Tin Woodman (2 page)

“Obviously,” Galvern allowed. “There is some degree of uncertainty . . . of risk, both to Div, and to the discovery itself.”

“You’re due for the standard lecture on Talents, I think,” said Severs grimly. “The gulf between our perceptual universe and that of the Talents is extraordinary in both quantity of sensory stimuli and the quality of that information. For example, in
our
early childhood, before we learn to erect barriers of custom and behavior between ourselves and others, natural barriers exist—our lack of fluency in communication, our inexperience, protect us. But Talents don’t have that protection. They’re exposed to adult anxieties, emotions, dilemmas, and frustrations from an early age. Complex thought patterns are forced on them, patterns which they can’t understand or deal with. That so few of them survive to live a normal life is . . . well, predictable.

“Sometimes, a child who is only slightly telepathic will learn to control his Talent, to shut out the
noise
of outside thoughts. But Div is both a telepath
and
an empath. In the fifteen years that I’ve headed the institute, Div is the most sensitive case I’ve dealt with . . . or heard of. Contact with Normals is hell for him. Ordinarily, a case as extreme as his would have been Doped as a child.”

“Doped?” Galvern’s eyes grew vague, looking into memory. “You mean psyche . . . um . . .”

“Psychemicidian, yes. You see, Div’s parents were Believers. When they found that their child was a Talent, they insisted they’d produced a prophet. They wouldn’t authorize the treatments which would let him live a Normal’s life. They carted him to revival meetings, made him do mental tricks—and worse. Imagine Div surounded by the hopeful sick crying for a miracle, a healing.

“In a very real and terrible sense, Div was a battered child. When we finally won custody from the parents, the damage had been done.” Severs’s face became a study of disgust.

Galvern pursed his lips thoughtfully, obviously somewhat surprised at Severs’s suddenly forceful, expressive demeanor. Some of the doctor’s impassioned concern touched Galvern.
Perhaps the assembly should take more interest in these children than it does
. . . “Couldn’t you start the treatments now?”

Severs shook his head glumly. “You see, psychemicidian interferes I with the functions of synapses in certain regions of the brain, effectively damping or destroying esper abilities. But as a side effect, it dulls the ego, blanks the personality of the individual. In an infant or small child, we can rebuild this through special education. But if the treatment is applied after the age of three or four . . . well, if you’ve never seen a Depressed esper, it’s difficult to describe. Zombies.” Severs’s mind seemed to fix on the word. “Zombies,” he repeated tonelessly and fell silent. Uncomfortable visions grew in Galvern’s imagination as he dwelt upon the doctor’s words.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Galvern said at last. “If Div is willing to take the risks, I have no choice. The
Pegasus
needs him.” He rose from his seat. “The Tricouncil needs him.”

“This is what I don’t quite understand.” As he walked with Galvern to the office door, Severs sighed. “Hold a moment . . . it just came to me. Shouldn’t there be a Talent aboard the
Pegasus
already?”

“Of course,” replied Galvern. “You’re quite right–regulations require it. Designated as a shipman, or shiplady. Almost always a woman, you know.” Galvern frowned. “The one of the
Pegasus
is, anyway. But frankly, Darsen claims she’s completely unreliable. Her name is Elbrun. Mora Elbrun.”

TWO

Article One

Every Service vessel of Cruiser class or heavier (i.e., any vessel of 200,000 gross tons displacement or greater) shall include as part of its standard crew complement, an Empathic Talent, to be designated Shiplady or Shipman.

Article Two

The Shiplady /Shipman shall hold the rank of Lieutenant in the Service Medical Corps.

Article Three

She/He shall have charge of monitoring the psycho-emotional extremes of officers assigned to the vessel’s Command Crew, and is to determine and take steps to arrest the development of emotional instabilities among said officers during missions of extended duration.

Article Four

She/He is to accomplish the moderation of such emotional imbalances as may arise, through the use of empathic/telepathic stimuli, as any necessary physical therapy.

