Outlaw
Part 2: Symbiote
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Copyright 1989
I
Mark Linley awoke.
He was lying on a bunk in the little escape craft, and for a moment, he couldn't think how he had gotten there. Then, memory returned and he pushed himself to his left elbow, wincing slightly at the dull ache of his burned shoulder. He glanced at it, fingering the damage experimentally. Much of the soreness had departed and a fresh bandage swathed the wound. Alan's work, no doubt. The cadet must have applied it without awakening him: not an easy task, since he was a light sleeper. Linley glanced forward toward the controls.
Alan Westover sat in the pilot's chair, his dark, curly head resting on one hand. Mark grinned a little, checking his chronometer. They should be almost to Shallock by now. The cadet had finally given in to fatigue and dozed off. About time ...
He sat up slowly and carefully, flexing his right shoulder gingerly. The burned arm began to throb again and he desisted. At least he could feel the burn, which meant the nerves were intact, and he found himself counting his blessings. A burn would heal, given enough time. Slowly, he pushed himself completely upright and managed to get his feet under him. Moving slowly, he made it the short distance to the copilot's chair and sank into it.
Alan was asleep, all right. Good thing, too. Linley reached forward to touch a stud on the control panel. There was a soft beeping and a display flashed across the little screen before him. Thirty-six minutes to Shallock.
Alan started awake, his head jerking up. He spun in his seat, the blaster that he had taken from Salthvor's guard instantly in his hand.
"Easy, there!" Mark lifted empty hands over his head. "I give up!"
Alan smiled sheepishly, returning the weapon to the pocket on the side of the pilot's chair. "Sorry," he said, "I was dreaming. How do you feel? You look a lot better."
Linley was careful not to shrug. "I'm fine. M'arm feels as good as new -- almost, anyway."
"That's good." Alan looked sober, "Especially since you got hurt saving my bacon."
"Will you cut it out? Quit harpin' on it! You saved my skin on Midgard when that dinosaur showed up, an' you had a helluva lot less reason to do it than I had to help you at the last." Linley scratched the light coating of bristles on his chin, looking quizzically at him. Why *did* you do it, anyway? Was it just a crazy impulse, or what?"
Alan shrugged. "I probably asked myself the same question about a thousand times while you were taking me in." He glanced briefly up at Linley, a slight frown on his face. "I didn't even think about it. It was like a reflex, or something -- something I didn't have any control over." He smiled suddenly. "I was pretty mad at myself, afterwards -- for a little while, anyway. Then, I got to know you better, and --" The smile became a grin. "And then I wasn't mad anymore."
Mark slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Well, it's all behind us now. We'll be on Shallock in a little over an hour, startin' a new life for ourselves in the slums of a Jil-infested world."
Alan glanced sideways at him. "I have a couple of questions, though."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe it's none of my business, but --"
"Spit it out."
"What are all those boxes doing on the deck in the latrine? There's hardly room to get by 'em, and you can't even shut the door."
"Oh, them." Mark leaned back in his seat. "Well, I knew we were gonna be on our own, an' I'd thrown in my hand with the Jils, anyway, so I decided our chances'd be better if I could bring along some stuff to help us from a monetary standpoint --"
"You mean you robbed the ship?"
Mark looked pained. "D'you hafta be so blunt about it?"
Alan started to laugh. "No wonder you let me suffer so long! You had to sabotage the ship *and* steal half its supplies!"
"Well, not half ..."
"What did you get, anyway?"
Linley grinned. "Well, I hadta be selective, 'cause the time was kinda limited. All the loose cash on board -- about 1500 credits, actually -- an' a buncha extra weaponry: small stuff mostly. Those go for a pretty decent profit on the black market these days. The contents o' Salthvor's private liquor cabinet --"
Alan snorted. "What else?"
"Hmm, lemme see ... A couple o' boxes o' components for repair work. Those bring a pretty decent price ... mosta Salthvor's jewels an' furs that were in security storage ..."
