Volcano Island Ch 10 - 11
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
10
Wayne Gallagher moved slowly forward, shining his light on the ground before him. Vines and shrubs blocked his path and he tore them aside, his eyes searching the underbrush.
The beam of the handlight moved over the trampled brush and then jerked back. Someone had come through here, all right, and not very long ago. The broken underbrush had the appearance of newness.
Slowly, he went forward, noting a spot where tangled vines had been hastily ripped away. This, too, had a recent look. He thrust his way through the ragged opening, still shining his light over the vegetation. A tremor shook the ground, but he ignored it. There was a footprint pressed deep into the soft dirt beside a puddle. The scum on the shallow water had been disturbed, and recently, too, for it had not yet begun to crust over again. Gallagher went to one knee beside the print, studying it intently.
Had it been made by a Patrol boot? Possibly. It was too smeared for him to tell.
An alley opened to his left and crumbling buildings rose up on both sides. Would the girl's rescuer have followed the alley? It was good concealment -- in fact, the person might still be hiding in there.
The thought stopped him cold. He certainly didn't want to meet, in a dark alley, a desperate Underground agent with a wounded partner to protect. Gallagher had been in the Patrol long enough to know what such persons were like. The girl that he and Paine had found had been tiny, and since she must have come from the Underground, the chances were excellent that she was a psychic. And the chances were equally good that if she was a psychic, her partner had been nearby -- possibly he was even her rescuer.
Gallagher hesitated. He knew that not even the bravest, most experienced 'trol would care to stroll into that alley. Perhaps he and Paine had been more fortunate than they had realized. Maybe he was now pushing his luck on this foolish, unexplainable mission that he had undertaken.
The sound of soft voices behind him made him jump. Someone was coming -- several someones -- and whoever they were, they were trying very hard to be quiet. Gallagher's heart gave a panicky leap. Undergrounders! It had to be Undergrounders!
He looked frantically around and then flicked off his handlight, and retreated to a pile of rubble a dozen meters to his right. He crouched behind it, trying to hold his breath.
The voices drew nearer. Gallagher waited, trying not to shiver. A light appeared, shining through the jungle growth, ten meters away. A figure emerged and Gallagher breathed a sigh of relief. The newcomer wore the black and scarlet uniform of a Viceregal patrolman.
He started to stand up, and froze.
A short, muscular figure appeared from the vegetation, beside the apparent patrolman. The smaller man was holding the larger by the wrist and speaking quietly. He was clearly not a patrolman. His size precluded that possibility. Nor was he a prisoner.
Two more figures emerged, one also clad as a patrolman and the other a short, slender woman with a mass of curls bouncing above her shoulders.
No, these were not patrolmen, in spite of the uniforms, and that left only one alternative.
Undergrounders, come, almost certainly, in search of Pomothvor's precious archives. And since it was highly unlikely that the Underground would send a small female on such a mission, without a very good reason, there was at least one, and perhaps more than one psychic in that group.
Gallagher tried to calm himself and think logically. Perhaps if he gave himself up now, surrendered without a struggle, they wouldn't kill him. Members of the Terran Underground weren't usually cruel unless the situation warranted it. His best bet was probably to surrender quietly and hope for the best. He knew he couldn't hope to stun or kill all four before one of them got him, and he knew from sad experience that few Undergrounders allowed themselves to be taken alive.
He waited. They hadn't seen him yet, but he was quite sure they would in a minute. Those two smaller figures were almost certainly psychics -- psychics who were tracing the little dark-haired girl that he and Paine had attempted to take prisoner. They would be scanning and one of them was certain to sense him in a minute.
They passed close by, and Gallagher caught a good look at the short man's profile, silhouetted against the pale building beside him. Gallagher had seen that profile before. The little man had been a prisoner aboard the Leviathan, a year and a half before, and he had been interrogated by the ship's resident Jil, Lord Tralthvor. But the prisoner hadn't cracked in spite of it all. Gallagher had seen that boyish face in his dreams for weeks afterwards.
It was Alan Westover.
Gallagher's knees felt weak. Westover was the most wanted psychic in the Autonomy, and the most powerful. His exploits were known far and wide, and made him the most feared, and the most secretly admired across the Sector. He had outdrawn more than one of the faster and stronger Jilectans in defense of his life and the life of his close friend, the almost equally deadly Strike Commander Linley. The fact that the Jils had started the battle, of course, had long been forgotten by most 'trols, and never acknowledged at all by the Jilectans.
