The Noborn King by Julian May
Slowly, Felice’s expression changed. There was puzzlement, surprise, hurt, frustration, fury. “You won’t?”
“No.”
“It’s your God, isn’t it! He’s locked you up! Trapped you in this stupid web of self-denial!”
“I haven’t denied myself. You don’t understand.”
“Stop saying that to me! I do understand! You choose him and not me! You still think my love is filthy and sinful!” Tears poured from the black holes of her eyes. “I’m no good after all. I can see into your soul, see that you’re still afraid of me. You won’t go with me and you’d never let me stay here with you. Oh, no! I’m not human enough to be one of your little flock, am I, Good Shepherd? I’m a Goddess! But you’d rather have your damned old mean-spirited, jealous God.”
Amerie sank down onto her knees “You are human Dear Felice, you are. But so different from the rest of us! Go back to Elizabeth. Let her teach you how to live in your world of the mind. That’s where you belong.”
“No,” Felice wept. “I belong with you.”
“I can never enter your mind-world, Felice. I’m only a normal woman. I can’t help but be afraid of people tike you . . . just as I can’t help loving you. Felice, let me be. Go to your own people.”
“I won’t!” the girl screamed. “I won’t go without you! If you won’t come with me willingly, I’ll force you!” The two altar candles were suddenly extinguished. Only the wan mist-light from the two little windows and the garnet sanctuary lamp gave illumination.
Felice’s hands seized Amerie by the shoulders. Psychoenergies flowed from the girl’s brain and Amerie was wrenched by shock. “You’ll do as I say!” Felice cried, terrible in coercion. You’ll stay with me for as long as I want you. Do you hear me?”
Racked by dome spasms, her vocal cords paralyzed, Amerie felt herself lifted. There was a smell of burning fabric as her vestments smoked beneath Felice’s grip, and then the priest’s own flesh burned and her heart stopped.
Sursum corda.
“Choose me, Amerie!” The one elevating her was now incandescently nude. “Do it—and I’ll start your heart again. Just say you love me.”
Dignum et justum est.
Felice flung the body in its red vestments to the floor and loomed high, dimming. Hoc est enim corpus meum. “Choose me! Please, Amerie!” Per ipsum et cum ipso . . . “Please!” In saecula . . .
Amerie’s dying eyes shone. Her mind told Felice: No. I love you. This Mass is for you.
And then the mind escaped, leaving the girl to rage and mourn and finally shape-shift back to the old raven form. In this Felice set off for Spain, to give the other lover his choice.
9
SHE’S LOOSE. SHE’S LOOSE. FELICE IS LOOSE . . .
The dumb refrain played over and over in a subliminal stratum of Aiken’s conscious, a piping discordancy over a sustained drone of fear. The bad news hadn’t come from his incompetent spy in Black Crag but from Elizabeth herself, who farspoke him shortly after dawn, when his fleet was less than an hour from its rendezvous with the Koneyn land force and the three North American operants.
She’s loose Aiken! Felice is loose. I let her get away from me . . . and she’s killed Amerie.
God damn.
Amerie’s death is my fault mine. I could have taken Felice out during redaction. Let her sink into aphanisis. Ego demolition. She would have become veggie Creyn&Dionket urged it I could have yes nonaction in such complex case woutdnot violate ethic. But no! I was so certain I could save her! I did make her sane—
Sane ≠ altruistic. Right?
Felice remains totally selfcentered. Dedicated to doing exactly as she pleases above all things. She made complete fool out of me.
Elizababe innocent.
I worked with children in Milieu! And Felice is child. If only she had stayed had let me educate her mature her O Aiken she may never grow up now a childelementalforce on loose! She’s loose . . .
Damnyou. Damnyou! [Spinechill genitalshrink heartrace.] Madmonsters can be tricked through own delusions. Sane-monster ≥ Me + AngelAbyss!!
And she’s loose... loose. I don’t know where can’t track. Her mentalscreen perfect. You must ask Remillard try physical scan with enhanced farsight. Certain: Felice will look for Cull. Rejected by Amerie she goes for other loveobject. Don’t have to tell you what happens if she finds him. You must shield Cullmind with everything you’ve got.
