She gave a telepathic summons, and a slender woman entered the room. Tach realized, with a start, that the last time he had seen her she had been a roly-poly five-year-old, nursing a fine family of dolls, and making him promise to marry her when she grew up so they could have pretty babies. She would never marry now. The fact that she was on this ship, and not safely ensconced in the women’s quarters, meant that she was bitshuf’di, one of the neutered ones who had been deemed to carry dangerous recessives, or to be of insufficient genetic worth to be permitted to breed.
Her eyes flicked (sadly?… it was difficult to gauge the emotion, so quickly had it passed) over him, and she made obeisance.
“Sire, if you will accompany me.”
He swept Benaf’saj a final bow, and fell into step with Talli, debating how to break the silence. He decided small talk would be inappropriate—of course she’d grown, it’d been decades!
“No word of greeting, Talli?” The corridor curved before them, gleaming like polished mother-of-pearl as they spiraled deeper into the heart of the ship.
“You gave none in farewell.”
“It was something I had to do.”
“Others also live by that imperative.” She glanced nervously about and switched to the tight, intimate telepathic mode. Zabb means to have you dead. Eat or drink nothing that I have not brought, and watch your back. She pressed a small sharp dagger into his hand, and he ran it quickly up his sleeve.
I suspected as much. But thank you for the warning and the weapon.
He’ll kill me if he suspects.
He won’t learn it from me. He was never my equal in mentatics. But she looked doubtful, and he realized with embarrassment how lax were his shields. He strengthened them, and she nodded with relief.
Better.
No, terrible. This is a dreadful situation. He looked at her seriously. I have no intention of returning to Takis.
They had reached the door to the cabin, and the ship obligingly shuttered open for him.
She placed her hands on his shoulders, and urged him in. You must. We need you.
And as the door lensed shut he decided that maybe she wasn’t much of an ally after all.
Tom Tudbury was having one of the worst days of his life. The very worst day had been March 8, when Barbara had married Steve Bruder, but this one was running a real close second. He had been on his way to Tachyon’s clinic with the strange device he’d taken off the street punk when a strange ship, looking rather like a wentletrap seashell, had looped out of the clouds, pulled up beside him, and invited him aboard. Maybe invited wasn’t the right word; compelled was closer to the mark. Icy talons seemed to settle about his mind, and he had calmly flown the shell through the yawning doors of a cargo bay. He didn’t remember anything more until he had found himself standing in a gigantic room, his shell squatting behind him.
Several slender men in comic-opera gold and white uniforms stepped forward and searched him, while another darted into the shell, and emerged with the strange black ball and a half-drunk six-pack of beer. He gestured with the cans causing them to clunk dully together, and there was a burst of laughter. Next the device was examined amid a ripple of musical words filled with random and inexplicable pauses. With a shrug, the device was placed on a shelf that ran along one side of the curving room. One of his captors gestured politely toward a doorway. The courtesy of the gesture removed his worst fear—he clearly wasn’t in the hands of the Swarm. Somehow politeness seemed out of place with monsters.
They exited into a long snaking corridor whose walls, floor, and ceiling shone like polished abalone. As they proceeded, the arching ceiling would light before them and darken after they had passed. One wall held a tracery of rose-colored lines like the petals of a flower. This section suddenly shuttered open, and Tom was urged into a luxurious cabin.
A burst of brittle, feminine laughter met his arrival, and he goggled at the beautiful woman curled up in the center of a large round bed.
“Well, you don’t look like much,” she said, her eyes raking over him. He sucked in his belly, and wished his tee shirt was cleaner. “I’m Asta Lenser. Who the hell are you?” He was scared, but the fear made him cautious. He shook his head. “Oh, fuck you! We’re in this together.”
“I’m an ace. I’ve gotta be careful.”
“Well, big fuckin’ deal! So am I.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, I do the dance of the seven veils.” Her long, graceful arms wove a pattern about her. “I out-Salome Salome.” He looked puzzled. “Don’t you ever go to the ballet?”
“No.”
