Tin Woodman (7 page)

He double-checked everything to ascertain that nothing would malfunction. Reasonably satisfied, he grabbed hold of the empty med-couch and wheeled it back to wait for the lift platform.

So many offenses, each one grounds for court-martial . . .

A repeat announcement from the speakers brought him out of his reverie into the reality of the present moment. There was no use counting up the offenses now. The number dwindled into insignificance. They’d number them for him when they caught him—which they probably would. He had ditched the couch in an equipment storage area where it was not likely to be found, but as soon as Mora’s disappearance was discovered and announced, it was only a matter of time before Lieutenant Norlan put two and two together and pointed his face out on the personnel roster. And had that nurse gotten a good look at his face? Probably.

He had botched it.

But there was no use stopping now. The momentum he had built up was too great. Perhaps the inertia would carry him through.

In any case, he had no regrets for what he had done. And no second thoughts about what he was going to do.

Like most of the starship’s rooms of function, the briefing lounge was severely military. The transition from the comfort-oriented living and entertainment quarters was always a noticeable one to Lieutenant Gary Norlan. It was almost as though the environment itself called for attention, discipline, and restraint in one’s duties. But as he settled in one of the briefing table’s straight-backed, hard-plastic chairs, it was the captain who called for the immediate attention of the assembled members of Bridge Crew A.

“Where is Dr. Kervatz?” he demanded, as though one of them might be hiding the man. Captain Edan Darsen was obviously still weak, and yet his almost manic inner intensity backboned him into performing his duty, despite his ill-health. He refused to stay in bed.

It was Tamner who immediately responded. “He’s not bridge crew, Captain. You only ordered—”

Darsen’s eyes betrayed an uncharacteristic anxiousness—usually hard and cold, they now darted about, searching the faces of those assembled for—something. Norlan felt a queasy sensation when those eyes lighted on him. They looked out from a severely disturbed consciousness. “Kervatz’s attendance here is necessary,” he stated, his big bass voice louder than necessary. “What I have to say will concern him. Have him paged.”

Tamner immediately rose from his seat beside the captain and left the room. Funny, Tamner had never been this close to the captain’s confidence before—he must have wormed into it only recently, convincing the obviously paranoid captain that he could be trusted.

“Now then,” Darsen began gruffly. “I called this meeting to inform you that I have just received orders from Galactic Command which alter the mission status of this vessel.”

So that was it, thought Norlan. But why did Darsen sound so hesitant—almost unsure of himself. Something strange was going on.

Norlan glanced at the faces of his fellow officers. They all wore the same solemn military mask as his own. No one was going to expose his feelings here. But the executive officer—Leana Coffer—had a controlled fire of rage in her eyes.

“Our new orders are available through the ship’s computer log. You are to read them in full,” Darsen continued. “For now, however, I want to cover the immediately relevant portions.

“In response to this ship’s transmitted report concerning the
Tin Woodman
incident and the assault upon myself it precipitated, Galactic Command has ordered the
Pegasus
to pursue
Tin Woodman,
now regarded as a hostile alien—”

What?!

“Captain?” Norlan interrupted, unable to stop himself. Darsen’s busy eyebrows rose, but Norlan continued, his mask crumbling. “I am the chief communications officer aboard this ship. I would like to know
who
authorized that report’s transmission—I’ve never
seen
it. Nor have I seen
any
incoming communication from the GC.”

“I authorized it, of course,” Darsen replied curtly. “Jin Tamner drafted the report from my dictation from MedSec, and had the—ah—communications officer on duty at the time make the top-secret transmission to Crysor. Tamner also personally received the response. As it happened, both times you were off duty.”

“Might I remind the captain that regulations require both my authorization of outgoing transmission and my cognizance of incoming—”

“My
prerogative, Lieutenant,” Darsen’s voice rose above Norlan’s imperiously. “I am the captain of this ship! I am yet capable of performing my duties!”

Common sense and discretion dictated that Norlan accept this. But the abuse of regulations irritated him. That—and something more. “I should very much like to see a copy of this report.”

Darsen glared at him. “It is secret material, classified under my own personal code,” he snapped. His gaze swept the others at the table. “This ship is considered to be on combat alert from this point on, as per our orders from Galactic Command. And
my
orders are to be carried out without argument or—”

“Of course,” said Norlan quietly, relinquishing his ground. “You are the captain, as you’ve said.” He was startled by Darsen’s loss of control, by his dictatorial response to what was surely a justifiable challenge to his procedure. The only explanation for it was that he was hiding something. He had falsified the report in some way—perhaps even altered the orders from Galactic Command. But why?

Darsen seemed to have calmed himself. “Our first priority must be to determine
Tin Woodman’s
intended course when it left the vicinity of this system. Genson.”

