Johnston shook his head. “No, this is something Ms. Thorpe suggested. There’s a good deal of…of leakage in telepathic communication, on an unconscious level. Telepaths know things without realizing it, and sometimes convey that information without meaning to. Ms. Thorpe suggested that our four contactees might have picked up such information, and with her help we’ve developed some techniques for getting at it—questions asked so quickly that the answerer has no time to think, oblique references, and so on.”
Amy looked at Prossie, who shrugged. “Back home, we all knew about leakage,” Prossie said. “It wasn’t safe to mention it, though. It violated the secrecy rules—but the truth was that anything any of us knew, we all knew, on an unconscious level.”
Johnston nodded. “Mr. Miletti’s been the most useful in that regard. He remains completely unaware of any contact on the conscious level, but he’s answered several questions for us by simply replying without thinking about it.”
Prossie explained, “We could never establish any conscious contact with Mr. Miletti—but we knew he was receptive on some level. I think that when we tried to reach him he must have gotten linked into the unconscious network, just as if he were a part of my family—and since it’s unconscious, with no voluntary control, they can’t just cut him off or keep anything secret now.”
Johnston nodded. “And it’s not just Miletti on this particular point, in any case—all four of them agree that the Empire is done with Earth.”
Prossie sighed, and Amy wasn’t sure if her reaction was relief or disappointment. This meant that the Empire wasn’t hunting their rogue telepath anymore—but it also meant that she was cut off from her family, from her entire home universe.
At least, on a conscious level; Amy wondered whether that unconscious link might still be there, just as it was for Carleton Miletti.
Not that it mattered.
“Why are you worrying about guns, then?” she asked. “If the Empire’s going to leave us alone, why don’t we just forget about them? Besides, you can’t get at them anyway, can you?”
“But they can get at us, Ms. Jewell,” Johnston said, “and we have to be ready to deal with them if they ever decide to do that. By your own accounts, this Galactic Empire is a fairly aggressive imperial power, accustomed to doing pretty much whatever it pleases—there’s no balance of power keeping it in check, is there?”
“Not that I ever heard of,” Amy admitted.
“No, there isn’t,” Prossie said, very definitely. “The concept of a balance of power doesn’t really even exist in the Empire anymore; they see themselves as the rightful rulers of the universe.”
“But we aren’t in their universe!” Amy protested.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they extended their doctrine, though,” Johnston said. Prossie nodded.
“But you can’t get at them,” Amy pointed out.
“Well, we weren’t planning on a preemptive strike, in any case,” Johnston said. “The United States does not operate that way—not as a general thing,” he added hastily, as Amy prepared to provide counter-examples. “However, it seems prudent to consider our options, especially since this cut-off is a display of bad faith on the Empire’s part—they lied to us. We’ll definitely want to talk to Mr. Brown about this when we have a chance—he can provide access to the Empire, if necessary. You suggested that yourself, Ms. Jewell; we’re just taking your own advice.”
That was true enough, and Amy had to admit that she didn’t entirely trust the Empire. Back on Zeta Leo III those Imperial troops had seemed like the cavalry coming to the rescue, but where were they when the monsters attacked in Faerie? Where were they during the long march to Shadow’s castle? And the fact that they had sent Amy and the others to Faerie in the first place, instead of safely home to Earth…
Susan Nguyen was dead because of that bit of Imperial arrogance. Not to mention that about a dozen of the Empire’s own men had died, as well.
But still, it seemed as if Johnston was going looking for trouble. The Empire was gone, Amy and Prossie and Ted were safe at home, Shadow was dead, and Pel had become a sort of demigod in Faerie—wasn’t that a satisfactory solution?
It was good enough for Amy. If she could just get her home back and get Johnston and all these other people to stop bothering her, she’d be satisfied.
“Furthermore,” Johnston was saying, “now that the press has gotten involved, even though they haven’t gone public yet, we don’t want to get caught unprepared…”
Amy scuffed her feet on the tiles and wished Johnston would shut up and send her home.