“Moron.” She scrabbled in a large shapeless bag, and emerged with a packet of white powder, a mirror, and a straw. Her hands were trembling so much that it took her five tries to get the lines set. She sucked in the cocaine, and leaned back with a long sigh of relief. “Where were we? Oh yeah, my power. I can mesmerize people with my dancing. Particularly men. But it’s a real dinky power when you’ve been kidnapped by aliens. Still, Himself sure appreciated it. I got him a lot of good information with my dinky power, and kept him … up.” She made an obscene gesture between her legs.
Tom wondered who and what the hell she was talking about, but he frankly didn’t care to puzzle it out. He staggered across the room, and collapsed on a low bench that seemed to be an extrusion of the ship itself. As he seated himself on the thick, embroidered cushion there was a crackle of leaves or dried petals, and a rich spicy aroma filled the air.
He wasn’t sure how long he huddled on the bench, agonizing over his situation—Takisians! Jesus Christ! What was going to happen to them? Tach? Could he help? Did he even know? Oh shit!
“Hey,” called Asta. “I’m sorry. Look, we’re both aces, we ought to be able to do something to get out of this mess.”
Tom just shook his head. How could he tell her that he had left his powers behind with his shell?
The rasp of the match was loud in the silent room. Tach watched with unnecessary attention as the candle flared to life. The light struck color from the ship wall, and shed the gentle scent of flowers. Pulling a quarter from his pocket he laid it on the altar. It looked incongruous among the gold Takisian coins. He hefted the tiny pearl-handled knife, murmured a quick prayer for the release of his father’s spirit, and made a tiny cut on the pad of his forefinger. The blood welled slowly out, and he touched the gleaming drop to the coin. He sank down to sit cross-legged before the family altar, sucking at his cut finger, and flipping the tiny two-inch knife over and over in his hand.
“It won’t make much of a weapon.”
Zabb was leaning against the door, arms folded across his chest. He was close to six feet tall with a whip-lean body and the heavy chest and shoulders of the long-distance swimmer or martial artist. Wavy, silver gilt hair swept back from a high white forehead, and just brushed the collar of his white and gold tunic. Cold gray eyes added to the impression of metal and crystal. There was no warmth to the man. But there was power and command, and an overwhelming charisma.
“That wasn’t what I was thinking about.”
“You should be.”
There was something in the moment, the set of Zabb’s shoulders, or perhaps the indulgent cock to his head, that made Tach remember an earlier time … before family politics had intruded, before he understood the whispers linking Zabb’s mother to the death of his mother, before … A time when a five-year-old Tach had adored his glamorous older cousin.
“I was remembering that you gave me my first puppy. From that litter old Tu’shula had.”
“Don’t, Tis. That’s dead and past.”
“Like I’m going to be?”
Their eyes met, gray to lilac. Tach’s fell first.
“Yes.” One fine, manicured hand was brushing nervously at his full mustache and sideburns. “I intend to kill you before we reach Takis.” Zabb’s tone was conversational.
“I don’t want the family. I want to stay on Earth.”
“That doesn?
??t matter. As long as you live I can’t have it.”
“And the humans?”
“They’re laboratory animals. Useful if we’re to move to the second stage.” He turned to leave.
“Zabb, what happened?”
His cousin’s shoulders hunched, then relaxed back into their military erectness. “You lived to maturity.” The door whispered closed behind him.
Tom and Asta started as the two men entered, dragging between them a sprawling, gangling form in a purple Uncle Sam suit. The younger man dropped to one knee, riffled quickly through the hippie’s voluminous coat pockets, and pulled out a small vial filled with a silver-shot blue powder. The elder accepted the bottle, uncapped it, and sniffed curiously at the contents. One eyebrow quirked up.
“This one was with Tisianne?” he said in English.
“Yes, Rabdan.”
“And they seemed friendly?” His pale eyes shot to Tom.
“Y—yes.”
“This is a drug of some sort. And too much of a drug can cause terrible effects. I certainly hope my esteemed cousin is conversant with the treatment of an overdose. Otherwise his friend might die.” Another secret, catlike glance to Tom.
