Two Giants For David -- 5/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
5
"Where is Alan Westover?"
Mark shook his head. "I dunno."
"When you were taken, he would have headed for the nearest Terran Underground base. Where is it?"
Mark didn't answer. Knuckles cracked him across the face, wringing a cry of pain from him.
"Where is the base, Linley?"
Mark lifted his head to stare blearily at the face of Patrolman Zimmerman. He had no idea how long the interrogation had been going on. He had lost track of the time. So far, the Patrol hadn't employed any of their more sophisticated methods, which the Jils usually favored for extracting information. And Mark knew why. The drugs and electrical stimulus left no outward marks. All the real information would be obtained when he reached Corala, anyway -- extracted without effort by the telepathic mind probes of the Jilectans. Of course, the Patrol didn't know that. They expected him to have shielding, as most Undergrounders did. Mark had shielding, all right, but it was inadequate to repel the powerful telepathic minds of the Jilectans.
But the patrolmen weren't worrying about extracting information, anyway. He knew they didn't expect him to crack. Undergrounders had held up under far worse than he was experiencing. This interrogation was nothing but a sham -- an excuse to make him as gory as possible without actually killing him. Presumably such methods would bring young Alan Westover on the run, and haste would make the boy careless.
Mark had to admit that the logic was sound. Alan must be half out of his mind by now.
"Where is the nearest Underground base, Linley?"
Mark braced himself and Zimmerman jabbed him under the short ribs. The room went grey in a burst of pain and a buzzing sound filled the air around him.
"Better give him a rest." It was Lieutenant Osborne's voice, faint through the haze of pain. "You kill him, Zimmerman, and Halthzor'll have you in the chair."
Mark closed his eyes and let the world fade out. The voices of the patrolmen dwindled into the distance.
Somewhere, very far away, someone was calling him. The voice was clear, and higher-pitched than those of the patrolmen. Involuntarily, Mark stirred, listening.
*Mark! Mark, can you hear me?*
It was Alan's voice! Mark shook his head, not believing what he heard. Alan couldn't be here. Auditory hallucinations were common during interrogations. He had seen it happen hundreds of times during his ten-year stint in the Patrol.
*Mark!* Again he heard the voice, louder this time. It sounded like his partner was in the room with him! *Mark! I'm coming!*
It was a dream. It must be. Alan had often communicated with him before, but he had never done so consciously.
*Mark! I'm coming, Mark!*
It *was* Alan! Mark lifted his head, searching frantically for the speaker. There was no one in the room except the black-clad patrolmen.
"Alan?" he croaked. "Kid, is that you?"
*Yes! Yes, Mark!* The reply was a beacon of hope penetrating the blackness of despair. He sensed comfort, reassurance. *I'm coming for you! Just hold on!*
For a fleeting moment, he saw Alan's face before him and blinked, trying to focus the image. Then Alan's face blurred and faded out. Had it ever really been there at all?
"Kid!" he croaked. "Where are you? Don't go 'way --"
A fist cracked him across the face and pain exploded through him. He saw patrolmen -- only patrolmen.
"Answer when the Strike Commander speaks, Linley!"
Mark shook his head. "Wha --"
Zimmerman yanked the straps from his wrists and brought him to his feet. Murphy had him by the other arm and together they shoved him toward Strike Commander Foxe, who was seated in a chair against one wall.
Foxe spoke. "All right, Mark, I think we've both had enough of this nonsense." His voice was the same emotionless drawl that Mark remembered from his years in the Patrol. "Did your partner communicate with you just now?"
Mark shook his head. "I was dreamin'."
"I don't believe you." Foxe stood up, facing him. The Strike Commander was a big man, taller even than Mark, and powerfully muscled. "I think young Westover just spoke to you telepathically. What did he say?"
"I'm no psychic," Mark said.
"No?" Foxe put a hand beneath his chin, bringing his drooping head up. "Maybe not. But I think there's something very different about you, Mark -- something the Jils might be interested in knowing about." Foxe jerked Linley's chin abruptly, and his thumb bit into the prisoner's neck, bringing a grunt of pain from him. "He *did* communicate with you, didn't he?"
