Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

Sascha, sarcastically: I don’t suppose Tirla’s bloody feet count for more than assault and GBH. But we also took possession of a case full of many too many floaters, ready for a night deposit, complete with an account number I’ll bet can be traced to the Venerable Revered.

  Boris: That should be enough to convict Flimflam. But is there enough to catch this—what did you call him?

  Sascha: Shimaz, Prince Phanibal Shimaz, who seems to be a whiz at more than Josephson junctions. Flimflam’s spilling his guts: His Highness has rather an extensive operation—child labor in his rice paddies and mines, child prostitution, and a child farm where the healthiest are kept that way until someone can pay for the organ they need.

  Boris, growling: Get me something to link him to that yard. Something that will stick!

  They were well on the way when the comlink heralded a connection from Commissioner Aiello. She appeared on the cabin screen dressed in formal attire. Hovering beside her was her protocol officer, Jak, who, for all his empathy, could at times be quite tiresome about details.

  “Do you have incontrovertible proof, Roznine?” she asked.

  “We have proof of a connection which is incompatible with any diplomatic occupation,” Boris replied, setting his jaw.

  “Who? Surely not the ambassador!” At that moment, Teresa Aiello was depressed with pessimism.

  “We are not after his Excellency, so Jak can relax. Members of his Corps, certainly, and an embassy vehicle has been identified and traced from the abduction site. There’s no problem of proving involvement. Is the DA there, too? Well, give the old dog a comforting word in his shell-like ear. The Talents have cracked this abduction ring.” The last he admitted ruefully, for despite protests to the contrary, he and his brother were in constant competition.

  The massive beehive was aptly nicknamed. Its bottom levels along the block-square bulk, where other buildings obscured views, housed maintenance, storage, and worker accommodations. Where the hive rose above its neighbors, there were great curved plasglas panels that were part solar-heating, part prestigious display of wealth. Each pie-shaped apartment boasted luxuriant gardens and views from the outer wall, and where the hive had an atrium core, rare plants and trees festooned the inner walls. Naturally the top apartments were the most exclusive and expensive, with one whole floor given over to private garden and garage facilities, swimming pools, game courts, and whatever other amenities the residents expected, to secure the ultimate of comfort.

  Is the surround complete yet, Ranjit? Boris asked on his helmet corn unit.

  Just now—completely ringed, sir. No one can get in or out without being observed.

  “Commissioner,” Boris’s pilot said, “here comes the suspect vehicle now.”

  The sleek white jetcar swooped to settle and deposit its passengers on the roof of the hive.

  “Three men!”

  “I can see that myself,” Boris said. “Secure that jetter the moment it’s garaged. See what you can get the pilot to say. Grab the log, and any garage records. And now—” He could not keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Let’s get the bastards.”

  The LEO pilot put them down on the hive roof, and Boris Roznine and his squad made for the ramp down to the entrance level of the penthouse. Seeing the formal and formidable attire of the LEO commissioner and his aide, the door attendant hurried to open it. His bow was respectful and nervous.

  “What are you doing, you naga? I’m not expecting guests!” exclaimed the man at the other end of the magnificent white marbled reception hall. A servant was just assisting the removal of his elegant blue suede long coat while a second man was also shrugging, unassisted, out of his own outerwear. “Exclude them immediately.”

  “I think not, Prince Phanibal,” Boris said, stepping forward while sending Ranjit a quick thought about reinforcements.

  The prince’s companion moved with astonishing speed out the nearest of the many doors leading from the entry hall while the paralyzed doorman gaped.

  “Is His Excellency at home?” Boris asked, some glimmer of Jak’s protocol lessons seeping through his anger. The doorman fearfully nodded before the prince ordered him not to respond.

  “How dare you—whoever you are—enter a diplomatic residence without invitation?” Prince Phanibal demanded, his expression haughty and totally confident. His gaze ignored the lieutenant by Boris’s side and the detachment standing just outside the door.

  “Boris Roznine, commissioner for Law Enforcement and Order in Jerhattan!” Boris turned to the awed and shaking doorman. “Please beg His Excellency’s indulgence and request an immediate interview on a matter of grave urgency.”

