by Julian May
They would have no children. Even though Jack’s male organs were functional, not even his paramount creativity was capable of fashioning the intricate DNA strands that would make his sperm germinal. Nor could such DNA be derived from his brain cells for a quasi-clonal nuclear transfer through artificial means. Not without having their baby share the “bodiless” fate of its mutant father.
They had discussed this and other intimate matters during the voyage from Caledonia to Earth. Jack had also informed her then that he lacked the self-redacting “immortality” gene complex that characterized other members of his famous family. His naked, self-sustaining brain, favored as it was with near-godlike mental capabilities, was nevertheless genetically programmed to age and eventually die, just as a normal human body would. No one held out much hope that genetic engineering would provide a way to rejuvenate him, any more than it could provide him with germ plasm. He was unique, a being less evolved than the insubstantial Lylmik but more advanced than the human race.
If he dies, so will I, she thought. Without him I have no real life. His love is the stronger, but I need him more …
The bedroom door opened.
He came in, wearing the golden kapa loincloth and his own maile garland. Draped over his left arm were dozens of fragile leis made of pikake buds, while his right arm bore heavier chains of white dendrobium orchids. Before she could question him he hung the ivory jasmine solemnly about her neck, lifting her hair to let the scented flowers touch her skin.
“I wed thee again, my sweet Diamond,” he said, “in the old way of these islands.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. She took the orchid leis and adorned him. “And I wed thee, dear Jack. Forever.”
At a gesture of his hand the doors leading to the lanai flew open. He drew her outside into the open air, onto a patio surrounded by pale-flowering shrubs. Overhead the sky was black, scattered with uncountable stars.
“ ‘You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride. You have pierced my soul with a single glance … My sister, my spouse is a garden enclosed, a fountain sealed up. The rarest of perfumes are hers, and the well of living water.’ ”
She whispered, “ ‘Awake, north wind; come, wind of the south. Breathe over my garden and scatter its fragrance, welcome my Beloved and let him taste its precious fruits.’ ”
Hand in hand, they went up and out. The stars were so many that they silvered the leaves of the trees, reflected in the lily-pools, and caused the poinciana trees to cast faint shadows on the frosted grass. The trees’ blossoms, which would be flame-bright in sunlight, were the color, of polished jet under the stars. A wind from the sea rattled the leaves of the halas and coco palms down along the beach. Waves, surging under the invisible moon’s pull of the tide, hissed as they lapped the sand.
He drew her higher into the air, up the bluff on the western side of the bay, above a dark lava reef where the surf creamed, past ravines with liana-hung trees. She smelled a new fragrance borne on the rising wind, saw a great tangle of heavy stems scattered with huge white blossoms. The thicket covered the entire tip of the promontory except for an open space at its center, where the land was highest. A small thatched hut stood on the eminence within the living curtain wall.
They drifted down, their feet touching the ground near the seaward mass of tangled plants, which reached to nearly twice Jack’s height. She saw now that the thick twining stems were studded with sharp spines. Spectacular white flowers, nearly as wide as dinner plates and intricate in form, seemed to open wider even as she looked at them.
Her mind posed a wordless question and Jack replied: Night-blooming cereus. They last only twelve hours.
And they have thorns, she said. To guard us and to remind us …
He lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the little hut. It stood on low stilts, with a crude door made of framed matting and wide window openings that could be closed by unrolling lengths of woven dried grass. A fat candle in a hurricane lantern burned on a bamboo table that held food and drink. The bed was a simple platform covered with a thick kapa pad. It had coverings of the same soft natural fabric.
They undressed each other slowly, carefully setting aside the leis. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, and the adamant gems sealing off her lower face. She guided his hands to her tender breasts, reaching down to caress him, feeling him grow.
Their minds opened to each other and she saw the aching pleasure glowing within him, matching her own melting neural fires. His arousal was more than mere physical stimulation. The desire for her, fully nurtured by imagination, swelled into an urgent hunger. He lifted her onto the bed, speaking her name.
