INTERVENTION (82 page)

Shannon addressed the door's voice-print identifier. "Open up!" The metal panel slid aside and the two of them entered Kieran O'Connor's sanctum. An enormous banked control console took up one entire five-meter wall. "When Zap-Star is complete in another year or so, it will consist of 150 battle-mirror satellites and twenty ground batteries of multiple excimer lasers. UN peace-keepers will control the system from a new command center being built on Christmas Island in the Pacific. The Zap-Star system is being financed primarily by the United States, Europe, Japan, and Korea. China has built its own part of the network independently, twenty mirrors and two ground bases... but all the other satellites utilize guidance systems manufactured by Daddy's multinational aerospace conglomerate. And each one has built-in override." She indicated the console. "Zap-Star can be accessed from here, cutting out the Christmas Island syscom."

"Good God!"

Shannon sat down at the computer. "None of the weaponry is on-line yet, of course. When it is, the access code will be Daddy's great secret—the one I presume he'll offer to sell you in exchange for your soul." She laughed. "Would you like to see how the thing works?"

She spoke into a command microphone and summoned graphics to a big liquid-crystal display. "The white blips on the map represent the UN's worldwide emplacement of excimer laser batteries. The green blips are the Chinese bases. Notice the two red blips!...Those are Daddy's insurance policy—one in Saskatchewan and one in the Maldive Islands south of India. His own ground bases, in case the others should be destroyed—say, by the Chinese."

"What do the ground lasers do—beam death-rays to the battle-mirrors?"

"It's not quite like that. In case of a nuclear-missile launching or other hostile action, the excimer fires bursts of coherent light at the high-orbit relay mirrors. They're the large blue blips. These transfer the beams to smaller, highly maneuverable battle-mirrors that have already locked on to targets. Depending upon the nature of the beam—and it can be varied from moment to moment—the target can be pierced or fried or simply have its electronic or electrical equipment rendered useless. The last option is the most versatile! A certain type of beam can mutilate the microcircuitry of chips and turn them into useless junk. It can deactivate missiles, aircraft, ships, Asats—anything at all with computer guidance. And it can do more! It can short out auto ignition, radio, video, even light bulbs and hearing aids and solar-cell watches and calculators. The Zap-Star system is virtually the perfect defense against any sort of modern warfare."

Victor said, "Or the perfect offense."

"Oh, yes. Just imagine a modern city deprived of all electrical or electronic equipment. It would be the literal return of the Dark Ages—the end of modem civilization."

Victor gestured at the mass of equipment. "What's to prevent us from blowing the whistle on this setup?"

"You'd never be able to prove that it's anything except a horrendously expensive control system for some kind of satellite link. None of the incriminating details—the target cities, for instance—are accessible. There's no law against having descriptions of Zap-Star in your data bank—especially when your companies manufacture the guidance systems for the satellites. As for the uplinks... they could control
any
kind of satellites—weather-eyes, surveyors, comsats, relays. Daddy owns at least forty-six."

"When will the Zap-Star system be completed?"

"Late 2013. A very unlucky year—or lucky, depending upon your point of view."

Victor was frowning, thinking furiously behind his mental barrier. "There are at least a dozen holes in your father's scheme for using this thing to conquer the world. The most blatant, of course, is the Chinese connection. They control their sats and they have their own excimer batteries. Suppose they were able to use that sigma-field thing as shielding-"

"Daddy doesn't want to conquer the world."

"Then what—"

She whispered into the microphone. The screen went black.

Victor felt his heart constrict. "But that's lunacy!"

"It's his vision of the Absolute," Shannon corrected. "He'd tell
you
that Zap-Star was a tool for world domination and offer it to you in exchange for your help in destroying the operant leadership. He knows that they must be onto him." She paused, then got up and smoothed the skirts of her white dress, smiling slightly. "He may even suspect who has betrayed him. But he's trapped by his love. He still hopes to convert me to the way he's chosen. And the child..."

"Love!" Victor made the word an obscenity.

