Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Now wait just a moment here,” Prince Phanibal said, recovering from his initial surprise. “That is not the answer I came to find. You have indeed concealed from the world a kinetic Talent of demonstrated ability. He can take the place of those at Bangladesh . . .” He leaned across Rhyssa’s desk, and Peter saw her flinch back from such a menacing posture.

  Peter could not stand it. Kinetically he dragged Prince Phanibal backward from Rhyssa, the prince’s face set in a paralyzed rictus of amazement. The door that opened to allow his exit closed firmly behind him.

  “Peter!” Rhyssa could not quite disguise her relief or her consternation at his breach of courtesy.

  “He’s got no right to threaten you, Rhyssa! No right at all!”

  Dorotea: Bravo, Peter, though I shouldn’t encourage you!

  “Now see here, young man—” Shevchenko took one step toward Peter and stopped, blinking in astonishment when some invisible force prevented him from moving farther forward.

  “That’s enough, Peter,” Rhyssa said with appropriate severity. That was rather clever of you, dear, even if you wouldn’t realize it. The mental image in her mind showed suppressed laughter. “The general will not intimidate you any further. General, I think Peter has inadvertently displayed another cogent reason why the Center is unwilling to utilize his unique abilities except in a crisis. At fourteen, he does not always abide by the courtesies that a more mature personality has learned.”

  “I demand that the boy apologize to His Highness Prince Phanibal immediately.”

  “You may demand all you wish, General,” Rhyssa said sharply, “but I don’t even know why a traffic manager, royal or not, was included in this gathering.”

  “Engineer Barchenka insisted on his inclusion,” Vernon Altenbach remarked, attempting some diplomacy.

  “I insist that he be excluded from any future meetings involving the Center or myself.”

  Peter: He’s a slimeball!

  Johnny Green and Gordon Havers, simultaneously: Where did you stash him?

  Peter: He’s in the helicopter, and he can’t seem to get the seat buckle undone. He could not help grinning. I won’t let him.

  Johnny: Buckle down, Winsockie, buckle down!

  Dorotea: I didn’t think anyone in your generation knew that old song.

  “Now, gentlemen, you have, I trust, seen to your own satisfaction that we have only been protecting young Peter, not deliberately denying the platform his Talent. I’m sorry that you had a long trip for nothing,” Rhyssa said, coming around her desk to shake hands with Andrei Grushkov. “However, when Peter is fully trained and we have a better understanding of the parameters of his potential, we will, of course, be obliged to let prospective employers bid for his contractual services.”

  Vernon Altenbach eased the disgruntled Russian general out the door, the NASA colonel and the telempath assisting. But the others lingered until the first group had entered the elevator.

  “Ms. Owen,” the NASA general began. “Is it possible, given the boy’s display of incredible ability, that he could—from time to time, that is . . . Well, we do have a serious crisis right now . . .”

  “What kind?” Rhyssa asked in an unencouraging tone.

  “NASA’s supply schedule is at a standstill with the current worldwide weather conditions . . .”

  Peter zoomed out of his chair, hovering between Rhyssa and the general. Please consider it, Rhyssa. Working for NASA wouldn’t be the same as working for Barchenka, would it? But it would be almost as good as being in space. He exerted all his mind’s pressure against hers, begging her consideration. He felt her stern resolve not to exploit him.

  Johnny: It’s something to consider, Rhyssa, though we won’t be pushy about it. If you say no, we’ll go quietly. But it would gall me personally, and professionally, to have Barchenka saying that the Americans couldn’t meet their contractual obligations. He cocked his head at Rhyssa, grinning wryly.

  Peter could feel Rhyssa beginning to relent.

  Dorotea: Consider it a training diversion, Rhyssa.

  Rhyssa: But that’s it! He’s had hardly any training!

  Johnny: Repetition hones skills, gal, and it sure reduces the glamour quotient.

  Peter did not understand that but felt Dorotea’s approval become more urgent. He sensed that at last Rhyssa was seriously considering the suggestion.

