This story is an original work by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick. Any resemblance to any person, living, dead, or fictional is unintentional and coincidental.
Copyright 1999 to Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick.
This story occurs a year after Psychic Killer and I hope readers will bear in mind that some of the things mentioned refer to events in other stories that I haven't posted yet, simply because many of them are long and handwritten. They'll be typed up and posted eventually, if people still want to see them, but some will be undergoing some extensive revision before they see the light of day <g>. I'll try to post this one once or twice a week. It's fairly long, and still being worked on somewhat, but it has the virtue of being already on my hard drive, and the work is merely cosmetic.
For anyone wishing a background on the setting for this story, go here: http://www.lcficmbs.com/ubb/ultimatebb.php?ubb=get_topic;f=4;t=000002
and read the introduction. That should give you all the information you need.
ARTIFACT 1/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
"The Honorable Harathvor, himself, assigned me to this task." Lord Linthvar looked down his nose at Lady Tranthzill. The noblewoman bit back an acid retort.
Emboldened by her silence, Linthvar continued, "I am ordered to accompany you to take charge of those matters unfit for a female to supervise. Therefore ..."
Tranthzill suppressed an unfeminine reply. "Let me remind you, my lord, I am the Assistant Chief of Viceregal Intelligence, and quite competent to deal with any problems which may arise. I shall be pleased at your *support* in this matter, but it is I who am in charge."
She watched reflectively as the normally pale pink color of his face gradually assumed the hue of a ripe, Terran plum, then added, as he appeared ready to burst with indignation, "I am certain my esteemed brother, the Viceroy, will approve of your praiseworthy wish to *assist* me, kinsman--" she placed only light emphasis on the word, "however he has perfect faith in my judgment."
Turning, she pressed a button by the video screen. When the face of a young Terran male appeared on the screen she spoke again.
"Have my kinsman escorted to a stateroom at once, and refreshment provided. We leave for Midgard within the hour."
Linthvar visibly swallowed what she felt sure was an unwise retort. Tranthzill continued, "This assignment is not a crucial one, but it may be dangerous. Terran psychics have nothing to lose with resistance and much to gain. You carry the marks of such an encounter. Never forget that a cornered animal is the most dangerous of all. We shall speak of this again when we reach Midgard. You will wish to refresh yourself in your quarters. I shall not further detain you."
When Linthvar had left, Tranthzill allowed an expression of distaste to creep across her handsome features. It was unfortunate that she had to bring him on this assignment. He was her distant kinsman through her mother, but Tranthzill privately suspected him of being the product of too much inbreeding among the noble Jilectan lines. Of all the empty-headed, pompous, conceited, self-important fools... She broke off the thought.
The reason he was accompanying her on this mission was quite simple: Linthvar's psychic ability to detect Terran psychics was unmatched by any other Jilectan that she could name.
The Jilectan noblewoman tapped her long, polished, perfectly manicured nails on the table. This assignment was not all that crucial, as she had remarked to her cousin, but it could be dangerous; it was not the sort of assignment one of her rank should be given. She had received all too many such in the past year, ever since her ascension to the office of Assistant Chief of Viceregal Intelligence, and Tranthzill knew why.
She had risen rapidly through the Department in spite of her unfortunate gender, by dint of her intelligence, competence, ambition and hard work. The current Chief of Viceregal Intelligence, Harathvor, knew well that she would be satisfied only when she sat behind his desk, and the crawling excrescence was afraid of her.
The Jilectan noblewoman rose and turned to look at her reflection in the mirror behind her. She stood well over two and a half meters in height, as tall as most Jilectan males, her head topped with a mass of coppery waves. Cool steel-gray eyes looked back at her, set in a face more handsome than beautiful. Lips a little too thin for beauty smiled a hard, shadow smile. If not for the figure that filled out the clinging gown, it might have been Halthzor, himself, standing there.
The eldest of the Jilectan Viceroy's 20 full blooded sisters surveyed herself in the mirror, her six-fingered hands resting lightly on her hips, and the shadow smile grew infinitesimally wider. Harathvor had reason to fear, as she would soon prove to him. If he thought to rid himself of her in this amateurish way, her triumph would be all the sweeter.
**********
In another reality, five sleepers waited in timeless oblivion, as they had waited since the first human being walked the Earth, as they had waited since the first Jilectan had used a primitive club to smash the skull of a rival and procure a haunch of meat for himself.
For the five sleepers, Time did not exist.
**********
For the six college students, Time was another story.
Hildebrand Watson, "Brand" to his friends, wiped at his face with a gloved hand and dusted snow from his knitted cap.
"How far now?" Jack Gorman panted breathlessly from behind him. They were slogging painfully along a narrow foot trail, deep in the Utgard Mountains. Somewhere to the southwest of them lay the Frost Giants' Cascade and Hel's Canyon where they would find the Fjorm, the river that would lead them practically to the outskirts of Muspelheim, a flourishing settlement of 4500 persons, where they would rendezvous with their transportation back to the college.
This was their Practical, the final exam for Wilderness Survival, a mandatory course for every adult colonist of Midgard.
On a colonial world one never knew what sort of situation a settler might encounter. The early years of the settlement had seen a high mortality rate of inexperienced colonists. The result had been Wilderness Survival, taught at Midgard Planetary University, the only university on the planet in the only town that might be called a city: Asgard, with its population of 45,000 persons -- not exactly a booming metropolis, as the Planetary Governor had once commented, but a respectable settlement none-the-less.
Hildebrand checked the navigator on his chronometer. "About eighteen kilometers as the razorbeak flies."
"How much by foot?" Maureen Hammond asked wearily. She and her sister Lara were the sling artists for the party and had done most of the hunting so far.
"About twenty-three or four kilometers," Hildebrand admitted, reluctantly.
