Magnificat

by Julian May

  This way! her mind shouted to Fury. This way! She and her victim disappeared in an exultant neural flare and she fed, beginning with the most rarefied psychic energy-font and slowly proceeding to the root. At the end, the body was a charred ruin and she was sated. Only her lips still glowed in the thickening dusk.

  Fury had finished with the woman but his own metapsychic corona still blazed hungrily. He threw his arms wide in imperious command. Hydra brought him the last victim, stripped and ready, and watched until the consummation, when the final four-pointed chakra flower at the base of the young man’s spine died like an ember.

  The three bodies were burnt black, coiled into a curious posture resembling a pugilist with cocked fists. Each had seven stigmata formed of delicately patterned white ash imprinted along the seared vertebral column and hairless skull.

  “I am finally whole,” Fury said quietly, lifting his head and smiling at the Hydra. “All of the metafaculties are fully empowered at last.” He showed her and she gasped in awe, then fell on her knees.

  “Do anything with me,” she whispered.

  “Share a little of the totality, my dearest little one, and never doubt again.” Gently, he brought her head against him and they merged in a final explosion of vital energies.

  The storm was over and the wind was dying. They restored their clothing and walked back to the beach, where crashing surf surged around the mutilated sea-monster. The ollphéist was quite dead. Fury studied the formidable creature for a moment, then used his restored psychokinetic power to set its carcass adrift in the sea.

  After blasting the human remains to cinders and scattering them over the water, Ruslan Terekev carefully placed a single tentacle-claw with a torn piece of slicksuit snagged on it among the rocks above the high-tide line, where it would surely be found. His PK levitated the Mercedes back onto the highway and tidied up the scene of the crime. The hacked-off body parts of the animal, the abandoned tools and tote, and the crawler vehicle were left as mute testimony to yet another tragedy of the sea.

  19

  SECTOR 12: STAR 12-370-992 [RETLA]

  PLANET 3 [HIBERNIA]

  7 EANAIR [15 FEBRUARY] 2080

  IT WAS DOWNRIGHT EERIE, THE WAY THE THING HAD BEGUN.

  Of course Patricia Castellane had been aware of Rory Muldowney’s secret stash of matériel for years—just as he knew that her contingent were busy building illicit CE hats with the connivance of the Japs. But Rory was furious all the same when Pat’s snotty executive assistant had come slithering up to him during an official reception on Okanagon late in 2078.

  “I need your good advice, Dirigent,” Lynelle Rogers had said to him, after a bit of preliminary chitchat. “Consider a hypothetical situation. Suppose that a certain high planetary official of Rebellious inclination has put together a large collection of weaponry—good stuff, mostly big blasters customized for offense.”

  Rory gave a great start. He was only a little drunk, and in spite of Lynelle’s coyly oblique phrasing, he knew at once what she was talking about. He managed a lame little laugh and began to edge away. She took hold of his arm.

  “Suppose,” she went on, drawing him irresistibly toward a quiet corner, “that this official has kept the illicit treasure hidden away, adding to it year after year, hoping that one day it will prove useful when humanity bids for its freedom from the Galactic Milieu.”

  He gaped at the woman, too incredulous even to voice a denial. She’d shocked him into instant sobriety. Lynelle Rogers plowed on.

  “Without a delivery system,” said she, “without warships to mount the weapons on, the official’s wonderful arsenal is little more than useless junk … unless he’s foolish enough to think that the Rebellion should smuggle photon cannons and antimatter bombs stolen from the Krondaku into Concilium Orb, and hold the nerve center of the Galactic Milieu for ransom.”

  A Dhia na bhfeart! Had the silly female gone mad, daring to talk about such things? (And actually the ransom idea was one that he was especially taken with.)

  Lynelle said, “Suppose that a certain person knew a way to get hold of warships for the Rebellion. Would you advise her to speak to the high planetary official with the hoard of weapons—or should she go straight to Marc Remillard with her information?”

  Rory forced the woman back against the wall, looming over her, using both coercion and the down side of the redactive metafaculty to compel and hurt her. Stop playing your feckin’ games dammit and tell me what you know!

