Jack the Bodiless (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (40 page)

“Shall we move on?” Unifex suggested. “The music is much better further along the Promenade, where the Brits and the Germans have got together with some Gi wassailers.”

“One hoped you would soon make an appearance,” Impulse said, his face gone stiff as he tried to prevent the balky musculature from betraying intimations of disapproval. His face was Caucasoid, and he was dressed in a fashionable cape and suit of gunmetal and coral lumasheen. His fellow male, Trend, who was brown-skinned, wore a lounge suit of charcoal worsted with a pink shirt and a paisley tie. “Two urgent matters require the consideration of this Lylmik Supervisory Body,” Impulse continued, “but with the First Supervisor incommunicado—”

“I’ve had business of my own to attend to. But I’m ready to give you my full attention right now … My, isn’t this a grand Christmas fête? One must remember to congratulate the Gi and the Poltroyans.”

They paused before an open-air stage, where
The Nutcracker
ballet was being staged by human dancers, accompanied by an orchestra of exotics. Unifex frowned slightly as he studied the performance. “The Maurice Sendak setting? Yes, I think so.”

“Please!” urged Impulse. “There has been another ghastly murder. Margaret Strayhorn, a Magnate-Designate and the wife of David Somerled MacGregor, was killed by some unknown entity right here in our own Orb. A note, written by the deceased, stated that she was committing
suicide. The Magistratum has declined, with good reason, to confirm this verdict.”

Asymptotic Essence said, “There is a well-founded suspicion that a person who made a previous attempt upon Margaret Strayhorn’s life did in fact finally kill her. And the perpetrator of the earlier attack utilized the same peculiar lifeforce-draining technique seen in the murder of Brett McAllister.”

“Are there any viable suspects?” Unifex asked, not taking his eyes from the stage, where the terrible Mouse King was menacing Clara.

“Officially, no,” said Homologous Trend. “Many humans believe that Orb is full of mechanical surveillance equipment. As we know, this is not so. We have no way of knowing exactly how Margaret Strayhorn died. The Krondak Judicial Evaluator in charge of the case suggested that certain members of the Remillard family resident in the planetoid at the time of the killing be interrogated rigorously. We vetoed this on the grounds that insufficient evidence exists to warrant the drastic procedure, which would seriously violate the sovereign dignity and prestige of the examinees.”

“Quite right,” Unifex agreed.

Asymptotic Essence allowed a grimace of frustration to touch her porcelain features. “And besides, the forensic redactors probably wouldn’t get the truth out of the Remillards anyway.”

“Also true,” said Unifex. In the ballet, Clara had hurled her slipper at the Mouse King, and the toy soldiers were finally winning the battle. “Then what’s your problem?”

The four of them exuded astonished disapprobation.

“One knows very well!” Essence exclaimed shrilly. “One is being deliberately obtuse! One is once again subscribing nodally to a proleptic peculiarity in the human sexternion! Why does One persist in treating us in this dreadfully arrogant fashion?”

Unifex patted the outraged entity gently on her shoulder. “One really must not let the female hormones in one’s physical body contravene straight thinking. What are you suggesting—that we Lylmik should take over the investigation? And perhaps psychocreatively dissect the brains of the Remillards to see whether any of them had a hand in the murder?”

“It seems to be the only way one might resolve the impasse.” Essence drew away from the overlord’s touch, pretending to adjust her green gown. “Here we have a crime of the utmost gravity, committed right under our virtual noses, and we can’t do a thing to assist the Magistratum in nabbing the perpetrator!”

“No,” Unifex agreed. “We can’t. I’m irrevocably opposed to Lylmik intervention at this time. Be assured that forbearance is the best course. One is certain of it.”

“David Somerled MacGregor decided yesterday that he would not withdraw as a candidate for First Magnate,” said Trend. “His life could also be in danger, if the motivation for Margaret Strayhorn’s murder involved discouraging him from opposing Paul Remillard. This is the other important matter we wished to consult you upon.”

