Tin Woodman (4 page)

“Tin Woodman,”
Div replied. He lay back again, clutching onto Mora with something like frenzy. Struggling to understand the impressions she had accidentally glimpsed, Mora realized that they had been hidden in Div’s mind all the time.

“You’re already in contact with it, then?”

Div stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned to her, holding her eyes with his.

“Yes, I caused it to wake.”

Later, Div asked, “How long? Before I have to go out there, I mean?”

“About two hours,” she said.

“I can’t sleep. I’m going to go back to the observation deck, to see it again, to be
closer.”
His sudden vehemence frightened her. He jerked up from the bed to his feet.

“Do you have to?” she asked.

“You can come with me, if you like. Please do.”

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t. There are bound to be other people up there. I don’t want to face them so soon. I need time to think. No, I
won’t!”
She looked at Div desperately as he opened the cabin door. He turned back to her, silhouetted in the blue light of the corridor beyond.

I know,
he cast gently.
I wish I didn’t love them, too.

FOUR

Leana Coffer sat at the bridge’s launch monitor, running through a last check of the hangar deck’s subsystem’s display. “Hangar depressurized,” she reported, turning away from her console to face Darsen at his command station. “Bay doors are powered up, and robot guidance on the spider checks out normal.”

Glumly drumming his fingers along the edge of his desk, Darsen acknowledged the report.

“We can proceed with launch on your command, Captain,” finished Coffer.

“Activate the spider’s inboard monitor now,” Darsen ordered, gesturing toward the globe of the bridge’s main vu-tank. “I want to keep an eye on the boy. Don’t trust him at all.”

“Why?” asked Coffer. “What could he do?”

“I’m not sure,” muttered Darsen. “But Harlthor hasn’t been playing straight with us. I know it.”

Coffer shrugged and activated the vu-tank. A holographic image of the hangar deck, transmitted through the
Pegasus’
internal surveillance cameras, coalesced within the huge crystal globe which hung suspended in the center of the bridge. The vu-tank showed the dull gray bulkheads and sharp black shadows of the hangar deck. In the middle of the picture, centered over the bay doors, stood the spider. The craft rested on six of its eight articulated metal appendages. The remaining two thrust forward into the air, their grappling claws extended. The cabin of the craft was nothing more than an open metal cage with a seat bolted into it, mounted just below the point where the legs joined the body of the ship. Gilt metal shielding separated the cabin from the chemical engines which propelled the spider. Exposed cables ran up and down every surface.

Coffer switched over to the spider’s inboard monitor; the scene in the vu-tank dissolved into a close-up of Div’s head, his features hidden behind the dark visor of his reflective yellow pressure suit. Darsen stared at the image as though trying to pierce the black mirror of Div’s helmet and read the boy’s expression. After several moments, the captain returned his attention to Coffer. “Okay. Proceed with launch when ready—signal that to the local controller,” he ordered. “And keep that monitor on.” He looked around the bridge realizing that someone was missing. “Where the devil is the shiplady?”

“Do you care?” asked Coffer, coldly.

“Not really. Log her as absent from her post.”

Darsen watched the vu-tank sullenly.

Mora stood alone in one of the observation rooms which lined the walls of the hangar deck, separated from the depressurized launch area by less than an inch of transparent metal and plastics. She made no attempt to reach out to the mind of the boy who sat strapped into the heart of the spider. She knew that Div’s thoughts were fifty thousand kays distant, focused on
Tin Woodman.

The door behind her slid open. A young man wearing an engineering uniform entered the observation room. She read him, found that he was surprised that the room was occupied. Nothing more. She had never noticed him before; he did not appear to recognize her.

“I’m supposed to watch the launch,” he said, smiling. “Do you mind?” Mora shook her head. As he walked across the room toward the mirror next to her, she saw that he was no taller than herself, well under two meters tall. His hair was dark, his eyes were brown; she guessed from his features that he was a native of Earth, probably of European ancestry. He wore an ensign’s badges on his flame-colored uniform. And he was certainly young—perhaps twenty-three years old.

“My name’s Ston,” he offered. “Ston Maurtan.”

“I’m Mora . . . Elbrun,” she replied, trying to watch the hangar deck without being impolite. Ston did not seem to recognize the name.

“I’ve been aboard about three months,” said Ston. “Just commissioned. I’m really still in training—the Chief Engineer said I should observe this.” Maurtan smiled again. He seemed loquacious, but was so unaffectedly friendly that she didn’t find him annoying.

