reformed smoothly on the visual display, Manion whistled "I Am the Captain of the Pinafore" through his teeth. Finally he froze an elaborate construct and simultaneously shot a blast of mathematical esoterica at the minds of Kramer and Van Wyk.
"There you have it. Explicit enough even for you two Scheissphysiker. A single dimensional translation confirmed, together with the rubberband-effect withdrawal hypersnap. Your overmodulated hell-load must have finished Felice off. Probably the Little King as well. The PC equivalent was in the seven hundreds, for Christ's sake."
"We had vague intraconcert perception of some kind of mental fusion," Cordelia Warshaw insisted.
"Felice never fused to Marc," Manion stated. "For my money, the damn girl's dead as mutton." He addressed himself again to the command mouthpiece, erasing the analysis and calling up a heavy artificial i-mode carrier. It was tuned to a certain mental signature with a precision none of the others could have achieved.
"You there in the armour! Do you hear me?"
The all but worthless scanner showed that someone inside the black mass did.
"Tell these fools who you are. I've called up an EK ident.
All we need is one conscious thought sequence."
From the speaker came a crackling stutter. The visual flickered. The analytical display said: ID UNCONFIRMED.
Patricia Castellane took the microphone. "Marc, it's Pat.
Communicate with us. Use either the mechanism or your farsense. We must know whether your mind is still integral.
Please, Marc!"
The speaker rustled, a breath stirring dry leaves. The screen said: ZH? JE? [PHONEME AMBIGUOUS] And the analysis: ID UNCONFIRMED.
Dr. Warshaw, working at the backup terminal said, "We need more than that."
"Marc, we want to help you," said Patricia. "Just speak to us."
A buzz fading to a hiss. ZH? JE? SS? [PHONEMES AMBIGUOUS] ID UNCONFIRMED.
"Ask him for his name," said Warshaw.
As if speaking to a young child, Patricia asked, "Quel est ton nom, cheri?"
JE SU? SOO? SU? JE SUIS = "I AM." [FRENCHAMERICAN DIALECT] "Ton nom! Quel est ton nom, mon ange d'abime?"
JE SUIS LE TENEBREUX = "I AM THE DARK ONE."
[FIGURATE USAGE? CF. POEM 'EL DESDICHADO' BY GERARD DE NERVAL (PSEUD. LABRUNIE, GERARD, 1808-1855).] "Gotcha!" exclaimed the psychotactician. The metallic accents hung in the air. On the screen the glowing words persisted, and confirmation of the mental signature shone in the lower righthand corner: IMS POSITIVE: REMILLARD, MARC ALAIN KENDALL 3-602-437-121-015M.
Gerrit Van Wyk was blubbering. Ragnar Gathen turned away, expelling a great sigh. Diarmid Keogh and his mute sister exchanged lightning thoughts with Steinbrenner and readied the cephalic envelope of the emergency life-support equipment.
JE SUIS LE TENEBREUX LE VEUF L'lNCONSOLE LE PRINCE D'AQUITAINE A LA TOUR ABOLIE ABOLIE ABOLIE CYNDIA MY GOD CYNDIA DON'TAlexis Manion laughed. Patricia Castellane gave an inarticulate cry and dropped the command microphone. Pseudospeech reverberated inside the dark-boned chamber: MA SEULE ETOILE EST MORTE! CYNDIA ... MON LUTH CONSTELLE PORTE LE SOLEIL NOIR ... J'AI DEUX FOIS VAINQUEUR TRAVERSE L'ACHERON FOR NOTHING. THE BITCH IS DEAD JACK. SHE'S RUINED ME BUT SHE'S DEAD.
Diarmid Keogh's PK hastily scooped up the fallen mouthpiece. He cut off the armour audio, letting the screen continue its mad flickerings, and initiated the divestment routine. The helmet hoist sent down its cables. Clamps latched onto the massive blind casque. Its dogs clicked open and it rotated a quarter turn. Liquid seeped from the juncture with the body casing, then gushed out in a small flood. The dermal lavage drainage had failed and Marc might be drowning.
Steinbrenner swore. "Activate the damned hoist! But easy.
God knows what's under there-"
Images!
