The Mines of Kuloghi: 8/11
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
XV
Alan stumbled through the doors to the slave pens and collapsed limply to the floor. His body hurt from head to foot, exhaustion dragging at every muscle. He closed his eyes, sleep creeping inexorably over him.
"Here, kiddo." It was Monty, kneeling beside him and offering him a cake of food concentrate. "You better eat somethin'."
"Thanks." Alan took the proffered food and bit into it. It was dry and tasteless, but he was too hungry to care. Monty was silent, munching his own portion.
Alan's eyelids began to droop again and sleep stole over him. Monty's big hand on his shoulder brought him awake once more. "Man, kiddo, I think the 'trols should hang onto you. Three crystals in one shift!"
Alan was silent. Monty went over to the water barrel and scooped up a dipperful. He drank, refilled it and brought it to Alan. Alan gulped it down. It was lukewarm and had an unpleasant taste, but he hardly noticed. One of the Procyon slaves passed on his way to the barrel and Alan handed him the dipper. The alien took it without a word.
Monty was speaking again. "I been here three weeks an' I've only turned up one blasted crystal the whole time. The damned things are harder'n hell t'find, but you didn't have no trouble at all."
"Just lucky, I guess," Alan said, dryly.
Monty grimaced. "You ain't the first t'break one. One o' these poor natives found the last one and the fella dropped it an' busted it right in front o' Patrolman Priddy."
"Pretty?" Alan glanced up. "You mean Edgebastion?"
Monty grinned. "No. Priddy. That's his name, but there ain't nothin' pretty about him. He's a mean trenchcrawler. You'll meet him next shift. That's when he's due back, anyway. I got their schedules worked out, more or less. But don't worry. They usually put Priddy on with Sergeant Fishbine."
The name was familiar. "Fishbine? What's he like?"
"Oh, he ain't a bad guy. He ain't no bleedin' heart, mind you, but he hates slave raids like poison, so he tries t'keep us in fair condition, an' he'll lay off you unless you really deserve it."
Memory was coming back. "I think I met him when they brought us in. Edgebastion knocked me down and another sergeant helped me up. I think his nameplate said 'Fishbine'."
"Sounds like him, all right. He don't enjoy his work like Edgebastion an' Priddy do, an' he keeps ol' Priddy from beatin' on us too much. Priddy don't like him."
"I'll bet," Alan said.
"Yeah. Priddy an' Edgebastion get along great, though -- as expected. They don't get put together very often, but when they do --" Monty let the sentence hang.
"What happened to the native?" Alan asked.
"Native?"
"The one that broke the crystal."
"Oh, him. Priddy knocked him around some, but he was barely gettin' warmed up when Fishbine pulled him off." Monty grimaced. "Priddy ain't no Edgebastion, but he's bad enough."
Alan stared at the floor. "That was the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
Monty was silent a moment and then he spoke gently. "Yeah, I know."
"Not to be able to fight back. I've never felt like that before. I wasn't even angry. Just scared." Alan stopped.
"Yeah, I know," Monty said again. "I felt the same way the last time he gave me a goin' over. Not bein' able t'fight back kinda drains everythin' outta you."
Alan looked up at him and Monty patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Forget it. It's over. Now, finish your steak and eggs an' get some sleep. I'm shot." He lay down on the floor as he spoke and closed his eyes. "G'night, kid."
"Good night," Alan said.
The man began almost at once to snore. Alan took another bite of the cake, swallowing with difficulty. He was tired and it was a struggle just to stay awake long enough to finish his meal -- if you could call it that. His sides were full of stabbing pains each time he inhaled; his headache had subsided to a dull throbbing but his head still swam unpleasantly when he moved abruptly, and little sparks flashed before his eyes when he blinked.
The mine work had been grueling, even for a man in the best of condition. Alan had drawn on reserves he didn't know he had to make it through the shift. He doubted that he would be able to survive another, but he was almost at the point now where he didn't care anymore. Fatigue engulfed him and, without realizing it, the cake of rations slipped from his relaxing fingers. The room began to blur out in a haze and against the haze he saw Mark's face. The feeling of loss was an ache within him. He knew it would be with him as long as he continued to survive -- which might not be long --
When he opened his eyes once more, it took him some time to realize that he had been asleep. The room was dimly lighted and sleeping figures were sprawled all around him. Movement caught his eye. The cake of rations lay beside his hand and some small unidentified creature was gnawing at it. As he moved, it scuttled away with a shrill squeak. Alan surveyed the food and decided he was hungry enough to eat it anyway. When he finished he sat slowly upright, licking his fingers and wincing as the movement hurt his ribs.