  Lynelle Rogers never stopped smiling. She opened her mind and showed him exactly how she thought the warships could be obtained.

  He’d backed off then, laughing her to scorn. From Astrakhan? Crazy bitch!

  The once-thriving shipbuilding industry of the fourth Russian colony was on the brink of ruin. The planet’s Milieu-loyalist female Dirigent was a futile mystic and its Intendant General, Ruslan Terekev (for all that he was a faithful adherent to the Rebel cause), was a fatuous, crony-ridden gobshite. Why, Astrakhan was no more likely to get the contract for the Fourteenth Sector colonization transports than it was to host the Second Coming of Jesus Christ!

  And even if the impossible did occur, there was no way that the Rebellion could expropriate and arm those starships without the Milieu loyalists finding out about it.

  … Was there?

  “Perhaps not,” Lynelle Rogers had said, as though the matter were suddenly of no concern to her. “All the same, if someone high in the Astrakhanian government should ever contact you with an unusual business proposal, be certain that Marc Remillard and the other Rebel leaders hear about it and take it seriously. Or else a certain high planetary official might find himself guarding a pile of dusty rubbish like some futile old dragon in an Irish fairytale—while the exotics force Unity down the human race’s throat.”

  The bloody insolence! He’d told the woman to go to hell very politely, and later on at the party he chewed out Pat Castellane for spilling his great secret to a lunatic underling. Pat indignantly denied she’d done anything of the sort. But what else could she say without making herself look a fool?

  Less than a week later Lynelle Rogers perished in a dreadful mountain-climbing accident, her body crushed to a pulp in a glacial crevasse.

  At that point Rory Muldowney gave a lot more thought to the strange conversation he’d had with Rogers—and also entertained some very nasty suspicions about Dirigent Patricia Castellane.

  Months went by. A mind-boggling upheaval occurred on Astrakhan. Its debased buffoon of an Intendant General underwent an abrupt change of character and was transformed overnight into a political dynamo. Most stunning of all, the shipbuilding contract was eventually awarded to the Russian planet by the Polity Commerce Directorate, just as the late Rogers had predicted.

  Rory had felt the hairs stir at the nape of his neck when that little piece of news reached him. But it was nothing compared to the jolt he got when Ruslan Terekev called him not long afterward on the subspace communicator, proposing an unofficial visit to Hibernia. The Russian said he wanted to discuss forming an astronautical consortium between their two worlds—“and we must also talk over other matters important to the future of the Human Polity.”

  Of course the consortium notion was a farce. The Hibernian economy was based primarily on agriculture and light manufacturing, with no astronautics industry worth mentioning. But Rory agreed to the meeting all the same, and then he reported the entire unlikely tale to the leader of the Rebel Party, just as Lynelle Rogers had told him to do.

  Surprisingly, Marc Remillard didn’t laugh.

  On the day of the conference Rory flew over to the mainland himself to collect the two Russians from Granuaile House. Thanks be to heaven the rain was over. The wretched cruimh had dessicated overnight and turned to dust, blown to hell and gone by the clean north wind, and the sky above Loch Mór was a cloudless iris-blue.

  The visitors were waiting for him in the parlorlike lobby of the inn. The Astrakhanian IG was sturdy as a block o
f bog oak, daunting and portentous of mien. Above his prominent nose, piercing dark eyes sunk in deceptive laugh-wrinkles hinted at formidable metapsychic powers. His broad Slavic mouth opened stingily when he spoke and then slammed shut like a drawer.

  The IG’s Chief of Staff, Lyudmila Arsanova, turned out to be an ebony-haired smasheroo wearing an elegant leather outfit that enhanced her lovely figure. She stood frowning at her boss’s side, exuding the chilling vibes of a thoroughgoing ballbuster. If these two were lovers, as recent Rebel intelligence reports had speculated, Rory had no doubt which one called the tune in the dance of sweet comhriachtain!

  He bid the pair the traditional ten thousand welcomes to Hibernia and said he hoped they’d enjoyed their drive yesterday.

