Legacy: 4/4
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VI
Mark Linley and Alan Westover, in the Underground's Patrol car, streaked, toward Mirabelle's Bar, com receiver wide open. The com was chattering. "Closin' on the bar, sir. There they go! Three people came runnin' out an exit an' took off. Somebody in a burnoose -- looks like a Wikrell colonist."
"Kevin," Alan said. The buildings of Scaifen were passing underneath, as the aircar shot forward at reckless speed, siren wailing.
The voice on the communicator was continuing. "-- A woman, and a kid. Blond gal in a pretty skimpy outfit. Looks like the description o' the Warwick gal. Could be her. They're runnin' -- Man! The guy's drivin' like a nut! We're in pursuit. Damn this damn rain! Why'd it hafta hit just now?"
"All units give chase!" another voice barked.
"Here they come!" Alan said, pointing.
An aircar was plunging toward them out of the rain, rising at a steep angle. It shot by them like a bullet, and Alan caught a glimpse of the figure at the controls, shrouded in a white burnoose.
Mark had taken the controls after changing into his uniform, allowing Alan to change, also. Now he slewed the aircar around in a tight circle, and joined the Patrol cars that were in hot pursuit of the fleeing vehicle. The fugitive dived into the stream of rush hour traffic above the city, never slowing its insane speed. Cars scattered in all directions, and within minutes the Patrol vehicles were in the midst of a major traffic snarl up. Sirens screamed deafeningly, and cars parted sluggishly for the pursuing craft. The Patrol cars wove through masses of traffic, following the aircar containing Kevin. The fleeing car swerved suddenly ahead of them, dodged another car, swooped upward to avoid an official Jilectan aircar, and clipped the undercarriage of still another car. It snagged its own landing gear on the jutting tailfin of the Jilectan limousine, clung for an instant, then ripped free, leaving the landing gear behind. The Jilectan car spun wildly, careening into one of the Patrol cars, and dropped like a stone, dragging the other one with it, still spinning out of control. It clipped a streetlight, jarring the Patrol car loose, then hit the street itself, bounced once, and came to a stop against a ground vehicle. The doors came open simultaneously. The Procyon chauffeur and the noble passenger left the craft together with more haste than dignity. Behind them, the car exploded.
The Patrol vehicle bearing Kevin and his two passengers was limping away from the scene, and, as it did so, began to drop. It disappeared behind a building as Alan watched. Their own car followed, Mark weaving expertly through slowly moving traffic in pursuit. Minutes later, they soared over the building.
The Patrol car rested on the street below, half seen through the pouring rain and the deepening twilight, which had fallen suddenly, as it always did on Shallock. The nose of the vehicle was buried in a stack of shattered crates, and garbage cans and trash lay all about. There was no sign of Kevin or his passengers.
Mark glanced at Alan. "Now what?"
Alan peered through the rain-streaked glass. Except for the streetlights, the area below was dark, the remnants of light from the setting sun shut off by the tall, crumbling buildings on all sides. This was one of the worst sections of town, but the human inhabitants must have fled at the sirens of the Patrol cars now converging from all directions. As they watched, the cars began landing, and men emerged, blasters in hand. One man began directing them, gesturing about, and the men spread out, entering the adjoining buildings in small groups.
"Let's set down on the roof," he suggested after a second. "We won't help Kevin a bit if we go in there and get caught by the Patrol, but if we listen in on the com we'll know if they get him."
"Good idea." The aircar gained altitude, and Mark set them gently down on the roof of one of the ancient tenements. Mark cut the engine and leaned forward, turning up the speaker. "Betcha they don't catch 'im, though. My li'l brother's pretty sharp."
