Slave Race: 35/?
by Nan Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter 52
Karl emerged from the asteroid field and headed for the Patrol squadrons that were approaching Lavirra in an attempt to reach the narrow escape corridor being used by the big transports. He was accompanied by two hundred-odd ships--all the skippers and one-man fighters from section nine in the asteroid field. Things were getting warm. Fleet Commander Edwards was smart, as Marilyn had so deftly pointed out. Ahead, he saw the two squadrons they had been called on to attack--twelve large battlecruisers. This was it, then--space battle, with no fake tactical display. While the big ships attempted to hold off the main fleet, their fighters were all that stood between the base and these ships.
The base wasn't entirely defenseless, however. As they approached, the planet's big guns fired and one of the battlecruisers took a hit.
"Take that, bootlickers!" somebody's mental voice said.
*Make it good, Karl.* Marilyn's voice said in his mind.
*You, too, Marilyn.*
*You bet! Here we *go*!*
Together they descended on the enemy ships from the rear. The great vessels were clearly taken completely by surprise. Karl heard a mental whoop from Marilyn and another from someone else. His skipper swooped up and over the nearest cruiser, firing. The cruiser turned ponderously, returning the fire, and missing. Karl felt a thrill of exhilaration. He shot past a smaller vessel, and his weapons computer fired. The ship listed to one side, and another roared up to assist its fellow. A blaster bolt from somewhere behind Karl took the newcomer in the bow. The ship spun to one side, trailing vapor.
*Battle's started!* Marilyn's voice said in his mind. *Colonel Linley's pulling his ships out of the asteroid field.*
He relayed the message to the psychic nearest him, no longer bothering to look for the next one in the psychic chain. They were too scattered now to maintain it.
His communicator came to life with the voice of the Fleet Commander.
"'Wolverine', this is Fleet Commander Edwards. You are ordered in the name of the Viceroy to surrender your ships."
*Oh, yes sir!* a telepathic voice said from somewhere nearby, which Karl recognized as John Burke. *At once, Fleet Commander Bootlicker, SIR!*
In spite of himself, Karl laughed. His tactical showed a ship coming up on his right. His comp fired at it and missed. Two more moved in to join it. They could hold their own against these scouts, but the battlecruisers were just too much. Surely Linley would send them some help soon...
*Here we are, chickens.* The soft, British accent spoke distinctly in his mind, and at the same instant he saw four Terran corvettes moving in to assist. Farther away he could make out the battle that was taking place between the larger groups--Edwards' fleet and Linley's. The blaster fire was impressive even from this distance. He wondered briefly what it looked like close up.
*Look out, Karl!* Marilyn swept past, firing. His ship, in pursuit of one of the larger scouts, had missed a smaller one that had come up beneath him.
Marilyn's shot went home and the enemy listed away, beginning a slow spiral downward toward Lavirra.
*Thanks, Marilyn!*
*Keep your eyes open--get that guy on your right!*
Karl had already seen him and his computer fired even as her voice sounded in his mind. The newcomer dodged past, swooping downward. Marilyn followed hard on his tail.
*Fifty percent of the transports are away,* a telepathic voice reported.
He sent the message to the nearest psychic, thinking to himself that that meant they still had fifty percent to go, too. The Lavirran fleet was fighting a desperate delaying action. Would they make it?
No time to think about it now. A battlecruiser loomed beside him and he dodged past, firing into its gunports as Moon had taught him. Silent explosions showed in his rear screens as he tore away.
A voice in his mind. *Fifteen enemy cruisers completely disabled, thirty-eight crippled--caught in the mine field.*
He was aware of scattered cheers from the other skipper pilots, but almost immediately his attention returned to his own battle. The cruiser he was presently harassing pivoted, trying to get a shot at him. He sped underneath it, and his weapons computer fired. A hit. Swiftly he turned again and went behind it. An enemy scout appeared, coming up beside him. He dodged away, feeling sweat start out on his face. A third was moving in, and he heard an angry voice on his com, the Basic heavily accented--Shallockian, he deduced absently.
"All right you bloody li'l twerp, c'mere an' take your medicine. I've about had enough o' you..."
Karl didn't obey. He took his ship about in a tight turn, and Marilyn went past, firing at his attacker. The craft swiveled toward her, and more curses emerged from the com. He heard Marilyn giggle and saw her dodge past again. The cruiser pivoted, trying to keep her in its sights, and Karl hit it on the other side. A scout moved in--a Patrol scout, he saw, and slid away. The newcomer fired, and the shot caught him a glancing blow. It spun him sideways for a moment, the stars, ships, and blaster explosions reeling crazily past on his viewscreen. He heard Marilyn scream his name. Then he managed to straighten up, and saw the scout hard in pursuit of Marilyn, and the cruiser swinging around in an attempt to hem her in.
