Joker (Part 6)
by Linda Garrick and Nancy Smith
6
Jason Llwelling became slowly aware of a sharp, pungent odor in his nostrils. He coughed, trying to twist his face away. Someone was speaking, the voice muffled and far away. The odor in his nostrils caught at his throat, and again he coughed.
"Wake up, bud," a voice said.
He opened his eyes.
He was lying on a bunk in what he knew must be the infirmary of a Patrol battlecruiser. His arms were fastened firmly to the sides of the cot with metal restrainers and a man clad in the uniform of a Patrol doctor was seated beside him. Behind him stood a patrolman, the marks on his helmet proclaiming him to be the Strike Commander of the ship. As Jason watched, the man removed the headgear, revealing a scratched, bruised face, mussed copper hair and electric blue eyes, one of which was surrounded by a swelling bruise.
Jason turned his head toward a familiar mind and saw Lisa fastened to the bunk beside his, still unconscious. Beyond her was the boy, Alan.
"Who are you?" the Strike Commander demanded.
Jason tried to answer, but the first word ended in a tickling cough. The doctor lifted his shoulders and held a straw to his lips. Jason gulped a mouthful of water.
"I'm Jason Miller," he managed. "My wife, Lisa and I have a little farm south of here."
"Oh really?" The Strike Commander said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Then perhaps you'll tell me where you acquired two standard Patrol Issue blasters."
"We took them from two patrolmen who were --"
"Which you conveniently knew how to use with skill and precision. Your girlfriend set hers to overload and threw it, killing two of my men. The third one was badly injured, but managed to call for help before the barn burned down around his ears. Who are you Mr. Miller -- if that's your real name? Terran Underground, by any chance?"
Jason shook his head jerkily. "No."
The Strike Commander glanced at the doctor. "Wake the woman up." He turned away, dabbing at his eye, and extending a quick mental probe, Jason discovered quickly how the Strike Commander had acquired his injuries.
When Snilthvar had died, Bell had reported the incident to Central Command. Within literal minutes the order came back that terminated all further executions until Snilthvar's father, Slinthvor arrived to interrogate and determine the ones responsible for his son's death.
Strike Commander Bell had gone out to assist with the captures and had been attacked by a terrified woman armed with an iron frying pan. Hampered by his orders to refrain from killing the colonists, Bell had suffered a good deal of damage before his men had managed to stun the woman, catching him in the stunbeam as well. He was still suffering a tremendous headache and was in anything but a good humor.
Lisa coughed and moaned. The Strike Commander bent over her suddenly, studying her features. He gave a sudden mirthless crack of laughter. "I've seen this one's wanted poster. Lisa Wilkins and her brother, Carl, wanted by the Autonomy. The brother was killed some years ago. Both were psychics." He turned to Llwelling. "You look familiar too, mister."
Jason looked away. "You’re wrong. We're just farmers."
The Strike Commander shrugged in abrupt dismissal. "Doc, I need something for this headache. Look, Mr. Miller, or whoever you are, I'm not going to waste time with you right now. When Slinthvor gets here, you'll be happy to tell him everything you know. He ain't the squeamish type, and his son's been killed." He glanced at Lisa. "By a pretty blond girl, according to Subcommander Carson. Slinthvor won't fool around." He spoke suddenly into a wall communicator. "Guards!"
The door to the infirmary opened, admitting four patrolmen. Bell gestured to the prisoners. "Take them to the brig. They're to be guarded at all times, and keep 'em cuffed. I suspect the woman's a psychic and he may be too. He's sure the right size for it."
Jason and Lisa were released from the bunks and their hands cuffed behind them with the restrainers. A third man released Alan and tossed him to one shoulder. They went out into an empty corridor lined with doors. The patrolmen marched them down the corridor toward the left. A door at the end slid open as they arrived and Jason and Lisa were pushed into a lift. The door slid shut.
*Jase!* Lisa's voice spoke in his mind. *What'll we do?*
*We keep our mouths shut and our shields up,* he replied. *Hang on. There'll be other agents arriving soon.*
*I know.* She leaned back against the lift wall and closed her eyes. It slid to a halt and they were marched toward the brig.
They were placed in separate cells behind force fields and two patrolmen were left on guard. Jason looked through the shimmering energy barrier at the control panel. He could turn it off, of course. His telekinetic powers were strong enough, but with his hands cuffed and the guards watching him, such an attempt would be useless. He sat down on the deck and waited. Across from him, young Alan began to stir, moaning softly. The guard glanced at him briefly and away.
**********
7
Carson stumbled, his foot tangling in a mass of vines, and half fell forward. His hands descended into a mass of tangled creepers.
Pain seemed to burst from both palms, coursing in red needles of agony up his arms. He voiced a yell of anguish, starting to bring his palms up to his mouth.
