Shell Game: 11/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
XXIX
During his ten years in the Viceregal Patrol, Mark Linley had been part of a number of boarding parties and led more than a few. The most notable in his memory had been the one where he had been a brand new sublieutenant aboard the "Guardian". His superior officer, a veteran of numerous boarding parties, had been killed halfway down the first corridor of the Wambari ship they had boarded. With a shudder, Linley recalled the nightmarish ship, lit by infrared, resembling nothing more than a giant anthill, and its scuttling inhabitants, eight-legged beings with an unnerving resemblance to the trenchcrawlers of Linley's home world. He had taken the ship at the cost of half his forces and earned a recommendation for valor. He had been barely nineteen.
Now, he hurried down the short corridor from the lift, Alan Westover and Mitch Edwards on his heels, brushing hurriedly past crewmen and women running in all directions. They crowded aboard a lift already jammed full of beings, a good percentage of them psychics.
Somehow, they made room for the three newcomers. Mark felt his foot come down on someone's toe and hurriedly lifted it with a mumbled apology. The owner of the toe was a small man of obvious Asian ancestry with the insignia of a lieutenant on his shoulders. He had to look up to meet Linley's eyes.
"No trouble, Commander. Lieutenant Nakamura, Special Forces."
"Psychic, huh?" Linley said. "I ain't seen you at the base before."
"No, sir. I just transferred in last week, from Terra."
"Oh yeah? Helluva welcome party we put together for you."
Nakamura grinned. "Glad to be here, sir, particularly under your command."
"Don't say that 'til we find out how it comes out," Linley remarked, only half-humorously.
"Mark." Alan touched his arm as the conveyance dropped.
"Yeah, kid?"
"I just got a message, Commander, relayed through the psychic network. We have an agent aboard the 'Peacemaker'. They didn't know until now whether he'd managed to make it on or not. Any orders for him?"
"Yeah. If he can make it to Auxiliary Control, or Engineerin' in about fifteen minutes, it'd be a big help if he could trigger the intruder control circuit on signal."
"He says he'll try," Alan reported, after a moment. "He'll let us know in a few minutes."
"Good." Mark hid his nervousness under his famous poker face. Dammit, he wasn't just anybody now! He was a Fleet Commander, for god's sake! He didn't have any business getting scared! "Tell him to be careful," he remarked, trying to sound casual. "We don't wanna shoot him by accident."
"He's not worried," Mitch said. Mark glanced down at his younger brother. Mitch's eyes were shining with excitement. Linley grinned tolerantly.
The lift doors slid open and the crowd within surged out onto the seventh deck. Beings in various stages of undress were scrambling into white space armor and, like Alan and Nakamura, most were Terran and very short. Psychics for the boarding party. That, at least, was reassuring. He wasn't leading a bunch of 'trols on this business. He was leading psychics, all operating at top efficiency and all fighting hard for the lives of their families and friends on Lavirra. No leader of any assault force could ask for more.
As they entered the great cargo bay, two men converged on them, each bearing a suit tailored especially for the Linley-Westover psychic pair. Linley pulled on his suit, fastened the helmet into place, then turned to double-check his partner. Alan returned the favor, looking a little nervous through the clear plastic of the faceplate. Their link quivered on the edge of his consciousness. Alan pressed his helmet to Linley's.
"Message, Mark. Our man's in position. When I relay your signal, he's ready to flood the 'Peacemaker' with knockout gas. Should get just about all of them, except the boarding party."
"Great. Keep readin' my mind, kid." Linley grinned tightly. "I'll letcha know when I want him to do it."
All around them, the final preparations were being completed. Silence fell, and men shifted uncomfortably. Linley heard a hissing noise in his earphones. The indicator in his helmet above the faceplate showed that the pressure in the bay had begun to drop.
There was a jolt and a sudden clanging noise as magnetic grapples slammed into place. The "Peacemaker" had grabbed them. Then came the distinctive sound of their own grapples conducted through the metal deck to his boot soles. The "Wolverine" in its turn had locked onto the "Peacemaker".
