Mindship v1 0, p.17
Mindship (v1.0), page 17
“Nothing, that is, until the rebels tried to take over Centauri port.”
Kilgarin watched the Engineer sip at the coffee the Cook had made for him. The big man held the cup in two large hands that were marked with the white lines of calluses. The Cook sat next to Kilgarin, listening. KILGARIN wanted it that way, for the Cook to hear it directly from Wells. It was not a story the Cork cared to repeat.
“We were called up pretty quick.” Wells said. “Same day they took the port over. The Company officers must have been figuring on trouble for months, which was why they had all the soldiers there to move down to the planet fast. We went down in eight ships, each about the size of the Charter. I found myself going with them, carrying a weapon like all the others. I’d been trained for it, I knew how to use the damned thing, but I never thought I’d need to. Even then I didn’t really believe I’d be part of the attack.
“We hit them after dawn. Two ships to each of the major cities, three to Centauri port itself, one to the suburb. I was in the last ship. We came out in patrols of ten. They put me in charge of a patrol and told me to sweep the area, look for any natives on the street, that sort of thing. They called them natives, not colonists. We looked. There wasn’t anyone in sight “I reported in. My commanding officer told me to take my team into an apartment building overlooking the central plaza. There’d been sniping in the area, he said, six of our men were down, he said, and he thought the sniper might be hiding in one of the apartments. We went up.”
Kilgarin poured Wells another cup of coffee.
“Three men in my patrol were Outworlders. The Out-worlders were different then, in a lot of ways. The Company hadn’t pressured them yet and they still felt secure being colonists; they liked it. To them the revolutionaries were madmen. Mad dogs. That’s what Barker called them. Barker was my right-hand man. I wasn’t too familiar with the militia—they’d put me in charge of the patrol because of my rank; Corps Engineers were full staff sergeants in those days—so I was dependent on Barker for tactics.
“He heard gunshots—he said he did—from a room at the end of a hall in one of the buildings. I asked him what we should do. He told me to go in with him and Fitzhugh, one of the other Outworlders. and keep the other members of the patrol as backup. So I did.
“Barker went in first, firing his weapon in an arc spray. He’d told me to lock my rifle in the same position; he said it was the most effective setting. I did. I came in behind him, spraying the side of the room he’d missed. Fitzhugh Was behind me.
“You can guess what we found.”
“No snipers,” Kilgarin said.
Wells stared into his coffee. “An old lady and an old guy, some kids. The parents of the kids were in the nest room, doing the sniping. We got them too, but we got the kids first.”
“What happened then?” the Cook asked quietly.
“We went back outside and the commander assigned us another building, and we did the same thing there. For three months we did that. When it was over, I quit, joined up with one of the traders the Company owned, and for eight years I shipped back and forth along the Arm, didn’t once head back to Centauri. Around ’36 I quit those ships and went on a binge until my credit ran out, which took about two years.
“Finally I forgot everything. It was the only thing I could do. Even the ship’s Corks couldn’t help me. I forgot it all, and I’ve been able to live with myself these past seven years…”
.. until now,” Kilgarin finished for him. “I’m sorry, Wells. I misunderstood.”
“Sure,” Wells said.
A little later the Cook whispered to Kilgarin, “What are you going to do for him?”
“He isn’t the man I want,” Kilgarin said. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You know,” the Cook said. “Fix his mind.”
Kilgarin glanced at Wells, sitting apart from the two Other men, musing his cold cup of coffee. The Cork nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “That much, at least.”
“Hey, Kilgarin. Are we going to do any climbing or not?”
“It’s getting late. Wells,” the Cork said. “The Captain said the ship’s lifting at 2100.”
“Outside air agrees with you,” the Cook added, helping the Engineer to his feet.
“Sure,” Wells said. “How long have I been asleep, anyway?”
Kilgarin shrugged. “Long enough,” he said.
