Tin Woodman (10 page)

NINE

They were extraordinarily civil to her.

She had expected to be mishandled much in the same manner as when Security had hauled her away from the scene of Captain Darsen’s injury. Instead, once the shuttle had docked with the Mark IV messenger ship and towed it back to the
Pegasus,
the security officers stationed there had stepped forward smartly when the hangar deck was depressurized and had
asked
her please to accompany them. No force—nor even a show of it.

However, Ston—who immediately let it be known that his laser welding device had been abandoned in the Mark IV—was brusquely jostled away with no attention at all paid to his comfort.

They had exchanged one last look, and he was gone.

Now she sat in her comfortable, well-decorated compartment, with a tray of somewhat exotic refreshments on the table before her. Even before Darsen and Tamner entered the room, she had concluded that something was desired of her.

Once inside, the captain looked about, nodded his head with satisfaction. There was a strained look on his sturdy face—a faint hint of fear, kept well in check. Fear—yes, and hate. “Very nice,” he said. “I hope everything is all right.” He made an attempt at a smile that failed. Then he said, in a quiet, gruff voice, “There are two security guards at the door, Mora. I hope you will do nothing to upset them.”

“I know.” She shifted uncomfortably on the edge of her bed, not looking at Darsen but glaring at Jin Tamner, who leaned smugly against the wall next to her cabin door. She had sensed the guards’ presence since they had been placed there. But that was all she sensed. Still, it proved that her Talent was slowly returning. “I don’t want that man in here,” she declared, standing abruptly. “If you wish to speak with me, get Tamner out of here.”

Tamner opened his mouth to protest, but Darsen motioned for siIence. “You have no authority on this ship, Elbrun,” he replied brusquely. “You can demand nothing.”

“And you can’t force me to do anything, either,” she returned vehemently.

Folding his arms on his chest, Darsen nodded, then turned to Tamner. “Wait in the hall.”

Unquestioning, Tamner exited with a sullen, guarded look at Mora. She was grateful her Talent had not returned in significant force; she couldn’t feel his hatred.

Not until the door slid fully shut did Darsen continue. “I’m not going to play games with you, Elbrun. You put yourself between me and what I wanted, and you harmed me. I cannot forgive you for that, nor do I need to.”

“I did what I had to do, Darsen.”

“Shall we simply ignore the past for now, Elbrun? In a way, you can make up for what you have done by co-operating with me.” Darsen refused to relax. He stood there, his arms folded, stiff, resolute.

“What can I do to help
you?
I’m certainly not going to be the
Pegasus’
shiplady again.” Sound cool, unconcerned, she told herself. She looked down. Her hands were trembling. They gave her away.

Sighing, she ran her hand over the stubble covering her head, wincing inwardly at the thought of how she looked. When gently imprisoned in the room, she’d caught her reflection in a mirror; a scarecrow’s corpse in a baggy, rumpled engineering uniform. Her eyes were sunken and hollow, set in a worn, sallow face. The blond fuzz sprouting unevenly on her scalp gave her the appearance of a prison camp refugee.

She had covered the mirror immediately.

It wasn’t vanity. It was just that now she was not merely different from everyone else; now she
looked
different. She did not care to be reminded of her recent experiences.

“Settle down, Elbrun,” ordered Darsen. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Mora leaned back, still tense.

“I don’t enjoy talking to you. I know you don’t like talking with me. I will be blunt and quick.” He shifted his massive bulk slightly from foot to foot. “I’ve been thinking, Elbrun. You alone could not have hurt me like you did. I’ve been looking over your records. You have never exhibited such powers before, nor do any tests reveal them.
Tin Woodman
guided your hand, so to speak. Am I correct? Were you in
contact with the alien?”

She did not answer immediately. Darsen took it as a refusal to talk.

“Well?” he demanded impatiently.

“I don’t know. I . . . I must have been, to have that power . . . and later .. yes, definitely later.” She looked away. Was she betraying Div?

