Turnabout: 6/7
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
9
It was the morning sun that woke him. He sat up, adrenaline coursing through him with the realization that he had been asleep.
All was still except for the soft rustle of the grass around him. Something small and grey skittered away into the grass as he came upright.
Wolenski and Mark were still asleep. Alan flexed his arms and legs. He hurt all over and his head was light. He realized now that he had eaten nothing the night before. He hadn't been at all hungry.
He tried to stand up and the world tilted abruptly. Alan sank back down, trying to focus his eyes. He felt terrible. How was he going to get through another day of marching through the wilderness he didn't know.
About five kilometers to the southwest he could see hills beginning. At least he thought, they were out of that blasted jungle with its friendly, hospitable inhabitants.
He shivered spasmodically. The sun shone benignly down but he felt cold. The grass around him was steaming slightly.
He stood up with a Herculean effort, staggering a little, and moved over to Mark and Wolenski. He dropped heavily to his knees beside them and unfastened the restrainers securing the men together. Neither of them stirred. Carefully, he adjusted Mark's chronometer to check his temperature. The readout flashed onto the screen and he stared at it blearily.
39.78 degrees Celsius. Man! No wonder he felt like hell. He was running nearly three degrees of fever.
He reached out and touched Wolenski's shoulder. The Strike Commander groaned and began to shiver. His eyes opened.
"H'lo kid," he croaked. "Man! You look like the devil! Were you up all night?"
Alan shook his head. "I fell asleep," he admitted.
Wolenski glanced at the display on the chronometer. As he did so, the number flickered to 39.79. "Is *that* your temperature?"
Alan pressed the button to erase the display. "Yeah." He was too tired to lie. "I feel pretty lousy." He clipped the restrainers to his belt. "Want anything to eat?"
The Strike Commander shook his head. "Not really. Maybe later. I'll have some water, though -- holy space!"
He was staring at something to his left. Alan looked, but saw nothing. "What do you see?"
"A bloody monster!" Wolenski tried to get to his feet. "It's coming right at me!"
Alan looked again. "There's nothing, Wolly."
Wolenski stopped. ""Course there isn't. Damn! The thing looks bigger than a battlecruiser."
Alan waited and slowly the man relaxed. "It's fading out."
"Good," Alan said. "Here. Have some water."
"Thanks." Wolenski swigged from the canteen and handed it back. He knelt beside Mark. "Come on, old man. Time to go." He started to lift Mark's shoulders from the ground.
"Just a moment." Alan hooked the canteen to his belt and opened the emergency kit. He fumbled among the supplies for a moment and withdrew two syringes. "Here." He extended one to Wolenski. "Give yourself a shot."
Wolenski took it. "What is it?"
"Something for the fever. You're running one, too. I can tell."
Wolenski injected himself. Alan's hand trembled as he tried to insert the needle into his own arm. Wolenski watched him, the odd expression that Alan had noted before on his face. "Here, kid, let me do it. You can keep the blaster on me."
"Stay back," Alan said. He didn't dare let Wolenski get too close now. He was so weak that he couldn't be sure his reactions would be fast enough in case the man decided to jump him. And Wolenski was the Strike Commander of a Patrol battlecruiser. Even with two black marks on his record, he had still managed somehow to attain the rank. That spoke of a highly intelligent and resourceful man -- a man not to be taken lightly. Wolenski undoubtedly saw how weak his captor was becoming and, when Alan least expected it, the Commander was likely to take advantage of the fact.
He jabbed himself in the leg, wincing as he did so. "Okay, you'd better give one to Mark and see if you can get him to drink some water." Alan tossed Wolenski a syringe and placed the canteen beside Linley. Wolenski gave Mark the shot and then lifted his shoulders.
"Come on, Mark; have a drink."
Mark choked and swallowed. "Kid?" His voice was faint. "Alan? Where are you?"
"I'm here, Mark." Alan motioned Wolenski back and bent over his partner. "I'm right here."
Linley turned his head restlessly. "Kid ... he's gone. Where've you taken him, you damned Jil?"
"I'm here," Alan said desperately.
Mark muttered to himself. "Don't hurt him! Let him go an' I'll tellya what you wanna know."
"Mark, listen to me --"
"Hold on, kid. Gotta find him --" His voice faded out.