* * * *
The Gregory simulacrum was gone, and the portal was closed; Susan and Pel were alone in the throne room, excluding the pair of fetches Pel had summoned.
And whoever it was outside the throne room door was waiting patiently. He—or she, Pel couldn’t be entirely certain from the perception through the matrix—seemed to be sitting quietly, not particularly concerned about anything.
That was interesting; all Pel’s previous visitors had been very nervous indeed.
Pel opened the door.
A man rose quickly and smoothly to his feet and stood on the landing, shielding his eyes against the flickering glare of the matrix. “That you in there, Brown?” he asked.
Pel blinked in astonishment. He stared through the magical light show and fought down the emanations as quickly as he could.
The man wore peasant homespun and carried a rough sack with a drawstring—and his boots were black Imperial military issue, dusty and worn, but recognizable even at this distance. Peasants didn’t wear such boots here, and no nobleman would dress like that.
And the face…
“Wilkins!” Pel shouted, and the name rang eerily from the walls, carried by the matrix.
Wilkins smiled. “Guess it is you,” he said.
“Come in!” Pel called, delighted to see a familiar face, pleased to know that Wilkins had survived. “Come in!”
Wilkins ambled into the room, his sack over his shoulder, and belatedly noticed Susan. “Good morning, Miss Goyen,” he said.
“Nguyen,” Pel corrected. Susan didn’t respond. Wilkins glanced at her sharply.
Pel was annoyed with Susan; this man was a long-lost friend, and she was just standing there, silent as a fetch. “I’m glad to see you,” he said, addressing Wilkins.
“And I’m relieved to see you, Mr. Brown—at least, as best I can see you. What’s making all those lights?”
“That’s the matrix,” Pel explained. “Shadow’s magic. It’s mine now.” He completed the suppression, and the last sparkles died away, leaving a slightly run-down colonnaded room of stone, wood, cloth, and gilt. He came forward, hand outstretched, and the two men shook hands.
Wilkins appeared wary of the contact, but Pel kept the matrix forcibly restrained, and only flesh touched the Imperial’s hand.
“How’d that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?” Wilkins said.
“It’s a long story,” Pel answered.
“I’ll listen or not, whichever you like,” Wilkins said. “I guessed that something like this had happened when I heard the stories about a Brown Magician, but I wasn’t completely sure until I heard your voice call my name just now.”
“It can wait, then,” Pel said. “I mean, you can probably guess the basics. What about you, though?”
“Well, after I got separated from the rest of you…”
“After you deserted us, you mean,” Pel said, and Wilkins hesitated uncomfortably. “Oh, don’t worry—if any of us had had any sense we wouldn’t have come here. You kept yourself alive, which is more than Raven or Singer or Valadrakul or even Susan here can say.”
Wilkins glanced uneasily at Susan.
“I brought her back,” Pel explained. “Shadow hadn’t done anything terrible to her—the others were all burned, but Susan had just had her heart stopped. She was dead for a few days, though.”
“Is that why she’s so qui
et?”
Pel frowned. “She was always quiet,” he said.
Wilkins swallowed.
“You were saying what happened after you left,” Pel reminded him, eager to get the conversation back on track, and onto more comfortable topics.
“Oh,” Wilkins said. “Well, there wasn’t much to it. I didn’t see any point in going on to face Shadow alone, or in going back to the shipwreck, either, because if anyone was going to rescue Lieutenant Dibbs they’d probably done it days ago, so I figured I was pretty much on my own. I just took odd jobs where I could, stole a few things when I couldn’t see another way to manage—I was getting settled in, after a fashion, when the word came about Shadow being dead.” He looked at Pel. “Is it really dead?”
Pel nodded. “She’s dead, all right—Prossie Thorpe blasted her.”
“Thorpe?” The expression on Wilkins’ face was so odd that Pel wished he could read minds; it looked like a mix of startlement, fear, distaste, and other things as well. “Thorpe? Not you, or that wizard?”
