Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  A fanfare blasted for attention, and the excited babble died down to eager anticipation. Not a bad flourish, Tirla thought, quite willing to be carried along by a good show.

  Then the choir stalked out self-consciously and arranged themselves with some poking and pulling on one side of stage center. As close as she was, Tirla could see that their costumes were neither clean nor new. Not all of them managed to find the right pitch from the final note of the recorded blurt of brass. Tirla knew the song they were singing, a really old good one, so the fact that they were singing it badly was inexcusable. She only had to translate it for Cyoto and Ari—everyone else mumbled along in their own languages.

  Then the emcee came out, falsely bright, and started the pitch, waffling on about the training and merits of the Revered Venerable Ponsit Prosit. As he was merely repeating all the claptrap about mystical training in Far Asia from the public announcement, Tirla did not start to translate it until Bilala hissed at her to earn her fee.

  There was another song, one which slipped from one musical ethic to another with no respect for tonality or rhythm. Perversely, the singers managed to perform the travesty competently. Tirla identified six who were spaced out on something. That they could sing at all might indeed be a minor miracle of this RIG.

  There were flourishes of recorded instruments and rolls of drums, which stirred even Tirla’s cynical pulses. Drums could be so exciting! A great crashing of cymbals, a painfully glaring display of assorted lights and narrow beams, an ear-blasting crescendo of bugle synths accompanied by fragrant smoke bombs, and the Revered Venerable Religious Interpreter arrived, his robes artfully gleaming.

  Her clients were suitably impressed by his “magical” appearance, but Tirla had caught a glimpse of the square aperture in the floor before he shot up through the densest veil of smoke to hover on his column above the stage and the awed spectators. She preferred something more dramatic; she had seen that sort of entrance so frequently that it had lost any impact. But clearly she was a minority. Even Mirda pretended to be afraid, covering her face with a fold of her head cloth.

  The Religious Interpreter went into his act immediately, face upturned so Tirla’s best view was of a waggling chin and dark holes of nostrils. The light show dazzled as taped music supported his mouthings—for that was what they were, syllables meaning absolutely nothing, with random words from every language she had ever heard tossed in to confuse.

  “What does he say, the holy man?” Mirda demanded.

  “Tell me what he say?” Mama Bobchik pulled Tirla to her. Bilala and Pilau were equally insistent: one kicked Tirla’s shin, while the other transferred a substantial amount of her weight onto Tirla’s undefended toes.

  “Nothing,” Tirla replied, disgusted. “He says nothing!”

  She was poked, pushed, and pulled.

  “He’s saying something.” “He speaks mystically.” “Tell us what he says.” “Ah, I understand that word for myself! I will pay you nothing, bitch.”

  Tirla was furious at that threat. Furious at the RIG. She would translate when he said something translatable. She was pinched and tweaked and slapped. In self-defense she caught the pattern of his babble and, involuntarily mimicking his stance and delivery, rattled off the nonsensical sounds in an undertone, translating the occasional real word into as many languages as she could before picking up the gibberish again.

  Then the man stopped talking and spread his arms, his beatific smile radiant in the flood of light picking him out, seemingly afloat in the air above the stage. Then Tirla realized that he was staring in her direction.

  In a gesture that startled her as well as her clients, he lunged forward, eyes flashing, face contorted, his accusing finger pointing straight at her.

  “Unbelievers, profaning a sacred moment with chatter. Hear, learn, obey, repent your evil uncaring ways. Be taken into the light of the world. Be admitted into the holy sepulcher. Be one with humanity and all loving, caring creatures. Be purified. Be saved! Be!” His accusing hand lifted and spread open as a beam of light caught his fingers and spilled down his raised arm.

  Tirla, translating as rapidly as possible in the dramatic pause, was thankful for some coherent phrases. Her clients might be listening to her, but their eyes were on him. He had the crowd’s rapt attention now. Tirla was fairly sure that no one outside the circle could see her, but dared not stop talking. She kept spewing out the gibberish, worrying that such nonsense would not be worth the money promised her. They might not pay her at all. She was already regretting that she would miss the taste of the crisp green pepper she had hoped to purchase with her fee.