"Now!" he vocalized silently in his mind.
The boarding party was on radio silence. Locked as they were onto the enemy ship, it was not impossible that the "Peacemaker" might be able to pick up their transmissions, and Linley wanted their enemy to have no unnecessary warning. Nick Welling would have the crew left behind standing by to repel boarders, should any manage to actually get into the "Wolverine". Linley hoped that it would not become necessary. He sneaked a look at his pressure indicator. Any second, now ...
The airlock hissed open, revealing the sleek, metal side of the enemy flagship. Welling had positioned them perfectly, the airlock flush with the side of the "Peacemaker". The airlock of the other ship would open upon space and the would-be Patrol boarders would have to move around their ship to the "Wolverine" in order to set their charge that would blow open the hull and allow them entry. By now, the small ships would be strafing them, making their job extremely hazardous and Welling would also be putting the two ships into a tight spin, making the task twice as dangerous for the enemy boarders. This operation had been learned years ago under Linley's instruction, by every officer on the station. He had the distinction of being the officer most experienced in such situations during his ten years in the Viceregal Patrol, and the Terran Underground utilized his experience to the full. Every bit of battle strategy and tactics he knew was programmed into the combat computers and taught to their officers. He only hoped it was good enough.
Two men, psychics, came forward, carrying a small package, and proceeded to busy themselves at the hull of the "Peacemaker". These were the psychics whose responsibility it was to set a shaped charge to blow through the Patrol ship's hull ...
The two demolitions psychics stepped back and one raised an arm. Everyone backed up a few steps.
Linley could feel vibration through the hull, now. The boarders outside were being fired upon by small craft under the hands of psychic pilots. Then, the vibrations were drowned out by the shock of the charge. Suddenly, they were staring into the interior of the "Peacemaker", itself. A blast of air and one black-clad body were flung into the cargo bay. There were sharp jolts as air-tight doors aboard the great flagship slammed shut, sealing off the area, but by now the boarders were pouring through the opening in a wave of white, glistening space armor.
They didn't have long, Mark knew. Already, the automatic repair procedures would be in effect. Even as the last man came through, the small repair rob had trundled up and was sealing off the hole. Within a matter of minutes, the ship would be whole once more.
Impatiently, he waited. The enemy boarders would have felt the blast and, no doubt, were even now re-entering their ship to help repel the enemy. Then the hole was sealed, the area repressurizing, and Linley drew his blaster. The little robot trundled away, totally unaware of them.
The doors to the rest of the ship popped open with a soft sigh of air. Still following the drill procedure, the boarders split into groups, disappearing into the great ship. Linley's party headed into the corridor immediately beyond the door. In accordance with drill procedure, he switched his radio to scramble. All possibility of secrecy was gone now, anyway. Anyone who had escaped the gas would have a pretty good picture of what was happening and it was important for the boarding party to maintain constant communication more efficient than that provided by the psychics. He glanced at his leaders.
"Dooley, you and Mitch take your squad to Auxiliary Control; Greyson, you and Llwellin' take yours to Engineerin'. Get 'em under control and sit tight."
Sergeant Benjamin Dooley and Sergeant Mary Greyson, a tall, Amazonian blond, saluted briskly and departed down the corridor at a trot, followed by their squads. Linley gestured to his group and started for the cargo lift, glancing at his partner. "Anybody around?"
"I sense a few conscious people here and there, Mark. The gas got most of them, but not all."
"Some of 'em musta made it to breathin' gear," Linley remarked, philosophically. "Oh well, we couldn't expect to get everybody. There's a good chance the Jil escaped it and o' course that boardin' party's probably on its way back ..."
"They're trying to enter on the seventh deck," Alan said. "The one man fighters are making things kind of hot for them outside, and Ziffar's party is waiting for them in the cargo bay."
