Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  Sascha glanced surreptitiously at Cass, who rolled her eyes.

  Sascha: Stream of consciousness and loud and clear. Does she realize she’s broadcasting?

  Cass, busily spooning up the last of her treat: Highly unlikely. That child’s had to be on the qui vive all her life. Frankly, Sascha, I take it as a high compliment that she’s relaxed enough in our presence to do some unguarded thinking.

  Sascha: Good point.

  As nonchalantly as he could, Sascha observed Tirla, listening to her pithy and acute remarks about physical appearances, style, clothing, manners, and a range of other subjects that flowed across her alert and fascinating mind.

  Then Cass, with apparent reluctance, rose and said that she had to get back to the Center, as she had an evening assignment. Tirla even looked disappointed that their threesome had to break up.

  “Look, chip, anytime you want to have a gawk round some of the other malls—” Cass started.

  “There are other ones?” Tirla exclaimed, shooting an accusing glare at Sascha.

  “Thousands,” Cass told her with an unrepentant grin. “But you can’t really do more than one at a time, or it all gets jumbled up in your head as to what you saw where and which price. Believe me, I know!”

  Tirla saw the merit of that and, tucking her hand in Sascha’s, was content to return to their transport and the Center.

  By the time they reached Dorotea’s, their purchases had arrived by express package tube and were piled neatly about the room.

  “What a charming combination!” Dorotea exclaimed on seeing Tirla’s clothes. Did you buy the mall out, Sascha?

  Give her a little while and she probably will. Cass made the mistake of informing her there are a thousand more just like Grafton’s, and we may never be able to pay her bills.

  Dorotea laughed. “I’ll expect a fashion show after supper, Tirla.”

  “Show? Why? I can put on something new every day this week. That’ll show you,” Tirla replied. “What’s for supper? It smells good!”

  “After all you just finished eating?” Sascha demanded.

  “That was the treat. Don’t I get supper after a treat?”

  “Of course you do,” Dorotea assured her, glaring at Sascha.

  If you’d seen the three huge, gooey, sickeningly sweet things she consumed only a half hour ago, you might not be so quick to stuff her with supper, Sascha cautioned.

  “Wash your hands, Tirla, and I’ll serve immediately. Are you staying, Sascha?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, managing to sound polite. Peter was right about her being telepathic. But she doesn’t know she is.

  Hmmm. You see, you did learn something from her today. What did she learn from you?

  How to spend money, Sascha replied sourly, and left.

  If the official spectators at the launch even noticed the youngster seated to one side in the upper control room, they would have supposed him to be a child on a special tour, his youth according him a treat. The men certainly noticed the woman who sat beside him, for she had an arresting beauty and an unusual silver streak in her dark hair. However, her attention never strayed from the boy. Equally involved in him was the tall dark-haired man in fatigues with a colonel’s eagle on one collar tab. So few spared the trio more than a passing glance. The real action was taking place out by the massive towering gantry, where gale-force winds whipped the steam from the shuttle’s rocket end. All recent launches had been pretty tricky, the bad weather causing havoc with all air transport but none more so than the critical first minutes of a shuttle launch.

  The countdown echoed through the shielded room—at the count of eight, the spectators were jockeying for position for an unimpeded view through the treated slit windows, eager for ignition and takeoff. Fingers were surreptitiously crossed, for this was the thirteenth successive shuttle flight.

  “We have ignition!” As often as that phrase was uttered, it was always said with a ring of quiet triumph. As the shuttle engines began their full-throated roar, none of the spectators would be able to hear another noise, that of power generators pulsing at ever-increasing speed: a subtle whine that built and then leveled off just as the shuttle, one of the majestic new Rigel class, began its first imperceptible upward thrust. The final link to the launch tower fell away. Everyone held his or her breath. Then, despite the howling wind and the lashing rain, the shuttle crept upward from the reinforced concrete without deviating a centimeter from the optimum takeoff trajectory. Lift became obvious with increasing acceleration, and suddenly the bird was up and running, disappearing, except for the radiance of its rockets, into the lowering ceiling of dark gray swirling clouds.

