Rainy Season: 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
The boy didn't speak. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of one dirty hand. Mark reached out, turning off the dome light.
"Take it easy, kid," he advised. "You're gonna be okay."
Stan hiccupped slightly, wiping his nose again. Alan handed him his handkerchief and he accepted it, wiping his eyes and nose. He hiccupped again and drew a deep breath. "What about Matt? Is he --?"
"If he's your identical twin," Alan said, "then he's a psychic, too."
Another hiccup. "An' Brenda -- my sister?"
"Was Brenda's father and yours the same man?" Alan asked.
He felt rather than saw the boy shrug. "Probably not. Mom didn't know who our dad was. Any one of a dozen 'trols."
Alan felt slightly amazed at the boy's indifference. "Well, since we think your mother was the psychic, your sister has at least a fifty percent chance of being one, too."
The boy was silent for a moment, then began to cuss under his breath. "Okay," he said at last, "I'm with you. There sure ain't any percentage the other way." Another pause. "Thanks -- for helpin' out."
"You're welcome," Alan said, "but now we have to get hold of your brother and sister before anyone else does."
"You mean, the Jils?" Stan went pale again.
"Maybe," Mark said. "Where do you live?"
The boy gave them his address and Linley turned the car toward Country Club Lane. They soared upward and plunged into the mainstream of traffic.
There was a silence as the car sped along. Stan sat motionless on the seat between his two rescuers, his dirty hands folded together in his lap. He looked very young, Alan thought. Good grief! He *was* very young! -- too young to be thrown into a situation like this. It was a good thing Terrans were a tough species, he thought soberly, or kids like Stan Eckland would not have survived the coming of the Jils.
The boy cleared his throat, his eyes straight ahead. "Uh ... Mr. Westover, sir ..."
Alan hid a smile at the formal address spoken in the broad Shallockian accent. He saw Mark do likewise.
"That's *Colonel* Westover, Stan," his partner said.
"Yessir, *Colonel* Westover," the boy said, carefully. "Is the Underground -- I mean, what's it like? Are they gonna want kids like Matt an' me? I mean -- we're thieves, y'know." The boy hesitated and Alan sensed apprehension. "Before Mom was taken, we usta steal stuff now an' then, too. It was easy, an' we never seemed to get caught."
Mark glanced sideways and Alan caught his wink. "You done anythin' else we oughtta know about, kid?"
Stan gulped. "I ... I never killed nobody, if that's whatcha mean, Strike Commander, sir," he said. "Matt, neither. I been in a couple o' street fights, but they weren't nothin' serious."
Mark pretended to consider the boy's confession seriously. "Y'know, kid," he said, "the Terran Underground ain't no joy ride. It's a military organization. If we decide you're worthwhile, you'll go in as cadets, since you an' your brother are psychics. That means you'll be in trainin' t'be an officer someday, an' you gotta watch your p's and q's. We got no room for troublemakers or gold bricks, an' once you're in we can't toss you out if you turn out bad, so then it's curtains. You better be damned sure you're gonna behave yourself. You do an' we'll treatcha right. We'll train you to use your psychic powers, we'll educate you, feed you, clothe you an' protect you. But if you make trouble for us ..."
"We won't sir! You can count on us!"
Mark winked at Alan over Stan's tousled head. "Well, okay then."
The car dropped into the uncontrolled traffic lane and a light blinked red on the dashboard, signaling Mark to take control. He did so. "Which house, kid?"
"It's the last buildin' on the left." Stan pointed, then straightened suddenly. "Holy Space!" he swore via a colorful oath that spoke volumes about both his vocabulary and originality. "There's a Patrol car in front!" He cussed furiously.
Mark brought them lower and circled, peering out the window at the scene below. The apartment building in which Stan apparently lived was a dilapidated affair, three stories high. There had once been more floors, judging by the wreckage atop it, but time and weather had taken their toll. The paint was peeling away from what was left of the structure and most of the windows showed cracks or star-shaped holes. Many of the panes were missing altogether, although some had been boarded over probably by their current occupants to keep out the worst of the weather. It was situated on the corner of a littered, grimy street, now partially awash with water, and in the space directly in front of it was the black, solid bulk of a Patrol aircar, dimly illuminated by the reddish glow of a single, unbroken street lamp.
Mark swore softly. "We're gonna hafta gas 'em, kid. Hope there ain't too many."
Stan turned quickly. "Whatcha gonna do?"
