Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  Tirla merely looked up at him, her face expressionless, but he sensed so deep a hurt and disappointment that he relented instantly. “I don’t think I can send it all back,” she said. “I’ve tried everything on.”

  “Look, chip,” he said, using Cass’s affectionate nickname for her, “sending it all back is not the answer.”

  It’s a start! Dorotea put in.

  “Learning to buy wisely is. Some of this stuff—” Sascha pointed to items of intimate apparel in lace and gauze that were far too sophisticated for even a twenty-year-old. “—can be packed up and stored . . .”

  Dorotea, acidly: Where?

  “In the vaults.” He began picking up other inappropriate garments. “And we’ll get the clutter down to manageable proportions.” In doing so he exposed a small hill of shoes, of all colors and in a variety of styles that astonished him—and all of them small enough to fit Tirla’s dainty feet.

  Dorotea: Cinderella complex?

  Sascha: Pairs, every single one of them, he said wryly.

  Dorotea: Then how can they be pairs?

  “Five pairs of shoes, no more, Tirla.” He saw her sulky expression. “Five pairs at one time. And ten different outfits in the closet. None of this . . .” He held up an emerald green ball gown with exquisitely detailed beadwork in silver and leaf green. It was exceedingly stylish, and the color was perfect for Tirla—but not until she reached twenty. Eighteen, at least. “I’ll have some trunks sent over so you can put everything away. Then we’re going to sit down and work out a budget.”

  “Budget? Like they do for cities and projects?” Surprised, Tirla came out of her sulk.

  “Yes. The Center has a budget, I have a budget, Peter has a budget . . .”

  Dorotea: All God’s chillun got budgets!

  “Then I won’t be able to go shopping again?”

  Sascha was not impervious to her broken voice and her sad expression. “Shop all you want. Look in every damned mall on Manhattan, Long Island, and the Jersey Shore. Just don’t buy anything. Window shop to your heart’s content.”

  “Never buy anything again?”

  La da da, da da da dah! Dorotea sang, mimicking a nostalgic violin air.

  All right, Sascha retorted. And how would you curb a kid who’s never had much in her life and suddenly can have anything she wants?

  More or less as you’re doing, Dorotea admitted. Just don’t waver at the sight of tears in her big black eyes!

  Sascha caught an undertone in Dorotea’s voice that puzzled him. But he ignored it and returned his full attention to Tirla. “No, chip, not never. Just not so much so constantly, things you don’t really need right now, because you’ve got enough—of practically everything, as far as I can see.”

  She sank to the edge of her barely visible bed. “But it’s not fun to window shop unless you’ve got someone with you. Where’s Cass? She loves to shop.”

  “Cass is out on assignment.”

  Tirla cocked her head up at him, no longer a disappointed and confused twelve-year-old. “More kids missing?”

  “Not yet,” he said mendaciously. “We want to keep it that way.”

  “Is she in a Linear?” Excitement brightened her expression.

  Sascha nodded.

  Dorotea: For the love of little apples, don’t tell her where, or she’ll track Cass down.

  “Why don’t you let me work undercover with her? I could be her kid and—”

  “No!”

  Tirla rocked back on the bed at the vehemence of his response. She looked hurt and confused again and even younger than her chronological age.

  “Sorry, chip.” Sascha ruffled her sleek and shining hair in an effort to compensate for his tactlessness. “Give yourself a little break. We didn’t catch Yassim, and if he spots you, he’d have you wasted so fast, none of us could help you.”

  Tirla noticeably paled.

  Dorotea: Well, she’s still afraid of Yassim!

  Tirla seemed so afraid that Sascha gathered her up in his arms and rocked her. “Yassim can’t get you here in the Center, Tirla. You’re safe here. I want to keep you safe so you can grow up and use that rare Talent you have . . . to earn enough money to pay for all you’ve been buying.” He tried to make a joke of it. He felt her stiffen in his arms. “No, not your floaters!” And he had to laugh. The little witch. Her hoard was precious to her, never to be broached. “Just think how little you’d have left if you had spent your stash. Think of that the next time you want to buy something. Pretend you’re spending your money.”

  “I wouldn’t spend my money,” she mumbled against his chest.

