Tin Woodman (13 page)

The darkened room was strobed with delicate light-interpretations of the music. Varied pulses and scintillations and dazzles splashed over the ceiling, ribbed with lasers. Colors throbbed. The blisters on the floor and wall that were the light machines fairly blazed like confused suns, now merely throwing off subtle flares of spectruming flashes, now exploding into fountains of resplendence. All flashed perfect visions of the tone and beat of the music to where the sound would not go.

The music itself was created by a single man, sitting off in the corner of the stage, almost invisible beneath an array of equipment. On his head was a helmet with dozens of attached wires snaking off into machines. A music man, his brain surgically implanted with special jacks and electrical connections, he literally plugged himself into a computer which translated the music he had in his mind into the varied sounds heard by the dancers. Some songs he would compose on the spot; most he drew from memory, subtly shading them with appropriate emotion. The cumbersome interface of musical instruments was thus eliminated. It was one step further in direct musical communication.

The sounds the music man could make were breathtakingly, soul-achingly beautiful.

Totally involved, augmented by other sensual accouterments, one could visit a dance and be totally swept away on a wave of continuous ecstasy. Portable taste and olfactory attachments that complemented both the sound and the sights were available. The dance floor consisted of a circular, flat area centered with a large, ceiling-high free-fall field. Dancers could, at will, hurl themselves into this and gyrate free of ship’s gravity.

Surrounding the dance floor were tables. By the spurious light, Mora searched out Leana Coffer . . . and found her, sitting near the back, alone.

Mora tugged Ston’s sleeve, pointed toward Coffer’s table. Ston seemed to be startled out of temporary immersion in the music—he nodded and, holding hands, they threaded through the tables and chairs.

Coffer waved hello and urged them to sit down. As they did so, she tapped the privacy field over the table, shutting out all the sound.

“Hey,” complained Ston. “Do you have to do that? I was enjoying the music.”

“The dance lasts till at least midnight. This won’t take too long. Sound coming in means that sound can go out as well. I don’t want that.”

Ston shrugged and sighed. “Okay. What’s up?”

Pushing forward two filled glasses, Coffer said, “I got you beer. That okay?”

“Sure,” Mora accepted hers, sipped. “A bit weak.”

“Watered down. The rationing effective this afternoon.”

“Yes. Dinner was dreadful,” she said.

“It’s bringing a lot of the unrest on board to the surface,” said Coffer. “It might help our cause to a degree. For example, today a guy from Engineering
really
got bent out of sorts. I hear he threw his dinner right into Tamner’s face—but that’s only scuttlebutt, and you know how that’s distorted.” Her expression grew grim. “But I do know that he’s raised his complaints before, and Tamner ‘arbitrarily’ selected him and a few others involved in that minor riot to be placed in Hendersons for the duration of the ‘emergency’ to alleviate the food supply shortage.”

“And to effectively eliminate troublemakers,” put in Ston.

“Yes. I’m afraid that appears to be the ploy.” Coffer swallowed some beer, made a face.

“Okay, Leana,” said Mora, “Here we are, risking placement in Hendersons as well, Specifically, why did you want to talk to Ston and me?”

The woman sucked in breath, let it out contemplatively. “Things are very bad upstairs. We’re headed God-knows-where on a fool’s mission. Captain Darsen’s gone off the deep end. The course of action was
not
ordered by Galactic Command—I’m sure of that. And Tamner’s become a little dictator. Very bad.” She paused, staring away.

Crimson light streaked with white dots spilled across the table like a ghost of burning lava. Mora could almost feel the floor and the force screen vibrating with the thunderous music dashing itself against them, trying to get in, drown the party in sound.

“Are you suggesting mutiny, Leana?”

The executive officer looked into Mora’s eyes and nodded slowly.

TWELVE

Leana Coffer’s Journal

(Vocoder transcription authorized

by Leana Coffer. Original recording

voice-locked per program 774-D.)