  The attendant, ignoring the prince’s countermands and threats, opened a hidden door and disappeared. He had no sooner gone than all the other doors of the entrance hall swung open and a number of large men filed in with military precision. Three, black-robed and turbaned, with silver-mounted belts and daggers which were exactly the legal length permitted display guards, immediately flanked the prince.

  Boris did not need to look over his shoulder to know that the LEO officers just outside the doorway, carrying the weaponry legal for them, outnumbered the embassy guards and were quite ready to force an entry. He waited a moment for the prince to absorb that fact.

  “I believe that we now await His Excellency’s appearance,” he said with a grim and ungenial smile and, in studied insult to a royal person, seated himself on the nearest decorative bench.

  “Do you not understand the repercussions this unwarranted intrusion—” Prince Phanibal began imperiously. “I am not only a royal prince of my house but a manager of the Padrugoi. I am due back on the platform on the next shuttle.”

  “That is why I, as LEO commissioner, am here to explain personally to the ambassador,” Boris replied. Is this the guy who’s been giving Rhyssa so much grief? Perhaps if we both try, we can probe his mind, he sent to Sascha. It’s not admissible evidence in court since it’s under duress, but it’ll give us some clues.

  There was a brief pause as the brothers tried to breach the prince’s mind. Then Boris pulled back. He’s got a dense mind shield. He’s had careful conditioning, and I’d love to know where. No, we can’t break it, not without breaking the law.

  The slightest of smiles tugged at the corner of the prince’s mouth and his eyes narrowed, hiding smug pleasure at deflecting the mental intrusion. He raised his left hand briefly, his fingers closing as if on some accustomed possession. Then he threw his fingers open in vexation and raised the arm indolently across his chest, the smile broadening.

  “Perhaps you have mislaid your little stick,” Boris heard himself saying. Sascha was there! Saving time and effort, brother? Boris asked.

  The little stick which made raw meat of Tirla’s feet, Sascha said savagely.

  Prince Phanibal stiffened in surprise. “I—what?”

  “The little switch that you are fond of carrying as an affectation, for you don’t own any—animals—I believe,” the Boris/Sascha link continued. “The one with the ivory handle and the rather unusual filigree design.”

  “I do not have to account for my possessions to such as you,” Prince Phanibal replied as he angled himself obliquely from Boris, tilting his chin arrogantly to display what many probably considered a handsome profile.

  At that point the ambassador, clad in a deep purple velvet robe with exquisite gold designs, entered from the central door. He cast one startled look at the prince and his pose, another at the group by the door, then signaled for the guards to withdraw. Boris Roznine rose and walked forward to meet the Malaysian.

  “Due to the gravity of this situation, Your Excellency,” he said, speaking on his own although he knew that Sascha was listening avidly, “you will permit me to dispense with formalities. This man”—he gestured to the aloof prince—“and another have been involved in activities incompatible with any function in your embassy. I must ask you to instruct His Highness and his companion to accompany me to the LEO headquar
ters.”

  “With what could the Prince Phanibal be charged?” the ambassador asked with great dignity.

  “The charge is indeed grave, Your Excellency, for there has been traffic in abducting minors and subjecting them to illicit bondage for the purpose of slave labor, unlawful intercourse, and organ removal.”

  “You have proof of such a heinous crime?” The ambassador drew himself more erect, but he did not appear to be all that surprised.

  “Yes, Your Excellency.” Boris inclined his head with a nod of regret. The ambassador was too fine an old man to be saddled with such a scandal. “There are witnesses!” the Boris/Sascha link continued, supporting Boris’s reply. “Talented witnesses.”

  The prince snorted his disbelief, his poise undisturbed. “Such a claim tries all patience. You will dismiss these deceivers, Uncle.”

  Sascha: This bugger’s clever.

  Boris: He hasn’t turned a hair or admitted a thing.

  Sascha: Does he think all Talents are adults?

  Boris: Tirla is on the official Register, is she not?