Lieutenant Genson, the Chief Sensor Monitor, stood. “Captain, I’m sure you realize that this is not possible with our equipment. Begging your pardon . . .” She paused nervously. Darsen’s outburst had unnerved them all.

“. . . but when a ship drops into non-relative space, it doesn’t leave a trail of any kind in this universe. No ionization, neutrinos from fusion exhaust-nothing.
Tin Woodman
would have had to have told us—”

“Yes.” And Darsen began to smile. “This is true. I believe, though, that we still might be able to question
Tin Woodman,
after a fashion.”

But that’s crazy!
thought Norlan.

“This is why I wish Dr. Kervatz present. Mora Elbrun might—” The briefing room door slid open just then, and Jin Tamner stalked back into the room, his expression disconcerted. Kervatz was not with him. “Well?” Darsen said, obviously impatient.

“Elbrun is gone,” Tamner announced.

Darsen’s expression grew blank. “What?”

“I just talked to Kervatz. She’s not in her cubicle.”

“Impossible,” Darsen growled. “She couldn’t even
move!”

“She must have had help. A nurse was found unconscious in the room. He can’t identify his attacker other than the fact the guy was wearing a MedSec uniform.”

“Order a search immediately. Alert Security at once!” It was an alarmed order; a yell.

Norlan noticed, however, that Executive Officer Coffer wore a very small smile on her face. He decided that he would have to have a private conversation with her soon concerning this madness.

SEVEN

“Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;

The thief doth fear each bush an officer.”

Ston Maurtan had a fondness for Shakespeare; the lines from
Henry VI
flashed readily to mind now, assuming personal, ominous meaning. A guilty mind?—no, still not guilty. But in the last hours he had come to know suspicion quite well. Suspicion and fear.

Glancing over his shoulder warily, he stepped into the lift just outside his cabin door. The bundle of clothing he tightly clasped under one arm seemed dreadfully conspicuous. Surely the first security guard who got a glimpse of it would know they were intended for the fugitive esper. He was braced for the sudden hand on the shoulder, the weapon pressed against his back . . .

He focused on the deck lights as they rushed upward past the translucence of the lift-tube walls. He tried to shove his trepidation out of his head.

The search had been in progress ten hours now, and he had yet to be questioned. A good sign. Crew quarters were still being scrutinized, the work areas and storage rooms of Engineering ransacked for the merest clue. No one had checked sleeper deck yet. No doubt it was assumed that the ship’s computer would alert them to abnormalities there. Most reassuring were the facts that the nurse he had clobbered evidently was unable to identify him, and that Norlan had apparently forgotten him. Or maybe he was withholding the information. If so, that was
very
good. Norlan knew Mora; perhaps Ston was not the only person on the
Pegasus
who cared about her fate.

The lift hushed to a halt. Ston stepped out on sleeper deck and strode to Mora’s Henderson capsule.

Mora dreamed.

Amid the fuzzy contours that bordered this faintly blurred yet strangely stark vision, she crawled, inching along a floor somewhere in the
Pegasus.
All the sights swirling about her were robed in semidarkness. Cries and shouts clamored. Hissing light flares suddenly illuminated the scene. There was fighting, all about her. A battle, surrealistically staged . . .

This dream had visited her before, breaking up the long darkness that shrouded her. Each time, it had startled her into a semi-wakefulness, too faint to cry out, incapable of moving, in darkness. She felt entombed then. Perhaps these periods were as illusory as the nightmare conflict. But then she would plummet back into a deeper darkness.

A faint voice drew her up out of the depths: “Mora . . . Mora, can you wake up?”

It felt as though she was drifting up through a thick musty muck, toward a swath of new light. She strained . . . pushed hard, and the voice grew clearer. The dark parted grudgingly, and she was there. “Look at me, come on . . .” the voice was saying. She realized that she was looking up at someone not entirely in focus. The hazy sight resolved into recognizable features . . . and it was Ston. Ston Maurtan, leaning over her.

“That’s right. Just me. Now let’s get you out of there,” he urged in soft, concerned tones. Grasping her right arm carefully, he eased her up into a sitting position. She gazed about herself, disoriented. Where was she? This area was unfamiliar. Was she still on the
Pegasus?
Or was this yet another illusion dredged up from her slumbering subconscious.

Ston asked, “Can you slip down, stand up?”

Mora stared blankly at him, then nodded groggily. She pulled herself over the Henderson’s lip, climbed down, stood wobbly by the side of the capsule. She staggered, nearly falling, but Ston braced her with strong hands. “Well,” he said. “At least you’re awake and alive. That’s something.”

