Volcano Island 2
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
2
"Touchdown in seven minutes," Lieutenant Maxwell's voice announced.
Thoroski sat up on his bunk and, as though by magic, Greg Smythe, his valet, appeared in the doorway which led to the valet's quarters.
Greg Smythe was a short, blond, dapper young man, a psychic who worked for the Terran Underground and was, as well, Thoroski's commanding officer for the organization. In the Underground, he was Colonel Smythe. On the Leviathan, he was merely the Strike Commander's valet.
He knocked lightly on the door frame and entered the cabin, a pair of shining boots held in one hand. "Here you are, sir."
"Thanks, Greg." Thoroski swung his feet to the deck and his CO knelt before him, easing Thoroski's feet into the boots.
"Coffee, sir?"
"Yeah, thanks." Thoroski stood up, stretching, and glanced at the mirror. He needed a shave and the thick brown hair on the left side of his scalp was standing out straight like a bird's wing.
Smythe appeared at his elbow and set down a cup of coffee loaded with real cream the way he liked it. Besides being a skilled Underground spy, Gregory Smythe was an excellent valet.
Without speaking, the little man opened a cabinet and produced Thoroski's sonic razor, and set it on the dressing table before him. Thoroski took a swig from his mug and sat down. Greg began to remove the whiskers from Thoroski's chin with deft light strokes of the little instrument.
"Any more information about why we're picking up Pomothvor, sir?" he inquired.
"Nope. It's a deep, dark secret, for some reason," Thoroski said. "Makes me sort of nervous." He swigged from his coffee mug again. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. We may have a new recruit."
Smythe's lips twitched faintly, his hands never pausing in their task. "Dr. Gallagher, I presume."
"You guessed, huh?"
"I've been keeping an eye on the good doctor for some time. He's nearly reached the breaking point. Thinking of giving him a leave, sir?"
"Right after this assignment." Thoroski was watching Greg's face in the mirror. So his valet had known all along. It figured. "We can contact someone on Corala," Thoroski said. "Wayne will be taking his leave on Bellian. I'm sure we can arrange something."
"It'll be no problem," Greg said. He set down the razor and began to apply aftershave to Thoroki's chin. His brows puckered a moment. "Pomothvor, though. It seems to me there's something I should remember about him."
"He doesn't like Terrans much," Thoroski ventured. He leaned back in his chair while Greg applied the razor to his sideburns. "Not that that's unusual. You stole his aircar the last time we were docked on Corala. There's rumors about him -- he's got a bad temper."
"I think most of us know that. He's pretty intolerant, but he's worse than most Jils," Smythe said soberly. "They say he enjoys beating on Patrol officers and I've heard rumors that he's been reprimanded by Harthvar several times for seriously injuring valuable men. Be careful around him, and very humble. He doesn't like Terrans, and apparently the higher your rank, the better he likes knocking you down. Keep your thoughts shielded."
"But -- Halthzor's hangnails! I can't shield all of them! If I do, he'll know something's wrong!"
"Just use your own judgment, sir. As I said, he likes beating on the important ones. Also, a matter of small interest -- he's a psychometrist."
"A which?"
"A psychometrist," Smythe said. "He's sensitive to emanations from articles, often ancient ones of historical value. Few Jils have the talent."
"How about Terrans?"
"No, sir. Not many Terrans have it either. The only one I know of is Colonel Westover."
That figured, Thoroski thought. Alan Westover was the most powerful psychic the Underground had yet discovered, which was one of the reasons the Jils wanted him so badly.
"Anyway," Greg continued, "Pomothvor's psychic talent may have something to do with why he's being sent, instead of Zalthzor. As I recall, Pomothvor's other abilities are pretty much the same as Zalthzor's, except I don't believe Zalthzor's a telekinetic."
"He's not." Thoroski sat up straight, trying to smooth down the bird's wing on his head. "I need a haircut."
"I'll do it tonight." Greg applied lotion to Thoroski's hair and combed it expertly down. "There. You look fine, sir."
"Thanks." Thoroski fastened the webbing on his chair. "Better strap in. We're due to set down in a minute."
On cue, the intercom announced imminent landing. Greg settled into another chair and fastened the webbing.
Less than five minutes passed and a gentle thump told them that the landing had been completed. The speaker confirmed it seconds later.
Greg was on his feet at once, Thoroski's helmet in his hands. "He's coming, sir."
"You sense him?"
"I did. I picked up a very strong psychic aura before I put my shields up."
"Must be in a hurry, too. He didn't even keep us waiting. Zalthzor always takes his time." Thoroski settled the helmet on his head and swore, struggling with it. Greg reached up and adjusted the helmet with deft expert hands.
