Golden Torc - 2 (4 page)

The friendly voice of the skipper drew him back. "The lady you're looking for. Did they tell you she was down here in Muriah?"

"An interviewer back at Castle Gateway recognized her picture. He said she had been sent here. Creyn seemed to hint that if I cooperated with the local authorities along professional lines, she and I might meet."

He hesitated only for a moment before unbuttoning his breast pocket and taking out the durofilm sheet. Highjohn stared at Mercy's self luminous portrait.

"What a beautiful, haunted face! I don't know who she is here, Bry, but then I'm on the river most of the time. God knows I'd never forget her if I ever did catch sight of her. Those eyes! You poor bastard."

"You can say that again, Johnny."

"Why did she come here?" the skipper asked.

"I don't know. Ridiculous, isn't it, Johnny? I knew her only a single day. And then I had to leave her for some work that seemed to be important. When I returned, she was gone. All I could do was follow after. It was the only choice open to me. Do you understand?"

"Sure, Bry. I understand. My own reasons for coming weren't that different. Except that no one was waiting... But there's something you've got to expect, when you do find her. She'll be changed."

"She was a latent. They'll have given her a silver torc. I'm aware of that."

The big riverman shook his head slowly. Once again he touched his own gray necklet. "There's more to it than a latent's becoming operant, although God knows, acquiring metafaculties all of a sudden has its hazards, so I'm told. But even us grays, without getting any metafunctions to speak of, gain something fantastic through this torc. Something that we never had before." He pursed his thin purplish lips, then suddenly exclaimed, "Listen, man! What do you hear?"

"They're singing in their Tanu language."

"And to you, the words mean nothing. But to us collared ones, the Song says well met, and fear not, and this is it, and we-you-us! When a human being becomes part of the torced society, he gains a whole new level of consciousness. Even us grays, with no operant metafunctions, can share in it. It's more than telepathy, although that's a part of it. It's a whole new form of social intercourse, this mind-to-mind intimacy. How the hell can I explain it? Like being a member of some kind of superfamily. You know you belong to this great thing that keeps rolling along and taking you with it. You'll never be alone in your pain again. Never be outside. Never be rejected. Any time you need strength or comfort, you can dip into the collective resource. It's not a smothering thing because you can take as much or as little of it as you choose, well, subject to limitations unless you're a gold-wearer. You obey orders, just like in the service... But what I'm trying to tell you is that wearing these things changes you deep inside. It doesn't happen right away, but it does happen. As you wear the torc, you're educated whether you want to be or not. Your lady is going to be a different person than the one you remember."

"She might not want me. Is that what you're trying to prepare me for?"

"I don't know her, Bry. People react in different ways to the torcs. Some of them bloom. Most of them."

The anthropologist did not meet the skipper's dark eyes.

"And some don't. I see. What happens to the failures?"

"There aren't too many among us grays. The Tanu have worked out a fairish battery of tests to sort out the go and no go. Human psychotechnicians working under Lord Gomnol try to make sure that no normal human gets a gray torc unless his or her PS profile shows that the device will be generally beneficial to the individual's functioning. They don't want to waste the torcs because they're not easy to make. If your psychosocial tests show that you're a maverick, likely to whack out unless you're allowed to stew in your own independent juice, then you don't get a gray collar. They'll coerce you in more conventional ways to make you a productive member of their society, or else give up and toss you into the discard. But the real winners here in Exile are the torc wearers. The Tanu know they can trust us because they can share our thoughts and control our rewards. So we're allowed positions of responsibility. Look at me! Tanu are lousy swimmers. But I've had members of the High Table, the top Tanu administration, riding in my boat."

"With never a qualm, I trust."

"Okay-laugh. But I'd never do anything to endanger the lives of the exotics and they know it. It would be unthinkable!"

"But you're not free."

"Nobody is ever free," the skipper said. "Was I a goddam lily of the field back in the Milieu, piloting my ferryboat on Tallahatchie with Lee driving me crazy jealous? Here in this world, with this torc, I follow Tanu orders. And in return I get a share in the kind of mind-pleasures that only the metapsychics got in our twentysecond century. It's like seeing with a thousand eyes. Or going high with a thousand bodies all at once. I can't tell you how it is. I'm no poet. No psychologist, either."

