Tin Woodman by David Bischoff, Dennis R. Bailey Page A

swirling about her were robed in semidarkness. Cries and shouts clamored. Hissing light flares suddenly illuminated the scene. There was fighting, all about her. A battle, surrealistically staged . . .
    This dream had visited her before, breaking up the long darkness that shrouded her. Each time, it had startled her into a semi-wakefulness, too faint to cry out, incapable of moving, in darkness. She felt entombed then. Perhaps these periods were as illusory as the nightmare conflict. But then she would plummet back into a deeper darkness.
    A faint voice drew her up out of the depths: “Mora . . . Mora, can you wake up?”
    It felt as though she was drifting up through a thick musty muck, toward a swath of new light. She strained . . . pushed hard, and the voice grew clearer. The dark parted grudgingly, and she was there. “Look at me, come on . . .” the voice was saying. She realized that she was looking up at someone not entirely in focus. The hazy sight resolved into recognizable features . . . and it was Ston. Ston Maurtan, leaning over her.
    “That’s right. Just me. Now let’s get you out of there,” he urged in soft, concerned tones. Grasping her right arm carefully, he eased her up into a sitting position. She gazed about herself, disoriented. Where was she? This area was unfamiliar. Was she still on the Pegasus? Or was this yet another illusion dredged up from her slumbering subconscious.
    Ston asked, “Can you slip down, stand up?”
    Mora stared blankly at him, then nodded groggily. She pulled herself over the Henderson’s lip, climbed down, stood wobbly by the side of the capsule. She staggered, nearly falling, but Ston braced her with strong hands. “Well,” he said. “At least you’re awake and alive. That’s something.”
    “Ston . . . Maurtan,” she murmured.
    “Right ho! Nice of you to remember. Here we go.” He handed her a bundle of clothing. “See if you can pull this on. Engineering uniform. They’ll spot you in a moment if you’re still in those MedSec Op duds.”
    “Who’ll spot me?” Mora asked, accepting the clothing. “Why shouldn’t they?” It didn’t make sense on one level—and yet, it felt right. Obediently, she removed the plain white shift, began to don the uniform. “Where are we going?”
    “Engineering first,” he explained. “Listen. I busted you out of MedSec and brought you down here—the ship’s cryogenic vault section. The alarm has been out on you for a while now—Coffer’s got Security combing the whole boat for you. And if we don’t get off soon, they’ll jam that needle in your head again and keelhaul me.”
    “Coffer? Keelhaul?” The facts didn’t align properly; she was confused.
    “Ancient naval expression.” He held her hands imploringly. “It’s not important. What is important is that we jump the Pegasus soon. Understand?”
    “But how? Are we still in the Aldebaran system?” She finished slipping the tunic on and sealed it.
    “Yes. Still in orbit. Now, as to how we get out, I’ve figured that out. God knows maybe I would have turned myself in long before, but for this one chance. Div’s ship—the messenger ship that brought him out here? They’re going to jettison the thing—not worth the space taken up, or the mass to haul. Its last run knocked hell out of it. I happened on the report in Engineering. It’s still in serviceable shape for one more journey, if we take care. Because you see, when they boost it out to become interstellar debris, we’re going to be in it.”
    She attempted to read him, but couldn’t. God, her thoughts were scrambled. Had the Dope washed out her Talent? She found herself suffused with both joy and grief at the possibility. To be Normal . . . and yet, if so, her specialness was gone. But no—only one injection, Ston had said. Not enough. Ston . . .
    “Ston—are you all right?” she asked, deciding that she could trust him.
    “Me? Yes, of course—”
    “Never mind. I had a nightmare . . .