Legacy: 3/4
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
V
"Alan!" Janice called. "Come here, quick!"
Alan Westover jumped to his feet at the sound of his sister's voice in his mind, and ran up the stairs. As he entered the communications room, a deep, crisp voice was emerging from the receiver. Janice beckoned to him, her eyes shining.
"What's going on?" Mark entered the room behind Alan. "More transmissions?"
Janice nodded vigorously, motioning him to silence.
"...Just received a call from Corporal Christian, Sergeant. He wasn't hurt, but his aircar was taken from him, and he was left in a deserted building, stunned and cuffed. He apparently took the Warwick woman prisoner, but then a small child, about seven years old, put a knife to his throat from the back seat of his aircar." The voice paused. "Man, was he ever embarrassed! Can't figure out how the kid got in the car. The doors were locked... but you know these street kids. The aircar was last seen over the tenement buildings on Floral Boulevard around the 1500 block."
"Which way did it go?"
"He didn't know. The kid stunned him."
Soft mutterings. "Oh, man, he'll never live that down. Anything from the Alley Cat?"
"Naw. We picked up the manager and a couple of the waitresses. Poor souls didn't have the faintest idea of what was going on. Bet anything you like they aren't Undergrounders. I gave 'em to Lord Aprithvor, and he's going to interrogate them. The waitresses are knockouts."
"Oh yeah?" The sergeant sounded interested. "Maybe we can do a little comforting after the interrogation's over, huh?"
"Doubt if they'll be in the mood for it, but we can give it a shot. There's a little one named Gwendolyn..." The voice stopped abruptly, and there was excited speech in the background. The voice returned abruptly. "All Patrol vehicles in the vicinity proceed at once to Makal Street. The stolen Patrol vehicle has been sighted. All units converge on Mirabelle's Bar--"
Rocky Lang was breathing down Alan's neck. "You two better go see what you can do. Lyn..." He spoke before she could protest. "You stay here and let me know right away if there's any trouble. Janice, you call Mirabelle's. Ask for Vannar, and tell him to get our people outta there. I'll notify the other units."
Somebody was thrusting a bundle of black clothing into Linley's hands. He grabbed Alan by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs. "Come on, kid. Let's go."
Lyn ran down the stairs. after them, another wad of black and scarlet clothing in her hands, and swinging the silver helmet by the strap. Alan was far too short to impersonate a patrolman, but in the cab of the aircar his size would not be noticed, and by wearing the uniform and helmet, he would avoid attention.
They reached the roomy garage and got into the Patrol aircar that had been moved from behind its concealing wall. Alan gave Lyn a quick kiss. "I'll be in contact the whole time, honey."
"Take care of him, Mark," she said, looking past Alan at Linley's big form.
Mark had stripped off his shirt, and started to pull the Patrol tunic over his muscular torso. He winked at her. "Don't I always?"
Lyn smiled and stepped back. A moment later, the aircar rose like a bullet into the sky, and turned east toward Scaifen.
**********
The Patrol aircar containing Kevin Bronson, the blond woman, and his youthful captor rose upward at a steep angle. The rain was pouring down, the wind howling around the little craft. It was rush hour, and the sky was crowded with air traffic. He turned sharply, dodging directly into one of the main streams of vehicles. They veered away at his approach, horns blaring.
"They're gettin' nearer." Again the childish treble from the rear seat. "You can do better'n that, 'trol."
"Holy hell!" Kevin swerved an air taxi, which veered left, horn blasting like an air raid siren. "I don't want 'em to catch us either, you crazy kid! M'name's Kevin Bronson! I'm with the Terran Underground!"
He heard a shrill intake of breath, then the child's voice again. "I can't trust you, Mister. Those damned 'trols showed up awful convenient. Drive."
