Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (12 page)

The poor woman … What will happen to the Unity Directorate? Anne was its prime mover. It won’t be the same without her. Who will take over the chair? You?

I don’t think I’m right for the job, sweetheart. But never mind that. There’s one last bit of info I haven’t told you. Before Anne went switch-off, she made a last heroic effort and managed to bespeak a single intelligible word:
Hydra
.

!!! OhdearGod.

The Okanagon authorities notified the First Magnate. When Papa found out about the Hydra thing he told me, and I came zorching to Oky like a bat out of hell. Dirigent Castellane bent over backwards to cooperate with us and the Magistratum investigators.

Small wonder. Nobody’s forgotten that earlier mystery accident on Okanagon that conveniently wiped out Pat’s predecessor … And now the First Magnate’s pro-Unity sister is nearly killed and talks about Hydra! A very suggestive coincidence. Especially when one recalls the Alvarez flap six years ago.

How could I forget? It happened the very night we first met—more or less face-to-face—at Marc’s Halloween party.

Yes … you wore that adorable clown suit, and I picked your giant brain like an overripe muskmelon.

And
you
conceived the idiotic notion of going to Okanagon with Uncle Rogi to interrogate Alvarez.

It wasn’t idiotic! I had good evidence that the man was a Hydra.

Your idea was shit-for-brains stupid … even though you were right about the Hydra. Fortunately, I found out about your scheme and had Alvarez framed with a felony hit-and-run charge to put him temporarily out of circulation—and beyond your reach.

You
what?

Diamond, you were only fifteen years old then! I couldn’t let you endanger your life by playing clumsy detective games with a potential Hydra.

 … Uncle Rogi! That damned old stool pigeon—
he
told you!

He did what he thought was best. What if the other Hydra-units had been there, backing up Alvarez when you tried to interrogate him? They would have nailed you to the wall.

Well, they weren’t on Okanagon. They were on Earth, stalking me in Hawaii!

Yes. [Chilling recollection.]

I presume that the Remillard Dynasty snuffed Alvarez.

They had nothing whatsoever to do with his death. Actually, it was a very nasty surprise. I had hoped to mind-ream him for information about the identities of the other Hydra-units and Fury. After Alvarez died so mysteriously in his cell, Krondak evaluators from the Galactic Magistratum took over the phony hit-and-run investigation at the First Magnate’s request—allegedly because Alvarez held such a high position on the Okanagon Dirigent’s staff. The exotics managed to do superficial redactive examination of Patricia Castellane and her top people without their knowing it, but the lightweight probes failed to find proof that she or any of the others at Dirigent House on Okanagon were aware of the Hydra’s real identity. They didn’t find any other Hydras living on the planet, either. The Lylmik Supervisors and the First Magnate eventually put a lid on the entire Alvarez affair.

I’m not surprised. But now it seems that there
is
at least one other Hydra hiding on Okanagon. After all this time.

We really don’t have the foggiest notion why the pilot crashed the starship, or what Anne meant when she said “Hydra.” There’s no way of questioning her until she comes out of the tank—and thank God for that. The last thing the Dynasty needs now is public speculation about a new Hydra attack.

Jack, you can’t simply ignore the possibility.

Of course not. But Paul intends to keep the Hydra angle of the case sub rosa. Only the inner circle of Castellane’s bureaucracy and the Fleet Commander himself knew about Anne’s upcoming visit. If one or more of
them
is a Hydra-unit in disguise, we’ll have the devil’s own time proving it. There isn’t enough evidence to justify an official inquiry of the planetary bigwigs—much less their full-scale mind-ream—and the law won’t let us mount a fishing expedition. The Galactic Magistratum will continue to investigate the crash, but there’ll be no Hydra hunt.

I see. Another cover-up.

For the good of the Milieu, darling.

Indubitably …

The real question is, why did the Hydra want to kill Anne?

She heads the Unity Directorate—and I
told
you that Fury has
this daft notion of founding a Second Milieu with its own evil substitute for Unity.

Diamond, dear Diamond! Don’t let your own terrible experiences with that monster color your right reason. Fury is only a single warped individual. It has just two Hydra-units left to act as its agents. The Concilium would know if any larger Fury-led cabal existed. The
Lylmik
would know! There is no such group.

There are the Rebels.

Their agenda bears no resemblance to Fury’s—except that both want humanity out of the Milieu.

