Shell Game: 7/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
XXI
Alan and Mark arrived at their apartment in the M.O.Q. ten minutes later. Lyn opened the door as they approached and flung herself into Alan's arms. He received her willingly, and Mark crowded past them to take Julia in a passionate embrace. She was beautiful, he thought, even with her immensely pregnant belly and disordered hair.
"Oh, Mark! We were so worried about you!" The words were smothered in a kiss, then Linley held her away from him, grinning broadly.
"Colonel Terrence sent us word that you went aboard the 'Pride of Galanthzor' and didn't get off again," Lyn said. "We knew you'd been detained, somehow, but ..."
"We're fine," Mark told her. "But I'll bet poor ol' Terry is fit to kill us both." He sighed. "In spite o' everythin', though, some bright boy managed t'get a message out."
"Lyn already told me," Julia said. "She's been relaying your orders that Alan was giving the Fleet psychics. I guess we'd better hurry."
"Yeah." Mark let Julia go and went past her into the apartment.
"Lyn and I started working on it when you sent the message," Julia said.
Mark turned, scowling at her. "You ain;t supposed to be liftin' things, baby."
"I wasn't!" Julia protested. "We were just ..."
"Dr. Philips said ..."
Julia's face turned pink. "Dr. Philips has never been pregnant!"
Linley sighed. He and Julia had gone through this before. "Look, honey, I know how you feel but we've gotten this far. Let's see if we can hang onto those kids another couple o' weeks, huh? This'd be a helluva time for you to go into labor!"
Julia subsided. "All right, Mark. Sorry."
Linley patted her shoulder. "Why don'tcha head over to Communications while the rest of us finish up here, baby? There's lotsa other pregnant gals over there, listenin' to our lords an' masters. You could keep 'em company."
"Getting me out of the way, huh?" Julia's eyes filled with tears and she fled into the bathroom. Mark groaned.
"C'mon, kids, let's get this stuff together. Lyn, you take it easy, too. Let Alan an' me do the work."
"Okay, Mark." Lyn's voice was subdued and he saw her and Alan exchange glances. He sighed.
"Care to tell me what's wrong with Jul, kids?"
They exchanged another glance, then Lyn answered him.
"She feels pretty awful, Mark. She's big and clumsy, and thinks she's as ugly as a Centarian mudworm. She didn't even have time to do her hair this morning. I was going to fix it for her, but then you sent that message and we had to start packing."
"Oh, damn!" Linley said, unhappily.
Alan cleared his throat. "She hasn't seen you in two weeks, Mark, then right after you get here, you tell her to leave."
Linley swore and went over to the bathroom door. Alan started to say something else and stopped.
Mark rapped on the door. "Jul?"
No reply. He rapped again. "Honey, I'm sorry. Please open the door."
Soft sobs answered him. Alan and Lyn were suddenly very busy, he noticed, packing clothing and supplies in crates. Alan had somehow found time to shed the crumpled servant's attire while his back had been turned and was now wearing his uniform slacks and shirt.
"Mark," he said, suddenly, "Kevin and Ron report their squadrons are inert in the asteroid field. They want to know if there are any further orders."
Linley shook his head. "Tell them no; just to stay on their toes. We don't know how close the nearest cruisers were when they got the order from Corala."
Alan nodded, then spoke up again. "Annabelle Smith -- that's the duty psychic over in Communications -- just picked up a coded Patrol transmission, Mark. The Sixth Fleet was conducting maneuvers near here. They've been ordered to follow the second squadron that was sent to investigate the 'Pride of Galanthzor's' failure to respond to their hails. They'll be here before long."
Linley swore under his breath. "Tell Kevin an' Ron to keep an eye out for those first ships. I want 'em captured -- intact, if possible. Try not to damage the ships too much -- but don't be fanatic about it."
"Angie and Eric acknowledge. Look, why don't you get changed? I'll need help carrying these things, and Lyn can't do it."
Linley turned resignedly away from the bathroom door. "Okay, kid. Get the lighter stuff. I'll be right back."
