Mindship v1 0, p.15
Mindship (v1.0), page 15
Kilgarin entered his cabin and stepped into the fresher cubicle. He stayed under the cleansing radiation for several minutes, wishing for the feel of a needle shower spray; he’d grown used to water as a washing agent in the few short weeks he’d been on Endrim. He didn’t feel clean without it.
In the room again, he worked the mechanism that released the drawer on his desk. Opening the flip-down lid, he pulled out the tray within and set it on the sloped writing board. The tray was cluttered with bits of wood in the shape of animals, crudely carved by hand, the souvenirs of hundreds of trips to primitive worlds, the only souvenirs Kilgarin ever collected. Among the carvings were several other personal items: a credit tab, a small printed booklet with a metal clasp, a round, concave mirror, half a dozen hologram cubes—two of which were of obvious commercial origin—a dinner bracelet, and a Contract chit.
He picked up the chit and placed it in the player located in the upper half of the desk console.
“—signer swears fealty and alliegance to the Charter Company, a licensee of the Federation Colonial Office, to its executives and officers, its stockholders and—”
“—all personal and professional efforts in the Company’s behalf, such efforts not to exceed seventy-four days or fall below sixty—”
“—of legal age, physical and mental competence—”
“—for the maximum signing period of six years, with options for two terms of one year each at—”
“—do so profess these statements to be true, within my understanding and—”
“—Marc Kilgarin—”
“—Contract reassigned—”
“—Kilgarin.”
He played the disk twice more, his eyes close and his hands resting flat on the top of the console. When the disk finished its third run-through he removed it from the player and dropped it in the tray, placed the tray back into its slot, and slid the tray home. He slammed the flip-down lid shut. He sat silently, his hands clenching until his fingers became mottled with pressure and obstructed blood, and then he relaxed, remained motionless for several seconds, finally left.
Mind-drive:
Raymond caught up with him on the outer deck, one level below the skin of the ship. He clutched the Cork’s sleeve, tried to pull him around. Kilgarin jerked away and continued walking.
“Killy, it’s about Pkar—”
“Not now, Raymond,” Kilgarin said.
“He needs your help, Killy. He’s really afraid of Ty'ger—and frankly, so am I. You owe him—” “Goddammit, Raymond—I said not now/”
The young Physical gaped at him, his mouth working as he tried to comprehend Kilgarin’s anger. “I’m sorry, Killy—I just—”
Kilgarin didn’t listen. He continued walking, leaving Raymond standing near a port window, the glow from the Back Region giving the Physical’s face a palid cast. Raymond stayed there, watching the Cork until Kilgarin stepped into a lift tube, dropped, and was gone.
Chapter Seven
Ninth month, tenth day, anno Domini 3146
A week after the incident on Elysson, the Charter touched port at Wylder, on Helmswuld, where Gunyon was to be transferred to the main Company medical facilities. While the rest of the mindship’s crew went into the city for the weekend, Kilgarin found a room on the outskirts of the industrial district and locked himself in with a cask of absinthe and several large bottles of beer.
Two days later he paid off his landlord—a stubby colonial who eyed the credits in Kilgarin’s folder with obvious avarice—and walked the half mile to the Sensitive District. He’d accomplished his purpose in renting the room and going on a binge: his senses—inner and outer—were so dulled he doubted his ability to find his way back to his ship. In fact, he half hoped he wouldn’t.
He came across Raymond and the Cook in an ill-lit tavern two blocks from the port buildings. Both men were drinking straight beer, sitting in a narrow booth in the rear of the low-ceilinged room. They saw Kilgarin before he saw them, and the Cook went up to him as the Cork ordered at the bar. “You OK, Kilgarin?” Kilgarin started, glanced around. Finally he nodded and sipped at his drink, guiding a credit chit across the counter to the bartender, who clawed at it and slipped it out of sight. The Cook touched Kilgarin’s arm.
“Listen, why don’t you sit down over here with Raymond and me, hey, Killy? We’ve been looking for you. Where were you, hey?”
