The Rowan

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the guest house?’ Mauli asked, looking about the rooms empty except for Rascal’s case.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll just move a few things in from the stores,’ the Rowan reassured them and saw them firmly out of her quarters.

  She put Rascal’s cage safely in the food preparation area which was the only room that she and Lusena had not redecorated from Siglen’s original offering. Then, working at top speed, the Rowan papered, painted, and restored the rooms just as they had been on the day she had moved into the Tower. For just this night, it wouldn’t hurt her to sleep on that ghastly pink and orange bed. She was tired enough so she wouldn’t even notice. But Rascal did and it took him a long time to stop his disgusted commentary.

  If the Rowan could have avoided the farewell rituals, she would have. She hadn’t had much sleep on that wretchedly soft bed and formalities invariably set her teeth on edge. All the Secretaries were there, each with something encouraging to say to her and a small present to brighten her new quarters. Secretary Camella wavered between radiant smiles and a teary face. Siglen wept copiously on Bralla’s shoulder, moaning about the imminent tribulations and why wouldn’t anyone listen to her and take proper care of her little pupil, the best one she had ever trained, and to have to endure what was before her …

  Leading her Tower personnel up the gangway into the big and brightly lit transport, the Rowan ignored a flashback to the day it had been Purza she’d carried, not Rascal, up a ramp. She turned for one last wave at the assembled, and confidently followed the steward to her room.

  ‘You’ve a barquecat?’ the man exclaimed, noticing her burden.

  ‘Rascal. The Mayotte let me have him four years ago. He’s been a super friend.’

  ‘Mayotte, huh? You rate, Prime. You got to be real special to be voted a Mayotte barquecat.’

  ‘What do you have on board?’ and the stimulating exchange lasted until he slid back the door of her cabin, explaining that it was larger than most accommodations and showing her the various facilities.

  The Rowan pretended interest but she had to swallow frequently and she began to sweat even before she thanked the garrulous steward and finally managed to ease him out the door. The cabin was very small. She’d been in shower stalls that were larger. But then she wouldn’t have to be in it long.

  Now, please don’t worry, dear. Really, there is absolutely nothing to worry about, Siglen’s anxious tones blossomed in her mind. It isn’t the same sort of mind-wrenching trip that I had to take to get here the first time, you know, before Altair Tower was operational.

  Siglen’s mind was roiling with fear for Rowan. The girl could easily visual the slab of a woman, supine in her couch, her eyes on the vessel’s coordinates on the ceiling screen, her fingers checking and checking the gestalt thrust needed for the launch. It was a scene she had witnessed time and again, but not at this end of the operation. Bralla would be hovering in the background.

  I do hope everything will go smoothly for you, dear, Siglen continued, her anxiety intensifying. I’ve checked and double checked and everything is in perfect working order. I just wish I didn’t have to be the one …

  The Rowan gritted her teeth. The last thing she needed was Siglen reminiscing over her tribulations on the journey from Earth to Altair. The woman meant well.

  The Rowan urged the lift-off claxon to sound, signaling their imminent departure. Involved in gestalt, Siglen could not transfer mental garbage. What was keeping the woman from completing the lift?

  Oh, oh, Bralla, and Siglen’s wide open mind wailed as the Rowan child once had done. How can I do this to her?

  The Rowan tried to close out a sudden whirling, mind-boggling disorientation.

  Lift, Siglen! Now is not the time to dally! Get me off planet NOW! the Rowan cried, unwilling to endure any more delay colored by a cowardly old woman’s ancient fears.

  The Rowan leaned back against the door, closing her mind to Siglen’s moans. Siglen was frightening herself. The Rowan wasn’t at all frightened, even if the cabin suddenly seemed constricting. The cabin on the Miraki had been small but the Miraki had been on the sea which rolled around Altair. There was fresh air all over. She took deep gulps of air and it tasted properly. She knew from standard procedures that air was replaced between voyages so this wasn’t stale recycled air she was breathing.

