The Pirate Prince 1: A Slight Deception
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
3/?
Chapter 5
Mark Linley charged after the fleeing man. Keith Leighton was close behind him, shouting something furiously. Heads turned in their direction as they rounded the corner and pounded down a short side street. Their quarry dodged between two buildings.
Leighton, lithe and quick like most psychics, caught up and passed Mark. With another angry cry, he disappeared between the buildings, too. Linley shouted for him to be careful, and followed.
Ahead was a high stone wall blocking the alley. Keith leaped, catching the top and scrambling nimbly over. Mark also leaped, hauling himself up, just as Leighton dropped lightly to the pavement on the opposite side.
"He went up the fire escape!" shouted the little man. He sprinted forward and caught the bottom rung of the ladder, beginning to ascend. The aircar containing Kevin swooped down to a hurried landing on the pavement, just as Linley reached the fire escape.
Bronson was out of the vehicle, blaster in hand. Leighton went up the ladder like a cat scaling a tree, quickly closing the distance, between himself and his quarry.
The pursued man voiced a desperate cry, lost his footing and almost fell. Leighton caught up with him, grabbing him by the loose raincoat he wore. The man cussed, kicking at the psychic. Leighton evaded the blow easily and jerked hard. With a scream, the fugitive lost his grip and fell.
Bronson broke his fall and bore him to the pavement, placing a knee in the small of his back and twisting his arms behind him. Mark bent over him, patting his clothing for weapons, and finding none. Leighton landed lightly beside them and went to one knee, grabbing the man by the hair and jerking his head up.
"All right you bloody twerp!" he shouted furiously. "What have you done with my wife?"
A crowd was gathering. Mark and Kevin hauled the struggling man to his feet. "Easy, Keith," Linley said quietly. "Let's get him in the aircar."
“What's going on?" an onlooker demanded.
"Police business!" Mark snapped. He loaded the still struggling man into the vehicle’s rear seat and got in beside him. Leighton jumped into the front, and Kevin climbed behind the controls.
"Hey!" the onlooker yelled. "You don't look much like police! Let me see your badges!”
The car soared upward.
It was then that Mark felt the shock on his wrist. Kevin voiced a soft exclamation. "Alan!"
"He's in trouble!" Mark could sense the link quivering on the edge of awareness. "I'm gettin' him!"
"Me too." Kevin gunned the motor. "I'm not sure of the direction yet."
"Straight ahead!"
The aircar shot away through the rain and sleet. Kevin pressed a button on the comp. “Home in on Alan, Elmer."
The comp's screen flashed on. "Location due west, Kevin," it announced politely. A small blip appeared on the screen.
They roared on. Leighton turned in the seat, gaze fastening on the prisoner with sheer hatred. "Where's my wife, you stinking swine?"
The prisoner glared at him. "You're going to get in trouble for this, Mr. Leighton. I don’t have the faintest idea what you're talking about."
Mark paid no attention. Alan's link with him was increasing, and he heard Kevin voice a soft cussword. “I've got direction. What the hell's goin' on ... damn!"
Mark also swore as his link with Alan vanished in the tingle of a stunbolt. Leighton glanced at him. “What's the matter?"
“My partner's in trouble," Mark said.
"Anderson? How do you know?"
"I know. And his name’s not Anderson. You might as well know now. My partner's Alan Westover. I’m Mark Linley, and that's m'brother Kevin Bronson.
The man they had captured gasped shrilly and made a lunge for the door, hand groping for the emergency switch. Mark caught him, restraining him without effort.
"Dammit! He's movin' again!" Kevin gritted his teeth. "Guess we'd better notify the station. He pressed a button. "Major, are you there?"
Steed's voice answered. "Yes, Colonel?"
"This is Captain Bronson," Kevin told him. "We got your man, but while we was chasin’ him, Alan disappeared. We got an emergency signal from him just before someone stunned him."
"He's been stunned! You're certain?"
“Yup.”
"Any idea who?"
"None at all. We're followin' the homin' beacon he has on his chronometer. Better send reinforcements. We're headin' west on the Bridgeway Skystream, 'bout the level of 17th street."
