The Adversary - 4 (27 page)

The mental anguish of the ship's master went unnoticed by the other forty-two people on board. For most of them, the first week of the voyage was a time of respite and tranquillity, a chance to recover from frantic weeks of preparation and the final tearing up of roots. It was a time to deny fear and squelch renewed doubts. Walter's crew kept busy with shakedown routine while the passengers dozed on sun-drenched decks, lounged in the stern watching flying fishes skitter in the creamy wake, or perched in one of the crow's nests under a cobalt sky while frigate-birds wheeled overhead and the full spread of solar-panel sail thrummed in a smart breeze. During those brief idyllic days, the tired old Rebels attempted to purge their minds of all thought-leaving that to Marc and the ten surviving magnates who were his intimates-and instead merged themselves with the entity who seemed more alive than any of them: the tall ship running strong on a sparkling ocean.

On 7 September, when they were a little more than 400 kilometres southwest of Bermuda, the wind freshened and the sky turned lead-grey. Kyllikki raced close-reefed through increasingly heavy seas and the passengers stayed below, paying little attention to Walter's assurance that no really severe weather was in the offing, only a chain of minor tropical disturbances.

A mood of dejection prevailed as the schooner endured intervals of nasty chop, through which she punched, hammering and shaking. Then came thundersqualls-and shorter tempers.

When the sun condescended to shine, the sea heaved with great queasy rollers while the veering wind blew fits and starts. The prologue to genuine disaster was a near gale under dreary torn scud, the remnant of a moribund hurricane, before which Kyllikki plunged and ramped, more often than not hove down nearly on her ear.

Those of the passengers who had not surrendered to seasickness were rendered lethargic and irritable at the continued close confinement, the unsettling motion, and above all, the noise.

Timbers creaked and groaned, winch motors squealed in the adjustment of sail, marching breakers hissed along the hull, the wind howled, the auxiliary engine powering the rotors cut in and out as Ragnar and the engineers worked to isolate some obscure malfunction, and the great ship's masts, spars, and rigging vibrated in a hundred inharmonious notes. It seemed that the magical barque of earlier days had suffered a sea change into a floating torture chamber. As the dirty weather prolonged itself into a fourth night, the barometer of morale aboard Kyllikki reached its nadir.

Patricia Castellane found herself alone in the grand saloon, whence all but she had fled. Supper, if she wanted it, would be a scratch affair; both Alonzo Jarrow and Charisse Buckmaster were prostrate with mal de mer and no one had volunteered to take over their culinary duties. Patricia decided she was not hungry. She tried to watch a Tri-D of Wagner's "Flying Dutchman", but its stormy cadences only made her feel worse So she turned the lamps low, huddled in a gyro-lounge reading a classic thriller by Desmond Bagley, and sipped hot buttered rum. The ship was heeled far to starboard, so that the belowsheer portlights on that side of the saloon were fully underwater.

She could see phosphorescent froth swirling by on the other side of the thick glass. The sight of it and the melange of noises were so mesmerizing that she finally dozed off-only to start wide awake as someone gripped her shoulder and an urgent telepathic voice said: Pat! Wake up-we need your help!

It was Cordelia Warshaw, looking like a soaked and bedraggled elderly child in stormgear three sizes too large for her.

With her was Steve Vanier, a former tactical analyst who was Walter Saastamoinen's second mate. His mind was shut tight as an oyster and his face bore a grimace of combined pain and fury. He held his right wrist against his chest with his left hand.

A trickle of blood seeped down the front of his gloyello coat and dripped into the fresh pool of water on the saloon carpet.

"It's Helayne Strangford," said Cordelia, thrusting a weatherproof jacket and sou'wester hat at Patricia. "She had a knife, and she got onto the bridge and attacked Steve at the helm."

"Must have had some drops squirrelled away after all, the crazy bitch," said Steve. "Walter fought her off. She was raving about saving the children. Wanted to wreck the ship."

"Oh, God," said Patricia.

Cordelia said, "Now she's climbed up to the Jiggermast crow's nest and says she'll jump. You know what a strong coercer she is. I don't think we'll be able to stop her. Tried to call the other magnates to help but only Steinbrenner responded."

"Fat fucking good he is," Steve muttered. He had been fumbling behind the bar and now downed a huge swallow of vodka straight from the bottle. "Ah, Jesus-that helps."

"Call Marc!" said Patricia.

Cordelia uttered a trilling little laugh. "As usual, he's gone.

Before he learned to d-jump, it was only his mind that wandered. Now he abandons us body and soul!"