"I'm beginning to understand, Johnny. The torcs are certainly more complex than I first thought."

"They make life a lot easier for the people who can stand up to 'em. Just take the matter of language. In our Milieu, the exotic sociologists knew how vital it was for each single race to have a single language. That's why we humans had to agree to become monolingual as a condition to Milieu acceptance, and Standard English won hands down. But with this mental speech, any kind of verbal misunderstanding is impossible! When another person mindspeaks to you, you know exactly what the message is."

Half to himself, Bryan murmured, "Barbaric. That's why the Milieu places such strict limitations on the metas. Especially the human metas."

"I don't get your point there, Bry. See what I mean? If you wore a torc, I'd know exactly what you were trying to say."

"Forget it, Johnny. Just my cynicism showing its fangs."

"To me, the mental unity seems ideal. But then, I'm just a dumb sailorman whose lover went over to another. Now if the two of us had been able to understand each other from the start... aw, the hell with it. Now there are thousands of people who love me. In a manner of speaking."

The skipper waved at the procession of riders. Almost all of them immediately waved back. Bryan felt something cold clutch at his bowels.

"Johnny?"

The skipper broke out of his reverie. "Mm?"

"Not all of the time-travelers are tested for psychocompatibility before being torced. Stein wasn't. They collared him when he became a menace."

Highjohn shrugged. "You can understand why. The torc can be used to subdue rebellious people on a short-range or longrange basis. Since your pal is still with us, I presume they have some plans for him. Certain types, medics and some other specialists who rarely come through the gate, they get collared willy-nilly, too. Essential occupations."

"And the metapsychic latents, people such as Aiken and Sukey and Raimo? They were apparently put into silver collars as soon as their latency was detected, without consideration of any adverse mental consequences."

"Well, the silvers are a special case," Highjohn admitted.

"There's the matter of the genes."

Bryan looked at him.

"The Tanu use human women in their breeding scheme, Bry. Some human men as well. Normals, latents, both kinds get used. But the latents are the most valuable to them. I'm not too clear on the specifics of the thing, but somehow they figure that putting human latent genes into their pool will speed the day when the whole Tanu race goes operant. You know... just like the human race is going operant back in the Milieu."

"But the Tanu are operant now, with their golden torcs!"

"Limited, man, limited. Even the best of 'em can't measure up to masterclass metas in the Milieu. And none of the Tanu are a patch on our Grand Masters. Nope, they've got a long way to go in the mind-power game. But this genetic scheme is supposed to give them a boost. The Tanu are great schemers. Plotting and fighting are their favorite sports, followed closely by screwing, drinking, and feasting. The gene plan is just one of the ways they're trying to consolidate their advantage over the Firvulag. You know about the Little People, don't you? Racial brothers to the Tanu. No-torc operants,but only in illusion making, creativity, and some farsensing, for the most part. Firvulag genes are strong recessives among Tanu, so the Tanu mothers keep throwing Firvulag babies. And the little gnomies are physically tougher and reproduce a hell of a lot faster than the Tanu do. So if the Tanu want to keep control of Exile, they've got their work cut out for them."

"I'm starting to appreciate the situation," Bryan said. "But, come back to the silver-torcs. If they're indiscriminately collared, then some of them must whip out under the neural tension."

"True. Some go mad. Any kind of torc can do that if the personality of the wearer is fundamentally incompatible. Even the pure Tanu have their zonk-outs. Black-torcs, they call 'em. However, even if a silver goes bananas, the Tanu try to save the genes. A woman will be put on oblivion hold and used as brood stock until she breaks down. If she can't be restored by the healers, her ova can be transplanted to ramas. That often doesn't pan out because these exotic folks have a crude reprotechnology, but they try anyhow."

"And the male silver-torc dropouts?"

"Sperm is an easy keeper. As for the bonkered-out owner... well, there's always the Hunt. Or the life-offerings."

"I know about the Hunt." Bryan was grim. "But the lifeoffering thing is new. What is it human sacrifice?"

