Symbiote: 5/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
V
Mark awoke to the soft beeping of his chronometer's alarm and blinked sleepily at the ceiling overhead. Again, for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. Instead of the smooth, metal bulkhead of the Strike Commander's cabin aboard the "Wolverine", the cracked and blackened plaster of the ancient motel room met his gaze. Then, he turned his head and saw Alan, sprawled face down on the other cot. The cadet was still asleep, his covers kicked off.
Linley shook his head wonderingly, feeling once more a sense of utter incredulity that anyone like Alan Westover could actually end the life of a Jilectan noble -- and get away with it. The little squirt was quite a kid, all right.
His chronometer informed him that it was 0720: time to get up. Andy would be expecting them.
Awakening Alan was getting to be something of a problem, though. He hadn't been careful in the lifeboat, and the boy had had a blaster pointing at him before he could wink. Not surprising, after what he had been through. It was a little surprising that he had adapted so well, Mark thought, when one took into account the relatively sheltered life Alan had apparently led up to now. Inexperienced he might be, but no one could call him stupid.
After a moment's consideration, he reached cautiously out and touched Alan's shoulder lightly. "Time to get up, kiddo," he said.
The cadet came awake with a frightened start, reaching for his blaster. Mark pulled his hand back. "It's okay!"
Alan relaxed. "Oh, hi. You startled me."
"I noticed. Dreamin' again?"
Alan frowned. "I don't remember." He yawned and stretched. "What's the time?"
"Time to get movin'." Linley slid his feet to the floor. "I'm gonna take a shower."
They ate breakfast at the Shady Inn Coffee Shop again. The Arcturian waiter appeared, and Mark noticed that there were other Arcturians serving the customers. Their waiter said nothing of the night before, nor did he give any sign of recognition other than a cheerful "Good morning. Have you dessided?" After breakfast, they started for Andy's Oddities.
The Procyon greeted them as they entered his shop and escorted them at once to the back room.
"Good morning, Mark. Good morning, Alan. How are you today?"
"Great, thanks." Linley wiped water from his face. "Could do with a little less o' this damn rain. We gotta get us some raincoats."
"There ish no need at preshent." Ch'Andeel opened a small closet and extracted two heavy overcoats and woolen caps. "Where you are going, thish ish the kind of protection you will need."
"Cold planet, huh?" Mark took the coats, tossing them over his arm. "Where you sendin' us?"
The Procyon chirped softly. "There ish a ship awaiting you at the Shcaifen Shpasheport. You are going to Queshall, in the Larquell shyshtem, 48 hoursh away. There ish a cargo to be picked up at the Paln Shpasheport. You will shecure it and return to Shallock."
Alan's eyebrows went up. "That's all?"
"All we need to know about," Mark said. "In an operation like this, the fewer questions asked, the better."
"Oh," Alan said.
Ch'Andeel produced a claim disk, two identification cards, ship papers and registration disk. "Thish should be all you will need." He reached into a drawer and withdrew a pair of standard stunners. "Carry theshe, not your blashtersh. They are regishtered to the identitiesh on your cardsh."
"Right." Mark took the items. "Okay, Andy, ol' boy. Guess we better push off. See you in a few days."
"It ish a pleasure doing bushinesh with you." Ch'Andeel shook hands with both of them, in Terran fashion. "Be careful, and I will shee you shoon."
The ship was awaiting them at the spaceport. It was a small, class three cargo ship, well supplied for the journey. The living quarters were small, but comfortable, and equipped for two crewmembers. Linley led the way into the control room and dropped into the pilot's seat. After a quick, pre-flight check, the engines came to life, and he signaled the tower. The communicator beeped.
Alan glanced at him, and Linley nodded. He was going to have to get used to things like this if they were to continue their life of crime. Alan dropped the registration disk into its slot on the control panel and touched the transmit button. "Spaceport Traffic Control, this is the cargo ship 'Sweet Adeline', requesting clearance for takeoff."
"Destination?" a computerized voice inquired.
"Larquell system, planet Quesall, Paln Spaceport."
A brief pause. Then: "Cleared, 'Sweet Adeline'. Depart when ready on corridor two."
"Acknowledged." Alan snapped off the com and glanced at Linley. Mark grinned at him.
"Okay, take her up."
Alan leaned over the controls. "Ten seconds to liftoff."
"I'll make a criminal of you yet." Mark leaned back in his seat.
The ship lifted smoothly from the surface of Shallock. The planet fell away below them and air whined against the hull. Mark remained silent, letting Alan do his part as copilot. The boy's fingers flew over the controls, his gaze fixed on the scanners. "Breaking atmosphere. Setting for hyperspace."