"I am, dammit!" Bronson swerved another car. "Listen to me! I'm Kevin Bronson. You musta seen me on the video when I shot Tralthvor! Mark Linley -- Strike Commander Linley -- he's m'half brother. I can take you to the Underground, an' you'll be safe. But it ain't helpin' things one bit havin' that damned blaster stickin' in my ear!"
"Shuddup and drive."
Bronson swore and obeyed. A family car appeared before them, and he caught a glimpse of children's faces at the windows. He swerved again, badly hampered by the heavy traffic, now slowing dramatically due to the mad driver in their midst, not to mention the poor visibility. The car plunged downward again, and the sleek, silver body of a Jilectan limousine appeared out of the rain. He saw the driver's face as though in a dream. A Procyon, the blue fluff standing out straight, beaked mouth agape. The creature pulled the car sharply to the left, and Kevin tried to avoid the vehicle by going over it. Another car clipped him, slamming him downward into the Jilectan's car. He heard the awful crunch as the vehicles connected, and another shrill cry from the rear seat. The tailfin of the limousine snagged with the undercarriage of the Patrol craft, and both vehicles spun, hooked together in a slow, lazy pivot. Bronson swore unimaginatively as the tailfin of the heavier car tore their landing gear free. Suddenly released, they plunged forward. Kevin clung to the controls, trying frantically to regain control. He heard the blond woman give a faint scream.
"You knocked the damn Jil outta the sky!" The boy sounded ecstatic. Behind them there was a massive crash, and a couple of seconds later a muffled explosion.
"Holy space! His car blew up!" The boy pounded Kevin on the shoulder, then pressed the blaster to his ear again. "Maybe, you ain't a 'trol after all, mister."
Kevin was too busy to answer. Something had been damaged during the collision with the Jilectan's car, for the engine was sputtering. The pursuing Patrol craft were far behind, now, and the rain was pouring down blindingly -- a typical Shallockian summer rainstorm. Thunder crashed deafeningly overhead, and gusts of wind buffeted their limping vehicle this way and that. The engine hiccupped once more, gave a thin whine, and went silent.
"Hang on!" Kevin brought the car down toward the flooded streets and the tenement buildings below.
They hit hard, sliding forward into a pile of stacked garbage cans, which came crashing and clanging down all about them. They skidded sideways into a parked ground vehicle, spun wildly as Kevin tried frantically to regain control, and came to a stop, their nose buried in a pile of wooden crates, which tumbled down on all sides, splintering to matchwood on the pavement.
For a second nobody moved. The woman next to him in the passenger seat was slumped against the door, her blond hair falling across her face. Bronson pulled the safety strap free and shoved open his own door, hearing the thin wail of sirens, distant, but growing steadily nearer. He grabbed the woman by the wrist.
"Come on, honey," he snapped. "We gotta get outta here. The Patrol's comin' fast. You okay, kid?"
"Yeah." The voice was breathless. Bronson leaned forward over the woman, brushing her fumbling hands out of the way, and unsnapped her safety webbing, dragging her unceremoniously across the seat, and out of the car. She staggered as she came to her feet, and Bronson grabbed her around the waist.
The boy was fumbling with the rear door, cursing fluently in the manner of most Shallockian street kids. Bronson caught a glimpse of a short, compact frame and longish, wet blond hair as the door opened suddenly, and the boy half fell forward into the street. Behind them, through the pouring rain, and the rumble of thunder, the sirens of the Patrol craft were growing louder. Bronson glanced frantically around. The sun had set, and not six meters away a doorway loomed in the wall, a slightly darker rectangle in the deepening twilight. Without a second thought, he ran toward it, half carrying the woman, the boy crowding his heels.
It was pitch black inside the building, the only light of any sort a faint, half-hearted grey glow from what must be windows here and there. Bronson grasped the boy by the wrist, one arm still around the woman, and led them into the deeper gloom, away from those windows as fast as he could manage. This stuff had once been middle-class Jil housing, and as such had once been scanner resistant. Traces of the shielding still remained, and made searches through the structures difficult, as Kevin knew through experience.
