Shell Game: 12/12
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
XXXIII
Fleet Commander Mitchell Edwards sat in the brig of his own ship, holding his head in both hands and cursing to himself. It didn't help.
They had caught him, obviously, and equally plain was the fact that the ship had not exploded. The boarders had apparently managed to disarm the destruct mechanism. He remembered the hum of a stunbolt, then later of being dumped, retching miserably, in the cell. Damn the Terran Underground! Damn them all!
The stunner headache was subsiding slowly but it still hurt to move his head suddenly. His eyeballs burned.
His cell was one of those with a small, plastic window in its center. He had been imprisoned alone; no doubt the Commander of the 'Wolverine' considered him far too dangerous to allow him to mix with his men. That matched the picture Edwards had built up in his mind of his wily opponent. He wished he could meet the man and find out who had outsmarted him so thoroughly, anticipating his every move.
He must be a mindreader; one of the Terran Underground's psychics, no doubt. It was the only thing that fit.
He sighed. This incident was not going to look very good on his record. He really wasn't much afraid. If the Undergrounders had intended to kill him, he'd already be dead. Members of the Terran Underground did not normally conduct the kind of execution favored by the Jils.
After a time, he stood up cautiously and took two steps to peer out the tiny window.
There were several persons in the corridor, all wearing the same soft, grey uniform. One young woman, probably a psychic judging by her size, wore the two silver bars of an army captain. She was apparently directing the incarceration of dozens of black-clad patrolmen. Edwards swore softly to himself as Jael Martin, hands clasped on top of his head, was marched past, followed by the other control room officers. Where was the Jil? Had Snathvor gotten away? If the Jilectan had been caught, would they blame him? How could they? Snathvor had ordered him away. Still ...
The young captain glanced casually in the direction, then spoke into the communicator on her wrist. A tall, grey-clad man, wearing the stripes of a sergeant appeared a few moments later. The young captain said something to him and he, too, glanced in Edwards' direction. Then he spoke sharply to two more men, who also looked at Edwards.
The Fleet Commander swallowed. They were far too interested in him for his taste. The sergeant and his two men were approaching, blasters drawn. The sergeant reached forward to press the button outside Edwards' cell, and the door swished open.
Edwards found himself staring down the muzzles of three blasters.
"Fleet Commander Edwards?" The tall sergeant had a heavy Filoran accent. "'Ow are you feeling?"
Edwards' mouth was dry. He swallowed uncomfortably. "As well as can be expected -- considerin' the situation."
"Good. 'Eadache gone?"
"Gettin' better." Where was all this leading?
"Feel well enough to talk to somebody?"
Edwards felt a slight thrill of apprehension, but he nodded. "Guess so."
"Fine." The sergeant seemed pleased. "Turn around an' put your 'ands be'ind you, please."
Edwards obeyed, and felt restrainers click onto his wrists. "Who wants to see me?"
"The Commander of the Fleet." The sergeant chuckled softly. "Take it easy, Commander. 'E just wants to talk."
Edwards was turned back around. He glanced at the tall, muscular sergeant. "You're Filoran, ain'tcha?"
The sergeant grinned. "Yep."
"Ex-Patrol?" he hazarded, on a hunch.
"Yep. Used to be Corporal Dooley on the 'Leviathan'," the man told him. "This way."
They hustled him down the corridor toward a lift. More patrolmen, heavily guarded by men and women in the grey uniforms, passed him, heading for the cells. Dooley answered his unspoken question. "That's the batch that 'oled up in the mess 'all. We left the gas in there 'til they ran out of air. Far as I know, there weren't any casualties except the guy who got caught when we blasted in -- and one other guy."
Edwards' felt a thrill of apprehension. "Who?"
"Your resident Jil," Dooley replied cheerfully. "'E tried to outdraw Colonel Westover. Stupid jerk. If 'e'd surrendered, we'd 'ave turned 'im loose after we went into 'yperspace."
Edwards' stomach tried to climb into his throat. "Alan Westover shot Lord Snathvor?" he repeated, weakly. "Did he kill him?"
"Deader than a drowned trenchcrawler," Dooley confirmed. "Blew 'is 'ead clean off."
"Oh, man." Edwards had visions of future interviews with Lord Hanthzar. The thought was not encouraging.
They stepped into the lift, which accelerated upward. Edwards fought down a horrible suspicion. "Westover ain't the Fleet Commander, is he?"
"Huh?" Dooley appeared surprised. "Of course not. Colonel Westover 'asn't 'ad any space warfare experience -- at least not until now."
"Oh." Edwards was silent a moment. "Uh, Sergeant ..."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe you can satisfy my curiosity."
"Maybe."
"Who was the commander o' the 'Wolverine'?"
"The Fleet Commander. The 'Wolverine' was our flagship."
"Well, who the hell *is* he? An' I'd sure like to know who led your boardin' party. He's sharp, whoever he is."