  Immediately all eyes turned to the newly installed infrared monitors that continued to track the shuttle on its unswerving path through the atmosphere and safely above the turbulence, well on its way to Padrugoi Station, where its payload was urgently needed.

  “The pilot has the conn,” Peter Reidinger said, opening his eyes. He glanced first at Rhyssa and she nodded, smiling reassurance as she removed her hand from his. He liked her to be touching him in these moments, even if he could not feel it.

  “You have the conn, Crosbie,” the controller said, letting out a small sigh of relief. “Good thrust, Pete. You’re working like a charm. Got the whole thing down to a science.”

  “It is,” Johnny Greene reminded him, grinning.

  “You know what I mean, Colonel,” the controller said, flapping his hand.

  “He’s teasing you,” Peter said, turning his attention to the monitor. He did not really need it—he could follow the ascent of the shuttle like a pulse in his vein, a tingle of power running up and down his bones. He could feel that.

  “Very economical thrust, Peter,” Johnny said, perusing the printout on the generator control panel. “That’s the third one in a row at that level gestalt. I think we can now establish certain parameters to power usage in bad-weather launches—even if I still can’t tell how you do it.” He made a disgruntled noise in his throat. The ex-etop pilot had been hoping that he could learn Peter’s gestalt link by following his mind during a launch. He and Rhyssa had decided that the fact that he had only latent kinetic Talent might be all to the good—for a pure kinetic might be unable to adapt to Peter’s ways. But he had had no more luck than Sascha at discerning the boy’s method.

  “Maybe you’re trying too hard, JG,” Peter suggested. “I keep as open as I can . . .”

  “I know you do, lad. Wide open. I’m just too clumsy to get through the door. I think it’s going to have to be a trained kinetic.”

  “Second-stage ignition,” the controller said, alerted by his board. “On its way! You do good work, Pete. Good work.”

  “C’mon, time for your swimming lesson, Pete,” Johnny said. “Gotta keep you fit enough to launch these birds.”

  “Can’t I stay? To be sure it docks okay?” Peter would not admit, even deep in his skull where Rhyssa might see, that he did not have enough energy left immediately after a launch to move from the couch. He grasped at any excuse to gain the few necessary moments to reenergize himself.

  “The bird’s okay,” the controller assured him.

  “Look all you want,” Johnny said, reseating himself. If he had guessed Peter’s secret, he never let on.

  The spectators below were beginning to file out of the gallery, hunching into wet-weather gear, bracing themselves for the stiff winds. With a wink, the controller turned on the intercom.

  “I tell you, Senator, it is a measure of the state of the art in space technology that we’re now able to launch despite the weather.”

  “If I had a nickel for every hold I’ve had to wait through, m’boy, I’d be able to buy drinks for the entire base. Just how much did you say this new technology cost us?”

  The figure mentioned by the congressman was three times as much as Peter’s contract had actually cost. And nearly one hundred percent more than the generator.

  Peter grinned broadly, thoroughly
enjoying the eavesdropping. He had been appalled at how much a big generator cost—though Colonel Greene assured him that it was a pittance when compared to other items purchased for Canaveral—and he could not believe the contract figure for his short-term services. Not to mention the bonuses for every successful launch. He had been even more delighted when Rhyssa suggested that the Center increase the pension that was being sent to his parents.

  Talents were generally not contracted until they were at least eighteen years old, but the circumstances and his unusual ability had been construed as sufficient to make an exception—a brief exception.

  Vernon’s advice to the Center had been that if the technology cost, it was bound to be considered more efficient than something in the medium range. The difference between fact and fiction went into the Center’s research fund.