"No," Mark said. "I ain't a psychic. I was in the Patrol for ten years, for the luvamike. The Jils would have spotted me a long time ago if --"
"Methinks he doth protest too much." Foxe jerked his head again. "What did Westover say to you?"
"I was dreamin'." Mark shook his head, trying to free himself from Foxe's grasp. The man was sharp, and Linley's brain wasn't working as fast as he would have liked. "Alan's never been able to communicate with me -- not telepathically, anyway."
"That's a lie, and you know it." Foxe's soft drawl cut him off. "The boy has some hold over you or you'd never have deserted your command for him, two years ago. I know you, Mark -- maybe better than the Jils do. You were ambitious -- smartest damn officer I ever met. Nobody made a fool of you -- ever -- until that boy happened along."
"But --"
"Somehow, you always know when he's in trouble. I've followed your escapades rather closely over the last couple of years. You always know exactly where he is, and how to bail him out. There's something between you two -- something I don't think even the Jils understand. They haven't been in enough contact with Terran psychics for them to learn all there is to know." Again he paused, surveying Mark searchingly. "There's something about you, Mark...."
His voice trailed off. Mark closed his eyes, trying desperately to think. Foxe was one of the most intelligent men he had ever known. He had already half-guessed the Underground's guarded secret concerning Mark and Alan -- not that it mattered. When they reached Corala, the secret would come out anyway.
"I'm waiting," Foxe said quietly. "What did your partner say to you?"
"Go to hell," Mark said.
Instantly, he knew it was a mistake. Zimmerman twisted the arm he held and something gave. Agony lanced through him, and there was a sickening snap. Mark fainted.
Cold water smashed him in the face. Mark groaned and tried to move. Something grated in his left arm, and his stomach lurched. Voices were speaking somewhere in the distance and he recognized Foxe's.
"All right, Zimmerman, you listen good! They don't want him maimed!"
"But he said --"
"I'm a big boy," the Commander interrupted acidly. "I can take a little profanity." His voice changed as he apparently spoke to someone else. "Is he coming to yet?"
"I think so, sir. He's moving, anyway. The arm's broken."
There was a menacing silence. "Damn you, Zimmerman!"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Sorry isn't good enough. You're a third classer again, mister! All right, even if we get it out of him now, it's too late. Westover will have moved."
A hand grasped Mark by the collar, jerking him to a sitting position. Something warm ran down his face.
"Come on, Mark." Foxe's voice was soft and coaxing. "We aren't asking all that much. Just tell us what Westover said to you and we'll let you alone."
Mark gritted his teeth and shook his head. A slap jarred him, making the lights dim out again. Foxe cussed. "Get out of here, Zimmerman!"
Mark slumped back to the deck as the grasp on his collar loosened. Faintly, through the pounding of blood in his ears, he heard the footsteps retreating.
"Where is Westover, Linley?"
Mark heard the voice dimly, as in a half-remembered dream. It didn't concern him. He barely felt the hands pulling him upright again. His head lolled forward.
"He doesn't look so good, sir." It was Osborne's voice again. "Better give him a rest."
"All right." Foxe sounded grim. Mark was lowered to the deck again, and consciousness faded out.
Voices again, penetrating the velvety blackness. "Okay, wake him up. Murphy, take Zimmerman's place, but be careful. I don't want him passing out again."
Murphy half-lifted Mark to a sitting position again. "All right, Linley...."
A titanic explosion shook the deck beneath him and Murphy swore, releasing his arm. Mark fell back, his head spinning and his ears ringing with the concussion. An alarm went off, and an excited babble of voices reached him. Someone was shouting for them to evacuate at once. Two patrolmen caught his arms, and Mark screamed, the world greying out once more. The man adjusted his grip, swearing, and Mark was dragged to his feet and through the doorway.
Patrolmen were milling everywhere, crowding frantically toward the lifts. Foxe pushed his way among them, shouting orders that could barely be heard over the din. Mark was bundled into a lift and it moved downward.
"We need an escort," Foxe snapped. "Stay with him at all times. That was the Underground -- no doubt about it. They're going to try to get to him, now."
