Mind Link: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
6
Mark Linley lay on his back, his eyes closed and an arm crooked over his face. He felt horrible. What a stupid stunt to ask little Millie for a date the night before they were to go to Worley's. He knew Millie -- had dated her six times in the three weeks they had been here. She was sweet, pretty, sexy and a hopeless tease. It took him half the night to accomplish his mission, not to mention three bottles of the best stuff in the house.
Mark winced in memory, fighting back another wave of nausea. This was it, he told himself. No more three A.M. sojourns with Millie. He'd had it!
Mark groaned and rolled over. His head pounded and he decided wretchedly that this had to be the worst hangover he'd ever had. It was times like this when he wondered seriously if Alan's more moderate lifestyle might not really be the best.
Alan! Abruptly his partner's face appeared in his mind and he felt their mind link close. Someone shouted something in the background and there was the feeling of Alan scrambling on hands and knees across a wooden floor. Mark lurched painfully to his feet as the link dissolved in the numbing tingle of a stunbolt and he felt something hit him hard over the right eye. For an instant, he saw stars.
Linley grabbed for his robe and bolted out the door in his bare feet. He half fell down the long flight of stairs, yanking on his robe, and staggered frantically out the door into the dark, rainy pre-dawn.
And stopped.
It was a strange sensation, as though a piece of him suddenly vanished into nothing. He stood still for a split second, clutching the gate latch and trying to discern what had happened.
It hit him suddenly. The link was gone -- the link that had bound him unconsciously to Alan since their first meeting, five and a half years ago. He had never been aware of it but with its departure a great, indefinable something was missing. How could the link suddenly disappear?
The answer leaped suddenly at him, bringing a sob of despair from him. Alan had been killed. He must have. Why else would their link, which had survived every other hardship, suddenly vanish? The gate latch broke off in his hand.
Alan, dead? His partner -- the best friend he'd ever known.
The thought sent stabbing pains through him. With a savage curse, he charged down the street toward Donovan Worley's home. Whoever had done this was going to die.
Tears blurred his eyes, making him stumble. He splashed blindly through puddles, slipped in mud and staggered on, cursing and sobbing in the same breath. The road was endless, a journey through hell, a nightmare. At last the lights of Worley's office glowed dimly ahead and he charged forward with new energy, realizing abstractedly that he hadn't even brought his blaster. It didn't matter. Whoever had done this was going to die. Linley would strangle him with his bare hands.
The door to the office stood wide open and light streamed out into the windy darkness, illuminating the blowing rain and tossing shrubs. Mark approached the door cautiously and stepped through into the outer room.
It was empty. The cloaks, worn by Alan and Kevin, still hung from the coat rack, water dripping from them and forming a little puddle on the floor. Mark took a deep breath and went to the inner door,
The lab, too, was empty. A stool lay on its side on the floor and in the center of the room a throw rug was crumpled in an untidy heap. And on the floor beside the examination table he could see a little puddle of red.
Mark dropped to one knee beside it. Rain drummed on the metal roof but within him was a vast, aching silence.
The blood was still fresh. Mark stared at it, smearing his palm. Well, it hadn't been long. Whoever had done this was going to die for it, slowly and painfully if Mark had anything to say in the matter.
He stood up. There was an aircar in the shed behind Worley's office: the aircar in which he, Kevin and Alan had come to this condemned town. Mark ran out the back.
The keys to the aircar were still in Worley's desk. As he yanked the drawer open and retrieved them, an idea occurred to him and he ran back to snatch the cloaks from the rack. Fifteen seconds later he was in the aircar.
He stopped briefly at their rooms to rush inside. He snatched his billfold from the dresser and his crumpled clothing from the chair. He didn't bother to dress but ran back down the stairs.
The Muspelheim Underground Station was fifteen miles to the east, a thriving ranch belonging to Aaron Waters, the Commanding Officer. He would find a psychic tracer there, someone that might be able to follow the trail left by Kevin -- and Alan.
Tears blurred his eyes again and he swore. With a shaking hand, he flipped open the billfold. There was a picture inside, taken a month before. He blinked back tears and his eyes promptly blurred again as he looked at the picture. Alan and he, standing side by side and grinning. They had been on Terra at the time.
Mark bit hard on his lower lip. It was his fault that this had happened. Staying up half the night, unable to get up in the morning, so Alan had been alone when the killer had struck. Well, not exactly alone. Kevin had been there, but Kevin was different. He and Alan were good friends but the bond between them wasn't as strong as the one he had with Mark. If Alan was dead, what would he do? How would he *live*? Half of him was gone.