"The Fleet Commander," Dooley repeated, obviously enjoying himself hugely. "You'll find out in a few minutes."
Edwards fell silent. What was the big mystery, anyway? Was it possible that they intended more than just an interview? They had no reason to keep him alive. Chances were that the psychics in this batch had already sucked him dry of information. And, he was their deadly enemy. Getting rid of him might be considered a worthwhile task, for it would take time for a new Fleet Commander to become familiar with his job ...
Dooley chuckled softly. "You're sweating, Fleet Commander. Take it easy. 'E just wants to talk."
Edwards suppressed a sigh. "Are you sure, Sergeant? I can't think o' any reason why."
"Sure, I'm sure," Dooley said, looking amused. "The whole ship knows why. I think you're gonna be surprised."
One of the guards snorted. Edwards glanced at them, seeing grins on the faces of both men. "I wish you'd let me in on the joke."
"The Commander'll do that," Dooley said. "'Ere we are." As he spoke, the doors slid open.
They were on the officers' deck, the second. They marched him down the corridor toward the Jilectan staterooms and paused before Milthvar's suite.
Dooley rang the bell and they waited. Edwards was conscious of butterflies in his stomach.
The panel slid open and a young man in the soft, grey uniform, with a cadet's patch on the left breast, looked out.
"Hi, Ben! You can take the restrainers off, now."
"Sure, kid." Edwards felt the sergeant remove the shackles and lifted his hands, tenderly rubbing a wrist. The cadet grinned, obviously enjoying himself.
"C'mon in, Fleet Commander," he invited, stepping back from the entrance. "The Commander's anxious t'see you."
The boy's accent was unmistakably Shallockian, and observing him now, Edwards realized that he was older than he had at first appeared. He was a short, slender boy with pale blond hair -- precisely the same shade as Edwards' own.
"You a psychic, kid?" he inquired, suspiciously.
The boy laughed. "Yep. I'm Mitch Edwards. C'mon in, Pop."
Edwards experienced a shock almost of unreality. He heard Sergeant Dooley laugh as he stepped into the stateroom and the door snapped shut behind him.
There were two more people in the cabin. One was very large, as tall as himself, Edwards saw as the man rose from Milthvar's favorite easy chair. Edwards looked into the deep blue eyes and handsome face of the Lavirran Fleet Commander and swallowed convulsively. He knew this man -- had met him several times in the Patrol, and seen his face many more times on wanted posters. Former Patrol Strike Commander Mark Linley was almost too good-looking, with golden-blond hair and regular features. The hair was longer now than it had been in the Patrol; there were a few more lines on the face than Edwards recalled -- he would be about thirty-four or -five, now -- but otherwise, the man had not changed appreciably from the Patrol officer Edwards remembered.
Beside Linley was a much shorter man, far less impressive than his companion, also clad in the grey uniform, bearing the insignia of a Terran colonel. Dark, thickly curling hair crowned his head and a pair of bright green eyes surveyed him with interest. That was Alan Westover himself, no doubt of that; the most famous outlaw psychic in the Sector.
Linley grinned and held out a hand. "Fleet Commander Edwards, I presume."
"Uh, yeah." Automatically, Edwards took the hand. "I was wantin' to meet the commander o' your fleet. I never figured it'd be you. I shoulda guessed."
Linley's grin widened. "You know the old sayin'. Be careful whatcha wish for -- you might get it."
"Yeah." Edwards gave a short bark of laughter. The brilliance of the Lavirran fleet's defense was now explained. Linley had been an exceptional officer, the youngest man ever to reach the rank of Strike Commander. Why such a man would throw aside a promising career for a Terran youngster he'd barely met was a mystery the Fleet Commander had never satisfactorily explained to himself. Maybe now he'd get the chance to ask ...
Linley gestured to another chair. "Siddown, Commander. We were havin' a glass o' Riskellian moonwine, an' thought maybe you'd like t'join us. Get the Commander a glass, wouldja, Mitch?"
"Sure, Mark." Mitch opened Milthvar's cabinet and removed a fine crystal goblet. "Hereya go, Pop." He picked up the tall, frosted bottle from its bucket of ice and poured the ruby liquid into the glass, presenting it to Edwards.
Slowly, Edwards accepted the glass and sank into the proffered chair. Linley and Westover also sat down again and the famous psychic took a sip from his own goblet. "Milthvar sure knows how to pick a wine," he remarked.
"I'll say." Linley took a drink from the glass he held. "This is a lot better than Salthvor's stuff. I remember you about choked t'death on it."
Westover chuckled. "Well," he defended himself, "I was only eighteen. Up to then the strongest stuff I'd ever tasted was beer, and Kurt introduced me to that." He glanced at Edwards. "He was my roommate at Terran Space Academy. Oh, I guess I haven't introduced myself. I'm Alan Westover."