Linley didn't answer. He was engaged in delicate maneuvers of their vehicle. "Get ready. I'll get us into position."
"Right." Alan had already gotten the sleep pellet from the car's stores and a second one to be safe. In all this rain one might not be enough. Now, he peered out the window, seeing as much with his mental eyes as his physical ones. The front entrance of the building opened and two patrolmen emerged, half-dragging a child between them. He glanced at Stan. "Hang on. We're going to rescue your sister."
Stan took a firm grip on the door's safety handle. Mark brought them around and past the building, flying low, and Alan dropped the pellets.
The patrolmen crumpled and the child landed between them. Linley brought them down in a fast, skillful landing and Alan was leaping from they cab before they were completely stopped. He ran to the three figures, scooped up the little girl and sprinted back to the aircar. Mark had them in the air before his door clicked shut. Alan turned his attention to the building, his psychic senses scanning.
"I'm not picking him up," he said. "Unless he's shielded, he's not here."
"These kids ain't got shieldin'. Let's get outta here." Linley turned their car northeast.
Stan was bending over his sister. "Brenda? Brennie, baby, wake up!"
"She's okay, Stan," Linley assured him. "She'll be comin' around in an hour or so -- unless we wake her up, first."
"I think we should." Alan located one of the large, yellow capsules that contained the antidote and snapped the capsule under Brenda's nose. "Maybe she'll know where her brother is."
She began to cough at once and blue, tearful eyes opened. Brenda was no more than four years old and tiny for her age. She resembled her older brother closely. Tangled, brown hair fell to her shoulders and, like Stan, she emitted a strong, psychic aura.
Brenda began to sob at once, cowering away from him, but Stan reached over and lifted her into his lap.
"Brennie, baby, don't cry," he said. "You been rescued. You quit bawlin', okay? Those guys can't hurtcha no more."
Brenda sniffled against his shoulder and nodded. Stan patted her comfortingly between her skinny shoulder blades. "Where's Matt, baby? You seen him?"
She shook her head. "He ain't been home."
"Damn," Mark said, wearily.
Brenda lifted her head from her brother's shoulder to look at Linley. "He's a 'trol!" she squeaked.
Mark glanced at her and grinned, cheerfully. "No I ain't, baby. Everythin's okay. Take it easy." He winked at her and Alan carefully kept his face straight. His big partner couldn't help trying to charm a female of the species, even if the female was only four. It usually worked, too. He saw Brenda smile back timidly.
Linley raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, is she?"
Alan nodded.
"Damn! Too bad we missed their ma. Sounds like she mighta been a double gene."
Alan agreed with him. Double gene psychics produced one hundred percent psychic offspring, since the trait was dominant, single gene psychics only fifty percent. Psychics with two psychic genes, as in Alan's case, usually proved more powerful and more versatile than those with only one.
"We should have our agents check her out, Mark. You know the latest reports -- they're trying to find Terran psychics powerful enough to read Arcturians for them. She might still be alive."
"Yeah; could be, I suppose," Linley said. "If they find her, our guys might be able to spring her. Hafta get Rocky on it." He reached out to flip on the radio. "Let's see if they're sayin' anythin' about us, yet."
The radio came on with an explosive blast of sound: the latest rock hit, Alan supposed. He didn't have time to keep up with such things. It sounded to him like someone had tied countless pots and pans out in a high wind. Accompanying the music was a vocalist who appeared to be suffering from severe colic.
The song ended with appropriate comment from the announcer and another began. Mark made a face and instructed the device to find a news station. The channel flipped over.
"... Continuin' through the night, heavy at times and continuin' tomorrow. Flood warnin's are in effect for the followin' areas ..."
"See if you can get the Patrol frequency," Alan suggested.
Linley shrugged and punched a number into the car's computer. Static crackled and suddenly patrol code chattered from the radio. Mark did things and the code resolved itself into a voice.
"Wow!" Stan said, softly. "Howdja do that?"
Alan didn't answer. There was no point in telling him that the Underground was constantly kept abreast of new codes by agents in the Patrol's own cryptography section. He listened, but there was no mention of their night's activities -- at least, yet.
Stan spoke to his sister, keeping his voice low so they could hear the voices on the radio. "What happened, Brennie?"
The girl sniffled. "Those 'trols, they just came marchin' right into the place! Pavvie was with 'em --"
"Who's Pavvie?" Mark asked sharply.
"Our landlord," Stan said. "Real --" His description of the landlord was both imaginative and graphic. "Go on, baby."