"Roger." Mark watched the readout flickering across the screen.
"Clearing the pull."
Mark sat up. "Hyperspace in thirty seconds. You're good at this. Number one in your class, I bet."
Alan flushed. "Well ..."
"I thought so."
Stars glowed brightly against the black background and on the rear viewscreen, Shallock and its moon were shrinking rapidly.
"Ten seconds," Alan said.
The seconds ticked away. There was a jolt and the stars on the viewscreen winked out. Mark unstrapped himself and got to his feet. He stretched, his fists brushing the overhead. "We don't seem to be doin' so bad for ourselves, so far," he said. He rubbed a thumb experimentally across his mustache, noting that it was getting thicker. It would certainly help as a disguise. Too bad Alan's beard was still too sparse to make a convincing mustache, although it would have looked pretty stupid on Alan Westover's baby face anyway, he mused.
Alan got up to and went back into the small lounge that adjoined the sleeping quarters. Mark followed him, after checking to see that the controls were locked on automatic. As the Strike Commander of the "Wolverine" he had learned to delegate, and which men he could rely on to take the initiative. He was beginning to realize that Alan was one such individual. He might be young, but the boy had the makings of a fine officer of the Terran Space Corps. It was too bad that Terra's space service hadn't seen fit to protect him from the Jilectans. But, if he and Alan could find them, the Terran Underground would. Over his years and experiences in the Viceregal Patrol, he had begun to believe that the Terran Underground might be more of a threat than the Jilectans seemed to think, but in their superiority, the aliens regarded the opinion of a Terran, even a Strike Commander, as not worth consideration. It was probably just as well, he reflected. Alan's fate, and his own, might depend on Terra's ability to resist the aliens in the future, which meant that from this moment on, he had to act on the behalf of his own species. He'd rarely thought about the future of the human race in relation to the Jilectans before, but he would from now on.
The small crew lounge was the largest cabin on the little ship except for the hold. It was supplied with a table and several chairs, all fastened to the deck against the possibility of a failure in the artificial gravity field. Alan dropped into one of the chairs by the table and reached down to rub his ankle.
"How's it feelin'?" Mark asked.
"Better." Alan looked up at him. "This trip should help -- give it a rest. How's your shoulder?"
"Stiff, but improvin'." Mark settled comfortably into the seat across from him. "Look; now that we got a little time on our hands, we might spend some of it findin' out about those talents o' yours."
Alan grimaced. "Let's wait a while. I mean, we've got 48 hours."
Linley grinned. "Okay, if you say so. Guess you *do* sorta feel like a guinea pig, don'tcha?"
"Sort of," Alan said. "It's still hard to believe."
"Yeah, I know," Mark said. "Must be quite a shock ... not knowin' all this time, an' then findin' out like that."
"Yeah." Alan shook his head. "Look, I've been thinking a lot about what's been going on and all. You haven't said much, but you must know. What will the Jils do if we *are* caught?"
Linley hesitated. "Well ..." He paused. "They'll make an example of us -- public execution, as slow and painful as they can manage, an' broadcast it over every network in the Sector. If we *do* get cornered, don't let 'em take you alive. Set your blaster to emergency overload if you hafta. Better to go your way than theirs."
Alan nodded gravely. "I'd figured that. You haven't shocked me as much as you thought it would. I saw part of a public execution, once." He stopped, making a face. "It was right before my parents and sister were killed. They'd caught an Underground agent -- Lanny Trenworth --"
Linley shifted uncomfortably, not wishing his friend to know that the then Subcommander Linley had been instrumental in Trenworth's capture.
Alan's eyes widened slightly. "Oh!" He made a face. "It's okay, Mark. It was your job. You couldn't do anything else."
Linley cussed softly. "Didn't you say last night that you couldn't read minds?"
"I can't!"
"Dammit, you just *did!"
"I could tell from the expression on your face that you must have had something to do with it!"
"Look," Linley said quietly, "one o' the qualities that makes a good C.O. is that it's hard for other people t'tell what he's thinkin'. The only ones that ever could when I was in command were the damn Jils! M'fellow officers usta call me 'Ol Blah-face behind my back. An' less complimentary stuff."
"But ..."
"An' don't tell me it's 'cause you know me so well. My officers knew me a lot longer! You read my mind!"
Alan was silent, staring at the table.
"Listen," Mark said, kindly. "I'm not mad. I'm just tryin' t'show you what a terrific potential you got there. All you gotta do is learn how to use it."