"No!" Rachael screamed. "Not in your mouth, Paul! Not in your mouth!"
He stopped, his arms held rigid before him, trembling with agony. "Stop it! Stop the pain! What can I do?"
"Wash it off!" she commanded. "Pour water over it!"
Still shaking, he removed the canteen from his belt and sloshed water over his hands. The pain eased as if by magic and he stared at his skin in horror. Large, reddened patches were apparent on both palms and tiny blisters rose in the center of the patches. The burning, although less intense now, continued.
"Put burn salve on it," Rachael said. "Smear it on thick."
Unquestioningly, he obeyed and the pain eased even more. Rachael watched him, her brows drawn together. She turned suddenly away.
"Why am I helping you?" she inquired bitterly. "You're going to torture and kill me. Am I crazy or something?"
Carson stared at her, his mind a mass of jumbled emotions. "If you are, it's the nicest kind of insanity I know," he tried.
She laughed bitterly and sank down on a fallen log. He came over to her. "Thanks for helping me," he said. "I appreciate it. Why didn't you want me to put my hands in my mouth?"
"Huh?" She glanced at his burned palms. "Those are Wipple leaves, Subcommander." Her voice had become cold. "They secrete an acid -- quite powerful. It's poison, and absorbs quickly through the mucous membranes." She paused. "It also goes through the skin -- more slowly, of course."
He stared at her in horror. "What'll it do to me?"
"Kill you," Rachael said calmly. "That is, unless you get to medical treatment within the next ten minutes."
Carson cursed and picked her up without ceremony, swinging her over his shoulder. He began to run toward the ship.
"Exertion makes the stuff absorb quicker." Her voice was shaken by his running.
He cursed again and stopped, placing her with her back to a tree and unfastening her restrainers. She began to struggle. "What are you going to do?"
"Leave you here." He brought her arms behind her again and fastened her wrists behind the tree. "Someone will be back to get you."
"No!" she cried. "Don't --"
He straightened up and ran.
It wasn't far to the ship, but the time seemed endless. There was an aircar a short distance away, on the opposite side of the cornfield. He charged toward it, his breath coming hard, and came face to face with another patrolman. The man caught him as he staggered.
"Subcommander! What's wrong, sir?"
Another patrolman appeared beside him.
"Get me to the ship, quick," Carson ordered. "Murphy, I left a girl cuffed to a tree about a kilometer that way." He pointed. "She killed the Jil. Go get her and bring her to the ship at once."
"Yessir!" Murphy turned and ran. The first patrolman grabbed Carson's arm. "What happened to you, sir?" he inquired. "You don't look well."
"I ran into a poisonous plant and I've got to get to the doc quick! Move!"
"Yessir!" Patrolman Randall opened the car door and scrambled into the driver's position as Carson jumped into the passenger seat. The car soared upward almost before the door closed.
Carson was feeling queasy, the first symptoms of the poison, no doubt. He leaned back in the seat, trying to slow his heartbeats. The purr of the engine seemed loud in the silence.
Randall was looking at him curiously. "How do you know the plant's poisonous, sir?"
"It did this." Carson displayed his burned palms. "I'm not feeling too good, either. Hurry!"
In less than a minute, the ship was before them and Randall brought the car down to a skillful landing by the hatch. Carson was out in an instant, rushing past the patrolmen guarding the entrance into the vessel. Ten minutes, Rachael had said. It had been at least seven, perhaps eight since the incident. His nausea was increasing now accompanied by vertigo.
He reached the infirmary and charged in. "Doc! Help me!"
Doctor Acropolis appeared from the back room, wiping his hands on a towel. "Hello, Paul. What's wrong?"
"I've been poisoned!" Carson extended his hands, displaying the blistered palms. "The girl called it Wipple leaves! It absorbs through the skin --" He clutched the back of a chair, the dizziness intensifying. "Do something!"
"Hold on." The doctor drew a blood sample and dropped the little tube into an analyzer. He frowned at the results. "Hmmm--"
"Doc, please --"
"Take it easy," the doctor's voice was completely calm. "You aren't going to die. There isn't enough poison in your system to hurt you."
Carson felt his jaw drop.
"It's pretty nasty stuff, all right." The doctor began to spray the wounds with synthaskin. "If you'd taken it internally, or even put your hands in your mouth after they were burned, the stuff might have killed you. Good thing you had the presence of mind not to do that."
"Yeah," Carson said, numbly.
"Now," the doctor said, "Tell me what happened."
Carson did, very briefly. The doctor grinned. "She was lying -- trying to scare you -- probably hoping you'd let her go. She must have known the absorption through the skin isn't enough to hurt you. You might feel a bit queasy, but I think that's all."
"Yeah," Carson said. "That's it all right. It sure burned the hell out of my hands, though."