This brought a concentrated groan from everybody.
"My feet hurt!" Candy Montez wailed. "And I'm hungry! Can't we stop for awhile?"
"We just started two hours ago," her brother, Gary, retorted, sounding tired and cross. "And there's nothing to eat but chill berries unless Maureen can get us something for dinner. Let's keep moving. The sooner we find the river the better off we'll be."
That was for sure. Hildebrand plodded morosely onward at the head of the ragged little band. They had been out here a week, and all would be glad for a hot meal and a hotter bath in Muspelheim. Mountain weather in the late fall of Midgard was for the birds, or better, the frost giants themselves.
**********
For Aaron Waters, time was in short supply. The single page of print was a red signal of emergency, the starting gun for a race run many times, sometimes with success, often times failure.
The contest revolved around Terran psychics, targeted by the Jilectans, the race of humanoid giants whose huge nation dominated all others in the Sector. Terran psychics were the key to the Terran resistance against the overwhelming might of the Jilectan Autonomy. It was his responsibility, here on Midgard, to track down those psychics before the psychic hunters or the Jilectans did, to out race the hunters and spirit the hunted to safety, to live and multiply--and to arm the Terran Confederation with the equal of their enemy's power.
And the hunters were on their way. He strode from his office. "Carol!"
Carol Waters appeared from the communications room. "Yes, dear?"
"Did you see the message that just came in on the com?"
"The one from Corala? I decoded it. They've just spotted a possible psychic here on Midgard through the exchange student program." The woman made a face. "The boss should have known that was nothing but another psychic trap."
"He did. Get hold of our people in Asgard and have somebody get over to the Department of Education and pull the records on the candidates. And tell them to hurry. Our man says the ship left Corala sixteen hours ago. They'll be here in about four hours."
"I know. That postscript was odd, though. Do you think it could be a trap for our people?"
"Possible. Tell them to be careful, but we need that information as fast as they can get it."
"Who are you going to use? Our new Team won't be here until tomorrow, and there's no time to get one from anywhere else."
"Let me worry about that. Get that message out."
Carol vanished back into Communications and Waters returned to his office.
That postscript to the message *had* been odd. Their people on Corala all seemed to think the information about this particular psychic hunt had been deliberately leaked by Viceregal Intelligence in such a way that their people could get hold of it, but just barely in time to intercept the hunters. Very odd. Very disturbing, too.
Well, his people would be careful. They always were. Now he had to find a psychic Team, if possible, to handle it.
Aaron Waters spoke to his computer terminal.
"Computer. Scan and identify. This is Colonel Aaron Waters, Terran Military Intelligence. My Administrative Access Code is Alpha Foxtrot 97394, Code Word: Mercury. I have an Oracle Class emergency. Situation is as follows..."
I
Donovan Worley was a big man, rather like a jovial, red-faced child, with a shock of untidy, blond hair and an unabashed optimism that won him friends everywhere. He wore a wrinkled, chemical-stained lab coat and a pair of battered jeans that Matt Philips seemed to remember from his last meeting with the doctor, five years previously.
Worley and Philips' partner, Lewis Stevens, were drinking coffee and watching as Worley's lab computer assembled a molecular diagram.
"That's it," Worley said, nodding briefly at the screen. "That is the basic structure of the psychic control factor. With it, a man with the psychic gene is a psychic, like you two. Without it, he's a psychic power pack, like General Linley, and only a carrier of the psychic gene -- he may produce children who are psychics, but he has no psychic abilities himself."
"Unless, of course, you give him a jolt of this stuff," Stevens put in. Philips' partner was a short man, perhaps no more than two centimeters taller than Philips himself. He was well-muscled for his height, blue eyed and good looking, his head crowned with bright red hair. He was totally unlike his sister, Anna, as Philips remembered her. Lewis took after their mother. Anna had resembled their father.
At thirty-five he was something of a ladies' man, but he and Philips had been partners for sixteen years, and the two got along well, although Matt was ten years his senior, and about as different as humanly possible from Lewis. Philips was short and stocky, but there the resemblance ended. He had light brown hair and eyes and, as his head nurse had been known to remark, he didn't scare dogs and children, but he'd never win any beauty contests either. Where Lewis dated a different female almost every night, Philips had never been known to show more than purely professional interest in any woman. Few knew why; Lewis was one of the select number, and never talked about it. Neither did Philips. It was not an incident he cared to speak of, but it was why he belonged to the Terran Underground -- outside of the fact that he was a psychic.
Now he took a swig of coffee and leaned forward to look at the diagram on the computer screen. "Where did you tinker with it, Don?" he asked.
Worley looked surprised, then laughed. "Never try to outsmart a psychic," he commented, dryly. "That's exactly what I did, Matt. If you'll notice this bit here ..." He indicated a section of the diagram with one blunt finger. "The problem so far is that our power packs had to carry the stuff in refrigerated units and inject it when they needed it. Clumsy, to say the least. I altered this part here to this." He tapped a key and the diagram changed slightly. "Now it can be kept in tablet form which dissolves instantly in the stomach and passes directly into the bloodstream. The delay is only a few minutes longer than the injected form."
"General Linley will like that," Lewis commented. "He doesn't much care for needles."
"I don't blame him," Worley said. "I don't much like 'em myself -- if I'm the one getting stuck." He blinked at Philips. "Heresy, Matt?"
Philips laughed. "I'm afraid I'm the same way," he admitted. "Just don't tell my subordinates on Nova Luna. I'd never live it down."
"Well," Worley continued, "I've done my part here. All my computer simulations say it should work. The tests are up to you guys." He grinned. "And may it give our lords and masters many headaches."
Lewis raised his coffee cup in a silent toast.
The videophone buzzed. Worley turned. "Yes?"
The screen did not light up.