Some of the stricken look left Alan's face. "I'm really sorry, Mark. I won't do it again. You've been living the last ten years of your life with people who could read your mind. It can't be a very pleasant experience -- and now I'm doing it."
"I don't mind," Mark said. "You're one helluva lot more understandin' about it than the Jils ever were. They lord it over us, y'know. It's what makes 'em the superior species, they say. Why the hell d'you think they hate Terran psychics so much? You guys are a kick in the pants to their egos -- an' more power to you! Dammit, kid, *look* at me!"
Alan's head came up.
"Now, try to read my mind."
"The boy shook his head. "It's an invasion of privacy. I don't want to --"
"I'm givin' you permission -- somethin' the Jils never bother to ask for. Don't look like that. I *want* you to do it. Try t'tell what I'm thinkin'."
"Well ..." Alan looked dubious, but finally nodded reluctantly. "I guess so."
"Great!" Mark leaned his chin on his fists, envisioning the centerfold of the last "Sensation" magazine he'd read. His companion frowned, concentrating.
"Touch my face," Mark said helpfully. "I've seen the Jils do that when they're tryin' t'read someone who's shielded."
Alan did so. Mark thought of the young, supple woman in the acrobatic and unlikely pose, trying to project the image toward Alan.
"I'm not picking up anything," Alan said at last. "I don't like this."
Linley sat back and his eye lit on a deck of cards in the small alcove beneath their table. An idea occurred to him. It was obvious that Alan's talents operated better when he wasn't consciously trying to use them. He was stiff and uncomfortable with his powers, and Mark's instinctive annoyance upon the realization that his mind had been read had compounded the problem, but if he could turn the setting into a more companionable atmosphere ...
He took out the deck. "Let's have a game."
Alan's features relaxed as though by magic. "Okay."
"Poker?" Mark began to shuffle expertly.
"For money?" Alan looked dubious.
"Just t'make it interestin', since it belongs t'both of us."
"Well ... okay."
"Great. One-eyed Jacks are wild. Here, cut."
Alan did so. Linley picked up the deck and dealt the cards.
Not a bad hand, he thought a moment later. Four Hearts and the Queen of Clubs. "I'll bet a credit."
"Match and call," Alan said promptly. "I'll take three."
Linley passed him three cards. "I'll take one." He discarded the queen and picked up the top card. King of Hearts; a nice neat flush. Keeping his face unreadable, he glanced at Alan. The cadet was smiling demurely.
"I fold, Mark." He laid his cards face down on the table. Linley reached out and turned them over.
"You folded with three Aces?"
Alan's smile grew wider. "You know it's no use trying to beat me at Poker, don't you? The only person who ever could was my dad."
Mark laughed and gathered up the cards again. "I'm a pretty damn good player, m'self. Let's try again." He shuffled and dealt.
"You're making me use my talents, aren't you?" Alan was still smiling. "You can't fool me."
"I wasn't tryin' to. I'm just tryin' t'figure out what they are. So far I know you're an empath, a precog, a telekinetic, and a telepath. Now I wanna see if you're a clairvoyant." He picked up the cards.
Six and King of Spades, two and seven of Hearts, and four of Clubs. A bad hand. He glanced at Alan. The boy was studying his own cards. Mark placed a half-credit on the table. Absently, Alan placed one beside it, following it with a credit slip. "Match and raise you a credit."
"Call," Mark said. "How many?"
"Three," Alan said.
Linley handed him the cards. "Three for me, too."
The draw produced a disappointing hand, leaving him with two sixes. He glanced at Alan. Here was the chance to see if Alan could tell that he was bluffing. Mark was unmatched when it came to that. He placed a credit on the table.
Alan looked up at him, smiling a little. "Match and raise you a credit."
"Match and raise you two," Mark said.
"You'll be sorry. Match and raise you two more."
Mark grinned. "You're hangin' yourself, buddy. Match and raise you three ..."
The betting closed with a huge pile of credit slips on the table before them. Linley realized he was actually sweating. "Whatcha got?"
Alan laughed. "Two nines."
Mark dropped his cards on the table and burst out laughing. "How'dja know?"
Alan shrugged. "I always know. No one at the Academy would play cards with me. They all said I was a jinx. I didn't ask after a while, anyway. Made people mad at me."
"I'll bet." Mark snorted. "If I didn't know better, I'd get superstitious in no time, playin' against you." He gathered up the cards and shuffled them thoroughly, placing them face down on the table. "What is it?"
"Uh ..." Alan stared at the cards for a moment. "Queen of Spades."
Linley turned the card over, revealing the dark, severe face of the Queen. "Bingo! What's this one?"
