Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (22 page)

T
HE WEATHER REPORTING UNIT IN
D
AVID
S
OMERLED
M
AC
Gregor’s apartment command post was a high-tech marvel. On request, it would provide an instant précis of meteorological conditions anywhere on Earth—or a forecast for the major population centers of every inhabited planet of the Galactic Milieu.

Ignoring it as usual, Davy drew the drapes, cracked open the balcony door, and ascertained that this particular Sunday morning in New Hampshire was muggy and already pushing 30 Celsius. Right. Forget the stroll along the Merrimack River bottoms. It was down to the promenade for the two of them.

He ordered up a durafilm copy of
The New York Times
, sans Sunday bumf, and scanned it briefly. Aye, there it was. Yesterday’s wedding-of-the-century hadn’t made the front page, but
his
turndown of Paul’s offer to head the Unity Directorate had. The First Magnate was quoted as being “very disappointed.” There was no mention of Jack as second choice.

Davy MacGregor chuckled. No political mileage for Paul when another Remillard acceded to high office. Just the reverse, actually!

He folded the news, tucked it under his arm, and gave a sharp whistle as he headed for the elevator door. When nothing happened, he called out in a raspy voice, “Hamish, come! Get a move on, ye lazy auld bugger!”

The measured clicking of toenails on the tiles of the back hallway and a throaty rumbling noise announced Torridon’s Zodiac Hamiltonian, an aged Scottish terrier. The dog shot a challenging glance at his master.

Impatient?
he inquired loftily.

“Damn right,” snapped David Somerled MacGregor, Planetary Dirigent of Earth, “and wanting breakfast, you slugabed dinky
brute. So get your bones into yon lift or I’ll leave you behind.” He stepped into the small private elevator that served his flat, the only special perk he had requested when he decided to move his private quarters out of Dirigent House and into Cynophile Tower.

Maybe I don’t want to go out today
, said Hamish, suddenly sitting down on the wrong side of the elevator door.

They glowered at each other through dark eyes hedged by wiry black brows. The faces of man and beast had nearly identical stubborn expressions. The old Scottie’s muzzle was steel-gray and so were Davy’s face-framing Dundreary side-whiskers, even though he had been twice rejuvenated. He was a rangy, slightly stooped figure dressed in jeans, a maroon mesh polo shirt, and loafers without socks.

“Too bloody bad.” The Dirigent hit the
DOWN
pad. “You’ll just have to miss your Sunday banger, then.” The door began to slide shut.

Today is Sunday—?

The little black dog streaked into the elevator and settled at his master’s heel.

Davy smiled with dour satisfaction. “Silly tyke, I thought that’d rouse ye.”

Hamish gave that comment the disdain it deserved, and in a moment they stepped out onto the promenade floor of Cynophile Tower.

The residence was only two years old and it had proved extremely popular with dog-loving legislators and bureaucrats in the capital. Every apartment had a private exercise run, but most tenants and their animals preferred the social atmosphere and natural beauty of the extensive indoor promenade.

Joggers and strollers moved along designated pathways among the trees, accompanied by four-footed companions. The dogs could play fetch in the open meadows, amble through gardens where interesting things were buried, or romp in fountains and pools. Some areas featured realistic mechanical prey to entertain terriers and other hunting breeds, and there were real sheep that allowed themselves to be herded. If a dogfight or other inappropriate activity broke out, operant human monitors adept in creature coercion restored public decorum. Mobile sanitation modules, resembling large turtles, kept everything exquisitely clean. Après sport, and when other necessary business had been taken care of, canines and their humans could relax and take refreshment at one of the five informal eating establishments. The
promenade also had doggie boutiques, grooming salons, and a well-appointed veterinary clinic.

Run?
Hamish requested, tail wagging madly.
Look for vermin? Please?

Davy said, “Off with you, laddie. I’m still tired out from dancing at the wedding yesterday. I’ll order food for us and read the paper at Charlie’s Place while you have your exercise.”

The Scottie dashed off and Davy MacGregor headed for his favorite eatery. Its umbrella-shaded tables were ranged along the shore of a pleasant artificial lake. An ornamental fence kept recreating water dogs and the wily hybrid geese they chased—who happily chased the dogs in return—at bay. Some of the restaurant patrons nodded to the Dirigent, but the majority politely ignored the chief executive of Earth. He was about to sit down when someone called out to him on his intimate far-speech mode:

Care to join me Davy?

