Pegasus in Flight (28 page)

Dorotea shook her head, her lips pursed in an aggrieved moue. “Wretched little snip of a thing!” she said with a certain amount of reluctant admiration in her tone.

“Got it!” Carmen cried suddenly, jumping out of her chair, rushing to the map terminal, and punching coordinates that brought up the South Shore area. “Tirla’s come through again. There simply can’t be two such similar situations. She’s heading toward an old railway switchhouse. I can just make it out. There’s a crack of light coming through a window that opens onto a platform. There seem to be hundreds of cars of old rolling stock rusting there. Here we are!” She pointed to the marked area on the map. “Here’re tracks. Acres of them. And obsolete railcars waiting to be recycled.”

The others all converged to look at the area magnified on the screen.

“It couldn’t be better, could it,” Dorotea said slowly, “as a place to hide terrified kids!”
Tirla! Answer me! We know where you are now.

When Tirla did not reply, Sascha gave Rhyssa a long look and then, Dave Lehardt at their heels, the telepaths left the Control Room, jogging to the stairs that would take them to the aircars and teams waiting on the landing roof.

CHAPTER 16

Tirla’s night vision had adjusted to the gloom—part mist and part lightlessness despite the angry red-orange glow of Jerhattan that lit the rim of the horizon on all sides. The upper levels of distant Linears, majestic in the night, punctuated the halo of the city with their long silhouettes. From top stories, with aerials and stacks, aircraft-warning signals blinked their light patterns. She moved forward carefully along the curved tops of the railcars. If she slipped, there would be nothing for her to catch on to. The surface was gritty with dirt and slippery in the moist air. She headed toward that thin band of light and the dark bulk of the building that framed it.

She had safely traversed five cars, two more with children moaning and weeping inside them, when she felt a pressure in her mind that she recognized as Dorotea trying to contact her.

Go ‘way. I’ve got to concentrate.

She cursed softly as she slithered for a panicky moment between cars, then waited until her heart had stopped thudding, and she was fairly sure that her scrambling had not been heard. Her sharp ears had caught the sound of muted voices from the building. The line of cars continued past a long platform, and she debated slipping down and getting close enough to the building to overhear the conversations.

But conversations were useless tender; the registration number of an aircar was undeniable proof. She crawled forward on her belly, conscious of every noise she made, the dryness of her mouth, and the increasingly painful stiffness of her fingers.

There was a sudden break in the murk and there, parked beside the less distinct blue jetter, was an expensive sports jetcar, its hull a crisp white, its tail ID equally visible. The two cars were balanced on the one junction of rail that was free of rolling stock.

Tirla:
Peter, I got the second one. The number is CDO8-MAL, clear as day. And the other car is right beyond it. Peter?

Peter:
I heard you, Tirla. I told them. You come back here. They’re mad at you for closing Dorotea out. You’re going to have to apologize to her.
Peter sounded fierce.

Apologize? Why?
Tirla was so surprised that she slipped, banging down on the railcar.
Now you’ve done it!
She flattened herself on the far side of the car as light flooded out of the building, illuminating the platform and the slightly bulging side of the car on which she lay.

“I tell you I heard something!” said the man silhouetted in the doorway. He peered around the doorframe, and Tirla had a good view of the scene behind him: two men, one of whom idly swung a short stick, clipping it against his boot with an air of indolent diffidence.

“Shut the door you cretin!” The door abruptly closed and then opened in a much thinner crack. “ . . . a good look around. Up, over, under, in. Mess up once more, maggot—you can be eagle-spread, too.”

The door closed a second time, but not before Tirla recognized the angry voice. Her guts froze. She heard the ladrone moving, his shoes crunching the grit on the platform. She heard him haul back one of the warped carnage doors, the plastic creaking as he looked in the carriage. He moved on down the platform, cursing softly under his breath as he dropped down to flash his light beneath the car. Tirla could take no chances. Quickly she moved at a crouch and jumped to the next car. She was just in time—the red pinpoint of a filtered handlight shone briefly where she had just been. She held her breath, hoping against hope that the searcher would not notice her outline on the dusty top.

As he cautiously opened the door of the building, she watched. The stick swinger was nearest the door—she got another good look at his haughty face, with its beaked nose and thin-plucked brows. And she saw a table piled with credits which two other men were counting—floaters, by the size of them. One of the counters looked vaguely familiar, but her attention was caught by the face of the other man as he turned his head; he had a cruel face, and a hungry one. He was idly tapping his black boot with the stick; she caught the gleam of gold around the handle. Only then did the significance of the pile of floaters dawn on her.