The bedroom that he shared with Julia was empty, except for the stripped bed and footlocker. It wasn't the kind of home that Julia had once hoped for when she married, he knew, but someday that would be changed when this whole thing was over -- if it ever was. Sometimes he wondered about that.
She had laid out his uniform on the stripped bunk. Linley sighed, yanking off the Jilectan servant's clothing. What an insensitive jerk he was!
The Vik pods were still in his inner pocket. Swiftly, he transferred them to the inner pocket of his uniform. Well, he could present them to her later as a peace offering, and tell her that he still thought her the most beautiful woman in the Sector, barring none, pregnant or not.
The thought made him feel better. He picked up the jacket of his uniform, decided that carrying things with it on was asking for trouble, and hefted the footlocker over one shoulder. Julia and Lyn had managed to get most of the things packed already, he realized, not that there was all that much.
Alan was just entering the front door as he returned to the living room. Lyn was stuffing the last odds and ends into a suitcase. Julia still had not emerged from the bathroom.
"I got an antigrav cart for the heavy stuff," Alan told him.
"Good." Linley glanced uncertainly at the bathroom, then bore his footlocker toward the door. Alan followed, carrying his own.
They loaded the items and returned for the next load. On the fourth trip, a young woman, leading a child by the hand, emerged from the apartment adjacent to their own.
"Hi, Alan! Hi, Mark!"
Alan smiled at her. "Doing all right, Beth?"
Juanita Santos Kaley, Walter Kaley's wife of two months, returned the smile. The little girl beside her flung herself at Alan, her arms embracing his waist.
"Hi, Uncle Alan!" she shrilled.
"Hi, Alana." Alan grinned down at the child. Mark, himself, with Alan's assistance, had ushered this little girl into the Sector five years ago. Alana, like her mother, was a psychic, her tiny form reaching barely to Linley's thigh. Dark, shining ringlets fell to her shoulders.
"Let Alan go, Alana," Juanita said, calmly. "We have things to do."
"I know." Alana Linley Santos released Alan, her eyes huge. "Did you know the Patrol's coming, Alan?" she inquired, seriously. "They've found us! We're gonna have to leave!"
"Yes, I know," Alan said.
"And there's *four* Jils in the brig! I was talking to one! He was *nasty*!"
Linley saw Alan grin and raised an eyebrow at Juanita.
"All the children are trying to talk to them," Juanita told Linley, calmly. "She's right. They *aren't* very polite."
Mark snorted. "Wish I could hear it. Sounds like it'd be interestin'. 'Scuse me, Alana, but we got some things left to load."
Alana ignored the hint. "And my momma's gonna have a baby!" she announced triumphantly.
Linley glanced at Juanita in surprise. "Hey, that's news, all right. Ol' Kaley's gonna be a pop too, huh? When?"
"In about eight months." Beth's cheeks grew pink. "It's a little boy, this time -- and a psychic."
Alana pouted. "I wanted a sister. I already got two brothers, and they're a pain!"
"Alana!" Beth appeared shocked. "You know I don't like that sort of language!"
"Sorry, Momma," the little girl said.
Beth looked worried. "Bill and Jim are going to be all right, aren't they, Mark? Bill's with Janice on the 'Dragon'. They're the control room psychics, and Jim and Susie are handling a skippership."
"Sure," Linley said, comfortingly. "Wolly's one o' the best we got. You don't think I'd put Alan's future brother-in-law where he could get hurt, do you? An' Susie and Jim are terrific pilots. They'll be fine. But we gotta go now, honey. We ain't got much time before we hafta be on the 'Wolverine'."
Alan and Mark returned for a final load, then guided the well-laden cart down to the area outside the Officers' Quarters where men were piling things as quickly as possible into the big loaders that would carry them to one of the waiting cargo freighters.
"Hope we can find it all later," Linley remarked as they trotted back to their quarters.
"We will. I marked them with our names." Alan stopped suddenly outside the door, his expression going blank. Linley also paused, knowing his partner was receiving a telepathic communication from someone else on the base. Alan nodded slightly and turned to him.