He yanked on the controls, sending his own craft roaring upward toward the conflict. A second scout dodged his way and his computer fired a shot at it. *Help! Anyone! Marilyn's in trouble!*
The scout swerved toward him again. His second shot caught it dead center and sent it spiraling down. He roared past, trying to maneuver Marilyn's assailant into his sights. Two more skippers were coming, but they seemed very far away. Marilyn, blocked by the battlecruiser, tried to skim past her attacker and over the larger ship. The scout's blasters went off, the blast hurling her sideways.
Abandoning caution, Karl flung himself into the fray. His shot took the scout just over the portside, knocking it askew. He heard a curse on his com and the ship spun away, the pilot fighting for control.
*Karl! Look out!*
The shot from the battlecruiser exploded across his screens and the terrific jolt half stunned him. A warning beep sounded and half a dozen lights came on on his control panel. Marilyn screamed his name again, just as the cruiser fired a second time. The jolt snapped his neck to one side and stars exploded before his eyes.
Karl shook his head, feeling sharp twinges in his neck and shoulders. Something was happening. Danger! He was in danger! He came groggily awake to the realization that his ship was spiraling downwards, that a planet whirled madly beneath, and that an emergency alarm was squawking furiously. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, trying to clear his vision, and almost automatically triggered the repulsers.
They roared and his downward spiral checked. The ship jolted, tilted sharply, leveled out...
And the sound of the repulsors faltered.
He jammed his thumb down on the control. The repulsers caught, faltered a second time, and went silent.
Fruitlessly, he fought the controls. The ship tilted downwards and the whine of air against the hull rose in pitch.
He'd have to glide in. His controls were completely dead. With a silent prayer, Karl extended the glide wings.
He couldn't hear any of the psychics calling him, now. He must be too far away. The ships slanted upwards slightly and he took it around in a wide curve, his hands locked on the controls. The surface of the planet sped towards him at an alarming rate. He let himself lose altitude, tilted the nose up again, and bore the ship left. Again the craft lost altitude and trees flashed toward him. He tried to bring the nose up once more, but something on his undercarriage snagged on a treetop. He pivoted slowly, nose downward, and fell.
For a long time, then, there was blackness--drifting through hyperspace--no stars, no light. Just darkness and silence...
At last he began to struggle up through the blackness. There was something he needed to do--something very important. At last he managed to open his eyes and stared blearily upward. Darkness all around him. He was alone in the night. Fear clutched him. He didn't know where he was. His last memories were of the time in the fray in space. The fight had moved closer and closer to Lavirra as the defenders strove to keep the attacking fleet away from the ships ferrying their families and friends to safety. What had happened? Where was he?
He tried to move, aware now of throbbing pain in his right leg and of something that clung stickily to his eyelids and nose. He reached up an exploring hand and encountered what could only be a layer of drying blood. There had been an accident, that was it. He must have been shot down and had hit his head, which was why his recent memory was gone. It would probably come back, he told himself reassuringly. He just needed to wait.
His leg hurt when he tried to move it. Slowly he crawled toward the hatch, his head pounding, the leg throbbing unbearably. The manual lever opened the airlock and he crawled out into the cool Lavirran night, dragging the injured leg.
It was too dark to see. Fumblingly he reached back into the ship, searching for the hand light that had been in the ship. The compartment in which the light had been concealed was now a crumpled wreck, and he couldn't open it. In frustration, he pounded on it for a moment, then sank down, half sobbing, fighting pain and fear. Night-life called, sang and trilled around him, the sounds blurring together. Painfully he turned and began to crawl away from the wrecked skippership.
**********
Sam Ruffard, patrolman second class, relaxed in his bunk aboard the Patrol cruiser Minotaur. He was exhausted. The battle had been a frustrating one, and coupled with his recent demotion and beating by the Viceroy after losing Karl Warren, he felt utterly burned out.
The sleeping quarters were quiet. It was night on this side of Lavirra now. Nice world. The Undergrounders must have hated giving up the planet. It was a beautiful place from what he had seen when they landed. The base had now been occupied by the Patrol, but anything of possible value as a clue to its departed citizens had either been taken along or destroyed. Damn Undergrounders! First they steal the prisoner whom Sam was commanded by the Viceroy to guard, and now they engineer this amazing escape right under the noses of the Patrol, managing in the process to capture the Patrol flagship and abduct the Fleet Commander, himself. Ruffard had to give them his grudging respect.
Drowsily his thoughts went back to the cause for his being here. Karl Warren had been spirited away by the Underground, leaving Sam to face the Viceroy's wrath. And face it he had. His promotion to Lieutenant had been summarily withdrawn and he had found himself a patrolman again, dropped a step below his former rank of first classer, and placed aboard a battlecruiser as a deck crewman. Out of sight, out of mind, disgraced forever in the eyes of his masters and fellow patrolmen.