—Exerpted from

Triunion Space Service

Regulation Tapes

Spool 119034

Triunion Starship
Pegasus

Aldebaran Star System

She lay paralyzed on her bed for several moments, tracing patterns on the darkened ceiling through half-closed eyes. The throbbing hum which had awakened her resolved slowly into a sourceless, monotonous buzzing. With a start, she realized that the noise was the access-control system of her cabin door. She dragged herself into a sitting position, waving her left hand clumsily over the room lighting panel. Wincing at the sudden brightness which flooded her tiny cubicle, Mora Elbrun punched the door intercom open. “Who—”

“Jin Tamner here. You wanna open the door? I’ve been leaning on the buzzer for ten—”

“Give me a minute,” she groaned, cutting the line dead. Mora rose unsteadily, threw a short nightcape around her shoulders, signaled the door open.

Tamner sauntered in, a copy of the command duty roster in his left hand. Physically, he was a well-structured man. His face could even have been considered handsome, if one ignored the expressions it usually held. But to Mora, who interpreted individuals in terms of their personalities rather than their looks, he was not at all attractive on any level. The shock of smooth black hair to her was like a storm cloud settled atop his skull, flashing lightning bursts of self-involvement through cautious, ferret eyes. His nose was thin at the bridge but flaring at the nostrils; his teeth were even and white behind a sensuous mouth, which now smiled/scowled in perfect expression of the amusement, mixed with mean satisfaction, Mora could read in his mind.

“You shouldn’t sleep with the intercom deactivated, Mora, You’re on bridge duty,” he said lightly. “Fifteen minutes late, in fact.” The man stretched his angular limbs with exaggerated casualness, dropping the list onto a chair in front of her. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

Mora paced the room, shaking her head violently in a futile attempt to clear her mind. “Can’t be so soon,” she mumbled. “’I was just relieved . . .” Her gaze fell upon the partly empty container of stress pills on her bunkside dresser. Tamner noticed them too, signaling his understanding with an unpleasant smile.

“Overworked, Mora?” he prodded.

Without warning, Mora felt waves of sexual desire—Tamner’s, not her own—sweep through her. Still drowsy, caught off guard by the emotional and sensory assault, Mora staggered, nearly falling. Jin Tamner stood suddenly, reaching for her. “How about a little physical therapy?” he said.

Mora hit him hard. Once.

Tamner released her and backed away, still smiling, though feelings of hatred and contempt still pulsed in his mind. No wounded pride, however. That stung Mora in a way which all his hatred could not.

How could she hurt
his
pride. She, who had none.

“Get out,” she shouted, fighting off hysteria. “The next time you come here, you’d better have an EI from MedSec—” The feebleness of the protest embarrassed her. She watched silently as Tamner turned and left, the door sliding shut behind him with a hiss.

Mora slid down onto the bed, reaching into the top drawer of the dresser for her nausea tablets. She took three and reclined against the cool solidity of the cabin wall.

What a sadistic bastard,
she thought, trying to dismiss the incident emotionally. Yet she knew that this was no good—Tamner was, for all intents and purposes, merely a little worse than other Normals, God protect her.

Slowly, she regained sufficient composure to dress for duty-blue uniform leotards, gold slacks and sleeveless jacket, quarter-length boots. On the left breast pocket of the jacket glittered the stylized silver star-and-caduceus of the Space Service Medical Corps.
It mocks me,
Mora thought as she arranged her long wheat-colored hair in a semblance of order. Reaching for the intercom, she punched out the code for MedSec.

“Ship’s Medical Service—Psychological Testing Section. May I help you?” the contralto of Head Nurse Vandez responded.

“Shiplady Mora here. I overslept. I’ll be down in about five minutes—”

“You’d best go straight to the bridge,” interrupted Vandez. “The ship’s still on a Class two alert, because of
Tin Woodman.
Command has buzzed us twice already, looking for you.”