I feel giddy, elated. Perhaps I’m a little drunk—certainly a novel sensation. I should have restrained myself at the dance where I talked with Mora and her friend . . . so much depends now on my being in complete control. Yet I’ve never been less afraid, more certain of success, than now. Perhaps . . . I remember my mother as a terrible drinker. Father pretended it didn’t bother him. He used to call it her “courage.” It made her so courageous that she killed them both in a traffic accident when I was thirteen . . . but I don’t want to think about that . . .

Learning that the exec had a mother would probably shock the crew worse than anything else in this journal.

I hadn’t seen Mora since the
Tin Woodman
incident. I think I’ve gained her trust—and I think she’s worried that maybe Darsen will find
Tin Woodman
and Div again, and do them harm. So mutiny is just fine with her. Seeing Mora tonight, I remembered the dedication with which she used to ply her so ineffectual trade. The role of shiplady, like so many service assignments and regulations, has always seemed an illogical one. In a universe top-heavy with psychologists, why are Talents needed on starships? There must be a reason for this foolishness—and tonight I’ve put it all together. Call it Coffer’s manifesto—the
raison d’etre
of the mutiny. Or is it a revolution? We’re all alone, out here on the ship; it’s the only world we have. Call it revolution, then.

The Triunion Space Service is a drain which keeps society stable. It’s a dream that every youngster has, to be a spacer and drift from star to star, or venture boldly out to find new worlds. Well, then, let them. They won’t be at home, making trouble.

There are over five hundred crew members aboard the
Pegasus,
too many of them officers. And they do unnecessary things—this ship could be run by twenty people; the ship’s computer does most of the work. However, if it were, how many ships would the service need to guarantee a place for representatives of every social, racial, national, and ideological group? We have a quota system operating here, I think.

Take Earth—dominated by six superstates so interdependent on one another that war is unthinkable. The threat to these governments is not each other, but the populations they each control. The service is set up as a shining example of courageous people expanding man’s knowledge, building a better world out among the stars. Everyone wants to join it—the governments can thus get their rebels, boat-rockers, overachievers and other likely troublemakers to
volunteer
for the service. Then they send them out to push buttons on useless machinery light-years from home; a much better thing to do than to let them hang about the Triunion home-worlds starting revolutions.

The colonies fit into this scheme as well. They can’t develop quickly enough ever to threaten or oppose the Triunion—and why should they want to? They’ve got their own worlds, all to themselves. This way, people who won’t fit, don’t qualify, or just represent too large a group to be in the Space Service can be disposed of. For example, Damilandor. Crysor didn’t want him and his fellow Christians, and certainly couldn’t expect them all to sign on for space duty. So they were offered a world of their own.

Now, as for the Talents; they’re disliked and treated with suspicion by most of humanity. The worst fear expressed is that they’ll coalesce into some sort of conspiratorial group. Most of them would never qualify for the service—they’d never pass the psych exams—unless there were a job that only they could do. Ergo, the shiplady/shipman position. One to a ship, and always under close supervision.

I’m only guessing at all this, but it has the ring of truth—–to me, at least. Perhaps I’m just getting as paranoid as Darsen. But consider—the major aim of all government is self-perpetuation. In the service, the governments have found a means of avoiding disruptive change which might threaten their hegemonies. It’s commonly observed that civilization on Earth has evolved very little since the late twentieth century, and I think my theory goes a long way to explaining why.

The service is a medieval solution to a modem problem; we’re a leech on the body politic, draining the bad blood —and the good blood, as well.

I’ve been trying to sleep, without success. My conversation with Mora and Ston keeps replaying itself. I had meant to set down the outlines here of the plan I discussed with them—but my involvement with my own theories ran away with me. I shall do so now.

Mora’s sympathy with my intentions was clear—she is as disenfranchised and suffers as greatly under Darsen as anyone. She has the ability to read emotions and therefore was easy to persuade as far as my own sincerity is concerned; for the same reason I’m willing to trust Ston Maurtan as long as she does.