"More like ritual execution of criminals and hopelessly unfit persons. As I understand sacrifices, the victim was supposed to be noble or pure or something. Well, the Tanu have that kind of ritual killing only once in a blue moon-like when there's a new King or Queen inaugurated. Like the regular lifeofferings come twice a year. At the tail end of the Grand Combat in early November and at the Grand Loving, in May. It's more like a clean sweep of the jails and soft rooms than anything else. Uncivilized by Milieu standards, but not all that bad an idea when you get right down to it."

Don't read my mind, Johnny, Bryan thought. Aloud, he said, "How do the human silvers become golds?"

The skipper gave a basso profundo laugh. "There's ways and ways. Your weird little pal is a shoo-in candidate!" Bryan was at a loss for words. Yes, Aiken might fit in very well in this mad world of wondrous powers and appalling barbarity. But what of Mercy, fey and fearful?

Tall Creyn, with his red-and-white robes billowing in the breeze, came into the bows area, followed by Elizabeth. "We're almost there, Bryan. You can see the High King's palace now, that complex with bars of golden light and the hundreds of bright lamps spaced along the facade. We'll be ending our journey there. After we've rested for a few hours, there'll be a supper feast in honor of you new arrivals. King Thagdal and Queen Nontusvel will be there themselves to bid you welcome."

"Do all newcomers get such a splendid reception?" Elizabeth inquired. Half hidden behind the towering Tanu, she was an unobtrusive figure in her red denim jumpsuit.

"Not all." Creyn smiled down at her. "Your arrival is a very special occasion. It's been an honor for me to escort you. I hope to be able to work with you at Redact House in later days."

The realization burst upon Bryan. Of course. The magnificent escort had really come to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth! And the banquet with the King and Queen in attendance would be primarily for her. What a priceless catch the exotic timefishers had made in this quiet, repressive woman with the unfathomable mental powers. And what new plans the genetic schemers must be hatching! Poor Elizabeth. Bryan wondered whether she was yet aware of the kind of temptation that the Tanu were sure to offer; and whether she realized the deadly danger that she faced if she should decline to cooperate... Creyn continued to point out features of the capital city to the two of them. "The largest of the structures, those with the surmounting towers and faceted beacons, are the headquarters of the five great Guilds Mental. You might think of them as metapsychic clans, for there is more of a family than a professional relationship among the membership. The violet and amber lights adorn the Hall of Farsensors, which is presided over by the venerable Lady Mayvar Kingmaker. The Guild of Creators has its headquarters lit with aquamarine and white. At the present time, this group is led by Lord Aluteyn Craftsmaster. However, his authority has been recently challenged and there may be changes made after the manifestations of power take place at the Grand Combat. The blue and amber lights symbolize the Coercer Guild, whose head is Sebi-Gomnol, a human wearer of the gold. Beyond that complex rises the home of the psychokinetics, the movers and shakers who are led by Lord Nodonn Battlemaster. He is at this time resident in his home city of Goriah. The PK Guild has rose and amber for its heraldic colors."

"And your association?" Elizabeth asked.

"The Guild of Redactors has its headquarters outside of the city, on the southern slope of the Mount of Heroes. The white and red illumination is not visible from this side of the peninsula. Our guild is headed by Lord Dionket, Chief Healer of the Tanu."

A small figure in a suit of metallic fiber came slithering forward. Aiken Drum doffed his hat and bowed. His grinning face was shadowed and masklike in the light of the escort's torches.

"I couldn't help but eavesdrop, Chief. How is it that a human being, this Gumball, or whatever his name is, can head up one of your big corporations?"

Creyn's reply was cold. "Lord Sebi-Gomnol is a person of extraordinary talents, both metapsychic and scientific. After you meet him, you'll know why we hold him in such high esteem."

"How did he get his gold?" Aiken persisted.

Even Bryan was aware of the palpable revulsion flowing from the exotic healer. "You'd better hear that from his own lips as well."

Aiken gave a wicked chuckle. "I can hardly wait. Old Gumball sounds like the kinda guy who could even give me a few tips!"

You will leave us Aiken Drum.

Anything you command Chief!