Galactic Milieu - Diamond Mask Part 30

The Lylmik Supervisors, a handful of exotic and human friends.

You will recall nothing of this probing.

Yes-

"-but when you're a nine-hundred-kilo canary like Marc, you get to sing anywhere you d.a.m.n please, right?"

She laughed appreciatively at the conclusion of the joke. "Oh, abso-b.l.o.o.d.y-lutely!" She got to her feet. "This has been ever so much of a giggle, Mister Bozo, but now I'd like to go dancing again."

The clown's face fell. "Aw, you promised, Diamond Mask. First let me see you for real." He reached for her jewel-encrusted breathing equipment, but she skipped out of range, laughing again, and dashed away toward the terrace. The band was playing a fair imitation of the famous George Benson cut of "This Masquerade."

The clown closed and locked the library door, then went into the adjacent room that served as Marc's home office. A credenza yielded up a powerful subs.p.a.ce communicator at the touch of a b.u.t.ton. The clown called Chief Evaluator Throma'eloo Lek at the Office of the Galactic Magistratum in Orb.

"Lek? Get ready for an intimode mind-squirt. I'm gone."

Shutting off the communicator, the clown relaxed in Marc's big leather chair, closed his eyes, and extended his mind 4000 lightyears to bespeak the waiting Krondak official on his intimate telepathic mode: Lek, this is vitally important. I want you to arrange the immediate arrest of one Clinton Wolfe Alvarez, an administrative a.s.sistant to the Dirigent of Okanagon. He is an unusually powerful Grand Master with all five faculties up to snuff, so you'd better send a Krondak team. Hoke up some civil charge like suspicion of vehicular homicide. Groundcar hit-and-run. You'll have to arrange a major computer hack-job, but I know you're capable of it. See that Alvarez is held without bail and with as much publicity as possible until you and I can get to Okanagon to interrogate him. I especially want the Earth media to find out that this guy is in the slammer just as soon as it happens. And make it happen soon! Within hours, not days. Can you do it?

Certainly, if you say so. What is the actual reason for detaining this individual?

I'm virtually certain he's part of Hydra. Catch you later ...

The clown opened his eyes and sat there for a few minutes, thinking. Then he left the office and went out to find Rogi.

The bookseller was at the bar, filling a gla.s.s of ice cubes with straight Wild Turkey. "She do her number on you okay, kid?"

The clown nodded. "And she was very good, Uncle Rogi. Too d.a.m.ned good. Once I deliberately let her in, I was almost dead meat. I was actually forced to tell her the truth. Thank heaven she didn't ask the wrong questions. Or maybe I mean the right ones."

"Well, well. So she really is paramount-cla.s.s."

"Beyond a doubt ... She fingered a Hydra-unit that her grandmother had inadvertently stumbled over and showed me the monster's metaconcert config."

Rogi brushed all that aside. "But am I off the hook? Did you fix it so she won't drag me off to Okanagon and get us both killed?"

"All you have to do is make certain she checks out the interstellar news tomorrow. A certain Citizen Clinton Alvarez is about to be framed on a capital charge and locked up howling his head off in the Chelan Metro chokey on the planet Okanagon. Dorothea will call off the trip like a shot when she finds out."

Rogi let out a sigh of relief. "What next?"

The clown gazed out at the dancers. Brom Bones and Diamond Mask were waltzing to Wes Montgomery's "West Coast Blues." Near them was a couple in strikingly beautiful Shakespearean costume-a burly Moor of Venice and a delicate, pale-skinned Desdemona with scarlet lips. For an instant, Rogi thought he recognized the woman. But then he realized he was mistaken. Both she and her companion wore impenetrable mental disguises.

"I'm taking my own starship to Okanagon," the clown said. "You make sure our mutual female friend goes to Kauai after she gets the news. Drag her there if you have to, and see that the two of you stay on the island under Malama's protection until I find out what Clinton Alvarez has to say for himself."

Dee nabbed Marc during the Ladies' Choice waltz. At first he had attempted to demur because of the difference in their heights: he was over 40 centimeters taller than she, and the black jack-o'-lantern of the CE helmet made him even taller.

