Psychic Killer: !!/11
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Alan stepped up beside him and Linley could sense his tension. Alan, the empath, hated to hurt anyone, and hurt was now inevitable. Before becoming a psychic, Linley would have shrugged, unconcerned with the necessity, but his own empathic powers had changed his attitude. This wasn't something he expected to enjoy.
"This morning," Alan said, "after Osgood turned up missing, Mark, Lyn, Colonel Blake and I searched his room, trying to find some trace of him. Then, we searched all the other rooms as well. In Travis Dean's room, I picked up traces of a hostile, angry person -- obviously not Dean."
Baker looked at the man standing beside him. Dean had gone pale, Mark saw.
"Not Dean?" Baker said. "You sure, General? Dean thinks psychics are less than dirt, you know. He --"
Dean's pallor vanished as angry color flooded his face, and he swung about on the man. "Keep your opinions to yourself, Baker! I've never said a word against psychics!"
"I picked up the same presence later, in the café," Alan continued, without comment. "Dean was there, and Terrence, Tang Fu, as well as Quade and Finnar. You were also there, Colonel Baker."
"Sure, I remember." Baker was still looking at Dean. "The Colonel, here, got out of line with you."
"I didn't!" Dean looked ready to strike the other man.
"You sure did, mister! What's the matter? Are you conveniently forgetting how you acted? I wanted to deck you, but General Westover handled it, so I kept quiet."
Dean straightened up, his face red and his expression rigid. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
Quade also rose, scowling. "Come off it, Travis," he began.
"Just a moment, please!" Alan interrupted. "He's telling the truth. He really doesn't remember."
Dean turned to him, outraged. "I never did it! You're my superior officer!"
Alan interrupted, his voice courteous but firm. "Bear with me, Colonel, and please sit down, all of you."
Reluctantly, the three resumed their seats. Alan glanced at Mark, then continued. "Earlier -- the night before, in fact -- Lyn and I both sensed a hostile presence, approaching. Mark was in the same room with us --"
Again Dean interrupted, looking shocked. "You mean, you allowed another man to sleep in the same room with you and your *wife*?"
Alan looked directly at Dean. "The hotel comp, not knowing that Lyn and I are married, had naturally assigned us separate rooms -- one for her and one with twin beds for Mark and me. Lyn was nervous about sleeping alone, so Mark offered to take her bed. Later, both of us had a premonition that Mark was in danger in the other room, so he slept in the other bed in our room. What would you have done, Colonel?"
Dean's face was set in its usual rigid, proper lines. "I would have told my wife to remain where she was, in the room assigned to her. After all, what would the maids think if they'd discovered you two had spent the night together in the same bed, not knowing that you were married?"
Baker laughed, harshly. "Who the hell cares, Dean?"
"Not me," Terrence said. "I wouldn't have made my wife sleep alone if she was scared, maids or no."
Alan interrupted again. "Regardless of propriety, Mark's change of rooms saved his life. You all know that someone broke into that room and shot at the bed in which Lyn was supposed to be sleeping. This afternoon, an overloaded blaster was thrown into Osgood's room where Mark, Colonel Blake and I were searching. I disarmed it, fortunately, in time -- but I felt the presence again. After I left, a second attempt was made to kill Jim Francois in the low-grav room. Mark, luckily, was close enough to hear Jim yell, and came to help. At that time, Jim also sensed the same presence."
Jim nodded. "Hostile and angry."
"Then," Alan continued, "while Mark was in the room, the person came back and tried a second time. Once again, Jim sensed the presence. All of these murder attempts were directed against psychics." He surveyed the group. "There's only one person here who bears that much hostility toward psychics. You, Colonel Dean."
"But, I didn't do it!" Dean was on his feet again. "I swear I didn't do it! Read my mind, if you like!"
"You say you didn't do it," Alan said. "You also deny that incident in the café, this afternoon."
"Of course I do! I would never be insubordinate to a superior officer!"
"How about the incident just before General Westover and the others left, when Admiral Weaver had to put you on report?" Baker asked, suddenly. "Do you deny that one? We were *all* there for it!"
There were nods all around. Dean looked at them in horror. "You're all insane! I never did it!"