"Dr. Worley?" a voice said. "This is Harvey."
"This is Worley," the doctor responded, affably. "How's the arthritis today, Harv?"
"Not too bad," the disembodied voice said. "The fall weather is making that knee joint act up again."
"That's too bad." Worley's voice sounded casual. "Come down to the office this afternoon and I'll give you some liniment for it."
"Thanks, Doc. I'll drop by about three while my wife is shopping. Okay?"
"Okay." Worley snapped a switch. "Secure."
"Secure," the disembodied voice repeated. A face appeared on the screen. "Don, I've got a problem, and I think the solution is standing right beside you. You *are* Colonel Philips and Colonel Stevens, are you not?"
"Yes." Philips stepped forward. "Colonel Matthew Philips, Senior Medical Officer of Nova Luna Station. How may we assist you, sir?"
The man smiled. "Colonel Aaron Waters, C.O. of Muspelheim Station, Doctor. According to my computer records, you and your partner have passed standard field training and completed your yearly update?"
Philips felt a pang about the level of his stomach. Here it came. He'd known it could happen someday -- every psychic Team did. That was why they all took field training.
"Yes," he replied steadily. "But we've never been on any real covert assignments before. We're a medical team."
"I'm aware of that, but I'm desperate. My psychic Team returned to Nova Luna two days ago. Family emergency, I believe. They couldn't get me a replacement until tomorrow. You're the only Team on Midgard, and I need you -- badly."
"You've got us," Philips said, without hesitation. He forcibly quelled the sinking feeling in his gut. "What is it? Shall we come there?"
"No time. We've got a possible psychic." Colonel Waters leaned forward. "High school boy named Harris Cane. He was picked by his school for that student exchange program with the Jils -- you know the one. They pick the top student from each Terran high school to stay for six months with a middle class Jilectan family. Promotes mutual understanding and so forth. This kid is fifteen, top student in the senior class, straight A's, student body president, chess club president, debating society president and so forth. Sharp kid. He got selected and turned it down flat. That was last Tuesday. Two hours ago one of our stations on Corala warned us that a Jil ship is on its way. They'll be here in about two more hours. It took us two to work through the red tape and find out what we needed. I'll transmit the information you need. He lives in Ragnarok, about 800 kilometers east of here -- a little under three hours by aircar. You'll have some margin -- the Jil has to land and dispatch his people, too. But don't dawdle. They'll be hot on your tail."
II
Ragnarok was a tiny settlement of less than nine hundred persons all told, set in the shadow of the Utgard Mountain Range. The town had been cut out of an evergreen forest that spread in all directions for hundreds of kilometers, and on a clear day you could see the sky piercing, snow-capped peak of Odinn's Pinnacle, far to the north. The towering, cloud-girdled mountain was a challenge that no human had yet conquered, although more than one aspiring climber had lost his life in the attempt.
The Pinnacle was not visible today. Clouds loomed, black and forbidding, above the mountain, foretelling the end of the unseasonably long warm spell they had enjoyed so far. Winter was almost here, and Harry would be leaving.
Lyla Cane sat back in the kitchen chair and munched the last of her roast beef sandwich, looking idly out the northern window.
Her little house was located near the edge of town. A winding, rutted dirt road twisted past, perhaps half a kilometer away, coming from the west where it crossed the town's main thoroughfare, also a dirt road, but one beaten flat and hard by the passage of feet, wagons, carts, and animals. Perhaps half a kilometer past the rutted track, she could see the battered side of Joe Handscome's barn. Beyond it the evergreens reared up, sky piercing in their own right, taller than the redwoods of faraway Terra.
Lyla was in no hurry to return to work. The boring tasks of her yearly inventory were not calculated to inspire enthusiasm in her soul, although the job had to be done. Her schedule of patients was completed for the day. Millie would notify her of any emergency, but she anticipated nothing serious, and had to chide herself for wishing something would happen to break up the monotony. Life in Ragnarok was slow and quiet. The town itself had only gotten power two years ago; many of the outlying homesteads still didn't have it, and you could count the number of aircars in town on the fingers of one hand. If she and Harry had colonized to New Hawaii, now, she would no doubt have a thriving professional practice and an active social life. But that was exactly why she was here and not on New Hawaii. The last thing Lyla Cane wanted was an active social life.
In the sleepy little colony she had time on her hands -- time to enjoy watching her son grow, time to enjoy life. Harris would have liked it here, but her husband had died fourteen years ago on Terra.
And soon Harry would be leaving, too. He'd been accepted for the next class at Terran Space Academy, and then she and Brenda would be alone. The two of them shared a small house as both home and professional offices. Brenda Wilcox was the town dentist and a widow of fifteen years standing, since her young husband had lost his life to one of the native predators. The two women had met when Lyla arrived in Ragnarok with her young son, and shortly afterwards formed a business partnership that quickly became a close friendship.
At the time, Lyla had been the town's only doctor and the citizens of Ragnarok considered themselves fortunate to get her, for doctors were at a premium on colonial worlds. Three years ago young Andrew Barrows had returned home, fresh from his internship at Tranquility Medical Center on Luna, to become the town's second doctor and Lyla was able to resume practice of her chosen specialty, at least on a part time basis. She'd been a pediatrician on Earth until circumstances forced her to become a colonist.
Lyla sighed. At forty, she was still a young woman. Modern science had extended the human lifespan considerably in the last two centuries. A Terran female could look forward to an average of 205 years, and the estimate was rising every decade. Women had been known to bear children when as old as a hundred and fifty, although that was pushing things a bit in Lyla's opinion. She had plenty of time yet, but that was for the future. Maybe she'd feel differently after Harry left, but for now she was comfortable with her life as it was. If only Harris were here to share it with her.