They fell silent, listening to the broadcasts of the patrolmen scouring the buildings for the fugitives. The man were not finding the search easy, Alan surmised, as the minutes went by. The structures were old and rickety, and the scanner-blocking material, although decrepit, was bound to impede the searchers equipment. More then one accident was reported in the ensuing hour. Mark grinned at the reports that flew back and forth. So far the Patrol was finding nothing but trouble. Alan smiled too. Wherever Kevin was, he had so far eluded the searchers with his usual efficiency. Mark was apparently thinking the same thing. He laughed softly.
"Good ol' Kev. Brings back memories o' my early days in the Patrol."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It was before the Jils knew about Terran psychics. The Underground was active in those days, too, but we didn't know much about it, an' nobody regarded it as much of a threat -- certainly not the Jils." Mark laughed. "There was this one Undergrounder -- little short guy. Never did find out who he was, but I'll bet he was a psychic, an' didn't know it. Got holda some info -- never found out what it was, but it musta been plenty hot stuff. Ol' Salthvor was really p.o.ed about it. The 'Javelin' -- I was stationed aboard it about then -- was in port when it happened, and they grabbed every guy they could find to scour this big batch o' tenement buildin's for him. Never did catch 'im. All I got out of it was a busted ankle, and a concussion. Fell through a rotted floor and knocked myself silly. Woke up in the hospital with m'head bandaged up and m'leg in a cast. Couple o' m' buddies'd got killed the same way. Guess I was pretty lucky, actually. Salthvor was furious, though." Mark grinned. "I was just a third classer -- not even seventeen yet. He took it out on my sarge -- guy by the name o' Scraggs. He was in the hospital for nearly a month, I think. Got killed a couple o' years later when we were invadin' Kitania, subduin' the locals for our lords an' masters...just before I got my commission."
"Gosh," Alan said. "What a life. Why does anybody join the Patrol if they're treated that way, anyhow?"
Linley shrugged. "Mosta the guys don't know nothin' better. You can't get nowhere on Jil planets unless you're workin' for 'em, an' you grow up bein' treated like dirt, with the Jils and their flunkies lordin' it over you. You sorta expect it. Then the teenage kids see all these big, flashy 'trols walkin' around, pushin' around the general population, gettin' the best women, all with lotsa credits t' spend...you get the idea? You don't find out the other side of it 'til you're in an' can't get out. Gets 'em lotsa recruits."
"I guess s..." Alan broke off as the com spoke again.
"This is Patrolman Ware. Come in." The voice held the heavy accent of Shallock.
"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!"
"That's us!" Mark had the car in motion before the voice had stopped speaking. They lifted gently, and turned north, gaining altitude for a better view, scanning the buildings below.
"I don't see anything," Alan said. "Funny..."
"What?"
"It's almost like, I'm sensing another psychic down there somewhere. I can't quite pinpoint him..."
"A Jil?" Linley asked, sharply.
"No...a Terran. And young...unshielded...it's getting fainter now." Alan stopped as the com came to life again.
"No sign of 'em yet, sir,"
"Keep looking. They've probably taken cover again."
"Yessir..."
Another voice cut in. "Sublieutenant Janzer! I've just found one of our guys! It's Terry Ware, sir! He's cuffed to a pillar in his underwear, just comin' out of a stunbolt! Somebody must have taken his uniform!"
"Holy...! All units to the south side of the buildings on the double!"
Alan's eyes locked with Mark's. "That must have been Kevin!"
The com spoke again. "Sublieutenant Janzer! This is Sergeant Fitzwilly. I'm on the south side of the buildings by the aircars. The guards have both been stunned. There's a car missing, sir. Looks like they got it."
The Sublieutenant swore. "All right, get an alert out for it."
Mark grinned. "M'li'l brother's right on the ball today. Where's the nearest station, kid?"
"Zinchell's Pool Hall, about four kilometers east of here."
Mark turned the car eastward. "Still in contact with Lyn?"
"Uh huh." Alan peered down at the city lights streaming past beneath them, blurred by the falling rain. "He'll set down a few blocks from the station. Go slow. Maybe we can spot them. I'm scanning..." He fell silent.