Something was poking him and his hand went to the waistband of his loincloth. The crystal! In his exhaustion he had completely forgotten about it.
He glanced furtively around, trying to see if he was observed.
No guards. The slaves were alone in the locked pen. His telepathic senses were fuzzy but he thought he could detect no emanations from waking minds.
Alan shifted his weight carefully, turning to huddle against the wall, shielding his hands from chance observers, and removed the crystal from his waistband. Holding it in his cupped palm, he stared at it.
To the naked eye, it resembled a chunk of quartz that had been faceted and polished. The edges were razor-sharp and, looking at it now, Alan couldn't understand how he had held it in his mouth without being sliced to pieces. At first it seemed cool, but after a moment it began to grow warmer. He stared at it, puzzled at first, then with a sense of growing alarm. This was no ordinary crystal. There was energy here: raw power. Alan swallowed nervously, wondering what he should do.
Experimentally, he extended a light mental probe, the barest hint of a psychic impulse.
The result was astounding. Alan nearly dropped the crystal and barely suppressed a shout of panic. The impulse had been returned. The mental patterns were the same, but the power had been magnified a hundred-fold. Energy -- psychic energy -- free and waiting to be used.
Briefly, he glanced around. The water barrel, still half-full, sat against the wall. Mental fingers reached out, pulsing with power. The barrel stirred, lifted and then shot like a bullet toward the ceiling. Alan grabbed for it with his mind, barely stopping it before it shattered against the roof. He lowered it easily to the floor again and then stared at it, his heart knocking against his ribs.
That barrel was *heavy*. Just moving the lantern this morning had almost exhausted him. There was no possible way he could have lifted something like the water barrel before. But it had been *easy*! No wonder the Jilectans wanted these crystals so badly! Alan glanced down again and froze.
Only a fine, grey powder lay in his palm. The crystal was gone.
Alan sat still for a long time, looking at the dust in his hand: the remains of the crystal. His tired mind turned the puzzle over and over, fitting the pieces together.
The crystals were some kind of psychic structure, and the Jilectans must have learned how to harness them. With this kind of power in the hands of the aliens, the Underground would be helpless.
Alan made his decision. He was done for anyway. Even if he could find another of the crystals to use, there was no way he could hope to take out the whole station before somebody got him. Not in the shape he was in. But there was one thing he *might* be able to do, assuming he could find one more crystal. A last-ditch Samson-in-the-temple ...
He might as well exact as high a price for his own life as possible. And for Mark's.
If he could.
XVI
Mark came suddenly awake, aware that it was time to go. He listened carefully for a moment. All was quiet, except for the sound of a muffled snore. He lifted a corner of the towel, swiveled an eye around and then grabbed his helmet and put it on.
The lights were dimmed and he could see a huddled mound on the bunk next to his. Mark pulled on his boots, adjusted his uniform and went quietly out. His chronometer informed him that he had thirty-five minutes before Sergeant Edgebastion must report for duty.
He occupied a portion of the time by retreating to the restroom, concealing himself in a stall, and eating another of the sandwiches he had taken from the mess hall the night before. Cheese this time, and he'd forgotten to remove it from his pouch when he'd lain down. As a result, both it and the remaining sandwich looked as though they had been stepped on by an elephant.
He glanced at his chronometer. Time to go. Carefully, he replaced his helmet, went out of the bathroom and strolled down the dimly lighted corridor toward the slave pens.
Mark timed himself to arrive at the last moment, as the patrolmen were assembling at the pens. The doors slid aside and two men went in to herd out the reluctant slaves. Mark looked again to see if he could spot Alan but realized it would be difficult. There were many slaves close to his partner's size and they were all dirty and disheveled, their heads drooping wearily. He trailed behind the mass of prisoners down the corridor to the mines. The metal doors slid aside, the patrolmen ushered the workers through and then followed them in. The doors clicked decisively shut behind them.
The slaves seemed familiar with the routine, for they collected their tools and went directly, if reluctantly to work. Mark wandered along the tunnel, glancing nervously at the lamps set high on the walls overhead. They remained stationary, however, and everything seemed to be in order.