  “Look,” Johnny said aloud, “this is so important that Vernon would actually get himself another minder for a few weeks. I know all the technical data that Peter needs to understand if he’s flinging shuttles about the stratosphere. Hell, I’d get a vicarious thrill out of it myself, getting back into space by proxy. And if Peter’s working for NASA, Barchenka can’t say Talent has been obstructing Padrugoi’s timely completion.”

  “I know it appears that it’s always we who compromise,” Gordon Havers said, entering the discussion, “but we put a wedge in her works if suddenly we insure delivery of the matériel she needs.”

  “You’d have to go with Peter, Rhyssa. I’m no longer up to that sort of sustained effort,” Dorotea said. “Sascha’s too involved in the present crisis at Linear G to leave that. And frankly, my dear, you are the stronger telepath and, I think, more tuned in to Peter’s mind than Sascha is. Someone has to monitor him during the gestalts. I can see you squirming to go, Peter Reidinger. Is it what you really want? Will you behave like a mature Talent?”

  Peter managed to curl his fingers around Rhyssa’s. “I’ll behave. I’ll do just as I’m told. I promise! And I’d learn a lot.”

  “You’d call the moves, Rhyssa,” Johnny Greene said.

  “I don’t think we have any choice in this either,” Rhyssa said, and Peter leaned against her, wishing for her not to sound so defeated. She looked down at him and cupped his head with one hand, smiling tenderly at him. “I’m not defeated, Peter dear, but I intensely dislike being left with no options.”

  “Think of the options that you’ve canceled,” Johnny Greene said with a malicious note in his voice as he lifted his middle finger skyward.

  “Put like that,” Gordie said, grinning, “we’re one up on Barchenka.”

  Rhyssa turned to Dave Lehardt, her expression severe. “And you keep Peter’s name out of the ‘casts and the fax.”

  “Your skeleton crew at work again?” Dave asked, pretending to ward off an attack.

  “ ‘Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones, and hear the word of the Lord!’ ” Johnny Greene sang, doing an intricate breakdance step.

  CHAPTER 12

  The blond man had an air about him that fascinated Tirla. She had never had much to do with Talents, and she surreptitiously crossed her wrists. She had heard such folk discussed in the Residential often enough, in fearful, awed whispers, but she had not believed half of the powers alleged to them: finders of persons and things, seers of souls, readers of secrets, prophets of future things, and movers of mountains.

  She stole a look at him where he sat with his head leaned back against the padded wall and his eyes closed; daring to observe him more closely, she noticed the quick flow of facial muscles, as if he were having an argument in his head. His jaw tightened in anger, and his lips thinned. He should have been pleased with his day’s work, Tirla thought. She was startled then, when his mouth relaxed into a half smile, a clever sort of smile, and his eyebrows twitched. Had he won his internal argument? He was a strange man, she thought, even though outwardly he appeared no different from others.

  He was not LEO, and yet he was, and she could not figure out where he fit in, or how he and his teams had appeared so conveniently at the J shunt—especially when she had just realized the difficulty of cajoling scared whiney brats like Tombi into riding cargo pods back to G. Without that unexpected rescue, Yassim’s ladrones would surely have recaptured them, herself included. She shuddered.

  So they had been rescued from Yassim. But not from Authority. She wanted no part of Authority: too many conflicting rules and regulations and silly restrict
ions that only begged to be ignored or evaded. The prospect of a new ID briefly dazzled her, to the point where she could feel the narrow plastic strip knocking against her wrist bone. But she did not—quite—believe that the man would be able to produce any such ID, no matter how well he seemed in with the LEOs.

  No matter! She had clean floaters—more than she needed for the tieds she had been supposed to launder for Yassim—so she was well ahead in the game. The matter of the hot tieds bothered her, but she was loath to face Yassim as long as he was in the market for kids. And it was very likely that the LEOs could not collar Yassim, and that he would go into deep hiding somewhere to wait out the furor. So, morally, she could hide the tieds for a while and discreetly exchange them, especially if Yassim was out of circulation, over the next several months. This was the biggest hit she had ever made.