This was getting them nowhere, Alan knew. If the Underground didn't find them soon, they were done for -- and in the meantime, they were out in the open, visible to any Patrol searcher that happened by. He got unsteadily to his feet. "Let's go, Wolly."
Wolenski got to his feet again and Alan backed away from him, trying to hold the blaster steady. The Strike Commander seemed like a giant and Alan felt a new stab of fear. All that remained between him and capture was the weapon, now held unsteadily in his shaking hands. Without his psychic powers, he was nothing but a Terran -- smaller than average and, at the moment, very sick.
The blaster felt heavier than it should. By an immense effort of will, he steadied it as Wolenski bent, pulling Mark into a sitting position. "Come on, Mark, old boy."
Linley muttered again. Wolenski heaved him to his shoulders and straightened up with an effort. "Okay, I'm ready."
They started across the field toward the distant hills. Alan shivered and his head swam unpleasantly. His eyes weren't focusing well and his head kept drooping. Once he fell, sprawling forward to the ground, the blaster sliding from his hands. Adrenaline jolted through him and he snatched the blaster up again, coming to his knees. Wolenski hadn't glanced back and Alan staggered to his feet once more. The Strike Commander strode steadily forward and Alan could tell that the man was in far better shape than he.
He struggled to think clearly. The chills and aches made I almost impossible. In spite of the injection he knew that his temperature was rising. The scene around him swam in a blur of tears.
Their one hope, he knew, now lay in the Underground finding them before the Patrol did. Fred would have people everywhere, looking for them. Some of the searching aircars they had seen very well might have been their people but he'd had no way of telling. The searching Undergrounders would, of course, be disguised as the Patrol.
He was drifting again. With an effort, he brought his face up and raised the blaster. Bright, wavy lines filled the air around him and he saw Lyn, smiling and reaching out her arms to him. He knew she wasn't really there but it was wonderful just to look into her face and those deep, lovely dark eyes.
"Lyn," he muttered. "Coming, honey ..." He jerked awake to see Wolenski turn around and begin to lower Mark to the ground. Alan brought the blaster up with a jerk.
"Don't shoot," the Strike Commander said. "I'm not going to try anything, but I've got to take a break. I don't feel so good, either."
Alan sank to the ground and pulled out the canteen, swigged from it and then tossed it to his prisoner. The level of water was getting low, he noted with faint dismay. Perhaps they would find a stream in the hills ahead. He hoped so, anyway. Wolenski drank deeply and then knelt beside Mark, holding the container to his lips. Mark choked and swallowed.
"He's hotter'n fire," Wolenski said. "He even feels hot to me and I *know* I'm running a temperature. He's on the third day of the thing, you know."
"Yeah," Alan said. He knelt beside Mark, fumbled with the chronometer and removed it. He placed it against Mark's arm and pressed the button. 40.7, the display proclaimed.
Alan glanced at Wolenski and extended the chronometer. "Want to check your temperature?"
Wolenski accepted the chronometer and placed it against his arm. The display changed instantly to 38.64.
The Strike Commander handed the device back. "That's a neat little piece. I'd like to have one like it."
"It's Mark's," Alan told him. "He got it at Andy's Oddities in Knitsmye."
"Oh, sure," Wolenski said. "Center of the black market trade in the Sector. I've been there a couple of times, myself. Fascinating place. Ever been there?"
Alan managed to smile. "Yes."
"Mark take you?"
Alan nodded.
"Good old Mark. You know, kid, I never thought I'd understand what Mark did, but after three days --" He paused.
Alan fought to keep him in focus. "How are you feeling?"
"Like hell. Want to push on?"
"We can wait a few minutes." Alan took another drink and handed the canteen once more to Wolenski. Lyn had returned and was walking toward him, swaying slightly in the shimmering heat. Behind her stood Ronald Griffen, grinning and waving.
"Hi there, Gregson." Alan could have sworn that he heard the deep, familiar voice. "You doing okay?"
Wolenski had noticed his fixed gaze. He glanced around. "There's nothing there."
"I know," Alan said. "I keep seeing my girl. Gosh, I never realized how pretty she was before ..."
Wolenski nodded. "Yeah, I know. I keep seeing this little gal from one of the bars on Riskell -- little lady by the name of Polly ..." His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. "Are your friends from the Underground looking for you, kid?"