"Good for old Ziff," Linley said, absently. "We're headin' for the escape craft hangars, so everybody stay sharp. If the Jil's awake, he's headin' for an escape craft an' he's scared. A scared Jil's the most dangerous sort."
The cargo lift opened on a corridor on the seventh level. The "Peacemaker" was designed on the same floor plan as the "Wolverine", so the ship was familiar to them all. From this point, both the port and starboard hangars could be reached with equal ease. Linley surveyed his party. It consisted of himself, six Terran psychics, including Alan, all carrying assault rifles, four Terran nons, similarly armed, a Procyon sergeant, armed with a blaster and the deadly throwing *kahtchta*, weapons for which Procyon warriors were justly famed in battle, a Tormheit with a Captain's bars on his space armor, wearing the traditional Tormheit throwing knives strapped to his tendrils and carrying a projectile weapon that threw solid explosive pellets excellent for ricocheting around corners. A regulation Patrol blaster was strapped incongruously around his armored waist. A Cetan carrying two assault rifles, one in each set of arms, and two Arcturians, one a sergeant and the other a lieutenant, conventionally armed, completed his followers.
There were black-clad bodies littering the deck before them. From a distance, Linley could hear the sound of heavy blaster fire, somewhat muffled by intervening bulkheads. Ziffar was evidently making a determined effort to capture the returning boarding party. Linley grinned to himself, leaving that task to his very competent subordinate. His own business was here by the hangars. If the Jil was awake, he knew by now that the "Peacemaker" had been boarded by Undergrounders, including some of their psychics. He would undoubtedly be keeping his shields up to escape detection.
"All right, we split up here. Half of us will take the port side, half the starboard." He glanced at the Tormheit, Captain Gghaatt. The name was pronounced somewhere between a gargle and a hiss, and never failed to make Linley cough, but Tormheits were extremely savage fighters, and Gghaatt was renowned on his own planet for his combat prowess. "Captain, you take three psychics -- Beech, Burke and Nakamura -- and four others and take the port side hangars. Shelter and cover tactics. Don't take any unnecessary chances, but *don't let that Jil escape*! If we get him, the Patrol fleet's gonna hafta first figure out what's goin' on, an' then reorganize. It'll buy us time. If he gets away, we're no better off than before." He glanced at Alan. "I want a couple o' fighters hangin' around out there just in case somebody -- 'specially the Jil -- slips past us. They're to do their damnedest to keep 'em from gettin' away."
"They're already there, Commander. Susie Burke says 'Stick to your job, Colonel. We'll do ours'."
Linley grinned reluctantly. "Tell Cadet Burke to watch her mouth, or I'll turn her over my knee when we get back. Okay, let's move!"
XXX
Fleet Commander Mitchell Edwards crouched in a narrow side corridor, blaster in hand. Behind him huddled the large body of Snathvor, his jewel-hilted blaster clutched before him. Edwards felt a moment of crazy satisfaction that, for once in their long relationship, the Jilectan was unable to read his mind.
He was a ridiculously easy read; he knew that. That was one reason the Jils trusted him so thoroughly. Men whose minds were difficult for their masters to scan never advanced far in the Patrol. But this time, his thoughts were his own. Snathvor had detected psychic activity among the members of the boarding party from the "Wolverine" and was keeping his shields up to prevent them from tracking him down.
Black and scarlet clad bodies sprawled about them on the deck. One man lay within centimeters of the bulkhead, beneath the alcove that housed an emergency breathing mask. Edwards would have liked to remove his own bulky mask, but he couldn't be certain that the intruder control gas had been dissipated; he knew, as a matter of fact, that the chances were good that it hadn't been.
How the devil had that particular circuit been activated, anyway? It could, of course, have been an accident, but he didn't believe it. The timing was too good. His ship had locked onto the disabled "Wolverine", the boarding parties ready to take the ship, but at the very last instant, the "Wolverine" had pivoted, then their grapples had grabbed the enemy ship, but in a position far less advantageous than the one he had planned.
