Two Giants For David -- 7/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
8
Mark Linley came back to painful consciousness. He was lying on a firm surface, and he hurt. Agonizing twinges coursed through his left arm and he groaned, trying to pull it away. Firm hands descended on his shoulders, restraining him and he relaxed, striving to focus his eyes.
He was lying on an examining table, his injured arm extended sideways. The face of a woman was looking down at him and it was she who held him. A man in the uniform of a ship's surgeon was applying a splint.
"Don't move, Mr. Linley," the nurse said. "He's almost finished."
Mark nodded, trying not to flinch. There was movement somewhere to his right and he turned his head. A man was standing across the room, and for one incredible moment, he thought it was Alan. Mark forgot his arm, staring in horror at the short, compact form and dark curly hair, and then at the patrolman only a few meters away.
Then the figure turned and Mark found himself looking into the round face of the ship's corpsman. The young man came over to stand by the nurse, resting a gentle hand on Mark's uninjured arm.
"How do you feel?" Mark could barely hear the whispered question.
"Okay," he croaked.
The corpsman's hand tightened on Mark's arm and there was the prick of a needle.
"Hey!" the patrolman beside him, yanking the boy away. "What did you give him?"
The corpsman's voice trembled slightly. "Just something for the pain, sir. He could go into shock if --"
The patrolman struck the corpsman across the mouth, knocking him to his knees. The hypodermic went clattering across the deck.
"You don't listen very good, do you, Mister? I could have you thrown in the brig!"
The corpsman got to his feet, his eyes downcast, and the patrolman gave him a shove that sent him staggering. "Get away from him! If I see you near him again, I'll beat the hell outta you!"
The corpsman went out of the room, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and the patrolman turned to the surgeon, who had paused in his task to watch the proceedings.
"Finish up! Hurry!"
The nurse handed the doctor a roll of bandage and took Mark's good hand. "Squeeze," she advised. "Sometimes it helps."
Mark did. "Tell the kid thanks for me, willya?"
"Sure." Her voice fell to a whisper. "He isn't sorry. You can bet on it."
Mark grinned weakly and relaxed, strangely comforted by the presence of these people, however powerless that they might be to help him. "Guess I musta passed out in the aircar. Am I aboard the 'Patton'?"
She nodded. "Infirmary. We've been commandeered to take you to Corala. The 'Juggernaut' got kind of blown up."
"Shut up! The patrolman snapped. "Get a move on!"
The doctor was fastening the bandage. "I'm finished. That arm'll be pretty painful for a few days. You should have the bone sealed in a week ..." His voice trailed off.
"That's okay," Mark said.
The patrolmen were approaching and Mark gritted his teeth, knowing it would hurt when they pulled him from the examining table. The young corpsman reappeared as though by magic, floating a light gurney before him. "Excuse me, sir, but would you like to take him on this? It'll be a lot easier than carrying him."
The patrolman -- Murphy, he saw, by the name on the helmet -- frowned at the corpsman. "Get him on it."
The doctor and corpsman lifted Mark gently and deposited him on the litter. Linley tried to help them, surprised to realize how weak he was. For an instant the corpsman's face was over him but Mark had no chance to say anything. The nurse settled a pillow under his head, the boy was shoved aside and the visored face of Patrolman Murphy appeared. Mark was floated from the room.
He closed his eyes then, relaxing in the warm comfort of the drug. Consciousness began to fade. Then there was a clatter of boots on the deck and Linley forced his eyes to open again. A patrolman was speaking excitedly to the Strike Commander.
"We found Zimmerman, sir. He's dead, all right. Somebody must have cornered him in the gym. He's been drilled through the head with a needle beam."
There was a silence.
Zimmerman, Mark thought. His friend with the heavy hand and the short temper. Well, well, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy....
Foxe's visored face turned toward Mark. "Westover, I suppose." His voice sounded resigned. "How the devil is that little imp managing to dodge the security? Any other casualties?"
