Symbiote: 10/10
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
XII
"Alan! Wake up!"
The voice registered slowly on Alan's consciousness. He crooked an arm across his eyes, trying to block out the light shining in his face.
"Alan?"
"Lemme 'lone." He tried to turn over but Mark Linley's hand was on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He removed his arm reluctantly and opened his eyes.
Mark was looking down at him, grinning a little. "Man, kiddo, you musta got a real lungful o' that gas. Eric an' me woke up a good twenty minutes ago."
Alan blinked, confused. "Mark?"
"Yeah. Howya feel?"
A tall, redheaded man appeared behind Linley, holding out a small, yellow capsule in his fingers. "Here, Strike Commander. This'll wake him up."
Mark took it and snapped it sharply under Alan's nose. Alan jerked back at the sharp, acrid odor, coughing. "Wow!"
Linley grinned, tossing the remainder of the capsule into a disposal chute. "You awake, now?"
Alan coughed again. "I sure am!"
"You shoulda been brought around like I was," Mark said with a chuckle. "Gettin' a nice, deep mind probe from a sweet li'l cupcake known as Ruthie."
"A mind probe!" Alan sat up with a jerk. "What *for*?"
"Don't get upset," Linley said calmly. "I been probed hundreds o' times by Jils. One more time ain't gonna hurt me, none. These guys can't afford t'take chances, y'know. I was a Strike Commander: youngest ever promoted to the rank an' sharpest in the business. The Jils are smart operators, an' they wanta bust up the Underground. You're an untrained psychic. The Underground was bound t'be lookin' for you. If I'd turned out t'be a spy, it coulda been a disaster for 'em." He paused. "You can see why Captain Connors hadta check me out."
"I guess so," Alan said, grudgingly.
"Good," Mark said. "Then let's forget it." He turned and nodded to the other occupants of the room. One was the boy they had met earlier. He was seated in an armchair, and beside him was a small girl with brown curls and deep brown eyes. She smiled happily at Alan.
"You remember Eric," Mark said, unnecessarily. "The pretty lady here is his partner, Ruthie Channin'. She dropped that sleep pellet that knocked the 'trols -- an' us -- for a loop. They been huntin' you since that mess on Midgard."
Alan stared at the two young psychics for a long moment, and then looked more closely at Eric, striving to remember something. "Hi," he said finally. "Have we met before? You look awfully familiar."
Eric grinned widely and nodded. "I should," he said. "I kept trying to talk to you for days on Midgard, but you ignored me."
"You were?" Alan wrinkled his brow. "I don't ..." He paused. "I almost remember. I think I heard you call my name, once. It woke me up."
Eric laughed wryly. "We'd nearly caught up with you when the Patrol found you and took you on board the battlecruiser. Phil borrowed a patrolman's uniform and followed, but Strike Commander Linley beat him to the draw."
"Then how did you find us?" Alan asked. "Mark and I didn't think there was a very good chance of it."
"There wouldn't have been," Phil Connors said, "if your friend hadn't given us some help. Of course, that's probably what got the Jil on your track, too, but I guess it was a chance worth taking."
"What do you mean?" Alan asked.
"Well," Phil said, "after the two of you got away from the 'Wolverine', it occurred to us that a Patrol Strike Commander might figure we were the best bet for a Terran psychic and head for a planet where he knew the Underground was very active --"
"I did," Linley said.
"But," Phil continued, "that includes quite a number of planets. We notified all our people to watch for you and yesterday one of our bases sent us word about that incident with the 'Juggernaut'. Our records indicated that Strike Commander Linley was a native of Shallock, and it didn't seem very logical for him to identify himself like that unless he was trying to attract attention. We decided it might be a message to us and took the chance."
"Well," Mark said, "it was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment. Seemed like too a good chance to miss."
"It worked, too," Connors said. "We alerted all our Shallockian agents right away to keep an eye out for you, especially in Scaifen and Knitsmye, since the Saberclaws are known to run through there. Not too long after that, we got a report that Strike Commander Linley had been identified in Andy's Oddities, but that you disappeared before you could be contacted. We notified all our people in Knitsmye that you were definitely in the vicinity, and to watch for you -- and at the same time we began getting reports from our plants in the Patrol that there was a full-fledged manhunt going on for you on that side, too. Anyhow, a few hours later, we got *another* report from Lola's that Alan had been identified. There couldn't be any mistake, because the identification was made by a psychic who had actually read Alan's mind. Eric and I arrived at the jail right after the paddy wagon, and heard about the mass escape. We figured that was probably Alan's work. It wasn't long after that when we got the word that a couple of Jil tracers had been called in, so we decided that Eric better risk trying to locate you before it was too late."