That was the first suggestion that all was not right. Then, the "Wolverine's" grapples had seized them, and less than a full moment later, he had seen his patrolmen closest to the air ducts stagger and collapse.
He'd realized instantly what it meant, as had Snathvor, and held his breath as he grabbed for the breathing mask stored in its compartment beneath his command chair.
Except for Snathvor and himself, no one on the bridge had been fast enough. He had barely gotten his mask into place when he felt the blast that shook the great vessel.
At first, he thought the battlecruiser had been hit but then he realized the truth. Men from the "Wolverine" had knocked a hole in his ship. The "Peacemaker" was being boarded.
Edwards experienced a strange sensation, as if the galaxy had begun to revolve in reverse. This wasn't the way things were supposed to happen! Whoever the Commander of the "Wolverine" was, the man was fiendishly clever. He would have made a fine Patrol officer if he hadn't chosen the losing side ...
Reluctantly, Edwards made the decision he had thought never to make and triggered the auto-destruct sequence. They had ten minutes to make it to a lifeboat before the ship blew itself to pieces and took the enemy ship with it.
Fleetingly, Edwards experienced regret for the patrolmen lying unconscious on the deck of his ship, but there was nothing he could do about them, and Snathvor certainly would not consider them worth a thought beside his own life. Now, he and the Jilectan were on the seventh deck, not far from the hangars. A short distance away, he could hear the sounds of heavy blaster fire; forces from the "Wolverine" were in the process of taking the "Peacemaker's" boarding party as they tried to re-enter their ship. He glanced at his chronometer. Six minutes to go.
By now, Edwards had made certain deductions about the convenient tripping of the intruder control circuit. The system must have been activated by an agent of the Terran Underground, most likely on order from the telepath aboard the "Wolverine". In any case, the conclusion was inescapable. Someone aboard the "Peacemaker" was a shielded Underground spy.
Blaster fire erupted again, louder, making Snathvor jump. The alien wasn't fooling Edwards in the least. He was scared stiff, and would certainly desert his loyal Fleet Commander should it become convenient. Jilectans at one time had been fierce fighters; they were still quite formidable when forced to defend themselves, but these days only a few were professional soldiers. Those were exclusively the Jilectan Warlord's personal Elite Corps, and it had been centuries since any Jilectan had died a violent death until Alan Westover had outdrawn Lord Salthvor on the Engineering deck of the "Wolverine" -- the same historical ship now attached like a leech to the "Peacemaker's" side.
Edwards tried to suppress a superstitious prickle on the back of his neck, at the same time attempting to look in all directions at once, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Snathvor touched his shoulder.
"We split up here, Fleet Commander. Your mind is unshielded. I do not wish these outlaws to trace me through you. You will make for the port hangars. I shall remain here until I am certain the area is clear."
It figured, Edwards thought, cynically, but he saluted respectfully. "Yes, sir. Remember, there are only five minutes until the ship self-destructs."
"I have not forgotten, Fleet Commander," Snathvor said, coldly. "Go."
Edwards obeyed. In his earphones, he could hear the scrambled transmissions of the boarding parties now scouring the ship. He was fortunate that Snathvor had not decided to kill him, just to eliminate a possible danger. The thought made him speed up his pace until he ducked out of Snathvor's sight around a turn in the corridor.
He moved fast and as silently as possible. With any luck, the boarding party would be too busy to track him down via psychic powers for the moment.
He didn't really believe it. These people had been too slick about this business all the way. Edwards had met Terran psychics before. Physically, they weren't all that impressive; short, slender little people, lacking the strength and the heavier frame of the Terrans in the Viceregal Patrol, but the things they could do with their powers belied their appearance and their performance today had won his reluctant and grudging respect. Snathvor had been livid at the psychic communications network flashing between the enemy ships, a network untappable by him because he simply could not read so many minds at once and because when a psychic sensed him, he simply put up his shields. He had been furious at the evidence of hundreds, perhaps thousands of Terran psychics so obviously functioning as a team, and, no doubt breeding like trenchcrawlers in mating season on their secluded world.
