PROLOGUE Kauai, Hawaii, Earth 12 August 2113 He knew it had to be some kind of miracle – perhaps one programmed by Saint Jack the Bodiless himself. The misty rain of the Alakai Swamp ceased, the gray sky that had persisted all day broke open suddenly and flaunted glorious expanses of blue, a huge rainbow haloed Mount Waialeale over to the east . . . and a bird began to sing. Batège! That bird – could it be the one? After four futile days? The tall, skinny old man dropped to his knees in the muck, slipped out of his backpack straps, and let the pack fall into the tussocks of dripping grass. Muttering in the Canuck patois of northern New England, he pulled his little audiospectrograph from its waterproof pouch with fingers that trembled from excitement and hit the RECORD pad. The hidden songster warbled on. The old man pressed SEEK. The device’s computer compared the recorded birdsong with that of 42,429 avian species (Indigenous Terrestrial, Indigenous Exotic, Introduced, Retroevolved, and Bioengineered) stored in its data files. The MATCH light blinked on and the instrument’s tiny display read: O’O-A’A (MOHO BRACCATUS). ONLY ON ISL OF KAUAI, EARTH. IT. VS. The man said to himself: Damn right you’re Very Scarce. Even rarer than the satanic nightjar or the miniature tit-babbler! But I gotcha at last, p’tit merdeux, toi. The song cut off and a discordant keet-keet rang out. Something black with flashes of chrome yellow erupted from the moss-hung shrubs on the left side of the trail, flew toward a clump of stunted lehua makanoe trees 20 meters away, and disappeared. The old man choked back a penitent groan. Quel bondieu d’imbécile – he’d frightened it with some inadvertent telepathic gaucherie! And now it was gone, and his feeble metapsychic seekersense was incapable of locating its faint life-aura in broad daylight. Everything now depended upon the camera. Taking care to project only the most soothing and amiable vibes, he hastily stowed away the Sonagram machine, uncased a digital image recorder with a thermal targeter attached, and began anxiously scanning the trees. Wisps of vapor streamed up, drawn by the tropical sun. The sweet anise scent of mokihana berries mingled with that of rotting vegetation. The Alakai Swamp of Kauai in the Hawaiian Islands was an eerie place, the wettest spot on Earth, a plateau over 1200 meters high where the annual rainfall often exceeded 15 meters. The swamp was also home to some of Earth’s rarest birds, and it attracted hardy human students of avifauna from all over the Galactic Milieu. The old man, whose name was Rogatien Remillard, knew the island well, having first come to it back in 2052, when his great-grandnephew Jack, whom he called Ti-Jean, was newborn with a body that seemed perfectly normal. Jack’s mother Teresa, rest her poor soul, had needed a sunny place to recuperate after hiding out in the snowbound Megapod Reserve of British Columbia, and the island afforded a perfect refuge for the three of them. Rogi had returned to Kauai many times since then, most recently four days earlier, for reasons that had seemed compelling at the time. Well, perhaps he’d imbibed just a tad too much Wild Turkey as he celebrated the completion of another section of his memoirs . . . Crafty in his cups, he had decided to get out of town before his Lylmik nemesis could catch up with him and force him to continue the work. He’d done a damned good job so far, if he did say so himself – and he might as well, since only God knew when any other natural human being would ever get to read what he’d written. Even though he was drunk as a skunk, Rogi had wit enough to toss a few clothes and things into his egg, climb in, and program the navigator for automatic Vee-route flight from New Hampshire to Kauai. Then he had passed out. When he awoke he found his aircraft in a holding pattern above the island. He was hungover but lucid, with no idea why his unconscious mind had chosen this particular destination. But not to worry! His old hobby of ornithology, neglected for more than a decade, kicked in with a brilliant notion. He could backpack into the Alakai Swamp, where he might possibly see and photograph the single remaining indigenous Hawaiian bird species he had never set eyes upon. He landed the rhocraft at Koke’e Lodge, rented the necessary equipment, and set out. And now, had he found the friggerty critter only to lose it through gross stupidity? Had he scared it off into the trackless wilderness of the swamp, where he didn’t dare follow for fear of getting lost? He was a piss-poor metapsychic operant at best, totally lacking in the ultrasensory