Rainy Season: 4/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
III
The headquarters of the Black Saberclaws hadn't changed much in twenty years, Linley thought. New faces, maybe, but even they had a familiar cast. Slum kids, ranging in age from children of no more than eight to boys -- and girls -- of twenty or more.
A dilapidated sofa sat against one wall and here and there were other pieces of broken-down furniture as well as several wooden crates provided for the occupants of the cellar to sit on. Beer cans littered the floor around an overflowing garbage can with a huge dent in the side. Four battery-powered lamps and several very old-fashioned stubs of candles illuminated the dingy basement walls.
The room, of course, was large. The building had been designed originally for the use of Jilectans, who were much larger than Terrans. Mark glanced around, taking in the surroundings with a sense of familiarity. One feature that was different was the pair of posters that had been attached to the wall opposite the sofa. His own face grinned down at him, and beside his, Alan's. It was evident that his son had spoken the truth. The fact that he had once led the 'Claws was a point of pride for the gang. Yes, even if he didn't know the names, he knew these kids. He had been one of them.
It was evident the gang members were awaiting the outcome of their boss's meeting, for all but the youngest children were awake. Two boys lay on their stomachs on the floor, arm-wrestling, while others stood around, watching and making comments, and passing between them a jug labeled "Trinnar's Vinegar". Mark was certain from the gusto with which they drank, however, that the bottle no longer contained vinegar.
Gene Roberts, the leader, hopped onto a chair and waved his hands. "Listen up!"
Conversations stopped and heads turned toward their boss. Linley had sized Roberts up within the first few moments: a tough leader, one that commanded respect and probably some fear. He knew this boy, he thought. He could have been Gene Roberts, seventeen years before.
"These here are Mark Linley and Alan Westover from the Terran Underground. They need us t'find somebody for 'em as quick as we can. Anyone o' you know a kid named Matt Eckland?"
There was a quick murmur, some head-shaking. A girl got to her feet. "Sure. Stan an' Matt," she said. "My mom lives in the same buildin' as them. Their mom got grabbed by the 'trols a while back."
"Well, these guys wanna find Matt before the 'trols do. Here's his picture -- one o' the twins in front. He was in a robbery this evenin' an' the 'trols are huntin' him. We gotta find him first. The Underground'll pay us good for it."
The picture passed from hand to hand amid a general mumble of conversation.
"If this pans out," Mark added, "this could be the start of a great relationship, kid."
Gene grinned. "I'm countin' on it, Linley. Okay, guys, spread out an' take that picture along. Find as many o' the rest as you can an' show 'em. Let's move!"
As the mob of kids departed, Gene remarked, "We oughtta be able t'get sixty or so t'look. I got about seventy-five in the gang but the little kids wouldn't be no good in this storm an' there's a few that's hard t'find, sometimes."
"Yeah," Mark said. He glanced at his partner. "Listen, kid, we better get lookin', ourselves. I know plenty o' hidin' spots in the city, an' it ain't changed that much. Sides, it might not be healthy t'stick around here, now that so many people know where we are." He looked at Gene. "If one o' the kids finds him, radio us right away." He produced a chronometer with a communicator built in that he had obtained before leaving the station and handed it to Gene. "This is tuned to our private line, so you can get hold of us." He pushed back his sleeve, revealing his own chronometer. "We'll be listenin'."
Gene whistled at the sight of the device. "That's one spiffy hunk o' junk. Where'd you get it?"
"Andy's Oddities. Maybe I can get Andy t'find one like it for you." Linley grinned slyly. "This one got ripped off a Jil's brat on Corala. Maybe he's got a new one, by now."
Gene grinned, too. "Maybe. I'll callya as soon as I hear somethin'."
