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

Talents?”
    “My sister was a Talent,” he replied quietly. “She died. A suicide.”
    “I’m sorry. Were you close to her?”
    He looked away, nodding silently. His eyes followed the silent sailing light of the shuttle, coming for them.
    She realized that she didn’t need her Talent to read this man. The slight gleam of moisture in his eyes, the manner in which he held his head, the way his jaw worked, swallowing his emotions, said it all.
    She watched him awhile, then asked, “How far away is the shuttle?”
    Ston, yanked from his reverie, was startled. “Hmmm? Oh,” He checked some instruments. “Fifty thousand kilometers or so. It will take a little while.”
    Gently, she touched his arm. “Ston, I think I understand.”
    “Do you? Even without the Talent? Thanks.” He peered up into her eyes. “Yes—and I’m beginning to understand, too. But not everything. We have some time. I’d like to know what happened with Darsen on the bridge. I want to know everything about Tin Wood man you can tell me. It’s something that I can see in you—it’s very important, isn’t it?”
    She thought back on it—and even as she did she felt the faint echoing thrill of the experience, which in its reverberations carried new meaning and the promise of more to come. But how could she possibly communicate the vision that Div had given her so briefly, so that she might tell Ston? Suddenly, in that moment, she had been whisked from the Pegasus’ bridge. She had been, momentarily, a creature of the spaces between the stars, in flight through a universe of perfect, unbounded freedom and joy. Somehow, with Div as a link, she had glimpsed the truth of Tin Woodman. And the stars had stretched out before her, as they must have for Div, like toys awaiting the marvel of a child . . .
    There was more—much more—that she had no way of understanding. But perhaps she would, Soon.
    “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I believe it is very important,” She told Ston everything she could.

    There was so much beyond his comprehension, although it was a part of his mind, now. Back aboard the Pegasus, as soon as he had established peripheral contact with the ship-being they called Tin Woodman, Div knew that to obey Darsen in his wishes was not part of the plan. But what exactly that plan was, he had no way of knowing then. He only felt a jumble of emotions within him—the drive to get closer to the alien, and the need to be sure that Edan Darsen was not able to control the creature through him. He didn’t think rationally, then; indeed he wondered now if he had been in control of himself at all, rather than acting on the dictates of a greater consciousness.
    But Div realized that it was vital to understand, for things of importance loomed in the gray, veiled areas of his new identity.
    What exactly was his new identity? He wondered, aware of the steady thrum of the engines as they drove the ship-being forward in Null-R. He replayed his memory again . . .
    The corridor is long, with many intersections, but the voice within him beckons him onward, and he feels a slow change take root in his soul as he goes forward, committed now to this quest.
    Finally, he enters a large bright chamber: curved walls, gleaming metal, glistening crystal, pulsing light. A chair—no, not a chair, nothing like a chair, but a resting place nonetheless. He senses, perhaps through contact with the alien, that this place is memory-haunted; this was where Vul lived, during the long journeys through interstellar space.
    Vul, the dead symbiote. The necessary other part of Tin Woodman. The love without which the ship-being waned.
    But now, it had Div.

    ••• COME TO ME •••
    ••• SIT •••

    Div does so without fear or hesitation, closing his eyes. He reaches out even more with his mind, searching, opening himself, surrendering his spirit.
    And meets the alien, fully.
    Creation seems to shatter—the tiny little multi-colored sounds spiraling/scattering