"There's another security guard missing, sir. He doesn't answer his hail."
Foxe swore under his breath. "Send out a call to have them all come aboard at once."
"Yessir." The man turned away and Mark felt the gentle movement as the gurney was floated down the corridor toward the lift. Faces slid past and he saw one that looked like Alan. Dammit! He was beginning to see the kid everywhere! First that business in front of the Administration building when the aircar had blown up practically under their noses. He had imagined he felt an energy drain right before that and for just a moment he glimpsed a young spacer who had resembled Alan. Then there had been the corpsman, and now this. Steady, Mark. The kid'll try, but he's got a tall order here. Don't expect too much.
A voice was speaking, mixing strangely with the encroaching dream images. He tried to ignore it. He was sleepy, and whatever the young corpsman had given him, it was making him feel very warm and comfortable.
*Mark!* The voice was suddenly loud and clear -- so clear that Linley was sure for a moment that Alan had shouted aloud. *I'm here, Mark! I'm going to save you!*
Mark tried to sit up but the straps tightened across his chest. Frantically, he twisted his head about, trying to see that face again.
There was a gentle swaying as the litter was guided forward into the lift. The doors closed.
*Kid!* He formed the word desperately in his mind. *Alan, was that you? Answer me, kid! Please!*
Nothing. Mark lay still for a moment, aching for a reply that didn't come. Had it been imagination? No! The voice had been real. He was sure of it. Alan was here. Now, if the boy would be very, very careful, maybe there was hope.
Hope? No, it was impossible. The Patrol must be aware of the possibility that Alan had managed to board the "Patton" and they would be watching for him. Even after he was imprisoned in the brig, Mark knew he would be heavily guarded. There was no way Alan was going to reach him without getting caught.
The lift came to a halt and the litter swayed again as he was floated into a corridor. Again the warmth and drowsiness settled over him. Consciousness began to fade and he let it go.
Hands were loosening the straps binding him to the gurney. He was pulled to a sitting position, hoisted from the litter and dumped unceremoniously on a narrow cot. Footsteps retreated and he heard the grate of a door sliding shut, and then the click of a lock. Mark turned his head and looked around.
He was in the brig and deep within the ship he could hear the vibrating whine of engines. He was on his way to the Jilectans, and what he had suffered at Zimmerman's hands was nothing compared to what he faced now. They would wring him dry of information and then publicly torture and kill him. Mark closed his eyes again.
"Alan," he muttered hopelessly. "Kid, are you here?"
The whine of engines increased and once more the comfortable drowsiness enveloped him. He began to sink slowly downward into dark, warm water. Pain receded and the whine of engines dwindled. Mark slept.
**********
Alan took a deep breath and turned away as the litter containing Mark vanished into the lift. He had things to do if he was to rescue his partner. First he must check the duty roster.
Jerry Thompkins, it turned out, was scheduled for duty in the engine room on the third shift. That gave Alan sixteen hours to carry through with his plan. It should be long enough.
His quarters were located on the second deck at the far end of the corridor. Alan paused before the door, extending a telepathic probe. The cabin was empty, and he entered, breathing a sigh of relief.
His locker showed evidence that young Thompkins had already been here. So did his bunk, for it was littered with pieces of gear and a large carton of cigarettes. A pair of scuffed boots, one upright, one toppled on its side, were beside a chair and the chair, itself, was heaped with three somewhat rumpled uniforms.
Another pair of boots, these polished and shining, stood beside the other bunk. Alan hoped sincerely that Thompkins and his new bunkmate had not already met. If they had, Alan would have to be ready with an explanation. Identical names, that was it. There had been two Jerry Thompkins in the graduating class at the Academy, and they both had received their first assignments at Space Corps Headquarters. The other Jerry had simply gotten mixed up and boarded the "Patton" before he had realized he was assigned to another vessel.
