Copyright statement: This is an original work by the authors. Any resemblance to any person, living, dead or fictional, is unintentional and coincidental. The writers retain all rights to this work, and the copyright may not be infringed.
Mind Link
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
1
Adam Zuccherman had had a hard life. He often reflected on this sad fact and it was uppermost in his mind as he headed for work that morning.
It was cold. Midgard, the third planet in the Centauri System, seemed to be cold most of the time. According to the brochures he'd read about it when he'd signed up to become a colonist, it was a little larger than Terra and, in many respects, very like Earth.
Except for the blasted weather, Zuccherman thought. It was raining and a wet, icy breeze was blowing, yanking at the leather hood on his tunic. He trudged down the main street of the small colonial town, shivering and cursing the miserable weather.
He knew, of course, that as the day progressed the clouds would roll away and the sun would come out, warming the landscape and making the countryside beautiful but right now he wasn't in the mood for such benevolent thoughts. Life had treated him very unfairly, he told himself. There was no doubt of that. He had been born on Terra, into a wealthy family, the prized and only son in a family of four daughters. The lion's share of the family inheritance would have gone to him if only things had gone differently.
It had been shortly after his sixteenth birthday that the axe had fallen. His father's business had been investigated for some sort of illegal dealings. Zuccherman never figured out exactly what had happened but he *did* know that his father had died rather suddenly and the family fortunes had disintegrated overnight. Adam, together with his mother and four younger sisters, had been forced by circumstances to move to another, much smaller and less luxurious home. And then, two years later, his mother had remarried.
Zuccherman scowled, thinking about it. He hadn't been able to stand his mother's second husband. He'd been totally unlike Adam's father -- not suave and sophisticated, but a gruff, large, jovial fellow, in love with life. Adam's younger sisters adored him but Zuccherman despised him. After a year in his unbearable presence Zuccherman had walked out, thinking that he would find a job and become independently wealthy.
But it hadn't worked out that way. The jobs he had didn't last long. He had no trouble acquiring work but he found that his bosses demanded more than he was willing to give. He quit the first job, and the second, and was fired from the third. Then, disconsolate and angry, he had been drawn by the lure of far places.
Midgard, the third planet in the Centauri System, was available for colonization. Here was a chance for a young, deprived gentleman to really make something of himself. Zuccherman had combined all of his remaining funds from the three abortive attempts at employment and bought himself a ticket to Midgard.
True, he didn't have enough money for a return ticket but he didn't intend to have to return. He would go to Midgard make his home in one of the colonial settlements and make a name for himself. With his credentials, charm and influence, they would undoubtedly make him the mayor of the town within a very short time.
But that hadn't worked out either. When Zuccherman arrived in Muspelheim, he found the town well established and most of the available jobs already taken. So here he was again, he thought bitterly, robbed of his birthright; alone and deserted by his family and friends, in a town he hated, on a planet he despised. The fact that his family had begged him to come home after his failure at keeping jobs didn't occur to him at this point. He was furious at the way life had treated him.
At last, out of sheer desperation, he had resigned himself to the fact that he must accept less-prestigious work. Dr. Donovan Worley, who kept a small office at one end of the town, needed a lab assistant. Dr. Worley was a medical doctor but he also did research of various types and, as a result, kept laboratory animals in the small room behind his office. Zuccherman obtained the job with ease -- he had natural charm, after all, the ability to make people like him at first encounter. Dr. Worley, he discovered, was a big, intelligent man in his early thirties, with a zest for life. He reminded Zuccherman unpleasantly of his stepfather.
Zuccherman reached the doctor's office and entered the outer room, shaking drops from his leather hood. There were voices in the inner room and he stopped, wondering if Dr. Worley had received an emergency call. There was a sharp word spoken as the door swung shut behind him and then an abrupt silence. The inner door opened and Dr. Worley appeared.
"Hi, Adam. How are you?"
"Good morning, Doctor. I'm fine. Do you have a patient?"
Worley glanced back at the door and turned to Zuccherman again. "Friends visiting," he said, "but my wife doesn't like them. They belong to my wild past before I met her and became a true and upright citizen with proper respect for law and order." He grinned and winked at Zuccherman. "Go get some breakfast at Pam's and I'll see you in an hour or so, huh?"
"Okay, sir." Zuccherman reached for his coat again, feeling a light prickle of curiosity tugging at him. There was something a bit fishy about this. Dr. Worley had never mentioned a wild past before.
