Golden Torc - 2 (9 page)

"What is the solution, then?"

"She must be put to death," said Imidol. "It is the only way. And not only her mind but her body destroyed, so there is no hope of Gomnol utilizing her ova in his obscene contraptions." Little olive and black finches warbled in the lemon trees. The breeze from the Mount of Heroes above Muriah was dying now and it was getting very hot. The Queen extended a ringed finger toward a tiny spider that was lowering itself from the rafters of the pavilion. Its web floated as in an unfelt wind, bringing the creature to a landing on Nontusvel's fingernail. She watched it stand there, combing the air with its front legs, its sparky predator's mind sniffing.

"It may not be easy," she said. "We know little of the offensive capability of such a one. If we sent her far away, she would not desire to return. She would be grateful to us rather than perhaps doing us great harm."

The spider began a wary descent from the Queen's finger. She sent it sailing safely to the branch of a remontant shrub rose. Eat the aphis, little hunterkiller, so that the roses may thrive.

Culluket said, "Elizabeth is strong only in farsensing and redaction. Her other metafaculties are negligible. She cannot spin concrete illusions nor conjure up psychoenergies. She has a small PK factor but it is useless for selfdefense or aggression. There is no coercive power per se, but the redact is developed to a formidable degree."

Imidol sent an ironic thrust at his brother. "And you, if anyone, Interrogator, should know the potential for mischief in a corruption of the mindhealing power."

Imi we have no time for pettypushies! Aloud, Riganone said, "The Galactic Milieu placed limitations on masterclass metas after the time of their rebellion. There is not only an ethical restraint but also an imposed superego block, which I saw very clearly during my probing. Elizabeth cannot harm a sentient being except in the gravest defense of her fellow humans." Digestivemindpause.

"A nice point," Culluket mused. "If we had sufficient time... a compulsion to self-destruction would be effective. Do you agree, Farspeaking Sister?"

"Her emotional tone was deep gray," Riganone agreed. "She feels she is alone. Bereft."

And so she is, came the Queen's soft tnotherthought.

Imidol said, briskly, "Cull and I will design a suitable compulsion. We'll plan a coordinate thrust powered by the one hundred and nine members of the Host who are presently here in Muriah. If this isn't strong enough, we'll try again at Grand Combat time when the rest get here."

"We can't count on compulsions alone," Culluket said. "I'll try to work out some other options. And when Nodonn arrives, he may think of some better means of dealing with her."

"The Thagdal must never know!" the Queen warned them.

Nor Gomnol, Culluket's mind added.

"We have time for maneuvering," Riganone said. "Remember that Elizabeth must go to Brede first for the initiation, and that will take some time. Not even the King would dare to interfere with an initiate, or with Brede."

The enigmatic image of the Shipspouse hovered in all their minds. The guard and guide of their Exile, older than the oldest of them, some said she was the most powerful of them all and few would doubt that she was the wisest. But Brede rarely intervened directly in the affairs of the High Kingdom on Earth. It had been a shock to the entire company when the King announced that Elizabeth would become the Shipspouse's initiate.

"Brede!" Imidol exuded the contempt of the younger generation for venerable mysteries. "She has no allegiance to any faction. Still, Elizabeth is such a patent danger to us all, that perhaps if we appealed to the Shipspouse-"

Riganone laughed without mirth. "Do you really believe that Brede doesn't know? She sees everything, hiding away in her room without doors! She very likely ordered the Thagdal to send the human woman to her!"

"Damn Brede," said Culluket in vicious dismissal. "Let the Two-Faced One have Elizabeth for the time of initiation. What can she do? We'll get the human bitch somehow when the Shipspouse finishes with her. Elizabeth will never become queendam in your place, Mother."

Never, never, vowed the other two.

"Poor woman." The Queen arose and went out of the pavilion.

It was time to seek the cool inner rooms of the palace.

"I feel so sorry for her. If only there were another way."

"There isn't," said Imidol. Dauntless in his coercer's blue and gold, he offered Nontusvel his arm. The four of them went off down the garden path.

Back in the rose bush, the little spider was busy sucking the life juices from an aphis. When the finch swooped down on him, it was too late to duck.

