Toomelli's Moon: 6/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Mark Linley swam back to consciousness, aware of a thundering headache. His mouth felt as if a cat had slept in it for a week and his eyes throbbed with every beat of his heart. He groaned and tried to lever himself up on his elbows.
A wet cloth was laid across his forehead and an arm slipped under his shoulders. He grasped blindly, and the hand closed around a small, muscular forearm. Linley opened his eyes.
His partner was kneeling beside him. His expression was worried and very contrite.
"Hi, Mark. Gosh; I'm awfully sorry."
Mark let go of the arm and closed his eyes. His stomach lurched, and he began to retch. Alan held a basin for him as he lost the sandwich that he had eaten aboard "Loki's Choice" and then lowered him to the deck again.
"Better?" Alan inquired.
Mark groaned again. "Damn you, kid!"
Alan was silent. After a moment, Mark opened his eyes a second time and pushed himself up on one elbow. "Holy hell! I'm in the Strike Commander's quarters!"
"There was no place else to drag you," Alan said apologetically. "Strike Commander Griffen said he wouldn't be back until sixteen hundred hours, so I figured it was pretty safe." He smiled. "He's really a very nice man. He reminds me a lot of you."
"I s'pose that's meant to be reassurin'." Mark sat up slowly. "Are you nuts? You mean to tell me you been waitin' on the Strike Commander o' the ship, bare-faced?"
Alan shrugged. "Sure. Gregson is newly assigned to him. Griffen's never seen him before. He's already told me how much I look like Alan Westover. We had a good laugh over it. I told him I'd been mistaken for the Jil killer a couple of times and I was thinking of having a little plastic surgery done before someone potted me for the reward."
Mark rolled his eyes. "I sure hope you know what you're doin'. Did you read his mind? Are you sure he doesn't suspect?"
Alan nodded. "Sure I'm sure. That was the first thing I did when he came in, before the Jil boarded. You'd never believe it! He wasn't even considering the possibility that I might really *be* Westover! He's got his mind on 'that poor sap, Kaley', and that unmentionable Jil. Anyway, who'd expect Alan Westover to turn up in a position like this? Believe me, it's okay."
"Yeah, and what would you have done if he'd recognized you? I suppose you had that all worked out, too?"
Alan nodded. "Of course. I had a sleep gas pellet in my pocket the whole time we were talking. If he'd started to get suspicious, I'd have held my breath and dropped it."
"And what would you have done if he'd held his breath, too?"
"Then I'd have pulled his blaster away like I did with you. He didn't suspect. Not a bit."
"Damn lucky for you," Mark growled.
Alan sobered. "Yes, it was. I'd have had to kill him and then, while they were looking for him, I'd have had to locate you and Dan. It would have been a little complicated, so I'm glad he didn't recognize me. Come on, Mark, you'd better get back to your post before someone starts wondering where you are. How's the headache? Is it getting better?"
Mark rubbed his scalp and got carefully to his feet. "Yeah." He eyed his partner with a certain grim respect. "I guess you've proved yourself. By the way, was it you that kicked my feet out from under me or was I just clumsy?"
"It was me," Alan admitted. "I'd had my shields up because of the Jil, you know, and you scared the wits out of me. I thought I'd been recognized, sure. When you started toward me, I just reacted."
Mark grinned and took the helmet Alan was offering him, settling it firmly on his head. "You couldn't have been too scared. You didn't link with me at all."
"Yes and no," Alan said after a minute. "I guess I was more shocked than scared, and I knew I could deal with the problem. I figured if I'd handled Coots once, I could do it again. Coots was Salthvor's escort; remember?"
Mark stared at him a moment, mentally reviewing the few vital seconds before their departure from the battlecruiser, two years ago. "You're right. I'd forgotten." He bent to pick up his blaster. "Hey! This thing's set to kill!"
"Yes, I know," Alan said, apologetically. "If it hadn't been you, I was going to finish the job."
"Great balls o' fire!" Mark stared down at his partner's face and tried to assume an attitude of severity. "I don't suppose it made a difference that I ordered you to stay behind? I may be your partner, but I'm still your superior officer!"
Alan shrugged slightly, a faint smile on his lips. "So arrest me, sir."