  The passenger vehicle was not a large one: Siglen lifted far more mass without thinking twice about it. She had only to ’port the ship halfway to its destination where Reidinger as Earth Prime would catch and ease it into Earth’s Star System. As it neared Jupiter, the ship would enter the proper orbit to land on Callisto’s surface.

  Once the Tower was in full operation, it would be the Rowan who would catch an incoming ’portation and land it neatly and without a bump into the cradle designed to receive it on Callisto. The Rowan fixed her mind on her future, her own Tower to run, free forever of Siglen’s fussy peculiarities.

  The claxon sounded. The Rowan found it oddly difficult to move from the door to the bunk. Even silly, but she lay down. She ought not to feel any motion whatever. Siglen was an experienced Prime. There would be no motion, nothing at all like the Miraki coming through the Straits, no bouncing, rolling, slewing.

  Oh my dear child, brace yourself! Brace yourself! Siglen even managed to penetrate the Rowan’s shielding but then she had the gestalt to magnify her telepathy.

  But the Rowan knew the moment the ’port began: she knew it because the marrow of her bones vibrated with the generator gestalt.

  Oh, Bralla, HOW could I do this to the child? How? Oh, what she’ll suffer now!

  There was no escape for the Rowan from Siglen’s anguished keening. Nor would Siglen leave her alone, determined in her unnecessary solicitude to support her former pupil through this ordeal.

  Then, just as Siglen had said it would, suddenly everything was spinning in her head: She was neither up nor down, nor sideways, but whirling in a desperate spiral to nowhere and she screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed, and heard Rascal shrieking with equal panic. Then she was falling into hands, hands that seized and held her down, down, down, forcing her into the vortex that reached out to envelop her and she descended, unchecked into the awful spinning, mind-wrenching blackness.

  PART TWO

  CALLISTO

  WHEN THE ROWAN came storming into Callisto Station that morning, its personnel mentally and literally ducked. Mentally, because she was apt to forget to shield. Literally, because the Rowan was prone to slamming loose furnishings around when she got upset. Today, however, she was in fair command of herself and merely stamped up the stairs into the Tower. A vague rumble of noisy thoughts tossed around the ground floor of the Station for a few minutes, but the computer and analogue men ignored the depressing effects with the gratitude of those saved from greater disaster.

  From the residue of her passage, Brian Ackerman, the Stationmaster, caught the impression of intense purple frustration. He was basically only a T-9, but constant association with the Rowan had broadened his perceptions. Ackerman appreciated this side effect of his position – when he was anywhere else but at the Station.

  At the beginning, just after the Rowan had been assigned to Callisto, he had tried to transfer with no success. Federal Telepathers and Teleporters, Inc. had established a routine regarding his continuous applications. The first one handed in each quarter was ignored; the second brought an adroitly worded reply on how sensitive and crucial a position he held at Callisto Prime Station; his third – often a violent demand – always got him a special shipment of scotch; his fourth – a piteous wail – brought the Section Supervisor out for a face-to-face chat and, only then, a few discreet words to the Rowan.

  Ackerman was positive she always knew the full story before the Supervisor finally approached her. It pleased her to be difficult, but the one time Ackerman discarded protocol and snarled back at her, she had mended her ways for a full quarter. It had reluc
tantly dawned on Ackerman that she must like him, and he had since used this knowledge to advantage. He was also becoming proud of the fact that he was one of the longest serving members of the Callisto personnel.

  Each of the twenty-three Station staff members had gone through a similar shuffling until the Rowan accepted them. It took a very delicate balance of mental talent, personality, and technical skill to achieve the proper gestalt required to move giant liners and tonnes of freight. Federal Tel and Tel had only five Primes – five T-1s – each strategically placed to effect the best possible transmission of commerce and communications throughout the sprawling Nine-Star League. It was FT&T’s dream someday to provide instantaneous transmission of anything, anywhere, anytime. Until that day, FT&T exercised patient diplomacy with its five T-1s, putting up with their vagaries like the doting owners of so many golden geese. If keeping the Rowan happy had meant changing the lesser personnel twice daily, it would probably have been done. The present staff had been intact for over two years in spite of the Rowan’s eccentricities.