“Around,” Kilgarin said. He allowed the Cook to pull 123 him to the booth where Raymond was sitting, and sat down at the small gray man’s urging.
“How’ve you been, Kilgarin?” Raymond asked.
Kilgarin said something noncommittal. “The Captain’s given us six days off,” the Cook told him. “He’s picking up some cargo in one of the other cities, some special consignment for the Company. All these special trips…not much to like about them, Kilgarin.”
“I suppose not,” Kilgarin said.
“Wells went with the Captain,” Raymond said. He lifted his stein. “I thought you’d like to know. Nothing else has happened.”
Kilgarin looked up. In the darkness of the room his face was heavily shadowed, but his two crew mates could see the lines of strain that marked the underlids of his eyes. He frowned, bringing out other lines in his forehead. “I’d almost forgotten,” he said.
“Why’d you go off, Killy?” Raymond asked him. “Something that happened on Elysson?”
“I suppose,” Kilgarin replied. “Up to that point, I’d been working for the Company as I’ve always worked for it. It never occurred to me what I was doing. But when we hit those men…I realized what side I’d been fighting on.”
“I understand,” Raymond said. “What do you want to do about the Captain?”
“The Captain?” The Cook spoke up. “Is this about your brother, Kilgarin?”
“Don’t worry about it, Cook,” Kilgarin said.
“I worry, Killy.”
“Well?” Raymond asked again.
The Cork shrugged. “Wait until they get back. Nothing much else to do. I’m not even sure I care. Maybe I don’t want to care.”
“Sure,” the young Physical said. “Another beer?”
Kilgarin shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m fine.”
There was a curtain across the doorway. Kilgarin ducked, went through, and held the drapes aside for Raymond and the Cook. Inside the room they found several people sitting against one wall, staring into the glowing coals of a brazier on the hardwood floor. Another group, similarly dressed in brief shorts and long bulky tunics woven from a native flax, sat under the room’s single window. Three men and two women, they rested against one another in a circle, head on lap, head on shoulder. The youngest of the women opened her eyes and stared at KILGARIN. The Cork looked back at her: dark green eyes offsetting the red of her hair, which was bright against her pale skin. She was conspicuous in the room, the fairest of the Sensitives present. Meeting Kilgarin’s look with smiling arrogance, she said, “You want to see J’kar, don’t you?”
“We were told he was here,” Kilgarin said.
“I’ll take you to him,” the girl replied.
They followed her through another curtained arch into a hall, which ran parallel to the room they’d just left. There was a scent of something sweet in the air, which faded as they moved down the corridor and was replaced with another odor: the bitter tang of paint. Kilgarin understood suddenly why J’kar was at that commune, and he knew what they’d see when they found the ex-Sensitive. A moment later the girl slipped through a final, uncurtained arch, and Kilgarin’s guess was proven correct.
J’kar was perched on a window shelf, his long legs dangling to the floor, his hands bracing himself as he leaned forward to greet his shipmates. He seemed transformed. His eyes were empty of fear, and his voice when he greeted them, was firm and steady. Kilgarin’s glance went past the Centaurian and fixed on the man and woman kneeling in the sunken area of the room below.
They sat before an immense canvas, the woman’s hands on the man’s shoulders, her eyes closed, her head forward and touching the back of her partner’s. He held a paint trowel delicately; its tip rested on the surface of the canvas, at the end of a long stroke of purple. Neither the man nor the woman moved as Kilgarin and the others entered. Both were as motionless as stone.
“Quiet,” J’kar whispered. His eyes were bright, flickering briefly over Kilgarin, tbe girl, and the two Physicals with them. “Watch: Hand and Eye.”
Kilgarin squatted beside the red-haired girl who’d been their guide. She rested on her haunches, arms folded across her knees, and chin set in the crossing of her arms. Seeing her posture, Kilgarin smiled. Raymond started to speak, but the Cook silenced him, gestured for the Physical to take a seat beside Kilgarin on the ledge surrounding the sunken area. Looking confused, Raymond did so.
