-paid psychics, bonded to him and utterly loyal; but he did not want them to know about this escapade. It was extreme—even for Shannon.

  He said to her: You ought to examine your unconscious motivation for this piece of adolescent idiocy. The guilt you feel because of who/what you/we are is irrational. Seeking punishment to atone for my/your/Al's imaginary wickedness is also irrational. Attempting to dissociate yourself from me/Family/yourmentalheritage is not only irrational but futile. There is no rebirth for us. We are.

  He put back the first-aid supplies, then lay down on the Panasonic Shiatsu lounger and turned it on. Timed waves of vibration soothed away some of the stress. It was nearly one in the morning. Big Al's funeral was today. She'd loved the old bandit deeply. She didn't think it a bit hypocritical that he had confessed a lifetime of sins on his deathbed and expired with the Viaticum on his parched tongue.

  Damn her! She would have followed Al tonight if he hadn't given in to her and begged ... The suicide attempt was his own fault. It was the culmination of a lot of things—mainly his own neglect of her developing mind-powers. She'd grown up pathologically shy, introverted. There'd been suicidal hints that he had tried to laugh off. The Edinburgh telecast had been traumatic, intensifying her brooding. And now Big Al's death, and her growing realization of her father's extraordinary ambition. She would have to be bonded. The alternative was probably a descent into madness or self-destruction.

  But to bond his own daughter...

  She was mind-humming a reprise of the crustacean dirge as she took her shower. The musical parody was superimposed incongruously upon an image of Queen of Heaven Mausoleum, a fulsome monument to Italian-American piety that would, come daylight, receive the mortal remains of Aldo Camastra.

  Kieran said: Shannon? Do you know why so many of your Grandfather's people prefer tombs in a place like Queen of Heaven rather than ordinary burial in the ground?

  I never thought about it, Daddy.

  Back in the Old Country, cemeteries may be more than a thousand years old. Space in the earth is at a premium. When a new grave is dug they may find old bones. The bones are taken up and put into a kind of storage place called an ossuary, all mixed up higgledy-piggledy with the bones of other skeletons.

  How awful!

  The only bodies sure to be left undisturbed are those interred in aboveground tombs or in mausoleums. That ancient fear of not being left to lie in peace lingers in tradition even here in America. Tradition can be a powerful motivator. Many kinds of tradition.

  ...Oh, I know the twisted justification that Al and the others in the Outfit subscribed to, Daddy—the old story about the simple peasants resisting tyranny in Sicily, then later on using the Thing as a steppingstone to power and wealth in this country. But it's different for you! You're no persecuted immigrant. You have mental powers that you could use to help all humanity, just as the organized metapsychics around the world are doing. But you won't join them, will you, Daddy! You'd rather get rich and then take over the country with your Mental Mafia.

  Is that how you see it?

  "That's how it is!"

  Shannon came out of the spa wearing a white velour sweat suit, with her hair bound up in a towel. Revulsion and frustrated love radiated from her but her voice remained measured. "You're worse than Big A1 ever was, Daddy, because you came deliberately into the Outfit. He and the others had their Family tradition, but you joined them because you'd analyzed the possibilities in cold blood. And you've done very well, transferring the Mob assets into legitimate business and covering your tracks. You're Big Al's son-in-law but nobody holds it against you—especially after your mind exerts its special charm."

  Kieran laughed.

  "Will bossing President Baumgartner be power enough for you, Daddy? Or are you bucking for Boss of the World?"

  "You could be my little Crown Princess," he said.

  She folded her bandaged arms and looked down on him lying in the chair. "No," she replied with cool dignity. "The embryo dance helped me decide. I'm leaving here, getting out of Rosary College and transferring to Dartmouth. I'll ask that Professor Remillard to accept me in his psychic Peace Corps thing. I won't do anything to hurt you, but I won't stay with you anymore. I've been very silly and naive, thinking it was natural for us to—to be above normal people. The Edinburgh Demonstration was like some kind of miracle, opening my eyes. That wonderful Russian woman and her vision! And then Denis Remillard explaining his educational plan for all people with metapsychic talents—"

  "He's very good on television," Kieran admitted. "Very nearly as charming a coercer as your depraved old Dad ... but also an idealist with no notion of the way the normal world actually works. He and the rest of them are in for a rude awakening, you know."

  "No, I don't know!" Shannon flared. "Suppose you tell me."

  Kieran got up from the lounger and regarded her with concern. She had begun to shiver again and her lips were blue. He wondered how much blood she had lost. "If you're really interested, I'll explain it to you. But not down here. I could use some coffee and brandy right now, and so could you."

  He headed for the door and she trailed after. "I know you think I'm only a child," she said as they approached the elevator. "Maybe I am, but you can't expect me to accept this—this scheming of yours without questioning it!"