  But still she was uneasy. She was trapped in the closed cargo pod and did not really know where they were going, though she had been keeping mental count of the rail junctions. The blond man could just as easily leave her off at the hostel with the others. Who would believe that she had an arrangement with him? The train began to decelerate, and Tirla, with a spurt of dread anticipation, waited for the shunt connect. They were going to the G platform. She was both comforted and concerned.

  “Where are we now?” she asked.

  Sascha opened his eyes, and she saw that they were an unusual shade of light blue. He looked amused. “You know we’re at G. So now we return the lost children to their grieving parents. That is important to you, isn’t it, Tirla? That Bilala, Zaveta, Pilau, and especially Mirda Khan and Mama Bobchik know that you helped retrieve their lost ones?”

  Now how could he know that? How much did he know about her? Why was he playing her along this way? He was a sharp one indeed. What sort of a scam was he running? Not all of this action had to do with that perv Yassim.

  She refused to be drawn by what could just be a shrewd guess on his part. LEOs were not above putting surveillance on Meetings, even a silly RIG with that Lama-shaman. Perhaps there had been eyes on her clients, although why such a gaggle of silly women would be the object of LEO interest she did not know—unless it had to do with selling kids. But none of them had been there to deal kids—most of theirs were too young yet. They had all been looking for “messages” and “salvations.” Yet Sascha had identified her clients, and he had even known that Mirda Khan and Mama Bobchik were especially important.

  “It just pays to be a good neighbor,” she answered diffidently.

  “Oh, you have definitely been a good neighbor today, Tirla. And a very good citizen!” He laughed softly, throwing his head back and showing large white even teeth. It would be a very nice laugh, Tirla thought, if it had not worried her that he was laughing at all. Perversely she liked him, for his strong grip and his droll words, but she did not trust him any further than she could have thrown Bulbar.

  She gave him a quick stare for calling her “citizen.” Citizens lived across the river in the beautiful hives, luxury cones, platforms, and complexes, not in Linears.

  “Trust me, Tirla?” His eyes were not laughing, nor was his mouth, and his voice was gentle and entreating.

  “I have no reason to.”

  “If I give you one?”

  She snorted scornfully. Just then the train braked to an easy stop, and the lids of the pods opened to reveal a group of adults, waiting to lift out the unconscious children. A slim woman in a LEO uniform standing at the edge of the platform spotted Sascha and thrust a narrow plastic case at him.

  “Here’s a reason, Tirla.” Sascha showed her the ID bracelet in the case. He took advantage of her surprise to clasp it around her wrist.

  She stared at it, holding her arms away from her, trying to absorb the significance of having a legal identity and then the slowly dawning knowledge that the bracelet was not banded in the usual Residential colors. Green banding meant that one could travel between Linears, but what did the gold and black stripes mean?

  “You are now legal, Tirla.”

  Just then the four freight elevators reached the cargo level. A mass of women flowed out onto the platform, raising loud lamentations when they saw limp bodies on medipads. Sascha drew Tirla to one side as Public Health personnel circulated, establishing the parentage of those Tirla had rescued.

  “What happens to them?” Tirla asked. This was not what she had had in mind when she set out on her mad venture. Parents would not be pleased that their children were in the hands of Authority. Nor would they profit as she had intended. She had an ID bracelet and more credit than she had ever possessed in her life—but what good would it do her if the tenuous position she had carved for herself, her clients, her means of supporting herself, were gone? Suddenly her future seemed as bleak as that of the children she had saved from Yassim.

  A tall, slender, very handsome young man in a LEO uniform planted himself squarely in front of the Sascha person and saluted. “What do you wish me to tell the women, sir?” he asked.

  “That Tirla here,” Sascha said, moving her to stand in front of him, his hands lightly—and, she felt, kindly—on her shoulders, “found where Yassim had hidden their children. She was leading them back home, to their mothers and fathers, when we, also searching, came upon them.”

  In a voice that penetrated the tumult of wailing women, the young man rattled off the announcement in the required languages—a task that made Tirla restless under Sascha’s hands. As each of the linguistic groups understood, they fell to whispering among themselves. When the translator had finished, Mirda Khan and Mama Bobchik waded forward, their expressions grim. Under Sascha’s hands, Tirla’s narrow shoulders tensed, and surreptitiously she shielded her brand-new ID bracelet by moving her arm slightly behind her.

