Revolt!: 6/7
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter VII
The passengers stared at the newcomer in disbelief. Some where behind him, Chris heard somebody swear wearily. One of the girls began to cry.
"Shut up!" the man snapped. The blaster roved impartially over the passengers. "Chris Powers. Stand up."
Chris had been expecting it. He stood up, and Roddy did also.
"Sit down!" Chris whispered fiercely.
Roddy ignored the command. He stepped into the aisle, moving back to allow Chris to get out, too.
The man holding the blaster beckoned to them. "Come here, my big, brave heroes."
Chris came forward, his heart pounding. He was scared now--really scared. This was death he faced--if not by the man's blaster, then by the Jilectans' execution chair.
"This craft," the man announced, "is now under the authority of the Jilectan Autonomy." He gestured with the weapon again. "Close enough, squirt."
Chris stopped two meters from the man. He was shaking, he realized, and his mouth felt dry. The man surveyed him with malicious pleasure. "Okay, pretty boy, empty your pockets in the aisle."
Chris began to do so, acutely aware of Roddy beside him. The man's blaster roved impartially between the two of them. Chris placed the wallet, his stylus, and the sandwich Mrs. Tidd had given him on the floor.
There was a spitting sound, and Chris gave a cry of surprise and pain as a finger of fire tore across the skin of his shoulder. He staggered back into Roddy's grasp, clutching his burned arm.
"Hey!" Jay Wilson yelled.
The man laughed coldly. "Hurry up, hero. I haven't got all day."
Chris straightened up and pulled out the rock, setting it in the aisle beside the wallet. The man glanced at it. "Everything, hero. Move it."
Chris quickly went through his pockets again, found his shuttle ticket stub and placed it on the floor. "That's all I have."
The man gestured with the blaster. "Okay. Back up."
Chris started to obey, and then jumped convulsively at the sudden, loud crack of a blaster. The sound came through the open door to the cockpit, and the man turned, his attention momentarily distracted.
Chris and Roddy leaped together. Chris hit the fellow at the waist, just as Roddy hit him at the knees. The blaster swung back toward them, and Chris felt the butt of the weapon descend on his forearm with paralyzing force. He lost his grip on the hijacker and fell sideways. The man also fell, thrown off balance by Roddy's weight. The two crashed to the aisle in a clumsily struggling heap. The blaster swung toward Roddy, and Chris saw the man start to fire.
Then, inexplicably, their assailant voiced an agonized scream and dropped the weapon. It spun sideways to land almost touching Chris's outstretched leg.
The other passengers were moving, charging forward. Somewhere a blaster cracked again, and there was a pained scream. Then their fellow passengers were descending on the scene of conflict. Wyatt Benson landed hard on the man's chest, and there was the smack of flesh on bone. Someone grunted and swore. Jay Wilson was suddenly there, too, landing with both knees on the man's exposed midriff. The two teenaged girls vaulted over him, screaming with hysterical rage, and one of them grasped the man by the hair, yanking his head down as he tried to sit up. The other girl caught him around the throat and tried to choke him. More passengers rushed forward.
Slightly dazed, Chris reached for the blaster, and to his astonishment, realized that the metal of the grip was hot to the touch. Puzzled, he flipped it open and stared in amazement. The inside of the weapon was half-melted, fused and inoperative.
"Chris!" Roddy yelled, scrambling to his feet.
Chris also stood up. Their assailant was more or less subdued, but sounds of combat still issued from the control room. Roddy leaped over the passengers, and Chris followed.
The first thing he saw was the body of the pilot. The man lay face down on the control room floor, and a female flight engineer, by her insignia, was slumped against one wall, clutching her arm. And on the floor two men rolled, locked in combat. One wore the uniform of a copilot of the shuttle. The other wore civilian clothes and clutched a blaster.
Chris and Roddy jumped forward, and as they did so, the man clad as a civilian managed to free his right hand. The muzzle of the weapon swung toward Chris.
Chris tried to dodge, hindered by the limited space and bodies. Then, incredibly, the weapon twisted in the man's grip, leaped free, and spun effortlessly through the air toward Roddy. The cadet grabbed it out of empty space, looking surprised. The hijacker yelped, trying to twist away from the copilot's grip. Roddy stared at the weapon as though hypnotized, then flipped the control on the butt. Carefully he took aim at the two men on the floor, and fired.
There was a soft hum and the combatants went slack, the copilot on top of the hijacker. Chris jumped quickly over them and dropped into the pilot's seat.
The controls were simple, he saw--not much different from the scouts used to train beginner pilots at the Academy. He checked it over, assuring himself that they were on automatic pilot, then glanced back.
Roddy was kneeling beside the flight engineer and the other passengers were crowding forward through the door.
"What happened?" Jay demanded.
"The pilot's dead," Roddy told him. "This woman's hurt, and I stunned the hijacker. Get him out of here--will you?"
Wyatt Benson grinned. "With pleasure, m'boy." He half dragged the slack form of the copilot off of the other. "Here, folks, do what Cadet Atkins says. Take charge of this guy."
The passengers did so with enthusiasm. Jay Wilson came over to the injured woman. "Here, Roddy, I'll take care of her. You'd better help Chris." He knelt beside the flight engineer. Benson half dragged the unconscious copilot from the cabin, and then glanced back in.
"Jay, get somebody to help you with her."