"This way." The boy spoke suddenly. "There's a doorway. Watch out for the step." Kevin felt a tug at his hand. They went through the opening, and Bronson nearly tripped as the ground seemed to disappear beneath his foot. His youthful companion caught his arm.
"Careful. I said there was a step."
Bronson felt around. There was floor below, farther down than he'd expected. He helped the woman down the step, and heard the click of a panel closing behind them.
"Guess you ain't a 'trol after all," the voice of the boy said quite matter-of-factly.
"What was your first clue?" Kevin grunted. "You okay, baby?"
"Yeah." Her voice was shaky.
"Good." Kevin started slowly forward. "We better make tracks. I think they've spotted the car. At least there's a lotta these buildin's for 'em to hafta search. Oughtta keep 'em occupied for awhile."
The sirens were converging on the street outside, screaming like banshees, then coming to a gurgling stop. Bronson took another step, and his ankle came into painful contact with something hard and unyielding. He muttered an imprecation under his breath, and moved his foot slowly forward, feeling his way with the toe of his boot. As he set his foot down, something turned beneath it and he stumbled, swearing again. There was a scrambling sound as some creature with multiple legs skittered across his boot, squealing. A trenchcrawler, no doubt. Kevin paused, straining his eyes in the darkness. There were soft mutterings around him, and something else shot past his ear with a shrill squeak. He swore again, jerking away, and banged his head against a rough, very hard surface. Rock came loose, raining on him. He heard the boy exclaim softly, then cuss again. The small, callused hand tugged at his wrist. "I'll lead. Follow me."
"Huh?" Kevin paused in puzzlement. "Now wait a minute --"
"Let him lead," the woman said.
Bronson started to protest again and then stopped as the boy guided them smoothly forward through the littered building. The woman clung to his robe, her feet slightly unsteady in the rubble.
"How the hell can you see, kid?" Kevin demanded, finally.
"I got good night vision. There's a flight o' steps here. Careful."
"You must have damned good eyesight, kid. I can't see a thing." Kevin felt cautiously forward with one foot, and located the drop off. The boy descended lightly, his feet silent on the broken stairs. Bronson and the woman followed noisily.
"Okay, here's the end of it." The boy strode unerringly ahead again, and they went around a sharp corner. Cobwebs brushed across Kevin's forehead, and something scurried away from his feet.
"There's someone ahead," the boy said.
"Gimmie your blaster, kid," Kevin whispered.
"I ain't got it. I lost it in the crash."
"Hell." Bronson pulled the two back as a hand light flickered ahead of them. Two patrolmen appeared, walking nervously, and flashing their lights around. The three fugitives remained perfectly still, trying to breathe quietly.
One of the men stumbled and went to one knee. He gave a strangled groan and sank back, rubbing the joint.
"You okay, sir?" The second patrolman bent to assist his companion.
"I think I busted my knee. There's a damn brick or somethin' --" The patrolman hurled the offending stone away. It flew straight toward the three fugitives.
Kevin tried to duck. The stone seemed to veer upwards at the last instant, striking the stone above and to one side of them.
"Here, sir, lemme help you." The first patrolman was assisting the officer to stand. "Just lean on me. There's stairs over here."
The two men vanished up the steps, their voices fading slowly. Kevin let out his breath after several moments. "Man! That was close! C'mon, let's go. What's your name, anyway, kid?"
"Mark," the boy said. "She's my mom."
"Nola Warwick," the woman said. "Thanks for your help, Subcommander Bronson. Sorry I didn't cooperate."
"It's Kevin. You didn't know. How'd you get into that mess in the first place?"
The boy had him by the wrist and was leading the way once more. "Careful. There's lotsa stones n' stuff."
With the departure of the patrolmen the room had once again become pitch dark, but little Mark Warwick seemed as sure footed as ever. Bronson followed, wondering.
