Volcano Island Ch 14
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
14
Wayne Gallagher crouched beside a reasonably solid-looking wall as the ground heaved and rocked. Bits of debris fell about him but he remained still, alert for any indication that the wall might be about to collapse.
What had happened to Westover and his party? They were nowhere in sight and the fact made him very uneasy. Had the psychic sensed him after all, and were they possibly stalking him? I seemed altogether too likely.
A massive jolt nearly knocked him flat, and abruptly the shaking ceased.
Somewhere off to his left, he heard the distant report of a blaster, succeeded instantly by a second report. His neck prickling he waited, frozen, straining his ears. Who was firing those weapons, and why?
Cautiously, he got to his feet. There was a building across the thoroughfare from him, and he began to run toward it, away from the blaster fire. Whatever was going on over there, he wanted no part of it.
Running on the broken pavement, generously impeded by the luxuriant and grasping jungle growth, nearly caused him to trip several times, but he made it across the street and crouched down beside another building, breathing hard. The sounds of blaster fire had ceased.
Then his heart lunged and he shrank back into the shadows, for directly across from him, fully within his range of vision, he saw two figures emerge from the darkness and back slowly down the alley toward him.
One was considerably shorter than the other, and in the reflected beam of the handlight, carried by the taller figure, Gallagher realized that it was a woman. The woman he and Paine had pulled from the debris.
They had to be Undergrounders.
Gallagher didn’t move. Crouched beside the wall in the darkness and with the bunches of greenery that grew abundantly everywhere, he might not be seen.
The taller figure, holding the handlight, was obviously a man. He was walking slowly, apparently keeping an eye on the path from which they had come, and as they passed him, Gallagher saw in the dim light that his face was streaked with what was probably blood.
It was the face of his commanding officer, Strike Commander Thoroski. He was walking cautiously, almost a little unsteadily, and in one hand he carried his Patrol helmet by its strap.
Then, he saw the animals.
They padded slowly down the alley, following the two humans, and the attention of both persons was fixed on them.
The woman was holding a blaster, aimed at the animals, Gallagher realized abruptly. He held rigidly still as they passed him a few meters away, afraid even to breathe. If they spotted him, he was certainly dead, for it was obvious that the woman was not a prisoner. Thoroski was cooperating with an Underground agent. That told him all he needed to know.
That clinched it, he thought. He had to call for assistance and report the betrayal of his Strike Commander, as soon as these two were far enough away that they couldn’t hear him.
He remained motionless as they slowly retreated toward a darker doorway and vanished through it, the animals following. He was probably lucky, he thought, that the things were so intent on Thoroski and the woman that they didn’t notice him. They padded by him and he stayed still, almost not believing his luck.
Now, quickly, he must call for help! Before the Undergrounders showed up again and before the woman and Thoroski returned.
He couldn’t do it. His hand hovered for an instant near the switch on his helmet and then dropped. As though mesmerized, he moved forward out of the alley and began to skirt the building.
But now, a new thought occurred to him.
Thoroski had obviously rescued the woman from Gallagher and Paine, but was it possible that Sven was an agent for the Jilectans against the Underground?
The Strike Commander was very intelligent, so was it possible that he had convinced the little dark-haired woman to trust him? What about all those Jilectan probes Thoroski had been through? It was impossible for a Terran to conceal mind-shielding from a Jilectan mind probe, wasn’t it? – except for the Terran psychics, of course, and Thoroski couldn’t possibly be a psychic. Why everyone knew that! If Gallagher interfered now, he might spoil everything.
But he had thought the woman a psychic, too. Why then had she not detected the Strike Commander’s falsehood?
Oh, posh! She couldn’t be a psychic. The fact that she was small meant nothing. There were plenty of small Terrans who weren’t psychics.
Except, why would the Terran Underground send a woman to this place unless she was a psychic?
A voice spoke suddenly over the babble in his earphones, the tones triumphant. “This is Patrolman Fitzgerald calling Lord Pomo –“ The words were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. Gallagher froze, horrified. What had happened to Pomothvor’s bodyguard, and what was he doing outside the ship, anyway?
The other voices had diminished. The scream sounded again and there was a hair-raising growl, and then a crash.
Silence.
Gallagher swallowed, hearing the voices of other patrolmen chime in, demanding an explanation. Faintly, in the background, he heard another voice.
“Gosh, thanks! Thanks a lot!”
A soft chuckle answered, and the Alan Westover’s voice said clearly, “No! Don’t shoot her!”
Linley’s deep voice spoke. “What happened?”
Unidentified noises, then, “It’s okay. She saved me from the patrolman. Turn off his transmitter, Mark. He was calling for reinforcements when she arrived.”
There was another soft chuckle in the background and the transmission ended abruptly. Gallagher took a deep breath, wondering for a moment who Westover’s female savior had been.
The ground quivered again, bringing a rain of tiny pebbles around Gallagher, but he paused by the corner of the building, surveying the dark street before him and thinking.
