Rainy Season: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
II
The rain had worsened and the wind had risen almost to gale force as they lifted off from the pebbled driveway of the Lang farm.
Whether or not the Patrol had a description of their aircar wouldn't matter in this stuff, Alan reflected. They'd hardly be able to tell there *was* a car, much less the make and color in the blinding downpour.
"Hope that kid don't give Rocky no trouble," Mark said suddenly as he turned the aircar back toward Scaifen. "You don't think he might try to get away an' come after us, do you?"
Alan shrugged. "I don't *think* so, but I warned Rocky to keep a close eye on him, just in case."
"Good." Linley sighed and cussed, softly as the aircar was buffeted by a heavy gust of wind. "Man, I'm tired. Looks like this could be a long night."
"Oh well," Alan said, "if it turns out okay, we'll get another psychic Team. Those boys are partners, I'm certain."
"We'd *better* get him back or that kid back there'll slit our throats," Mark said.
Alan laughed. "That's pretty obvious. You know, he's a pretty strong psychic -- stronger than his little sister for sure. I wonder --"
"Wonder what?" Linley asked as he paused.
"Oh, nothing, but the difference is quite pronounced. The twin is probably the same."
"Which is sure to attract any Jil who's huntin' him."
"Yeah," Alan admitted. "I wonder who their father was."
Mark laughed. "You mean, you're wonderin' if their dad was a psychic power pack like me, an' maybe they got a double dose o' the psychic gene?"
"Well, it could be."
"An' you're wonderin' if it was me."
Alan felt his face burning. "Could it have been, Mark?"
Linley sighed. "I suppose so. I'da been about nineteen. What was their ma's first name?"
"Emmareen," Alan said. "I got that out of Stan's mind when he was talking about her. Her friends call her Reena."
Mark frowned. "I don't remember no Reena, but o' course that don't mean nothin'."
Alan shrugged. "Well, we'll do a tissue match back at the base. Besides, you're not the only psychic power pack in the Patrol, obviously. It could have been Edwards, or Lyn's dad --"
Linley shrugged. "Sure. Or more likely, some poor sap we never heard of. The Patrol's a great place for psychic power packs. It's full o' big guys."
"I know. Or maybe Reena had a psychic boyfriend she never told her kids about."
"Yup. How many parents d'you know that tell their kids all about their love life?" Mark agreed. "If I'm lucky, maybe my own kids won't find out about mine, before Jul an me got hitched." Linley's wife back at the Lavirra base was expecting psychic twins in a few months.
Alan raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Below them, the scattered lights of Scaifen's outskirts were beginning to appear. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and Alan reached out to flip on the radio. "Let's see if the weather report's changed."
The radio responded obediently. "Rain continuin' tonight an' through tomorrow, accompanied by high winds. The tropical storm is movin' in, an' our meteorologist believes the high-pressure system from the north may cause it to change direction. If so, it should hit Scaifen between 0400 and 0500 in the mornin', an' --
Alan looked down. They were over the city, the lights sliding past beneath.
"The Scaifen River," the announcer continued, "has overflowed its banks an' the Toshiv section o' the city has proclaimed a state of emergency. The streets are flooded, an' a buildin' collapsed on Daggertree Lane, trappin' twenty people. Disaster control crews are on the scene ..."
"Huh!" Linley snorted. "Disaster Control! That's a joke! Disaster Control ain't much more'n a buncha thugs lookin' for stuff t'loot!"
"Gosh!" Alan said, appalled. "And I don't suppose the Jils help out."
"You kiddin'? It's the best way they got o' exterminatin' some o' the city vermin -- Terran an' otherwise. Why should they interfere?"
Alan wasn't surprised. In fact, he would have been surprised at any other answer. The Jilectans cared nothing for Terrans, except possibly to view them as an obstacle to their acquisition of the ten worlds belonging to the Terran Confederation. Terrans were animals, sometimes useful, often troublesome and certainly nothing to lose any sleep over. He shrugged philosophically and peered down again.
The lights beneath were now dim and sparse. They must be over the vast, decaying ghettos of the inner city.
"How far, now?" he inquired.
"Right across that lot." Mark pointed ahead to where their lights illuminated a weedy, vacant lot, choked with garbage, much of which floated and bobbed in the water that flooded it. "See that big, crumblin' buildin'?"
Alan eyed the structure with disfavor. "It looks condemned."