He stepped outside into the increasing drizzle again and strode briskly down the street toward Pam's Coffee Shop, but upon reaching it he hesitated, a little tingle of something crawling over him. A hunch? He shied away from that. Anything that hinted of psychic ability was forbidden in this day and time. The Jilectans had a reward out for Terrans who possessed any psychic ability. Zuccherman knew why, too. Terran psychics were a threat to Jilectan rule.
But he was no psychic! Zuccherman shook off the thought and went into the coffee shop. It was nearly deserted and he took off his coat, hanging it on the rack beside the door. Pam approached, a menu in her hand, but Zuccherman shook his head. "Just coffee, please."
"Sure." The young woman turned away and Zuccherman glanced at her round little posterior absently. His luck with girls had diminished appreciably, too, since his reverses in fortune.
His thoughts went back to Dr. Worley and he sipped the coffee that Pam brought him absently. Just who were these friends who had shown up at such an early hour on such a cold, wretched day? Could they be people that Worley didn't want him to see -- not because the good doc was worried about his wife's displeasure, but because Worley was afraid that Zuccherman might recognize them? The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that it was so. Zuccherman had had many hunches during his life and a significant number of them had turned out to be correct. He must, he decided, find out.
He swallowed the remainder of his coffee, dropped coins on the table and stood up. There was a rip in the shade that covered a window into Worley's laboratory. The doctor had told him to get it repaired several days ago but Zuccherman hadn't gotten around to it yet. Now he was glad.
He put on his coat and went out of the coffee shop and down the street toward the office once more. The cold rain slapped him in the face and he swore under his breath as he approached the little grey building. Stepping quietly, he moved around to the window with the torn shade and peeked through the tiny opening.
2
Alan Westover, Mark Linley and Kevin Bronson strode down the street toward Donovan Worley's office. It was still dark and the wind gusted unevenly, slapping the cold rain into their faces. Mark shivered and pulled his raincoat tighter.
"Man!" he remarked. "What hellish weather! I'll be glad when this damned assignment is finished. I've about had it with these early mornin' treks through the rain."
Alan grinned cheerfully at him, blinking at the splatter of raindrops in his eyes. "What's the matter, Mark? Doesn't it bring back nostalgic memories?"
"Yeah," Mark agreed readily. "Wonderful, nostalgic memories o' chasin a crazy kid through the jungle, gettin' attacked by dinosaurs an' pit monsters, havin' m'prisoner escape, with the wrath o' the Jils waitin' for me back at my ship, an' then losin' my mind and riskin' my life to save him. Oh yeah. An' the weather then was just as lousy. I nearly froze my butt off on that trip."
"Well," Alan pointed out, "at least you had shoes. I spent the trip running around in my socks."
"Boots, kid. I had Patrol boots. An' I'll have you know they ain't a bit suited for hikin' through the jungle."
"Well, think of the bright side," Alan said cheerfully. "At least you're wearing comfortable shoes now."
Mark grunted again. "Yeah, an' they're wet," he said uncompromisingly. "I'm even lookin' forward to Worley's coffee this time."
Alan smothered a grin and glanced at his other companion, who was walking on his other side.
Both men were huge, towering over Alan's short, compact frame. Mark Linley and Kevin Bronson were brothers with five years between them in age, but to the casual observer they were invariably mistaken for twins. Although only half-brothers, they had apparently taken after their common mother, for they were both two meters in height, proportionately muscled, blond and blue-eyed with enviably regular features. On closer examination, one might see that Kevin's eyes were a brighter shade of blue than Linley's and his ears were of a slightly different shape, but it wasn't something that was immediately noticeable. Alan, in contrast to the brothers, was short, with curly dark hair and large, green eyes in an otherwise unremarkable face.
"You're pretty quiet this morning," Alan said, addressing Kevin.
"Whatta you expect?" Bronson growled. "I'm soaked, hungry, cold and tired. What a helluva place."
"My my, what delightful companions I have this morning," Alan murmured and dodged Bronson's punch.
Dr. Worley's office was a low, shed-like building that branched off one side of his main house. The actual house was still dark, but the windows of his office were glowing with warm, yellow light, through the driving rain. Alan opened the door and held it courteously for his two companions before he followed them inside. Donovan Worley met them in the small waiting room and took their coats. He was a big man, almost matching Mark and Kevin in size, with a pink, cheerful, if not handsome face.
"Good morning all! Glad to see you here this bright, lovely morning! Close the door, Alan, for the luvva Mike! I must say, I could do with a little less of this liquid sunshine, but that's spring on Midgard. You can't expect much else."
Mark grunted. "Where's the coffee pot?"
"Usual spot, in the lab. Come on in." Worley gestured them into the lab and shut the inner door behind them. "It's all ready and I've got coffeecake for you, too. Brenda made some for you last night and I popped it in the warmer first thing when I got up. You ought to be honored!"