"Oh, sure. The stuff's corrosive, no doubt about it. You'll be all right, though. Like I said, you're lucky you didn't put your hand in your mouth. It's the first instinct, you know, with a burn or other painful injury."
"Yeah, I know." Carson stood up. "That little-- I'm going to roast her when they bring her in."
"Paul!" It was Rachael's voice, so clear that he thought for a split second that she was in the room with him. "Paul! Help me! Help!"
"What th'hell--" Carson looked all around. "Doc, did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" the doctor asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Ow!" Carson stared down at his wrists. They hurt. Someone was gripping them hard--at least, it felt like someone was--
"Paul! Help me!"
What the blazes was going on? Carson felt the cold metal of restrainers close about his wrists, and for the first time the realization dawned that something very strange was happening. Rachael had to be a psychic, which suddenly explained a lot of things in his mind, but how the devil was she communicating with him from so far away? Was he a psychic, too?
He couldn't be! Carson charged from the infirmary and down the corridor toward the lift, leaving the doctor staring blankly after him.
**********
8
Rachael, left alone cuffed to the tree, remained still for a moment, trying desperately to think. When Carson realized she had deceived him, he would be angry--furious. The fact that she had lied to him bothered her, although why it should she had not the slightest idea. She had hoped he would forget about her - give her a chance to escape. But he had not done so. Instead he had left her like this, quite at the mercy of any wild beast or 'trol who found her.
She began to struggle hopelessly with the shackles on her wrists, trying to will herself to be calm. Maybe another colonist would find her before Carson returned or sent someone back for her. It was possible. Did she dare scream? It was altogether too likely that such screams would attract patrolmen rather than colonists.
Still, if she didn't call, the chances of her being found were almost nonexistent. Rachael considered the alternatives and decided that her best course was to try to attract attention.
"Help!" she called. "Help! Somebody, help me!"
No reply - nothing but the soft twitter of birds in the trees overhead. Rachael called again. "Help! Somebody help me!" There came a sound, then -- heavy footsteps in the leaves. Someone was coming, and the realization sent a thrill of hope through her. "Help!" she called again.
The footsteps drew nearer. There was more than one man, she was certain. Were they patrolmen, or citizens come to help her? She froze, waiting.
"There she is!" The voice was deep and spoke Basic, and carried the heavy accent of Shallock. Rachael's blood ran cold. These were no colonists. These were patrolmen, sent by Subcommander Carson to take her back to the ship.
There was nothing to do - no way to resist them. Rachael shrank back against the tree as two black clad figures strode into view.
They were tall and well muscled, as most patrolmen were, and she saw one of them held a blaster at ready. He nodded to his companion.
"Get her loose, Murphy. I'll keep watch."
The man addressed came over to Rachael, pursing his lips in appreciation as he surveyed her. "Looks like our virtuous Subcommander ain't so virtuous after all," he remarked. "Can't say I blame 'im, though. She's awful pretty-- "
Hurry up Murphy!" the other man said shortly. "We ain't got the time! There's bound to be colonists close by! An awful lot of 'em escaped into the woods."
"Okay, Sarge." Murphy unfastened the restrainers securing her to the tree, and then grinned, pinning her hands, and stripping off Carson's tunic. "Guess we better return this to the subcommander," he commented loftily. "He must've forgot it."
The sarge shrugged, grinning a little. "She looks better without it, anyway. Get her cuffed - move it."
Murphy complied. "Okay, let's go. Too bad we haven't got a little more time." He glanced meaningfully at his sergeant.
The noncom jerked his head. "Bring her, Patrolman."
"Yessir." Murphy steered her forward. "C'mon, baby."
Rachael went with them, blindly. They marched her rapidly along, blasters drawn and held at ready in their hands. But no one disturbed them, and in less than ten minutes they reached the end of the forest. Before them was the cornfield through which she had passed during her flight from Carson.
Carson! Bitter thoughts welled up at the memory of the subcommander. Three times she could have killed him, and all three times she had not. Then, when he would have certainly poisoned himself by placing his hands in his mouth after encountering the Wipple leaves, she had warned him! What a crazy stunt! Was she out of her mind?
Murphy dragged her on though the cornfield. They emerged on the other side, skirted her house where Lord Snilthvar had died so suddenly and violently, and headed toward the ship at a brisk walk. The sergeant spoke into his throat mike. "Sergeant Coleman to Dragon. We have the woman secure. Please inform the Subcommander."
Rachael felt panic touch her as they reached the boarding ramp. Her knees went weak, and her heart began to pound suffocatingly in her chest.
"Paul!" she whispered. "Help me! Please help me!"