He saw Cordelia Warshaw (née Warszawska) smiling at him from a table half-screened by pots of blooming fuchsias. Her comical Polish Lowland sheepdog, Ignacy, caught sight of him and said:
FriendofMaster hello come come!

Davy ambled over and greeted the pair of them.

“It’s been a while, Cordelia. You look smashing. And how’s the PON?”

“Full of the devil as usual. But he makes me laugh, so he earns his keep.”

She was a tiny woman, nearly as old as Davy himself but much more extensively rejuvenated and cosmetically enhanced. Her ash-blonde hair was styled in a modish pageboy cut and she wore a short summer walking suit of iris lumasheen with a white silk singlet. White patent-leather cothurni called attention to her excellent legs. Cordelia Warshaw was no longer the Intendant General of Earth. Her open avowal of the Rebel cause had cost her the office in the election of 2076, but she was still an influential Intendant Associate for Europe, a Magnate of the Concilium, and a Visiting Fellow in Cultural Anthropology at Oxford’s Jesus College. She and Davy had been platonic friends for over fifty years.

Her medium-sized shaggy dog grinned as the two humans exchanged casual chitchat. The Polski Owczarek Nizinny had twinkling dark eyes that peered through a thick fringe of biscuit-colored hair. His mind said to Davy:

Sit sit! Eat ***{FRESH STRAWBERRY BLINTZES}*** like Master!

“Well …” The Dirigent hesitated. A male waitron appeared with a second place setting and a menu.

“Have your breakfast with me,” Cordelia invited, indicating her empty plate. “The blintzes are very good today. I’m going to have some more because a certain greedy rascal ate most of mine.”

Save you from [image of bloated fat Cordelia]
, said the PON.

Ty chujku, odpierdol sie! she scolded. “Go find Hamish. Go play!”

Flashing another black-lipped smile, the sheepdog said,
Friend is nice male. You have [explicit image] fun
. Tail awave, he trotted off.

Davy burst out laughing at the outraged expression on Cordelia’s face. He sat down and ordered the blintzes, a pot of Spiderleg tea, and a dish of Canine Crunchies No. 3 with a grilled frankfurter garniture for Hamish.

“I knew you’d moved into the Tower,” Davy said. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other here before. But I suppose you were in England while the Assembly was in recess.”

“Yes—helping to cook up a fresh batch of ammunition for the anti-Unity push at the next Concilium session with Valery Gawrys and the rest of the Oxbridge outlaw gang.” Her tone was satirical but the mental overlay of her words was deadly serious, with an invitation to discuss the matter further.

The tea arrived, saving Davy from having to respond immediately. When the brew was satisfactory he added milk and sugar, sampled it, and sat back with a sigh. “So our meeting here this morning wasn’t just a happy coincidence.”

“No,” she admitted. Her eyes flicked to the newspaper he had laid on the table. “It’s a direct consequent of that.”

Davy’s smile became glacial. “My turning down Paul’s invitation to head the Unity Directorate doesn’t mean I’ve gone over to your side, Cordie.”

She cocked her head quizzically. “No? The
Times
article reported you’d declined because of philosophical reasons. And I know you, Davy MacGregor! You’ve been half a Rebel for years—and not just because of Milieu pussyfooting over Margaret’s murder. You’re not blinded by the glories of the Galactic Milieu like Paul Remillard and his kurewskie Dynasty.”

“No, I’m just an Earthman, plain and simple, and I intend to stay that way.” He stirred the tea and stared into it, scowling. “I’m afraid of Unity’s possible effect on the Mind of Humanity, and I’d be overjoyed to see us out of the Milieu … but I’m damned if I’d ever resort to force in order to resolve the issue.”

The waitron came up with their food and they were silent until he had gone away. Cordelia delicately cut up one of the cheese-stuffed rolled pancakes and ladled strawberry sauce over it.

“Whether you’re with us or not,” she said carefully, “we’d like you to reconsider your refusal of the First Magnate’s offer.”

What? Woman are you bloody daft?

His vehement thought-blast didn’t faze her. While she consumed the blintz with evident relish her mind said:

As head of the Panpolity Directorate you would be privy to every aspect of the Unity controversy. You’d know the antiRebel strategy of the exotics and the human loyalists the planetary troublespots that most concern them the schemes they plan to implement as our population approaches its coadunate number. In time you’d certainly uncover the truth about the Unification process itself.