Brenda sniffled again and pushed damp hair back from her face. "Pavvie, he pointed at me and said 'Here's one of 'em." I tried t'run, but they got me. They asked where you and Matt was --"
The girl paused.
"Go on," Stan said.
The child described a brief, indecent phrase as her response to the questions. "They searched the place. I told 'em I hadn't seenya for a long time. Then they gave Pavvie some money an' started to take me out. Then, you showed up." She glanced curiously at Mark, then at Alan. He gave her his most charming smile, marveling at the girl's matter-of-factness. But then, Shallockian kids learned about life's nastier side early. He saw a cautious answering smile form on her lips.
"Are you Stan's friends?" she asked.
Mark flashed her his famous grin. "You might say that, baby. I'm Mark Linley, and he's Alan Westover."
The girl's eyes widened in awe. "Oooh!" she squealed.
Alan repressed a smile, recalling his sister Janice, the time she had met a video hero at Videoland Amusement Park on Terra, when she had been about Brenda's age. Her reactions to the costumed superhero had been much the same as Brenda's, now. Come to think of it, he qualified at least as much for the role of superhero as the guy in the flashy costume had. More.
"Hi, Brenda," he said, wondering how to act heroic for the sake of a scared four-year-old, without looking silly.
"Oooh! It's *him*, Stan!"
"Yeah, I know." Stan spoke casually and Alan had to work not to grin. It seemed that acting heroic was unnecessary. "He don't look much like his pictures, does he?"
The child studied Alan solemnly. "He's *much* handsomer than his pictures!"
Alan reminded himself firmly that Brenda was only four. Females of any age had the power to embarrass him.
The girl fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Whatcha think o' me?" she inquired. "I'm pretty, ain't I?"
Stan looked embarrassed. "Oh, Brennie, for the luvvamike ..."
Brenda ignored her brother. "Well, ain't I?"
Alan ruffled her hair. "You sure are, Brenda."
She smiled brilliantly, then frowned. "What'd the 'trols want, anyway?"
"It was Matt an' me they wanted," Stan told her. "We're psychics."
Brenda's eyes got wider. "Psychics! You mean like Alan?"
"Yeah, an' maybe you are, too. I dunno."
"She is," Alan said.
Stan looked slightly shocked, then pleased. "Oh well, if you're gonna do somethin', you might as well do it right, like Ma usta say. Guess we're all in this together, sis."
The little girl nodded. "Betcha Ma was a psychic, too," she said suddenly. "Bet that's why they took her!"
Mark raised a respectful eyebrow. "Say, you're right on the ball, baby. That's exactly why they took her."
Stan hesitated. "D'you think she might still be alive, Colonel Westover?"
"Maybe," Alan said, cautiously. "It's possible. The Jils are looking for strong psychics to read the Arcturians for them; they can't, you know, and if your mother was one, they might keep her alive. We're going to have our people try to find out, and if she is, we'll see what we can do. But, don't get your hopes up. The chances aren't very good."
Stan nodded after a moment.
"Now," Alan said, more briskly, "where would Matt go? Got any ideas?"
"Uh ..." The twin pondered for a moment. "There's lotsa places ..."
"Shh!" Mark said.
"... Corner o' Country Club Lane and Crystal Lake Boulevard," the official voice was saying. "Be on the lookout for an aircar described as a green and brown Zaro Moonhawk, about three years old, serial number, beginning 4732. The occupants are two Terran males, believed to be members of the Terran Underground, and a Terran female approximately three Terran years old, suspected to be a Terran psychic ..."
Mark's jaw dropped. "How'd *they* know there was just two of us? They never saw us!"
"Pavvie," Brenda said. "He musta been watchin' from the upstairs window."
"Oh yeah?" Mark said, darkly. "An' I think a couple o' our people are gonna hafta have a word with Mr. Pavvie. Can't have it get around that the guy turned in a psychic to the Jils an' got away with it."
"That's for sure," Alan said.
"Whatcha gonna do?" Stan asked, curiously.
"Never mind," Mark said. He switched the subject. "Well, kid? Any ideas about your brother?"
Stan shrugged. "If I was him, I'd head for the low-lyin' areas. The cops ain't gonna mess around down there much -- not with the floodin' an' all. 'Sides, the neighborhood's awful bad."
"Yeah, I know." Linley altered their course slightly to the east. "I guess it's okay t'head for the station, now. Nobody's likely t'spot the car in all this."
