Joker
by Linda Garrick and Nancy Smith
4
Rachael Winslow wrenched her gaze from the fallen patrolmen. She must do something! To wait here was to die a terrible death at the hands of the Viceregal Patrol.
She couldn't think clearly. What should she do?
There was a back exit to the house, but to reach it she would have to pass through three rooms, in any of which she might encounter another of the invaders. Gone now was her earlier smug conviction that the Jilectans were merely the benign rulers of the Sector -- indifferent but not cruel to the lower species. If they caught her, she would die. Of that, she had no doubt.
She stood up slowly, trying to think. The room opened to the outside, but there were no windows in the wall. If only she could somehow get out of here before any more patrolmen showed up.
These weapons were supposed to have a setting for emergency maximum. Rachael examined the power settings on the blaster, trying desperately to think calmly. She didn't know how to set it and the instructions were in symbols she didn't understand. Basic, of course. She spoke it brokenly, and could not read it at all. She had intended to take it in high school, but they moved to the Balka colony before she had gotten around to it, and the school here didn't require it. But somehow she must try. She would test every setting. Surely one of them would be right.
She drew the blaster from the hand of the clad patrolman and carefully pushed the lever all the way to the right. She started to turn toward the wall.
Something made her spin back toward the drapes, the blaster lifting instinctively. As she did so, the curtains were flung open, revealing three figures, two of them clad in the black uniforms. Rachael fired.
Her shot went to one side. The central figure, a very tall blond man in shimmering red robes, and one black-clad patrolman vanished in a great, engulfing roar of flame. With a shout of pain and surprise, the other patrolman dove sideways, coming up hard against one wall. Rachael dropped the blaster and lifted the other, intending to kill the man on the spot.
His face came up, his mouth wide open. He froze, lifting his hands over his head. "Don't shoot!" he croaked.
He was burned, Rachael saw, the side of his uniform closest to the blast scorched and shriveling. Rachael stared at him with hatred. "Why shouldn't I?" Her voice rose hysterically.
"Please Miss -- just stun me! I won't be able to stop you then --"
Rachael hesitated. "How do I set it for stun?"
"Push the lever all the way to the left." His reply was prompt.
Rachael did so, and pressed the firing stud. There was a soft humming sound and the patrolman collapsed to the floor.
Still covering him with the blaster, Rachael edged forward and removed the blaster from his hand and laid it to one side. More patrolmen would be here soon. She couldn't waste time.
But still she hesitated. After a second, she pushed up the dark visor.
The man's features were regular and handsome. Somehow it was a shock to realize that he wasn't a hideous monster. He was just a man -- a man like Ryan. He even looked a little like him.
These helmets had communicators built into them, according to the little that she had heard. When he woke, he would use the one he wore to call for help.
She hesitated, fingering the blaster she held. Logically she should kill him, but she rejected the thought at once. Killing a helpless man wasn't something she could do. But she could hide the helmet! Without another thought she pulled it from his head and thrust it into the closet, dumping a bedspread and a pillow over it.
Returning to the patrolman, she picked up the blaster and thrust the weapon into her belt and then examined the one she had used to stun him with. The highest setting was the one all the way at the other end of the scale. With her thumb, she slid the lever all the way over, and aimed at the wall. Resisting the temptation to squeeze her eyes shut, she fired.
The softly tinted plaster of the wall burst outward as flame engulfed the entire panel. She threw the weapon aside, grasped the remaining blaster, and ducked through the blackened hole.
She was facing the apple orchard and instantly ran toward it, feeling the morning sun on her naked shoulders. The wind was chilly, and she realized that she hadn't even thought of bringing other clothing with her. The bra she wore was semi-transparent and embroidered with pale blue lace. It had been a wedding present from her best friend.
She entered the apple orchard, running, and dodged between the trees, still clutching the blaster. What would they do to her father and her stepmother when they discovered what Rachael had done? For an instant, she wondered who the tall man in the funny robes had been. He certainly hadn't been a patrolman.
She had almost reached the end of the orchard. Beyond it, she knew, was a cornfield, and a short distance beyond that was the forest. She must somehow reach it. In the concealment of the trees, she could hide. They would never find her there. Rachael knew parts of the forest behind the town well, although there were other places that she had never explored. She would have no trouble evading the Patrol if only she could reach the trees.
Voices brought her sharply about. She was on the very edge of the orchard, now, and beyond she could see the tall stalks of corn, the tassels moving softly in the cool breeze. But patrolmen were approaching.