Alan nodded. "They should be."
"Well, I sure as hell hope they find us soon, or there isn't going to be anything to find but our bones."
Alan was unsure that he had heard correctly. The Commander's voice sounded faint and there was a buzzing in the background. Why should Wolenski want the Underground to find them? Wolenski was a Strike Commander of the Viceregal Patrol. His status would increase dramatically if he were able to bring Alan Westover in to the Jilectans.
He was too tired to think clearly. Wolenski was watching him, but the man's face was a vague blur and he couldn't make out the individual features clearly. The man started to get to his feet. "Kid?"
Alan brought the blaster us. "Freeze, sir!"
"Easy." Wolenski stopped, raising his hands over his head. "I wasn't going to try anything."
"Sure you weren't," Alan said. "Pick up Mark and let's go."
They stopped twice more in the next half hour and at last reached a small stand of trees. Wolenski was staggering under Mark's weight, and, as they reached the wooded area, he went to his knees, breathing in gasps.
"Alan," he panted.
"Yes?"
"Do you think there's any way we could make another litter? You could carry the rear of it and keep an eye on me. I just don't think I can lug him much farther alone."
Alan considered, wishing that he could concentrate better. "Okay," he said at last, "but if you try anything, I'll kill you, sir. I won't even try to stun you, because I'm not sure of my aim. I'm setting the blaster to kill now."
"I understand," Wolenski said. We can probably get some poles from the trees here. I'll make the litter. You can keep an eye on me."
Alan nodded and Wolenski staggered to his feet again. They went slowly toward the little grove.
As they entered the trees, something descended on Alan's shoulders with stunning force. He was thrown forward to the ground and the blaster went flying into the shrubbery. He twisted around, striking wildly at his opponent, but his assailant caught and immobilized his hands with inexorable strength. Hague's face grinned down at him, and the patrolman's knees descended on Alan's wrists, crushing them into the ground.
"Hi there, degenerate," Hague whispered savagely. He drew back his fist.
Wolenski's face appeared behind the patrolman's. The Strike Commander's arms lifted and held in both hands was a rock the size of a basketball. Wolenski brought the object down sharply. There was a resounding crack and Avery Hague slumped forward on top of Alan.
**********
"How much longer?" Kevin Bronson demanded.
Julia Austell glanced at the computer display. "7.3 minutes to sublight. Are you in contact?"
Bronson nodded, leaning his head back against the seat's headrest. "Have been for the last twenty minutes. He's feelin' lousy. Must be awful sick, and he's getting' scareder and sicker by the minute."
Lyn fastened her safety webbing. "Wish we could --" she was beginning, when Kevin came to his feet, swearing.
"What?" Julia demanded.
"Somebody jumped him. He's fightin' --he's too weak to put up much resistance. He's down. The guy's sittin' on him -- What the hell...?"
There was a waiting silence.
"Well?" Lyn demanded at last. "What's going on?"
"I ain't sure." Kevin sat down again. "Contact's fadin'. He's passin' out, I think --" Bronson fell silent again.
There was a jolt and the stars on the viewscreen appeared. Below them, a blue and green globe swam against the starry background.
"Well?" Lyn demanded. "What's happening?"
"Contact's startin' to fade." Bronson ran a hand through his hair. "Somebody's helpin' him up, I think. He ain't sure what's goin' on either."
"Is he okay?"
"More or less." Bronson was frowning. "He's still scared, though, but he ain't fightin' the guy. Could be the Underground's already found him -- 'cept --"
"Except what?"
"Except he's still scared."
"Can you get direction from here?" Julia asked.
"Generally. Beats me what's goin' on. Now he's beginnin' t'fight the guy. He's pullin' away. The guy let him go. What the devil ..." He leaned forward, setting coordinates. "There. That's the best I can do for now."
"Ship on the scanner," Lyn said. "Looks like a Patrol scout. He's coming toward us. Better move."
"I am," Julia said. "What's happening, Kevin?"
"I still ain't sure." Contact keeps fadin' in an' out."
"Here comes the scout," Lyn said. She switched on the weapons computer. A thin whine began as they entered the outer fringes of the atmosphere. "He's right on our heels. He's going to make things difficult --"
A small blip appeared on the screen and then another, close behind the first.
"Here come ours," Julia said. "I'm taking us down fast."
