Legacy: 1/4
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Copyright statement: This story is an original work by the two authors and is copyrighted to Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick. Any resemblance of any character to any other person, living, dead or fictional is coincidental and unintentional.
This is part of the Terran Underground series.
I
Nola Warwick pushed open the unpowered door of her little apartment on Sonlit Street in the city of Scaifen. As usual, even in the rainy season on this part of Shallock, it was hot and the air was heavy with humidity. She had just finished her shift at the Alley Cat Bar, and she was tired. Carl had promised to pick her up after work, but he had not arrived. She waited thirty minutes, and finally accepted a ride home with a girlfriend. Irritation, blended with fatigue, tugged at her as she shut the door behind her, locking it securely. In Scaifen, everyone locked their doors, day and night.
She glanced at her chronometer, trying to quell her annoyance. The videophone shrilled, and she punched the accept button, expecting to see the dark, handsome features of Carl de la Corte appear on the screen.
The face of a scaled Arcturian materialized. "Congratulationss, Madam," he purred. "We have sselected your name at random, from ze many namess at our disspossal ..."
Nola hung up. The scaled face vanished, and she sank into a chair, propping her feet on a table. Mark would be home from school in another half hour. She should probably put together a meal for the two of them, but the temptation to rest for a few minutes was too much. Her feet hurt, and she flexed her toes in the high-heeled sandals.
Mark. An idea occurred to her with a sinking feeling. It was possible that Carl had found out at last about her little indiscretion, eleven years ago. When they had become serious, she had intended to tell him, but somehow had not been able to work up her nerve. It was hardly an unknown occurrence on Shallock, after all, she rationalized. Half her friends at the bar had children out of wedlock. Little Shirley Jassoms, in fact, had four, all with different fathers.
However, Mark was rather a special case. She had named him after his father, long before his father's name became notorious throughout the Rovalli Sector. Could that be the reason Carl hadn't appeared? Perhaps he had found out, and, like the last man that Nola had become involved with, decided he wanted nothing to do with any relation of the infamous Mark Linley.
Nola sighed, trying to tell herself that if he felt that way, he wasn't worth it anyhow. She couldn't quite convince herself. The thought hurt. At nineteen she had been innocent--well, innocent for a Shallockian girl. Sublieutenant Mark Linley, as she remembered him, had been handsome, charming, and a persuasive talker. Even then, she had known he was after only one thing. But, thinking back now, she remembered he had made no promises. She wondered idly if he had ever been refused by a woman.
A pounding on the door brought her sharply back to the present. Faintly, through the panel, she heard a voice, shouting her name.
"Nola! Nola, it's me, Carl! Open the door!"
Nola leaped up, running a quick hand through her mussed hair, and ran to the door, pulling it wide. "Carl, where were you? I waited --"
He pushed past her into the room, slammed it, and rammed the bolt into place. As the panel closed, Nola caught the pound of feet on the steps leading up to her apartment door.
"Carl, what are you --"
He grabbed her hands, and she felt him press a crumpled slip of paper into her palm. Automatically, her hand closed over it. "Nola!" His voice was tightly controlled. "Take this to Mirabelle's Bar."
He was interrupted. A fist pounded on the door. "Viceregal Patrol! Open up immediately!"
"Give it to Tanya! She's a stripper there! Hurry!"
Nola stared at him. "The Patrol!"
A booted foot hit the door, and the panel creaked ominously. Carl gave her a push. "Go on! Run!"
A blaster cracked, and the door sagged inward. Patrolmen charged through. Nola ran.
She went through the door to the kitchen, stuffing the paper into her bra, and hearing shouts and the crack of blasters behind her. As she reached the back exit, a tremendous explosion hurled her forward. The panel sprang outward as her weight hit the partially opened door. She half fell down the stairs, skinning her palms and both knees upon landing.
A blaster cracked above her, and a smoking hole appeared in the floor beside her. Nola froze, lifting her hands over her head. "Don't shoot!" she cried. "I give up!"
The patrolman came down the steps, his blaster pointed at Nola. "On your face, baby!" he barked.
Nola lay down, hands over her head. The patrolman patted her clothing, then her bottom. He pulled her hands behind her, and restrainers clicked around her wrists.
"Please!" she tried. "I don't know what this is all about!"
The man lifted her upright. "That ain't none o' my business, baby. You were caught with an Undergrounder. C'mon." He took her elbow, ushering her into the street. A Patrol aircar was parked before the apartment, and the man propelled her toward it.
"An Undergrounder!" The tiny wad of crumpled paper scratched her slightly as she inhaled. "Carl?"
"You better believe it." He pulled the door open, half lifting her inside, "Don't try nothin', now. You're too cute to get all roughed up." He slammed the door and strode around the vehicle to the driver's side.
II
Mark Warwick strolled along the unmoving slidewalk on the way home from school. He was feeling good. Classes were out for three whole days. The gang was meeting the Eastside Raiders tomorrow night, and the results would determine the new boundaries of their respective territories. Mark had no doubt that the Black Sabreclaws would come off victorious. The guys were tough -- tougher than the Raiders, for sure. He was a popular member, too, although he had only been with the gang for three months. The Black Sabreclaws bragged that Mark Linley himself had once been their leader, and Mark Linley was his father. Mark Warwick was very proud of that fact. True, none of the guys now with the gang had been there when Linley was the leader, but the Sabreclaws never forgot the fact that the famous Jil killer had once been one of them. It was a status symbol of which they were very proud.