  With the slender little body curled trustfully in his lap, Sascha permitted himself just a few moments to caress her hair and savor the feel of her in his arms. Why Tirla? Of all the women in the world, how could this little waif, streetwise and precocious, have become so entangled in his emotions and heart? She could not possibly understand how much she meant to him. She was far too young for that aspect of maturing to have touched her. And yet . . . she responded to him as she did to no one else. With a final little hug, he put her from him as gently as he could. One day, eight or nine years in the future . . .

  Dorotea had no comment to make. To his surprise, Tirla obediently began to fold up her possessions, neatly and carefully. Sascha watched for a few more moments and then went to arrange for trunks.

  Peter and Rhyssa returned in quiet triumph the day that Cass Cutler reported to Boris that three Neesters and two Hispanics in Linear E were suspiciously more affluent than they had any right to be. Boris decided that he would not darken the happy return with such news and did not even inform Sascha of the event.

  Dorotea and Tirla both exclaimed over how well Peter looked, tanned and healthy and moving with more confidence, while Rhyssa listened, an oddly soft smile on her face. Dave Lehardt had remained behind in Florida to finalize his PR campaign, setting the stage for Colonel Johnny Greene to assume the role of Skeleteam.

  In his turn, Peter took full notice of Tirla’s new elegance and was amazed that she had shopped the malls herself.

  “Well, Sascha took me the first time,” she admitted.

  Dorotea, privately to Rhyssa: And said “Open Sesame,” and in a week Tirla’s room was as full as a bazaar.

  Sascha: I heard that. Knock it off!

  Rhyssa: Did she pick that outfit herself?

  Dorotea: She picked out everything herself and a lot of things a twelve-year-old girl has no need of—yet.

  Rhyssa: She’s got good taste—in what she’s wearing now.

  Dorotea: Good taste all round. Just a trifle sophisticated.

  Aware that Sascha was seething, Dorotea changed the subject.

  Peter and Tirla slipped out of the room.

  “How come you’re allowed to go to the mall all the time?” Peter asked Tirla, envious of her freedom. He was never allowed to go anywhere on his own.

  Tirla shrugged. “Oh, they tried to tell me how dangerous it was.” She giggled. “As if I didn’t know how to take care of myself in any old Linear. Particularly one as straight as the ones here in Jerhattan.”

  “And you go whenever you want?”

  “Nearly every day.” She cocked her head at him. “You ever been to the Old-Fashioned Parlor of Gastronomical Delights?”

  “Me?” Peter thumped his hand against his chest, then grimaced. He still didn’t have the small-muscle control needed to use just a thumb or a finger. He was feeling aggrieved on several counts. “Oh, I heard about the Parlor.” He pretended indifference, but then his pose faltered. “Is it really that good?”

  “Good?” Tirla’s enthusiasm bubbled out of her. “It’s spectacular. You wouldn’t believe the concoctions they serve. ‘The most,’ ” she quoted from the menu, “ ‘scrumptious, delectable monstrosities of confections you’ll ever experience.’ ” Sensing Peter’s longing, Tirla deliberately encouraged it. “Any kind of flavor of ice cream, all homemade, every topping known to man . . .”

>   “And you just go?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’s only four stops away on the subway.” She jerked her thumb at the murmur of adult voices coming from the living room. “Who’d miss us for half an hour, anyway?” When she saw the hesitation on his face, she added almost challengingly, “They’re busy. We’d be back before they’d know we’d gone!”

  That decided Peter, though he knew perfectly well that his physical circumstances were far different from Tirla’s. Nevertheless, she was younger than he was, and if she was allowed, he was, too.

  They left the house by the side door, Tirla skipping beside Peter in delight at his company. It was going to be such fun showing him just how well she knew her way around.

  Peter could sense how pleased Tirla was to be able to take him someplace familiar to her but new to him. So he just smiled as they took their seats on the subway from the Center platform. Other Talents on the same car grinned at the two, sending telepathic greetings and congratulations to Peter, who had learned to assume a modest demeanor in public, even among other Talents.