They poured forth as the thought-opaque helmet lifted and the operator's head was uncovered: sights and sounds and feelings and smells and tastes, normal and distorted, concrete and fragmentary, evanescent
"There you have it. Explicit enough even for you two Scheissphysiker. A single dimensional translation confirmed, together with the rubberband-effect withdrawal hypersnap. Your overmodulated hell-load must have finished Felice off. Probably the Little King as well. The PC equivalent was in the seven hundreds, for Christ's sake."
"We had vague intraconcert perception of some kind of mental fusion," Cordelia Warshaw insisted.
"Felice never fused to Marc," Manion stated. "For my money, the damn girl's dead as mutton." He addressed himself again to the command mouthpiece, erasing the analysis and calling up a heavy artificial i-mode carrier. It was tuned to a certain mental signature with a precision none of the others could have achieved.
"You there in the armour! Do you hear me?"
The all but worthless scanner showed that someone inside the black mass did.
"Tell these fools who you are. I've called up an EK ident.
All we need is one conscious thought sequence."
From the speaker came a crackling stutter. The visual flickered. The analytical display said: ID UNCONFIRMED.
Patricia Castellane took the microphone. "Marc, it's Pat.
Communicate with us. Use either the mechanism or your farsense. We must know whether your mind is still integral.
Please, Marc!"
The speaker rustled, a breath stirring dry leaves. The screen said: ZH? JE? [PHONEME AMBIGUOUS] And the analysis: ID UNCONFIRMED.
Dr. Warshaw, working at the backup terminal said, "We need more than that."
"Marc, we want to help you," said Patricia. "Just speak to us."
A buzz fading to a hiss. ZH? JE? SS? [PHONEMES AMBIGUOUS] ID UNCONFIRMED.
"Ask him for his name," said Warshaw.
As if speaking to a young child, Patricia asked, "Quel est ton nom, cheri?"
JE SU? SOO? SU? JE SUIS = "I AM." [FRENCHAMERICAN DIALECT] "Ton nom! Quel est ton nom, mon ange d'abime?"
JE SUIS LE TENEBREUX = "I AM THE DARK ONE."
[FIGURATE USAGE? CF. POEM 'EL DESDICHADO' BY GERARD DE NERVAL (PSEUD. LABRUNIE, GERARD, 1808-1855).] "Gotcha!" exclaimed the psychotactician. The metallic accents hung in the air. On the screen the glowing words persisted, and confirmation of the mental signature shone in the lower righthand corner: IMS POSITIVE: REMILLARD, MARC ALAIN KENDALL 3-602-437-121-015M.
Gerrit Van Wyk was blubbering. Ragnar Gathen turned away, expelling a great sigh. Diarmid Keogh and his mute sister exchanged lightning thoughts with Steinbrenner and readied the cephalic envelope of the emergency life-support equipment.
JE SUIS LE TENEBREUX LE VEUF L'lNCONSOLE LE PRINCE D'AQUITAINE A LA TOUR ABOLIE ABOLIE ABOLIE CYNDIA MY GOD CYNDIA DON'TAlexis Manion laughed. Patricia Castellane gave an inarticulate cry and dropped the command microphone. Pseudospeech reverberated inside the dark-boned chamber: MA SEULE ETOILE EST MORTE! CYNDIA ... MON LUTH CONSTELLE PORTE LE SOLEIL NOIR ... J'AI DEUX FOIS VAINQUEUR TRAVERSE L'ACHERON FOR NOTHING. THE BITCH IS DEAD JACK. SHE'S RUINED ME BUT SHE'S DEAD.
Diarmid Keogh's PK hastily scooped up the fallen mouthpiece. He cut off the armour audio, letting the screen continue its mad flickerings, and initiated the divestment routine. The helmet hoist sent down its cables. Clamps latched onto the massive blind casque. Its dogs clicked open and it rotated a quarter turn. Liquid seeped from the juncture with the body casing, then gushed out in a small flood. The dermal lavage drainage had failed and Marc might be drowning.
Steinbrenner swore. "Activate the damned hoist! But easy.
God knows what's under there-"
Images!
They poured forth as the thought-opaque helmet lifted and the operator's head was uncovered: sights and sounds and feelings and smells and tastes, normal and distorted, concrete and fragmentary, evanescent
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