Diamond Mask (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (33 page)

“Perhaps now that Marc is to become a magnate himself, seeing his father at work, he’ll be more forbearing.”

“If only the young hardass wasn’t so judgmental and self-righteous! But he thinks he’s got all the answers—and to hell with people who make mistakes or don’t meet his standards of perfection. I tried to do what I could with him. When he was a kid I let him hang around my bookshop, encouraged him to talk about himself, tried to be his friend. But he doesn’t confide in me the way he used to. I think his closest confidant now is his little brother Jack! And that’s weird.”

Fred pursed his plum-colored lips, thinking. “Perhaps not. Both Minnie and I got to know the little boy very well. In spite of his great mindpowers and his ghastly mutation, Jack is a warm, loving, very
human
person. Perhaps his older brother unconsciously
seeks to emulate him. To discover Jack’s successful adaptation to—to super-humanity and apply it to himself.”

“Maybe,” I conceded. Then I brought up the thing that had been eating away at me ever since I arrived in Orb. “Fred—is there anything going on between Marc and Lynelle Rogers?”

His ruby eyes widened. “What an interesting notion! But I see that the idea troubles you—”

I explained Marc’s aversion to sexuality, and the warmblooded little Poltroyan was all sympathy. “I see. You think a love affair would help Marc’s psychomaturation.”

“You bet your precious purple ballocks I do! But something about Rogers gives me the willies. How did you get to know her? What do you know about her background?”

“Minnie and I went to your cosmopolitan world, Okanagon, where I was to check out a stalled research project conducted by some of my students. It was—let me see—about five of your Earth months ago. The old Planetary Dirigent had died and the newly nominated Dirigent-Designate was to be fêted at a grand garden party. We were invited, and there we met Citizen Rogers, who was the new Dirigent’s special assistant. Lynelle was particularly kind to us when an inebriated human guest made—uh—xenophobic remarks to Minnie. Coerced the boor right out the gate and smoothed things over nicely. We made arrangements to meet her again when we all came to Orb for the Concilium session. Evidently Lynelle made Marc’s acquaintance here and learned of his embarrassment of hospitality, and when we had her to dinner she asked for our help. Our friendship with the Remillard family is rather well known in operant circles. Of course we were delighted to oblige. Marc should have thought of asking us himself.”

“Not him,” I muttered. “But you don’t know anything else about this woman? Or her relation to Marc?”

“I’m sorry, no. I really think,” he added with a twinkle, “that it would be best if you asked Marc himself about that.”

I did, the very next day at the dinner party. But he only smiled his charming asymmetrical smile and told me again to mind my own damn business.

T
HE
P
OLTROYANS HAD TERRAFORMED NEARLY
150
HECTARES OF
their enclave to accommodate the Saint Patrick’s Day party, creating a surreal but charming Irish never-never land. Gnarled oaks, lush rolling meadows, standing stones, Celtic crosses, and strategically placed artificial crags evoked a fantasy landscape of Eire. An evening sky with an improbable luminous rainbow overarched a small ruined castle on a “distant” knoll. Flowers clambered over stone walls and bloomed in the dooryards of thatched white cottages that stood beside a dirt track heading toward the “Irish village” where the festivities would take place.

Luc and Jon Remillard and their grandparents, disembarking at the tube station with scores of other humans and exotic guests, were greeted by a giggling mob of Titian-wigged Poltroyan females garbed in their quaint conception of eighteenth-century Irish peasant dress: dark brocade skirts fluffed out with lots of petticoats, blouses of emerald silk georgette, gold-tissue aprons, and glistening shawls of fine wool embroidered with Celtic motifs in precious metal thread. The pretty little lilac-skinned colleens pressed shamrock boutonnières, blackthorn walking sticks with green ribbons, and buttons that said
KISS ME, I’M IRISH
upon the arrivals before guiding them to a fleet of gilded jaunting cars, open vehicles with twin benches facing toward either side, bedizened with green pompons and bunches of daffodils. The drivers were diminutive Poltroyan males in green
lamé leprechaun costumes who grinned and shouted welcoming phrases in what was arguably the Irish language.

Jack and Luc took the left seat in a car and Denis and Lucille took the right, whereupon their genial gnomish reinsman cracked his whip and a clockwork Connemara pony set off at a smart trot. Music swelled on the breeze, mingling with the scent of peat smoke, wild roses, and very inviting food.