A flight attendant entered the cabin and knelt beside her co-worker. The woman looked shocky and sick, and her arm hung almost useless. A second attendant entered and together he and Jay Wilson hoisted the injured woman to her feet and bore her from the control room.
Chris pressed a button on the communicator. "Hello! Shuttleport, this is an emergency! Come in!"
Roddy dropped into the copilot's seat beside him. "Here, Chris, I'll take it. You better get us back on course for Miami. Looks like we're heading somewhere else at the moment."
"Oh," Chris touched a button. Roddy was right. They were heading south of their supposed destination. The hijacker must have forced the pilot or copilot to change co-ordinates. He re-set their course. Roddy spoke into the communicator.
"Control tower, do you read? We have an emergency!"
"We read you," came the reply. "What is the nature of the emergency?"
"Hijacking attempt," Roddy said. "We have subdued the hijackers, but our pilot is dead and the copilot is unconscious. The flight engineer is also injured --"
"Roddy!" Chris said.
Roddy's head snapped up and he saw the ship on the screen. Yellow flame blossomed in front of their craft. The other ship had fired a shot across their nose.
"We're being fired upon!" Roddy's voice was amazingly steady. "Notify Air Defense! Hurry --"
A voice cut into his transmission. "Terran shuttle, we have you under our blasters. Land or be shot down!"
Chris turned to look at Roddy. Roddy swallowed convulsively. "What'll we do?" he whispered.
More flame across their nose, much nearer this time. Behind them, the remaining flight attendant gasped faintly. Roddy glanced back. "Go back with the passengers and tell everybody to strap in!"
The woman nodded. She paused briefly before exiting the cabin. "Do what you have to do, Cadet," she whispered. "Remember, none of us want to end up in the execution chair." She turned and left the cabin.
Roddy glanced at him again. "I'll stall 'em," he whispered.
Chris swallowed hard and nodded. Roddy was captain of the debating team at T.S.A., and a smooth talker--as well as an accomplished actor. If anyone could hold these guys off, he could.
"Make it good, pal," he breathed.
Roddy pressed the transmit button. "Hello?" His voice trembled audibly. "Please -- don't shoot at us anymore!"
He was interrupted by the cold, imperious voice of a Jilectan. "Terran shuttle, this is Lord Wetalthvor! Land at once and surrender!"
"We can't!" Roddy sounded half-hysterical. "The pilots are both dead! They were killed by hijackers."
"You will land the shuttle at once, Terran. Use the flight computer!"
"It was damaged in the fight," Roddy responded mendaciously. "It won't work! We can't get anything out of it. Please -- my friend and I are trying to figure out the manual controls, but they're so different from an aircar -- I'm not sure we can land without crashing --"
Chris switched the controls to manual and wobbled the craft erratically toward the other ship. The intruder veered sharply away, and there was a muffled curse over the com.
The flight attendant appeared through the door, her face questioning. "What's going on?"
Chris glanced back, motioning her to silence. "Keep the passengers calm," he whispered. "We're doing our best."
She nodded and went out again. Roddy was speaking into the unit. "I'm sorry. My fault. Please have patience. This is all so confusing --"
If it hadn't been for the seriousness of the situation, Chris would have laughed at the frightened innocence in Roddy's voice. He wobbled the shuttle in the other direction.
"Land your craft at once!" the Jilectan's voice commanded.
"We're trying," Roddy squeaked. "There, John, I think it's that button --"
"I tried that already," Chris replied, trying to sound annoyed and frightened. "The nose dips awfully when I push it!"
"Well, you have to control our descent, for Pete's sake!" Roddy pressed the mechanism, and the ship dipped frantically. Chris yelped.
"See! I told you!"
More flame across the shuttle's nose--much closer this time. Roddy gave a frantic cry. "All right! Hold on!"
Chris swallowed hard. The enemy was getting nervous, of course. They must know that enemy interceptors could show up at any minute.
"Land!" a Terran voice snarled. "Or be shot out of the sky!"
"All right," Roddy gasped. "We'll try. Just a minute --"
Chris headed the ship downward, wobbling it as dramatically as he could manage. For a moment clouds swirled around the view screen. Then, below, there appeared a dark, unbroken patch, which the scanner indicated was a flat area of land. A field, no doubt. Dipping the nose of the craft uncertainly, he started his approach. Snow splatted against the windshield, and the ground rushed toward them. Chris held it as long as he dared, then swooped upward, praying that the beings in the Patrol ship would think he had lost his nerve at the last moment.
The Patrol scout followed, and flame flashed across the nose of their craft. Roddy gave a very realistic yelp of fright, and Chris echoed him.
"I'm sorry!" Roddy gasped into the com. "Please give us another chance! We'll get it down this time --"
"If you do not --" it was the cool voice of the Jilectan, "you will be destroyed."
Roddy met Chris's eyes. "I think they mean it," he whispered.
Chris thought so, too. He nodded jerkily. *Come on, Air Defense!* he thought frantically. *Hurry up, or we've had it!*
Uncertainly he brought the craft around again and started the landing approach. The ship followed closely.
Chris wobbled the craft frantically, moving as slowly as possible, eyes fixed on the scanners. Roddy was watching, too, and gave a sudden yell of delight.
"Here come ours! Look!"
Chris saw them, too--three deadly-looking interceptors rushing toward them from the east. Behind them the Patrol vessel swerved away to the west, fighting for altitude. The interceptors closed in on all sides, and Chris skewed the shuttle away from the scene of conflict, gaining altitude gradually. Roddy gave a whoop.
