Diamond Mask (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (7 page)

By now the faculty—which the frustrated preceptor-therapists told her was called the self-defensive aspect of metacoercion—
was so much a part of her that she hardly noticed it. She had overheard Mummie and the other adults talking about her mental screen once, saying how different it was from Ken’s puny one, marveling at how wonderfully strong it was, and how it must be guarding other metafaculties of hers that were probably even more amazing … if they could just discover how to pry them out of her.

But she knew her latent powers were more than amazing. They were terrible, and they must never be allowed to escape. No matter how the therapists and Mummie tried, hurting her for what they said was “her own good,” Dee resisted their attempts to invade her and open the other boxes. The things inside were hers, not theirs, and so was the angel who guarded them. She didn’t want to be an operant like Mummie. Nobody could make her do what she didn’t want to do.

Especially not Mummie.

Ken said softly, “You stupid pillock—she doesn’t even have to know. None of ’em have to know! Just do it for yourself. Open the self-redaction box and keep the power … inside.”

Dee almost screamed out loud from shock and terror. Ken had heard her thoughts!

“Well, I could hardly help it, could I, the way you were howling at me.”

She opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of a seat facing her, and his eyes were wide and black. He knew about the boxes, knew she had deliberately shut the adults out when they tried to force her into operancy. What else did he know?

She cried:
Stop looking and listening! I just want you to leave me alone! I want everybody to leave me alone!

He backed away from her, as shocked as she was by the unexpected telepathic transmissions on his intimate mode. “Okay, okay! You let your screen crack while you were thinking about those things. I couldn’t help hearing. Then your mind almost knocked my socks off shrieking at me.”

“Can you read my mind now?” she whispered suspiciously. She was back in control.

“No. No more than you can read mine. We’re
not
True People, Sis. We’re deadheads. The farspeak and the other stuff only works when it feels like it—not when we want it to.” He got up and moved away, taking his drink. “But I’m not like the others, you know.”

She watched him go. He had told the truth. He was a terrible tease, but unlike the grownups, he never pushed her to do things
that hurt or frightened her. He was just Big Brother Ken—sometimes rude, very often snotty and superior. But never a threat.

Cautiously (for she was still buffeted by the whirlpool of motion sickness) she descended into the mental cellar. She greeted the angel and contemplated the boxes.

Yes, Ken was right. If she opened only the smallest rosy-glowing box, the one that now throbbed so eagerly, the redactive power she set free would behave as the friendly blue mind-screen had, remaining safe within her head. No one would ever notice if she redacted only herself—except maybe the grockly old Gi, and there were never too many of them around to worry about. Most Big Birds were too daft and giggly to teach or study at Edinburgh University, unlike the Green Leakie Freakies and the Wee Purple Poopers and the horrible Krondak monsters, who seemed to be all over the place. But those other kinds of exotics couldn’t see past her mind’s blue mask any more than True People could, so she would be safe most of the time.

 … I will be safe, won’t I, angel?

But he did not reply. He never did, even though she was quite convinced of his existence. The angel was mute. She would have to decide all by herself.

She took a deep breath. She said to the angel:

Yes. I’ll do it! No more seasickness, no more painful latency therapy, no more colds, no more hurting when I stub my toe or fall down and skin my knees because
you
forgot to look after me! My new power will be able to fix all kinds of things like that. And no one but you and I and Ken will ever know.

How stupid she had been not to think of this before! But when you were five years old, you couldn’t help doing a lot of stupid things, even though the grownups said you were a mental prodigy.

She reached for the imaginary box with the shining red thing inside and touched it with a trembling, imaginary finger. The secret code word revealed itself to her in an instant. It was not a word a person said. You have to think it.

She did. And the rosy squirming thing slipped joyously from its prison and swelled and grew, becoming as beautiful as a gigantic flower with shining petals. The rose enfolded her, turned to liquid light, to a calm lake glowing in the sunset that washed away all her sickness. She floated on it, completely at peace, and closed her eyes. Through closed lids, she was aware of the redness brightening, becoming dazzling white, becoming part of
her. She felt no more fear, no more discomfort, no more helplessness. The new power belonged to her and filled her with its healing warmth. It was good.