**********
The storm had worsened during the past hour, Alan saw as they left the building. The wind howled down the alleys between Scaifen's towering, ancient buildings, flinging the rain stingingly into their faces. It was pitch black, except for the beams of their handlights and the occasional flashes of lightning that illuminated the sky in bright, electric blue, followed by crashes of thunder that shook the ground. Water swirled past, higher than his ankles. Wet garbage floated by, and from everywhere came the squeals of rats, trenchcrawlers and other denizens of Scaifen's slums. Alan shuddered.
"Horrible place," he remarked.
"I guess," Mark agreed. They skirted a pile of decomposing garbage. "You kinda get used to it, though, when you've lived half your life in it. Listen, were you scannin' those kids back there? Could any of them be informers?"
Alan shook his head. "I don't think so -- at least, I didn't pick up any hostility." He grinned slightly. "Gene was thinking all the time, though. He's hoping the Underground will be their backer. Of course, to them we're just a big criminal organization -- biggest in the Sector. Sort of like the Mafia."
"Mafia?" his partner inquired, blankly.
"In Basic, it's Macchii," Alan translated. "One of the real, genuine criminal organizations from Earth. Been around a couple of centuries, I guess."
"Yeah. The Patrol has dealin's with 'em now and then," Linley agreed. "They class 'em as a minor nuisance. Sort of how we usta think o' the Terran Underground."
"Oh," Alan said.
They had rounded a corner, bracing themselves as the gale hit them full force. Alan leaped aside, jerking Linley back. A piece of masonry detached itself from the building beside them and splashed into the flooded street in a small avalanche.
Linley glanced upward, lips pursed in a soundless whistle. "Close. We better be careful. Lotsa the buildin's are gonna be crumblin' with all the rain an' wind." He grinned. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Alan flashed him a sideways grin, then returned to his scanning. There was an uneasy sensation tugging at the edge of his awareness, as if there was something he should be noticing. What was it?
"You pickin' up any signs?" his partner asked.
"Not yet." Alan frowned, reaching out with his mental senses. The city was alive with life energy -- the minds of humans, and the myriad vermin that infested the decaying ghetto areas, but there was something more, now. He had, he thought, actually become aware of it some moments earlier. Hostility, fear, and an almost nightmarish feel of somewhere, someone watching them.
"What's the matter?" Mark asked, suddenly.
"I don't know, exactly." Alan reached again with his mental eyes and ears. "Darn! It feels like -- almost like there might be another psychic around."
"Yeah? Our missin' twin?"
"No," Alan shook his head. "I'm not really even sure I'm sensing a psychic. It just has a psychic *feel* about it, if you get my meaning."
"I'm afraid I don't."
Alan wriggled his shoulders suddenly. "I can't explain any better. I just get the impression that something's going on."
"Could it be a Jil?"
"Maybe." Alan opened his shields wide, scanning, ready to slam them closed at the first touch of a psychic mind. "But, if it is, he's not actively tracing. I can't identify anything definite."
"Terrific. That's all we need to make our evenin'. A feelin' that somethin's wrong." Linley looked uneasily about.
Alan shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. It's the best I can do." He paused as his extra senses detected something he *could* identify, then grasped his partner's arm and pulled him sharply backward into a black, flooded alley. "Aircar!"
Mark didn't argue but pressed up tight against the weathered building to their right, crouching in its overhang.
The aircar was coming closer, Alan knew. He searched the area of cloud-covered sky visible from his place of concealment and suddenly pinpointed the vehicle, its little yellow lights blinking dimly through the driving rain, identifying it at once more with psychic senses than physical ones. "Patrol!"
As he spoke, the car's powerful searchlight came on, sweeping the rain-drenched darkness, the falling water diffusing the beam into glittering sparks.
"Patrol?" Linley sounded incredulous. "What th'hell are *they* doin' here?"
Alan didn't answer. The aircar had vanished over the next building, leaving the night darker than before. After several moments, Linley ventured to move away from the wall. The ex-patrolman surveyed the dim, waterlogged street before he stepped out again. His voice sounded odd when he spoke. "Whatcha think?"