"Weren't they locked up?"
"Sure. Lemme see, what else ..."
"Mark, how did you get in the safe?"
Linley cocked an eyebrow at him. "It was the kinda safe that locks with a key. Nothin to it for a slum kid from Shallock."
Alan's eyebrows flew up. "That's right. You said you were from Shallock. That's probably why I decided to go there. You were a slum kid, huh?"
"Yeah," Mark said. He buffed his nails on the tunic of his uniform. "You see before you, li'l pal, the former leader o' the Black Sabreclaws, the toughest gang in Scaifen. I joined the Patrol when I was almost sixteen -- that's the minimum age. A lotta kids from Shallock do. It's a Jil populated world, so there's lotsa 'trols there, an' all the poor li'l slum kids see these big, flashy characters walkin' around, lookin' down their noses at the general population. Gets 'em lotsa new recruits. The Jils understand us Terrans pretty good." He grinned. "Anyway, I was thinkin' we could probably sell most o' the stuff when we get to Shallock. I know the ropes, an' there's this little shop in Knitsmye that'll buy it, no questions asked."
"Gosh," Alan said. "You were thinking way ahead. All I had in mind was getting away from the ship as fast as I could. I never even thought about the future."
"I figured you had other things on your mind. I didn't think you'd be thinkin' much past gettin' away, so I did it for both of us. I'd've rolled up the carpet if I'd had the time. I did have one other reason for pickin' Shallock, though. The Terran Underground is plenty active there. I know. Those lunatics have given the Patrol no end o' trouble -- last one was about three weeks ago. Li'l gal no bigger'n a mouse damn near killed me."
"Really? What happened?"
Mark grimaced. "Them Undergrounders are the damnedest bunch at thinkin' up ways to irritate our benevolent overlords. This li'l gal --" He grinned faintly, shaking his head. "She'd charmed the socks off Lieutenant Kerrovitch. He thought she was the greatest female in the galaxy. She was so amusin', so interested in everythin' he said, an' such a terrific roll in th'--" He broke off. "Well, anyway, he thought she was great."
"And she was an agent?"
"You'd better believe it. Got her sticky li'l paws on some pretty sensitive info and started to walk away, cool as you please. Somebody caught on at the last minute, and there was a big scuffle right outside the entrance to the Scaifen Patrol Base. I jumped in to help, as any good Strike Commander would -- an' besides, there was a Jil watchin' -- an' she took a shot at me. Singed my eyebrows. Then an aircar showed up, pulled her in an' took off into the sunset. By the time they'd got a pursuit together, she was long gone. Talk about nerve." Linley shook his head. "The Jils think they're nothin' but a nuisance, but I got my doubts. They protect Terran psychics, an' there's gotta be a reason for that. If we can manage to hook up with 'em, our chances o' survival'll be a lot better. They're probably lookin for you already -- what with that business o' the swimmin' pool. They wouldn'ta been far behind the Jils on that, an' they'll be twice as anxious t'get their hands on you when the news gets out that you zapped a Jil and talked a Strike Commander into desertin'." He laughed suddenly. "My buddies on the 'Wolverine' must think I'm nuts."
"I'd think they'd be at least as anxious to get hold of you," Alan said seriously. "You're a pretty high-ranking member of the Patrol."
Mark shrugged. "Probably. If they don't think I'm crazy."
"Crazy or not, you sure saved my bacon," Alan said. He glanced down at the torn and stained uniform of the Terran Space Academy that he had been wearing since Mark had first seen him. "By any chance, did you bring any other clothes along? We're going to be kind of conspicuous strolling down the streets of Knitsmye in the stuff we're wearing, don't you think?"
Mark snapped his fingers. "You're right. I almost forgot." He surveyed Alan's short, compact figure. "I gotta few things in my case that you can wear, but they're gonna be kinda big. Last time I was your size, I was about ten years old."