"Dispatching reinforcements," Steed said tightly.
"Thanks." Kevin switched off the unit and glanced at the screen. "He ain't movin' now."
"Good. How long before we catch up?"
Kevin checked. "Less'n five minutes."
"Right." Mark pulled the prisoner's hands behind him and fastened them with handcuffs. Then he leaned forward, eyes on the screen. For perhaps a minute the tiny blip remained stationary. Then, almost leisurely, it began to move again.
"Now he's headin' north," said Kevin, sounding a little confused. "Toward Hampton."
“What the devil ...." Mark swore under his breath. “Who the hell’s got him, an’ where's he bein' taken?"
“We’ll find out soon. He can't stay ahead of us long at that speed."
Mark nodded. For an instant Alan's link with him quivered again, then dissolved in another stunbolt.
Bronson muttered under his breath."
“He started to come to," Linley said.
Bronson grunted. "Yeah."
"Uh ... Damn! I ain't sure, but it felt like he was still to the west o' us."
"Yeah." Bronson swore. "Somethin's screwy. What'll I do?"
Mark chewed his lip. "Keep followin' the beacon, I guess. There's no way to trace him now. They stunned him again right away."
"Okay." Kevin glanced at the screen again. "Comp says he's right below us, an' stopping.”
“Great." Mark leaned forward, trying to see through the driving rain and sleet. Bronson let the car lose altitude, and Linley saw off to their right a large private home. A sleek, late model aircar was parked in the driveway, and, as they watched, the door of the vehicle opened and a man, clad in the uniform of a policeman climbed out. Casually he closed the door behind him and strode toward the house.
"Holy hell! He must be wearin' Alan's chronometer!" Mark's moment of incredulity was succeeded instantly by red fury. "Get him!"
Kevin responded beautifully, sending the vehicle in a dive toward their quarry. The man's head jerked up, mouth agape. Bronson fired a stunbolt and the figure folded silently to the lawn.
Then the aircar was pancaking to the grass. Bronson leaped out, caught the unconscious man beneath the arms, and heaved the slack form inside between himself and Leighton. The vehicle was airborne again seconds later. A single pedestrian gaped after them as they shot forward through the driving sleet.
The newcomer stirred almost at once, and Mark realized that Kevin must have just brushed him with the edge of the stunner. His brother reached across to drop a pair of handcuffs into Keith's lap. "Here. Get his hands behind him quick."
Leighton obeyed, fastening the prisoner's wrists together behind him. Mark reached across to grasp him by the hair and bring him to a sitting position. "Okay, Mister, where's Alan?"
The prisoner groaned. "You'll be fried for this — assaulting a police officer."
"Can it!" Mark told him harshly. "You ain't no cop. You’re caught with your pants down, twerp, an' you better start talkin'. Where's Alan?"
"I don't know what you’re talking about." The man groaned again. "Alan who?"
"You're wearin' his chronometer." Mark bent the prisoner forward and removed the device from his wrist. "You must'a taken it off him after you caught him. Now, where is he?"
The prisoner straightened up, face white. "I ... I just found it on the street. I was gonna turn it in tomorrow morning."
"Yeah, sure you were." Mark glanced at Kevin. "I'm sorta occupied, Kev. Put her on autopilot an' see if you can get this guy to spill."
"It'll be a pleasure." Kevin set the controls, then turned to the prisoner with a savage grin. "Maybe I better introduce m'self first, twerp. M'name's Bronson — Subcommander Bronson o' the Viceregal Patrol. An' that's m'big brother, Strike Commander Linley." Kevin nodded casually toward Mark. “Now, we happen t'know that you're workin' for the Jils, an' that probably means you've had some dealin's with the Patrol. We ain't 'trols no more, but we ain't forgottenhow to get people to talk -- neither one of us. Am I gettin' through t'you, Mister?"
The man swallowed convulsively.