She opened her eyes, lowered her feet to the carpeted deck, and got up. She stood there easily, letting her body sway and compensate for the motion of the ferry. Her self-redactive metafunction let her take complete command.

Ears, listen to me! I’m not off balance and I’m not going to fall. I’m just fine. Do you hear that, brain? You can stop telling my stomach it has to throw up. Nothing is wrong. I’m going to Islay on holiday, and I’m not going to be sick or even afraid anymore.

Do you understand me, brain? I will tell you what to do.

You will not tell me.

Every trace of the seasickness was gone.

Dee looked at Ken and nodded solemnly. Smiling, he gave her the thumbs-up sign. On the far side of the saloon, the three outlandish Gi were yoo-hooing and fluting incomprehensible things at her. They probably knew! But Mummie and Gran Masha had blank faces, as they always did whenever Dee or Ken made any sort of a scene, while Uncle Robbie and Aunt Rowan and the other human operants among the passengers looked puzzled. Dee was certain that they had no idea what had happened. She would never tell and she would make certain that Ken didn’t tell either, or she would hate him as long as he lived!

Dee went to the nearest door leading to the ferry’s outer deck, slid it open, and quickly went outside.

The rain had stopped. There were six or seven bundled-up adults standing at the ship’s rail. Herring gulls and blackbacks soared overhead calling, and sunlight was beginning to pierce the ragged clouds. Ahead, two large islands loomed above the choppy sea. The one on the right was stark, rocky, and dramatic, with two glistening conical mountains humping up from the interior. The one on the left was gently rolling and its slopes were a brilliant green. Oddly, there were peaceful vibes coming from the place with the weird mountains, while the prettier island seemed to have a faint aura of menace.

Which one, Dee wondered, activating her plaque-book, was Islay?

Hydra’s laying of the groundwork for the fateful trip had been flawless.

When Professor Masha MacGregor-Gawrys returned home to
Edinburgh after six months of bodily rejuvenation, her mental screen was understandably a bit woolly at first, easily penetrated by the subtle coercive-redactive ream that the Hydra knew how to use so well. The idea for taking a brief holiday that came stealing into her mind through the tiny aperture was both gratifying and pleasant, and Masha accepted it as her own without demur.

Hydra withdrew from the professor’s unconscious and patiently orchestrated the next step in its plan.

A few days later, Masha held a small tea party in her townhouse in the Willowbrae district of Edinburgh and invited those who were closest to her—her daughter-in-law Viola Strachan, Viola’s gifted children Dorothea and Kenneth Macdonald, Viola’s brother Robert Strachan, and Robbie’s wife Rowan Grant.

Also attending, but unnoticed by the professor and her guests, was the Hydra.

Masha served little crustless sandwiches, homemade spongecake and sweet whipped cream, and scones with butter and raspberry jam. She and the others sat round a cheery fire eating and drinking while rain rattled on the new leaves of the plane trees outside the sitting room window … and on the roof of the Bentley groundcar parked across the square, where the Hydra lurked and watched with its farsight.

It took some time for the two children to get over their surprise at the remarkable change in their grandmother’s appearance. When they had last seen her half a year ago she was very old—fifty-two!—but now she seemed to be younger than Mummie. She no longer looked tired and wrinkled, and her tall frame was straight and slender instead of slumping and slightly too large for her clothes. Her hair, in the familiar coronet of braids, now shone like polished copper. Only her dry voice and her vivid emerald eyes, glowing with metapsychic power, seemed the same.

Dutifully, Dee and Ken told Gran Masha what they had been doing in school during the months she had floated switch-off in the regen-tank. Ken had won a prize for a story he had written, and he produced this and, read it aloud to judicious appreciation. Then, prompted by Viola, Dee admitted that she had begun taking lessons on the scrollo keyboard. When Viola insisted, she unrolled the instrument, pecked out “Loch Lomond,” and then fled to the bathroom, overcome by shyness as the adults clapped.

Masha sighed. “I hoped Dorothea would have grown out of
that tiresome habit by now.” She frowned a little as she poured more tea for her daughter-in-law. “How is her latency therapy coming along?”