“Ston . . . Maurtan,” she murmured.

“Right ho! Nice of you to remember. Here we go.” He handed her a bundle of clothing. “See if you can pull this on. Engineering uniform. They’ll spot you in a moment if you’re still in those MedSec Op duds.”

“Who’ll spot me?” Mora asked, accepting the clothing. “Why shouldn’t they?” It didn’t make sense on one level—and yet, it
felt
right. Obediently, she removed the plain white shift, began to don the uniform. “Where are we going?”

“Engineering first,” he explained. “Listen. I busted you out of MedSec and brought you down here—the ship’s cryogenic vault section. The alarm has been out on you for a while now—Coffer’s got Security combing the whole boat for you. And if we don’t get off soon, they’ll jam that needle in your head again and
keelhaul
me.”

“Coffer? Keelhaul?” The facts didn’t align properly; she was confused.

“Ancient naval expression.” He held her hands imploringly. “It’s not important. What
is
important is that we jump the
Pegasus
soon. Understand?”

“But how? Are we still in the Aldebaran system?” She finished slipping the tunic on and sealed it.

“Yes. Still in orbit. Now, as to how we get out, I’ve figured that out. God knows maybe I would have turned myself in long before, but for this one chance. Div’s ship—the messenger ship that brought him out here? They’re going to jettison the thing—not worth the space taken up, or the mass to haul. Its last run knocked hell out of it. I happened on the report in Engineering. It’s still in serviceable shape for one more journey, if we take care. Because you see, when they boost it out to become interstellar debris, we’re going to be in it.”

She attempted to read him, but couldn’t. God, her thoughts were scrambled. Had the Dope washed out her Talent? She found herself suffused with both joy and grief at the possibility. To be Normal . . . and yet, if so, her specialness was gone. But no—only one injection, Ston had said. Not enough. Ston . . .

“Ston—are you all right?” she asked, deciding that she could trust him.

“Me? Yes, of course—”

“Never mind. I had a nightmare . . . you were involved.”

He grinned. “Always great to have women dream about me.” His expression grew grim. “But we’d better get on with it.”

“Yes. I’ll do whatever you say.” Even as she spoke, the details of the dream faded, slipping from memory.

But she knew it would come again.

Bif Hersil leaned over the microphone attached to the launch monitor. “Programming complete,” he intoned crisply, businesslike. “Request permission to proceed with jettison.” He peered through the thick plastic window of Hangar Deck Control at the robot cranes positioning the cylindrical Mark IV above the hangar doors.

“Acknowledged,” replied the launch computer. “Proceed as directed.” A quick touch to a glowing console plate before him activated the pre-programmed launch sequence.

There was a hush of air behind him—the door opening. Ston Maurtan stepped into the room.

“Moving up in the ranks, eh?” said Maurtan, smiling. He settled easily into a chair close to Hersil. “At last you’re awarded a task befitting your inestimable talents.”

Hersil grinned back at him, “Yep. Completing a computer circuit.” He held up his forefinger, gazed at it sardonically. “This is all the computer needs. I could have left my brain up in quarters. Hey—how’s the hand?”

“Itches under the bandage.” Maurtan glanced at the instrument array before him. Above the air-pressure indicator, a chronometer was flashing out the minutes and seconds remaining before the hangar depressurization commmenced:
4:57
it said. Then
4:56
. “Got bored with staring at the video in my cabin. Thought I’d hop down here, watch you make this trash dump.”

“Don’t know as I’d call it trash,” mused Hersil, regarding the messenger ship. “Put a little work into it, and it might be all right. But the brass doesn’t want to bother.”

“Only you on duty?”

“Might be somebody in the observation rooms. I doubt it though. Don’t tell me that after all the time you’ve spent on starships these things still interest you.”

“Well—actually I brought somebody down with me. You know Ensign Welbourne?”

Hersil shook his head.

“He’s down there right now, matter of fact.” Ston stabbed a finger toward the figure that walked across the hangar doors, toward the Mark IV.

“He’s crazy,” cried Hersil, jerking his attention away from Ston, as planned. “Ston, the hangar bay seals automatically at five minutes until . . .” He checked the chronometer. “He’ll be killed! I’ll have to abort the drop!” He turned to his microphone.

“Don’t.” Maurtan pulled his right hand from behind his back; it held a welding laser, the sort used to repair heavy engine shielding. He leveled it at Hersil. “Turn around, Bif. Walk toward the door.”

HersiI did not budge. He stared at the tool-turned-weapon, then at Maurtan’s eyes, as though trying to measure his resolve.

“Come on—be sensible, and do what I sayl” Ston demanded. “No room in here for another hero.”