"Now, the guy whose chronometer you're wearin' is Alan Westover You probably recognize the name. He's disappeared and we’re neither one o' us real happy 'bout that. We wanna find him again real bad. So if you don't tell us where he is fast, we'll make you tell, an' it won't bother neither one of us a bit if we hafta burn off every finger an' toe you got. So if I was you, Mister, I'd start talkin'."
The man looked wildly at Mark, then back at Bronson. "I tell you, I don't know anything! I found the chronometer in the street!"
"I think he's lying," Leighton said softly.
"I know he is." Kevin drew his blaster and adjusted the setting. "Take off his shoes an' socks, Keith."
Keith hesitated barely an instant, and obeyed. Bronson winked at him. "You don't hafta watch, if you don't wanna, Keith. Just turn your back an' put your fingers in your ears." He hefted the man's bare foot into his lap.
"Wait!" the prisoner gasped. "I'll talk! I just did what I was told! Someone hired me to do it!"
Kevin was examining the man's toes as though deciding where to start. "Go on," he said.
"This guy ... he called himself Smith — he hired me about a month ago. I was supposed to pick up these kids and bring 'em to a designated place."
"Where?" Kevin asked.
"Different places every time. This time it was an apartment building on Apple street." He jerked his head vaguely to the north. "About six ... seven kilometers that way."
Kevin pressed controls on the comp. "You have an address?"
"3332 Apple. I was to land on the roof of the building, hand over the kid and go. I handed over your friend at the same time."
"To who?" Kevin asked.
"I don't know his name." The man yipped as Bronson pressed the muzzle of the blaster against his largest toe. "I don't! They didn't tell me his name! I know what he looks like, and that's all I need to know."
“So he picks up the kids an' takes 'em offworld, huh?"
"I don't know where he takes 'em. Honest, I don't."
"An' how about Alan? How'd he get messed up in it."
The man swallowed hard. "We ambushed the kid in the alley. She was alone, an' it was the best chance we'd ever had. We'd been tracking her for days, trying to get an opportunity. But then your friend interfered — came running up, yelling and trying to attract attention. My backup — Gino's his name — stunned him. We're under orders to bring in anybody that makes trouble, so we stowed your friend in the car with the girl. He was wearing that chronometer, and his wallet was loaded with cash ... " The man's voice trailed off. “Smith told me we could have anything the kids were wearing or carrying if we wanted…”
“An’ where’s this guy supposed t'meet you next?" Kevin inquired grimly.
"I don't know. We hasn't contacted me yet. He gives me the name of the kid and what school they go to, and Gino, Frank and me take it from there. Please, you've got to believe me."
“How does he contact you?"
"By phone. I call him when I make a pickup, and he tells me where to meet him."
"An' who're you supposed t'be pickin' up next?"
"He hasn't given me anyone yet. I think they're about through for the time being." The man leaned forward, beginning to sob. "Please don't burn my toes off! I've told you everything I know!"
Leighton swore under his breath. "You deserve to die, you swine! Do you have any idea what's happening to these kids you're kidnapping?"
The man looked up, met Leighton’s eyes, and dropped his face again. "No ... no ... "
"You know all right!" Leighton grabbed him by the lapels. "You've figured it out! You're not dumb!"
"It could be anything!"
"And none of it good! You're giving them to the Jils, you stinking, filthy ... "
"Easy, Keith," Mark said. "The Underground’ll take care or him. They don't like psychic hunters much."
"Psychic hunters! I’m not! I didn't know!"
“Well, even if you didn't, the Underground don't like kidnappers much, neither." He turned to look at the man in the rear seat. "How about it, Mister. Do you know what they do with the kids they kidnap?"
The man shook his head. Kevin’s mouth hardened. "Your turn, big brother. Make him spill while I call the station an' bring 'em up to date." He turned to the com.
"I don't know!"
"That's okay," Mark said. "I don't think I'll mind burnin' off your fingers whether you can tell as anythin' or not." He shoved the prisoner forward on his face.
The man uttered a scream of terror. "No; wait! I'll tell you everything I know! I work for the Jils, yes! I'm one of their operatives. They said I had the kind of mind they needed for this job. They gave me training and planted me in the building as a custodian. I was to change certain data that went into the testing comps. They didn’t tell me why, and I didn't ask."