Cull has job to do for Me.
No no hide him some deepcavern get him out of Europe altogether assoonas possible! You must abandon notion raid Felicelair Betics. Suicidal!
Got to have Spear Babe. Photocannon + psychozap concert we cooking tips firepower balance My side. And not only vs Felice . . .
Aiken you MUST NOT continue Quest now that she’s loose.
We’re all set. Postponing won’t help. Maybe we have chance grab tool before she realize what makes. Her farsight 2ndrate.
Don’t fortheloveofGod don’t.
Must. (Looseloose Felice is loose! Looseloose Felice is loose!) Shit now you got Me looping—
Felice capable of destroying you + entire force.
I’ll win! [Panic. Temptation abandon. Resist! Slam on it!] Looseloose Felice is loose! Looseloose . . . SHUT OFF THAT DAMN LOOP ELIZABETH!
If you go you’ll die I’ll have your deaths on my conscience as well as Amerie’s!
Youyouyou! Too fewkinbad for you! And fewkinconscience! Quit BLEEDING on me! Go make good actcontrition or something.
Please . . .
GET GONE.
. . .
As he sent an additional fusillade of curses at her. Elizabeth’s thought pinched off. She had retreated to the sanctuary of the room without doors.
“That’s it—hide!” he yelled. “Leave me to shovel up the shit, you bungling do-gooder! Well, if I have to, I will!”
He shot a carefully guarded call to North America. Even though Felice emitted no mental aura that a farsensor could detect, she still possessed physical mass impossible to disguise. The augmented ultrasenses of Abaddon, scanning southern Spam, had no assurance of finding the girl—but they could determine where she was not. After a suspenseful interval, Aiken was reassured that Felice was not at that time physically present within an 80,000-square-kilometer area centered upon Mount Mulhacén.
The intelligence was sufficient to put a “go” stamp on the raid.
The 75 sailing vessels of Aiken’s fleet, which included every seaworthy craft in the Many-Colored Land, moored just off the mouth of the Río Genil at 0530 hours. Some 2000 humans of the elite guard, who served the expedition in a support capacity, made haste to unpack, inflate, and launch a flotilla of 180 pneumatic rivercraft and guide them to the base-camp where the Spanish forces waited. Each solar-powered barge could carry 20 Tanu knights and their chargers, together with field rations and a spartan quota of supplies. Two of the craft had been fitted out as primary and backup laser repair shops, so that there would be no time lost getting the Spear operational.
Shortly before 0800, when everything was in readiness, Aiken mounted his own black chaliko and levitated to a commanding height before the ranks of waiting combatants. Unlike them, he was not wearing glass armor, but rather his golden suit of many pockets, the glittering jet cape, and the broad-brimmed hat with black plumes, now surmounted by the regal circlet. He saluted the knights and nobles, the High Table Exalteds and Queen Mercy-Rosmar with the small, gold-plated laser-truncheon he had taken to carrying as a baton of office.
“Battle-companions! We’re ready to raid the monster’s lair. Up on Mount Mulhacén, inside Felice’s cave, is the holy Spear of Lugonn that was torn out of my hands during the Great Flood. The Spear is a sovereign symbol of our Tanu heritage. It’s also a weapon that can be our ultimate defense—not only against Felice, but against the Firvulag Foe or any other enemy that dares to challenge us. In addition, the cave holds a treasure-trove of golden torcs. Since the equipment for manufacturing torcs was destroyed when Muriah
“I won’t minimize the hazard. We are all in danger of death Felice’s mind is more powerful than any in the Many-Colored Land, more powerful even than any mind that will exist in the Galactic Milieu six million years from now. But we can stand up to her! We can unite in a true metaconcert—and under my leadership vanquish the female demon once and for all. Believe this!
“Let me tell you what we will do This Genil River is navigable for about one hundred and thirty-five kilometers, ninety Tanu leagues. We follow it to Mulhacén, where it has its source. There’ll be rapids, but the best skippers in the Pliocene will be doing the driving, so have no fear. Certain of you psychokinetics have been assigned to add auxiliary power to the boats, to insure that we reach the head of navigation by 1400 hours. Then we take to the saddle. We’ll be out of the jungle by then and into open savanna, and we’ll ride hell for leather for another twenty-five or thirty kloms. A little over an hour and we should be at the base of the Sierra Nevada massif, where a dense forest begins and we’re in the very shadow of Mulhacén.