Steve said, "Walter tried to raise Marc as soon as Strangford broke in. Kramer said he's been on the hop for more than two hours."

"I'll see what I can do," Patricia said.

"And you get to sick bay," Cordelia told Steve. "Wake those damn Keoghs out of whatever seventh heaven they're floating in. Tell them what Steinbrenner said about possible cut tendons in your wrist."

Still cradling the bottle, the mate staggered into the forward passage while the two women headed aft. All of the cabin doors were shut and this part of the ship seemed deserted. Bracing themselves against the excessive heel, they came to the modified stern hold containing the accommodation for the CE rig and its auxiliaries. The armoured door that provided sole access was dogged shut from the opposite side. Patricia exerted her farspeech to penetrate the metal.

Jordy! Gerrit! It's Pat. Let me in. Emergency!

Cordelia took a big torch from the pocket of her oilskin jacket and banged on the door. A tentative glimmer of farsense stole out after a few moments and flicked over them. Then there were clicks and a grudging crack opened. Jordan Kramer peered out, his face like a thundercloud.

"What the devil is it? Marc has gone extraplanetary and we're at a tricky point in the stasis monitoring-"

Patricia shoved the mental image at him. "Helayne's broken loose. We need Marc."

Kramer groaned. "Damn that woman to hell! If we didn't need her input so badly for the offensive metaconcert, I'd say let her jump!"

"Can you retrieve Marc?" Patricia persisted.

"Not a chance. He's independent now. The rubberband effect is finally neutralized. There's no telling when he'll return. Why don't you call out the other coercers and put together a concert-"

"Mostly everyone seems to be seasick, asleep, or otherwise switch-off," Cordelia said. "Those of us who were topside when Helayne went berserk got almost zip response from a general hail. Steinbrenner came, and Boom-Boom Laroche. Beside them, there's Walter and Roy and Nannie Fox, who had the watch with me and Steve-and now Pat."

Kramer looked harried. "Well, there's nothing Van Wyk or I can do. We're neither of us coercers, and we have to monitor the equipment." He started to close the door.

"Then give us Manion!" Patricia demanded. "If we take off the docilator, his PK will probably be strong enough to override her and scoop her in."

"Not on your life!" Kramer shouted. "We're keeping that bastard right in here brain-wrapped until Marc is safely home.

Let him out-? God-You'd have two crazies on the loose instead of just one!"

Knowing it was hopeless, Patricia pleaded, "Alex would want to help Helayne. You know they used to be-"

"Oh, yes, I know very well," retorted the psychophysicist.

"And I know just what would happen after Manion got his old flame fitted with his docilator. He'd skunk the lot of you, smash the powerplant, and strand Marc in the grey limbo!" The door slammed shut.

Wasting no more time, the two women turned and ran for the after companionway. On deck, the rain had stopped and a crescent moon was intermittently visible through broken clouds.

Kyllikki, on autopilot, drove along under minimal canvas. Black waves with glowing crests leaped and stretched chaotically as the wind died. Walter, Roy Marchand, and Nanomea Fox were gathered at the foot of the jiggermast, which arose from the low sterncastle structure. Standing away from them, clinging to the rail, were Jeff Steinbrenner and Guy Laroche. Nanomea held a spotlight on the wildly gyrating crow's nest. Roy carried a stungun and Laroche had a laser carbine slung over his shoulder.

Cordelia said: Here's Pat. She was the only one who'd help.

Walter said: Helayne's still there ducked down out of sight in bucket.

Patricia said: No chance stun?

Roy said: Masts grounded hellandgone besides her creativity sufficient shield. Boom-Boom has zapper burn her if she threatensPatricia said: Negative negative! We NEED Helayne! I direct metaconcert okay?

The others said: Right.

Patricia said: Ready-COME IN.

Their minds meshed, following the lead of the one-time dirigent of Okanagon. The combined coercive faculty reached out to the crazed mind aloft and enclosed it in a net of mental energy. And tightened ...

They all screamed. An overpowering mind-thrust, like a white-hot blade, split the metaconcert asunder. High in the air a ghostly face leaned over the rim of the crow's nest bucket.

Helayne Strangford's telepathic laughter rang in their brains.

Patricia said: We want to help you Helayne. Please come down.

LetHIMbegmewhydidn'tHEcomewhere'sHEhidingneverlet HIMhurtchildrenPatricia said: Marc doesn't want to hurt the children.

Othersdo! YOUsteeleyedmetagroupie! YOUcuteGrannyCordelia! YOUjeffbabykiller! YouwantkillchildrensoIkillYOU!

Patricia said: Come with me to Marc Helayne. He'll see that nobody harms the children. He promised. You know you can trust Marc.

