Tin Woodman (12 page)

Or maybe he was merely using his past relationship with his sister as a model—and was afraid to take it any further. He seemed to balk at the notion of venturing too far into a physical expression of love with her. Mora understood this and bided her time, not trying to hurry anything. But often it frustrated her.

After all,
she thought, waving her hand over the door mechanism of her cabin. I’m not Adria.
I’m not!

“Hoo boy!” whooshed Ston, collapsing into a cross-legged position on his crumpled bedclothes. He peered up at her with playful but weary eyes. “That Null-G room takes a lot out of you.”

She poured two cups of guava juice, handed him one. “It does if you play grav-ball like a lunatic. If you didn’t have those protective pads, you’d have killed yourself, bouncing off those walls like you did.”

“But, Mora, that’s part of the
fun,”
he declared after thirstily downing over half the drink. “That’s what sports are for—to pound one’s violent tendencies out, relieving tensions.”

“Do you think they’d have let you play if they knew who you were?”

He looked up, confused. “Hey. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, the.only reason you could relieve your tensions with them is that they didn’t realize you were Ston Maurtan.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I admit, I didn’t know them from my previous duties.” After tossing down the last of the drink, he handed the cup back to her. “How come the reminder? You think I don’t realize what you’ve been doing for me? You think I don’t appreciate it? You know, come to think of it, you’ve been kind of moody all evening. You haven’t actually acted moody—but I can sort of sense it. It’s funny, Mora, but I haven’t had that sensation with anybody since—”

“Since Adria,” she finished for him quietly, putting the cups away. As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t. There was a long pause from him. She was afraid to turn around and look at him. Afraid even to reach out tentatively with her Talent and take the pulse of his feelings. Sometimes words said in the wrong way could be very cruel.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Not since Adria, Mora. That’s quite true. Adria was kind, and loving, and generous. Just like you. Only you’re almost better. You’re not my sister.”

Spinning about, she looked at him in disbelief. “Aren’t I?” Black clouds of unreasoning anger were forming in her mind.

Ston recoiled as if struck. “What . . .? What did I say?”

She advanced on him, fuming. “What’s my name, Ston?
What’s my name?”
she almost screamed at him.

“Mora. Mora Elbrun, of course.” The hurt look in his eyes took a little of the frustrated fury out of her. But not all.

“Are you sure it’s not
Adria,
like you keep on wanting to call me? Not Addy? You might as well call me that, Ston, because that’s who I am to you.” She turned away.

There was a long silence from Ston. Then she heard him rise and felt him touch her ann. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Let’s not talk about Adria any more. Maybe you have become like a sister to me, though. Maybe I love you like a sister. But what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with love?”

She walked away, sat in a chair, looked at him. “Nothing, Ston, if your love is for a person, and not a memory you see being relived in that person.”

“Where’s your brandy, Mora?” he asked quietly.

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“Medicinal purposes. I won’t get drunk. Just a glass.”

“My cabinet.”

“Thanks.”

She closed her eyes, listening to the clunking noises, the splash of liquid. There was a long silence. It had all come out so suddenly . . .

“Mora.” She realized he was standing over her. She opened her eyes, and he sat down beside her, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. “Mora, I apologize for what I’ve been doing. But it’s very hard . . . very hard not to confuse you with Adria sometimes. Maybe I’m just hurting both of us. I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking. We know we care about one another, and we’ve had a great time. But we’re living in a dream—we have to face reality. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it; I might as well do that now. There’s really no reason for you to be spending money, when Darsen is obviously perfectly willing to put me in a Henderson until we return to our next port of call. That way we can save your money, use it wherever we end up. Besides, I feel like a burden to you.”

“l owe it to you, Ston,” she replied.

“You don’t owe me anything, really. That whole escape business was entirely
worthless.
You wouldn’t have been given any more treatments, whatever happened. I just complicated things a bit.”

“But you didn’t
know
that. You tried, and that’s what’s important, Ston. You did what you thought was right. Your feelings for me came only after the fact. It was your principles that made you do it “

“And the fact that you hit something in me first time I saw you. Something that reminded me of Adria. The whole setup. Reminded me of what happened to Adria.” He sighed and sipped his brandy. “And maybe, I keep on telling myself, if I’d been there to help instead of off earning my stars in the service, she’d have been able to hang on. To beat them. But no. I was light-years away. So far. So very far away when the pressure got too much for her.”