  Tirla was describing in great detail her favorite gastronomical delight—the one with four kinds of ice cream, four kinds of toppings, four kinds of nuts, and cherries, coconut, and multicolored sprinkles.

  “My mother took me to a place like that,” Peter said, “oh, a long time ago now. For my tenth birthday. My sister goes a lot; Mother says that’s why she has spots so often.”

  “Spots?”

  “Pimples. Zits. Facial eruptions.”

  “Oh,” Tirla replied in a tone that expressed unenlightenment. Peter imaged a pimpled face at her. “Oh! That sort.” Surreptitiously she ran her hand over her face.

  Peter laughed. “You may never get spots, Tirla,” Peter said encouragingly. “They keep us on a healthy diet anyhow. Not subbie food.”

  “What was Florida like?” Tirla asked.

  Peter had learned a lot from watching Dave Lehardt answer difficult questions tactfully. So he told her about the flat land and the palm trees, the sand, the good food, the pool, and the sunbeds, and she seemed quite content at his implication that he and Rhyssa had been taking a holiday.

  She assumed leadership as soon as they reached the right station and eagerly started running up the steps ahead of him before she remembered his disability. When she stopped, he was right beside her.

  “Your vacation did you a lot of good, didn’t it?” she said, and plowed on upward. “See—there’s the Parlor, just inside the mall entrance,” she added, pointing.

  Neither youngster noticed that their progress was being closely observed by two men, just descending from an elegant private hopper parked on the mall’s helipad. The shorter man took a small black instrument from his pocket and pointed it at them.

  “How exceedingly careless. Neither of them has been stranded! I want them taken! Especially that odious little boy! I want no slipup, no excuses. You won’t have too much trouble with the boy, but his companion mustn’t be allowed to spread an alarm. Do it as fast as you can assemble a crew. Have I made myself plain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peter was able to shout just once, his cry more indignant than alarmed. Then an ominous silence descended despite Rhyssa’s attempts to reestablish communications. She wasted no more time on the silence but broadcast on the widest band possible.

  ALERT, ALL TALENTS, ALL LEO PERSONNEL! Peter Reidinger may have been abducted. Presumably in vicinity of Old-Fashioned Parlor. Tirla was with him.

  TIRLA! Sascha’s blast was nearly as loud as hers.

  Complying! came Boris’s calming bass tone. All units in the area are to commence search procedures. Fax photos of the children are being dispatched to all vehicles. I’m proceeding immediately to question any possible witnesses. This is a Top Priority.

  This is a G and H Priority! Sascha added with bitter vehemence. Sirikit, what does Budworth have on the strand scanner? There was a long and stunned pause.

  Oh, my God. I never stranded Tirla. Rhyssa?

  Peter neither, was Rhyssa’s horrified reply. How could we have been so stupid?

  You weren’t, Dorotea said in a bracing tone. Their ID bracelets can be traced far more accurately than a stranded kid.

  The exchanges had taken bare seconds while Rhyssa, Sascha, and Dorotea sped toward the Control Room, where the monitoring equipment would, they hoped, be able to give them some indication of where the children were.

  Budworth was in front of the appropriate screen, his face twisted by anger and distress. “Bracelets were cut off. Scanner has ’em in a sewer drain in the mall heli-lot.”

  “Oh, my God!” Sascha’s exclamation came out in a sob, then he shook himself. Carmen, get in here. Bertha, Auer, you come, too. Dorotea, any chance that you can reach Tirla?

  If you can’t, I’m not likely to. There was a quality of ineffable sorrow in her response. She’s keyed to you like no one else.

  “There’s nothing, nothing there at all,” Rhyssa murmured, her voice breaking. “I’ve always been able to hear Peter’s mind.”

  “Not if he’s been anesthetized, my dear,” Dorotea said. “That’s the only time he couldn’t hear or answer.” Then she spoke to Sirikit on a very tight band. Phone Dave Lehardt and tell him to get here as fast as he can.

  Sirikit, her own eyes bleak, discreetly complied.

  “C’mon, Bro, c’mon! How long does it take your squads to get moving!” Sascha demanded, pacing anxiously.

  The Talents had to wait another five agonizing minutes before Boris contacted them.