Alan turned a dull pink. "I've always been small for my age. I used to take a lot of ribbing about it in school. Everybody in my family was small, actually. Mom had to make all our clothes 'cause she could never find anything to fit us in the stores."
"You're a psychic." Linley got carefully to his feet. "Remember what I tolja before -- psychics are always little guys." He made his way the short distance to the rear of the craft. "I think that li'l gal that nearly fried me mighta been a psychic. That's probably how she found out about that info -- read Kerrovitch's mind. If you can learn to use those talents o' yours, it's gonna be a real help to us." He found the latch that popped open a storage compartment and dragged out a battered travel case.
"Let me do that," Alan said. "You should rest your shoulder." He took the case, set it on the bunk and opened it.
Mark sat down next to it and began to rummage through the contents. After a short search, he extracted a pair of disreputable pants. "Here, try these on for size. I've had 'em since I joined the Patrol, ten years ago. I was a little smaller, then."
Alan stripped off the torn uniform pants and stepped into the proffered trousers. "Oh, good grief!" He hitched them up uselessly. "Do you have a belt?"
"Here." Linley handed him one, trying to restrain a grin. The cadet looked like a hobo in the baggy old jeans. Alan pulled the belt tight and with the motion, the pants ballooned out around his hips. The legs were far too long, dragging on the deck. He turned them up half a dozen times and stared disgustedly down at himself.
"I can't walk around like this!"
"Here's a shirt," Linley said, removing a T-shirt from the bag. "This one's tight on me, so maybe ... oh hell." Linley surveyed the cadet in the much too large clothing. "Oh well, who expects a kid from Shallock to wear clothes that fit? Don't worry about it. I've seen guys that look worse. Not many, but some, and at least it don't look anythin' like a uniform."
"I'll say!" Alan tried to tuck the shirt into the pants. Linley chuckled.
"Leave it out," he advised. "It covers the balloon effect of the pants. Really, you don't look so bad, but you're gonna hafta go barefoot 'til we can buy some shoes."
Alan looked at his battered feet with resignation. "That's okay. I'm getting used to it."
"Shallock's a tropical world, anyway," Linley said. "No many o' the underprivileged kids wear shoes." He got to his feet. "I'm hungry."
"Oh, gosh!" Alan looked shocked. "You haven't eaten, this whole trip!" He crossed the small cabin to a storage cabinet and rummaged in it. After a few seconds' search, he removed a cake of concentrated rations. "Here."
Linley made a face but accepted the offering. "Thanks. There's some coffee tablets in there somewhere. Make us a couple'a cups, willya?"
"Sure." Alan turned, reaching back into the cabinet.
Mark rummaged in the suitcase again. "Guess I better get changed, too. Can't go around lookin' like a 'trol if I wanna mix with the general population. 'Sides, when people saw this burned arm, they might get curious."
Alan handed him a container of coffee. He took a sip and then a bite of the rations, grimacing. "Man, I'm gettin' tired o' this stuff. When we get to Shallock, one o' the first things I'm gonna do is have a decent meal."
"Me, too," Alan said. There was a shrill beeping from the control panel and he jumped.
"We're comin' up on Shallock." Mark selected a few items from the case. "Be there in a minute."
Alan slid into the pilot's chair. "Sublight in five minutes."
Linley crammed the rest of the ration cake in his mouth, washed it down with the coffee and yanked on a pair of jeans almost as disreputable in appearance as the ones he had given Alan. "Better fasten down the emergency kit."
Alan picked it up from the control panel and shoved it into a cubicle. Linley finished dressing and sat down in the copilot's spot. "You're still limpin'."
"It's getting better." Alan fastened safety webbing around himself. "The swelling's starting to go down."
"Looks like hell," Linley said, frankly. "Makes my own foot hurt, just thinkin' about it." He leaned back in the chair. His arm was aching dully again, and he felt tired. Alan glanced at him anxiously.
"Your arm's still hurting, isn't it," he said.
Linley grinned a little. "How'dja know?"