Cordie you’re incredible you want me to be a
REBEL SPY
inside the most sensitive Concilium body simultaneously promoting Unity and trying to undermine it—

No. I want you to be the only member of the Directorate who is still objective. Who still puts the needs of the human race ahead of the needs of the Milieu. Whether or not you choose to
share
the data you uncover is entirely a matter for your own conscience.

“Hah!” said Davy MacGregor out loud. “You’re so confident, aren’t you, which way I’ll lean.”

“Your food’s getting cold. Eat.” Of course I’m confident, because I know where your sympathies lie. The reason you’re not wholeheartedly with us now is because you still have honest doubts about the validity of the Unity concept. You’re also afraid that we Rebels wouldn’t scruple at destroying the Milieu if it tried to impose Unity on us by fiat or if it threatened humanity with severe sanctions for rejecting Unification.

Yes dammit
yes!

“Then reconsider the appointment,” she said. “Dithering and brooding won’t help the Human Polity decide what’s best for its future.” But your objective scrutiny inside the Panpolity Directorate might.

How the hell can I head the Directorate pretend to be in favor of Unity when I’m
not?
Would you have me violate my moral principles?

Paul Remillard doesn’t expect you to be a yes-man.

No—but he was counting on me to steamroller the opposition taking the place of his sainted Sister Anne in the skirmishes HE thought I’d have my doubts resolved in favor of Unity YOU say I
should retain my objectivity but you expect me to be a pipeline of intelligence to the Rebel cabal—“And my answer to you both is no. No!”

He pushed away from the table, rose, and signaled the waitron with his credit card. “I can’t stay after all. Give me a doggie bag for the tyke’s crunchies.”

“Certainly, Dirigent.” The man went off to fetch one.

Hamish came trotting up in response to a farspoken command and sat at Davy’s heel.

Cordelia regarded her old friend calmly. “Will you report this conversation to the First Magnate?”

Davy leaned down, hands on the tabletop, and spoke softly. “To hell with the First Magnate!… No, I’ve no intention of discussing your ploy with Paul. Let him do his own spying. But here’s a wee bit of sensitive data to share with your fellow connivers: The Fury monster’s back, and so is its stooge, Hydra. And I’m going to see both of them polished off no matter what Remillards get caught in the crossfire—Rebels or loyalists. You have my word on it.”

Cordelia said nothing.

The waitron came up with the bag, and Davy dumped Hamish’s meal into it. “As for Unity,” he said, “I’m keeping my mind open. I’ll neither oppose it nor promote it. Tell your fewkin’ Oxbridge associates they’ll get no joy from me. But neither will Paul Remillard.”

The Dirigent of Earth, Scottish terrier at heel, strode off in the direction of the elevators. After a few moments a hairy, broadly smiling head rose up across the table from Cordelia Warshaw. She gave a rueful laugh.

“So, Ignacy! Have you come to console your master for her abject failure as a diplomatist?”

The Polski Owczarek Nizinny said:
Blintzes for me?

“I might have known.”

Cordelia Warshaw put Davy MacGregor’s plate on the ground. Then, after a moment, she also set down her own.

At a table not far away, the four Lylmik Supervisors rose, summoned their dogs, and set off down a tanbark track toward the shady Bone Garden, where they would await the arrival of Atoning Unifex. They had done as their superior had instructed, observing the small drama of Cordelia and Davy from a safe distance, and now they mused over its significance.

“The event, although interesting, was clearly neither cuspate nor nodal,” said Homologous Trend.

“One is mystified,” said Noetic Concordance, who walked beside him, “at Unifex’s insistence that we come here to observe it in person. It has been aeons since It required us to physically excurse from Concilium Orb.”

“Even more bewildering,” said Eupathic Impulse, “was Its request that we wear these awkward human bodies once again rather than simply watching the proceedings invisibly. One might have thought that the usefulness of a tangible disguise had expired some time ago.”

“One does not lightly question the dictates of Atoning Unifex,” Asymptotic Essence remarked rather prissily. Her straight black hair was cut in a fringe above her brows and done up in a chignon held with carved ivorywood sticks. She wore a striking cheongsam of sky blue.