This is a Terran Underground story. Check the Timeline for its place in the series.
Copyright statement: This is an original work by the two authors. Any resemblance to any person, living, dead or fictional, is unintentional and coincidental. The writers retain all rights to this work, and the copyright may not be infringed.
Volcano Island
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
1
Strike Commander Thoroski of the Jilectan Battlecruiser Leviathan shut off his videoscreen and silently congratulated himself.
For the past several ship's days, Red Squadron, under his command, had been engaging in war games against Purple Squadron under the command of Strike Commander Toyoma, and the upshot was that his squadron had come off the winner. He straightened up and prepared to convey the commendations of Command to his Control Room staff and the crew of the ship.
When the doors opened on the control room and he stepped out, the faces of his command crew turned toward him. He gave them a thumbs up.
"Well, men, we're number one."
There was a concerted cheer from the control room crew. The navigator and the pilot clapped each other on the backs and Subcommander Ch'Dreel made a peculiar clacking sound which, in a Procyon, expressed pride and triumph.
When the cheers had died down, Thoroski spoke to his communications officer. "Shipwide intercom."
"Open, sir," the man replied promptly.
"Attention crew," Thoroski said. "The Leviathan and its crew has been officially commended by Patrol Commandant Rotherfield for our leadership and victory in the war games. Congratulations. Thoroski out." He turned to the pilot.
"Set for Drevelle. We have a noble passenger to pick up."
"Lord Zalthzor, sir?" the man asked in surprise. "I thought he was coming aboard today."
Thoroski shook his head. "New orders. We're to pick up Lord Pomothvor at Drevelle. He will have our new assignment for us when he arrives."
There was a pregnant pause and the men looked uneasily at each other. Thoroski didn't blame them. Pomothvor's reputation as a strict and severe master was well known in the Patrol. Thoroski had never met the Jilectan, but stories about him abounded, none of them good.
Thoroski glanced at his second in command. "You have the con, Ch'Dreel."
The Procyon nodded and took the command chair as Thoroski made his exit.
Thoroski headed for the Officers' Lounge, still experiencing that quiet glow of satisfaction. It had been his leadership that had led his team to victory against the older and very competent Strike Commander Toyoma. He had every right to feel pleased with himself.
Especially considering his rather unique position within the Viceregal Patrol.
He stepped off the elevator and proceeded down the short corridor to the Lounge.
The cabin was quiet when he entered, the lighting low, and it was nearly empty. Thoroski glanced around. Dim lamps glowed on the small tables set about the room. To one side was a row of booths, and occupying one of these was the slender form of Wayne Gallagher, the Leviathan's Chief Medical Officer.
Gallagher was staring morosely at the tabletop and held a glass between his hands. As Thoroski watched, he lifted the glass, draining its contents. The lounge steward came over to him, bottle in hand, and Gallagher nodded. The man filled the glass once more.
Thoroski went quietly across the lounge toward the doctor's booth. The lounge steward saw him and smiled. "Congratulations, sir. I hear we're the victors."
"Thanks, Hal. Bring me a brandy, would you?"
"Right away, sir." The steward retired to the bar and Thoroski slid into the seat across from Gallagher.
"Hi, Wayne."
The doctor didn't glance up. "'Lo, sir."
"Mind if I join you?"
"I won't be much company right now, sir."
The steward set Thoroski's drink before him. Thoroski took a sip, still watching the doctor. Gallagher didn't appear to be aware of it. He continued to stare gloomily into the contents of his glass.
Thoroski was silent. This was not the first time he had seen Gallagher in the bar in the last few weeks. His presence here had become all too frequent, and that bothered the Strike Commander. Wayne Gallagher was his best friend aboard the ship, and was one of the few really good doctors employed by the Patrol. If he had chosen to go into private practice, he would have done well.
"What is it, Wayne?" he asked, finally. "Can I help?"
Gallagher shook his head. "I don't think so, sir."
"Want to talk about it?"
Gallagher took a big swallow from his glass. "Yeah," he said. "I want to, but I shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Jils wouldn't like it."
"Oh." Thoroski hesitated. "Ah hell, Wayne, they don't care what we Terrans think as long as we do our jobs. Besides, Zalthzor probed me just last week. He won't bother again for a while. You'll feel better if you talk about it."
"I suppose." The doctor sighed and tossed down his drink. "I'm in the wrong business."
"What do you mean? You're a damned good doctor."
"Yeah." Gallagher signaled the steward. "Maybe that's the problem."
The steward refilled his glass and retired discretely to the bar once more. The doctor regarded into his drink unhappily. "Doesn't what we're doing ever bother you, Sven?"
Thoroski nodded. "Occasionally."
"Well, it bothers me a lot." Gallagher picked up the glass and scowled morosely into its contents. "I see these poor people we bring in -- our people, Sven -- and after the Jils interrogate them, they bring them to me to patch up, so they can be in good shape for their execution. This isn't what I became a doctor for! I became a doctor to help relieve suffering, not to help inflict it!" He paused, chewing his lower lip.
"The psychics especially bother me," he resumed suddenly. "That Westover kid tore me apart. Courageous little chap -- and he's no more a degenerate than I am. Less, maybe. At least he doesn't work for a bunch of --" He broke off.
Thoroski leaned forward. "I know. I understand, believe me. Westover bothered me a lot, too. I was almost glad when he got away."