pathfinding skills of the more powerful heads, and the Alakai was a remote and lonely place. It would be humiliating to get trapped armpit-deep in some muck-hole and have to call the lodge to send in a rescuer. Still, if he was careful to go only a few steps off the trail, he might still snag the prize. He skirted a pool bordered with brown, white, and orange lichens, then peered through the camera eyepiece from a fresh vantage point. The luminous bull’s-eye of the thermal detector shone wanly green in futility. Despair began to cloud his previous mood of elation. The very last bird on his Hawaiian Audubon Checklist, forfeit because he’d failed to control his doddering mindpowers— No! Dieu du ciel, there it was! He’d moved just enough so that the infrared targeter, preset to the parameters of the prey, could zero in on it as it sat mostly concealed behind the trunk of a diminutive tree. The bull’s-eye blinked triumphant scarlet. The old man cut out the targeter, cautiously shifted position once more, and the bird was clearly revealed in the camera’s viewfinder: a chunky black creature 20 cents long, seeming to stare fiercely at him from its perch on the scraggly lehua tree. Tufts of brilliant yellow feathers adorned its upper legs like gaudy knickers peeping out from beneath an otherwise somber avian outfit. The bird flicked its pointed tail as if annoyed at having been disturbed and the old man experienced a rush of pure joy. It was the rarest of all nonretroevolved Hawaiian birds, with a name that tripped ludicrously from the tongues of Standard English speakers: the elusive o’o-a’a! Nearly beside himself, the old birdwatcher used the imager zoom control, composed his shot, and pressed the video activator. Before he could take a second picture the o’o-a’a repeated its double-noted alarm call almost derisively, spread its wings, and flew off in the direction of Mount Waialeale. The rainbow had faded as a new batch of dark clouds rolled in from the east. In another fifteen minutes or so the sun would set behind the twisted dwarf forest and the Hawaiian night would slam down with its usual abruptness. He had barely found the bird in time. He touched the PRINT pad of the camera. A few seconds later, a durofilm photo with exquisite color detail slipped out of the instrument into his hand. He stared at the precious picture, now curiously dispassionate, and heaved a sigh as he unzipped his rain jacket and tucked the trophy into the breast pocket of his shirt. A voice spoke to him from out of the steamy air: What’s this, Uncle Rogi? In a melancholy mood after your great triumph? Rogatien Remillard looked up in surprise, then growled a halfhearted Franco-American epithet. ‘Merde de merde . . . so you couldn’t let me celebrate my hundred-and-sixty-eighth birthday in peace, eh, Ghost?’ The voice was gently chiding: You have done so – and received a fine present besides. ‘You didn’t!’ the old man exclaimed indignantly. ‘You didn’t chivvy that poor little bird here on purpose, just so I’d find it—’ Certainly not. What do you take me for? ‘Hah! I take you for an exotic bully, mon cher fantôme, that’s what. Not even a week since I turned off the transcriber, and here you are breathing down my neck. Go ahead: deny that you came to nag me to get on with my memoirs.’ I don’t deny it, Uncle Rogi. And I realize that the work is hard for you. But it’s necessary that you resume writing the family chronicle without delay. It must be completed before this year is out. ‘Why the tearing hurry? Does your goddam Lylmik crystal ball foresee that I’m gonna kick the bucket come New Year’s Eve? Is that why you keep the pressure on? I’ve had a sneaking suspicion about that ever since I finished the Intervention section. You and your almighty schemes! What’s the plan? You squeeze my poor old failing brain like a sponge, then toss me on the discard heap once you get what you want?’ Nonsense. How many times must I tell you? You are immune to the normal processes of human aging and degenerative disease. You have the self-rejuvenating gene complex, just as all the other Remillards do. ‘Except Ti-Jean!’ Rogi snapped. ‘Anyway . . . I could always be destined to die in some accident that you and your gang of galactic snoops in Orb prolepticate, and that’s why the mad rush.’ The sky was completely overcast again and the tussocks of sedge and makaloa grass rippled in the rising wind. More rain was imminent. Turning his back upon the region from which the disembodied voice came, Rogi went squishing through the mire to retrieve his abandoned backpack. He hauled it up, mud-splattered and dripping. ‘Damn slavedriver. If you really did give a hoot about me, you’d do something about this mess.’ The pack was instantly clean, dry, and as crisp and unfaded as the day Rogi had purchased it from the outfitting store in Hanover, New Hampshire, eighty-four years earlier. His initials newly adorned the belt buckle, which had once been homely black plass but now appeared to have been transmuted into solid gold. The old man let loose a splutter of laughter. ‘Show-off! But thanks, anyway.’ De rien, said the Ghost. Consider it a small incentive. A birthday present. Hau’oli la hanau! Rogi frowned. ‘Seriously, though. My bookshop business is getting shot all to hell with me taking so much time off for writing. And I don’t mind telling you that rehashing this ancient history is getting more and more depressing. There’s a whole parcel of stuff I’d just as soon forget. And if you had a scintilla of pride, you’d want to forget it, too.’ The personage known to Rogi as the Remillard Family Ghost and to the Galactic Milieu as Atoning Unifex, Overlord of the Lylmik, was silent for some minutes. Then It said: The truth about the Remillards and their intimate associates must be made available to every mind in the Galaxy. I’ve tried to make this clear to you from the very beginning. You’re a unique individual, Uncle Rogi. You know things the historians of the Milieu never suspected. Things that even I have no inkling of . . . such as the identity of the malignant entity called Fury. The old man paused in adjusting his pack straps and looked over his shoulder with an expression of blank incredulity. ‘You don’t know who Fury was? You’re not omniscient after all?’ Rogi, Rogi! How many times must I tell you that I am not God, not even some sort of metapsychic recording angel – in spite of the silly nickname that was given me! I am only a Lylmik who was once a man, six million long years ago. And I have very little time left. ‘Jésus!’ Rogi’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. ‘You! Not me at all. You. . .’ Abruptly, the rain began to fall again; but this time it was not the gentle drizzle called ua noe that usually cloaked the Alakai Swamp but a hammering tropical deluge. Rogi stood stark still in the midst of the downpour, transfixed by his invisible companion’s words, seeming to be unaware that he had neglected to pull up the hood of his rain jacket. Water streamed from his sodden gray hair into his eyes. ‘You,’ he said again. ‘Ah, mon fils, why didn’t you tell me before, when you came to me at the winter carnival after the long years of silence? Why did you let me rave on, resisting your wishes, making a fool of myself?’ The mind of the Lylmik Overlord erected a transparent psychocreative umbrella over Rogi, but tears mingled with rain continued to flow down the old man’s cheeks. He reached out awkwardly to the empty air. The Ghost said: Keaku Cave is nearby. Let’s get out of the wet. Rogi was conscious of no movement, but he found himself suddenly within a fern-curtained grotto, sitting on a chunk of weathered lava in front of a small, brisk fire of hapu’u stems. Outside, a torrential storm battered the high plateau, but he was miraculously dry again. What was more, the profound grief that had pierced him seemed to have receded and he felt embraced by a great peace. He knew that the paradoxical being who had haunted him since he was five years old – the person whom he both loved and feared – had meddled once again with his mind, short-circuiting emotions that would have interfered with Its plans. The lava cave the Ghost had brought him into was the site of ancient mysteries sacred to the local Hawaiians, all but inaccessible to foot travelers. None of the hikers or birdwatchers or botanical hobbyists who came to the Alakai Swamp dared to visit the place. It was kapu – forbidden – and said to be protected by powerful operant Hawaiians claiming descent from the kahuna magicians of ancient Polynesia. Rogi had entered Keaku Cave only once before, not quite fifty-nine years ago. On that day in the fall of 2054, just after the Human Polity had finally been granted full citizenship in the galactic confederation, he and the teenaged Marc Remillard and young Jack the Bodiless had flown to the Alakai in a rhocraft, accompanied by the kahuna woman Malama Johnson. Their mission was to remove the ashes of the boys’ mother that had been sequestered in the cave a year earlier according to Malama’s solemn instructions. Rogi and the boys had found the interior of Keaku Cave mysteriously decorated with leis of gorgeous island flowers and fragrant berries. The box containing Teresa Kendall’s