His companion’s fingers pressed quickly at his lips, then he hesitantly said, “Shouldn’t we ask Zabb?”
“Nonsense, he won’t care what happens to a human friend of Tisianne’s.”
Kneeling, he poured the contents of the vial between the hippie’s slack lips. Tom half rose, a protest on his lips, but a look from Rabdan dropped him back onto the bench. Everyone’s eyes fastened on the scraggy figure on the floor; Asta with excitement, the tip of her tongue just showing between her lips; Tom with horror; the young Takisian with worry; and Rabdan with jovial good humor.
The man writhed, shifted, and for an instant everyone gaped as a blue-glowing figure rose majestically from the floor. Within his cowled cloak of deep-space darkness, his eyes were slits of white fire, and the lining of the cloak glittered with glowing stars, nebulas, galactic whorls. The Takisians leaped forward, clutching at air, as the exotic form sank quickly and cleanly through the floor.
Tachyon returned to his cabin, and sprawled on his belly on the bed, chin propped in his hands, and tried to decide what to do. His brief conversation with Zabb had indicated not only his danger, but the danger to the humans. It was clear they were to be experimental guinea pigs, Benaf’saj’s remarks notwithstanding.
It hadn’t taken long to identify the ship as Hellcat, his cousin’s favorite and much-beloved vessel. So an attempt to take over the ship would be fruitless. There was no way he was going to handle this ship. He could still remember the day when the ship growers had called to say that his cousin’s newest vessel had better be thrown back, so they could start again. She was wild, arrogant, utterly untrainable. That had been enough for Zabb. Even among the other families, who were notoriously stingy with their praise, he was known as the most brilliant ship trainer on the planet. And he couldn’t resist a challenge. Nine-year-old Tisianne had been present with his father on the orbital training center. Zabb had entered the ship, the powerful grappler beams had been released, and the ship had gone haring off in the general direction of galactic center. No one had ever expected to see Zabb again, but two weeks later ship and man had coming limping home, and nothing could be more docile than Hellcat’s demeanor when under the command of her conqueror. She was a one-man ship.
Rather the way Baby is with me, Tach thought defensively.
The point was, she couldn’t be controlled by mere psi power alone. Still, she was a military vessel, which meant there were actual control consoles built into her hull so that if she should be badly injured, the crew might be able to nurse her home. But if he did attempt to take the ship using the consoles, she would merely disregard his orders, and yell for Zabb. And though he could handle Zabb in a one-on-one mental confrontation, there were nineteen other Takisians on this ship.
So what to do? Benaf’saj was clearly in command. And if she were to give the order to return Tachyon and the prisoners to Earth … He rolled off the bed and went in search of his Kibr.
She was on the bridge glaring at Andami while Sedjur frowned down at a readout that Hellcat had obligingly projected onto the floor. The younger man was squirming.
“Would you be so kind as to explain to me why you administered an unknown substance to a prisoner?”
“It was Rabdan who did it,” Andami said sulkily.
“Then you are both lackwits—him for doing it, and you for permitting it. Now we have an alien creature of unknown abilities loose in the ship.”
“He’s moving again,” snapped Sedjur. “He’s on level five. No, back to two. Now he’s in your cabin.”
Benaf’saj’s mouth twisted in disapproval.
“I don’t know why everyone’s so upset. Hellcat can tell us where he is.”
“Because he moves through walls and floors, and by the time we reach a place he has moved again,” the old woman explained with careful patience, as if speaking to a retarded child.
Tach stepped forward, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the threesome by the main port, gripped the back of an acceleration chair, and sent out a tiny thread. He had a gift for insinuating himself past shields, but Benaf’saj had had more than two thousand years to perfect hers. His mouth was dry and he could feel the pulse hammering in his throat as he slipped past the first barrier.
Second level. Trickier here. Traps built for the unwary to throw the infiltrator into never-ending mental loops until Benaf’saj saw fit to release them.
He chipped one of the shields, and quickly wove a ward to cover his error. It sat like a dancing snowflake in the midst of his Kibr’s mind, smoothing over the ragged edge he had left. Past one more. How many levels did the old she-devil have?