Edwards figured that if Snathvor survived and he did not -- a distinct possibility -- that his conduct would no doubt be hailed by the Jilectans as heroic and an ideal for all patrolmen to follow -- which would do *him* precisely no good at all ...
These outlaws had outfoxed both the Jils and the Patrol for years: this hidden base, smack in the middle of the Sector (how *had* they managed that, he wondered), those incredible fleets, that outrageous con game to mislead the Patrol fleet and, when all other options had been exhausted, the clever and desperate fight they had put up in the face of overwhelming odds, buying time for their fellows, families and friends, no doubt, on the planet below, to escape. Whoever their Fleet Commander was, he was a foe worthy of Edwards' respect. He felt a little sorry that he would never have the opportunity to meet the man ...
Still, at the moment, preserving his own skin was of paramount importance. He glanced at his chronometer. Two and a half minutes. It was going to be close ...
The sound of blaster fire was growing fainter, although the scrambled mishmash of sound in his ears had not lessened. Impatiently, he shut the noise off. Perhaps he would be able to make it, now ...
Thirty seconds later, he slipped through the doors of Hangar 6, breathing a sigh of relief. In less than a minute, he would be away ...
There was the hum of a stunbolt behind him.
XXXI
"Mark," Alan's voice said in Linley's ears, "Gghaatt's party just picked up Fleet Commander Edwards. He was making for the lifeboat in Hangar 6. Lieutenant Nakamura stunned him."
"Colonel Linley," a voice said, "this is Hachiro Nakamura. Colonel Westover has reported by now my capture of Fleet Commander Edwards. I am now doing a mind probe. The Commander left His Lordship, Snathvor, near the starboard lifeboat hangars, less than five minutes ago. Apparently, he has triggered the auto-destruct sequence."
"Figured he had," Linley said, calmly. "It's what I'd have done in his place. I had a team assigned to cut the signal cable first thing. Which hangar were they nearest to?"
"He left the Jil not far from Hangar 43, sir. I advise extreme caution."
"Acknowledged," Linley said. "Good work, Lieutenant. Captain Gghaatt, place a guard on the hangars and remain where you are. Don't let anybody get away. An' sit on Edwards. I want him. Stick him in solitary, away from his men."
"Acknowledged, Colonel Linley," Gghaatt replied in his Terran English heavily laced with the accent of the deep South. Linley wondered who had taught the Tormheit his English. He sounded like the leading man in that cinematic oldie that Alan had induced him to see. He kept expecting Miss Scarlett to appear on the scene any minute.
Speaking of appearing on the scene, the probability was that the Jil would be doing so momentarily. He could tell that Alan thought so, for their link hovered just barely at the level of his awareness. He spoke, deliberately keeping his voice matter-of-fact.
"All right, everybody, you heard Nakamura. Looks like we got the Jil detail. We capture him if we can do it safely, kill him if we can't. Don't take any chances you can avoid. Green, you an' Napoli move ahead; we'll cover you."
The two Terrans detached themselves from the alcoves in which they had taken shelter and scurried, crouching low, to the entrance of two more hangars. Needle beams from the assault rifles took care of the escape crafts' repulsers, and now, Alan and Mark scurried to join them, covered by their fellows. The two men ducked inside the hangars, Mark and Alan covering them, doing a quick but thorough search. In the meantime, the two Arcturians, covered by the two remaining Terran psychics, made it to the next hangar.
In this cautious manner, they had proceeded nearly to the end of the corridor, leaving a trail of disabled escape craft behind them. Linley was becoming more and more nervous. It was beginning to look as if the Jil had gotten himself cornered. The squad commanded by Gghaatt had now reported the lifeboats on the portside disabled and clear. If the Jil thought to slip past them and escape in one of those, he was doomed to disappointment. Gghaatt's men were covering the only possible route the alien could take to the port lifeboats, and so far, no one had reported anything. The thought of trying to take a scared, cornered Jilectan was enough to make the hair rise on the back of his neck. Jils were dangerous, no matter how you looked at it, and a desperate one might not react sensibly.