“There is undoubtedly a risk of further violence,” Unifex admitted. “But Davy is a Grand Master coercer. If he keeps his wits about him—and he will—the killer won’t be able to touch him. Trust me.”

The four entities retreated behind mental barricades, but they could not control the reproachful expressions their faces assumed. In the ballet, the orchestra announced the transformation of the homely toy nutcracker into a handsome prince.

“We must trust,” Noetic Concordance declared, in a resigned tone, “even though it is plain to us that One knows the identity of the killer.”

“And One isn’t going to do a thing about it!” cried Asymptotic Essence.

Unifex calmly regarded the two Lylmik in female form. “There are times when inaction is necessary. For the good of the Greater Reality.”

Essence, her black eyes blazing, said: “But poor Margaret is dead, you coldhearted creature!”

“Yes. And poor Davy is alive. For now, that suffices.” He turned and began to walk away. “I always felt that the choreography of this pas de deux lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. I think I’ll catch the last of the
Messiah
before Cardinal Bogatyrev begins midnight mass.”

Marc tracked down his younger sisters and little brother at the Greek Christmas simulation, where Poltroyans hideously costumed as Kallikantzaroi—subterranean goblins
—were laying siege to a family of human actors attempting to enjoy a holiday meal in a mid-nineteenth-century cottage. The little horrors were hairy and deformed, and came riding in on misshapen small robot horses and gigantic chickens. Their leader, who arrived limping on foot at the end of the demonic procession, had a grotesquely swollen horned head with a lolling tongue and red eyes, and disproportionately large genitals. He introduced himself to the squealing juvenile spectators as Koutsodaimonas and vowed that he was going to deflower all of the young girls inside the cottage—and then the ones in the audience as well.

Marie and Maddy giggled, while young Luc growled, “I don’t see what
this
has to do with Christmas.”

A gang of Kallikantzaroi swarmed onto the cottage roof and went down the chimney. Once inside the house, they terrorized the residents by pissing into the hearth fire and then jumping onto the backs of the adults and forcing them to caper about and dance madly.

“In Greek folklore,” Marc explained aloofly, “it was believed that the world was supported by a great tree. These demons supposedly work all year long to cut it down but are finally thwarted by the birth of Christ—or perhaps originally by the nativity of some ancient god—at which time the tree repairs itself and grows strong again. The frustrated imps surge up from the underworld and try to take revenge upon humans during the Twelve Days of Christmas. But they are always driven off by the appropriate folk magic.”

The “children” of the besieged homestead were attacking their ugly little tormentors with brooms and sprays of hyssop, driving them out the door. To stem the chimney invasion, a great log was dragged into the fireplace, where it was stoked to produce demon-inhibiting smoke and flame. Once the house was free of the pests, the “mother” of the family distributed Kallikantzaros buns, dipped in wine.

These were also passed out to the audience, to the frustration of the demons. They were eventually driven off completely by a human actor costumed as the village priest, who sprinkled holy water all about and led the family in singing Greek Christmas carols.

“Okay,” said Marc peremptorily. “You’ve seen it. Now come along with me. Papa wants us.”

“Aww,” said Luc. “We were going to go over to the Mexican display and break a piñata.” He was a wan, fair-haired ten-year-old, whose peculiar aura still hinted at the congenital abnormalities that had been alleviated by extensive genetic engineering and microsurgery. The ordeal had left him vulnerable to injuries and to diseases that most humans were now totally immune to.

“And I wanted to see the next performance of
A Christmas Carol,”
said Maddy.

Marie sighed. “I suppose we’ve got to go to midnight mass with the rest of the mob.”

“You got it,” said Marc, urging them along with his coercion. “Let’s haul pétard.”

