"One can certainly pray for the girl, however," Concordance put in. "Poor thing, with so few friends! If she becomes Dirigent at a young age, she risks becoming even more lonely. But great things are required of those possessing great talents."

"An apt sentiment," Impulse remarked. "Original?"

"Luke 12:48," the poet admitted.

"One is inclined to vote that Illus...o...b..come Deputy Dirigent of Caledonia," Asymptotic Essence decided. "How say you, colleagues?"

"Affirm," said Noetic Concordance. "She flirts with Rebellion, but her deepest inclinations are toward Unity."

"One also affirms," h.o.m.ologous Trend added, "while hoping devoutly that she survives until her inauguration to the Concilium. However, once Illusio is installed in office on Caledonia, the probabilities are strong that she would be secure from Hydra's menaces for many years to come."

"One is pleased to contribute the final affirmation," said Eupathic Impulse. "In spite of Jack's low opinion of her maturity, one finds her most suitable to be the eventual successor of Graeme Hamilton. She will have a lot to learn, but she can scarcely do worse than that worthy dotard. The Scottish planet is an attractive world and Illusio loves it. She should be happy there for a little while, until the next nodality."

"Provided that the major planetary cratons behave themselves," Essence said.

"A pity the besotted and neglectful Krondak surveyors never got what was coming to them for botching those crustal evaluations four millenaries ago," Impulse remarked, showing a trace of righteous indignation.

"The lithosphere may remain stable for hundreds of Caledonian orbits," Trend said. "One should attempt to look on the bright side ... not only of that probability, but also of the Great Bifurcation involving Jack, Illusio, Marc, Fury, and all the rest of them."

"Anent that concern," said Concordance, "one proposes that we turn our thoughts to prayer. It may take a bit of coercion to jolt the Prime Entelechy into resolving this fine mess."

"Years, maybe," Asymptotic Essence sighed.

"All the more reason to get on with it," said Eupathic Impulse.

"Amen," said h.o.m.ologous Trend.

Anne was not in her apartment in Rive Gauche, and it took Paul several minutes to track her down with his seekersense. He found her alone in the little Eglise St.-Julien-le-Pauvre, and rather than disturb her with farspeech he strolled through the quaint streets and byways of the Parisian enclave mulling over what the Lylmik had said.

The trouble with them was that they were too d.a.m.ned subtle. More often than not, it was necessary to find the meaning-behind-the-meaning in their rambling discourses. Unifex was apt to be blunter than the rest, but Paul suspected that Its lofty talk about "sin" and "moral dilemma" was a camouflage for something else.

There was some compelling reason for him to question his oldest sister about Fury, but it probably had little to do with gaining her priestly insight and a great deal to do with Anne herself.

It was past "midnight" in the enclave and most of the nonoperant humans who ran the place for the benefit of the operant tenants-the restaurateurs, shopkeepers, concierges, and other service personnel-were asleep. When the Concilium was in recess the enclaves hosted only magnate bureaucrats and meta staffers working on special projects in the Human Polity offices. A month from now Rive Gauche would be bustling; now it was nearly a ghost town.

The church of St. Julian the Poor was a replica of the smallest and oldest church in Paris, dating back to the twelfth century. The Rive Gauche version was reasonably authentic in its exterior but more modern inside to accommodate the needs of worshipers in the Galactic Age. The door opened without a sound and Paul went into the vestibule, dipped his index finger in the holy water stoup, and crossed himself. The Greek Uniate ornamentation and other accretions in the original Parisian edifice had not been reproduced, leaving a vaulted chamber with elegant stonework, a statue of the original St. Julian and another of St. Julian of Norwich, ranks of cushioned oak chairs and kneelers, and a tiny baptistry. In the sanctuary a simple contemporary wooden table-altar stood before the old-style stone one with its gilt candlesticks. The tabernacle was also modern, but above it hung an ornate silver lamp of medieval design. Its flickering ruby light, and the dim luminosity from the stained-gla.s.s windows, revealed a figure prostrate on the stone paving in front of the sanctuary.

Paul's mental vision identified her at once. It was Anne. The sound of her weeping was almost inaudible.

The First Magnate moved quietly up the center aisle, inclined his head toward the tabernacle, and sat down in one of the chairs. His sister was clad in a long black gown of some roughly woven fabric, grayed with dust. A hood covered her hair, and she wore sandals on her bare feet.

For at least ten minutes she continued the vigil with her mind tightly shut, although she certainly knew Paul was there. He waited patiently. A soft tapping of rain on the leaden roof marked the start of the nightly shower that refreshed the air of the urban enclave. There were bouquets of old-fashioned roses on the stone altar together with the unlit candles. Their fragrance reminded Paul of his own garden in Concord, 4000 lightyears away. He wished to h.e.l.l he were there, even though it was winter in New Hampshire and perpetual spring in Rive Gauche.