"That was Matt Philips. He says to get Julia and Lyn onto the first transport. They're putting all the children and pregnant women on board right now."
"Right." Linley pushed open the door to their quarters -- now unpowered, as the power was being tapped for more urgent matters. The bathroom door was still closed. He went over to it and rapped.
"Jul, you've got to come out now, honey. They wantcha on board the transport. Open the door!"
"I can't." Julia's voice was muffled, and Mark saw Alan and Lyn both move convulsively. Lyn placed a hand on the door's control. The lock clicked at once and the door slid open.
Julia was leaning against the shower stall, her face very pale.
"Oh, Mark!" she squeaked.
He ran to her, taking her in his arms. "Baby, I'm sorry. I'm an insensitive boob. We gotta get you two gals to the transport now, though. I wantcha away from here before those damned battlecruisers arrive."
"I can't." Her voice was constricted. Linley stared at her, a block of ice settling in his stomach.
"Jul, your legs are all wet!"
"I know." She gulped. "My water just broke."
If it hadn't been for Alan, Mark doubted he would have gotten through the next fifteen minutes without disgracing himself. His partner stepped up beside him, gripping his arm, firmly. "Mark, I've just told Matt. You're to pick Julia up and carry her to the transport ship right away."
"But ..."
"I'll stay with her, Mark." Lyn's voice was also very calm, and Linley felt his composure returning. Lifting Julia in his arms, he bore her rapidly out of the apartment, down the corridor and across the lawn to their groundcar. Alan and Lyn followed, half-running to keep up.
The scene around the transport was one of mass-confusion. Women, mostly pregnant, milled around, children screamed with excitement, fear, or both, babies cried and men shouted, trying to direct traffic and gain a certain semblance of order. Mark pushed his way through the crush of bodies, cursing at someone who trod hard on his foot, and someone else bumped hard against him in the mob. Julia gave a little cry and her body tensed, both hands clutching her abdomen.
"Here, now --" It was one of the men directing the loading. "You'll have to wait your turn, sir --"
"Out o' my way, mister!" Linley barked, without courtesy. "She's got priority!"
The man bristled. "I don't know who the hell you are, mister, but everybody has to take their turn! Now get in line with the --"
"I'm Fleet Commander Linley!" Mark snapped furiously. "M'wife's in labor! She hasta get to Sick Bay right now!"
The man stopped, taking in the scene for the first time. "Oops! Sorry, sir!" He turned his head. "Joe, clear the way! We got another emergency!"
Magically, a path opened for them in the mass of bodies and Linley edged through.
Matt Philips, looking harrassed, was waiting for them when they arrived, and the doctor sighed. "I was afraid of this. All this fuss is causing problems. I'll have a dozen women in labor before we're finished. How do you feel, Julia?"
She swallowed, clinging to Mark's neck. "I didn't expect them to be this strong!"
"How long have they been going on?"
Julia hesitated. "I don't know, exactly. I thought it was false labor, at first. I've had so much of it this last month. But then my water broke about twenty minutes ago ..." she broke off. "Uh .. here comes another one."
Alan spoke up. "They're about ten minutes apart, Matt."
"All right." Philips gestured to Mark. "Put her in that cubicle, Mark. Somebody will be with her in a minute."
Mark followed his pointing finger toward a curtained booth. From somewhere came a cry, and then the muffled voice of Lorie Evans, speaking soothingly. They were not, apparently, the first. Doc Philips was going to have his hands full on this trip. The Lavirra Base had been established in order to give Terran psychics a safe refuge in which to live and multiply, as had the other two main bases, and the little fellows were doing well. The population of the base had increased by nearly half, just in this last year alone, largely due to the births of infants -- most of them psychics. Matt Philips and his staff had plenty of experience delivering babies; that was for sure. They were going to need it.
Violet Perkins, another of the nurses, pulled aside the curtains. A bunk was there, freshly made up, and he placed his wife on it. "Easy, baby, you're gonna be fine."
