Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  Sascha: And you think I feel none for not stranding Tirla, for encouraging her to go to the bloody mall? To that unmentionable bloody confectionery parlor? Sascha’s response was loaded with derision. She’d’ve been bloody safer if I had let Boris use her for bait!

  Dorotea: Stop castigating yourself, Sascha. Tirla’s been safely in and out of the mall and the parlor for weeks now.

  Rhyssa, brokenly: Peter’s worked so hard . . . What could have possessed him to take such a risk?

  Dorotea: He is just a boy, for all his power. Don’t worry, we’ll hear. The least whisper, and we’ll hear them. Dorotea’s mind cast restlessly for a trace of Tirla’s. After nearly five weeks of proximity with the girl, she should be able to spot her consciousness.

  MAY ALL YOUR ORIFICES BE CLOGGED WITH CAMEL DUNG, YOUR BELLY ETERNALLY FULL OF VOMIT! MAY YOUR TONGUE ROT AND YOUR TEETH FALL OUT AND YOUR GUMS SWELL WITH BOILS! MAY YOUR LIVER ROT AND YOUR BLADDER DRY UP AND YOUR GLANDS SHRIVEL AND PUTREFY.

  “Good God!” Dorotea was jolted to her feet. “Did you all hear that? It was loud enough!”

  “Peter doesn’t know that kind of language!” Rhyssa said, with a slight grin.

  “Tirla would,” Sascha replied, beaming from ear to ear. “Pungent, isn’t she? Damn, where’s she got to? I can’t hear her anymore.”

  “Well, I can, and she’s still in fine form,” Dorotea said. “Neither of you hear her now? She can certainly broadcast when she’s of a mind to.” She held up her hand, listening, every muscle taut. Dorotea here, Tirla. Can you hear me? Dorotea’s mental tone was tranquil and reassuring.

  Tirla: Dorotea? Where are you?

  Dorotea: More to the point, where are you? “Can you hear her now, Sascha, Rhyssa?” she asked. Two brief headshakes confirmed Dorotea as the primary contact. She felt the light, firm mental touches of Rhyssa and Sascha, listening in.

  Tirla, savagely: You tell me. I can’t see a thing. I can’t feel a thing. I can smell, and the stench is worse than the bottom level of a factory bilge. Couldn’t you guys track me?

  No, we couldn’t, Tirla. Your bracelets were discarded right at the mall when you and Peter were taken. Is Peter nearby? Sascha had motioned Carmen over, but Carmen kept shaking her head at her continued inability to find Tirla. Can you remember what happened? Dorotea went on.

  Tirla’s disgust was obvious. I can’t remember anything. Peter and I finished the new spectacular they just added to the menu. He paid for it himself. Said it was his treat this time ’cause he’d just had a vacation. We left the Parlor and were walking toward the subway when something covered my face, and I don’t remember a thing more. Awful stuff. Sweet icky smell. How come I can talk to you all of a sudden?

  Sometimes it’s a case of need-to, Tirla, Dorotea said, putting a smile of approval into her mental tone.

  You needed me to? Tirla asked. Or I needed you to hear me? Peter? Peter, answer me! Dorotea caught the conflicting emotions in Tirla’s question, but such competitiveness was not a bad sign.

  You and Peter were not the only two taken today. Cass and Suz reported that a number must have been taken from E, as well. A very well-organized affair. That’s why anything you can tell us will help, Tirla. Anything, no matter how trivial.

  Peter’s not answering me in here. Maybe he’s just not awake yet. My stomach’s sour. I shouldn’t’ve had that spectacular. Peter? Peeeeter!

  Dorotea spoke gently. Don’t panic, Tirla. Peter will wake up soon enough if he was gassed the same time as you were. We’re very relieved to hear from you, believe me.

  Tirla, mildly surprised: I do believe you. You can’t lie in your mind, can you?

  Not to me, you can’t, Dorotea replied, gesturing imperiously for Rhyssa and Sascha to stop trying to insinuate questions into her head. Tirla’s voice was clear but, after the first burst of psychic outrage, neither as strong nor as loud. She could not risk losing the link. Now, tell me what you can about your surroundings.

  They stink!

  We’ve already established that. What of? Besides, I assume, the unpleasant bodily discharges of frightened children. What can you hear?

  Tirla, disgusted: A lot of crying.

  Even that tells me something, Tirla. Can you isolate the individual crying enough to estimate how many children are around you?

  Dorotea could sense Tirla’s concentration and did not interrupt.