"I don't know exactly what happened." It was the woman speaking in a whisper. "My boyfriend came to the apartment with the Patrol after him. He gave me this piece of paper and told me to take it to Tanya at Mirabelle's. I ran out the back, and there was an awful explosion behind me. Carl musta done it --"
"Carl?" Bronson asked sharply. "Carl de la Corte?"
"Yeah, that's right," Nola said. "How'd you know?"
"Tanya called us awhile ago. That's why I was at Mirabelle's -- to pick her up. She told us she thought Carl was dead."
"How'd she know?"
"She and Carl were psychic partners -- brother and sister. When he died, she knew it. Psychic partners always know," Bronson said soberly. "Better gimmie that paper, honey."
"Okay." There was a rustling sound, and Nola found his hand, pressing a crumpled slip of paper into it. Bronson concealed it beneath his robes.
"Thanks, honey." He squinted, trying to see through the gloom. "We' gotta get it to my bosses, pronto. With somethin' like this happenin' right now..." His voice trailed off.
"Why?" Mark Warwick asked.
"Huh?" He was startled out of his unpleasant thoughts. "Oh. We got somethin' real important gonna happen in the mornin'. The big bosses o' the Underground are havin' a summit meetin' somewhere on the planet. Could be connected. If the Jils are onto it, an' Carl found out..." He stopped.
"Mr. Bronson --" It was Nola. "What about Mark and me? The Patrol's after us now, and if they find out what we've been doin' --"
"Oh. Don't worry about that, baby. You were helpin' us. The Terran Underground protects its own. Hell, if they didn't, I'd a been in a helluva fix."
"Yeah," Mark agreed. "I remember howya blasted that Jil on the video. You mean you weren't plannin' to do that?"
"Not exactly." Bronson grinned slightly in memory. It seemed like, a dream now, those days in the Viceregal Patrol. "I'd caught Alan Westover, y'know. Man! I didn't know what I was lettin' m'self in for. I musta been nuts. I'll tellya all about it someday, kid. But I hadta break 'im out t'make up for it."
Mark laughed. "They callya the Crazy Subcommander at school."
"I know." Bronson snorted. "I ain't never gonna live that down if I make it to a thousand. I think I really musta been a little crazy about then, but I ain't sorry, kid. Not one bit."
"I was outta school that day," Mark said. "We all got the day off to watch Westover executed -- orders o' the Viceroy. It was an excitin' show, all right."
"But not quite what His Highness expected." Nola's voice sounded amused. "Whatever happened to the li'l guy, anyway? He looked awful sick when Strike Commander Linley carried him outta there."
"Oh, he's fine." Kevin said. "Zapped himself another Jil about three months later -- I was watchin' that time. Outdrew the so and so right in fronta me. Saved my skin, an' Mark's, too. I was with him right before I met you guys. Nice kid in spite o' his record. You'll like 'im. Everybody does."
"Except the Jils," Mark said.
"That goes without sayin'," Bronson said.
The boy's hand tightened in his. "Sh! Here comes another one!"
They moved back against the wall again as the man approached. He was alone, and walking nervously, flicking his light around.
"Wait here," Kevin whispered. "I'll slug the guy an' get his blaster."
"Careful," Nola whispered.
Kevin gave her a reassuring pat. "Be right back." He went quietly toward the patrolman guided by the flickering of the man's hand light. A small alcove presented itself, and he concealed himself within it, crouching slightly.
The searching patrolman came nearer, and Kevin readied himself. The man stepped even with the alcove. Bronson swung.
