The Reluctant Pirate: 6/?
by Linda Garrick and Nancy Smith
Chapter 6
Alan ran across the frozen lawn toward the sound of blaster fire. His shields were wide open and scanning, but there was no trace of Mark, and Jason's aura was fading rapidly. Ahead of him the blaster fire ceased abruptly.
His chronometer shocked him and he lifted it to his lips as he ran. "Yes?"
"Alan!" It was Baxter's voice. "Get to the car!"
"I can't! I've got to find Mark!"
Two figures appeared through the trees and rushed toward him. Mike and Baxter reached him second's later, and each caught him by one arm, lifting him from the ground.
"Wait!" he gasped. "I've got to find Mark!"
"He wasn't with the Jil, sir!" The two men never slowed their pace. They rushed him across the lawn, dangling helplessly between them. "Where's the car?"
"Over there in the alley. Lieutenant, put me down! That's an order!"
He was ignored. The two much larger men bore him inexorably through the trees, across the remainder of the lawn, and to the aircar. He was tossed unceremoniously inside, and Baxter jumped in beside him, restraining him with one hand as he tried to climb out the other door. Mike opened it and jumped in, hemming Alan between them.
"Here they come! Move it, Bax!"
The aircar soared upward, and Alan glanced back to see a Patrol aircar accelerating toward them. He crouched down in the seat as the craft fired a shot at them.
"Weapons comp on," Mike said. "I'm calling for help."
"Here comes another, one." Baxter took them over the housetops in a sweeping arc as their foremost pursuer took another shot at them. Their own craft rocked, but the comp returned the fire. The Patrol car veered away, trailing smoke.
"Got him!" Mike glanced at the readout. "Backup's on its way. ETA two minutes." He glanced at Alan, then reached over, yanking the safety webbing across his superior's lap. Alan fastened it.
Baxter took the craft across a small, frozen lake. Faces turned up toward them, mouths agape, as they roared overhead, pursued by the black Patrol scout. Somewhere a siren waited, drawing gradually closer.
"A cop," Mike said breathlessly. "Damn! Can't you get any more speed out of this thing?"
"I'm doing my best," Baxter said, sounding harried.
The siren was getting closer. Alan glanced around to see the police car converging from the side, its red light flashing. A voice spoke over their communicator. "Patrol scout, are you reading me?"
"Get lost, twerp," a distinctly Shallockian voice responded. "This ain't none o' your business."
"You will not harass Bellian citizens without provocation. What is your reason for pursuing this craft? It's registered with the New Brunswick Vehicle Department."
"I said get lost." The transmission cut off. Alan peered around to see the police car jolting back. He sighed. They could expect no help from the law. The cops were understandably intimidated by the Patrol.
A voice spoke over their communicator. "Give it up, Undergrounders. We gotcha in our sights." It was the Shallockian again.
"Here come ours," Mike said. He pressed the communicator. "Took you long enough!"
"Take it easy, guys. We got 'em. You get out of here."
Behind them there was the sound of blaster fire as two Underground scouts joined the fray. Alan took a deep breath and spoke into the unit. "Thanks, guys."
"Our pleasure, Colonel."
They sped away from the scene of conflict. Alan straightened up, and Mike turned to look at him, his expression apologetic. "I'm sorry, sir, but we had to get you away from there fast. There was no time to explain."
"Yeah. Give, me your report now."
“Yes sir." Mike cleared his throat. "We heard that blaster on max go off, and headed for it, trying to be quiet. We found a dead Jil, killed by a blaster bolt in the chest, but with blisters all over him. He must have been brushed by the guy who fired the emergency blast, and then shot afterwards. Takes somebody with cool nerves to do that to a Jil." There was admiration in Mike’s tone. "There was also a live patrolman on the ground. I aimed my blaster at him and told him to spill. He did, blabbed out something about having the Sweeney kid, and some big guy in his underwear showing up and blowing his Lordship and two bodyguards away, and then taking the kid. Then two more 'trols showed up, yelling for help on their coms. We managed to get rid of one of them, then ran for our lives. I saw you coming, and we headed toward you. You know the rest."