"I will be, when I've had my first swallow o' coffee," Mark said.
Alan smiled, pouring himself a large cup of coffee. "Tell Brenda thanks for us."
"Sure thing," Worley said. "Have a seat and pull yourselves together while I get the stuff ready. I've got some interesting dope for you, believe me."
Alan felt a sudden jab of warning. "Don, someone's at the door!"
As he spoke, there was the sound of the outer door opening and footsteps entered the room that they had just vacated.
Worley grimaced. "Take it easy. It's my lab assistant. He's a harmless kid, but not very reliable. He probably forgot about the time change; he isn't supposed to be here for another hour. I'll get rid of him." He left the room and Alan heard him speaking. The young man murmured a soft reply and there was the sound of the outer door opening again and closing. Worley came back in.
"All clear," he said. "I sent him to Pam's for breakfast. I'll tell him about the time change when he gets back."
Alan glanced at his chronometer. "If he was supposed to be here at 0700, he's late. It's ten past six."
"He's always late," Worley said, disgustedly. "He's not a bit dependable when it comes to his job. It takes him twice as long as it should to get things done, and then I have to double check to be sure he did it right."
Mark took a piece of coffeecake and bit into it. "Man this is great. Add my thanks to Alan's." He took a swig of coffee. "Why don't you fire the guy? There's lotsa other people around that need jobs."
"Sure, I know," Worley said. "I feel sort of sorry for him. He's alone here -- family's back on Terra. I think he came here with some great expectations and got a rude shock after he arrived."
"Why don't he go home?" Bronson was finishing off a second piece of cake.
"He can't. He hasn't got the money. Actually, he's got a lot going for him, if he'd just put out the effort. He's good-looking, intelligent and charming. That's how he conned me into hiring him." Worley grinned, refilling his coffee cup. "From what he says his family was pretty wealthy once but there was a reverse of fortune and now he's having to work for a living."
"Too bad," Kevin said.
"Yeah, isn't it? I may not keep him much longer if he doesn't shape up. I've warned him twice already. Look, we're wasting time. We'd better get cracking." Worley took a syringe from the table beside him. "You first, Alan. Stick out your arm."
Alan obeyed, gritting his teeth. Worley withdrew a blood sample and placed a swab over the site. "Hold it tight or you'll bleed. Now you, Mark."
"Take Kevin first," Linley said. "I ain't finished with m'coffee yet."
"Coward." Bronson extended his arm, wincing as the doctor took a blood sample.
"You look a little green, baby brother," Mark said. "Better put your head down."
"Shut up." Kevin took another swallow of coffee and Alan was amused to see that his complexion had indeed gone pale.
Worley was withdrawing a blood sample from Mark. Linley flinched slightly. "Man! You're vicious with that needle! I don't blame Kev for gettin' a bit woozy! Now what?"
"More needles." Worley picked up another syringe. "You first, Alan."
Alan sighed and extended his arm again. "What's all this for?"
"Just doing a few tests," the doctor replied. He withdrew the needle. "Now you wait five minutes and I'm going to take a sample of spinal fluid."
"Oh hell!" Mark stood up. "*That* again? I s'pose Kev an' me gotta go through it, too."
The doctor nodded absently. "Just checking out the results of what we did last time," he said. "Really interesting. Give me your arm, Kevin."
"Better let me," Mark said. "Kev still don't look so good."
Bronson extended his arm manfully. "Go ahead. I can take it."
"Right," Mark said. "You look worse'n Alan after he'd been in the chair seven hours. Better go lie down."
Kevin scowled at him and then gritted his teeth as Worley drew a blood sample.
"Watch it! There he goes!" Alan tried to catch Bronson as he toppled sideways from his chair. The larger man's weight was too much and Alan would have dropped him if Mark hadn't come to help. Together they lifted him and helped him to the examining room that opened off the rear of the lab. Worley came after them and when they stretched Bronson out on the examining table, the doctor waved a large, yellow capsule under his nose. Kevin choked and swore.
"Take it easy, bro," Mark said.
Worley glanced at his chronometer. "Five minutes. I need that sample now, Alan."
"Is Kevin going to be okay?" Alan was a little worried in spite of his amusement.
"I'm fine," Bronson croaked. "Go on an' let Dracula there have his jollies."
Alan followed Worley back into the lab.
3
Adam Zuccherman peered through the torn shade. There were two people in the room but his vision was obstructed by the shade and blurred by the rain on the glass. He could hear the voices faintly. Worley was speaking.
"Okay, Alan, take off your shirt and lie down on your stomach."