The nearest apple tree was nearly eight meters tall and was covered with a lush growth of leaves and apples. Rachael leaped for the nearest branch.
She caught it and swung herself up, thanking her fitness instructor for the strength that enabled her to scramble so quickly into the branches. As she did so, the blaster slipped from her grasp to vanished into a bushy patch of weeds.
There was no time to retrieve it. Rachael climbed nimbly upward and succeeded within seconds to conceal herself amid the leaves.. Then, she remained perfectly still as the voices drew nearer.
"Musta been an Undergrounder," one voice was saying. "Nobody else'd have the nerve to do it."
"Damned Jil. Never liked him anyway," another voice said. "His dad's gonna spit nails when he hears, though. There wasn't even any remains left to bury. Just a big, black smear all over the purty carpet --"
The voices faded as the men went on by. Rachael clung to the branch, feeling slightly faint as the patrolmen's words slowly registered. The tall, blond figure between the two 'trols had been a Jilectan! There could be no doubt of it. And she, Rachael Winslow -- little harmless Rachael Winslow -- had killed a Jilectan!
She must get away! If they caught her now, it would be the execution chair for her -- public execution! -- a fate shared by anyone, Undergrounder or not, who had the misfortune to kill a Jilectan. Rachael took several more breaths, struggling to gain control of her shaking. Then, slowly, she began to descend through the branches.
She alighted on the ground and bent, searching the weeds for the blaster. It wasn't where she had expected it to be, and she felt frantically in the vegetation for it.
A step behind her brought her sharply around. Someone else was coming, and he was terrifyingly near! Rachael looked frantically around and then snatched up a stout limb at least two meters long, that had fallen from the tree during the last windstorm. Then she retreated behind the trunk of the tree, clutching her weapon and crouched, awaiting the newcomer.
**********
Subcommander Carson lifted his head. He was lying face down on a soft rug, and he hurt. His head throbbed like a sore tooth, his stomach heaved and his eyes refused to focus. He lowered his head to the carpet and lay perfectly still for a slow count of sixty. What had happened?
The girl! Suddenly and vividly the memory of her returned. She had been so beautiful, clad only in that skimpy pair of shorts and the lacy bra, her blond hair tousled, her eyes wide with shock at what she had done. She had killed Lord Snilthvar!
Carson lifted his head and saw the blackened smear on the carpet beside him. How had he survived, and why hadn't she killed him, when it was obvious that she had ruthlessly slaughtered everyone else who had had the misfortune to enter the room, Lord Snilthvar included?
Slowly, Carson made it to a sitting position, fighting back nausea.
She was gone, as expected, and so was his blaster. He looked around, trying by force of will to steady his stomach.
A huge, gaping hole was burned in the wall -- the obvious result of a blaster set on emergency max. A blaster lay beside it.
Slowly, Carson began to crawl toward it, still fighting back the nausea. Halfway there, he lost the battle and hunched forward, busily losing the breakfast that he had eaten a couple of hours before.
The spasms ceased eventually, leaving him shaking. He reached the blaster and picked it up, striving clumsily to insert a new energy cell into its chamber. He succeeded at last and looked around in search of his helmet. He needed to call the ship to report this disaster.
He didn't see it anywhere. The woman might have taken it along, he thought. Then the closet in one wall caught his attention. A sliver of space gaped between the edge of the door and the frame, and a piece of cloth was blocking its closing. Carson pulled it open.
A pile of cloth and a pillow met his gaze, covering a suspicious lump. Sure enough, his helmet lay under the material. He picked it up and settled it on his head, wincing as the throb of the stunner headache increased. He pressed the transmit button.
"Subcommander Carson to Strike Commander Bell. Come in."
The Strike Commander's voice responded at once. "What is it, Carson?"
Paul Carson cleared his throat. "I'm in the big white house you can see from the ship, sir. I'm -- I'm afraid --"
"What is it, Carson?" Bell's voice was impatient.
"Lord Snilthvar's dead, sir."
"What?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry." Carson gulped. "A woman, sir -- she hit us with emergency max when we entered the room. I'm scorched and Patrolman Steiner is dead. Lord Snilthvar was caught in the blast."
"Holy --" A string of colorful adjectives followed. "Where's the woman?"
"She's gone, sir. She blew out the wall with a blaster and took off. I'm going after her."
