Symbiote: 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
II
It was a warm day, as Shallock's weather usually was. A light breeze was blowing and the waves sparkled in the brilliant sunlight. The clouds to the west still lay on the horizon but were growing blacker and more ominous looking. There would be rain tonight.
Alan walked beside him, his head up and his hair blowing in the wind. Mark glanced sideways at him, wondering again at himself that he felt so calm and at peace in spite of the uneasy circumstances. There was undoubtedly a reward out for Alan by now, and almost certainly for Strike Commander Linley as well. So, why wasn't he worrying?
The answer hit him suddenly. He was free. For the first time in ten years he was his own master, walking along the beach with his friend and trusted comrade. No longer must he bow to the will of the Jilectans. He could thumb his nose at them as long as he didn't get caught, because there was nothing left to lose.
Alan returned his glance and smiled brightly. "Do you feel as good as I do, Mark?"
"I feel terrific," Mark said. "I ain't felt so good in years, an' it's all your fault."
Alan's smile became a grin. "I'm glad of that. Is Knitsmye a Jil city?"
"Sure is. All the cities are Jil cities, but there's plenty of the lower species here, too. Our lords an' masters prefer bein' waited on by livin' things. Probably gives 'em a feelin' o' superiority -- not that they need it. We might run into a few humans after a while, an' maybe even a Jil or two. Sometimes the Lords' brats or their Ladies come to the beach for an afternoon."
"Don't they have private beaches?"
"Sure, but only the richest Jils have beaches reserved just for them. The ones from the middle class clans sometimes hafta stoop to usin' public facilities, an' that includes beaches. This part is set aside for the lower species, an' we won't go into the Jils' section -- might as well cut our throats ourselves -- but don't be surprised if you see one of our lords an' masters with his sacred feet on our side. Nobody dares say boo to a Jil."
Alan grinned slightly, but sobered at once. "What do we do if we meet one?"
"Act scared. Most people are when they run into a Jil face to face. Won't be hard."
"That's for sure," Alan said. "I'd probably faint."
"*You* stay away from 'em, kiddo. Psychics -- trained ones, that is -- can detect other psychics. I don't want *you* gettin' spotted."
"Oh." Alan's eyes widened as he thought of something. "I guess Salthvor knew I was a psychic just by looking at me."
"Sure, he did. He probed you a little an' got the vibes. If you were shielded he couldn'ta done it, but you were wide open an' broadcastin' like crazy." Linley shrugged. "Don't worry, though. The section o' town we're headin' for won't have no Jils in it. It's the pits. Knitsmye's worse'n old New York usta be before they cracked down on the thugs an' cleaned it up. Don't be shocked, an' keep a hand on your wallet all the time. Pickpockets an' muggers thrive there, 'cause the Jils don't care what happens to Terrans, an' the police force is a joke. Most o' the cops 'emselves are dealers in one illegal trade or another."
A being was coming toward them and Linley identified the creature as a Procyon -- one of the vaguely avian species that hailed from Ranlach, the third planet in the Procyon system. The alien was naked, except for the light dusting of light blue, fluffy down that coated its entire body. Alan stared openly at the being as it approached, beaked head held high. Linley noted the only article of apparel it wore -- a large, silver armband, embroidered with the official insignia of a Jilectan Lord. A Jil house servant, no doubt, Mark thought. The Jilectans preferred the Procyons for servants, although of the exact reason for the preference, he was unsure. There were few Procyons in the Viceregal Patrol, simply due to the fact that only a small number of the beings reached the minimum height requirement, and fewer still the weight requirement, since the species was ordinarily small and light-boned. Also, in temperament, they were generally far more complacent than Terrans -- not a good quality for a Viceregal patrolman.
The Procyon went past, his hooked beak elevated, the round, dark eyes staring straight ahead. Alan glanced at Linley. "Was that a Procyon?"
"Yeah; why?"
"Oh, nothing. I've only seen one before. They look just like big, blue owls."
Linley made a disrespectful gesture at the alien's retreating back. "He figures 'cause he's a Jil crony that he can look down his beak at the rest of us."