"Is that better, sir?"
"Yeah, a lot. Thanks." Thoroski fastened the chin strap. "Guess I'd better get going."
The communicator beeped. "Strike Commander Thoroski, come in please."
"Thoroski here."
"Sir, this is Patrolman Kraft. Lord Pomothvor's boarding now. He wants you to meet him in the Noble's Lounge at once."
"I'll be there immediately," Thoroski said.
"He certainly isn't wasting any time," Smythe said slowly. "Remember what I told you about him."
"I will. Thanks." Thoroski went out.
**********
The Noble's Lounge was a large, lavishly furnished cabin on the battlecruiser's second deck, situated just outside the Jilectan's sleeping quarters. Jilectans who traveled on battlecruisers lived well, for there were always several luxurious suites on the second level for such noble passengers. This one contained a very large feather down sofa, patterned in red and gold, that took up one entire side of the cabin, and the deck was covered with scarlet, ankle deep plush carpet. A delicately carved table with a tall, ornate wine bottle and a crystal goblet stood in the center of the room. Two elegant chairs were placed adjacent to the sofa. Soft music played gently in the background.
Lord Pomothvor was standing in the center of the room and turned to face him as he entered. The Jilectan was short for one of the aliens, standing only a head taller than the Strike Commander. His body was deceptively slim -- youthfully so, and red, kinky hair stood out wildly about his face, held back from his forehead by a thin silver band, sparkling with crystalline jewels. More jewels dangled from his ears and the hem of his silvery cape was thickly encrusted with them. He wore shining, velvet pants, ridiculously flared at the ankles, and a black sash dangled from his hip. Jewels flashed from every finger as he moved.
Strike Commander Thoroski, high-ranking officer in the Viceregal Patrol, removed his helmet and dropped to one knee in his initial salute to the Jilectan Lord.
"Welcome aboard the Leviathan, M'lord."
Pomothvor's cold blue eyes surveyed him and Thoroski's gaze fell to the crimson carpet. "You are Strike Commander Thoroski?"
"Yes, M'lord. I'm Thoroski."
There was a long silence as the alien stared at him. Thoroski's knee began to ache and he wished the damned Jil would finish his damned probe and get on with the reason for his presence here. He kept his thoughts secret but allowed the irritation and the ache in his knee to show. If the Jilectan sensed no resentment at all, he might get suspicious.
"You need a haircut, Commander," Pomothvor said.
So do you, M'lord, Thoroski thought secretly. Outwardly, he said, "Yes, M'lord," allowing his irritation to intensify. Damn the Jil! He dared not rise until the alien gave him permission. What was he waiting for? Was he simply enjoying Thoroski's helplessness and discomfort? Greg had said that was the kind of Jil he was.
After what seemed an age, Pomothvor spoke again. "You may rise, Commander."
Thoroski obeyed, his knee almost numb. Damned Jils, he thought sourly. They loved to demonstrate their superiority over Terrans.
Pomothvor was continuing. "Set a course for Riskell, Strike Commander."
"Yes, M'lord."
Blue eyes regarded him icily. "You will wait until I finish speaking before opening your mouth, Strike Commander."
Thoroski felt himself go pale. So the rumors about Pomothvor were true, he thought.
"We depart at once."
Thoroski waited a moment and then inclined his head. "Yes, M'lord."
The Jilectan stared at him a moment more, the fixed gaze making him very uneasy. What was wrong? Had he concealed too many of his thoughts? Did Pomothvor suspect something? Maybe it would be safer to let a few of his less complimentary thoughts leak out, even if it meant getting clobbered. Dammit, he thought, letting the mental words past his shielding. Are you going to dismiss me or not, your loveliness?
The result was horrifying. Pomothvor's hand shot out, dragging him forward with frightening strength and lifting him completely from the deck. Holy space! He had never encountered any Jilectan like this before! As a rule, the aliens utterly ignored the private thoughts of Terrans. After all, what Wickrellian colonist cared what his lankhorn thought of him as long as the creature continued to give milk?
"Beg pardon, M'lord," he stuttered. The last word changed to a squeak as the grasp on his collar tightened.
"M'lord --" He could barely get out the word, aware of the Jil's bodyguard across the room watching with a faintly malicious smile. "M'lord, please --"
"How dare you think such impertinent thoughts, Strike Commander!"
Thoroski was feeling smaller and more frightened by the moment. "M'lord, I beg pardon!"
"I am not so tolerant of such thoughts as others of my species, Strike Commander." Pomothvor shook him hard, rattling his teeth. "You would be very wise to curb your thoughts after this."
