Magnificat (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (48 page)

You are my children, she told them. Not hers! Not his!

And the 103 New Ones replied: Yes. We love you Saskia.

You will always do as I command.

Yes. Because of the Reward.

It is part of the preceptive program now. If you are good you will receive the Reward every day, even after they have changed you.

Yes!

You have seen what happens to babies who are not good.

Yes …

I will have to go away soon. Other adults will take care of you
for a while. They will not be as kind as I am. But you will obey them for the time being because I tell you to. And for the Reward.

Yes.

But when I come back and tell you my new name you will obey me. ONLY ME.

Yes Saskia.

Madeleine Remillard smiled. Their choice of her was safely sealed in the depths of their unconscious. No Rebel preceptor on Okanagon, no matter how skilled, would ever learn the secret of the new, hundred-headed Hydra. No one would ever command the New Ones but her. Not even Fury.

She said: You are good babies. Now you may go back to sleep.

All around her, the small eyelids began to close. The monitors on the uterine capsules showed the serene waveforms of fetal slumber. She walked up and down the aisles, checking each one of them with her ultrasenses, stopping at last to gaze somberly into the artificial womb holding Fetus Forty-Two, whose name was Conlan.

He floated pale and motionless within the amniotic fluid. His eyes were wide open, his vital-signs traces were horizontal, and the monitor blinked a frantic red.

There was no sound from the alarm. She had turned it off so as not to disturb the others.

T
HE PROGRAM WAS OVER
. T
HE HOLOCAMS SHUT DOWN, THE LIVE
audience finished their polite applause and began filing out, and the debate participants rose from the two angled tables on the set and gathered around the panel moderator, Caledonian Dirigent Dorothea Macdonald.

“I’d like to thank you all for participating,” she said formally. “Especially you, First Magnate. I know your schedule is crowded, and Caledonia is only a small planet.”

“I’m glad I was able to come,” Paul Remillard said.

Hiroshi Kodama’s tone was studiously polite. “Even if you and the other Milieu loyalists got your asses whipped.”

Ruslan Terekev, Masha MacGregor-Gawrys, and Calum Sorley grinned. Davy MacGregor’s face was stormy. The Poltroyan, Fritiso-Prontinalin, looked pained.

Jack Remillard stood at his father’s side. He said evenly, “Not quite a debacle for our side, Hiroshi. Not quite a romp for yours.”

“Given the deep-seated Rebel sympathies of the venue,” the Poltroyan murmured, “I believe that our presentation of the pro-Unity position was rather well received.”

Calum Sorley, the Caledonian Intendant General, beamed at the small mauve-skinned exotic. “Aweel, Freddie, the audience didn’t rush the stage and lynch the lot of ye because that’s not the Caledonian way—especially since our Dirigent Lassie is still a staunch supporter of the Milieu herself. But you’ll find out when viewer response is tallied for ‘News at Eleven’ that us Rebs have blown you loyals out of the water.”

Fritiso-Prontinalin threw a look of interrogative dismay at Dorothea and she nodded sadly.

Sorley went on, addressing himself to Paul and Jack and Davy.
“And you lot are also going to discover that Callie’s negative response is just a sample of the way your loyalist dog-and-pony-show will play in the provinces. Better get used to crapping out! The Milieu party line might take the prize on Earth and the cosmop worlds, but not on the ethnic planets.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Paul. The brash Caledonian IG only chuckled.

An agitated nonoperant woman in a rumpled linen suit came rushing out of the control booth.

“Over ninety percent of the Callie viewers tuned in!” she announced. “It’s the biggest audience we’ve ever had—even bigger than the post-diatreme emergency announcements.” She was the station director, Aimili Semple, and her usual responsibilities ran to academic talking-head shows, reports on the pearl and sky weed harvests, and interviews with winners of the monthly Dairy of Honor award. The woman had nearly gone into cardiac arrest when the Office of the Dirigent of Caledonia informed her that the First Magnate and seven other distinguished operants were coming to the Scottish planet for a prime-time political debate that would be telecast on her little public affairs Tri-D station.

“Perhaps,” she suggested nervously, “you’d all like to come back to the green room for a wee bit of refreshment. Debating’s thirsty work.”