Alan hoped that would do. Carefully, he lifted the mattress of his bunk and concealed both blasters beneath it. Space Corps officers carried stunners but not blasters, and it would be bad if his new bunkmate should happen to see young Jerry carrying a genuine regulation Patrol blaster. Under the mattress of the bunk, it would be within easy reach should Alan need it.
He removed the gear from the bed and stored it neatly in his locker. Then he began to hang up the uniforms. Jerry must be a somewhat sloppy young man, he thought, noting the long, yellow dribble of what appeared to be egg yolk down the front of one of the uniforms. This should certainly have been cleaned before a new grad's first assignment. The clothing reeked of cigarette smoke.
Hi finished tidying his side of the room and seated himself on the bunk, beginning to remove his boots. They had, as expected, proven too large and he already had a blister on one heel. Alan rubbed it absently, trying once again to reach out for Mark.
The door slid aside and a young man, clad in the uniform of a Space Corps lieutenant, entered. Alan took one look and turned quickly away, his heart pounding.
The newcomer was perhaps thirty centimeters taller than Alan, slender and very handsome. And except for the fact that he had shaved off his mustache and now walked with a slight limp, he was exactly as Alan remembered him.
Kurt McDougal, his roommate from Terran Space Academy in Miami. A memory from another life.
"Hi there! Jerry Thompkins, I presume?"
"Yes."
"I'm Kurt McDougal."
There was no way to avoid it. Alan took Kurt's extended hand and shook it. "How do you do?"
"Oh, I'm okay." Kurt seated himself on his bunk and began to tug at his boots. "Straight out of the Academy?"
"I just arrived today."
"I thought you looked sort of lost." Kurt paused in his task and Alan sensed puzzlement and then sudden wariness. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Alan summoned a smile, still not looking directly at him.
Wariness increasing, accompanied by anger and resentment. "You've been hearing things about me, haven't you?"
"Huh?" Alan glanced quickly at him. "No, nothing."
"Well, it's not true!" Kurt's face was red with righteous anger.
Alan blinked at him. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir."
Kurt stared at him for a long moment, his brows drawn together. Then the frown faded and he shrugged, grinning apologetically. "Sorry. Guess I jumped to conclusions. Call me Kurt. Sir is for when we're on duty or in the company of other officers."
"Okay." Alan smiled and looked down.
Kurt's grin faded. "Holy smoke! You look familiar. Have we met before?"
Alan's heart jumped again. "I don't think so." He turned away, beginning to unseal his tunic. "I have a common face. Lots of people look like me."
Kurt was silent and Alan sensed deep puzzlement. The man was studying him, trying to make the connection. Alan stepped out of the uniform. "Think I'll have time for a shower before liftoff?" he inquired, trying to make his voice casual.
"You'll have to hurry. If I were you, I'd wait 'til afterwards. Then you can relax and take your time. Which shift are you on?"
"The third."
"Me too. Blast it, but you look familiar! Even your voice sounds familiar, but your name doesn't ring a bell. You ever been on the video?"
"I did a commercial once for Charlie's Chilibeans," Alan said, hoping that would satisfy his inquisitive friend. "Maybe that's where you saw me."
"Maybe." Kurt sounded dubious.
A piercing whistle sounded and McDougal lay down on his bunk. "Here we go. Lie down and strap in. You get space sick?"
Alan slipped into Jerry Thompkins' bathrobe. It was large for him, but hopefully Kurt wouldn't notice. "No."
"That's good. My last bunkmate did." Kurt laughed. "Man! What a hassle that was! And half the time he wouldn't make it to the latrine. He'd try to hold out and I'd end up mopping up the mess."
Alan grinned, memories of the years he had spent at the Academy flooding back.
The ship quivered and Alan lay down on the bunk, pulling the safety webbing around him. Kurt was watching him again, his expression puzzled. Alan looked away.
"You scared of me or something, Jerry?"
"Huh?" Alan turned his head again. "No, of course not."