"Yeah," Edwards said. "I recognize the face." He paused, then took a cautious sip of the wine. It was excellent. Well, if they were going to poison him, at least they'd picked a great way to do it. He took a large swallow. The wine traced its way down his gullet and settled in his stomach. A warm glow began to spread through him. He took another swallow and leaned back in the chair, surveying the enemy Fleet Commander. Linley appeared quite at ease -- but then, he had every reason to be. Edwards could do nothing without Westover or the cadet detecting the thought before it was put into action. He glanced in the direction of the boy who had introduced himself as Mitch Edwards. He had seated himself beside Westover and was drinking something, which looked suspiciously like a Terran coke. The boy made a face.
"I ain't eighteen, yet," he informed Edwards, disgustedly. "They won't let me drink nothin' stronger'n this."
Involuntarily, Edwards found himself chuckling in sympathy. Linley also laughed. "Take it easy, kid," he advised. "You'll have plenty o' time later." He glanced at Edwards. "I had my first drink at about ten. My gang raided a liquor store in Scaifen. I remember we all got stinkin' drunk, an' I was good an' sick afterwards. Didn't touch the stuff again for about four years."
Edwards grinned involuntarily. "Which gang didja run with?"
"Black Sabreclaws," Linley informed him. "I was their leader the last two years before I enlisted."
"Oh, yeah?" The Commander was aware of surprise. "I was a 'Claw, too. Long time back, though ..." He paused. "What do you want me for, Linley? Not for information, I'm sure ..."
"O' course not." Linley swallowed more wine. "You got nothin' we want. I just wanted to talk to you -- an' Mitch here wanted t'meet his dad."
The cadet grinned at him. "My mom was named Isabel Tyler. Does that sound familiar?"
It did. Edwards swallowed. "She was your mom?"
"Yup." The cadet's grin grew wider. "She thought Strike Commander Edwards was gonna marry her."
"Yeah." Edwards rubbed a thumb across his chin. "I almost did, too. Holy hell! She never told me she was gonna have a kid!" He stopped and swallowed. "Sorry, kid, I didn't know."
The boy shrugged expressionlessly. "If I had a half credit for every kid on Shallock with a 'trol for a dad, I'd be rich. It don't matter. I'd heard a lot about you from Mom, an' I wanted t'meet you. My big brother said he'd oblige me."
"Your brother?" Edwards said, a little faintly.
"M'half brother, actually," Mitch said, slyly. "We got the same dad." He nodded at Linley.
Edwards half-rose from his chair. "*You*?"
Linley displayed the famous smile that Edwards had seen on his posters. "Yup. My mom was named Diane. I don't expect you'd remember her. It was nearly thirty-five years ago, after all. She looked pretty much like me."
Edwards swallowed. "Are you *sure*?"
"Oh yes," Westover said, calmly. "Your gene chart matches up with both Mitch's and Mark's." He grinned. "Besides, I can see the resemblance."
"Holy ..." Edwards stared at his sons, a sense of unreality, and oddly enough, pride, possessing him. "You're positive?"
"Yup." Linley laughed at his expression. "I know how you feel, Pop. I met a kid o' mine a few years ago. 'Bout floored me."
"Yeah." Edwards took a healthy gulp of wine. Westover rose and politely filled his glass.
"Anyhow," Mitch said, "that's why you got brought up here. We both just wanted to meet our pop; that's all. Oh, by the way, you're about t'be a granddad, too. Mark's wife's havin' twins. Mighta had 'em by now, for all we know."
"Wife?" Edwards asked, faintly.
"Yeah," Linley said, wickedly. "Your daughter-in-law, Julia Austell -- the Giant Killer, herself. We got married a while back."
"Oh," Edwards said. He thought that one over for several seconds. "Congratulations," he added.
"Thanks," Linley said.
"Whatcha gonna do with me an' my men?" Edwards asked, after a time. "Not gonna execute us or nothin' nasty like that, are you?"
"Hell, no," Linley said. "You guys got nothin' we want, an' we don't kill people without a good reason. We'll turn you loose in the lifeboats after we get 'em repaired, then change course for our new base." He grinned, blandly.
Edwards returned the grin. "We'll find you, you know."
Linley refilled his own glass. "You're welcome to try," he replied, calmly.
Edwards surveyed him, thoughtfully. "You're a smart guy, Mark," he said, finally. "Why did you do it?"
Linley met his gaze steadily. "It was the smartest thing I ever did in my life, Pop -- even if I didn't know it at the time. The Jils are gonna lose. I *know*. Terra's gonna beat 'em."
"You think so?" Edwards rubbed his chin. "You won't mind if I stay where I am?"
Linley shrugged. "Nope. I figured you would, but I thought I'd give you somethin' to think about. I'm not just bein' optimistic. If you ever change your mind, let us know. You'll find out, soon enough."
"Maybe," Edwards said. "If I *do* change my mind, how'll I contact you?"
Westover chuckled softly. "Probably we'll contact you, if it ever comes to that." He paused. "Oh, by the way, don't bother trying to find the man who released the gas aboard the 'Peacemaker'. We're taking him with us."