A circle of patrolmen closed about Mark as he was half-carried from the lift. They hustled him toward the boarding ramp, the alarm still blasting deafeningly. Somewhere, a fire siren was shrieking. They emerged from the ship, and Linley caught a glimpse of orange flames and billowing smoke from beneath the vessel.
"What the devil was it?" someone demanded.
"Blaster on emergency max," someone else replied. "Zimmerman was just leaving the ship, and he saw the guy throw it through the hatch."
Mark closed his eyes, letting consciousness slip away once more. They were half-lifting him into an aircar, and the door closed behind him. Alan *was* here, he thought. Nobody but his partner would have the nerve to blow up the repulsers while the ship was docked in the middle of the landing field with 'trols crawling everywhere. The knowledge sent a wave of hope through him -- hope that he knew logically was disproportionate to the facts. The Patrol had set a trap for the boy, and they were now certainly going to be watching for him.
The aircar lifted and headed back toward the compound.
**********
Alan remained perfectly still, his body half-shielded by the metal rafter. The patrolman advanced a step, playing his handlight across the floor and around the walls.
"Find anything?"
The patrolman jumped at the voice and spun, his blaster leveled. "Dammit, Jake! You scared the pants off me!"
"Sorry. Any sign of him?"
"Nah. He was headin' this way but he disappeared between two buildin's. Little tiny guy, and awful fast on his feet. The blast knocked me down and by the time I was up again, he was halfway across the field."
"Did you get a good look at him?"
"I saw him, but it wasn't what you call a good look."
"Was it Westover?"
"Could've been, I guess. Awful shrimp, though. Didn't look much bigger'n a kid."
"Westover's not supposed to be very big. Sounds like it coulda been him. All right: check this place out. I'm headin' for the barracks." Jake went out.
The investigating patrolman advanced, the light held before him in a hand that shook visibly. Carefully, Alan removed the stunner from his belt. The man was sure to see him soon. It was only a matter of minutes until he decided to check the overhead rafters. Steadying the weapon in both hands, Alan pressed the firing stud.
It was a long shot, and the stunbeam was dissipating by the time it reached the patrolman. The man gave a hoarse croak and fell to his hands and knees on the floor. Alan dropped.
He landed directly in the middle of the man's back, knocking him flat, and driving the air from his lungs. There was an agonized grunt and Alan reached forward, wrenching the blaster from the patrolman's extended hand. Holding it steady on the other man's chest, Alan backed away and swung the gymnasium doors shut.
The blaster was sticky. Alan glanced down at it and froze.
Blood. His palm was smeared with blood from the butt of the weapon. Alan stared down at it, puzzled for a moment, and then, in a flash, he comprehended. Fury washed through him and he lifted his handlight, flashing it over the patrolman.
The man lay face down on the floor, gasping for breath. Alan took a long step forward, unstrapped the silver helmet and pulled it free. Deliberately, he snapped off the transmitter.
"Show me your hands, Zimmerman." Alan hardly recognized his own voice.
The patrolman didn't move, and continued to make crowing sounds. Alan pressed the transmitter again. "This is Zimmerman," he said into the throat mike, muffling his voice with his sleeve. "He ain't in the gym."
"Roger, Zimmerman," came the reply. "Join the search of the grounds."
Alan switched it off again and rolled the helmet away. "Okay, 'trol, get up."
Zimmerman heaved himself to his knees, still gasping.
"Show me your hands."
The patrolman extended them, palms up. Hands and wrists were smeared with blood, some dried, some bright and fresh. Mark's blood. Alan knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt.
He gestured with the blaster. "March ahead of me."
Zimmerman got to his feet, his face paper white. "What are you going to do?"
Alan leveled the blaster at his face. "March," he repeated.
Zimmerman marched.
They headed toward the rear of the gym and Alan propelled Zimmerman through the small doors that led to the showers. "All right, hold it."
The man stopped and turned, hands held over his head. Alan spoke again.
"How bad is he hurt?"
"Huh? Who?"
"You know who. How bad is Mark hurt?"
Zimmerman stared at him, his mouth half-open. "Who *are* you?"
"I'm Alan Westover. Answer my question."
