Violence warning. This story contains a small amount of violence that may be disturbing to some.
"Turnabout" occurs about a year after the rescue of Janice Westover in "Pawn". For anyone wondering about the character of Kevin Bronson, who appears in the second installment, I refer you to "A Family Resemblance" and "A Woman's Touch", posted earlier.
Description: Just how far will a psychic go to protect his partner? Strike Commander Wolenski finds out first hand as he faces the most fateful decision of his life.
Turnabout
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Rated PG-13
I
"Keep your feelers out," Mark Linley said. "This shouldn't take long."
Alan Westover nodded silently, leaning casually against the wall beside the door. In spite of his relaxed posture, he was alert, his telepathic senses scanning for the faintest indication of an approaching mind.
He and his partner were in the Viceregal Research and Development Station here on Troth, and even inside the small laboratory it was uncomfortably hot. Sweat ran down Alan's face and prickled annoyingly on his skin. Mark's back was toward him as his partner bent over the computer on the other side of the room. Linley was dressed as a scientist in a white lab coat, with a coffee stain on one sleeve, and untidy grey slacks. Alan, himself, wore the nondescript white coveralls and covered shoes of a radiation tech.
The building was very quiet. It was almost noon -- lunch hour on Troth -- and the halls were devoid of any presence, Terran or alien. Alan remained still, propped against the wall, concentrating, his extra senses picking up, almost as an undertone, the hum of life in the station. In the background, he heard the soft bleeping of the computer as Mark strove to obtain the information that they sought.
A Terran was coming down the corridor outside and Alan eased his shielded miniature blaster from its hiding place inside the half-unsealed coverall. Mark apparently caught the movement, for his shoulders tensed, and Alan sensed his partner's readiness to grab the tiny shielded blaster that rested within easy reach under the white coat.
The Terran went on by and Alan relaxed, giving his partner the all clear signal. Linley also relaxed slightly. Five minutes went by.
Another Terran approached, this one with the intention in his mind of entering the lab. Alan made a soft whistling sound between his teeth, alerting his partner to the incipient intrusion.
The door hissed open. A tall, slender man in the white coat of a lab technician stepped through, humming softly to himself. The door slid shut behind him and he stopped, glancing from Mark to Alan in mild surprise. "I didn't realize anyone was here --" He paused. "May I see your identification?"
Mark reached into a pocket and withdrew a small, flat card. "Viceregal security check," he said, exhibiting the object before thrusting it back into his pocket. He turned back to the computer. "Viceregal Intelligence is conductin' a surprise inspection. I ain't too impressed with the security in this place."
The lab tech's eyes narrowed. "Just a minute," he protested, reaching for the videophone. "I'm going to call Base Security. I think you need to --"
"I wouldn't try that," Alan said. The tech's eyes widened at the sight of the little blaster, displayed inconspicuously in front of him. Alan kept his body between the lab camera and a view of the small weapon and gestured the man toward the file room. The tech obeyed, his eyes rolling wildly.
Once through the door, Alan nodded. "Good. I won't hurt you unless you make trouble. Lie down on your face."
The tech gulped. His eyes, focused on Alan's face, widened suddenly. "You must be West --"
Alan's blaster hummed gently and the tech collapsed to the floor.
It took bare moments for Alan to tie him with a cord torn from one of the copying machines and to gag him with his own handkerchief. Quickly, Alan returned to the main lab. "Are you about done?"
Linley muttered under his breath. "Damn computer don't wanna cooperate. There! Got it." He stood up, holding something in one hand. Alan scanned the hall beyond quickly and left the room. A few seconds later, Linley exited behind him and strolled toward the exit at a leisurely pace.
The hallway, as he had already determined, was unoccupied. Alan strode along at a businesslike clip. Linley, some distance behind him, walked a little more slowly. Two men emerged from a restroom as they passed. They were big men, like Mark, but clad in the black and scarlet uniforms and silvery helmets of the Viceregal Patrol. Alan brought up a hand ostensibly to scratch his nose but in reality to keep the men from observing his face. It was unlikely that he would be recognized by the casual observer. His disguise was nearly perfect. The Underground makeup artists had done a sensational job, painting his skin a delicate chocolate brown and supplying him with a black, kinky wig. He wore dark brown contact lenses as well. It had been a little surprising that the lab tech had recognized him so quickly -- but, he guessed, not really. Anyone discovering intruders on a Patrol base, in a room containing top secret material, would immediately think of the Terran Underground, and the first person that came to most people's minds in connection with the Underground was Alan Westover. The fact that he was accompanied by a large, blond Terran male was added evidence of his identity.