And speaking of Strike Commander Linley, that tall figure clad in the uniform of a patrolman, walking beside Westover, was almost certainly him. It was almost more than Gallagher could manage to force himself to crouch silent and still as they paused literally within three meters of him.
If Alan Westover was here, this whole episode was much more important than he had guessed.
Westover lifted his head to look around. Gallagher caught a glimpse of the famous psychic's deceptively boyish features and the large, green eyes shining faintly in the illumination of the handlight carried by Linley.
"He took her down this alley." He sounded like a kid, Gallagher thought incredulously. "She's still unconscious. Whoever's got her sure doesn't seem to be taking her to the ship."
Linley's teeth flashed in the light. "Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"
"Yeah." Westover also grinned. "Okay, let's go." He started down the alley, passing less than a meter from Gallagher's crouching form. The others followed.
They hadn't sensed him! Gallagher went limp as their shadowy forms vanished behind the corner of the building at the other end of the alley. It was incredible, although not so incredible as it might seem, he amended a moment later. With the Jil here, actively scanning, the little Terran psychics would be very careful to keep their shielding intact. They would have to lower it, of course, to trace the girl, but such moments would be kept to a bare minimum. And Gallagher knew that shielding not only kept out telepathic probes, it also prevented the psychic using it from employing his other psychic powers at full efficiency.
So they hadn't sensed him. He had been marvelously lucky. And now, he knew, he should call for reinforcements.
But he didn't. Instead he remained still, thinking and trying to sort it all out.
Something very odd was going on here. Clearly, the Underground agents hadn't taken the girl, but apparently they suspected who had taken her. Was it possible that there were other Underground agents on the planet who had somehow lost contact with Westover and his party?
Or, perhaps this other agent had arrived on the Leviathan.
It certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. There could be one or two on the Leviathan, but such agents were usually in the least obvious positions that one could suspect. A few had been uncovered here and there, throughout the Patrol, and Gallagher harbored the suspicion that there were probably many more. But such positions must be very perilous for the persons assuming them, for should the man have the misfortune to be probed by a Jilectan his shielding would be discovered.
But a Strike Commander?
Gallagher pulled the nameplate from his pouch and held it tightly in his hand.
Just over a year before, there had been an incident that had puzzled Gallagher very much.
The Jilectans had ordered the mass-execution of a remote Terran colony on some thin excuse, and the Leviathan had been sent to assist in any way possible. Unlike previous such missions, Thoroski had not remained on the ship, but had ventured out into the town. He had returned to the Leviathan two hours later, looking like a man who had sustained a mortal blow. During the trip back, he had behaved most uncharacteristically, shutting himself in his cabin and allowing Subcommander Ch'Dreel to perform all the Strike Commander's duties.
Upon arrival on Ranlach, Thoroski had taken an extended leave and Gallagher had half expected him not to return. Gallagher, who knew Thoroski well, had seen the Strike Commander nearing the end of his endurance. It was not unknown for Patrol officers to burn out, commit suicide, or even desert.
But, somewhat to his surprise, Thoroski had returned three months later, a new man with a zest for life. More than that, his whole outlook on his job seemed to have changed. He was now a man who enjoyed his work -- the ideal Strike Commander. His enthusiasm had affected his crew as well, and their rating had increased until they were now the most efficient ship in the Patrol Fleet.
Gallagher frowned, thinking.
Shortly after Thoroski had departed on his leave a young Underground agent had been taken prisoner. During her capture, she had been seriously wounded, and Gallagher had been assigned to care for her during her transport to Corala. He knew beyond doubt that she had not been able to help herself during her imprisonment, but apparently she had done just that. No rescuer was ever identified, but the young woman had mysteriously vanished from the top security prison ward in the Patrol hospital on Corala. A myriad of mysterious circumstances surrounded the event.
The hospital cameras had recorded an unidentified man, clad as a doctor, who always kept his face turned from the lens. An investigation into the disappearance and death of a patrolman named Wilbur Parks revealed that he had apparently been assaulted beside a bar on Ranlach and left naked in a trash bin. He had been taken to a local hospital and missed the departure of his ship. And yet, Wilbur Parks had seemingly boarded the Leviathan that evening and taken his post to guard the prisoner the following morning.