He accepted the Cook’s offer of a beer when they returned to the ship, following the small man into the almost fully deserted lounge and taking a seat on the counter near the food console. As it had the first day he stepped aboard the Charter, the psychic aura of the vessel—centered here in the lounge—threatened to overwhelm Kilgarin. His increased Sensitivity to the aura was due partially, he knew, to the recent unpleasantness with Wells, but there were other factors at work also. Marka was near, Kilgarin sensed, and her presence made him uneasy. More, the tension in the crew had doubled since Ryork’s death. That and other pressures he couldn’t discern gave the ship’s atmosphere an almost physical weight. Kilgarin tried to shut out the emotions, but found that his training as a Cork wouldn’t let him; he was forced to act as a valve to those minds around him, and for the first time since the incident aboard the Drowner, Kilgarin doubted his ability to handle the pressure.
“Make that two shots of absinthe,” he told the Cook. The small man blinked, but made the necessary adjustments and handed the stein to the Cork. Kilgarin drank, said, “What now, Cook? If it isn’t Wells, who’s responsible for the Captain’s block, who is it?”
The Cook’s expression became puzzled. “Anyone at all,” he replied. He eyed Kilgarin’s stein. “Another one?”
“Only one shot this time.”
“Right.”
Kilgarin closed his eyes. He felt weary, weaker than he’d been in many years.
“Hey, Killy,” the Cook said softly.
He uncovered his eyes. The Cook was looking past his shoulder, at someone who’d entered the lounge. Kilgarin swiveled around and saw Raymond and Marka sliding into a booth under a blank display screen. Raymond was speaking to Marka, but at that distance Kilgarin was ud-able to hear the young Physical’s words, and was unwilling to probe his mind. He returned his attention to the Cook, who was punching an order into the console.
“Marka’s been pretty upset lately,” the Cook said.
“Who told you that?”
“Raymond. And even if he hadn’t. I’ve still got some senses left. Enough to tell about a thing like that.”
Kilgarin said nothing. The Cook removed two glasses from the console, each brimming with beer, and set them on a tray. He pushed the tray toward Kilgarin. ’Take that to them, would you? Their usual.”
“And if I don’t?”
’Then I will, and I’ll tell them you wanted to speak with them. Just do it, will you please, Kilgarin?”
Reluctantly Kilgarin took up the tray and carried it to the booth. He sat down opposite the two Physicals and raised his own glass in a toast. Neither of them followed. He drank it anyway.
“It’s my turn not to want to see you, Kilgarin,” Marka said.
“It wasn’t my idea to come over here,” he answered.
“Then make it your idea to leave.”
“OK,” Kilgarin said. He got up and started toward the door. He was stopped by Raymond’s hand on his shoulder. Kilgarin tried to shrug off the Physical’s grip, but the young man only tightened his hold and moved around in front of the Cork.
“Can I talk with you a minute, Killy?” Raymond asked.
“Your hand’s in the way, Fellow.”
Raymond dropped his hand, curled it into a fist, and stuffed it and the other one Into the loose pockets of his jump suit. Kilgarin realized that the young man had lost most of the extra weight he’d had when the Cork first met him.
“Listen,” Raymond said, “I feel bad about what’s been happening with all of us. I really hate to see us breaking up like this. The way we came together and all, it seems a shame—” He stopped, started again more slowly. “I don’t understand what’s wrong, and I hoped we could talk about it so maybe we could work something out. If that’s’ OK with you.”
“I’m going for a walk,” Kilgarin said. “Come along, if you like.”
He waited while Raymond went back to speak with Marka, and when the young Physical returned Kilgarin struck off at a full stride. It was an effort for Raymond to keep up with him. but not as great an effort as it once might have been. Kilgarin headed up a ramp that during Drive would become a curving wall. Raymond trotted alongside him. huffing to stay within talking distance.
“What happened with Wells today?” Raymond asked between breaths. Kilgarin told him and Raymond asked a few questions, which Kilgarin answered with a minimum of detail. Finally, Raymond asked: “Killy, are we friends?”
“We’re friends,” Kilgarin said.