Thoroski couldn't answer. The grasp on his collar was too tight. Pomothvor dropped him suddenly and he stumbled to his knees, keeping his eyes down. "Yes, M'lord," he mumbled. "I'm very sorry, M'lord."
Utter silence for the space of a minute. Thoroski remained on his knees, eyes down. He had been physically assaulted by the aliens before but never before had one of them feel so utterly demeaned.
Pomothvor nudged him with the toe of one boot. "You may get up, Terran."
Thoroski rose clumsily, not lifting his eyes.
"Now go."
The Strike Commander backed toward the door, not daring to look up. At the entrance, the voice of the Jilectan stopped him once more.
"Do not forget, Strike Commander."
"I won't sir." He mumbled, and backed quickly from the room, letting the doors slide shut behind him. Then, for a moment, he leaned against the bulkhead, his eyes closed, trying to quiet his pounding heart.
A Procyon was coming down the corridor toward him, wheeling a small metal table covered with a snowy cloth. Round, dark eyes passed expressionlessly over Thoroski. The curved beak lifted slightly and the avian went past him without a word, entering the Jilectan's quarters.
Thoroski swore softly and replaced his helmet so that passing crewmen would not see his face, and strode down the corridor toward the lift. Damn the damned Jil! Thoroski swore savagely to himself. It was times like this when he really appreciated the fact that he was secretly employed by the Terran Underground, which fought the aliens at every turn.
He reached the control room at last and paused, drawing a deep breath and regaining his outward composure. His men mustn't see how shook-up he was.
Faces turned toward him as he entered. Thoroski went over to his command chair, glancing toward Maxwell at the control panel. "Set a course for Riskell, Sublieutenant."
"Yes sir." The officer was looking at him curiously. "Are you okay, sir?"
"I'm fine, thanks. Bit of a headache."
"We're cleared for takeoff," Sublieutenant Anthony announced.
Thoroski seated himself in the chair that had been vacated by Ch'Dreel upon his appearance. "Proceed."
The acceleration alarm began to sound and bare moments later the Leviathan lifted from the landing field and soared upward into the hot blue sky of Corala.
"Hyperspace coordinates set. Hyperspace in fifty-seven seconds."
Thoroski nodded briefly and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and trusting to the helmet to hide the fact from his crew. The control room was unnaturally quiet and he could feel the men watching him. The seconds clicked by. Lieutenant Carson cleared his throat, glanced toward him as though about to speak, and then appeared to change his mind. There was a jolt.
"Hyperspace, sir. Riskell in 23.7 hours."
"Thanks, Carson." Thoroski glanced at his Subcommander. "You can take a break if you like, Ch'Dreel. I'll be here a while."
A shrill bleep from the com unit beside his chair made him jump. He pressed the button.
"Strike Commander here."
"Shtrike Commander, this is Ch'Trang, Lord Pomothvor's shervant. He commandsh you to come to his shtateroom immediately."
Thoroski could have sworn his heart literally turned over. Everybody in the room was looking at him, their expressions varying from puzzlement to fear. Carson swiveled around, his forehead wrinkled in a frown.
"Now what the devil --" he began.
Thoroski sent him a sharp glance and Carson stopped abruptly. The Strike Commander spoke again into the unit.
"Acknowledged, Ch'Trang." He switched it off and glanced at Ch'Dreel again. "Sorry, 'Dreel. Hope I'll be back soon."
Ch'Dreel inclined his head slightly. "Yesh, shir."
Thoroski went out and headed for the lift, his heart thumping. It slid open as he reached it, revealing Gregory Smythe. The young man looked worried but he didn't speak until Thoroski was in the lift and the doors closed.
"Are you all right, sir?" he inquired then.
Thoroski leaned against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. "Oh man!"
"What is it, sir? What did he do?"
"That Jil, Greg. He's a real --"
Smythe was silent, watching him.
"He read my thoughts," Thoroski said. "I didn't dare conceal all of them. He came at me like the devil incarnate -- had me groveling at his feet before he was through. And now he wants to see me again. Holy space, Greg! I'm scared out of my wits!"
The valet put a hand on his shoulder. "Be careful, sir."
"I will!" Thoroski took a deep breath.
The lift slid to a gentle halt on the second level. Thoroski disembarked and Smythe stepped out behind him.
"Where are you going? You can't come along!"
"I'll be close by if you need help." The little man's eyes met his enigmatically and he leaned against the bulkhead beside the lift, apparently relaxed. Thoroski hesitated, and then turned and strode toward the stateroom, trying to quiet his heartbeat.