"It is. Has been since before I was born, I expect." Linley brought the aircar down, fighting the wind that caused it to buck and sway unpredictably, and managed at last to settle it in an alley between the building and its neighbor. Alan opened the door, stepping out into water that came past his ankles. Wet garbage swirled by and a trenchcrawler floundered past, squealing and splashing in the water and debris. Alan shuddered slightly and glanced up at the building above him.
"Gosh, it looks ready to come down any second."
Linley loomed up beside him, blaster in hand. "You wait for me, kid! This is a dangerous neighborhood!" His hand closed like a vise on Alan's shoulder. "I lost Kevin in this kinda place twenty-four years ago, an' I ain't got no hankerin' t'lose you the same way!"
Alan knew better than to argue when his partner spoke in that tone. All Linley's instincts to protect his psychic partner were operating at full strength in these circumstances and it would do no good to protest. Protecting one's psychic partner was instinctive and basic to the psychic link -- understandable when one realized that each partner was part of the other, each one half of a smoothly functioning whole. In fact, the only major conflict the Terran Underground's high command had ever had with its psychics had been caused by the fundamental misunderstanding of that fact, some years ago. It had taken a good deal of contrition and effort on the part of the leadership to repair the breach and regain the trust of their Special Forces, and every member of the Underground was now thoroughly indoctrinated with the concept of psychic partnership to avoid such crises in the future.
Alan didn't bother to point out that his own instinct to protect Mark was as strong as that of Linley's to protect him. There had been plenty of evidence of that in the past. "Sorry."
Linley's expression relaxed. "Ah, hell, I'm probably overreactin'. I just got real bad memories o' Scaifen during one of its summer storms."
"Sure," Alan said. "Let's get moving."
Together, they splashed through a pile of waterlogged garbage to the side entrance. The door had long since disintegrated and the open entranceway gaped black and uninviting, but a thick dam across the opening constructed of who-knew-what seemed to have kept the rising water out of the actual building.
They clambered up rude, stone steps and went as quietly as possible across a warped, wooden floor. The boards creaked and crumbled beneath their feet and small creatures skittered away from the beams of their handlights. Something swooped past Alan's head, leather wings brushing his cheek. He yelped.
"Nothin' but a jickflapper," Linley said, mildly. "They're harmless."
Alan nodded, opening his shields wide. "There's people below us; thirty at least."
"That'll be the gang," Linley said. "They must be in the basement."
"The basement? In all this flooding?"
"Sure," Mark said. "We never got water down there." He started toward a gaping doorway opposite them and they entered a hall, littered with debris. A trenchcrawler skittered over Linley's boot and dove through a jagged hole in one wall. Somewhere, far away, there was a musical chiming sound.
"Midnight," Linley remarked. "Through here, now." He flashed his light through a door and went in.
It was a large, square room, generously strewn with debris. Mark grinned at him in the dimness. "Whatcha think of it, partner?"
Alan surveyed the room distastefully. "Looks like a firetrap."
"Yeah, I suppose it is. This is where Kev an' me lived after Mom got killed in the fire. See that window over there? I was the one who nailed those boards over it to keep out the rain. An' I stuck a mattress in that corner an' swiped some blankets for us to sleep on."
Alan surveyed the room in consternation. He knew Mark's life after his mother's death had been haphazard, to say the least, but he hadn't imagined anything like this. "It's a wonder you survived."
Linley rubbed his chin. "Yeah, I guess it is, sorta. Kev was only two when we moved in. Lotsa times I hadta leave him here alone while I went out to steal food for us. It's amazin' he didn't wander off an' get lost, but he never did." He grinned suddenly. "I guess Kev's a survivor-type."
"So are you, pal," Alan told him. "So are you."
They went softly out a door in the opposite wall and down a long flight of steps. Alan could sense the presences, nearer now, and a murmur of voices had become barely audible over the voice of the storm outside. There was a sudden, louder shout and a squeal of excitement, drowned immediately in a crash of thunder that shook the frame of the ancient building. A doorway, the door still hanging by one hinge, opened at the other end of a long corridor and from it issued a pale beam of light.
"Okay," Linley whispered, "do your stuff. There's an alcove about six meters past that door, on the left. We always used it for a guard post."
"Yes, I know." Alan had already pinpointed the guard. "There's a boy there, armed with a switchblade. I can handle him all right."