The woman on the floor finally stirred and drew in her arms, which had been outflung in the ancient cruciform posture of penitential entreaty. She got to her knees, remained there a moment with her hooded head bowed, and then came over to Paul, unceremoniously wiping her tear-stained face on her sleeve.

"Hi," she said. "Let's go to my place. I'll give you coffee or whatever."

She momentarily lost her footing and Paul steadied her and took one arm. For the first time he noticed that Anne had become excessively thin. Her face was normally gaunt and austere, but he was shocked at the boniness of her arm. When they were outside the church, walking down the wet cobbles beneath a psychocreative umbrella, Paul said: "The Supervisory Body called me on the carpet tonight. I might have helped to talk them out of condemning the Rebel movement. On the other hand, the Lylmik kingfish seemed ready to veto the others and none of them were especially keen on a pogrom. So they may have had other reasons for the meeting. Sometimes I can't help thinking that the Supervisors secretly approve of the Rebels ..."

"What form was the condemnation to take?"

"Loyalty oaths for all magnates. Those who came up treasonous would have had to choose between a snuff-job and having their operant lights put out."

"Flaming idiocy!"

"I more or less told the Lylmik the same thing and gave them a quick refresher course in the psychology of our perverse race.

Anyhow, they've agreed to bag the inquisition. The Panpolity Directorate for Unity will be instructed to get the lead out and begin propagandizing p.r.o.nto."

"We'll be rolling by the time the Concilium convenes. Got a lot of good stuff from the Poltroyans, bless their purple pellicules."

The rain shower stopped. Crickets chirped in the flower beds fronting the little Musee de la Terre, a popular spot for nostalgic colonials. There were lights on in the boulangerie where the breadmaking was about to begin. Small robot cleaners on noiseless treads sniffed around the gutters and scavenged fallen leaves.

"The Lylmik also told me that the family had better make d.a.m.ned sure that Fury doesn't infiltrate the Rebel movement. I asked them to help in tracking the thing down, but I got the usual stonewall treatment."

Anne snorted. "They don't know who Fury is."

"I have a sneaking suspicion they know the new ident.i.ties of the Hydras, though. d.a.m.n their eyes! Why won't they tell us?"

"We persist in thinking of the Lylmik as omnipotent and all-seeing. They're not. They're a pack of lazy effetes-except for that busybody Unifex. They have one valuable idee fixe that has saved humanity's neck time and again: that we're vitally important to the future of the Milieu, and the rest of the Polities jolly well better put up with our imperfections. Other than that-"

"They've also saved our family from disgrace," Paul pointed out. "But I get the idea that they may withdraw their protection if we don't do something about Fury soon."

They had reached the quaint building where Anne lived on the top floor. Paul had not been there for years. They climbed three long flights of creaky, carpeted stairs and she opened her door and turned on the lights. The place was mostly as Paul remembered it, a sizable replica of an artist's studio with a few finished canvases lying about or propped against walls. A tabouret with brushes and a mess of oil paints stood next to an easel bearing an unfinished double portrait of Denis and Lucille. In a corner was a large and messy table loaded with tins of turps and oil, stretchers, rolls of canvas, and other art supplies. One entire wall of the loft was devoted to research equipment: library and newspaper units, plaque-dispensers, a huge Tri-D screen, a subs.p.a.ce communicator and data retriever. There was even a shelf of paged reference books that Paul's deepsight identified as theological tomes borrowed from the Vatican Library. In front of the huge "north" window was a tiny altar. A red LED glimmered on top of a little silver-gilt pyx that held a consecrated host. The domestic furniture of the place was almost monastic and the kitchen fitments rudimentary.

Anne took off her hooded robe and hung it on a wooden clothes tree. She wore a short denim skirt and an old red blouse beneath. Her limbs were almost skeletal, the knees raw and reddened.

"My G.o.d, Annie!" her brother exclaimed. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

"Something archaic." She went to the little kitchen and began to make coffee. "Fasting, praying, physical discipline. Don't look at me like that. I'm doing no serious damage to myself and I'm not in need of a psychiatrist. I wish it were that easy. Go light a fire for us."

He did as he was told. There were two raddled easy chairs and a small table in front of the iron hearth. A scuttle held kindling and split billets of artificial wood. Glancing uneasily over his shoulder at Anne, he asked, "Is this business at the church part of it?"

"Yes. I go there whenever I can, usually late at night. Old Pere Francois has been very good about mopping up the puddles of tears." She brought the Melior cafetiere, two plain mugs, and the sugar she knew Paul preferred. When the coffee was brewed she pushed down the piston, poured for both of them, then finally relaxed in her chair. "I suppose you want the story."