"I know." She clutched his hand. "But the babies -- they're not due for another month!"
"Twins often jump the gun, Julia." Violet sounded completely calm. "Don't worry. They'll be small, but they're big enough to survive without any trouble. Now, I want you to just relax ..."
Alan touched his elbow. "Mark ..."
He glanced impatiently around. "What?"
His partner sounded apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mark. Eric just called me. We're needed. A squadron of six battlecruisers just popped out of hyperspace near Lavirra."
Linley cursed. "Tell 'em to proceed with the plan."
"I did."
Linley turned back to Julia. "Jul, I hafta leave."
She smiled at him, her face radiantly beautiful in spite of its film of sweat. "I know, Mark. Lyn will do fine. You mustn't worry."
Linley bent to kiss her, then straightened up. "Take good care of her, Violet."
The diminutive nurse flashed him a smile. "Take care of yourself, Colonel Linley. We're all depending on you."
Alan kissed Lyn. "See you soon, hon."
"Be careful, Alan." Amazingly, she was holding their jackets and caps. "Here, take these -- and hurry."
They ran out together, pushing their way through the mob of women and children, down the ramp and across the field toward the 'Wolverine', Linley's former Patrol battlecruiser, now the flagship of the Lavirran fleet.
"What's the situation, kid?" he demanded as they ran.
"They're scanning the system," Alan reported, breathlessly. "Eric says Ron and Kevin are getting ready to move."
Part one of the Primary plan, mapped out by Mark many years earlier, was to station two squadrons of battleships in the system's asteroid field, ready to ambush any Patrol squadron that popped into the system. This batch must have been dispatched before the 'Pride of Galanthzor' went silent. The timing was perfect, so far. The plan called for the capture of just such a squadron in order to embroil the Sector Fleet, hard on its heels, in a monumental shell game. Large as it was, the Lavirran Warfleet could not hope to match the size and strength of the Sector Fleet. Their only hope lay in trickery. At this moment, Blue Squadron, under the command of Mark's maternal half-brother, former Patrol Subcommander Kevin Bronson, on the Procyon warship 'T'Freet', and Brown Squadron, commanded by former Strike Commander Ronald Griffen aboard the Patrol battlecruiser 'Guardian', would be moving forward toward the invaders.
"Which squadron are they? Any identification on the battlecruisers?"
"The one in the lead is the 'Nova'," Alan said.
"Mombasa," Linley grunted. "Just our luck." They reached the boarding ramp and hurried up it. Linley touched the intercom in the airlock. "Control, this is Linley. What's our status?"
"All set, Colonel," a voice responded, promptly. "We're jamming on all frequencies, local and hyperspace. They won't be able to get a squeak through."
Of course that, by itself, would tell the Patrol that something was amiss, but they knew that already. "Okay, I'll be right there. Stand by." He glanced at Alan. "How are they doin'?"
"Moving in," Alan reported promptly. "All Fleet psychics report ready and waiting."
All ships in the Fleet, which were stationed in camouflaged hangars all over the planet, had psychics in their control rooms, and each one-man fighter or skippership was piloted by a psychic, due to the necessity of the local jamming. The Lavirran Fleet had a virtually untappable communications network, while the Patrol ships would be severely handicapped, for Linley was all but certain that any Jilectans were still light years away. Very few of the overlords cared to risk his life in an actual space battle.
The lift bore them rapidly to the first deck and they sprinted for the control room. The crew looked around expectantly as they entered, and Mark saw Mitchell Edwards, his paternal half-brother, now seventeen years old and a cadet in Lavirra's Space Academy, raise a thumb to Alan, grinning half in excitement, half in apprehension. Mitchell was the "Wolverine's" other control room psychic, and this was his first serious venture since his discovery on Shallock by Lyn Parnell, several years before. Alan threw a wink back as he dropped into his chair, pulling the safety webbing across his lap. Mark fastened his own safety harness and glanced around the control room at his men, then looked back at Alan. "Control tower, this is the 'Wolverine'. We are ready for launch."