But he wasn't, and he never would be. Nor could she ask another person to share her danger -- the reason she had chosen to be a doctor in an obscure colony on Midgard. If one was a psychic, in this day of Jilectan dominance, one courted obscurity, and Lyla had known for over twenty years.
That, too, was why Harry had been forced to turn down his selection, four days ago, to participate in the Terran-Jilectan student exchange program. A psychic could not possibly accept such an invitation. But he'd be safe enough on Earth. There were few Jilectans there and as long as he was careful to draw no attention to himself he would not be identified by the psychic hunters. Harry knew how to hide his talents. There would be no danger.
The miniature videoscreen set on the tabletop muttered softly. Lyla watched it with half her attention. It was still a novelty, here in Ragnarok, to be able to tune in to the Confederation News, broadcast from Asgard at noon.
The commercial came on and Lyla turned down the sound. The latest fad diet didn't interest her, and neither did the succeeding advertisement for a luxury cruise on New Hawaii. Then the picture faded and the face of a young Terran man filled the screen. Lyla grinned wryly. There was probably no one in the Terran Confederation who would fail to recognize the criminal thus displayed for their viewing. Alan Westover, the most wanted man in the Jilectan Autonomy, was a Terran psychic, the most famous--or notorious--of all. It all depended on your point of view. He had been the first non-Jilectan in all Terran-Jilectan history to actually stand up to the alien overlord who had ordered his death, and had shot him dead.
If the Jils were to be believed, he had shot the Jilectan noble, Lord Salthvor, in the back, in cold blood, but an unauthorized rumor said differently. The story went that the eighteen-year-old boy had actually outdrawn the faster and stronger alien. Whatever the true story, Westover had escaped his tormenters and fled with the Strike Commander of the Jilectan Patrol cruiser who had--for no reason anyone could explain--unexpectedly betrayed his masters to aid the boy. Speak of the devil, the fair, handsome face of Strike Commander Linley now flashed across the screen. They were known to be members of the Terran Underground now, and had been successfully defying their pursuers for fourteen years. Lyla's grin became more pronounced. She had her own reasons for cheering Alan Westover and Mark Linley on, and she hoped they never got caught--nor did she care in the slightest how Westover had killed the Jil. It was enough that he had done the deed and gotten away with it. Good riddance!
Of course there was always the possibility that the notoriety of young Alan Westover could make things uncomfortable for her if anybody ever made the connection. People had always remarked on the strong family resemblance of the Westover clan. But Ragnarok was a close knit community. If anyone had ever noticed her similarity of feature to the famous Jil killer, no one had ever said so.
The kitchen door banged open so suddenly that she jumped. Harry entered, his dark curls standing up all over his head as if he'd been running.
"Mom! Are you all right?" he demanded.
Lyla rose to her feet. "What's the matter?"
Harry shut the door, locked it, and hurried past her to the north window.
"I got a real strong feeling in the middle of math class--" Her son pulled the window shade tightly down. "I was sure something was wrong. When the bell rang, I ran all the way home."
"What do you mean wrong?" Lyla suppressed a pang of apprehension. "Are you still feeling it?"
With a quick step, Harry crossed to the kitchen's southern window and closed that shade, too. He turned back and nodded vigorously.
Lyla went to the window as well, and lifted a corner of the shade to peer out.
The light of Alpha Centauri sifted through the big evergreens that shaded this side of the cottage. A golden crowned whooper let loose its familiar, earsplitting territorial call. The patch of early afternoon sky visible through the trees was a clear, piercing blue. The autumn wind blew fallen evergreen needles and dry leaves from the few deciduous trees among the evergreens.
Harry pulled her away from the window and twitched the shade into place. "Something's wrong," he repeated, indecisive. "Did you ever have the feeling like there's a hammer over your head, about to hit you? That's the way I feel, now ... only it's more about you, Mom. Something's going to happen!"
And now Lyla understood. Twice within her memory this had happened. Harry had known about the little boy in the boat on the lake south of town -- had known that something would happen to the child before he fell from the craft -- and was there in time to save him. He'd been the town hero that day. The other time he'd known when the local ne'er-do-well broke into Lyla's office, looking for drugs, and come rushing home, only to find Sheriff Harcourt already there. Lyla, too, had gotten a warning, barely ten minutes before "Beeper" Morgan's entrance through the window, butcher knife in hand, and was waiting for him with the laser rifle that Harry used for target practice. It had to be part of their psychic abilities, she knew. She had thought so at the time, and never disregarded a hunch, either her own or Harry's.
The difference seemed to be that Harry's ability notified him farther in advance. She wished she knew more about psychic powers. To be only partially knowledgeable about her talents was to be in a dangerously vulnerable position. And, of course, she dared not show an interest in the subject. Nothing else would be so sure to draw unwelcome attention as that.
She met Harry's gaze levelly. "What is it? Do you have any idea?"
The boy shook his head. "I don't know what it is." He looked suddenly very vulnerable. "I'm scared."
Lyla fought back the familiar old sensations. Fear for their lives. Harry's life, her own ... and Brenda's. Was it possible? Could they have been discovered?
It was possible. She'd had to flee for her life once. It could happen again.
Harry was looking more scared than ever. "What'll we do, Mom?"
"First of all, we don't panic. It's possible we've been discovered. Yes?"
There was a knock on the door to the hall.
"Dr. Cane?" The receptionist's voice sounded surprised. Lyla realized belatedly that she'd answered before Millie had knocked. The door swung open and Millie stuck her head through. "There's somebody here to see you, Doctor," she said. "Oh, hello, Harry. Aren't you supposed to be in school?"
Harry didn't answer. Lyla broke in before Millie could pursue the subject.
"Who is it?" she asked. "A patient?"
"No." Millie shook her head so vigorously that the tight platinum curls bounced. "It's a gentleman. He says his name is Matthew Philips." The face of the most notable gossip in town was one large question mark. Lyla could imagine the stories that would be circulating by this evening.