"Better hurry," Kevin said.
**********
Hague's weight was crushing Alan into the ground. He struggled weakly, trying to heave the man away, but his arms had no strength in them. Then, miraculously, the weight was gone and hands grasped his shoulders, lifting him into a sitting position. Alan's ears were buzzing and his head swam.
"Alan! Are you okay?"
Alan raised his head and a blurred face swam before his eyes. Slowly the picture solidified.
"Wolly?" he croaked.
"Yeah. You all right? He landed on you pretty hard." Wolenski boosted him bodily upright.
Sudden realization shot through him and he began to fight frantically. To his surprise, Wolenski released him at once and Alan staggered toward the underbrush into which the blaster had disappeared. The Strike Commander didn't follow him, but stood still, watching, as Alan located the weapon. He brought it up and swiveled around on his knees.
Wolenski hadn't moved and Alan couldn't make out his expression through the blur. Slowly, he lowered the weapon.
"What are you doing?" Alan whispered.
"Being a damn fool," Wolenski said. "Come on. I'm going to need some help carrying Mark."
Slowly, Alan stuck the blaster into his belt and got unsteadily to his feet. Wolenski was already hauling at Mark's shoulders. Alan bent and hooked his hands beneath Linley's knees. With a Herculean effort, he straightened up and staggered after Wolenski.
The Strike Commander strode through the trees and Alan followed, his head swimming. The scenery around him kept expanding and contracting before his eyes and his legs were shaking. Somehow he remained on his feet until they reached the end of the trees.
As they emerged once more into the bright sunlight, Alan became aware of a deep humming sound over the buzzing in his ears. He had a vague impression of Wolenski lowering Mark to the ground and of the black bulk of an aircar against the dazzling sky overhead. He heard Wolenski mutter under his breath and suddenly the Strike Commander was beside him. Alan tried to pull the blaster from his belt with one hand but his legs gave and he fell to his knees.
Wolenski bent over him, one hand closing firmly on his wrist. The weight of the blaster was abruptly gone from his belt.
"Be cool." The words sounded like something out of a dream. "I'm going to get us out of this." Wolenski pushed him onto his face and brought his arms behind him, fastening them with the restrainers from Alan's belt. Frantically, Alan started to struggle.
"Don't," Wolenski's voice was a whisper in his ear. "I'm going to help you. Just co-operate with me, all right?"
The aircar was settling to the ground in front of them. "Okay?"
"Okay," Alan managed.
Wolenski lifted him easily from the ground and swung him over one shoulder. Dimly, he was aware of voices and the crunch of boots on the grass.
Wolenski was speaking. "About time you got here. Get 'em in the car. Here; take Westover. I'm about shot."
"Man, they look bad, sir." Hands lifted him from Wolenski's shoulder and Alan saw that three black-clad figures had emerged from the vehicle. They shimmered faintly around the edges.
The patrolman held him carefully. "Holy space, sir! Linley looks dead! Is he?"
"No. Pretty sick, though. Get him in the car. We've got to get both of them back to base right away. Careful of Linley's leg."
"Yes sir." Alan was placed gently on the rear seat of the aircar. Once more he heard voices.
"You look done in, sir. Are you sick, too?"
"Yeah," Wolenski said. "This is one helluva bug."
Alan was drifting away into darkness. He heard one of the patrolmen curse. "Man! This guy's heavy!" The seat of the aircar creaked as Mark was lowered onto it beside Alan. The patrolman grunted as he straightened up. "I think I wrenched my back!"
Wolenski was speaking again but Alan couldn't hear the words. Then the Strike Commander climbed into the front passenger seat and turned, speaking to one of the newcomers. "My driver's back there in the trees. He had an accident. Go get him and I'll send an aircar for you."
"Yessir." The three figures vanished from Alan's view and Wolenski turned to the driver. "Let's go."
The aircar lifted smoothly from the ground.
Lyn was hovering in the air above the patrolmen's heads. She was smiling and holding out her arms. Alan smiled back, wishing that he could reach toward her. The restrainers held his hands firmly behind him and he began to struggle weakly against them. Lyn was receding again and he heard his own voice, pleading for her to come back.
The crack of a blaster jarred him and brought him painfully back to reality. He lifted his head, blinking hazily. Was he hallucinating again?
