Tin Woodman

by David Bischoff

  She turned to Ston. He gave her one second of steady, meaningful gaze, then brought up his remote control device.

  And released the switch.

  “Compliments of the captain.”

  Gary Norlan pressed off the intercom switches. He directed his gaze to Coffer, still behind her control board, tensely ready. Coffer peered up directly to where Bisc O’Hari stood sentry by the other security officer.

  She nodded at him.

  The others of the bridge crew were too busy to notice what was happening. Except the captain.

  “Mr. Norlan,” he said, stepping down from his command desk dais, still keeping part of his attention on the awesome sights before them in the fiat screens and the vu-tank. “That was quite good. But you didn’t need to mention me.” Then as Darsen focused his full attention on Norlan, the captain’s face revealed a sudden foreboding premonition. Norlan, expressionless, met his eyes defiantly.

  Perplexity plain on his face, Darsen scanned the bridge. Only four of the operational officers were carrying on as before. The others were speedily punching new orders into their control boards. “What’s going on here?” he growled. Darsen spun on his heel to summon Security. Immediately there was a harsh buzzing sound, then a crackling whisper. One of the security officers slumped to the deck. His own weapon had not been drawn.

  Bisc O’Hari, holding up his stunner, turned to face the captain. “I suggest you follow Commander Coffer’s orders now, Darsen.” He let his stern gaze include the entire bridge crew, “I suggest that all of you do as Norlan says.” His upheld weapon waved a bit, underlining the authority of his words.

  Mouth open in frank disbelief, Captain Darsen stood still.

  “Cease propulsion toward rift,” said Coffer immediately. “Be prepared for a complete turnabout, on my orders.” She jumped up and moved over toward Norlan’s communication board to contact the computer room, the engine room, and the other centers of the mutiny for supporting action. O’Hari, she noticed peripherally, was already busy jamming access to the lift entrance. Good. The bridge was all hers now. Surprisingly swiftly at that. If Tamner had been there—

  A hand clutched her arm before she could make it behind the communications console. The captain, face in a rictus of hate and fury, trembled before her. He raised a fist to smash into her but the blow was thwarted by Norlan, who grabbed Darsen’s arm. Darsen hurled him away and jumped up to the communications board, attempting to scream his commands into the microphone: “This is Captain Darsen. There is a mutiny occurring on the bridge. There—”

  Quickly, O’Hari swung about and blasted. Darsen fell, bending the microphone stalk, more like some ugly discarded manikin than the captain of a huge starship. He pounded onto the floor, unconscious.

  “Thanks,” said Coffer, trying to rub the pain out of her arm as she moved to the communications console.

  The rebel security officer, striding over to be sure of Darsen’s harmlessness, grunted. He looked down at the captain with contempt. Vaguely, Coffer wondered what went on in the man’s mind; what had goaded him into throwing off years of training to toss his lot in with a bunch of mutineers. She dismissed the thought, merely thankful for the man’s invaluable aid. She turned her attention to the rest of the crew. “All right. I’m sure most of you Mora Elbrun contacted and enlisted in our cause. But in any case, all of you must comply. Any deviation from this will be dealt with swiftly by Mr. O’Hari.”

  The look of blank surprise in some of the faces melted into agreement. Their eyes seemed to flash relief even as they attended to obeying Coffer’s orders. The others had long since begun.

  Satisfied, Coffer turned back to the controls and proceeded to contact Engineering.

  The bomb exploded.

  It was not a loud explosion, nor was it violent. It was not intended to be. It was meant only to cause confusion. Ston had left the closet door sufficiently ajar so that at the impact of the bomb it would burst open. It did. Voluminous clouds of black and gray poured freely from the closet and, like a sudden fog, began to stream their opacity over everything.

  Before the smoke covered them, Mora saw the security officers struggling to their feet, brandishing their weapons. Before long the crowd of the other security officers would flow down the stairs, into the fray. All to the good. She could see Ston’s intention; while a good portion of Security was busy searching for them down here, the mutiny could continue apace above.

  A flash of light streaked illumination through the cloudbound base of the stairway: the beam from a laser pistol.

  “Okay, Mora,” Ston called in a low voice. “Split up. Keep them guessing. The smoke should drift this way. Use the mask I gave you.” He immediately turned, ran down the aisle.

  Mora looked up and decided on her course. Slipping her gun into a pocket, she gripped the siding of the shelves and began to pull herself up among the stored equipment. The top attained, some five meters above the floor, she positioned herself, pulled out her gun, and looked down. The smoke was billowing out swiftly, mushrooming up. She could smell it. She put on the filter mask Ston had given her should this eventuality occur. The sounds of the security officers emerging from the doorway, coughing, came to her. She debated firing down into their midst, decided against it. She had no real desire to harm anyone, and the track of her laser would be sure to pinpoint her location. No. Best to hide, to fire only in defense. It was better to stall that confrontation as long as possible, thus lengthening the time the officers were oblivious to the situation topside.

  Already the smoke was spreading, thinning itself out throughout the room, becoming more translucent. It simmered up to her, covering her legs. It was being drawn through the air ducts.