"Where are we goin'?" Stan asked.
"We're gonna drop you an' Brenda at our nearest station. You'll be safe there, an' we can get some help findin' Matt. Okay by you?"
"Sure."
For a time, they flew on in silence, the rain slashing viciously against the windows. Alan opened his shields wide, scanning the population below for psychic minds. Twice, he touched such minds, but neither was that of a fourteen year old boy. Once, also, he touched the unshielded mind of a Jilectan. The alien was instantly aware of him, and he felt the powerful psychic mind reach toward him, groping for direction and identity. His shields snapped up instantly and he saw his partner glance at him.
"What's the matter, kid?"
"I was scanning and I touched a Jil's mind."
"Close by?" Mark asked.
"No. Quite a ways off. He didn't pinpoint me." Carefully, Alan lowered his shields a fraction, straining for the alien mind, but there was nothing. "He's gone."
"Good."
Stan was peering out the window at the twinkling lights of Scaifen below them, blurred by the driving rain. They were over the outskirts of the city, now, the lights becoming fewer and more thinly scattered. "Where *is* this station o' yours?"
"We'll be there in about ten minutes," Alan told him.
"That's good." The boy leaned back in the seat, his small sister still in his lap. Brenda's head was beginning to droop against her brother's shoulder. Rain slammed against the windshield and Alan could feel the gusts of wind buffeting their car about. It was going to be a bad night out there. He hoped that Matt Eckland would have the sense to take refuge somewhere safe.
Below them, the lights of the city had vanished. They were over open country. Some five minutes later, the white rambling farmhouse loomed out of the darkness before them. Mark brought them down to a landing on the pebbled driveway, now awash with water.
He pulled up to the garage, touching the button on the dash. The door opened and they drove forward into the dimly lighted structure. The door closed and the sound of the rain was abruptly softer. Mark cut the engine and opened the door.
Stan clambered out after him. "This is it?"
"This is it," Mark said. "Here, gimmie the kid."
Stan surrendered Brenda to him and Mark drew his raincoat around her. The little girl moaned softly, then snuggled into his arms. Alan opened the side door of the garage.
"This way, Stan. It's just a few steps."
They ran through the downpour to the broad front porch, ducking gratefully under the sheltering roof. Alan rapped sharply on the door twice, waited a moment and gave four deliberate knocks. There was a long pause.
The door opened suddenly, revealing the tall, slender figure of Jack Ogilvie, clad in a light bathrobe and slippers. He beckoned them inside and closed the door.
"Colonel Westover! Colonel Linley!" He reached out his arms for Mark's burden. "Here, sir, I'll take her. Who is she?"
"Brenda Eckland," Alan said. "She's a psychic, and this is her brother, Stan."
"Ah!" Ogilvie lifted the child to one shoulder. "We heard about it on the video. Where's the other boy -- Matthew, isn't it?"
"Matt," Alan said. "We don't know, but we've got to find him."
"Yes, sir. Now that the Jils know he's a psychic, they'll be after him."
"Was that on the video, too?" Mark cursed, softly. "Get Rocky for us, wouldja, John?"
"Yes, sir, right away." Ogilvie strode into the sitting room and laid the sleeping girl on a sofa. He pulled a folded afghan, knitted out of brightly colored yarn from the sofa back and covered her. "Back in a minute."
As he exited into the hallway, Mark sank into an easy chair and removed his shoes. "Man, I'm shot an' my shoes are soaked through. Wonder if Rocky's got some coffee around somewhere."
"It'll be ready in ten minutes," Alan said. "John set the timer just now when he went out."
"Oh." Mark wiggled his toes and glanced at the small figure of Stan, who stood uncertainly in the doorway. "Siddown, kid. Hungry?"
"Starvin, sir. I ain't had nothin' since this mornin'."
"I'll see what they have in the kitchen," Alan said. "I'm kind of hungry, myself, come to think of it." He went into the adjoining room, Stan following, and opened the refrigerator.
The boy watched him, looking a little stunned. "Gosh, it looks just like a regular house, sir. Awful nice, though. I guess the people in the Underground have lotsa money, huh?"
Alan grinned. "We have what we need," he said. "This is a regular farmhouse. A family lives here -- a man, his wife and their little boy, and a couple of other people, too. You'll meet Rocky in a few minutes, and the others in the morning. Rocky -- Colonel Lang -- is the commanding officer." He selected a loaf of bread, some sliced meat and cheese and a carton of milk from the refrigerator, and closed it again. "Here you go. Put together a sandwich for yourself while I make a couple for Mark and me."