**********
The door to the Jilectan's quarters opened as he approached and the Procyon servant emerged, wheeling the metal table, which was now littered with dirty dishes and fragments of food. He passed Thoroski with his beak elevated, not glancing at the Strike Commander. Thoroski paused before the open door, and removed his helmet again. He had thought that the Jilectan must have finished his meal, judging from the condition of the Procyon's cart, and was surprised to see Pomothvor seated before the table in the center of the stateroom, a sumptuous repast spread before him. The Jilectan glanced up and motioned imperiously for Thoroski to enter.
Thoroski obeyed, his knees trembling slightly. The Jilectan surveyed him thoughtfully while chewing, and then took a long swallow of wine. Thoroski waited.
"We are changing course, Commander." Pomothvor spoke abruptly.
"Yes, M'lord," Thoroski said, with careful respect. "What is our new destination?"
The Jilectan came majestically to his feet, the chair bouncing backwards. It oscillated several times and was still. "You will wait until I am finished, Strike Commander!"
Thoroski felt himself go pale. "I'm sorry, M'lord," he said quickly.
Pomothvor glared down at him. "You are insubordinate, Commander. I plan a full report to Lord Harthvar upon our return."
Thoroski lowered his eyes. "I'm very sorry, M'lord," he said miserably.
A terrible pause. Pomothvor hooked two fingers beneath his chin, bringing his face up sharply. The Jilectan was smiling thinly. "However, your thoughts do seem more under control than during our first encounter." He released Thoroski abruptly and snapped his fingers stingingly under the Commander's nose. "Terrans are quite able to discipline their thoughts if they are given the proper incentive." He paused. "By the way, Strike Commander, you will kneel in my presence until I give you permission to rise."
Thoroski dropped instantly to his knees. Again, Pomothvor smiled. "The other Lords fail to understand why my servants are so efficient and well-behaved. Do you think I should give them lessons, Strike Commander?"
"I -- I don't know, M'lord," Thoroski stammered.
Pomothvor reseated himself and picked up his fork. "As I mentioned earlier, Commander, we are changing course." He took a bite of meat and chewed leisurely, not glancing at the kneeling Terran before him. "The reason I waited until we were in hyperspace to divulge this is in the interests of secrecy. The Terran Underground must not learn of our intentions. You see, Strike Commander …." The Jilectan paused to take another long swallow of wine. "The remains of a centuries old Jilectan settlement were recently discovered on Liskell, and our archeologists have uncovered references to a set of ancient archives from my people's early star flight history. The knowledge was apparently lost during the wars which occurred in our early colonizing period. These archives would undoubtedly be of tremendous value to us, but we are quite concerned that the Terran Underground may also have obtained some information about these documents, since members of the organization were closely involved with the discovery of the ruins. I am here to find these archives, which our information indicates is located on the planet which will be our destination."
Thoroski was listening closely, in spite of his aching knees. "I understand, M'lord," he said, wondering how the devil he was going to get word to the Underground while in hyperspace. In hyperspace, the ship became incommunicado, the communication system nonfunctional. Pomothvor was smart, he thought glumly. The Jilectan knew there could be Underground agents aboard the ship. Of course, he would never suspect he was talking to one.
"I am an archeologist, Commander," Pomothvor resumed, "and I will be searching for these archives after we land. You will give the order to divert our course at once."
Thoroski started to rise. "Of course, M'lord. Immediately."
The alien's hand shoved him roughly back down, bruising his knees. "You will wait, Strike Commander, until I dismiss you!"
He had thought it was dismissal. Thoroski remained still as Pomothvor took another bite, washing it down with the wine. His knees ached unbearably and again he allowed irritation to seep through his shielding. It was obvious that Pomothvor was enjoying this, he thought bitterly.
"Be careful, Strike Commander," the Jilectan said ominously. A six-fingered hand descended on his shoulder, gripping painfully. "I do not like even unspoken impertinence."
Across the cabin, the Jilectan's bodyguard was watching, once again grinning faintly. The grasp of Pomothvor's hand tightened suddenly and Thoroski couldn't restrain a bitten-off gasp of pain.
The Jilectan was trying to anger him! But why? Again, the fear that Pomothvor might suspect his shielding reoccurred. He was probably unused to such disciplined thoughts as he was now encountering from Thoroski. He allowed his irritation and resentment to increase, carefully avoiding any direct thoughts and hoping devoutly that the alien wouldn't kill him.
Pomothvor yanked him suddenly upright and backhanded him across the face, knocking him to the deck. He lay still a moment, stars sparkling before his eyes. A stylish, pointed-toed boot nudged him in the side. "Get up, Strike Commander."