  The Rowan had been peevish for a week this time and everyone was beginning to smart under the backlash. So far no-one knew why the Rowan was upset … if she did herself. To be fair, Ackerman thought, she usually does have reasons.

  Ready for the liner! Her thought lashed out so piercingly that Ackerman was sure everyone in the ship waiting outside had heard her. But he switched the intercom in to the ship’s captain.

  ‘I heard,’ the captain said wryly. ‘Give me a five-count and then set us off.’

  Ackerman didn’t bother to relay the message to the Rowan. In her mood, she’d be hearing straight to Capella and back. The generator board was ablaze with varied colored printouts and messages as the team brought the booster field up to peak, while the Rowan impatiently revved up the launch units to push-off strength. She was well ahead of the standard timing, and the pent-up power seemed to keen through the station. The countdown came fast as the energy level sang past endurable limits.

  ROWAN, NO TRICKS, Ackerman said.

  He caught her mental laugh and barked a warning to the captain. He hoped the man had heard it, because the Rowan was on zero before he could finish and the ship was out of the system, beyond com distance in seconds.

  The keening dynamos lost only a minute edge of sharpness before they sang at peak again. The lots on the launchers snapped out into space as fast as they could be set up. Then loads rocketed into the receiving area from other Prime Stations, and the ground crews hustled rerouting and hold orders. The power note settled to a bearable pitch, as the Rowan worked out her mood without losing the efficient and accurate thrust that made her FT&T’s best Prime.

  Callisto Moonbase was not a large installation, but its position was critical. Most of the heart system’s freight and passenger ships required the gestalt lift beyond the system where the hyper or drone drives could safely be activated. As such bases went, it was luxurious – once you got accustomed to the overhead lower of Jupiter, or its mass jutting up from the horizon. Terraforming the moon gave its workers psychological reassurance during the working ‘day’ with trees and grass lawns and flowering bushes and plants under the main dome.

  There were pleasant gardened accommodations for those staff that were on 24-hour duty, though most of the personnel – the Rowan willing – returned to their Earth surface or orbital homes. As befit her status as an FT&T Prime, the Rowan had a special double-domed enclosure, with gardens and a pool and rimmed with small trees and bushes to complete her privacy. Rumor had it that her quarters were rich with priceless furnishings, gathered from many planets, but no-one knew for certain as the Rowan guarded her privacy even more than FT&T guarded her. The Callisto installation had been the engineering and scientific feat of the century, now commonplace since technological improvements outstripped that accomplishment as humans reached newer and more exotic planets in ever more remote star systems.

  One of the ground crew toggled the yellow alert across the board, then red as ten tonnes of cargo from Earth settled on the Priority Receiving cradle. The waybill said Deneb VIII, one of the newest colonies, which was at the Rowan’s limit. But the shipment was marked TOP EMERGENCY PRIORITY/ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL with lavish MED seals and stencils shouting ‘caution’. The waybill described the shipment as antibodies for a virulent plague and specified direct transmission.

  Well, where’re my coordinates and my placement photo? snapped the Rowan. I can’t thrust blind, you know, and we’ve always rerouted for Deneb VIII.

  Bill Powers was scrolling through the Stardex which the Rowan suddenly tripped into a fast forward, the appropriate fax appearing on all screens at once.

  Glor-ree! Do I have to land all that mass there myself?

  No, Lamebrain, I’ll pick it up at 24.578.82, the lazy rich baritone voice drawled in every mind, that nice little convenient black dwarf midway. You won’t need to strain a single neuron in your pretty little skull.

  The silence was deafening.

  Well, I’ll be … came from the Rowan.

  Of course, you are, sweetheart – just push that nice little package out my way. Or is it too much for you? The drawl was solicitous rather than insulting.

  You’ll get your package! replied the Rowan, and the dynamos keened piercingly just once as the ten tonnes disappeared out of the cradle.

  Why, you little minx … slow it down or I’ll burn your ears back!

  Come out and catch it! The Rowan’s laugh broke off in a gasp of surprise, and Ackerman could feel her slamming up her mental shields.