5

"NOT SILVER ... OF COURSE NOT SILVER, BRYAN. GOLD!" Ogmol's high voice, incongruous in one of such heroic physique, was loud enough to carry over the normal clatter and buzz of the marketplace and cause shoppers and sellers to stare at him. There weren't that many Tanu wandering among the stalls anyway, and no males that Bryan could see. Here and there a willowy exotic lady, attended by a retinue of grays and ramas to carry the packages and hold the sunshade, bent over the offerings of an itinerant human jeweler, glassblower, or some other cottage artisan. There were a few silver-torcs among the browsers; but most of those who moved about the open plaza seemed to be torcless human householders or grays in the livery of the great houses, out to purchase fresh produce for the kitchen, flowers, live birds or animals, or other items not generally available in the many small shops that lined the perimeter of the Square of Commerce.

"I've been over this with Creyn," Bryan said patiently. "No torc for me." He stopped to examine a table crowded with a jumble of oddly assorted twenty-second-century artifacts; canteens, half-empty jars of cosmetics, tattered page-books, worn articles of clothing, broken musical instruments, defunct chronometers and voice writers, a few common decamole appliances and vitredur tools.

"It would help you in your work," Ogmol insisted. He took belated notice of the flea market wares Bryan was looking at. "These things, the usual castoffs. The more unusual and valuable items from your era may be disposed of only through licensed dealers. But there is a black market, of course."

"Mm," said Bryan, moving on.

Ogmol returned to the previous tack. "There are no coercive or dispositive circuits of any kind in a golden torc. In your case, since you have no significant latencies, the torc would merely enhance your telepathic ability, the metapsychic power every human has, and allow you to mindspeak with us. Think of the time we'd save! Consider the semantic advantage! You wouldn't miss a single nuance of your cultural immersion. The scope of your analysis would be broader, less prone to subjective error-"

A vendor in a straw sombrero grinned and waved a skewer of small, freshly roasted birds. "Barbecued larks, Exalted Lords? My own Texas-style chili sauce!"

"Popcorn," croaked a withered old woman in the stall next door. "New crop tetraploid. One kernel a snack in itself."

"Only a few Perigord truffles left today, Lord."

"Attar of roses! Orange-water to cool your temples! Just for you, Lord, a rare flagon of 4711!"

Ogmol grimaced. "It's a fake. They ought to do something about these fellows... But as I was saying, with a torc-"

"The only working conditions I'll accept are those affording complete freedom." Bryan kept his good humor.

Ogmol made a gesture of resignation and led the way to a building on the shady side of the square. A sign designated it BAKERY KLEINFUSS CAFE.

The crowd of shoppers parted respectfully before them.

Tables were set on a flower decked terrace fronting the bakery. A rama in a red and white checked tabard came trotting up, bowed, and took them to a table, where Ogmol collapsed in a wicker chair.

"This walking in the heat of the day! I hope we can engage in less strenuous researches for a while, Bryan. I'm still a bit hung-over from the party last night. I don't know how you manage to look so bright."

The rama swiftly produced two cups of coffee and a large tray of pastries. Bryan chose one.

"Why, there's a pill. Our race had to wait a long time, but we finally developed an instant cure for overindulgence just in the last year or so. Tiny little pills. I packed a good number in my rucksack. A pity I didn't think to bring them this morning."

"There!" moaned Ogmol. "The very thing I mean. If you wore a torc, you'd know how I was suffering without my having to tell you in so many words." He downed his coffee in a long gulp and the rama refilled the cup. "And you'd be able to make your wishes known to the ramas as well. See? That little chap almost wanned up your cup before you were ready for it, but he'd never do that with me. You can't do much verbal communication with ramas, you know. Just 'come' and 'go,' that kind of thing. Persons without torcs have to use sign language with the little apes, and that can be very awkward for all but the simplest commands."

Bryan only nodded, eating his pastry. It was delicious, evoking Vienna's best. Small wonder that the interior of the Bakery Kleinfuss was crowded with take-out customers.

"As I understand it, the golden torc can't be removed once it's in place. And I also have learned that some personalities become seriously disturbed through wearing the thing. You can understand why I don't want to risk my sanity, Ogmol. There's no reason why my torcless status should limit my researches. I was a competent worker in the Milieu without metafaculties, and so were most of my colleagues. All that's necessary for a valid analysis is dependable source material."