"Huh?" The cadet looked surprised. "I ..." His eyes widened slightly as he met Linley's gaze. "I don't know. I saw you rub it, I guess."
"I didn't rub it."
Alan looked confused. "It *is* hurting, isn't it?"
"Achin'. How'dja know?"
His companion became silent. Linley rested a hand on his shoulder. "You're an empath. It's the most common psychic talent among Terrans, if I remember what I've heard from the Jils. They consider it a weakness, o' course, and Jil empaths are kinda regarded as slightly -- questionable, socially, to put it mildly. There aren't very many Jil empaths."
"Yeah, I guess there wouldn't be," Alan said, thoughtfully. He added, "One minute to sublight."
"You're gonna hafta bring us in," Mark said. "I don't trust my reflexes right now."
"Won't they see us on their scanners when we come out of hyperspace?"
"Yeah, but we're pretty small. Go in fast. Chances are, they'll think we're a meteor. Thirty seconds."
The seconds clicked by. There was a slight jolt and the stars reappeared on the viewscreen. A planet swam into view, dwarfed by distance.
"That's Shallock," Mark said. "Third planet in the Zeggar system. The climate's hot. Humans can't live at the equator -- the Jils hire Arcturians and Vorians to mine in the equatorial regions."
"I didn't know that," Alan said.
"The gravity is higher'n Terra, too," Mark said. "1.16 Terran."
"I guess that explains how you carried me so easily back on Midgard. I mass sixty kilos, Terran, you know."
Mark grinned. "You're a featherweight. I mass over a hundred and ten. Lotsa guys from Shallock are big, an' you know why?"
"Why?"
"'Cause the kids -- 'specially the street kids like me -- usually have dads that were 'trols. And o' course, 'trols are all big."
"Oh. Was your father a patrolman?"
"Yeah, probably." Mark leaned forward to punch coordinates into the computer. "Okay, it's set. Take us in fast. I don't want anybody to have time to ask embarrassin' questions."
The huge planet swelled on the screen before them. It was a large world, nearly half again the size of Terra, but less dense. Clouds girdled the equator and tiny polar icecaps could be seen. A single, enormous moon slid by on their right as the tiny lifeboat plunged toward the planet.
"Atmosphere," Mark said. "Don't worry about the heat. This thing is built to take it. Just bring us in fast."
Alan obeyed. The scream of air against the hull rose rapidly to deafening proportions, and the metal surface grew warm through the soles of Mark's boots. He saw Alan lift his bare feet from the deck. Then the scream lessened and he brought them neatly out of the dive, leveling off less than a hundred meters from the ocean.
"West," Mark said. "Scaifen an' Knitsmye are on the east coast o' the biggest northern continent. There's caves all along the shoreline. Pick one and take us in."
"Which one?"
"It don't matter. Most of 'em go quite a ways back, with a small beach inside. They're caused by the tides. That satellite has a terrific pull."
It was late morning. Zeggar was almost at zenith, and clouds were massing to the north, a promise of rain, Linley knew. Alan guided the ship across the tossing waves, barely a meter above them, and nosed it forward into one of the black, yawning openings in the cliff wall. They settled gently to a narrow, sandy beach, and Alan cut the engines. Mark glanced at him respectfully. "You're a helluva pilot. Wish I'd had you in my control room."
"Thanks," Alan said. "I was planning on eventually being a pilot in the TSC." He unstrapped his safety webbing and reached over to help Linley.
Mark brushed the hand away. "Lemme alone. I'm fine." He unfastened the webbing and stood up, flexing stiff muscles, then knelt, beginning to fish through the pouches of his discarded Patrol belt. "Just thought o' somethin'. Here you go." He held out Alan's wallet.
Alan took it. "I thought it was gone."
"Nope." Mark shook his head. "Mac took it outta your pocket. All the money's still there. You can count it if you like. I wouldn't get insulted."