Mark wore a blond, curly mustache that he had grown specifically for the occasion. He shuffled along with bowed shoulders, and the makeup artists had altered the appearance of his cheekbones and the shape of his nose to a long, hooked beak. He looked the part, Alan thought. The absent-minded professor.
Alan reached the lift and boarded, and then held the door politely for the researcher following him. Once inside, he let the door close.
Mark casually slipped a silver disk the size of a half credit piece into his hand. Alan tucked it into a shielded pocket in his belt and sealed the pocket firmly. Now it would remain undetected by the scanners when they left the building.
The lift braked to a halt on the third level and a patrolman boarded, removing his helmet as he did so.
"Man, whatta scorcher!" The man wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Betcha ol' Lord Twithvor ain't roastin' like this in his little hovel up on the hill."
"Yeah; I'll bet he ain't," Mark agreed, grinning a little. Lord Twithvor's "little hovel" consisted of a twenty-room mansion.
The patrolman glanced at his chronometer and shook it. "This damned thing's stopped again. Either o' you got the time?"
Mark checked his own timepiece. "It's 12:08."
"Damn!" the patrolman wiped his neck. "I'm late. Half my lunch break's been shot to hell deliverin' that stupid pamphlet for the lieutenant. Man, the things you hafta do to win a few brownie points." His gaze returned to Mark's chronometer. "That's some spiffy little piece. Where'd you get it?"
Mark grinned. "Little hole in the wall place in Knitsmye, just before I left. Andy's Oddities."
"Yeah, I know the place." The patrolman grinned good-naturedly. "Runs a thrivin' business with the black market -- but o' course you wouldn't know nothin' about that, would you?"
The patrolman, Alan saw, had recognized a fellow Shallockian.
Mark grinned. "Hell, no," he said.
The man laughed. "Maybe I'll see if ol' Andy's got another one when I get back -- if I ever get off this rock."
"Know whatcha mean," Mark agreed.
The lift came to a halt on the first level and they disembarked, striding briskly in a group of three toward the main entrance of the building. Alan released his breath softly as they passed the scanners without the slightest hiccup of an alarm and proceeded down the steps outside.
An alarm went off in the building behind them, making them all jump. The patrolman cussed wearily. "Another blasted drill," he said, via a somewhat more colorful expression. He replaced the helmet on his head and fastened the chinstrap. Mark and Alan strolled with him across the compound.
"Where you goin'?" the man inquired.
"Lunch," Mark said.
"Yeah, me too. Don't get the pleevok soup. I hear it's fermented today."
"We're goin' off base," Mark said. "I've had enough o' that slop to last me the rest o' my life. There's a good sandwich place a couple o' streets away from the station."
"Damn!" The patrolman sighed. "If I had more time, I'd go with you. Ah, hell --"
Patrolmen rushed past them and into the building that they had just vacated. Alan glanced worriedly at Mark. The friendly patrolman grunted disgustedly. "Why the hell don't they turn off that damned noise?"
A loudspeaker boomed. "Alert! Alert! This is not a drill! There are intruders in the compound: suspected Underground agents!"
The man beside Mark froze. "Holy hell! You guys better get the hell outta here. Those characters are dangerous!" He turned and ran back toward the building.
Patrolmen were materializing from every building, rushing wildly across the compound. Mark pulled Alan to one side as more uniformed men thundered past them. Together they turned and strolled toward the base exit, keeping out of the main path of the patrolmen.
Around them was mass confusion: patrolmen and base maintenance workers rushing in all directions. Through the melee, the two of them moved quietly toward the gate.
"Now what?" Alan asked in a low voice. "They sure as heck aren't going to let us walk out without checking us."
"We'll figure it out," Mark said. "Ah. Here comes our transportation now."
An official Patrol aircar had pulled up at the gate and was easing its way through. It came directly toward them and Mark ran forward, waving an arm.
The car came to a halt beside them and a visored face peered out. "Whatcha want?" It was the voice of another Shallockian native.
Alan stepped past his partner and, as he did so, a finger of telekinetic energy reached out. The rear door of the vehicle popped open. The driver turned in surprise. "You gettin' out, sir?"
Alan's blaster was out and leveled. He rammed it against the ribs of the astonished officer in the rear seat. "Move over, sir," he commanded.
The man gave a startled grunt and gave ground. Instantly, Alan slid into the seat beside him. "Keep perfectly still: both of you."
Mark stepped around the car and climbed into the front passenger seat. Casually, he drew his blaster, pointing it at the paralyzed driver. "Howdy," he said. "Turn the car around and take it back out the gate again. If we get caught, I'll set the blaster on emergency overload."