"You're sure? Maybe I --"
Alan grinned tolerantly. Mark tended to regard him as the helpless baby brother, in spite of a good deal of evidence to the contrary.
"I'm sure," he said. "There aren't any others, except down below."
Linley had the grace to look shamefaced. "Okay. Nobody bothers with the slum gangs most o' the time, anyway. They're one o' the best recruitin' pools for the Patrol, an' I expect on a night like this, they ain't lookin' for company. Any o' their rivals'd be holed up outta the rain, too. Go ahead. I'll be in the room."
Alan waited until his partner's large form had vanished into the dimness behind him, then drew his blaster and moved quietly forward.
The guard was aware of him now, poised to jump, his switchblade in hand. Alan stopped a meter from the alcove and concentrated. Invisible fingers reached out and the weapon flipped from the waiting guard's hand and spun through the air to land lightly in Alan's palm.
"Don't move, Freddy," Alan said, softly. "You're covered."
He sensed confused surprise in the guard and grinned to himself. "Okay, put your hands on top of your head," he ordered, "and step out here. No unnecessary moves or I stun you."
Slowly, a skinny, brown-haired boy appeared from the narrow alcove, hands clasped on top of his head. He glowered at Alan.
"Whatta you want?" he demanded, sullenly.
"Somebody wants to see you. Come on."
"What if I don't?"
"Then I'll stun you and carry you," Alan said. "Ever been stunned?"
The boy hesitated, not answering, then shrugged. "Okay, you win."
Mark was waiting as Alan herded his captive through the door of his ancient home. The young sentry stopped short at the sight of his dark, looming form. "Who the hell are you?"
Mark turned up the handlight. "Take a good look, kid," he invited. "You seen my picture -- on posters, I expect. I needya to take a message to your boss for me."
Freddy stared. Alan watched his thoughts with interest. Disbelief, doubt and finally recognition flitted through his mind.
"You can't be!" he croaked at last, a little too loudly. "What the hell would *he* be doin' here?"
Mark gave him his famous grin -- the one on the poster, Alan noted with amusement. "Never mind what I'm doin' here, kid. I got business with the 'Claws. You tell your boss that Mark Linley wants t'see him. An give him this." From under his raincoat, he produced a wad of credit slips. "Tell your boss there's more where they came from."
Twenty minutes later, Freddy returned. He paused at the door and knocked hesitantly.
"Come in, Freddy," Alan said.
Freddy did so. "I got a message from the boss. He wants t'meet you in the big hall, out there." He pointed with his thumb at the passageway behind him. "No weapons."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Well, tell him okay -- if he don't have none, either. Tell him it's Terran Underground business. We got a real profitable offer for him."
After Freddy had departed, Mark handed Alan his blaster. Alan raised his brows. "You don't actually *believe* that stuff about no weapons, do you?"
"O' course not. But we're gonna show this dude he's dealin' with the big guys. Now here's what I wantcha t'do ..."
**********
Gene Roberts, the leader of the Black Saberclaws, swallowed. Freddy had said Mark Linley wanted to see him. If Freddy said it was Linley, it probably was. All the 'Claws knew what he looked like. The former Patrol Strike Commander had once been the leader of the gang, some eighteen years before, and the 'Claws never forgot that the famous Jil killer had once been one of them. His poster, and that of his partner, Alan Westover, prominently adorned the walls of their headquarters. Just because he had once been a 'Claw, however, didn't mean he was a brother, now. And, Linley was known to be dangerous. Anybody with three Jils to his credit was no pansy, that was for sure, and none of the stories about him had actually diminished his legend.
The credit slips crinkled in his pocket. Those were nice, sure. He was going to have to share them out, of course, and Freddy had probably pocketed part of the take, but that was expected. Well, agreement or not, he wasn't facing Mark Linley unarmed! He swallowed carefully and checked. The blaster didn't show and the ones his bodyguards carried were also invisible. Of course, Linley would probably suspect, but if he was fast enough there shouldn't be any trouble. He nodded to his lieutenants and started up the stairs.
There were two people waiting in the hallway and the handlights revealed the familiar features of the infamous Strike Commander. A shorter man stood beside him, half-concealed by Linley's larger frame. Gene nodded to his men. "Search 'em."
His lieutenants stepped forward. Linley raised a blond eyebrow but didn't move as his clothes were patted. His wallet was removed and one of the boys started to pocket it but Gene shook his head. "Nix, Tim. Give it back."