"An' o'course it didn't occur t'you," Mark said acidly, "t'worry why a Jil would go to all this trouble over tests distributed to Terran schools?"
"I didn't figure it was any or my business! You don't argue when a Jil gives you orders!"
"An' you didn't make the connection when all these kids started mysteriously vanishin’?”
"No ... why should I?”
"That’s a lie!" Keith snapped. "You knew, all right — or made, a real good guess. You knew the Jils were after psychic children, and you didn't care — just as long as you kept on getting your pay!"
Mark wasn't paying attention. Alan's face was reforming in his mind.
Chapter 6
Alan Westover became slowly aware of pain. His head was throbbing, and he was sick. Beneath his cheek was a hard, metal, surface. His hands were secured behind him.
Cold fear washed over him as he realized he was a prisoner. He quelled it, trying to think — to remember. The little girl in the alley — the men, clad as police officers ....
His head was pounding unbearably, and the nausea was rapidly becoming worse. They had stunned him, he realized. Nearby, someone was crying, and farther away a child was screaming for her mother. Summoning his strength, Alan rolled to his back. The movement sent nausea flowing over him, and he gagged, beginning to lose the lunch which he and Mark had eaten back in the coffee shop of the Education building.
After an eternity the spasms subsided. He lay perfectly still, trying to be patient and wait for the headache to decrease. The noises around him continued, and after a few minutes he was able to raise his head and look around.
The little girl he had tried to rescue lay beside him. She was just beginning to stir, moaning softly. Looking around, Alan saw there were other children in the room, too — lots of them, both boys and girls, ranging in age from about three to nearly grown. He counted close to thirty in all, seated or lying on the floor, hands secured behind them with restrainers. A good percentage of them were crying. Two patrolmen lounged beside the closed door, watching them.
The ship’s intercom spoke. "Attention, attention. Breaking orbit in three minutes."
Orbit where? Alan concentrated on the mind of the nearest patrolman. There was no shielding, and the man's thoughts were an open book before his psychic probe.
The primary emotions were annoyance at the children. All this whining and boo-hooing was driving him crazy.
A real sympathetic soul, Alan thought. He deepened the probe, reaching past the primary emotions to the thoughts beneath. There was a slight jolt, and the hum of the ships repulsers deepened in pitch. They had come out of orbit.
"Hyperspace in four minutes," the intercom announced.
Alan reached deeper into the patrolman’s mind. They had been in orbit around Banquin, the tenth planet in Bellian's star system, and now were about to go into hyperspace, heading for Xenis — a Jilectan world where there was a large research center. Rakinxvor had made a good haul on this trip. The room was crowded. Of course, this new guy ... Alan saw his own image in the patrolman’s mind ... would be ditched if His Lordship discovered that he wasn’t a psychic. Any nons, picked up by accident, were always killed immediately. No use bringing along excess baggage, but often people who interfered were, themselves, psychics, partnered without realizing it, to the kid being taken. That was why the Jil wanted them brought along — as well as in the interests of secrecy. The Jils were looking for a certain type of Terran psychic. Patrolman Gunther didn't know what kind, nor did he care.
Alan formed words in his mind, knowing that the link, which tied him to his partners would surely be functioning now. *Mark! Kevin! We just broke orbit around Banquin! We're going into hyperspace in just a few minutes, heading for Xenis! I'm aboard the psychic hunter ship. There's a Jil aboard, and he's looking for a Terran psychic who can read Arcturians. They brought me along because I was caught trying to help one of the kids. Hurry!*
There was no reply, of course, and Alan expected none. The link functioned one way only. Alan transmitted and Kevin and Mark received. But such communication was usually enough.
"Hyperspace," the com announced.
There was a jolt. Alan relaxed back against the wall, glancing around. The children continued to cry and whine, and he sensed the irritation of Patrolman Gunther intensifying. The other patrolman, a Corporal by the markings on his helmet, glanced at Alan, then spoke into his throat mike. "M'Lord Rakinxvor?"