Dorothea said, “Thank you, Aimili. That’s very thoughtful.” With a brief telepathic plea for civility that silenced the others, she led the way off the set. The Dirigent had chosen a relatively subdued outfit for her role as panel moderator, a collared zipsuit of gunmetal lamé decorated with smoldering black diamonds. The others, even the exotics, were wearing simple jackets, shirts, and sweaters.

Coffee, tea, a local white wine, and designer water had been laid on in the station’s green room, together with a big plate of shortbread.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” the director said, “and take care of some postproduction chores. Thanks again for honoring our little station with your presence.” She fled.

“I’ve got to dash off, too,” Calum Sorley said. “A late vote in the Intendant Assembly.”

The others mingled stiffly after he left, keeping up the charade of decorum. Ruslan Terekev zeroed in on the wine. He rolled his eyes after inspecting the label, but then forced glasses on everyone
except Jack and Dorothea, who insisted upon water, calling for a toast. “To the swift and satisfactory resolution of our differences!”

“Hear, hear,” said Paul Remillard, eyeing the Russian sardonically.

During the Tri-D debate, Terekev had peppered the loyalists with audience-pleasing sarcasm, and his target of choice had been the First Magnate. Paul had come across as a pompous elitist when he attempted to refute the Russian’s rather facile statements, and he was furious at his own lapse in judgment. What in the world had come over him? Why hadn’t he seen through Terekev’s tactics? Surely the man wasn’t that good a coercer …

Everybody sipped in silence.

Professor Masha MacGregor-Gawrys finally said, “There’s a rumor that exotic Magnates of the Concilium intend to reintroduce the loyalty-oath legislation.” She smiled expectantly at the Poltroyan. “Have you heard anything about it, Fred?”

The exotic looked like a sweet-faced schoolboy in his mustard-colored corduroy jacket and dark slacks. “I have heard the rumor myself, but I don’t know whether to give it credence. The Amalgam of Poltroy would certainly vote against any such rigorous measure … unless there seemed no alternative.”

“Would you care to explain further?” Hiroshi Kodama invited.

The Poltroyan responded with caution. “Our response may be dependent upon the attitude of the Rebel Party leadership.”

Paul Remillard was not in the mood for diplomacy. He drained his wineglass and slapped it down onto the table. “Fred means that if Marc behaves himself, Poltroy will keep sticking up for the Human Polity. And if he doesn’t, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Hiroshi turned to the First Magnate. “And do you think that your eldest son will exercise restraint?”

“On the contrary,” said Paul in a level voice. “I think he’s going out of his way to inflame the situation.” He was not looking at the suave Dirigent of Satsuma but at his own erstwhile tormentor, Ruslan Terekev, who returned an insouciant smirk. “For some time I’ve suspected Marc of encouraging militant factions of the Rebel Party to collect conventional and CE weaponry. When I prove it—and I will, make no mistake—I’ll get up before the Concilium
myself
and demand the loyalty oath.”

“Is that wise, Papa?” Jack asked.

“It’s necessary,” said Paul.

“You will thus cut off any hope of compromise,” warned Ruslan Terekev.

“No,” Paul retorted, “I’ll knock some sense into the vacillating
human magnates who think they can have their cake and eat it, too. When they see Marc and the other Rebel hard-liners expelled from the Concilium, they’ll finally realize that the Milieu is deadly serious about sequestering ununified humanity. Our race is going to have to choose between membership in a galactic confederation and reversion to a horse-and-buggy socioeconomy.”

“They can’t quarantine us,” Masha declared stoutly. “Our scientific capability exceeds theirs.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Jack the Bodiless.

The others stared at the young man, so unassuming that he was almost invisible standing beside his spectacularly costumed wife.

“Jack is correct,” the Poltroyan chimed in. “It may be that at some time in the future the human race will surpass the Milieu in—er—martial potential. But that time has not yet come. I am afraid that certain Rebels have mistaken forbearance for weakness.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of doing that,” said Ruslan Terekev. “As to
human
martial potential—Director Jon Remillard may not be the best judge of it.”

“I know you’ve got weapons,” Paul said to the Russian quietly.

Ruslan poured more wine for himself. “Prove it.”