"Yeah?" Edwards scratched his head. "I don't suppose you'll tell me who he was?"
"Sure. You'll find out later, anyway. The real newsman's probably shown up, by now."
"*What*?" He sat up straight. "Not that damned, nosy newshawk that kept pesterin' me on the bridge ..."
Westover was nodding soberly. "Of course, Commander. Who else could it have been? We needed a psychic on board. He volunteered."
"Well, I'll be damned ..." Edwards felt laughter begin to rise. Of course! How very like the Terran Underground! That incredible effrontery every step of the way! He'd never have dreamed of that irritating newsman, who had made such a nuisance of himself, being a spy. He'd hidden in plain sight, right under the noses of the entire ship's crew, and no one had so much as glanced at him, except to shove him rudely out of the way. Thinking back now, Edwards tried vainly to recall the man's features and realized that he could not. He began to laugh, losing anger and frustration as he did so. There would be another occasion, someday. They had bested him this time, but next time ... well, that remained to be seen.
Linley seemed almost to read his thought -- and why not, Edwards thought. They were alike in more ways than one. The other Fleet Commander lifted his glass of wine. "To the next meetin', Pop. I won't say better luck next time, but maybe by then you'll change your mind."
Edwards raised his own glass, meeting the deep blue eyes of his famous son. "To the next meetin', then, Mark. I'll do my best to beat you, y'know."
"I know," Linley said. "Skoal."
"Skoal," his father replied. Together, they drained the goblets.
XXXIV
Julia Linley tried to control her breathing as the next contraction grew stronger. They were coming much faster and harder now, more difficult to handle. Lyn Westover, seated beside her, caught her hands when the pain seemed unbearable. Julia squeezed. Slowly, it subsided.
Doctor Philips entered the cubicle, glancing at Lyn. The psychic didn't look away from Julia. "Hello, Matt."
"How's it going?"
"All right. I think she's getting close."
Philips nodded. "I know she is. Are you doing all right, Julia?"
She managed to nod. "Mark? Have you heard?"
"No word, yet." Philips seated himself beside her.
Julia turned her face away, unable to control her tears. "Oh, Lyn, I'm so scared! He's been killed, or captured! Our fleet doesn't have a chance ..."
"I don't believe it," Lyn said, resolutely. "Mark was the best Strike Commander in the Patrol, and the Underground appointed him Fleet Commander because he was better than everybody else. He's smart, Julia. If anybody can manage it, he can!"
Julia's sobs were out of her control. She could feel the next contraction building. She couldn't take this, anymore, she thought incoherently, and began to scream. Lyn's small hands caught her shoulders, shaking her fiercely.
"Julia, they're coming! Alan's talking to me!"
Julia heard the words through a haze of pain. They made no sense. She continued to scream, and again, Lyn shook her.
"Stop it, Julia! They just came out of hyperspace! Mark will be here in fifteen minutes!"
"What?" Julia blinked at her. "He's coming?"
Lyn nodded. "They're maneuvering for landing now. Oh, my!"
"What?"
"Mark says he brought you a present. Your very own battlecruiser! They captured the Patrol fleet's flagship, and he renamed it in honor of you! It's the 'Giant Killer', now. Alan says they're both fine." She smiled. "He says to tell you Mark says he loves you."
Julia managed a smile. "Tell him I love him, too."
Philips rested a hand on the round curve of her abdomen and closed his eyes, concentrating. "All right, Julia, the first baby is coming down. You're doing fine. With the next contraction, I want you to bear down."
"Not yet. I want Mark here, first."
Philips laughed. "Mark will be here in plenty of time. Now, do as I say, Julia."
The 'Peacemaker', aka 'Giant Killer', settled softly onto the rocky ground, a reasonably flat area designated as the landing field for the new base, located on the moon of a gas giant. Ilka possessed a set of magnificent rings and fifteen moons. Nova Luna was small and airless, with a gravity of .25 Terran. The base was situated under plastic domes designed to absorb scanner probes, and be thereby almost invisible to searching ships. The base had been under construction for months, intended to be another main base of the Underground, but wasn't quite complete yet. Some of the details, such as artificial gravity and a modern landing field had not been finished yet, but those were minor problems. Technicians were installing artificial gravity generators as rapidly as they could manage. The former inhabitants of Lavirra would take possession of the base within twenty-four hours as soon as the important systems were up and running. The chances of the Patrol finding this base were next to nothing, for the Charell system was that of a double star, one an A, the other an M. It had no habitable planets.
As the enormous battlecruiser touched down, other ships were also coming in for landings. Many more hung in orbit, awaiting permission to land. Not far from the 'Peacemaker', the damaged 'Wolverine', brought through hyperspace in the 'Peacemaker's' hyperfield, crunched down with less than her usual grace. She would be in for some extensive repairs before she was spaceworthy again, but that thought was far from Mark Linley's mind at the moment. Already clad in a pressure suit, he fidgeted in the airlock. Alan, similarly clad in the space armor borrowed from some unknown patrolman -- ridiculously large for his short, compact frame -- waited with him.
