Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 79

"Remarkable," said Dionket at length. "The accelerated tissue-repair program of the Adversary has restored the ankle completely. The tibia still has some incomplete regeneration about the medullary cavity but appears quite adequate for normal load-bearing function."

Five Tanu minds intoned: Praise be to Tana.

Basil appended fervently: In saecula saeculorum!

He felt some kind of frame withdrawing support from his body. Then he was standing on his own two feet and realized he was stark naked. He stepped down from a sort of pedestal.

Creyn smiled at him. "Do you feel weak?"

"Not a bit of it, old chap. Just ravenously hungry."

Creyn helped him into a white-cotton robe and slippers.

"These healers who have helped you are Dionket, once President of our Guild of Redactors, Lord Peredeyr Firstcomer, Meyn the Unsleeping, and Lady Brintil."

Basil said, "I thank you for your-er-professional ministrations. I'm amazed that you could do the job so quickly. I thought that Skin treatment for injuries such as this took considerably longer."

"It usually does," Dionket said, "when traditional redactive techniques are employed. But we used an experimental method on you-a concerted, intensive operation involving five healers rather than one."

"Mm," said Basil. "Glad I was able to take advantage of it."

Dionket and the three touched Basil's mind briefly through his grey torc, then filed out. The don said to Creyn, "I must also thank my rescuer for bringing me off Monte Rosa. I don't suppose Remillard is still here?"

Creyn's face showed no expression. "He is. It was his modification of the Skin program that we used to heal you."

"Judas priest! Then I owe him double thanks, don't I?" They came out of the infirmary and mounted an open stairway that led to the first floor of the lodge. "I don't mind telling you it was a shocker, having him show up on the mountaintop, all armoured like some archetypal G.o.d of the machine. I didn't see anything of the man himself. The prospect of seeing him face to face is a trifle unnerving ... the challenger of the galaxy, the metapsychic paragon who became the deepest-dyed villain our race has ever known ... "

"He eats mushroom omelettes and popcorn with Brother Anatoly," Creyn said. "And puts his feet up on the hearth fender to warm them on stormy nights like this. And forgets to put the lid down on the toilet."

Basil laughed. "Point taken. One of us after all, eh?"

"No," said Creyn. "But I think he would like to be."

Basil paused at the head of the stairs. His eyes met those of the Tanu who had become his friend on the long exodus from drowned Muriah. "There were hints dropped by Bleyn the Champion while we were on our expedition: that Remillard has actually been working mind to mind with Elizabeth. Is it true?"

"Together, they cured the chalet housekeeper's baby of the black-torc syndrome. More than that-they raised the little one to full operancy. Torcless metafunction."

"Good G.o.d. And when Remillard brought me here-"

"The Adversary was intrigued when we proposed putting you into our healing Skin. He had never seen the psychoactive substance in use. When Dionket Lord Healer demonstrated our customary redactive programme the Adversary conceived this new technique, which he described as a spinoff from the more elaborate procedure used on the infant. Elizabeth bade us follow his instructions, saying he had been a paramount designer of metaconcert programmes in your Galactic Milieu. The result was your accelerated healing."

They came into a small sitting room where there was a fire.

Basil said, "That name you apply to Remillard: the Adversary.

Would you care to explain its significance?" He touched the grey metal at his throat. "I catch odd mental overtones from you, old chap. Just how deeply has Elizabeth become involved with this b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"I'll tell you everything I know, as well as the conclusions I've drawn and confided to no one ... Basil, you and I have both loved her without hope. We have seen her self-doubting and tempted to despair, not knowing where her destiny lies.

Now she fears this Adversary, at the same time that she is drawn inextricably into his...o...b..t. We may be able to help her."

"For G.o.d's sake, how?"

Creyn helped him into a chair, drew up a footstool. "Rest here for a while. I'll be back directly with some food for you-and a golden torc."

Heavy rain sluiced against the French windows of the lodge's grand salon. The slow-burning oak logs in the great fireplace did little to dissipate the chill.

Marc said to Brother Anatoly, "They have arrived."

The lanky old friar arose from one of the settees and brushed crumbs of tetraploid popcorn from his scapular. "Then I'll be off to bed. You won't want me cluttering the family reunion. I don't think I can wish you good luck."

"I wish you'd stay. You might find yourself coming to appreciate my point of view." Marc knelt beside the wood rack, selecting some billets of stone pine. "So might the children.

None of you have all the data. When you do, perhaps you'll finally understand. Cloud and Hagen don't realize that they're absolutely vital to the Mental Man concept. Neither do most of my old a.s.sociates who accompanied me to the Pliocene. If the children had never been born, I would have been content to die in my failed Rebellion and that would have been the end of it. But they were born. Call it providence or synchronicity or whatever. Now they have no choice but to fulfil their destiny."

"No choice?" Anatoly flared. "Ne kruti mne yaitsa, khui morzhoviy! A choice is exactly what they do have!"

Marc fed the fire, smiling. "G.o.d, you have an ugly mouth, priest."

"I know. It got me in trouble a lot back in Yakutsk. Lack of charity, the besetting sin of my life ... It could be yours, too, you Paramount Grand Master tinkling cymbal, if you persist in treating your children like specimens in some breeding experiment!"

"You have no notion of the importance of the Mental Man concept."

"Maybe not. But I do understand human dignity-and your children's right to a free choice."

"The birth of transcendent humanity is more important than the rights of two individuals, no matter who they are! Hagen and Cloud can't be permitted to withdraw. Not now, when I finally have the means to bring the project to fruition."

"Then make them believe in you," Anatoly said. "Convince them. Convince yourself! Prove that the Milieu's verdict on you was a mistake."

The flames were building as the resinous wood caught. Marc said, "The human race must fulfil its great potential. This can't be evil!"

"So," said the friar in a voice ominously quiet. "Instead of my reforming your erroneous conscience, you want to reform mine! One poor old zalupa konskaya tells you it wasn't a sin after all, that makes it all right? It's not me you have to justify yourself to, Marc-it's Hagen and Cloud."

Firelight shadowed Abaddon's eyes. "You'd better pray that I can, Anatoly. Because all I really require is their germ plasm."

There was a knock on the door.

Elizabeth's mind said: We've come.

Marc sprang to his feet and stood with his back to the fire, a silhouette in a black polo-necked sweater and black cord trousers. The salon's double doors opened. Four people were there, all wearing Tanu storm-suits with the hoods thrown back. Elizabeth stepped aside. Cloud and Hagen, both in white, stood there together. Behind them was the King.

Cloud said, "Papa!" Marc opened his arms and she ran to him. Their minds embraced and she kissed him, and he held her bright-haired head against his chest until she stopped weeping. Then she looked up at him with a plea naked in her eyes, moved away, and waited for Hagen.

The young man stood a full four metres off, at the side of Aiken Drum. His hands were still gloved, stiff at his sides. He ignored his sister's invitation and Marc's, keeping his mind tightly barricaded. He said, "I'll hear what you have to say, Papa. That's all." The heavy raindrops clattered against the windowpanes.

"Will you sit down?" Marc's voice was mild. "It won't take long." He deliberately turned his back on them to poke up the guttering fire.

There were three large settees grouped around a low table.