  The Lama-shaman assumed another dramatic pose, arms out, palms upturned in entreaty.

  “Bring me your sick, your weary, your wretched souls. Let me heal them. A touch will ease the tortured mind, the fevered body, the twisted limb, the blurred sight. Approach! Be not afeared. All things come to those who deserve. All creatures deserve Love. For it is Love, Love, Love that heals!”

  Tirla rattled it all off easily, trying to peer through the shielding bodies to see who would be working the scam. Barney with his lizard eyelids—one blink, and his eyes were milky white blind; another, and he could “see clear once again, hallelujah!” Maybe Mahmoud with his double joints all twisted out of shape—one touch of the Lama-shaman’s healing touch and they would straighten. Or would it be Maria with her weeping sores?

  The Lama-shaman threw back his head, his hands turned gold in the narrow spot-beams, glittering from some sort of paint he must have used. Her clients inhaled with awe at the sight, their faces rapt as he made mystic passes with his magical hands. Glistening strands and bits whirled from his fingertips, disappearing in brief sparks as they left the light beams. That was a new trick, Tirla thought. Not bad. Pilau tried to catch a strand, but it disintegrated, leaving no trace in her grubby fingers.

  Just then another strand, stronger, shot from the stage and fell on the head of a bemused man. He was less bemused when, with another grand flourish, the Lama-shaman began to reel him in.

  “You have been chosen, brother. Come to me! Embrace me!” A ramp extruded from the stage, straight toward the chosen one, who glanced about with apprehension as he was pushed onto the ramp by those behind him and propelled forward by those on either side. “Kneel, brother,” the Lama-shaman intoned, and appeared to glide down the air.

  Tirla could feel the faint vibration of the stage mechanism that supplied the effect, but she did not pause in her translations. It was a pretty good gimmick. She wondered where the control was. The mark appeared genuinely stunned at being chosen. He knelt obediently, a dazed expression on his face.

  “Rallamadamothuriasticalligomahnozimithioapodociamoturialistashadioalisymquepodial—Omathuitodispasionat usimperadomusigen alliszweigenpolastonu chevaliskyrieisonandia. Moss pirialistusquandoniulabetodomoarigatoimustendiationallamegrachiatus . . .” the Revered Venerable intoned, holding his hand above the mark’s head.

  More syllables and almost-words that Tirla could not anticipate enough to mimic. She could appreciate and admire the Venerable’s truly respectable breath control. Why, he sounded as if he could go on forever!

  “What does he say?” Mirda pinched her sharply.

  “How can I hear when you babble at me?” Tirla replied and made up suitable phrases, which she then translated. “Woops!”

  Strange things were happening above the chosen one’s head. How did the Lama-shaman do that with sleeves so tight at his wrists? Tirla wondered. Hair, face, and throat of the mark were shimmering with gold; the man’s expression was first ludicrous and then ecstatic. Tirla wondered what the Venerable Prayman could be using. She was beginning to enjoy the spectacle.

  The Revered slowly turned back to the audience, his face also golden-hued, the whites of his eyes visible. “The power is with me. Whom else will it touch?”

  Raising his arms again and extending his hands forward, he gave the audience sufficient time to see the effect the “power�
� had had on the first “chosen.” With a twist of his wrists, his palms turned over and strands shot out in all directions. Before Tirla could duck, one of the filaments landed on her head. Whatever it was stuck tightly in her hair despite quick efforts on her part to get rid of it. Her hands were caught by the adhesive, bound to her head now. She began to panic. There was no way she wished to be hauled up in public. Not with Yassim in the hall. Not with tieds on her, credits she had no right to possess under any circumstances.

  The choir began to chant for the chosen to come forward, to receive power. The audience caught up the refrain, and Tirla could hear the ominous overtone of envy from those who felt themselves more worthy of such an honor.

