INTERVENTION

by May, Julian; Dikty, Ted

  22

  NEW YORK CITY, EARTH

  4 MARCH 2012

  THERE WERE A handful of operants at the Sloan-Kettering Institute, so Dr. Colwyn Presteigne had kept his mental shield at maximal strength during the entire three hours of the consultation. The strain—to say nothing of the emotional trauma resulting from the diagnosis—hit him in the taxi. He only regained consciousness at his destination, with the panicked cabbie yelling at him over the intercom and the doorman of the Plaza peering anxiously through the open door.

  "Oh, for God's sake, it's all right," Presteigne growled. "I only dropped off to sleep for a moment." He pushed his credit card through the slot in the armored barrier. "Take fifteen."

  "May I help you, Dr. Presteigne?" The doorman solicitously raised his umbrella and extended a white-gloved hand.

  "Never mind." The physician retrieved his card, climbed out, and strode into the hotel. Arnold Pakkala was waiting in the lobby.

  He said: ?

  Presteigne's features were set again in their habitual cast of thoughtful benevolence. His mind was impenetrable beneath the outermost social level. He said: Tell Kier I'm on my way up.

  Arnold said: ???

  Presteigne turned his back on the executive assistant and headed for the elevator. He braced himself to resist any coercion; but Arnold only stood there trying without success to forestall the escape of inarticulate grief, then turned away toward the house phones.

  Adam Grondin opened the door to the suite when the physician exited the elevator. More diffident than Arnold, he made no attempt to seek information. "The Boss is in the sitting room."

  Presteigne nodded, slipped off his topcoat, and took the folder out of his briefcase. "See that Kier's things are packed up. He'll have to go in right away."

  "Shit," Grondin whispered. "Shit shit shit..."

  "Put a call through to Mrs. Tremblay and ask her to wait on hold. I think he'll want to tell her himself."

  "Okay, Doc."

  Presteigne went into the sitting room and carefully closed the door behind him. Kieran was standing at the window in his dressing gown, his hands locked behind him.

  "Sit down, Col. Take a drink. Don't bother to say it—just open wide."

  Mute, his vision blurring with tears, the physician obeyed.

  Kieran O'Connor looked out over Central Park. Rags of mist infiltrated the budding trees. A policeman on horseback stopped at a bench where a vagrant lay covered with newspapers and began speaking into his walkie-talkie.

  "It's interesting," Kieran said, "that it should have hit me this way. One could make an interesting case for divine retribution—if it weren't for the fact that I won't let this stop me."

  "But, Kier, it's metastasized. Both the lymphangiography and the bone isoenzyme tests show—"

  "I don't need that much longer."

  "I've made arrangements to have you admitted immediately under a fictitious name—"

  "No."

  "But you've got to!"

  Kieran laughed. "You doctors... so accustomed to controlling life-and-death decisions." Don't be a fool Col what do I care for your damned palliatives your brain-weakening chemicals I've lived with pain all my life I'll accept this too and keep my power until the Black Mother takes me in and all the rest as well it's perfect it's even appropriate Her jest at my expense Her proof that I'm the one loved most just as She always said where's your faith where's your love I'll redact the damn thing fend it off mind over matter you know it can be done you know other operants have done it why not me?

  Kier you don't assay that highly in the redactive metafaculty. Some minds are good at healing and some aren't and self-redaction is the least-understood aspect of the metahealing process all bound about with unconscious factors that can enhance or inhibit—

  Kieran turned around, halting the doctor's expostulations with a gentle impulse. "Enough, Col. I agreed to your tests because—because I was interested. I guess I always suspected something like this would happen as I got down to the wire. It's just another omen."

  "Without any sort of treatment the pain will become unbearable."

  "I can bear anything, for good reason." Except disloyalty...

  Presteigne lowered his head in capitulation. "You're the Boss." He hesitated. "I asked Adam to put in a call to your daughter. I thought you'd want her to know. I'm sorry if I presumed."