The slaves were watching him fearfully out of the corners of their eyes. Mark stopped behind a small, muscular native and saw the man's shoulders stiffen under the scrutiny. Sergeant Edgebastion certainly made a lasting impression wherever he went. Mark felt a little tug of satisfaction. Then he pushed it aside and began his search for Alan.
Back and forth he strode, surveying the sweating workers. There were many Terrans in the group, but his partner didn't seem to be anywhere among them. Mark went slowly along the tunnel, looking closely at every figure whose size even approximated that of his partner, but Terran or Kuloghian native, none of them even faintly resembled Alan. An hour passed and Linley was almost ready to give up in despair. He walked up and down the mine, surveying the slaves one last time, uselessly.
At last, he paused. Alan wasn't in the mine; that much was dismally clear. Mark swore savagely to himself. And he'd been so sure! What a blasted mess! If he wasn't here, where was he? Had he been recognized? It seemed that if he had there would have been talk and Mark would have picked it up. And yet, Alan wasn't here.
Maybe his partner had been sent to the other mine, this time. Or perhaps the patrolman had decided he needed a rest and let him stay in the pens this shift. Mark doubted that last alternative strongly. These men weren't the sympathetic type.
He walked a little way down the tunnel and stepped into a side passage where he could be alone and think. One of the patrolmen was using a shocker on a slave as he passed. Linley winced mentally at the screams but dared not interfere. That would certainly be out of character for the man he was impersonating. Mark had seen all kinds during his ten years with the Viceregal Patrol but these were certainly the pick of the crop. What a bunch of vicious trenchcrawlers!
The patrolman paused, shocker in hand, and nodded amiably at Mark. "'Ow you doing, Sarge?"
Mark grunted a reply and strode on.
He paused in a deserted corridor and tried to marshal his thoughts. What was he going to do now? If Alan wasn't here, then where had he been taken? There was one possibility that Linley had not allowed himself to consider. He turned it over in his mind now with a sinking feeling. Was it possible that, between the injuries he had suffered in the crash and the ill treatment in the mines, that his partner had died? No! He was almost certain that he would have known. Alan had to be around somewhere. The question was how to find him.
But his time was running out. That damned sergeant was sure to be found when the next shift came on and his cover would be blown.
A jolt of terror shot through him and a ringing slap made his ears buzz. Alan's face appeared suddenly before his eyes. He heard his partner cry out, and a booted foot kicked him in the ribs. Alan screamed again. Contact was starting to blur out in a grey haze of pain. Mark grunted in surprise as an electric shock contracted his muscles in a spasm of agony, and a third cry, hardly more than a whimper, brought him around the corner like a charging bull.
Those screams had been in his ears as well as his mind -- loud, clear and *close*! Alan *was* here! He must be!
XVII
"Wake up, kid."
Alan opened his eyes. Monty was kneeling beside him, shaking his shoulder.
"Wake up," Monty repeated. "They'll be here in a minute."
Alan shoved himself to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Monty was looking at him with an expression that might have been pity. He knew the man didn't expect him to live out the next shift. Alan had to admit he was probably right.
Monty brought him a dipper of water and watched as Alan drank thirstily. "How you doin'?" he asked.
"Okay."
"Yeah." Monty tossed the dipper back into the water barrel. "Kid?"
"Yes?"
"Who's Mark?"
Alan turned to look at him. "How do you know about Mark?"
"When I was tryin' t'wake you up, you said 'Lemme alone, Mark'."
"Oh." Alan swallowed, trying again to suppress the grief that sprang up anew every time he thought about his partner. "Mark was my best friend."
"Was?"
"Yes. I guess I called you Mark because you talk like him. He was from Shallock."
"So'm I." Monty shook his head. "Sorry. I shouldn'ta asked."
"It's okay." Alan sighed.
"Try'n take it easy in there today. Don't bust any more o' them damned crystals, huh?"
"Okay."
Monty looked at him dubiously. "Think you're gonna find any more?"
"Maybe." Alan shrugged. "I don't know."
Monty was still looking at him and Alan could feel the man's curiosity. "It was real lucky for you yesterday that the gas alarm happened to go off when it did, wasn't it?"
There was a moment's silence. Alan shifted uncomfortably and looked away.
