Volcano Island Part 3
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
3
Alan Westover regarded the plate of sauteed marshhopper, served with a side of pilaf and stir fried native greens, and inhaled the aroma appreciatively. The cuisine at Lavirra Base rarely included something like Shallockian marshhopper. He intended to thoroughly enjoy each mouthful.
The meat was fork tender and delicious, as always. He chewed his first bite with appreciation and impaled a second, when the voice of Ruby Ottarson, General Kaley's office assistant, spoke quietly in his mind. "Colonel Westover, General Kaley wants you and Colonel Linley to report to his office as soon as possible."
Alan sighed. It just figured.
He stuffed the second forkful into his mouth. What was so darned important that it had to interrupt his lunch? He had met Kaley on the way to lunch, too, after a boring morning of paperwork. The General must know that he hadn't had time to finish eating. Couldn't it have waited?
Mark Linley settled down in the seat across from his and speared a chunk of marshhopper before he had even finished sitting down. "Man! Sauteed marshhopper, and it's even still hot!" He chewed rapturously.
"General Kaley wants us to report to his office immediately," Alan told him glumly. He shoved another bite of meat into his mouth and stood up.
"What?" Mark glared at him. "Are you kiddin'?"
"I'm afraid not. Let's go."
"I'm takin' it along," Mark said uncompromisingly. He picked up his tray. Alan hesitated and then did the same.
"I hope Kaley doesn't mind."
"Hey," Mark said, making his way toward the exit, "we're his star trouble shootin' team. We gotta stay healthy."
Alan snorted. "I hope he sees it that way." He hesitated as Ruby's voice spoke again in his mind, although the message was directed at another psychic. "That's funny."
"What is?"
"Ruby's calling Shelly and Jeff Stewart, and Shelly's partner, Lyla Watson."
"Two more psychics," Mark said. "I wonder what's up."
Two aisles away a tall man and a much shorter woman had come to their feet. Jeffrey Stewart looked disgruntled. The young woman at his side spoke to him in a low voice and he paused to pick up his lunch tray. She also did so and together the four of them proceeded from the lunchroom, aware that several people watched them go.
Shelly and Jeff Stewart were relative newcomers to the Terran Underground. Shelly had joined for a simple reason -- she was a psychic. Jeff had deserted his position as a Lieutenant in the Viceregal Patrol to save her from the Jilectans.
"I wonder what's up," she remarked as they crossed the lawn toward the Administration Building.
"Good question," Mark said. "If they want psychics it sounds serious."
"I hope it's exciting," Shelly said hopefully. "It's been boring lately."
Alan didn't answer. He'd been in far too many exciting situations in the last few years to crave any form of excitement. Linley and Jeff Stewart exchanged grins.
They traversed a walkway lined with bright flowers and entered the Administration Building. The planet, Lavirra, housed one of the Terran Underground's main military bases. It was also a Sanctuary World where Terran psychics were taken for protection from the Jilectans where they could live and, most importantly, raise families until the number of Terran psychics increased to where they stood a chance against the Jilectans. Naturally, excitement wasn't its most important feature, much to Shelly's chagrin. It was meant to be a safe and comfortable home to thousands of Terran psychics, as well as one of the bases of operations for the organization known as the Terran Underground.
They went briskly down a carpeted hallway and paused before a door. Alan knocked and it slid obediently open, revealing the room occupied by Ruby Ottarson, General Kaley's assistant, Ruby, herself, and Lyla Watson, Shelly's psychic partner.
Lyla was young, with straight, dark hair, that hung past her shoulders. Her face was round and childish in appearance, with pale, almost transparent skin and large gray eyes. She, like Shelly, was noticeably short. The trait was common to all psychics: the shorter the psychic, the more powerful he or she was, allowing for age and gender. Alan was the shortest adult male psychic in their organization, and the most powerful ever found. Lyla, far less gifted, was exactly his height, while Shelly came just to his eyebrows. Mark and Jeff towered over them.
Ruby glanced at the trays of food, smiled politely, and gestured to the door on the opposite side of the room.
"Go on in," she told them. "The General is waiting for you."
General Walter Kaley was seated at his desk near the center of his office when the door opened. His gaze flicked to the trays and he smiled a little.
"Sorry to interrupt your marshhopper," he said mildly. "Have a seat, and feel free to continue eating." The General's slightly slanted eyes narrowed in amusement. "I had mine half an hour ago. It was very good, and I don't blame you for bringing it along."
"Thanks, sir." Mark seated himself across from Kaley's desk and Alan took the adjoining chair. Jeffrey and the two psychic women settled on the large sofa located against the left wall.