Alan said nothing for several seconds.
"Colonel," he said, finally, "in a way, you're telling the truth. *You* would never hurt me, or any other psychic, because we are vital to the survival of Terra, and you are unswervingly loyal to Terra."
"You're saying I'm crazy, then!"
"No, I'm not." Alan looked directly at Travis Dean, and only Mark caught the tensing in his shoulder muscles that told him how little Alan was enjoying this. "You've disliked and distrusted psychics for a long time. I've been aware of it from the day we met. It bothered me a lot, at first. I wondered if perhaps the Jils were right -- maybe there was something weird and distasteful about Terran psychics if my own comrade felt that way about us. But the others taught me differently -- and I reported your attitude to my superiors, so that other young, impressionable psychics would be spared what I went through. Young, newly-discovered psychics were no longer sent to you, and, of course, this was detrimental to your career. You blamed me for it, quite rightfully." Alan looked unhappy. "I really didn't see anything else to do, though. Be that as it may, you dislike psychics for some good reasons, and some not so good. But you also know that psychics are Terra's most effective weapon against the Jilectans. You are unalterably loyal to Terra, Colonel, and would never do anything that would harm her." Alan's face was almost blank, a little remote, as if, Linley thought, he was trying to distance himself from Travis Dean's distress.
"But, the need to repay in kind the harm done you by the evil, perverted creatures, such as myself, was also very powerful. It became something of an obsession with you, these past few years, I think. But you couldn't -- not without harming Terra's cause." He paused, and Mark saw perspiration standing out on his forehead. Dean glared at him.
"I never said anything against you, General, and I didn't try to kill Colonel Francois, or anyone else!"
Alan shook his head. "I know," he said, quietly. "No doubt psychologists could find a host of explanations for why it happened; I'm not a doctor, but I *am* extremely familiar with human minds, and their strengths and weaknesses, in a way few doctors are. What happens when a strong, self-controlled individual such as yourself, is faced with two, powerful and opposing needs -- needs both of which must be satisfied?
"The result in your case, Colonel, was the formation of a second personality: one whose sole motivation is revenge against the hated, abnormal creatures who have harmed him -- and he has no loyalty to anyone but himself. This personality doesn't even like you! He regards you as a sniveling coward who won't lift a finger to help yourself, and he hates you for being in control most of the time."
Dean was on his feet. "Split personality, huh? I thought you might be leading up to that! So, I'm crazy, am I?"
"No, you aren't crazy," Alan said. "This second personality formed to keep you from going crazy. All your loyalty and restraints remain in your dominant personality. That's why you don't remember insulting Lyn and me in the café, this afternoon. Your other personality was in control and venting its hatred. That's its main function: a vent."
"It's not true! I swear it isn't true!"
Quade cleared his throat, uneasily. "I think it is, Travis. I wondered about you this afternoon, myself. You'd never acted like that before."
"It can't be true!" Dean's face hardened, and suddenly became withdrawn. "Anyone who needs a psychiatrist has to be crazy."
"That isn't true, Travis." Terrence looked steadily across the table at him. "I've seen one several times when my job pressures got too much."
"So have I," Francois said. "When my family was murdered by the Jils, I nearly went crazy. It was only psychotherapy that kept me from jumping down a matter converter -- at least at first."
Dean lifted an eyebrow and his thoughts seemed to leap out at Linley. Who could expect anything else from a psychic? They were weaklings, all of them.
Francois flushed and looked away. Alan stepped into the awkward silence, quietly and deliberately continuing. "The other personality isn't very intelligent, which is why it says and does stupid things. It's driven solely by wants and needs." He looked at Francois. "Our would-be killer has been hiding successfully behind shielding. That was why Colonel Blake, Lyn and I left -- so that shielding would drop. Then Mark and his assistant watched, and sure enough, at dinner this evening, Dean #2 dropped his shielding so that he could hear what was being said. Apparently, the other personality can't sense the outside world when the main personality is in charge, unless his shields are down."
"This is crazy!" Dean stared coldly at Alan. "You've made it up, General, because you couldn't explain this situation in any other way."