He struck the patrolman beneath the helmet, but his quarry did not fall as Kevin expected. He twisted around, catching Bronson by the loose robes, and fell backward, dragging his assailant with him. Kevin sailed ungracefully over the other man's head, but managed to get a grip on the Patrol tunic. They both came up hard against the wall, and more crumbling rock fell on them. Bronson's knee caught the patrolman in his stomach, and he could feel the hard bands of muscle across his opponent's midriff. He jabbed again, and an elbow caught him a glancing blow across the throat. Kevin gasped, almost choking. The patrolman was very strong, bigger, even, than Bronson, and well versed in hand to hand combat. The elbow hit him again, this time in the side of the head. He saw stars, and swung blindly, striking at the man's eyes. The patrolman parried, and seized his wrist, pulling Kevin back and down. A weight descended on his chest, and the patrolman got Bronson's arm in a painful hold. He couldn't breathe, nor could he break free. The man put an arm across his throat, and Bronson could see his face dimly by the light of the torch which had been dropped when he attacked.
There was the hum of a stunbolt and Kevin felt a tingle along one arm. The arm went numb. The other man gave a slurred curse and twisted around. Kevin wrenched his other arm from between their bodies and managed to shove the patrolman's body off of him. As he did so, the stunbeam hummed again.
Kevin sat up. His former opponent lay face down on the dirty floor. Mark Warwick heaved him to his side and removed the restrainers from his belt.
"You okay, Kevin?" the boy asked.
"Yeah." Bronson's voice sounded breathless even to himself. "Holy hell, kid. Where'd you get that?"
"It was his," Mark said. "He dropped it."
Kevin gave him a sharp look. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Ten and a half," Mark said.
Kevin began to unseal their victim's uniform. "You don't look that old."
"Yeah, I know." Mark sounded disgusted. "Can't figure out why. My dad was a real big guy, like you."
Nola laughed softly. Bronson glanced toward her, starting to pull off the patrolman's tunic. "Damn. He's got a helluva bloody nose. There's blood everywhere."
The cloth of the tunic had a large blotch of blood on the neck and chest. Nola picked up the discarded hand light and flashed it over Bronson. "Oh dear!"
"What?"
"You're sorta bloody. Oh well, no one should notice in the dark. Guess we're lucky it was his blood instead o' yours." She dabbed at Bronson's chin beneath the helmet. "Here take the light. I'll try to clean you off."
"Never mind." Kevin began to pull on the uniform The arm that had been hit with the stunbeam was full of pins and needles, but the feeling was coming back. Little Mark must have aimed very carefully -- which spoke well of his ability to keep his head in a crisis. He fumbled in the discarded burnoose, located the paper Nola had given him, and stuffed it into one of the belt pouches.
There was a supporting pillar a few feet away that had once been painted with delicate tracings of birds in flight. Kevin seized the patrolman by one arm and dragged him toward it.
Mark grabbed the man's other arm, and together they set him against the pillar. The boy fastened the man's wrists together around the pillar.
"There," he said. He fished around in the burnoose and located the face mask. "Let's just gag him good and we'll be on our way."
"Why not just kill him?" Mark inquired. "That way he can't yell for help."
Kevin grinned faintly. "That's not the way the Underground does things, kid," he said firmly. "We don't kill people without a good reason."
"Huh!" Mark said. He shrugged. "Okay, if you say so. Now what?"
"We gotta try'n get outta the buildin'. Lead us on through. Man, it sure sounds like they're havin' fun huntin' for us." He turned down the sound and switched the output to external speaker.
"... Having some problems in the south wing," the voice of a patrolman announced. "Lots of rubble and debris, and the walls keep crumbling on us. There's thousands of hiding places. This building should have been condemned years ago."
"It *is* condemned, you idiot! Nobody's ever got around to tearin' it down, that's all. Keep lookin'."
"Yessir. Patrolman Lyons is on his way up with Sergeant Austin. The sarge fell down a hole, and I think his ankle's busted."
The other voice swore. "Tell those jackasses down there to be careful! This is the third one in the last half hour."
"Yessir." There was a crash somewhere in the distance, and a muffled exclamation. "Is he okay?"
