Pegasus in Flight (30 page)

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 blamed 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.

“Did you get any of that, Tirla?” Sascha asked her, grinning. Sitting beside her, he could feel her concentrating on “listening,” but her mind echoed nothing but the desire to hear.

She shook her head and gave a sad little sigh, with a look of apology to Dorotea, who had been trying so hard to train her.

“The Bro wants to know if you’d prefer to live in a Long Island Residential while you’re waiting to grow up,” Sascha explained.

“A Residential in Long Island?” Tirla became animated at once, sitting up in her bed, her big dark eyes glittering, a delicate tinge of color suffusing her cheeks, and a hopeful smile on her lips. “That’d be living in high style!”

EPILOGUE

Three months later.

Rhyssa?

The tone, apologetic but firm, roused Rhyssa from one of those intense sleeps where it is difficult to move the body even when the brain has become alert. She lay heavy in the bed and managed to open one eye to see the clock; then she heard the familiar sound of Dave singing softly to himself in the bathroom. Once again she had overslept. She really did not know what was the matter with her these past few weeks—she simply could not seem to get enough sleep.

Rhyssa!
The tone was more urgent, and then recognition came.

Yes, Madlyn? What’s the matter?

I didn’t wake you, did I? I thought I had Earth times down pat.

I overslept. What’s the matter?

It’s
her! Disgust, frustration, anger, and exasperation packed into that one pronoun forewarned Rhyssa.
She’s at it again. Saying we Talents are
not
doing our job! We have only pulled her out of
her
midden and yet she has the gall to blame
us
for anything that goes wrong up here.

What is it this time?
Rhyssa hauled herself up against her pillows and reached for the coffee thermos—another elegant notion of Mr. Lehardt’s, and so civilized. She started to pour herself a cup and then stopped. The smell of it turned her stomach.

There’s one last very critical shipment due to come up,
Madlyn went on,
only it hasn’t because Johnny says he won’t ship it yet.

Won’t
ship it?
That blew the last of sleep-fog from Rhyssa’s mind. What was Colonel Greene up to now?
And naturally it’s essential for her to complete the installation?

Vital! It’s got the last of the internal mechanisms and remotes. Very delicate stuff, I know, and not something you want bounced about. And there’s only a week more before the completion date. Then we can all come down to earth!
There was heartfelt relief in Madlyn’s tone.
So
we
want to know
why
it’s being held up. Because we are, too, you know.

I know. I’ll sort it out, Madlyn. Indeed, I will.

Dave was whistling louder now that he knew she was awake. He might not have been telepathic, but he displayed a keen sensitivity where she was concerned that more than made up for it in ways she could never have anticipated. She grinned to herself and then recalled the task at hand. Eight-thirty was not too early to rouse Colonel John Greene out of his Floridian sack.

Johnny boy, phone me!
He was too far away to link telepathically with her, but her call would reach him easily enough. She looked at the phone, counting down.

It rang in exactly ten seconds.

“You wished parlance with me, Madame Lehardt?”

“I do indeed, Colonel Greene. What hanky-panky are you pulling on poor dear Ludmilla?”

Johnny’s chuckle was drenched in malice. “Only what she deserves, petal. She conscripted us Talents to be sure she finished on time, and finished on time she will be. Not one moment earlier, not one moment later. Why?”

“Oh, I see.” Rhyssa chuckled. “And you have it timed to the final hour?”

“Lance and I worked out the time it would take to install those controls, and we’ve scheduled the kinetics needed. We know exactly how long it will take. Lance must have forgotten to clue Madlyn. I’m sorry she’s getting hassled, but she’s well able for it. Soothe her down, will you, Rhys? We’re doing it our way!”

“Oh, I quite agree. Not an hour early and not an hour late.”

As she hung up, Dave came in the room, a towel draped about his lean hips. “I did try to wake you, Rhys,” he said with a rueful expression. “You just don’t want to get up in the morning.”

“I’m wanton enough to admit that I love being in bed with you, Dave, but preferably awake, not sleeping like the dead.” She lifted her arms and began to stretch, then stopped. “And what’s wrong with the coffee? The smell makes me nauseous.”

Dave grinned as he sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at her. His blue eyes crinkled. “Figured it out yet?” he asked, glancing down at her abdomen.

“I thought—I mean, I haven’t been ill,” Rhyssa said, with dawning awareness, “just sleepy! Oh, Dave, could I really be pregnant?”

“Think about it a moment, O wise woman!” He got up, shedding his towel as he began to dress. She loved looking at him, no matter what he was doing, and the intimacy of this daily act was something special for her. “After all, I’ve been doing my best for several months now!”

Awed by the possibility, Rhyssa did start thinking about her body, placing her hands gently on her belly, intuiting the biofeedback.

“Oh, Dave, I am pregnant. I am!”

“I think you’re the last one to have copped on, then,” he replied, grinning broadly. “Dorotea knows.”

“And she said nothing?” Rhyssa sat bolt upright again, startled and somewhat miffed that she had been left in the dark—and by Dorotea!

“Well, there’s some things it’s more fun to find out by yourself,” he said, grinning as he stooped down to kiss her lovingly. “There’s a sort of glow about you, too. Everyone’s noticed. They’ve been politely waiting for an official announcement.” He stroked her tangled hair, running fingers down her silver streak.

She sighed, then blurted out, “Does Sascha know?”

Dave stopped in the act of pulling on his tunic and ducked his head out of the folds to regard her with some alarm. “Sascha? I know you’re close but—”

“Well . . .” Rhyssa paused. There was one of the few drawbacks to Dave’s lack of Talent. Sometimes she had to explain with far more detail than a Talent would require. “Well, Sascha’s got to wait, that’s all, and he doesn’t take waiting kindly.”

“Wait?” Dave pulled the tunic down. “Wait for what?”

“For Tirla to grow up, of course,” she said, gathering herself to rise from the bed. She felt oddly protective of the new life inside her, which was silly, since it was obviously well settled in.

“Tirla?” Dave’s eyes nearly popped in astonishment. “He’s gone on her? Dirty old man!”

“Not so old and certainly not dirty where Tirla is concerned. Bolt out of the blue on him, all right enough. He’s never felt that way about any other female.” Rhyssa permitted herself a little knowing smile. “But she’s the one for him, and he knows it. He just has to wait a few years.”

“That wight’s not even—”

“Tirla is twelve now, going on two hundred,” Rhyssa replied with some asperity. Tirla was a very interesting personality, and she and Sascha would deal very well together. It was incredible, really, to have found two such diverse Talents during her directorship: one macro who would shift worlds and one whose skill was a micro-Talent, eroding language barriers. “Neesters ripen a lot faster than we Northern and Occidental types. She’ll be more than ready in four years to marry Sascha.”

“And that’s decided?” Dave was skeptical. Rhyssa smiled. “Sascha precogged it—to his intense astonishment. Next time you see them together, notice how she looks at him. Quite proprietary that young lady is where Sascha is concerned. And she’s better for him than Madlyn would ever be.”

“And they’ll have Talented kids?”

“That’s a very high probability.” Rhyssa smiled smugly.

Dave paused. In her presence he always allowed his emotions to show. He cleared his throat and asked briskly, “What about us? When will we know?”

To reassure the man she loved, Rhyssa smiled as she nodded. “No problem there.”

“You sound so sure.”

She put her arms around his neck, letting her gravid belly rest against him as she pulled his head down to kiss him. “I am. He just told me so.”