"I do not zink so." The Arcturian spoke for the first time. "A split personality occurs among my species occasionally as well, and Arcturians are much like Terrans in our mental makeup. I have been watching you, Colonel Dean, because your behavior has been oddly inconsistent. One moment you are very respectful of Sheneral Westover, and zee next, you are unpardonably rude. Ziss explains what I could not understand."
Mark, watching Dean's mind, saw it when it happened and started to shout a warning, just as Alan cried, "Look out!"
Jim Francois tried to twist away but with his injured ankle, he was too slow. In an instant, Dean was upon him, clutching the man against him, the tip of a steak knife, the pattern of which Linley recognized from the Molokai, gripped in one hand, pressing against Francois' Adam's apple.
"Get back, all of you!" Dean's eyes blazed at them, and his mouth had split in a grin of malicious pleasure. "Or I'll cut his windpipe in half!"
The company froze. Admiral Weaver spoke.
"Dean, don't be a fool! You can't hope to escape! Let him go!"
Travis Dean laughed, grimly. "I can and I will." His gaze flicked to Alan. "Keep back, you little pervert! I know you'll try to take it away with telekinesis. If I feel you pulling at it, I'll cut his throat."
Francois was breathing in crowing gasps, and blood trickled from the spot where the point of the blade dug into his throat. His eyes met Mark's in desperate appeal.
No way of teleporting the thing from his hand, Linley realized. The object was almost completely surrounded by Dean's fingers, and kinetic psychic talents -- telekinesis and teleportation, to name two -- could not operate through living tissue. Dean was clutching the weapon tightly -- far too tightly for a telekinetic to snatch it away, in any case -- even if one of them could succeed before Dean cut Francois' throat. The blaster lay in the drawer beside him. He could grab it and stun them both -- but maybe not quickly enough. Dean would certainly see him lift the weapon and the knife would stab --
"Colonel Dean, please let him go." Alan was speaking soothingly. "I promise you won't be hurt. You aren't responsible for what's happened --"
"Oh, yes I am!" Dean laughed. "The Jils are right! Terran psychics are degenerate perverts! I'm going to walk out of this room, degenerate -- hear me? Then, I'm going to kill this little worm, and if you try to stop me, I'll kill you, too! When I'm away from here, I'll tell my story to the public! I'll destroy every one of you detestable little creatures. I'll squash you like the vermin you are!"
Weaver stood up, and his voice cracked with the bark of command. "Dean, let him go! That's an order!"
The knife dug deeper and the trickle of blood thickened, tracing a bright red path down Francois' throat. The little man made a strangled sound and Dean grinned again.
"Now you know how it feels, don't you, you little insect? Don't move, or I'll cut the artery! I'll let you bleed to death while the others watch. Admiral, I'm sorry I can't obey your order, but I'm doing this for you, too -- for all of us! -- non-psychics who are oppressed and dominated by these puny, little perverts!" His gaze swung from Alan, to Lyn, to Wanda.
Mark began to ease the drawer open with telekinesis, a centimeter at a time. Grab the weapon and try. Why not? If something wasn't done quickly, Jim would die, anyway. He could feel Francois' terror radiating from him in almost tangible waves. Jim's voice in his mind pleaded with him to hurry. Mark saw his partner's muscles tighten, realized he was going to try for the blaster with telekinesis, stun Dean and Francois -- and almost certainly be too late to save the little man's life.
It was then that Mark felt the stirring deep in his mind. Psychic energy moved, bunched and gathered itself. A spot of brilliance coalesced into a bolt of concentrated energy, and he felt himself turn it outward, focussing on the snarling, vicious thing that Dean had become. He was dimly aware of Alan's mind, startled, and of his sudden alarm. Then, almost without conscious effort, he launched his weapon like a thunderbolt, directly at the mind of Travis Dean.
**********
Chapter Eighteen
Alan felt the bolt of psychic energy swelling in his partner's mind and knew instinctively that if the full force of it struck an unshielded mind, the mind would be utterly destroyed, its synapses burned out. But somehow, Mark damped the energy, and the mental bolt that was launched at Dean was less than half of what it could have been.