“All of the way up the river and all across the savanna you will have your minds in linkage, forming a protective umbrella of psychoenergy that will hide us from the monster’s sight. At the foot of the mountain, you’ll take your stand, waiting in a well-sheltered spot with perfect line of sight on the region around Felice’s lair. I alone will fly to the cave. You’ll extend your defense to cover me while I abstract the Spear and the torcs. Since I’m able to lift more than four hundred tons, I should have no trouble making off with the loot. However, that time when I’m flying back with it does represent the most hazardous period of our raid, since I’ll be using most of my brainpower in the levitation I’ll maintain my direction of our offensive metaconcert—but minus my usual share of the psychozap potential. If you ever plan to pray for us, pray then . . .
“Once I’m safe at the foot of the mountain, I parcel out the treasure and we all haul ass back to the riverboats. We’ll turn the mounts loose. That’ll give us added speed back to the gulf, since the boats will be lighter. We’ll also be traveling with the current instead of against it. As we sail downriver, our hard working technicians under Pete Carvalho and Yuggoth McGillicuddy will fix the Spear. Again, let us pray! I will lend them my royal assistance unless I’m occupied battling for our lives.
“After the sacred zapper is repaired, we are virtually home free! Abaddon has studied what Felice did at Gibraltar, and he’s also analyzed the potential of the metaconcert we’ll be putting together. Felice’s creativity checks in at something he calls the six-hundredth order of magnitude. Very heavy. But if we hit Felice with a photon cannon in addition to the metaconcert blast, we should pull the equivalent of six-thirty— and the monster dies, zapped to a flaky flinder.
“So we’re off. And we’re going to win! You have the Shining One’s guarantee!”
They had been cautioned against uttering even the most discreet response. But the aether fizzed with jubilation, nevertheless, as the pneumatic boats cast off and sped up the Genil at more than 20 kph. No sooner had the journey begun than the 3550 combatants were put to work, assembling their minds into the three-pronged metaconcert that would shortly serve as both weapon and buckler for King Aiken-Lugonn.
The three human operants from North Amenca began the process, sorting and interleaving the minds, one by one Owen Blanchard took the coercers, who were headed by Alberonn Mindeater, Artigonn of Amalizan, and Condateyr of Roniah. Cloud Remillard coordinated the psychokinetics under Bleyn the Champion, Neyal of Sasaran, Diarmet of Geroniah, and Kuhal Earthshaker (the latter only a proforma participant). The all-important creative faction was marshalled by Elaby Gathen, working with Mercy, Aluteyn Craftsmaster, Celadeyr, Lomnovel Brainburner, and Thufan Thunderhead. The High Table members were entrusted with refinement of the substructures in each syntagmatic chain, binding together the lesser minds into coherent units that would be—thanks to the new sophisticated armature furnished by Abaddon—greater in power than the sum of their component parts.
Once the newborn Tanu metaconcert had stabilized and assumed a proper condition of dynamic potential. Marc Remillard took it up, smoothed the rough spots, and phased in the operant minds under his personal control: the surviving rebels in Ocala, together with their runaway adult children (now simmering but submissive), who were situated in a bivouac on the Moroccan coast about 900 kilometers southwest of Mulhacén. To this combination Marc added his own awesome creative faculty, boosted by auxiliary cerebroenergetics. The whole was then subtly cleft into offensive and defensive capabilities, with the former relying more heavily upon the creative powers and the latter weighing more on the coercers. The defensive aspect of this Organic Mind Marc kept under his own control. His farsense, in a virtuoso maneuver that neither Aiken nor the Tanu could fathom, somehow maintained its independent monitoring function. Aiken, as prime executive of the Mind, could watch out for the enemy himself; but if he became distracted, or if Felice contrived some outrageously subtle ploy, the cold farseeing eye in North America would be watching and ready to sound the alert.