  I want that stuff in one piece, not smeared a millimeter thin on the surface, my dear, the voice said sternly. OK. I’ve got it. Thanks! We need this.

  Hey, who the blazes are you? What’s your placement?

  Deneb VIII, my dear, and a busy boy right now. Ta-ta.

  The silence was broken only by the whine of the dynamos dying to an idle burr.

  Not a hint of what the Rowan was thinking came through now, but Ackerman could pick up the aura of incredulity, shock, speculation, and satisfaction that pervaded the thoughts of everyone else in the Station. What a stunner for the Rowan! No-one except a T-1 could have projected that far. There’d been no mention of a new T-1 being contracted to FT&T, and, as far as Ackerman knew, FT&T had the irreversible first choice on T-1 kinetics. However, Deneb planet was now it its third generation and colonial peculiarities had produced the Rowan in two.

  ‘Hey, people,’ Ackerman said, ‘sock up your shields. She’s not going to like your drift.’

  Dutifully the aura was dampened, but the grins did not fade and Powers started to whistle cheerfully.

  Another yellow flag came up for the Altair hurdle and the waybill designated LIVE SHIPMENT TO BETELGEUSE. The dynamos whined noisily and then the launcher was empty. Whatever might be going through her mind at the moment, the Rowan was doing her work.

  All told, it was an odd day, and Ackerman didn’t know whether to be thankful or not that the Rowan wasn’t leaking any aggravation. She spun the day’s lot in and out with careless ease. By the time Jupiter’s bulk had moved around to blanket the out-system traffic, Callisto’s day was nearly over and the Rowan wasn’t off power as much as decibel one. Once the in-Sun traffic had filled all available cradles, Ackerman wound down the system. The computer banks darkened and dynamos fell silent … but the Rowan did not come down out of her Tower.

  Ray Loftus and Afra, the Capellan T-4, came over to sit on the edge of Ackerman’s desk. They brought out the bottle of some home brew and passed it around. As usual, Afra demured and took from his belt pouch a half-folded origami, his special form of relaxation.

  ‘I was going to ask her Highness to give me a lift home,’ Loftus said, ‘but I dunno now. Got a date with—’

  He disappeared. A moment later, Ackerman could see him near a personnel carrier. Not only had he been set down gently, but various small necessities, including a flight bag, floated out of nowhere on to a neat pile in the carrier. R
ay was given time to settle himself before the hatch sealed and he was whisked off.

  Powers joined Afra and Ackerman.

  ‘She’s sure in a funny mood,’ he said.

  When the Rowan got peevish, few of the men at the station asked her to transport them to Earth. She was psychologically planetbound, and resented the fact that lesser talents could be moved about through space without suffering a twinge of shock.

  Anyone else?

  Adler and Toglia spoke up and promptly disappeared. Ackerman and Powers exchanged looks which they hastily suppressed as the Rowan appeared before them, smiling. It was the first time that that welcome and charming expression had crossed her face for two weeks.

  The grin made you realize, Ackerman thought, very very softly in the deepest part of his brain, what a lovely woman she could be. She was slight, thin rather than slender and sometimes moved like an animated stick figure. She was not his notion of ‘feminine’ – all angles and slight breasts – and yet, sometimes when she looked up at you out of the corner of her eyes, that slight smile tugging at the corner of a rather sensual mouth, she fair took a guy’s breath away … wondering. And thinking about things no married man – or T-9 – had any business reviewing, even in his head. Maybe it was her white hair – some said she’d had that since she was hauled out of the mudslide on Altair – others said it marked her as part alien. The Rowan looked different because – and Ackerman knew this for a fact – she WAS different!

  She smiled now, not sly exactly, but watchful, and said nothing. She took a pull from the bottle, made a grimace, and handed it back with a thank-you. For all her eccentricities, the Rowan acted with propriety face-to-face. She had grown up with her skill, carefully taught by old Siglen on Altair. She’d had certain courtesies drilled into her: the less gifted could be alienated by inappropriate use of Talent. While the Rowan could be justified in ‘reaching’ things during business hours, she was careful to display normal behavior at other times.