“Faith and begorrah, but we’ve got a fine night of merrymaking ready for yez!” the Poltroyal driver caroled. “And are any here true sons or daughters of the Auld Sod?”

Lucille Cartier flinched minutely at the excruciating brogue, but neither her composure nor her mind-screen wavered. “None of us has Irish blood, but I’m sure we’ll enjoy your party all the same. It will be a very pleasant way to wind up our visit to this Concilium session. We’re most grateful to the Amalgam of Poltroy for its thoughtfulness.”

“Saints be praised! And ye know how we Purple Pipsqueaks love a good frolic! Ye’ll have a grand time, I’m sure, if music and dancing and eating and drinking appeal to yez. We’ve got pipers and drummers and harpists and tin-whistle tootlers, and a feast of corned beef and cabbage and seventeen different kinds of praties and bedad if I know how much more yummy Irish food, and enough green beer and other tipple to jollify every soul in Orb … saving the wee gossoons, o’ course. They get a special bun-fight with sweet cider and green milk shakes and a chance to hunt for a genu-wine pot o’ gold.”

“Great!” said Jack.

“And the Dirigent of Hibernia, the glorious Irish ethnic planet, is our guest of honor and grand marshal of the parade,” the driver continued. “I suppose you know the lovely gentleman: Rory Muldowney is his name.”

“Oh-oh,” murmured Luc.

Denis was calm. “We’re acquainted with him.”

Just then three larger carts full of Gi went clattering by at a full gallop, the feathered passengers waving stone jugs in the air while they warbled “Cruiscìn Làn” in several different keys. It was obvious that they had brought their own supply of poteen. Under cover of the hullabaloo, Jack queried his older brother on the intimate telepathic mode.

What
what
about the IrishDirigent? Why you leak anxietyvibes Luco?

Didn’t you know? Muldowney was LauraTremblay’s husband
and SHE was Papa’s paramour for years&years while pooroldRory grinned&bore it.

Oh …

She finally got tired of asking Papa to marry her and used her own creativity to commit suicide afewyearsago in a totally-bizarrissimo way. [Image.]

Batège! That must have hurt. Is DirigentMuldowney angry with FamilyRemillard because of—of what happened?

He never said WordOne. It seems he kept on loving Laura allthetime she was unfaithful and they had 4kids and even when she died that way after having the last baby Rory never blamed Papa it was passed off as postpartumdepression … but that’s enoughofthat morbidstuff. Just look what we’re getting into!

“Whoa, ye spalpeen!” cried the Poltroyan leprechaun, hauling back on the reins. The robot pony reared and stamped and rolled its eyes as it halted in the midst of a crush of dozens of other golden cars and laughing guests. “Lady and gents, we’re here! A hundred thousand welcomes to the Poltroyan Saint Patrick’s Day gala, and please to step down lively now so I can fetch the next batch of revelers.”

They had arrived at what appeared to be a village green at eventide, surrounded by clusters of brightly lit dwellings and inviting taverns with their doors wide open. Tricolor green, white, and orange flags and emerald banners bearing the harp of Tara flapped from garland-wound standards. Pseudoflame torches and lanterns illuminated the crowded streets and party grounds. A floodlit statue of the patron saint of Ireland looked down benevolently from a central plinth on the green, where strolling groups of mauve-complected little musicians in outlandish parodies of traditional Irish clothing fiddled and piped and harped and sang airs in clear falsetto voices. Back among the trees, which were festooned with green and white lights, were three big open areas of turf dedicated to archaic, nineteenth-century, and contemporary dancing, each with a Poltroyan band in appropriate garb. More Poltroyans dressed as servers raced to and from the cottages, bearing platters and bowls of food to a huge dining pavilion. Just beyond the village was a lighted hurling ground with a boisterous football game in progress, and a picturesque little racecourse where spectators cheered the efforts of bionic steeds.

“What a lively scene,” Lucille said politely to the driver. “You must have worked very hard to achieve an air of authenticity.”

The Poltroyan winked and tipped his green stovepipe hat.
“Not too authentic. We made it Ireland as we’d
prefer
it to be.” He cracked his whip and drove off.

“This might be fun,” said Jack. “Can I go watch the races?”