The man stared at him. "You ain't Westover!"
Zimmerman was stalling. Alan flicked the blaster to needle beam and fired. Zimmerman yipped as it singed his shoulder. "Okay, okay, he ain't hurt that bad! He'll be okay. Anyhow, it wasn't me that did it. I was trying to patch him up. That's how I got blood on my --"
"Shut up!" Alan took a step forward. "I'm a degenerate psychic, remember? I can see everything in your mind!"
Zimmerman retreated a step, shaking his head. The panic in his mind clouded his thoughts, making them hard for Alan to read. "I'm sorry! I won't do it again! I promise!"
"You stinking trenchcrawler," Alan whispered. Zimmerman seemed to cringe backward, and then Alan caught the impulse in the man's mind almost too late as the patrolman launched himself straight at Alan. His finger contracted on the trigger and there was the "tzing!" of the needle beam. Zimmerman plunged to the floor at Alan's feet and lay still, a pinpoint hole drilled directly through his forehead.
Alan stared at the patrolman for a short instant and then thrust the blaster beneath his jacket. Without a backward glance, he went quietly out of the showers. Forcibly, he quelled his instinctive revulsion to what had just happened. This man had been torturing Mark, he reminded himself, and the thought stiffened his resolve. He deserved nothing less than what he had gotten.
The gym was still deserted. Alan approached the doors cautiously, one hand on the butt of the blaster, beneath his jacket. There were people outside, but none very near the entrance. He opened the right hand door, slipped through, and closed it behind him.
There were muted shouts in the distance, but no one was within sight. Alan straightened his cap and headed toward the landing field at a brisk walk.
"Hey, you!"
Alan turned. A patrolman was coming toward him at a run, his blaster in one hand. Alan stopped, waiting as the man approached. "Yes?"
"Lemme see your I.D."
Alan produced it. "Jerry Thompkins, sir."
The patrolman examined the I.D., suspicion radiating from his mind. "What are you doin' over here?"
Alan shrugged. "I heard the commotion and figured they must have had another cherry bomb in the mess hall. I was heading that way when I saw the fire engines on the landing field." He hesitated, keeping a careful mental finger in the man's mind. "What happened?"
The suspicion deepened. "You come with me, kid. We're goin' for a little walk."
Alan shrugged. "Okay...hey, who's that coming out of the gym?"
The man glanced involuntarily in the direction of the gym and Alan reached telekinetically. The blaster leaped from the patrolman's hand and shot through the air, straight into Alan's. He fired.
The weapon cracked sharply and the patrolman went down. Alan ran.
He reached another building and slowed to a walk. The sound of the shot had been heard by the search parties and men were coming toward them at a run. Alan flattened himself against a wall as two men went by, blasters out. Then, he sauntered on toward the landing field, glancing curiously at the patrolmen rushing past him.
A great crowd of spacers had gathered and were watching the blaze. The base fire department was on the scene, and smoke billowed enthusiastically from the battlecruiser's engines. Alan joined the crowd of onlookers, noting with satisfaction that the explosion had torn the hatch completely away. He hoped it had made hash out of the repulsers.
"How bad is it?" he inquired of a young man beside him.
The man grinned savagely. "Ripped the guts out of the trencher."
"Good," Alan said.
"Amen to that." The young man laughed maliciously.
"Is Linley okay?" Alan asked, after a moment.
The spacer glanced at him. "You didn't see 'em bring the poor guy out?"
Alan shook his head.
"Well, he's alive, but that's about all I can say for him. They've beaten the living hell out of him, and I think his arm's broken. It was hanging at an awful weird angle."
Alan bit his lip. "Where did they take him?"
The other man nodded toward the Administration Building, not far from the landing field. "Over there."
Alan drifted toward the brightly-lighted building. Patrolmen were milling everywhere, swearing and condemning the Terran Underground for all time. Alan listened with half an ear, watching the door.
"Damn that damned Underground!"
"Zimmerman said it was a real little guy. Betcha anythin' it was Westover, himself! Damn that li'l twerp --" There followed a long string of colorful adjectives, describing Alan's ancestry, personal habits and ultimate destination in graphic detail.