"Feel like talkin' about it, kid?"
"About what?"
Monty was silent a moment. "Nothin'," he said at last. "I thought you'd had it yesterday. That Edgebastion's got a foul temper. I saw him kill a guy once, but at least we get a break from him for a while. Thank the stars for Sergeant Fishbine." He glanced up as the doors began to open. "Here they come ... Holy hell! There's Edgebastion! They musta doubled him back! He's gonna be in a foul mood, which ain't sayin' much." Monty cussed under his breath. "Dammitall! There's Priddy, too! The dynamic duo. C'mon, kid, get up. Don't draw attention to yourself."
Two patrolmen were entering as he helped Alan to his feet. Alan shuffled toward the door, deliberately keeping his face down. He saw Sergeant Edgebastion standing to one side, surveying the slaves intently as they passed. Alan sidled by him, trying to keep the taller figure of Monty between himself and the man.
They were herded into the mine and Alan went with the others to collect his pick. Edgebastion stood watching them, rubbing a thumb across his jaw in a way so like Mark's that Alan could almost imagine his partner standing there. He turned his face away, swallowing a lump in his throat, and went quickly to work.
His stamina was far less today than it had been the day before. His broken ribs hurt agonizingly as he tried to swing the pick, and he had to keep fighting back the black spots that jumped out of the air at him. Priddy was all that Monty had said he was. Alan winced as the slave on his left faltered in his work and the patrolman drew his shocker. The slave grabbed the pick again, and then crumpled to his knees with a scream. Priddy glanced at him dispassionately and strode on down the row of laborers.
Sergeant Edgebastion seemed unusually nervous today, striding back and forth, watching the slaves closely. Three times, Alan felt his neck prickle as the man stood right behind him, fingers tapping his belt, and each time he redoubled his efforts.
Patrolman Priddy had singled out one of the native slaves and was using his shocker again. Alan glanced involuntarily sideways at the scene and saw Edgebastion head toward the man. Priddy spoke casually to the sergeant and went back to his recreation. Alan shuddered, caught Monty's eyes on him and returned quickly to his work.
No crystals had been turned up yet. Alan was waiting for the telltale tingling of his fingertips that would let him know he was getting close, but it didn't come, and as the minutes dragged by, his blows at the wall grew steadily more feeble. If he didn't find one soon, it would be too late.
"On your feet, scum!"
Alan's head snapped up. He was on his knees, although he didn't remember falling. Patrolman Priddy jerked him to his feet and Alan felt hot terror jolt through him. The man backhanded him across the face, snapping his head violently sideways. A scream was torn from him. The patrolman dropped him and Alan fell, his legs unable to hold him upright.
"Get up!" A foot planted itself in his ribs. He cried out again, as the pain seemed to explode through his whole body. Consciousness began to grey out.
"I said, get up!" A shock tore through him. He whimpered as the world slid away, hanging doggedly on to a final shred of consciousness.
Sergeant Edgebastion came charging around the corner, and Alan gave himself up for lost.
XVIII
Mark Linley came tearing around the corner and down the tunnel, to find himself unexpectedly confronted by a tall, bearded black-skinned Terran slave.
"Please, sir!" the man was speaking frantically. "He'll kill the kid! Please stop him, sir!"
The mind contact had faded; Mark's guide was gone. Linley looked past the man to the scene beyond. A grinning patrolman was standing over one of the native slaves. The figure was small, and dirty from head to foot. He had crumpled to the ground, obviously at the end of his strength.
Linley felt his hopes plummet. The man didn't look anything like Alan. He was obviously just an unfortunate native who couldn't take the grueling pace any longer. Better to let him die here and end his suffering.
But where was Alan? In the other mine? Taking a beating like this one, perhaps dying, and Mark was trapped here, unable to reach him ...
"Please, sir, for God's sake --"
The patrolman raised the shocker again and pressed the button. The mind contact closed and the native jerked convulsively as Linley felt the shock rip along his nerves, startling a grunt of pain from him. He pushed the Terran aside, growling absently for him to get back to work, and strode toward the patrolman.
"Lay off, Priddy," he snarled, "or you can go on the next slave raid. He ain't no use to us dead!"