"Doctor Matthew Philips," Millie continued. "He says he has an important message for you."
Harry met Lyla's questioning look with a faint shrug. He evidently didn't think that this Doctor Philips was the looming danger. She examined her own feelings and concluded that he was right. Whatever incipient problem was sounding Harry's internal alarm, it was not yet imminent enough to sound her own.
"I'll see him in my office," she replied, and started to follow the pudgy, middle-aged form of her receptionist from the room. Then she hesitated and turned to Harry.
"Why don't you tell Dr. Wilcox what you told me, Harry. We might have to, uh..." She paused. "We might have to hurry," she concluded, carefully, then turned and went through the swinging door into the hallway. Her office was what had once been a tiny study set off of the hall, barely more than a cubbyhole. Lyla seated herself behind her desk and waited. No more than a minute had passed when there came a light knock on the door.
"Come in," Lyla called.
Millie opened it. "Dr. Philips," she announced, crisply.
A little man stepped through, turned, and closed the door firmly in Millie's patently curious face. He turned back, a faint, ironic smile on his lips, and Lyla experienced a shock.
Matthew Philips was a short, nondescript man not much her senior, dressed conservatively in a dark jumpsuit and ankle boots. A drab, water repellent cape lay neatly over one arm. Certainly there was nothing to shock anyone, but her heart had begun to beat fast and hard when she saw him, because this man was different from every other man in the town of Ragnarok in one very crucial way.
Matthew Philips was a psychic.
She rose to her feet, extending a shaking hand to clasp his proffered one, for she knew that the long hoped-for event had occurred.
The Terran Underground had found her.
III
As Matt Philips waited for the receptionist to return he looked about the little waiting room with appreciation. In spite of the fact that the house had originally been quite small and added onto many times with prefab units of different types, the owners had managed to provide a pleasant and professional atmosphere.
The waiting room for both medical and dental patients had six easy chairs, a videoscreen on one wall and a stack of reading material available for adults. There was also a child-sized table with chairs, and a box of bright colored toys in one corner for the smaller clients.
The sign outside had announced Lyla Cane, M.D., Family Practice and Pediatrics, and Brenda Wilcox, Orthodontics and General Dentistry. Apparently the building was both professional offices and home to Dr. Cane and her son, as well as the unknown dentist. The report he'd gotten hadn't mentioned her. Philips opened his shields wide, scanning.
Lewis, in the driver's seat, raised his eyebrows. "Not hard to find," he'd commented. "Good ones."
He was right. Philips could sense it clearly. There were psychics nearby -- and more than he'd expected: at least three that he could detect. As Lew had said, they were "good ones". Philips quelled his excitement. He was sensing worry in the minds, almost fear. Not surprising, actually. About 75% of Terran psychics were precogs of various degrees -- short, medium and long range -- and his own medium range ability had been speaking up for over an hour. Lewis's short-range talent had not, yet, which was reassuring. But it was probable that at least one of these psychics was a precog.
In the waiting room he continued to scan, aware of Lewis's mind in the background. The three psychic minds were of mixed genders. One was male and quite young -- probably a teenager. The other two were female and closer to his own age. The doctor and dentist, perhaps? Was it possible they were psychic partners like Lew and himself? It couldn't be a coincidence that three psychics lived in the same house in a small community like this.
The concept of psychic partners had been under study for years by the psychic researchers of Terran Military Intelligence and still was not completely understood. Originally the phenomenon had not been considered important. Now they knew differently. Partners did not choose each other. If their minds were complementary, somehow the partnership formed automatically. Partners were always close friends. If they were of opposite genders the relationship was almost invariably closer, as demonstrated by the large number of man and wife psychic partnerships in the Terran Underground. In such partnerships, too, the loss of one's partner could be devastating. Suicide by the surviving partner was not uncommon, though their organization did their best to prevent it, and psychics would go to unbelievable lengths to protect a partner, as a number of persons had learned, to their dismay.
Jilectans did not have partners. That was one of the many differences in the two psychic species. There were plenty of others.
The receptionist was back. She smiled primly at him. "Dr. Cane will see you in her office now."
Philips followed her into a narrow hall. She stepped to a door and rapped, softly. A woman's voice said, "Come in."
The receptionist turned the doorknob and pushed the panel open. "Dr. Philips," she announced. Philips could sense her avid curiosity. Who was this Dr. Philips? Certainly, he was not a resident of Ragnarok. Was he a friend of Dr. Cane's? A prospective partner? Perhaps a suitor or a long lost husband? He could almost see the tip of her nose quiver with the eagerness of a hunting dog scenting game.
He stepped past the woman and closed the door firmly in her face. Let her wonder. It could do Dr. Cane little harm at this point. The doctor was rising to her feet, her hand outstretched to greet him and he grasped it, surveying her in a single overall sweep.
Dr. Cane was little, like all psychics. Terran psychics were all short. Somehow, a psychic's powers were tied to his height, and, allowing for age and gender, the more powerful the psychic, the shorter he or she was. Philips' friend, Alan Westover was the shortest adult male psychic he knew. He was also the most powerful, by far.
Lyla Cane was very short. She resembled Alan, too, in ways that could not be a coincidence. Here was the dark, curly hair, worn short, the big green eyes, the tilted nose and full-lipped, wide mouth. But while Alan's features were nondescript, except for the eyes, nature had seen fit to be more generous to Dr. Cane. The woman would be considered attractive in any company. He ignored his partner's silent whistle in the back of his mind, feeling, for the first time in years, quite tall next to her. But she wasn't slight. Somehow, the woman's frame was solid; that of a person used to exercise. The flock of freckles across her nose and cheeks and the firm handclasp underlined the impression. Philips decided he liked her appearance.
