The Rowan Part 10

Ray Loftus and Afra, the Capellan T-4, came over to sit on the edge of Ackerman's desk. They brought out the bottle of some home brew and pa.s.sed it around. As usual, Afra demured and took from his belt pouch a half-folded origami, his special form of relaxation.

'I was going to ask her Highness to give me a lift home,' Loftus said, 'but I dunno now. Got a date with-' He disappeared. A moment later, Ackerman could see him near a personnel carrier. Not only had he been set down gently, but various small necessities, including a flight bag, floated out of nowhere on to a neat pile in the carrier.

Ray was given time to settle himself before the hatch sealed and he was whisked off.

Powers joined Afra and Ackerman.

'She's sure in a funny mood,' he said.

When the Rowan got peevish, few of the men at the station asked her to transport them to Earth. She was psychologically planet bound, and resented the fact that lesser talents could be moved about through s.p.a.ce without suffering a twinge of shock.

Anyone else?

Adler and Toglia spoke up and promptly disappeared.

Ackerman and Powers exchanged looks which they hastily suppressed as the Rowan appeared before them, smiling.

It was the first time that that welcome and charming expression had crossed her face for two weeks.

The grin made you realize, Ackerman thought, very very softly in the deepest part of his brain, what a lovely woman she could be. She was slight, thin rather than slender and sometimes moved like an animated stick figure. She was not his notion of 'feminine' - all angles and slight b.r.e.a.s.t.s - and yet, sometimes when she looked up at you out of the corner of her eyes, that slight smile tugging at the corner of a rather sensual mouth, she fair took a guy's breath away .

. . wondering. And thinking about things no married man - or T-9 - had any business reviewing, even in his head. Maybe it was her white hair some said she'd had that since she was hauled out of the mudslide on Altair - others said it marked her as part alien. The Rowan looked different because - and Ackerman knew this for a fact she WAS different!

She smiled now, not sly exactly, but watchful, and said nothing.

She took a pull from the bottle, made a grimace, and handed it back with a thank-you. For all her eccentricities, the Rowan acted with propriety face-to face. She had grown up with her skill, carefully taught by old Siglen on Altair. She'd had certain courtesies drilled into her: the less gifted could be alienated by inappropriate use of Talent. While the Rowan could be justified in 'reaching' things during business hours, she was careful to display normal behavior at other times.

'Heard any 'scut about our Denebian friend?' she asked with just the right degree of 'casual' in her voice.

Ackerman shook his head. 'Those planets are three generations colonized, and you came out of altair in two.' 'That could explain it, but FT&T hasn't even projected a station for Deneb. They're still trying to find Talents for closer systems.' 'And not for want of trying,' Afra said.

'Wild Talent?' Powers helpfully suggested.

'At a Prime level? Unlikely.' She shook her head. 'All I can get from Center is that they received an urgent message from an inbound merchantman to help combat a planet-wide virus, including a rundown on the syndrome and symptoms. Lab came up with a serum, batched, and packed it. They were a.s.sured that there was someone capable of picking it up and taking it the rest of the way past 24.578.82 if a Prime would get it that far. Prior to this morning, what little goes to Deneb has been sent by cargo drone or rerouted. And that's all anybody knows.'

Then she added thoughtfully, 'Deneb VIII isn't a very big colony.' Oh, we're big enough, sweetheart, interrupted the drawling voice. Sorry to get you after hours, my dear, but I don't really know anyone else to tag on Earth and I heard you coloring your atmosphere.

What's wrong? the Rowan asked. Did you smear your serum after all that proud talk?

Smear it, h.e.l.l! I've been drinking it. No, lovey. We've just discovered that we got some ET visitors who think they're exterminators. We got a reading on three UFOs, perched four thousand miles above us. That batch of serum you wafted out to me this morning was for the sixth virus we've been socked with in the last two weeks, so there're no bets on coincidence.

Someone's trying to kill us off You can practically time the onset of a new nasty by the digital. We've lost twenty five percent of our population already and this last virus is a beaut. I want two top germdogs out here on the double and, say, two naval squadrons. I doubt our friends will hover about viral dusting much longer. They've softened us up plenty. They're moving in now and once they get in position they'll start blowing holes in us real soon. So send the word along to Fleet Headquarters, will you, sweetheart, to mobilize us a heavyduty retaliation fleet?

I'll relay, naturally. But why didn't you contact direct?

Contact whom? What? I don't know your Terran organization.

You're the only one I can hear.

Not for much longer if I know my bosses.

You may know your bosses, but you don't know me.

That can always be arranged.

This is no time for flirting. Get that message through for me like a good girl.

Which message?

The one I just gave you.

That old one? They say you can have two germdogs in the morning as soon as we clear Jupiter. But Earth says no squadrons. No armed attack.