“Watch,” J’kar said, softly.
And slowly, the man began to paint.
His hand moved up, bringing the trowel with it, in a long arc that eventually bisected the original slash of purple. As the trowel moved, the man’s thumb lightly pressed the control set into the handle, and the color released through the trowel’s single aperture began to change: first the purple, gently melting into blue, then to green, finally to yellow. The man’s hand trembled with the effort of maintaining the stroke. Gradually a shape began to take form on the canvas, shadows bringing out the highlights of the figure, adding depth to the background, perspective and tone with a minimum of detail. Not once did the trowel leave the surface of the canvas. Twice the man paused and the woman behind him moaned, almost inaudibly. The man’s hand would then shiver, a muscle would Jump in his forearm, and the painting would begin once more. A single stroke, swinging around and back and around the canvas again until a picture formed. A scene in a field, someone kneeling on a mound of earth and grass, shoulders thrown back, head tilted to a golden sky. The light in the picture was harsh at first, but as the painting progressed the glow became muted, gentle. Kilgarin realized that the woman was speaking. Her voice was too low for the words to be understood, but the syllables seemed to fall in a formal meter. He listened, drawing his attention from the canvas with an effort. The woman’s words were modulated into a continuous moan—what was said, Kilgarin understood at last, was not important.
They watched for two hours.
When it was completed, the painting was filled with bright colors, each color developing out of some darker shade, building on each other for the total effect. Kilgarin would not have been able to fully describe the picture if he had not seen it forming, for the painting now bore no resemblance to a man in a field, kneeling or otherwise. It merely felt like a man in a field. It felt like someone raising his head to the sky, rising out of earth, reaching—Kilgarin couldn’t have explained why he felt the way he did looking at the painting. He simply knew the feeling was not an accident; it was an effect sought and achieved by tbe painting’s creators.
By the Hand and Eye.
In the room at the end of the hall, seated under the single window, J’kar explained to Raymond what had happened between the two painters.
“By selves, not good, one good sense, good feeling, other hands steady, strong. Neither paint by selves; together they paint, he holds, she guides. Sensitive, her; he’s Physical. Hey, what’s their names, Olivia?”
The red-haired girl handed J’kar a tray she’d filled with food, and as he accepted it, she said, “I’m not sure what his name is, but she calls herself Ruth. She came here about a year ago, with another Hand. I don’t remember his name either, but he was a nice man. You would have liked him, J’kar; he looked a little like you, only his hair was black and longer than yours.” She touched the Centaurian’s red mane, smiling at him.
“Are they always like this?” Raymond asked. “In contact with each other, mindlocked?”
“No. Kidding? Bum out faster, much faster. No. Only when painting, safe only then. Need each other for painting, need mindlock then, not before, not after.”
“Are they lovers?” The young Physical pulled a length of warm meat from the stew he was sharing with the Cook, and dabbed it in the jelly set on the floor next to him.
“Lovers? Yes, no. Together, yes,” J’kar said. “Close like lovers, but maybe not so deep. Ask them, if care.”
“Do you know who designed this kind of art. Kilgarin?” Olivia asked the Cork. He glanced up from his own bowl of stew; he hadn’t been listening to the conversation. He found talk about mindlinks disturbing at times, especially in public. Seeing she’d gained his attention, the red-haired girl went on, “J’kar. He did it on earth, a long time ago. Didn’t you, J'kar?”
The Centaurian nodded, grinning shyly. The girl ran her hand over his hair, returning his smile. “He couldn’t keep it up though,” she said finally. “Things happened. His father went into bankruptcy on Centauri, with Contracts still outstanding. J’kar was forced to take over the Contracts; he had his choice of service, of course, so he chose the mindships over the colonial processing plants. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it, J’kar?”
“Long, Olivia,” J’kar said.