They crouched in the entrances of two hangars, one directly across from the other, covered from the rear by their men. Linley, himself, covered George Napoli as he scrambled across the deck to the shelter of the disabled craft.
"Mark," Alan's voice said suddenly in his earphones. "I'm receiving a message from Lord Snathvor."
"Me, too," Carole Sweeney chimed in.
"We all are, I think," Alan said, quietly. "He's in the escape craft you just disabled. He wants to know if you'll guarantee his safety if he surrenders."
Linley centered his blaster on the hatch of the little escape craft. "Tell him as long as he behaves, he'll be safe. He's to throw out his blaster."
Silence for several seconds. Then, very slowly, the hatch opened and a blaster was tossed through to land with a thud on the metal deck.
Linley stared at it. It was a powerful-looking weapon. Green jewels sparkled in the lighting of the hangar.
The blaster moved suddenly, skidding across the deck toward them. Alan was unexpectedly beside him and the weapon lifted gently to land in his partner's small, muscular hand. The escape craft hatch continued to open, revealing the tall, slender form of a Jilectan, gleaming red hair mussed, flowing robes disarrayed, his hands clasped on top of his head.
Slowly, he descended the short ramp, moving with careful grace; a sensible precaution, as four blasters and two assault rifles were now centered on him. Linley switched on his external speaker.
"Come over here, M'lord," he commanded.
Very slowly, the alien obeyed. Keeping his hands in sight, making no sudden moves, he came toward them across the hangar deck. Even wearing a breathing mask, he managed to look incredibly haughty.
He was within a meter of them when it happened. The ship jolted violently and for a second, the lights dimmed. In that split instant of surprise, Linley felt himself caught in powerful hands, hands far too strong to be human, and the blaster was forcibly wrenched from his grasp. He struggled violently and received a cuff across the helmet that almost snapped his vertebrae.
The scene cleared. He was clutched tightly against Snathvor's chest. One of the Jilectan's mighty arms pinned both of his, and his blaster was in the alien's free hand.
"Stop!" Snathvor shouted. "One move and your Commander dies!"
"Don't move, anyone." It was Alan's voice. His partner faced Snathvor, a midget before a giant. "if you kill him, M'lord, you'll never make it off this ship alive." The psychic's voice was level and there was a note in it that Linley had never heard before. "If you try to leave this ship with him alive, my men have orders to kill you. The only chance you have is to surrender. Put him down."
Snathvor laughed half-hysterically. "If you try to kill me, he dies first, Terran psychic! I want an escape craft -- a functioning one!" He tightened his grip across Linley's chest. "If you refuse, I shall start by breaking a finger. For each refusal, I shall break another bone ..."
Mark could barely breathe. A red mist floated before his eyes. Dimly, he heard Alan's voice. "You're killing him! If he dies, Jil, you're dead, too!"
The pressure across his chest eased somewhat. Linley was able to breathe again. He heard Alan's voice.
"If you surrender, M'lord, we will guarantee your return to your fleet -- unharmed."
"Never!" The Jilectan's voice was shrill with fright. "I will never surrender! Degenerate Terran psychic! You think to deceive me with your lies! Quickly! Make up your mind! In fifteen seconds, I break his finger ..."
a pause. Then" "Very well, M'lord." Alan had clearly decided that the alien was past reason. "you win. But if you hurt him ..."
"Not if you cooperate, Terran." The alien's voice was smugly satisfied. "You shall accompany me as well, to assure that there will be no treachery ..."
Mark's shields were up as tightly as he could manage. He might have a chance, but there would be only one. He did not believe, nor, he was sure, did Alan, that the Jilectan would release him before he took off in the lifeboat, and that would spell his death as certainly as if someone were to hit him and Snathvor with emergency maximum. Given the choice, Alan would prefer that he die here rather than in an interrogation chair -- and there was a good chance that Alan would die trying to get him free.