Faintly, Alan heard the Jilectan's precise tones replying. The corporal spoke again. "You asked to be informed. The boy's awake."
"I will be there in a moment."
Alan felt cold fear go through him. If he concealed his psychic talents from the alien, they would kill him, but if he revealed them, he would be taken, along with the rest of the kids, to Xenis for psychic testing. There was no Underground station near enough to Xenis that an Underground ship could arrive ahead of the psychic hunters and intercept them — and Mark and Kevin could not possibly have had time to reach their own ship yet. They would go as fast as they could, of course, but there was no way they could hope to catch up.
He took a deep breath. One thing at a time. He must let the Jil see that he was a psychic in order to preserve his life for the present, but must conceal his training. They mustn't discover that he was an Undergrounder. Alan was an expert at selective shielding, and, if he could work it right, the Jil would see only what Alan wanted him to see. He was a reporter from the Lakeside Weekly, and had heard the little girl's cry for help. They hadn't recognized him. His disguise had held, and would probably continue to hold. The makeup artist had done an excellent job, thank goodness!
Then, if he could preserve his life for the present, maybe he'd be able to figure out some way to save them all. One thing at a time, he told himself firmly. Remember what Mark had always told him. "If you try to pick the building up and throw it down the mountain, you'll only break your back. Take it apart one brick at a time."
The door slid open and the Jilectan entered, accompanied by a patrolman.
Lord Rakinxvor was very typical of his species. Soft, waving strawberry blond hair topped a slim, well muscled frame. The alien stood well over two meters tall, and a pair of light blue eyes surveyed the children coolly. His thin, slightly uptilted nose wrinkled disdainfully.
The room became completely silent at the appearance of the alien, with the exception of the little girl whom Alan had attempted to rescue. The child turned to look at the alien and voiced a scream of terror, cowering back.
The Jilectan never glanced at her. "Which one?" he inquired.
The corporal and the guard strode forward, lifting Alan to his feet.
And Alan experienced a shock. At the approach of the two guards, the psychic aura in the room intensified. The sudden surge was very clear and unmistakable, but for a moment he couldn't imagine what it meant. He glanced quickly around, following the source of the power surge.
It was a single individual — a little boy who was seated against a bulkhead, head back, eyes closed. Alan had no more than a glimpse of him before the men yanked him to his feet and dragged him forward to face the Jilectan.
The pale blue eyes held Alan’s. "Your name, Terran?"
Alan had no need to feign fright. "David Anderson, sir," he replied, hearing the tremor in his voice. "Please, I haven't done anything!"
The Jilectan leaned over him and placed a hand on his forehead. Alan flinched beneath the touch, praying that his shielding would hold. For a long moment there was silence. Then the alien gestured curtly. "I will interrogate him. Bring him."
"Yes, M'Lord." The patrolman who had escorted the alien in, caught Alan by the upper arm as the other two released him. As he was dragged from the room, Alan managed to turn his head, and catch another glimpse of the boy. The child appeared no more than eight or nine, although he might be older, since psychics often appeared younger than they were. A pair of bright, intelligent blue eyes met Alan's pityingly.
Then the patrolman was steering him through the door, which swished shut behind him. The Jilectan strode on ahead.
What did it mean? What had been the cause of that incredible surge of power? The Jil hadn't sensed it, but then, Jilectans were often insensitive to Terran psychic emanations, unless actively scanning for them.
It hit him suddenly. The surge had come as the two patrolmen had closed the distance between themselves and the boy. It could mean only one thing. One of the two guards in the room was one of the rare, frantically sought after psychic power packs, whose mind inexplicably complemented that of the psychic boy. Neither the patrolman nor the boy was aware of the link, of course, but it didn't matter. The connection had been made, and now could never be unmade. The boy and the patrolman would remain linked, even as Alan and his power packs were linked, until one or both of them died.