Mora swore softly. This was unusual. Most of the command crew resented her presence on the bridge—Captain Darsen most of all. She had hoped to put off bridge duty for several hours. “No other assignments?” she asked.

“We have one mild depression, but we can handle her with drug therapy, I’m sure,” Vandez replied smugly. “Oh, and one who needs your full treatment. To augment the psych-machine sessions we’ve been giving him. The doctor in charge suggested it might help. But the subject’s not on active duty at the moment, so he can wait.” Vandez paused. Mora could detect amusement in her voice, though her emotions were unreadable over the intercom circuit. “It’s Scan Engineer Third Class Garth.”

“Garth? Garth is the one who caused that scene last month about me. He hates even my shadow. He won’t let me near him!” complained Mora.

“Subject will be in a state of sedation. Besides, he’s important—command crew. Consider it a challenge.”

“Damn!” She switched off the intercom angrily.
I’m a joke to them. Less than a person—a function of the ship. A biological mechanism.
Frustration welled up in her. She started to take two stress pills, thought better of it. Reluctantly, she signaled the door open and abandoned the shelter of her cabin, walking out into the cold corridors of the
Pegasus.

Class two alert aboard a starship called for overlapping shifts, resulting in unusually heavy traffic between decks and duty stations. Therefore, Mora was not surprised that she had to wait several minutes at the lift tube before a platform arrived that stopped on the bridge. When it finally did arrive, however, there was only one person on it—Leana Coffer, the
Pegasus’
executice officer. She smiled politely as Mora stepped onto the platform.

Leana Coffer was a native of Earth, but had spent much time on Crysor and Deva, the two planets which held an equal place with Earth in the Triunion, and therefore lacked a recognizable Earth accent. She was a small, thin, gray-haired woman—so thin, in fact, that her maroon-and-gold command uniform hung on her in deep folds, like a robe. Coffer, during her planetary travels, had assumed many of the finer qualities of the other two human races she had visited: discipline, tempered by a measure of humaneness. Mora respected this; of all the crew of the
Pegasus,
she could feel most comfortable in Leana Coffer’s presence. Nevertheless, Coffer had an aloof quality, a faint preoccupied standoffishness in her character that Mora did not care to penetrate, for fear of discovering something ugly underneath.

“The specialist Darsen requested from Earth has arrived,” Coffer said. Mora could read urgency, coupled with curiosity, behind the exec’s words. “I was just on the hangar deck, inspecting the ship he came in.” She frowned. “Do you know, they tacked a Null-R Field Generator onto an old, one-man mail carrier, and sent him in that? God knows what we’re going to do with it—wretched shape, and we can’t use many of its components. It sure won’t get back; I’m surprised it made the trip at all. I guess we’ll have to dump it—the extra mass isn’t exactly good for our Null-R’s.” She shrugged. “I suppose they couldn’t reroute a service vessel quickly enough to satisfy the brass. Still, they must have been desperate.”

“Is he well?”

“Is who—oh, the specialist?” Coffer nodded. “Yes. Like I said, surprisingly the ship held up. I’ve not met him yet, but . . . I understand he’s a Talent.” Coffer hesitated a moment, seeing Mora’s brightening. “I’d better warn you,” she added, “that Darsen is still not pleased with that.”

The platform finally reached the large, semi-circular room at the heart of the
Pegasus
from which all ship’s operations were supervised—the bridge. Coffer, closely followed by Mora, strode off the platform and toward the wide, heavy metal instrument desk which was anchored against the back wall of the room. Mora felt her anxiety grow as they approached the console and the figure seated behind it whose huge, blond head was half engulfed by the lens element of a private tape-viewer. “Lieutenant Commander Coffer, reporting as ordered, sir,” Coffer announced. Mora stood silently, nervously, a few paces behind the exec.