Perhaps Alan wasn't dead. He considered the possibility, trying to summon hope. After all, he'd felt only a stunbolt and then a sharp blow to the head. It hadn't knocked him out the way it had that time when Alan had received a concussion during the spaceship wreck on Kuloghi.
But why was the link gone? Again, the horrible, unanswerable question. If Alan was alive, why had their link dissolved?
Well, someone had to be alive. It would be very difficult for anyone to remove three bodies, two of them as large as Kevin and Worley, in so short a time. Someone must have walked and carried Alan along, dead or unconscious. Mark intended to find the survivors. From them, he would get the story of what had happened. The person responsible would pay. If he never did anything more with his life, Mark intended to make him pay.
It took him five minutes to reach the station. The lights glowed faintly out of the darkness and he brought the car to a screeching stop before the ranch house. The porch light came on as he sprinted up to the door and the panel opened, revealing a young woman, clad in a long, white robe.
"Mark!" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "What's happened?"
A dark-haired man of medium height appeared behind her. "Colonel Linley!"
Mark felt very weak suddenly. He stood on the porch, rain drenching him, still barefoot and abruptly he buried his face in his hands as sobs welled into his throat again.
The woman ran forward and threw her arms around him. He picked her up bodily, hugging her against him and trying to control the wracking sobs.
"Bring him inside," Major Waters ordered. Hands caught his elbows, steering him through the door.
"Mark!" It was Waters again. "Tell us what happened!"
"It's Alan." The woman was speaking. "Mark thinks he's dead."
Mark put her down and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Lisa's right. The link's gone."
"Did you see him killed?" Waters demanded. "Do you know what happened?"
Mark shook his head. "I just got a link -- a really strong link. Alan was tryin' to get away from somebody. Then he got hit by a stun beam and musta cracked his head when he fell. A few minutes later --" He stopped, drawing a deep breath and tried again. "A few minutes later, the link was just...gone." He shuddered. "It's gone. I can't feel it. It ain't with me anymore."
"What happened then?"
Mark looked straight into the man's eyes. "I wasn't there, sir. I had a hangover and stayed at the apartment while Alan and Kev went to see Worley. If he's dead, I'll never forgive myself." He stopped and there was a painful silence.
"When I got to the office," Mark went on tightly, "they were gone, but their capes were still there. I have a photo of Alan an' me taken on Terra. I thought maybe --" He glanced at Lisa and then at the short, young man who had appeared behind her.
Lisa took the photo from his hand She turned toward the newcomer. "What do you think, Jase?"
Jason Llwelling was a relatively new member of the Underground. He had joined a few months before and he and Lisa Wilkins had become partners shortly thereafter. Lisa's first partner, her brother, Carl, had been killed a few years ago. She had withdrawn into a shell after that, as psychics who lost a partner often did. Jason Llwelling had changed that.
Llwelling was holding the picture in both hands, staring at it. Mark was dimly aware that more people were crowding into the room, questioning and worried.
The young psychic shook his head abruptly. "I'm not getting anything. Let's go back to Worley's office. I might be able to sense more there."
Lisa looked sorrowfully at Mark but she reached out to touch the smeared blood on his hand. She closed her eyes, concentrating.
All was still and the sound of the rain was loud on the roof. Mark could feel her hand trembling against his and he clutched it tightly.
At last, she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said. "There's nothing."
"Let's head for the office," Waters said.
**********
Dawn was breaking in the east when the aircars settled to the ground behind Donovan Worley's office. Mark got out, staring at the scene with a sense of despair. The rain was letting up although the sky overhead was still thick with clouds. Behind them, the forest began some two hundred yards away and the tall evergreens sighed dismally in the morning breeze.
Lisa, Jason and Waters had climbed out behind him. Mark saw Brenda Worley's face looking curiously out at them through the kitchen window of the main house.
Waters had also seen her. He nodded at the psychics. "I'll go talk to her. You three go ahead."
The two psychics nodded and headed for the lab door. Linley trailed along behind.
A thought occurred to him, and he checked his chronometer. "It's nearly 0700. That lab assistant o' Worley's oughtta be showin' up soon."
"Who?" Jason asked.
"Kid by the name o' Zuccherman. Worley's lab assistant. I never met him but he's due. Worley said he's usually late." Mark stopped. They had been joking and laughing then and Alan had been alive. His psychic partner, his brother, even more than Kevin was, but most of all, his friend.