ashes was as clean and dry as it had been when they left it. Sitting in the cave now, knowing that the unseen Lylmik Overlord lurked close at hand, the old man seemed once again to smell the anise scent of mokihana. He remembered Marc, a stalwart sixteen-year-old, and Ti-Jean, apparently only a precocious toddler, on their knees beside the small polished pine box holding their mother’s remains. They had asked Rogi to carry the urn to their waiting rhocraft, since he had been her protector during the greatest crisis of her life. Teresa’s ashes had been scattered over the green tropical ridges and canyons on a day of resplendent rainbows. In the years that followed, Jack the Bodiless returned often to the island of Kauai, visiting his great friend Malama and eventually making his home there, bringing his bride to the place he loved more than any on Earth. But Marc Remillard had never set foot on the island again. ‘Are you glad?’ Rogi asked abruptly. ‘Glad it’s almost over?’ The Ghost’s reply was slow in coming: I had feared that I was fated to live until the very consummation of the universe. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that, even though God knows I richly deserved it. ‘Tommyrot! You sincerely believed that the Metapsychic Rebellion was morally justified. Hell, so did I! Back then, lots of decent people had serious doubts about Unity. Maybe not to the point of going to war, but—’ My principal motive for leading the Rebellion had nothing to do with the Unity controversy. I instigated an interstellar war because the Milieu condemned my Mental Man project . . . because it rejected my vision for accelerating the mental and physical evolution of humanity. With me, Unity was only a side issue. Rogi looked up from the fire in surprise. ‘Is that a fact! You know, I never was too sure just what that Mental Man thing was all about.’ The Ghost’s tone was ironic: Neither were most of my Rebel associates. If they had known, they might not have followed me. ‘And the Mental Man project was – was so wrong that—’ Not wrong, Rogi. Evil . . . There’s a considerable difference. It took me many years to recognize how monstrous my scheme actually was, to understand just what kind of galactic catastrophe my pride and arrogance might have brought about. ‘It didn’t happen,’ Rogi said very quietly. No, said the Ghost, but there remained a grave necessity for me to atone, to make up for the damage I had done to the evolving Mind of the Universe. My sojourn in the Duat Galaxy was a partial reparation, but incomplete. The evil had taken place here, in the Milky Way. The Duat labors were exciting, satisfying – joyous, even – because Elizabeth shared them with me and helped me to fully understand my own heart. Before we came together, my self was unintegrated; I had no true notion of what love meant. ‘I don’t agree,’ the old man said stubbornly. ‘Neither would Jack.’ The Ghost was not to be sidetracked. It continued: When the Duat work was done, Elizabeth was weary and ready to pass on. She begged me to follow her into the peace and light of the Cosmic All . . . but I could not. Instead, I felt compelled to return here. Alone, cut off from every mind that had loved me and from the consoling Unity I had known in Duat, I undertook what I judged was my true penance: to assist the maturation of our own Galactic Mind. Through years that seemed without end I guided one promising planet after another, cajoling civilization from barbarism, altruism from savagery. Of course I could not truly coerce the developing races of the Milky Way. I only assisted the inevitable complexification of the World Mind that accompanies life’s evolution. I made many ghastly mistakes. Can you conceive of the doubts that assailed me, Rogi, the fear that I might have succumbed to a hubris even more immense than that which originally obsessed me? No . . . I see that you can’t understand. Never mind, mon oncle. Only believe me. It was a terrible time. Le bon dieu is as silent and invisible to the likes of me as he is to any other material being. I could not help but ask myself if I was committing a fresh sin of pride in thinking that my assistance was needed. Was I helping the Galactic Mind, or merely meddling with evolution again, as I had been when I tried to engender Mental Man? Our galaxy has so many planets with thinking creatures! Yet so few – so pathetically few! – ever achieved any sort of social or mental maturity under my guidance, much less the coadunation of the higher mindpowers that leads to Unity. But finally, perhaps in spite of my efforts rather than as a result of them, I found success. The