The patrolman turned to look at him in surprise, and Mark was dimly aware of the blank astonishment on the face of the Terran slave, but at the moment he had no eyes for anyone but the native. He had raised his head unbelievingly to stare at Mark and Linley's heart jerked as he looked into a pair of bright, green eyes, now blurred and dazed with pain. Mark Linley would have known those eyes anywhere.
For a long moment he stared into Alan's face, horror welling up within him. Thickly coated with grime from his dark curls to his bare feet, Alan presented an appalling aspect. There was a livid bruise covering the entire side of his face, and above his right eye, even with the hairline, was a deep, swollen gash, encrusted with dirt and old blood. It had broken open again and fresh blood was smeared across his forehead. His eyes were blackened as well, his nose was bleeding, and blood oozed from a torn lip. His body was covered with bruises, which Linley had taken, coated as they were with dirt, to be the normal color of a Kuloghian native's skin.
Mark stepped quickly forward, reaching down for him, but his partner jerked back, covering his face with his arms as if to shield himself from a blow, and as Linley bent toward him, the tips of Alan's fingers just brushed his chin.
Under normal circumstances, he would have ignored it, but now it provided the excuse he needed. Linley seized his partner by the arm, dragging him to his feet. Alan gave a shrill gasp of pain and Mark bit his lip, but he must get the boy out of here now, and there was no other way to do it.
"Try'n slap me, willya, scum?" He barked. "C'mon! You an' me's gonna have a little talk!" He glanced at Priddy. "Take over."
"Yessir." The man glanced sideways at the Terran slave and grinned nastily.
Mark turned and dragged Alan with him down the rocky tunnel. Priddy laughed. "So long, scum," he chortled. "Been nice knowin' you!"
Linley turned a bend in the tunnel. From behind him came the sound of a blow and a grunt of pain. He felt a moment's regret that Alan's defender must suffer for his actions but then he forgot about the Terran, his attention all for his partner, stumbling and weaving beside him, only half-conscious.
As soon as they were out of sight of the others, Linley scooped the boy into his arms and bore him down a deserted side tunnel for some distance. A low narrow passage opened off of it, evidently a deposit that had played out. Mark barely had room to stand erect as he turned down it, pausing to yank a low-hanging lantern from the entrance as he did so. When the tunnel came to an abrupt end, Mark stopped and lowered Alan to the rocky floor, setting the lantern to one side.
His partner lay still. Suddenly frightened, Mark put his arm under Alan's shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. "Kid! Kid, are you all right? Say somethin'!"
Alan opened his eyes, saw Linley's visored face bending over him and cowered back with a cry of sheer terror. With fingers that shook in his need for haste, Mark unsnapped the strap of the helmet, yanking it free. "It's okay! It's me!"
Alan's eyes widened, his gaze suddenly riveted to the features bending over him. He had gone paper-white under the dirt and blood. For a long moment they stared at each other and then Alan's hand came up almost involuntarily to touch Linley's face.
"Mark?" The word was barely audible.
"Hi, kid," Mark said.
Alan's face crumpled. His eyes closed and tears began to leak from under the lids. Mark pulled his partner tightly against him, holding him as he sobbed. Alan gripped him convulsively, shudders shaking his body, and Mark felt a lump rise in his own throat, making it hard to speak.
"It's okay," he muttered gruffly. "I'm here now. We're gonna be all right. Take it easy."
Slowly Alan's sobs ceased and his grip on Linley slackened. Mark lowered him back to the mine floor and looked searchingly at him. He cleared his throat. "Better now?"
Alan rubbed a hand across his forehead, his gaze never leaving Linley's face. He nodded and reached up to grasp Mark's sleeve with a grimy hand. "I thought you were dead!"
Linley stared at him, perplexed. "Dead?" he repeated. "Why should I be dead? You were the one that had us scared half to death." He brushed the dark curls away from the wound on his partner's forehead. "Didja get that in the wreck? I --" He stopped abruptly and leaned forward to look closely at Alan's eyes. His partner's pupils were unequal. Lorie's words, vaguely heard at the time, came back suddenly. "Retrograde amnesia. It's pretty common after a blow to the head ..."
"You musta got some knock on the head," he said slowly.
Alan closed his eyes, still gripping Mark's sleeve. "I woke up in a ship. There was a dead man in the control room. I couldn't see his face -- he was too messed up. But his hair was just like yours." He stopped, drawing a long breath. "I couldn't remember anything about the crash or where I was, or who had been with me. I thought --"
"Easy," Mark said. "It's all over now. Just lie still."