It wasn't fair! He had done his best! No one else had seen anything, and yet Ruffard, as the man in charge, had been forced to take the blame. Still, he had expected it, and he supposed it could have been much worse. Halthzor could have had him executed.
Still, if he ever saw young Mr. Warren again, the boy would regret this. The memory of the kid, as well as the injustice of the events, burned in Sam's mind.
Earlier today, during the thick of the battle, Sam had suddenly and vividly heard Karl's voice calling for help. So clear and close had the cry been that he had started to answer, only to realize that no one else around him was aware of anything amiss. The realization had frightened him, especially when he recalled that it had happened earlier when Karl was still a prisoner of the Viceroy. This time, however, within moments the cry had ceased.
But now, lying on his bunk, drowsiness and fatigue creeping over him, he suddenly heard it again. Karl's voice, loud and clear in his mind, crying out in terror. Sudden pain ran up his leg and his head was suddenly aching and pounding.
He sat up, groping in the dark for his boots. Locating them at last, he pulled them on, cursing softly at the jabbing pains in his leg and head. What the blazes was going on?
He got to his feet, flicking his hand light on low, and trod softly between the quiet bunks where his comrades slept, making for the exit. Down the lift he went, Karl's face hovering before his eyes. The boy's voice called loud in his ears--a name. *Marilyn! Marilyn! Can you hear me? Please answer me!*
Pain, despair, overwhelming fear... the lift came to a halt on the cargo deck and Ruffard disembarked, hurrying for the exit. No one must see him. If he were found wandering around here during the time he was supposed to be sleeping he would be questioned and Lord Snarthvar might be called in to probe him. He was already under suspicion with a huge black mark on his record, and if he was discovered to be hallucinating, he might well be discharged on a psycho. That meant an end not only to his career in the Patrol, but of anything else to which he might aspire.
He went silently toward the hatch. The great ship was quiet, with only one patrolman on watch traversing the corridor. Ruffard waited until he had passed, then silently triggered the hatch. It slid open and he went out, closing it behind him.
*Marilyn!* The call rang loud and clear in his mind. *Please, I need help!* A moment of silence. Then: *Please, can anyone hear me?*
Sam began to run.
He was away from the landing field within moments and sprinting toward what had been a residential section. Nothing remained now but blackened rubble. The outlaws had destroyed everything before their departure. A few wisps of smoke still curled from the ashes.
Beyond was the forest, and it was from there that the call came. Sam reached the edge and paused to look back at the lighted landing field and the docked battlecruisers. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder how he was going to get back without being seen--particularly if it was daylight.
*Please! Can anybody hear me? Help me!*
Ruffard ran on, into the forest.
It was very dark beneath the trees. He switched on his hand light, flashing it around.
The forest was old--great, thick trunks of trees that were hung with festoons of moss and vines. Denizens of the planet moved about him with faint, stealthy sounds. After a few moments he slowed, treading as softly as possible. He didn't know what varieties of wildlife existed on this world, so he'd better be careful. For the first time it occurred to him that this odd call for help might be an Underground trick and that he could be walking into a trap. He paused, considering the possibility, and fighting the urge to plunge on as Karl's voice rang in his ears again.
The ground beneath his feet gave abruptly with the sensation of a hardened crust breaking. He plunged downward and was suddenly up to his thighs in clinging mud. He groped in panic, feeling the sucking wet stuff drag him downward. His hands caught a tangle of vines from a tree overhead and he hauled himself upward, sweat starting out on his face as he felt the strands he clutched in his right hand give. But the other vines held, and he scrambled free of the quicksand, mud and slime dripping from his boots and breeches. Solid ground was beneath his feet a moment later, and he turned, flashing his light over the seemingly innocent ground that had nearly claimed him.
Outwardly it looked like dried forest floor, covered with scattered leaves and twigs, except for the hole in its crust where his body had gone through. Mud oozed around the broken edges of the crust, black and shining in the beam of light. Sam felt queasiness grip him. If he hadn't been able to pull himself out, he'd have gone under that horrible surface and no one would ever have known what had happened to him. He'd seen quicksand before, but never like that, with a crust over the top to make it look just like the rest of the forest floor until the unwary stepped on it. Caused by underground springs, he supposed.
Trying not to think of what would have happened if those vines hadn't been close enough for him to grab, Sam turned away. He'd just have to be careful--go slowly and keep a handhold within reach at all times. There were probably more spots like that.
Karl's face still wavered before his eyes and again he heard the boy's despairing voice, calling for help. He hurried forward, not trying to analyze the phenomenon any longer. Karl was somewhere ahead. He knew it, though how he knew it, he couldn't say.
Something charged out of the underbrush to his right and fled across his path, gibbering crazily. Sam yanked out his blaster, but the thing never paused. Big as a saberclaw, it vanished into the underbrush again an instant later. Its strange cry floated back to him, fading rapidly. Sam took a deep breath and went on.