Kaley's smile faded. "I've called both Colonel Westover and Lieutenant Watson here because of one rather unusual talent which you both possess -- psychometry."
Alan and Lyla exchanged a glance. Psychometry was one of the rarest talents among Terran psychics. Lyla, although a rather mediocre psychic in most other areas, possessed psychometry to a high degree, and the two of them had spent a good deal of time in each other's company during Lyla's first weeks at the base, tutoring each other in the art. There were no other psychometrists at the base, and very few others in the organization.
Kaley was continuing. "As you know, about two months ago, Captain Bronson managed to secure an old Jilectan colony ship from Liskell. Our people have been studying this vessel since Captain Bronson so thoughtfully provided it to us, and we have made several very interesting discoveries. There were star maps, and an archaic computer, but during their investigations our people discovered a reference to a set of archives -- a library, in fact -- on a certain planet beyond the borders of the Rovalli Sector. It took them some time to pinpoint the system on the star maps, but they finally succeeded. We have reason to believe that it might be worthwhile to find this planet, and the archives, as it is likely that there will be information which we currently lack about the development of psychic talents."
Alan almost forgot to chew. If the General were right, this could be immensely important, since the major disadvantage that Terra had against the Jilectans -- besides the numbers of psychics, of course -- was lack of knowledge. If that gap were to be closed, they could well find themselves far more evenly matched.
Mark was staring at the General. "This could be big."
"Exactly," Kaley said. "Especially now. Less than an hour ago we received word from one of our agents on the Leviathan, which was relayed from another one of our bases." He paused. "The Leviathan, with Lord Pomothvor on board, is on its way to the same planet, in search of the archives. The coordinates were included."
There was a moment of silence.
Mark started to cuss and bit the word off, remembering the presence of his commanding officer. "Pomothvor!"
Jeffrey looked grave. "He's really bad."
"What do you mean?" Shelly asked. "What's wrong with Pomothvor?"
Her husband answered her. "He's a real so-and-so, honey." His gaze flicked to Kaley, whose expression hadn't changed. "I was stationed at Drevelle on Corala while he was there. He put the Base Commander in the hospital over some damn thing. I don't even remember what it was, now."
Mark spoke up. "He doesn't need a reason. The guy is totally nuts -- loves beatin' on officers. And he always picks on officers. Harthvar's chewed him out a couple o' times, but it don't ever work for long. I hope Thoroski --"
Kaley stood up. "Captain Thoroski is a good officer and a resourceful person. He can take care of himself. Our main concern now is to locate the archives. Major Smythe has succeeded in getting the message through and we must act at once. I am sending our two psychometrists along with the rest of you to act as backup to take care of this. Your ship is waiting on the field, and you're to depart at once. Try to find the archives before Pomothvor. If you leave immediately, you should arrive shortly before the Leviathan."
He glanced at Mark and Stewart. "Keep my psychics safe and bring them back to me in one piece. It's your responsibility."
4
Thoroski resisted the urge to glance at his chronometer. He knew it was nearly time and he mustn't appear nervous in front of the control room staff. Things would be bad again soon enough. Pomothvor wasn't going to like what was about to happen one bit. Thoroski hoped the damned Jil wouldn't get physical again. He didn't feel like another visit to the infirmary.
Lieutenant Carson was relaxing in the navigator's seat, watching the control panel. A steward entered the control room, a tray containing mugs of coffee in his hands. Thoroski signaled him and the man approached, handing him a mug.
"How's your mouth, sir?" he inquired.
In some way, through the flourishing grapevine which grew on most Patrol battlecruisers, every single occupant of the vessel seemed to know how Thoroski had acquired his injury. He didn't really mind. Although the crew of the ship was technically composed of his enemies, he felt better knowing that they sympathized with him. Besides, they didn't know they were his enemies.
He took the mug, smiling stiffly. "Sore, but getting better. Thanks." He sipped the brew carefully and restrained a grimace. The coffee was terrible, especially since he was used to the stuff prepared by Greg. Thoroski turned his thoughts to his valet, trying to get his mind off the coming confrontation with Pomothvor, and aware in the back of his mind of the hope that he survived it. Pomothvor wasn't likely to kill him, he told himself, but he wasn't certain of that. The Jilectan enjoyed beating on high-ranking Terrans too much.
No, he told himself. Don't think about it. It couldn't be helped. Greg was going to be close by, but what could his commanding officer do if Pomothvor got carried away? Thoroski didn't know and tried hard not to think about it.