"Wait a minute," Alan said. "You're not saying that Andy's an Underground agent?"
"No," Phil told him, "but the woman behind the counter is. And so were the two young ladies you encountered in Lola's last night. Cindy's a psychic, and she read you, Alan. Then the fight started and you got separated, so she ran to find Mark, but he was already gone." Connors grinned suddenly at Linley's expression. "Take it easy, Strike Commander. Trixie's an agent, but she's also exactly what she seemed last night. Good at her work, isn't she?"
"Yeah," Mark said, awestruck.
"It's a good spot to place our people in," Connors said, still grinning slightly. "A lot of 'trols frequent Lola's and men talk more freely after a little wine and friendly recreation."
"I guess so," Linley said. "Man, you people are a lot more organized than I thought."
"Of course," Connors said, mildly. "If we looked too dangerous, the Jils might get alarmed and start something too soon. We aren't ready for war -- yet. Anyhow," he resumed, "Eric tried to trace you. He's a clairvoyant, like Linthvar. You know what happened after that."
Eric was holding something out to him. Alan took the small photograph, swallowing. "Where did you get this?"
"Our man at the Academy made it to your room before Salthvor did and sent it to me," Connors said. "Eric needed something to trace you with."
"This was taken two days before my family was killed," Alan said. "Thanks for getting it back."
"No problem. Articles of sentimental value are the best for psychic tracing," Eric said.
A man entered the room, holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. "Here you go, fellas. Everybody feelin' better, I hope?"
Alan accepted the mug. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. I'm Rocky Lang, C. O. o' this station. Gladta meetcha -- finally."
Linley rose, extending a hand. "A Shallockian? How'd you get mixed up with this bunch?"
Lang shook hands. "That's a long story, Strike Commander. I had a younger brother who was a psychic. We didn't find out 'til too late." He looked grim for a moment. "The Underground gave me a chance to pay the Jils back. I been payin' 'em back for six years." He grinned savagely, seating himself in one of the room's armchairs. "We get people from everywhere. You're the first Strike Commander, though, an' I gotta say, I thought we were *never* gonna find you! You kept turnin' up, an' then vanishin' again, right under our noses."
Linley took a swig of coffee. "So, what happens to us now?"
"Now you join the Underground," Rocky said. "There ain't much else you *can* do."
"It's that, or disappear quietly from the Sector, huh?" Mark said. "Now that you've disclosed all your secrets to us, you can't let us go."
Lang raised an eyebrow. "I thoughtcha wanted to join."
"Sure do." Linley finished the last of his coffee. "Where do we sign?"
Lang grinned. "They'll take care o' that back at the main base. Right now, we gotta getcha offworld. The Jils still ain't stopped huntin' for you. They're madder'n ever since you put Linthvar in the hospital. We got people out there, throwin' out decoys, but they won't be able t'keep it up much longer."
"Sounds good t'me," Linley told him. "While we're waitin', maybe you can explain what's been happenin' to us." He turned to Alan. "Tell him."
"Sure." Alan sat up straighter. "The strangest things have been happening since we met! I mean, I didn't even know I was a psychic until I met Mark, but --"
"He's been communicatin' telepathically with me," Linley said. "Damnedest thing I ever had happen."
"But you'd already figured it out," Ruthie said, dimpling at him. "I read that when I probed your mind. You're psychically linked, of course."
"But, dammit, I ain't a psychic!" Mark said. "Am I?"
Ruthie shook her head. "No."
"Then, how the hell --"
"I don't know," Eric interrupted. "We've never seen anything like it before, but you two seem to have done it. You're psychic partners, all right. Our experts will be very interested in you."
"I guess that explains a lotta things," Linley said, thoughtfully. "I saw one psychic burn down fifteen 'trols without battin' an eye to pull her partner outta trouble, an' I've heard of things like it."
"Alan did more than that." Eric cast Alan a respectful look. "He killed a Jil to save you, Strike Commander, and that batch with Linthvar, tonight, will never be the same. My mother and father were psychic partners. She was killed trying to save him from the Patrol, two years ago." He turned his head suddenly and stood up. "I think you should go to the Communications room, Major Lang."
Rocky glanced at him. "Message?"
"I think so."
A young man stuck his head in the door. "Message, sir. Ship's on its way. They'll be landing at point Theta in twenty minutes."
"Thank you, Dan." Lang motioned to Alan and Mark. "Better move. Your things are here." He led the way from the room.