But she said, "You can't back out of Ladies' Choice, Big Boy!" She took both his hands in hers and gave him a coercive nudge that made his eyes widen. Then he laughed at her audacity, and they swung out onto the floor together. She was so light on her feet that they seemed to complement each other perfectly, a pair of graceful grotesques, and many of the other couples stopped to watch.

But she found it impossible to get into his mind.

No fair! she said. You've got the hat energized haven't you.

He said: The E16's internal power source won't move mountains, but it's quite adequate to Diamondproof me. You'll simply have to take my word that I'm neither Fury nor part of Hydra.

"A likely story," she said aloud. She tried to pull away from him but he held her gloved hands tightly. "Let go."

"Don't make a scene. You wanted to dance. Do it"

"You big bully!" The diamond mask hid her fury at being momentarily outmaneuvered, but after a moment's hesitation she submitted.

Marc only laughed. He had not bothered to extend his augmented power to an external disguise, and she could easily see through the bulky CE helmet with its zany stuck-on features to the ironically smiling face beneath. It was safe to a.s.sume that he could see her face, too.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Dorothea Macdonald. Since you've had a go at probing the other Remillards, I believe it's only fair to give me a turn with you."

Her dancing feet never missed a beat but the eyes above the glittering mask hardened. "Try it."

He did, gently at first and then with building intensity, calling at last upon the maximum enhancement potential available with the limited power source of the helmet. His mental probe would have cracked a Krondaku Grand Master; it did not faze the fifteen-year-old girl.

"Bonte divine! You are a prodigy, aren't you, Diamond Mask! Your mind-screen's as strong as Jack's."

"Good."

"You're hostile ... what a shame. And we've just met."

"Let's not p.u.s.s.yfoot," she retorted. "You were expecting me to do just what I did. Your CE equipment is set for the augmentation of coercion-not creativity."

The black jack-o'-lantern nodded. "The helmet is capable of enhancing only one metafaculty at a time. Switching it over requires the insertion of a different brainboard. It's not difficult. The original interface will be plugged back in before I perform my bag of tricks later in the evening."

"What are you going to do to me now?" she asked calmly. "Prosecute me for felonious mental trespa.s.s against members of your family?"

"I'm going to waltz with you," Marc said.

"No warning me off the Remillard preserves with threats of legal retaliation?"

"Your enemy is ours. Believe me! We should join forces, not work at odds. My brother Jack would like to-"

"No!" For the first time, her silver-clad body faltered. "I don't want anything to do with that-with him."

"He's human," Marc said softly. "He was very impressed by your probing this evening. He says he couldn't have done anything approaching it without cerebroenergizing. You're an appalling young woman, Diamond Mask. I hope the Lylmik waste no time magnatizing you. You'll join our elite little club then, whether you want to or not."

"If they make me a paramount, I'll carry out whatever duties the position entails." Her tone was stilted.

"Paramount Grand Masters have no special obligations aside from the usual duties of a magnate, but sometimes suggestions are made. It was suggested that Jack and I take a bash at the Satsuma seismic problem. We did and we got lucky. But I nearly died."

"How?"

Marc showed her. "In this configuration, I was the prime focus, the one actually directing the flow of energies. Unfortunately, we had failed to calibrate our atypical mental potential precisely enough, and because of this the metaconcert suffered a dysergistic failure. What we call an all-systems zorch-a funny name for a not-so-funny phenomenon. The pressurized atmosphere inside the deep-drilling machine we rode in suddenly ionized into white-hot plasma because of misdirected creativity. Jack might have had a pico-sec's warning through the proleptic metafaculty-the one that allegedly sees the future-or perhaps his mind just outraced the expanding ions. At any rate he cut out of the concert and spun a psychocreative shield around me that saved my bacon. The ionization was gone as fast as it came but the cab of the driller and part of its instrumentation were fried. The surface crew descended and rescued us within two hours. Then Jack and I modified the config of the concert, climbed into a new deep-driller, and tried again. The second time was the charm. We were able to diminish the friction within the fault zone-to 'lubricate' it with a creative injection of carbon-and minimize the danger of a serious quake in that area for a useful number of years."