Lylmik were the first minds to Unify, and I adopted their peculiar race as my own. Then, aeons later, the Krondaku also achieved coadunation. After that came a great hiatus, and I feared that my infant Galactic Milieu was doomed to eventual stagnation and death. But le divin humoriste elevated the preposterous Gi race to metapsychic operancy against all odds (the Krondaku were deeply scandalized) and not long after that the Mind of the engaging little Poltroyans matured as well. The Simbiari were accepted into the Milieu next, even though they were imperfectly Unified. And suddenly there seemed almost to be an evolutionary explosion of intelligent beings, burgeoning on planet after planet – not yet ready for induction into our confederation, but nevertheless making great progress. One of the less likely worlds in this group was Earth. Knowing what I do, I overruled the consensus that rejected the human race as a candidate for Intervention. The result was the Metapsychic Rebellion, a towering disaster that metamorphosed into triumph. And now the Mind of this galaxy stands poised at the brink of a great expansion you cannot begin to imagine . . . ‘Are you going to tell me about that?’ Rogi asked. I cannot. My own role in the drama is nearly complete and my proleptic vision fails as my life approaches its end. Assisting you to write the cautionary family history will be my last bit of personal intervention. Others will oversee the destiny of this Galactic Mind henceforth and guide it to the fullness of Unity that is so very, very close. The old man fed the fire with an armful of tree fern stalks as Atoning Unifex fell silent. The swirling smoke seemed to slide away from a certain region near the cave entrance. Out of the corner of his eye (his mental sight perceived nothing) Rogi caught occasional hints of a spectral form standing there. ‘What next, mon fantôme? You gonna snatch me back to New Hampshire through the gray limbo like you did the last time, on Denali?’ Would you rather write the Diamond Mask story here on Kauai? Rogi brightened. ‘You know, I think I would! She and Ti-Jean did honeymoon here, after all.’ There is also the matter of the Hydra attack that took place here. Rogi’s brow tightened. ‘Maudit – why’d you have to remind me about them?’ He fumbled with the side compartment of his backpack and took out an old leather-bound flask. Unscrewing the cap, he tossed down a healthy slug of bourbon. ‘To do a proper job on Dorothée’s early life, I’ll have to tell all about those poor, perverted bastards. Just remembering ’em turns my stomach.’ He took another snort. The Ghost said: I can alleviate your gastric distress more efficiently than whiskey can, if you’ll permit the liberty. Rogi gave a bark of nervous laughter. ‘And will you be able to flush my skull of Fury dreams, too?’ The Lylmik’s thought-tone was wry: I’ve had experience with them myself, as you may recall. I’ll build you a protective mental shield— ‘Hey! Now wait just a damn minute!’ The Ghost was insistent: It can be done while you sleep, so you’ll have no experience of invasion whatsoever. I can leave all your precious neuroses intact, but you must permit me to install the dream-filter. It would be the height of ingratitude on my part if your writing chores precipitated anxiety and a fresh bout of alcohol abuse. You will suffer no nightmares, I promise. We Lylmik are the most skilled redactors in the universe. ‘Oh, yeah? Then where the hell were you when Fury and his Hydras were doing their metapsychic vampire act back in those thrilling days of yesteryear?’ Our interference would not have been appropriate at that time. The crimes of those entities, heinous as they were, were necessary to the evolution of Higher Reality, just as the Metapsychic Rebellion was. ‘I,’ the old man declared wearily, ‘do not give a rat’s ass for the Higher Reality. Or the Lower, for that matter.’ He lifted the flask again. Rogi— ‘All right! Go ahead and fix my brain so I don’t go apeshit after dredging up those old horrors. But don’t you dare try to do me any favors plugging in Unity programs or any other Lylmik fimfammery.’ The phantom in the cave’s darkened entrance now seemed to be approaching the fire, and Rogi stared in fascination at the way the smoke wafted about the invisible form. As the Lylmik mind spoke soothingly and the liquor did its work, the old man suddenly caught his breath. For an instant, he thought he’d glimpsed a man’s face there in the shadows – one he remembered all too clearly. He surged to his feet, calling out a name, and tried to throw his arms about the evanescent shape; but he embraced only a cloud of smoke. His eyes began to sting, and he pulled a bandanna handkerchief from his hip pocket and blew his nose, subsiding back onto his rocky seat The Ghost said: Vas-y doucement, mon oncle bien-aimé! Think only of the memoirs. When you complete them, I’ll be able to go in peace. The old man mopped at his eyes. ‘Batège! Who’d have thought I’d get all soppy over you? A goddam figment of my goddam booze-pickled imagination! That’s what Denis and Paul always said you were. Merde alors, it makes more sense for me to believe that than the cosmic bullshit you’ve been dishing out.’ If it makes you more comfortable, by all means believe it. ‘I’ll make up my own mind what to believe,’ the old man muttered perversely. Then he asked: ‘Where do you think I should settle in to do the writing? Down at the old Kendall place in Poipu?’ I have a better suggestion. How about Elaine Donovan’s lodge near Pohakumano? It’s at a high enough elevation to be cool, and no vacationing Remillards are likely to bother you there, as they well might down at the coast. The house is isolated and it has been kept in excellent condition by caretakers, even though Elaine has not visited it for many years. You’d find it very comfortable and much quieter than Hanover in the summertime. ‘Elaine . . .’ Rogi’s face stiffened. ‘I didn’t know she had a vacation house on Kauai. But she was Teresa’s grandmother, of course.’ I can arrange to have your transcriber and any other personal items you might need brought over from New Hampshire. Even your cat, Marcel, if you like. ‘I – I don’t think I better stay at Elaine’s place.’ The thought of her still brings you pain? ‘No, not anymore.’ Then use her house. You know she wouldn’t mind. The old man sighed. What did it matter, after all? ‘All right. Whatever you say. Bring my stuff and old Fur-Face, too. And a stock of decent food and liquor.’ He stretched, easing his aching muscles. It had been a long day, and now it was pitch black outside and the rain was pouring down harder than ever. ‘I don’t suppose I could spend the night here in the cave, could I?’ Do you wish to? Rogi shrugged. ‘It feels real good in here. Metasafe! If I’m going to stay on the island, I guess I’ll have to ask Malama Johnson to tell me more about this place. Funny thing – when you and I first brought Teresa’s ashes here after the funeral Mass at St. Raphael’s in the cane fields, Malama seemed to think you’d been here before.’ [Laughter.] Kahunas know too much. They are an anomalous type of human metapsychic operant, as any Krondak evaluator will tell you . . . And now, why don’t you make yourself something to eat and then get some sleep. I have other matters to attend to and I must leave you for a time. I’ll come and collect you in the morning. ‘Suit yourself,’ said Rogi, and opened his backpack. Even though there was no discernible physical manifestation, the old man was aware that the Family Ghost had abruptly vanished. Shaking his head, Rogi took out packets of gamma-stabilized food and a tiny microwave stove and began to prepare a Kauaian-style supper of chicken-feet appetizers, fried rice, Spam, pineapple upside-down cake, and lilikoi punch. As he ate, the small mystery of why he had been drawn to Kauai also seemed to resolve itself. The birds, of course. The island had always been a magnet for amateur ornithologists like himself. And like Dorothea Macdonald, the subject of this next part of his memoirs. It had been her doing that brought him here – or perhaps that of her memory abiding deep within his own unconscious. Dorothée. Saint Illusion. The woman who always wore a mask, even in her youth, when her face was bare. Much later, when he was snug in his sleeping bag and the fire had gone out and the continuing rain had freshened the air, Rogatien Remillard let the tranquil ambiance of Keaku Cave lull him to sleep. The air was fragrant again now that the smoke had dissipated; but oddly enough the scent seemed not to be that of mokihana berries but rather of a certain old-fashioned perfume called Bal à Versailles. How did I know that? Rogi asked himself drowsily. More huna magic? Or are the Family Ghost and Dorothée still playing games in my head? A moment later he was fast asleep, dreaming not of the monster named Fury and its attendant Hydras, nor even of Diamond Mask. Instead he dreamed about a woman with silvery eyes and strawberry blonde hair who had first smiled at him on top of Mount Washington in New Hampshire, years before Earth knew that the Galactic Milieu even existed. It was a sweet dream, without remorse. In the morning, Rogi had forgotten it completely.