The boy hesitated. "Hm ... two of Hearts."
Linley flipped it over, revealing the three of Hearts. "Close. Okay, how about this one?"
Alan frowned, then leaned forward to place his hand palm down on the card. "Seven of Diamonds."
The guess was again correct.
"That's terrific. You're clairvoyant, all right. Try it again."
They stopped an hour later. His companion was tiring and missing more frequently, but all things considered, his "guesses" had been amazingly accurate. The color of the card he had guessed without fail, the suit at least seventy percent of the time, and the number ninety percent. Alan was a strong clairvoyant. No doubt of that.
Mark stored the cards under the table and stood up. "I'm gonna get some coffee. Want some?"
They went into the tiny galley and Alan waited as he prepared the brew.
"Y'know," Linley said, as he poured water into the machine, "you're one helluva psychic. You got more abilities than I've ever seen, even in the best Jils. Even ol' Duke Halthzor ain't an empath, though he's got most o' the other stuff you got. He's one terrific psychic, but you may even have him beat."
"Do you really think so?" Alan looked pleased.
"I sure as hell do. Wish we could contact the Underground. Those guys are great at trainin' psychics." He clapped Alan on the back. "No *wonder* ol' Salthvor hated your guts! You were twice the psychic he was, and he saw it. Man, that musta galled the hell outta him!"
"I guess so." Alan accepted the cup Linley held out to him and stirred creamer into the brew. "I could tell he didn't like me."
"Yeah. So could everybody else in the lounge," Linley said, dryly. "Salthvor wasn't too crazy about us Terrans anyway, and he hated Terran psychics more'n most o' the Jils do." He made a face. "I never attended that guy's interrogations unless I hadta."
"I don't blame you," Alan said, sipping his coffee with care. "It's kind of funny when you think about it, though."
Mark led the way back to the lounge. "Yeah, it is, but I'll bet my buddies on the 'Wolverine' ain't laughin' much. Poor ol' Wolly. Hope they don't hurt him too bad."
"Me, too. He sounded awfully upset while he was trying to talk me into coming back."
"I'll bet. It ain't much fun explainin' a mistake to Halthzor. I hadta do it just once. He put me in the hospital for two weeks."
"Gosh!"
"Yeah. Guy's got a real nasty temper, an' he ain't too particular who he takes it out on. 'Sides, who's gonna tell the Viceroy's cousin not to slap around a lowly sublieutenant?"
"I see what you mean," Alan said. He sat down, placing his cup on the lounge's table, and Mark took his seat again.
"What was Halthzor mad about?" Alan asked suddenly.
"Huh? Oh." Linley grinned ruefully. That particular incident had never faded from his memory. "It happened seven years ago. The Terran Underground was just startin' t'get real active. They've been around a long time, I guess, but nobody paid 'em much attention. Still don't, really. Y'know what I mean: one o' them off-the-wall groups makin' a minor nuisance o' themselves, an' not worth the time or trouble to do anythin' about. The Jils've never taken 'em very serious. After all, up 'til now, nobody's ever managed any kinda worthwhile resistance at all. If you want my opinion, they're makin' a mistake, but they don't listen t'Terrans. Just as well.
"Anyhow, I still ain't sure what happened. I don't even *know* it was the Underground, but I can't see how it coulda been anybody else. My squad was supposed t'be guardin' some kinda top secret stuff while it was bein' transferred from one place to another. When we got to our destination it'd been switched for a couple o' different computer disks -- programs for some kinda space war game, I think. I dunno how they did it, though. Damn disks never left the courier's case, an' the case never left his wrist. The guy never once got outta my sight the whole time, either, but when they went in they were one thing, an' when they got took out, they were somethin' else. An' I hadta stand in front o' Halthzor -- he's the Chief o' Viceregal Security, y'know -- an' try t'explain it. Man!" Linley took a last gulp of coffee. "I thought he was gonna kill me."
Alan whistled.
"Yeah," Mark said. "So you can see why I don't envy Wolly," he continued. He tossed the cup into a disposal chute on one bulkhead. "Anyhow, let's get back to more important things. I wish you'd try t'read my mind again. It'd be a real plus for us if you could learn t'read minds consciously -- not like you been doin'. That's okay, too, but you gotta learn t'control it." He surveyed Alan's worried face. "D'you see what I'm gettin' at? We need all the help we can get if we're gonna survive."
"I guess so," Alan said, reluctantly. "Are you sure you don't mind, though?"
Linley nodded vigorously. "Sure, I'm sure. Anybody else, I probably would, but not you."
