KUHAL: Back? Back through the time-gate? But that's impossible!
CLOUD: NO, it's not. Elaby Gathen, the man who died in Aiken's fight against Felice, was certain that we would be able to build a duplicate of the original time-warping device that stands in the Milieu. We have a complete set of plans from our computer. And when my brother and the others fled from Ocala, they took all kinds of manufacturing apparatus and mineral resource charts.
KUHAL: And your father? How did he react to this?
CLOUD: He was violently opposed at first. Now ... I don't know. We forced him to rethink his own objectives. He knows now that we'll never go back to Ocala. Perhaps he's decided to let us follow our own destiny. And after what happened with Felice and Aiken Drum, he may even help us. Just as he may help you.
KUHAL: What are you saying?
CLOUD: Hagen and the others marooned down in Africa spent some time studying a mental reprise of the fight with Felice. I've conferred with them about it Since you Tanu are so metapsychically primitive, you probably don't fully realize just how many questionable things were happening down there on the Genii River! Let's hope Aiken Drum doesn't either.
KUBAL: Explain!
CLOUD: All right, consider the metaconcert program that Papa taught Aiken. We children have nothing like Papa's sophistication in things like that But it was apparent that Papa planned for both Felice and Aiken to die in that fight.
KUHAL: Great Goddess.
CLOUD: Papa knew very well that as an individual, he couldn't measure up to Felice. Even using the metaconcert throwing every available bit of mindpower against her, it would be touch and go. (Of course, if they'd had that photon Spear working, they'd have had the edge.) Now, there are a number of different options for setting up an offensive metaconcert. Some are much more hazardous to the prime executive than others. Papa gave Aiken a program that should have squeezed the last erg of psychoenergy out of the lashup if Aiken used it at full zap—as he'd be likely to do instinctively in a panic situation. And a full zap of that potential funneled through Aiken should have killed him as well as Felice. But Aiken didn't throw the whole basketful at her in the first strike. He'd been scared by his test blast up on the mountain and so he mitigated the flow, keeping it sublethal. As you may recall, Papa was fooled into thinking that the first strike finished Felice.
KUHAL: Abaddon said that he couldn't detect her mass or energy. But then—and I admit I did not understand this—he said Felice jumped.
CLOUD: He said she d-jumped It's a meta slang term, short for dimensional-jump or translocation. A faculty that's extremely rare in the Milieu. Sometimes a variation of it is called teleportation.
KUHAL: Brede's Ship!
CLOUD: What?
KUHAL: The giant organism, her spouse. The Ships were capable of faster-than-light travel via hyperspace, using their mind-power alone. Do you mean to say that Felice—
CLOUD: She might have done it inadvertently, as a defense mechanism. Perhaps just skipping out of range. But Hagen thinks that she followed Papa's farsense beam—it was in peripheral mode—and scragged him!
KUHAL: But she attacked Aiken—
CLOUD: It could have happened in a split second. When Felice reappeared above Aiken, Papa's psychocreative input was altered. We reran the memory and proved it He had been handling the defenses except at the very instant of the first strike, when he flashed briefly into the offensive mode on main channel. After Felice's d-jump the whole screen started to go. Owen Blanchard dropped dead. He might have been hit by Papa's flashover, given the configuration. We think Papa was able to pull himself back together in time to reweave the disintegrating defense, then participate in the final zap.
KUHAL: You believe that Felice did no significant harm to your father?
CLOUD: On the contrary. And if he was hurt, it would tend to explain his strange withdrawal after the fight and the fact that he's remained incommunicado for more than a month now.
KUHAL: But your father continued to function after the d-jump incident.
CLOUD: And he was hooked into a cerebroenergetic rig strong enough to bottle a small H-bomb! He's a Paramount and he was operating with God knows how many factors of augmentation. It's when he shucks the armor plating and the superconductive artificial nervous system that the headache is likely to begin. Hagen knows more about this kind of thing than I do. He suspects that Papa was on the receiving end of a coercive-creative zorch heavy enough to send him to the regen tank—and that's why the aether between here and Ocala has been so peaceful lately.
KUHAL: How fortuitous for you and your peers.