I’ve had the damned monster inside my mind and I know how seductive it can be. Fury doesn’t have to coerce large numbers of people or lead them openly. All it has to do is secretly exploit human weakness and perversity. And eliminate persons who threaten its scheme.

Yes.

Jack, everybody acknowledges that humanity is still far below the Unified races in sociopolitical maturity. Compared to the exotics, Earthlings are still at the level of Genghis Khan and the Golden Horde. We still commit crimes, cheat, lie, connive, and try to better ourselves at the expense of the other guy. Believe me, I see it all from behind this desk! The Dirigent is a combination ombudsman, judicial despot, and glorified nanny—

And I love you.

Don’t be facetious. And don’t patronize me!

Never. I love you and I also respect your judgment and your intuition. You’re right about Fury being a potential menace to the Milieu, and you’re right about it being capable of manipulating humanity to its own ends. You
do
know the monster better than I do. And the human condition as well.

Don’t say that, Jack.

It’s true. It’s so easy for me to forget what being human is. My knowledge is all academic. What does Jack the Bodiless know about human weakness, human feeling, the emotions that sway the human heart? I try to understand but I don’t always succeed. You should know that better than anyone, darling.

Don’t be silly.

Did I tell you that Marc thought it was absurd that a—a thing like me should fall in love and want to marry?

He would! If anyone in your family is inhuman, it’s Marc, not you.

You’d better hope not, babe. I modeled my wedding tackle on his three-piece set.

Jack, it’s not funny. You know as well as I do that human nature is ultimately mental, not physical. You have the mind of a dear, genuine human being. I could never have loved you otherwise. And I do love you.

Diamond …

I want to be with you. I want to put all of these problems aside, just for a little while, and think only about us. It’s selfish—

It’s not.

[Interval of mutual consolation.]

Jack, what will become of Anne? Will she be transported to Earth?

Paul will arrange it.

It seems heartless for us to go ahead with a big wedding.

Nonsense. Anne would be the last one to want to put a damper on the festivities. Now listen to me. I’m coming to Caledonia immediately. In two days we’ll fly to Earth in Scurra II—slowly.

Yes. Oh, yes. It would be marvelous to have some quiet time with you. Some learning time.

Some
teaching
time! I’ll be with you before you know it. Goodbye, my dearest Diamond, a nighean mo ghaoil.

Goodbye, Jack, a churaidh gun ghiamh!

Intendant Associate Ian Macdonald picked at his poached salmon and champit tatties, his dark brow furrowed in an obstinate scowl. “I still think I should stay home. There’s not only Assembly business, but the harvest is on back at the airfarm and Gavin and Hugh have their hands full and call me every other day with this crisis or that. There are equipment problems, and two new flitter pilots who aren’t up to snuff, and the wee plants are driftin’ far to the north this season, beyond the Goblin Isles.”

“I want you to give me away at the wedding, Dad.”

He snorted. “As if you ever belonged to anybody but your own self, Dorrie Macdonald!”

Her eyes softened. “You know what I mean. I want you there beside me affirming my marriage. And playing those bloody pipes of yours for the sword dance after.”

“Aye, well, there’ll be plenty of Remillards about who could do the honors at the altar,” he muttered. “That Uncle Rogi you’re so fond of. Your Grandad Kyle, for a’ that, if you’re bound to have a kiltie relation stirrin’ up a ruckus.”

“It wouldn’t be the same and you know it. Kyle can no more play the pipes than Rogi can.” The Dirigent lifted a specially prepared container of puréed food, deftly inserted its tube into a
hidden orifice behind the chinpiece of her diamond mask, and ate. Her pseudovoice continued to speak as clearly as ever. “I know you’re still sulking because Jack and I are getting married on Earth instead of here on Callie. But it wouldn’t have been practical having the ceremony here. Not with things still all in a flaughter from the diatreme. Saint Andy’s cathedral is a pile of rubble.”

“Beinn Bhiorach wasn’t touched, as you know very well. We could have had the wedding at Saint Maggie’s in Grampian Town, where you were christened, and—”

“—and put up forty or fifty Remillards at the farm? And heaven knows how many Magnates of the Concilium and other distinguished human and exotic guests that Jack will have invited, to say nothing of the odd Macdonald who may have a notion to attend, and a few friends and associates of my own!” She shook her head and her eyes flashed. “Be realistic, Dad. Grampian Town has one fleabag hotel and two pubs with tatty rooms on top.”

