Read Online Pegasus in Space by Anne McCaffrey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne McCaffrey
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male and female guests leaped forward immediately. Some of them cautiously nudged the weapons out of reach or gingerly touched the handles in case of residual heat. The arms were dumped in a pile that Johnny Greene then “lifted” out of the reception area.
Rhyssa crouched down by Ludmilla Barchenka’s limp body and pushed her beret back, exposing the shiny skullcap that had prevented any telepath from reading her mind.
“Oh, my word!” Rhyssa exclaimed. When she lifted the close-fitting metal plate off, a round patch of bare skin, reminiscent of an ancient monk’s tonsure, was revealed; bare skin further increased the protection offered by the cap.
“No wonder she felt dense,” Gordon Havers remarked.
“It figures,” Johnny Greene agreed after a quick glance. Then he grinned at Rhyssa.
Not that I’d like to peek into her twisted mind but someone may have to, to make sure we’ve arrested everyone involved in this little, ah, mutiny
.
Rhyssa gave a little shudder of revulsion and stood up, hands clasped together under her chin in distress. Dave put a comforting arm about her shoulders.
“General Greene?” Admiral Coetzer asked, beckoning for Johnny to come closer. He looked meaningfully at Peter, who was in earshot in his protective position.
“I’ll vouch for Pete, Admiral,” Johnny remarked in a low voice. Then he cocked his head, indicating he was all attention.
“How much of a force do you have, Greene? Enough to deal with this …” the admiral hesitated over a choice of words.
“Mutiny, Coetzer?” And Johnny’s ineffable humor provoked a slight twitch of the admiral’s lips. “I don’t have a ‘force,’ just some volunteers in strategic places.” He pointed up to the open grilles. “Another group reports that they tranked her Yellow Team in the hall so you don’t need to worry about her being reinforced.” Johnny ducked his head, scratching the nape of his neck and grimacing in embarrassment. “Your own personnel should be yours to command again … once we find your wristcom. Ah,thanks, Pete,” he said as a wrist unit was teleported against his medals. He grabbed it.
“Thank you, Pete,”Admiral Coetzer echoed, turning to the thin youth at his side before repossessing his communicator. His regard of his youthful guard was more interested than patronizing.
The military and naval guests had taken it upon themselves to secure Barchenka’s whilom guards, conscious or tranquilized, assisted by Johnny’s irregular troops. Leaving some on guard in the apertures, trank rifles trained below, others dropped from the hatches to secure the insurrectionists. Moments later, Admiral Coetzer’s Station personnel arrived to take official charge of the captives.
Barchenka’s limp body was soon draped over several chairs, strands of sweaty blond hair lying across the shaved pate. Though the drug in the dart would keep her unconscious for several hours, her hands and feet had been yoked as a precaution.
Meanwhile, recovering from the confrontation, other dignitaries had decided that now was the appropriate time to circulate refreshments. Since the waiters and waitresses were unavailable, guests performed such duties, pouring glasses of the inaugural champagne, wines, sodas, juices, and liquors set out on the tables. Some were passing trays of canapés and other finger foods, setting aside their official positions to help restore some semblance of “occasion” in the reception area. Those who had been unduly distressed by the shocks of the last hour were being comforted. Noise soon reached a normal level for such a gathering.
“Greene,” the admiral said, after answering another bleep on his wristcom. “CIC reports shuttles leaving that were not cleared. Possibly some mutineers are trying to escape. I’d prefer not to christen the Station’s defense system today, but the crews are not responding to orders to stop.”
“An exodus like that can best be handled from Station
Rhyssa crouched down by Ludmilla Barchenka’s limp body and pushed her beret back, exposing the shiny skullcap that had prevented any telepath from reading her mind.
“Oh, my word!” Rhyssa exclaimed. When she lifted the close-fitting metal plate off, a round patch of bare skin, reminiscent of an ancient monk’s tonsure, was revealed; bare skin further increased the protection offered by the cap.
“No wonder she felt dense,” Gordon Havers remarked.
“It figures,” Johnny Greene agreed after a quick glance. Then he grinned at Rhyssa.
Not that I’d like to peek into her twisted mind but someone may have to, to make sure we’ve arrested everyone involved in this little, ah, mutiny
.
Rhyssa gave a little shudder of revulsion and stood up, hands clasped together under her chin in distress. Dave put a comforting arm about her shoulders.
“General Greene?” Admiral Coetzer asked, beckoning for Johnny to come closer. He looked meaningfully at Peter, who was in earshot in his protective position.
“I’ll vouch for Pete, Admiral,” Johnny remarked in a low voice. Then he cocked his head, indicating he was all attention.
“How much of a force do you have, Greene? Enough to deal with this …” the admiral hesitated over a choice of words.
“Mutiny, Coetzer?” And Johnny’s ineffable humor provoked a slight twitch of the admiral’s lips. “I don’t have a ‘force,’ just some volunteers in strategic places.” He pointed up to the open grilles. “Another group reports that they tranked her Yellow Team in the hall so you don’t need to worry about her being reinforced.” Johnny ducked his head, scratching the nape of his neck and grimacing in embarrassment. “Your own personnel should be yours to command again … once we find your wristcom. Ah,thanks, Pete,” he said as a wrist unit was teleported against his medals. He grabbed it.
“Thank you, Pete,”Admiral Coetzer echoed, turning to the thin youth at his side before repossessing his communicator. His regard of his youthful guard was more interested than patronizing.
The military and naval guests had taken it upon themselves to secure Barchenka’s whilom guards, conscious or tranquilized, assisted by Johnny’s irregular troops. Leaving some on guard in the apertures, trank rifles trained below, others dropped from the hatches to secure the insurrectionists. Moments later, Admiral Coetzer’s Station personnel arrived to take official charge of the captives.
Barchenka’s limp body was soon draped over several chairs, strands of sweaty blond hair lying across the shaved pate. Though the drug in the dart would keep her unconscious for several hours, her hands and feet had been yoked as a precaution.
Meanwhile, recovering from the confrontation, other dignitaries had decided that now was the appropriate time to circulate refreshments. Since the waiters and waitresses were unavailable, guests performed such duties, pouring glasses of the inaugural champagne, wines, sodas, juices, and liquors set out on the tables. Some were passing trays of canapés and other finger foods, setting aside their official positions to help restore some semblance of “occasion” in the reception area. Those who had been unduly distressed by the shocks of the last hour were being comforted. Noise soon reached a normal level for such a gathering.
“Greene,” the admiral said, after answering another bleep on his wristcom. “CIC reports shuttles leaving that were not cleared. Possibly some mutineers are trying to escape. I’d prefer not to christen the Station’s defense system today, but the crews are not responding to orders to stop.”
“An exodus like that can best be handled from Station
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