Linley moved cautiously, pulling up his feet, positioning them directly above the Jilectan's knees. Then, without warning, he snapped them down and back, connecting with Snathvor's kneecaps, and at the same time arching his upper body backwards.
Caught off guard, the alien fell back, both arms flying upward in a wild attempt to regain his balance. Mark slid downward, free, and tried to scramble out of range. There were two simultaneous cracks, and a heavy weight landed hard on him, slamming his helmet into the deck with the force of a sledgehammer. The lights went out.
XXXII
Alan saw his partner arch backward, unbalancing the Jilectan. Snathvor released him, his arms flying upward, desperately trying to regain his balance, and Mark hit the floor, rolling, but Snathvor twisted, falling sideways, trying to bring his blaster into line with Alan. The psychic flung himself down, instinctively swinging his sidearm toward the Jilectan. The weapons spoke together.
Heat seared Alan's shoulder and Snathvor plunged to the deck on top of Mark. There was the thud of Linley's helmet striking metal, then silence.
Instantly, every weapon in the squad was covering the alien, but there was no need. Snathvor was dead, the top of his skull completely blown away.
"Mark!" Alan tried to scramble toward his partner, feeling strangely dizzy. The scaled hands of the Arcturian sergeant grabbed him.
"Ssit sstill, Colonel Wesstover. Napoli! Zee firsst aid kit, quickly! Green, ssee to Colonel Linley!"
Harold Green and the Arcturian lieutenant were heaving Snathvor off of Mark. Alan squirmed around, trying to see past the two large forms. Mark's mind touch was still there, although his partner was unconscious; that was reassuring, at least.
"He's okay, Colonel." It was Green's voice. "Here, sir, let me put his helmet back on. A couple of whiffs of oxygen should bring him around."
"Here, crewman. I ssusspect you know more of Terran physioloshy zan I." It was the Arcturian lieutenant's voice. "Ssersheant! How iss Colonel Wesstover?"
The sergeant was pulling off the arm of Alan's burned suit. "I zink it iss merely a flesh wound, ssir. Can you sstand, Colonel?"
"I think so." Alan glanced at his shoulder, then looked deliberately away, starting to pull his feet under him. The Arcturian assisted him as he staggered rather unsteadily to his feet and went to kneel by his feebly stirring partner. "Thanks, Sergeant. Mark, are you all right?"
Linley's eyes were open and clearing rapidly. "Kid!" he muttered, rather indistinctly. "Are you hurt?"
Alan laughed, a little shakily. "Just singed. I'll be fine." He raised his head. "I'm receiving a message. Major Timbuku reports the conscious 'trols have taken refuge in the ship's mess hall. They've got all the others. Mitch reports we took a glancing blow; only minor damage. They're clearing the gas out now, except for the mess."
Linley sat up with the assistance of Green and the Arcturian lieutenant. "Kid," he said, ominously, "you're chatterin'."
"It iss a ssecond degree burn, Colonel," the sergeant said. "Zee medic will meet uss on zee bridshe." He paused, then said slowly, "I never zought I would ssee it wiz my own eyess. Ziss will be a sstory I shall tell my descendents for many yearss."
"Huh?" Linley glanced hurriedly around. "Where's Snath .." He broke off, staring at the dead Jilectan. "Holy hell! You got another one!"
"Colonel Linley!" Carole Sweeney interrupted suddenly. "The last transport is on its way!"
Mark got unsteadily to his feet, leaning on the lieutenant. "Tell our guys to take off as soon as it converts to hyperspace. Grab all our damaged ships and men and beat it!"
"Message relayed, Mark," Alan said, trying to ignore his shoulder. There was the sound of the "Peacemaker's" blasters, then the repulsers. "We're on our way. Next stop, home."
**********
(tbc)