Well, the chances were good the Underground would never have a chance to take advantage of it. The patrolman was dragging him along relentlessly toward the interrogation room. *Mark! Kevin!* He voiced the words in his mind, *They’re taking me for interrogation. I'll try to keep my selective shielding up. Listen to this, though. There's a psychic aboard this ship, and he's linked to one of the guards, who must be his power pack. If the Jil senses it, we’re in trouble.*
Ahead the Jilectan turned right and entered a room. Alan was propelled roughly after him.
The first thing he saw was the interrogation chair. The patrolman never paused, but yanked him toward it. Alan began to struggle, feeling panic contract his chest. "No! Please, you don't need that! I'll talk! What do you want to know?"
The patrolman ignored him, seating him forcibly in the chair. Holding him with one hand, the guard removed the restrainers from his wrists and then fastened his hands firmly to the arms of the chair.
*Mark! Kevin! Here it comes! Hang on!*
The Jilectan surveyed him coolly. *Who are you?* he inquired.
"David Anderson, sir. I work for the Lakeside Weekly."
"What were you doing this afternoon when you interfered with my men?"
"I ... I was on my way home from work, sir. I left early. I ... I wasn't feeling well. I heard the little girl scream and went to help."
"I see." The Jilectan glanced at the patrolman and nodded slightly.
The man pressed a button on the panel, and Alan felt the first shock of pain course over him. It tore a scream from him, and he wrenched at the straps, trying uselessly to pull away from the source of pain.
"Why were you there?" the Jilectan inquired softly.
"Please ... I was on my way home! I was only trying to help. I haven't done anything!"
"Drop your shielding, Terran!" Rakinxvor snapped.
That was a standard ploy, of course. The Jilectans knew that Terran psychics were capable of selective shielding, and Rakinxvor was aware that Alan might be an Undergrounder who could use it to his advantage. "Please, sir, I have no shielding. Don't hurt me anymore!"
A pause. Then. "You are aware that you are a psychic, Terran?"
Alan gulped, lowering his eyes. "Yes, M'Lord," he said in a small voice.
"But you have no shielding?"
Alan shook his head. "I don't know how."
Another wash of pain. Alan cried out, writhing in the chair. Somehow he must stop this. He couldn't stand it. Besides, if he was weakened enough by the pain, the Jil might detect his shielding and realize he did indeed have a trained psychic before him. If there was only some way to turn that power pack to their side! If the guy only knew what was in store for him, it might make all the difference.
And suddenly he saw the solution. In order to make that 'trol turn against the Jils, the man must have the effects of the link demonstrated to him. And there was no way to do that, except by maneuvering the situation so that the boy somehow got interrogated. Risky, of course, for the man might go directly to the Jilectan and report the symptoms. Still, patrolmen tended to be very self centered individuals, and quite conscious of their own survival. The chances were good the man would at least investigate before running to his master.
If Alan waited, the boy would be interrogated on Xenis, but by that time it would, be too late. The patrolman would find out about the link, but it wouldn't help any of them.
Therefore, Alan must simply move up the interrogation a little. Somehow, he must convince —- or let Rakinxvor convince himself -- that the little guy was an Undergrounder. It wouldn't be pleasant for the child, of course, but it might be Alan's only chance to save the children aboard this ship. It had to be done.
Pain lanced through him again. He screamed, twisting frantically. "Please ... no more!"
"Do you belong to the Terran Underground?" the Jilectan inquired.
He shook his head, at the same time, allowing his thoughts to surface. Damn this stupid Jil! There was an Undergrounder in that room, but it wasn't him! Alan envisioned the boy's face. He had read the kid's mind before the Jil had appeared. The little boy's shields had been down, and he had been scanning all of them --
The Jilectan was watching him, eyes triumphant. "Is there something you would like to tell me, Terran?" he asked gently.
Alan shook his head again and lowered his eyes, allowing apprehension for the boy to creep into his thoughts. Had Rakinxvor picked it up? Had David gotten the poor little guy into trouble?
"You do know how to use your powers, do you not?" inquired the Jilectan smugly.
Alan gulped. "I ... I can read minds a little."
"Indeed you can." The Jilectan surveyed him a moment more in silence. Alan felt sweat trickle down his face.