“Is the way you’re acting because of what you’re trying to find out about your brother?”
“How am I acting?”
“Kilgarin, please. You know what “I’m talking about. You’re treating all of us as though we were the ones who destroyed Marc—at least that’s the way it seems. Avoiding us, being brusque, cold…if we’ve done something to hurt you, don’t you think we should know about it?”
“You’ve done nothing you couldn’t help doing,” Kilgarin said.
“That’s very clear,” Raymond said bitterly.
“Look,” Kilgarin said, over his shoulder, “I did not ask any of you to come with me. I’m not taking that responsibility. You’re all trying to make me out as some sort of freak because I don’t want to get involved in your problems. Marka wants me to love her; J’kar wants me to save him from Ty’ger; you want me to be your friend. All I want is to be left alone, and to be given the minimum help I ask for—and maybe that’s where I made my mistake, in asking any of you for help. That was weak of me. I apologize. I don’t like people to need me, I don’t like to need people, and is that simple enough for you?” He was shouting, he realized. He calmed himself and continued walking. “I’m sorry, Raymond, but that’s it”
“Guess I’m sorry too, Kilgarin. For you. not with you.”
Kilgarin stopped to stare at Raymond, but the Physical had already turned and was walking down the hall, back toward the lounge. The Cork shook his head and walked on.
Chapter Eight
Ninth month, twenty-ninth day, anno Domini 3146
Rumors about the Outworld insurrection dominated the conversation aboard the Charter during the next few days of drive. Kilgarin paid little attention to it, concentrating for the most part on maintaining the shaky equilibrium of the crew. Ryork’s death—and the death of the Physical who killed her—had caused more of a disturbance than even Kilgarin had anticipated at first. As the days passed, reaction set in, and the resulting pressure grew more and more dangerous. Resentment was building in the Sensitives, mirroring a similar resentment in the Physicals. Kilgarin found it more and more difficult to soothe the tendency toward violence present in the crew. On the fourth day out from Denford he decided to go to the Captain.
It was his third visit to the Captain’s private quarters, and the room was still as bare as it’d been the first time he’d seen it, save for the addition of a tiny figurine set on the display console near the bed. The Captain noticed Kilgarin glance toward the statue as the Cork entered, and he smiled, motioning Kilgarin closer. “I found it on Rylon,” the Captain said, “in one of the antique shops on the second level. I believe it’s third-century Centaurian, but Wells doesn’t think so. He says he’s never seen anything like it.”
“Captain, I wanted to talk to you about the crew.”
The older man broke his attention away from the figurine, turning to regard Kilgarin with a frown. “Yes? What’s the problem?”
Kilgarin told him. The Captain listened without expression as the Cork offered bis opinion of the nature of the ship’s distress and its probable outcome. When Kilgarin was finished, the Captain looked up at him, unsmiling.
“I’ve been told to expect it,” the older man said. “The Company has been having trouble all across the Arm. and of course there was that business on Elysson. The Out-world colonies, some of them, are in open rebellion…and it seems to be spreading to the mindships. I should have realized Ryork’s killing was a part of it, but there’s been so much to think about…His gaze drifted back to the figurine. “You do understand that, don’t you, Kilgarin?”
Kilgarin shrugged. “I don’t think she was killed as part of a plot, Captain, but it doesn’t matter. What should we dor “Well be reaching our last port in this sector within the next two days. Planet named Maylind. After that we head down to Centauri. I think we can hold out that long.”
“Yes, Captain,” Kilgarin said. He turned to go, peered once more at the figurine, a delicate sculpting in blue stone of a man cradling a child. He caught a final glimpse of the Captain raising his hand toward the statue, and then Kilgarin moved down the corridor to the outside door, the wall cutting off his view.
The Captain was wrong. The problems didn’t hold until the ship reached Centauri. They didn’t hold until the Charter touched its final colonial port. Trouble broke out almost at once, that evening in the mess, and most of the ship’s Sensitives were fortunate to survive.
