Okay, we're off hold. On with the story. This is mostly a transitional part to the next crisis ....
Symbiote: 7/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VIII
"Sublight," Mark said. There was a slight jolt and the stars reappeared on the viewscreen.
The return trip had been a comfortable and relaxed one. Linley had come to know his young friend a good deal better. They had talked and confided in each other. Alan was completely at ease now, talking and laughing like any teenage kid.
Alan was a strange mixture, he thought. He could keep his head in a tough situation, use a blaster, and handle a ship like a pro, but he was easily hurt by any criticism, and painfully shy when it came to the opposite sex. Well, Mark thought, maybe that wasn't so unusual. He'd been shy once, too. Once. A very long time ago.
They were coming in fast on their pre-programmed coordinates, and Shallock grew rapidly larger until it filled the entire screen.
"Hang on," he said. "Might get a bit warm."
The little ship fell like a meteor toward the layer of clouds over Shallock's largest ocean. Air screamed deafeningly against the hull and clouds blurred the viewscreen for a moment before they emerged beneath the layer that always banded the tropical and subtropical oceans of his native world. The only areas of the tropics that humans could tolerate for even a short time were the island chains, where the huge bodies of water surrounding the small dots of land mitigated the heat.
A little to the north, a tiny island, no more than a kilometer in length and less than half a kilometer in width, rose from the water. The little cargo ship dropped to a gentle landing on the white, unmarked beach, and Alan triggered the cargo hatch almost before they had stopped moving. Mark ran back to the cargo hold, his partner on his heels. "Let's move!"
Together, they removed all six crates, leaving them piled in a neat stack near a cluster of tumbled boulders, and ran back to the ship.
The engines were still running. Mark landed in the pilot's seat and slapped the controls. Alan arrived beside him as the ship rose like a bullet into the sky. The airlock clicked shut a moment later.
They were just breaking atmosphere when the Patrol ship appeared on the scanner.
"Here they come," Alan said.
"No problem," Mark said. "We got 'em beat." He poured power into the repulsers.
"Unidentified cargo ship, this is the Patrol battlecruiser 'Juggernaut'. Respond!"
Alan glanced at the computer readout. "Two minutes before we clear the pull."
"Unidentified ship, you will respond immediately!"
"We'll be fine," Mark said.
Blue flame blossomed across the darkness behind them. The "Juggernaut" was taking a few pot shots at them.
"Tryin' t'get our attention," Mark said. "We're way outta range. How long to hyperspace?"
Alan didn't glance at the computer. "Fifty seconds."
More blue flame, nearer this time. "'Juggernaut' to cargo ship! Respond immediately or we shoot to kill --"
"Cool your jets, Donny," Mark drawled. "If you could reach us, you'da blasted us already."
The silence that followed the remark had a distinctly startled quality. Then: "Mark?" an uncertain voice said.
"'Lo there," Mark said. He glanced at Alan.
"Twenty seconds," Alan said.
In the background, Linley heard the man shouting something, then a babble of voices. A harsh, authoritative voice emerged from the speaker. "Strike Commander Linley, you are ordered to --"
"Save your breath, Tim," Mark said. "We ain't surrenderin'. Give our regards to your resident Jil. Revilthvar, ain't it?" There was a slight jolt and the stars vanished.
They remained in hyperspace for half an hour, then went sublight. For another hour they drifted, watching the stars on the viewscreen and talking idly.
"Who's Tim?" Alan asked.
"Tim?"
"Aboard the 'Juggernaut'."
"Oh. Timothy Foxe -- Strike Commander o' the ship. Real good officer -- hard as nails an' mean as hell. I knew mosta the other Strike Commanders in the Fleet, an' he's the only one I really didn't like. The rest are fairly decent guys, but Foxe is a real trenchcrawler. Gives his men an awful hard time."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Right after I made Strike Commander, the sonofabitch got mad at his valet -- socked him one an' ordered him transferred. I dunno what it was all about, but it made me kinda sore about it. I hadn't been assigned a valet yet, so I said I'd take the kid."
"That was nice of you. Why did Foxe hit him, anyway?"
"I dunno. Li'l Zach wouldn't talk about it. Zacchary Washington was his name. Apparently Foxe came in all steamed up about somethin', an' Zach got in his way. It's always safe t'take your anger out on your valet. They don't got nobody t'stick up for 'em, but it's generally frowned on. 'Sides, Zach was only about as big as you are, an' Foxe is bigger'n me."
"I should think he'd be ashamed of himself! Hitting someone that much smaller!"
"I think he was, a little. After he cooled off, he tried t'get li'l Zach sent back, but I hung onto him tight. The li'l guy was a real good valet, an' I wasn't about t'let him go after the trencher treated him like that. Poor kid had a black eye when I first saw him."
"Gosh!"
"Yeah." Linley scowled. "Foxe was his first assignment, too. Shook his self-confidence somethin' fierce. He was a bundle o' nerves 'til he got t'know me. That damn Foxe --"
"But he never told you what Foxe was so mad about?"
"Nah. I asked him once, an' he told me very tactfully t'mind my own business."
"Sensitive about it."
"Yeah. And valets -- the good ones -- know how t'keep their mouths shut. Zach was such a good valet, too! My quarters were always spic an' span, an' he was always discreet. If he saw I wanted t'be alone, I never hadta tell 'im. I gave him a real good evaluation t'make up for the incident with Foxe, an' then the damn Base Commander on Corala took 'im away from *me*! He's got more seniority than me, an' it was on Zach's application that he preferred planetside assignments, anyway, so they took him. Poor kid was almost in tears when he got the order -- came in lookin' like he'd lost his last friend, an' I was scared for a minute that we was gonna have a scene. I comforted him -- told him what a terrific guy Commander Markham was, et cetera -- an' he pulled himself together. Then they sent me Ed Patterson to replace him." Mark grimaced. "What a jerk --!"
