The usual happy holiday bedlam prevailed for some time, with people shouting greetings, oohing at the big Christmas tree, embracing Denis and Lucille, and commenting on the weather. Thanks no doubt to sub-rosa prompting from Denis and Lucille, I was also made much of. The younger females flirted with me and told me how well I was looking, while the young men shared their freshest naughty jokes. Then one of the grandchildren wondered what was holding up Paul and Severin, whereupon Marie neatly distracted everybody by throwing open the dining room doors upon a sumptuous buffet. Nary a traditional Franco-American goodie was to be seen—hélas!—but I forced myself to fill a plate with Buffalo wings, gorgonzola dip, Poltroyan pickled tariji eggs, dim sum, curly fries, kidney bean salad, and walnut-maple-fudge torte. I carried my little supper, along with a large mug of hot buttered rum, to a chair half-concealed by the Christmas tree. I was sick and tired of being cheered up and wanted to be left alone.
After I’d tucked away most of the food I sent my seekersense gingerly sniffing toward the door leading to the farmhouse cellar, which lay at the far end of the front hallway.
Badaboum! A near-irresistible little compulsion grabbed hold of me: I didn’t really want to look into the basement. Heavens, no! It was utterly prosaic and uninteresting. What I really wanted to do was check out the antique blown-glass ornaments on the tree: the animals, gnomes, angels, magic mushrooms, fruits, and vegetables that Lucille had collected all her life. Remember the old game? The first one who finds the pickle gets a big candy cane—
I broke through the coercive device and ran smack into a veritable bombproof thought-barrier. The entire basement area was impervious to farsensing, veiled by some sort of sophisticated mindscreening machine.
So much for checking out the redactive operation in advance! I’d find out what was down there at the same time Denis did.
I settled back again, studying the tree the way I was supposed to do. (The compulsion was so neatly done it had to be an artifact of Ti-Jean’s.) I finally found the ornamental pickle, but instead of rewarding myself with candy I went back to the dining room and ladled out another steaming mug of rum.
Paul and Severin finally got there when the party had already been in full swing for over an hour. Both of them came in burdened with sacks of presents, shaking the snow from their clothes, bellowing the best wishes of the season in rusty Canuckois. Paul was as suave and hearty as ever, but Severin was clearly on edge, guarding his mind like a junkyard dog and laughing too loudly at Paul’s witticisms. Marie saw that the late arrivals both got something to eat and drink, and then it was time to pass out the presents.
Our family has never believed in elaborate gift-giving, and Lucille had long ago insisted that the réveillon be an occasion for the exchange of only modest tokens. One was permitted to inspect the loot with deepsight, but opening the gifts was forbidden until after one went home—thus avoiding a mess of torn wrappings. Book and music flecks were perennial favorites, being tasteful and easy to tote in quantity; so were tiny flacons of perfume, micro-bottles of exotic booze, Gi friendship rings and other knickknacks from faraway planets, and (for the fun-loving adult contingent) psychedelic poppers. That year I was giving little silver Bic plaque-stylos. You can never find one when you need one, so you can never have too many.
While the gift swap was going on, along with much laughter, appreciative remarks, and the occasional groan (Luc and Ken gave ghastly antique Nicole Miller neckties to the gents and equally atrocious old Hermès scarves to the ladies), Marie brought out a big silver bowl of eggnog with crystal cups, which she set down for Lucille to serve in front of the fire. Paul threw more logs on the grate and somebody put out the lamps so that the only illumination came from the Christmas tree and the leaping flames.
Norah Jacoby unrolled a scrollo keyboard and played “Silent Night” in tinkling celesta tones. Some people sang along while others settled back to talk quietly. I noticed Severin slip away, and the words of the carol froze in my throat.