“Diamond. I want you. I want your dear self more than anything in the world.” And the wanting is real my darling finally real just as we hoped. I’m human. I’m a man.”
He began to kiss her entire body.
“You did find it—the part of you that was missing! Oh, Jack. Thank God. Thank God …”
As his lips and tongue savored the sweet anointing, her mind cried out in pure ecstasy. Then he was in her, breaking the maidenhead with a delicious brief stab of pain, filling her, moving slowly so they could first know the simple ignition of their human flesh. Then would come the special things they had planned for each other, the lovemaking fantasies that nonoperant couples could only dream about.
Tendrils of her long hair awakened the nerves in his skin. Her small form molded to his in perfect rhythm, breasts crushed against his pectorals. Their nipples had become erect conduits of vital energy. She let hers expand and seek his smaller mammillae like creatures with minds of their own, intent on some outrageous conjunction. Yes—the breast-to-breast merging was possible. It happened and they shouted together as the fresh source of sexual pleasure fed their passion.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, the lobes of her ears. “The mask,” she said, her voice strangely muffled. “Darling, take it off. Now.”
It never occurred to him to hesitate. With a single powerful movement he pulled the thing from the anchor-studs embedded in the bones of her face and flung it away. Its faceted gems caught the candlelight and sprayed the ceiling thatch with tiny rainbows.
She smiled.
“I knew it.” His whisper was triumphant. “I knew it!”
“Only for you. Kiss me, my dearest love.”
Your lips, my wife, drip wild honey. Honey and milk are beneath your tongue. I am come into my garden, my sister, my bride. I gather myrrh and balsam and drink sweet wine …
The third neural pathway formed as their mouths united. They fell away together into thundering incandescence, complete.
11
CONCORD, HUMAN POLITY CAPITAL, EARTH 19 JUNE 2078
THE WEATHER REPORTING UNIT IN DAVID SOMERLED MACGregor’s apartment command post was a high-tech marvel. On request, it would provide an instant précis of meteorological conditions anywhere on Earth—or a forecast for the major population centers of every inhabited planet of the Galactic Milieu.
Ignoring it as usual, Davy drew the drapes, cracked open the balcony door, and ascertained that this particular Sunday morning in New Hampshire was muggy and already pushing 30 Celsius. Right. Forget the stroll along the Merrimack River bottoms. It was down to the promenade for the two of them.
He ordered up a durafilm copy of The New York Times, sans Sunday bumf, and scanned it briefly. Aye, there it was. Yesterday’s wedding-of-the-century hadn’t made the front page, but his turndown of Paul’s offer to head the Unity Directorate had. The First Magnate was quoted as being “very disappointed.” There was no mention of Jack as second choice.
Davy MacGregor chuckled. No political mileage for Paul when another Remillard acceded to high office. Just the reverse, actually!
He folded the news, tucked it under his arm, and gave a sharp whistle as he headed for the elevator door. When nothing happened, he called out in a raspy voice, “Hamish, come! Get a move on, ye lazy auld bugger!”
The measured clicking o
f toenails on the tiles of the back hallway and a throaty rumbling noise announced Torridon’s Zodiac Hamiltonian, an aged Scottish terrier. The dog shot a challenging glance at his master.
Impatient? he inquired loftily.
“Damn right,” snapped David Somerled MacGregor, Planetary Dirigent of Earth, “and wanting breakfast, you slugabed dinky brute. So get your bones into yon lift or I’ll leave you behind.” He stepped into the small private elevator that served his flat, the only special perk he had requested when he decided to move his private quarters out of Dirigent House and into Cynophile Tower.
Maybe I don’t want to go out today, said Hamish, suddenly sitting down on the wrong side of the elevator door.
They glowered at each other through dark eyes hedged by wiry black brows. The faces of man and beast had nearly identical stubborn expressions. The old Scottie’s muzzle was steel-gray and so were Davy’s face-framing Dundreary side-whiskers, even though he had been twice rejuvenated. He was a rangy, slightly stooped figure dressed in jeans, a maroon mesh polo shirt, and loafers without socks.