"Very well." Rakinxvor spoke suddenly. "Take him back to the cell."
The patrolman unfastened the straps and pulled him from the chair. Alan felt his knees buckle, and would have fallen if the guard hadn't caught him. He was lifted easily to the man's shoulders and carried from the interrogation room. The Jilectan followed.
They entered the prison again, and Alan's guard shoved him to the deck, fastening his hands behind him once more.
The Jilectan strode over to the little boy and nudged him with the toe of one boot. "This one, patrolman. Bring him."
Blue, horrified eyes came up and the boy started to protest. The patrolman yanked him to his feet and dragged him from the room. Rakinxvor strode ahead and the door clicked shut behind them, leaving the psychics alone once again with their two guards.
Alan managed to sit up. One of the children was whimpering, and another began to sob hysterically. A boy of perhaps fifteen got to his knees, then staggered to his feet. “Where's he taking the kid?" he demanded of their guards.
The corporal ignored the question. The other — the second classer whom Alan had read earlier, glanced indifferently at the boy. "Siddown an' shuddup, degenerate."
The boy drew a deep breath, obviously trying to summon his courage. "Look, mister, you could get in awful trouble for this."
"I said shuddup." The patrolman gave the boy a shove. The prisoner staggered back, stumbled, and went heavily to his knees.
Two more children started to cry. A teenaged girl spoke comfortingly to one, casting a furious glance at their two guards. Alan bent over the other one. It was, he saw, the little girl whom he had tried to rescue.
"Hi," he whispered. "What’s your name?”
She turned her head to look at him, her face dirty and streaked with tears. Her features were oddly familiar, and Alan found himself wondering where he had seen eyes like those before. They were huge and brown, surrounded by thick, straight lashes.
She hiccoughed loudly. "I'm Greta," she said.
"Greta. That’s a nice name." Alan extended a mind probe. His heart lunged.
The girl was Keith Leighton's daughter. She had been on her way from school, which had let out early. She was going to meet her father at work and surprise him, and had been accosted by the two men.
She was looking puzzled. "You look like somebody I know. What’s your name?"
"David Anderson."
She frowned. "No, I guess I don't know you." Her voice fell. "Why are they doing this? Why did they take you away?"
"I'm a psychic, Greta, and so are you." Alan knew there was no way to hide the truth from her "The Jilectans want us because of that."
She nodded matter of factly. "That’s what Sandy said, too. I don’t feel like a psychic."
"Well, you are, Greta."
The boy whom the patrolman had shoved was getting up again. "Look here, Mister, you're going to get in a lot of trouble if the Confederation hears about this, and they will, you know."
For the first time the Corporal moved. He drew his blaster, flicked the setting and fired. There was the soft hum of a stunbolt and the boy collapsed to the deck. One of the older girls screamed.
The Corporal's face turned toward her. "If you don't want it to happen to you, girl, you'll keep your mouth shut."
She fell silent, moving as far away from the man as she could. The other patrolman grinned. "Sorta cute, ain't she, sir?"
Alan stiffened. Patrolmen were well known for their lack of restraint where it came to female prisoners, and he hoped sincerely there would be no unpleasantness now concerning this young woman. He sensed desire in the second classer, but upon further investigation of the man’s mind, he relaxed. The patrolman wouldn’t try anything -- not while the Corporal was here, anyway. Trevor wouldn't tolerate any nonsense like that -- not because of any sentimental feelings toward the girl, but because it would disrupt the kids, and cause trouble. Trevor was such a damned stick-in-the-mud.
The boy's interrogation should be starting soon. Alan watched the two guards covertly. Shortly now, he would know which one was linked with the poor kid. He stifled a twinge of conscience at what he had done to the little boy. If he was going to have a prayer of saving the psychic children on this ship, it had to be done. It was going to be pretty bad for the child, although it was unlikely that any permanent injury would result, but if he didn't succeed, all of them would probably die when the Jil determined that none of the prisoners could read Arcturians.