CLOUD: And perhaps for you.
KUHAL: ?
CLOUD: Listen up, and try to understand. I think that you Tanu and my own people and even Papa now share a common nemesis. We may ad have to cooperate if we want to survive much longer.
KUHAL: Aiken Drum?
CLOUD: Aiken should have died. He didn't. It almost seemed as though Felice siphoned the bulk of that psychoenergy away from Aiken herself at the last minute. God knows how or why. She's dead. But Aiken's very much alive, and only a little wonky, and by now he's figured out that Papa was out to screw him. He's in a position to do some heavy mindwork himself now, thanks to Papa's gift of the metaconcert program. It won't be hard for him to adapt it to safe use. When he dismantles the mental booby traps, he'll go after your brother Nodonn and his faction—and when your brains are barbecued he'll turn his attention to Papa.
KUHAL: Or you.
CLOUD: All my people and I want is to go to the Milieu. You'd lose nothing by helping us. And we have a lot to offer you.
KUHAL: You have already given of yourself to me.
CLOUD: Mutual, if you like. I'm nearly healed—and three times faster than a tank could do the job in our Ocala infirmary.
KUHAL: I had thought Boduragol's suggestion to be futile. The loss of my twin brother seemed an irreparable calamity. Our biotechnology of the Skin holds out scant chance of regenerating an entire brain hemisphere. And yet we see what is happening.
CLOUD: A novel adaptation, certainly. In human medicine, the left brain has very often been successful in learning to assume right-brain functions, and vice versa.
KUHAL: Perhaps what you have done is teach me to be human.
CLOUD: You need more work. But that can be arranged.
Boduragol opened his eyes and smiled. The duet of PK and redactive force flowing between the two patients was supremely harmonious. He really wasn't needed any longer. He slipped down off his stool and went to the two motionless bodies, the man torced in gold, the woman crowned with heavy braids of lustrous reddish-yellow hair.
"Why don't I just leave you two alone to get on with whatever you're doing? Another week, and you'll probably both be well. Most gratifying."
Stooping, Boduragol made a minute adjustment in the Skin around Cloud Remillard's ivory feet.
"Gratifying," he could not help repeating, and went out, leaving the healing to proceed.
4
WHEN MERCY finally returned to Goriah at the end of July, the deadly languor that had afflicted Aiken ever since the fight with Felice began at last to lighten, and his wounded brain to heal. The Queen's tale was a thin one: that she had suffered amnesia when her boat was caught in the landslide and had wandered alone in the jungle east of the Genil, to be rescued at last by bareneck plant hunters who did not recognize her, and who brought her back to Afaliah only after having gathered sufficient numbers of rare orchids for the conservatory of Lady Pennar-Ia, Celadeyr's wife. Implausible though this story was, Aiken accepted it without question, nor did he attempt to delve into Mercy's mind. She was back, she was unharmed, and her response to his lovemaking was once again fervent. It sufficed, and he was content.
One fine August day they went out to the dune hills along the Strait of Redon to see Yosh Watanabe and his crews demonstrate the different kinds of fighting kites being readied for the upcoming Grand Tourney. Aiken and Mercy and a large party of Most Exal
teds lounged about beneath a shady canopy, enjoying the sea breeze and the novel entertainment. There was an abundance of picnic food and iced honey wine, and the kite battles were diverting and occasionally dangerous.
First into the air were agile, lozenge-shaped Nagasaki hata, with their flying lines coated in crushed glass, vividly decorated in stylized designs of red, white, and blue. When one kite managed to saw through the line of a rival, the well-rehearsed Tanu nobility yelled out the traditional cry, "Katsuro!" and paid off their wagers, while Yosh beamed and strutted and explained the future history of the events.
The wind picked up after the sun crossed the meridian, and the big kites soared aloft. There were Sanjo rokkaku, hexagonals half again as tall as a Tanu male, bearing gaudy portrayals of samurai warriors, Japanese demons, and mythical creatures; and there were rectangular Shirone o-dako, 6.7 meters high by 5 meters wide, ornamented with magnificent fishes and birds, figures from folklore, and abstract motifs. Crewed by five to ten humans, these fighting kites were too ponderous to attempt line-cutting maneuvers. Instead they engaged in stately dogfights, crashing into one another while the competitors attempted to foul their lines. A losing kite, deprived of aerodynamic lift, would falter and tumble down out of control. Its victorious attacker would perforce follow it to the ground since the lines were entangled; but the winning kite usually maintained its dignity to the end, landing safely while its foe crashed to the sand, a mangled mass of torn paper and higgledy-piggledy bamboo bones.
