Jack the Bodiless (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) (43 page)

Much later, Rogi would again not be able to recall too much of the opera’s fairy tale plot; what he did remember was the haunting figure of the Snow Maiden, the girl begging her mother, Spring, for the very thing that was bound to kill her, which she declared she could not live without. Spring answered her daughter’s plea. Snegurochka fell in love at last with a man who dearly loved her. She was about to be married along with the other village maidens at the yearly spring fertility festival.

But then came the most disturbing part of the fairy tale.
The villagers sang a grain-planting song, in which a ransom was required if there was to be a good harvest:

The Snow Maiden then sang a dazzling aria proclaiming her love. “Mon coeur,” she cried, “mon sang, mon être tout entier s’embrase et brûle!” My heart, my blood, my entire being is set aflame and burns!

And a beam of sunlight suddenly pierced her, and she melted away in death.

Her bereaved human lover drowned himself in despair, unpersuaded when the local Tsar told him that the Snow Maiden’s presence among the people was an affront to the sun god Yarilo, who would have withheld his light and warmth from the land had Snegurochka continued to live.

Yarilo himself then appeared atop his sacred mountain, holding in one arm a sheaf of grain and in the other a glowing human head, and the people saluted him with a final hymn.

When the opera was over, Rogi applauded until the palms of his hands hurt. The enceinte diva, completely exhausted and with tears of happiness coursing down her cheeks, slumped into his arms and had to be laid on her bed, costume and all.

“You’ve overdone it,” Rogi said, trying to hide his alarm.

“No, no. I’m fine. It all went beautifully. I sang, Rogi! I
sang.”

He eased the Slavic diadem off and propped one of the moss-stuffed pillows under her head. “You were tremendous! And that finale—I’m not sure that I understood the meaning of it …”

Teresa closed her eyes. “The fairy tale is a borrowing from an ancient Slavic religious rite. In order to placate the sun god and ensure that good weather would prevail and the grain would grow, the people would sacrifice a maiden. Too bad about her—but ever so satisfactory for the rest of the
people, who got to survive and prosper and dance in the sunshine.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him calmly. “Aren’t you glad we don’t have gods like that anymore?”

H
E WAS DANCING WITH HIS COUSIN
A
DRIENNE, A GIRL HIS
own age whom he considered the least loathsome of his young female relatives. Marc had always loved dancing (which surprised everyone except his mother), and he was very good at it, except when his partners attempted to inject romantic overtones. Sex, that great nuisance, was the last kind of distraction he wanted out on the dance floor. The dance offered a safe relinquishing of personal power to the irrational. Perfectly attuned to a like-minded operant partner such as Adrienne, Marc was able to surrender his precious self-control for brief intervals without feeling threatened, and his guarded features would relax in a onesided smile of rare sweetness.

The eldest daughter of Adrien Remillard and Cheri Losier-Drake was a tall girl, plain-faced and usually brusque and authoritarian in her manner. In her secret heart, Adrienne thought her cousin Marc was the handsomest, most excruciatingly adorable boy in the entire universe. But she would have died rather than let him know it, so when he asked her to dance, she hid behind her sternest mind-screen and feigned bored indifference. He seemed to appreciate that. The band went into the jazz-waltz dissonances
of “I’m All Smiles,” and she whirled away in his arms, so consumed with hidden ecstasy and oblivious to her surroundings that she almost missed the entrance of the Lylmik.

But Adrienne’s ultrasenses were never completely off-line, even when she was semiorgasmic. They zeroed in on the unusual auras of the latecomers to the Human Polity Inaugural Ball without any volition on her part, and she stiffened, and the spell of the dance was broken.

“It’s
them!”
she whispered, staring aghast over Marc’s shoulder.

He didn’t miss a beat, but his gray eyes lost their abstraction and were instantly wary. “By God, you’re right, Addie. All five of them, and not wearing any simple Greek-god robes this time, either. They’re spiffed to the teeth.”

“What do you suppose they’re doing here?”

“God knows. They might just want to socialize.”