  "Be sure you ask the right questions. You've led a very sheltered, pampered life up until now, thanks to the loyalty of Bayard and Louisa. Not all of us have been so lucky. I wasn't. Neither were Jason or Arnold, or Adam or Lillian or Ken or Neville, or most of the other people you so glibly designate my Mental Mafia. I wanted to spare you the horror stories. It seems I made a mistake, denying you the history of the persecuted minority we all belong to."

  The elevator door closed as Kieran pressed 3.

  Shannon said, "When I saw MacGregor and his people do the Edinburgh Demonstration, I was just devastated. There they were, doing their thing just as though it were—natural. And I thought: It doesn't have to be Daddy's way, hiding the powers, using them selfishly. I could come out in the open! When more and more operant people began to reveal themselves I got so excited I thought I would die. I wanted to confess what I was, too! But I was afraid..."

  "For a good reason."

  Her eyes were pleading. "We're different, but not so very different. The normals have been so grateful about the Psi-Eye program. The sensible ones support the metapsychic testing plan, too. The opposition is just from fundamentalist fanatics and people without
the education to appreciate the good we can do. When the normals learn more about what operancy really means—"

  "They will try to kill us," Kieran said.

  Shannon stared at him, speechless, and in that split second of appalled vulnerability absorbed the details of the peril that he projected. Then they were at the third floor of the mansion and emerged into a part of the house that had always been officially barred to her (although she had snooped through most of it when Kieran was out of town). Here were the self-contained guest suites for certain visitors; the antiseptic sanctum that housed the awesome mainframe computer with its huge data bank, connected by dedicated fiber optics to corporate headquarters in downtown Chicago; the satellite receiving station; the mysterious "recovery room" that was occupied from time to time by certain Mental Mafia recruits; and—most tantalizing of all—a locked room referred to in hushed tones by the household staff as the Command Post and by Kieran as "my study." Shannon had never been inside it. Few people other than Kieran himself and Arnold Pakkala had.

  They stood now in front of its door, armor-plated steel without a knob or latch. Kieran pressed his right hand against an inset golden plate. There was a complex clicking sound and a single electronic chime. "Open up," Kieran commanded, and the door slid silently aside, admitting them.

  Shannon uttered a low cry of astonishment.

  Her father smiled. "Do you like my study? I do, very much. You may come here as often as you like from now on. I'll reprogram the door. But please don't attempt to operate any of the equipment until I've given you proper instruction. I can begin that now, if you like."

  "Oh, yes."

  "Sit there while I make our coffee." He opened a taboret and took out a Chambord. "I amuse myself by thinking of this room as the high-tech equivalent of the kingdoms of the world that Satan showed to Jesus from the pinnacle of the temple. If I were the Earth Boss, I could certainly supervise things very nicely from right here ... Kona or Naviera?"

  "Kona," she whispered. She sat on the edge of a maroon leather settee, looking very young. Her mental barriers had fallen completely. Kieran came to her, unwound the turban from her head, smoothed the damp hair, and kissed her crown. As he did so he slipped a subliminal command into the exposed psyche that would prevent voluntary closure until he released her. It was a thing he had learned to do instinctively when he bonded the first hurt minds to himself—how long ago?—before her birth.

  Daddy I feel very strange.

  Relax dear baby.

  He handed her the steaming coffee with a splash of fine cognac, feeling his energies begin to mount. He had feared there might be an insuperable inhibition, but there was not. So, he thought, we think we know ourselves, but we don't! Perhaps all devoted fathers keep the thing repressed in the unconscious. It was as true an instinct as the other, so closely related, that bound mind to mind in perfect loyalty. He wondered if anyone else among the operants had discovered it. He thought not. The hierogamy was an old mystery that repelled the overcivilized mind, dying with the old Celtic and Greek votaries...

  "Are you comfortable now, Shannon?"

  Her smile was dreamy. "Yes. The coffee is good."

  "Drink it all." He slipped off his Shetland cardigan, folded it, then unknotted the blue silk scarf he wore at the open neck of his shirt.

  "I thought the coffee would wake me up. But now I feel very sleepy." The dark lashes fluttered. She set her empty cup aside and relaxed against the cushions.

  "You can spend the night here," Kieran said. "I often do. It's the one place I know that I'm completely safe. The windows are armored glass and the entire room is a self-contained little fortress. Secure."

  Shannon's eyes had closed. "It's snowing. I can see the snowflakes with my mind, blowing in the cold wind. Whenever I do that I feel so lonely." Her face was as white as the soft velour suit she wore.

  "You aren't going to be lonely. You'll be part of our group now." Would she remember? The others hadn't—except Arnold, whose love had been strong enough to overcome the posthypnotic suggestion. You won't remember, he told the deepest part of her soul. Not unless you want to.

  "I feel cold again," she murmured. "A little."

  "Let me warm you," he said, and touched the switch that would turn off the lights and blind the machines.

  ***

  Shannon remembered.