  Tirla: I think there’s a lot of kids. There’s sure a lot of crying and moaning, and someone’s hiccuping. All around me, all sides, above, but none below. Why’d they blindfold us and tie us down like this? Most of these kids wouldn’t even try to escape.

  Dorotea: Yassim lost all the G children, didn’t he? I think that, unfortunately, that caused him to change his tactics. He’s now employing a disorientation technique, sensory deprivation, to reduce the children to compliance when they are released. You’re not afraid, are you?

  Tirla, candidly: I don’t like it, but I’m not scared. I’m mad. Her tone strengthened. I missed my math class.

  Dorotea broke into relieved laughter. An angry Tirla would be far more useful than a frightened one. Sascha managed a relieved chuckle, and the tension in Rhyssa’s stance eased.

  Dorotea: Stay mad, Tirla. Anger can be a valuable asset. Now what I want you to do is try and calm the children. Get them to tell you their names and, if possible, where they came from. E and R were not the only Linears hit. We estimate that upward of a hundred children were taken.

  Including Peter and me?

  A hundred and two. Look, Tirla, we’re going to have to rely heavily on you to help us find you, Peter, and the others. Dorotea gave Rhyssa a raised eyebrow at her smothered protest. “Candidly, that child is lot better able to take care of herself.”

  Rely on me? How? I’m blind and strapped in like cargo! Hey, you lot! Shut up! Quit your grizzling, stupid Neesters. Tirla then dropped into languages that Dorotea could not understand. They prefer crying for their mommies! Mommies who sold ’em! Tirla said, suddenly dropping into Basic again. Some half dozen are from E, seven are from W, and two from C. How they bleat! None of ’em’s Peter.

  Dorotea: Ask them their names.

  Tirla could give ten names of the estimated fifteen children in with her. These were instantly forwarded to Boris.

  “Where can Peter be?” Rhyssa murmured softly. At some point while she had been concentrating on Dorotea’s conversations, Dave Lehardt had joined the anxious group in the Control Room. He linked his fingers in hers, and the physical contact was almost more reassuring than the aura of encouragement that emanated from all the telepaths about her.

  “Ask her again about the various smells,” Sascha prompted Dorotea. “There may be something that’ll give us a clue to where.”

  Well, there’s a sort of metal stink, Tirla replied when Dorotea relayed the question. And there’s a moldy mildewing rotten stink that’s stronger. There’s another smell I can’t identify. Oily. I’m stuffed into something—feels like plastic foam. Even my fingers are separated into slots. I’m bound at the wrists, ankles, waist, and across my chest. If I was shorter, I’d be choking. Oh, cut the caterwauling! No one’s hurting you! She roared out repetitions in other dialects, continuing to broadcast mentally as she shouted at the other children.

  “Her predicament is beginning to get to her,” Dorotea said grimly. Tirla, I’m with you. Even if you can’t hear them, Rhyssa, Sascha, Boris, Sirikit, Budworth, Dave—we’re all here. We’ll get you out of there, I promise.

  Tirla: Soon, please. If I have to listen to all this crying and moaning much longer, I’ll space out. What about that woman who wore my hair? Why don’t you ask her where I am?

  Carmen is right here and reminds you that she needs light to find you! Remember? That’s why she couldn’t locate you in the Linear—you were in the dark.

  Tirla, wryly: I’m a lot more in the dark now than I was then. What if they don’t turn any lights on? For the first time, her voice was tinged more with fear than with outrag
e.

  Dorotea: It may be no consolation to you right now, Tirla, but they’ll want you to be in good condition. They’ll also have to feed you and keep you clean.

  Tirla: Yeah? When? Next week sometime?

  You were taken at approximately three. It’s ten-thirty now. You can’t be left without food and water much longer.

  Tirla: You’re right. That’s not much consolation. Dorotea, don’t stop talking to me, will you? I don’t care what you say. Just don’t stop talking.

  I’m totally at your command, Tirla. Dorotea projected an image of a flourish and a curtsy. She was rewarded by a little chuckle. Shall we start with the math lesson you missed?

  Tirla, surprised: In my head?

  Dorotea: Write it on the board in my mind. I’ll remember for you.

  “And also increase her telepathic facility,” Rhyssa said with a genuine smile. “You are incorrigible, Dorotea.”

  “Also very good at what I do,” the old woman replied smugly.

  Rhyssa? Rhyssa?