The furor that had attended the appearance of the incarnate Lylmik at the Concilium inauguration that afternoon was nothing compared to the astonishment now sweeping the ballroom. Earlier, many of the Earthlings had not fully appreciated the unprecedented honor granted their race when the five Supervisors materialized upon the Dais of Presiders in the Concilium Chamber wearing human form. The reaction of the exotic First Magnates and their congeners had been mixed: The Krondaku were mildly taken aback, the ecstatic Gi hovered on the brink of cardiac arrest (but adroitly eschewed the ultimate gesture), the Poltroyans uttered involuntary whoops and squeaks of appreciation, and the Simbiari were scandalized to their toewebs, reminding each other waspishly behind imperfectly woven thought-screens that the Galactic mentors hadn’t condescended to honor
them
in such a dubious fashion when the first Simb magnates were inaugurated.

The Lylmik had presided over the brief ceremonial installation of the new human magnates. They had watched as Paul Remillard was elected First Magnate of the Human Polity by a small margin. They listened as Paul addressed the entire Concilium on behalf of humanity, and then applauded gravely as the Simbiari Proctorship was formally dissolved and all Earthlings were finally granted citizenship in the Galactic Milieu. (The probationary period of one Galactic year was diplomatically left unstated.) With the
formalities concluded, the Lylmik Supervisors vanished, and everyone thought that was that.

Invitations to the Human Polity Inaugural Ball had been extended to every Magnate of the Concilium, with the expectation that only a few of the nonhumans would accept. The Krondaku had no tradition of dancing on dry land and sent polite regrets. The straitlaced Simbiari thought dancing was inane; they also knew very well that the humans didn’t really want their ex-Proctors at the ball, so all except a handful of luckless high-ranking officials who felt obliged to show up and mingle also declined. The Gi would have loved to come, but their own parties inevitably climaxed in exuberant displays of communal licentiousness, and they thought it the better part of interspecies etiquette to pass. The kindly little mauve-skinned Poltroyans enjoyed dancing to human music, so fair numbers of them did accept.

And now bore witness to the phenomenon.

The jazz waltz played on to its conclusion, but many of the dancers left the floor to gape and whisper at the newly arrived Lylmik. The five Supervisors seemed not to notice that they were causing a sensation. Nodding and smiling and often pausing to give the dignified operant greeting, palm to palm, they mingled with the crowd and chatted. The venerable leader wore classic white tie and tails; his Caucasoid male comrade sported a fashionable jumpsuit of glittering green Nebulin; the third male, whose features had an Amerind cast, was attired in the black formal costume of a Latin caballero, with a ruffled shirt and scarlet faja. The two Lylmik in female guise were even more spectacular: the African wore a turban and caftan of cerise set off with heavy gold armlets and necklaces, while the Oriental’s costume of turquoise and white silk brocade dripped with pearls.

The orchestra began to play “Dindi,” a delicate Brazilian classic by Antonio Carlos Jobim, and the Lylmik did an even more astonishing thing: they asked humans to dance with them.

The Supervisor dressed as a caballero stepped out with Lucille Cartier, and the dapper fellow in the Nebulin bowed over the hand of Laura Tremblay. Davy MacGregor, wearing the kilt of his clan and a velvet jacket with silver buttons, found himself dancing with the Asian beauty, while Paul Remillard, his urbane composure shaken for only an instant, squired the statuesque Africaine.

Marc and Adrienne almost jumped out of their skins as a voice spoke behind them:

“I think I shall take this charming young lady away from you, my boy.”

Marc whirled about and found himself face-to-face with the person who had foiled his attempt to stow away on a starship back to Earth. Sitting in the spectator gallery of the Concilium Chamber and watching the mysterious robed figures on the Dais of the Presiders, the boy had not recognized his nemesis. But now the Lylmik overlord named Atoning Unifex towered over him and Adrienne, resplendent in his archaic black-and-white formal wear.

“You!” the boy exclaimed. “You’re a Lylmik!”

“More than that,” said the exotic, with a charming half bow. “I am
the
Lylmik.” His deep-set eyes held the boy with irresistible coercion. “Before I dance with Addie, I have some further instructions for you, young Marc: Comport yourself with docility and good sense. When you are finally allowed to return to Earth, render to your father your strict obedience and respect in the difficult times to come. No matter what you may think, he is deserving of them.”