Tirla:
Dorotea! The payoff’s being made! Floaters. More than I’ve ever seen in my life!

Dorotea, her voice hard-edged:
Tirla, don’t you ever dare cut me out again.
Tirla was momentarily dismayed. Wasn’t she doing what they needed done? How could such a sweet old lady come on so tough and hard?

Tirla:
Well, if you crazy Talents don’t move your asses, you’re going to mess everything up and I’ll have nothing more to do with you.

Peter! Help Peter now!
Dorotea did not sound apologetic, but she did sound anxious.

Tirla knew very well that Peter—not to mention all the other kids—needed help. As quickly as she could, she moved back along the line of cars. If the payoff had been made, some of the kids might be shifted soon. She had to get Peter out and free as many of the others as she could. If they all scattered and hid, it would take all night to recapture them—if she could stop them from crying long enough to help themselves.

Tirla slipped and this time could not recover her balance, sliding down the dirt-encrusted side of the car and landing painfully on stones and cinders that bruised and cut her feet. Cursing her clumsiness and hoping that she had gotten far enough away so that the noise of her fall had not been heard, she made her way along the ground, cursing the bastards who had removed the beautiful purple boots that she had bought on her first trip to the mall.

Crying had been reduced to whimpering in the first two cars. Tirla winced. How much time did she have to get Peter out if the payoff had been made? Could he make use of that special Talent of his now?

Yes, I can,
Peter said, appearing out of the darkness between two cars. He touched her hand.
And I know exactly how. C’mon.
He led her along the track until she nearly stumbled over a big handle attached to one side of the track.
We’re going to do a switcheroo.
He laughed softly out loud.
Much faster than letting all those kids loose. There’s a hundred of them.

They heard a muffled thrumming and saw the whiteness of the aircar lifting slowly from behind the building.

C’mon,
Peter urged.
I’ve got to get to that transformer box or my idea won’t work! I need the gestalt for this. You know how to uncouple cars?
Suddenly the process was driven into Tirla’s mind and she staggered a bit, stunned by the vivid intrusion.
Then go back and uncouple the last car with kids in it. Stay there and warn me if anyone’s coming.

“You mean like, upstairs?” Tirla asked in a hoarse whisper, pointing to the sky.

No, them!
Peter pointed at the building.

“When are we getting some help?” Tirla demanded in an acid-whisper, refusing to talk in her mind when she was nose-to-nose with Peter. “My feet hurt!”

“Soon,” Peter hissed and then gave her a shove to help her on her way. “Try walking my way!”

She couldn’t but wished she could. Her feet hurt and her hands ached. She did not quite understand how he could possibly do what she thought he was going to do. Railcars that had not moved in years were going to make the most awful racket. Peter was stupid! She hurried, hoping that the sound of the aircar might cover some of the noise the railcars were sure to make.

She identified the last car from the moaning inside it and struggled with couplings encrusted with caked oil and dirt.
Peter, it’s—
Suddenly the stiff coupling released itself and she was knocked off balance, staggering back into the end of the car.
Well, thanks!
A wail arose from within.
Shut your faces, you stupid gits,
she ordered, forgetting that the other children could not hear her.
I’m doing my best to save your innards and your virtue.
She banged her fist once against the side of the car and felt the pain worth it when the warning achieved an instant drop in the mewling. That did much to soothe her aggravations.

Nervously she glanced up to see the aircar’s slow upward progress. Running dark like that, the pilot had to be careful not to get tangled in the wires that festooned the area around the building. If Peter could just get moving . . . He was! She heard the squeal, rattle, and clanking as wheels long locked on rails reluctantly began to turn. She swung up to sit on the tongue of the coupling, watching the building for any sign that someone within had heard the metallic protest. But the building was two hundred meters or so away, and the aircar was whooshing and thrumming.

She peered at the skyline, yearning to see some subtle movement that hinted of the approach of help. Those Talents were so slow. How soon was “soon”? Her car moved all too jerkily with rattlings and clankings, but it was making progress along the track. The dark building with the telltale band of light was slowly receding. She felt the car clack across the junction, veering right, and experienced partial relief. If that ladrone looked outside and saw half the train missing . . .