“Too bloody bad.” The Dirigent hit the DOWN pad. “You’ll just have to miss your Sunday banger, then.” The door began to slide shut.
Today is Sunday—?
The little black dog streaked into the elevator and settled at his master’s heel.
Davy smiled with dour satisfaction. “Silly tyke, I thought that’d rouse ye.”
Hamish gave that comment the disdain it deserved, and in a moment they stepped out onto the promenade floor of Cynophile Tower.
The residence was only two years old and it had proved extremely popular with dog-loving legislators and bureaucrats in the capital. Every apartment had a private exercise run, but most tenants and their animals preferred the social atmosphere and natural beauty of the extensive indoor promenade.
Joggers and strollers moved along designated pathways among the trees, accompanied by four-footed companions. The dogs could play fetch in the open meadows, amble through gardens where interesting things were buried, or romp in fountains and pools. Some areas featured realistic mechanical prey to entertain terriers and other hunting breeds, and there were real sheep that allowed themselves to be herded. If a dogfight or other inappropriate activity broke out, operant human monitors adept in creature coercion restored public decorum. Mobile sanitation modules, resembling large turtles, kept everything exquisitely clean. Après sport, and when other necessary business had been taken care of, canines and their humans could relax and take refreshment at one of the five informal eating establishments. The promenade also had doggie boutiques, grooming salons, and a well-appointed veterinary clinic.
Run? Hamish requested, tail wagging madly. Look for vermin? Please?
Davy said, “Off with you, laddie. I’m still tired out from dancing at the wedding yesterday. I’ll order food for us and read the paper at Charlie’s Place while you have your exercise.”
The Scottie dashed off and Davy MacGregor headed for his favorite eatery. Its umbrella-shaded tables were ranged along the shore of a pleasant artificial lake. An ornamental fence kept recreating water dogs and the wily hybrid geese they chased—who happily chased the dogs in return—at bay. Some of the restaurant patrons nodded to the Dirigent, but the majority politely ignored the chief executive of Earth. He was about to sit down when someone called out to him on his intimate far-speech mode:
Care to join me Davy?
He saw Cordelia Warshaw (née Warszawska) smiling at him from a table half-screened by pots of blooming fuchsias. Her comical Polish Lowland sheepdog, Ignacy, caught sight of him and said: FriendofMaster hello come come!
Davy ambled over and greeted the pair of them.
“It’s been a while, Cordelia. You look smashing. And how’s the PON?”
“Full of the devil as usual. But he makes me laugh, so he earns his keep.”
She was a tiny woman, nearly as old as Davy himself but much more extensively rejuvenated and cosmetically enhanced. Her ash-blonde hair was styled in a modish pageboy cut and she wore a short summer walking suit of iris lumasheen with a white silk singlet. White patent-leather cothurni called attention to her excellent legs. Cordelia Warshaw was no longer the Intendant General of Earth. Her open avowal of the Rebel cause had cost her the office in the election of 2076, but she was still an influential Intendant Associate for Europe, a Magnate of the Concilium, and a Visiting Fellow in Cultural Anthropology at Oxford’s Jesus College. She and Davy had been platonic friends for over fifty years.
Her medium-sized shaggy dog grinned as the two humans exchanged casual chitchat. The Polski Owczarek Nizinny had twinkling dark eyes that peered through a thick fringe of biscuit-colored hair. His mind said to Davy:
Sit sit! Eat ***{FRESH STRAWBERRY BLINTZES}*** like Master!
“Well …” The Dirigent hesitated. A male waitron appeared with a second place setting and a menu.
“Have your breakfast with me,” Cordelia invited, indicating her empty plate. “The blintzes are very good today. I’m going to have some more because a certain greedy rascal ate most of mine.”
Save you from [image of bloated fat Cordelia], said the PON.
Ty chujku, odpierdol sie! she scolded. “Go find Hamish. Go play!”
Flashing another black-lipped smile, the sheepdog said, Friend is nice male. You have [explicit image] fun. Tail awave, he trotted off.