The blow slashed out and connected; he heard a shriek of inhuman agony. Dean fell as if pole-axed and Jim Francois staggered free. Quade grabbed him. Mark swayed for an instant, clutching the table, and sat down hard.
No one noticed. The committee members were rushing forward to kneel beside Dean. Quade helped Francois to a chair. A babble of excited conversation and questions arose.
"You okay, pal?" Alan asked in an undertone.
"Yeah." Mark's face was chalk white. "See about Jim, huh?"
Alan moved quickly to Francois, but he needn't have bothered. Terry and Quade had him bracketed. The tall, black base commander glanced over his shoulder at Finnar. "Get him some water!"
The Arcturian ran to obey. Dean groaned faintly and stirred. Baker pulled a blaster from beneath his jacket and covered the man.
Dean groaned again, moving his head from side to side. His eyes opened, and he stared blearily at Baker, then at the hostile faces around him. He swallowed hard.
"So it's true!" His whisper was hoarse. "My lord! That *thing* is inside of me!"
It was Travis Dean again, the fury and hatred of a moment ago, gone -- buried, Alan knew, in his darker, other self. The man gulped, meeting Alan's eyes.
"Thank you for stopping me, General Westover," he said, levelly. He glanced quickly around. "Was Francois hurt?"
"I'm all right, Colonel." Francois spoke from his chair, a handkerchief pressed to his throat. There was a red patch where the blood had stained his shirt, and his face was pale, but he was alive and not badly hurt. Dean swallowed again.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, Colonel." His voice sounded choked. "I can hardly believe this."
Francois drew a deep breath, clearly sensing Dean's remorse, and made a visible effort to regain his composure. "I'm all right, Colonel," he repeated. "No permanent damage done."
Baker's weapon did not waver. He glanced sideways at Alan. "General?"
"It's all right," Alan said. "He's -- Dean, again."
"But, he knew what he was doing. He just admitted it."
Dean visibly collected himself. "This is the first time I've been aware of it, Baker. I swear."
"It's the truth, Lee. Ease up." Wanda Blake put a hand on Baker's wrist. "There's no danger now. Put away the blaster."
Baker's weapon vanished, although Alan noted that his hand remained inside the jacket, undoubtedly resting on the weapon. Dean glanced levelly at Alan.
"Thank you, General, for stopping me," he repeated.
"You're welcome, Colonel," Alan replied, neutrally.
Wanda Blake was speaking into her wrist com. Two security men entered the room. Wanda spoke briefly to them, and the two men quickly, but thoroughly, searched Dean, removed his blaster and escorted him out.
Lyn looked anxiously at Wanda. "What will happen to him, now?"
Alan answered. "He'll go to the hospital. He'll be treated -- though, not by psychic doctors, until he can work out some of that anger toward us. He'll be all right, Lyn, although it may take some time. This isn't the dark ages."
Weaver nodded. "We were wrong to put him in a position where he had to contact so many psychics. That will change. In the meantime, his second-in-command -- his wife, Harriet, isn't it? -- will take over in his place."
Alan nodded. "She'll do well," he said. "I know Harriet."
"I'm happy to hear that, General," Weaver said. "We should have listened to your recommendations along that line, before."
Finnar spoke up. "Ah, Sheneral, I am most glad you have solved ziss mystery. Now, we can get on to zee business of inshoying ziss lovely resort and zee most delightful cuisine I have ever encountered."
"Good work, sir," Terry said. "Thank God you were here. I take it this solves the mystery of the psychic betrayals on Riskell, as well."
"I think so," Alan said. "But don't give me your thanks. Mark figured it out." He glanced at his partner, who was just rising to his feet, his famous poker face covering the physical weakness that still affected him. *You okay, pal?* he added, telepathically, and saw Jim Francois glance toward Mark, and his quick flash of comprehension. Linley's voice spoke back.
*Fine. Sorta feel like the end of a marathon race, that's all. Let's get outta here, okay?*
**********
"May we come in?"
Lyn stepped back at the sight of the two, tall figures in the hallway, outside their room.
"Of course." She gestured them through.
"Be seated, gentlemen." Michael Weaver nodded amiably to Alan and Mark. "I really feel like I'm the one who should be coming to attention for you. You three are really remarkable, you know."