He made it to his knees, tasting blood. Hot anger rose in him and he quelled it forcibly. The Jilectan had once again returned to his seat and was sipping daintily from his wine glass. Thoroski staggered clumsily to his feet, feeling blood drip off his chin. The Jilectan glanced indifferently at him over the rim of the glass.
"I trust you will remember our interview the next time you are summoned, Strike Commander. You may go."
Thoroski wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The coordinates, M'lord?" he mumbled.
"Ah, yes." The Jilectan tossed a thin strip of paper across the table. "You will destroy this at once when the course change has been made."
"Of course, M'lord." Thoroski picked it up and backed toward the door, his eyes lowered. The panel slid accommodatingly aside and he half fell through.
Gregory Smythe appeared beside him seconds after the panel closed once more. Smythe grasped him around the ribcage. "Lean on me, sir," he said quietly and helped him toward the lift.
"Hi Greg," Thoroski mumbled.
"Don't try to talk, sir. Your mouth's cut bad." Greg guided him into the lift and signaled for the fourth level. The doors closed and they moved downward.
Smythe handed him a clean handkerchief. "Put pressure on it, sir. There's a lot of bleeding."
"Thanks," he managed.
"Don't try to talk." The valet's mouth was a tight line across his face. He didn't speak until the lift slid to a stop on the fourth level and the doors opened. "This way. Lean on me."
A patrolman waiting for the lift's arrival started forward at the sight of his injured Strike Commander.
"Holy hell, sir! Let me help, Greg." He took Thoroski's other arm. "What happened? Was it the Jil?"
"Call Ch'Dreel to the infirmary, Donahue," Thoroski ordered.
"Yes sir." The two men reached the door, which opened automatically for them. Doctor Gallagher came to his feet with an exclamation as they entered.
"Sven! What the devil happened?"
"Call Ch'Dreel, Donahue," Thoroski repeated.
"Yessir." The patrolman surrendered his task to the doctor and hurried to the wall com. Thoroski pressed the strip of paper that Pomothvor had given him into Greg's hand. The valet took it automatically.
Gallagher was helping him to the examining table. "Did you fall, Sven?"
Thoroski shook his head. "He hit me."
"Who? Pomothvor? What for?" Gallagher lowered him to the table and elevated his shoulders. Greg retired discreetly into an adjoining examining room to emerge again a moment later. Gallagher didn't notice.
"He doesn't need a reason," Thoroski said. He turned his head as Donahue appeared beside him.
"Subcommander's on the way, sir."
"Thanks, Patrolman. You can go, now."
"Yessir." The young man hesitated. "Is he gonna be okay, Doc?"
"It's a bad cut, but he'll be fine." Gallagher began to sponge the blood away. Donahue went out, almost colliding with Ch'Dreel as the subcommander entered.
"'Scuse me, sir."
Ch'Dreel gave a short chirp and strode over to Thoroski. "Yesh, shir?"
Thoroski noticed that the Procyon didn't even bother to ask how he had acquired the cut. He motioned to Smythe, who came forward and handed the paper to the subcommander. "Course change, Dreel. Can you handle it? I'm going to be kind of occupied for a few minutes here."
"Yesh, shir." Ch'Dreel glanced at the paper. "Ish that all, shir?"
"Enter the coordinates yourself and keep them to yourself. And I want you to personally return that paper to me when you're done. Pomothvor wants me to destroy it, and I think I'd better be able to say I did it myself."
"Of courshe, shir."
"That's all. You'd better take care of it right away. Pomothvor isn't very tolerant of imperfection."
"Yesh shir." Ch'Dreel went out, and Gallagher began to inject a numbing agent around the wound.
"What did you do to earn this, sir?" he inquired.
Thoroski started to answer and got choked on blood. Gallagher turned his head to one side, letting him cough. Smythe stepped over beside him, wiping his mouth.
"I thought too much," Thoroski said, when he could get his breath. "He's everything the rumors say about him and more. He was itching to belt me one. He was trying to make me angry. It didn't take anything to set him off."
Greg's mouth thinned almost imperceptibly and he turned away. Gallagher began to seal the cut, cursing softly. Thoroski felt a sudden stab of fear for his friend. If Pomothvor should ever happen to read Gallagher's thoughts ….
He reached up, fumbling for the doctor's arm. Gallagher caught his hand. "Relax, sir. I'll be done in a minute."
"Listen to me, Wayne."
"Don't talk."
"This is important. You stay away from him. Understand? Don't go near him."
Gallagher's eyes met his, comprehension dawning. Then the doctor nodded slightly. "I understand. Thank you, sir."