When the wind was deemed suitably strong and steady, the truly enormous kites were trundled onto the beach, the combatant carriers that were destined to play a part in the Tourney proper rather than the preliminary events. Two o-dako measuring 14.5 by 11 meters and weighing more than 800 kilos apiece were hoisted onto temporary scaffolding so that their many bridle lines could be attached, braided, and fastened to the flying cable. This last was connected to a heavily weighted winch. The kite warrior would be suspended from the lower framework in a light breeches buoy. Three maneuvering lines joined to key bridles gave the fighter some control over his kite's flight; but the principal guiding force came from the ground crew of fifty, who were equipped with running control lines that joined the main cable by means of large D-shaped carabiners.
When the pair of giant o-dako were ready for launching, Yosh came to the royal enclosure, trailed by his assistant, the dour Lithuanian gray-tore, Vilkas. Yosh was attired in his gorgeous samurai armor and Vilkas in the only slightly less ornate harness of an ashigaru, or foot-warrior.
Yosh bowed gravely to Aiken and Mercy. "This will be our first official demonstration of the man-carrying kites, Aiken-sama, the first time that we've actually attempted aerial combat." He extended a singular pole-arm for the King to examine. "Vilkas and I will attempt to slice each other out of the sky using these naginata—curved blades mounted on long shafts. We won't go for each other hand to hand, of course. The fighter and his suspension rig are out of bounds. Fair game includes the bridle lines, the maneuvering ropes, the main cable, and the bamboo frame and paper facing of the kite itself."
"It sounds dangerous for you," Mercy remarked warmly. The young coercer woman, Olone, who had nursed baby Agraynel during the Queen's absence, stood immediately behind the throne holding the infant. Mercy held out her arms for the child and cuddled it while Yosh continued his explanation.
"Since we play without safety nets, the game could be very dangerous for ordinary humans like Vilkas and myself. We minimize the hazard—and add to the fun for you Exalteds—by using PK adepts for coaches." The Japanese technician made a courteous obeisance to a portly gold-torc human who stood beside the strapping Olone. "Lord Sullivan-Tonn was good enough to work with us during practice sessions. He's agreed to coach Vilkas, here, during the contest today."
Aiken eyed Sullivan thoughtfully. "Is coaching hard to learn?"
The pompous little psychokinetic lifted both hands in a deprecating gesture. "I found it quite simple, actually." He simpered.
"How do you play?" Aiken asked Yosh.
"The coach gives telepathic direction not only to his fighter, but also to the ground crew, advising on tactics. He's also allowed to generate PK wind for his kite only. Huffing the opposition's aircraft around is grounds for disqualification. This effectively limits windplay to periods when the two kites are fairly widely separated, unless the puffer has a lot of finesse. I think you may find that close work with the ground crew gives better control in most clinch situations. If a combatant gets his strings clipped, it's the duty of the coach to rescue him before he hits the ground. Which is why only PK heads get to be skippers in this game."
Aiken nodded. His smile was wan and his eyes were like two holes burned in parchment. He was wearing golden jeans and a black shirt open at the throat. "So Sullivan's going to handle your ichiban lad today, eh, Yosh? Who's coaching you?"
"I hoped you would do me the honor, Aiken-sama."
"Oh, please do!" squealed Olone. "I'm positive you'll win!"
Sullivan's face went starchy in the light of his young wife's disloyalty, but he added, "Yes, please coach the second kite, my King."
"I'm still feeling a bit seedy," Aiken warned.
Yosh said, "You needn't hold up the entire o-dako if I'm shot down, Aiken-sama. Just keep me off the deck. I only weigh sixty-four ktios, armor and all."