Five minutes passed. Alan's head jerked up. "Holy smoke!"
"What?"
"I'm picking up that psychic again! Do you suppose he could be with Kevin?"
"Might be the kid with him," Mark said. "Look, we're about four blocks from the station now. Let's set down and scout around a bit."
"Good idea." Alan shifted uncomfortably as Mark brought them lower. A feeling was growing within him...a feeling he knew well. "Oh oh!"
"What?"
"I'm sensing a Jilectan."
"In this section of town?"
"Yeah. Something's wrong. Mark. Do you suppose he's tracing Kevin?"
"I dunno. I don't see how he could. They ain't got nothin' of his that's got any sentimental value. Are you gettin' any traces?"
"I'm not sure. He's probably got his shields up. I'm sure sensing that psychic, though. He's a good one, whoever he is."
"Hmmm..." Mark stopped the car by the side of a ground vehicle thoroughfare, and made adjustments to the controls. They got out, slamming the doors, and the car lifted gently from the ground. It vanished into the gently falling rain, back toward the station, and Mark and Alan turned east once more, on foot.
VII
The manager of the Alley Cat Bar limped painfully to an armchair in his office, and sank into it. He leaned back, closing his eyes, and cursed the Patrol and the Jilectans impartially, hoping sincerely that the Terran Underground got away with whatever it was up to this time. Two hours ago, he, and two of his best waitresses had been unceremoniously arrested by the Patrol and hauled away to the Scaifen Patrol Station -- for no reason he could discern. There, he had waited in a cell while the waitresses were interrogated one at a time, and then had come his turn. He had been dragged, protesting, to an interrogation room and strapped to a chair. Two Jilectans had arrived -- a Lord Aprithvor and a Lord Tilthvor. He had been interrogated -- for hours, it seemed, although his chronometer informed him it had been only ten minutes. Then, when it became obvious that he knew nothing, he had been released. There had been no apologies for the misunderstanding -- nothing. It was a privilege for a Terran to be interrogated by a lordly Jilectan, after all! He cursed the aliens again, wishing that he had the nerve to take a blaster to that damned, supercilious Jil who had accompanied him and the two waitresses back to the bar. The alien had demanded anything belonging to Nola Warwick. Nola was in the habit of leaving her frosted high-heeled slippers in her locker -- most of the girls did -- and wearing more comfortable footgear home after work. They weren't there this time, but one of her hair ornaments lay on the bottom of the locker. Reluctantly he had handed it over. M'lord Tilthvor had taken it without a word and left. The manager rubbed the muscles of his neck with one hand. He hoped that Nola was with the Underground. If she was, maybe she'd kill the damned so-and-so!
VIII
Mark Warwick was nervous. They had come three blocks since leaving the aircar, and the feeling had been growing slowly for the last two. He glanced behind them. Kevin Bronson looked sharply at him. "What's wrong, kid?"
Mark still found it strange that an adult would ask him, a ten year old boy, for information and advice. He guessed it was because Subcommander Bronson understood about psychics. It was a good feeling to be able to trust somebody with the secret. Mark had known he was a psychic for a number of years, and, of course, so had his mother, but never before had he felt it safe for someone else to share his guilty secret. To have done so could easily have meant his death.
"I dunno," he said in answer to Bronson's query. "I feel creepy. I think somebody's followin' us."
Bronson rested a hand on his blaster. "Who?"
"l ain't sure." Mark shivered. "I've only felt like this once before..." He paused, glancing behind them again. The rain was not falling so heavily now. It had lightened to a fine mist, drifting softly down around them. The breeze still blew warm on their faces. "I think there's a Jil around. He's gettin' closer, too."
Bronson drew the blaster. "Which direction?"
"I dunno. A little to the left, I think. Maybe the next street over."
Bronson grimaced. "Get behind me, Mark. You too, baby." He pushed Nola back and glanced at Mark. "What's he doin', kid?"
"He's closer." Mark shivered. "What're you gonna do, sir?"