  Rhyssa gasped with incredulity, stricken by the faintness of Peter’s call. Dave wrapped an arm about her shoulders, supporting her as she held up her hand to stop all noise in the room as the weak voice reached her mind.

  Yes, Peter. I’ve been listening for you.

  Peter: I can’t see anything. They gassed me. I’m going to be sick.

  Rhyssa kept her mental tone calm and firm as she clung to Dave’s hands. Easy, Peter. Remember our drills. Reduce the nausea.

  It’s never been this hard before, Rhyssa. There was an edge of despair in his voice. Rhyssa knew so well how he hated anesthetics. He had reactions to most of the common ones. It was going to take time—which she did not think they had—for him to shake off the residual disorientation and nausea in order to bring his kinesis into use.

  Rhyssa: Focus your mind, Peter, just as you used to do in the hospital. Focus your thoughts; ignore the extraneous.

  Peter: There’re other kids in here with me. Some of ’em are pretty scared.

  Rhyssa: Call out for Tirla. She’s somewhere—maybe very nearby.

  Dorotea, urgently: Tirla, Peter’s awake. Call his name.

  Neither heard the other.

  “Christ! Fine team of Talents we are when our kids are vulnerable!” Sascha remarked caustically.

  Tirla, echoing Sascha’s frustration: Why doesn’t Peter just glide out of this contraption, Dorotea? Tirla asked, unconsciously echoing Sascha’s frustration. He’s the kinetic! When Dorotea explained Peter’s problem with the anesthesia, Tirla gave a bark of laughter. So it’s up to me again, I guess. Don’t forget the answers to my equations, will you, Dorotea?

  Dorotea: Tirla, what are you planning to do?

  Tirla: Get out of this coffin.

  Dorotea: How?

  Tirla: They made one mistake when they strapped me in here. They strapped my fingers down, not up where I couldn’t reach anything. I should be able to dig out enough plastic to free my hands.

  Dorotea felt the effort in Tirla’s mind, effort and fringes of pain. “Could she do that?” she asked Sascha.

  “According to the Bro, the kids retrieved in Manhattan had been wrapped in foamed plastic cocoons. She might be able to scratch at it with her fingers.”

  You have made contact with Tirla and Peter? Boris’s voice was excited.

  Contact, Bro, but not release. Both kids are cocooned. And Peter’s having a bad reaction to whatever gas they used. Sascha made another face, mimicking the aggravation his brother was mentally expressing. He’ll need a little time before he recovers completely.

  Boris: Is there time? I’ve got the city manager, and all her deputies on my back for action. Some of the other kids were legal, too.

  Rhyssa was concentrating on strengthening her link with Peter, helping him to dissipate the residue of the anesthetic. Her face mirrored his desperation and sense of failure, and she leaned heavily against Dave.

  There! The triumph in Tirla’s voice was evident to Dorotea, and she held up her hand, repeating the girl’s words for the others. Camel-gutted tripe! Miserable dung-eaters! Descendants of snake offal. Scuzfarts! Maggots!

  Good heavens! How pungent. Tirla, how have you hurt yourself? Dorotea demanded, sensing pain.

  Tirla: Never you mind. I’m out of this cocoon. There are nineteen other kids stuck in ’em here, some of ’em still knocked out. Peter’s not one of ’em. Tell Carmen not to fracture her skull finding me. This place is black as the bottom of an elevator pit. Ugh. I slipped in junk. Ugh! I’ve reached one wall. Faugh. It’s slimy and gritty. Too smooth and cold for metal. Ah, an opening. A window. Plastic-coated. I can’t even scratch a sliver off. Look, I’m going to try something, Tirla went on. They always forget about ceilings. There’s air coming in here from someplace. She was silent for a long while, though Dorotea was aware of strenuous physical activity. I am not hurting you. Just using you as a stepladder. And I won’t let you go, crybaby. You’re no use to me. Quit your grizzling. Another period of silence followed, and Dorotea reported more physical effort, punctuated by inadvertent grunts of pain.

  Tirla: Well, I was right. There is a ceiling hatch. And I can see, a little. Well, whaddya know? I’m in a shunting yard. There are rows and rows of train cars, old ones. Can’t have been moved in years. And someplace down to my right there’s light. Sort of around an edge, like of a window or a door. Any idea where I could be?

  From the moment Tirla mentioned a shunting yard, the description was forwarded to everyone concerned.

  Tirla: I’m going along the tops of cars toward the light, the girl reported. I can’t hear anyone, and no one would be stupid enough to walk around this place without a light.