Was Thoroski on the side of the Patrol, or wasn’t he? What had happened to Sven on that last leave that had so changed his outlook on life? The thoughts began to flash through his mind so fast he barely had time to ponder them. Before he’d left Thoroski had been on the verge of a breakdown. When he returned, his whole attitude had been optimistic – the ideal Strike Commander. Could joining up with a bunch of wild-eyed rebels have done so much?
Then there had been Alan Westover, when he had been a prisoner on the Leviathan, lying exhausted and sick in the brig after that second terrible interrogation, with another session facing him in six short hours. Gallagher, out of real concern and pity had urged the little man to tell the Jilectan what he wanted to know. Westover’s reply had remained with Gallagher ever since: “No. I won’t betray my friends. I’m dead anyway.”
What was it about Westover and scores like him that made them endure the torture of the interrogation chair in silence? Faced with a similar alternative, any patrolman would have gladly told all he knew. Would Gallagher, confronted with a similar situation, be able to hold his tongue?
He didn’t want to consider that. Under the same situation, friends or no friends, Gallagher was certain he would have cracked. Everyone cracked in the interrogation chair.
Everybody except Undergrounders.
In spite of his rationalizations, he was sure that Thoroski was a traitor. The members of the Underground were here because of him. How the devil had he managed to summon them, even with the ship out of hyperspace for that brief period? The communications room had been cleared, and Thoroski, himself, had been occupied the entire time, being beaten to a pulp by that repulsive Jil.
There was only one explanation. Thoroski had a confederate aboard the ship who had known the malfunction had been rigged, and that the ship would be forced to come out of hyperspace to make repairs. The confederate had sent the message quietly from some other communications system. That spoke of pre-planning, and partnership -- two highly intelligent individuals working together for a common purpose. Who was Thoroski’s confederate?
The obvious answer was Greg Smythe, his valet. Greg, who was short and slender -- the perfect size to be a psychic. Why had it never occurred to him before that the Strike Commander’s valet -- nice, empathetic little Greg Smythe -- could be a Terran psychic, and a spy?
This was foolish, he told himself angrily. If he were read by a Jil they would discover what he knew and not only Thoroski but he, too, would die for it.
Gallagher pressed the transmit switch on his helmet. Thoroski would probably hear him, of course, if he had put his helmet back on, and would know who had betrayed him --
Gallagher switched off the unit, his mouth twisting.
Twice, already, on this mission, Strike Commander Thoroski had been brought to the infirmary after having been beaten half-senseless by Pomothvor. Now he, Wayne Gallagher, was about to turn his friend over to the creature for a third time. Thoroski would be interrogated, only this time Pomothvor would not pull his punches for fear of injuring a valuable officer. Sven would undoubtedly be half-dead when he was brought to Gallagher to be patched up for the execution.
But he had to tell! If he didn’t, and the Jils found out --
They mustn’t find out, that was all there was to it. Somehow, he must avoid the aliens after this. He would go back to the ship and pretend nothing had happened.
Voices, very near, made his heart jump and he froze, shrinking back into the shadows. Thoroski and the woman were perhaps six meters from him, standing before a low but apparently intact building. The woman was running her hands along an unseen barrier – another forcefield.
He was close enough to hear their words now. Thoroski was speaking:
“But I couldn't miss my chance to join the Underground and I was after Parks' hide anyway. We were about the same height and coloring, and looked a bit alike. I mugged him and took his identity." He paused. "We don't have time for this, though. You'd better find that forcefield control and get rid of it."
"I have found it," she said. There was a moment’s silence and Gallagher heard her soft exclamation. "Okay," she said.
She took her companion’s hand and moved forward. "Sven!" Her voice shook with excitement. "I think this is it! It has a different feel to it -- not sad or menacing like the other places -- just different! Oh, Sven! We've found it!"
That finished it, then. The woman was a psychic. The building had a forcefield and she had used clairvoyance to find the control to turn it off. The two figures were heading toward the low building ahead of them, and Gallagher could see the flicker of Thoroski’s handlight through the tangled jungle growth. Taking a deep breath, Gallagher stood up and started to follow.
He bumped hard into the forcefield, bruising his shoulder and hurting his nose. Swearing under his breath, he realized that they must have turned the field back on after passing through. It figured. Undergrounders thought of everything.
Oh damn! He had no business following them any farther, anyway. Now was his chance to return to the ship.
But Gallagher did not return to the ship. He stood in the shadow of the jungle growth, hearing the rumble of the distant volcanoes and the quick, nervous sound of his own breathing. The ground beneath his feet trembled slightly and then steadied. Somewhere nearby there was the snarl of a hunter and the terrified scream of the hunted.
“What a damn fool you are, Wayne!” he told himself angrily. “What the devil are you waiting for? No ‘trol in his right mind would take the risk you’re taking! Sven’s your enemy now! He’s working for the Underground! A turncoat! A traitor to the Jils, and therefore to the Patrol!”