Upon discovery of the events, all the man's fellow guards had been questioned and testified that whoever the man had been, he had certainly resembled Patrolman Parks so closely that no one had noticed the imposture. Of course, no one had examined him closely, for the man was generally disliked and largely ignored by his fellows. But Benjamin Dooley, the sergeant in charge of the prisoner's guard detail had testified under mind probe that the fellow had certainly looked and acted like Parks.
However, a search for the impersonator had failed to uncover the elusive man who had masqueraded as the injured patrolman, and Parks, himself, sent from Ranlach to Riskell by third class accommodations, had never made it back to his ship. His body had been found twenty-seven hours later.
It was like a puzzle whose pieces almost matched but not quite. The Underground prisoner. The Leviathan. Parks … and the unidentified man on the hospital video -- a man who always kept his face down, as though in fear of recognition. Gallagher stared at the nameplate in his hand, the memories flashing through his mind. And now, a top secret mission to discover the ancient Jilectan archives, and a convenient diphaser malfunction….
His fingers closed over the nameplate.
Was Thoroski the missing puzzle piece? It would explain a lot of things.
But, Thoroski was his friend.
A week ago, the Strike Commander had listened sympathetically to Gallagher's woes and assured him that things would get better. His voice had not carried an empty reassurance. It had been more like a promise.
Gallagher thrust the nameplate back into his pouch. If his suspicions were true, keeping them secret might very well mean his death. But nothing was actually proven, and he could always tell the Jil when he got back.
He took a deep breath and went quietly down the alley, following the path of the Undergrounders.
11
Lyla Watson closed her eyes, frowning in concentration.
Thoroski watched her, studying her face in the dimness. Her eyelashes were long and thick. Her small, rosy mouth, slightly open, revealed straight, white teeth. Her brows were gracefully curved against her pale complexion. Man! He thought, suddenly proud of himself. She was some girl!
Don't be silly, he told himself a second later. She wasn't really that pretty. He'd known plenty of other women who were knockouts in comparison. What the devil was wrong with him, anyway? Why did this small, unremarkable woman, who he had known less than an hour, suddenly seem like the most desirable female he'd ever met?
He wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
Lyla's eyes opened and she smiled at him. "Go ahead, Sven."
"Huh?" he stared at her dumbfounded, but only for a moment. Strike Commanders always landed on their feet.
"Were you reading my mind? Don't you know that's against regs?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "What?"
He grinned. "But I'll take you up on your offer." He reached out, took her face between his hands and kissed her.
She gave a half-protesting gasp, but an instant later her body was relaxed against him. Thoroski, who had kissed many women before, could tell at once that she was inexperienced. Her kiss was awkward and unpracticed, but there could be no doubt of her willingness. At last, he released her, surprised to find that his head was spinning a bit.
The girl laughed softly. "I meant, Strike Commander Thoroski, that you could go ahead and open the door. There's no one out there."
He stared at her in shock and then laughed. "I'll be damned," he said finally. "I sure stuck my foot right in that, didn't I?"
She was still smiling. "I beg your pardon, Captain?"
He grinned sheepishly. "I was just wondering what it would be like to kiss you and suddenly you told me to go ahead."
She laughed with him and then stopped, smiling mischievously. "Kiss me again, Sven."
"Okay," he agreed readily and pulled her into his arms.
**********
Lieutenant Hugh Epstein emerged from his quarters aboard the Leviathan, yawning. He needed a cup of coffee badly, or better, a good stiff drink. Damn that damned Jil! He had the whole crew, including poor Thoroski, jumping like marshhoppers. Epstein had heard through the grapevine that he'd even chosen to pick on Greg -- poor, inoffensive little Greg Smythe. The thought made Epstein angry. He liked Greg. Everybody liked Greg, and the kid was less than half Pomothvor's size. Epstein had never thought he'd be glad to see Zalthzor again, but after Pomothvor he'd be tempted to kiss their resident Jil's sandaled feet!
"Lieutenant!"
Epstein jumped guiltily and spun on his heel. His heart lunged into his throat.