"Then why won't you look at me when I talk to you?"
Alan cleared his throat. "Guess I'm sort of upset about Linley."
Kurt was silent a moment. Then he spoke, his voice subdued. "Yeah, me too. You sure picked a hell of a first assignment. Poor guy -- did you see what they did to him?"
Alan nodded, averting his gaze again.
Kurt was swearing under his breath. "Those stinking jackals. I wish --" He stopped, abruptly.
Alan glanced at him in surprise, sensing hatred emanating from his companion. He had known before, of course, that Kurt bore no good will toward either the Jilectans or the Patrol. Few Terrans did. But what he was sensing now was hatred -- pure, unadulterated hatred. Something had happened to Kurt since they had parted two years ago -- something that had intensified his feelings dramatically.
They were lifting off. Alan felt the seconds of heaviness before the artificial gravity clicked in. Minutes slid past.
Kurt spoke suddenly and savagely. "I'm not watching that execution, though. The Viceroy wants me to watch it, he'll have to come hold me down, himself. The Jils are making a mistake, you know."
Alan swallowed. "Do you think so?"
"I know so. It's no secret how Terrans -- and most other species -- feel about the guy. He's their idol. Half the teenage kids on Terra have posters of him tacked to their bedroom walls. And Alan Westover, too."
There was a jolt as the ship converted to hyperspace.
Kurt was continuing. "So it doesn't make any difference how humiliating a death they contrive for him. It won't matter. If Mark Linley dies at the hands of the Jils, he dies a hero and it'll bring to the surface all kinds of anti-Jil feelings that were pretty much dormant before." Kurt removed his safety webbing and sat up. "You mark my words."
Alan nodded, also sitting up. "You're probably right."
"You're damn right I'm right!" Kurt stood up. "The Jils'll be sorry about this someday, and maybe sooner than you think." He crossed to his locker, unsealing his uniform. Alan headed for the bathroom.
Kurt glanced toward him as he passed and gave a soft exclamation. "Jerry?"
"Yes?" Alan tensed.
"Now I know why you look familiar! Has anyone ever told you that you look just like --" His voice trailed off, and Alan sensed vividly his sudden jolt of recognition.
Alan spun and bolted for the bunk, snatching his blaster from beneath the mattress. Kurt, his uniform unsealed, was standing beside his locker gripping the door with one hand, his face stark white.
"Alan!" he whispered.
Alan adjusted the blaster.
"Don't," Kurt said, his voice a little louder. "Don't stun me, please." He let go of the locker and raised his hands over his head. Alan hesitated and then reached telekinetically for the stunner at Kurt's belt. The weapon came free and floated across the room to drop softly on Alan's bunk. Kurt watched it, his eyes wide. His legs folded suddenly and he sat down rather hard on the deck.
"Sorry," Alan said. He took a step forward, feeling a little stab of remorse. "Are you okay?"
Kurt leaned his head back against the bulkhead, taking a deep breath. "Man!" he muttered. "You threw me quite a curve."
"I'm sorry," Alan said. "I didn't want you to recognize me."
Kurt took another deep breath, the color beginning to return to his face. "I didn't at first. You've changed, old buddy. You've grown up a lot."
"I'm sorry about this," Alan said. "Honestly, I am. But I needed an identity and I had no idea who Jerry Thompkins' bunkmate was. It was just bad luck that it happened to be you."
Kurt nodded, looking a little stunned. Alan bit his lip. "I'm going to have to drug you. Don't worry -- the stuff they supply us with will only put you to sleep for a few hours. Lie down on your bunk."
"What?" Kurt shook his head. "No!"
"I have to," Alan said. "It's for your own protection. If the Jils find out you knew about me and didn't report it, you'll be dead. This way you're covered. You had no choice in the matter."
"To hell with the Jils!" Kurt rose to his feet, color flooding his face. "Let me help you! I'll do whatever you want!"
