The Rowan
- Автор: Маккефри Энн
- Серия: Tower and the Hive #1
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Rowan». Краткое содержание книги:
The kinetically gifted, trained in mind/machine gestalt, are the most valued citizens of the Nine Star League. Using mental powers alone, these few Prime Talents transport ships, cargo and people between Earth's Moon, Mars' Demos and Jupiter's Callisto.
An orphaned young girl, simply called The Rowan, is discovered to have superior telepathic potential and is trained to become Prime Talent on Callisto. After years of self-sacrificing dedication to her position, The Rowan intercepts an urgent mental call from Jeff Raven, a young Prime Talent on distant Deneb. She convinces the other Primes to merge their powers with hers to help fight off an attack by invading aliens. Her growing relationship with Jeff gives her the courage to break her status-imposed isolation, and choose the more rewarding world of love and family.
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 space 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 breasts - 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 amp;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 assured 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, hell! 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 mass in the way. Sorry, I just found the data on your station. Filed under Miscellaneous Space Installations. But, look, if six viruses don't constitute armed attack, what does?
Missiles constitute 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 assurance.
"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 shell."
Her brilliant eyes were flashing 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 shell 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 space.
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 reassured her. With the planet in the way, she couldn't "fall" far into the limitless void of space.
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 shell. 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 reassuring mental touch. Only when the shell had swung into position over Jupiter's great curve did she reply to the priority call coming from Earth Central.