Somehow, as much as he wanted the idea to shock him, it didn’t. No ‘trol was really loyal to the Jils. Once in the profession, you were committed. Gallagher, himself, had rejoiced when Tralthvor, immersed in his execution of Alan Westover, had died at the hands of Kevin Bronson. The idea occurred to him suddenly that he would not grieve if Pomothvor joined him.
But none of that mattered. Betrayal of the Jilectans meant death -- a horrible, lingering death in the execution chair. Gallagher didn’t want to end up that way, no matter what. He must report what he knew and clear himself.
“You stay away from him, Wayne!”
Gallagher pressed his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the memory of Thoroski’s voice. “It’s important! Don’t go near him! Understand?”
His commander had been worried about his safety -- worried enough to warn him about Pomothvor.
And then there was Smythe -- nice little Greg Smythe, who was almost certainly Thoroski’s partner aboard the ship. Everybody liked Greg. He was such a good kid, always helpful and ready to lend a hand to anybody in trouble. Pomothvor would tear him apart, trying to determine if he was a Terran psychic, which he possibly was. He had doubtless been the one to send the message to the Underground while Thoroski was being beaten to jelly by Pomothvor. How had they remained so successfully hidden for so long? If it hadn’t been for the accident with his nameplate, they would still be hidden. Nobody knew but Gallagher -- nobody at all.
There was a sound to his right, and Gallagher jerked around, the breath catching in his throat.
Two figures were approaching from the direction of the ship -- the opposite direction from which Gallagher had reached this place. Even in the dimness, he recognized instantly the tall, muscular form of the Jilectan and the smaller, less powerful silhouette of a patrolman. Gallagher’s heart began to pound hard as they approached. Clearly, he heard the Jilectan’s voice.
“This is the library, Corporal. Call for reinforcements at once.”
“Yes, M’lord.” The patrolman tapped the switch on his helmet. “Corporal Butler to Lieutenant Anthony. Come in.”
For a moment, there was no response. Then, from the external speaker came the voice of Lieutenant Carson. “Anthony hasn’t responded since the last big quake, Patrolman. Do you have something to report?”
Carson! Gallagher thought. The corpsman must have released him from the infirmary. They must have a lot of injured personnel.
Patrolman Butler was speaking. “Sir, I’m with Lord Pomothvor. We have located the library and he requires reinforcements at once. I’ll leave my transmitter open. Home in on us.”
Pomothvor leaned forward. “I advise you to hurry, Carson.”
“Yes, M’lord! At once!” There was a babble of speech in the background and Pomothvor strode forward again, his outstretched hand just touching the energy barrier.
Gallagher held his breath, knowing full well that the Jilectan had no reason to keep his shields up. His powerful psychic mind would be wide open and scanning. Gallagher hoped desperately that the alien would be too involved in the building before him to notice one, frightened Terran concealed in the brush.
Pomothvor stopped, his bulky form silhouetted against the outline of the building. He remained still for a moment and then strode forward. Gallagher let out his breath.
He was safe. No one had seen him and this was his last, his very last chance to return to the ship. It was now or never, for in less than ten minutes, this place would be crawling with patrolmen.
He turned slowly and started back toward the Leviathan.
He made it only ten steps before he paused, cursing helplessly. For a slow count of twenty, he remained still, his eyes turned upward into the clear, star-studded sky.
Against the blackness, in his mind, he could see the constellation of the Charging Buffalo, and the small twinkling light of Sol that made up the creature’s right eye, so far away in reality that it was indistinguishable from the myriad other stars that made up the pale haze of the Milky Way. It had been his mother who pointed it out to him as a child, and told him that she had been born on Earth.
Alan Westover’s baby face floated before him for a moment and then turned away. “I won’t betray my friends. I’m dead, anyway.”
“You stay away from him, Wayne. It’s important.” His Strike Commander’s face, smeared with blood, looked up at him from the infirmary bed. Then, the same face grinned at him from across the table in the Officers’ Lounge.
“Cheer up, pal. Thing’s’ll get better.”
Empty words, or had Thoroski been issuing a promise?
Alan Westover’s scream echoed through the cool, autumn air of Corala. Kevin Bronson’s blaster cracked, and Lord Tralthvor was flung backward, to land heavily on the raised platform. The Crazy Subcommander leaped forward, his blaster out and leveled at the Viceroy. “Freeze, or I kill him!”
Tralthvor, the cruel, powerful kinsman of Lord Salthvor, lay dead before the entire Sector. So it was true. The Jilectans were not all powerful, were not omnipotent. Salthvor and Tralthvor had died at the hands of a Terran.
Sol twinkled at him, infinitely far away, a infinitesimal spark in the vast sea of stars. For a long moment, Wayne Gallagher stood, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and around him the ruined planet became strangely silent.
A faint boom sounded from one of the volcanoes. It was succeeded by the sharp crack of a blaster and the frightened scream of a Terran girl.
Gallagher whipped about and ran back toward the library.