"I don't know," Alan said slowly. "I suppose it *could* be a coincidence. We know the 'trols are looking for Matt." He sensed rather than saw Linley's eyebrow go up. "You don't believe it, either."
"Nope."
To the west there was a sudden crack of thunder.
Mark sighed. "Well, we better keep lookin'. I take it you ain't sensin' him around anyplace nearby?"
"No."
"Well, I know a few sections o' this city where a kid on the lam might go to hide, but none of 'em's exactly the kind o' neighborhood you want to go into without some backup. Maybe we ought to go back t'the aircar an' wait for results."
"I think that might be best," Alan agreed. "After all, none of the Saberclaws know where to look for it and if it looks like we *have* to, we can go to some of those places you mentioned in the car. Nobody's going to bother us much in this storm."
"Yeah," his partner said. "But let's come at it from the other direction. If there's an informer in the gang, there might be a lookout posted to wait for us."
"All right." Alan followed him across the flooded street and through a weed-choked, empty lot, decorated by pieces of debris that littered the landscape. Soaked heaps of decomposing garbage here and there filled the soggy darkness with the stench of decay.
"Smells like a refrigerator that hasn't been cleaned for a few months," Alan remarked, as they waded through the murky liquid that now came halfway to his knees.
Linley snorted. "At least it ain't started breathin' on its own, yet -- like that stuff you fished outta the back of ours."
"It wasn't that bad," Alan protested, wiping away a trickle of water from his nose. "Besides, it wasn't Lyn's fault. I don't think she'd ever cooked a meal in her life before we got married, much less cleaned a refrigerator. Her dad's cook did all that."
"Yeah. An' Jul didn't, either. I don't think she even knew it hadta be cleaned," Mark said, reminiscently. "I sure as hell didn't. It's a good thing we had you there or we'd all o' starved t'death."
"Oh, I don't know. They can barbecue all right."
"Barbecuin' gets old real fast," Mark said, firmly. He picked his way through a mass of floating garbage from a disintegrating pile on their left, Alan close on his heels. The forms of several trenchcrawlers could be seen perched atop its sodden bulk. Rows of bright, yellow eyes regarded them disinterestedly.
"Don't tell me you were never on KP in the Patrol," he panted, determinedly ignoring the eyes.
"O' course not. But you don't use a 'fridge on a battlecruiser," Linley pointed out, reasonably. "Everythin's reconstituted, an' the little bit we need t'preserve we just pop in the stasis field. Easy t'do on a battlecruiser where you're runnin' it off a matter converter, y'know. Don't make no difference how much power you use an' it's a helluva lot better'n a fridge."
"I see your point," Alan agreed. He turned his head as the ghostly sensation tugged at him again. "He's still there -- just snatches of psychic energy -- a little stronger now. I think he's getting closer."
"No identification?"
Alan shook his head. "No, but I get the definite impression he doesn't like me."
"D'you think it could be a Jil?"
"I suppose," he said, "but it doesn't feel quite right." He grabbed his partner's elbow as he detected a more identifiable threat. "Aircar!"
They scrambled behind an overflowing trash bin. The car appeared out of the rain, its searchlight sweeping the saturated landscape. It passed directly overhead but didn't pause. It moved slowly away, vanishing into the driving rain.
Mark let out his breath. "That was close. They probably picked us up on their scanners but I guess they figured we were just another couple o' drunks."
Alan nodded. "Mark, I don't like this."
"I don't like none of it," Mark said.
"That's not what I meant. Something's wrong. There shouldn't *be* this many 'trols around."
"They're lookin' for that kid."
Alan shook his head. "I don't think so. I think they're looking for us."
Mark glanced at him, his face barely visible in the gloom. "You think somebody's told 'em we're here?"
"I think so."
Linley cussed under his breath. "What d'you think we should do?"
Alan considered, then shrugged. "We keep looking, I guess. After all, we don't *know* they're after us. It could just be a coincidence."
"Yeah, right. An' I'm the Viceroy's maiden aunt."