The four of them went through the Christmas Tree Grove to a crowded plaza, where six churches representing various rites of Christianity seemed to have sprung up miraculously in place of the exotic gardens that had been there the day before. (The buildings would disappear, together with all the rest of the Christmas pageantry, on the Orb equivalent of 26 December.) The plaza was full of human and nonhuman carolers as well as worshipers streaming in for the services, and in its center was a Nativity scene in the traditional Provençal style. The seven siblings of the Remillard Dynasty, together with their many children, such spouses as there were, and Denis and Lucille, had gathered near the crèche. Paul stood apart from the rest, engaged in animated conversation with his close friend Ilya Gawrys. Paul and most of the other adults wore formal dinner clothes. There was going to be a réveillon for them and their political allies at Uncle Phil’s Paliuli beach house after mass. The kids, who weren’t invited, were stuck with a luau supervised by the various nannies.

“There’s Papa,” Marie said, without enthusiasm. “Do you suppose Uncle Ilya and Aunt Katy will be going with us to mass?”

“I doubt it,” said Marc. “They’ll be with their own relatives, if they go at all. Papa’s probably just campaigning again. It really rocked him when Davy MacGregor announced that he was still running.”

The sight of his father dampened Luc’s earlier pallid enthusiasm and caused him to cling to Marie’s hand. “It—it doesn’t seem like Christmas Eve at all. I wish we were back home in New Hampshire.”

“You should be grateful for all that the Poltroyans and Gi did for us,” Marie reproved him. “I’ve never seen a Christmas spectacle like this anywhere!
Especially
not in New Hampshire.”

“That’s not what I mean,” the little boy mumbled. “What good is all this stuff without Mama?” Tears sprang into his eyes.

Marc said gruffly, “Don’t cry.” But Luc only stood there with his head down, still holding fast to Marie.

Marc took a deep breath. Did he dare to risk it? Paul would be livid if he found out. But Papa didn’t even seem to
care
, and it was Christmas Eve, for God’s sake, and Luc, the poor little rug rat, was really on a downer and probably going to start blubbering …

He spoke on their collective intimate mode:

You guys. I’d like to tell you something. But you’ll have to keep it to yourselves. No matter what! I don’t think anybody’d try to probe a bunch of nitbrains like you but if they did—or if you leaked it—the whole family would be so deep in la merde we might never get out.

Marco! WHAT?

(God damn I must be leaking myself!) Look I’ll tell you if you let me put a block into you afterward. Just a mild one that’d inhibit you from inadvertently spilling the beans in dreams or something. Will you let me?

Luc said: Will the mind-block hurt?

Marc said: No.

Maddy said: Will it keep us from talking about the secret among ourselves?

Marc said: No but you’d better watch your asses if you do.

Marie said: Last time you blocked me I couldn’t even remember the damned secret you wanted me to keep!

Marc said: I’m getting better at it now … You all agree?

Maddy said: Is this secret
really
a good one?

Marc said: The best.

The younger trio said: Okay.

So Marc told them nearly everything. Marie and Luc wept softly for joy at the news that their mother was alive and about to give birth to a new baby brother. But Maddy said: I suppose the Human Polity will pardon Mama—provided that Papa and not Davy MacGregor is elected
First Magnate. But
I
think it was a very selfish and foolish thing for her to get pregnant.

“Screw you,” said Marc aloud, and slapped the mental block into all of them.

Fury! Fury! Can you hear me?

Teresa Kendall is alive! And she’s carrying a baby with a supermind!

But … don’t you think that could be IMPORTANT?

Well … it’s pretty obvious now that we’re never going to get a handle on Marc the way
you
hoped. But from what he said this kid Jack is even more metapowerful than him some kind of genetic sport too carrying lethal genes so he might end up more of a physical basket case than Luc and if that’s so he might feel
we’ve
got something he could
use!

I hate his guts. He’s an arrogantfrigidprick! He’d never approve of the goal any more than he’d approve of the nervebomb. (Andbythewayit’sbeenalongLONGtime&-whatareyougettingMEforXmas?)

[Petulancy. Bloody-mindedness.] You don’t really love me. You want HIM and you don’t care that he’d push me around and this obscene baby Jack who knows what kind of a person he’ll be and whyohwhy can’t it be just
YOU&ME?

Nervebomb! NervebombnervebombNERVEBOMB!! YesFuryyes … and if you want me to take care of Davy
MacGregor just say the word I know I could take him he’s still all soppy inside—