Suddenly the warning lights which lined the bay doors of the hangar deck flashed red. The doors began to part beneath Div’s vehicle. Mora’s attention was drawn back to the launch.

“That’s the telepath from Earth, right?” asked Ston.

Mora nodded absently, intent on the event unfolding beneath them. A tingling crawled up her spine. A sense of dread, and yet at the same time a sense of giddy elation. Then she realized that Ston was gazing at her as intensely as she had been staring at the ship. She looked him in the eyes, then self-consciously turned back to peer downward.

“What’s happening here?” asked Ston, slowly. “Something more than meets the eye, I think.” His tone was not stern; merely inquiring. The emotional waves Mora received from him were calm, concerned.

“No—just what you see,” said Mora in a strained voice. “Just what we’ve waited these weeks for. A Talent to make contact with
Tin Woodman.”
Even as she spoke, she chastised herself. There was nothing to fear from this young man. And yet she could not help but act defensively, the response was so ingrained in her in dealing with Normals.

“You’re a Talent too, aren’t you?” said Ston.

Mora, startled, pivoted toward him. How did he know? She had donned her civilian clothes for this—she felt more anonymous. And she’d slipped on blue contact lenses over her telltale eyes.

“How—how do you know?”

Ston Maurtan smiled slightly. “Oh, different things. The guarded way you stand, as though someone might strike you at any moment. The way you hold your head. The way your hands move. In fact you remind me of—” A troubled look crossed his features; Mora felt a flutter of pain from his emotion-mix. “No. Let’s just say I know, and be done with it.” He placed a hand on her wrist. Now his face was full of understanding. “Yes. You needn’t tell me, but I think there’s much more happening here than I can see.” He glanced down at the departing spider. “Much more.”

Ston kept silent, hoping that Mora would offer some comment to his statement. But she did not.

Her thoughts seemed to turn inward. Her eyes turned back to the boy in the spider. The thoughtful, troubled expression on her face was startlingly familiar to Ston.

He was reminded of his sister Adria. His memories of her were painful ones, yet precious to him. She had been a Talent, like Mora, and Mora’s resemblance to her aroused some protective instinct in him. He tried to shrug the feeling off—he hardly knew this woman.

She seemed pleasant enough, but . . . it was no use. The more he sought out the differences between Mora and his sister, the deeper their similarities seemed to insinuate themselves into his mind. It was an eerie feeling—and a lonely one.

Whatever inner anguish caused the shiplady to watch Div Harlthor in such a troubled way, Ston wanted to help her.

The hangar doors slid away under the spider.

Its retro rockets thrust the ship away from the artificial gravity field of the
Pegasus.

Then Div was weightless, He could see the
Pegasus
tumbling away above, then behind him. He knew that to an observer aboard the starship, it was the spider which appeared to be spinning aimlessly away, After a minute, the retro mobility rockets died, and the robot pilot fired the spider’s main engine. Div felt a sensation of weight again as the considerable thrust pushed him back in his seat.

He was moving in a direction counter to that of
Tin Woodman
and the
Pegasus,
moving toward the former along the path of the alien’s own orbit. Somewhat under fifty thousand kilometers in the distance,
Tin Woodman
was rushing toward him.

Again, Div was in space, alone, out of range of the interminable noise, the constant dull roar of people loving, fighting, hating,
living
with a passion he had never dared. Ahead, guiding him now, the single placid being known only as
Tin Woodman
seemed to expand, big as fate. Seemed to envelope his mind, like the blooming of a rose.

The many minutes passed slowly.

Finally, the spider ship’s pilot went into a braking maneuver, reacting to the appearance of the alien on its short-range sensors. All sensation of motion disappeared as Div’s craft matched speed and trajectory with that of
Tin Woodman.
Now, the alien was finally visible to Div himself, appearing as a silver light which grew larger and brighter as it approached.

Pacing the alien, a few kilometers away and closing rapidly, Div felt as if he were hanging motionless in the void. Everything important in his universe depended upon his actions in the next few minutes. He twisted his head to the left, peering into the lens of the spider’s inboard monitor. Darsen was watching him. No doubt about that.

Bolted underneath the seat was a tool kit, intended for minor maintenance on the vehicle. Cautiously, watching the monitor, Div reached down, opened it. He ducked his head downward to examine its contents. The monitor swiveled to follow his movement.

There was no way, then, to disable the monitor without being seen.

He would have to use a quicker method.

There was a large wrench inside the box. He unstrapped it, grasping it by one end. In full view of the monitor, he brought it up above his head.