"Dr. Cane?" he said, "I'm Matt Philips. I see you know why I'm here."
That much was obvious in her thoughts. She had seen it in his mind, with his shields purposely down, sensed that he, too, was a Terran psychic. She knew what she was, all right.
"Yes." Her voice sounded a little breathless. "We've been waiting for you a long time -- hoping you'd find us."
Philips could see that in his quick mental probe. She had no defenses against it, no awareness that she was being scanned, but the fact that she could read his mind was going to make things a lot easier. Most of the time psychics had to be convinced of what they were, which took precious time -- sometimes too much time. He plunged ahead.
"The Terran Underground sent me to warn you. The Jilectans are coming for your son, Harris, and you, too, probably -- anyone in his family. They aren't far behind me, now. I'm here to get you to safety."
"The Jilectans!" Dr. Cane seemed unsurprised. "Harry said there was danger. What do we do, Doctor?"
"Get whatever you must take, and you and your son must come with me, now. My partner is waiting outside in the aircar. There's also another psychic here. I sensed her--"
"That's Brenda Wilcox. I'll call them both. Harry has already warned her."
"The dentist?"
Dr. Cane nodded as she turned to a small videophone on her desk. A moment passed, and the face of a woman appeared on the hand-sized screen. Dr. Cane spoke, crisply.
"Brenda, we've been discovered. The Terran Underground is here, and the Jilectans are on their way. Grab your things and meet us at the aircar out in front."
"I thought that was it," Dr. Wilcox responded. "I'll be there in five minutes." The screen went off.
Lyla Cane rose. "We knew this might happen," she said, matter-of-factly. "We all knew we might have to run at any moment, so we prepared in advance." With a quick, economical motion, she turned to the closet behind her chair and opened it. A small, black, medical bag stood there and she removed it. "My suitcases are in the hall. Just one moment."
She turned to a shelf on one side of the room. On it stood three photographs: a small one of two smiling people, another of a dark haired man, and a third of herself, the man again, and a baby, obviously no more than six months old. She thrust them into the medical bag and snapped it closed.
"What gave us away?" she asked suddenly. "We were careful never to use our psychic powers for fear someone would suspect."
"Is that why you called Dr. Wilcox by videophone?"
"No. Brenda isn't a telepath. You haven't answered me."
"Sometimes you can't help using your powers," Philips said, seriously. "It was the student exchange program."
"I was afraid that might be it." The doctor sounded resigned. "But he couldn't accept!"
"Of course not. Those who do accept, not knowing they're psychics, are caught. Those who refuse -- either because they sense danger or because they know -- are investigated. It's a two way trap."
The door opened and a boy stepped through. Philips had sensed the powerful psychic mind approaching and was not surprised. By appearance this must be Harris Cane; a quick mind probe confirmed the assumption. Harry was fifteen, intelligent, ambitious, a little cocky, like most kids his age, and scared. He was sensing the same thing Philips was -- danger. But Lewis hadn't given warning yet. They still had a little time.
The boy clutched a canvas bag in one hand and a laser rifle in the other. His green eyes looked enormous as they flicked, unsurprised, over Philips, and he turned to Dr. Cane. "We better go, Mom."
"I know, Harry," she responded, calmly. "You were right. We've been found out. This is Doctor Philips, from the Terran Underground. Doctor, my son, Harris."
Philips smiled faintly. "So, you gave the warning, Harris? Take your things out to my aircar in front. My partner's waiting. Your mother will be there in a minute."
"Okay." The boy scooped up his mother's bag. "Millie's getting awful curious. I think she had her ear against the door when I walked into the hall. Good thing it's thick." He hesitated then apparently made up his mind. "Dr. Philips, can I take Willis with me?"
"Willis?"
"Our dog," Lyla said. "Harry, you know we discussed this --"
"But, Mom --!"
"It's all right," Philips interjected. "Get him to the car."
"Thanks!" Harry said. "Thanks a lot!" He hurried out the door, giving an earsplitting whistle as he did so. A loud, deep bark responded, and Philips sighed internally as he caught a glimpse of Willis before the closing door cut off his view. The creature was the size of a small horse. The car was going to be a little crowded.
Lyla Cane was rifling quickly through the drawers of her desk. A moment later she emerged with a closed packet of what were most likely papers. "That does it. Let's go."
The hall closet yielded two battered valises and a small handbag. She inserted the papers in it, and removed a fur-lined weatherproof cape and a pair of fur topped waterproof boots from the closet, which she quickly exchanged for her low heeled, sensible shoes. Philips took the bags and they hurried toward the waiting room. As they entered it, Millie met them.
"Dr. Cane! Little Annie Peterson's cut her hand wide open! Her mother is with her in the treatment room. I told her I'd call you right away."
Dr. Cane stopped, then handed her purse and shoes to Philips. "I'll be with you, directly," she said, and turned toward the hall again, removing her cape as she did so.
Philips nodded, knowing better than to object, took the items and headed for the aircar, outside.
Lewis was still sitting behind the wheel, tapping his fingers as Philips stuffed Lyla's bags and shoes in the trunk with the others. Their little car was now remarkably full of Harry Cane, Brenda Wilcox, a cat carrier from which emerged the wails of a distressed feline, a bird cage with two avians of some sort, and a large, black mongrel which appeared to Philips to be part German Shepherd and part Shetland pony. He leaned in the window to speak to his partner, realizing that Harry had interpreted his permission for Willis's presence rather liberally. The dog deposited a wet gesture of affection on one cheek. He swiped at it with the back of his hand.
"Dr. Cane's got an emergency. Keep an eye out. I'm going back in."
"I will." Stevens shifted uneasily. "I think I'm getting a warning, Matt."