  Sascha: Didn’t you read the ID bracelet you got her six weeks ago? And there are four of the ladrones, spilling their guts to avoid being spaced, confirming what we’ve got out of Flimflam for turning State’s evidence—his mind took very little pressure when he regained consciousness. That was some scam they had going. Furthermore, it was the dear prince who infiltrated LEO programs and filched the strand formula. He had all the special clearance passwords because he was working on Padrugoi and doing all that fine work with the Josephson junctions. He browsed and took what he needed. Got his island laboratory to perfect a variation for Flimflam to use as a special effect in those REs he put on. We have all the details needed to implicate the prince and that secretary of his. Returned from the religious institutions and a period of meditation in the Far East? He was planning the whole thing with Prince Phanibal’s backing. Sascha’s snort of contempt was so strong that Boris grunted.

  The ambassador turned his head slightly over one shoulder in Prince Phanibal’s direction. “I will not dismiss them, Nephew. Talent cannot be forsworn.” Then he regarded Boris steadily for a moment and beckoned for the prince to step forward. “You will go with them.”

  “But I cannot be arrested like a common criminal!”

  “Oh, indeed, Nephew, you are an uncommon criminal, for diplomatic immunity does not shield pederasts,” the old man said in a voice that was leached of all emotion.

  “You cannot permit such insult to our name,” the prince said, slapping his fists to his legs in his barely contained frustration and anger. “My father will hear of this. You will hear of this. You will be disgraced! You will never return to your home. Your children and your children’s children are dog meat . . .”

  Ignoring him, the Malaysian ambassador strode to the nearest door and closed it firmly behind him. The guards moved to cover each of the doorways, subtly removing official protection from the prince.

  Commissioner? Ranjit said politely. The pilot has been arrested, and we have the jetter’s logs and the garage log. Also Prince Shimaz’s companion was apprehended, attempting to escape.

  “If you will come with us . . .” Boris began formally, gesturing toward the roof landing steps.

  The prince suddenly erupted into action, his face contorted in rage, flinging himself toward the opening Boris had made. Ranjit, with great presence of mind, neatly tripped the man as he passed.

  At that, it took three officers to subdue the raving man.

  “So, despite appeals from his grieving father, and protests from Ludmilla Barchenka that His Highness Manager Phanibal Shimaz must be released until the station is completed,” Sascha told Tirla, sitting on the edge of her bed in Dorotea’s house, “that scuzball will spend the rest of his life at hard labor on the moon.”

  “And Flimflam?” Tirla’s eyes flashed with an anger and hatred that startled Sascha, even though he understood it.

  “Oh, turning State’s evidence gave him a choice of occupations,” he said with a grin. “He elected to take a job as a sanitation engineer on the Big Station. Not exactly spaced out, but near enough.”

  “How many of the kids were illegals?” she asked after relishing Flimflam’s future for a long and satisfactory moment. She and Peter had both been in court to give their evidence but had not heard the sentencing. She still was not comfortable walking very far on her tender feet, and despite Peter’s patient instruction in kinetics, she had been unable to levitate as he did. Peter was baffled, sure that she had some latent kinetic ability; he maintained that he had been unconscious when Flimflam had been thrown kinetically across the room just as the rescuers arrived.

  “Eighty-seven children,” Sascha replied brusquely.

  “In the hostels, huh?” Tirla gave a long sigh.

  “Just think what you and Peter saved them from, Tirla. You had a taste of it.”

  “And there haven’t been any more deals or abductions?”

  Sascha shook his head.

  The apathy that had settled over Tirla after the trial worried everyone in the Center. Obediently she had worked with the physiotherapist to regain movement in her damaged feet—she had been more severely injured than had first been apparent. She had dutifully tried to improve her telepathic range, but Dorotea and Peter were the only ones she could hear at any distance; even Sascha she could hear only if he was within a hundred meters. She did test to an astounding degree of empathy, the source of her unusual linguistic feats.

  She was assiduous in following her education program, opting for a very wide variety of courses, some of which Dorotea was certain she could not yet comprehend. Her reports proved that she was more precocious than anticipated. She took no joy in the freedom of the Center’s grounds and played with no other children despite their repeated attempts to interest her. She had even refused to go on shopping trips with either Sascha or Cass. She tended to become more animated in Peter’s company, but she saw him only rarely, as he and Rhyssa were deeply involved in his highly specialized training. She was virtually recovered from the abduction, but her morale was extremely low, so Dorotea had insisted that Sascha come for a visit.