  Kieran's face stiffened. A wraith-image of Shannon, strangely distorted, flickered across his adamantine mental screen. And then it was gone and he was smiling. "Col, assuming your worst-case scenario—that any attempt at self-redaction on my part will be ineffective—how much longer will I be able to raise it?"

  "If you're capable now it's some kind of fucking miracle! Please excuse the morbid pun."

  But Kieran was chuckling in appreciation. "All right, that's plain as the proverbial pikestaff! I think the best thing to do then is to get back to Chicago. You go out and tell Shannon that all this was a false alarm. That I'm fine."

  Presteigne sighed. "You're the Boss," he said again.

  Still laughing quietly, Kieran turned back to the window. "Poor little girl. She'll be so relieved."

  23

  EXCERPTS FROM:

  THE NEW YORK TIMES "SCIENCE TIMES"

  1 MAY 2012

  Sigma-Field Seen as the Key to Cheap and Reliable Fusion Power

  Application also seen in developmentof mechanical mind-screen.

  By BARBARA TRINH

  Special to The New York Times

  PRINCETON, N.J.—The longawaited breakthrough in the development of small nuclear-fusion power systems was confirmed with the demonstration last week of MIPPFUG at Princeton University's Institute for Energy Research. MIPPFUG (the acronym stands for Miniature Proton-Proton Fusion Generator) differs from conventional fusion reactors in that it utilizes a "bottle" formed out of a sigma-field to contain the intensely hot fusion reaction, rather than currents of electromagnetism.

  For more than 50 years, scientists have been frustrated in attempts to tame fusion by the inherent limitations of the electromagnetic confinement system, which requires massive radiation shielding and elaborate safety precautions. Fusion power-plants have remained uneconomical up until now not only because of their complexity, but also because a typical deuterium-tritium fusion plant produces only about one tenth the power of a nuclear fission reactor of the same size.

  The new sigma-field confining system is fail-safe—unlike the magnetic one, which stores up enough energy to possibly destroy the reactor in a split second in case of a malfunction. The sigma-field system has the additional advantage of absorbing the gamma radiation produced in the proton-proton fusion process utilized in MIPPFUG. Where this absorbed radiation "goes" is still one of the great mysteries of the booming new branch of science known as dynamic-field physics.

  According to Dr. George T. Vicks, who developed the sigma-field mechanism for the MIPPFUG project, the "bottling" of fusion energy is only the first of what may eventually be a host of valuable applications of the sigma.

  "A sigma is basically what the science-fiction writers like to call a force field," Vicks says. "It's a six-dimensional thing bound into the spatial dimensions of our space-time continuum. That sounds complicated—and it is! But you can understand rather easily what a sigma can do if you think of it as a kind of invisible wall. There are different kinds of sigmas. The one for MIPPFUG acts as barrier to the enormous heat of nuclear fusion."

  Other types of sigma-fields, Vicks says, can block out other types of energy—or even matter.

  "Sometime in the future," Vicks says, "we'll be able to design sigmas that act as roofs or meteor-barriers or shields against radiation or weapons. A sigma-field might even make a good umbrella! It could form the basis for those tractor beams that science fiction has spaceships use to push or pull or grab things out in the void."

  An even more exotic application of sigma technology would be in the world's first effective mechanical thought-screen.
<
br />   "So far," says Carole McCarthy, an associate of Vicks at Princeton, "no one has been able to come up with reliable barriers to telepathy or EE or other mental powers. This is because thought doesn't propagate in the four dimensions we call space-time, as sound and other forms of energy do. Mental impulses propagate in a six-dimensional entity we call the aether. The sigma-field, which also has six dimensions, might just be able to mesh with the aether in a way that would stop thought impulses cold."

  This type of thought-screen was suggested by the late Nobel Laureate, Xiong Ping-yung, shortly before his death in 2006. Xiong was honored for formulating the Universal Field Theory, upon which sigma research is based. There has been increasing speculation in the West that China may be already working on such a device secretly, in connection with its increasingly defensive posture vis-à-vis the Soviet Union.