Lord Pomothvor was striding down the corridor toward him, accompanied by a frightened-looking bodyguard. The Jilectan's cold, blue eyes swept Epstein's form disdainfully. The lieutenant dropped hastily to one knee, acutely conscious of his open tunic, bare feet and missing helmet. Well, he was off-duty, after all. Pomothvor couldn't object to how his men dressed when not on duty, could he?
"Yes, M'lord?"
"I am going outside. You will accompany me. There are Terran psychics searching the ruins for the archives. They must be apprehended. Get some men to accompany me, at once."
"Yes, M'lord!"
"Meet me at the airlock in five minutes." The Jilectan turned away. Epstein scrambled to his feet and ran back toward his quarters.
The door opened smartly and he bolted through. It shut behind him and he leaned against it, panting and shaking. A timid knock sounded on the panel and he jumped convulsively.
"Yeah? Who is it?"
"Greg Smythe, sir. Do you need some help?"
Epstein let out his breath and slid the door open again. "Come in, Greg."
The Strike Commander's valet entered, looking calm and unruffled. "Are you all right, sir? I saw Pomothvor stop you."
"Yeah." Epstein began to seal his tunic, his hands shaking. "That blasted Jil's sensed psychics on the planet, and he's going out to look for 'em. He's chosen me to go with him." He cussed luridly. "I'd rather face a Midgard dinosaur. Where the devil are my boots?"
Smythe produced them from beneath the dresser and knelt, skillfully helping him to don them. "How soon does he want you, sir?"
"I'm supposed to meet him on six in five minutes. Less now. Where the hell's my --"
"Here, sir." Greg produced his silvery helmet from behind the bed.
"Thanks." Epstein pulled it on and fastened the chin strap. "If I ever make Strike Commander I'm going to request you for my valet. Damn! I look like hell!"
Smythe brushed dust from his uniform. "You don't look bad, sir. Better hurry. He'll be mad if you're late."
"Yeah, thanks." Epstein went to the door. "I gotta go."
"Good luck, sir." The valet smiled as he went out.
Epstein went down the corridor at a dead run. "You!" he barked at a passing patrolman third class. "Come with me!"
The man obeyed. Epstein grabbed another, a first classer who was just entering the restroom, and dragged him along as well. Neither patrolman asked any questions until they were in the lift and on their way down to the sixth desk. Then the first classer spoke.
"What's going on, sir?"
"Pomothvor wants us to go with him, outside. He's going to join the search."
"Now, sir?" The third classer's face was distinctly pale. "Why?"
"There's Terran psychics out there. He sensed them. The Underground's onto us. Beats me how they found out. We didn't even know until we were already in hyperspace!"
The lift came to a stop and Epstein exited at a run. The two patrolmen sprinted along behind him.
Pomothvor was waiting at the airlock, still accompanied by his bodyguard. The Jilectan glanced at an ornate, very expensive-looking chronometer on his wrist and then at Epstein.
"You are nearly seven seconds late, Lieutenant."
"I'm sorry, sir," Epstein said.
A large, white hand grasped his wrist and squeezed. Epstein gritted his teeth, feeling the bones crunch together.
"I do not like to be kept waiting, Lieutenant." The grip tightened painfully and Epstein bit off a gasp.
Then the Jilectan released him and turned toward the hatch. "Let us go."
They went down the ramp, Epstein rubbing his offended wrist with his other hand. The two patrolmen he had recruited carefully avoided looking at him.
It was dark, but the glow from the distant volcanoes lit up the night sky. The tangled jungle around them teemed with the sounds of the planet's night life. The ground quivered warningly as they alighted, bringing a startled gasp from the third classer.
There was a faint concussion in the distance, probably from one of the volcanoes, and the ground shook again, harder.
Pomothvor appeared not to notice. He started through the tangled layers of jungle growth, striding along rapidly and lightly. Hugh Epstein hurried to keep up, and the other patrolmen half-ran beside him, tearing their way through matted vines. Pomothvor stopped abruptly, and the third classer, Eric Chandler, almost bumped into him. The other patrolman yanked him back.
The Jilectan stood still a moment, his eyes wide open, but oddly unfocused. He was tracking, Epstein knew, his powerful clairvoyant senses searching for the presence of the Terran psychics who had dared follow him to this planet. Epstein couldn't help but admire the audacious rebels, but he also knew that he sure wouldn't want to be the one Pomothvor caught. The Jil would make hash out of him.