Linley glared at him and then gave a reluctant laugh. "Okay, you win. I better get outta here, now."
"Sure." Alan opened the door and stepped calmly out. "All clear." He leaned down to pick up the bundle of clothing that he had dropped just inside the doorway. Mark stepped out after him and the door swished shut behind them.
"Where's Dan?" Alan inquired.
"Eighth level."
"Is he okay?"
"Hope so. He's just a security guard, like me."
Alan grinned. "You're very convincing." He glanced up and down the corridor.
"Can I help you find somethin', kid?"
Alan nodded. "I'm supposed to get this uniform ready and there's supposed to be a cabin along here with the brushes and polish and stuff."
Mark pointed. "Third door on your left."
"Thanks." Alan went past him and through the door. A few moments later he reappeared, passed Mark without a glance and vanished into the Strike Commander's quarters again. Mark began to make his rounds, feeling a little chagrined at the cool way that his partner had disobeyed his orders and weaseled his way aboard the ship. The little varmint was learning, all right.
**********
VII
Strike Commander Griffen returned to his quarters promptly at sixteen hundred hours and Alan was at the door to meet him and take his helmet from his hands. He could see Mark watching from the corridor before the door slid shut between them once more.
Alan assisted the Strike Commander to take off his boots and brought him a drink. Ronald Griffen was a big man, as most patrolmen were, and surprisingly young for a Strike Commander. Alan guessed his age as somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. He had a dark complexion, jet-black hair, black eyes, a hawk nose and a breadth of shoulder that made Alan envious. He had often thought it grossly unfair that Terran psychics must be so small.
The Strike Commander sprawled on his bunk and gulped from the glass. "That's good."
"Thank you, sir." Alan hesitated. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"
Griffen closed his eyes. "Yeah. I got a helluva headache. Get me my prescription, will you? The bottle's in the bathroom cabinet."
Alan fetched the bottle and offered Griffen a glass of water. The Strike Commander shook his head, gulping the tablets down with the drink. Alan returned the glass to the bathroom and dimmed the overhead lights. "Shall I leave, sir?"
"Sure; go ahead. I'll ring if I need anything."
"Yes sir." Alan started for the door.
"Gregson."
"Yes sir?"
"If I go to sleep, wake me up at eighteen hundred hours."
"Yes sir."
"Thanks." Griffen crooked an arm over his eyes. Alan retired quietly into the valet's quarters adjacent to the Commander's cabin, and opened the door to the corridor.
Mark passed him, jerking his head in a command to get back inside. Officers were passing in the corridor and Alan retreated quickly. After a moment, he lay down on the narrow bunk and thought about Kaley, alone in the brig, with a probable interrogation around the corner. Alan could sure sympathize with him in that aspect. He'd been in the very same spot on this ship only a little over two years ago. He'd been sitting in the brig, guarded by a sadistic patrolman named Parks, he recalled. He'd taunted the man, trying to goad him into doing something stupid enough that Alan could somehow turn the tables on him and escape. Not that he had any real hope of it, but sitting there and doing nothing had been more than he could stand.
And out of the blue, Mark had betrayed his masters and come to save him. During their escape, Alan had shot the ship's resident Jilectan, outdrawing the faster and stronger being to save Mark's life. The psychic experts claimed the strange pairing was due to their psychic link, that must have formed instantly when they had met, but Alan had always thought there was something more behind it.
He was jarred back from his musings by the sound of the Commander's call bell. Alan sat up, glancing guiltily at his chronometer, but as yet it was only a few minutes past seventeen hundred. He went into Griffen's quarters to find him sitting up on his bunk, rubbing his neck.
"Yes sir?"
"Holy cow, Gregson! Every time I see you, I do a double-take. You sure do look like Westover!"
Alan chuckled, extending his telepathic probe, but there was no suspicion in the Strike Commander's mind -- only pain and frustration. "Actually I am, sir. I mugged Gregson and stole his ID. I'm really here to rescue Kiley from the Jils."
"Kaley," Griffen said.
"That's right: Kaley. Can I help you, sir?"
Griffen winced. "This damned headache's getting worse."
Alan went over to the bunk and began massaging the Strike Commander's neck. The muscles in the man's shoulders and upper back were like steel bands, but after a few moments, he could feel the hard fibers beginning to relax. Griffen grunted and sighed.