The Tanu's eyes shifted. "Well, yes. We'll try our very best to obtain that for you. My Awesome Father has given explicit orders."

Bryan tried to be tactful. "Some of my investigations are bound to touch raw nerves. I can't help it in a study such as this. Even my superficial observations have begun to reveal a pattern of profound stress resulting from the impact of human and Tanu cultures."

"The very thing my Father wishes to evaluate, Bryan. But the researches could be done so much more, gracefully on the mental level. Words are so dense." He downed another cup of coffee, squeezed his eyes closed, and pressed the fingertips of both hands to his golden torc. Many of the exotic men had faces of transcendent beauty; but Ogmol's was refreshingly handsome. His nose had a knot at the bridge, and his lips, between the short-cropped beard resembling tawny plush, were too thick and red. He resembled the King only in his deepset, jade-colored eyes, now lamentably blood-webbed. For the sake of coolness he was attired in a short sleeveless robe of cyan blue and silver, symbolic of the Guild of Creators. His arms and legs were furred with wiry tan hair.

"No use trying to psych the miseries away." Ogmol tapped his knuckles against his brow. "Plum brandy will have its revenge. You will let me have a pill or two for future use, won't you, old man?"

"Of course. And I'll try to be as judicious as possible in my investigations. It might take a little longer that way, but we'll get on."

"Feel free to be as direct as you please with me." Ogmol gave a rueful chuckle. "My sensibilities are quite expendable."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's my duty to assist you. My honor. And as a half-blood, my skin isn't quite as thin as that of the-uh-isolate fraction."

"Your mother was a human?"

Ogmol waved away the rama and leaned back in his chair.

"She was a silver. A sculptor from the Wessex world. She passed her latent creativity along to me, but she was too emotionally unstable to last long in the Many-Colored Land. I was her only offspring."

"Would you say that there was significant prejudice against those of mixed heritage?"

"It exists." Ogmol frowned, then shook his head. "But, damn words!, the disdain in which we're held by the Old Ones is strongly tinged by other emotions. Our bodies aren't as finely formed as theirs, but we're stronger physically. Most purebloods can't swim, but we have no difficulty in the water. Hybrids are more fertile, in spite of the fact that the full Tanu have a more urgent libido. And we're less likely to engender Firvulag offspring or black-torcs." He repeated the uneasy little laugh. "You see, Bryan, we hybrids are actually an improvement on the original model. That's what's so insupportable."

"Mm," the anthropologist temporized.

"As you can see, my body is superficially very similar to that of a pureblood:light hair, fair skin, typical light-sensitive eyes, elongated torso, attenuated limbs. But the ample body hair is a human heritage, and so is my more robust skeletal structure and musculature. Only a minority of the pureblooded men have this type of physique... the King and the battle champions. Back in the home galaxy of the Tanu, a heroic body was rather an anachronism. A reminder of the crude origins of the race."

"But the very heritage," Bryan observed, "that the exiled group was determined to revive. Interesting."

The rama came running up with a large napkin, which Ogmol used to wipe his brow. It really was a pity, Bryan thought, that he had left the aldetox back at the palace. "But don't you see, Bryan, how difficult it is for the Old Ones to accept the fact that human genes optimize their racial survival on Earth? Hybrid vigor is a putdown to them. The Old Ones are very proud. It's illogical, but they seem to be afraid of us mixed-bloods."

"The mind-set wasn't uncommon even in my own era," Bryan admitted. He swallowed the last crumb of pastry and finished his coffee. "You said we might visit Lord Gomnol's establishment. Shall we go there next?"

Ogmol grinned and fingered his torc. "You see? Another advantage! Give me a minute."

The rama waiter stood passively beside the table, a monkeychild with intelligent, sad eyes. As Ogmol made his telepathic call, Bryan fished in one pocket for some of the local coinage he had been given and held out a random assortment. Solemnly, the hominid fingers extracted two pieces of silver.

"No tip?" Bryan wondered. He looked around at the other tables. Not a single person without a torc was seated on the terrace. The barenecks had to make do with a self-service bar inside where human clerks took their verbal orders.