"Wait! Give us a description, first."
"Blond, blue-eyed, very pretty --" Carson tried to think. "Probably no more than 50 kilos, dressed in shorts and a bra."
"What?"
"Yes." Carson lowered his voice. "I think Sergeant Winston was trying to rape her, sir. He's dead, and his pants and undershorts are lying on a chair."
Bell cursed. "All right, get moving. I'm sending other teams out in pursuit. You'd better find her or Lord Slinthvor'll take your fingers off one at a time."
"Yes sir." Carson stood up and went through the burned hole in the wall, the blaster in his hand.
He faced an apple orchard, the trees laden with fruit. Sprinting forward, he entered the orchard, looking alertly around.
She was, of course, nowhere in sight. He strode slowly ahead, a strange feeling growing in him. She had come this way -- he was sure of it, although how he knew he didn't know. Other patrolmen were ahead of him and they crossed his path at an angle. He could hear their voices, but instinctively he knew that they wouldn't find her. He moved slowly ahead, following that insubstantial trail, growing more certain as he went that he was drawing nearer to his quarry.
She was near now -- maybe nearer than he realized. Gripping the blaster in his hand, Carson moved on. He was nearing the end of the orchard and beyond he could see the waving stalks of a cornfield.
Without any warning, she was before him again. He caught a brief, dazzling impression of the sun glinting off her hair, of huge, furious blue eyes, and the soft swell of her breasts. She held a big branch that looked almost too heavy for her to hold, but she was swinging it with both hands directly at him.
The branch struck him on the side of the neck, just below the right ear, and consciousness vanished in an explosion of stars.
**********
Rachael Winslow dropped to her hands and knees and scrabbled in the weeds for the blaster that she had dropped. It was practically under the patrolman, and had suddenly revealed itself when he fell. She snatched it up, possessed herself of her victim's blaster as well, struggled to her feet and ran. She went straight through the cornfield, across the small meadow and entered the forest.
For a few seconds, she wondered if she had killed him. She hoped so. Maybe she had managed to break his neck, if she was lucky.
The trees rose up on all sides of her -- huge trees, covered with this world's equivalent of moss and lichens. This part of the forest she knew well, and it would be possible to lose herself for days, if necessary. She dashed through underbrush and over fallen logs, her breath coming in harsh gasps. When she could run no more, she collapsed to the ground, breathing raggedly.
She was a widow. Slowly, the realization hit her. She was a widow at twenty years of age. Her young, handsome, loving husband was dead.
Tears rose in her eyes and she brushed them roughly away. She'd been a fool, an utter fool, not to listen to what her father and Ryan had said about the Jilectans and the Patrol. They were her enemies now. She had defended them and they had turned on her.
Again, she struggled to her feet and ran again. She had to get as far away as she could before the search parties began to comb the forest. At last she fell, exhausted, to the ground. For a few seconds she lay still and quiet, face down in the debris of the forest floor, then she began to cry -- little wrenching sobs that tore at her chest. She cried for along time.
At last, the sobs died away and she lay still, trying to regain some control over herself. She had to think. They would certainly be after her by now -- the killer of His Lordship and three patrolmen. It didn't matter, she thought bitterly, that one of the men had tried to rape her, and that all of them had been planning to execute her. How could anyone be so unfair? The injustice of the whole thing made her tremble with fury.
At last, she got slowly to her feet and leaned against a tree. She was alone in the forest and on her own -- half-naked and without supplies. All she had now were the two blasters to defend herself.
Memory came back suddenly of the blaster flying through the air into her hands back in the dressing room. How had that happened? As far as she could remember, she had never done such a thing before. But the sergeant had understood. She had read comprehension in his eyes an instant before she'd killed him. And the Jilectan -- why had he come to the house? Had it been only a crazy coincidence that he'd entered the dressing room at just that instant?
Was it possible that she was one of the infamous Terran psychics? Had she really used telekinesis on the blaster, the energy of her own mind, to yank the thing through the air into her hand in a desperate act of self defense?
There was no other explanation. Like Alan Westover, she was a psychic who had killed a Jilectan. But unlike Alan Westover, Mark Linley was not there to spirit her out of the mess, nor did she have a lifeboat in which to make a fast escape. She was alone, and would likely die within the next few days.
A sound brought her upright, her heart leaping into her throat. It was the crunch of approaching feet: human feet. Someone was coming. Panic gripped her and she turned and ran again.
**********
tbc