Alan couldn't help a slight laugh. "Let's move on, Mark."
IV
They crossed the lot to another flooded street, thick with floating garbage. The wind howled like a banshee and Alan staggered as they left the partial shelter of the ancient buildings. Linley grabbed his elbow.
The storm was at least as dangerous to them as the searchers, Linley knew. This was exactly as it had been when he and his younger brother, Kevin, had been separated in the flood that had decimated Scaifen twenty-four years ago.
The normal summer storm was slowly worsening due to the tropical disturbance moving in from the ocean. Scaifen was almost completely surrounded by hills to the west, north and south. Only to the east did the ground drop, and as had happened then, the flood would come down that funnel like a bullet train, engulfing the low-lying areas and sweeping everything before it.
Mark's chronometer was equipped with every device, Alan had been known to remark, but a matter converter of its own, and among those devices was a radio. He turned it on now and told it to find a news station. A voice responded, riddled with bursts of static.
" ... Warnin's of flash floodin' of the low-lyin' areas. The tropical storm is movin' in and conditions are expected to worsen gradually durin' the early mornin' hours. Residents of the low-lyin' areas are strongly advised to move to higher ground until the storm has passed ..."
"I'm picking him up again," Alan said, suddenly.
"Jil? Terran?"
Alan concentrated, then shook his head in frustration. "I'm not sure. I only touched him for a second."
"You're the expert here. What d'you think we should do?"
"I need to find out what's going on," Alan said. "If we don't find Matt, he probably won't live through the night ... and if this isn't a Jil, if it's a Terran, we need to know." He turned his head. "There's a bunch of people coming this way. It's a Patrol squad."
"This way." Mark pulled him into another alley behind a mound of soaked, stinking debris. A trenchcrawler squealed, splashing across Alan's foot in its flight. Mark brushed the creature away and they crouched down behind their revolting shelter. Mark pulled the blaster from his shoulder holster and flicked the setting to "kill".
Here came the squad. Linley heard the splashing of many feet, and saw beams of light shining through the rain. Somebody flashed a light down the alley. "Nothin'. Let's go."
The squad moved on and Mark let out his breath. Another trenchcrawler skittered across the pile of garbage, dove into the water with a splash and floundered across the alley to another pile of debris. Alan stood up, wiping a sleeve across his face. Lightning flickered and thunder boomed like kettledrums.
Another lightning bolt succeeded the first and there was a tremendous crack that nearly deafened him. The very ground shook and above them pieces of masonry detached themselves from the crumbling building and hurtled downward.
Mark yelled a warning, grabbing for his partner, but his foot tangled in a heap of rusty wire and he stumbled.
Alan was already moving, splashing through the water and debris, his arms raised to protect his head. Linley felt a sudden drain of power as the psychic apparently struck at the falling piece of masonry with his telekinetic power, for it swerved slightly to one side, but despite his effort, one corner clipped him above one ear. For an instant, his partner's mind closed with his and then the link was gone.
Swearing, Mark disentangled his leg from the wire and splashed toward Alan. His partner was on hands and knees in the flood. Mark grabbed his shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
Alan didn't answer. He half-collapsed forward and Linley caught him before his face hit the water. Blood was trickling down his cheek, mingling with the rain.
Swearing savagely, Mark lifted him to his shoulders and sprinted to a door in the wall of the building beside them. He lifted a foot and in the best style of the Viceregal Patrol, kicked it in. It gave easily and he ducked inside.
Alan moved, his muscles flexing. Linley lowered him to the rotting floorboards.
"Alan!" he whispered. "Answer me!"
Alan gave a half-groan and opened his eyes. "Ow," he said, faintly.
Linley flashed his handlight on the wound. A tiny cut at the hairline appeared to be leaking gallons of blood.
Alan moved convulsively. "There's somebody over there to the left. He's got a switchblade."