The boy did so, slathering the bread with mustard and mayonnaise. Alan picked up his creations and headed for the sitting room. Stan followed, chewing valiantly on a huge bite.
Mark accepted the sandwich. "Thanks, kid. Looks great. How's the coffee comin'?"
"Ready in a minute."
"Good. Wonder what's holdin' Rocky up?"
"He's coming, now." Alan turned as Rocky Lang, C.O. of the Scaifen Underground station entered. He looked annoyed and tousled, his dark hair mussed, wearing a bathrobe that showed a broad expanse of bare chest beneath. Alan sensed unshielded irritation flowing from the newcomer and felt a stab of remorse. Their timing had been very bad, he realized. Rocky and his wife had been very occupied when Ogilvie knocked on the door.
Lang gave them a sullen salute. Alan returned it. "Gosh, Rocky, I'm really sorry ..."
The emotion of irritation lessened abruptly as Lang's mind shields went up. "Sorry for what?" he inquired in an annoyed tone.
"For disturbing you so late," Alan amended, quickly. "We -- uh -- we've had kind of an eventful evening ..."
Lang glanced at Stan, then at the sleeping child on the sofa. "So I see."
"This is Stan Eckland and his sister, Brenda," Mark said.
"Ah!" Rocky's features relaxed. "*Are* they psychics?"
"Yeah, they are."
Rocky looked pleased. "Good work. How about the other boy?"
"We don't know where he is," Alan said, "but we need to find him as quick as we can. They'll have a tracer after him in the morning, probably. We've got to get to him first."
"Yeah." Rocky ran a hand through his tousled hair and smiled at Stan. "Hi, kid. I'm Rocky Lang, C.O, o' this station. Glad to have you with us."
"Thanks." Stan returned the smile a little cautiously. "You know about Matt an' me, I guess, huh?"
"Sure do. The Jils've been after you close on two weeks, now. Li'l hint, kiddo. If you're gonna be a professional thief, it pays not to be so perfect in your timin'. Y'see what I mean? You kids always seemed to know when the cops was comin', an' where the money was, an' things like that. If you know too much, it brands you a psychic, an' psychics are worth money."
"That's okay," Stan said, glancing quickly at Linley. "I ain't never gonna steal nothin' again."
Linley winked at him. "Smart kid."
"What happened with the bowlin' alley, anyway?" Rocky asked. "You cut it too fine?"
The boy nodded. "Yeah. I knew we should get outta there, but the guy behind the desk is a small time pimp. He had a bunch o' cash stashed in a safe behind the false wall ..."
Rocky laughed. "Well, all's well that ends well. Now, we gotta locate your brother. Any ideas?"
Stan hesitated. "I already told Colonel Westover that he'd probably head for the low lyin' sections --"
Rocky sighed. "I ain't got the manpower here to conduct a search o' Scaifen's ghettos right now. M'new psychic's not due to arrive until next week, so except for m'wife an' Karen, you're the only one at the station now, Alan -- an' neither Anita or Karen's a clairvoyant."
Alan sighed. He was tired, and the prospect of venturing out into the rain again was far from alluring. He looked at Linley, who also heaved a deep sigh.
"Whatcha gonna do?" Stan asked.
"We're gonna try'n trace your brother," Mark said. "An' I gotta sorta idea how. Which gang d'you run with?"
Stan's eyes fell. "I don't have a gang."
"Huh?" Linley's jaw dropped. "A Shallockian street kid without a *gang*?"
The boy's face was scarlet and Alan could sense his acute embarrassment. "Ma wouldn't let us. She said too many kids got killed in the gangs."
Alan recalled vividly a certain trip to Luna City and his mother's adamant refusal to let him go. He had been utterly mortified.
Mark rubbed his jaw, regarding the boy unhappily. "That makes it a bit harder. If you were in a gang, he'd probably go to them for protection. Well ..." He paused, obviously considering. "Well, blast it, *I* know the haunts o' the Black Saberclaws, an' they oughtta be able to help us find a runaway. The Saberclaws know everythin'."
"But, Mark," Alan protested, "we can't just walk into the Saberclaws' headquarters and announce who we are ..."
"I ain't exactly plannin' t'do that," Linley said. "But remember, I was their leader, twenty years ago. O' course, they were different kids I was leadin', but li'l Mark tells me that the gang still brags about it. If we offer 'em enough money ..."