  “And the children?” Mirda Khan demanded in Basic, jutting her chin out. She stared pointedly at Tirla.

  “The records have been checked,” Sascha said, his voice diplomatically apologetic. “Their births were illegal.”

  When Mirda Khan frowned, Sascha signaled for Ranjit to translate. The wave of hysterical weeping was punctuated as mothers of now officially illegal children threw themselves across the unconscious bodies, obviously determined to resist attempts to remove them. Sascha ordered the crowd-control partners to neutralize the incipient hysterics. He dampened his own reception, but he could not remain immune to the intense emotional agitation that battered his senses. He was perplexed. These same women would have sold their sons and daughters in a few years.

  Boris, he said, it’s going to be a lot easier to buy these women off with something.

  How about the truth? Isn’t a hostel a better fate than the future Yassim planned for them?

  I would think so, Sascha replied, but I do not think they’ll see it in the same light. I’ll tap our slush fluid if you won’t ante up. Anything, Sascha thought, to shut up the spine-crawling ululations. He was not used to having to deal on this level.

  Getting soft, Brother?

  You’re not here and listening. And there’s Tirla to think of.

  You’re taking charge of her, aren’t you? Boris asked. I’d rather she wasn’t jeopardized. Her Talent could be very useful in multilanguage groups.

  The noise was fearful, the aura exceedingly unpleasant for any Talents with the least modicum of empathy. Tears were streaming down Carmen’s face.

  “How much, Tirla?” Sascha asked.

  Startled, she twisted in his hands to see his expression.

  “How much will stop their tears and relieve their loss?” he went on.

  “You’d pay?”

  He saw the leap of astonishment in her velvety brown eyes before a canny veil settled over her expression. Brother, this one’s going to deal for the hairs on our chests.

  “For the youngest, you don’t have to give much.” She named a figure. “Add ten percent for each year they have, and that should be enough.”

  “I’d say five percent for each year.”

  “S
even!” she retorted. “The bigger they are the more it takes to fill their bellies.”

  He spit in his hand and held it out. She closed the deal and then stepped four paces nearer to Mirda Khan.

  Ranjit, monitor this for me! Sascha ordered.

  She’s speaking Arabic, Ranjit said. She’s saying that she has been arguing hard for the grieving mothers ever since they were caught in the tunnel. Only because she has spoken out so forcefully has a way been made to ease the sorrow of the mothers. Illegal children have rights, the big man says, and she believes him. They will be much safer than with Yassim, for which every mother should be thankful, knowing perfectly well the fate which awaited the children, despite the grief it causes. For how else can people survive on mere subsistence alone? A price has been agreed, as they must have seen, and she has acted in good faith. Sascha, Ranjit added as Tirla turned to face another section of the women, this child is amazing. She’s speaking Urdu now as glibly as she did Arabic. 0ho!

  There was a commotion, and a plump little woman, her face contorted with conflicting emotions until her beady eyes were hidden in the folds of her cheeks, pushed through. Sascha recognized her from her caste mark and the vindictiveness of her roiling thoughts. She would have leaped upon Tirla if MirdaKhan and Mama Bobchik had not intervened. Sascha sprang forward to protect Tirla, berating himself for not anticipating an attack.

  “Unwanted bitch,” the woman shrieked in Basic. “Illegal, you! The bint is illegal! She is illegal!” She struggled against the restraining hands. “Take her. You take her if you take my Tombi. You take her!”

  “Of course I am illegal, wasted barren woman whose husband will beat her morning, noon, and evening for refusing a fair price that will feed him for many days to come on lamb and papadums.” Tirla leaned with fervor into the task of returning verbal abuse. She had, Sascha noted, managed to run her bracelet up under her sleeve, out of sight.

  Sascha restrained Tirla by her shoulders. “She is Illegal, woman. She comes with us. Tell them, Ranjit!” When the message had been translated, he added, “The deal she spoke of will be good for only three more minutes.” He looked pointedly at his digital watch. “Then there is no more to talk about. Let each mother who accepts the offer stand by her child.”