After a few more minutes passed, Catherine excused herself in the most natural manner possible. Norah switched her keyboard to the spinet mode and played “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” Paul was deep in conversation with Denis and Lucille, discussing some new charitable project being undertaken by the Remillard Foundation. Philip and Maurice wandered off together, arguing some abstruse political point. Norah and the other grandchildren delivered a fortissimo rendering of the Dartmouth “Winter Song.” Then Adrien left the parlor, allegedly in search of cognac. Paul said he’d like some, too, and got up to follow Adrien. Norah played “Cantique de Noël” and Denis and Lucille joined in as we all sang the old carol in French. Outside the parlor window, the snow fell thick and clean. It was almost three o’clock in the morning.
Paul’s mind said to me on my intimate mode: It’s time to bring him downstairs.
In my unobtrusive corner, I got to my feet, clearing my throat.
“And now we’ve come to a very special part of the réveillon,” I announced. “Denis, your children have prepared a surprise for you. Would you please come along with me? And the rest of you … kindly wait here with Marie, who will have something to say in just a few minutes.”
There were delighted exclamations. Lucille beamed at her husband as I took his arm and led him out of the parlor into the hall.
“No fair peeking with your farsight,” I warned him in a playful tone.
We went to the door leading down to the cellar. As I opened it he gave a murmur of surprise. The cloudy superficies of the specialized sigma-field concealed the stairway below the first step.
Once again I felt him probe tentatively at my mind. He was vaguely concerned because of my jittery behavior. I tried to project an air of excitement and uttered a poor excuse for a conspiratorial chuckle. “Those crazy kids of yours really know how to hide a secret. Ready to go down?”
Denis laughed. “All right. I promise to be completely surprised.”
I moved ahead of him, taking hold of the railing, and held out my hand. Denis took it. “Allons!” I cried gaily.
We stepped through the matter-permeable barrier and I led him down the steps. The cellar was full of shadows, lit by a single old-fashioned filament bulb that hung from the beamed ceiling. The walls were grimy whitewashed rough stone, obviously of a great age, but the floor had been sealed with a modern hypocaustic composite and was slightly springy underfoot, exuding warmth. In the area immediately to the left of the stairs were storage shelves, the house’s fusion heating plant, the refuse recycling unit, and the kinds of miscellaneous junk that you’d expect to find in a basement. To the right of the stairs was a partition of new, unpainted particleboard with a door in it, very slightly ajar. The area inside was dark.
“Is it in there?” Denis asked amiably.
I gestured. “After you.”
Smiling, Denis pushed open the door.
And froze.
There was an instantaneous explosion of light. Seven figures haloed in blue-white radiance stood motionless inside the cleared enclosure, stationed in a semicircle around a padded leather chaise longue of the type used by clinical metapsychologists. They were clad in dazzling silver Nomex and their heads were entirely hidden beneath silvery CE helmets of an unfamiliar and grotesque design. Before Denis or I could take a breath or articulate a thought, an eighth disembodied CE helmet with a blood-red aura seemed to appear out of nowhere. It hovered just in front of Denis at eye level.
Jack said: Grandfather please lie down on the couch.
The others reiterated coercively: LIE DOWN. PLEASE.
Denis seemed to be struggling against some invisible assailant. He staggered, then his body convulsed as though shocked by a bolt of electricity. He clapped his hands over his ears and I heard him scream at the top of his lungs.
The blood turned to ice in my veins. All my instincts urged me to go to Denis’s aid, but a voice in my mind said sharply: No! Don’t touch him!
Another spasm racked Denis, and then
a third. He fell to his knees with his arms attempting to shield his head. His agonized cries, raw and hoarse, now came with every breath. I was stiff with horror. I had never expected anything like this.
LIE DOWN ON THE COUCH. This time it was the metaconcert speaking. The eight minds had merged into one.
Denis said: Don’t do this to me Children don’t.
OBEY.
My son whispered, “No.” Another great paroxysm shook him. He slumped to the warm, yielding floor, groaned, and lay still.
“Look what you’ve done!” I shouted, boiling over with indignation. I started for Denis, only to crash into an unseen metacreative wall with a force that nearly knocked me senseless.