"I dunno, either." Bronson gave him a strained grin. "I can't lead 'em to the station an' I sure as hell don't wanna be taken alive."
Nola put a hand on his shoulder, and the other around her son. "Neither do we, Captain. I know what they do to Undergrounders. Do what you hafta."
Bronson glanced around. "We ain't done for yet, baby. Hang on."
They hurried forward, hugging the side of the buildings. The rain drifted gently down, a light drizzle in the hot air. Mark's neck was crawling. "He's a lot closer."
Bronson's thumb twitched on the power setting of his blaster. Mark swallowed. He knew what his uncle was going to do. If the Jilectan cornered them, he would set the weapon on emergency overload and kill them all. Mark Warwick did not want to die, but if the Jilectans caught them, he knew what to expect. He wanted that even less.
They were nearing the corner of the row of buildings when Mark felt the flash of warning. He gave a shout as the blaster writhed suddenly in Bronson's hand, wrenched free, and spun away, disappearing into the falling rain. Black and scarlet clad figures materialized out of the darkness, and Mark found four blasters centered on their little group.
There was an alcove in the wall -- the entrance to a small, shabby restaurant. Bronson backed into it, pushing Mark and Nola behind him, as an inhumanly tall form strode forward through the mist. Mark looked past the big form of his uncle at the tall, silver-haired Jilectan standing behind the half-circle of patrolmen. To one side, his hand on the butt of his own weapon, stood the alien's bodyguard. The Jilectan smiled slowly.
"A most fortunate meeting," he said gently. "Subcommander Bronson, is it not? And a psychic as well." His gaze went past Bronson, and Mark felt himself shrink under the chilling gaze. Nola put her arm around him again. Bronson looked back at him, and the face Mark could see beneath the dark visor of the Patrol helmet was grim.
"Sorry, kids." He turned back to the Jilectan, "Okay, Your Almightiness. You win."
The Jilectan's smile faded. "Take them!" he snapped.
What happened then was almost too quick for Mark to follow. He saw Kevin Bronson's muscles tense in preparation for a hopeless leap at the man in front of him, as the patrolman's finger tensed on the trigger of his blaster. Mark braced himself for a stunbolt, but it never came. In almost the same instant a figure stepped around the corner of the building. Mark knew a split second of utter astonishment at the sudden appearance, for no one had ever been able to surprise him quite so completely before, followed by a flash of understanding. He jerked Bronson backward by his belt so abruptly that the big man almost fell on him. The Jilectan spun with the inhuman speed of his species, a blaster leaping into his hand, and there was a bellowing roar as a sheet of flame engulfed four patrolmen and the Jilectan. It roared past the doorway, leaving Mark's ears ringing and he felt the skin of his face stinging slightly with the nearness of the blast.
The flame vanished, leaving only a cloud of steam and a blackened smear on the pavement. Mark rubbed his eyes, wiping away the water that had filled them from the heat, and squinted at the scene. The only survivor left of the patrolmen that had accompanied the Jilectan was the frozen patrolman who had been the alien's bodyguard. For a second there was no motion at all, except the misty rain falling softly around them, and then the guard jerked out his weapon.
Another, taller form had appeared behind the first, and at the same instant the guard's blaster squirmed in his hand, snaked free and vanished into the darkness. The dim starlight flashed dully from another blaster aimed directly at the patrolman.
"Beat it, 'trol!" The accent was unmistakably Shallockian, and held the brittle snap of command. "And tell your bosses Alan Westover just got himself another one!"
The bodyguard stared for a stunned moment at the newcomer and then seemed abruptly to come to life. He turned and ran, vanishing into the mist and falling rain.
"Kevin!" The second voice was higher than that of his companion, and the shorter newcomer stepped forward to help Kevin Bronson to his feet. The larger man came after him.
"You okay, baby brother?" The man bent over, grasping Bronson's other arm.