Chandler, the third classer, took a careful step back, putting some distance between himself and the Jilectan. He wiped his face with one sleeve.
Pomothvor's eyes focused again and he turned to Epstein. "I am picking up traces of the psychic. He is lowering his shield sporadically, which would indicate that he is searching for something, but is aware of my efforts to track him." The alien paused and for the first time seemed a little uncertain. "The mind is much more powerful than I would have expected of a mere Terran." Pomothvor fell silent again. Epstein's mind skipped and then leaped back. A male Terran psychic was on this world -- a powerful psychic: powerful enough that the supercilious Pomothvor had mentioned the fact to his lowly slaves.
"Could it be Westover, M'lord?" he ventured.
Icy blue eyes swept him. "It is possible, Lieutenant. In fact, I think it is quite likely."
The Jilectan's bodyguard glanced around nervously and Epstein swallowed. He was afraid of Alan Westover. Everyone on the Leviathan was, and rightly so. The powerful Terran psychic had been a prisoner aboard the ship a year and a half ago and had endured abuse and interrogations at the hands of the crew and the Jilectan accompanying them. The patrolman first class accompanying them, Owen Larisi, had attended one interrogation, and Epstein another. Patrolman Wilbur Parks, who had also attended, and given the prisoner a hard time afterwards had died mysteriously five months later in connection with the capture and escape of the woman known to be Westover's psychic partner. It was well known that Alan Westover -- dangerous little Westover -- had scant reason to love the crew of the Leviathan.
The Jilectan strode on and the patrolmen fell in behind him. They reached a row of broken, crumbling buildings lining what must once have been a wide thoroughfare. There was a muffled rumble in the distance and the ground quivered. Bits of masonry pattered down from the wrecked buildings.
"I hope we don't get another quake like that bad one, sir," Epstein remarked nervously. "It could be pretty dangerous with all these buildings falling down all over the place."
Pomothvor didn't reply, but Epstein noticed he began walking closer to the middle of the cluttered street. Something screamed shrilly to their right and Epstein's neck prickled. A large, unidentified thing bolted away through the vegetation, voicing loud brays of indignation. Patrolman Larisi muttered under his breath.
A sharp jolt shook them, and the ground began to vibrate beneath their feet. Ahead and to their right, one of the buildings simply collapsed. Another one, next to it, vibrated, but appeared to resist the quake, and Epstein caught a flicker, like a shimmer of heat against the blackness, of what must be a force field encasing the structure. So that was the answer, a detached part of his mind realized abruptly. So many of the buildings that should have long since been piles of rubble were still standing because they were -- or in the recent past had been -- encased in force fields. Doubtless the fields were slowly failing, and before much more time had passed the city would be nothing more than moldering stones that would be consumed by the ravenous jungle.
The shaking increased and the Jilectan moved abruptly, his faster reflexes carrying him beyond the Terrans and toward a more open stretch of ground. A hand caught Epstein's arm, yanking him along, and he recognized young Chandler. They stumbled in the wake of the Jilectan, but he had vanished. Chandler yelled something, and pulled him sideways as the top floor of a building crashed to the street, the shattered fragments stinging their faces. Epstein couldn't see Larisi or the bodyguard, either, and at the moment he couldn't have cared less.. Stones rained down on the two patrolmen. Something hard struck him on the side of the helmet and he staggered, half-stunned. Chandler dragged him along, and he staggered unsteadily after the younger man before he regained his balance. They ran in the direction the Jilectan had vanished, hearing the crashes of falling debris all about them. Then they were free of the buildings and they paused among the lashing tropical growth, grasping the trunks of trees for balance.
With a jolt that nearly knocked the breath out of him, the shaking stopped. For a moment, Epstein and Chandler didn't move, both staring at each other in the sudden silence. Epstein sank slowly to the ground, feeling suddenly short of breath.
"Where did they go?" Chandler asked finally. His helmet had vanished in the wild rush to escape the falling buildings, Epstein noted absently.
He pressed the transmit control on his helmet. "Epstein to Larisi. Come in."
Nothing. Not even the crackle of an open circuit.
"Larisi!" Epstein shouted. "Lord Pomothvor!"
There was no answer. From somewhere not far away, something giggled insanely.
**********
tbc