Corporal Trevor voiced a sudden scream, doubling violently forward. The children's heads jerked around toward him, their expressions mirroring blank surprise. The other guard caught his companion's arm. "Sir! What's wrong?"
The Corporal was straightening up, and Alan knew grim satisfaction at the shocked, pained expression on the man’s face as he dragged off his silvery helmet. "Holy space!”
“What was it, sir?"
"A cramp, I guess." The Corporal swallowed hard and made a visible effort to control himself. "Hit me all of a sudden." His eyes widened. "Patrolman Gunther, do you hear anything?"
In spite of his distress, his speech was crisp and correct — the tones of a Coralian native. The other patrolman listened, looking at his superior officer oddly. "I don't hear nothin’, sir. Just these damned kids, whinin’."
Alan knew what the Corporal was hearing. The little boy was calling for aid, the words carrying clearly over the link.
Trevor started convulsively, then shrieked and fell writhing to the deck. The other patrolman knelt beside him. "Sir! What the devil’s wrong?"
The Corporal was obviously incapable of replying. Alan studied him with clinical interest. Until now he had never met one of the rare, frantically sought for power packs, except the two who were linked with him. Interesting that all those yet discovered had been patrolmen. Alan extended a probe toward the man. Corporal Trevor was young, although he was unsure of his exact age due to circumstances which had occurred in his childhood. The man had joined the Patrol about five years ago. Alan sensed a logical, cold, highly intelligent mind, and shuddered slightly. That poor little boy! What a character to be tied to for the rest of your life!
Trevor was staggering to his feet, Patrolman Gunther helping him. "Sir, you look terrible. I'd better get you to the infirmary!"
The Corporal pressed his hands to his ears. "Don't you hear it, Patrolman?"
“No, sir, I don't hear nothin'. Look, lemme help you. " Gunther started to lead him toward the door, and Trevor doubled over with another scream. Even through his partial shielding, Alan could sense the man's fear, puzzlement and distress. Too bad, he thought.
Gunther was heaving the Corporal upright again. The patrolman was small for his profession, and Trevor was very large -- probably close to Mark's mass, and heavily muscled. Gunther got him to his feet, one arm around his waist. "Easy, sir. Lean on me."
The Corporal jerked again and fell forward, voicing another scream of agony. His subordinate tried again to lift him, then turned to press the door control. The panel slid aside.
“Jenks!" the man called. "Help me!"
Another patrolman appeared, came to a halt in the doorway and stared in horror at the writhing figure on the deck. "What happened?"
“Help me!” Gunther got Trevor to a sitting position and Jenks helped lift him to his feet. He shouted something and another patrolman appeared.
"What's going on?"
“Gimmie a hand!" Jenks snapped. "Gunther, you stay here and guard the prisoners. We'll take him to the infirmary."
"Yessir," Gunther said.
The two went out, the Corporal stumbling between them. Alan heard another scream, cut off as the panel closed.
There was a sudden silence. All the children were staring after the man, their eyes round with astonishment. On the floor, the boy Trevor had stunned, moaned and began to stir. The teenaged girl wiggled over, beside him. "Russ, are you all right?"
"Sure, sis," the boy croaked. He began to throw up.
Greta Leighton turned her head to look at Alan. "What d'you suppose is wrong with him?" she asked.
"I don’t know," Alan said. He shrugged and smiled at her,
She looked at him oddly, "Don't you?" Her voice was a strange mixture of childishness and maturity. "I think you do."
"No, I don't."
She shrugged, watching him, and then smiled in return. "Gosh, I've never heard anyone that big scream before. Served him right!" She peered closely at Alan's face for a moment, frowning. "Hey! You're older than you look, aren't you? You've got whiskers! I can see ‘em!”
"I'm twenty-three," Alan told her.
She nodded. "My daddy looks real young, too. Everybody thinks he’s my big brother. Mommy looked young, too." The little girl's face fell. "She left us last month. Daddy said she didn't want to live with us anymore." Tears flooded her eyes. "My mommy loved us! I know she did!"
Alan nodded. "I'm sure of it, Greta."
**********
tbc