  At that, it had taken some finagling on Altenbach’s part to get the Canaveral staff to consider the “new technology,” even with the enthusiastic assistance of General Halloway and Colonel Straub. Peter had not been mentioned; the generators had, plus some very odd “instrumentation.” Peter, in fact, had been hidden behind a screen with Rhyssa when the “new technology” had had its first test. He had kinetically flown a drone from Canaveral to Eglin Field despite gale-force winds and a ceiling of 100 meters. He had landed it right on the target painted on the runway—to show the precision of the “new technology.” He was then allowed to launch a loaded drone into orbit, where it could be retrieved by a Padrugoi-based craft. His precision again was the deciding factor: so many drones had wandered off course that the drone program had been drastically curtailed.

  Two days later a proper shuttle launch was grudgingly permitted. There was no foreseeable change in the terrible weather patterns, and shipments had fallen weeks behind delivery. That first morning, Peter had been a trifle anxious, and the shuttle had ascended at such an astonishing rate that the controllers had thought that a misfire had occurred, and they had been about to abort the mission. Peter, with Johnny telepathically assisting him, had reduced the thrust and the mission had continued. The pilot later was heard to mention that his instrumentation had registered a g-force of 11 for the first few moments—he had been scared shitless thinking he would not even be able to activate the escape-pod control on his armrest.

  The “new technology” improved in finesse over the ensuing launches, and NASA breathed a corporate sigh of relief that it could complete all the programmed supply runs to Padrugoi.

  Rhyssa and Johnny watched the expression on the boy’s rapt face as he followed the current shuttle’s progress. The controller handed them coffee as they waited through Peter’s absorption.

  “Okay,” the boy said finally, as the screen showed the shuttle nearing its docking rendezvous and he had recovered sufficiently. “The new technology is ready for its swim.” Though still a bit weak, he managed a proper descent from his chair, raising his right hand in a creditable wave to the controller as he maneuvered the steps to the ground exit of the room.

  It had taken four launches before the mission launch controller was comfortable with “new technology” and Peter’s peculiar part in its schematics, but he had come to like the youngster and had given up trying to figure out how he did what he did—whatever it was.

  “Get your slicker on, Pete,” Johnny said.

  Peter had discovered that he could kinetically keep rain from soaking him, but he tried to resist the temptation to show off unnecessarily. Dutifully he flipped the slicker over him. Exiting the concrete bunker, they all made a dash for their waiting aircar.

  Two weeks after Rhyssa and Peter went to Florida, Boris made one of his rare visits to the Center to apprise Sascha of the fact that undercover agents believed more children had been sold. The agents had noticed a lot of floaters being spent in Linears A, B, and C. So Cass and Suz were sent on assignment to Linear E. As the two women frequented all the Jersey Linears, they were known to the inhabitants. Cass’s pregnancy made her even less suspicious, and she pretended ill health to account for Suz’s company. So far they had nothing to report, not even a ripple of expectation. Whenever contact permitted, they stuck a locating strand in the hair of each child they encountered.

  Similar teams were stranding Linear children throughout the Jerhattan area. Scan teams worked around the clock, waiting for a strand to show up in an unlikely area.

  “You know, Bro,” Boris said, “we’ve got nothing but stopgap techniques. Planting a telempath won’t stop kids being abducted.” Sascha was in Rhyssa’s office, attending to routine administration details as he took a break from formulating new testing procedures. Boris was standing at the window, looking out on the peaceful scene below.

  “No, no, no, and no, Bro,” Sascha said without looking up from the monitor. He made a rapid motion across the keyboard, then swiveled about to give his brother a hard stare. “There is no way in which I’ll permit Tirla to be used as bait!”

  “But she’s a natural,” Boris said. “She knows how to decipher Linear rumors the way no other operative available to us can.”

  “You think I,”—Sascha jabbed his chest with his fingers—“would risk her?”

  “Candidly, I don’t think Tirla would be at risk,”

  Boris went on, beginning to pace. “We could put her in with Cass and Suz, set her up with every telltale known to technology. She knows Linears, she can speak any lingo, she’s clever as can stare, and—”

  “She’s twelve years old and you’re not using her as bait,” Sascha roared, not bothering to dampen his outrage and fury.