  “She’s been chosen!” Bilala and Pilau shrieked, bursting into an ululation that shot panic through Tirla’s heart as they tried to push her forward toward the ramp nearest them.

  “No, she’s got to stay. She’s got to tell us!” Mama Bobchik and Mirda Khan were not to be cheated. They pulled Tirla back.

  “Break it, Cyoto. Help me, Lao Wang. Elpidia! Zaveta!” Tirla began struggling in earnest, terror starting to chill her guts.

  All the other newly chosen were making their way up to the stage. The strand tightened, pulling at her hair. She twisted. Then suddenly she was snapped free. She caught the glint of a knife blade as she fell back against the solid Mama Bobchik. Zaveta and Mirda locked with the screaming Bilala and Pilau, who were attempting to regain control of Tirla.

  As she had done before in such situations, Tirla dropped to the floor and plunged to one side, tripping someone, who fell heavily on her left foot. She ignored the stab of pain and crawled on, her breath coming in sobs. She rolled free of her encircling clients and scrambled to her feet, plowing through the chanters. Someone saw the dangling golden strand and grabbed it, nearly jerking her off her feet. To free herself she wrenched the tangled hair from her head, leaving the bit of scalp dangling in the man’s hand.

  “Grab her!” The chant was interrupted to set up the cry. She squeezed past several grasping hands, frantic to get to the lobby and the nearest emergency exit.

  “Here, I gotcha!” She was encircled by massive forearms. She lifted her arms and slithered down; a kick was aimed at her belly, but despite being winded, she rolled, too accustomed to such dirty tactics not to have self-preserving instincts. She had a glimpse of one of Yassim’s sassins, face wreathed in a witless grin of success, before she landed against the far wall, and suddenly two pairs of trousered legs shielded her.

  She was helped to her feet by kind hands and made conscious of soothing thoughts of assistance, understanding, and sympathy. She recognized the aura just as her splayed fingers felt the doorframe. Managing to elude the hands, she whipped out the door and sped across the foyer, paying no heed to pleas to stop. An incredible multi-toned bellow rose behind her, an angry frustrated noise that gave impetus to her pumping legs. As she pounded down the access aisle, she heard a familiar thumping thud in the air above.

  LEOs! Had they been on hand? Or had they been called? But it took time for LEO ships to assemble. She found the small square duct she needed, whipped off the cover, crawled inside, and, with some difficulty in the restricted space, snapped it back into place. She crouched in the dirt and grime, tilting her face away from the light as her lungs fought to repay her heart for the strain.

  She heard people racing by, heard their exclamations as they reached the dead end, heard them turn and come back, and heard their steps continue on past her refuge. Despite the noise, Tirla fell asleep.

  “Rhyssa!” The alarmed voice of the duty officer was accompanied by an impulse through her headnet that roused her instantly.

  “Yes?”

  “Major disaster precog,” Budworth said.

  Great! Rhyssa thought sleepily. Two major trouble precogs in not quite two days and not a tremble about matters which urgently concerned all Talents.

  “Recorded all across Asia,” Budworth went on. “Looks like Kayankira’s going to get another monsoon overload. They haven’t repaired the restraining dams from the last one. How’re we going to cope, with all the strong kinetics on the station?”

  “Is there time to bring any down?”

  “That’s the panic! There’s time enough, but weather conditions all across the world are freaky. Even if a Padrugoi shuttle launched, the nearest clear landing site is Woomera. The kinetics have to be on site to be effective.” What Budworth did not say—“if Barchenka would allow ’em to leave the station”—flashed like a neon sign in Rhyssa’s mind.

  “Get Sascha up for me, will you, Buddy?”

  He did, Sascha assured her. Are you considering Peter? His mental tone mixed eagerness to try and awareness of the multiple risks involved.

  I must consider Peter’s unique capabilities in a situation as critical as this, she told him.

  How? Without compromising Peter’s security?

  They both slapped up internal shields as they felt the arrival of other thoughts.