  “It was a most interesting experience.” Ruslan Terekev smiled minimally. “However, I am sorry to tell you that last night we were interrupted at dinner by a police officer, who informed us that a grisly incident had taken place on the coast just west of here. Three local beachcombers disappeared after a sea-beast they were harvesting apparently attacked them and dragged them off into the water. This policeman interrogated us at some length, since we had passed close by the scene of the accident. We informed him that we had no useful information, but he did not seem entirely satisfied.”

  “The Intendant General is deeply concerned,” Lyudmila Arsanova said sternly, “that the security of our secret meeting might be compromised if we should be required to submit to further questioning by the authorities.”

  “Soddin’ idiot coppers,” Rory muttered. “We’ll just see about that.”

  He found a teleview and dealt briskly with the Garda at Gaillimh while the Russians hovered. Not a trace had been found of the sea-monster’s victims (the voracious ollpheist rarely made leftovers), but even if bodies were found, the visitors would not have to appear as witnesses in the inquiry. The officer who had spoken to them was young and overly zealous. The Garda would never dream of inconveniencing distinguished guests of Dirigent Muldowney.

  “I hope that satisfies you,” Rory said, as the screen went gray.

  Lyudmila nodded. “It was necessary to be absolutely certain. Such officious meddling in the affairs of persons of importance would never be tolerated on Astrakhan.”

  “We must proceed now to the island with no further delay,” Ruslan Terekev declared. “Please settle our bill. We will wait in your rhocraft.” He hoisted his own valise and went stumping out the front door of the inn without another word, the woman close on his heels.

  Rory raised his eyes to heaven, held his temper admirably, and used his personal credit card.

  On the brief trip from the mainland to Inisfáil, Lyudmila Arsanova remained wrapped in inscrutable silence while Terekev’s responses to the Dirigent’s attempts at conversation were abbreviated and brusque. Even when a spectacular flight of huge azure theropterids boiled up from one of the limestone stacks offshore and headed out to sea in a joyous corkscrewing feeding frenzy, the Astrakhanian IG’s only comment was, “Very pretty.”

  Rory sighed inwardly. Well, these two beauties hadn’t been invited for their winsome charm. He landed the egg on the pad behind his country house and ushered the Russians up the graveled path.

  “The others have already arrived, except for Marc Remillard and Alexis Manion, who are expected shortly. I’ll show you to your rooms so you can freshen up. We’ll be having lunch in about an hour, and after that my daughter Cyndia will take us all on an inspection tour of the armlann. She’s an engineer and supervises the place.”

  Ruslan said, “This—this armlann is your private arsenal? The one you propose using to arm the starships?”

  “It’s Hibernia’s free contribution to the Rebellion.” Rory made the correction with polite firmness. “A prime strategic asset of the cause.”

  “Of course,” the Intendant General murmured. “And we of Astrakhan will be honored to assist in the ultimate deployment of these weapons against the exotic despots. Provided, of course, that the Rebel leadership accepts our proposal. I trust that Fleet officers are also in attendance, as we requested? Their expertise will be needed in the evaluation.”

  “Owen Blanchard himself is here, along with two other top Rebel honchos of the Twelfth—the Chief of Operations, Ragnar Gathen, and the Deputy Ops, Walter Saastamoinen. You’ll also be conferring with Cordelia Warshaw, our top strategic adviser, and Professor Anna Gawrys, Hiroshi Kodama, and Patricia Castellane—all members of the Executive Council involved in what you might call military matters. But of course the ultimate decision on your warship scheme rests with Marc Remillard himself.”

  Ruslan Terekev was surprised. “He is not bound by the vote of his Council?”

  “Oh, no,” said Rory blandly. “He’s the generalissimo. It was the only way he’d agree to take on the leadership. Marc consults with the rest of us, but in the end he calls the shots.”

  “I see.”

  “Most of us Rebels would have it no other way,” Rory Muldowney said with a twinkle in his eye. “But there are a few sore losers.”

  * * *

  Marc made a perfunctory apology as he picked up his old friend Alexis Manion at Loch Salainn Starport and immediately bundled him into an Avis rent-a-rho. “I’m sorry to have dragged you away from Earth at such short notice. Was the express trip hard on you?”