When I pulled myself together I saw Denis lying on the couch, his limbs fastened with restraints. Six of the demonic, glowing figures had gathered closely around him, and the bodiless casque floated above like a burning satellite. The seventh person was coming toward me. Below the silver CE helmet, her face-mask was encrusted in diamonds. Dorothée held something in her gloved hands. It was an El8 model hat, familiar to me from my adventure on the Scottish planet.
The young woman’s mental voice said: We need you to be a witness Uncle Rogi. Put the helmet on. It will allow you to monitor the procedure. Don’t be afraid. It only has a farsensory brainboard. There is no direct linkage to the metaconcert.
Before I could react she clapped the damned thing on me and I went blind. I felt an excruciating burst of pain as the minute photon beams of the crown-of-thorns zapped my scalp and drilled my skull. Electrodes shot into my brain, the pain stopped, and the world disappeared.
* * *
I was drifting in a fantastic realm that was strangely familiar, a place of cathedral-like silence that nevertheless seemed to vibrate with a million echoes. My ultrasenses, strongly augmented by cerebroenergetic enhancement, were bewildered at first by the new richness of detail that I had not been aware of during my earlier apperception, but I knew I’d been in this place twice before.
When Fury was born.
When Jack was born.
Around me lay a dark and subtle immensity, roiling and formless at the same time that it possessed a paradoxical structure. I was part of a patterned, multilayered black fabric in which ominous protean masses were embedded. They seemed to grow and diminish and grow again in restless spurts, illuminated by faint, pyrotechnic bursts of cold-blue radiance coming from some unknown source. I was aware of vanishing abysses below me and soaring eminences above. Pulsating waveforms rushed through me, engulfing me in chaos and then retreated like ebbing surf, leaving behind new patterns in the all-encompassing fabric, wondrous and fearful and indescribable.
The place was alive with creativity.
I was within the aether, the domain of the mental lattices. And I was not alone.
I had completely forgotten why I was here and it took me some time to focus on the more tangible entities in the place. I did not immediately identify the obliquely tilted, elongate patch of brightness off in the distance, but I knew that it was important.
As I came nearer to this thing (or it approached me) I discovered that it was actually a close grouping of incandescent objects like tiny stars or sparks. One of them moved only in two dimensions, drawing and redrawing a straight white line. The other seven whirled in intricate orbital patterns about the long axis drawn by the first, spinning threads of blue and scarlet into a kind of spindle shape, a rodlike hollow structure that tapered at both ends, fashioned entirely of colored light.
The spindle grew in size and complexity as I watched, enthralled. And there was music. The echoing silence had imperceptibly given way to a slow, swelling theme—notes that were vastly deep, almost growling, full of intriguing potential. A second melody joined the first, weaving a harmonious variation at a slightly elevated pitch. Then other voices came in, one by one, until there were eight parts flowing freely in eerie contrapuntal song.
I finally realized that it was the metaconcert.
The individual spooling mentalities of the fusiform structure soon became indistinguishable from the dense, swift windings of light. I saw the upper end of the spindle intensify in brightness, the red and blue threads coalescing into a peculiar, searing violet. My mind’s ear heard a new chord of celestial music, high-pitched and piercing, superimposed upon the lower notes of the fugue. The spindle was changing its orientation, tilting, rotating, searching …
Suddenly I caught sight of another luminous object, whisking in and out among the lattices. It was double, something like a close-coupled binary star or a dumbbell nebula. One saw it for only a split second, moving in the distance, before it vanished again among the murky mental tapestries.
Evidently the metaconcert had been on the lookout for the binary, because the spindle swiveled about with incredible speed, pointing in the direction of its quarry. A thin, laserlike beam sprang from the violet end and lanced into shadowed complexity. There was a brilliant rainbow flash. Prismatic concentric shock waves exploded outward and dissipated. The fabric of the aether flickered wildly, as though bolts of heat lightning were racing behind thick clouds.