"You *can't!*" Alan protested. "If I manage to get Mark free, you'll be investigated. They'll find out what you did, and --"
"Don't you think I know that?"
"But --"
"I'll go with you. I'll join the Underground, too!"
"Kurt, you don't know what you're saying. If you do that, you'll be an outlaw for the rest of your life. You'll be hunted by the Jils, and if you're caught --"
"It's the execution chair," Kurt finished for him. "I know, and I don't care. I've been waiting for my chance for two years. Please, Alan!"
"But --" Alan stared at Kurt's face. "Why?"
For a second, Kurt's eyes met his and then he looked at the deck. "I have my reasons."
Alan took a step toward him, keeping the blaster steady. "Then I have to know them. I'm sorry if they're personal, but I can't trust you unless I do. There's too much at stake."
Kurt looked at him, an odd expression on his features. "Are you reading my mind?"
"No." Alan shook his head. "No, but I'm scanning your emotional output. If you tell a lie, I'll know."
"Good. I want you to scan me." Kurt got slowly to his feet and dropped into the nearest chair. "A lot of people didn't believe me and I want to be sure you do." He paused. "Something happened, after you left the Academy, but indirectly it still involved you." Again he paused. "You aren't going to like this."
Alan felt a tug of misgiving. "Go ahead."
"After you killed Salthvor, I was investigated. Everybody was who had anything to do with you, and I was your closest friend at TSA. The Patrol dragged me up before one of Salthvor's kin -- a Jil by the name of Lord Tilthvar. The 'trols gave me kind of a bad time because I was a Space Cadet, and because I was your friend, but I really didn't care. I was glad you killed that trenchcrawler, and I'm still glad."
"So what happened? I take it he probed you."
"Yes," Kurt said. His face had grown hard. "And he didn't like what he saw. He hit me twice and knocked me silly. Then he gave an order to his 'trols that I didn't catch because I was only about half there. They took me out and beat me senseless. I woke up in the hospital."
Alan bit his lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"That's not all." Kurt's face was grim. "I got the story from the hospital employees and the police, because I didn't remember anything but the Patrol knocking me around. Apparently I was found lying in a gutter minus my clothes and babbling incoherently. Lab tests showed I had ingested a nearly lethal dose of a contraband drug known as Ceregon dream dust."
"Kurt!"
"Oh, I recovered, as you can see." Kurt grinned bitterly. "But I'll limp to the end of my days, the doctor tells me. It took me a while to get back the use of the leg, though. I was on crutches for three months. It seems that dream dust, taken in those quantities, is extremely damaging to the Terran nervous system. Actually, I'm lucky. The paralysis could have been permanent." He paused. "I was brought up on drug charges, too. I told my story but nobody took it seriously. It was a drug-induced hallucination, they told me. However, the charges were dropped for lack of evidence and because I had no prior offenses. I was released, but the whole thing went on my record at the Academy." Kurt took a deep breath. "I think the Commandant believed my story. If he hadn't, I probably would have been thrown out, but a lot of people didn't believe me and some of my professors made it awfully hard for me. I had to be twice as good as I was before and keep my nose spotlessly clean. I never had anything to *do* with the drug business, Alan. I hate drug dealers, and dream dust is deadly stuff! I'd never --"
"I believe you," Alan said.
Kurt stopped and then grimaced. "Thanks. Something like that is hard to live down. I made it through, although it took me an extra year. Then, when I came in and you started acting stand-offish, I thought you'd heard the story already and drawn your own conclusions."
Alan bit his lip. "I don't know what to say, except that I'm sorry."
"Holy smoke, kid!" Kurt grinned suddenly. "I don't hold it against *you*! I hold it against that stinking Jil, and the 'trols. Give me a chance to hit back -- please!"
"What about your commission?"
Kurt shrugged. "I'm never going to go far in the Space Corps. I've been turned down for promotion once already. What do I have to lose? I figure in the Underground I'll be doing something more important."