"Dunno, Corporal. They're digging him out now." Another voice broke into the circuit. "Wall came down on 'im." A short silence. "I dunno, sir."
"Who was it?"
"Sublieutenant Sutter, sir. Hell! He looks bad. There's blood all over, an' he's got an awful cut on his neck."
Another voice broke in. "I got pressure on the artery, sir. Bleedin's controlled. Man, he's really out!"
The corporal's voice spoke again. "We're bringing him up, sir. Still no sign of 'em."
"Keep lookin'." The other voice sounded resigned. "Scouts report in."
Kevin fumbled in his pouch. "Who the hell am I, anyhow?"
Mark glanced briefly at his helmet. "Patrolman Ware."
Bronson pressed the transmit button. "Patrolman Ware reportin' in. No luck."
The other scouts began to reply. Kevin switched the helmet's output back to his earphones and followed Mark through the darkness, Nola hanging onto his belt. For a few minutes they went on, encountering no one. A voice reached them from somewhere on their left, but came no nearer. They hid once more as another scout went by, walking briskly, blaster in hand.
When his footsteps had faded they went on. After a few minutes they came to a door and paused to consider their next move. Someone was speaking on the com, reporting the failure of two scouts to reply. More scouts were being dispatched to search for them. Kevin tried the door latch.
The door was locked. Kevin drew out his blaster, flipping it to needle beam.
"Just a minute," Mark Warwick stepped up to the door and put his hand on the latch.
"It's locked," said Bronson.
"No it ain't." There was a faint click, and the door swung silently open.
Kevin gaped at the boy's dim figure. "Holy --"
The boy grinned up at him. "See. I told you."
"It was locked!" Bronson put a large hand on the boy's shoulder. "Holy space! I know why you're so small, even though your dad was a big guy. You're a psychic!"
The boy's teeth flashed again. "Sure, I know. But what's that got to do with me bein' short?"
"All psychics are short, kid."
"No they ain't!"
"Yes they are. I been around enough of 'em to know. I'm with the Underground, remember?"
"Mark Linley's a psychic. an' he sure as hell ain't short!"
Bronson laughed. "Who told you Mark's a psychic?"
The boy shrugged. "Everybody knows that! He's Alan Westover's psychic partner!"
Kevin laughed again. "He's Alan's partner, all right, but he ain't a psychic ..." Bronson paused. "Well ... ah, hell, I'll explain it later. It's too complicated to go into now. But Mark's a special case, kid. Take it from me. Functionin' psychics are all short. It's tied in with their powers. Ain'tcha ever wondered why they call Alan Westover the *Little* Giant? He's the best we got -- and the shortest. He only comes to about the middle o' my chest. But he's one helluva psychic. Even Halthzor's scared of 'im. And you should meet his li'l sis! She's no bigger'n you."
"Oh." Mark was silent. Bronson peered into the darkened space beyond.
"Anybody there?"
"I hear 'em farther back. Not many, though. Most of 'em are way back behind us."
"Good." Bronson clapped him on the shoulder. "Kid, you are one helluva psychic, yourself. The Underground'll be awful happy to get hold o' you, all right. Let's go."
"Okay. Follow me." Mark stepped confidently through the opening, leading Kevin and Nola.
They entered another darkened room, but now there was the scent of fresh air and the feeling of dampness on their faces. They must be nearing an exit, Bronson thought, for he could hear the sound of the rain, and the rumble of thunder not very far away.
"Door to the street over that way." He could barely make out the silhouette of Mark Warwick's pointing finger in the gloom.
"Any 'trols around?"
"Yeah. A couple about three rooms off to the left, but they're goin' the other direction."
"Let's try it, then." Bronson gave him a nudge. "Go ahead, but keep your feelers out."
They crept quietly along, keeping close to the wall. A small, filthy window appeared ahead, and they paused, peering out into the rainy street. The storm had not abated and lightning flashed eerily across the cloudy sky, to be succeeded by a crash of thunder that made the building quiver. An occasional light broke the otherwise utter darkness outside.