"They got the so-and-so! They're forcing him down! Yahoo!"
A voice came over the communicator. "Control tower to shuttle. Is everybody all right?"
Roddy pressed the transmit control. "All secure here--thanks very much for the rescue. You were just in time."
"We didn't do anything, kid," the voice responded. "We just notified Air Defense like you told us to. Is your flight computer really inoperative?"
"No," Chris said.
"Good. Stand by for approach instructions."
"Right."
Somewhere behind Chris there was a groan, and a gagging sound. Quickly he turned to see the copilot in the doorway with Wyatt Benson beside him, supporting his shoulders. The copilot was busily losing his dinner--the result of Roddy's stunbolt.
"Is he okay?" Roddy was also looking back. "I'm sorry, sir --"
The copilot was obviously incapable of answering. Chris turned back to the controls as another voice came over the communicator. "This is Traffic Controller Lovelace. You are approaching the shuttleport. I'm transmitting your landing data now. We've got a pilot here to coach you through the landing."
Roddy and Chris looked at each other, and suddenly laughter welled up--laughter that was partly amused and partly hysterical relief.
"Hey!" another voice said. "This is Captain Grant. Snap out of it, son! Don't fall apart now! It's all right. I can talk you down. I've done it before."
Chris gasped, choked, and managed to regain control of himself. "It's okay!" he gasped. "You don't need to talk me in. I can fly a shuttle."
"But you told the Patrol ship --"
Roddy also managed to control himself. "We were stalling. Chris and I are both T.S.A. cadets. We can land a Light Cruiser if we have to."
"Oh." The voice sounded surprised and a little amused. "I never would have known. You sounded so scared and helpless!" A bark of laughter. "Space Cadets, huh? Okay; they're transmitting coordinates now. You can start your approach."
The scanners showed a shuttleport ahead. Chris punched in the landing coordinates, and the big craft floated gently forward to a perfect landing on the shuttle runway.
Chris drew a deep breath and cut the engines. Roddy pressed the intercom to speak to the passengers. "Okay, everybody, we're home."
A cheer sounded over the intercom. Chris stood up and turned to see Wyatt Benson helping the copilot to his feet. The man looked pale and wan, but smiled weakly. He lifted a hand in a respectful salute. "Good work, Cadets," he croaked.
"Thank you, sir," Chris said.
Roddy smiled apologetically at the man. "I'm sorry for stunning you, sir."
"Think nothing of it, Cadet." The man turned, still supported by Benson, and headed for the exit. Chris noticed for the first time that he was limping. Blue uniformed shuttle officials swarmed into the cockpit. Chris and Roddy stepped back as one of them knelt beside the pilot. He turned the man over, revealing charred, blackened features. He swore. "Joe, gimmie a blanket!"
Another official handed him one, and the first covered up the body. He glanced up at Chris and Roddy. "You the two guys who brought her in?"
"Yes sir," Chris said.
"Good job, both of you. We were listening. Okay, come with me. They're going to want your statement."
"Yes sir," Chris said again, and followed him from the shuttle, Roddy beside him.
Instantly a mob of reporters rushed them. Their guide and two other officials did their best to hold the newsmen at bay, but even so, Chris found himself staring into a microphone and a videocamera. Eager questions poured at them from all sides.
"Hey!" somebody shouted. "These two are Chris Powers and Danny Atkins--the two who were on earlier for capturing the Jil! Remember?"
"It's Roddy," Chris put in.
"Please keep back!" The shuttleport official sounded annoyed. "Please!"
The videocamera appeared, and Chris looked up at it, suddenly too tired to care anymore. Roddy was trying to smooth down his hair and at the same time pacify the most persistent reporter with some kind of jumbled story about what had happened aboard the shuttle. Through the confusion, they were ushered across the landing platform and into the building. More reporters converged from all sides.
Somehow they made it to a room and a door closed firmly on the mob of eager newsmen.
They found themselves in the executive lounge. Tables covered with immaculate white cloths stood everywhere, and one of them was being hurriedly set with gleaming china and silver. A large, official-looking man appeared.
"Please sit down, boys," he greeted them. "I'm Major Vincent of Air Defense. I'll need a brief statement from you. Then you can relax and eat." He smiled grimly, glancing toward the door. "Never mind the reporters. They're used to being rebuffed."
"Thanks." Chris sank gratefully into the nearest chair and the white-coated steward placed coffee before him. Roddy sat across from him, leaning back wearily. Major Vincent also seated himself. "Now, tell me in your own words what happened aboard the shuttle."
Chris let Roddy do it. Roddy, the captain of the class debating team, spoke quickly and fluently, recounting the attempted hijacking, the subduing of the hijackers resulting in death and injury in the cockpit, and then of the appearance of the Patrol scout. He omitted only their suspicions about the rock Chris had been carrying, and the fact that they had exchanged it for a souvenir rock at the Indiana shuttleport. The major listened attentively.
"I see," he said at last. "And do you have any idea of what these men were after?"
Roddy never hesitated. "No sir."
"All right." The major stood up as the steward approached, steaming plates on the cart before him. "Enjoy yourselves, boys. Transport to Miami is being arranged for you. Just relax, now, and recuperate."
Roddy and Chris stood up with him, but he motioned them down again and strode toward the door. Chris sank back into his seat and glanced at the steward.
"Where are the other passengers?"