Greg was an enigmatic character, and there had been more than one time in their association that he had surprised Thoroski. He was a pleasant person to be around. Most empaths were, due to the fact that they were able to sense the emotions of others and adjust their reactions accordingly, but those reactions were not merely manipulations. They were genuine, and it tended to cause them distress when other people's emotions were painful. Thoroski wondered what his valet/boss actually thought of him. The question had occurred to him a number of times. Oddly enough, it mattered to him. He liked Greg.
There was a shrill beep from the control panel and Carson gave a startled exclamation. Thoroski felt his heart lunge. It was time.
"Diphaser malfunction! It's bad, sir! We'll have to convert!"
"Clear the communications room Anthony. Take us to normal space, lieutenant."
Sublieutenant Anthony glanced across at him. "Communications room cleared and locked, sir. Repairs to diphaser are being initiated. Estimated time, 46 minutes."
There was a jolt as the battlecruiser emerged from hyperspace. Carson shot him a worried look, and the steward, who had seated himself abruptly during the emergency, rose to his feet, his gaze fixed anxiously on Thoroski.
The unit on Thoroski's chair beeped and he saw Sublieutenant Anthony jump. Thoroski took a deep breath and pressed the transmit control. "Thoroski here."
The perfectly annunciated tones of the Jilectan spoke softly into the listening silence. "What is the reason for the delay, Strike Commander?"
Thoroski cleared his throat. "Diphaser, M'lord. Repairs have already been initiated. It will take about forty-five minutes."
There was an awful pause and Thoroski felt his neck prickle. Then the Jilectan spoke again. "Clear the communications room, Strike Commander."
"Already done, sir," Thoroski said. "I cleared and secured it before we converted to normal space." Privately, he wondered how much good his efficiency would do him, if any. Diphaser malfunctions were common and usually unpreventable, which was why he and Smythe had chosen that particular problem to bring them out of hyperspace. Everybody knew that diphasers were crochety things and no one could really blame the Strike Commander if the damned critter went on the blink at the wrong time -- except, perhaps, Pomothvor.
Another terrible silence. Then the Jilectan spoke again. "Very well, Commander. I would like to see you in my stateroom now."
Thoroski swallowed and willed his voice to remain steady. "I will be there in five minutes, M'lord."
The com clicked off and Thoroski rose to his feet. "Take over, Lieutenant."
"Yes sir," Carson said. He stood up, his eyes fixed pityingly on his face. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No, but thanks." Thoroski turned toward the door.
It slid open and Subcommander Ch'Dreel entered, his round, dark eyes fastening instantly on the Strike Commander. "What ish it, shir?"
"Carson will give you a report. I have to go." Thoroski went out, aware that every eye in the control room was watching him.
**********
Gregory Smythe lay quietly on his bunk in the valet's quarters. He was more than a little worried -- not about the task before him, but about Pomothvor's reaction to the diphaser malfunction.
Any normal Jil would take such an occurrence in stride and not blame anybody, but Pomothvor was not normal. From what Thoroski had told him of his interview with the alien, Pomothvor had apparently been deliberately trying to provoke him. Thoroski's behavior had certainly been impeccable and extremely humble for a Terran. All the Jils knew that Terrans were a proud species who did not submit easily to servitude. But as long as they rendered lip service and did their jobs, most Jils didn't care.
Pomothvor, however, was clearly the exception.
Greg bit his lip, staring at the overhead.
Poor Sven. He was probably in for it again. If only there was some way to take the Jil's mind off the Strike Commander without drawing attention to himself.
The ship alarm sounded and an instant later a voice announced an emergency conversion to normal space. Greg lay still until he felt the jolt and knew that the Leviathan had converted to sublight. Then he sat up slowly, waiting for Thoroski's signal that told him the communications room was clear. With no one monitoring communications, his transmission would not be intercepted.
His chronometer gave him a faint shock, and instantly Greg slid off of his bunk. Good old Sven, he thought. The Underground could sure use more like him.
Without pausing, he squirmed beneath his bunk. The space was narrow, even for Greg, and a normal-sized patrolman would never fit, but Gregory Smythe was short and slender, like most Terran psychics, and he accomplished the feat quickly. Without hesitation, he wormed his way to the head of the bunk, where it connected with the bulkhead and located the transmitter that he had installed there years before. Without hesitation he triggered the pre-programmed message transmission.
He was just sliding out from beneath the bunk when the knock sounded on his door. Getting quickly to his feet, he sank down onto the bunk. "Come in."
Sublieutenant Anthony was standing in the corridor without. Greg picked up his valet cap and settled it onto his head. "Can I help you, Sublieutenant?"
"I think you ought to get up to the Jil's quarters right away," Anthony said, without preamble.
"What's wrong?" Greg asked, although he already knew.
