Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (10 page)

At the edge of the Needle’s east plaza was a rank of staff eggs. Their drivers stood together gaping at the thin column of smoke in the distance. Owen’s coercion scattered the bystanders and he hauled open the door to one of the rhocraft. “Breaking regulations,” he said. “But to hell with it. The courier’s burnt and blasted to bits. There’s no danger of field-suppression or explosion.”

Moments later he and Patricia were in the air, hovering over the scene of the crash. They were the first ones to arrive.

“My sweet Lord,” the Dirigent whispered. “Is that a
body
?” Then she cried, “There! Do you see it?”

Cursing, Owen Blanchard maneuvered the egg to set down as close as possible to the thing Patricia’s farsight had indicated. They climbed out and stumbled through smoldering grass littered with shattered cerametal and half-melted fragments of nameless detritus. The courier wreckage had fallen into a landscaped area near the edge of a pad. Some of the ornamental trees were still on fire. Others were blackened skeletons.

What they found was incredible.

The body of a woman, mutilated and frightfully burned, with lidless eyes wide open. The eyes moved. She was alive.

Awestruck, Owen knelt beside her. “Unbelievable! Somehow she must have managed to generate a partial protective envelope.”

“It’s the Director,” said Patricia. “I recognize her mental signature.” Ground vehicles were approaching and sirens blared. “The paramedics are almost here.”

“Anne!” Owen called. He dared not touch the woman’s ruined corporeal shell, but his mind reached out to hers with coercive strength. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Anne Remillard’s last vestige of metacreative screening winked out. Suddenly a rush of pain hit Owen and Patricia with a force that was almost physical. The victim’s thoughts were broken, indecipherable. She seemed to be on the brink of death. Hastily, the Dirigent added her own quotient of grandmasterly redaction to Owen’s powerful coercivity. Mentally conjoined in a rough metaconcert, they sustained the injured Director’s flickering lifeforce until the medical crew arrived and swiftly connected her to their sophisticated machines.

Exerting all her willpower, Anne spoke telepathically:
Dying?

“It’s all right,” the chief medic reassured her. “You’re going to live. The regen-tank will take care of everything.”

Anne’s mind said: Good. I’m going down now …

“That’s right,” another technician said. “Let go. No more far-speech. No more thinking.”

But in the last minute before she lost consciousness, Anne Remillard transmitted a single thought to her rescuers:

Hydra
.

“Hydra?” The paramedic was mystified. “What the hell does that mean?”

Owen Blanchard and Patricia Castellane exchanged glances.

“It means trouble,” the Fleet Commander said quietly. He turned away and began to walk back to his own rhocraft. “Come along, Pat. We’ll have to notify the Galactic Magistratum … and the First Magnate of the Human Polity.”

I warned you that she might save herself. But she’ll be a floater for months—maybe as long as a year. Incommunicado.

Certainly not while she’s on Okanagon. Castellane and Blanchard must suspect that Hydra shot Anne down, even if the medics haven’t a clue. All of the senior Rebels know about Hydra and
Fury, thanks to that damned Adrien Remillard. The Dirigent has very good reasons to make certain that nothing else happens to Anne on her turf … and you can bet she’ll be hot on
my
trail too.

I doubt it. But I’ll be on the alert.

But you must not compromise your safety>

Don’t worry. I’ll get myself assigned to the crash investigation team. Castellane will need someone from ODO liaising with the Galactic Magistratum. I’ll muddy the waters when I can, and if it looks like my cover’s blown I’ll flit. But I’m confident no one can tie Hydra to me. Just
you
make certain that bloody idiot Parni doesn’t screw up his assignment If any members of the Dynasty get on to him, old Parn’s toast He does well enough when you need mental muscle but he can’t think his way out of a plass Baggie. Has he told you his plan for eliminating the old man?

…

Fury?

…

Damn. Offline again.
Damn!

N
IALL
A
BERCROMBIE
, E
XECUTIVE
A
SSISTANT TO THE
P
LANETARY
Dirigent of Caledonia, made no apology for stonewalling the distinguished caller on the subspace communicator.