“Not very well. Dr. Crawford found no progress after the latest round of tests. We’ll continue the preceptive exercises, of course, but Crawford thinks it unlikely that Dody will ever attain operancy. Her superior intellect certainly understands what the therapists are trying to do, but apparently she lacks the strength of will that would enable her to break the bonds of latency and finally become one of us.”

“Now, Vi,” her brother said. “It’s not completely hopeless.” Robert Strachan was a natty man of small stature, only slightly taller than Viola. His dark eyes glittered and his hair was combed back, making him look sleek as an otter. He exuded the self-confidence of a highly adept metacreative operant. He was an Associate Professor of Psychophysics at the University of Edinburgh, director of the CE Operator Safety Research Project that also involved his wife and sister.

Viola rounded upon him with surprising bitterness. “You’re right, as usual, Robbie. Occasionally, children with Dody’s form of latency have broken through after suffering some great mental or physical trauma. So we can always hope the child will be in a car smash or some such thing—and become a True Person in spite of herself.”

“Vi!” said Masha sharply, and her eyes flicked to young Kenneth, who was listening openmouthed. Both women fell silent, but it was plain that the acrimonious exchange continued telepathically.

The boy toyed with his sandwich, now completely expressionless. Rowan Grant tried to distract him with a lecture on the wonderful things rejuvenation technology had done for his grandmother. “Someday your Mum and Uncle Robbie and I will also have ourselves made young again through genetic engineering,” she concluded brightly. “So will you! And if any of us should have an accident and be badly hurt, the regen-tank would make us well again.”

“But it’s no good for us,” Ken muttered. “Not for little kids. I learned about it in school. A person can’t go into the tank until he’s at least twelve or thirteen, because up until then kids don’t have all the special body chemicals that make the regen thing work … And even if Dee and I wait until then, the tank can’t make our
normal
brains meta.”

“Well—no,” Rowan admitted. “Thus far, regeneration technology
has been unable to benefit those with latent metafunctions. The human brain is so complex that we don’t yet understand all of the genes involved in its operation. But you musn’t fret about it, dear. Things will surely change in the future. Someday, we’ll have the means to make every human being an operant. Why, even if it takes another hundred years, you can be rejuvenated over and over again until—until it
happens.
”

Ken said calmly: “But meanwhile, we’ll be deadheads.”

“Of course not!” Rowan Grant’s plain, kindly face was horrified. “Wherever did you hear that awful term? You must never call yourself that, Ken—or let anybody else do it, either. We all belong to the World Mind and we’re all important to the Galactic Milieu—operants and nonoperants alike. And you know that we love you and your sister very much, whether you’re full metas or not.”

Ken’s gaze fell. Making no reply, he abandoned his sandwich, took a piece of spongecake, and began to pile on honeyed cream until it dripped from the side of the plate onto the carpet. Viola noticed what was happening and uttered a sharp exclamation of annoyance, but a warning thought from Masha brought her up short. She pressed her lips together and rose from her chair.

“I’d better see what’s happened to Dody. And you, Kenneth—take a serviette and wipe up that disgusting mess at once.” She left the room.

“Hurry back,” Masha called. “I have an important announcement to make. My great surprise!”

When Viola finally returned with her daughter, Masha addressed them all with determined good humor. “Now, my darlings, I’m very happy to have my strong new body, but I’m not quite ready to go back to work. First, I need to spend some time with all of you to catch up on what’s been going on in the world while I was growing young again. So I’d like you to join me on a whirlwind holiday. Let’s fly away tomorrow and spend the whole weekend together at some interesting place getting to know one another all over again. Please say that you’ll come!”

The other adults, after a brief startled pause, made encouraging noises.

“But where will we go?” Dee asked, bewildered.

“Anywhere you like,” Masha said. “Dorothea, you’re the youngest. You may choose the place. Just a moment while I get something out of the credenza.”

The four components of the Hydra sitting tense in the Bentley let out their collective breath in relief. The scheme of coercive
manipulation they had hatched in response to Fury’s orders hovered on the brink of bearing fruit. The professor was following the unconscious compulsion they had implanted. Now there was only the child to deal with.