"Cleared," Alan responded, promptly. "Annabelle says 'Good luck'!"
"Tell her thanks." Linley nodded to his pilot, Lieutenant Welling. "Okay, Nick, take us up."
"Aye, sir." The pilot touched his controls. The repulsers cut in with a rumble that rose quickly to a scream of power. The great battlecruiser surged, lifted, and threw herself eagerly into the Lavirran sky.
XXII
The crew of the Patrol battlecruiser "Nova" watched as the image of the mystery planet swelled on their viewscreen.
"That's it, sir," Sublieutenant Adams said. "Fourth planet, right in the comfort zone. Scans show a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere. I read photosynthesis occurring, all right, just like that guy on the 'Pride of what's-his-name' said."
"Yeah ..." Busaidi Mombasa, Commanding Officer of the Fourth Squadron, scratched his jawline with a forefinger. "The question is, why isn't it on the charts of this system, and where is the 'Pride of Galanthzor'? Scan for them, Adams."
"I am, sir. No trace."
Mombasa scratched his jawline again. "I don't like this. I repeat, why isn't this world on the charts? This system was surveyed twenty years ago."
"Somebody made a mistake, maybe?" the pilot suggested, without conviction.
Nobody answered. Mombasa removed his helmet and ran a hand through his black, kinky hair. "Keep a sharp eye on the scanners, Adams. Matthews, send a hyperspace message to headquarters ..."
Matthews fiddled with the communications board, then turned to Mombasa, looking worried. "All hyperspace frequencies are jammed, sir. It's coming from that planet."
He should have expected it, Mombasa decided philosophically. "Contact our other ships. We're moving out until reinforcements get here."
"Local frequencies are also jammed, sir," Matthews said. "I don't like this."
Mombasa didn't like it, either. It smacked of a trap.
"Holy space! Ships, sir!" Lieutenant Ames spoke suddenly. "Two full squadrons bearing down on us! Where the hell did they come from?"
"Asteroid belt," Mombasa said. "Bring guns to ..."
"Battlecruiser Nova!" The voice was a crisp, clear Coralan accent. "Surrender immediately or be destroyed."
"Local jamming has cleared, sir," Matthews said, unnecessarily.
"Acknowledge, 'Nova'!" the voice barked. "We have your squadron blockaded. Surrender or be destroyed!"
"Who the hell are they?" Mombasa demanded. "Any identification?"
"Comp's working," Ames replied. "Holy space! That ship in the lead is a Patrol battlecruiser!"
Adams gulped. "What'll we *do*?" he whispered.
He was a very new officer, Mombasa reminded himself. "Open hailing frequency, Lieutenant," he instructed Matthews.
"Hailing frequency open, sir," the Communications Officer responded.
Mombasa straightened up in his chair. "This is the Patrol battlecruiser 'Nova'," he responded, trying to put a note of confidence into his voice. "Who the devil are *you*, and what do you want?"
The viewscreen flared with sudden light.
"Battlecruiser fired a shot across our bow," Ames said. "Computer has identified it as the 'Guardian'."
A murmur ran around the control room. Mombasa felt a chill creep over his scalp. The 'Guardian' had been hijacked by known members of the Terran Underground just over eight months before. If this *was* the Underground ...
He glanced at his tactical display screen. They were outnumbered two to one. These outlaws had caught him flat-footed, but who expected them to have such a formidable array of ships? Up until now, all encounters with the outlaw organization had been with skipperships and scouts. Admittedly, they had hijacked three Patrol battlecruisers over the past decade, but there had never been any evidence that they had been kept in repair, much less used. It appeared that the Jils had underestimated the outlaws again. With a slight sinking feeling, Mombasa wondered in what other ways these enterprising outlaws had been underestimated.
Mombasa again surveyed the tactical. There was a bare chance that they could fight their way out. The odds were that he would lose one or more of his ships, but ...
"Laser com to support ships," he said to his communications officer.
"Com on." Matthews glanced nervously at the tactical, which showed them surrounded by the enemy ships.