Adrienne was struck dumb. They
knew
each other!

“And … what about the others?” Marc asked.

The Lylmik made an airy gesture. “You need not be concerned about their accommodation and comfort. That is all being taken care of. Later, you must assist the young one to the best of your ability.” He turned to Adrienne, who was nearly paralyzed by awe, and brushed the backs of her fingers lightly with his lips. The inhuman eyes that had glittered with irony when he spoke to Marc were now gentle, almost sad. “How very lovely you look tonight, ma petite. No—you are more than that, dear Addie. You are beautiful! Shall we dance? I would like this to be a night you will remember all your life.”

Homologous Trend danced with Lucille Cartier, and they were an amazing sight—the Lylmik with his chiseled copper features and dashing Latin garb, and the petite matriarch in a glittering cape of black, green, and silver beadwork with meter-long bead fringe, and a spectacular chapeau with bead plumage and multiple antenna-like filaments springing from the brow.

“May I compliment you on your ensemble, Professor
Cartier,” Trend murmured. “It is beyond question the most gorgeous attire at the ball.”

“And the heaviest,” said Lucille, giving him a radiant smile. “The beaded gown and the cape weigh fifteen kilos, and the hat weighs nearly five. If I didn’t exert my PK every single minute, I’d collapse. Why I always end up choosing gowns like this I don’t know! But I’m having the most marvelous time.”

“One is delighted that you are temporarily distracted from the family problems.”

Lucille locked onto the Supervisor’s turquoise eyes. “You Lylmik know all about them, do you?”

“Not everything, Madame Professor. But enough. And we would like to help you. The Remillards are of great importance to the future of the Galactic Milieu, and we have been very disturbed by your recent … tragedies.”

“How kind.” Lucille was screening her mind as if her life depended upon it, realizing at the same time that the Lylmik was undoubtedly scanning her like a book-plaque. “Does your solicitude go so far as revealing who was responsible for the murders of my son-in-law and Margaret Strayhorn?”

“Unfortunately, no. I have no useful data on those crimes. But I might be able to suggest a solution to another matter that distresses you.”

Lucille lifted a single eyebrow.

Homologous Trend danced her across the ballroom and indicated a Poltroyan male and female who were conversing with Denis Remillard.

Lucille frowned. “Why—it’s Fred and Minnie! I didn’t think they’d be here. Neither one of them is a magnate.”

“Their attendance was specially arranged. But unlike the Magnates of the Concilium, who have business to transact before they can depart from Orb, the two Poltroyans will be leaving for Earth tomorrow in their private starship, so that they may minimize their absence from the classes they teach at Dartmouth. Their craft travels at an extremely high displacement factor. They should arrive on Earth in two Weeks. I realize that you would prefer to remain here to supervise the—uh—motherless children of your son Paul. But if your husband Denis should wish to return home with the Poltroyan couple, they would be delighted to accommodate him. Denis will also find that both Fritiso-Prontinalin and
Minatipa-Pinakrodin are extremely sympathetic to humanity’s difficulties with the Milieu Reproductive Statutes.”

Lucille stared at her Lylmik dancing partner with blank astonishment.

“Many Poltroyan ships have both superluminal and subluminal capability,” Trend continued patiently. “They can travel quite easily in planetary atmospheres, and they can penetrate the relatively weak force-fields generated by human security devices with impunity. And without trace, if such a maneuver is desirable.”

Lucille danced in the Lylmik’s arms for some minutes, her mind spinning. Finally she was able to whisper, “Would Fred and Minnie be willing to risk it? Or are you telling me that they have your
permission
to …”

“You Remillards are very important to the future of the Milieu,” Homologous Trend repeated. “All of you.”

Davy MacGregor was normally an awkward dancer, but with the lissome, silken-gowned Asymptotic Essence in his arms he was a man transformed. She was exerting metaredactive healing upon him, of course, assuaging the lingering grief of his bereavement with matchless expertise—while he was aware only of their two bodies swaying together, and her gentle smile, and the oblique, glowing eyes so incongruously set within her classic Oriental features.