Lisa put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she said simply. "I know how you feel. Part of you is gone, isn't it."
Linley nodded, unable to speak. They entered the office.
Lisa let go of his arm and went to stand by Llwelling, who was holding Kevin's cloak in his hands. Together, they walked slowly around the room. Lisa took the picture from her pocket and bent over the drops of dried blood on the floor. There was a long silence and then she spoke, her voice sounding slightly detached.
"There was a fight." She frowned. "A man came in. I can't see him very well..."
Llwelling turned toward the door. "He took them out," he said. "Kevin was here, I'm sure. They went this way --"
Lisa rested her hand on the dried blood on the floor. Mark watched her hopelessly. Lisa was a tracer. She should be able to pick up the psychic vibrations from Alan and track him. Llwelling was also a tracer -- better than Lisa. Together they should be able to sense something.
Lisa was shaking her head. "I'm not picking up Alan but I think there's been another psychic here."
"Kevin," Mark said. "Worley says him an' me are psychics but we can't use our power."
"No." Lisa shook her head. "It isn't Kevin. I've never sensed psychic energy in Kevin. It was someone else."
Llwelling nodded. "I'm picking it up, too."
Lisa glanced at her partner. "They went out the front way."
Mark followed the two psychics out. Waters and Brenda Worley were standing on the lawn outside. As he closed the door behind them, Mark glanced at his chronometer again. "That's funny," he said.
"What?"
"It's twenty past seven. Zuccherman still hasn't shown up."
7
Alan was swimming through a black sea of pain. His head ached and pounded. From somewhere nearby he could hear the hum of engines and the sound of someone whistling cheerfully.
He tried to bring his hand up to his head but the hand wouldn't move. He relaxed, struggling painfully to reconstruct what had happened. They had been in Don Worley's office when the lab assistant had appeared so suddenly. The guy had hit him with a stun beam and, naturally, that was all he remembered.
Very carefully, keeping his eyes closed, he tried once again to move his hands.
Nothing. His wrists were immobilized, bound tightly to the arms of an acceleration chair, and a rope was passed around his body, holding him upright. His mouth felt dry.
There was sudden movement beside him, the sounds of a struggle and then a blow.
"Oh no you don't!" Another blow and a grunt of pain and then Kevin's voice, giving a brief, uncomplimentary description of Zuccherman's personal habits. Alan cracked an eyelid.
Kevin was in the chair beside him and had apparently nearly managed to free himself. Alan caught a glimpse of blood running down Bronson's cheek and of Zuccherman, fastening the ropes around his wrists more securely.
Kevin favored his captor with a little ripe speech and another description, this time of his parentage, appearance, private behavior and Bronson's aspirations concerning the fate of his future generations. Zuccherman laughed.
"My my, you boys from Shallock. Where *do* you learn such naughty words?"
Bronson added another uncomplimentary phrase. Zuccherman laughed again. "Now, now, Mr. Linley, you don't really mean all those awful things, do you?"
Kevin strained against the ropes. Zuccherman shook his head. "It's nothing personal, really. I need the money; that's all. I don't swallow all that rot the Jils say about Terran psychics. Why, if psychics were *that* bad, they wouldn't dare treat Terrans like they do. But let's face facts. The Jils have got us beat. They're bigger, stronger and quicker than us and to make matters worse, they're *all* psychics. It's crazy to break your neck trying to beat them when the odds are so hopelessly in their favor. You guys in the Underground are a bunch of dreamers! Actually, I'm doing Terra a favor, you know, bringing you and Westover in. You're two of the biggest troublemakers around. Once you're off their necks, the Jils'll probably go a lot easier on the rest of us."
Kevin said a four-letter word.
"Oh sure, I know, I know." Zuccherman laughed again.
Alan remained still, his mind busy. The headache remained, pounding dully with every beat of his heart. He must have hit pretty hard. Carefully, he reached out a mental finger toward the ropes binding his wrist to the arm of the chair.
Nothing happened. Alan concentrated, straining. It shouldn't be this hard! He tried again.
It wasn't working. It wasn't that he was tired, he realized. It was just that there was no psychic energy to work with.
Panic coursed through him. He quelled it, striving to think. Why wasn't his telekinesis working?
Zuccherman was speaking again. "Quit fighting so hard, Linley. I don't want to stun you but I will, if I must."
"You're too kind!" Bronson snarled.