Brrrrrrang*********! He never even saw the blow coming. He tripped an alarm, a white-hot sheet rose up like a wave of fire, and crashed down. He felt like every synapse in his brain had been simultaneously fired, and his mind seemed to be rattling about in his skull like a rotting walnut in its shell. He realized he was sliding backward across the floor on his butt, his fingers scrabbling at Hellcat’s pearly floor. He hit the wall, and the air went out of him in a rush.
Benaf’saj stared at him, amusement and irritation flicking across her face. He could feel the blood rushing into his thin cheeks.
“I had my shields up!” he announced throbbingly and irrationally. He was feeling terribly abused.
“Mind-control me, you silly boy. And you can’t build a shield I can’t break. I changed your diapers when you were a squalling brat! There’s nothing I don’t know about you!” She turned away, dismissal written in every line of her fragile body, and humiliation rose up to choke him. “Take him away,” she threw over her shoulder to Sedjur. “And this time lock him in his cabin.” The last command was directed to the ship.
Stony-faced, Sedjur offered him a hand up, and escorted him back to his cabin. He hurried ahead, head down, shoulders hunched, feeling five. The old man left, and Tach helped himself to several liberal pulls from his silver hip flask. The brandy helped to steady his jangled nerves, but did nothing to promote his mental processes. He paced round and round the luxurious cabin trying to think of a plan; panicking when nothing suggested itself. Wondering what was loose in the ship. Wondering.
He decided to determine precisely which humans were being held on the ship. He touched a familiar female mind. Asta Lenser, the prima ballerina with the American Ballet Theater. She was thinking about a man. A man who was having a great deal of difficulty performing. As his stocky, sweat slick body pounded down on hers, struggling for release, she was thinking how ironic it was that a man with his power couldn’t get it up. The most feared man in—
Embarrassed by his intrusion and feeling like a voyeur, Tach withdrew and searched further. There was nothing that felt like the amiable lunatic who had accosted him outside the clinic, and he hoped that Trips hadn’t been deemed
useless and disposed of. There was something strange. A mind so heavily blocked as to be almost opaque. He would never have sensed it without a sudden flare of terror, but it was quickly suppressed, and he lost the source. Perhaps this was the intruder. He searched further and found …
“Turtle!” he ejected, surprise and worry bringing him bolt upright.
He narrowed and refined his probe, constructed a penumbra to give the illusion to any mental eavesdropper that he was sleeping, and made contact. It was harder than he expected. His first brief touch had shown him a Turtle that he did not know, and he didn’t want to jar the man by suddenly appearing in his head. He began to search for ways to make the man gradually aware of his presence, becoming more depressed with each passing moment. Dark, heavy emotions rolled like sullen, viscous waves through Turtle’s mind: fear, anger, loss, loneliness, and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and futility.
Feeling like an interloper, and not wanting Turtle to think he was prying into private matters that did not concern him, he tapped firmly at the man’s primitive shields until a spark of surprise and wary interest showed him he had attracted Turtle’s attention.
Turtle.
Tacky, is that you?
Yes. He sensed distrust and suspicion. It hurt, and he again wondered what had happened to his oldest friend on Earth. I’m a prisoner like you.
Oh. One of those other families you’re always talking about?
No, my family. Come to see the results of the experiment, and to find me. Turtle’s doubt felt like a hard blade. What can I do to convince you that I had no part in this?
Maybe you can’t.
My friend, you didn’t used to be like this.
Yeah. Bitterness edged the thought. And I didn’t used to be on the wrong side of forty, and all alone, and going nowhere except toward death.
Turtle, what is it? What’s wrong? Let me help.
Like you and all the rest of your kind helped when you brought the virus to Earth? No thanks.
The old pain and guilt returned, stronger than it had been in years; years during which he had built the clinic, become famous rather than infamous, beloved by many of his “children.” Years that had dulled the edge of his culpability. They were wide open to each other, and Tach thought he sensed in Turtle a perverse satisfaction at his pain.