You can double-talk, too, huh? You're talented. But the morning does us no good. NOW is when we need them. We've got to have as many healthy bodies as possible. Can't you sling the medics. . . no, you can't, can you, not with Jupiter's ma.s.s in the way. Sorry, I just found the data on your station. Filed under Miscellaneous s.p.a.ce Installations. But, look, if six viruses don't const.i.tute armed attack, what does?

Missiles const.i.tute armed attack, the Rowan said primly.

Frankly, missiles would be preferable. Them I can see. I need those germdogs NOW. Can't you turn your sweet little mind to a solution?

as you mentioned, it's after hours.

By the Horse head, woman! the drawl was replaced by a cutting mental roar. My family, my friends, my planet are dying.

Look, after hours here means we're behind Jupiter.

But. . . wait! How deep is your range?

I don't honestly know. And the firm mental tone lost some of its a.s.surance.

'Ackerman!' The Rowan turned to her stationmaster.

'I've been listening.' Hang on, Deneb, I've got an idea. I can deliver your germdogs. Open to me in half an hour The Rowan whirled on Ackerman. 'I want my sh.e.l.l.

Her brilliant eyes were flas.h.i.+ng and her face was alight.

'Afra!' The station's second in command, the handsome yellow eyed Capellan T-4, raised himself from the chair in which he'd been quietly watching her.

'Yes, Rowan?' She glanced to the men in the room, bathing each in the miraculous smile that so disconcerted Ackerman with its sensuality.

'I'll need all of you to help me. I'll have to be launched, slowly, over Jupiter's curve,' she said to afra. Ackerman was already switching on the dynamos, and Bill Powers punched for her special sh.e.l.l to be deposited on the launch rack. 'Real slow, Afra. Then I'll want to draw heavy.' She took a deep breath.

Like all Primes, she was unable to launch herself through s.p.a.ce.

Her trip from Altair to Callisto had deeply traumatized her.

Primes were the victims of particularly pernicious agoraphobia.

Most could not tolerate heights either. There were some who said that the Rowan did very well indeed to climb the stairs to her 'tower'.

Paradoxically, where the looming bulk of Jupiter gave others 'falling' psychoses, it rea.s.sured her. With the planet in the way, she couldn't 'fall' far into the limitless void of s.p.a.ce.

As another necessary security measure - in the event of a meteor shower on Callisto - the Rowan had a personnel capsule, opaque and specially fitted, padded and programmed to reduce the paralyzing sensation of 'movement'. By the exercise of severe discipline, the Rowan had accustomed herself to taking short emergency drill trips.

As soon as she saw the capsule settle in the rack, she took another deep breath and disappeared from the Station, to reappear beside the conveyance. She settled gracefully into the shock couch of the sh.e.l.l. The moment the lock whistle shut off, she 'knew' that afra was lifting her, gently, gently away from Callisto. She wasn't aware of the slightest movement. Nonetheless, she clung firmly on to afra's rea.s.suring mental touch. Only when the sh.e.l.l had swung into position over Jupiter's great curve did she reply to the priority call coming from Earth Central.

Now what the billy blue blazes are you doing, Rowan?

Reidinger's base voice crackled in her skull. Have you lost what's left of your precious mind?

She's doing me a favor, Deneb said, abruptly joining them.

who in the h.e.l.l are you? demanded Reidinger. Then, in shocked surprise, Deneb? How do you get out there?

Wishful thinking. Hey, push those germdogs to my pretty !end here, huh?

Now wait a minute! You're going a little too far, Deneb.

You can't burn out my best Prime with an unbiased send like this.

Oh, i'll pick up midway. Like those antibiotics this morning.

Deneb, what's this business with antibiotics and germdogs?

What are you cooking up out there in that heathenish hole?

Oh, we're merely fighting a few plagues with one hand and keeping three bogey ETs upstairs. Deneb gave them a look with his vision at an enormous hospital, a continuous stream of airborne ambulances coming in; at crowded wards, grim-faced nurses and doctors, and uncomfortably high piles of still, shrouded figures. That melded into a proximity screen showing the array of blips on an orbital hold. We haven't had the time or the technology to run IDs but our Security Chief says they're nothing he's seen before.

Well, I didn't realize. All right, you can have anything you want - within reason. But I want a full report, said Reidinger.

And patrol squadrons?

Reidinger's tone changed to impatience. You've obviously got an exaggerated idea of FT&T's influence. We're mailmen, not military.

I've no authority to mobilize patrol squadrons like that! There was a mental snap of fingers.

Would you perhaps drop a little word in the appropriate ear?

Those ETs may gobble Deneb tonight and go after Terra tomorrow.

I'm filing a report, of course, but you colonists agreed to the risks when you signed up!

You're all heart, said Deneb.

Reidinger was silent for a moment. Then he said, Germdogs sealed, Rowan. Pick 'em up and throw 'em out, and his touch left them.