"He's a Jil servant? How do you know?"
"The band on his arm. It had Lord Somebody-or-other's official insignia on it."
"Oh." Alan fell silent again. Another figure was coming toward them -- a Terran. He went past, nodding absently at the two, bedraggled newcomers to Shallock. A few minutes later, they encountered two Terrans, a man and a women, walking arm in arm. Traffic increased steadily.
Abruptly, his companion gave a sharp gasp. "Oh, gosh!"
"What?"
"I think there's a Jilectan nearby!"
"You sure?" Linley grimaced. "Man! Whatta dumb question! 'Course you're sure. What are you feelin'?"
"Scared," Alan said. "And creepy -- just like I did when I first saw Salthvor."
The big alien appeared from behind a connecting bend in the towering cliff wall, walking steadily and lightly. Mark would have recognized that gait anywhere. "There he is. Steer clear of him." He took Alan's elbow and veered to one side, avoiding the Jilectan's path. He could feel the tenseness in Alan's arm, and he gave the cadet's arm a reassuring squeeze. "Take it easy."
The alien drew nearer. It was a young male, only slightly taller than Mark and much slimmer, his reddish-blond hair shining like a halo in the noonday sun. He wore the Jilectan equivalent of a bathing suit: long, silver flared pants, gathered tightly at the waist and adorned with a black, velvet ribbon. Muscles rippled beneath the smooth, white skin.
The Jilectan went by, not glancing at them. Behind the alien, at a respectful distance, walked a Procyon servant, and the taller, more muscular figure of a Terran, clad in the uniform of a Jilectan's bodyguard.
Alan let out his breath in a long sigh, and almost collided with a young Terran girl, who was coming toward them. She swerved and stumbled, going to her knees in the sand.
"Oh gosh, I'm sorry!" Alan bent to help her up. "I didn't see you!"
She looked into his face, smiling. "That's okay, sweetie." Her gaze shifted to Mark. "'Hi there!"
"'Lo, baby," Mark said.
I saw you lookin' at the Jil." She glanced after tha alien and wrinkled her nose in distaste. "That's Lord Praxvar -- Draxvor's brat. Don't be scared o' him. D'you know he can't even swim? I saw him tryin' once. He practically drowned before one of his servants rescued him." The girl threw back her head and laughed. "Then he gave the servant a cuff for bein' so rough with him. I dunno about you, but *I* think anybody who works for a Jil oughtta have his head examined."
"Yeah, me too," Mark agreed a little wryly. "C'mon kid, we gotta push on."
"Whereya goin'?" the girl inquired, her gaze sweeping Linley's big form appreciatively.
"Knitsmye," Mark told her.
"That's a long way. Whatcha doin' with the suitcase?"
"Carryin' it," Mark informed her blithely. "C'mon, kid."
They had gone on another kilometer before Alan sank to the sand and began to rub his ankle. Linley knelt beside him. "Dammit, you shoulda said somethin'. It hurtin' pretty bad?"
"I'm okay," Alan's voice was a little faint. "That blasted Jilectan shook me up a bit."
"Don't let 'em scare you so bad," Mark said. "Chances are that none of 'em'll be interested enough in you to bother readin' your mind -- as long as you don't do nothin' t'draw attention to yourself. They don't pay Terrans much notice, y'know. We're nothin' but domestic animals as far as the Jils are concerned -- or, at the most, slaves. I ain't sure we rate that high, though."
"I can't help it," Alan said, unhappily. "After Salthvor ..."
"Sure, I know. You rest that foot a minute, an' let me have that damned suitcase." He grasped it by the handle, removing it from Alan's grip.
"Mark, give me that!"
"Shuttup an' obey your elders for a change. I'll carry it."
"Elders! You're only twenty-six!"
Mark didn't bother to ask how the cadet knew. "Well, that's older than eighteen!"
Alan opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Yessir, Strike Commander, sir."
"That's better," Mark said with mock-gruffness. Alan laughed and got to his feet.
"I'm okay now. Let's go on."
"Sure." Linley also got to his feet. "Take it easy on that ankle, though. We don't have no deadlines."