Karl had ceased to call for help now, but his face remained clear before Sam's eyes. The pain in his right leg remained, but was gradually growing less acute. His head still hurt, but that, also, was subsiding slightly.
The surface beneath Sam's feet gave again and he grabbed for branches above, hauling himself out before he could fall through. Black mud oozed around the edges of the hole he had made and a noisome smell came from it. He maneuvered himself away from the deadly trap and went on.
He'd been traveling for perhaps two hours when Karl's mind within his began to fade. Panic gripped him. The boy was dying! He rushed forward, careless of thorns and possible quicksand pits toward the vanishing mind touch.
It was then that he saw the ship.
**********
Chapter 53
Stephen walked beside Edwin White, trying to push back the uneasiness within him. Would White know from his mind that Stephen had seen him kiss Loreen last night--and had witnessed the beginning of what had almost certainly become an intimate romantic interlude? And if White did see it, what would he do about it? Stephen hadn't meant to spy--well, that wasn't quite true. He had meant to spy, but not to see what he had seen. Stephen's own father would certainly have been angry and probably even abusive if he had been in White's place. Still, Stephen had seen enough of this man to somehow know that his reaction wouldn't be the same as Cecil's.
Still, the knowledge that White might well know, made Stephen acutely uncomfortable. He glanced covertly at his companion... his stepfather? Somehow he couldn't quite accept that--not yet. Mr. White was very short--in fact, just about Stephen's own height, and probably weighed a little less. Stephen was a big boy for thirteen; the envy of his eighth grade class. Still, it would be nice to be a psychic, even if it had meant being as short as Karl. Which asset was preferable, he wondered. Would he give up his enviable size to have psychic talents? He'd need to think that one over.
"Well, Steph," said White, turning his head suddenly and meeting Stephen's eyes. "Do you still think that psychics ought not to have children?"
Stephen felt himself flushing. "Were you reading my mind?" he demanded a little angrily. "My private thoughts are none of your business, sir!"
"I wasn't reading your mind," White said, softly. "If I chanced upon your private thoughts, then I'm sorry. It was an accident."
Stephen's face felt hot. "Well, you did," he said roughly. "At least, sort of."
"Sorry," White repeated.
"Oh, heck, it's not your fault. You can't help what you are, I guess, and neither can I."
"You mean that my appearance has changed your status?"
"That's right." Stephen's face was burning now. "Blast it! I know it shouldn't make a difference, but it does! I'm the son of Cecil Warren, and if you were married to Mom when I was born, then Cecil wasn't! That makes me..." He had to stop and swallow hard before he could continue. "That makes me and Ellie...bastards."
"And that matters a lot to you."
"Yes." He had to swallow again. "Cecil said..."
"Cecil said you weren't his son. I heard him."
"But I am his son! I look just like him!"
"That doesn't matter." White's voice was almost casual. "Under the law of the Jilectan Autonomy, the children born of a legitimate union of a man and a woman are legally the husband's offspring if the man acknowledges them as his own, and if he rejects them, they aren't, no matter what the facts are. You're my wife's son, and I acknowledge you, Karl and Ellie as my children, no matter what Cecil said or may think. I was legally married to your mother at the time of your birth, and I acknowledge you. That makes you legitimate in the eyes of the law."
"What?" Stephen stared at him.
"So your status hasn't really changed, has it? You were legitimate before, and you still are, no matter who your natural father was. Legally, you are my son."
Stephen swallowed again. "Then my name should be Stephen James White--not Warren."
"Correct--that is, if that's what you want."
"I do. I mean..." Stephen felt himself turning bright red. "I...mean...yes. Thank you."
"No need to thank me. It's the law and would stand up in any court."
"But if Cecil ever demanded gene typing..."
"It still doesn't matter. What matters was that Loreen and I were legally married when you were born. Besides, I don't think Cecil's likely to demand such a thing now, do you?"
"No." Stephen shook his head and gulped. "Mr. White?"
"Yes?"
He felt his flush deepening. "This sounds sort of sappy, but...if I'd had to choose my father, you're the one I would have picked."
White looked at him for a moment without expression, then smiled. "I haven't met Karl yet," he said slowly, "but I can truthfully say that, if I'd been able to pick my sons from the boys I know, you would have been my first choice."
"You're not fooling?"
"I'm not. Remember, I've watched you through some pretty tough times, and I know of few grown men who would have behaved as well as you have."
"Thanks, Mr. White." That was all he said, but Stephen felt as if a tremendous weight had dropped from his shoulders. In just a few short sentences, Ed White had given him back what he had lost and with it a feeling of belonging--a feeling he had never known where Cecil was concerned--but then, Cecil had never spoken like that to him. What was that old Earth saying? "Anyone can be a father, but it takes a very special person to be a Dad..."