She bit off the last word, cursing her own weakness. Carson wasn't going to help her, and she had deluded herself when she had considered the possibility back in the forest. The subcommander was a patrolman--a stern, hard, unsympathetic patrolman. He wouldn't help her, even if he could.
They dragged her up the ramp and into the ship. Two patrolmen went past, favoring Rachael with whistles of appreciation. She tried to ignore them, wishing devoutly that Murphy hadn't taken the patrol tunic away. The men led her down a long corridor toward a lift, which opened automatically as it sensed their approach.
The lift, stopped on the fifth level. More patrolmen passed, offering various suggestive comments as she was led down another long corridor and into a room.
They pushed her inside, stepped in after her and closed the door.
Except for the two men now guarding the door, Rachael found herself alone. The room was small with a single chair and table and a small cot in one corner. The two men were watching her, and Murphy grinned again, obviously very pleased with the situation. She backed away from them and moved behind the table partially shielding herself by it, and sat down. Her arms ached from their unnatural position, and she was filled with despair. She was a psychic--she must be, or she could not have moved that blaster back in her house when she had killed the patrolman. A Jilectan had died at her hands, and the alien's father was on the way, furious and ready to wreak vengeance on this insignificant worm who had dared to defend herself. There was no way out.
How could she have been so wrong about the Jilectans? Rachael thought it over, the memories of what she had experienced in the last few hours bringing a flood of self recrimination. The Viceregal Patrol worked for the Jilectans, and therefore the aliens must approve of their actions. And yet the Patrol had walked right into her home, murdered her husband and tried to assault her. Her father had been taken away for execution. There hadn't even been any formal charges voiced -- nothing. The men had behaved exactly as though they had the right to do what they were doing. How could she have been so blind?
The door slid open and Rachael's head snapped up as another patrolman entered. His helmet was adorned with four red stripes and a black etched star. He must be the Strike Commander, she realized. Carson's helmet, although bearing a black star, had boasted only three stripes.
Rachael came to her feet. The man surveyed her a moment in silence, and she could read no expression in the face behind that dark visor. "Miss Winslow?"
"Mrs. Winslow," she corrected him automatically. "Rachael Winslow. My husband was Ryan Winslow. Your men shot him when he tried to prevent Corporal Winston from assaulting me."
The corner of the Commander's mouth twitched. "I'm Strike Commander Bell, Mrs. Winslow. You're under arrest for the murder of Lord Snilthvar and three of my crewmembers. You will be held under guard until his Lordship's next of kin arrives." He took a step forward, and Rachael took a half step back. Although not so tall as Carson, the Strike Commander was a big, very frightening man. "Mrs. Winslow, are you a member of the Terran Underground?"
Rachael shook her head emphatically. "There's no Undergrounders here, Commander. This whole business is some kind of a mistake!"
The Commander smiled faintly and spoke softly into his throat mike. An instant later the door opened and four patrolmen entered, leading two prisoners by the arms.
Rachael stared at them, and the prisoners stared back. There was a moment of silence, and Rachael became aware of the Strike Commander watching her intently.
Rachael looked back at the two prisoners. They were a young man and woman, their hands fastened behind them with restrainers. The woman was pretty, the man pleasant looking. They both appeared disheveled, but not half so frightened as she would have suspected, considering the circumstances. Neither spoke.
"Who are you?" Rachael asked.
"Jason and Lisa Miller," the man said. "Who are you?"
"Rachael Winslow."
The Strike Commander gestured to the newcomer's guards. "Take 'em away."
The two people were led out, and Bell regarded Rachael again quite soberly.
"So," he said, "you really aren't an Underground agent."
Rachael turned to look at him. "You mean they are?"
"Possibly."
Rachael felt a sudden blaze of hope. Prisoners or not, Undergrounders were well known for their remarkable accomplishments.
Bell might have been reading her thoughts. "Don't get your hopes up, Mrs. Winslow. They will be very well watched. As will you." He turned and went out, leaving the two guards at the door watching her. The panel slid closed.
Rachael sank down on the chair again, trying to slow her heartbeats. She was alone--all alone. What could she do?
The memory of Paul Carson's face floated before her. Somehow the fact that he would desert her after she had helped him seemed inconceivable to her. Rachael sank her had forward on the table.
"Paul!" she whispered. "Please help me! Don't let them hurt me! Please. . ."
A large hand on her shoulder brought her sharply upright. Patrolman Murphy was standing over her, grinning.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he said, "It's gonna get awful dull just sitting here waiting for his Lordship to show. Let's try'n think of something to make the time go a little faster."
Rachael tried to pull away. "Leave me alone!"
"Now don't be like that, honey." His hands brought her to her feet and he lifted her lightly from the deck. The other man watched, grinning, obviously unperturbed by what was about to happen. Rachael kicked frantically as Murphy carried her easily toward the small bunk.
**********
tbc