"Man, that feels good!" He fell silent, his eyes closed. Alan kept rubbing.
"A hot bath might help, sir," he suggested.
"Mm, yeah; in a few minutes. Don't stop, yet, kid. That feels great. My neck's in a hard knot."
"Yes sir." Alan continued the massage a moment and then paused. "If you'll lie down on the bunk, sir, I can do a better job."
Griffen complied instantly and Alan continued the rubdown, letting clairvoyance guide his hands. The Commander was relaxing.
"Is something bothering you, sir?" Alan asked.
"Nah -- well, yeah; I guess there is." Griffen grunted disgustedly. "This is a ticklish mission, you know."
"Yes sir."
"And I always hate having a Jil aboard. Keep that under your hat, Gregson."
"Of course, sir, but it's likely the Jil already knows." Alan started slowly working the muscles down the man's back. Griffen was now completely relaxed, a fact that also made Alan breathe easier. Strike Commanders of the Viceregal Patrol were, without exception, extremely intelligent individuals, and Alan had been more worried than he cared to admit to Mark that Griffen might sense something and investigate further. The fact that he was so relaxed spoke of his trust in his valet, a trust that could never have existed if he had suspected Alan's true identity.
Again, he extended his telepathic probe. Griffen was feeling much better, the headache almost completely gone. Drowsiness tugged at the edges of his consciousness. A little smile quirked the corners of Alan's mouth as he realized that, through the rubdown, he had made himself invaluable to Strike Commander Griffen, who apparently suffered from these headaches very frequently. There was nothing like relief from pain to endear one person to another.
He paused. "Better, sir?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah." Griffen didn't move and his voice was drowsy. "I feel like a new man. Where'd you learn that?"
Alan smiled. "My girlfriend taught me, sir. She's a dancer. They have to stay relaxed and limber, you know."
The Commander opened his eyes and rolled over. "A dancer, huh? Sounds like my kind of girl."
Alan smiled. "Would you like that bath now, sir, or shall I just leave you alone?"
"No, I'll take the bath. Get it ready, will you?" Griffen sat up, beginning to strip off his uniform. Alan went into the bathroom, turned on the water and placed clean towels on the rack. Returning to the Commander's room, he helped Griffen remove his uniform, folding it neatly.
"Thanks." Griffen went past him and Alan retired, closing the bathroom door behind him. He placed a fresh uniform on the bed, straightened the room and went back to his own quarters.
The minutes went past and he fidgeted. He wanted to check on Mark but didn't dare. Even the little mental peeks from behind his shields were risky with the Jil in his stateroom on this deck. He hoped sincerely that Griffen wouldn't mention his valet's incredible likeness to anyone. He sure as heck didn't want it reaching the ears of the Jil.
A quick glance at his chronometer brought him quickly to his feet. Good grief! It was two minutes past eighteen hundred! He went quickly to the Commander's door and knocked.
There was no answer and Alan felt a jab of alarm. Had the man guessed and gone for reinforcements? Surely he would have sensed something during the rubdown if Griffen had been thinking of such a thing.
Carefully, he eased the door open. The fresh uniform still lay on the bed and the room was in order. Could Griffen still be in the bath? If so, it had been over thirty minutes. Alan went quietly to the bathroom door and eased it gently open a crack.
The combination of a hot bath and massage had apparently worked. Strike Commander Griffen was asleep.
Alan knocked. "Sir?"
There was a grunt and a surprised splash. "Yeah?"
"Eighteen hundred, sir."
"Ah, hell! Come in, Gregson."
Alan entered and handed him a towel. "Sorry, sir."
"Me, too." Griffen dried himself and slipped on the robe that Alan held for him. "Thanks."
"How's the headache, sir?"
"About gone." Griffen went out, drying his hair, and Alan followed him. Griffen tossed him the towel and began to dress. "You're good at your work, Gregson."
"Thank you, sir."
"Where are you assigned now? I'd like to keep you around, if I could -- and if it's okay with you, of course."
Alan could answer the first question truthfully. When he had explored young David Gregson's mind, back at the bar, he had picked up all the information that he was likely to need. "I was Strike Commander Balenhurst's valet, sir. He retired a month ago, and I've been filling in ever since."