“Well, I set it up, but Thorpe pulled the trigger,” Pel explained. “Valadrakul was already dead by then.” He mentally upbraided himself for getting back to the subject of death. “So did you see any of the others anywhere? Sawyer, maybe?”
“Wasn’t Sawyer with you?” Wilkins asked, surprised.
“He turned back at the gate,” Pel said. “And I think there were some of Dibbs’ bunch we never accounted for.”
“Did you account for any of them?”
Pel nodded, reluctantly—here he was again. “Shadow killed most of them; we saw the bodies. I buried them myself, after Shadow was dead.” Trying once more to turn the conversation cheerful, he asked, “So, why’d you come here? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but were you just curious to see what had happened, or was there something in particular you were after?”
“I was hoping you could send me home,” Wilkins said.
That was so obvious Pel couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t guessed it without asking.
“I mean,” Wilkins added, “I was doing all right here, but it’s not exactly a life of luxury, and it’s not my home. I’d like to get back to the Empire.”
The Empire.
Pel had just turned Shadow’s entire network of spies loose on the Empire, trying to recover the remains of his wife and daughter.
Wilkins was not just Pel’s old companion in adventure; he was an Imperial soldier.
Pel could send him through to the Empire, but the only places he could be sure Wilkins would wind up anywhere sufficiently civilized to be reasonably certain of getting home intact were the points where Shadow’s spies reported.
That wouldn’t do. Pel didn’t know just what was on the other sides of those closed portals, but he had visions of dropping an Imperial soldier into what amounted to an enemy headquarters.
Somebody would get hurt. And the body recovery might be hindered.
“I don’t think I can do that,” he said.
* * * *
“We’ve lost Wilkins,” Brian Hall reported.
“What do you mean, lost him?” Markham demanded. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know, sir, but he’s in Shadow’s fortress—or the Brown Magician’s, whichever it is. We can’t contact him at all anymore; the interference is much too strong.”
Markham put down his pen. “Remind me,” he said. “Why was Wilkins going into the fortress to begin with?”
“Because, sir, he believed that this Brown Magician was the same Pellinore Brown who we had sent into Shadow’s universe with Colonel Carson and Lord Raven and the others, and he wanted Brown to create a space-warp, or a magical portal, or whatever you want to call it, back to the Empire, so that he, Wilkins, could return here and report in.”
“And do you think he’s right? That this Pellinore Brown has somehow usurped Shadow’s rule?”
“Well, sir, that’s what all the evidence indicates, both from Shadow’s universe and from Brown’s native universe.”
Markham nodded. “True enough.” He didn’t say any more than that aloud, but Hall read the next question from his mind—Markham had authorized such minor intrusions, to increase efficiency.
“I have no idea how Mr. Brown could have accomplished it,” Hall said. “But then, I don’t understand Shadow’s power, either. It really does seem to be a sort of magic.”
“Magic is misunderstood science,” Markham reminded him.
“In our reality, yes, sir,” Hall said, “but in Faerie?”
“The laws of physics may change,” Markham replied, “but the laws of logic don’t, and science is applied logic. This ‘magic’ Shadow used, and that our Mr. Brown appears to have mastered, has to have rules and limits and all the rest, all subject to determination by the scientific method. And if he can learn and use them, anyone can.”
Hall didn’t argue.
“So Wilkins expects to be sent back to us?” Markham asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You think Brown can do it?”
“I don’t know, sir. He did apparently send Prossie Thorpe and the others to Earth.”
“True.” Markham considered for a moment. “It seems to me,” he said, “that we should expect Spaceman Wilkins to reappear somewhere in the Empire at any moment now. I want to know when it happens—I want to know where and when, and I want him brought here to Base One as fast as humanly possible. You broadcast that to your whole family, Hall—I want every telepath in the Empire to spread the word. I want Ronald Wilkins.”
“Yes, sir,” Hall said. He saluted sloppily, and exchanged a glance with his second cousin, Markham’s personal telepath.
“I’ll tell George,” that man said.