Linley swore for the fifth time. "What the blazes is takin' so damn long?" he demanded, glaring at the green light above the airlock. "Tell 'em to hurry!"
"Just another moment, Mark," Alan said, comfortingly.
Linley cursed impatiently and paced up and down. His partner strove to think of some soothing word or phrase to help him over these last few minutes, but none would come.
After what seemed an age, the light above the door changed color. Mark jammed his thumb on the control and the panel slid gently open. He charged through, stumbling a little in the one-quarter gravity. Breathless swear words reached Alan over the communicator. Then, Mark was running, his feet clumsy on the uneven surface, his steps carrying him meters at a time. Alan followed more cautiously.
The outer door of the colony transport's airlock stood open. Linley sprang inside and Alan followed him. Once again, he fidgeted while the lock pressurized.
Lyn's voice spoke suddenly in Alan's mind. "Better tell him to hurry, dear."
Alan, knowing that such advice would make Linley more nervous, held his peace. "Tell Julia we're coming as fast as we can," he told Lyn. The airlock finished pressurizing at that instant, and the inner door slid open.
Mark charged through, Alan on his heels, unsealing his pressure suit as he ran. A lift bore them with what Linley swore was snail-like speed to the transport's infirmary, and Lorie Evans met them at the door.
"Oh, there you are, Mark! Julia's almost ready. Here, get into these things ..." she thrust a mass of nondescript garments at him, "-- and put some of this stuff on your hands. Hurry up."
From within the room came a shrill cry. Alan recognized Julia's voice. Linley ripped off his clothing, casting items in every direction, and yanked on the outfit that Alan held for him. Another cry came from the room and Alan sensed vividly Julia's distress. He winced. Things were going fast, all right. Mark went into the curtained cubicle, still sealing the protective suit. The curtain swung into place behind him.
An instant later, Lyn emerged. She looked tired, Alan thought, her dark curls straggling across her forehead. Without a word, she walked into his arms.
"Hi, partner," she said.
"Hi, honey." He kissed the top of her head.
More distress, radiating from the room. Lyn flinched slightly, this time. "She's had a pretty hard time, Alan -- wondering if Mark was going to come out alive. I think that made it worse. I was pretty scared, myself."
"Don't tell her," Alan said, "but so was I. Let's go get some coffee. They must have the mess hall in some kind of order by now." He bent to pick up Linley's scattered clothing. Lyn helped him.
As he lifted the uniform jacket, several small objects dropped to the deck. Lyn stooped to pick them up.
"What are these?"
Alan looked at them, a bit blankly. "Oh! Those are the Vik pods! Gosh, I forgot all about them!"
"Vik pods?"
"We picked them up from hydroponics on the 'Pride of Galanthzor'. Mark was going to give them to Julia for a present."
"Oh." Lyn rolled the small objects around in her palm, frowning slightly. "Alan ..."
"What?"
"Aren't Vik pods transported away from their greenhouses supposed to be infertile?"
He stared at her. "Everybody knows that. Why?"
She extended them toward him. "Feel them."
He accepted the pods, and at once the sensation coursed through his fingers. Vital emanations: potential life. *These* Vik pods were not infertile!
He frowned, trying to sort out the puzzle pieces in his mind. All Vik pods taken from their point of origin to another locality had so far proven infertile. But these Vik pods weren't -- even though they had been in the inside pocket of Mark's clothing for well over twenty-four hours.
Lyn was watching him. "They *are* fertile!"
"I don't know why," Alan said, "but they sure are. Mark had them in his inside pocket for hours ..."
Their eyes met in sudden comprehension.
"The warmth," Lyn said. "Alan, they were kept warm and moist all the time. Has *that* ever been tried before?"
Alan slipped the pods into the inner pocket of his uniform. Fatigue had vanished, to be replaced by excitement. "I doubt the smugglers were ever much interested in it -- and even if they were, they wouldn't have a psychic around to tell them if the pods were still fertile at the end of the trip. Come on, Lyn, let's go find Dr. Noola!"
They located the xeno-biologist in her lab aboard Colony Transport #2. Alan explained what they had found, removing the Vik pods from his inner pocket. Dr. Noola listened attentively, examining the little articles closely, her dark face alive with interest.
"Could be", was her comment. "They're alive, all right. Even I can feel it, and I'm not the best clairvoyant. I suspect that this has been done before, but without a psychic around to detect the pods' fertility in time. Most of them are merely sold for high prices without bothering to check. I can test them out. If they grow all right, we can try the same techniques on the pods they produce."
"There's more of them growing on the 'Pride of Galanthzor', in hydroponics," Alan told her.