"Great." That meant they had five to ten minutes left. It was going to be close. "If you have to, get these two out of here. I can take care of myself." He turned and reentered the house. Millie looked at him curiously as he passed her and pushed open the door to the hall, but didn't say anything. Even without attempting a mind probe, his empathic sense picked up seething curiosity. The woman was dying to know what was going on.
Lyla was in a room, three doors down. He could sense her mind clearly. She was applying minute clips to a deep slash in the hand of a child perhaps four years old. As Philips "watched" she applied regenerative gel and began to smooth plastaskin over the injury. He gritted his teeth and waited. He was a doctor; he understood Lyla's concern for her patient, but precious minutes were passing. At last he rapped softly on the door.
It opened immediately and Lyla stepped out, moving back to allow a tall, redheaded woman with a child in her arms to exit.
"Done," Lyla announced. "Let's go."
"Right." Philips glanced at the woman who carried the little girl. "We'd better hurry or you're going to miss your flight."
"All right." Lyla slid into her cape. "Goodbye, Mrs. Peterson. Goodbye, Annie. Take her to Dr. Barrows in three days to have that hand checked, Mrs. Peterson. I don't know how long I'll be on Terra. I may not be back in time."
The woman nodded and exited toward the waiting room. Philips took Dr. Cane's arm to hurry her after the patient but then Lewis' voice in his mind, loud and clear, stopped him. *Here they come, Matt!*
*Get out of there!* Philips responded. *I'll handle things here!* He turned to Lyla. "They're coming. What's the fastest way out? -- not the front!"
"Kitchen." Lyla pushed open a swinging door that led to a large, country kitchen.
They were halfway across the room when someone rattled the back door. Philips recognized the familiar mental patterns of a Viceregal patrolman on the other side.
"Great," he muttered, then his eye spotted a narrow closet on one side of the room.
"Get in there--quick!" he whispered, yanking it open.
It was a pantry, with shelves of stored food, the bottom shelf barely the third of a meter from the floor. Lyla scooted beneath it and Philips thrust a bag of rice and another of beans in front. Then he shut it and ran to the door as the fist pounded again, and then someone yanked violently.
Taking a deep breath, he threw the locking bolt and opened the door. "Yes? Hey!"
Four patrolmen pushed through: a corporal and a trio of third classers, all Terrans, he saw at once. The last pointed a blaster in his direction.
"Where's the doc?" the corporal demanded in guttural, very bad, Terran English. "And who are you?"
Philips answered the second question first. "I'm Doctor Philips. Is there something I can do for you? You don't really need that thing, you know." He nodded to the blaster.
The corporal ignored him. "I want Doctor Cane. Dr. Lyla Cane. Where is she?"
"Oh," Philips said, on a note of discovery. "Doctor Cane and her son left about an hour ago, very suddenly. I'm here to take her place."
One of the third classers spoke rapidly in Basic, translating for his corporal.
The man nodded and spoke back. Philips kept his expression blank. It would be to his advantage if these men didn't realize that he spoke Basic as well as they did.
The third classer gestured at Philips with his blaster. "You sit there. We search. You do anything suspicious, I kill you. Behave and live."
Keeping his hands carefully in sight, Philips sat, uncomfortably aware of his blaster in its skillfully camouflaged shoulder holster. Of course, these people actually had no real right to be doing this but he and they knew well that Midgard's government would do little more than register a protest to the Jilectans if the Viceregal Patrol was to kill or abduct a Terran citizen. And the Jils, of course, would blandly ignore the protest. If they found his blaster he could claim he wore it for self-protection as a doctor on a frontier world, but they would still almost certainly take him along on suspicion, anyway.
He sat still, looking as innocent and harmless as he could contrive.
The four men were nervous -- understandably, considering their situation. Viceregal patrolmen were not much liked by the lower classes -- i.e. non-Jilectans -- in the Autonomy itself, and far less so on Terran worlds. Patrolmen had been killed in the past by Terrans with a grudge. Still, it seemed a little odd. Why only four patrolmen? Usually they showed up in force. A scan of the corporal's mind indicated that they were alone. Back at the ship there were two Jilectans and more patrolmen, but no backup forces closer. No wonder they were nervous!
That, of course, could mean a couple of things. They might merely be considered expendable--still the Jils didn't ordinarily waste their men uselessly. Or, it could be a trap. There had been that odd little note Waters had mentioned: the timing on this affair. If Viceregal Intelligence had leaked information deliberately, it could well be a setup. Either way, they wouldn't tell these guys. Terran minds were far too easily read by Terran psychics. Or, there could be other reasons he couldn't know about. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to pick it up here.
The four were talking in low voices. Idly, Philips read the names on their nameplates fastened to the center of the helmets just above the visor. The corporal was Pillsberry. The other three were Cross, Baker, and Teal. Then the corporal gestured, and the three third classers went through the swinging door into the hall. Pillsberry seated himself opposite Philips, resting his blaster on the table.
The man was big and muscled like a wrestler. Size was a requirement for the Viceregal Patrol, and it always tended to intimidate Philips. In height he was perhaps 1.72 meters. The patrolman was close to two. His uniform, black, with scarlet trim, the silver helmet with darkened visor, insignia in black, just to the left above the visor -- all was designed to make him a dark, menacing, faceless symbol of fear. It worked. Philips swallowed and sat silent, watching the corporal and trying to keep in mind the fact that, as a psychic, he had advantages this guy couldn't know about -- such as being able to see the man's thoughts. It helped some. What had they said in field training? "Keep your head and never try to defeat a Viceregal patrolman physically unless there is no other choice. They are combat trained. Physical force is their weapon. Yours is your mind. Use it!"