"Umph. Guess I'll ask to keep you, then. That idiot, Patterson, drives me crazy."
Alan smiled faintly. That sounded familiar. Mark had had the same complaint. "May I suggest that you hurry, sir? Strike Commander Foxe wants me, too. I filled in for his valet last week, and he took a fancy to me, but I'd rather stay with you, if you don't mind. Strike Commander Foxe --" Alan hesitated. "Well, he can be a bit crabby, sometimes."
"Diplomatic, aren't you?" Griffen grinned crookedly. "Sure, kid, I'll grab you. You're the best valet I've ever had."
"Thank you, sir." Alan knelt to assist him with his boots. "I'd appreciate it."
"Consider it done." Griffen stood up and Alan got to his feet.
"Can I get you some coffee, sir?"
"Nah; I'm nervous enough." He glanced quickly at Alan. "Keep that under your hat, too. Okay?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Help yourself if you want some, though. "We'll be landing in half an hour and I'll be back around 2200."
"Thank you, sir."
There was a knock at the door and Alan reached over to press the com switch on the panel. Griffen glanced up. "Yeah?"
"Message from Lord Valthzor, sir," a voice said over the speaker.
"Get the door, Gregson."
Alan pressed the switch by the panel and a tall, muscular patrolman entered.
"What is it?" Griffen asked.
"The interrogation's been moved up, sir."
Griffen sighed and Alan's heart sank.
"They're going to begin immediately, sir, as soon as you disembark at the base."
"All right, Parks. Thank you."
Alan froze at Griffen's mention of the name. He looked quickly at the patrolman and, as though on cue, Parks turned his head to look at Alan. There was a moment of stunned silence as the name on the patrolman's helmet seemed to spring out at him, and his breath caught in alarm. This was Wilbur Parks, the one patrolman on the ship who could not fail to recognize him! Two years ago he had been Alan's guard when he had been a prisoner aboard the "Wolverine". Parks had good reason to remember him.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Alan turned away, picking up Griffen's helmet from the bunk and wiping the fingerprints from its gleaming surface.
A large, brutal hand descended on his shoulder with bruising force and spun him about. Parks' face was inches from his own, helmet off, and his teeth gleamed in a malicious grin of pleasure.
"By the stars! You've come back, Peewee! I knew I'd get another chance at you someday!" He backhanded Alan across the mouth.
Alan fell flat on the deck and stars leaped out of the air at him. Parks grasped him by the back of the collar, dragging him up again.
"What the devil!" Griffen yanked Parks backward and Alan caught a glimpse of the Commander's fist striking Parks in the face. The patrolman dropped Alan to the deck and sat down hard.
Griffen knelt beside Alan. "You okay, Gregson?"
Alan blinked, trying to focus his eyes. "I think so, sir." His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
"Sit down." Griffen pushed Alan to his own bunk. "I'll get the doc."
Parks was on his feet, approaching the bunk, his blaster in his hand. "It's Westover! Don't you recognize him, sir?"
Griffen turned furiously on the man. "Are you completely crazy, Patrolman? Do you think Alan Westover would be stupid enough to pose as a Strike Commander's valet aboard a Patrol battlecruiser? This boy is David Gregson, my new valet, and a damned good one, too! Now, thanks to you, he'll probably request immediate transfer as soon as this mission is over! Damn you, Parks!"
Parks muttered under his breath. "But, he --"
"Mister Parks, you are relieved of duty. Report to your quarters!"
"But, sir --"
"That will be *all*, Patrolman! And put that bloody blaster away!"
Parks hesitated and then jammed the weapon back into its holster. Alan pushed himself dizzily to his elbows. Griffen glanced at him over his shoulder. "Lie still, kid. Parks, you get out of here." He reached over to press the com unit on his nightstand.. "Doctor Van Kemphin, report to the Strike Commander's quarters immediately."
Parks glowered at Alan. "You haven't seen the last of me, Peewee. I'll bet Linley's hanging around somewhere, too."
"One more word out of you, Parks and you'll be in the brig. Van Kemphin, respond!"
"On my way, sir," the doctor's voice said from the unit.
"That's not necessary, sir," Alan protested.