“What was it, Ston?”

“A man.” He laughed, humorlessly. “Pretty simple, huh? Well, as near as I could get it, that was just the final straw, Bad luck seemed to vortex on her, and that was it—a guy broke her heart. And guess what, Mora. This is the funniest part. The bastard was in the Triunion Space Service. You think maybe she substituted him for me? Isn’t that a chuckle?” He stared at the wall, bleakly. “Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard in your life?”

“Ston,” she said in a whisper. “I want you to love me—not a memory. She’s dead. You have to accept that. I’m not her.”

“Doesn’t make any difference now.” He gulped down the rest of the brandy. “I think I’d better request placement in a Henderson. I think that’s best for both of us—the most practical thing. Just for the duration of the trip—when we get back to Earth, or wherever, we’ll get something together. God knows what, but we’ll manage.” He patted her hand. “It’s been great—you’ve improved my whole pessimistic outlook.”

“We might never get back to Earth, Ston.”

He cocked his head quizzically.

“We’re far away from Triunion space now. On a crazy chase with a question mark at its end. Darsen’s flipped out for some reason. I don’t know if the
Pegasus
will ever return. It’s a definite possibility—and I don’t like the thought of spending these days alone. They might be my last. I can spare the money.”

He nodded. “What if I said my pride wouldn’t allow that.”

“Then I’d tell you what you can do with your stupid pride.”

He laughed, unguardedly and fully. A rich laugh, full of love. “You know, that’s just what . . .” He stopped himself, laughed again, and hugged her.

Just what Adria would have said,
she finished the sentence for him in her mind. But she felt no anger.

She could wait until he was ready.

Leana Coffer’s Journal

(Vocoder transcription authorized

by Leana Coffer. Original recording

voice-locked per program 774-D.)

Keeping this journal is becoming dangerous. I should stop, but somehow I feel the need to justify myself day by day—if only to myself.

I’m not sure that I’m being watched, but it’s likely. Someone must have reported seeing Norlan and me with Damilandor in the lounge. It’s equally certain that this incident was not the one which caused Damil’s arrest, otherwise Norlan and I would be in the brig too. As matters stand, I must continue to be the efficient, unfeeling executive officer that I’ve always been—ignoring even the slight to my position in Darsen’s appointment of Tamner as his personal assistant. Darsen has turned almost all of his regular duties over to Tamner, as though the captain’s full attention is needed for our pursuit of the alien. Tamner is now effectively second in command, with more power than me.

Five days have passed since we went into Null-R, This ship is now traveling through the Null-R continuum at the maximum velocity the engines can achieve, and the chief engineer complains constantly that it is dangerous for us to keep up this speed for long periods of time. Now and then, Darsen gives in for a while. But after a few hours he demands acceleration again.

He sits behind his command desk all his waking hours—and is sleeping only four hours out of every twenty-four. He has his meals brought to him at his desk.

Unrest among the crew has become so great that six people, including one of the bridge crew, have been confined to MedSec for “psychiatric observation.” In the lower echelons, where personality monitoring is less closely maintained, morale is even worse. This is not an exploratory vessel, and the crew is not emotionally prepared for this sort of crazy chase. No one is happy about Darsen’s mission. The most excitable of the crew members complain openly, and too loudly for their own good.

To top this all off, we have a food shortage now—we were to have stopped over for supplies long ago, on our regular run. So what does Tamner—damn him—suggest? Well, there’s an obscure regulation which covers this situation—members of the crew may be placed into Hendersons for the duration of the shortage. Same applies to passengers. And there’s no doubt that the first selected for this will be the complainers and potential troublemakers.

For the moment I’ll have to let the loudmouths draw attention so that less will land on me. And I must use this borrowed time to plan.

Darsen must be taking stimulants in great dosage; I’m tempted to think that if I give him time he’ll simply collapse or go obviously berserk—but I can’t depend on that. That his unbalance is so visible, however, is to my advantage.

The captain obviously obsessed, the crew anxious and unhappy; the mutiny
must
succeed, given the circumstances. My problem has been one of contacting and organizing the people I need with me. I must be furtive about this, and able to trust them completely—until now this has stumped me. But I’ve thought of a way to do it, a way which demands that I risk approaching and trusting absolutely only one person.