Alan obeyed, his eyes closed, a smile tugging at a corner of his battered mouth. Linley surveyed him doubtfully. His partner looked about done. He would certainly have been dead by now, the way that stinking 'trol had been enjoying himself. Mark's lips tightened. Well, it didn't matter now. Somehow he had to get Alan out of here. The problem was, how? He had a plan, but he hadn't expected his partner to be in quiet as bad shape as he now appeared to be. And he certainly couldn't stand up to six-and-a-half more hours of work in the mine.
His partner had become very still. Linley glanced at his chronometer. He'd been gone for nearly fifteen minutes. His patrolmen would be wondering, but there was no help for it. He had to get Alan into good enough shape to assist him if his idea was to work. He took the canteen from his belt and touched his partner's shoulder. "Here, kid, want some water?"
Alan gulped. Linley allowed him four swallows and removed the container. Easy there; I don't wantcha makin' yourself sick. You can have some more, later. I got somethin' else for you, too." He dug in his pouch and produced the bedraggled sandwich. "It's sorta squashed," he remarked, "but it's better'n nothin'."
His partner devoured the sandwich with ravenous speed and then lay back again, closing his eyes. Mark patted his shoulder. "That's it," he said. "Relax. Getcher strength back. I'm gonna getcha outta here, but I'll need some help."
Alan's eyes opened. "What do you want me to do?"
"Nothin' right now. Just lie still. Take your time."
Silence fell. Ten minutes crept slowly by. Linley glanced at his chronometer again and forced himself to wait. Every minute he could gain for Alan to recover was an asset for his plans. Alan's breathing had become quiet and regular. His partner was asleep. Several more minutes went by.
"Whatcha doin', Sarge?" a voice inquired.
Instantly, Linley's blaster was in his hand and he slewed around on one knee. "Freeze!"
The patrolman obeyed, lifting his hands over his head. "You're not the sarge!"
Linley didn't reply. He flipped the blaster to stun and fired. The man crumpled to the tunnel floor.
Mark turned back to Alan. His partner had come awake and was pushing himself up on his elbows. "What --"
"Somebody got curious," Mark said briefly. "You rest for a few more minutes." He bent over the patrolman, removed the restrainers from his belt and cuffed his hands behind him. Systematically, he took the other man's blaster and tucked it into his own belt at the small of his back. Turning, he went back to kneel by his partner and helped him to sit upright.
"Feelin' any better?"
"Some." Alan rubbed his face and then looked at his palms. "Wow; I must look like death warmed over."
"Sorta," Mark agreed. "Just as well. It mighta been what kept 'em from spottin' you. Here; have another drink."
Alan tilted up the canteen. Mark watched him, rubbing a thumb across his chin, as he had a habit of doing when he was thinking hard. Retrieving the container, he glanced down the passage. No one was in sight but it wouldn't be long before the other patrolmen began to miss their companion. They were already wondering what had happened to their sarge, or this guy wouldn't be here.
"Listen, kid," he said. "We're runnin' outta time. I don't wanna rush you, but we're gonna hafta move. Think you can walk?"
Alan nodded. "I think so."
"Okay. Sit still a few minutes more while I tellya what I got in mind. You tell me if you can handle it. If you can't, we'll try'n think o' somethin' else."
"All right." Alan leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Linley chewed his lower lip. "I'm gonna need a diversion. I need you to yank down a few more lamps and put the riot alarm outta commission. Think you can do it?"
Alan's eyes opened in surprise. "How did you know?"
"Your pal the sarge told me all about it," Mark said, with a sudden grin. "That's how I figured you were in this group of slaves." He chuckled. "Trenchcrawler thought you were a ghost. You scared the pants off him."
"I know." Alan smiled a little and then frowned. "Mark, if you're here, where's he?"
Mark socked him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry about him. He ain't gonna bother you no more. Now, as I was sayin', we're gonna need a diversion. Think you can do it?"
"Yeah," Alan said. "Now that you're here, I can."
"Good." Linley replaced his helmet and fastened the strap. He stood up, reaching down to help Alan to his feet. As he slipped an arm around his partner, Alan bit off a gasp. Mark frowned. "What's wrong?"
Alan made a face. "I think I cracked some ribs. I'll be all right."