She turned away from him. "I don't come to this room very often. Just when I need to remember, to strengthen my resolve. He did it to me here... And always, when it's time to go, I'm afraid. What if the door won't obey my voice and open? Or what if it does open—and I find him standing outside, waiting, asking me to reaffirm the bonding?" Could I deny him? Have I already accepted?

No!
he said; and she clung to him, letting the fear and fury drain into ice-glazed oblivion.

In time, she did open the door. And of course the corridor was empty. Through the window they could see that the grounds of the mansion were being wracked by a violent thunderstorm.

"My Ferrari!" she wailed, all the rest of it forgotten. "I left the window open!"

They ran for the elevator together, laughing.

LEWISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, EARTH

6
AUGUST
2012

T
HE SUPERINTENDENT OF
the federal prison opened the door to a small bare room with a metal table and two chairs. "Will this do, Professor Remillard?"

"Is it bugged?" Denis asked in a level tone.

The superintendent chuckled. "Oh, no. There's the usual window in the door—but Agent Tabata has already made it quite plain that no observers will be required during your consultation with the prisoner. Shall I have him brought in now?"

"Please," said Denis. He put his briefcase on the table and opened it. When the superintendent left the room he quickly took out four objects that looked like featureless gray business cards and placed one in each corner of the room. If there
were
bugs, they were now deaf and blind.

Denis had had to explain to the President that there was no way that a redactive probe could be accomplished at long distance. In EE, it required arduous effort to overhear declamatory telepathy—the "loudest" kind—passing among persons being observed. Probing their innermost thoughts, a virtuoso trick even with the examinee at arm's length, was totally impossible. The only way that Denis could check out the amazing accusation of Gerry Tremblay's wife would be to probe him in person. The probe might or might not succeed, depending upon the psychological tone of Tremblay. As to the ethics of the situation ... Denis had given the matter careful thought. Since legislation that would permit mental cross-examination was in the process of being ratified, Denis would accept it as de facto—with the understanding that none of the information he obtained would be used as direct evidence in any case, nor would Denis himself be called to testify as to his findings.

The President had complimented him dryly on his prudence and perspicacity. Denis had responded that those qualities had taken on survival value, given the present mood of the country toward operants. The President had earnestly assured him that the mood was changing for the better, to which Denis had replied sadly that he, personally, had seen scant signs of improvement in operant-normal relations—and if Mrs. Tremblay's accusations of a massive conspiracy by secret operants could be proved, the Sons of Earth and other bigots would have a field day, and the operant image would be tarnished almost beyond redemption. The President had laid a big hand on Denis's shoulder and urged him to have courage. After the November election it would be possible to take action in a number of important areas. But right now ... Tremblay! Denis had promised to do his best, and report his findings only to the President.

The door opened, and Gerry Tremblay came in.

"Hello, Denis." Here I am and yes I know I look like hell I've lost ten kilos and my colitis has turned my ass to a disaster zone and I'm even starting to go fucking
bald
and my wife is knocked up with some unknown operant's brat and my father-in-law says All's Forgiven What the Hell You Can Be an Arbitrager! and why the devil did you have to come NOW four days before I get out of this fucking hole?...

"Gerry, I'm sorry to bother you. I know how you feel. We all do. But I must ask some important questions."

SUREyoumust! WhatthefuckgotintomedidlreaiiythinklwassavingAll OperantsfromBAUMGARTNERTHEARCHFIEND? The arrogance! The lunacy! ThefriggingdipshitBOOBERYofit...

It was Denis's almost invariable custom to veil his eyes from those he engaged in conversation. His direct gaze tended to paralyze normals and throw operants into a state of near panicky screen-slamming. Even his family could be shocked into speechlessness when he inadvertently let the power flood out instead of reining it back behind the social mask that the real superminds were still learning to wear. As Gerry Tremblay's mental speech babbled on, all fouled with self-pity and mortification, Denis looked at the table top. He had placed a pen and a jotting pad there, useless props. The ranting continued and he picked up the pen and drew a square. Then he drew a star, and a circle, and a cross, and three parallel wavy lines.