"Aw, Gene --"
"I said give it back."
For an instant, Tim hesitated, then he grunted and thrust the wallet back at Linley. Gene waited until the search was complete, then moved closer. Linley grinned slightly. "Unarmed, like you said, but I can't say the same o' you."
Gene didn't deign to reply. "You wanted to see me," he said.
"Yeah." Linley nodded. "My partner an' me got a proposition for the 'Claws. We need your help."
"What kinda help?"
"We needja t'find somebody for us." Linley flipped open his wallet and removed a photograph. "You know this kid?"
Gene looked at the picture. A young woman smiled out at him. In front of her stood twin boys and a baby. "Nope, don't think so."
One of his lieutenants was peering over his shoulder. "Sure. That's Stan an' Matt Eckland. They run through the East Side." He squinted at Linley. "Whatcha want 'em for?"
"We got Stan an' the little kid," Linley said, matter-of-factly. "We want the other twin -- Matt. Him an' his brother an' sister are psychics. The Terran Underground wants t'get 'em before the Patrol does. He's hidin' somewhere an' we ain't got the manpower, or enough people familiar with these diggins, to conduct a good search for him. I figure the 'Claws got both. The Terran Underground'll make it plenty worth your while. Them credits were just a taste."
"Always knew there was somethin' weird about 'em," Tim said.
"Speakin' o' which," Gene said, "Freddy said there was supposed t'be more."
Linley gestured. "They're sittin' over there."
One of Gene's guards went over to see and whistled. He picked up a thick wad of credits. "Look at this!"
"Okay, Linley, we'll talk it over." Gene took another look at the photo. "Can't see much from this. Maybe some o' the others know 'em."
"Wait a minute, Gene." Tim rubbed a hand through his wispy beard. "I don't like this. The 'trols find out we been helpin' Undergrounders, they're gonna make trouble for us. An' we don't know if these guys'll even come through. Once they got the kid, they might just take off."
Linley raised a blond eyebrow. "Since when've you heard about the Terran Underground doin' that, Tim? We got a reputation t'protect, y'know. What we promise, we pay -- if the other guy comes through."
"That's for sure. The Underground don't ever shab off." That was Hank, one of the other guards. "Whatcha plannin' on payin' us, Linley?"
Linley grinned. "You got a good example there," he said, nodding at the credits. "We're talkin' five thousand credits for the risk, an' another five thousand if you deliver the kid. Whatcha think?"
"Not a bad offer," Gene said. Ten thousand credits? He'd never seen a quarter of that much money in his life!
"I still don't like it," Tim said. "If the Jils find out we helped the Underground, they'll be after us. There's no way the Underground can pertect us all."
Linley raised an eyebrow again, looking disdainfully down his nose at Tim. "I didn't realize," he said, scathingly, "that the 'Claws were afraid o' 'trols. In *my* day, 'trols didn't dare walk through *our* territory in groups o' less'n six."
Gene had to give Linley credit. Tim turned a dull red and closed his mouth. Of course, lots of guys from the gangs joined the Patrol when they reached the height and weight requirement. If his people helped the Underground, those involved could never join the Patrol, but he, himself, couldn't, anyway. Despite a muscular build, he had never gotten above the height requirement and, at nineteen, it didn't look like he ever would. Besides ... Gene considered the situation. It was possible that this could lead to something more. If the 'Claws had a tough backer -- as the Terran Underground was known to be -- there might be limitless possibilities open to them.
"Okay, Linley," he said, finally, "we'll try t'find your missing psychic for you. Come on into headquarters an' we'll talk to the guys."
"Sure thing." Linley glanced at the shorter man beside him. Gene hadn't paid much attention to him up to now, assuming him to be Linley's guard, but the former Strike Commander now paused, watching his companion. The shadowed face nodded, and a quiet voice spoke in oddly accented Basic.
"He's on the level, Mark."
"Okay then," Linley said. "Mind if we have our blasters back, now?"
"Naw, go get 'em,"
Something floated slowly down from above Gene's head. Open-mouthed, he saw a pair of blasters, taped together with some sort of binding, land gently in Linley's outstretched hand. Linley unhooked them and handed one to the other man.
"I'd like you t'meet m'partner," he said, blandly. "This is Alan Westover."
**********
tbc