  Tell us how many cars have children, Tirla, Dorotea urged.

  Tirla: Peter! Peter! Answer me! Peter! It’s Tirla! Answer me! Wow! I nearly fell off the edge of the car. Slippery surface, moist. Whole place is damp!

  “Try for yards by the river, by the sea. Along the Sound,” Sascha said, prowling up and down the bank of monitors, checking patterns.

  Tirla! Peter cried exultantly. His voice echoed from Tirla’s mind to Dorotea and lifted the anxieties of every Talent in the room. Rhyssa sank into a chair that Dave pulled over for her. Then he handed her a stimulant drink, gesturing her to toss it down quickly.

  Tirla: So here’s where they stashed you, huh? Now, I’ll just drop in beside you. There! The tape’ll sting coming off—oh, I forgot. Sorry.

  Peter: I won’t feel it anyway—do your worst. Just don’t take all the skin off my wrists! Isn’t there any light in this place?

  Tirla: I guess not. There—you’re free. Only the tan came off. Here! Don’t go faint. Lie back. Stay easy. Get your breath. Now look, you’d better rest some more. Dorotea could hear the nervous concern in Tirla’s voice, a matter she did not impart to Rhyssa. I’m going to look around this place, Peter, Tirla went on. You get your kinetics working again, ’cause there’s no way I can haul you up by myself.

  Peter: I’ll be okay, Tirla. I’ll be okay. Just—just come back.

  Tirla: 0ho! Aircar! Big bugger. Expensive! No lights!

  There was a long moment of silence. That was too close.

  “Ask her if she saw a number, a description, anything!” Sascha prompted Dorotea.

  Tirla: I’d say that it’s a metallic blue jetter, twelve-seater, no lights. But I got a glimpse—a three, a dash, and R-I-G—I think. Could have been a B, but the I and the G were clear enough.

  When Dorotea repeated what Tirla had said, Sascha exploded to his feet. “R-I-G! We couldn’t be so lucky!” He slapped his right palm against his forehead. “Budworth, get through to Auer and Bertha and see if they have any tickles about Filmflam.”

  “Flimflam?” Rhyssa and Dorotea said together, both reaching into Sascha’s mind for confirmation, but he was involved in a tight conversation with Boris and would not let them in.

  “Boris is doing a search on the registration,” Sascha said aloud, holding up one
hand, his expression intent and eager. “Dorotea, tell Tirla she’s a star!”

  Tirla, surprised: Was that enough for you? Oops. There’s another one coming in, from another direction. Also running dark. I’ll see if I can get a better reading.

  Tirla, Dorotea replied hastily, don’t risk discovery. And Rhyssa says she’d rather have you stay with Peter.

  Tirla, blithely: Peter’s okay. Working on it. I’m going to find out who the other dark-flier is!

  Tirla! Dorotea was momentarily stunned by the independence. Tirla! She turned to Rhyssa, hands outstretched in appeal. “The little witch has cut me off! Oh, just wait till I get my hands on that child! The impudence of her.”

  Rhyssa was also irritated. Peter, stop her!

  Peter on his dignity: I don’t need a minder, Rhyssa. I really don’t. Just enough time to catch my breath. ‘Sides, no one could stop Tirla.

  “Rather admirable of the child, I think,” Sascha replied. For a palpable moment he and Rhyssa locked wills. Then he continued in a gentler tone. “I do realize, Rhyssa, that Peter’s inhibited by the gassing he took. If Tirla can manage an ID on the second car, too, we’ll maybe catch more than just the well-deserving Revered Ponsit Prosit.”

  “Has Boris confirmed the owner of that jetcar?” Rhyssa asked, only marginally appeased.

  “Registered to Ponsit Prosit, a.k.a. Flimflam,” Sascha said with a grin. “Complete with vanity plate—VRPP/2403/RIG—at a Riverside address that is more palatial than reverential. Boris is sending out surveillance and standby teams. I’d like the Center to muster Talent as of right now!” Sascha waited long enough for Rhyssa’s assent and then pointed a finger at Budworth to punch the Alert button. “We can move once we’ve got a definite fix.”

  “Neither Auer or Bertha have anything for us,” Sirikit told them.

  “That’s odd,” Rhyssa said with a frown. “There should be something!”

  “I find a precog silence reassuring,” Sascha remarked, buckling on his utility belt and checking his trank gun. “Flimflam is at least not going to trigger panic in the immediate future, so we have a very good chance of catching him in flagrante delicto. Dorotea, is Tirla available again?”