“I’m sure it’s a verra important matter, Director Remillard, and under ordinary circumstances I wouldnae hesitate to interrupt the Dirigent. But she’s deliberatin’ an appeal of a capital sentence the noo, and ye understand why I can’t break in on her.”

The display showed the pleasant, rather ordinary face of a dark-haired man in his mid-twenties. Jack and his fiancée customarily alerted each other on the SS com when intending to project a telepathic message on the intimate mode over interstellar distances. The ultrasenses were not easily focused across the lightyears. Even paramounts could do it only with difficulty unless the recipient of the message was alerted to “tune in” ahead of time.

“I’ll bespeak her later then,” Jack said. “When do you think she might be free?”

“Let me take a wee keek at her sked.” The assistant consulted a plaque on his desk. “She has a simple adjudication followin’ this, and some trade quotas for avizandum and other special exportimport documents to ratify and seal. We’re verra careful aboot such things on Callie. And then there’s a penciled-in luncheon appointment with her dad if there’s nae early vote in the Assembly. If ye bespeak her in aboot forty-five minutes, she’ll surely be available for a moment.”

“A moment … You’re working her to death!”

“Oh, aye,” Niall admitted cheerfully. “Our Dirigent Lassie’s insisted on slavin’ night and day ever since the big blowoot. And this week ODC’s been in a rare carfuffle wi’ her tryin’ to get urgent matters taken care of afore she takes the regular flight to the
Old World for the wedding. On Di-h-aoine—och, sorry, that’d be your Friday—two days from noo.”

“Thanks for telling me. I think I’d better fly her to Earth myself in my own starship. I’ll make sure we bunny-hop nice and slow so she has time to unwind before our big day.”

“A fine idea! The staff here at ODC wanted to throw a ceilidh for her but she wouldnae hear of it. It’d be grand if both o’ ye came back to Callie taegither for a bit later on, so’s we could have a proper planetary bash. After the grief this world’s had coping wi’ the diatreme, we’ve unco’ need for a celebration.”

“I promise we’ll both come after the honeymoon,” Jack Remillard said.

“If ye’ll pardon my sayin’ so, Director, don’t let the lass haver on about having to cut the honeymoon short because she’s indispensable. She
is
, o’ course! But Callie has a perfectly competent Deputy Dirigent, Orazio Morrison, to deal wi’ things whilst she’s away. Take a guid lang holiday. Laird knows ye both deserve it.”

Jack laughed. “We’ll try—if the media vultures leave us in peace. And now, goodbye to you, Niall.” The screen of the subspace communicator went dark.

Abercrombie sighed and flicked the instrument onto
STANDBY
. He scanned the outer reception room with his farsight and was relieved to see that no unscheduled petitioners had arrived. Only the two Magistratum agents who had brought in the recidivist felon and his wife were there, patiently awaiting the outcome of the clemency hearing.

It was time to see how matters were progressing. Niall pulled up the garters of his socks, tucked his sgian dhu into the right one, put on his tweed jacket, and smoothed the fake fur of his sporran. Then he slipped into Dorothea Macdonald’s office from a side door and stood where the petitioners could not see him.

The room was simply furnished with a broad desk and armless chairs of local daragwood, so deeply violet in color that it was almost black. Matching wall units contained communication and data-reference equipment. One entire wall was a polarized window overlooking the city of New Glasgow and the surrounding countryside. On another wall directly behind the Dirigent’s desk hung a golden representation of the nine-pointed star and cross saltire of the Great Seal of Caledonia, with its motto
Is Sabhailte Mo Chaladh
—Safe Is My Haven.

The condemned man, one Geordie Doig, was a former hop-lorry driver and a nonoperant. He was below average in height but broad across the shoulders and well muscled. Dressed in orange
prison garb, he sat before the Diligent’s desk with his young wife, Emma Ross, who was also a normal. As he spoke his last plea for commutation of his sentence, his strong, restless hands kept straying to his temples, fingering the freshly shaved places where the docilator electrodes had been fastened to his scalp.