Plugged in last of all, poised between Marc and the director’s slot, with its soul-substance attenuated and drawn into a virtual cylinder of enormous bore, was the mind of Culluket the Interrogator. He was completely passive (but aware), a living conduit through which psychoenergies might pass in only one direction: outward. If Felice tried to penetrate the Mind with her own forces, or if she attempted to choke off the output, instigating feedback, the sentient safety fuse would disrupt. Culluket would die. (And he thought: That would be the easiest! But at the same time came the nagging voice of prescience, admonishing: Not until you pay the account in full.)
When the Mind was finally ready, the faceless entity called Abaddon presented it to Aiken Drum.
“All you need do is slip your own mind into the ultimate position: prime focus and executive director. If you’re quite sure you’re up to it . . .”
The waiting mental edifice seemed to shimmer before Aiken’s bemused eye. How splendid! How strong! How huge! True, the program was Abaddon’s, as well as the expertise in the assembly. But it was Aiken Drum who now look up the organism boldly and wore it—he who was in control.
The sky he saw now through the defensive barrier was almost purple. The solar disk shone vermilion with a white-hot core. As the lead boat he rode in hurtled up the river, the rushing walls of jungle were a green so intense that it verged on black. The Genil itself, still carpeted in mist, was a twisting track of molten gold unwinding endlessly.
If you’re quite sure you’re up so it . . .
Was he!
He let the godlike offensive potential fill him, let himself expand with it, savoring the biddable menace. He was Mercy, he was Aluteyn, he was Alberonn and Bleyn. He was Owen Blanchard, Grand Master Coercer. He was Cloud and Elaby, raw and youthful and operant. He was more than 3000 Tanu minds, synchronized in unprecedented union. He was 40 veteran villains of the Metapsychic Rebellion and 28 of their adult offspring. He was Marc RemiHard, challenger of a galaxy, locked in refrigerated armor with charged needles piercing his incandescent brain.
He was all of them! And himself! He was King.
She was sure, so sure that he would be there in Goriah, but when she circled the Castle of Glass, calling his name, he did not answer, nor was he anywhere to be found in the surrounding city or in its satellite plantations and settlements. She would now recognize his aura, no matter where he hid. But he was not there.
Baffled, the black bird flew southward, following the Atlantic coastline to Rocilan. But he was not in the Candy City either, nor in Sasaran far up the Garonne, that mighty river called Baar by the Tanu. She s
Beloved! Culluket!
Again and again the raven called, but it seemed he was not in any of the French cities. His aura, so glacial and hard, the color of frozen blood, would be readily discernible now that her farsenses had been sharpened as a result of the redaction. If she flew to within a dozen kilometers of the Interrogator, she would know him.
She rested and broke her long fast in a verdant parkland west of the great lake, subduing a newborn antelope fawn and feeding upon its tongue. Refreshed, she mounted into the air again and called out in playful derision as she passed Black Crag. She expected no answer from Elizabeth and received none.
Elizabeth will be useful again some day, the raven thought. But I really don’t need her help to find Cull. It’ll be more fun to search for him myself!
She flew south at gale speed, streaking over the flowering jungles of the Corbière Hills and through a pass of the eastern Pyrénées. The Beloved was not in Geroniah, nor in Tarasiah; so she angled far inland and crossed the Catalan Wilderness and came betimes to the head of the Iberian Grand Canyon, where Aluteyn Craftsmaster’s lonely citadel of Calamosk perched above the rushing torrent. Culluket was not there. Indeed, the city was almost deserted.
She considered. Hadn’t the other places she had visited also been strangely emptied of life-aura—especially of Tanu life? Where had all the exotics gone?
The limitless plains of the south were going from emerald to lemon-yellow, now that the rains were two months in the past. Only the swales and the arroyos remained lush, and the bottomlands along great rivers such as the Proto-Jucar, which flowed past Afaliah-
Culluket! Cullukel!
But again the Beloved was not there, and neither was the city-lord, Celadeyr, nor his cadre of battle-companions. The mystery deepened. Perhaps Aiken Drum had gone off on a Quest against the Firvulag marauders of the western Alps. Felice had not searched the cities of the upper Rhône but had flown straight from Hidden Springs to Goriah, where she had expected to find her quarry cowering in the protection of Aiken Drum. But if the King had mounted some punitive expedition . . .