White caught him in a quick hug, then let him go. "We'd better get a move on. Your mom'll be worrying if we aren't back before dark."
"Yeah." They started on. "Uh...Mr. White..."
"Yes?"
"I... guess I'd better confess. I saw you and Mom last night."
White grinned faintly. "And you didn't like it?"
"No, not then, but now..." He cleared his throat. "Now it's okay, I guess."
"How much did you see?"
"I saw you kiss her...and, well, not much else. I went back to bed."
White chuckled. "It's okay, Steph."
"I thought you might already know--that maybe you sensed me or read my mind."
"I was thinking about other things at the time, and afterwards--well, I don't read the minds of my friends without their permission."
"Oh. I...didn't think so, but I wasn't sure."
"I'll try my best to gain your trust after this. Psychics aren't all like the Jils say, you know. Oh, some of us are criminals--you'll find criminals everywhere. But psychics are no more prone to the tendency than other folks."
"I know. I never believed the trash the Jils put out about you--not really, that is. Father...Cecil, I mean, did, though."
"I'm not surprised." White paused, bending down to examine something on the ground. Stephen waited, his hand resting on the butt of his blaster. The forest was thick here, the trees towering over them, and filled with smaller bushes. Insect life, or something similar, buzzed around their faces. The air was sultry warm, and sunlight flickered through the branches above.
White straightened up, holding something in his hand. "Look, Steph."
Stephen stared. White was holding a stone knife, roughly carved, but the edges hewn to a razor's keenness. The point had been broken off, but the hilt was decorated with soiled feathers and bright strips of leather.
"There's a native race on this planet," White said. "And it must look something like us. A spear, and now a knife. It takes something with hands to use tools like these."
"You're right." Stephen glanced uneasily around. "And whatever they are, they're bound to know this planet better than we do." He gulped. "They could be watching us right now."
"I think I'd feel something, if it was," White said, a little uncertainly. "I'm a clairvoyant."
"Did you feel it yesterday when the dream dog was watching us?"
Again White looked uncertain. "When we got closer to it, I did. Ellie and Jack sensed it at that distance because they're precogs--I think. They felt something was going to happen before it did."
"Ellie's good at that," Stephen remarked. "She always says she feels sick."
"I've noticed that. Well, let's push on, and let's be careful not to get lost. That'd be embarrassing."
"Dangerous, too."
White gave him a strained grin. "Yeah, and listen, if we're going to bag any food for dinner, we'd better try to be a little quieter. We're probably scaring everything for kilometers around away from us. Besides..." He glanced at the stone knife in his hand.
"Yeah, I got you."
They went on. White's feet, Stephen noticed now, were silent on the forest floor. His own sounded loud by comparison, although he strove to go as quietly as his companion.
They came to a clearing and a lake spread out before them, looking cool and serene in the sunshine. Insectile creatures hovered above the surface and a magnificent one with golden brown wings at least thirty centimeters across went past close enough for Stephen to feel the wind on his face.
"Careful," Stephen said as White started to move forward. "I've read about this. A lot of predators will wait by the water for their prey to come get a drink."
White stopped. "I guess that makes sense. Of course, we're the predators now, sort of."
"Yeah--and I want it to stay that way."
"So do I. So what do we do? Wait for something to show up?"
"I don't know." Stephen felt uncertain as he glanced at the man. White was asking for his opinion. Cecil had never done that. "I guess it won't hurt to try."
"Okay." White spoke softly. "You know something about this, Steph, and I don't. Give me all the pointers you can."
A thrill of pride went through Stephen. "Yes sir!"
"And Stephen..."
"Yeah?"
"You don't have to call me sir...or Mr. White. Ed will do."
"Okay...Ed." Stephen felt himself flush with pleasure. Together they crouched in the underbrush, waiting.
It didn't take long. A few minutes went by, then an animal emerged from concealment about thirty meters from their hiding place. It went cautiously toward the water--small and slender with a curious blue-grey coat and six long, slender legs. Large mobile ears twitched as it approached the water timidly, its large its eyes flicking nervously toward the concealing trees.
Stephen drew a bead on it with his blaster, flicking the setting to needle beam.
"What do you think?" he breathed. "Should I?"
"Go ahead." White's lips formed the reply.
Something shot out of the underbrush to their right--a huge creature at least four times the size of the blue furred thing, with a whipping, scorpion-like appendage on its tail, multiple arms and a large, elongated head. It made for blue fur, moving with amazing speed considering its bulk. Blue fur snapped about, ears erect, and leaped sideways, bolting directly for the spot where Stephen and White crouched. The scorpion followed in a swift rush, gaining rapidly. Both creatures converged right at them.
White was on his feet, blaster leveled. Blue fur saw them and swerved sideways. The scorpion started to follow, then also saw them. It voiced a shrill scream and came to a screeching halt, apparently abandoning its prey. Stephen drew in a sharp gasp as the creature's eyes fastened upon them. It voiced another shrill screech, then a low, chuckling sound.