The binary object was reeled slowly into view. When its capture was complete the spindle stood upright, holding above it blurry twinned luminosities, one pale gold, the other livid bluish-green. A kind of atmosphere enveloped them both and formed a ligature between them, and they seemed to orbit slowly about a common center of gravity. It was this invisible point that was somehow gripped firmly by a short white beam coming from the tip of the metaconcert. The captive binary pulsated as it turned, dancing to an irregular rhythm of its own.
Whatever the spindle had caught was passive, waiting. The metaconcert spoke.
DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?
You are our offspring our Children that we love.
WHO ARE YOU?
You know who we are.
ARE YOU DENIS?
Yes.
ARE YOU FURY?
Yes. Inevitably.
Ah, doux Jésus! There it was at last! My confusion vanished. I finally realized what was happening, what I was being forced to watch.
The questioning went on but I no longer heard the details of the telepathic speech. My heart had burst like a ruptured dam, overwhelming me with the truth I had tried so long to deny.
Denis was Fury. Fury was Denis.
I wanted to curse and weep, to flee this awful province where I confronted the death of hope. But I could not flee. I heard the metaconcert extract every obscene detail of Denis’s trauma from the strangely docile binary. I was held fast and compelled to witness while the details of my miserable brother’s sins assaulted me.
Donny, mon frère, how could you have done it? How could you have ruined Denis and Victor, helpless children who only wanted you to love them?… And you, Denis, my dearest son! Why was your fission so inevitable? Do you mean that you had no choice? Or did you choose?
DO YOU KNOW WHAT IS INTENDED?
Yes. But you will fail. We are too strong now.
THERE IS A FATAL DICHOTOMY IN YOU. YOU KNOW THAT. THE PART OF YOU WHO IS DENIS DEPLORES AND ABOMINATES THE DEEDS OF FURY.
We Coexist now as we have done since the necessary bifurcation. What you intend is not feasible.
NEVERTHELESS IT WILL BE ATTEMPTED. FOR YOUR OWN GOOD AND THAT OF YOUR FELLOW MINDS.
Listen! Let us propose an alternative—
THE INTEGRATION WELL BE ATTEMPTED NOW.
New threads of light whipped out from the glowing violet tip of the spindle. There were hundreds of them, sharp-edged as razor wire, spinning a glittering spherical cage that completely enclosed the binary mind.
The cage began to contract.
A ghastly scene unfolded then before my enhanced farsenses, searing sights and sounds that I cannot adequately put into words. They were not real. I realize now that my sojourn within the mental lattices consisted entirely of a chain of symbolic icons, creations of my own imagination, my mind’s attempt to translate and reify an
indescribable conflict into something I could understand. The struggle between the two dissociated personalities and the metaconcert seemed interminable, but later I realized that it could not have occupied more than an hour in ordinary time.
The metaconcert song fell into a monotonous eight-note loop without the earlier variations and polyphony that had given it beauty. Like the contracting cage of light, it had become an instrument of torture, thudding like the relentless blows of a hammer, louder and louder. I seemed to hear the two captive personae screaming, each one fighting for its life, each one suffering unspeakable pain and terror. I saw the merciless cage squeeze the binary star, forcing the madly throbbing components toward conjunction, toward integration. The concussive song of the metaconcert reached a roaring crescendo—
And the two units of the doublet merged.
In a sudden ringing silence the star collapsed to a wan ember, then expanded again into a globe of effulgent emerald. The cage shattered, allowing the new green star to drift free into an aether suddenly awash with countless points of scintillating light. The mental integration had taken place.
But which personality had survived?
The metaconcert spindle spoke in a rather shaken tone:
WHO ARE YOU?
I/I AM ONE.
ARE YOU DENIS? ARE YOU FURY?
I/I AM MYSELF.
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
THAT … REMAINS TO BE SEEN.
The green star abruptly shrank, vanishing into the sparkling cloud of pixie dust. From the spindle came a great blasting ruby cone that obliterated the myriad dancing points. For a moment my ultrasenses were overwhelmed.
Then the mental lattices were as they had been in the beginning, full of vague instability. But the only entities existent in that part of the aether were the spindle and I.