Wolenski was sliding into the driver's seat and the driver had vanished. The Strike Commander pulled the driver's door shut manually with his free hand and Alan heard a deep hum as the vehicle lost altitude, beginning to skim the treetops. Wolenski glanced quickly back at him.
"You okay, Alan?"
Alan could barely hear him. The man's face was an indistinct blur and a fuzzy curtain had begun to drop over his vision, blotting it out.
Powerful hands on his arms dragged him upright and over the back of the front seat. Alan slumped sideways and Wolenski caught him again, pulling him upright and around. The restrainers fell away from his wrists.
"Alan!" Wolenski turned him back and grasped his shoulders. "Give me the coordinates of the Underground station!"
Alan's head wobbled and the officer shook him. "Alan! Colonel Westover! Don't faint yet! I need the coordinates of the station! Hurry!"
Alan shook his head. "I can't --"
"Colonel, you've got to. Trust me, for God's sake!"
"No --" Alan blinked, trying to bring him into focus. "You could be lying. I can't --"
"I'm defecting," Wolenski said, his voice low but intense. "Do you hear me? To hell with the Patrol! After what I've seen these last days -- Kid, you've got to believe me!" He drew out the blaster that he had taken from Alan moments before and thrust it into Alan's hand. "If I try anything, kill me. I mean it, kid. Honest to God, I mean it!"
The blaster was heavy, pulling his arms down, and his head was floating far above his shoulders. Wolenski shook him again. "Alan, please! Trust your instincts just one more minute!"
Alan did.
**********
He was drifting, carried effortlessly down a dark, warm stream. Images floated dreamily before him, faces smiling and talking. He couldn't make out the words.
The voices became louder and nearer: sharp, strident voices, demanding a reply. Alan opened his eyes.
"Mark?" he whispered. "Mark, where are you?"
There was the sound of blaster fire, jolting him back to awareness. He struggled upright, trying fruitlessly to focus his eyes. Mark's face floated insubstantially before him.
He forced the image away. Wolenski was behind he controls and the com was chattering excitedly.
"... Want the occupants of that aircar alive! Somethin' awful funny's goin' on! We found the Commander's driver an' he's out cold -- looks like somebody beamed him with a rock. That's some weird sorta accident, an' now Wolenski don't answer our hail. We think he might be defectin' --"
Blasters went off again, somewhere to the left, and the aircar rocked sharply. Wolenski swore under his breath.
Alan caught the seat and pulled himself upright. The effort exhausted him and his head swam. He fought it back with sheer willpower. "What's going on?" he muttered.
"They're after us," Wolenski said. "Some bright boy's caught on." Their blasters went off and the Strike Commander gave a grunt of satisfaction. "Got one. I hope your guys are monitoring this ruckus and show up quick, or we're cooked."
Alan blinked and flinched back as an explosion sounded, very near. Another aircar circled past them and its blasters went off. Their aircar was hurled sideways but steadied almost at once. Wolenski cussed under his breath as the other aircar took a shot at them. Alan felt the craft rock and something sputtered.
"That does it. We're going down. Give me the blaster."
Alan felt around the seat and finally located the weapon on the floor of the car. He heaved it to his lap and Wolenski reached over, removing it deftly from his grasp. The car was losing altitude.
There was another explosion above them, just as their car hit. They bounced twice and came to rest against a scrubby growth of bushes. Wolenski was peering out the window, and he laughed suddenly.
"Looks like the cavalry just came over the hill --"
The com squawked inarticulately. "It's a damn skippership! I didn't know those things had blasters --"
"Undergrounder!" another voice barked. "Watch out, Joe, he's --" The voice cut off abruptly to the sound of more blasters and another explosion. Wolenski laughed again.
A large figure, clad in Patrol uniform, loomed up beside the car. The man pulled the door open and removed his helmet in the same motion. Wolenski brought the blaster up to center on the newcomer.
"No!" Alan croaked.
The man grinned, raising his hands over his head. "Take it easy, Strike Commander. I'm a friend."
Wolenski didn't move. "Who is he, Colonel?"
"Fred Wylie," Alan rasped. "C.O. of the station."
He heard Wolenski's sigh of relief. Then the door on his side of the car opened and arms hauled him out. There was a sensation of motion, just before he lost consciousness.
**********
tbc