Of course field training paid attention to the physical side, too, but his first weapon of choice was his brain. It was too bad he wasn't a telekinetic. That would make things easy, but only about 25% of Terran psychics were telekinetics and those were most frequently the ones with two psychic genes -- with a few notable exceptions such as General Westover's cousin, Angela Bronson. Philips had never determined whether he had one or two psychic genes, but he was certainly no telekinetic. Most of his abilities were fairly common, and as a telepath he was mediocre. Still, as an empath he was equaled by few. Perhaps he could use that.
Some talents were quite subtle. One of his was the ability to calm and relax his patients simply by empathic projection. He'd done it for years. It hadn't seemed a particularly aggressive sort of talent, but then he'd never been in this sort of situation before. Could he do the opposite? There certainly seemed to be no reason he couldn't.
Silently, without any motion to betray him, he began to project his own fear at Corporal Pillsberry. It was surprisingly easy. The emotion wasn't hard to build -- he was scared stiff already, and the good corporal was nervous.
Fear! He projected nervousness that rose gradually to sweaty-handed, gut-wrenching terror, taking his own emotion and magnifying it many times over. The feeling of increasing, unnamed danger, shadowy death lurking behind the corporal, sounds a little too faint to identify in the darkening corners ... Philips built the feeling to a crescendo, let it subside a trifle, then built it again to a wave, crashing over the man.
Pillsberry's lower face, visible below the visor, was suddenly glistening with perspiration. Philips could sense the panic that welled in his brain and forcibly separated his mind from it. He couldn't afford to let sympathy to get in the way of what he was doing. Fear! He hammered the corporal with it in another rising wave.
The man glanced quickly over his shoulder and around the room, telling himself there was no reason for this and wishing his men would come back. He could call them, but how would he explain it? Philips submerged the man's reasoning mind in another surge of fear.
Only duty was holding Pillsberry to his place. His grip was slippery on the blaster butt. He switched hands and wiped his dripping palm on one thigh.
Philips intensified the broadcast, amazed at his own power. He had never realized he could command such an ability. Terror! he projected. Utter, panicky terror!
The man jumped to his feet and paced back and forth, only a margin of his attention on Philips. Philips slowly gathered his feet under him. Run! he thought. Flee the terror that is creeping upon you out of the dark. Run!
The door of the kitchen opened suddenly and the man whirled with a half-stifled yell.
A patrolman peered inside, looking confused. "You okay, sir?"
Pillsberry visibly gathered his composure about him -- to Philips disgust -- and nodded, curtly. The man stared at him a moment, mouth agape, then stood back and pushed someone ahead of him into the kitchen. Philips bit his lip, dismayed. It was Millie.
The receptionist was protesting furiously, to no avail. Patrolman Teal propelled her into a kitchen chair in a no-nonsense fashion and turned to report her identity to his corporal. The other two men entered behind him. Baker held what appeared to be a bottle of expensive brandy, and Cross a paper bag. He tossed it to the table in front of Corporal Pillsberry and from the open top spilled an earring that glittered green in the light.
Philips relaxed internally, disappointed and elated at the same time. His trick had almost worked. Pillsberry was still trying to regain his composure, the adrenaline from Philips' empathically induced panic still flooding his system. Next time, Philips thought. I'll get you next time.
Cross grinned. "She ain't gone far, sir," he reported. "Left all her jewelry behind."
The corporal's answering grin looked almost normal. He poked his blaster at Philips.
"Where?" he demanded in his guttural English.
Philips feigned confusion at the question. "Where what? I don't know what you mean!"
The man scowled. "Where doctor?! No lie!"
"She left!" he reiterated, hoping the receptionist had the sense to keep her mouth shut. "They all left!"
Millie stared at him, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "That's not true!" she shrilled. "What have you done with her? What are these men doing here? What's going on?"
Patrolman Cross, who evidently spoke English better than the corporal, stared suspiciously at Philips, then relayed the woman's words to his superior officer. The corporal spoke back. Cross shoved Millie backward in the chair.
"What is going on here?" he demanded. His English was heavily accented, but
understandable. "Who is this guy?"
The jig was up. Millie opened her mouth to speak. And the kitchen exploded into action.
The blaster in Pillsberry's hand squirmed suddenly, writhed free and leaped across the table straight into Philips' hands. He snagged it out of the air. Millie screamed, trying to cower under the table. Her flailing arm struck the hand of Patrolman Teal, who was trying to line up on Philips. His blaster hummed, but the beam went into the ceiling. Then Matt fired and Teal folded slowly to the floor. Philips whipped around.
The other two armed patrolmen, caught in open-mouthed surprise, had only begun to draw their weapons. The first shot caught Patrolman Baker with his hand on the butt of his blaster. Patrolman Cross followed, his sidearm half drawn. Millie shrieked again, covering her head with both arms. Philips looked narrowly at her, took careful aim and fired. The stun beam hummed and Millie wilted.
Corporal Pillsberry looked bleakly at him, keeping his hands carefully in sight.
"A psychic," he said resignedly, in Basic. "I shoulda known."
"That's right," Philips replied, in perfect Basic, "a psychic sent to delay you. By now, Dr. Cane and her son are long gone. They'll be on a ship off-planet within an hour."
"I don't suppose," the man said, hopefully, "that you could just cuff me somewhere and forget about the stun?"
Philips surveyed him grimly. "Not a chance."
"Ah, come on. I ain't dangerous to you. How am I gonna call for help?"
Philips shook his head with finality. "The Viceregal Patrol killed my psychic partner," he said. "Don't expect any consideration from me, Corporal, even if I believed you -- which I don't."
The stun beam hummed again.
Suddenly there was silence. Then the pantry door scraped open and Lyla stepped out, taking in the scene without surprise. Philips looked soberly at her.
"Thanks for the assist, Lyla."
"You're welcome," she replied, as gravely. "Poor Millie. She never could keep her mouth shut."
**********
tbc