They arrived in Knitsmye in the late afternoon. The air was still hot, but clouds had blotted out the sun and thunder rumbled threateningly in the distance.
"Looks like we're gonna get wet." Mark glanced down at his shorter companion. Alan was limping badly, although he hadn't complained. Linley, himself, was tired, and the suitcase was infuriatingly heavy. His shoulder ached dully as they trudged along.
The streets, as expected, were filthy. Vermin of various nature scuttled through the stacked garbage, and Mark heard Alan give a soft exclamation of revulsion. He turned.
A pink, hairless creature was wandering through a pile of refuse beside them. It was about the size of a Terran opossum and sported a dozen thin tentacles as well as a long, twisting snout, which it kept thrusting into the rotting garbage. Soft, sucking sounds issued from it.
Mark grinned. "It's just a trenchcrawler."
Alan tore his gaze from the thing and began to walk beside Linley again. "So, that's a trenchcrawler. I've never seen one before."
"Lucky boy. You'll see a lot of 'em if you live in Knitsmye for very long. I grew up with the critters. Street kids sometimes have fights, throwin' dead ones at each other."
"Yuk!" Alan shuddered.
Mark grinned. "You musta had a pretty nice home, never to have seen a trenchcrawler before."
"I guess so," Alan said. "They haven't reached Earth yet, I don't think. We have some pretty stringent rules about quarantine of offworld goods and stuff."
"Hope it keeps workin'," Mark said. "The things aren't harmful, but they breed like crazy, an' they're sure pests. Speakin' o' that, though, where *did* you grow up?"
"Huh? Oh. I'm from Florida. I grew up outside of Jacksonville. My family wasn't rich, but my dad was a doctor, so we had enough."
"No kiddin?" Linley raised an eyebrow. "I was wonderin' why you were so good with the needles an' bandages. Figured it must be your empathic talent, but I guess not, huh?"
Alan shook his head. "*I* haven't had any medical training, Mark. I had my heart set on space. Mom wasn't too thrilled with the idea, but she didn't try to stop me."
"Sounds like you had a nice family. You have any brothers or sisters?"
"I had a little sister," Alan said, quietly. "She was killed in the same accident that killed my parents."
Linley was silent a moment. "Sorry."
"It's okay. It's been two years now." Alan shrugged abruptly.
"But it still hurts. I know."
Alan sighed. "She was eleven years younger than me," he said. "We looked a lot alike, and I used to call her Curly Top. Her name was Janice." He shook his head. "What about your family? Are your mom and dad still living?"
Linley shrugged expressively. "M'dad might be. I dunno. My mom, stepdad an' brother died years ago. Life's rough in the slums. You gotta be tough to survive."
"Sounds like it," Alan said. "I take it your dad left your mom when you were pretty young?"
Mark laughed. "You might say that. 'Trols don't settle down with one woman very often. She was a bargirl an' he was just a 'trol, out for a night on the town."
"Oh." Alan looked embarrassed. "Sorry. Me and my big mouth."
"It's okay," Linley said. "I ain't sensitive about it. Pretty standard for Shallock, actually. Mom got married when I was about four. My stepdad was a real bum -- made her support him, even when she was pregnant. He drank up everythin' extra, an' used to beat the hell outta us kids. Him an' Mom were killed in a tenement fire when I was seven."
"Gosh," Alan said. "What a childhood! What happened to your brother?"
"I carried him outta the buildin'. My stepdad was drunk as usual, an' Mom was trapped. I think the fire got started in their bedroom -- a cigarette, probably. He smoked a lot. Kevin an' me lived in the streets for years -- 'til he was killed, too."
"Weren't there any orphanages?"
"Oh, sure. An' they're packed with skinny, starvin' li'l kids. A planet like Shallock is swarmin' with illegitimate kids, and' lots of 'em get deserted, or orphaned like we were. Better t'make your livin' stealin' than to go to one o' them damned orphanages. You're worked like a slave, an' fed barely enough to keep you alive. The girls become prostitutes at thirteen an' the boys are sold as cheap labor. No sir; Kev an' me wouldn'ta gone to one o' those places for nothin'."