Linley flashed his light in the direction. Sure enough, a dark, ragged figure was coming toward them and Mark caught the dull gleam of a knife in the man's hand. He lifted his blaster, flipped it to "stun" and fired.
The man folded silently and Linley turned back to his partner. "Can you sit up?" He wiped away more blood, but to his relief, the flow seemed to be lessening.
"Yeah." Alan pushed himself up on an elbow and Linley helped him make it to a sitting position. "I'm okay -- just a little shaken up. Mark, I know who's after us -- well, not exactly who, but I know *what* he is."
"What're you talkin' about?" Linley asked, somewhat confused.
"When that thing hit me, I reached out for you."
"Yeah, I know. You linked with me."
"I figured that. But when I reached for you, I touched someone else: a Terran psychic."
"Our missin' twin?"
"No." Alan carefully did not shake his head. "Whoever he was, he wasn't a bit friendly. He sensed me almost at once and put his shields up."
"Is this maybe the psychic you been sensin' all along?"
Alan nodded, somewhat cautiously. "I think so."
Linley swore softly. "Did you pick up anythin' else about him?"
"No; he got his shields closed too fast."
"Great; just great. Look, are you sure you didn't sense any psychics while we were in the Saberclaws' hideout?"
"I'm sure," Alan said, "but if this guy was there, I could have missed him if he had his shields up. He's definitely got shielding." He got slowly to his feet. "I want to find this guy."
Linley could understand that. A Terran psychic who was unfriendly to other Terran psychics was most likely a renegade and they needed to identify him and deal with him if necessary. The Underground couldn't afford such individuals to be mixing with the general population. Not only were they dangerous to others but their behavior reinforced the propaganda that Terran psychics were the born criminals that the Jils claimed they were.
"I see your point," he said. "Are you sure you're up to it?"
Alan gave a one-sided smile. "Outside of a headache, yeah. I'm okay."
"No dizziness? Lemme look at your eyes."
Alan grimaced, but submitted to his partner's very rudimentary examination. "Really, I'm all right, Mark. I was only stunned for a minute."
Linley considered. "Well -- okay. If you start feelin' worse, you let me know, okay?"
"If I start feeling worse, you'll probably know before I tell you," Alan pointed out.
He was probably right, Linley thought. A shadow of the headache that Alan was undoubtedly feeling hovered behind his own eyes. He nodded grudgingly. "I hate to admit it, but you're right. Okay, let's get him."
"Okay," Alan said. "Let me borrow you a minute. Maybe I can locate him."
"Right." Mark waited, feeling the energy drain as Alan tapped him for power. For a few minutes neither spoke, and the power drain grew more pronounced. At last, the psychic shook his head.
"I'm not picking him up. I know he's out there -- I can sense that much, but he's got his shields up as tight as they'll go. I'd say he's self-taught, but he's pretty good."
Mark cussed softly and bit his lip, thinking. On the floor, the man he had stunned groaned, beginning to stir.
"Well ..." Alan wiped blood from his face. "I think we'd better get going. I'm going to keep scanning. He might get careless and let his shields weaken. If he does, I'll get a fix on him."
"Okay," Linley agreed. "You sure you feel okay now? Your face is smeared with blood an' that cut's still bleedin' a little."
"I'll be all right. The rain will wash me clean in no time."
"All right, then." Linley glanced at the man who still lay on the floor, retching and groaning with the aftereffects of the stunbolt. "Take it easy, Bud," he advised, and led the way out of the building.
They had barely reached the broken sidewalk again when Alan turned his head. "Someone's coming. I think it's one of the gang."
On cue, a dim form materialized from the darkness. Mark caught a glimpse of a thin, dark-skinned face and soaked black hair that straggled nearly to his shoulders. It was one of the gang, all right, a youngster no more than thirteen at the most. He hesitated when he saw them, then moved forward with more assurance. "That you guys?"
"Yeah," Mark said. "You got any news?"
"Yeah. The kid we're lookin' for was last seen farther east, headed for the Fitzwater section."