The man grinned. "Giving their stories to the newsmen, sir." He pulled a small device from his pocket and pressed it. A videoscreen in the corner came on, showing the face of one of the teenaged girls. She was speaking excitedly.
" -- And then Chris jumped the guy--and so did Roddy. They knocked him down and got his blaster away, and the rest of us just piled on him and beat him up! Then Roddy and Chris went into the cockpit and grabbed the other hijacker --"
Chris groaned. "We're never going to live this down."
Chris watched the activity on the videoscreen for several moments and sighed again. "Is it too late to turn in our hero badges?"
Roddy was hardly listening. "Hey, look! Sauteed Marshhopper! I've only tasted marshhopper once before in my life!"
Chris took a bite of the small, reddish hued chunks of meat. He had, himself, never tasted marshhopper, and was surprised to find the meat fork tender and delicious. "Mm --"
"Wine, too." Roddy indicated the crystal goblet. "I wonder if they know we're underage."
"I sure don't feel underage after today," Chris remarked. He glanced at the videoscreen. "Oh heck! There we are again!"
Roddy looked up. The scene was the shuttle landing platform, and themselves being ushered off the craft by the shuttle officials. Newsmen swarmed around them, and the scene narrowed suddenly to a close up of their faces. Roddy, looking harried, and with a dark smudge across his nose and cheek, was trying to answer the reporters' enthusiastic questions. Chris, himself, looked tired, embarrassed and annoyed. His dark hair was wildly disordered, and part of his sleeve had been burned away.
"Gosh!" Roddy sounded awed. "You might have told me I had dirt all over my nose!"
"I never noticed," Chris confessed. "Oh well. Maybe people'll think it's soot from the blaster fire --" He stopped regarding Roddy soberly. "And by the way, thanks."
"For what?"
"For saving my skin back there. You disarmed that guy--with telekinesis, I guess--didn't you?"
Roddy picked up his wineglass and regarded the ruby contents soberly. "I -- I don't know. I saw him aim it at you, and remember reaching for it, and suddenly it was flying toward me. I didn't feel myself do anything."
"Well, you must have," Chris said. "Cause I sure didn't -- and there wasn't anybody else in the room -- except the copilot, and he was awfully busy at the moment."
"I guess that sort of proves it, huh?" Roddy said slowly.
"Yeah," Chris said. "I guess it sort of does."
An official-looking gentleman appeared on the screen speaking enthusiastically to a reporter. "As president of the North American Air Transport Company, I want to personally thank these two courageous young men, Cadet Chris Powers and Cadet Roddy Atkins, and commend them for exceptional bravery and resourcefulness in the face of danger. These two young cadets are sterling examples of the fine young men and women of the Terran Space Corps. On behalf of our company, I am planning to present them with citations for heroism, and an official statement of the Company's gratitude for their actions."
Roddy grinned. "Gosh, I didn't think we were all that terrific."
Chris made a face. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Roddy laughed. "I've had about enough of the heroism bit, myself. There we are again."
Once more the screen showed the landing platform and the two cadets. Then a newsman appeared, reporting the attempted hijacking and abortive capture of a Terran shuttle by the Patrol and Lord Watalthvar. "His Lordship has now been taken into custody, and the two young men responsible for his capture are Roddy Atkins and Chris Powers, cadets from Terran Space Academy, who are already known for their heroic capture of Lord Pomithvor earlier today --"
"Well," Chris said, "they got another Jil --" He glanced up as the steward approached with the wine bottle to refill their glasses. "Do you mind switching off the video, Mr. Dees? We've watched ourselves enough for one day."
"Of course, sir." The man did so. "There's someone here to see you."
"Who?" Chris asked quickly.
"I don't know, sir. Two gentlemen. They look rather important, though. I'll be bringing them in now." He smiled politely and went to the door.
"Hey! Wait a minute!" Chris stood up. "We -- uh, really don't feel like seeing anybody right now. Can you tell 'em to wait a minute?"
The man looked uncertain. "All right, sir, I'll try," he said at last.
The door shut behind him. Chris looked frantically around. "Come on, Roddy! It's probably someone after that infernal rock again. Let's get out of here."
Roddy stood up, too, looking worried. "Where'll we go? There's no place to hide --"
"The cloakroom! Hurry!" Chris ran toward it and pressed the control. The door slid aside and he and Roddy went through just as the door to the lounge opened again. There was a heavy thud of feet. Whoever it was that had entered the room, the being wasn't small.
Chris crouched in a darkened corner, Roddy beside him. They were unarmed, and weaponless should the person be able to find them. The footsteps stopped and Chris held his breath. He could feel his ribs shake with each of his heart.
Then quick, light footsteps crossed the floor and paused outside the cloakroom door. An amused tenor voice said, "Come on out, Cadets. It's all right."
Chris let out his breath. The person, whoever he was, spoke with a clear, Terran accent. Roddy stood up and Chris emulated him. Feeling a little silly, the stepped from the cloakroom.
A young man stood facing them, and Chris's first impression was one of shock that the man was shorter than either he or Roddy. Chris had never met anyone shorter than himself before. And across the room, grinning at them from their table, was a tall very handsome blond man, whose face was immediately familiar. Both were clad in the gray uniforms of the Terran Army, but the glittering silver stars on their shoulders brought both Chris and Roddy to rigid attention.
The smaller man smiled. "At ease, Cadets."
"Westover!" Roddy gasped. "You're Alan Westover!" He gulped. "Sir!"