Linley adjusted his grip and cussed softly. "I gotta getcha back to the base an' let the docs fix you up. That better?"
"It's fine," Alan assured him. "Believe me, Mark, now that you're here, I feel much better."
"I'll bet. Okay then, we're ready. Just lean on me." He guided his partner's steps down the side passageway toward the main tunnel.
At the entrance, they paused. Linley glanced down. "Gonna make it okay?"
"I think so." Alan glanced up at him. "What happened to Monty?"
"Who?"
"Monty. The man who was trying to help me."
"I dunno. Let's worry about him later. Right now we got enough problems. Remember, get the alarm first. We don't want 'em gassin' us. The controls are on the right side o' the door." He took a firm grip on Alan's arm and propelled him forward. "Move it, runt!"
Alan's head was drooping but suddenly Mark felt the familiar, undefinable drain that meant his partner was tapping him for power. The boy's head came up. "Got it!" Linley heard his exultant whisper. "Here we go!"
The power drain hit him again. A lamp began to swing crazily, sending shadows dancing across the walls. There was a clang, followed by a grating noise, and Mark saw the patrolmen spin, their visored faces turning upward. There were startled yells. The lantern seemed to leap outward from the wall and plummeted toward a patrolman. The man sprang aside, but the lamp changed course, striking his helmet and sending him to his knees. Even before he fell, another lantern began to swing.
The slaves had ceased their work and were backing away from the walls, uttering frightened exclamations. One of the patrolmen shouted something hopelessly lost in the confusion of echoes in the mine.
The lamp fell and the man dove sideways. It pursued him, clipping him on the back of the neck. He sprawled on his face and lay moaning at Alan's feet.
Mark saw a third lamp begin to sway. Beside him, Alan was trembling and he felt his partner's hand close tightly on his wrist. Linley removed the spare blaster from his belt. The lamp jerked free and plunged downward. The patrolman beneath it leaped backwards, yelling, "There's a damn psychic in here! That's our ghost!"
The lamp crashed to the floor at his feet and the patrolman's voice reverberated around them. "Blast the Terrans! It's gotta be one of them!"
The Terran slaves scattered, screaming. Linley's blaster hummed and the patrolman sank to the floor.
Besides himself, only one patrolman was still standing. Linley stunned one of the downed figures that was trying feebly to rise and turned the weapon on the remaining patrolman. He fired, but in the uncertain light, he missed. The man spun to face him. "Sarge! Have you gone nuts?"
Linley could feel Alan sagging against him. A fourth lamp trembled, swung once and subsided. Mark let his partner slide to the floor and fired at the patrolman again. He missed once more. The man returned fire and dove sideways, scrambling for cover.
But the slaves were getting into the act now. Three of them hit the man together. His blaster spat and then was wrestled from his hand. There was a sharp cry, the crack of the weapon and then silence.
Something hit Mark behind the knees, sending him sprawling to the floor. He heard Alan's frantic cry, just as something hard cracked him across the back of the neck. He saw stars and felt the blaster wrenched from his hand. A body landed on top of him. Arms encircled him tightly.
"No! Not him! He's on our side!" Alan's voice was right next to his ear.
"Get the kid off him. I've been wantin' to do this for a long time."
Hands tugged at Alan, trying to pull him free. Alan clutched Mark desperately, gasping, "No! No! He's not a 'trol!"
Alan was wrenched free. Hands seized Mark, rolling him over and pinning his arms. Linley found himself staring up at a circle of dirty faces. Alan was to his left, being held back by one of the Terran slaves.
"He's not a 'trol!" Alan cried again. "Don't hurt him, Monty!"
The husky Terran standing over Mark glanced at him doubtfully. "He sure looks like one, kiddo."
"He *is* one!" another slave shouted. "He's that bloody sergeant who's so handy with his little shocker!"
"The sarge had a slight accident," Mark said. "He's lyin' at the bottom of a laundry chute with his neck busted."
There was a sudden silence. Monty wiped a trickle of blood from his chin and glanced at the man holding Alan. "Let him go. He's a good kid. He wouldn't join the 'trols -- I know that for sure."
The man released Alan. He knelt beside Mark, unstrapped his helmet and pulled it off. "See, Monty?"
Monty was looking at Linley. "Yer right, kid. That ain't Edgebastion."