Kilgarin came to the lounge late; he often arrived after the other Sensitives because he wanted to avoid the added pressures of a crowded mess hall when he was Corking during mind-drive. Entering the low-ceilinged chamber, he could feel the tension as an almost tangible barrier separating him from the men and women in the benches and booths lining the walls. Hostile stares greeted him, which Kilgarin ignored—he knew the difference between expressed dislike and hidden hate, the latter more dangerous because it allowed no release. Kilgarin, as Cork, was poignantly aware of the crew’s need for release, and so in a way he welcomed the glares.
He picked up a tray from the counter, accepted a beer from a sullen Physical who’d clipped her hair too close to her scalp, and struck across the room, looking for the Cook. The small man would be off duty and was probably enjoying his dinner in a booth far from the food console.
Someone jostled Kilgarin. He stumbled, tripped over a foot he hadn’t seen a moment before, and sprawled on a table, his tray skidding out of his hands and splashing beer and fortified meat-product on three Physical women. The men with the women came to their feet and lunged for the Cork. Kilgarin almost blacked out under the onslaught of their hate. Before he could move they were on him.
Hands locked on his elbows, snapping his arms back and restraining him. A fist planted itself in his stomach. Another flicked against his jaw. A third connected with his cheek. It was then that Kilgarin began to move.
Jerking from the man who held him, Kilgarin butted his head into the face of the Physical before him. As that man crumpled, the Cork swung around and brought the edge of his palm up, striking the second Physical hovering beside him. The heel of his hand struck the man’s nose, shattering cartilage and shoving the splinters into the man’s brain. Spinning, completing his turn, Kilgarin kneed the Physical who’d held him and carried through by doubling his fists and slamming them down on the man’s neck as the Physical bent in agony.
Kilgarin stepped back, aware of the emotions firing the room around him.
Hate, pure and stark. And fear, and anger, and concern. He was unable to pick out the individual feelings: there was too much, all of it mixed together in one gestalt—violence. Violence was going to happen, and quickly.
“Killy, over here”—the voice cried out to him from the left; Kilgarin whirled—“get over here.”
Past the faces of the men and women nearest him, Kilgarin saw the Cook, and with him. Ty’ger and Luanne. The Cook was waving, his features twisted with worry and terror. The small man was close to panicking. Kilgarin realized, and also realized with a start that so was he.
Around him the room was in stasis. Physicals stared, not quite comprehending what had happened. Everyone in the lounge was caught in the paralysis of the moment, that peculiar inability of those involved in an instant of decision to accept the decision and act. Kilgarin took advantage of the moment to run down the aisle toward his three friends. Midway to them, he was attacked.
A bare-chested Physical in shorts that only partially covered a heavy paunch hit Kilgarin with a body block.
The Cork careened into two Outworld women who caught him and tried to lock him in a stranglehold. Kilgarin twisted. The thinner of the two Physicals lifted over his shoulder and landed on the back of the still-pitching bare-chested man. Leaning into the motion, Kilgarin continued to turn, managed a grip on the leg of the woman still gripping his neck frantically and heaved her over his head. She fell onto a table a meter away.
“Watch your back, Kilgarin,” the Cook’s voice said beside Kilgarin. The Cork didn’t bother to acknowledge the warning; instead he ducked and sensed a tray sail over his head. “What in hell did you do to these people?” the Cook asked him, gasping. Out of the comer of his eye Kilgarin saw the small gray man wrestling down a Physical half again as tall as he was.
“Nothing,” Kilgarin replied to the Cook’s question. He stepped between the small man and his assailant, snapped the edge of his hand down on the neck of the Physical. “It’s been in the wind, waiting to break.” Kilgarin said. “If I had a moment to think I might”—he slipped out of the path of a black-bearded Physical charging at him with a knife—“be able to do something about it. Don’t have time. Only react.” He tripped the knife wielder. The man fell, the knife clattered across the floor, and Kilgarin jerked his foot in a kick that assured no further threats from that Physical’s direction.