"I can see why!" Alan looked horrified. "What happened to Kevin?"
"Yeah, Kevin." Mark scowled darkly. "I took care of him for nearly two damned years. Then there was a flood -- happens a lot here -- lotsa rain an' wind, an' it don't quit. Kev an' me were holdin' onto some wreckage when a big wave hit us. I was knocked loose an' swept away. I woke up two days later at an aid station. I never saw him again. He musta been killed, though -- an awful lotta people were, an' the poor kid wasn't even five years old. I looked for him a long time, but never found a trace." Mark paused, a little angry with himself. He hadn't intended to pour out his life's history like that, but there was something about Alan that made him such a good and sympathetic listener ...
Empaths! He shook his head a little.
"I'm sorry, Mark." Alan touched his arm. "You must be a really strong person to have lived through all that -- and I don't mean just physically."
Linley shrugged. "You do whatcha gotta do. When it comes to guts, you got me beat ... watch it!"
A man was running down the street toward them, dodging pedestrians and garbage. Linley pulled Alan aside and yanked out his blaster, but the runner went on past. He was a young man, perhaps twenty, filthy and disheveled, his ragged shirt fluttering in the breeze. He vanished around a corner, and an instant later two more men passed, also running, obviously in pursuit of the first.
Alan took a step after them. "Mark !"
"Stay out of it, kid!" Linley grabbed his arm.
"But, they're going to kill him!"
"Yeah, maybe, but if you get involved, you'll be killed, too -- or picked up by the cops. We don't need that right now!"
The pursuing men had vanished by now. Linley drew a deep breath. He was going to have to keep his eye on the kid; that was for sure. Alan was too soft-hearted for his own good -- the same characteristic that made him such a likeable little cuss. Empaths were highly sensitive to the feelings of others, and as a result, they knew instinctively how to treat other people: how to make those they liked like them, and, as in the case of Wilbur Parks, how to hit their opponents' sorest points. Linley grinned slightly, recalling his own spat with the cadet back on Midgard. Unerringly, Alan had jabbed over and over again in his sensitive areas. His mention of the Patrol maltreating prisoners -- a point that had always bothered Mark, who had experienced violence at home; his jab at his captor's subservience to an alien people -- another extremely sensitive area -- and finally, his candid observance of Linley's non-involvement -- burying his head in the sand to evade the truth. Why, he should have guessed, right then, that Alan was a psychic. Anyone who could hit the nail on the head so neatly, three times in succession, had to have some kind of extrasensory equipment.
Alan was watching him questioningly. Linley sighed, and shrugged philosophically. "Let's go."
At length, they came to the place he sought. It was a small, seedy motel on the corner of 10th and Ansley streets. A Terran female approached them as they paused by the door of the little establishment, but Linley waved her away and opened the door.
"A ha' credit for a poor girl, mister?" The woman had Alan by the arm, smiling enticingly. Linley spun around, grabbing the boy's other arm. The woman produced a small switchblade, and Mark moved quickly, yanking Alan from her grasp and drawing his blaster in the same motion.
"Freeze, baby!" he growled.
The woman obeyed, her eyes growing wide.
"Drop the knife, honey."
She hesitated. "Aw c'mon, mister, have a heart."
"Drop it."
The knife clattered to the pavement and Alan stooped to pick it up. Linley gestured with the blaster. "Give 'im the wallet back."
Slowly, she drew it from her bosom, scowling, and tossed it to Alan. He caught it, glancing at Mark.
"Check it," Linley said. "Make sure she didn't take nothin'."
Alan did so. "It's all here. She didn't have time."
Mark gestured with the blaster, again. "Beat it."
The woman ran. Linley turned to his companion, who was trying to close the switchblade. "Lemme show you." He took the weapon, unlocked the blade and closed it.
"Gosh!" Alan's eyes were enormous. "I didn't even see her take it!"
"Yeah, I know. You're gonna hafta watch yourself. You look too innocent." He pushed open the rickety, unpowered door again, ushering Alan through before him.
**********
tbc