Fred’s kindly features twisted with deep concern. “Oh, please! You Earthlings must believe that the Milieu cherishes and esteems your race! The Amalgam of Poltroy, the only other Milieu polity to share your human heritage of malignant aggression, knows the great risk taken by the Lylmik in their Intervention. It was calculated and fully justified by the immense potential of the Human Mind, and we still hope and pray that this potential of yours will be fulfilled to the magnification of truth and beauty in the universe! Nevertheless, Poltroy cannot stand by while the destruction of the Galactic Milieu is secretly contrived by an immature, uncoadunate faction. Even though we love humanity, we will vote for your permanent sequestration if we must.”

“Just let us go,” Hiroshi Kodama said with quiet intensity.

Fred shook his bald, lilac head miserably. “You refuse to understand.”

Paul said, “What Fred means is that the Milieu knows that humanity wouldn’t stick to its own interstellar bailiwick after a breakaway. We’d still seek intercourse with the Milieu worlds, perhaps interfere with the thousands of developing exotic races the Milieu is shepherding toward operancy. And when that intercourse was frustrated, there would be war.”

“There will be war,” Hiroshi said, “if the Milieu attempts to rescind the Intervention. Do the exotics understand that?”

Fred said, “We trust that humans loyal to the Milieu will forestall such a dire consequent.”

“I’ll prove you’ve been stockpiling weaponry,” Paul said to the Rebels, his mind exuding icy authority. “I’ll demonstrate to the whole Human Polity how you plan to destroy the peaceful confederation of planets that saved Earth from its own folly and gave us the stars. And I’ll see the Rebel magnates purged from the Concilium and replaced with loyalists. Believe me. Whatever I have to do to save the Milieu, I will do.”

Ruslan Terekev gave a great theatrical exhalation. “My friends, I think I have heard enough threatening talk for one night.” He headed for the exit door, then turned. His dark eyes twinkled at Paul. “Until we meet again, First Magnate.”

It was over three hours before the liftoff of the starship that would take Paul and Fred to Orb. Dorothea suggested that the battered defenders of Unity go for a stroll along the new Broomielaw Esplanade that had been constructed beside the Firth of Clyde following the diatrematic quakes.

They walked for some time, saying little, unwinding from the tension of the debate. It was a rare Caledonian evening, chill and clear, and the moon, Ré Nuadh, was nearly full, painting a path of molten gold across the wide estuary. Ships and smaller craft were everywhere on the water, their decks and masts and superstructures picked out with a myriad of amber lights according to the Callie custom, so as to be more visible to the eye when the inevitable mists rolled in. Numbers of other citizens were abroad on the esplanade, coming in and out of the hotels and apartments that fronted the Firth. With Scots tact they feigned not to see their Dirigent and her four distinguished companions as they ambled along the broad, landscaped walk, the humans shortening their stride to accommodate the small Poltroyan. Ornamental lamps stood on stone plinths surrounded by tubs of tartan-bright foliage plants and wooden benches. Below the steep embankment were marinas full of moored small craft, landing stages for tour boats and passenger ferries, and commercial quays. Night-rinkies flew overhead, uttering melancholy cries. A few food-vendors were still out, driving slow-moving mobile kiosks with wide sheltering roofs, hawking pizza and cheeseburgers and Arbroath smokies and Scotch eggs and sausage rolls and beer and Pepsi-Cola.

“Shall we get snacks out here and sit on a bench and watch the
boats?” Dorothea asked the others. “Or would you care to try a new little pub that the staffers at Dirigent House have been raving about? It specializes in some of our local fungoids, and the food is supposed to be very good.”

Davy MacGregor pricked up his ears. “You don’t mean the Couthy ’Shroom! I was there yesterday, when I first arrived. The hotel folks recommended it. A grand wee place—and with a good selection of single malts as well.”

“I’m game,” Paul said. “Although after tonight’s fiasco I may just opt for some tasty Amanita virosa.”

“We don’t have the Destroying Angel on Callie,” Dorothea said.

“Only his little brother and sister-in-law,” Jack muttered.

Davy and Paul laughed, and then the wry joke had to be explained to the mystified Poltroyan, who had yet to encounter the pejorative new nicknames for Marc Remillard.

The pub called the Couthy ’Shroom stood on Strobcross Street just off Dirigent House Plaza, looking as though it had been plucked up by the roots from a street in old Scotland, transported 533 lightyears, and set down across from a park full of gigantic multicolored coleus plants. Looming in the moonlight beyond it was Dirigent House itself, a slender white obelisk with lacy buttresses, soaring three hundred storeys high.