Mark sighed. It figured. Everything else that could possibly go wrong tonight already had. Why not this, too?
The Fitzwater section was one of the oldest parts of Scaifen and certainly one of the most dangerous during a rainstorm. Criminals thrived there, for there were no police, and the Patrol never went into the Fitzwater area in groups of less than eight at the very least.
"Let's go," Alan said, casting a glance at him. Linley figured that his partner had probably picked up his reluctance to follow Matt Eckland into his hiding place.
"Kid, do you know what kinda people live in that part o' the city?" he asked.
"I think I can guess," Alan said.
"They make the ones around here look like teddy bears," Mark said, bluntly. "We'll be riskin' our skins around there."
"You're riskin' 'em here, anyway," the boy piped up. "There's 'trols all over the place."
Mark had to admit that was probably true. "Okay," he said, "we make one try, but keep your feelers out for the luvvamike! You can get cut to bits real quick in that part o' town. We run into too much trouble an' we're leavin' -- an' you won't be able t'talk me out of it!"
"All right," Alan said. He turned to the youthful messenger. "Thanks for the help. What's your name?"
The boy's teeth flashed in a smile. "Weasel."
"We had a Weasel in the gang when I was leader," Mark said. "His real name was Orwin Finkley, but nobody called him that 'less they wanted to get killed. What's your real name, kid?"
The boy scowled. "It's worse than the one you said."
Alan shrugged. "It's okay -- we can call you Weasel, but I'd sure like to know your real name."
The youngster grimaced. "It's Dwayne ... Dwayne Seymour. Ain't it awful?"
Mark smothered a grin but Alan's face didn't change. "Dwayne," he repeated. "I used to know a Dwayne at my high school -- pretty good friend of mine. I've always liked the name."
The child's face brightened a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. He was a tough kid and really had what it took when it came to the girls." Alan sighed. "I envied him."
Mark kept his face perfectly straight, envying his partner his empathic talent. Dwayne's eyes were shining.
"I got a girlfriend," he told Alan wisely.
"Oh? Is she in the gang?" Alan asked.
"Yeah. Her name's Wendy. Wanna meet her?"
"Sure would." Alan glanced around at what little could be seen of the flooded landscape. "We'd better head for our car. We can talk on the way."
"Okay." Weasel squinted at Alan in the dimness. "Say, you got blood all over you! What happened?"
Alan started to walk toward the flooded street again. "I got hit by a piece of building."
"Oh." Dwayne fell in beside them, sneaking another look at Alan. "Man!" he remarked, his voice carefully casual. "It must be nice t'belong t'the Underground."
"It is," Alan told him, his voice also casual. "It's not always easy, but you have a good place to live, good food to eat and people to help you when you get in trouble."
"Yeah." Dwayne's voice was almost wistful. "Must be nice."
"This way," Mark said. "We'll be there in a few minutes."
"How about you, Dwayne?" Alan asked. "You have family in the city?"
"Naw." Dwayne had obviously fallen prey to Alan's charm. "I'm just a street kid. Mom died when I was eight an' I never knew my dad. He was a 'trol, Mom said."
"Oh." Alan surveyed the child, who was half a head taller than him. "I figured that from your size. What happened to you after your mom died?"
"I got stuck in an orphanage but I escaped a year ago. They worked me half t'death, an' there was this guy there -- a caretaker, they *called* him -- who beat me to a pulp half a dozen times. Thought I was dead the last time it happened, but I woke up that night in the dorm where we slept. Guy knocked out a couple o' my teeth, too." He grinned, displaying two broken snags. "That's when I decided I was gonna get away or bust."
Alan grimaced. "Sounds like a nice guy."
Linley nodded. "Those orphanages are nothin' but slave labor camps. Too bad somethin' can't be done about 'em."
"I feel sorry for the kids who can't escape," Alan said, soberly.
Mark shrugged, grinning slightly. "Maybe we can do somethin' about this particular bully," he said. "Could you give us his name an' the location o' the orphanage, Dwayne?"