"Run!" Stephen whispered.
"No! Don't move. There's no way we can outrun it, not the way it can move. Just hang on a minute."
The creature chuckled again, then leaped forward in another rush that closed the distance between them with terrifying speed. White fired.
The bolt caught the charging creature in the upper torso and flung it backward. It emitted a shrill cry of pain, gathered itself up and fled, uttering various pained screeches and chuckles. An instant later it had vanished into the underbrush. The sounds of its retreat faded rapidly and a sudden, eerie quiet pervaded the clearing.
White laughed suddenly. "Well, so much for the mighty hunters. Our dinner got away."
"Not our fault!" Stephen protested. "We got attacked in the middle of the hunt!"
"Right. Still, our fault or not, our dinner's gone."
Stephen grinned ruefully. "Old blue boy might have been good, but I don't think I would have liked that other thing, even if we had managed to stop it. It didn't look very tasty."
"Sure didn't." White glanced uneasily around. "Maybe we should head back."
Stephen's gaze went to a tree that grew on the very edge of the water. He had noticed it peripherally while they had been waiting, but now the branches, dancing in the light breeze, caught his attention more thoroughly. "Look. There's some kind of fruit there. Do you suppose it's good to eat?"
White squinted in the direction of his pointing finger. "Looks sort of like Hoth berries, don't they? You good at climbing trees?"
Stephen hesitated, then decided on the truth. "Not very. I'm a city boy."
"Me, too. I've never climbed a tree in my life. Do you think you could?"
"I'll try."
"I'll cover you." White drew his blaster and held it at ready. "If anything bothers us, I'll hold it off while you get down."
Stephen slowly crossed the small clearing toward the water, watching the surrounding forest warily. The grass beneath his feet was soft--the same variety which grew in the field back where they had landed. The blue surface of the lake looked cool and inviting. The tree grew at the very edge of the water, so close that some of its roots actually trailed in the liquid. Stephen reached it, glanced nervously at Ed, then reached up to grasp one of the lower branches. White gave him a boost and he hauled himself clumsily up into the tree. Fruit rained down as the branches shook beneath his weight. The large, greenish orbs plopped to the ground and burst as they hit. More of them, he saw, lay around them on the ground in various stages of decomposition. The pulp was a reddish pink, rather pretty, and smelled sweet.
He clambered upward, shaking loose more fruit, which hurtled downward, raining White with their juicy interiors.
"They smell like hoth berries, too," White said.
Stephen had never tasted a hoth berry. They were a Jilectan delicacy, although he knew Terrans could eat them, too, and many liked them. But they were too expensive for the average Terran to afford, and besides, Terrans didn't really consider them all that much of a delicacy. They weren't worth the price, except in the households of the very rich.
He plucked one of the fruit and examined it closely. It was perhaps ten centimeters in diameter, slightly oblong, and soft to the touch. He held it out and let it fall into White's waiting hands. White drew out the taster and held it over the fruit.
"Okay to eat," he called, placing it in his pack. "Drop me some more. At least we won't go back to the others empty handed."
Stephen began plucking the berries within his reach. They detached easily and he hoped he was choosing ripe ones. They were all uniformly the same color. Well, no time to worry about that now. No doubt they'd learn how to tell the difference between ripe and unripe once they got back to the ship.
In less than ten minutes White announced that his pouch was full and that they'd better start back. Stephen waved him aside, then let himself down by his hands and dropped. He landed with knees bent and straightened up.
White stooped and picked up one of the fallen fruits. He held it between thumb and finger, rolling it back and forth and sniffing it, his brow furrowed.
"What's the matter?" Stephen asked.
White was slow to answer. He sniffed the fruit again, then slowly took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully.
"What?" Stephen demanded.
Another long hesitation. Then he spoke, still staring at the fruit in his hand.
"Steph, have you ever had a hoth berry?"
"No."
"Have you ever seen one?"
"Only in pictures. We weren't rich, you know."
White's eyes flicked to him and he smiled faintly. "Sorry. Of course not. I didn't mean anything by the question. It's just that..." He paused fractionally. "Well, it's just that...I have seen hoth berries, and tasted them. Comishvor liked them and he'd always keep some on his ship. They were hard to come by, and he didn't usually share them with his servants, but, I got a few, when His Lordship was feeling particularly benevolent, and..." Again he paused.
"And?" Stephen prompted.
"And...I'd be willing to swear that that's what these things are." He held out the bitten fruit. "They're smaller and a little less sweet than the ones Comishvor had--like this is a wild variety or something, but it *is* a hoth berry."
"You're sure?"
"About as sure as I can be. It even smells like one."
There was a long pause as the two of them considered the implications of the discovery.