Alan stared in surprise at Mark's suitcases beside the door, and next to it, half a dozen crates, a black and scarlet uniform and the silver helmet of a Strike Commander.
"We found out which motel you were staying at when Ruthie probed Mark's mind," Eric said, answering his unspoken question. "We found your cave the same way."
"How long is this mind probin' gonna go on?" Linley sounded slightly annoyed.
"It's over, Strike Commander," Ruthie told him. "It's against regulations for psychics to read the minds of other Underground members -- unless it's with their consent."
"That's good," Mark said. "I've had enough o' that from the Jils in the last ten years. An' you can call me Mark, cupcake."
Phil picked up the suitcase. "What do you want to do with the rest of this?"
"Well ..." Linley considered. "There's some stuff in there that the Underground might get some use out of. Small arms, mostly, an' virtual microchips, an' so forth. The other stuff --" He looked at Alan. "Whatcha think?"
"Sell it to Andy," Alan said. "He'll be glad to get it."
"Okay by me," Mark said. "An' tell him thanks for us."
"Ch'Andeel it is," Phil said, cheerfully. "Let's go."
"Just a sec." Mark reached into one of the boxes and withdrew a pair of tall, expensive-looking bottles that Alan recognized as Riskellian moonwine. "Think I'll just take these along." He winked at Alan. "Sound good t'you, kiddo?"
"Sure," Alan said.
Mark picked up the silver helmet by its strap. "Think I'll take this, too -- just for a souvenir. It'll remind me o' what I left behind -- an' good riddance. Let's go."
**********
Epilogue
The Patrol battlecruiser "Wolverine" came out of hyperspace over Shallock. Lieutenant Joe Landers, a native of the planet, was in temporary command, due to the desertion of Strike Commander Linley and the investigation of Subcommander Wolenski. The lieutenant was feeling rather stunned -- a state of mind that he shared with the rest of the crew. It was hard to believe that his Strike Commander, the stoic, unwavering Mark Steven Linley, could have done such a rash, crazy, totally unprecedented thing as this!
The communications board beeped. "Knitsmye Control to 'Wolverine'."
Sublieutenant Elliott, at the communications station, answered the hail. "This is the 'Wolverine'."
"'Wolverine', we are pickin' up an unidentified vessel, bearin' 4792, departin' Shallock in a big hurry. You are ordered to detain the vessel an' bring in its passengers -- alive, if possible."
Landers glanced at Elliott. "Orders received an' understood."
"I have him on the viewscreen," Elliot said.
The tiny spark was moving away from them at maximum velocity. Joe glanced at one of the men at the control board. "Well, Packy?"
Sublieutenant Packardi, at the scanners, shook his head. "They're clearing the pull. Should go into hyperspace in a few seconds."
"Probably another damned smuggler, anyway," Elliott said. "I don't see what Knitsmye Control's getting so upset about."
"Open a frequency, Ellie," Landers said. He sighed. "I always feel like a damn fool tellin' 'em t'come back when I know they ain't gonna do it."
There was a faint crackle of static, and Elliott nodded to Landers. "Go ahead, sir."
"Unidentified scout ship, this is the Patrol! Respond at once!"
No reply.
"'Wolverine' to scout; are you receivin' us? Respond immediately!
"He's cleared the pull," Packardi said. "Estimated time to hyperspace, thirty-six seconds."
"'Wolverine' to scout, you are ordered to surrender at once --"
A voice spoke unexpectedly over the unit. "Hi there, Joe! How's Wolly?"
The sound of that clear, deep baritone snapped Landers instinctively to attention.
"He's in the hospital, sir. He ..." Landers gulped. "Strike Commander," he said faintly, "is that *you*?"
"Damn right it's me! How bad did they hurt him?"
Landers swallowed convulsively. "He'll be okay, sir." The lieutenant looked helplessly across at his communications officer. He cleared his throat. "Strike Commander Linley," he said, formally, "we understand you were taken at blasterpoint, and if you will surrender now --"
He heard Linley laugh. "Nothin' doin'. 'Sides, I wasn't taken at blasterpoint, an' you know it. We're goin' into hyperspace now. Here, kid, say 'bye to the lieutenant."
A boyish tenor emerged from the unit. "Hi, Lieutenant. Tell Subcommander Wolenski I'm awfully sorry."
"Is this *Westover*?" Landers sat up straight. "Now, wait a minute, you two --"
"'Bye, Joe," Linley's voice said.
The ship on their scanners vanished.
The End
