David's eyes had become still, lifeless.
Thorkild and Harpal looked like the ones most likely to back off. He moved closer to Harpal. "I'm not out to cause trouble," Martin said. "That's Hans' doing. Some of us want him to stand down. That's all. That's our privilege as crew."
My, you sound rational, clever. That will increase their dead-ness, their anger. It decreases your anger, to talk so, to try to reason with friends so. You don't really hate or fear them. That makes you weaker. They'll kill you for that, for acting like a victim.
"Not if it puts all of us in danger," Harpal said, reacting to the reasonable tone with his own reason. Harpal will not act with them. "What if the Killers have a surprise waiting for us? If we drop our discipline, lose our edge, they'll have us. We're not ready to check out now."
"Not after all we've been through," Thorkild said. "Come on, Martin." Thorkild won't attack.
Patrick drifted closer, hand gripping a thin ladder field. Martin raised his wand.
"Get me Hans and Ariel, triple link," he said.
Patrick made a grab for the wand.
"Hans does not reply," the wand said as Martin swung it out of Patrick's reach. Patrick lunged again, and again Martin swung it away. Anything can happen now.
Ariel's voice came on, sleepy.
"Witness!" Martin said. "Tie us in to everybody."
"What?"
Patrick and David grabbed for the wand.
"Martin?"
Patrick got the wand and wrenched it from Martin's grasp. David and Thorkild held him, Carl made a grab for a leg but missed and then backed away. Carl's out.
Patrick tried to smash the wand against the floor, but it would not break. Stupid stupid
"Martin!" Ariel's voice called out. "I'm tying you in."
Harpal moved in before Martin could back away and struck him in the kidneys. It might have been a deadly blow, but Harpal's ladder field was just far enough away that the peak of his blow came before his fist actually struck.
Martin kicked with both legs backward, hands on the floor, and one bare foot caught Harpal in the teeth, cutting Martin's heel and spinning Harpal away to the ceiling. It was a mess, fighting weightless, grabbing fields, all instincts useless. They had done enough sports to know the right moves for most activities, but fighting engaged an older brain with less savvy, and the result was sloppy.
Patrick slammed his head against the floor. Martin grabbed the wand and tossed it away from the group of them.
"We see!" Ariel cried out.
"WE SEE!" other voices cried.
"Stop it!" Jennifer screamed. "Thorkild, stop it!"
Other voices joined in. David had Martin around his neck and shoulders, beyond hearing. He forced Martin's neck down with his hands, jerking spasmodically, trying to really hurt him, crack his spine. Martin felt the jerks as explosions of pain. He reached behind and lifted his thumb rigid and slammed it into David's crotch. The grip relaxed and David grunted, fell away.
For a second, they all flailed helplessly, unable to connect. Drops of blood from Harpal's lip and Martin's foot smeared against overalls.
All the ladder fields in the room vanished. His face like a desperate little boy's, Patrick still clawed at Martin, at the air. Jewels of blood swirled in the vortices of their limbs.
"Stop it." Hans' remote voice in Martin's room.
"Stop it, now!" Hans again.
Patrick stopped flailing.
"What in the fuck are you all doing?" Hans shouted.
Patrick's expression, Martin thought, was priceless: dismay mixed with deep anxiety, vacant look gone. None of them looked blank now.
The killing time was past.
Martin had survived,
"I've lost it," Hans said.
Martin hung beside Hans in a net, alone with him in his quarters.
"I sent Patrick to do something and he didn't think he could do it alone. So he asked for some backups," Hans said, closing his eyes, leaning his neck back. "I should have known he'd be weak."
"What did you send him to do?" Martin asked.
"Talk sense into you." Voice low, drained. "I need to sleep, Martin. All I want to do now is sleep."
"They could have killed me," Martin said, wonder in his voice. "You didn't see what Patrick…"
"I'm tired, hey." Hans shook his head. "I still don't see why so many joined him. Maybe I was doing better than I thought. But… It isn't worth it now. You've won. I'll resign. "
"Nobody's asked you to."
"Did you see their expressions?" Hans asked. "The Wendys in particular. Even Harpal." He shook his head. "Poor Harpal. No. I'll resign."
"You did it yourself," Martin said.
"I did it all by myself," Hans said, head lolling. "I didn't want you dead."
"How could you have miscalculated?"
" 'Miscalculated.' " Hans laughed softly. "That's your problem, Martin. Good soul, but still too intellectual. You think first and see second. I see first and think about what I see. I didn't 'miscalculate.' I slicked up."
"Did you ask Rex to kill Rosa?"
Hans jerked his head forward. "I did not. I swear I did not. But I mighthave."
Martin shook his head, not comprehending.
Hans rubbed the palms of his hands together, tapped one palm with an index finger. "Could we have done the Job with Rosa breaking the crew into little bitty pieces?"
"She could have been dealt with."
"You're wrong. Rex broke from me because I slammed him. He didn't know who he was, and he thought we all hated him. Rosa preached love. He came to her. She used him. I didn't ask him to kill her. She wasn't what her people think she was. She was a lot like me."
"Rosa didn't deserve to die."
"We wouldn't be here if she had lived."
Martin did not want to argue the point more. "When will you resign?"
"Right now. You take me someplace public, drag me on a chain if you like. I'll give a sad speech. Old Pans never die."
"I don't understand you," Martin said.
"I understand you," Hans said. "I only ask for one thing. I want to still be Pan when the report is made."
The surviving crew of the Dawn Treadercame to the schoolroom in two groups. Martin entered with the larger group, behind Hans, which drew looks of surprise. Ariel seemed to have gathered her own small cluster of people. Martin saw a power center forming; none of them knew of his talk with Hans.
Watching the way the people associated, Martin saw a swirl of sentient particles working according to certain principles far from fixed, far from immutable; but still, he saw the interactions, and could understand some of their import. He had thought long hours about the conversation with Hans. When he looked now, he saw first, thought about what he saw; he did not impose wishes and patterns and ideals.
The new ability saddened him a little. Of all the illusions of childhood, the one he hated to lose most was this: that humans worked according to unspoken but noble goals, that they followed an intrinsic path to justice, that they would resist error and move toward self-understanding.
Two moms hung on each side of the star sphere, four in all. The ruins of Leviathan's worlds filled the sphere, passing in slow, sad scale, majestic rubble, caverns of nebulosity shot through with the glows of cooling chunks of worlds, sparks of fake matter disintegration not yet complete.