  She made sure her filter mask was properly adjusted over her mouth and nose, crouched down low, watching carefully. The clamor and confusion from below drifted up in greater volume as more security men descended. As the smoke lessened, she could see their vague figures searching the aisles like vengeful ghosts. There were enough of them now, and they were close enough, that she began to feel their emotional presences: hate, laced with fear and a sense of duty. She tried to block it all out, but was not entirely successful.

  Their emotions quickly smothered the small empathic contact she had with Ston. This triggered a response, and suddenly she remembered.

  The dream.

  The dream she had dreamed over and over, in the Henderson. The strange battle. It flooded back into her memory, every gloomy detail of it, dragging its ominous sensations with it as starkly and vividly as she’d experienced them in slumber. But her somnambulent vision carried new meaning. Now, it made sense.

  The moment she recalled her fear for Ston, it was as though someone had punched her in the stomach, Her fear for him drove all else from her mind. A feeling of terrible dread enveloped her. She forgot any regard for her own safety.

  Standing up, she tried to reach out with her Talent and touch him. To warn . . . be careful, she pulsed, translating the literal meaning into their underlying emotional meaning. But she felt no response, no touch of his answer.

  Hastily, she picked her way down to the opposite end of the shelving top, over a scatter of boxes. With little regard for the possibility of a fall, she let herself down the edge, stepped onto the next level. Recklessly, she lowered herself down the next two levels into the thicker haze and jumped the rest of the way, landing off balance, thumping to the floor. The gun in her pocket popped out, skittered away. She scrambled over, lifted it up. Rising, she peered into the smoke searching for Ston.

  There remained the tumultuous clamor of pounding feet all around. Dimly, she could see shapes running in the near distance.

  Suddenly, far down the other side of the room, the smoke became veined with lines of energy. The light lances flickered like straightened bolts of lightning. Screams, yells cried out from the same direction.

  They had fou
nd Ston.

  Instantly, she raced down the aisle toward them.

  And then the beams of light ceased. The noise quieted.

  And the pain hit her.

  She woke to a terrible sense of loss, of grief, of something beyond the scope of her understanding. And she woke to rough, unsympathetic hands jostling her up from where she had fallen, paralyzed, as Ston had died.

  Looking up she saw the security men who were dragging her across the floor. Her first reaction was to struggle. But, reaching for the necessary energy, she found herself drained of resources. Her empathic death had left her listless.

  Ston, she thought. Ston.

  Abruptly, the men stopped. She looked about and saw that the other security officers crowded around as well. Craning her neck with difficulty, she realized that they stood by the slumped form of Jin Tamner. Hovering over Tamner were two men, administering first aid.

  “Is he conscious? a security guard asked.

  “Just barely,” muttered one of the men attending to their fallen commander, “His hands are shreds. The explosion shrapneled hell out of his torso. I’ve sent a message for MedSec emergency, but something strange seems to be happening up there.”

  Tamner spasrned. Mora could see the streams of glistening red, the streaks of charred uniform and flesh from the flash of Mora’s laser. Looking down, she was surprised that she felt no more hate for Jin Tamner, nor satisfaction with what she had done. She felt no emotion at all.

  Tamner’s half-closed bedimmed eyes brightened a bit; intelligence looked up through bars of pain. Those bloodshot orbs swung round, surveying the men and woman who looked down at him, He tried to speak. The officers giving first aid admonished him to stop. Instead, Tamner tried harder, and began creating almost coherent sentences.

  “. . . damn it . . . get up to the bridge . . . there’s something going on . . . don’t . . . don’t stay down here.” He tried to sit up. “That’s why they shot the communicator . . . didn’t want us to find out. This . . . this must have been a distracting tactic.” He gulped in a swallow of air. “Mutiny, God damn it. May be a mutiny.” Exhausted, he fell back limply into the arms of his attendants. The others looked at one another, bemused.

  “We’d better check,” said one, and all except for the two guarding Mora rushed up the stairway.

  No matter, thought Mora. Too late now, anyway.

  As if she cared.

  She looked down at Tamner and realized that he was close to death. Slightly, she opened to him. His eyes fluttered open, fixed on her fuzzily. He smelled of charred flesh. The eyes registered pure and simple hate—but not necessarily focused directly on Mora, No, she realized with a detached curiosity, looking down on the man with her eyes and her Talent as well. No—it was a generalized, unspecific hate. Puzzled, she reached down deeper.

  She had never before considered Jin Tamner a subject—merely an object of her hate. His surface attitude was always contemptible. He had brought her only the worst sort of mental anguish in her dealings with him. She had always associated him with the extremes of pain brought on her by the hate of the Normals.

  But nothing mattered now, She pushed past that veil of hate in Tamner’s mind, delved deeper than she’d ever been before as she stood there with the security men holding her upright, waiting for orders on what to do with her.

  Tamner’s eyes opened wide, “No,” he said, “don’t.”

  Vocally she soothed, “You’re dying. I only wish to comfort.”

  “Let me die alone, then,” he said. “Take—” Weak and confused, he couldn’t finish the command.