Mom would be home from work by now, unless she had a date with Carl. Mark considered the possibility that Carl might become his new father without emotion. Some of the guys at school had dads living at home, and some didn't. Some of their moms just had live-in boyfriends. It didn't make much difference to him, but if it made his mother happy, then he wanted Carl to marry her. Maybe then she wouldn't have to work at that dinky little strip joint anymore. He knew she didn't like it, although she had never said anything. But at least she had a job, and it kept her away from the worst of the scaff and raff from the Patrol. Not like the gals that served the customers in other ways. His mom wasn't stupid. Supporting him was just about all she could manage. She had never said so, but he knew it just the same.
He was approaching the street where he lived, and suddenly a tingle was running down his spine. Something was wrong. He had known these warnings from babyhood, and took them for granted. It was one of the reasons that he tended to keep out of serious trouble in Shallock's slums. He always knew when a mugger or child-snatcher had him targeted, and was able to avoid them. But now his mother was in trouble -- that much was certain. Mark began to run.
He was less than a block from home when he heard the explosion. Mark increased his pace, jamming a hand into the pocket where his switchblade resided, thinking nothing of the weapon. All the street kids carried-them, and many carried much worse. As well go out naked as without your knife -- better, in fact, for you could always get more clothes, but meeting an opponent without a weapon could be fatal.
He rounded the corner on flying feet. Smoke was pouring from the window of their apartment, and a Patrol aircar was parked in the street before it. People were pausing, gaping up at the billowing smoke. Mark Warwick acted on instinct. No one was watching him. He ran over to the car, an image of the lock materializing before his eyes. It was secured, but only for a moment. In his mind the lock moved back, and he grasped the handle to the rear door, pulling it open. Without hesitation, he scrambled inside, crouching low, the switchblade clutched in one hand. The door clicked shut behind him.
Still in his mind he saw it. A 'trol emerged from the rear of the apartment building, leading his mother by one arm. He heard the talk, and the excited questions of the spectators suddenly become hushed. The front door of the passenger side opened, and the man pushed his mom roughly inside. Mark remained perfectly still. He was short and skinny -- people always thought he was a couple of years younger than he really was, and he took advantage of it a lot. His size was an advantage now, for it was unlikely the 'trol would notice him, scrunched down as he was behind the front seat. The man strode around the vehicle and got behind the controls. The car lifted from the street.
Mark came quietly to his feet and reached forward placing the razor sharp blade against the driver's gullet. "Don't move, 'trol," he said quietly.
The patrolman froze. Mark reached carefully down and removed the blaster from its holster, alert to any hint that the 'trol might resist.
Abruptly the warning came, although the man had not moved. Mark tightened the knife blade. "Don't *move* 'trol" he repeated. "Or I'll cut your windpipe!" He flipped the blaster to stun with his thumb, and fired.
He removed the knife, as his victim slumped forward across the controls, Mark came easily over the seat, pushing the fellow aside, and grabbed them himself, as the car dipped sharply. His mother was looking at him, smiling proudly.
"Hi, Mom." He removed the keys from the patrolman's belt, and took the restrainers from her wrists. "Did he hurtcha?"
"No." She rubbed her wrists. "Thanks."
Mark shoved the driver toward the middle of the seat with a grunt of effort. "He's heavy. Canya pull from your side?"
Together they pulled and tugged, positioning the man between them. Mark fastened his hands behind him with the restrainers. "There," he remarked. "That'll hold 'im awhile. What's goin' on?"
Nola sighed. "I'm not sure. Carl came burstin' into the apartment and handed me a note." She drew the crumpled piece of paper from her bosom, and opened it. "He said to take it to Mirabelle's, and give it to a stripper named Tanya. This guy said Carl was an Undergrounder."
"Really?" Mark felt a thrill. "Oh, man! Guess we better do what Carl said, then. I been hopin' I'd get a chance to meet an Undergrounder someday, anyhow." He paused, "What happened to Carl?"
"I don't know." Nola swallowed. "But I think he's dead. When I ran out there was this awful explosion behind me."
"I heard it," Mark said. "Sounded bad, and the apartment was on fire. Don't sound good, does it?"
"No." Nola wiped a hand across her eyes. "No, it doesn't."
Mark glanced sideways at her. "I'm sorry, Mom." He put a hand on her arm. The patrolman slumped sideways onto her and Mark cussed, pushing the man's head forward. He sagged to the floor, and Mark aimed a kick at the unconscious form. "Look, let's get ridda this guy, and then head for Mirabelle's."
Nola nodded, and Mark could tell she was fighting back tears. "All right."
Mark looked away. He didn't like it when his mom was unhappy, but if Carl was dead there wasn't anything either of them could do about it. Things like that happened all the time -- well, maybe Undergrounders didn't blow themselves up in his neighborhood a lot, but people got killed in accidents or fights, or just died. Mark had seen a lot of it in his ten years. You just had to accept it and go on. There wasn't anything else to do. In Scaifen, life was uncertain at best, and survival had to be your top priority.
The aircar circled around, losing altitude. Shallock street kids learned early to pilot aircars. A friend of Mark's had taught him, and, like everything else, Mark had learned rapidly and well. He set the vehicle onto the roof of a condemned building and aimed another kick at his prisoner. "Get up, trenchcrawler."
The patrolman groaned, beginning to retch.
"Get his helmet," Mark said, leveling the blaster at his victim. "His communicator's in it."
She obeyed, unfastening the strap and pulling the silver dome from his head. The man started to throw up.
"Do it outside, 'trol," Mark said, unfeelingly. This trencher had hurt his mom and made her cry, and that was unforgivable. He climbed out, gesturing with the weapon. "Get the hell outta the car."
The man heaved himself to the seat and crawled over Nola's lap out of the vehicle. He slumped to the rubble at Mark's feet, groaning. Mark stunned him again, then stepped over his sprawled body into the aircar once more. His mother was smiling through her tears. "You're your father's son, Mark."
He didn't answer. The car soared upward again and turned southward toward Mirabelle's Bar.
**********
tbc