The driver swallowed convulsively and turned the car around.
The car went slowly toward the gate. Mark lounged back in the seat, his weapon held in his lap and pointed in the general direction of the driver. "I wouldn't stop for the sentries if I was you, mister."
"Do as he says, Hague." The officer spoke suddenly from the rear seat.
The voice was familiar and Alan started to look more closely at the man, but just at that moment they reached the gate. The sentry started to step forward, one hand raised in a signal for them to stop, and at that instant the driver jammed the accelerator of the vehicle flat to the floor.
With a screaming roar, the car leaped forward, straight past the astonished sentry and on into the countryside beyond.
Alan remained still, his weapon steady on the officer. Behind him he heard the wail of sirens and was aware that within minutes the pursuit would begin.
So was Mark. "Hit it, mister," he said.
The driver didn't answer but the car's pace increased, the scenery flashing past them in a blur. The officer didn't move, his shoulders slumped disconsolately. Alan glanced at the man's nameplate, noting for the first time the four red stripes and black-etched star on the man's helmet. His prisoner was a Strike Commander of a Patrol battlecruiser. Alan's eyes focused on the name and he felt his breath catch.
"Oh, my!"
"What?" Mark demanded, not turning his head.
"Wolenski," Alan said.
"Huh?" Mark glanced back and his face broke into a grin. "Hi, Wolly! Nice to have you aboard! Finally made Strike Commander, huh?"
"Yeah," Wolenski said, mournfully.
Linley turned back to the scanners. "They're after us. Half a dozen cars closin' in from both sides." He moved the blaster closer to the driver's temple. "Head east."
The driver obeyed, his knuckles white on the controls. On the scanners, the pursuing vehicles were closing the distance rapidly.
"Tropical storm on the screen," Mark said. "Right over the coast. Looks like a good one. Okay, mister, straight ahead."
"Into the *storm*?"
"Yeah. Move it."
Their nearest pursuer took a shot at them and the car lurched forward. Something sputtered on the panel and sparks flew. Mark cussed under his breath.
The car in which they rode was an official staff car and boasted no weaponry, so their only hope of evading their pursuers lay in flight. They plunged into the fringes of the storm, going from clear sunny day into a blinding sheet of rain almost instantly, as was the way of such storms. Rain pounded loud on the hull and a sudden, violent gust of wind threw them sideways. Thunder cracked deafeningly as they raced deeper into the wind and rain. The driver swore, struggling to maintain control of the vehicle.
"Can't see much on the scanners, now," Mark said after several minutes. "Too much electrical interference. Bet they can't see us, either."
Hurricane force wind flung the car upward and then another gust hurled them down once more. Alan braced his feet against the seat ahead of him, his weapon clutched tightly in both hands. "Don't try anything, sir."
"I won't," Wolenski said, wretchedly.
"Where are we?" Alan asked, keeping his attention fixed on Wolenski.
"Just off the coast, from what I can see," Mark said. "Which ain't much. Scanners ain't worth much in this." He spoke to the driver. "Now, turn us around. Head west."
The driver made a valiant attempt to obey. The car spun sideways again, spiraled downward for a moment and then righted itself. Over the howling of the wind, Alan could hear the whine of the stabilizers fighting to keep them upright.
"Good," Mark said. "Hold her steady."
"Yeah, sure," the driver snapped. "Got any other sage advice?"
Mark grinned. "You're doin' great. Keep it up."
The driver swore as they were thrown sideways again. "This is that damned hurricane they warned us about before we left the ship, sir."
"What ship are you in command of?" Mark asked.
"The 'Guardian'," Wolenski replied. "I'll probably be busted again after this, too. Why do you two always have to show up just as things are getting back to normal?"
"Sorry," Alan said. "We didn't intend to take prisoners."
Wolenski didn't answer. The car plunged groundward once more as a terrific gust struck it. The driver wrenched frantically at the controls, barely succeeding in righting the vehicle against the gale.
"We're off balance," he said tightly. "When they hit us it threw our stabilizer off." He sucked in his breath sharply and swerved to avoid an enormous tree that materialized suddenly before them. "Ho...ly hell!"
They plunged down again and branches cracked across the windshield. Something snagged them underneath and the car pivoted leisurely around, jerked free and bucked forward like a bronco. Wolenski gave a horrified yell as they struck another branch, throwing them all sideways.
Over the racket of the storm came a tremendous snapping and cracking of branches. The car lurched sideways and fell through tangled branches and undergrowth toward the ground below.
**********
tbc