"Front o' the buildin'," Mark whispered.
"Okay, hold it." Bronson turned his face to the wall, pressing the com button. "This is Patrolman Ware. Come in."
"Sublieutenant Janzer here. Go ahead, Ware."
"I just saw a guy in a burnoose, and a blonde headin' over the roof o' the buildin' north o' this one. They were usin' the fire escape."
"Acknowledged, Ware. All units to the north side, on the double!"
Somewhere there was a clatter of feet, and excited voices, fading almost at once. The building became quiet once more, except for the rain. Far away there was a mighty crash. Mark snickered.
They moved forward again, the wall gritting beneath Bronson's groping hand. A door opened somewhere ahead of them, and two figures charged through, lights playing over the ruined room. They sprinted across the center of the floor, and there was another crash, followed by a savage curse. "You hurt, Max?" No answer. More crashing, and the rattle of rocks raining downward. "Max! Answer me, dammit!" Still no answer.
A scuffling noise, and a muffled curse. "Max, where... eeaahhh!" There was a splintering thump, and more rattling. Somebody groaned. Mark snickered again.
"They fell through a weak spot in the floor," he remarked, casually. "It's a good, long drop to the basement. That's why I was keepin' us near the wall. "
"Sounded like it." Bronson grinned. "You're a kid after my own heart, kiddo."
The boy was moving again. "Here's the door. Hold it. Here comes another one."
They pressed back against the wall as the door opened and a patrolman peered in. Warm, moist air wafted on Bronson's face.
"Max? Tom? Are you okay?"
No reply. The man's hand light played over the floor, revealing a gaping hole with jagged edges. Dust motes still billowed from it, dancing merrily in the beam.
"Holy space!" The patrolman came quickly forward. "Max! Tom!" He reached the edge of the hole. Kevin's blaster hummed softly, and he pitched forward into it. There was an echoing thud. The light vanished with a shattering sound.
"Okay, let's go." Mark eased the door open and peered cautiously out. "Yeah. I thought so. There's a couple o' 'trols guardin' the aircars."
Bronson poked his head around the doorframe. The vague forms of two men, helmets glittering silver under the dim, uneven street lighting, were huddling under the torn canopy of a crumbling doorway, three meters away. The rain gushed downward like a waterfall on the sidewalk, and ran in torrents down the water swollen gutters, vanishing in a small whirlpool through a grateless opening in the pavement. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the scene brilliantly for a split second, then thunder crashed, and darkness descended like a blanket. With great care, Kevin lifted his blaster and fired.
There was the soft hum of a stunbolt, and the nearer man slumped. Bronson aimed at the other and fired again. But the patrolman was already moving. With amazing speed, he dropped, rolling to one side, bringing his weapon up to fire. Kevin's stunbeam missed by two centimeters. He swung the blaster, trying to bring it into line with the rolling form.
The weapon twisted from the other man's fingers, and spun in a neat arc to vanish with the water down the whirlpool in the gutter. At the same instant, Kevin's blaster found its mark, and a stunbolt hummed.
"Come on!" Mark was already running forward to the nearest Patrol car. He paused a moment, his fingers resting on the handle, then jerked the door open, scrambling inside. Nola followed.
"No keys." The boy punched something on the panel, and the hood popped up. Bronson ran around to the front and leaned in. Hotwiring a vehicle was child's play to a Shallockian street kid. He made two quick adjustments to the engine and hurried back to the open door. Nola was already behind the controls, and the car was rising from the ground as he slammed the door shut.
"Which way?" she asked.
Bronson peered backward toward the tenements. There was no motion that he could see through the rain streaked glass. "Nobody noticed us. Where the hell are we, anyhow?"
"Blossom Drive and Orchard Street," Mark informed him. "My gang runs through here a lot."