Darsen looked up from the viewer, waving Coffer a careless salute. His dark eyes were narrowed, the thin lips of his catfish mouth drawn tight against his teeth. Mora could read his emotions too clearIy—a jumble of frustration, suspicion, and anger rising so strongly as to hamper his reason. Cautiously, Mora moved toward him.
This is my duty,
she thought.
This is part of the reason I’m aboard this ship.
Yet she was frightened, far more frightened by Darsen than by anyone else aboard the
Pegasus.

Tentatively, unobtrusively, Mora placed a hand on Darsen’s shoulder. Within, she strove to banish fear from her mind—to find an island of calm, the deep center of her being which the academy had attempted to train to this purpose. Cool, soothing images, which Mora tried to communicate to Darsen’s unconscious . . .

Edan Darsen shrugged the shiplady’s hand away with a wave of emotional repulsion which knotted Mora’s stomach. With a small cry, she stumbled to the sanctuary of her Museplace, activating its pitiful, almost useless yet helpful Damper field. Inside the small, dark alcove located in the wall a few paces from Darsen’s desk, slightly protected from the emotions of others by a screen of energy which scrambled them, she felt her fear taper away into something she could handle.

And yet Mora hated the dull, partially blind sensation which restriction of her empathic Talent always produced. The soft darkness of the Museplace offered her a temporary shield of sorts, but little solace.

“Listen to this,” Mora heard Darsen growl as he placed his head back to the view. “Name: Divam Celon Harlthor. Age: Nineteen years, Earth Standard. Ancestry: Human, Earth. Telepathy/Empathy Quotient: Broad-range, beyond practical measurement. Resultant Psycho-emotional Instability: Upper range of uncertainty . . .” Darsen halted suddenly, standing and slamming a beefy hand down to deactivate the viewer. “I don’t believe it. They’ve sent us a goddamned kid.”

Coffer laughed unsympathetically. “That isn’t what you object to,” she said, crossing her arms as she advanced toward Darsen. “You simply cannot stand Talents. Admit it. You’d ship Mora out tomorrow if service regulations didn’t require a ship-person aboard.”

God,
thought Mora.
They act like I’m deaf and blind in here.
She had stood mutely through many similar disagreements, listening from her Museplace, and it seemed to her as if the Normals
did
somehow forget that she was present.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Darsen said, “that with the technology and resources the Tricouncil can draw on, they place as much emphasis on
espers.”
From Darsen’s lips, the name sounded like a snake’s hiss. “Most of them are half-crazed, and damn useless to boot.”

Coffer opened her mouth to argue, but was interrupted by a shout from across the room. “Captain! Ship’s sensors are picking up changes in
Tin Woodman’s
energy output.” The voice belonged to Lieutenant Genson, a short, intense woman seated at the bridge’s main sensor scan station.

Darsen brushed past Coffer, striding over to look at the flat-screen displays on Genson’s consoles. He shot a question back at Lieutenant Norlan, the chief communications officer. “Picking anything up on your channels, Mr. Norlan?”

Not bothering to lift his head from his control banks, Norlan answered: “Nothing new here, Captain.”

Obviously frustrated in her own attempt to communicate, Coffer moved alongside Darsen. But Mora hesitated, her curiosity struggling with her fear of the captain. Finally, she abandoned her Museplace and went to stand with the others.

Darsen surveyed the graphs and tables which flickered brightly on the screens. His already choleric temper seemed to blacken further; Mora’s only reaction this time was to throw up what mental barriers she could against his emotional energy. “My God, look at that!” Darsen exclaimed to Coffer. “Half a dozen radiation readings have zoomed practically off the scale!”

“Field Generators of some kind,” Coffer observed. “We’ve been watching it for three weeks now, and this is the first—”

“We have no way of understanding that thing.” Darsen’s gaze swept the bridge, fixing on Mora as if she were somehow responsible.
“Something
has wakened
Tin Woodman,
and all we can send against it is a nineteen-year-old boy.”