Paul shrugged. "The Lylmik must know you're up to something. Unifex Itself told me to come here when I begged for help in finding Fury."

"The Lylmik do know, because I've told them. I asked for their help, too, and when they didn't vouchsafe it I turned to another Authority."

It began late in 2054 [Anne said], at the time the Human Polity finally finished its probation and was admitted to full citizenship in the Milieu. I began to have a series of very interesting dreams. I seemed to be in an attractive place that I recognized as one of the academies of ancient Greece-all white marble columns and splashing fountains and trees with zephyrs blowing through them. I was young, perhaps in my early twenties, and I wore one of those cla.s.sic chiton and peplum outfits of white linen.

I was obviously a student of philosophy-never mind that women were forbidden to attend the Greek academies-and my teacher was none other than Pallas Athene herself.

You remember that little statue of the G.o.ddess that I used to keep on my desk in the Human Polity offices. Athene was the embodiment of wisdom and learning, the invincible protector of warriors, the defender of states and cities. She was the virginal daughter of Zeus, sprung from his forehead. She sat next to him on Olympus and she was the only one besides him who could fling lightning bolts and use his terrible shield. Athene was also a spiritual mother to human beings and the patron of conception. Without her blessing, there would be no human offspring.

Above all she was a G.o.ddess of mentality, of right reason and sanity. I was never much of a Catholic when I was young, and Athene was a more appealing patron saint for me than any of the submissive women the Church once held out as models of sanct.i.ty.

I was delighted with my dreams of the G.o.ddess. (They were appropriately Jungian, as well!) When I woke up, I could never quite recall her lessons, but I did retain a feeling of self-confidence and righteousness as a result of them. I knew I was a very special and important person-a Remillard, a Doctor of Jurisprudence and a scholar of Milieu law, a Grand Master in all of my metafaculties, a Magnate of the Concilium, and finally a member of the Human Polity Judicial Directorate. My personal life was both Spartan and Athenian. I lived for the Golden Mean and was a model of objectivity. I was never distracted from my work by ba.n.a.l family matters, nor had I ever engendered a child who turned into a Hydra, a potential Fury, or a problematical mutant.

I was obviously the cream of the Dynasty! I was neither bourgeois and virtuously plodding like my two older brothers Philip and Maurice, nor plagued with self-doubt like Severin and Adrien. I was coolly reasonable, not p.r.o.ne to fly off on emotional tangents like Catherine. I was chaste, not flawed by a promiscuous s.e.x drive as you are, my dear little brother ...

I would not have recognized hubris if it bit me in the gluteus maximus.

Deep in my heart I envied you, Paul, and I was convinced that the Lylmik had named the wrong Remillard to be First Magnate. Failing that, they'd at least chosen the wrong Dirigent for Earth! I had always been bitterly disappointed that Davy MacGregor was picked for the job instead of me.

The dreams of Pallas Athene went on for several years until finally, in 2058, their character changed. I began to remember them when I woke up, and their content filled me with incredible excitement. I knew the G.o.ddess wasn't real; but the vision she had introduced me to might very well come to pa.s.s.

It was a vision of a Second Milieu. And if I chose, I might play a crucial part in its foundation.

What exactly did the Athene figure mean by a Second Milieu? At first, I wasn't quite sure, but I knew it was wonderful and I knew it was right-as the galactic confederation we now live in is not.

Gradually the G.o.ddess revealed its details: The Human Polity would have to free itself from the present governmental structure, which was dominated by exotics. Above all, we would have to avoid the diabolical snare of Unity. The G.o.ddess a.s.sured me that Unity would destroy not only human individualism but even our very human nature.

Under a new leader-c'est moi, naturellement!-the Human Polity would sever its connection with the First Milieu and go its own way, peaceful, prosperous, and free.

I liked the concept very much. I had chafed bitterly during the Proctorship at the indignities and hardships our race suffered under those humorless green Simbiari nannies. It was all for our own good, they said to us, and only temporary. Stalin told his oppressed people the same thing.

Then Pallas Athene revealed the ultimate mystery, the means by which I was to lead humanity into the Second Milieu. As she described it, I would become a new Blessed Virgin-except that Divinity would be implanted within my brain rather than my womb. In my dream, I was overjoyed. The G.o.ddess smiled at me and withdrew.

I awoke from that dream screaming.

And aware of who Athene really was.