"It was Mark who figured out most of it," Alan said.
"I'd say it was teamwork," Anna said.
"Well, maybe," Lyn said, sitting down next to her husband. "But Mark made most of the important discoveries." She flashed a smile at Linley, who squirmed. "I think it's the Strike Commander in him."
"More likely the street kid," the ex-patrolman mumbled, uncomfortably.
"Whatever it was --" Weaver seated himself beside his wife on the sofa, "I agree with you. Colonel Linley deserves most of the credit, this time. A very impressive performance, I might add." He grinned at the large man's embarrassment. "It will go on his record with a fanfare and fireworks for a job done with remarkable speed and thoroughness -- not to mention that he saved the Terran Underground twice in one evening, and probably the Confederation as well." He sketched a salute to Linley. "That promotion your partner has been trying to get for you is long overdue, Colonel Linley. I think it's about time it went through."
It would, too, Alan thought. He couldn't see any review board, no matter how reluctant, bucking Weaver's recommendation -- at least, not a smart one.
Weaver took pity on Mark's embarrassment, and changed the subject. "We thought you might want to know about Meeks -- Lady Jixzill, actually."
"What about her?" Mark asked, quickly.
"She's dead. The lab showed a large amount of jevasol in her system. How she got it, we'll never know. She was searched thoroughly, but she got it."
Mark whistled and Alan glanced at him. "What's jevasol? I've never heard of it."
"A rapid-acting poison," Lyn said. "Lethal to Jilectans. I know of a Lord who used it on his father. Dad told me about it. The son slipped it into his daddy's drink. The Jil was giving orders, looking fine, and took a drink that his Procyon servant had just poured for him. He collapsed and died before they could get him to the hospital. Dad could hardly believe it. Big Jil, too -- three meters tall and about two-hundred-plus kilos. He went down like a demolished building. Dad tried to catch him and was nearly squashed."
"Man alive!" Weaver looked interested. "Did they catch the son?"
"Oh, they couldn't prove anything. Dad knew, though. The boy was an only son, and stood to inherit all kinds of stuff when his father died -- but his father had just married his dead cousin's three wives. One of them had six kids, two of them sons. Dad thought the boy was afraid the new Mrs. would give his dad another son and maybe he'd lose his favored spot. So he took care of it."
"Loving family," Anna commented.
"A lot of Jils are that way," Mark said. "I knew one who killed his own brother -- and look at the Viceroy's dear, departed cousin, Scwinthzor. If not for Alan, old Halthzor'd be cocking up his toes, right now, and Scwinthzor would be Viceroy."
"He was a legend in his own time," Weaver agreed. "But, as for Meeks -- Lady Jixzill -- it's probably just as well. She was too dangerous to keep as a prisoner, and we certainly couldn't let her go. She knew too much. It's too bad she cashed in before we could learn anything, though."
Anna shrugged. "It's too late to do anything now," she said, unnecessarily, and switched the subject abruptly. "How was Dean knocked out? I assume it had to have been a psychic, but I didn't know any Terran psychic could do such a thing."
"We couldn't," Alan said. "At least, not until today. Nobody'd ever seen it done, and we had no idea how. But -- well, you'd better tell her, Mark."
Linley appeared uncomfortable. "When I located Osgood's nightgear and teleported it out of the mailroom, the Lady got scared and tried to kill me the same way," he said. "I think it must have given me the hint I needed." He grinned slightly. "I'd been wondering why she didn't try again, but now I know why. Takes plenty of energy. I couldn't levitate a credit piece off that table, right now, and probably won't be able to for an hour or two yet. Knocks you for a loop."
Weaver pursed his lips. "That's some ability, Mark." It was the first time he'd used Linley's given name. "Now, maybe we'll be able to find other psychics who can use it too. In any case, I'd say this calls for a celebration." He got to his feet, pulling Anna after him. "The storm is already dying, and the conventioneers will be arriving tomorrow, but tonight, you three are my guests." He silenced Alan's instinctive protest before it was voiced. "Don't worry about your credit account. We'll visit all the most famous nightspots on the Maui. This one's on me, and the sky's the limit!"
The End