Dwayne's eyes shone. "I sure could! You'd be doin' them kids a favor gettin' that guy outta there. The other guys in charge weren't no saints, but he was ten times worse."
Mark whacked him lightly on the shoulder. "We'll see what we can do."
They turned another corner and Alan paused suddenly. "Get back!" he whispered, "quick!"
"Why?" Dwayne asked. "I don't see nothin."
Mark grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backward into an alley. Alan splashed after them.
Rats and trenchcrawlers scampered and skittered through the garbage and water swirled past them. Mark remained still, pressing his companions down, one with each hand. Alan held perfectly still but Dwayne was squirming and protesting.
"What th'hell are you doin? Lemme go!"
"Quiet!" Mark whispered.
"Lemme GO!"
Here came the Patrol squad that Alan's extra senses had detected, their lights shining through the rain. One was speaking to his companion, and the beams of the handlights moved over the alley in which they crouched.
" ... Heard something -- sounded like a kid yellin' ..." The voice reached Mark easily. Dwayne froze.
Alan moved abruptly, twisting silently away through the water. Mark made a frantic grab for him, then froze as the figures approached. What to do? He could set his blaster on emergency max and possibly wipe out the whole squad but if he didn't succeed in wiping them all out, he would be dead unless Alan managed to get the rest of them, and the sound of the blast would bring every 'trol for kilometers around.
Alan's link with him had closed, but he had hardly noticed until he heard his partner's voice speaking in his mind.
"Don't move, Mark. I'll take care of it."
"Right," he thought back, knowing that Alan probably hadn't heard him. He lay still, flat on his face as the lights approached and played over them.
"Okay, bud," a voice said, "on your feet. The kid, too."
Mark groaned, trying to sound barely conscious. A hand gripped him by the hair and yanked his head up.
A needle beam zinged past, and water burst into steam by the lead patrolman's foot. Alan's voice spoke from the darkness.
"You're covered. Put your hands on your heads. The first man who moves is dead."
The hand released his hair and Mark lifted his head to see four figures clad in Patrol uniform, their hands clasped on top of their helmets. They remained perfectly still.
Linley got to his feet and covered the men with his own blaster. "You can get up now, kid."
Dwayne got slowly to his knees, his eyes tremendous. Alan remained out of sight, but his voice sounded out of the darkness. "Take your blasters out of your holsters, one at a time and throw them away. Then take off your helmets and do the same."
Slowly the men obeyed. Mark waited, his own blaster never wavering. "Okay," he said, when they had finished. "Sit down with your backs against the wall. I'm gonna stun you. Don't make trouble an' you'll live through this."
There was no resistance from the patrolmen. A few minutes later, Alan, Dwayne and Linley were walking quickly away from the scene of confrontation, leaving behind four unconscious patrolmen propped against the ancient building, their hands cuffed behind them with their own restrainers.
"Holy space!" Dwayne sounded stunned. "How'd you know they was comin'?"
"Alan sensed 'em," Mark said. "When Alan tells you t'do somethin', don't ask no questions; just do it."
"I will from now on," Dwayne said. "Sorry."
"No harm done," Alan said. "We'll be long gone before they wake up."
"Why didn'tcha just shoot 'em?" Dwayne asked.
"That's not how the Underground works," Alan said. "We have a reputation to hold up and we always keep our promises. Patrolmen who cooperate are never hurt. They know it, and it saves us a lot of trouble."
"Huh!" Dwayne looked thoughtful. "Y'know, that's pretty smart."
"Our bosses think so," Alan agreed.
They made their way across the street and down another alley. The water was now well above Linley's ankles. Dwayne swore expertly as a trenchcrawler attempted to take refuge on his leg. He kicked the creature away. "Hope this stuff quits pretty soon," he remarked. "'Specially if we hafta spend much time in the Fitzwater section. We're gonna be swimmin' before the night's up if it don't."
**********
tbc