  24

  DU PAGE COUNTY, ILLINOIS, EARTH

  4 AUGUST 2012

  THE MUGGY MIDWESTERN air hit Victor Remillard like a hot barber towel as the door of the Remco jet opened. Shannon Tremblay was waiting at the foot of the steps, her white cotton caftan billowing in the wind. Pregnancy became her, heightening her color and adding needed flesh, but aside from these changes her condition did not show. Victor could not resist scanning the perfect tiny body of the fetal girl. It was only five months alive and even now its mind showed certain familial metapsychic traits. It was damned spooky.

  Shannon felt his touch and laughed. "Laura's going to be the clincher, you know. The factor to force Daddy to bring you into the organization—even without bonding. He's really very superstitious. She's an omen to him. A symbol. He may even think of her as a superior version of me, to be used..."

  They hurried over the tarmac to the small airport's parking lot. The temperature must have been far over 40° Celsius and the sunlight was like blazing bars thrust through rising masses of purplish thunderheads.

  "Have you told Gerry?" Victor asked.

  "Of course. Why not? I think he may be relieved. Daddy was always pressuring us to have children... especially a girl. He was disappointed when nothing happened and blamed me, since there's no doubt that Gerry's fertile. Of course, you know why I wouldn't. Not until now. Laura will be our celebration, Victor—not Daddy's."

  Her black Ferrari Automa was running at high revs, keeping cool. She touched the lock, opening both doors, and said, "You drive. The guidance system is preset for most of the way."

  He nodded and slid onto the icy leather seat with a sense of relief. It had been difficult to control his sweat glands. He could handle either the heat or the fear-excitement reflex, but it was hell bucking both of them at once. He checked the routing on the dash map-display, put up the spoiler, and eased the Ferrari out of the lot onto the airport frontage road.

  "When is Gerry due out?"

  "Next week."

  "Is your old man going to stiff him?"

  "Certainly not. Gerry's valuable, even if he's tainted." Her lips quirked. "He's valuable to us, too, so don't let me hear any more divorce bullshit. Not until we've won."

  "Suit yourself." As they came onto the ramp for Route 64, he punched in the automatic guidance, took his hands from the wheel and his foot from the accelerator. Cruise control took over, merging them neatly with the eastbound traffic flow. On a second-class highway like 64, with only two pilot-stripped lanes in each direction, their speed was held down to 120 kph with no left-lane prioritizing; but in a few minutes they turned onto southbound 59, a three-laner, and the priority function of the guidance system began to communicate with transponders in other vehicles, sweeping them out of the Ferrari's way. They accelerated to 200 and in moments they were swinging onto the East-West Expressway and roaring toward Oakbrook, well spaced among the other privileged cars in the innermost of five eastbound lanes.

  "I wish to hell we had pilot-strips in my neck of the woods," Victor groused. "It's still all manual in northern New Hampshire, except on the Interstates, and no priority speeding anywhere. New Hampshire doesn't believe in it."

  "Illinois is glad of the licensing fees—but then, they have a lot more bills to pay. We all know that New Hampshire keeps costs down by giving its welfare clients bus fare to Massachusetts."

  Victor chuckled. "An old Yankee custom. No taxes, no frills, and devil take the hindmost."

  "He just may," Shannon murmured, "unless we're very, very careful. But I had to have you see what Daddy's got, Victor."

  The console beeped to warn them that they were approaching their exit and the termination of programmed cruising. Victor took the wheel again as they went onto the Midwest Road ramp. He had never been to Kieran O'Connor's mansion, but the blip on the dash-map showed the way. The Ferrari slowed to a sedate ninety and made its way through rolling wooded hills where white-painted paddock fencing or weathered split rails delineated the boundaries of large estates. They turned into an unmarked lane and went another half kilometer, then came to a halt before massive gateposts of red brick surmounted by bronze lanterns. Wrought-iron gates four meters high swung open when Shannon zapped them with a hand-held beamer. Victor saw that the thick bank of blooming shrub-roses surrounding the property had concealed an inner double barrier of chain link and electrified mesh. More fencing bordered the drive and behind it bull mastiffs and Dobermans watched the Ferrari's progress with silent alertness. A short distance further along they came to another perimeter of charged chain link topped with razor-wire. On the other side of a reinforced steel gate was a guard kiosk with cameras, spotlights, windows of one-way glass, and several unobtrusive gun-ports. A rustic sign at the barrier said:

  WELCOME. STAY IN YOUR VEHICLE.