Trust ... ooh I did. We all did. In the Milieu during Rebellion and even in defeat. Trusted Marc followed Marc loved Marc.

BUT HE LIED.

Patricia said: Marc doesn't lie.

HedoeshedoesHEDOES. Said he'd never leave us. NEVER.

BUT HE GOES.

Patricia said: Helayne he always comes back to us.

Heliessaysdestroyingtimegatesitepreventchildrenescape!

MustkillchildrenprotectHIMSELF. Butlstoplknowhowstop.

KillYOU! KillHIM!

A knife flashed in the spotlight. Helayne clung to the upper crosstrees and slowly climbed onto the rim of the bucket. Her flowing silk pyjamas crackled in the wind like pennants.

FlydownkillyouALL!

Patricia said: You can't fly Helayne. If you jump you'll die.

Chris and Leila will feel guilty. Little Joel will cry for his Nana.

Don't jump. Come down and let us help you.

DarlingChris ... darlingLeila ... preciousJoel. HEwantskillthembutlknowhowstop. Kill the other minds. Deprive devilangelexecutor of metaconcertcooperators make HIM helpless!

Weak! HUMAN! ... And that's exactly what I have done you know.

This last was delivered in a tone so matter-of fact and complacent that the seven people at the foot of the mast were momentarily taken aback. And then Steve Vanier came pounding up the after companionway ladder and emerged on deck with his brain bursting with horror. He shouted: "The Keoghs-both of them stabbed to death in sick bay! And she must have gone into the cabins that weren't locked-" Crimson images tumbled from his mind. Helayne's manic laughter pealed in the cloud-wracked sky.

Nanomea Fox kept the spotlight steady on the swaying figure.

Helayne called out in a crooning voice, "Walter! Come up, dear. Help me. I promise I won't jump if you come." The force of her coercion was an irresistible siren call. Walter, blank-faced, started for the mast as Fox and Marchand stood helplessly by.

"No, Walter!" Patricia screamed. And then the mental tentacle coiled about her own will, commanding her to climb, and Roy, and ...

Jeff Steinbrenner whipped the carbine from Laroche's paralysed hands and fired without aiming. There was a sizzling report and a bloom of light like St. Elmo's fire. Something seemed to take wing, uttering a final sound like a seabird's cry. Fragments of wood and metal and severed rope rained onto the deck.

They all looked up at the broken, empty crow's nest, and then braced themselves to go below.

As the dark armoured form materialized on its improvised cradle, the docilated man sitting in the dark corner of the hold finally broke his silence. "Commodore's gig approaching!

Bosun, your pipe! Mister Kramer, hoist the swallowtail of the Rye Harbour Yacht Club!"

"Shut up, Alex," said Patricia Castellane, "or I'll phase in the algetics at max, so help me God."

Alexis Manion subsided, but a sly smile played over his lips.

He got up from his chair and strolled closer as Gerrit Van Wyk pulled the helmet hoist into position and Jordan Kramer monitored the divestment.

When Marc was free of the armour he said, "The stasis held perfectly for three hours thirty minutes. I think I've got it licked.

How did it look on this end?"

Kramer said, "Perfect. No sign of anomalous field-warp of bilocation phenomena. We'll have Manion do an analysis in depth, but it looked mighty good in overview. How far out did you go?"

"Eighteen thousand six hundred and twenty-seven light-years.

To Poltroy. Testing my limits and indulging my curiosity."

"Was the translation still apparently instantaneous?" Van Wyk asked.

"Yes," said Marc. "There doesn't seem to be any equivalent of the subjective hours or day spent in the grey limbo by superluminal starship riders. I'd estimate I was in the hyperspatial matrix thirty subjective seconds on each of the d-jumps. It takes longer breaking through the superficies at each end, of course."

He stepped into the miniature shower cabinet and threw out the pressure envelope coverall. The water sprayed hot, sending steam clouds rising among the cable-draped oaken ship timbers.

"So you went to Poltroy, my beamish boy?" Alexis Manion carolled.

"I'd forgotten that the place was mostly glacial during the Pliocene," Marc said. "Fortunately, the locals took me for a slumming god and lent me some furs, or I'd have had to stay in the armour. It would have spoiled the experiment." Patricia came up with a towel and a dressing gown. "I think I finally have the d-jump program fully assimilated. I expect to work out further refinements, but the technique is quite workable now. I can take the armour with me as a safety precaution against a hostile environment, or leave it suspended in the superficies out of the way, or even send it back home to wait until I whistle, cutting off entirely from the systems at this end of the warp."