"If this is an undiscovered, uninhabited planet," Stephen said, at last, "then what are hoth berries doing here?"
"I don't know." White took another bite of the fruit.
"Where did they originate?"
"On the Jils' home world, I think. They go way, way back, according to Comishvor--to before space travel...in fact, I read somewhere that they go back to their early, more primitive times--the medieval Jil history. There were legends attached to them, and ceremonies."
"Now you're sounding like Jack," Stephen said, grinning a little.
"Am I? I guess so, but when you live in close quarters with a Jil for sixteen years you learn something of their history. There still isn't a Jil wedding performed where they don't have a huge hoth berry pudding served to the guests."
"You're kidding?"
"They have it at funerals, too, I think--all kinds of ceremonies. Hoth berry wine is always given to a Jil Lord at the birth of his first son."
"Like champagne, huh?"
"Sort of--only they use it for all ceremonies--not just happy ones." He paused, glancing uneasily at the underbrush. "Something's watching us. Let's get going."
**********
"Hoth berries!" Comishvor took a huge bite of one of the fruits and swallowed rapturously. "A bit sour, but excellent flavor! Where did you find them, Edwin?"
"On the edge of a lake, M'lord, probably about five kilometers from here."
Jack was examining the knife they had found. "Well, we know for sure this ain't an uninhabited world. Maybe whoever made this knife and the spear grew the berries."
"But hoth berries..." White shook his head. "It's a cultivated plant in the Jilectan Autonomy. Whatever natives are here, they're using primitive weapons. I can't believe that they're into cultivation and modern farming techniques."
"Maybe..." Loreen began, but she was interrupted as the deck beneath their feet began to tremble. Jack stepped automatically into the doorway between the control room and the passenger compartment. Ellie squealed and Loreen gave a little exclamation of fright as the shaking grew more intense, then began to subside. After a few more seconds it ceased altogether.
"My goodness! That was harder than the last one!"
"Yeah." Stephen stepped from the doorway where he had joined Jack. Everything stood rock steady now. He swallowed hard. "I'm hungry."
"I'll make dinner," Loreen said. She glanced nervously at White. "Do you suppose these little tremblors come any harder? Maybe the beach isn't the best place for us. If a tidal wave or something is triggered by a harder quake..."
White looked uneasy. "Not too likely, I should think..."
"What's a tidal wave?" Ellie asked.
"A big wave caused by an earthquake out at sea," Stephen told her. "They usually kill everyone who gets caught in 'em."
Ellie's eyes got bigger.
"Don't worry," Jack assured her. "Tidal waves are pretty rare. Shallock's got a lot of quakes, but I only heard o' that one tidal wave while I was there. It hit the coast of Knitsmye back about three or four years ago."
"Maybe we should move, though," White said uncertainly. "Except that we can't move the ship and it's the best protection we have right now."
"Do you think we could get it in the air for just a few minutes?" Stephen's mother said hopefully. "That's all it would take."
"We can't, Mrs. White," Jack said, unexpectedly. "The repulsors are shot."
"We may have to move without the ship," White said. "But I doubt it. If tidal waves hit here often, we ought to see some signs of them." He stopped abruptly and Stephen knew he was thinking of the shattered tree trunks they had seen in the forest. "Well, it can't happen very often, anyway, or we'd see more indications of them."
"Once would be too often for us," Loreen said quietly.
Silence. Then White shook his head. "We have two precogs in this group. If they sense something, we can move. Otherwise, I think the better part of valor is to stay put. Lori, what have you got for us for dinner?"
"Roast dreamdog," she replied, smiling. "And fruit salad."
**********
Sam Ruffard approached the ship cautiously, his blaster held tightly in one hand. There was no sign of life.
The craft, crumpled and deformed by its forced landing, was still easily recognizable. It was a skippership, Terran design, painted a bicolor pattern of blue and gold. The glide wings had been partially shorn away by the force of its landing, and the nose was crumpled inward, partially telescoped.
Sam reached the ship, his spine tingling, noting that the hatch had been opened. That meant the pilot had at least survived the initial crash. He took a deep breath and flashed his light within.
There was blood in the pilot's chair and streaked across the control panel, but no sign of the being who had piloted the craft. Ruffard straightened up and flashed the light around, realizing abruptly that Karl's call in his mind had ceased.
He pulled back out of the ship and flashed his light around the underbrush.
"Karl! Karl, where are you?"
A groan reached him, muffled and faint. He jerked the light toward it, flashing it over the shrubbery.
At first he saw nothing. Then something moved, and abruptly his eyes made out the shape of a body clad in a soft, grey uniform. The figure lay motionless now, face down in the leaves, half concealed by a mass of tangled vines.
Ruffard clutched his blaster more tightly, glanced around once more, and went quietly across to the still figure.