Luc checked out the course with his farsight. “They’ve got bookies!” he exclaimed. “Come on!” The lanky twenty-two-year-old and his little brother hurried off into the crowd.

Denis and Lucille watched them go. “It’s good that Luc is finally coming out of his shell,” she remarked. “When Paul first brought him to Orb the boy hardly left the enclave except to do his junior staff work. Of course his health was still precarious then.”

“Having Jack to look out for this time has been good for Luc,” Denis said. He and his wife extricated themselves from the mass of jaunting cars and skirted the throng streaming toward the green. “It’s got him out from under Marie’s overprotective big-sisterly thumb and given him a real responsibility for a change.”

“Jack has been a handful.” Lucille smiled, remembering the boy’s escapades during the month spent in Orb. “He’s explored every square meter of the planetoid except for the Lylmik Sequestrations, and he’s pestered the life out of the family magnates and God knows how many others finding out how the Concilium operates. Keeping Jack under control hasn’t allowed Luc much time to brood or mope. What a pity the two of them weren’t close earlier in life.”

“Jack’s always been Marc’s pet. But now Marc has … other matters to distract him.” Unspoken but prominent in Denis’s vestibular thoughts was a note of deepening concern. The newly confirmed young magnate had declined to come to the party, saying that he had business to take care of before the family’s scheduled return to Earth tomorrow. Denis had an uncomfortable premonition what Marc’s “business” might be, but thus far he had said nothing about it to Lucille or the others.

They walked up a little hill and found a quiet place beside a spring trickling from some rocks where they could survey the party scene. Water tinkled pleasantly into a rough basin below a carving of St. Brigit, and there was a mossy bench to sit on.

Denis loosened the black-tie formal wear that Lucille had insisted he wear, plumped himself down, and trailed his fingers in the cool water. “I think Luc will get on much better now that his physical rehabilitation is complete. He never said anything to anyone but me, but he was always worried that his own genetic
abnormalities would eventually cause him to metamorphose into—something like Jack.”

“Oh, the poor boy! But surely you showed him that his genetic heritage is completely different.”

“Of course. And I redacted the irrational fears as well as I could. But Luc has too many memories of his childhood as an invalid. He never felt truly self-confident until his body and brain functions stabilized. I’m delighted that he’s been accepted as an intern at Catherine’s latency clinic.”

“Luc is a very caring person. His intellect is superior and his metafaculties are nearly up to full grandmasterly level now. He should make an excellent therapist. Overcoming his own disabilities should help him to empathize with others who need help in achieving their mental potential.”

Denis nodded. “I agree.”

“It was good of Anne to help him with his sexual identity crisis. I’m afraid Luc thought he was letting the family down by not being a breeder.”

“That’s nonsense, of course—but we Remillards
have
been rather a philoprogenetive lot.”

Lucille laughed softly. “Including some of you who needed a bit of a jump-start.”

She was wearing a flowing gown of black with a dramatic wide collar and cuffs decorated with pastel Caledonian seed pearls. Her dark hair was cut in a French bob, and her strongly drawn features had the bloom of youth—thanks to a third regeneration a year earlier.

Denis said, “I had sense enough to get what I needed, at any rate. Unlike a certain son and grandson who shall remain nameless! Without you, I’d have been an inhuman, heartless freak, living only for my work. With you, I became a man.” He bent across the fountain bowl and gently kissed her lips.

“Oh, yes,” she said, serious now, “and what a man!” She lifted her hand to push a strand of his blond hair back into place. “It’s been a mad and fascinating sixty-eight years, being married to you, mon brave. I don’t even want to think about what the future may hold.”

Denis put his arm around his wife and drew her close. He was ninety-six years old, but he seemed to be only a shy, appealingly gauche young man in his mid-twenties … so long as he kept his terrible blue eyes veiled. Research into the Remillard “immortality” gene complex was incomplete, but the consensus was that his body—and those of his descendants—would probably selfrejuvenate
indefinitely. The prospect was one that Denis and his progeny almost never thought about, much less discussed, for reasons that were political as well as personal. From time to time some genetic researcher would take another stab at unraveling the bewildering interaction of thousands of genes that produced the immortality effect in hopes of making it available to the rest of humanity; but thus far all their efforts had failed. To the family’s great relief, most people had forgotten about this peculiar aspect of the Remillard heritage now that rejuvenation was becoming nearly universal among humans.