  Kayankira: Rhyssa, I’ve got to have all the kinetics you have left. I understand there’s no chance of getting any of them down from Padrugoi?

  Rhyssa: That’s my understanding.

  Vsevolod Gebrowski: I shall insist! I shall take this to the World Council. They have deplored the situation in India. Let them put words into action. Reducing the density of population in that area of Bangladesh also diminished the available work force, and the necessary work has not been completed on time. Now we pay for that.

  Miklos Horvath: Not if we draft the kinetics on Padrugoi down to help. And the cleanup effort will be reduced by kinesis now!

  Rhyssa: If we can force the weather to give us a break!

  Bessie Dundall at Canberra: The precogs all indicate the worst flooding ever in Bangladesh. The new levees haven’t been completely restored, so floodwaters will drown this year’s harvest. The barriers won’t work for some reason—I suspect their erection will prove that once again corruption and bribery have been widespread. We have to do something!

  Alparacin: Rhyssa, what about that team of yours I hear about?

  Rhyssa: They’re not well-enough trained for a disaster of this magnitude, dear friend. They’d be burned out.

  Peter: No, I wouldn ‘t.

  Quiet! Sascha, Rhyssa, and Dorotea ordered as one.

  Peter: I was, that was just to you.

  Rhyssa held her breath. But no Talent queried the unknown voice. Naturally Eastern will do whatever we can, she told the others. May we have copies of the precogs? But I assure you that highly skilled kinetics are going to have trouble coping with this sort of thing, and all I have are a handful of fourteen-year-old trainee kinetics.

  Madlyn here . . .

  Sascha: Honey, you’re one voice that never has to identify. What have you heard? He imaged to Rhyssa a vision of Madlyn Luvaro, hands to her mouth to make a megaphone, leaning out of an airlock and shouting down to a wincing Earth.

  Madlyn: Lance has been arguing with Barchenka since he got the precog. She absolutely refuses to risk a shuttle or a pilot. You gotta admit the weather’s pretty freaky all over right now. I can see it clear as day: lots of turbulence, and not just over the Indian continent. Lance says there has to be one safe place on Earth they can land, and they’ve got to help. He’s citing her for contractual violation. She says it’s too dangerous to risk so many Talents—now she’s doing the matriarchal, protecting-you-against-your-own-altruism. Ha!

  And there isn’t a pilot we’ve talked to who’ll risk a drop into the soup kettle down there, she went on. Wait! Lance says—Madlyn’s mental tone altered to a rote-recital level—now’s the time to try. He says you’ll know what he means. He accepts that it could be a risk, but if ever to put it to the test, now’s the time. Have you got all that? She sounded mystified.

  Sascha: You’ve come through loud and clear, Madlyn, and we copy.

  Lance says that the precog indicates even more horrendous damage than the last monsoon flood caused
, so Talent has got to give kinetic support. He’s dragooned a pilot into coming, but the guy’s scared of attempting to land anywhere. Lance has assured him that all the kinetics on board will do the landing okay. Is Lance gone space-crazy? All right, I’m telling them. He says he, and a contingent of the heavy-duty kinetics—enough to effect flood control—will be on the shuttle Erasmus in Hangar G at 0800. They’re okay in space, but they’ll need the help landing. That doesn’t make sense to me, but that’s what I’m supposed to tell you.

  Sascha came storming into Rhyssa’s room. He had pulled his pants on but was carrying his shirt in his hand. He really did have a superb body, Rhyssa thought privately. Why isn’t there the necessary chemistry between us? We’d make beautiful children. He looked so magnificent angry.

  “Lance is out of his wig if he thinks Peter’s up to a controlled landing in Dacca weather,” he announced. “Landing pallets in a warehouse is a considerably different can of worms to a shuttle full of live folk we can’t afford to smear across a gale-struck concrete runway.”

  Rhyssa fed a direct repeat of Lance’s earlier conversation on Peter’s potential and a similar situation into Sascha’s mind. “He was only joking at the time,” she said ruefully. “Quite a legitimate extrapolation.”