I need Mora Elbrun.

ELEVEN

She stood on a craggy cliff, overlooking the sea.

Below, waves beat themselves thunderously to froth against sharp, black rocks. She could smell their briny spume, borne aloft on the wind that white-capped the waves and pushed a solitary gull up toward the blue, cumulus-spotted sky. The salty tang dominated the air, but the clean, rich tastes of the grass and the forest, and perhaps even the heather that clothed the sides of the rough mountains humping along the horizon, were there as well.

Beside her, in tartan plaids, stood Ston Maurtan, smiling, looking off as though through a great distance.

“It’s very beautiful here,” she told him. “Just on the brow of that hill there’s a crumbling castle. There’s a sea gull just drifting in the breeze. He looks content, Ston. Too bad we can’t just be gulls, swooping and playing above a Scottish sea.”

“Yeah,” Ston replied absently.

“You know,” she said crossly, “you
could
have selected the same program as I did. I think you just took the Grand Canyon to be obstinate.”

He turned to face her. “I can’t stand the goddamned seashore of Scotland. Never could. Really much more scenic here. More relaxing. The air is dry and clean. The sun is hot, but pleasant.” He looked at her, smiling. His eyes were hidden behind goggles, but she was sure they had a gleam to them from the emotions she could feel in them. “And we’re both in cowboy suits.”

“Cowboy suits!” she cried, in a mock-horrified voice.

“Yeah, with ten-gallon hats, and fringes, and everything. Boots included.”

“Oh, my godl” She laughed. “That’s disgusting.”

“Well, I bet you’ve got us in tartan, haven’t you?”

“It’s part of the program. I could have fitted you out in a kilt and bagpipes, if I wanted. But my selection has
taste.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle. She slipped her hand in his and squeezed. It would have been nice to tiptoe up and kiss him—but that would have been awkward with the complicated set of attachments in masklike array on both their faces, with the web of wires connected to the backpack computer-terminal extension. So she contented herself with holding his hand.

God, it was romantic! The sea, the land, the castle, all harmonizing into a symphony of the senses. Her Talent was focused on Ston to such a degree that she was only aware of his presence, successfully shutting out the other extrasensory data available from the reality of the ship’s Garden Room, where they actually stood. The rental of the Otherwhere devices and the computer time was expensive. But it was worth it to be swept away from the grim metal of the
Pegasus
into an Ideal. Here, it was easy to pretend that she was a Scots lass beside her handsome highwayman lover who was about to carry her off into the heather for mutual ravishrnent.

A mental fantasy to match the physical one around her. Looking at Ston, she laughed to herself, feeling like an adolescent. The relationship between herself and Ston was a bit too delicate for that sort of thing to happen yet. He still had to straighten himself out on that score.

Standing there now with him in her private computer-structured fantasy, she wished he would hurry up about it.

Her gaze swept the panorama again. Behind them crew people were milling about, re-clothed to her sight in suitably Scottish apparel. A solitary woman dressed in a smart knee-length kilt was heading their way, evidently intent on speaking with them.

She tapped Ston’s shoulder. “Someone’s coming. A woman.”

“Can’t see her. I’ve got everybody but you programmed out.”

“You’d better tune her in, then. I think I recognize her . . . yes, it’s Leana Coffer!”

Reaching down to the abdomen attachment, Ston fiddled with a dial. “Damn it, I’m losing the canyon now too. Oh. There. Yeah. I see her.”

Leana Coffer stopped in front of them. “Hello, Mora. Can you hear me?”

Instantly, Mora directed her Talent toward the woman and took a surface reading. Concern. Sincerity.

“She’s speaking, isn’t she?” said Ston, adjusting his computer-interface controls. “All I can hear is you, the wind, and some burro honking in the distance.”

“Yes,” Mora replied to the new arrival. “I can hear you, anyway. I’m sure Ston will tune you in eventually.”

Coffer nodded. “I was just walking through the Garden Room, and I saw you two. I just wanted to see how you are doing. By the way, what are you tuned into on those devices?”

“Scottish coast,” Mora answered hesitantly. Generally, everyone simply ignored them. Why had Coffer approached, in a friendly manner yet? “Ston’s in the Grand Canyon.”

“Hell, I can’t tune her in!” cried Ston. “What’s wrong with this stinking machine? We paid good money . . .”