Her Talent is central to my plan. I explained this to her—through brief nonverbal contact with others she can gauge their willingness to oppose Darsen. She can guarantee that we take no spies into our confidence; at the same time she can determine who among the many possible allies in each area of ship’s operations will be the most valuable to us.

I explained briefly what I would expect out of each recruit. I told her that I had settled on a code-phrase to trigger action, which would be broadcast by Gary Norlan, who’s already quite involved: “Compliments of the captain.” This will begin the mutiny. She is to pass this phrase on to those she recruits. I think it’s a good signal; it’s ordinarily attached to some general order relaxing restrictions or declaring special recreation for the crew, and therefore isn’t likely to be used in any regular broadcast from the bridge. Not while Darsen is in command.

Then the mutiny will begin.

They were almost there, now: the destination.

Tucked at the heart of
Tin Woodman
like a baby in its mother’s womb, Div Harlthor was slowly learning who he had become, and who he had been before. More and more, in the wordless discussions between
Tin Woodman
and Div, he felt as though he were conversing with himself. But as hard as he tried he could not merge himself totally—there was an empty space in him, yet. He brooded much even as he learned to touch the vibrant energies of the universe, and to use them.

He thought about the people he had known. He thought often about Mora Elbrun. He needed to think as himself—not something more. He tried to withdraw his mind into the tiny part of the ship-being which was still totally separate—
his
.

“Why do you persist in keeping part of yourself removed, my love?”
asked
Tin Woodman,
concerned.

“I don’t know. I just have to.”

“It is to be expected perhaps. It is not easy to cast oneself away from the things one has known all one’s previous life. Perhaps we can discuss this?”

But Div could not explain. He was beginning to comprehend how utterly and irrevocably he had cut himself off from his past, from other human beings. Those thoughts and feelings which he had once desperately wished to share with some other person in the frustrated hope that they might be reciprocated welled up in him now. But he
had
an other, now, didn’t he? And more love than he could imagine . . . yet maybe not the sort he had desired . . .

Div tried to open himself and communicate this undefined feeling—and Mora Elbrun seemed on his mind once more.

It had seemed so wildly beyond his reach, on the
Pegasus
—the possibility of feeling something more than his familiar uncertain empathy for another person—a particular person. His feelings for her had been unexamined and undiscovered while his fascination and obsession with the mystery of
Tin Woodman
had grown. Now he regretted-—

What had been his hopes and desires before all of this? He had those then—and ideals below the pain and the endurance. To fulfill himself? To discover the
reason
for his existence? At one time, in the worst part of his life—almost insane, when they had put him away—he believed in nothing. Life was absurd, without meaning, a freak smear of matter and energy gyrating mindlessly in the midst of measureless vacuum. He had wanted to die then—no, he even wished he had never existed. That was the lowest plunge, when he had tried to kill himself and they stopped him. And Dr. Severs had said, “Well, Div, if you find a key, you know there must be a lock somewhere.” That phrase stood out long after the other things that Severs had said drifted away into his subconscious. Perhaps he
was
a key to something . . . perhaps he had a
purpose
in life, a place to
belong.
This was why he had assented to leaving Earth to contact the alien the
Pegasus
had found—somehow knowing that perhaps this would give his life meaning, if only in service to the human race in some obscure way. He had found much more, hadn’t he? Here, with the universe at the fingertips of his mind, and a future of wonder awaiting him—didn’t this surpass everything he had dreamed of before, yearned for achingly?

Yes, he told himself in his secret heart. Of course.

Of course . . .

The kid in the mess hall would be number sixteen. It was working.