Alan actually laughed. "Of course it's still there, and anyway, I don't care about the money, for Pete's sake. You can have it if you like -- you've earned it if anyone has."
"Aw, hell." Mark shrugged. "I hadta take the wallet. It's the rules. Sometimes prisoners -- 'specially Undergrounders -- turn up with the damnedest things on 'em -- suicide pills an' so forth. 'Sides, I wanted to check your I.D. You didn't look nothin' like the way Salthvor's described you. I wouldn't let Mac have the cash, though. He kinda hinted we oughtta split it."
Alan laughed. Mark bent, to hide his embarrassment, and removed the Patrol boots, replacing them with a pair of ragged tennis shoes. "There; think we match all right? Man, this is like comin' home! I feel like a punk again. Let's you an' me go knock over a liquor store tonight, ol' buddy."
"You're going to be an education for me; I can see that." Alan's eyes were shining. "Are we ready?"
"Just about. We're gonna hafta swim an' drag the suitcase along, too. Can you make it?"
"Oh sure; no problem." Alan started to close the bag and then paused. "What about our supplies -- the jewelry and stuff?"
"We'll take some of it with us -- a few things that are easy to carry. The rest can wait 'til we need it. Hold on a minute." Linley went into the latrine and dug through one of the smaller boxes. "Here we go." He emerged, holding two slender bottles and a handful of gleaming, gold chains, sparkling with red and yellow jewels.
"What's that?"
Mark held up the bottles. "Riskellian moonwine. Good stuff -- a hundred and twenty credits a liter -- and a couple o' trinkets from Salthvor's formal wear. Should bring a pretty good price, and with the cash from the ship, we oughtta do okay for a while." He stuffed the bottles into the suitcase and knotted the jeweled chains in a handkerchief, tucking them securely into a corner of the bag.
Alan shook his head. "How the dickens did you get all this stuff in here without being caught?"
Linley cocked an eyebrow at him and grinned. "You don't wanna know. Let's just say it wasn't easy, but fortunately the security storage compartment is only one deck above the engineerin' deck. You all set?"
"Sure. How's your arm, though?"
"It'll be fine. Let's go."
Alan looked doubtfully at the sagging trousers. "Guess we better strip for the swim, don't you think? Hope the water's warm."
"It will be. Shallock oceans average about 31 degrees Celsius." Linley removed his clothing and shoes, making a bundle of them, and stuffed them into the suitcase. "Shouldn't'a bothered dressin', I guess."
Alan handed him the bundle of his own clothes. "That's okay. What do we do when we get ashore?"
"Head for the city. It's about fifteen kilometers north of us." Mark closed the bag, sealing it. "There. Okay, last one in is a sloof's egg."
"What's a sloof?" Alan asked curiously, as they went out the airlock, and secured it behind them.
"Huh? Oh. It's a slimy little critter that lives in the oceans here -- about as big as your pinky. Got a nasty sting, though, if you step on one."
Outside the escape craft, the cave was very dark. Only faint light from the entrance filtered in, and the waves lapping the sandy beach were palely luminous. Carrying the suitcase in his good hand, Mark strode down the strand toward the water. Alan fell in beside him.
The water was very warm, as Mark had assured his young companion. Alan swam easily, keeping afloat without difficulty. Linley struggled along beside him, dragging the suitcase. The thing was water-tight, bobbing like a cork on the surface -- and a good thing, too, he realized. His arm started to throb unbearably as he tried to use it. Weakness flowed through him and Alan began to pull ahead. Mark paused, almost winded, hanging onto the bag and breathing hard.
"Are you all right, Mark?" Alan was beside him at once, treading water effortlessly.
"Sure," Linley panted. "You doin' okay?"
"I'm fine." Alan extended a hand. "Grab hold. I'll help you."
"I'm ... okay ... kid."
Alan withdrew the hand, but stayed close beside him, swimming sidestroke. Linley floundered on a little farther, inwardly cursing his own weakness. He hadn't realized a blaster burn could do this to a man. His strength failed him abruptly and he lost his grip on the bag. Water closed over his head. He flailed out in panic, gulping a big mouthful of salt water.