"Yes it is!" the Terran who had been holding Alan asserted. "Looks just like him! A real pretty boy!"
"I ain't Edgebastion," Mark said. "And if you'll let my arms go, I'll prove it. His I.D.'s in my left front pouch. His picture's on it. It ain't me."
Monty squatted down and fumbled in the belt pouch, removing the wallet. He flipped it open and held it for the other slaves to see.
"Please, Monty," Alan said. "He's *not* a 'trol. He's my friend, Mark. He came to get me out."
Monty looked measuringly at him. "You told me he was dead."
"I thought he was," Alan said. "I was in an accident, and I thought he was there, too. I'd hit my head and couldn't remember. But he wasn't." Alan looked at the slaves. "Let him go. Please!"
Monty surveyed Linley for a long moment. He grinned suddenly. "Wish I had friends like that. Okay, guys, let him go."
Slowly, the slaves released him and Mark sat up, rubbing his neck. "Man! You guys play for keeps, don'tcha? Guess I can't blame you, though."
Monty grinned. "Sorry 'bout that. You look enough like Edgebastion to be his brother, but you ain't him, that's for sure." He extended a hand. "Name's Lamont Hedgecock -- Monty to my friends."
Linley shook hands with him. "Call me Mark. Thanks for steppin' in for m'lil buddy here. Hope ol' Priddy didn't knock you around too bad after I left."
Monty shrugged eloquently. "Wasn't the first time. Now; what's the plan?"
Mark glanced past the slaves. "All those 'trols outta commission?"
Somebody laughed.
"How are you planning to get ze boy out?" the Arcturian slave inquired. "Ze door iss locked, and zese men do not have a key." He glanced expectantly at Alan. "I do not ssuppose zat zere iss any way we can be included in your planss?"
"Hell, yes," Linley said. "I'm gonna need every one o' you guys." He rested a palm on Alan's shoulder. "Feelin' better?"
Alan nodded, his lips still paper-white.
"All right," Mark said, looking at the assembled slaves, again. "We do have a way to get out but we're all gonna hafta work together t'do it. Lemme tellya what I got in mind." He rested an arm on Alan's shoulders. "As soon as Alan feels up to it, he's gonna unlock that door for us."
There was a moment's silence and then one of the Terrans straightened up. "*He's* the psychic!"
Linley bristled. "Yeah!" he snapped. "An' you been listenin' to that garbage the Jils spew out about Terran psychics! You think they spread that fertilizer around for *our* good, pal? Alan, an' the others like him, are the worst threat they've ever run into, an' they don't like it one bit!"
The Arcturian had moved over beside Alan and now spoke unexpectedly. "After all, Mel, whom did ze lanternss attack? No one wass hurt -- except ze 'trols."
The Terran looked dubious. "I've heard they're clever. Why, I read somewhere that Hitler was a psychic!"
Someone behind Mark snickered loudly. "How the hell would *they* know? Don't be a sap, Mel."
Monty had gone to the water barrel. Now he pushed his way through the assembled crowd and knelt beside Alan, handing him a dipper of water. Alan drank thirstily and Monty spoke over his shoulder to his fellow Terran.
"For the luvvamike, Mel, do your own thinkin' for once. You don't swallow that chowder they ladle out to us, do you? Since when have the Jils given two hoots about anybody but themselves? They sure as hell ain't worried much about *you* right now! If they don't like Terran psychics, that's good enough for me. I'll back Alan an' the others like him all the way -- an' then some!"
Mel looked at Alan, surrounded protectively by the assembled slaves. The Terran psychic raised weary eyes to meet his gaze, and for a moment there was dead silence. Mel shrugged. "Sorry. Guess I didn't think about that. Me and my big mouth."
Alan gave him a wan smile.
Monty was squatting beside Mark, looking at Alan. "You okay, kiddo? I thought you'd had it when Priddy started in on you."
"I'm all right," Alan said.
Monty shook his head. "Man! I thought Edgebastion was right about the ghost when all those lanterns started comin' down. Why didn'tcha do this before?"
"I couldn't," Alan said. He didn't elaborate. Monty opened his mouth to say something and then apparently changed his mind.
"What are we to do after you open ze door?" the Arcturian asked, getting back to the point. "From here it doess not look azz if we have much of a chance."
"Yes, we do," Mark said. "As long as you all do exactly what I say."
He began to talk.
**********
tbc