Gerry said, "Oh, hell. The Zener cards!" And then he was laughing and half crying, remembering the very beginning of their relationship, thirty-three years ago, when a weird twelve-year-old kid had come slogging down into a dusty granite quarry in Barre, Vermont, and asked him to put down his jackhammer for a few minutes and take a little test that could be really important...

Denis said: We used those cards. The old-fashioned ESP pack that Rhine had made famous. And you called them one hundred percent Gerry and nearly wet your jeans because you had no idea. None at all.

Yeahyeahyeah! And the test wasn't for your benefit it was for me so I'd come away to Dartmouth with you and Glenn and Sally and Tucker and the rest of the Coterie ... Oh God Denis how did it turn to this
shit?

"Listen to me, Gerry. There's still something important you can do. If you like ... do to make up."

Gerry stiffened. "What I did—I did because I thought it was right. That's what I'll say until I die, Denis. I won't disgrace us. It was a hell of a dumb move, maybe even crazy, but no disgrace to operancy."

Denis lifted his eyes.

Gerry Tremblay's mouth opened in an unvoiced scream. He covered his face with his hands and his shoulders began to shake.

You know you know God you know—

I don't know all of it Gerry but I must. Shannon has confessed a lot of it. First to Nell Baumgartner and then to the President himself. Is it true that Kieran O'Connor is a powerful operant?

Of course not.

Is it true that he's been misusing his powers for years breaking every law in the book to build up a personal fortune manipulating politicians even coercing Baumgartner to run and then when he saw his puppet slipping away in desperation he—

NO NO NO!

Is it true that Kieran O'Connor has set up a clandestine control center for Zap-Star?

...whattheHELL???

So you didn't know. Gerry sit up. Take your hands away from your face.
Do it.

Yes.

I'm going to probe you. To get the truth of it as you see it. There will be no follow-up at all as far as you're concerned. When I've finished I'll wipe out every trace of this visit so O'Connor will never suspect what's been done. We'll nail him through conventional investigation. He can't have covered every trace of his manipulation if it's as massive as Shannon says. Will you consent to the probe? You know it has to be voluntary.

I—I—

I know O'Connor's done something to you Gerry. I can see it a kind of command-inhibition compelling absolute loyalty. But I think I can crack it. I'll be as careful as I can.

I—I—Denis I love him. I love him and he's a filthy swine a madman—

Be calm Gerry.

Can—can you wipe
that
out too?

I could try. There's a chance that he'd know and it would be risky for you because you wouldn't remember any of this. But I think I could retain a semblance of the bondage. I'll try.

Thank you Denis thank you all right DO IT God do it help me get him out of me—

"Gerry, I'd like you to sit back in your chair and relax. Take deep breaths."

"Okay."

"Close your eyes now. If you like, you can farsense these Zener figures I've drawn on the pad. But see nothing but them. Think of nothing else."

"All right."

Gerry Tremblay closed his eyes and summoned up the familiar old markings.

Only a moment or so later, when he opened his eyes again, a guard was at his side and he was walking back toward his cell. He wondered whether he was losing his marbles. For the life of him he couldn't remember why they'd fetched him out of his cell.

Oh, hell. What difference did it make? Come Friday he'd be out of here for good, and he could pull his shit back together and make a brand new start.

FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

I
WENT TO
the Hanover post office to do my regular first-thing-in-the-morning pickup. It was just across the street from the bookshop and, in those days, provided more convenient service than electronic mail or parcel express—as well as being considerably cheaper.

It was 24 September 2012, two days after the calamitous Metapsychic Congress in Oslo. Because it was a Monday the box was full of letters and cards and junk mail, as well as several videograms and the inevitable "Please call at the window for package" notices. I joined the long line of patrons and began to sort my stuff, at the same time carrying on half a conversation with Elijah Shelby who was standing just ahead of me. He ran a desktop publishing company out of his home on River Ridge Road and patronized my shop fairly often.