The guy evidently thought Kevin was Mark. The realization sent a wave of hope through him. Mark would be following, no doubt of that. Even now, Alan was undoubtedly linked with him.
Carefully, Alan tried to extend a mental probe toward Zuccherman's mind.
And again, nothing happened.
Fighting back a jab of panic, Alan tried to extend a probe toward Kevin. He *knew* he could read Kevin's mind, even through shielding. Both he and Mark had minds that were ridiculously easy to read.
Nothing. His psychic powers weren't functioning.
It hit him suddenly. The drug. Zuccherman must have injected him with the drug that Worley had told them of. His psychic abilities had been neutralized.
Suddenly, he was very angry. Never before had he realized how much he valued his psychic gifts until they were abruptly gone. He felt helpless, impotent. He was an ordinary human being, smaller than average and with no extra psychic abilities to assist him against his larger, more powerful enemies.
The anger cleared his mind of panic. He was going to have to use his wits to get himself and Kevin out of this. He still had those.
Zuccherman spoke suddenly. "Mister Westover?"
He remained still, limp. Zuccherman came over to him and shook his shoulder lightly. "Come on, Westover. Wake up."
"I hope he dies before we get there," Kevin said. "The Jils'll be tickled pink to get his corpse."
"Shut up." Zuccherman leaned down, examining Alan's forehead. Alan kept his eyes closed and remained still, thinking. The man was worried. He must have been out for some time.
"Who knows what side effects that drug's got," Bronson continued. "Why, that mighta done it by itself. Man! Are the Jils gonna be happy with you, Zucchie baby! I can just hear ol' Halthzor now --"
"Shut *up*!"
"Halthzor's a real lovable Jil, Zucchie baby. You'll like him. He's three times your size, got red hair an' the purtiest grey eyes you ever saw! An' he thinks Terrans are terrific -- yessir! But I dunno what he's gonna think o' you when he finds out you killed Alan. He had his heart set on puttin' the kid t'death before the whole Sector. Maybe he'll put you in the chair in his place. Put a dark, curly wig on you an' you'd look enough like Alan that most people wouldn't notice --"
Zuccherman straightened up and there was the sound of a blow. Kevin grunted with pain and then laughed. "Ever seen a public execution, Zucchie baby?"
Another blow and Kevin laughed again. "Gettin' a bit worried? They scream, Zucchie baby. They scream their heads off, an' it goes on an' on --"
"Shut up or I'll stun you!"
Alan carefully refrained from smiling. Kevin had managed to get the guy good and worried. Now if *he* could just do something to increase Zucchie baby's discomfort...
He voiced a low, gurgling sound deep in his throat and heard someone -- Zuccherman, he thought -- give a startled gasp. Alan increased the gurgle until it became a high rattling sound and began to jerk his body unrhythmically back and forth in what he hoped was a fair imitation of a convulsion. He heard Bronson swear fluently and Zuccherman's frightened inquiry. Alan increased the jerking and began to choke breathlessly, drooling at the same time.
"Alan!" Kevin shouted. "Kid! Holy hell! Lemme outta these ropes!"
Kevin wasn't acting. Alan, who knew Bronson well, could tell that. He must be pretty convincing. He arched his body as well as he could against the ropes, straining, extending his fingers and champing his teeth.
"Alan! Oh m'Gawd, he's gettin' blue! *Do* somethin', damn you!"
Zuccherman was beside him, tearing the ropes from his hands and hauling Alan from his chair.
Alan hit him in the pit of the stomach as hard as he could and Zuccherman doubled over with a strangled grunt. Alan brought his knee up and felt it connect with his opponent's chin, clacking his teeth sharply together.
Zuccherman fell backwards, clawing weakly for the blaster at his hip. Somewhere in the background, Kevin was shouting encouragement. Alan leaped forward, landing heavily on Zuccherman's midriff, just as the man managed to get the blaster free.
The beam hummed and there was a spitting sound behind Alan. He struck sideways at Zuccherman's hand and the weapon went clattering away.
"Good kid!" Kevin yelled. "Hit him again!"
Zuccherman was larger than Alan by perhaps half a head but Alan had the advantage of complete surprise. He obeyed Kevin's instructions, his fist ramming solidly into Zuccherman's face. Blood splattered from the man's lip. Then Zuccherman struck him, knocking him sideways. Alan rolled easily to his feet and his opponent staggered upright at the same instant. Alan made a dash for the blaster.
He almost made it. His fingers were touching the weapon as Zuccherman landed on top of him, knocking him flat to the deck. The blaster, struck by his flailing hand, went sliding away once more.