"Karl?" he whispered, dropping to one knee beside the boy. Gently he grasped the figure by the shoulder and flashed the light across the boy's profile.
Delicate features, prominent cheekbones, short, thick eyelashes, sensitive mouth now drawn tightly with pain. Blood smeared the boy's forehead and caked his hair. Sam probed gently, locating the wound just at the hairline, three centimeters in length, deep, and still oozing slightly.
"Karl?" He probed gently down the boy's neck and spine, searching for irregularities, found none, and carefully turned him over. The boy's lower left leg grated as he did so, and Karl cried out softly. Sam felt a sudden, knifelike pain jab him in his own leg, and swore under his breath. Rapidly he detached the emergency kit from the pouches at his waist and flipped it open. "Hold on, kid," he muttered. "I've gotta splint that leg. Lie as still as you can."
The boy groaned again. His face was ashen, Ruffard saw, eyes dark smudges against it. Shock and exposure. He might die from it. The thought sent an odd pang through him. Again he dug through the kit, located a syringe containing emergency stimulant, and injected Karl in the shoulder.
The drug worked quickly. Karl's eyes flickered and opened, clear and suddenly wide with horror. Incredibly, vividly, Sam sensed his mind again, felt the stark terror there--terror which bordered on panic. Despair overwhelmed him, his head throbbed and his right leg hurt unbearably.
The boy was reaching clumsily for the blaster on his hip. Amazed, Ruffard caught his hand, removing the weapon. "Oh no you don't, kid!"
For an instant the boy struggled weakly, then went slack in his grasp, his face twisted with fear and hatred. His expression sent an unexpected jab of guilt through him. What the blazes was wrong with him? He had no reason to feel guilty. It was this kid who had injured him!
Hardening his heart, he pushed the boy back down. "Lie still," he growled. "I'm gonna call for help."
"No!" gasped Karl. "No, please! Please don't turn me in!"
Ruffard pressed the control, one eye on his prisoner. "Patrolman Ruf..."
There was a shower of sparks from the throat mike--sparks that stung his face.
Ruffard yanked the helmet off with a surprised oath. The thing emitted a spitting sound, more sparks, then a final pop!
Then silence.
Ruffard stared down at the device, then at his prisoner who now lay slack on the ground, his face papery white and slack with exhaustion, but his mind was working fast. "Karl! You! Warren!"
"Let me alone," the boy whispered.
Suspicion became certainty. "You did it!"
Karl didn't respond.
"You shorted out my communicator! You did the same thing to the video and the cameras back at the Viceregal Palace! Damn you bloody little Terran psychics! I didn't know you could do that!"
The boy's eyes opened and he smiled weakly. "There's a lot you don't know about us bloody psychics, Jil flunky."
Ruffard swore and glared at him in frustration. "Okay, you broke it! Now fix it!"
"I can't. And I wouldn't even if I could."
Ruffard employed a few choice words, picked up the helmet and spoke into the unit. "This is Patrolman second class Sam Ruffard. Come in. Can anyone hear me?"
Silence answered him. He cursed under his breath and tried again. "Patrolman Ruffard to Minotaur, please respond." Fruitlessly he pressed buttons, swore, and set the helmet down.
"Patrolman second class, eh?" Karl said. "You got demoted after I ran off, I guess."
"Yeah." Ruffard glared down at him. "Damn you, you li'l twerp."
Karl didn't open his eyes, but smiled weakly. "Whatever you say, bootlicker."
Anger got the better of him. He slapped the prisoner across the face. Karl grunted with pain.
But Ruffard cried out in shock at the stinging blow transmitted from Karl to his own person. He clutched his cheek and glared furiously at the boy. "How did you do that?"
Karl didn't answer. He turned his face away, biting hard on his lower lip.
Ruffard caught his shoulder, shaking him. "How are you makin' me feel what you're feelin'?"
Karl blinked dizzily at him, then grinned again weakly. "Trade secrets, Jil lover."
Again anger flared. "All right, twerp, you're on your way to Snarthvar. He'll get the truth outta you!"
For an instant terror flickered over his prisoner's features again. He began to struggle weakly. Ruffard held him inexorably, forced his hands behind him and fastened them together with restrainers. "Now, hold still while I splint that leg."
Karl went limp in his grasp, breath coming in short, gasping sobs. Ruffard flipped open the emergency kit, found the splint and applied it to the fractured limb. Karl appeared to have fainted and again Sam felt a jab of fear. "Karl!"
"What?" The boy didn't open his eyes.
Ruffard cleared his throat. "You okay?"
"Never better."
Sam felt his anger draining away. He put the emergency kit back in his belt pouch, slipped his arms beneath his prisoner's knees and around his shoulders, and lifted him like a baby. He didn't weigh much, and remained slack in Ruffard's hold, his eyes closed. Ruffard said a mental cussword and strode back the way he had come, carrying his prize.
**********
(tbc)