What had I done? How could I have been such a blind, arrogant fool? Athene was Fury, and for over three years I had permitted it to range freely in my unconscious mind, instilling its poison! I had let my pride lead me to the verge of becoming another Hydra-or perhaps a new host for the Fury parasite itself. If I had submitted to it, I would have given the monster a foothold within the highest levels of galactic government. I really had been willing to destroy the Milieu! I would have broken and cast aside the confederation of benevolent minds that has done so much for Earth and replaced it with ... G.o.d knew what.

I was in my home in Hanover at the time that I finally came to my senses. But you can hardly call it that! All day long I alternated between fits of hysterical weeping and demented rage. I almost destroyed the inside of the house and I nearly committed suicide in my despair and self-hatred. Fury had chosen well when it picked me out of the Dynasty to become its new acolyte. I would have been ideal.

I still don't know why I didn't succ.u.mb.

After two days without sleep, unable to kill myself as I knew I should and loathing myself even more for my cowardice, I called our parents.

Denis and Lucille came at once. They seemed to know immediately that my demon was real, not a product of insanity. They took me to the old house on South Street where they were living and put me to bed in my old room, the one I had slept in as a child. They sat beside me, redacting me and comforting me, for four days. Denis a.s.sured me that I would be able to banish the Fury-G.o.ddess from my mind now by a conscious effort of will. Unless I wanted her to return, she would vanish forever. Finally I was able to believe him and I slept, exorcised.

It took me another two weeks to pull myself back together emotionally and physically. Fortunately, it was high summer and your children, who usually lived in the house, were all at the sh.o.r.e. Denis and Lucille never told any other members of the family about my breakdown.

When I was fully recovered I knew what I would have to do. Our parents, poor darlings, thought I was still deranged and tried to talk me out of it-but I finally convinced them I was sincere. My work as a magnate and Milieu legal scholar could continue at the same time that I began my new career.

I went down to Concord and spoke to the Jesuits who run Brebeuf Academy. They sent me to their seminary in New York and in due season I presented myself to the world as Anne Remillard, S.J.

"I still don't understand the penance and fasting you're putting yourself through now," Paul said. "What's it in aid of? Surely you-uh-worked off your sin of pride and suchlike long ago. Nothing did happen, after all. You have no reason to continue feeling guilty."

"The penance and prayer aren't for myself," she said. "I'm storming heaven on behalf of someone else."

His eyes narrowed as he understood, and then his coercive-redactive probe came at her like a bolt from a crossbow. But she was ready. The First Magnate could not penetrate his sister's mental shield. She was as good a coercer as he was.

"Annie, tell me what you know!" he cried, seizing her by the shoulders. "Tell me who Fury is!"

"There have been quite a few clues, to say nothing of the insights obtainable from psychological deduction." Her voice was level. "But I'm not absolutely certain and so I can't tell you. I won't tell you. As Papa said, the core persona is innocent. If I share my suspicions, you would feel obligated to act on them in some way or another. I believe this would eventually cause more objective evil than if we permit Fury to remain at large. It may even be true that Fury's evil is destined to bring about an even greater good."

"You have no right to make that judgment," he told her coldly. "As First Magnate, I overrule you and demand your evidence."

She gave a little humorless chuckle. "I know Milieu law better than you, Paul. You do not have the right to force me to reveal unconfirmed raw data. When ... the prevailing conditions change and my conscience tells me it's time to talk, I will. To the entire family, including the suspect."

"Fury's after a little girl," Paul said, turning away from her. "Dorothea Macdonald, the fifteen-year-old metapsychic prodigy. Jack told me that a pair of Hydras almost got her in Hawaii. Are you willing to leave the child at risk?"

"Yes. At fifteen, she's a moral adult, not a little girl. If what Jack has told me is true, she's deliberately called Hydra down on herself in hopes of trapping it. She's a near-paramount and ready to take the chance. I have no obligation to interfere."

Paul's lips twitched in spite of himself and he turned back to her. "Sometimes, Annie, you're positively ... Jesuitical. Give us a kiss goodnight."

They embraced, and then Paul Remillard left his sister and clumped down the three flights of stairs, brooding.

A greater good. What greater good?

He himself continuing in office as First Magnate?

Marc's machinations with metaconcerted CE?

Safeguarding the Milieu's laissez-faire policy for the Rebels?

Keeping the Unity Directorate unsmirched by scandal?...

"Jesus," Paul said to himself, suddenly stricken. He stopped for a moment beneath a lamppost and looked up at the building's top floor. Even from the street he could see the tiny red LED in her window, a pinp.r.i.c.k of light that symbolized the Divine Presence in Anne Remillard's apartment.

Had she really said no to Pallas Athene?

21.

ISLAY, INNER HEBRIDES, SCOTLAND,.

EARTH, 17 DECEMBER 2072.

Dorothea MacDonald stood above the deep rocky cleft called Geodh Ghille Mhoire and sampled the aetheric vibrations.