Alan jabbed backwards with an elbow and felt it connect with something soft. There was a grunt of pain and he heaved, managing to wriggle free. He came to his feet, facing the other man, his back to the tiny galley of the craft, which he now recognized as a planet hopper.
Zuccherman was on his feet, too, and advancing. Alan backed away.
"Listen to me!" Alan tried to keep his voice calm. "You can't take us to the Jils! You do and you're a dead man!"
Zuccherman was still coming. Alan snatched a long, wicked-looking butcher knife from its magnetic grip on the sideboard. "Keep back!"
Zuccherman wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand. "Come on, kid, I don't blame you for trying but you can't hope to win. Put the knife down."
"Back up or I'll kill you." Alan's voice was level. "Listen to me. I sensed it when you hit me with the stunner. You're a psychic. The Jils'll kill you if you turn us in."
"You're lying!" Zuccherman's voice was frightened and angry. "I'm no psychic!"
"You *are*! I sensed it. If you take us in, they'll kill you along with us."
"Kill him, kid," Kevin said. "You can't talk to a guy like that. He's got his heart set on the reward an' nothin' you say's gonna make any difference. Put him outta his misery."
"Listen to me, Zuccherman!" Alan said.
"Watch it," Kevin said. "He's gettin' awful close to that blaster."
"You're a Terran psychic!" Alan said. "Don't you understand? You're just like me!"
Zuccherman turned and leaped for the blaster.
Years ago, Mark had taught Alan knife tactics with great pains and patience for his ineptness. It had taken months, and at last Alan had managed to become moderately proficient with a knife. But he wouldn't have believed his skill and precision as he threw the weapon.
It struck Zuccherman in the back, burying itself with a meaty 'thunk!" between his ribs. The man gave a strangled groan and pitched forward, landing on top of the blaster.
Alan ran forward, grasped Zuccherman by the shirt and heaved the limp body back with a grunt of effort. His breath was coming short and his ears rang thinly. He dropped to his knees beside the man, feeling for a pulse.
There was none. Zuccherman was dead.
"Well?" Kevin asked.
Alan picked up the blaster and stood up. Carefully, he tucked the weapon into his belt and wiped blood from his hands onto his breeches. "Dead."
Bronson's face broke into a grin of sheer admiration. "Holy hell, kid! You were terrific!"
Alan took a deep breath and went over to Bronson. "Hold still. I'll get you untied." He began to tug at the knots. "Are you all right? You're bleeding."
"Yeah. Guy hit me a couple o' times." Bronson held still while Alan dealt with the knots and then rubbed his wrists. "Man, you're some scrapper!" He picked Alan up, giving him a bear hug that knocked the breath out of him. "I could kiss you. In fact, I think I will!" He planted an enthusiastic smack on Alan's cheek.
"Yuk!" Alan scrubbed at the spot, but grinned at Bronson. His knees felt like jelly.
"Now," Kevin said, "let's get this thing turned around pronto!" He headed for the controls. Alan followed him.
Jotenheim swelled, a great, grey monster, banded with markings of a lighter grey, on the screen before them and between them and its bulk he could see the small, dark sphere of Jotenheim's moon.
Bronson dropped into the pilot's seat and reached for the controls.
And stopped. "Oh hell!"
"What?"
"Oh man! When Zucchie baby's stunbeam hit the panel it musta done all kindsa bad things! Looks like it's shorted out half the board! I don't think we're gonna be able to stop, much less turn around!"
"Oh no!" Alan touched a button and then two more. No response.
Bronson got to his feet. "We're headed right for the moon. C'mon, let's get to the lifeboat. Hurry!"
Still unsteady, Alan ran across the deck, past Zuccherman's lifeless form, and punched the button that opened the door to the tiny escape craft. A look into the small space confirmed his suspicions. There was room for two occupants, but the designers obviously hadn't considered the possibility of someone of Bronson's size.
"Don't look all that big," Kevin said. "Get in. It's gonna be kinda cozy."
"You get in first. If I'm on the bottom you're going to squash me."
Kevin didn't argue but folded himself into the tiny space, making his bulk as small as possible. "Hurry up."
Cozy was an understatement, Alan thought as he squeezed in on top of Bronson, practically sitting in his lap. At least in this position he could reach the controls. "Okay, all set. Here we go."
He pressed the button and the airtight door slid shut. The outer door opened and the tiny craft was thrown outward.
**********
tbc