  OBEY INSTRUCTIONS PROMPTLY.

  "Sweet shit," muttered Victor.

  Cameras swiveled, inspecting the car and its occupants. An electronic voice said: "Good day. Please state your name and business."

  Shannon rolled down her window, leaned out, and waved. "It's me, guys! And a friend of mine. Call off the dragons."

  "Yes, ma'am," said the loudspeaker. "You may proceed to the house." The gate opened and tire spikes that had protruded from the roadway sank back into metal receptacles. The Ferrari drove along a winding landscaped drive.

  "God help the poor bastard who has to read the water meter," Victor said.

  "Don't be silly. That's all done remotely in Illinois."

  "Where does he hide the antiaircraft batteries?"

  "In a wing of the stable."

  "You're serious?"

  "Don't talk like a fool," she snapped, "or I may just regret bringing you out of the New Hampshire boondocks and stick with Gerry after all."

  Victor stomped on the brakes, turned, and seized her by her upper arms. Coercion smote her like a cannon shell and she cried out with hurt and rage. He ripped aside her outer mind-screen as if he were tearing paper and blasted her strong inner shield to painful shards that swirled like a dizzy kaleidoscope while she cowered, furious and delighted. He saw her true. Saw the hate for Kieran O'Connor overarching every other conviction in her soul and her need of him and him alone tightening the knot of purpose.

  "Bitch," he laughed, setting her free.

  They drove on, and the house came into view. It was a modernistic pile with cantilevered balconies, built partly into the eastern side of a hill and heavily shrouded with gnarled white oaks and Scotch pines. Protruding from one part of the roof was a structure like a blind control tower surmounted by antenna arrays. Victor could see at least three other big steerable dishes lurking among the trees at the crest of the hill.

  "Is that where it is?" Victor asked, mentally indicating the tower.

  "Yes. He calls it his study. To the rest of us, it's the command post. In the beginning it was only a glorified communications and data-retrieval center. Over the years Daddy kept modifying and adding to the equipment. He built a redundant control center in the subbasement, too—and there are underground cables connecting his equipment with three commercial satellite uplinks, in case a
nything happens to the antennas here on the grounds."

  They pulled up to a side door and Victor switched off the engine. Shannon's window was still open. A hot wind smelling of roses and freshly sprinkled grass mingled with the last cool gasp of the Ferrari's air conditioning.

  He said, "Your father would have to be an idiot not to know that our relationship isn't a simple matter of business."

  "He knows," she said calmly.

  "He knows I'm here today?"

  "I'm supposed to be converting you to his point of view. Since my little white body has thus far proved to be a less than irresistible inducement, I've been ordered to tempt you with more exotic thrills."

  Victor laughed. "Let's get on with it."

  ***

  Inside, the mansion was silent and apparently deserted. Shannon explained that with her father out of town, the domestic staff did only routine housekeeping chores. The domestics, the security people, and the grounds keepers were all bonded operants who by temperament, intelligence, or education were not suited to executive positions in O'Connor's organization. They lived in comfortable homes of their own in what was called The Village, in a distant comer of the estate. Shannon told Victor that some of the staff had belonged to the ménage for more than twenty years.

  They went up in a big service elevator to the third floor and passed down a carpeted hallway. From the vantage point they could see the sky darkening as the storm approached.

  "Let me explain the background of what you're going to see," Shannon said. "You know that Psi-Eye inspired the superpowers to end their nuclear arms race. But most of the small nations that had tactical nukes stashed away balked at giving them up—especially after Armageddon showed that the network of EE surveillance couldn't possibly prevent terrorist-type attacks by small forces. The little nations such as South Africa and India didn't give a hoot whether Psi-Eye publicized their arsenals or not. They rather welcomed letting their enemies know they were in a position to retaliate."