Alone, she pulled her tray out of the service machine, turned around, and trained her eyes on her target. He was sitting in a desolate corner of the nearly empty room, forlornly forking his slim rations into his mouth. Couldn’t be more than twenty-three, she figured. Face hardly touched by beard. Soft hazel eyes beneath auburn bangs. Ston had identified him. A spanking-new ensign, assigned to the
Pegasus
at the same time as Ston had been. Ensign Dinni Rosher. A
good guy
to
talk to,
Ston had said.
Always very moody, when I knew him. Very disappointed with the service. He should be a knockover, the way things are now.

She made a point of passing behind him on her way to the food dispenser machine. The emotions that waved from him were fairly negative: unhappiness, tinged with real bitterness. Above all, he seemed terribly tired. She felt for him.

“Mind if I sit here?”

His head jerked up at her words. His eyes were startled. “Uh—why?”

“I’m lonely. It depresses me to sit alone in this place.” Tentatively, she brushed his mind with a soft, comforting stroke of empathy.

“There are others around.”

“But you’re the only one by yourself.”

“Oh.” He smiled dutifully, nodded at the chair across from him.

“Sure. Have a seat. I don’t promise you fascinating company.”

“Simple company will do.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Simple.”

Mora set her tray down. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Don’t mind me.”

“You don’t look too cheery. How come?” The tentative brush of her Talent undeflected, she allowed more empathy to wash over him, gradually. Already, she could feel him loosening up. Good. A susceptible mind.

“Oh,” he said after sipping at his half-gone soy milk. “Things.”

“Not so good?”

He looked up at her. “Are they good for anyone nowadays?”

“No. I suppose not.”

He looked more closely at her. “Hey. I know who you are. The shiplady. Yeah. Mora. Mora—”

“Elbrun.”

“Yes. I never used you.”

“I’d remember you.”

“Rumor is you started us on this crazy goose chase.”

“Not really. I had no choice. It was the captain who gave the orders. Not me.”

“Galactic Command, you mean.”

She probed. A very upset fellow, this Dinni Rosher. He fairly resonated dissatisfaction. It showed up as moroseness on the surface—but she could detect much more beneath. The emotions he gave off when voicing “captain” and “Galactic Command” were negative. Very negative indeed. He was ripe.

She sighed softly, rubbing her short length of yellow hair as she spoke. “I hear it was Captain Darsen who authorized pursuit of the alien. Not Galactic Command.”

His hazel eyes stared straight into hers. “That’s impossible.”

“Suppose it was possible,” she countered airily, playing with her food, making it all seem light and cheerful—a little game.

“Then the captain is—no . . . it’s unthinkable.” He shook his head conclusively.

Raising her fork, she waved at him slightly. “Well, suppose the captain
has
taken the matter in his own hands. Suppose he
disobeyed
Galactic Command, and for his own reasons took off after the alien. It does make sense, doesn’t it? I mean, Galactic Command sending us off on a fool’s mission, with low supplies—many, many light-years from known space. It’s unprecedented. Would the usually conservative GC do such a thing when the odds are slim to none of catching the quarry? Which, you have to admit, can hardly be categorized as hostile to the Triunion. Suppose an this is the case.”

“What are you getting at?” His food sat before him, forgotten.

Her smile stiffened. “Who is our actual allegiance to in the service? Our captain—or Galactic Command?”

He turned his eyes away, nodding. “Yes. I see what you mean. But what
proof
do you have? You’ve used the word ‘suppose’ a lot.”

This was the most difficult part, because there was no solid tangible proof to give. Only Coffer’s word. It was necessary at this point to convince him both with her rhetoric and her subtle manipulations of his emotions. She had never been very good at that as a shiplady. But in her present role she tried as hard as she could.

“No such order from Galactic Command was ever received.”

“But how do you know that for a
fact?”
insisted Rosher.

A gentle nudge of empathic feeling:
Believe me. Believe me.
And: “If the order had been sent, it would have passed through Chief Communications Officer Norlan. It didn’t.”

“You have this from Norlan?”

“Yes. Put yourself in his place. What would you do if you knew what he knows?”