  “What does it take to strand a kid?” Tirla asked him.

  “Look, chip,” he said, laying a gentle hand on her knee and noting that she felt no less fragile to him, though she had put on weight since she had first come to the Center. “You can’t save all the illegals. And for the moment the danger is over.”

  “But not the appetites,” Tirla said, brooding. “Like that scuzzy prince.” In the privacy of her room, her face took on a malicious expression. “Is it difficult to strand a kid? Cass and Suz said they were stranding kids in Linear E. Have they improved the strand for a long-term use?”

  “I know you’re biologically twelve years old, Tirla, but you sound fifty.” Sascha was exasperated.

  She tilted her head up at him, regarding him through slightly narrowed eyes, a little smile playing at her lips. “In the Linears I am. You surely don’t want another scam like that RIG, do you? And like you said, even illegal kids have rights! I know Cass has had her baby and wouldn’t want to go undercover so soon. But I’d bet my last credit—”

  “All of them are the Center’s now, remember?” Sascha teased, and caught a sly gleam in her eyes. So Dorotea was right about her squirreling some floaters away. Old habits died hard.

  “And the Center also has to give me anything I want—”

  “Within reason.”

  “Well, I’ll be reasonable. I’m good at languages—anyone’s—but I can’t keep sharp if I’m here,” she said, gesturing out the window at the lawn. “And Teacher says I don’t know all the languages of the world—yet. I’ll do you a deal, Sascha Roznine.” She cocked her head at him in what he had come to call her “haggling manner.” “I’ll strand illegals in every Jerhattan Linear. I’ll strand ’em, but I won’t report ’em.” She gave a mirthless grin. “If there’re sweeps, and I was bl
amed for ’em, I’d lose my—what do you call it—credibility? I got ethics, too, you know. But I’d know when trouble was brewing, and that I would report. That’d help, wouldn’t it? I’d be a better trouble-spotter than any of those LEO plants of your brother’s!” The notion seemed to amuse her, and certainly she had become more animated. “I always knew who was LEO—even who was Talent.”

  While there was no question of her affection for Sascha, she was never easy in Boris’s presence, though he had tried to be ingratiating. An ingrained distrust of all LEOs was Sascha’s diagnosis, not wishing Tirla to be at odds with his twin.

  “You really wouldn’t consider staying here with Dorotea and extending your Talents?”

  Tirla wagged her head, grimacing. “It’s not that I don’t like Dorotea. She’s the best ever. It’s just—I don’t feel comfortable in all of this.” Her glance swept around the well-appointed room. “I’m a Linear brat. My Talent, as you call it,” she said, wrinkling her nose in self-deprecation, “works best in a Linear environment.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “You can’t live all your life in a Linear,” Dorotea said, entering the room, her expression worried. She radiated affection, reassurance, and support.

  “Why not?” Tirla demanded, lifting her hands in a quick gesture of exasperation.

  “Indeed, why not?” Sascha echoed.

  “Cass and Suz live on the high side of Linears when they’re undercover. I’d really like my own squat on, say, Level 19, so I’d have a view and not so much smog.” Her grin was sheer impudence. “In case he hasn’t been listening in, ask your brother if I wouldn’t be more use to him living in a Linear.”

  Sascha laughed. Bro? Did you hear that?

  Little bint! You’ll never know where you are with that one, will you? It’s demonstrable that she’s superb as a pulse-keeper. There are far more squabbles and arguments in Linear G than while she was there. I could use a Tirla in all the big Linears. If Rhyssa doesn’t mind . . .

  Dorotea: I mind!

  Boris: Sorry, Dorotea, but Tirla’s a Registered Talent and too damned vital to lay about until she’s of age. But there’s nothing that says she has to live at the Center while she’s waiting for her eighteenth birthday to come around. If she’d be much happier in a Linear, she could live in one. With Lessud and his family in Island K? Go to school properly and still keep her ears and eyes open for the general well-being of the community. With the scam dried up in Jerhattan, Long Island is the next logical pool to fish in for illegal kids. We could use a reliable pulse-keeper like Tirla.