Markham wasn’t sure who George was—some other telepath, presumably. “And inform Marshal Albright immediately,” Markham said. “I don’t want any problems with him.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell Stuart.” Stuart was Albright’s personal telepath. Hall hesitated. “What about Under-Secretary Bascombe?”
“What about him? It’s not his problem anymore.”
“Yes, sir,” Hall agreed.
* * * *
John Bascombe drew a circle on the desktop with his finger. “So we’ve lost Wilkins,” he said.
“We’ve lost contact,” Carrie Hall agreed.
“What about Best?”
“Oh, he’s fine; he’s reached Shadowmarsh, and is waiting there for further orders.”
Bascombe looked up. “And has anyone given him further orders?”
Carrie hesitated. “No, sir,” she said. “Telepathic communication isn’t reliable, so close to the fortress, and his messenger, Spaceman Poole, hasn’t reached the rendezvous point yet.”
“But we know he’s coming?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bascombe frowned.
He was out of the matter now, in bureaucratic limbo. He hadn’t officially been reprimanded or removed, he was still Under-Secretary for Interdimensional Affairs—but the telepaths and messengers all reported directly to Markham or Albright, and no one invited Bascombe to their conferences or meetings. He had been shunted aside.
And he bitterly resented it.
He had ordered Carrie Hall to bring him up to date. He had had to leave his office and track down an unassigned messenger to find her, and the embarrassment rankled. He had seen her hesitate when he first told her to report what was happening, and he had known that she was trying to decide whether he still had the authority to ask that.
The damnable mutant bitch had probably actually had to check with other telepaths to decide whether or not he, John Bascombe, an Imperial under-secretary, had the right to give orders to a stinking mind-reading freak!
He needed to get himself back into things, and this, he thought, might be the opportunity. No one had given Best his orders yet. It might be a simple oversight, or it might be an attempt by Markham and Albright to cut Imperial Intelligence out of the potential political profits in this operati
on, or it might be part of an arcane maneuver in a duel between Markham and Albright. Albright might be deliberately trying to sabotage Best’s mission.
Bascombe thought that in a way, he’d like to see Albright best Markham—it would be a pleasant petty revenge for the way Markham had treated Bascombe—but on the other hand, as a career move, it would be better to back Markham. Albright wasn’t in position to help Bascombe as much as Markham was.
And backing Imperial Intelligence against either or both of them was probably a smart move, in any case. Imperial Intelligence was certainly more dangerous to an ambitious career than either the military or the Department of Science, and potentially more valuable. The Smarts could make or break anyone.
And if it was just an oversight—well, he didn’t care to be the scapegoat if someone spotted it later.
“Send a messenger,” he told Carrie. “Through the warp, I mean. I’ll write up Best’s orders immediately.”
He opened a drawer and looked for paper.
The fact that he hadn’t yet decided what orders to write, that he had given no thought to what orders would best serve the Empire’s interested, troubled him not at all.
Chapter Fourteen
“It’s creepy,” Carleton Miletti complained. “I know all this stuff, and I don’t know how or why, or what half of it means.”
“I don’t care what any of it means,” Margaret Thompson answered. “I just want to take Angie and go home.”
“In that case, Ms. Thompson,” Major Johnston said from the doorway, “I think we can oblige you.”
The five looked up, startled.
“Are you giving up the project?” Aldridge asked.
“No, not at all,” Johnston said. “We may want to call you back again, if anything develops. For now, though, events seem to be at a standstill, and there’s no reason to inconvenience all of you.”
“So you’re sending us home?” Miletti asked.
Johnston hesitated; his mouth twisted wryly. “No, Mr. Miletti,” he said. “We’re saying that Ms. Thompson can take her daughter and go home, if she wants, and Mr. Aldridge and Mr. Blaisdell can go, as well, if they choose—we’ll provide transportation right to their doors, and an escort if they want, as well as a lump-sum payment as compensation for the time and inconvenience we’ve put them to. But they don’t have to go—we’d be just as pleased if they stayed here.”
The Reign of the Brown Magician Page 15