With a jolt, Chris recognized him. Alan Westover, once a cadet at Terran Space Academy.
"I said at ease, cadets." The young man had a faint grin on his lips. Chris forced himself to relax. It was Westover, all right. He had seen that young, innocent face a thousand times on the wanted posters that covered the walls of the shuttle lobbies and spaceports. And the big, blond man now striding easily across the floor toward them --
"You're Strike Commander Linley!"
He didn't realize he had spoken aloud until he heard his own voice. The big man nodded. "That's right, kid. I'm Mark Linley--General Linley, and this is my partner, Alan--General Westover. We're with the Confederation's Special Forces."
"Special Forces?" Chris echoed faintly.
"Psychic Teams," Westover said casually. "Mark and I are a Team--have been for more than twenty years. We're here for you, Chris."
"For me?"
"The courier of the crystal." Westover looked very sober suddenly. "The rock your father gave you."
Linley stepped up beside him. "You still got it, kid?"
Chris cleared his throat. "It must be pretty important, huh?"
"You might say so," Linley said guardedly. "Where is it?"
Chris hesitated, glancing quickly at Roddy. Roddy spoke for him. "Chris got rid of it. He had to."
"What did you do with it?" Westover asked sharply.
Chris lowered his voice. "I mailed it, sir -- to my girlfriend at T.S.A. with instructions to give it to Dr. Wyler. Roddy and I went into a gift shop at the shuttle port and bought a bunch of souvenir rocks. I mailed them too, separately, to confuse anyone who might track us down."
Westover and Linley looked at each other. Chris swallowed. "I -- uh -- hope I did the right thing. I was really afraid if I didn't do something someone was going to catch me eventually and take it away."
"He kept one of the souvenir rocks in his pocket," Roddy added helpfully. "We were hoping that whoever was after it would just take it and leave."
Linley laughed, and Westover's face relaxed into a smile of relief. Chris let out his breath. He had done the right thing. The two Generals approved of his actions.
Linley clapped him heartily on the back, nearly knocking him down. "Never underestimate a psychic, is my motto. You kids've been right on the ball from the start."
"A psychic?" Chris said eagerly. "Me?"
"Alan says so." Linley glanced at his partner. "He said there were two psychics hiding in the cloakroom as soon as we opened the door."
Westover was nodding. "You're both psychics," he said calmly.
Chris felt Roddy's hand close on his shoulder. "I told you so."
Chris swallowed. "But -- I can't be, sir," he protested weakly. "Neither of my parents is a psychic. They're both too big."
Mark Linley grinned. "That so?"
Chris nodded vigorously. "I'm sure of it, sir--and if they aren't psychics, how could I be a psychic?"
Linley's grin broadened. "Well, me an' Julia just had our sixteenth kid--an' every single one of 'em's a psychic."
Chris's jaw dropped as he stared up into Linley's handsome face. The man was huge! He couldn't possibly be a psychic! And yet --
Roddy spoke. "Then the business about psychic abilities being inherited is a hoax? I always thought psychics produced psychics."
"They do," Westover said gently. "And I'm very sorry about your mother, Cadet Atkins. The Underground learned about her too late."
Roddy looked away. "That's all right," he mumbled. "You couldn't be everywhere.
Linley slapped Chris on the back again, more lightly this time. "Psychics produce psychics, kid, but sometimes apparently ordinary Joes like me and your dad, or maybe your mom, show up with psychic kids, too. We'll explain it to you later."
"All right." Chris could accept that for the present. "What about my parents, though? Are they safe?"
"The Underground picked them up about two hours ago," Westover said. "They'd been dodging the Patrol in the Rocky Mountains for some time -- ever since the Jils blew up the ski lodge."
"They blew up the ski lodge?" Chris stared at him in shock. "Why?"
"It was a government lab," Westover said. He stepped back and gestured courteously. "Why don't you sit down and finish your wine. We'll tell you all about it."
"Yes sir!" Chris and Roddy followed the two men back to their table. Funny, he thought. His mental calculations told him that Westover must be well over forty, and yet the little man appeared to be barely over twenty. Mark Linley also appeared youthful, although he must be past fifty. Of course, that wasn't exactly old in this day and age, but it meant they weren't kids, either.
They seated themselves and the steward appeared, looking self conscious and worried. Chris smiled at him reassuringly and saw the man relax. He started to place two more glasses on the table, but Westover shook his head regretfully. "Just coffee. We're on duty."
"Party pooper," Linley said under his breath. Westover grinned as the steward took the glasses away and replaced them with cups of coffee.
"The ski lodge was a lab," Westover said. "They were working on a weapon -- a weapon which would be specific against Jilectans. They were almost finished with it, too. Then two days ago, disaster struck."
"Brother Dominic?" Roddy said.
"Exactly," Linley said unhappily. "One of our people popped his cork and confessed all on public video. Oh man! Did he ever throw a spanner in the works!"
"We saw the broadcast," Chris said. "Dad seemed real worried afterwards. So I guess he's a member of the Underground, huh?"
"Yes," Westover said. "But your mom isn't. Your dad kept it from her." He sipped from his coffee cup. "Don't worry. They're safe now, and so are you."
"What happened to the guy who confessed?" Chris asked. "What was his name -- Grayson?"
"Harold Grayson," Linley said disgustedly. "He disappeared right after leavin' the Temple of Joy. We ain't heard nothin' from him since. Nobody's got any illusions about what happened to him, neither -- poor sap."