  The kids sat by themselves. Tirla’s well known here, and she introduced her friend, Peter, to her usual waitress. She saw them leave the place. She caught a glimpse of them entering a small hopper with the Talent Center emblem. There were four men, but she didn’t see their faces. She didn’t see anything odd, except that the boy walked funny and then seemed to be assisted by one of the men. And no, she didn’t notice the registration. I’ve an APB on small hoppers with Talent emblems in Jerhattan, but it’d be helpful if your scanners picked up their bracelets.

  Sascha: The IDs were cut off. Left in the sewer outside the mall.

  Boris: That would be the first thing. So, can you pick something up yet on the strand scanners?

  Rhyssa, heavily: Neither Peter nor Tirla was stranded.

  Boris, exploding: In the name of all that’s holy, why not? The two most important young Talents? You have everyone running about like lunatics, stranding dumb subbie kids and pampered hive children, and you don’t strand Peter and Tirla? The silence following his outburst was more eloquent than anything he could have added.

  Rhyssa began to weep, and Dorotea tried to comfort her, tactilely and telepathically.

  All right, then, Boris went on in a calmer tone. We have to assume the abductors are following their latest procedures. That’s the only thing that would account for total telepathic silence. The kids were gassed. They’re going to be stashed someplace and in those neat little cocoons. Sorry, Rhyssa, but I’m too angry to be diplomatic. Sascha, have you called Carmen in? My finders are all on the case. Somehow, we’ll find ’em. Those kids are smart. Once they wake up, they’ll be able to help us find them.

  Suz and Cass further dampened the spirits of the Talents by reporting that in excess of thirty children in each Residential had been sold, or just taken. Ranjit, working covertly in Residential W, also confirmed evidence of more activity in the mall markets than could be discreetly ignored. Such scope and audacity was more than LEO or the Center had anticipated. All had happened so smoothly and simultaneously that both the Center and LEO had been caught unawares.

  “My sympathies go out to Rhyssa and the other Talents. It’s incredible that two valuable young people like that could also be vulnerable to this despicable group,” the city manager told Boris, who passed her message on to Sascha and Rhyssa. “This has top priority, and all the resources of the city are at your disposal. No effort will be spared. Is there anything I, personally, can do?
Offer a reward? Trade immunity for information?”

  “Get your department heads thinking,” Boris told City Commissioner Teresa Aiello, “where such a significant number of children could be detained. I’ve got every available person on transport surveillance. They can’t have been moved out of the Jerhattan area, not in a group or singly. I put a hold on all rail freight and every container is being examined. Any cargo of a suspicious size is being opened. They’ve got to be somewhere nearby—for a while.”

  “Everyone on this staff will start examining possibilities—unused warehouses, old buildings, underground stores,” Teresa assured Boris grimly.

  Boris Roznine did not have quite all his people on transport duty—he had a good third picking up as many ladrones and sassins as his teams found in mall or factory areas. LEO might just luck out and dislodge a clue from an apprehensive subbie.

  “Peter is alive, isn’t he?” Budworth asked, too concerned to be tactful.

  “He’s alive. It’s not a dead silence,” Rhyssa said, wincing at her choice of adjective, her voice low with tension. “But he’s not conscious.”

  “Nothing yet, Carmen?” Sascha asked the finder, whose hands were stroking the lock of Tirla’s hair. She could not meet his eyes as she shook her head slowly.

  “Christ on a crutch! How could we be so arrogant as to believe we could protect them with an ID bracelet!” Sascha demanded explosively, stalking around what free floor space there was. “Why on Earth didn’t we think to strand them?” He pounded one fist into the other hand. “We’ve wall-to-wall Talents,” he said, gesturing almost scornfully at the various teams clustered about monitors or swiftly feeding programs into the mainframe. “Where could they have got to? That many bodies are too hard to hide. The kids have to be fed. They can’t have been whisked off to their—” Sascha could not find the appropriate noun and grimaced. “Wherever. Boris initiated transport surveillance within minutes. Dammit, the subways and cargo routes have been wired since the incident in G.”

  Sascha, ease up, Dorotea told him, her warning a very narrow quiet thought. Rhyssa’s feeling guilty enough as it is.