Rowan - that's a pretty name, said Deneb.

Thanks, she said absently. She had followed along Reidinger's initial push, and picked up the two personnel carriers as they materialized beside her sh.e.l.l. She pressed into the station dynamos and gathered strength. The generators whined and she pushed out. The carriers disappeared.

They're coming in, Rowan. Thanks a lot!

A pa.s.sionate and tender kiss was blown to her across the intervening light years of s.p.a.ce. She tried to follow after the carriers and pick up his touch again, but he was no longer receiving.

She sank back in her couch. Deneb's sudden appearance had been immeasurably disconcerting. The strength, the vitality of his mind was magnetic. He had seemed to be inside the capsule with her, filling it with his droll humor and warmth. That was it! He was 'warm' toward her and she had basked in that sensation like a sun-dodger. She had never achieved such an instant response to anyone since Turian, whom she often thought of wistfully.

Oh, she had always had rapport, contact, with others.

In fact, with anyone the Rowan chose to, but, with everyone below her own capability, there had always been an awkwardness, a reluctance that had inhibited her overtures. Siglen certainly had thrown s.h.i.+elds across her most private thoughts, explaining them patronizingly as 'no need to put old worries on young shoulders'. Siglen, to this day, still considered the Rowan 'a mere child' despite the fact that she'd been Callisto Prime for nearly ten years.

There were still times when the Rowan wished that Lusena had not died in that crash, days before Reidinger had appointed her to the new base on Jupiter's moon.

Lusena had been such a comfort, such a support, believing so firmly in her future, in the future promised by Yegrani: an ephemeral promise. So the Rowan had struggled to understand herself as she had earlier struggled to perfect control of her Talent.

'We who have been blessed with extraordinary powers, Siglen had been fond of declaring in a doleful tone, 'cannot expect ordinary joys.

We have an obligation to use our Talent to benefit all Humankind!

It is our Fate to be singled out and single, the more to concentrate on our duties.' There had been only Turian to prove an exception.

However, that had been ten long years ago now. And male Primes didn't have a problem fending suitable mates.

Reidinger had a score of children of varying degrees of competence. David on Betelgeuse was madly in love with his T-2 wife and concentrated on a duty to populate his system with as many high-potential Talent offspring as his wife would tolerate. The Rowan did not have any personal liking for David, though she could work with him satisfactorily. Capella was as eccentric as Siglen was conservative and her personality rubbed the Rowan the wrong way. For all the mental rapport the Rowan achieved with the other Primes, none of them were ever really 'open' to her. Reidinger was usually at least sympathetic to some of her problems, but he had to be available every single moment to the myriad problems of the FT&T system. And the Rowan knew fully the loneliness that Yegrani had foretold with no diminution anywhere.

When the Rowan had been first a.s.signed to Callis...o...b..se, she had thought it was what the words of the Sight meant, for she was a focus.

After some months of the routine, the Rowan was severely disillusioned.

She was useful, yes: even essential for the smooth flow of material and messages between the Nine Star capitals, but any Prime would have done as well.

Once her enthusiasm died, she fell back on Siglen's dogmatic training and tried hard to find satisfaction, if not sublimation, in doing a difficult and taxing job well, suppressing her increasing sense of unrelieved isolation. Quite aware of her devastating loneliness, Reidinger had combed the Nine-Star League to find strong male talents, T-3s and T-4s like Afra, but she had never taken to any of them.

She liked Afra well enough, and not just because of her promise to his sister, Goswina, but not that well. The only male T-2 ever discovered in the Nine-Star League had been a confirmed h.o.m.os.e.xual.

And now, on Deneb, a T-1 had emerged, out of nowhere - and so very, very far away.

Afra, take me home now, she said, suddenly aware of physical and mental exhaustion.

afra brought the sh.e.l.l down with infinite care.

after the others had left the Station, the Rowan lay for a long while in the personnel carrier. In her unsleeping consciousness she knew that Ackerman and the others had retired to their quarters until Callisto once more came out from behind Jupiter's bulk. Everyone had some place to go, someone waiting for them, except the Rowan, who made it all possible. The bitter, screaming loneliness that overcame her during her off-hours welled up - the frustration of being unable to go off-planet past Afra's sharply limited range - alone, alone with her two-edged Talent. Murky green and black swamped her mind until she remembered the blown kiss. Suddenly, completely, she fell into her first restful sleep in two weeks.

Rowan. It was Deneb's touch that roused her. Rowan, please wake up.

Hmmmm? Her response was reluctant for sleep had been deep and desirable.

help, he said and faded Our guests are getting rougher. . . since the germdogs whipped up a broad spectrum antibiotic. . . we thought.

they'd give up. No such. luck. They're. . . pounding us. with the missiles. . . give my regards. . . to your s.p.a.celawyer friend...