"He started a war!" Roddy sounded awed. "Boy, if he didn't have something to feel guilty about before, he sure has now."
"I doubt he's havin' time t'feel guilty," Linley said. "If he's still alive, that is."
There was an uneasy silence. Chris shuddered, thinking of the man's fate at the hands of the Jilectans. Roddy looked sober and unhappy, and, to his surprise, so did Westover. Linley alone appeared unmoved.
Deliberately Chris turned his thoughts to their more immediate problem and spoke, breaking the silence. "Uh -- General Linley -- how -- uh...did the Jils and the Patrol find out we had the rock when the Underground evidently didn't know?"
"We aren't sure, exactly," Westover said. "Of course, the Jilectans undoubtedly got your father's name from Grayson, and they went after him. And they probably discovered, too, that he had a son who was a cadet at T.S.A. It would be logical of your father to try to get the information away from the vicinity, and you and Roddy were the logical couriers. The Underground was still looking for your dad, but the Jils centered in on the Miami shuttles -- the right course. They didn't know, however, which shuttle you were on. Eight others en route to Miami were also stopped."
"Oh" Chris said.
"Later they must have figured out you were the courier -- probably from your name which was broadcast all over the video --" Westover laughed softly. "It's hard to say no to reporters, isn't it?"
"Impossible," Roddy agreed fervently. "Well what happens to us now?"
Linley finished his coffee and stood up. "We're on our way to the Space Academy now to meet Dr. Wyler. Wanna come along?"
"And how!" Chris stood up. "Thank you sir!"
Westover also stood up, putting on his cap. Chris found himself staring and looked quickly away.
The psychic smiled. "I guess I look younger than you expected."
Chris cleared his throat. "Well -- yes, sir, you do." He glanced at Linley. "Both of you do."
"Good reason for it, too," Linley told him. "We been on a steady diet o' Lemke for the last twenty years."
"What!" Chris gaped at him. Lemke, a rare herb found only on perhaps half a dozen planets in the entire Sector, was fabulously expensive. Only the richest Jilectans -- Halthzor for one, could afford it. If used regularly it was known to slow the aging process to a third of its normal rate.
"Where do you get it?" Roddy asked eagerly. "Has the Underground found a planet where it grows that no one else has discovered?"
"Not exactly," Westover said, with a faint smile. "We had help -- unexpected help from a very unexpected source. We learned the secret of growing it."
"No!"
"Yep," Linley said. "Quite awhile back. Good stuff. Keeps us young an' healthy."
Roddy nodded enthusiastically. "Do the Jils know?"
"Nope. An' we ain't about to tell 'em." Linley opened the door to the lobby. "Let's go."
They were halfway across the lobby when they were spotted by a reporter. He rushed toward them, and dozens of others materialized, seemingly from the woodwork. Again Chris found himself staring into a videocamera while microphones were thrust under his nose.
"Cadet Powers, how does it feel to have captured two Jilectans in one day?" "Tell, me, Cadet, why have General Westover and General Linley come here to see you? Was it to congratulate you personally for your heroic actions today?" "Cadet Powers --"
Somehow, Chris managed to stammer out replies to the most persistent reporters. Then Linley's large, muscular arms encircled him and Roddy together, ushering them through the shuttleport exit toward the parking lot. The reporters followed, still hurling excited questions toward them.
"Okay, okay!" Linley sounded amused and slightly annoyed at the same time. "The cadets are tired, boys. They've had an exhaustin' couple o' days. Now lay off, dammit!"
To Chris's astonishment, some of the reporters fell back. It must be the commanding tone of the General's voice, he thought hazily. It certainly would have made him obey, had it been directed at him.
Westover was hurrying ahead, pursued by several of the diehards. An aircar was waiting in one of the prime parking spaces, and the little man paused beside it, opening the rear door. Chris and Roddy were chivvied inside by Linley while Westover jumped behind the controls.
"Where are you taking the cadets now, sir?" a reporter demanded.
"We're takin' 'em home," Linley said jovially. "They've done a good days work, and we figure they've earned it." He lifted a hand to the videocamera. "Bye now, folks. Nice to see you again." He flashed the men a white grin and jumped nimbly into the aircar. "Let's go, kid."
The craft soared upward and Chris let out his breath in a long sigh. "Thanks a lot, sir," he managed.
Linley turned in the seat. "You're welcome, kid."
Roddy peered out the window at the lights below. "Where are we, anyway?"
"Tennessee," Westover said setting the controls. "Little town known as Heron."
"Oh." Roddy rubbed frost from the window with his coat sleeve. Chris settled back, feeling fatigue wash over him. The cabin was warm, and the sound of snow on the window was lulling. After ten minutes he shook himself awake, realizing it might be considered impertinence to fall asleep in the presence of two such distinguished Generals
Westover glanced back. "Go to sleep, Chris," he said. "You've had a long day."
"Thanks, sir." Chris closed his eyes with a sense of vast relief, and let himself sink downward into oblivion.
It was the sound of the police siren that woke him.
Roddy was also sitting up straight in the seat, rubbing he eyes. Linley was swearing softly.
"What's the matter?" Chris asked foggily, noting absently that General Linley now held the controls, Westover had been piloting when he'd fallen asleep.
"We been stopped by a damn cop," Linley said uncompromisingly. "Hell! I wasn't goin' that fast, was I, kid?"