"Good." The doctor beamed at him. "You seem to have handled things with your usual efficiency, Colonel." She turned to a young man who had just entered. "Zeb, head for hydroponics aboard the Jil research ship. Check out the Vik pods and make sure everything's all right."
"Right away, Doctor!" Zeb departed in haste.
"And Colonel Westover --" The doctor turned back to him. "Tell Colonel Linley that I'm confiscating his Vik pods, at least until I can solve this mystery. I'll replace them, later. I obviously don't have to tell you how important this is. Vik pods bring a high price. If we can learn how to transport them and maintain their fertility, it will be a substantial source of income for us."
Alan grinned. "Just remember, Mark and I get a percentage," he said. Noola laughed.
"I can see Colonel Linley's influence is rubbing off on you, Colonel. All to the good, I'd say. I'll let you know how things come out."
They returned to Colony Transport #1. Alan had tried once or twice to contact Dr. Philips telepathically, but apparently the doctor was too busy to answer. People passed in the corridor and it seemed that everyone wanted to shake his hand. Kurt McDougal met them as they emerged from the lift near the mess hall. The young major looked tired, his tanned features showing the strain of the past hours. His right arm and shoulder were bandaged and he wore a long, painful-looking cut on the other, but he stopped, snapping to attention when he saw them.
"Colonel Westover! Major!"
"At ease, you idiot." Alan returned the grin, then sobered. "I heard you were hurt. How bad is it?"
McDougal glanced at his arm and grimaced. "All right. I was very intelligently standing up when I should have been strapped in the command chair, and the ship got hit. I was thrown and broke my fall with my arms. Busted my shoulder."
Lyn looked distressed. "It's still hurting, too, isn't it?"
Kurt lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. "Just seeing you takes all the pain away, Major," he said, gallantly.
She laughed a little self-consciously. "Well, you're not hurt so bad you can't flirt, anyhow."
"How about you, buddy?" Kurt asked. "My control room psychic said you'd gotten hurt."
"Not much," Alan said, glancing uncomfortably at Lyn. "Snathvor just singed my shoulder." He sighed, realizing that the story would get around fast, told, no doubt, with greater and greater exaggeration. "I sort of killed him," he added, shamefacedly.
McDougal stared at him, his mouth open, then burst out laughing. People turned to look at them, sympathetic grins on their features. A short, blond figure pushed through the people traversing the corridor.
"Hi, Alan!" young Mark Linley said, cheerfully. "Mitch just told me you got yourself another Jil. That makes seven now, doesn't it?"
"Yeah." Kurt was counting them up on his fingers.
"Great! How'd the battle go, anyhow?" Linley's twelve-year-old son looked disgusted. "I wanted to go with the fleet, but the Trainin'-master turned me down. Said no cadets under fifteen, so I got stuck bein' a transport psychic instead."
"We did pretty good." McDougal hooked the thumb of his good hand in his belt. "Some damage to the big ships. More guys killed or wounded than we liked, but not too bad, considering we were up against a fleet that much bigger. We lost two skipperships and a fighter who cut it too close. One of the pilots was killed."
"Who?" Lyn asked.
"Our new man. Karl Warren."
"Oh no!" Lyn said. "I'd just met him a few days before we evacuated!"
"I know." McDougal looked unhappy. "Nice kid, too. But we needed psychics for the skippers, so we had to take what we could get. He didn't have a partner yet, thank God."
"Amen to that," Alan said.
They were silent for a moment. Then, Kurt sighed. "In an engagement like this you can't expect to get off Scott-free. We owe it to Mark that it wasn't a lot worse. The Jils lost a lot more than they knew when you took him away from them, Alan."
"What happened to the other pilots?" Lyn asked.
"Skipper pilot was pulled in by the 'Lincoln'. He had a few burns, but the escape pod saved him. The fighter pilot ejected and got picked up by Susie Burke and Jim Santos. He's fine."
"Mark said Susie and Jim were awfully good pilots," Lyn said. "I guess he was right."
"He usually is," McDougal said. "Come on."
They entered the mess hall. The scene was somewhat disorganized, but people sat here and there at tables. Several men and women were running around with trays of food. Alan saw Mitch Edwards with several cadets his own age huddling around him. They all turned at the sight of Alan and somebody raised a cheer. It was obvious to him that Mitch was recounting for the benefit of his cronies the events of the last few hours, and that the story of his encounter with Snathvor was already circulating. He hurriedly selected a table and sank into one of the chairs. After a few moments, Nola Warwick, young Mark's mother, came up. She was dressed in a pair of jeans, cut off at the knees, and a sweatshirt with what looked like tomato juice on one sleeve.
"Colonel Westover!" she exclaimed, delightedly. "We were all worried about you! I heard you were hurt. Did you really outdraw another Jil?"
Alan felt his face grow warm. "Not exactly. Kind of. Is there anything to eat around here, Nola? Lyn's been with Julia in Sick Bay for hours."
"I know," Nola said. "Are the twins goin' to be all right, Lyn? They're awfully early."