Davy burst out laughing at the outraged expression on Cordelia’s face. He sat down and ordered the blintzes, a pot of Spiderleg tea, and a dish of Canine Crunchies No. 3 with a grilled frankfurter garniture for Hamish.
“I knew you’d moved into the Tower,” Davy said. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other here before. But I suppose you were in England while the Assembly was in recess.”
“Yes—helping to cook up a fresh batch of ammunition for the anti-Unity push at the next Concilium session with Valery Gawrys and the rest of the Oxbridge outlaw gang.” Her tone was satirical but the mental overlay of her words was deadly serious, with an invitation to discuss the matter further.
The tea arrived, saving Davy from having to respond immediately. When the brew was satisfactory he added milk and sugar, sampled it, and sat back with a sigh. “So our meeting here this morning wasn’t just a happy coincidence.”
“No,” she admitted. Her eyes flicked to the newspaper he had laid on the table. “It’s a direct consequent of that.”
Davy’s smile became glacial. “My turning down Paul’s invitation to head the Unity Directorate doesn’t mean I’ve gone over to your side, Cordie.”
She cocked her head quizzically. “No? The Times article reported you’d declined because of philosophical reasons. And I know you, Davy MacGregor! You’ve been half a Rebel for years—and not just because of Milieu pussyfooting over Margaret’s murder. You’re not blinded by the glories of the Galactic Milieu like Paul Remillard and his kurewskie Dynasty.”
“No, I’m just an Earthman, plain and simple, and I intend to stay that way.” He stirred the tea and stared into it, scowling. “I’m afraid of Unity’s possible effect on the Mind of Humanity, and I’d be overjoyed to see us out of the Milieu … but I’m damned if I’d ever resort to force in order to resolve the issue.”
The waitron came up with their food and they were silent until he had gone away. Cordelia delicately cut up one of the cheese-stuffed rolled pancakes and ladled strawberry sauce over it.
“Whether you’re with us or not,” she said carefully, “we’d like you to reconsider your refusal of the First Magnate’s offer.”
What? Woman are you bloody daft?
His vehement thought-blast didn’t faze her. While she consumed the blintz with evident relish her mind said:
As head of the Panpolity Directorate you would be privy to every aspect of the Unity controversy. You’d know the antiRebel strategy of the exotics and the human loyalists the planetary troublespots that most concern them the schemes they plan to implement as our population appr
oaches its coadunate number. In time you’d certainly uncover the truth about the Unification process itself.
Cordie you’re incredible you want me to be a REBEL SPY inside the most sensitive Concilium body simultaneously promoting Unity and trying to undermine it—
No. I want you to be the only member of the Directorate who is still objective. Who still puts the needs of the human race ahead of the needs of the Milieu. Whether or not you choose to share the data you uncover is entirely a matter for your own conscience.
“Hah!” said Davy MacGregor out loud. “You’re so confident, aren’t you, which way I’ll lean.”
“Your food’s getting cold. Eat.” Of course I’m confident, because I know where your sympathies lie. The reason you’re not wholeheartedly with us now is because you still have honest doubts about the validity of the Unity concept. You’re also afraid that we Rebels wouldn’t scruple at destroying the Milieu if it tried to impose Unity on us by fiat or if it threatened humanity with severe sanctions for rejecting Unification.
Yes dammit yes!
“Then reconsider the appointment,” she said. “Dithering and brooding won’t help the Human Polity decide what’s best for its future.” But your objective scrutiny inside the Panpolity Directorate might.
How the hell can I head the Directorate pretend to be in favor of Unity when I’m not? Would you have me violate my moral principles?
Paul Remillard doesn’t expect you to be a yes-man.
No—but he was counting on me to steamroller the opposition taking the place of his sainted Sister Anne in the skirmishes HE thought I’d have my doubts resolved in favor of Unity YOU say I should retain my objectivity but you expect me to be a pipeline of intelligence to the Rebel cabal—“And my answer to you both is no. No!”
He pushed away from the table, rose, and signaled the waitron with his credit card. “I can’t stay after all. Give me a doggie bag for the tyke’s crunchies.”