  4

  EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, EARTH

  7 APRIL 1994

  WHEN THE GIRL came with the sandwiches, Jamie and Jean and Nigel fell to with the usual voracious appetite of the EE adept, but Alana Shaunavon didn't even seem to notice the plate in front of her. She stared out the pub window at the statue of the wee dog, faithful and melancholy in the rain. A hardy Japanese tourist focused his camera on it, took the shot, and hurried off along Candlemaker Row. Two nurses huddled under a single umbrella came into the pub for lunch, and an old man in a black trench coat moved slowly in the direction of the churchyard gate. He had a plastic carrier bag.

  Alana sighed, lifted the teapot, and poured a bit into her cup. It had gone cold.

  "Here now, we can't have that," Nigel said. He took the pot in both hands, squinted at it with keen determination, and grinned when steam spurted out of the spout.

  "What a useful talent," Jean MacGregor observed. "With you around the house, one wouldn't even need a microwave. Or an electric blanket."

  Nigel filled Alana's cup. "So I've told this lovely lady many a time to no avail."

  Alana smiled absently. "You want a wife, luv, and I'm not the marrying kind."

  "Piffle," said Nigel. "I won't give up, you know. Drink your tea and eat your sandwich. You'll need your strength for this afternoon's outing. It's Dallas again. Sibley and Atoka think the Super-Stealth skin formulation may be hidden there in a fabricating subcontractor's place."

  "How dreary." Alana took one bite of sandwich and one sip of tea. "We've wasted five months haring about after this silly ferrite coating process. Why couldn't the bloody stubborn Yanks simply hand the thing over to the Russians instead of daring us and Tamara's people to find it? There's so much more important work we could be doing."

  "They're testing," Jamie said. "Measuring our capabilities and our resolution, and making a classic American 'Don't Tread on Me' gesture. You can bet that the formulation is in a lead box walled up in a reinforced vault surrounded by an electrified grid in the midst of an alligator pond ... but we'll find it, whatever the rigamarole, and we'll send copies to Washington and Moscow via diplomatic pouch and tell the world press we've done it. Then we'll chalk up another triumph for globalism and wait for the next confrontation."

  "Neither side really cares about the radar-invisible gunk," Alana complained. "It's only a matter of scoring off each other. They may've thrown away their nuclear arms, but it seems they're just as determined to dominate the world as they ever were—and our metapsychic peace initiative is nothing but a referee in the charade."

  "Did you really expect an instant Golden Age, my lass?" Jamie's smile was ironic.

  "I hoped it would be better than this," Alana admitted, looking out the window again. The old man in the black raincoat was consulting a small book and gazing about. "We don't have the specter of nuclear war between superpowers anymore, but the old East-West antagonism and suspicion are still there, and the little countries cling to their eternal squabbles. There's war in Arabia and war in Kashmir and war in Botswana and war in Bolivia..."

  "And I'll never pray at the Wailing Wall," Nigel said, "and your tea is getting cold again, and what is so fascinating about that old chap lurking about out there?"

  Alana said, "It's odd. He's subvocalizing both the words and tune of 'Amazing Grace.' I can tell he's in a great state of emotional agitation, and one would normally be able to read his thoughts like a hoarding under those conditions—but because of the hymn-singing I can't get a glimmer. I wonder if the poor old thing is lost?"

  "A kind of normal's thought-screen, is it?" Jean asked. "How interesting. Do you kno
w, I think our young Katie and David may have cottoned on to that one! There've been times when I've noticed television commercials and theme songs and other nonsense cycling over and over in their sly little brains when they were obviously up to some deviltry."

  "We'd better hope the technique doesn't catch on in diplomatic circles," Nigel said.

  "According to Denis Remillard," Jamie said, "it already has. But fortunately, not too many normals are able to keep it up for any length of time ... I forgot to mention that Denis popped over via EE very early this morning. He had some important news. Dartmouth is establishing a Department of Metapsychology with some whacking great grants that've fallen down the chimney, and Denis is being promoted to full professor and will head the thing up."

  "Lucky sod," groaned Nigel. "And here we are with the University casting about for ways to put us under the U.K. Civil Service! Can't you just see our metapsychic peace initiative tucked tidily away in Whitehall?" And he sang, in an excruciating fruity tenor:

  "But the privilege and pleasure

  That we treasure without measure

  Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!"

  "Denis had some bad news, too." Jamie spoke in a lower tone. "The bill for universal metapsychic testing of all American children died in committee. The Civil Liberties Union and the Bible-thumpers carried the day. Now the testing is to be done on a strictly voluntary basis. There was some demand that the names of the participants and the results of the metapsychic assay be made a matter of public record, but Denis is fairly certain that meta-supporters in Washington can shoot that one down by invoking the famous American right to privacy. I asked Denis if he senses any serious groundswell of antimeta sentiment building, but he thinks not. More like a blasé attitude on the part of the normals, he said—taking the mental marvels for granted the way they do space travel."