  The men holding her started to pull her toward the stairs. “No,” she said. “Please—I won’t do anything.”

  Suddenly the intercom announced: “Security alert. Security alert! All—” and was cut off.

  “Get out of here,” said Tamner. “Both of you.” He had roused again. “I told you it was a mutiny. They’ll need every man. I’ll be okay.”

  “But, sir . . .”

  “God damn it, I said I’ll be okay.”

  “But the woman . . .”

  “Leave her. She can’t do any harm. Just get out. Now!”

  They obeyed, leaving Mora free and alone with Tamner. But her mind remained active, and once again it probed. Tamner’s, He seemed too weak to object.

  “Why do you hate me?” she asked mildly. She glided into his mind softly, into a dark and twisted place.

  He gave no response. She drifted down further into his feelings, his soul, looking for the answer there. That answer never mattered before. The effect of that awful hate was more than enough to be preoccupied with. But now that effect was no longer a consideration—the cause came to the forefront of her interest. Nor was it just the cause of Tamner’s hate—she felt a need to know the reason for the irrational fear of other Normals. Perhaps a clue might be discovered in this man, might be more evident, since his hate for Talents was especially strong.

  She felt the waves of hatred buffet her as she descended deeper—deeper than she had ever gone into such an inhospitable mind. She had gone beyond the threshold of pain—now she could shrug it off as though it were nothing. At least for a time. Perhaps, she thought, it’s a mental numbness . . .

  Through the stew of his mind, she swam. And even as she did, she tried to comfort. Her hatred of Tamner had disappeared with the rest of her emotions. Now all that was left was her curiosity.

  When she finally withdrew, she was shaking.

  “Satisfied?” said Tamner in a barely audible voice. “You’ve finally gotten into my mind.”

  She did not respond.

  “Trying to sully a man’s soul—his pride. His individuality,” continued Tamner. “You want our souls.” His head lolled. His breathing became more shallow. “I am the captain of this ship,” he whispered. “I—and no one else.”

  “I—I think I understand now,” said Mora. “But you’re wrong. You’re all wrong.”

  Her words fell on deaf ears. The man was dead.

  Mora was not sure of it until she crawled over and felt his pulse; she had felt nothing of his dying.

  The doors of hell are locked from the inside.

  Where had she read that? Now it made a terrible tragic sense to her. This was the way all Normals were, in one degree or another. Tight, constricted, scared—living in their own little dungeons, making only occasional forays out into reality for scraps of communication and love from their fellows.

  This was why they hated Talents—those freaks who had skeleton keys to everyone’s doors. Who threatened to draw mankind out of their safe, comfortable, private darknesses. Whose very existence were frightening in its implications.

  And the thing most frightening to all of them was the idea that they might also bear the seeds of Talent—that within them there was a kernel of potentiality that would change them from the familiar into the unknown.

  Hence, they could not acknowledge that Talents were as human as they were.

  She had seen all this in Tamner. And she had felt pity and compassion for him. But it was the curse of his sort that such things as pity and compassion were signs of weakness, and to be disdained.

  And thus, he had died alone. As he had lived alone.

  There was more to ponder, but Mora was weary. She felt like a castaway, drifting on the open sea, alone after a shipwreck. She found an island of rest and pulled herself up on its shore.

  Coffer, eschewing the command desk, maintained her position behind the communications console, waiting for the verdict from Engineering.

  The mutiny had not been without casualties on both sides. That much had filtered down to the bridge from the various sites of the coup. And, although its success seemed certain, with the mutineers now in control of the necessary function areas of the Pegasus, it was by no means over. Coffer had just delivered a ship-wide address, sp
eaking briefly of the situation that had caused the disruption in leadership and the necessity for it. She had no idea whether or not the entire crew had accepted the situation. For all she knew, the remainder of Security might yet be seeking entrance to the bridge.

  But all this was comparatively unimportant at the moment. Right now priority consideration had to be given to the situation of the Pegasus relative to the space rift. For while the mutiny had progressed, so had the starship—closer and closer to the aperture in space Darsen had directed it toward.

  And now the Pegasus was in the grip of its tremendous gravitational pull.

  The communicator bleeped. Engineering.

  “Yes,” said Coffer.

  “In response to your question about the Null-R jump, Captain. There’s no way we can slide into it with this kind of gravitational pull working on us. We have to get out of that first.”

  “I’d hoped that the gravity would be insufficient.”

  “Never encountered anything like it. Playing haywire with the instruments. I’m sure ship’s computer will tell you the same thing,” said the engineering officer. “We managed to position the ship for the ion-drive—”

  “Well, damn it,” cried Coffer. “Get us out of here. It’s only a matter of minutes before that hole swallows us up. Start the engines.”

  “That’s just it,” replied the voice contritely. “They’ve been on for the last minute. We’ve slowed the descent into the gravity well. But not by much.”

  Coffer swiveled her attention to Norlan. “Is that true?” Norlan nodded, looking down at instruments.

  Coffer leaned back over to the microphone. “Full acceleration, then.”

  “We’ve got the engines working as hard as they can, Captain.”