"Doctor Philips thinks so," Lyn said.
"Oh, good." Nola pushed back a lock of blond hair. "I'm sort of in charge here right now," she told him confidentially. "Just tell me what you want and I'll see you get it."
"Coffee for everybody but Mark," Alan said. "And a sandwich for Lyn."
"Comin' right up," Nola said. "Want a coke, Mark? We got some back there. Genuine article."
"Thanks, Mom," Mark said. "I'm kinda thirsty at that. I been relayin' messages back and forth 'til my throat's hoarse."
"Hi, kid!" Kevin Bronson's voice boomed from the doorway. Mark's maternal half-brother, who was also Alan's auxiliary power pack, crossed the mess hall to their table. "You did it again, huh?" he said. "I felt the so-and-so crease you, but I figured it couldn't be too bad. Where's ol' Mark?"
"He's in Sick Bay," Mitch said, coming up behind Alan. "Julia's havin' the twins. Left the 'Peacemaker' so fast you could see the vapor trail. Hey, Alan, is everythin' okay? I tried to call Matt, but he didn't answer. Hi, Lyn."
"Hi, Mitch," Lyn said. "Sit down. You too, Kevin. Where's Angela?"
"She went to see if her dad was okay. He was control room psychic on the 'Eisenhower'. They were hit just before we took off -- nothin' much, but Angie was afraid Rog mighta been hurt an' not told her."
"I'll bring you both coffee," Nola said.
"No cream or sugar, baby," Kevin called after her.
"Hope she heard me," he added, turning back to the table. He dropped into the seat beside Lyn and patted her rounded stomach. "So, when are you gonna give in an' tell me whatcha got cookin' here, baby?"
"A baby," Lyn said, innocently. "I tried to call Matt too, Mitch. He doesn't answer. I guess he figures it's nobody's business but Mark's and Julia's."
"I tried, too," young Mark admitted. "I ain't never had no brothers or sisters before, but I guess ol' Pop'll tell us in his own good time."
"Yeah," Bronson said, "but you guys already know -- everybody but Kurt an' me. C'mon, kids, have a heart!"
Alan laughed. "You know the first rule of being a psychic, Kev."
Kurt sighed. "Mind your own business. I know."
Nola returned with the coffee and began to distribute it, laughing at Bronson's expression. "Patience, Kevin, patience! We'll find out soon enough."
"Kid!" Linley's bellow shook the bulkheads. "Where the hell are you?"
Alan was already hurrying to the door, Lyn and Nola close behind. The others at the table sat up expectantly. "Here, Mark! We're in ... yipes!"
Linley had charged through the door, seized him by his arms and tossed him high. In the light gravity, his head nearly touched the overhead. Other diners turned to watch, most of them grinning broadly. Apparently, the news of Linley's imminent fatherhood had spread rapidly.
Mark caught him and knocked the breath out of him in a great bear hug.
"Well," Kurt had strolled over, trying to look casual. "What's the scoop?"
Mark let Alan go and clapped Kurt on the back, nearly knocking him down. His coffee went flying but no one noticed.
"Girls, pal! Identical twin girls! Look just like their mom, blond hair, blue eyes and all!"
Kurt coughed, trying to regain his breath. Mark picked Lyn up and kissed her soundly on the mouth. "Thanks for your help, honey. Jul says she couldn'ta made it without you." He grinned at Nola. "I feel great!"
The young woman was laughing. "You look like it, Colonel. Congratulations!"
Alan smiled delightedly. "Congratulations, Mark. Can we go see her?"
"Sure, kid. She's pretty beat, but she wants to see you before she goes to sleep. The babies are with her, too."
Everyone at the table rose. Nola held up her hand. "Hold it, you guys! You can't all go. I'll get the rest o' you some sandwiches to go with the coffee while you're waitin'."
Linley grinned. "C'mon an' see your sisters, Mark. Jul asked me t'bring you if I could find you."
Linley's son got up, trying to appear nonchalant, and joined his father, Alan, Lyn and Kurt. Kevin grinned after him.
"See you in a few minutes, kid," he said. He turned back to Nola. "Now, baby, how 'bout forgettin' the coffee an' see if you can find us some o' the good stuff? We gotta celebrate this thing right ...!"
**********
Julia lay in the tiny infirmary bed, looking very small and frail. She smiled at them a little wearily.
"Come and see your goddaughters, Alan."
Alan went softly over to the bunk and bent to kiss her on the forehead. Her skin was damp and cool, her hair tangled and sweaty on the pillow. She looked beautiful, as always.
"This is Jill." Julia indicated the baby cradled in her right arm. "Named after my sister."
"An' this is Jennifer." Mark hefted the other baby expertly from Julia's left arm. She looked incredibly tiny in her father's arms. "She's named after Jul's mom -- the lady who did such a damn good job o' raisin' her kids." He grinned at his son, who was standing quietly behind the adults, looking at the babies with wide eyes. "C'mere, kid, an' have a look."