Alan nodded, reluctantly. "Well, maybe ..."
"No maybe about it!"
"But I'm going with you."
"Now, wait a minute --"
"I'm going," Alan stated, flatly.
"It'll be dangerous, Alan," Rocky protested. "There's always the possibility they'll try'n capture you for the reward -- or that there's an informer in the bunch ..."
"All the more reason for me to go," Alan said, firmly. "If they try something like that, I'll have some warning and we can take care of it."
Linley gave up. "Okay, but you stay right with me."
Alan raised an eyebrow at his partner. "Since when have I taken stupid risks, pal?"
Rocky Lang opened his mouth to speak, apparently decided against it and closed his mouth again.
"All right, kid," Linley appeared satisfied. He turned to Stan. "You got anythin' on you that belongs to your brother?"
The boy looked startled for a moment. "Why?"
"It helps me to trace him," Alan explained. "It also might help if you had a picture of him."
Somewhat to his surprise, Stan reached instantly into one of his pockets, producing a dilapidated billfold. He removed a small photo from it. "This is all of us."
Alan took the photo, studying it. It must be about two years old, for Brenda was a round-cheeked toddler standing between her two older brothers. Their mother stood behind them, a short woman with straight, dark hair and bright blue eyes. She was smiling brilliantly, her face round and girlish.
"Matt's the one on the left," Stan said.
"Oh." Alan studied the face of Stan's twin brother. There was certainly a marked resemblance between them -- in fact, he could see no difference except in the clothing they wore. Matt wore a brightly-striped red shirt and shorts, while Stan was clad more conservatively in dark slacks and a ragged T-shirt with the snarling face of a Shallockian saberclaw embroidered on the front.
Mark looked over his shoulder. "Yeah, you two sure look alike. Think you can use this for tracin'?"
Alan shook his head. "It'll help with the identification, but there's no personal attachment at all, except to Stan, here, of course, and that doesn't help, much. He glanced at Lang. "Can you duplicate this for me, Rocky? I don't want to risk Stan's picture if I don't have to."
"Sure. It'll only take a couple of minutes." Lang took the small photo and departed.
Mark was frowning. "Ain'tcha got nothin' o' your brother's, kid? A handkerchief or somethin'?"
Stan laughed. "Do I look like the kind o' guy that carries a handkerchief?"
Mark grinned. "No, I guess not."
Stan searched his pockets. "I ain't got nothin, sir -- 'cept the hundred credits we got from that creep in the bowlin' alley. Sorry." He looked apologetically at Alan.
"That's all right," Alan said. "I can trace him through his psychic output if I can just get close enough."
Rocky returned at this juncture and handed Stan his photo, extending a perfect duplicate to Alan. "Will this do?"
"Yes, thanks." Alan looked at his partner. "We'd better get going."
"I want to go, too," Stan protested.
"No," Mark said.
"Why not? I ain't a baby, for the luvvamike --" The boy seemed to hear his own words and suddenly lowered his voice to a more respectful level. "*Please*, sir!"
Mark shook his head. "Kid, I'm really sorry. I know how you feel and I'd like to bring you along, but I can't. It's gonna be dangerous."
"I don't care!" I wanna go!" He turned to Alan. "Please!"
"No," Mark said, firmly. "You know too much, an' you ain't shielded. They get a Jil tracer out there an' he'll find us through you -- an' then we'll all be in the soup -- an' Matt, too. The answer's no, an' that's it."
"I'm goin'!" Stan glared up at the former Strike Commander, rebellion in every line of his body. "You got no right to keep me here if I --"
Linley's expression darkened. "Watch it, kid. You're in no position to argue --"
"Mark." Alan cut him off with the word and turned to the boy. "Stan, we'll bring your brother back if it's humanly possible, I promise you. You'll only make things worse for him if you insist on coming along, and I don't think you want to do that, do you?" He paused, resting a hand on the teenager's shoulder. Stan remained rigid for a moment under his touch, then his stiff frame seemed to droop.
"No," he muttered.
"Good. Now, you let Colonel Lang put you and Brenda to bed. You must be worn out. We'll probably be back in a few hours -- maybe by the time you wake up -- with Matt. Okay?"
"Okay." Stan summoned a smile and looked at Mark. "Sorry, sir."
Linley slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Take it easy, kid. We'll get him back for you. Let's go, partner."
**********
tbc