Somebody snickered, and he turned his head to see a young spacer beside him. The man wore pajama bottoms, spacer boots, a bulky coat and a pleased grin. "Bully for Alan Westover!" he whispered. "Little David's knocked another giant for a loop! Long live the king!"
Admiral Powell was coming across the compound. He looked disheveled and untidy, his hair mussed and blowing in the icy wind. As he approached, Strike Commander Foxe emerged from the building, accompanied by half a dozen patrolmen. Behind him was Mark, supported by two more patrolmen. Alan could see his partner's blood-streaked face clearly in the light from the room beyond. Around him all talk and laughter died, and the watching Terrans fell silent. Powell pushed his way through the crowd and mounted the steps.
"What happened?" he inquired. "My clerk tells me there was an explosion on your ship."
"Someone set a blaster on overload and stuck it inside the repulser hatch." Strike Commander Foxe was making no attempt to conceal his annoyance.
Admiral Powell frowned at the other man. "Wasn't the hatch sealed?"
"You're damn right it was sealed!"
"Then how --" Admiral Powell broke off, and even through the crowd of emotions around him, Alan thought he could read amusement in the man's mind. "Oh, I see --"
Mark's bleeding face lifted and his eyes focused on the watching spacers. Alan saw one eyelid flutter in a wink. There was a stir in the crowd, and a murmur of voices swelled suddenly. Foxe turned sharply toward them and the voices went silent. The man turned back to the Admiral. "You will set your men working to repair the damage immediately, Admiral Powell, and you will also supply us with a light cruiser so that we may blast off on schedule. That's in five hours, so if you don't have a ship ready, I advise you to prepare one immediately."
Admiral Powell bristled. "Now see here --"
Foxe took a step toward him, towering over the short, stocky form of the Admiral. "You have a complaint?" he inquired softly.
For a moment, the two men faced each other. The patrolmen surrounding the Strike Commander moved forward, hands on the butts of their weapons, and, as if on cue, the watching spacers also moved forward. There was sudden tension in the air, and for a slow count of ten, the scene held static. Then the Admiral nodded, his shoulders drooping. "Very well, Strike Commander."
A concentrated sigh went up from the spacers and the man beside Alan moved convulsively. "Coward," he muttered.
"He can't do anything else," someone else whispered. "They're armed and we're not. They'd cut us to pieces."
Powell was speaking again, his voice sullen. "The 'Patton' is ready to depart. It was to leave for Ceregon at 0900 tomorrow." He nodded toward the landing field. "I believe you'll find it satisfactory."
"Thank you, Admiral." Foxe's tone of voice made the title an insult. He gestured to his men, who led Mark down the steps. The spacers made way for them and Alan was pressed back into the crowd, his vision blocked by the many taller figures in front of him. One of the patrolmen cursed, and there was the sound of a blow.
"You damned twerp! Spit on me, willya --"
Someone shouted, and a fist cracked on bone. Patrolmen and spacers surged forward.
Foxe and Powell both shouted, pushing through the crowd toward the scene of conflict. The sounds of battle subsided and the spacers fell back. Alan saw a patrolman being helped to his feet by one of his fellows. Blood trickled from the man's nose, and two spacers were helping another man in the brown uniform of Terra to his feet as well.
"Get the prisoner in the aircar, Johnson!" Foxe snapped. "Move!"
The patrolmen hustled Mark forward once more.
But Alan was no longer paying attention to the scene. Alarm was tickling at the edge of his consciousness, and he moved back from the crowd, the prickle of apprehension running over his scalp. A warning. Precognition. The sensation was unmistakable.
The sensation localized, centering on his left hand. He glanced down at it, noticing that it was still smeared with Mark's blood, which he had picked up from Zimmerman's blaster. The blood was dried now, no more than a rusty stain on his palm. He stared at it and suddenly he knew. Mark was in imminent danger.
He looked up, scanning the darkness. The patrolmen had made it through the crowd of spacers and were proceeding down the walkway toward their parked aircar, Mark still in their midst. Panic raced through Alan. He had to locate the source of the danger, or his partner would die within a very few minutes.
**********
tbc