"Is that you, Mark?" Julia tried to see past her husband, Lyn, Alan and Kurt. "Please come over here."
Mark obeyed, squeezing between Kurt and Lyn. "Gosh," he said. "You had names all picked out. What were they gonna be if they'd been boys?"
"We didn't have any boys names picked out," Julia said, demurely.
"Huh?" Alan said. "But I never told you ..."
Linley chuckled, presenting the baby to him. "I had a hunch it was girls, kid. We think this link of ours only works one way, but this time I think somethin' leaked back just a little. It's been happenin' more an' more the longer we stay linked. Go on, take her."
Alan was aghast. "I can’t, Mark! I'm still in this dirty old uniform ..."
Lyn had vanished. Now, she reappeared from nowhere, a covering gown in her hands. "Here, Alan. You'd better get used to babies. You're going to have one of your own in a few months." She giggled. "Shelly Stewart says Jeff is already acting like a veteran father."
"Thus have the mighty fallen." Alan slipped on the gown and hastily scrubbed his hands with an antiseptic wipe. He laughed. "Besides, what are you talking about, honey? Everybody on Lavirra had to get used to babies, what with the number born there, every year. That's the main reason for the base, after all."
Jennifer began to cry, kicking against the blanket. Alan took her from his partner. The crumpled little face blinked up at him, and the baby's mouth opened wide, emitting another lusty howl. The strong, psychic aura was very apparent, small as she was. Blond hair stood up in tiny, golden ringlets on the baby's elongated head.
"She came first," Linley remarked. "Jill arrived bottom end up."
Alan admired the baby. Tiny and wrinkled as she was, he could see the makings of her mother's incomparable beauty in the miniature features, and here and there, traces that somehow suggested Mark. A lump rose in his throat.
Lyn stepped up beside him and without a word, Julia extended the other baby. Jill's head was flattened on top instead of elongated, but otherwise the babies were identical. Young Mark touched the tiny head with one finger.
"Man," he said, "how can anythin' so little make such a racket?"
Kurt McDougal leaned over, examining the two little newcomers with interest.
"Cute," he remarked, in a disgustingly matter-of-fact voice. "Good job, Colonel Linley."
"Natch," Mark said.
XXXV
The mess hall of Transport #1 was not as elegant as the Officer's Club on Lavirra, but it would serve in a pinch. Tonight, it was as full as it would hold. Walter Kaley sat at the head of the largest table, Alan on his left, Mark on his right. At the other tables, other officers and crewmen who had been part of the defending fleet were seated, and in other mess halls of the other transports situated around the makeshift landing field, similar banquets were taking place to honor the courageous men and women who had so ably held off the invaders long enough for their people to escape.
An astonishingly elaborate array of foods had been prepared, and Mark signaled the steward for a refill of his wineglass. He recognized this particular vintage. It was from Milthvar's collection aboard the 'Peacemaker'. Another of the waiters came around, presenting a platter for him to choose from.
"Hey, this looks like marshhopper! Where the devil did you get it?"
Kaley's eyes twinkled. "Taste it."
Linley did. It was marshhopper, and excellently prepared.
Alan took a taste from his own plate. "Hey, this *is* good. Tastes sort of like ..." His voice trailed off. "Oh, gosh! Franz!"
Linley strangled on a sip of wine. Kaley smiled faintly at their expressions. Lyn was mystified, Kurt smug. Eric and Ruthie Vogleman were apparently choking to death on their drinks.
"Sir!" Alan said, urgently. "I forgot to tell you ..."
"Understandable, Colonel. You had a few other things on your mind." He smiled primly at Mark, who was red-faced from choking. "Mr. Franz Leiberman was found some hours ago. He is now in the galley, cooking. He said to tell you that he is very grateful to you for not killing him. We learned also that he has harbored a grudge against the Jilectans since his fiancee was killed in a Patrol raid several years ago, and as he has expressed a desire to stay, we now have a new cook. He did ask, Colonel Westover, that you give him a few pointers."
Mark laughed. "If ol' Franz can give our *present* cook a few pointers, maybe we can have some decent food around here for a change, huh folks?"
Everyone at the table applauded, and Kurt McDougal rose to his feet, wineglass in hand.
"Before we actually begin our delightful repast," he intoned, "I wish to propose a toast."
Linley's face went red again. "Siddown, McDougal! That's an order!"
"Order countermanded," Kaley said, pleasantly. "Please continue, Major."
Kurt nodded. "Thank you, General." He raised his glass. "To Strike Commander Linley, the Scourge of the Spaceways!"
Everyone lifted his glass and Alan grinned at his red-faced partner past General Kaley's stocky form. "Take it easy, Kemo Sabe. You look like a boiled lobster."
Mark took a sip of wine. "That's just from chokin' on m'drink, li'l buddy," he said, with creditable self-possession.
Alan drained his glass. "Of course it is," he said.
The End