Zuccherman caught a glimpse of the room's other occupant as he crossed the room to the raised table. He was a short young man, hardly more than a boy, with dark, unruly hair and a compact, well-muscled frame. He climbed obediently up onto the table, stripping off his shirt as he did so. A youthful, very familiar face turned toward Adam Zuccherman, and he caught a glimpse of large, bright green eyes.
That face! He knew that face. He had seen it on a wanted poster at Midgard Spaceport...
**********
WANTED!
By the Jilectans!
Alan Westover
Species: Terran
Race: Caucasian
Hair: Dark brown and curly
Eyes: Large by Terran standards and bright green
Note: This Terran's eyes are his most distinctive feature.
Height: 163.4 Centimeters
Weight: 66 Kilograms
Distinguishing Markings: Small, white scar on the left cheek. Often seen in the
Company of a large, blond, Terran male (Mark Linley)
Warning! This Terran is a psychic. He is quick, clever, without morals and
extremely dangerous. His abilities include telepathy and telekinesis.
Approach with caution.
REWARD FOR HIS CAPTURE
500,000 CREDITS
**********
Zuccherman's breath caught. *That* was *Westover*! He was sure of it! Zuccherman never forgot a face.
Westover was speaking as the doctor strapped a small device to his back. "Can't you tell us what this is all about?"
Another man entered the room and Zuccherman's heart leaped again. Mark Linley! There was no doubt of it! Visions of wealth, comfort, wine, women and song flashed before Zuccherman's eyes. The combined reward for these two notorious characters would supply him with anything he might need or want for the rest of his days! He might, of course, also need to hire bodyguards, since it was well-known that Westover and Linley had many powerful friends who would certainly try to avenge their deaths but, with those resources to draw from, he could hire all the bodyguards he needed and then some!
Worley was speaking. "Sure, I can tell you." Zuccherman could barely make out the words but he was good at lip-reading -- always had been. He saw Worley glance over at Linley. "Stick out your arm, Mark. Alan, you can get up. I'm finished."
Westover stood up. Worley was injecting a clear, light brown fluid into Linley's arm. "I've found some very interesting things since our last session," Worley said. "You see, there are certain biochemical reactions that take place in the brains of psychics. Actually, they take place in everyone's brains but at a much lower level than in psychics." He grinned. "With two exceptions."
Linley's back was to Zuccherman and Adam missed what he said. Worley's grin broadened. "Exactly. You were almost psychics but something happened to keep you from being able to control your powers. You *are* psychics, according to the biochemical reactions -- that is, you produce psychic energy. But you can't control it, and apparently you never will."
Linley said something else that Zuccherman missed.
Worley nodded. "I agree with you; it isn't fair. Funny, too. The reactions produced by your brains -- especially yours -- indicate an extremely high level of psychic energy. If you'd been psychics you'd have been whopping good ones -- especially you, Mark. The chances are that you'd have been as good as Alan -- maybe better."
"What about their size?" Alan Westover was buttoning his shirt, looking very thoughtful. "Why is Mark so big if he's almost a psychic? Psychics are all little."
"Interesting, isn't it? I don't have an answer for you. There must be some other gene involved that carries the size factor along with the control -- at least that would be my guess. It probably only affects a person's size when combined with the psychic gene itself, which would explain why most non-psychics can produce mind shielding and yet their size is unaffected. I've got a lot more research to do on the subject. Lie down now, Mark. I need some spinal fluid from you."
Linley stood up, unbuttoning his shirt. "Make it quick. I hate that damned device. Y'know, the business with the control probably explains why my shieldin's so lousy." He looked suddenly at Alan. "What's wrong, kid?"
Alan Westover was standing very still. "I think we're being watched." He started to turn toward the window.
Zuccherman leaped back and ran away into the driving rain. He plunged through the circle of surrounding shrubbery, getting himself soaked in the process. There were voices behind him and the sound of pursuit but Zuccherman didn't glance back. He circled the town, heading for his room, his heart thudding in his chest. He knew what would have happened if they'd caught him. Alan Westover, the degenerate Terran psychic, would have read his mind and what he saw there would have convinced them all that Zuccherman was too dangerous to keep alive. He would have quietly disappeared and no one would have asked any questions.
He reached the little apartment building where he had his room and dashed up the stairs, pulling off his cape as he went. He must get into dry clothing. Alan Westover had sensed him. If they caught him now --
But they hadn't. He was safe.
Smiling a little to himself, Zuccherman donned dry clothing and a new tunic with a hood. It was time for him to head for work. Westover and Linley would be gone by now but they would be back. That much was quite clear. And when they returned, he would be waiting.
**********
tbc