"Mombasa to ..."
"Sir!" It was Adams. "I'm picking up more ships! A *lot* more ships!"
"Patrol?" Mombasa inquired, hopefully.
"No, sir. From the asteroid belt. Must be over three hundred small craft -- looks like scouts, skippers and one man fighters, by the readings."
Mombasa examined the tactical screen. Pinpoints of light on the display marked the little ships; they looked like a swarm of insects that nearly filled the screen. Unfortunately, he also knew from experience that those insects packed a sting all out of proportion to their size.
"Open a channel to the enemy fleet," he said.
"Channel open, sir."
"Mombasa to attacking fleet. What are your terms for surrender?"
The viewscreen rippled suddenly, and resolved into a picture of the interior of a Patrol battlecruiser's control room.
But the uniforms of the men occupying it were not those of patrolmen. It was a soft, grey uniform, trim but not snugly fitting like that of the Viceregal Patrol. Mombasa had never seen it before but he would remember it for the rest of his life.
In a duplicate of the "Nova's" command chair sat a large Terran whose uniform bore the insignia of a full Terran colonel. Straight, black hair, the features of a Terran American Indian ... Mombasa knew that face: Strike Commander Ronald Griffen, formerly of the Viceregal Patrol.
Griffen smiled into the "Nova's" control room. "Have your crew stand down from battle stations and prepare for boarding, Squadron Commander. Any crewman who resists will be summarily executed. If you cooperate, your crew will be landed on Lavirra, the planet you've no doubt noticed, that isn't supposed to be here, with full provisions. The Patrol will be occupying it in a couple of hours, so you may expect to be rescued in no more than two Lavirran days."
Mombasa sighed. "Fair enough. It's been a long time, Ron."
Griffen nodded, smiling a little. "Lay to and prepare for boarding, Busaidi. You know I'm not bluffing."
Mombasa glanced at his Subcommander, Gerald Osborne. "Give the order." He turned back to the viewscreen. "What's going on, Ron? Why all the dramatics?"
"Simple," Griffen said, cheerfully. "The 'Pride of Galanthzor' had the misfortune to stumble on a main Underground base. You're the unlucky guy who got sent to investigate."
"I've identified some of the ships, sir," Adams said, quietly. "The other squadron leader is a Procyon warship -- the T'Freet. It was reported destroyed by pirates four years ago."
"Obviously, the report was in error," Mombasa said, dryly. "Oh, well ..."
**********
Mombasa watched morosely as the boarders moved about his bridge. They were mostly small men and women, quick and lithe in their white space armor. A young man with the insignia of a Terran major on his suit stopped before him.
"Major Vogleman," he identified himself, crisply, "commanding the boarding party. There is a shuttle now attached to your cargo bay, Commander. Your men will file into it. No weapons will be allowed except hand stunners." He inclined his head slightly. "My compliments on your control of your men, Squadron Commander. There haven't been any incidents -- so far."
Mombasa regarded him a bit sourly. "One question, Mister Vogleman ..."
"That's Major!" the other man snapped.
"My error. One question, Major. Am I correct in assuming that you and your associates are psychics?"
Through the clear plastic of the young major's faceplate, Mombasa saw him grin. "So you figured that out," he said. "Yes, we are. You and I met once before -- in the company of Commander Broang and Strike Commander Linley."
Mombasa studied what he could see of the other man's face. "I *do* seem to recall you," he agreed. "You were the boy in the cell next to Linley's. Odd -- it never occurred to me that you could be a psychic, too -- at least, not until later. I suppose it was you that opened the cells."
"No," the young man said. "Not exactly. I'm no telekinetic. It was Colonel Linley's plan from start to finish ... including the rest of that fiasco. If you ever see Squadron Commander Rotherfield again, you can tell him who he has to thank."
"I'm sure he'll be glad to know," Mombasa said, dryly.
"No doubt. Now, if you don't mind, we're in something of a hurry," Vogleman told him. "If you'll issue the appropriate orders ..."
**********
(tbc)