"That's true," Alan said. "Besides, anyone who's an officer who joins is commissioned right away. I'll present it to you myself --" He broke off, recalling what had occurred between him and the Underground in the past hours.
"You're an officer?"
"Major Westover of the Terran Underground." Alan shook off the memory of Phil's face. "At least, I hope I'm still a major."
"Huh?"
"I'm probably in bad with my CO. I disobeyed orders coming after Mark, but that won't affect you." He kept his inevitable reflections to himself. In any case, the Underground would be lucky to have Kurt, and Kurt wouldn't have the disadvantage of being a psychic's partner to worry about. He jumped suddenly, feeling the sudden twinging of pain in his left arm. "Oh no!"
"What?"
"They're taking Mark for interrogation again."
Kurt stood up. "How do you know?"
"I know. I'm a psychic, remember?"
"Trenchcrawlers," Kurt growled. He picked up the stunner from Alan's bunk and rammed it savagely into its holster. "We've got to get him away from them. You must have a plan. Can you tell me about it?"
Alan nodded, biting his lip. "It should be easier now that you're here to help me."
"Then tell me."
He did and Kurt listened in silence. "That's good," he said when Alan finished. "But I have a suggestion."
"Let's hear it."
"Instead of waiting for you outside, I can be in on the act. I'm pretty tall. I'd pass as a 'trol as long as nobody looked too close. We can split up the duties. You handle the distraction and I'll handle the sleep pellet."
"You think you can do it?"
"Sure I can." Kurt whacked his shoulder. "And I'm going to love every minute of it."
Alan considered for a moment and then nodded. "All right. That'll make it easier."
"It should." Kurt sealed his uniform tunic and picked up a boot, beginning to tug it on. "I'm going to have a look around the brig. I'll find out where he's being held and how many guards there are and so forth."
"All right. Be careful."
The young man grinned savagely. "Don't worry. I'm not going to muff my chance now." He stood up. "By the way, there's something I've always wanted to know about that mess with Salthvor."
"What?"
"Did you kill the Jil, or did Linley?"
"I did it. Mark was wounded and Salthvor told a 'trol to kill him, so I yanked the blaster away from the 'trol and shot the Jil."
"You yanked a blaster away from a 'trol? You must be a lot stronger than you look."
"Oh, that." Alan smiled faintly. "I used telekinesis. Part of my degenerate talents. I used it to take your stunner away, too."
"Oh yeah, that's right." Kurt glanced at the little weapon. "That would be a nice talent to have." He straightened his belt. "Well, we heard a lot of stories about it back at the Academy, and a lot of the cads -- especially the ones that knew you personally -- had a bit of trouble believing it at first. Little mild-mannered Alan Westover, the Clark Kent of the Academy, suddenly throws off his tweeds and Superman emerges with biceps rolling." He turned toward the door. "I'll get going now. Try and relax. Mark will hold out. He's tough."
Alan flinched at another stab of pain. "We've got to get him out fast. They're hurting him."
Kurt nodded. "You know they're doing this to lure you in, don't you?"
"Yeah, I know -- but it's hard to let it happen."
"I know. But they're not going to kill him -- the Jils will put them in the chair if they do. Let 'em cool their heels for a while. You rest if you can. You're shot -- I can tell. While I'm checking things out, I'll take care of the fuel casing, too. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"All right." Alan watched as Kurt pushed the control that opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
Alan lay down on his bunk, closed his eyes and tried to envision Mark's face. It was surprisingly easy, now, and Linley's features solidified before him at once.
*Mark, it's me.*
He saw realization leap into his partner's eyes but Linley's lips didn't move.
*I'm on board the ship. I'm coming for you. Just hold out a little longer.*
He saw Mark's jaw tighten and read the comprehension in his mind. Then something hard struck him violently across the mouth and he clearly heard Mark's cry of pain. The contact dissolved.
**********
tbc
