Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 105

The tally of Firvulag goals mounted more and more rapidly.

By 1400 hours the Little People led 50-33. An hour later their lead had increased to 87-36. The sky grew ever more lowering and oppressive, charged with noxious positive ions, ozone, and a distinct odour of sulphur in addition to the hash of sinister vibes.

Fresh rumours flew about the thinning crowd of spectators: Mont-Dore was erupting! (But only in a minor fas.h.i.+on.) Thunderstorms had ignited gra.s.sfires on the tinder-dry prairies to the west! (But the nearest conflagration was twenty kloms away.) The time-warper was running out of steam! (Bulls.h.i.+t. The thing drew most of its energy from telluric currents in the planetary crust itself. Its power-drain would be very low.) King AikenLugonn was ready to throw in the towel! (Oh, yes? Well, there were still forty-five minutes left to play-and anything could happen when the s.h.i.+ning One was part of the fracas!) AIKEN: Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH: Yes, dear.

AIKEN: Gads! I'm surprised to find you still here, babe ... You decided not to waft away after all?

ELIZABETH: Marc and I are discussing things.

AIKEN: I had a sneaking suspicion you might be ... Babe, that metaconcert program he gave the Firvulag is killing us. We're going to lose this ball game-and the Little People haven't even begun to focus their full mental potential on us. I think they're holding back the terminal zorch for the clincher-the signal for Nightfall.

ELIZABETH: Oh, Aiken. But if it becomes plain that the a.s.sault is of lethal intent, you'll be free to use your weapons and your aircraftAIKEN: By then, we may be goners. Or I may be-which amounts to the same thing. If I were Sharn and Ayfa, I'd funnel the entire psychocreative load at Me just before old Heymdol blows the Last Trump.

ELIZABETH: Marc-can't you do something?

MARC: I promised the Firvulag that I would never use my destructive potential against them.

ELIZABETH: The metaconcert then-!

MARC: I can't rescind it, nor is it susceptible of sabotage. I played fair with the Little People as I did with both of you.

AIKEN: I was afraid you might have. Well ... I guess that's that. Thanks for the memories, you two. Think about Me as you work out your little penances for the next six million years.

MARC: Just a moment. Are you restricted as to your garb in this game?

AIKEN: ? We wear our usual Grand Combat regalia, but I suppose anything goes. What's this got to do with the fending of Ragnarok?

MARC: I'll show you.

All but hidden in smoky haze, the sun dropped toward the western forest horizon. But the game was rocketing madly in the opposite direction, toward the Rainbow Bridge and Nionel.

Aiken Drum and his depleted band of defenders, englobed in a mental s.h.i.+eld, were running away with the ball.

Outraged gnomes and ogres trampled through the concession stands, blasted aside the flimsy riverside bleachers, poured in a demonic torrent through empty picnic areas and pleasances, and charged the Tanu stalwarts blocking the approach to the bridge.

The spectrum colours of the great arch had a preternaturally brilliant glow. A single low-angled beam of sunlight broke the cloud cover and illuminated gold-domed Nionel.

Out in the middle of the span was the King's protective bubble-and on top of its flexible surface bounced the enormous ball, insolently inaccessible in spite of the combined mental power of the Firvulag seeking vainly to s.n.a.t.c.h it away.

"Pull it down!" Ayfa entreated her husband. "What's wrong with us? How can that little scoundrel be countering our concerted effort like this?"

"He's getting help!" Sharn gasped. "From somewhere on the other side of the river. Te's Tonsils-it's the Howlers lending him their minds!"

"Perfidious misbegottens!" raged the Queen. "There's nothing for it, Sharn. We'll have to hit him with everything we've got. Right now. Before the Last Trump."

"We'll burst the ball-lose the game by default!"

"And win the Nightfall War, you great blockhead!" she screamed. "Order the offensive metaconcert in its ultimate configuration as the Adversary taught us. Now!"

"Wife, wife, our Sacred Way forbids-"

"Do you want to lose?

If we cannot take him suddenly, before the game's end, the aircraft with their Milieu armaments will come at us from all directions! Will we have the skill to fend them off-and cope with Aiken Drum at the same time? Call up the offensive!"

Sharn did as he was told.

In the middle of the Rainbow Bridge, Aiken felt the psychic tension begin to mount, perceived the terrible coherence of the Foe-mind gathering back on the Field of Gold.

He said to his people: Slonshal to Us! It was a grand game after all.

Then he saw the two black armoured forms materializing inside his mental bubble, side by side on the deck of the bridge.

From the righthand CE rig came Marc Remillard, s.h.i.+mmering through the impermeable cerametal as though it were the insubstantial projection of a Tri-D. The other suit of armour abruptly split open and the blind helm lifted to show that it was empty.

"Hurry!" Marc told him. "Get inside. The coverall isn't necessary and your own armour will fit within the sh.e.l.l. I'll not oppose them directly, but I'm willing to show you how to use the cerebroenergetic enhancer yourself. There will be pain. Pay no attention. Now hurry!"

Without thinking, Aiken dived for the gaping lefthand rig.

Marc's simulacrum had vanished back inside the other. As the body halves closed over him, Aiken levitated to keep his head above the neck seal. Something deep inside the armour stabbed him on both sides of the groin. He felt his legs growing cold, his entire body numbing, disappearing ...

It's only the femoral circulatory shunt and the start of the refrigeration. Are you keeping your protective bubble up?

Yes. Aagh! It hit my jugular!

Carotid arteries. The primary shunt. Here comes the helmet.

Don't panic. Have your people holdfast as best they can. You'll be out of it for the next few seconds.

Descending darkness. Clang! Liquid rising, filling mouth, nose. I'll drown! I won't ... I'm cold, not breathing.

G.o.d-no-lasers drilling my skull-my mind sees the crown of needles plunge into the helpless brain, sprout filaments, hurt me as the energies pour in-Marc make it stopOstopOstopOG.o.dmakeitstop no no ... ??? Jesus.

Can you see now? Fa.r.s.ense?

Yes. O yes. YES!

Find the enemy executive. Your fa.r.s.enses will stay in peripheral mode. As normal. You're power-phased only for psychocreative metafunction. Now quickly-this is the way to augment the faculty with the enhancer. Let me monitor ... merde alors you are a strong little b.u.g.g.e.r aren't you? Christ they're winding up to strike!

Have you the fix on Shorn and Ayfa? Hurry for the love of G.o.d Aiken hit them hit them now forgetmetaconcertBoyhitthem yourselfyourownpowerhithitHe did.

Oh, it was so good. He hit, and the Foe burned. The encroaching Night was thrust back by the intensity of the fire.

Was the game over? Had the horn blown? Was the sun down?

He didn't know. The Rainbow Bridge seemed to be tumbling down, and golden onion domes and lacy spires. He was aware of minds fleeing and minds dying and minds whirling like sparks in a hurricane all around the central fire of the s.h.i.+ning One.