"Why wasn't your brother burnt to a crisp in the plasma blowout?"

"He was in his natural mutant form. It seems to be invulnerable. At least, nothing's ever been able to harm him yet"

The music ended and Marc and Dee applauded.

"Thank you for the dance," she said. Will I be expected to undertake mortally dangerous work like this if I'm named a paramount?

Marc said, "It was my pleasure, Citizen Macdonald." Only if you feel you must. You're free to make your own choice.

The band began to play a techno variation of "Pompton Turnpike" and Lucille Cartier and Denis Remillard materialized out of the crowd.

"Your mother insists on having a whirl with you, Marc," Denis said. "I think she wants to make certain you're all in one piece." He bowed to Dorothea Macdonald. "If you'll accept a default partner, my dear?"

"I'd be honored. Professor Remillard," she said.

As they danced away she slipped carefully through Denis's mindscreen, slid the probe home, and began to weave the bypa.s.s structure.

Fury. I expected you earlier. It's a G.o.ddam catastrophe.

Is it ruined then? Your great scheme for the Second Milieu?

The other units can ... carry on successfully without me until you recruit more?

I'm ready to do it right now. Farewell Fury. Farewell SELVES ...

The man known as Clinton Wolfe Alvarez died in his sleep of a ma.s.sive myocardial infarction approximately three hours after he was arrested and placed in a holding cell in the Metropolitan Jail of Okanagon's capital city. The body was not discovered until the next morning, by which time there was no possibility of resuscitating him in a regeneration-tank.

DNA a.n.a.lysis eventually identified the deceased as Quentin Frederic O'Neill Remillard, the fugitive son of Severin Remillard. This information was kept confidential by the Galactic Magistratum. The vehicular homicide case fabricated against the erstwhile Citizen Alvarez was cla.s.sified as "solved" by the death of the suspect.

19.

KAUAI, HAWAII, EARTH.

2 NOVEMBER 2072.

The dream came to her for the last time while she waited on the island with Uncle Rogi for Jack to complete his investigation on Okanagon. After two nearly sleepless nights as a result of Malama Johnson's huna therapy, she found herself finally relaxing on the breezy lanai of the little house in Kukuiula. Her eyes closed and she slept.

Mummie? You're crying. What's wrong?

There's no need, Mummie. The Halloween party was a perfect chance to probe Jack's mind. To know just what kind of threat the Great Enemy poses. You can't contend against a foe you have no data on. Surely you realize that.

I didn't think of it that way.

Nothing has changed in our relationship. I'm as committed to you and the Second Milieu as I ever was.

Uncle Rogi is no one's lackey, Mum. And Malama Johnson is simply a friend of his that we're visiting- She's a traditional Hawaiian healer. A pract.i.tioner of natural redaction. She's been helping me with the inhibitions that prevent me from using the full spectrum of my metafaculties- Oh, Mum. Malama Johnson is a Catholic, just like I am. She's a dear, harmless old soul who teaches me how to make flower leis when she's not helping me sweep out the last of my mental garbage. She's a kahuna lapaau, not one of the black-magic anaana kind. Her use of the higher mindpowers is restricted to her work as a healer amongst her people here in the islands.

I-I find that hard to believe.

No. I only want to study it scientifically from all aspects, to make certain- I know. I still must ask whether the Second Milieu exemplifies this truth. And whether I'm the one to promulgate it.

You know I'm not ... a person of unswerving self-confidence. When you tell me I must lead the human race into the Second Milieu all by myself I feel overwhelmed- I-what do you mean?

How ... do I make this Choice?

Without reservation?

What will happen then?

That's incredible. It's like ... the Annunciation.

With the Cosmic Mind residing inside my body.

Whose body does the Mind inhabit now?

<... what?=""> The Mind. Where is it now?

.

Will you answer my question?

Mummie?

That's not true, and you know it.

I'd like to help, Fury. Neutralize the anger and relieve the unending pain. There must be a way to reintegrate the broken parts of you. To heal you.