Disregarding Ston, Mora said to Coffer, somewhat bitterly: “You should know I’m no longer shiplady, Leana. If you have problems . . .”

The woman waved her hands in negation. “Oh no. Nothing like that. Listen, Mora—actually, I want to apologize. But you have to understand, I had no choice but to do what I did . . .to carry out Darsen’s orders. Shall we put it all behind us?”

Mora shrugged, reached down, and hit the cutoff button. The sea, the sky, the cliff, the distant mountains dissolved into the trees, the ceiling, the flowers and surrounding plants of the large, square Garden Room. Coffer’s kilt vanished, giving way to the maroon and tan of command crew leisure attire. Ston still played with his knobs, without success.

“Your entire interface with the computer has been disengaged?” inquired Coffer, glancing about as though to make sure no one watched.

“Yes. Why?”

“Good. As far as I know there is no security surveillance to speak of in this area. But I can’t be positive. So I’ll be brief. Please appear to be chatting casually with me.” She took a breath. “Things are getting bad. I think you might be able to help. We can’t risk speaking at length here. There is to be a dance tonight, in the amphitheater. There will be privacy booths available, and minimal surveillance. Meet me there, both of you, and I’ll explain everything.”

“How do I know this isn’t one of Darsen’s little traps?” Mora asked suspiciously.

“Your Talent should be back now, I’m not hiding anything. By all means read me. But quickly. I’ve got to go. I’ll reserve the table. In the back. I’ll be there. It’s at 2000 hours.”

Even as Coffer spoke, Mora was already letting herself penetrate Coffer’s emotions further. There was no sign of deceit there; from all indications, she was being entirely truthful. Not merely that—under her relaxed exterior, she was wound up tight as a spring. She was frightened. She did not attempt to erect any barriers against Mora. The invitation was obvious; Mora would be allowed to probe even further, if she wanted.

But it was enough. She trusted Coffer now. “We’ll be there. But will it be risky?”

“Yes,” Coffer replied.

“But why can’t we talk in my quarters?”

“Bugged, I’m sure.”

She nodded. Damn them. Listening in on her and Ston . . .

“All right. So nice to see you again, Leana. Thanks for your concern.” She gave Coffer a pleasant smile.

Coffer returned it and continued in the direction she’d been heading when she had “bumped” into them, merely strolling along, enjoying the flora.

“There,” said Ston, looking up. “Where did Coffer go? And what did she want?”

Mora grabbed him by the crook of his arm. “We’re turning these contraptions in, Ston. I’ll explain.” She tugged him quickly around a comer. He yelped, covering his eyes. “Don’t—you’re pulling me over the side . . .”

Halting abruptly, they looked at each other and broke into laughter.

It was his big mouth that got Engineer Third Class Monte Thompson into trouble. The feisty, one-point-seven-meter Null-R Field Generator Inspector from Sicily certainly never entertained thoughts of actually going against
any
officers, let alone the captain, no matter if they were headed into the Inner Circle of Dante’s Infemo itself. But he complained loudly and openly, underlining his protestations against the ship’s course with violent, barely controlled gestures. Security was certainly cognizant of the man, particularly because of his potentially harmful proximity to highly important mechanisms. The incident in the mess hall, however, decided them on what they should do about him.

Climbing up and down the web-working that surrounded the stasis engines, checking for mechanical faults or signs of wear in the huge machines in the port bow of the
Pegasus
tended to be exhausting work at best. But ten days’ straight long-shift duty was really wearing him out. His loud grumblings about the extra work and dubious destination were actually only his way of letting off steam. He liked the job. He liked his pay. He enjoyed being a part of this little universe inside the ship; so much better than back on Earth. He felt important here. Significant. It was much better to be a small anchovy in a small pond, than a small anchovy in an ocean. Crawling about in the webbing, adjusting this and that, checking meters—the thought never occurred to him that the monitor attachment to the computer from the engines did most of his actual work—was tiring. Usually when he was done with a shift, he was ravenous.

He expected a decent amount of food supplied him to restore expended energy.