Without a word, Bif Hersil walked toward the door. Ston paced behind him, hand steady on the torch, marching him into an empty observation room adjoining the control room. “You’ll be safe here.” He stepped back, shut the door, turned the torch on the door lock. Metal fused under the blue laser light, sealing the door, imprisoning Hersil inside.

He wasn’t keeping or making any friends these days, he thought as he re-entered the control room. Moving to the console, he searched out the proper buttons, pressed them. He checked the chronometer again.
3 :03
.

Switching the torch up full, he aimed for the window, depressed the firing stud. The transparent plastic melted and burned, pouring so much noxious smoke into the room that it was necessary to hold his breath until he was finished.

Taking off his uniform vest, he laid it across the hot, blackened metal sill of the frame, then climbed through. He let himself down to hang by his hands a moment, then dropped five meters to the hangar bay floor.

Mora, disguised in the ensign’s uniform, nearly bald head covered with a cap, was waiting on a hangar door, beside the dangling bulk of the Mark IV. After struggling up from the sprawl he had undertaken to break his fall, he hurried over to her.

“Studied one of these babies as a class project at the academy. Old things—don’t use them much any more,” he said. “I know them inside and out. Ah—here we go.” His fingers found the imbedded buttons, tapped loose the lock. “Quick, get in. Only a matter of seconds before this place is depressurized, and the doors open underneath us.”

Mutely she obeyed, moving through the small opening. Ston crammed himself inside with her, reached out, closed the hatch, twisted hard, sealing it. He fought back the sudden wave of claustrophobia that engulfed him—they’d conditioned him against that in space training, but fear was eroding the conditioning. Mora was already moving into the cabin, dragging the bag about her neck with her. She set the satchel of food and supplies down, slumped into the acceleration bunk, breathing hoarsely.

Ston keyed closed the optional airlock section—no modern ships had them—and surveyed the inner ship quickly. A small enclosure, all right—but it would have to do. From the looks of it, much of the interior had been in use for quite a while.

Wasting no time, he moved up to the control couch, strapped himself in. “You’d better wrap yourself around something. When the launch dumps us, we’ll be moving almost directly into free-faIl.” His eves moved over the old control board. Satisfied that all looked well, he checked for a flight computer. Then he recalled the Mark IV’s didn’t have such—only an environmental computer and a simple automatic course corrector. This journey would have to be all manual.

He tapped on the power. Needles quivered into life—lights blinked on. Primitive, yes—but it worked. It would get them where he planned to go.

The ship rocked slightly. Depressurization had begun.

He turned around to Mora. “I think there’s a harness there—yes, slip it on, huh? Only a minute or so until drop time.”

“Can’t they stop us, if they find out?” she returned as she found the leatherlike straps Ston had indicated, fitted them around herself.

“No. The program’s already locked in. I fixed it so that now that hangar deck and its control room aren’t accessible. They won’t be until they can close the door again. Which they won’t be able to do unless we’ve been ejected. All of which gives us plenty of time to shift into Null-R, and get the hell out of here. We’ve got a chance, Mora.” He turned his warming gaze on her. “We’ve got a damned good chance now.”

“I’m not sure if I care,” she said in a small voice. “I just want to get away—make the
effort
.” She returned his gaze. “Ston—so far I’ve been just accepting everything you’ve done. I suppose I’m still a bit out of it. But I haven’t asked you why. Why are you giving up everything for me, Ston?”

A damned good question, he thought. But he had to . . .

Any response he intended was abruptly curtailed by a jerk as the robot cranes began to lower the messenger ship through the open hangar doors, through the artificial gravity field. The Mark IV bumped and lurched. Ston felt as though something was attempting to tear loose inside his body. Mark IV’s didn’t have anti-grav devices to compensate . . .

And then the ship was tossed out into the void.

“What?” The captain’s voice was uncharacteristically shrill. His cup of coffee was spilled as he stood up from the table. Caught in a moment of fury and indecision, he trembled. “Escaped from the
ship?
But who could have helped her?”

A look of fright and paranoia flashed briefly over his features.

Midshipman First Class Ronner stood in semi-rigid attention, eyes straight ahead, enunciating his words precisely. “Security’s found Ensign Bifford Hersil in one of the observation rooms. The door had been welded shut. He claims that Ensign Ston Maurtan is responsible.”

“Maurtan? Never heard of him. But why, Ronner? Why?”

“Your presence and decisions are requested on the bridge.”

“Of course. They’ll have to be brought back,” he declared. “God knows, I forgot about that messenger ship being slated for ejection, or I would have taken precautions. Someone should have reminded me. This is not a ship—it’s a damned bureaucracy. Things will be changed. Now, Ronner—get me an engineering report on that ship right away.”