"Head east," Bronson directed Nola. He turned to look at the boy sitting beside him, his face dimly illuminated by the light of the instrument panel. "Which gang you with, kid?"
"Black Sabreclaws," the boy informed him, proudly. "I joined it about three months ago. My dad used to be the leader awhile back."
"Aha! A Claw! I used to run with the Eastside Raiders, m'self. Quite awhile back, though --" Bronson broke off as lightning flashed across the sky. Mark Warwick's face was vividly illuminated for an instant, and Kevin's breath caught.
Golden blond hair waved about a handsome, childish face -- a face Bronson knew. The boy's eyes were deep blue, the features strong and regular, softened by youth. His jaw showed definite signs of becoming firm and square in a few years, cleft slightly in the middle. Bronson ran a thumb over his own jaw, and swallowed. The boy looked very much as he, himself, had looked, some twenty years ago.
Hastily, Kevin made calculations. He had no memory of ever meeting a Nola Warwick, but that meant nothing. A 'trol met, and rapidly forgot, hundreds of women during his career. If Mark was now ten, he had been born when Bronson was seventeen. Inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. The first girl who had ever seduced Kevin had done so when he had been seventeen. There was no chance at all that Mark could be his son. But ... He reached up slowly, removing his helmet, and staring at the boy whose face was now in darkness once more. Kevin switched on the dome light. "Kid," he said slowly, "who was your dad? You keep talkin' about 'im. What was his name?"
The boy's teeth flashed in a white, magnetic, very familiar smile. "My dad was Mark Linley," he said. "Strike Commander Linley. Wasn't he, Mom?"
Nola Warwick nodded, a little smile on her face. "He was a lieutenant, then," she said, glancing sideways at Kevin. "Very handsome and charmin'. I was nineteen, and pretty stupid. You look a lot like him, Captain Bronson."
"Yeah, I know." Bronson grinned faintly. "Gave me a turn there for a minute." He looked at the boy again. "Guess that makes me your uncle, don't it? Mark's m'half brother, y'know." He started to chuckle. "Man, is he ever gonna be surprised!"
Nola laughed too. "Yeah. I guess so. I'm kinda lookin' forward to meetin' him again, too. What's he like?"
Bronson thought a minute. "Kinda like li'l Mark here," he said finally. He looked at the boy. "You're quite a kid, y'know? M'big brother oughtta be proud o' you. I am, m'self." He dug in his belt pouch. "Now that we got a few minutes, let's see what Carl thought was so important." After a moment of searching among the contents of the patrol's pouches, he drew forth the slip of crumpled paper, and detached the man's hand light from its hook. With care, he smoothed the sheet, and squinted at the hastily scribbled message. "Holy hell!"
"What is it?" Nola asked.
"I was right." Kevin stuffed the paper back into his pouch. "We're havin' a big summit meetin' tomorrow, an' the big bosses'll be arrivin' for it in a few hours. The Jils are onto it. Somebody musta slipped, up somewhere. They even got the location down. They're gonna raid the meetin', and catch half o' our big shots red-handed. We gotta get this through right away." He turned to Nola. "Turn on the com, honey. Let's see what's goin' on."
Nola obediently leaned forward and snapped on the communicator.
"...Guards have both been stunned. There's a car missing, sir. Looks like they got it."
Kevin put on his helmet and switched off the light. "They're lookin' for us, kids. Set down here, baby. We're only about six blocks from the station now. We can't take the car any closer, anyhow. Might lead the Patrol to 'em. We'll walk it. Won't take us long."
Nola brought the vehicle down in a narrow alley, and they got out. Bronson leaned through the driver's door, made adjustments to the controls and then stood up, slamming the door. The car rose, turned, and shot away through the rain.
"There. That oughtta confuse things for awhile. Keep 'em busy chasin' it, I hope. Let's go. Hurry." Kevin strode down the alley, Nola and Mark on his heels.
**********
tbc