With a visible effort, Aiken roused himself. "Hell, I can manage that. This is a great job you've done, Yosh. Carry on! O-tanoshimi nasai, kiddo!"
Yosh grinned. "You bet, boss." He hurried off with Vilkas to complete the preparations. Aiken slumped back into his wicker throne, watching the scurrying crew members. His mind was shuttered. It was becoming hotter as the westering sun dropped below the edge of the canopy. Sullivan and Olone kept up a banal chatter and the baby fussed, resisting Mercy's attempts to coze and chirk her up mentally.
Finally, Aiken said, "Can't you see she's hungry, Merce? Let Olone feed her so she'd stop that damn mind-whimpering."
"Oh, the poor mite!" Olone exclaimed, taking the child eagerly. She drew one of her elongate breasts from inside her azure chiffon gown. "Are you starving, Grania lambie? Come to Nurse!" Voraciously, the infant began to suck. The irritating telepathic bleats were submerged into emanations of sheer bliss.
"Take her to the other side of the tent, where it's cooler, dear," Mercy told the girl.
"Yes, my Queen. Shall I bring her back when she's finished?"
Mercy's expression was remote, almost renunciatory. "Find some quiet corner to rock her and sing, Olone. I'm afraid all this turmoil has overexcited her. It was selfish of me to bring her along to the shore with us today ... but I did so want her near me."
Olone sketched a curtsy and rushed away, as if half-fearing that Mercy would change her mind. Sullivan observed, "My wife loves Agraynel as she would a child of her own, my Queen."
"I know. And I'm more grateful than I can say for her nurturing of the child while I was—lost. I think perhaps it was my subconscious concern for Agraynel that must have cured my amnesia at last as I wandered forlorn in the jungle of Koneyn."
Aiken uttered a soft chuckle. "Well, we know that it wasn't subconscious concern for Me!" He pretended to be absorbed in the action out on the beach. The scaffolding was being removed from the two great kites, which were held upright by the taut anchor lines manned by the sweating crews. Sullivan's kite was predominantly scarlet and gold, decorated with a splendidly helmed Japanese warrior poised against a backdrop of cherry blossoms. Aiken's kite was more stark, a medley of blues, a tsunami wave à la Hokusai frozen elegantly in the breaking above a rockbound islet.
Sullivan was making a valiant attempt to be urbane in the face of ominous mental undertones. "No one was more astonished than I, Great Queen, when Olone volunteered to suckle your precious child, believing that you had perished. I had not realized that such a thing was possible for a woman who had not herself given birth! The Tanu are an amazing race, aren't they? So human and yet so fa
scinating in their difference! The unique breasts of the women have a counterpart in the folklore of several European countries, you know. The Ellefolk and Skogrå of Scandinavia, the Fée of France, German Nixen, the Aguane of the Italian Alps, the Giane of Sardinia—"
"All elf-women with long breasts. I know." Mercy was gentle. "But there's nothing mysterious about the milk, Tonn dear. If a woman wishes it deeply enough and her will is strong, the prolactin hormone will be secreted along with others and the breasts will fill—even for those who are childless. Human women or Tanu, both are the same: The loving desire to nurture is all the magic that's needed."
"But don't forget," came Aiken's wry interpolation, "that the converse holds good as well. Both Agraynel and I were lucky."
Sullivan's face flamed scarlet He was on his feet backing away from the royal couple, his imperfectly curtained mind leaking mortification and futile rage.
Mercy's sad eyes saw only Aiken now. "Yes, I'm dry now, it's true. I've been sore troubled and I've been diminished, and so I have no life to give my daughter, poor thing. What I have to give you we both know! So take it"
"I'm—I'm going down to the beach!" Sullivan mumbled. "Keep tabs on my kite. Excuse me—excuse me—" And he fled, his rosy-gold caftan billowing in the hot wind.
"It was brutal of you to shame him to his face," Mercy told Aiken. "And unnecessary. He knows what went on."
"He's an ass. Impotent." Aiken's eyes were closed. Sweat made his dark red hair cling to his rounded cranium. "He'd betray me to all comers in fifteen seconds if he thought he could escape with a whole skin. And you were gone ..." The hollow black gaze opened to her. "They told me you were dead, Mercy."