"There wasn't any 'almost' about it for me," Gallagher said darkly. "I was glad." He took a long drink and set the glass down with a sharp clink. "I think they're diluting this stuff. It's not dulling the pain a bit."
Thoroski sipped his drink, watching the other man.
"And you know," Gallagher continued, bitterly, "there's no end in sight. "I can't get out. I signed my life away with that damned sheet of paper. I'm going to be stuck with this the rest of my life."
Thoroski was silent, thinking. If Gallagher felt that way, it was possible he could do something. He had never realized before how much Gallagher hated his role.
Thoroski knew, of course, that few doctors joined the Patrol, and that a high percentage of those who did were lost due to burnout, nervous breakdowns, suicides and alcoholism. Doctors -- good doctors -- were hard to get. There were a number who joined the Patrol simply because they liked to see suffering in their fellows, but Wayne Gallagher wasn't one of them. He was a nice guy who had somehow gotten into a job he hated and couldn't get out. Thoroski remembered his sister Helena and the man who had killed her -- Patrolman Wilbur Parks.
He didn't want to lose Gallagher. In the first place, Wayne was his friend. The Strike Commander of a Patrol battlecruiser couldn't afford to get too friendly with the crew, with the possible exception of his second-in-command. Thoroski smiled mentally. It was hard for Terrans to relate well to Procyons. That left the doctor. Gallagher was the only one aboard the Leviathan that he could really call his friend.
But there was another reason, too. As an underground agent, Thoroski's position on the Leviathan was extremely delicate. A new doctor might get suspicious about some of Thoroski's odder habits, which Wayne Gallagher took for granted. And no Underground agent in the Patrol could afford anyone getting curious about him.
He would contact someone when they reached Corala, he decided. He would arrange for Gallagher to take a leave, and then the doctor would be watched closely. An opportunity would be presented to him, apparently by chance, to join the Underground. If he didn't take it, nothing was lost. If he did, the Underground would gain a new and valuable member, and Thoroski would gain a new ally on the ship.
He leaned forward. "Wayne."
"Yeah?" Gallagher gulped down the remainder of the drink and signaled the steward for a refill.
"You've got leave coming up, don't you?"
Gallagher nodded. "About a month's worth."
"Then why don't you go ahead and take it -- get your perspective back? It'll do you good. You're tired and depressed right now. Take a break."
The doctor looked up at him. "I think that's a good idea. I was about to ask." He looked at the drink and shoved it away. "Stave off my impending alcoholism for a while, anyway."
Thoroski grinned. "That sounds like the doc I know. Cheer up, pal. Things'll get better."
"Don't see how they could."
"You never know. Maybe we'll catch Westover again and you can shoot the Jil and take the Viceroy hostage next time."
Gallagher grinned wryly. "You overestimate my prowess. I'd never have the nerve to shoot a Jil. Bronson was a Shallockian slum kid. Those guys have more guts than they know what to do with."
"I suppose so." Thoroski surveyed the doctor thoughtfully. "You're from Bellian, aren't you."
The doctor nodded. "A gentle world, compared to the Jil-run ones. We grow up with more respect for life than you slum youngsters."
Thoroski laughed. He had grown up on Riskell, another Jilectan-dominated planet. "I don't know about that. Growing up in a place like that gives you a healthy respect for life and limb -- especially your own."
Gallagher gave a reluctant laugh. "You make me feel better. When do I get my leave?"
"I'll authorize it as soon as we finish with this next assignment."
"We've got an assignment so soon after the maneuvers? Where to?"
"I don't know yet. We're heading for Drevelle Base right now to pick up Lord Pomothvor."
"Pomothvor?" Gallagher frowned with an effort at memory. "That name sounds familiar. Who is he?"
"A Jil."
"No kidding? I thought he was a Procyon!"
"He's got a kind of bad reputation. Kind of a crank, or so I hear. He's going with us on the next assignment instead of His Holiness, Zalthzor."
"I wonder why," Gallagher said. "Oh well; we'll find out soon enough, I guess." He sighed and stood up. "Thanks for letting me bend your ear, Sven. Sure helped."
"Yeah. I think it gets to all of us sometimes. Hang in there, okay? I don't want something to happen to you."
Gallagher nodded soberly. "I'm too much of a coward to do myself in, sir. Don't worry about that."
"Where will you go on your leave, do you think?"
"Bellian. My family's there."
"Prettiest girls in the Sector, or so I'm told."
"Yeah." Gallagher smiled slightly. "Did you know that Julia Austell comes from Bellian? My home town, in fact."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I never knew her, though. I'm about ten years older than she is. We went to the same school, too, but I must have been graduating about the time she was in second grade. Her family moved to Riskell shortly afterwards."
"You seem to know a lot about her," Thoroski commented.
"Oh, sure." Gallagher's smile widened. "I've always been kind of interested in her, what with her history and the fact that we were almost neighbors as kids. Last time I was home, my big sis gave me an article she'd clipped from the newsstrip. I still have it somewhere. Told all about her, and had her picture in it, and everything. Beautiful girl."
"So I've noticed," Thoroski said, wryly. "She was on the platform that day, pointing a blaster at Halthzor. Remember?"
"Was she there too? Holy space! I didn't even notice in all the confusion!" Gallagher glanced at his chronometer. "I'd better go. Enjoy your drink, sir."
"See you later, Wayne." Thoroski looked thoughtfully after him as the doctor went out.