"All right, then." Alan set down his empty cup and reached over to place the flat of his palm against Mark's temple. His face became grim.
"Easy there." Mark chuckled. "You look awful mean. Relax."
"Sorry." There was a long silence. At last Alan sat back, shaking his head. "It's no use. All I keep seeing is last month's 'Sensation' centerfold."
"No kiddin'?" Linley straightened up.
Alan's eyes widened slightly. "Yeah. A real sharp picture, too. That's what I saw when I tried before, but I didn't think it could possibly ..." His voice trailed off. "Gosh! I didn't realize the Strike Commanders of Jilectan battlecruisers read 'Sensation'!"
"Why not? We're human, too, y'know." Mark clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "You gotta have faith in yourself, kiddo."
Alan laughed, his face a little pink. "Those mags circulate like crazy at the Academy."
"You oughtta see 'em go 'round the 'Wolverine'. I used to drop the news of a 'surprise' inspection about fifteen minutes ahead o' time to give the guys a chance to clear away their pinups before I got there. The Jils don't approve o' the idea o' women in public life, y'know, an' definitely no women in the Patrol. To them, women are for lookin' pretty an' for sex, an' that's it."
"Gosh, what an attitude!" Alan appeared almost shocked. "Don't the Jil Ladies object?"
Linley shook his head. "You gotta understand. It's a -- a whatchamacallit -- a society run by the guys."
"Patriarchal."
"That's it. A patriarchal society from the word go. The high spot in a Lady's life is producin' a son for her Lord. About one kid in fifteen or so is a male, an' they got some kinda code of honor or somethin' that keeps 'em from helpin' the odds along. Hell, I think ol' Halthzor's got fifteen or sixteen wives in his harem, an' with all of 'em, he's only got two sons. His High an' Mightiness, Lord Lanthzor, himself, has got over forty wives, an' not one son. You can see why they think the way they do."
"I guess so," Alan said. "It sure isn't fair to Terran women."
Mark almost laughed. "Since when do the Jils worry about bein' fair to Terrans? Jils are for Jils, an' nobody else." He yawned and stretched. "Actually, 'Sensation' is pretty mild, compared to some o' the mags you'll find on a Patrol cruiser."
"I can imagine," Alan said.
Linley doubted it. He glanced disparagingly at the tattered copy of "Stellar Sportsworld", dated several Shallockian months back, in the alcove beneath the table, along with an electronic copy of "The Maintenance and Repair of Waste Recycling Units." Linley, never a polo fan, could have preferred other reading material to while away the time during their voyage.
"Okay," he resumed, "I'm gonna think of a couple o' words. See if you can pick 'em outta my mind."
"All right." Alan concentrated. "'Duke Halthzor wears frilly underwear'."
"Right." Linley grinned. "Very good. Now we'll try another image. Ready?"
Linley envisioned a Midgard dinosaur, and Alan identified it without apparent difficulty. "Real good. Now I think we'll try somethin' else, but I won't clue you in about what to look for this time. Okay?"
"All right." Alan rubbed his face. "I'm getting sort of tired."
"Wanna rest?"
"I'll try this one first."
"Good. Now you're getting' into the spirit o' the thing."
Alan smiled shyly. "It's kind of fun once you get the hang of it."
"Yeah," Mark agreed, enviously. "Wish I could. Okay, go ahead. I'm thinkin'."
Alan concentrated, his gaze fixed on Mark, and Linley felt himself grow a little uneasy under their impact. It was unnerving to have someone read your mind, even if that someone was a friend. True, the Jilectans had done it countless times, and he had grown resigned to it, but ...
But Alan *was* a friend. The fact that he had been reluctant to exercise his power in this manner made the difference. Still, it made him a little jumpy.
Alan spoke. "You're thinking of a nursery rhyme -- well, sort of. 'Little Miss Muffet was really a nuffet to be scared of a stupid arachnid ...' Honestly!"
Mark laughed.
"And you're also thinking that this is a little unnerving to have someone read your mind, even if it's someone you like."
Linley made a face. "You weren't supposed t'see that part."
"I know," Alan said. "Sorry."
"Don't be. I asked for it. Y'know, you're really terrific at this."
"I'll never read your mind without your permission, Mark."
"Sure, I know that." Mark grinned companionably. "Listen, I gotta idea about how we can use these powers o' yours if we're real careful an' avoid all Jils. You don't wanna mess with them anymore, do you?"
"No thanks!" Alan said fervently.
"Me neither. Now, I know this little gamblin' casino on Ravellus ..."
**********
tbc