“Very good, Mora. We are being honest with one another. Very good indeed.” The bastard was starting to sound
cordial.
“That final communication you speak of—that was from both
Tin Woodman
and Div Harlthor, wasn’t it? I know—because I think I felt it as well. Even though I was unconscious . . . perhaps we all felt it, at a subconscious level. Maybe it was merely the effect of his contact with you. Now, if your link with Div and
Tin Woodman
was strong and deep enough, it may very well be that you’ve received information from them of which you are consciously unaware—information buried in your subconscious mind, which can be useful to the Triunion.”

“What kind of information?”

The captain leaned forward. “Perhaps
Tin Woodman’s
intended destination . . . ?” Something about that tone of voice. Intense. Obsessed. It bothered Mora in a way she couldn’t put her finger on.

“That information is certainly not in my conscious mind. But all right. Suppose it’s somewhere below that. If it is, I certainly can’t get at it.”

“All I want you to do, Mora, all you need to do to become vital personnel once more—to be absolved of your sins, shall we say—is to assist in an experiment.”

“And if I don’t, I get sent back to the machines and the surgeons, right?” Mora said uneasily.

“Yes,” stated Darsen. “I would have no—”

“Spare me.” Despite her bitterness, Mora was tempted to accept the man’s proposal as it stood. Surely no harm could be done Div by aiding Darsen; the
Pegasus
could chase
Tin Woodman
halfway across the galaxy and never catch it. The pursuit would be given up long before then; Darsen was far too sensible to do otherwise.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t accept. Not without a stipulation.

“If I agree to your ‘experiment,’ it will only be under one condition. There’s something I want in exchange.”

“I’m practically giving you your
life
in exchange,” said Darsen. “You’re in no bargaining position.”

“No? You seem to want this information I’m supposed to have rather badly. All right then. I’ll co-operate if and only if you’ll release Ston Maurtan. I presume he’s in the brig.”

Darsen was indignant.
“Out
of the question. He’s committed mutinous acts—he must face the consequences.”

In response, Mora waved a hand over the access control panel by her bed. The cabin door opened. She politely motioned for Darsen to leave.

The captain’s voice became cold steel. “You can be forced.”

“If that’s true, why did you ask in the first place? You’d just as soon have me out of the way, wouldn’t you? I
scare
you, Captain.”

Darsen remained immobile a moment. The veins in the thick neck stood out. A swallow bobbed the Adam’s apple. Then he said, “Very well. We will compromise. I will offer Maurtan the chance to resign his commission. If he accepts, the charges against him will be dropped. I’ll free him, and he’ll be considered a passenger—subject to the customary passenger restrictions aboard the ship.”

Quietly, Mora said, “Thank you.”

“At 0800 hours you will report to MedSec,” Darsen said, ignoring the apology implicit in Mora’s voice. “You will co-operate fully with Dr. Kervatz and Lieutenant Tamner. And you will hold yourself available for
further
such experiments if they are deemed necessary. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Without another word, Darsen spun on his heel and stalked out.

After shutting the door, Mora collapsed on her bed. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, bringing its usual attendant, depression. All of it had worn her down. The strain of the treatment. Her recovery. The escape. And now, the confrontation.

It was difficult to believe she’d done it: stood up to the captain. And won. But there was no feeling of satisfaction in her.

Sleep came suddenly and brought no dreams.

Ship’s time was adjusted to align with the day-night cycle shared by all the planets of the Triunion: 0800 hours fell in to the time slot immediately following “night.” So it was that when Mora, accompanied by the present pair of security officers posted at her door, walked to MedSec it was “morning” although no sun had risen, and the corridors were brightly lit as always.

They were all waiting for her. Kervatz, Tamner, Darsen. Quietly, Kervatz motioned her to a reclining chair. No clamps or restraining straps or other implements of confinement were administered. No anesthesia was given; a simple injection of tranquilizer was deemed sufficient to create the suggestible mood in the subject necessary for a hypnotic trance.

Hypnosis accomplished, Jin Tamner directed the placement of electrodes on her scalp and spine by the attendant nurse; these wires were in turn connected to a bank of recording equipment and computer terminals, modified toward this special procedure. Above Mora’s head, a device partly made of the MedSec acoustical holo-graph tank was set. Microtransmitters were attached to her ears. Once Tamner was satisfied that all was in readiness, he pressed the necessary controls.

