RHEA GAZED NERVOUSLY at the generator room's viewer, at the diagram of planets and constellations that glowed ghostly on its screen. She hit the border of the screen with impatience. She must chart a course for them to follow. They were going nowhere, going round and round. Even if she charted a new course, Jahn might ignore it, might refuse to lay it in. Jahn was acting crazy. Ever since they left Juram Five, the Home World. She still couldn't get Jahn to tell her what happened down there. Which of the Onlies had gotten hurt. If any of the teachers were in the slambang phaser show. Little Pal wouldn't really tell her about it, either. She wasn't so sure she wanted to know.
The fight with the big, slow, Federation cargo ship had taken her by surprise. She had stood still-rock, when Jahn opened fire, unable to grasp what was going on. And the destruction of the two primitive ships had been scary and awful. She couldn't talk to Jahn when he got like that, couldn't shake him from the ship's controls. He seemed crazy sure, and all she felt was confused. No matter what they did now, they couldn't make it better. So she had crouched down beside Jahn's swiveling seat, scrunched closed her eyes, and covered her ears with her hands. When she looked around again, the screen wasn't full of the disintegrating ships anymore; it was all stars again. The airwaves weren't full of the Grups' pleas and questions, the main cabin was silent. And Jahn no longer seemed certain, in control. He stared at her blankly, helplessly.
She did not know how to help him. They had planned the escape together, prepared for it, studied for it. But it had just seemed like a foolie, a game. Even when they were carrying it out, it was too easy, it didn't seem real. And now they couldn't go back. And she felt afraid of Jahn in lots of different ways. She didn't think she could do any of the things he might expect from her.
So when he looked at her that way, she had directed his attention back to the control panel. He was supposed to be the engineering expert, but he seemed to keep forgetting how to run the ship. She had to tell him again how to run the device that made the ship invisible—he kept forgetting all about it. She had seen little Pal curled up under a panel in the corner, whimpering, and reminded Jahn that they had to take care of him.
She had been a little Only, once. Then things had changed, fast, fast, fast! Grups had come back. The nice Grup man with yellow hair, and the devil, and the doctor. The pretty Grup lady. And Grups were good again, everyone said, they wouldn't hit and hurt. She couldn't remember that so well, the bad time, and the Grups that had belonged to her and gone bad, but the others did, some of them, but they said that these new Grups were all right.
And then came the Program. And the shots in your arm, that didn't hurt the way Onlies said shots in your arm hurt in the hospital foolie; but these shots felt funny, and you heard a hiss when the doctor injected you. And then time became fast. You felt more tired, more sleepy at night. You couldn't keep the new fancy clothes the Grups gave you—-they got tight under your arms, at your waist; you had to keep getting bigger ones. The nurse would check you, see how you were growing, and then Dr. Voltmer and his esteemed colleagues would interview you …
Escape! Now that it had happened, there were some really good things about it. She liked the quiet on board the Sparrow. The darkened corners. After the bells and tones that punctuated the passage of time in the schoolroom and cafeteria, and the dorm. Onlies were smart. Onlies were feather-foot, Onlies could melt into a building or an alley when they wanted to. And that was what she and Jahn were doing now, melting away. The whole concept of the cloaking device appealed to her. It was Only-spirited.
Sometimes on the Program you could run and hide. But the Grups made you feel foolish. Took disciplinary action. "Go without dinner." Of course, an Only could go easily for a week hungry-belly, without food. But disciplinary action didn't feel good. And it was harder to go without food now that time was fast and her body was changing so fast. And thoughts changed; she changed, the way she felt about Jahn … no! Mustn't think about that. Change the subject. Think about …
When she was a little Only. That was nice. That wasn't bad. Then Jahn was always a lot older, a leader, and he and Louise and Miri and also all those others who had gone bad and rotten, gotten the disease when they got too old, they took care of her and the rest of the little ones. Told you if you were being a bad citizen. Told you what Grups were like. Told you what foolies you were going to play.
Nothing made sense now. All her books and algebra and calculus could not make sense like a circle of Onlies, passing soup, or sharpening stick-knives out of old planks. Or a nestle of Onlies curled up for the night in a roof-cave.
They asked you how you felt. The Grup scientists. Them and their pills and things. They invented Grup evil long-ago. Miri had told her.
They'd put you in a white, white room, and there was just you, leaning back in the chair, there wasn't anyone else. They put phones on your ears and disappeared into another room with a big glass wall, except they could see you but you couldn't see them. They'd ask you questions. What was it like to be an Only? What was it like to live so long? How could you answer? It was what it was. How could you explain Onlies to a Grup? They made you feel little, they made you feel ashamed …
With their soapy water, and ear inspections. Shoes that pinched. Some were nice; Mrs. File was big and warm and shuffled about, and Rhea had built that small flying machine for her, spent all her free periods doing it, and when she turned it on and it flew around the classroom, and when she explained how she had built the gravity-antigravity component, Mrs. File had called her a very clever girl and given her a pretzel. In front of all the other Onlies. Mrs. File had a blue dress. And a red one with gold trim.
But what was bad, what was really bad was the room with the chair. The lights were too bright. And Dr. Voltmer would turn on the bending noise, sonic waves it was called, and sometimes your mind would go a glaring white as the walls, you would go blank, you wouldn't know what you said. And sometimes he would ask you personal questions. Like, "How does it feel to suddenly be maturing at such an accelerated rate. Rhea? How are you coping?" Or he'd ask, did you feel anything about boys? What would you say to him? Tell him about when you and Jahn went walking down by the pool and you felt, no! Crazy, bad, a very bad citizen. Plot a course and we'll cut straight through the heart of the galaxy; they'll never catch us. Maybe if we stop getting the shots, we'll stop changing. We'll slow down and live like Onlies again. We don't need the Grups.
With the precise fingers of a skilled technician, Rhea plotted a course for the Sparrow to follow. It arced cleanly out of its original quadrant.
She did not know, nor would she have cared if she did, that it led into Klingon space.