Since his legal representatives had exhausted all other avenues of appeal, Geordie Doig’s only hope now was to have his sentence commuted by Caledonia’s highest executive, who represented the central authority of the Galactic Milieu. The clemency hearing involved both a personal interview and a mandatory mental examination of the prisoner. Most Planetary Dirigents had the ream-job done in advance by redactive specialists, but Dorothea Macdonald was unique in performing the probing herself. Her paramount metafaculties gave her the ability to work with a virtuoso swiftness and subtlety that spared examinees the usual pain caused by the procedure.

The Dirigent of Caledonia stood casually before the two petitioners, leaning against the desk, listening with her head deeply bowed and her arms folded. As usual, she conducted the hearing without having any guards or legal advocates present. She wore a loose-fitting cowled coverall of azure metallic fabric that was belted tightly at her slender waist. Panels of gauzy midnight-blue silk dotted with tiny sparkling gems hung from a deep collar intricately adorned with faceted blue and white stones.

“So you cooperated in rehabilitation therapy?” she prompted the prisoner.

“I did whatall the damned shrinks wanted,” Geordie replied in a querulous voice. “They blethered on at me for months, analyzing me mind, they said. Then there was the aversion therapy. They zapped me till I skreiched and even passed out from the pain of it. But I didn’t miss a session. Is it my fault that the bloody treatments didna work?”

Emma Ross dabbed at her eyes with a pocket kerchief. “The therapists said Geordie was doin’ guid. Even let him take off the wristband eight months ago, they did. He was just fine. Kind to me and the two bairns and staying off the liquor. I let him do me abed as often as he said he had to, and he didna hurt me like before. But—but then after the big blowout things were so wild and ram-bailliach with our building crashing down and the car smashed and fires all around and people so scared and the looting and all—and—and Geordie just lost it. I tried to stop him, but he wadna tak tellin’. He went out stravaiging with the mob and that’s when it happened. But he really couldna help it, ma’am.”

“I couldna, Dirigent!” the prisoner said. “I just come over strange. It happened in spite of meself, and that’s God’s ain truth. It wasna my fault.”

“It truly was not,” the wife reiterated.

Dorothea Macdonald lifted her head and regarded the pair steadily. She was a woman of small stature, only twenty-one years old. Wavy brown hair framed her face within the gleaming blue hood. Her eyes were hazel, rather closely set, and below them her face was covered to the chin by a half-mask entirely encrusted with diamonds—some star-white, others a more brilliant blue than any sapphire.

Ever since her participation, five planetary months earlier, in the mitigation of the potentially world-wrecking diatreme that had ruined her face and nearly cost her her life, Dorothea Macdonald had insisted upon wearing diamonds produced by the great eruption. For reasons she refused to explain, she declined to spend months in a regeneration-tank having her facial injuries healed and wore a prosthetic mask instead.

Her eyes, above the glittering façade, seemed to look into the soul of the man before her. He flushed and averted his gaze.

“I’ve examined your record carefully,” the Dirigent said. “You’ve done over eight thousand hours of public service as punishment for battering your wife and children. After your first aggravated rape conviction, you served three years at hard labor, followed by three more years of work-release with intensive counseling and behavior-modification therapy. In spite of this, you committed a second aggravated rape in the aftermath of the diatreme eruption, for which you were duly tried and convicted. Psychologists of the Caledonian Magistratum have declared you mentally competent—”

“He couldna help it!” Emma cried, and she would have continued but the Dirigent’s metacoercion silenced her.

“—to withstand my redactive examination of your mind. Do you freely consent to the procedure, and do you agree to abide by my decision based upon it?”

“Aye,” Geordie said. He clenched his big fists and stiffened in his chair.

The Dirigent came close to the prisoner and put one hand on the crown of his head. “Please sit still. It won’t hurt.”

He braced himself, screwing his eyes shut, and then gave a galvanic start. His head lolled and his body went limp. His wife uttered a whimper of apprehension and watched curiously during an interval of silence.

It was not necessary for the Dirigent to probe deeply into the mind of Geordie Doig to find what she needed to know. Her eyes above the mask narrowed and she withdrew her hand. A moment later the prisoner was fully alert. “Is that all?” he asked.