  Alex pulled a comical grimace. “You know I hate high-df starflight. But I’ll survive.”

  Marc laughed dismissively. Nobody’s priorities mattered but his own. The egg lofted into the stratosphere and picked up the Connemara Vee-way.

  “I wouldn’t have called this emergency meeting of the Council if the matter under consideration wasn’t crucially important. If it’s any consolation, I had to travel all the way from Orb on a tight catenary myself. I’ve been stroking the Krondak honchos of the Panpolity Operant Affairs Directorate. They demanded a progress report on full-body CE, and it’s taken me three weeks at coercive max to satisfy them with an exhaustive demonstration of the rig.”

  Alex was nonplussed. “Satisfy—!”

  “Yes. You’ll be interested to know that 600X CE is now conditionally approved for use in the geophysical modification of planets. There will be no more obstructive maneuvers from the Science Directorate or the Unity advocates or anyone else in the Concilium unless the equipment evinces some serious flaw … or is used in an ‘inappropriate’ manner.”

  “Well, congratulations! Until inappropriate circumstances prevail, that is.”

  “Thanks. This meeting today will help define the parameters of those very circumstances.”

  Alex said, “I think you’d better tell me more about this strange-bedfellows entente cordiale between the Russians and Rory Muldowney. What the hell are they up to?”

  “The Rebellion is about to be presented with an offer that’s too good to refuse. The Astrakhanians are proposing to do secret modifications on all of the big colonization transports scheduled to be built in their yards, effectively fitting them out as disguised Rebel battle wagons. The big guns and other weaponry will come from Dirigent Rory Muldowney’s notorious illicit armory.”

  “Why—that’s marvelous!”

  “No, it’s a disaster in the making.” Marc was quite calm. “And it could jeopardize the future of the Rebellion unless it’s handled very carefully.”

  “I don’t understand. Aren’t Muldowney’s weapons any good?”

  “On the contrary. They’re mostly ingenious modifications of legitimate equipment.”

  “Then what’s the problem? We certainly need warships in order to wage a war—even if it ultimately amounts to a saber-rattling bluff, as most of us hope. What was it Voltaire said? ‘Dieu est toujours pour les gros bataillons!’ ”

  “Not if those big battalions tempt the hotheads in the Rebel Party into a premature declaration of independence against the Milieu. Some of our more impetuous co-conspirators—the Irish Dirigent prominent among them—believe that we can compel the Galactic Milieu to capit
ulate and grant humanity its freedom simply by threatening it with an old-fashioned Star Wars-type of deep-space shoot-’em-up. But that strategy can’t possibly work. In a Metapsychic Rebellion, God is on the side of the big minds, not the big guns.”

  “I tend to agree with you, but—”

  “I’m not just expressing a personal opinion, Alex. After I accepted the Rebel leadership I spent over five weeks working on war-game simulations at Oxford with Cordelia Warshaw and Helayne Strangford and Alonzo Jarrow. We studied dozens of different offensive scenarios that stopped short of doomsday—most especially including confrontations that featured laser and antimatter matériel and the kind of CE blaster-hats that certain of our Rebel associates now look upon as the ultimate secret weapon. The outcome was always the same: If a Rebel force were ever faced with a psychocreative metaconcert that included all of the Milieu’s coadunate minds, we’d be stone goners—no matter how many photon cannons or El8 operators our warships carried. Superior exotic mindpower forced us into the Milieu. Only superior human mindpower can insure that we escape from it without risking the complete destruction of galactic civilization.”

  “I presume you’re talking about your new 600X CE enhancer. But even if we do use those hellish things, have we enough grandmasterclass operators to tip the balance of power?”

  “For a decisive victory, the Rebel metaconcert would need at least nine thousand metacreative GMs equipped with full-body rigs.”

  “We don’t have half that number of longheads on our side—and so far, only a handful of 600X enhancers.”

  “True,” Marc agreed. “But I ran another simulation with Helayne just before I left Orb. We could be certain of victory if we built enough rigs to equip all of our GMs … and added just a hundred 600X-empowered paramounts to our side of the equation.”