Tiny whispers floated up from the attachments in her ears: questions. No verbal reply was requested. To the surrounding witnesses, they were meaningless; no more than sibilant nonsense.

But Tamner seemed pleased.

Watching the shifting patterns in the halo-tank, making minor adjustments to the recorders, he said, “This may take half an hour at most, Captain. But it might be several days before the computers can pick out and supply the information we want.”

“If indeed she has it to give,” commented Darsen, betraying worry despite himself.

“I thought you were convinced she did,” said Tamner. “I would say it’s there. Imagine that she has part of Harlthor’s—and hopefully
Tin Woodman’s
—mind, recorded in her memory. That’s what telepathy basically amounts to, after all, in its advanced stages: a sharing of consciousness. The minds involved retain images of one another afterward. Most of the memories remain unconscious ones, and some information is probably lost. But from papers I consulted in helping to perfect this process, I’d say this is pretty much the case.

“What we’re trying to get from her, though, is a very specific set of memories—the Null-R jump co-ordinates which
Tin Woodman
was preparing to use when Mora was in contact with Div. So they should be easily retrievable.”

“Yet we can hardly expect that
Tin Woodman
uses our co-ordinate system,” Darsen objected.

“True, but that’s not important. Mora’s mind-to-mind experience with the alien bypasses translation difficulties like that. If we were trying to re-create
Tin Woodman’s
whole mind, conflict, traumas, values, and the like, we’d encounter images and ideas which would
not
translate. But just as hydrogen is hydrogen by whatever name you call it, math is math.”

“Well, you don’t need me here,” said Darsen. “I’m going to see to Maurtan’s release, then to the bridge. Report to me when you’ve finished.”

“Yes, Captain.” Tamner seemed disturbed. “You’re really going to release Maurtan?”

“I said I would,” he replied, “and I certainly don’t wish to feed Elbrun’s illusions of persecution. You needn’t be concerned, though, that Maurtan might escape punishment, I’ve made certain arrangements concerning his release.” Darsen turned to Dr. Kervatz. “When our interrogator is through with Elbrun, give her a complete physical examination,” he ordered. “I want to make certain, for the record, that she hasn’t been harmed by the psychemicidian.”

“Very little chance of that, Captain,” replied Kervatz.

“Nevertheless, do it.” He glanced at the prone figure in the chair, her head freshly shaved to allow attachment of the electrodes. “And give her a hair-stim if she wants one.”

A while after they finally released her, Mora found Ston on the observation deck.

Security had told her that he’d been released. She checked both the civilian passenger directory and the old officer listing—he was registered on neither. She’d then searched every public area of the ship and found him at last.

He sat sprawled in a chair beneath a darkened archway. She noticed then the storage trunk, two suitcases, and the shoulder bag lying at his feet. “Ston—you all right?”

He lifted his head with difficulty, as though his neck were rubber.

“Yeah. Resigned my commish—commission.”

“I heard.” She looked for the bottle, saw it standing on the floor: a bulb-shaped green glass bottle, three-quarters empty.

“Yeah. When they booted me, I asked what you’d done to save my ass. They said something about an experiment and that ‘she’s not available today.’ So I thought I’d come up here, watch the stars—”

“And drink.”

“Yeah.” He lifted the bottle, thrust it unsteadily toward Mora.

“Want some?”

Well, if
she
had some, it was that much less that he’d drink. “Sure, why not?” She took the bottle. “Wine?”

“Uh-huh. Good wine, I think. I wouldn’t really know. Effective enough, anyway. Found it cleaning out my quarters. A gift . . .” Closing his eyes, he slipped down in his chair, breathing heavily.

Mora sipped the wine. A heavy, rather sweet taste. Amontillado, the label read. “This is sherry. God, how could you drink so much?”

“Easy.” He leaned forward and added in a confidential manner, “Don’t know any better. I don’t drink.” He straightened up in his chair, looking serious and apparently trying to will sobriety. “I know—I’m sloshed. Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Why not? No one on this ship will talk to me anyway.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I endangered the ship. Drilling holes in the walls around here is
verboten,
y’know. Mortal sin . . . bad manners, too. One might burn through the wrong wall . . .”