Ian Macdonald banged his fork down. His massive brow was like thunder. “And perish the thought that the high mucky-muck Remillard Dynasty and their swank friends should have to demean themselves stayin’ in low Caledonian dives! Never mind what’s right and proper for a father to do for his own lassie’s marriage. We’ll let the stinkin’ rich Remillards pay all the bills and do exactly as they please because
they’re
the First Family of Metapsychology and darlings of the media and fawnin’ lapdogs of the fewkin’ Lylmik!”

There were murmurs and snickers from people at the tables nearby. The Intendant Assembly dining room was packed with legislators, senior staff members, and lobbyists, and a lot of them undoubtedly shared the Rebellious inclinations of Ian Macdonald.

The Dirigent suppressed her mortification and broadcast vibes of fond tolerance to let the operant diners, at least, know that she was unfazed by her father’s tirade. Why did normals love to make scenes? If Ian had been operant, the two of them could have quarreled decently, mind to mind on the intimate telepathic mode …

When his daughter ignored his explosion, Ian Macdonald took a long pull from his glass of McEwan’s ale and continued in a much lower tone. “That’s not the whole of the matter, either. What about yourself, Dorrie? It’s as though the diatreme blew away your good sense, for I swear I don’t understand what’s come over you since then. A Dirigent of Caledonia dressin’ like a carnival queen! Graeme Hamilton must be spinnin’ in his grave. And your poor face … Don’t tell me you couldn’t have it fixed if you wanted to. By God, your own paramount redaction would do the
job without any regen-tank if you bade it! It breaks my heart to see you looking like that, eating invalid’s slop, without even a tongue to speak with or lips to kiss—”

“Dad, we had this out before. If you really can’t bear the sight of me as I am, I’ll let you see me otherwise.”

He gasped, for suddenly the diamond mask blurred and seemed to vanish. Her face was as it had been before—heart-shaped and solemn within the gem-studded blue lamé hood, with plain features and a mouth with a secretive little smile.

“Anytime you wish, Dad, it’ll be my old face you see when you look at me. I’ve made it so in your mind.”

The muscles of Ian’s strong jaw worked and he was dismayed to feel his eyes growing moist. “But not your real face.”

“No,” she said, and he saw the glittering covering rematerialize.

“Why, Dorrie?” His rasping whisper was heartbroken. “In God’s name, why? Is it because of
him
somehow?”

She was serene. “You’ve no right to ask me that, Dad. Nor to ask the other question trembling on the tip of your tongue. I love Jack. That’s all you need to know. And he loves me.”

“Does he love you the way you are behind the mask?” Ian hissed.

“A face is also a mask,” she said, “and no more the real Dorothea Macdonald than the prosthesis is. Let me prove it.”

He gave a low cry of horror and gaped at the sight across the table, feeling his gorge rise. Once again the diamond mask beneath his daughter’s calm hazel eyes had faded away, but this time Ian saw hideously scarred flesh clinging to a noseless skull. The ghastly injury was visible only for a moment before sparkling blue and white gems hid it again.

“Is that the true me?” her pseudovoice asked gently.

Ian had covered his eyes with one hand. “No, lass. No.” His shoulders shook. “I’m sorry. I’m a pigheaded fool with no right to question your judgment. You must live your life as you see fit and marry your uncanny Jack if that’s your choice.”

She reached across the table, touching his arm. “Will you come to Earth with Janet and Ellen, and give me away to him at the wedding?”

He raised his head. “I will.”

The Dirigent got up from her chair. Her father was such a brawny man and she so small that even with him seated, their eyes were nearly on a level when she stood at his side. “I’ll see you there, then,” she said. Her masked face came close to his and he
felt the cool hardness of the diamonds brush his cheek. “Goodbye, Dad.”

She walked away, nodding to acquaintances and colleagues and exchanging brief telepathic greetings with some of them. Then her shining blue figure passed through the dining-room door and was gone.

Ian Macdonald tossed down the last of the ale, keyed the table-corn, and demanded that the waitron bring more drink. He swept the room with a defiant glare. Nobody looked at him. They were all suddenly busy with conversations of their own or attentive to their plates. Ian grunted, then bent to his meal and finished the salmon and potatoes and peas and bread. It would have been a sin to let the good food go to waste.