Griffen hadn't removed his gaze from Parks. "I'm going to have the doc check you over. I thought you'd busted your head open."
Parks made a growling sound deep in his throat, turned and exited the Strike Commander's quarters without a word.
"Damned fool," Griffen muttered.
Alan smiled shakily. "It's all right, sir. He's not the first to make the mistake, although I'll admit he's the first to get so physical about it."
"Don't bother, Gregson," Griffen said. "Parks is busted back to third classer again. Listen, I'm really sorry about this. I didn't expect him to hit you. He caught me off guard but I promise he won't bother you any more. I'm going to have him transferred. I've about had it with him."
"I always knew I looked like Westover," Alan said. "My girl used to tease me about it and I didn't mind. I was kind of proud of it, really, but I never realized the resemblance was that close before. Mr. Parks still isn't convinced."
"Ah, that idiot has been seeing visions of capturing Westover and Linley ever since Salthvor was killed. He was Westover's guard when Linley captured him, two years ago. Linley stunned him and left him in one of the interrogation cabins on the Engineering deck when he rescued Westover. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."
Alan smiled. "That must have been hard to live down."
"He hasn't lived it down and never will. He isn't the type. What the devil is holding up the doc?"
Alan glanced at his chronometer. "You can go, sir. I'll be fine."
Griffen shook his head. "I'll wait 'til the doc gets here. I'm not about to let the best valet I ever had die of a brain hemorrhage." He grinned at Alan's expression. "I'm joking, kid. I'm sure you'll be okay, but I'm in no hurry to get to the control room, anyway."
Alan opened his mouth to protest and closed it again. Griffen raised an eyebrow at him. "Take it easy. How often do you get the Strike Commander to wait on you? Enjoy it."
"All right, sir." Alan lay back on the bunk. "I'm glad you were here. He'd have killed me if you hadn't been."
Griffen glanced around at the knock on his door. "There's the doc, now." He pressed the button to open the door. "Come on in, Doc."
"Has there been an accident?" the doctor asked.
"Yeah." Griffen waved to Alan. "Good old Willie Parks trying out his muscle again. Check the kid out, will you, Paul? I've got to go."
The doctor approached the bunk, glancing at Griffen with a puzzled frown. "Why would Parks beat up your valet, sir?"
"Gregson'll tell you all about it." Griffen picked up his helmet from the deck, strapping it in place as he went out. "See you later, Gregson. Take it easy."
"Yes sir. Thank you."
Griffen departed and the doctor bent over Alan. "Hello, Mr. Gregson. What exactly happened?"
Alan explained while the doctor checked him over. The doctor rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder about Parks." He flashed a light in Alan's eyes. "How do you feel? Any dizziness? Any blurred vision?"
"There was right after he hit me."
"How about now?"
Alan shook his head.
"Good. You look okay except for that cut lip." The doctor began to apply antiseptic to the wound, shaking his head slowly. "That damn fool. Griffen'll bust him again for this."
"I know," Alan said. "I really can't blame him that much, though. I do sort of look like Westover. I've been mistaken for him before."
The doctor regarded him thoughtfully. "Maybe a little," he agreed. "Not that much, though. I saw Westover when he was brought aboard the ship two years ago. He was taller than you by quite a bit and at least five years older. Parks is the kind of guy who sees what he wants to see." Van Kemphin closed his bag and stood up, extending a hand toward Alan. "You'll live. Go to your quarters and rest."
"I will. Thanks a lot."
"Sure." The doctor went out.
Alan took a deep breath and extended a mental probe toward the corridor again. Except for the presence of the doctor and, of course, Mark, the corridor was deserted. He waited until the doctor entered the lift and then pressed the button to open the door.
Mark stepped inside. "Are you okay?"
"Sure. It was Parks. He recognized me."
"Yeah, I know. I saw him come out. If I ever get my hands on that trenchcrawler --"
"Commander Griffen is busting him to third classer again," Alan said.
"I ain't surprised. You nearly gave me a heart attack. I got the link an' I couldn't do nothin'."
But Alan wasn't listening. He turned quickly toward the door. "Mark, there's somebody there!"
"Who?"
"It's Parks! He's come back!"
"Oh, really?" Mark grinned savagely. "Let him in."
**********
tbc