Alan nodded. "I see."
"And now we've got to find Colonel Linley. He wasn't with them, sir, although I guess he might have been caught by another detachment."
Alan leaned forward and searched the glove compartment, at last finding what he sought: a woolen cap belonging to his partner. He had seen Mark tuck it in there three hours ago. Now he relaxed back in the seat, closing his eyes.
Instantly he sensed it: a pull to the north. "I've got him. He's unconscious, and I think -- I'm pretty sure he’s moving."
"Prisoner?" Mike's voice quivered slightly.
"I don't know. Probably. Head north."
"Yes sir. What do you suppose happened to the Sweeney kid?"
"I don't know." Alan’s concentration never wavered. "But I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we find out the guy who showed up and killed the Jil and bodyguards was Corporal Richard Trevor."
"Me neither," Baxter said. "Am I headed right, sir?"
"Yes."
"What do you suppose they'll do now?" Mike asked.
Alan didn't know, and at the moment he didn't care. He was too worried about Mark. Baxter glanced at him and swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, sir, that we had to kind of bully you around like that. We were under orders, you know, and we knew you wouldn't leave of your own accord. There wasn't time to argue."
"It’s okay." Alan was hardly paying attention. Mark was still moving, though more slowly now. He couldn't concentrate on Jason or Trevor or anyone else until he knew Mark was safe.
They flew in silence. Alan could sense discomfort from his two companions, but ignored it. Mark was the only thing that mattered right now. They must catch whoever it was who had taken him. Was it possible the Patrol had picked him up, and that the Jil had ordered them to get him offworld as quickly as possible? Were they heading for their ship, docked in some remote area of this world?
The sensation of movement ceased. Alan clutched the cap more tightly, crushing it between his hands "He isn't moving now. Oh my God! They've probably reached the ship with him!"
"Easy, sir. How much farther?"
"I don't know. He feels pretty close, but it's hard to tell. He wasn't very attached to this stupid cap. After this I'll always carry a lock of hair or something if we’re separated, if I ever --" He stopped, swallowing the lump in his throat. Mike put a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said miserably.
Silence again. Alan waited breathlessly for the sensation of motion to resume, but it didn't. Minutes passed, and suddenly a new sensation reached Alan through the little cap between his hands. "I think he's coming to!"
He saw Mike and Baxter exchange a glance, and knew what they were thinking. Once aboard a Jilectan ship, the prisoner would be allowed to regain consciousness. An interrogation, or a mind probe was sure to follow.
But still no sensation of movement. The distance lessened, and ten minutes crawled slowly by.
"He's below us!" Alan said. "There!"
Beneath them on the snowy landscape, a small, lonely figure could be seen. A face turned up to them, and a hand lifted.
The aircar swooped downward, coming to a sliding halt a dozen meters from the figure. Alan clambered across Mike's lap and was out of the car instantly, running across the piled snow toward Linley.
"Mark! Are you okay?"
Linley looked terrible. He was barefoot, except for his socks, and his pants were gone. He was clutching his coat about himself and cursing fluently.
"Mark!" Alan reached him, catching him in a relieved embrace. "What happened? No, never mind. Here, get in the car!" He supported his partner toward the aircar and Baxter jumped out, taking his other arm. Together they eased him into the vehicle. Mike had out the emergency blanket, and wrapped it around the shivering man. Alan turned up the car's heater.
Mark raised sick, miserable eyes to meet his. Alan opened a canteen. "Have some water, Mark."
Linley gulped from the container and then lowered it. He cleared his throat.
"Don't bother askin' me what happened kid," he croaked. "'Cause I don't know."
"Your clothes, and your boots -- where are they?"