"Really bad?"
"Awful. Guess I'd been spoiled by Zach, 'cause Patterson drove me buggy. Poor guy meant well, but he was everythin' Zach wasn't: loud, obtrusive, untidy an' just plain stupid. I'd put up with him for thirty days when you happened along." He grinned. "Now, I suppose the next Strike Commander to the 'Wolverine' will get him. Ron Griffen, probably." Mark laughed. "Poor Ron!"
"I didn't know Strike Commanders had valets," Alan said.
"Oh, sure. Rank hath its privileges. I wasn't used t'bein' waited on, though. Maybe that's why Patterson got on my nerves so bad. He wanted to do everythin' for me, an' I didn't like it." Linley reached for the controls again. "Guess we better get movin'. They'll figure we're twenty or thirty light years away by now."
Alan fed data into the computer. "Did you ever hear how he was doing?"
"Who? Oh, Zach? Yeah, he wrote me a real touchin' letter, thankin' me for my help an' tellin' me he was doin' fine. I never got around t'answerin'. Too bad."
"It really is," Alan said. "I wonder what he thinks of you, now. Hyperspace coordinates set."
"Yeah, me too. Probably thinks I'm nuts." Mark laughed. "Okay; let's go home."
They landed openly at the Scaifen Spaceport and disembarked. The news was everywhere that former Strike Commander Linley, who had deserted the Patrol in such a spectacular way, had made a brief appearance that morning over Shallock. At least, the *rumor* was that he had done so. No one had actually seen him, but a Lieutenant O'Keefe, on the 'Juggernaut', swore that he had recognized Linley's voice over the communicator from a fleeing cargo ship. Strike Commander Foxe confirmed this --
Alan and Mark strode through the spaceport. Beings of all species crowded past them, all absorbed in their own business. Two posters tacked to a billboard drew Mark's attention, and he stopped to admire.
"Hey! That's an improvement!"
Alan laughed. Mark's face, adorned with a long, artistic, handlebar mustache, grinned at them. Beside his was Alan's, also mustached, and beneath the picture, someone had scrawled a few graphic, uncomplimentary and highly unlikely adjectives concerning the parentage of Lord Salthvor. Above Mark's picture, in more feminine script, were the words: "Mark, darling, feel free to call me anytime. Noreen, at this number --" A string of digits followed. "I'm worth your time!"
Beneath the lettering, someone had scribbled the words, "And how!", along with a few other imaginative comments. Mark chuckled.
They rented an aircar, which took them swiftly to Knitsmye, and pulled up in the rear of Andy's Oddities. It was raining again, a true downpour, with thunder booming like drums overhead. Andy appeared moments after their arrival.
"Ah, my friendsh!" he greeted them. "Come into the kitchen and dry yourshelvesh!"
They obeyed, taking seats beside the stove. Andy handed them cups of some brownish-yellow beverage. Linley took a gulp, then glanced quickly at Alan as he lifted the container. "Careful. It packs a punch."
Alan took a cautious sip and coughed. "I see what you mean."
Ch'Andeel downed half the contents of his own mug and sank back in his chair with a satisfied chirrup. "I am mosht pleashed with your performanshe in thish matter. I had a report of your encounter with the hijackersh. They apparently had shome knowledge of the cargo. You handled the affair well."
"Thanks," Mark said. "I take it you have other work for us, then."
"I do. If you will come back tomorrow morning, I shall inshtruct you on your next ashignment." He placed a pile of bills on the table before them. "Here ish payment for your job on Queshall. I hope eight hundred creditsh ish shufficient."
"Thanks," Linley said, pocketing the bills. "Listen, Andy, we also got some more goods for you. We stopped by our stash point on the way back an' picked up some stuff." He lifted a package to his lap and took a few articles from it. "Jasslu furs from Bellian -- genuine, I assure you." He spread the soft, silvery items on the table. "A muff, a hat, a stole and a cape, fit for a queen --"
"Or a Jil," Ch'Andeel said. He chirruped softly, examining the articles. "Three thoushand creditsh."
"Seven thousand-five," Mark said.
The haggling closed at fifty-seven hundred. Mark produced more items: two bottles of fifteen-year-old Sepo brandy and a brooch, sparkling with blue diamonds. Ch'andeel paid handsomely for the merchandise. "You have more?"
"Oh, yes," Mark said airily. "Not with us, though. Still interested?"
"Mosht shertainly!"
"Good. We'll bring more back, next time." Mark got to his feet. "C'mon, kiddo. We got some celebratin' t'do."
They stopped at a small clothing shop on the way back to their motel and purchased more respectable clothing, as well as two raincoats. Then, they proceeded to the Shady Inn, showered and changed into the new clothing. Alan was now clad in dark slacks and a deep blue shirt, open at the collar and breast in the latest style. He had bought soft, ankle-high shoes at the store, and now slipped his feet into them with a sigh.
"Brother, that feels good. Those others were giving me blisters."
"I'd noticed," Mark said, dryly. "Guess bein' the little guy is as bad as bein' the big one, huh? I never could find shoes that fit when I was a kid."
"Maybe," Alan admitted.
Linley had bought only a new raincoat and a pair of shoes. From his suitcase, he obtained clean, respectable clothing. "You ready to go?"
Alan got to his feet, looking a little nervous. "I'm not sure about this, Mark."
"You'll do fine," Mark said, reassuringly. "We'll have a great time." He slipped on his raincoat. "Let's go. I'm starvin'."
**********
tbc