"The Jil ordered Thoroski to his stateroom," Anthony said. "Carson told me to tell you. His Gorgeousness sounded pretty sore about the diphaser malfunction."
"Better alert the doctor," Greg said.
"I'm headed there now," Anthony said. "That damned Jil is gonna kill the Strike Commander before this trip is over."
Greg didn't answer, but turned and ran down the corridor in the direction of the Jilectan's stateroom.
**********
Sven Thoroski stumbled blindly from the door of Pomothvor's stateroom and leaned heavily against a bulkhead, trying to make his eyes focus. Greg Smythe appeared at his elbow. The valet didn't speak, but put an arm around his torso and started to lead him toward the lift. The doors opened as they approached, and Doctor Gallagher emerged.
He gave a muted exclamation and hurried forward. Thoroski's knees buckled abruptly and he heard Greg grunt with effort. Then the doctor had him on the other side. Together the doctor and the valet supported him toward the lift.
The Jilectan appeared in the doorway of his quarters.
The entire scene froze as the alien's gaze swept the three figures, coming to rest on Greg.
"Who are you?" he inquired sharply.
Smythe released Thoroski and dropped gracefully to one knee. "I'm Gregory Smythe, M'lord. The Strike Commander's valet."
"Indeed?" The Jilectan's cold eyes moved over the little man. "You are small for your species. Could you be a Terran psychic? An Underground plant?"
Greg's eyes got larger. There was a strained pause. Pomothvor reached down, caught the valet by the jacket and lifted him effortlessly to his feet. A large, six-fingered hand closed over Greg's face. "Say that you are not a psychic, Terran."
Greg closed his eyes and his voice shook as he answered. "I'm not, M'lord. Please don't hurt me!"
Thoroski looked at his valet with a touch of surprise. Greg's terror was real -- he was sure of that. Somehow he had never imagined Greg Smythe of being so terribly afraid of anything.
The Jilectan released Smythe so abruptly that he staggered and fell to one knee again. Pomothvor turned away, vanishing back into his stateroom.
Supporting Thoroski with one arm, Gallagher bent to give the valet a boost to his feet. "Are you all right, Greg?"
Silently, Greg nodded and took Thoroski's other arm. He said nothing to either of his larger companions, but helped Gallagher support Thoroski into the lift. They descended to the fourth level.
Thoroski's balance was none too good as they entered the infirmary. Carefully, Gallagher and Greg lowered him to the examining table. Thoroski's eyes met those of his valet.
Greg smiled enigmatically. He seemed to have recovered from his fright rather quickly, Thoroski thought, nettled. Empaths!
The realization dawned on him abruptly. Pomothvor, who loved making people afraid of him, had nothing to gain by frightening Greg, who had already shown himself to be abjectly terrified of him. He couldn't be more afraid, and so the Jilectan had released him. If the valet had shown the slightest spark of bravado, the Jilectan would have felt the necessity to crush it, but instead Greg had cowered before him, and the Jil had let him go.
Why hadn't he thought of that, himself? he wondered disgustedly.
The corpsman appeared at his elbow, starting to open a sterile pack for Gallagher. The doctor began to sponge blood from Thoroski's face, swearing under his breath. "He's torn open the mouth wound, again. Damn! If there wasn't going to be a scar before, there will be now!"
Thoroski closed his eyes. He felt slightly sick, and the world faded softly into the distance. Gallagher's hand closed on his shoulder. "Sven, are you all right? Open your eyes."
Thoroski obeyed.
"Can you see me all right?"
Thoroski willed his lips to move. "You're a little blurry."
The doctor cussed softly. "How many times did he hit you?"
Thoroski tried to think. "Three. Maybe four times. I don't remember." He flinched at a sudden stinging sensation on his forehead. "What the devil's that?"
"I'm approximating the edges before I seal the gash there. Hold still."
He obeyed, closing his eyes again. For a while, he drifted quietly along, hardly aware of the doctor's hands moving gently on his face.
"Wake up, sir."
Thoroski forced his eyelids up. Greg Smythe was seated beside him, and he was lying on one of the infirmary bunks. From somewhere came the sound of muted voices.
Thoroski blinked at him. He felt strangely light, his vision still not perfectly clear. "Hi, Greg," he croaked.
Smythe looked relieved. "How do you feel, sir?"
"Better. My head's sore." Thoroski started to lift a hand to his forehead. Smythe grabbed his wrist. "Easy, sir. You've been out almost four hours. Dr. Gallagher says you have a concussion."
"Four hours? Holy space!"
"It's okay, sir. The diphaser's fixed and we're in hyperspace again." Greg smiled. "Everything's okay."