"I woke up without 'em." Linley swigged again from the canteen. "I was headin' for my post, hurryin', and I passed this car. I didn't see nobody in it, but there musta been somebody. I heard a stunbolt, an' that's the last I remember. Next thing I knew I was wakin' up here, feelin' like hell." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I was sicker'n a poisoned trenchcrawler an' m'neck's awful sore, I think somebody must'a stunned me about fifty times, an' bashed me one into the bargain."
Alan examined the spot on his head. "You're right. You have a big lump with a cut on top of it just behind your ear."
"Yeah. Well, whoever he was, he knew exactly where to do it to knock me silly. Where are we, anyway?"
"About a hundred kilometers north of where we were." Alan leaned back in the seat, weak with relief, and glanced at his chronometer. "It's been about an hour since you vanished."
"An' I just woke up about fifteen minutes ago. Did you get the kid?"
"Jason? No. A Jil tried to grab him, and someone showed up and zapped the Jil. A big guy. It must have been Trevor,"
Mark's head jerked up. He winced and groaned, rubbing his neck. "A Jil got zapped?"
"Yes."
"Halthzor's Hangnails!"
Baxter spoke up. "Colonel Westover, don't you think this situation is a little peculiar?"
"Very peculiar." Alan turned to look at the man. "Why? What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking, sir, that this doesn't have the earmarks of a routine mugging. What mugger in his right mind would go to all the trouble this one has, stunning Colonel Linley in broad daylight, pulling him into a car, taking half of his clothes and his boots, fly a hundred kilometers, keeping him carefully unconscious the whole time, then leave him behind, unhurt, except for a bruise on his head, and with a very expensive coat still on him." He grinned suddenly. "Unless, of course, some lady out there saw you, and couldn't resist a closer look."
Linley scowled at him. "Watch it, Lieutenant."
"Sorry, sir. Just out of curiosity, did the mugger take your wallet?"
"It was in my pants." Mark cussed softly, then reached suddenly into his coat packet, pulling out a handful of credit slips. "You're right, Lieutenant. He left me with forty credits in my pocket. This sure doesn't look like a routine mugging."
Baxter was continuing. "What are you wearing under your coat, sir? That wasn't what you had on before, was it?"
Linley unbuttoned the coat, surveying the too small sweater in bewilderment. "No, it ain't. I've never seen the damn thing before."
"It must belong to the mugger," Alan said, puzzled.
"He sure went to a lot of trouble for you, sir,” Baxter repeated slowly. "He took your shirt, but went to the trouble of dressing you in his own clothes, or at least part of them, and leaving you that coat, besides -- and your money.
"Most unusual behavior for a mugger," Mike said quietly. “Unless, of course, the mugger is being influenced by an empath."
"Trevor!" Alan couldn't believe he'd missed the obvious. It had been staring him in the face. "Trevor did it, Mark. He needed clothes. He was probably still dressed like a 'trol."
"Then where did this bloody sweater come from, kid?" Mark rubbed a hand over his eyes.
"Maybe you weren't the first person he mugged, and the first guy's clothes didn't fit too well. That's probably where he got the aircar he's using, too, come to think of it."
"Yeah." Mark rubbed his right shoulder, then abruptly unbuttoned the coat and stripped it off, revealing a large hole in the shoulder seam of the sweater. The edges of the hole were curled and blackened.
Alan touched it thoughtfully. "Blaster burn, I'll bet," he said slowly. "I guess the Jil got in one shot. I hope Trevor's okay."
"Me too," Mark said darkly. "I want to meet that guy on more even terms. You still got Jason's class ring?"
"Yes." Alan took the little object, which the boy's mother had given them, from his pocket and settled back in the seat, relaxing. "You know, there's not much emotional attachment in this thing, I don't think Mrs. Sweeney understood exactly what sort of article was needed."
"Can you do it, kid?"
"I think so." Alan concentrated, feeling the slight pull from the little object. Jason wasn't too far away yet. "Head north."
**********
tbc