  Boris regarded him with surprise. “That kid was never twelve! And what’s the matter with using the one advantage we’ve found in dealing with Linear abductions? She’s got a unique Talent, a natural camouflage, and an ability for this sort of thing. Look how she managed in Linear G.”

  “Linear G was a once-off. I’m not putting her at risk like that again.”

  “She was never at risk. Except maybe from you!” Boris glared right back at his brother. “And this was Cass’s idea. I think it has potential. One thing sure, Bro—unless we can get at the mastermind behind this despicable traffic, we’re going to be losing kids. Kids who might well be Talented, too.”

  “You step up your search-and-seizes, Boris. Leave Tirla out of your calculations. There are other ways, ethical and technological ways, to solve LEO problems.”

  “Sascha, if I had the personnel to do it the hard way, I would,” Boris replied, his face reddening in an effort to keep his temper in the face of his twin’s intransigence.

  “Use some of the Linear G kids as bait then. They’d love a chance to get out of the hostel!”

  Boris gave his brother one long look. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll check ’em out.” With that he strode out of the room.

  CHAPTER 14

  Despite the work, those last three weeks in Florida had been almost vacation time for Rhyssa, John Greene, and Peter. Launching thirteen of the eighteen supply shuttles occupied two or three hours of a day at the most for Peter.

  When Johnny Greene started to explain the mechanics of lift, trajectory, orbiting, and other such matters pertaining to the job at hand, he and Rhyssa discovered that there were woeful gaps in Peter’s education. He had not even had bedside schooling during his months in the hospital. So a telempathic tutor was immediately hired.

  Alan Eton quickly discovered that Peter had the usual boyish disregard for grammar, spelling, and syntax, though his vocabulary skills were, in technical areas, beyond his age group. His mathematics were well into first-year university, and his understanding of certain aspects of physics was curiously advanced. With the colonel as his role model, Peter was eager to progress in those sciences. Taking advantage of the boy’s admiration, John Greene suggested that he had better improve his computer and English skills, as well, even if he was kinetically superior. While Peter understood some chemical and biological concepts—particularly those that had a bearing on his accident—h
e had, naturally, had no laboratory experience. A course of study was initiated and regular school hours kept, with Alan guiding Peter deftly into independent study of whatever the boy wanted to learn while filling in the more obvious lacks. A university degree, bachelor or advanced, was not at issue for Peter Reidinger: his career was well underway, but if he was to develop to his full potential, it was essential for him to have an overall understanding of many disciplines. Occasionally, as he struggled through his lessons, he wondered how Tirla was doing and what sort of training Sascha was giving her.

  Physiotherapy was still a necessity, and without the inhibiting body brace Peter had no trouble exercising his limbs, which he did religiously, hoping to acquire some muscle.

  “There have been instances,” the physiotherapist had told Rhyssa and Johnny, “where even badly damaged neural tissue has been stimulated. That’s what we can wish for Peter. To feel and to move normally.”

  “What’s the probability?” Rhyssa asked.

  The physiotherapist had shrugged ruefully. “Who knows? It certainly does no harm for him to exercise kinetically. Improves muscle tone and fluidity of movement. I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have guessed he was walking kinetically when he entered the gym the first time.”

  Swimming was Peter’s favorite sport. Water supported his body, and with minimal effort he could give the illusion of swimming. He could even do incredible dives off the board, hovering in the air as he made his body twist and then entering the water cleanly. There had not been enough sun in those weeks to produce a tan, but surrogate facilities had given him an excellent color. Rhyssa had benefited, as well.

  “You needed this rest,” Johnny told her as they lounged on the sunbeds while keeping an eye on Peter, who was splashing happily about in the pool, pretending he was a dolphin.

  “You know,” she said with a deep sigh, “I think I did. It’s been pretty hectic the last few months.” She sighed again. “But that’s the rigors of being Center director—and I wouldn’t be anything else in spite of the negatives.”