"Good. I knew I could count on you. Glad it wasn't for nothing. I guess the Jil wasn't interested in you."
"Me too. I guess I was too scared to matter to him."
"I guess so." Thoroski regarded his commanding officer thoughtfully. "Wish I'd thought of that. Might have saved me some cuts and bruises. Maybe a concussion, too."
Smythe's lips twitched. "I really was scared of him, you know. I just let him see it."
"Next time I will," Thoroski said. He turned his head as the door opened. The movement upset his uneasy equilibrium and made him close his eyes until his surroundings stabilized. Wayne Gallagher crossed the room to him.
"Hi, Sven. You're awake at last, I see."
"Yeah."
"How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a ground truck. Greg says I have a concussion."
"Yeah: a slight one. He was mad about the diphaser, I suppose."
"Uh huh."
"How the devil did he manage to pin a diphaser malfunction on you?"
Thoroski shrugged and grimaced. "He said I should have had it checked out before departure."
"But you did!"
"Of course I did. I tried explaining but he didn't feel like listening." Thoroski sighed and tried to lever himself up. Gallagher slipped a hand behind his shoulders, swearing under his breath. Thoroski looked at him sharply.
"Stay away from him, Wayne."
"I will, sir."
"You're damned lucky he decided to pick on Greg instead of you."
"Yeah." Gallagher glanced at the valet. "I still can't figure out why he didn't beat Greg up, too. I'm sure you weren't thinking very good things about him just then."
Smythe shrugged, looking down. "I was too scared to think much of anything."
Thoroski swung his feet to the deck. "Think I could go to my quarters, now? I feel okay."
Gallagher frowned. "I guess so, but you're not to be alone. Greg, you stay with him every minute and call me if you're unsure about anything."
"Of course, sir," Greg said.
Together, Greg and Gallagher helped Thoroski to his feet. The Strike Commander was surprised at his wobbly knees, and found himself leaning heavily on the valet as they went toward the outer room.
A man was lying on one of the examining tables, his face a curious shade of light green. With a start, Thoroski recognized Patrolman Hugh Fitzgerald, Pomothvor's bodyguard. As they came toward him, the man retched slightly, grabbing for a basin. He heaved drily over it.
Thoroski looked at Gallagher, who shrugged.
"Food poisoning of some kind. I haven't isolated the organism yet. He was in the mess like everyone else for lunch. Came in about two hours ago, bringing up his socks. Funny that there's been no other cases."
Greg didn't glance at the man, but steered Thoroski past him. Fitzgerald ceased to heave and lay back, groaning and cursing. Gallagher went over to him and Greg continued out the door with the Strike Commander.
Gallagher stuck his head out behind them. "Remember what I said, Sven. No acrobatics for a while. Greg, you make him behave. Probably the only chance you'll get to order your Strike Commander around, so make the most of it."
"Yes sir," Smythe said. He smiled.
Thoroski grinned. "I'll behave, Wayne."
"See that you do." Gallagher vanished back into the infirmary.
The Strike Commander's quarters were immaculate, as usual. Smythe helped Thoroski to sit on his bunk and knelt to remove his boots. His helmet, which he must have dropped somewhere between Pomothvor's stateroom and the infirmary, lay on his dresser, shining clean and polished, all traces of blood gone. A glowing pair of boots stood on the deck by the foot of his bunk.
"Lie down, sir. You heard what the doctor said." Smythe lifted his feet to the bed and pressed the control to elevate the head of the bed slightly. Thoroski relaxed gratefully back against the pillow.
"You wouldn't know anything about Patrolman Fitzgerald's illness, would you, Greg?"
The valet went through the door into his quarters and emerged bare seconds later with a tall, cold drink. "No alcohol, I'm afraid, sir. It's contraindicated with a head injury. How should I know anything about Patrolman Fitzgerald's illness?"
Thoroski snorted. "I'll bet Wayne's going to be puzzled when no more cases show up. How did you do it ?"
A faint smile pulled at the corners of the valet's lips. "Do what, sir?"
Thoroski sighed. "Never mind. I guess the message got out okay."
"Yes sir. No difficulty. They should be there shortly before we are."
"Good. Westover will be there, no doubt. I kind of hope I get the chance to talk to him again. Do you suppose they'll send anyone with him -- besides Linley, that is?"
"If they can find another psychometrist, they'll send him along -- and his partner. They may send another guard, as well."
Thoroski sipped his drink. "Well, I'm sure glad that's over. Let's hope nothing else goes wrong. I'm not sure I'll survive another encounter with His Lordship."
Greg's silence expressed total agreement.
tbc