"Yeah." Kevin sounded breathless. "Let's get outta here fast!"
"We've got transportation." The shorter man spoke again. "Lyn'll be here in a minute. I called her. There she is, now."
A small, civilian aircar was dropping out of the sky as he spoke. It settled to the ground, barely two meters away, and someone leaned out. "Hurry!" a woman's voice called.
Bronson grabbed Nola's arm, and pushed Mark ahead of him. "In, kid. We gotta move! This place is gonna be crawlin' with 'trols in a few minutes."
Mark scrambled into the rear seat of the car, finding the quarters extremely cramped. Kevin lifted him to his lap. "Sit still, kid. We gotta get outta here, fast!"
Mark obeyed. Their rescuers were scrambling into the front seat, the smaller man sitting on the larger's lap. The car lifted from the pavement and shot down the street, barely a meter above the ground. It navigated a corner, almost grazing the building, buzzed down a narrow alley, and emerged into a littered side street. They turned down a second alley, and halfway down it, veered sharply. Mark winced, expecting to crash into the wall.
But they didn't. Behind them there was a click, and a soft light illuminated the car. Mark stared around.
They were in a short, narrow garage, barely larger than the car. Mark blew out the breath that he hadn't realized he was holding until just this instant. He was feeling distinctly short of air.
The driver cut the engine, and turned to look at them. "Well." she said. "Here we are."
"Yeah," Kevin said. "And a helluva time we had gettin' here, too. I'm sure glad you guys showed up when you did."
"So am I." The smaller man turned around too. Mark Warwick stared at a face which had smiled down at him from his bedroom wall for the past year. "I had the dickens of a time tracing you, Kev! I wouldn't have made it in time if not for your psychic friend here. I bet I broke the record for the hundred meter dash back there. Too bad nobody clocked me."
Bronson laughed. "Sorry 'bout that."
Alan Westover grinned. "Well, if you aren't going to introduce us, I guess I'll have to do it, myself." He thrust out a hand to Nola. "Hi. I'm Alan Westover."
"Hi." Nola took his hand. "I'm Nola Warwick."
"Yeah," Bronson said. "She was Carl's girlfriend. But I think you've met her before, big brother."
Alan Westover's companion had turned in the seat as well, and Mark found himself looking into the tanned, handsome face of his father. Mark Linley appeared slightly puzzled as he frowned at Nola. "What're you talkin' about, Kev? Have we met before, honey?"
Nola Warwick nodded, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. "I didn't think you'd remember." she said. "I remember you, though. Nice to meet you again, Strike Commander Linley. "
Bronson grinned broadly, clapping Mark on the shoulder. "And this is Mark Warwick," he said. "Nola's kid. He's ten years old, and one helluva psychic. Saved my bacon at least twice in the last hour. His dad's pretty well known, too. Fella by the name o' Mark Linley."
Linley's jaw dropped. He stared at Mark, and a red flush crept slowly up his cheeks. He swallowed. "Holy hell --"
Nola burst out laughing.
IX
"Okay." Rocky Lang glanced over his shoulder. Major General Walter Kaley stood to one side, and behind him were Alan Westover, Mark Linley, Lyn Parnell and Kevin Bronson. "Message is out. The big bosses won't be arrivin'. Beats me how the Jils got wind o' the meetin'. I'll get our other agents in the department to work right away, an' see if we can find out. Can't have that kinda leak go by without checkin' it out."
"Thank heavens for Carl," Kaley said. "He saved all of us. Maybe it'll help Tanya to know that there was a good reason for what happened." He glanced at Alan. "Will you talk to her, Colonel?"
"Sure." Alan started to turn.
"And Colonel --"
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell her I'm deeply sorry. His heroism will go on his record."
"Thanks, sir. I will." Alan went out.
Kaley glanced at Mark. "I'm certainly glad he's here, Colonel. If anyone can help her, he will."
"Yeah," Mark said soberly. "Poor gal. I know what she's goin' through. Did our people at Mirabelle's get out?"