Westover shrugged. "I should have warned you. I know this town, and it's been a speed trap since I can remember. If I hadn't been so sleepy I'd have noticed where we were."
"Damn!" Linley said wearily. He settled the aircar into an open lot and cut the engines. The police car landed softly behind them, red light flashing.
"Can't you get out of it?" Roddy whispered. "You're Generals, after all, and we're at war --"
Linley glanced back at him and grimaced expressively. "It's temptin', but don't forget, we're newly legalized members o' the Terran Underground. We got firm orders from the powers that be not to make waves."
"Oh," Roddy said. "Yes, of course."
A man of medium height and wearing the uniform of the town sheriff appeared beside their car, ticket pad in hand. "Where's the fire, buddy?" he inquired.
Linley produced his driver's license. "Sorry, Officer."
A light shone on the license, and then into the front seat, glinting off the insignia on Linley's shoulders. The sheriff drew in his breath sharply. "You're Mark Linley? The Mark Linley?"
"That's right, Officer."
The light moved past him, touching Westover's uniform. "Who's with you?"
Westover replied for himself. "Alan Westover, officer. General Westover -- Terran Special Forces."
The sheriff appeared to be struck dumb for a moment. He gulped, then became official. "You were breaking the speed limit, you know."
"I'm sorry, Officer," Linley said again.
The sheriff wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it through the window to him. "Follow me into town, General," he instructed.
Linley, to Chris's surprise, made no comment, but tucked the ticket into his pocket. "All right. Lead on."
The sheriff turned and strode back to his car. Linley spoke softly under his breath in Basic, then touched a control. Their car lifted and followed the sheriff's.
Alan sighed. "This is too bad, Mark."
"The guy's got credit signs in his eyes, I suppose," Linley said disgustedly.
"Yes," Westover said. "He's hoping to get some money out of us."
"Thought so. Li'l creep. Wonder how long this is gonna hold us up?"
"Can't we do something?" Chris asked. "I mean, this is sort of irregular, you know. You're on official business. We shouldn't be having to do this."
"No help for it," Linley said sourly. "We got to go along with the li'l twerp. If we don't, it could give us a bad name -- like we think we're above the law or somethin'."
Chris sighed. Linley was right, he supposed, but it was galling to think one underhanded jerk could pull this, just because he happened to have the law behind him. If Westover and Linley had still been in the Underground, they wouldn't have to put up with it, he told himself disgustedly. They would have just stunned him and left him behind in his aircar. The number of patrolmen Linley and Westover had served in that manner was legendary.
The car was dropping into a dimly illuminated parking lot, and ahead the lights on the sheriff's car were extinguished. The man got out and came over to their vehicle. He looked, thought Chris, very pompous and official. Westover and Linley opened the doors and got out of the car. Chris and Roddy followed suit.
The sheriff appeared to notice them for the first time. "Hello there. Who are these two?"
"Official passengers whom we were escorting home," Westover told the man frostily. "Surely you remember Christopher Powers and Roderick Atkins -- the two cadets who captured the Jilectan yesterday in Norwick County, Indiana."
The man stared. "No kidding! I saw you both on the video! That was some stunt!"
"Thank you," Roddy said. "And now, sir, please can't you just give the General the ticket and let us go? We're in a bit of a hurry and the Generals have important business --"
The man hesitated, obviously struggling between loyalty and temptation. Temptation won. "Sorry, Cadet, but even generals aren't above the law. Court will be in session in a few hours. Follow me."
The sheriff turned toward the building, and Linley stepped up beside Roddy. "Nice try, kid," Chris heard him whisper.
The sky to the east showed a pale streak, and somewhere a rooster crowed. Chris, accompanied by his companions, followed the sheriff up the steps and into a large, dimly illuminated building.
A drowsy-looking man in police uniform looked up from a counter, his eyes widening with surprise. "Sheriff!"
"Hello, Parcellis." The sheriff strode past. "I have some important people here and will be in my office with them until court's in session. And I'd rather not be disturbed."
"Yessir." The man cleared his throat. "The deputy's already there, sir -- waiting for you. Says he wants to talk to you about something."
The Sheriff frowned. "What's he doing here at this time of night?"
"I don't know, sir."
"All right." The sheriff strode down a hallway.
Chris glanced sideways at Westover, sensing sudden tension in the little man. Linley was also looking at his partner, his expression worried. "What'sa matter, kid?" he whispered.
"I don't know. I'm getting a warning."
Linley glanced quickly around, and Chris saw his hand slide beneath his jacket. Then the sheriff paused before a door and pressed a control. The panel slid aside.
A slightly gawky young man with wispy brown hair rose to his feet as they entered. The sheriff froze. "Willard! What the hell --"
Chris's eyes focused on the blaster in the man's hand. He heard Roddy's sharp intake of breath, and saw Linley's sudden, convulsive movement.
"It's set on max." The man's voice, hard and emotionless, belied his gawky youth. "Hands on top of your heads -- all of you. You, too, Sheriff."
Chris looked at Westover, half expecting the powerful psychic to try one of his famous blaster snatching acts. But Westover was already complying with the deputy's instructions, his face set as he interlaced his fingers on top of his head. Linley did likewise, and slowly Chris and Roddy did too. The sheriff, however, did not. He continued to stare at his subordinate as though stunned. Westover spoke sharply.
"Get your hands up, Sheriff! He's about to kill you!"