She saw the white blur of Peter’s face as the car inched past the transformer box; there was no disguise in the dark night for the audible hum emanating from it. What was Peter doing?

She jumped down from the coupling, wincing as her cut feet hit the stony, cindery ground. The cars continued to move obliquely away from danger, down an empty track.

“You can’t leave just empty track. They’ll know . . .” Tirla put an urgent hand on his arm and then could not release it. She could feel him shaking from the effort he had already made, shaking and more—and she was affected by his shaking and whatever else it was that raced through him.

“I’m trying,” he said tensely. “A gestalt’s hard with all that anesthesia still slowing me down. Help me!”

“Gestalt?” Tirla stuttered over the unfamiliar word, and then Peter put the explanation in her mind. Before she could ask how she could possibly help with that, she was. Her body seemed alive with the current racing through her, like the time she had caught a jolt from an exposed wire. Only this was not as painful as that shock-had been. But it was.
.
. what was it?

The metallic protest was startlingly loud on the still air. The white jet had moved beyond visibility into the swirling mist. Tirla felt both stronger and weaker, clutching at Peter with both hands, wanting to help him make the gestalt and needing his support. Suddenly she was aware of movement behind her as car after car began to slide past them onto the track
—clickety click, cickely click—
far too loudly. Suddenly, with a resounding clank, the new cars bounced against those near the platform, and Tirla’s heart clenched when she heard the shouts of alarm as men piled out to investigate.

“Tell me! Did you let all those other kids loose?” Flimflam asked, his nose inches from Tirla’s face. She wished he would bend just a little closer so she could bite him. But he would probably poison her, the greasy, coarse, evil scuz.

Unfortunately, before Tirla could help Peter to hide, two of the faster ladrones had caught them. They had been roughly hauled back to the building and into the presence of a seething Flimflam, so enraged that flecks of foam had gathered at the corners of his mouth.

Screaming with exasperation, Tirla had been shoved in front of the raging man as Peter collapsed on the floor, groaning.

“We didn’t see no others,” one of the ladrones said anxiously. “There wasn’t a sign of them, nor those cocoons in the cars neither.”

“Tell me where the children are!” Flimflam repeated in one of the more common Neester dialects, squeezing hard on her swollen fingers. “Did you let them loose?”

Despite herself, Tirla let out a howl of pain, trying to pull her hand out of his grasp. It hurt so much that she could not even think of a suitable malediction to fling at him. He let her go but scooped a stick off the table and began to slash it across her back.

“Hey, boss, the merch! Don’t mark the merch!”

“Tell me where the children went!” he demanded in the most common Asian language.

Tirla let tears run down her cheeks as she glanced quickly around the room, as if seeking help. Then in one of the most obscure languages she knew, she answered him in a piteously appealing tone. “Don’t beat me. I don’t understand you! Don’t beat me again!”

“Of all the—” Flimflam roared, swiveling about to the ladrones and hitters in the room. “What did she say? One of you must understand her! Just what I need. A dumb kid! Well?”

There were murmurs and shrugs as no one admitted to understanding.

Dorotea, reassuringly:
We’re nearly there, Tirla. We have the yard on the nightscope.

“Where—” Flimflam was making ludicrously broad, pantomine gestures, so unlike his polished performance as a RIG that Tirla nearly laughed even though he kept poking her painfully with his stick to emphasize his words. “Where—are—the others? Can no one talk to her? Rouse the other one. We can’t waste time. That bloody His Highness will be sending the transports. We must have the merchandise ready. Months of planning, everything goes without a hitch, we’ve got the money—
where are the others?”

A ladrone poured water over Peter, who did not even moan. Tirla watched him anxiously. He looked terribly pale, crumpled up like that. He had been fine until they had been recaptured. Perhaps the effort of moving those heavy railcars . . . She gasped as the whip sliced her again right over the previous welt. Tirla tried to back away but hands clamped on her shoulders, holding her fast. She kicked backward with her heels, jarring feet already sore, but her captor had heavy boots on and she only achieved more bruises.

“Let’s really put some fear into her,” Flimflam said, gesturing, and she was flung facedown to the hard surface of the table where she had recently seen piles of floaters. Cruel hard hands grasped her by wrists and ankles. Suddenly pain exploded across her already lacerated feet. She screamed and screamed again at the second horrific stab of pain, then fainted for the first time in her life.