“I knew him then, Kilgarin. I was just a girl, only about—what, three or four years old?—but I knew him. My mother and he were Hand and Eye for those first paintings. It started a whole school, with J’kar its leading exponent and its sharpest critic. When he left, it all fell apart. No one could guide us, tell us what to do. People stopped coming to the shows, without J’kar to lend them authority, and pretty soon all the credit mother had saved was gone, and we had to leave. She Contracted out to the colonies. So did a few of the others. Groups of us ended up here and there, on planets like Helmswuld. We kept working. What else could we do?”
She flicked her green eyes toward Kilgarin. He shrugged, uneasily.
“I never thought we’d see J'kar again,” Olivia said, “until two days ago, when he walked into a pub a few blocks from here. There aren’t many men in the Outworlds with hair like that. It’s a dying gene. He’d changed, but I’d expected that. I really did, J’kar: mother told me to, she knew what the Contracts would do to you. She said you wouldn’t be the same. She was wrong.”
“Kristin,” J’kar said.
“She’s dead now,” Olivia told Kilgarin. “Four years ago, in a Company plant.”
“Here?” the Cook asked.
“I don’t know where. The Company wouldn’t tell me.”
Raymond said quietly, looking at J’kar, “He and your mother must have been very close.”
She smiled. “He’s my father,” she said.
Kilgarin blinked down at the half-eaten bowl of stew resting in his lap. He’d lost what little appetite he’d had. He didn’t feel well, and he knew why. “J’kar, FI1 talk to you later,” he said, and rose to his feet unsteadily, catching himself with a hand to the concrete wall. He managed to cross the room and escape to the outside with a minimum of difficulty. He paused just beyond the arch and listened for a moment to make certain none of his shipmates was about to follow. He heard Raymond ask the Cook what was wrong, and he heard part of the Cook’s reply, and then he turned and went down the stairs to the street and out into the setting night.
Toward morning he wandered back to the city from the outlying suburbs. He hadn’t answered any of the questions he’d felt within him. but he had, at least, subdued them.
The sky was splintering with dawn when he returned to the port, found the apartment where he’d left J’kar and the others, and rolled into one of the blanketed comers to sleep.
The girl named Olivia woke him and gave him some food. As he ate she asked him about the worlds he’d visited and the people he’d seen. He found that conversation was difficult, but out of gratitude for the food she’d prepared for him. he told her the things she wanted to hear, in short sentences that conveyed his objective meaning and little of his own experience. Toward the end of the meal she sensed his reticence and abandoned the questioning, launching into a monologue that Kilgarin listened to with half-interest. She went with him to the street, still talking, and together they walked the few blocks to the port, where the Charter was ready to lift from the planet. In answer to an early question of his, she’d told him that J’kar and the other two crew members had gone ahead shortly after dawn.
She told him about a show she was planning with other of the artists in Wylder, a major display of their best work, and she revealed that she hoped to organize a sojourn to one of the major colonies with the proceeds from the local exhibition. Kilgarin expressed polite enthusiasm. She continued to talk until they reached the port terminal, where they parted. Before he entered the building, she touched his arm and leaned up to kiss him. Kilgarin was startled.
“What was that for?” he asked.
She smiled at him, her eyebrows rising. “Don’t be threatened,” she said. “I just want you to know I like you.”
He stared at her. Her smile faded, and she shook her head, once.
“You must be an awfully lonely man,” she said.
His last view of her was as she swung away from the transparent doors of the terminal entrance and strode down the street to a squat port bus waiting at the corner, her hair trailing out behind, her hips rising and falling as she stalked, her shoulders straight. He watched her until she climbed inside the bus. Then he entered the port and headed for the Charter.
A crowd was gathered around the lower exit port of the ship, men and women dressed in maintenance overalls leaning against one another, shifting and pressing to obtain a better view. Kilgarin pushed through the crowd, sensing the anxiety and distaste that played through the Physicals gathered there. He pushed out the sensations and shoved through into a clearing, which centered on the end of the cargo ramp. He recognized three of the Physicals standing guard over a large plastic container set on end at the ramp base. He asked the closest Physical what had happened. The man eyed him, noting the Sensitive’s blue uniform and the officer’s patch on Kilgarin’s right shoulder, and decided to answer.