The sheriff jerked his hands over his head. The deputy smiled mirthlessly. "Charlie!" he said loudly. "Tim!"
Two men clad in civilian attire emerged from a back room. They also were holding blasters.
"Good work, Jim," one said. The two spread out, covering the prisoners. "Okay, Westover, step over here and lie down on your face."
Westover did exactly as he was told. One of the men bent, removing the blaster from Westover's shoulder holster, then pulled his hands behind him and fastened them together with restrainers.
"Okay, Linley. Your turn."
Within three minutes they were all disarmed and immobilized with the restrainers. Chris tried to fight back his fear. After all, Westover and Linley were here, and everyone knew the famous pair's reputation.
Hands caught him, bringing him ungently to his feet. The deputy was standing before him, but the other two men were beside the prone prisoners, blasters trained on them. Chris gulped. He mustn't give way to panic.
Without ceremony the deputy began to search him. Once again his wallet was confiscated, and the rock was removed from his pocket. The deputy stared at it a moment, weighing it in his hand, then glanced at Chris. "This the rock your dad gave you, kid?"
Chris stared into the man's eyes, about to say that it was. But for some reason he couldn't explain, the words wouldn't come. Instead he found himself telling that truth. "No. That's a rock I bought in a novelty shop at the spaceport."
The deputy grinned faintly. "Yeah, I know. Where's the one your dad gave you?"
"It's gone," Chris said, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice steady. "Two days ago -- when the shuttle was stopped by the Patrol. A guy named Biggins took it away from me."
The deputy surveyed him narrowly. "Biggins says he threw the rock on the floor."
"He did not!" Chris tried to sound indignant as well as scared. "Or if he did, I didn't see him do it. But they were kind of rough on us, you know. I really wasn't paying much attention to that stupid rock --"
The deputy gestured to the other two me. "Search the others."
The men proceeded to do so, but the deputy continued to watch Chris quizzically, fingering the blaster thoughtfully.
"They're clean," one of the men said.
"Yeah, thought so." The deputy grinned crookedly at Chris. "Why did you buy this silly souvenir rock, Cadet?"
Chris shrugged. "I don't know. Just an impulse, I guess."
The man hit him suddenly, knocking him to his knees. He saw stars.
The deputy was standing over him. "I'll have the truth, Cadet, if I have to beat you to a pulp."
"Chris," it was Roddy speaking, sounding scared. "You'd better tell him the truth."
The sheriff hauled Chris to his knees and caught his hair. "Talk, pretty boy, or I'll burn off an ear." He flicked his blaster to needle beam and yanked Chris's head back.
"Chris!" Roddy sounded frantic. "Wait, mister! Please don't hurt him! I'll tell you where the rock is!"
"Roddy!" Chris croaked.
The deputy shook him into silence. "Where?" he demanded.
"Chris told the truth -- it's lost, but Patrolman Biggins didn't take it. We crossed a frozen lake after we got away that night, and we all fell down a few times. When we got to the other side the rock was gone, and we didn't feel like going back to look for it. It's probably out there on the ice somewhere. Don't hurt him!"
The deputy pressed the blaster to Chris's nose. "What lake?"
"Lake Melrose -- it's pretty close to the shuttleport."
The deputy let Chris go, and he sagged forward, feeling suddenly very weak. The other two men were watching. One of the men opened his mouth to speak and then apparently decided against it.
"I think he's tellin' the truth," the other one said.
"Maybe," the other guy said doubtfully. "We're dealing with psychics, don't forget. They're terrific actors."
The deputy nodded. "All right, let's go. His Lordship'll be able to tell.
Chris was yanked to his feet again. His ears were humming slightly and he felt dizzy. Roddy was shoved over beside him, and together they were pushed after Westover and Linley.
They went through the door, and toward the rear exit of the office. The sheriff was yanked along behind them.
Ahead, Westover stumbled, half-falling against Linley. Linley also stumbled.
And suddenly, incredibly, the restrainers on his wrists were loose. They fell away with a sharp clink, and an instant later he realized the restrainers on Westover's wrists were also falling away. Many times Chris had heard tales that Westover was capable of unfastening restrainers with telekinesis. But he'd only half-believed it. Patrol restrainers were specifically designed to hold telekinetics. Why, even the Jilectans couldn't unfasten them.
But the proof was in the shackles now clattering noisily to the floor. Westover was moving, leaping sideways with lithe speed. The blaster in the guard's hand swung toward him. Then it writhed suddenly, leaped from his grasp and spun away.
Chris jumped for the deputy. He hit the man waist high, hurling him sideways. Incredibly, Roddy was also free, and was grappling with their third kidnapper. The sheriff appeared beside Chris. The lawman was still secured with the restrainers, but he proceeded to kick the downed deputy in the side. The man cursed, grabbing for Chris's arms. Surprised, Chris found himself on the floor, and the deputy astride his body. The sheriff kicked at the man again, shouting something Chris couldn't understand.
Roddy yelped, and Chris's gaze jerked toward him. Roddy's opponent had managed to roll free, and the man's blaster was lifting to point directly at him. Chris yelled a warning, forgetting the deputy, whose weight still pinned him to the ground, and lunged uselessly toward Roddy's adversary.
But the blaster did not go off. Instead the man voiced an agonized scream and tried to drop the weapon. It clung to his hand and, screaming, he crumpled to his knees, wrenching at it.
A fist struck Chris between the eyes and stars exploded before him. The world grayed out.
**********
tbc