A hand grabbed him by the hair, jerking him to the surface.
"Mark! Are you all right?" Alan was looking really alarmed. "Now, listen to me! You hang onto the suitcase and I'll pull you in."
"You ... can't ... kid."
"Sure I can." Alan's hands were firm on his arms, pulling him around to his back. "Lie still and relax. Hold onto the suitcase and let me do the work."
Mark was too tired to struggle anymore. He obeyed Alan's instructions and felt Alan slip a hand under his chin. They went smoothly forward through the choppy water.
Almost before he realized how far they had come, Alan was straightening up. "Okay, I'm touching bottom." The suitcase was firmly removed from his grasp. "Let me carry that and you lean on me."
Mark didn't argue. Leaning heavily on his companion, he staggered through the shallow water. Alan supported him up the beach and let him collapse onto the sand. He lay still a moment, getting his breath back, and finally opened his eyes.
Alan sat cross-legged beside him on the sand, not even breathing hard. The waves washed the beach, two meters away, and the sun shone down blindingly. A dawbat wheeled overhead, uttering shrill, piercing cries. Mark closed his eyes again for a moment, letting the swimming in his head subside.
"Mark?"
Linley blinked, grinning weakly up at his youthful friend. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. How's the arm feel?"
"Sore. Didn't realize how sore 'til I tried to use it."
"That was a pretty bad burn," Alan said. "You went into shock on the lifeboat. It scared the wits out of me." He helped Mark to sit up. "Want me to open one of those bottles of wine? It might make you feel better."
"At a hundred an' twenty credits a liter?"
"You're worth it, partner."
Linley snorted. "Guess I am at that. Okay, pour me some, an' have a little yourself."
Alan opened the suitcase. "Everything stayed dry enough. Here's your clothes." He handed Linley the bundle and removed one of the bottles, examining it curiously. The vessel glowed ruby-red in the sunlight. "Looks expensive."
"It is. I've only tasted Riskellian moonwine once before, an' that was when I was promoted to Strike Commander. Go ahead an' open it."
Alan did so and handed him the container. Mark raised an eyebrow. "I can't drink outta the bottle. We're gonna sell that. Find somethin' to pour it in."
Alan dug through Linley's case. "There's nothing in here --" He glanced around, then grinned, picking up a large, clamlike shell from the sand. "Hold on."
Going to the water, he rinsed it out and returned triumphantly to Mark. "Here you are, sir." With a flourish, he poured wine into the shell. "Cheers."
"Skoal." Linley swallowed the wine. "Man, that's good stuff! Only the best for our benevolent overlords. Try some."
Alan poured a smaller amount of the liquid into the shell and sipped it. He gasped slightly, his ears turning pink, and Mark grinned at him. "Like it?"
"Sure." The boy swallowed manfully, choked and coughed. Mark grinned and corked the bottle.
"Better put it away. You ready to move?"
Alan nodded, his neck, ears and cheeks bright red. Linley's grin broadened and his slapped his new partner on the shoulder. The wine was sending a flush of well-being through him, and the ache in his shoulder diminished. Replacing the bottle in the case, he began to pull on his clothing. Alan had started to dress, too, struggling into the enormous garments. Critically, Mark looked him over. Alan appeared about twelve years old in the sagging pants and overflowing shirt, his cheeks still pink from the wine, his dark, curly hair standing on end. He didn't look like the killer of the terrifying Lord Salthvor.
Alan noticed his gaze and smiled a little bashfully. "Guess I look pretty stupid, don't I?"
"That don't matter." Linley shook his head emphatically. "You sure as hell don't look like a Jil-killer, an' that's the important thing right now." He tied the ragged laces of his tennis shoes and stood up cautiously. The scenery around him remained steady. Alan hefted the suitcase, and they started slowly north along the sand.
**********
tbc