Div drove the wrench into the monitor lens, smashing it. He released the tool, and it spun off into space, amid many tiny shards of lens crystal. He hit the button that released his seat straps. Free of these, out of Darsen’s sight, he pulled himself out of the cage and thrust out into space.

As Mora stepped off the lift platform onto the command deck of the bridge, she saw Edan Darsen staring disbelievingly into the empty grayness of the main vu-tank.

His fury hit her mind like a bomb blast.

“The bastard’s put out the monitor,” he cried. “Switch to the outboard monitor, fast. I’m going to override the robot.” He flipped the switch causing the remote shuttle controls to rise from concealment within his command console.

Mora could read his emotions. There was murder in his mind, clear and unmistakable.

“What do you intend to do?” demanded Coffer as she rose from her station.

Darsen ignored the question. “Just get me that other monitor,” he snapped. “I can’t get him if I can’t see him.”

Mora watched Darsen in horror for several moments. Then she began to walk toward him across the bridge.

The vu-tank came alive suddenly, focused on
Tin Woodman.
The spider was quite close to the creature. Close enough to allow a human figure in a bright yellow pressure suit to be seen drifting along the side of the alien, gloved hand pressed lightly against the living tissue of the hull, as if caressing it. Near Div, an opening was forming in the substance—
Tin Woodman’s
flesh drawing back like the iris of a human eye.

There was no rnistaking Div’s intention. He was going to enter
Tin Woodrnan.

Mora noted all this mechanically as she circled the vu-tank suspended in the center of the bridge, moving toward Darsen. She watched as the metal claws of the spider rose up close in the foreground of the holographic image, then extended toward
Tin Woodman.
Under Darsen’s command, the spider was moving in on Div rapidly.

As Mora approached Darsen, she saw the deft, cold-blooded way in which he manipulated the spider.

It frightened her.

She felt the hatred and anger which raged in his mind. But she was not confused or hesitant. She felt clearheaded. She knew exactly what she was going to do. What she
had
to
do.

Mora locked her right hand around Darsen’s left wrist. She drove her mind, knifelike, into his mind.

Screaming, Darsen leaped out of his chair, away from the console.

Mora did not release him. Instead, she probed deeper, feeling no sympathy; only the echoes of Darsen’s pain through her empathic faculties.

“Look at me,” she demanded.

Darsen angled his face upward, eyes bulging. He gasped for breath, his hand grabbing futilely at his head, as though to break the link with Mora through physical force.

Mora forced him to his knees.

“Look at yourself,” she shouted, making her mind a mirror. All the hatred, the fear of Darsen rose to the surface. “Look at the horror, at the pain you’ve caused. Look at yourself as another sees you!”

Darsen shrieked.

He was trying to speak, but his words were inconsequential to her. He lunged, grabbing her throat with his free right hand.

In defense, Mora fought back with her mind, losing control. Instantly Darsen arched back, wide-eyed, hair wildly disheveled, as if struck by a high-voltage electrical cable.

Mora released his wrist, and he crumpled to the deck, spasming feebly.

She gazed about the bridge. The crew had ceased their activities, but no one moved toward her. They had simply watched it all, motionless, afraid to interfere.

Mora checked the vu-tank.

Div had disappeared from the picture. The doorway in
Tin Woodman’s
hull was sealed.

Darsen was hurried to MedSec—alive, but unconscious.

Leana Coffer felt ill. So this was the sacrificial victim of both Darsen
and
Harlthor. Poor Mora Elbrun. She had to set the security guards upon her of course. Now they walked—cautiously after the display of Mora’s previously unknown power—from the lift shaft, their stunners drawn.

Somehow Harlthor had gotten this woman to cover him, thought Coffer, knowing the action he would take, and the response it would invoke from Darsen. But how, and why—and what was Harlthor doing inside the alien now? But her duty rapidly shoved aside these speculative thoughts—she was in command now.

Mora did not resist as the security officers secured her hands behind her with plastic cuffs. She met Coffer’s eyes as the executive officer advanced toward her slowly, “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she said, her voice cold, distant. “I didn’t know that I could. But it’s all one now. It’s too late—Div is beyond your reach, and I can’t say that I’m sorry for what I did.”

“Who put you up to it, Mora? Div? The
Woodman
itself?” Coffer felt her face wrinkle with sadness. “I’m afraid that for now I’ve no choice in what I do, Mora, Do you understand that?” Her shoulders sagged slightly. Perhaps it would have been better if the Talent had
killed
Darsen. It would all be one . . . the future for Mora would be equally bleak in either case.