So when Chief Petty Officer Wilmo told him his tour of duty was over, he cried, “About goddamn time,” jumped down lithely from the strong nylon web, and headed straight for some chow. Although not as good as the stuff he ate at horne, the food here wasn’t bad. It was filling, and fairly tasty. A combination of soybean hydroponics, cultivated algae, and some synthesis of nutrient from inorganic chemicals, often spiced with specials from the growing rooms, it was somehow formed into palatable, varied meals. Not the real thing of course. And it took a while to get used to the idea that some of it was recycled wastes, but then when you got down to it, Earth wasn’t a hell of a lot better, really. As his sinewy, diminutive form made its way to Mess Hall Three, his mind was adding sensuous detail to the savory image of the dinner he was going to punch up. Steak. Gravy. A side dish of buttered spaghetti with a sprinkling of oregano and Romano cheese. Yeah. And some eggplant! Cooked in olive oil, simmered with tomato sauce, topped with mozzarella. And to drink: a nice glass of wine, A little over regular rations, sure. But he could cough up an extra expense unit. And a salad! Don’t forget the salad!

It would be worth it.

Entering the nearly empty mess an hour before his usual dinnertime, he had to swallow the saliva that had gushed into his mouth. Damn! He could almost smell it, and the computer hadn’t even put it together yet!

Eagerly, he bounced over to the Special Dinner section, slipped in his identicard, pondered the dials. After the necessary manipulations, he keypunched the specific directions: STEAK, EGGPLANT, SPAGHETTI AL DENTE, YOU LOUSY CHEF MACHINE—OIL AND VINEGAR ON THE SALAD AND DON’T COOK THE HELL OUT OF THE STEAK THIS TIME, HUH? RARE. RARE!

He ordered his wine, fingered the final control, and the machine came to life. Three minutes later—a little fast, he noticed—it dinged its completion, and he slid open the little door expectantly. He pulled out the tray.

There, on a single dish, was a pale gray patty of unornamented soy meat, a little puddle of algae-veg, and a glass of soy milk.

He put the tray down on the table, pounded on the console keys.

YOU MADE A MISTAKE. WHAT THE SHIT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I ORDERED—

The keys became stiff. The screen responded: BECAUSE OF SUPPLY PROBLEMS, CAPTAIN DARSEN HAS ORDERED SPECIAL RATIONING. PLEASE BEAR WITH US DURING THIS EMERGENCY.

He blew up.

He headed straight for an intra-ship communicator.

“Bridge Communications.”

After telling the bridge what it could do with itself, he demanded to speak to the captain. When bridge communications told him that the captain was unavailable and coldly asked him what the problem was, he told them. “What is this rationing shit? I got a tray full of dreck down here! You expect me to
eat
this? Listen—I just worked a backbreaking six goddamn hours on the frigging engines, and I want something to
eat!
If this is the sort of treatment we can expect on this harebrained trip light-years away from our intended course, I say we turn back!”

The other people in the mess, looking up from equally slim rations, added their cheers of approval.

“Just a moment, Mr. Thompson,” the voice comforted. “We’ll send someone down immediately to attend to the problem.”

When the security force got, there and asked him politely to come with them to speak with Lieutenant Commander Tamner, Thompson threw the food at them. The security men suddenly found themselves being showered with the other trays of food in the hall. After a small fracas, they managed to administer a quick stun to the rabble-rouser and carted him away bodily. The others were also subdued.

Tamner had Hendersons all ready for them.

They entered the amphitheater at 2013 hours. The dance was already in full swing.

There was no question in Mora’s mind why the dance had been scheduled. It was a proven fact that dancing—particularly the sort of frenzied dancing that was allowed in the large amphitheater—relieved tension. No doubt the new security chief, Jin Tamner, detected the tension that was building in the crew members and passengers as they speeded further and further away from known space, and wished to bleed it off the safest way possible.

She wore a streamlined jumpsuit, emblazoned with colored glitter. Ston was dressed in a simple coverall.

The center of the amphitheater had been cleared of seats for the “dance floor.” The walls, floor, and ceiling of the huge room were literally one entire sound system, augmented for this event by separate sonic boxes in the comers for special aural effects reserved for concerts and dances.

As they entered, she was immediately buffeted by the blast of sound that swelled around her from every direction. She could not merely hear the music—now a simple rhythmic composition, cleverly underpinned with a complex, entirely seprate melody that counterpointed the basic dance song—she could feel it over every square centimeter of her body. The sound was that penetrating. It coursed over her like a strong current of warm friendly water, buoying up her spirits with the emotion it imparted.