"Yes." The general nodded. "There were three others. The Patrol picked up the manager and one of the waitresses, but they weren't ours. Released them awhile ago, after interrogation. We'll have to see about planting another agent or two there in a month or so. See to it, Major."
"Sure." Rocky glanced at Bronson. "I hear you brought us a new psychic this evenin', Kev."
"Yeah." Bronson nodded, grinning faintly.
"Oh, really?" Kaley's expression lightened. "Well, that's one bright spot in this mess. Good work, Captain. Who is he?"
"Ten year old kid. Helluva good psychic." Bronson said, grinning faintly. "Name's Warwick -- Mark Warwick."
"Uh uh," Mark said. "I had a word with him an' his mom before we came in."
"Oh yeah?" Bronson's grin became more pronounced.
"Yeah." Linley regarded his brother levelly. "l ain't got the faintest idea who my pop was, Kev -- some fly by night 'trol, just like me. It's kinda tough for a kid, not havin' a dad -- somethin' you wouldn't know much about. I ain't duckin' my responsibility." He looked at Lang and Kaley. "His name's Linley, sir. Mark Warwick Linley. He's my son."
Kaley didn't even blink. "Congratulations, Colonel. I surmise his mother is not a psychic?"
"Nope." Linley grinned a little. "Only thing I can figure is that he got it from me. Kev an' me are carriers o' the psychic trait, after all. Come an' meet him. Him an' his mom are waitin' in the kitchen with Anita an' Karen an' Jan. They were havin' dinner last I saw."
X
Mark Warwick Linley. Mark considered the name with pride as he finished the bowl of stew. Strike Commander Linley was his father, and wanted him to use his real last name. It was something, all right. He glanced up as the girl introduced as Janice Westover paused beside him. "More stew, Mark?"
"Sure." Mark held up his bowl. "I'm still starved."
"Thought you might be. Alan said you'd missed your dinner, and you've had a pretty exciting evening, besides. How about you, Nola?"
"Please." His mother held out her bowl for a refill, too.
The kitchen door swung open, and a short, stocky man entered. He wore casual clothing, but Mark could tell he was important by the way Kevin Bronson held the door for him. Bronson, Linley, and Lyn Parnell entered after him, and the tall, dark-haired man he had seen briefly upon their arrival at the farmhouse, brought up the rear. It had been an exciting evening, all right, first the rescue by Alan Westover, the ride to the Underground station in the city, and then another ride, this time under a false bottom of a ground truck, with a mountain of vegetables piled on top of them, to this place, which was apparently a farmhouse outside the city. Mark had finally just stopped wondering what was going to happen next.
Anita Lang started to stand up, but the short man gestured her back into her chair. "Please don't get up, Anita."
Anita reseated herself. Bronson came around the table toward Mark. "Hi, kid. This is General Kaley, my commandin' officer, an' Rocky Lang, c.o. o' the station. Sir, these are Nola Warwick and Mark, her son. They brought in Carl's message."
Kaley extended a hand, ignoring Nola's scanty, bedraggled clothing, and smiled, warmly into her face. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Warwick." Somehow the officer managed to convey the impression of bowing without actually doing so. "You and your son have performed an invaluable service for our organization, and Terrans everywhere. We are deeply grateful. Thank you."
Nola flushed and stammered a reply. Kaley released her hand and turned to Mark. "So you are Mark Linley." The name still sounded strange to him, but Mark sat up straighter, nodding vigorously. Kaley smiled at him. "I would have known your son anywhere, Colonel Linley. You're very like your father, Mark. Welcome to the Terran Underground."
"Thanks, sir," Mark said.
Kevin Bronson dropped into the chair next to him, putting an arm across his shoulders, and Linley sat down on Mark's other side. He glanced sideways at his son.
"Well, 'kid," he said. "I guess we got a lotta gettin' acquainted to do. Which gang d'you run with?"
The End
