Defector: 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
III
Alan Westover, Mark Linley and Lyn Parnell entered a small, tasteful café. The room was dim, illuminated by flickering blue lamps and Lyn looked around, wondering how the Procyons could make out each other's faces in such ghastly lighting.
As far as she could tell, the room was unoccupied except for themselves and the Procyon standing beside the counter to their left. She felt Alan's hand close on her arm, drawing her over beside him, and smiled.
It was strange, she thought, how things had turned out for her.
Lyn was the daughter of a former Patrol Base Commander and, in the course of things, Alan Westover should have been one of her most hated enemies. Alan was a Terran psychic, pre-convicted in the eyes of all law-abiding citizens everywhere and had killed three Jilectans during his short career as a member of the Terran Underground. He had a price on his head that was higher than any two other beings on the aliens' wanted list. His partner, Mark Linley, was a former Strike Commander in the Patrol, who had turned on his alien masters to save Alan's life. Nearly two years before, he had kidnapped Lyn at blaster point and he and Alan had held her hostage to force her father to acquire a top secret Jilectan interrogation device for them. All in all, Lyn should have hated them, and yet now Linley was one of her best friends and Alan was her fiance, as well as her psychic partner. For Lyn had turned out to be a psychic, herself, and as a result, automatically a criminal in the eyes of the Jilectans. It also made her the third member of the Terran Underground's Armageddon Team. Which, of course, was why they were here at one of the Terran Underground's stations on Ranlach.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the Procyon. He had approached while she was squinting at her surroundings, and his large round eyes glowed in the dimness, like the eyes of a Terran owl. He spoke to Mark.
"You have reshervationsh, shir?"
Mark nodded casually. "For twenty-one hundred hours. Lawson, party of three."
"Of courshe, shir. Thish way, if you pleashe."
The Procyon escorted them to a table, seated Lyn with meticulous politeness, presented them with genuine menus and departed. Soft, strangely unrhythmical music played in the background. Mark picked up his menu, glancing appreciatively around.
"Y'know," he said, "the Terrans could learn somethin' from our feathered friends. This place is actually clean."
"I'd noticed," Alan said, brushing a speck of lint from his dark, semi-formal suit. "Hard to believe. I'd forgotten places like this existed."
"Of course, we haven't tasted the food yet," Lyn added.
"Hope they got somethin' besides birdseed." Linley was studying the menu.
"Didn't you serve with Procyons while you were in the Patrol?" Lyn asked.
"Yeah," Mark admitted, "but I dunno what they eat. I never looked t'see. I made the mistake o' watchin' a fish eat essa chan sheel once. Yuk."
"Oh," Lyn said. She giggled. Somehow the thought of Linley being squeamish about watching an Arcturian eat live crustaceans covered in a fruit sauce was funny. "I didn't think something like that would bother you."
"You'd be surprised what bothers me, baby," Linley said. "What's Lochweilin?" he mispronounced.
Lyn giggled. "Lokweelin. It's not bad. The Procyons are descended from a long line of predators, and they like meat. It's a mixture of herbs and marshhopper -- supposedly imported from Shallock, but probably bred in the back yards of the farmers here."
"Probably," Linley said. He raised an eyebrow at her. "You look pretty as hell in this lighting, sweetheart."
She looked down, reaching for Alan's hand under the table. Alan winked at her. "Mark's always got an eye out for a pretty girl -- even my fiancee." He smiled across the table at his partner. "Look all you like, ol' buddy."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. But don't touch." Mark leaned back in his chair. "You know me, kid. Strong of limb, pure of heart, kind to old ladies, kids an' animals --"
"And to young ladies especially," Alan said, with a grin.
A Procyon waiter appeared quietly beside the table. "May I take your ordersh, shir?" Again the alien looked at Mark. The birdlike species tended to judge non-Procyons by size, and in size Linley far exceeded both his companions.
Mark smiled easily. "We'd like drinks first. Two Shallock Sepo Brandies."
There was a short silence. The Procyon regarded them without expression. "They are unfortunately out of shtock. May I shuggesht Paroli Liqueur in itsh plashe? It ish of comparable quality."
Lyn saw a faint quiver of Mark's expression, but he replied with commendable gravity. "The quality of Paroli Liqueur is not to be ques -- ah, hell, you know the rest. Bring us a couple o' Terran Napoleon Brandies, an' a lemonade for the lady. She ain't old enough t'drink, yet."
The waiter's beak opened and he made a peculiar sound -- almost like a chuckle. "Shertainly, shir. I will return in a moment."
"Man," Mark said in a low voice. "I sure wish they'd change that damned formula. It's gettin' kinda old. Somebody's gonna catch on sooner or later if it gets overheard often enough. I'm gonna tell Kaley when we get back."
The Procyon was crossing the room toward them once more, a tray of drinks held in his clawed, three-fingered hands. He paused beside the table, his round, dark eyes looking not at Mark, this time, but at Alan. "He will be here shortly," he said, dextrously placing the drinks before them. "We are mosht relieved to shee you."
Even as he spoke, another Procyon appeared quietly and took the fourth seat at the table, between Mark and Lyn.
"How do you do?" His speech was formal, his voice soft and high-pitched, like many Procyons. He was wearing casual dress, but there was a faintly aristocratic air about his neatly arranged clothing and the light, fluffy blue down on his face. "I am Sh'Froo -- Major Sh'Froo, the commanding offisher of thish shtation."
Alan leaned forward, also speaking softly, although there was still no one in the café but themselves. "I'm Alan Westover and this is Mark Linley. The lady is Lyn Parnell."
The Procyon inclined his head respectfully. "I shent that message becaushe an emergency hash arisen that requiresh prompt action. A pshychic Team is required, ash we do not yet know who the informer ish."
"Informer?" Alan said.
"Yesh." Lyn could read no expression in those round, dark eyes. "There ish no doubt of it. Two of our besht agentsh have been killed after being nearly taken by the Patrol. Another eshcaped, and he shaw the informer at a dishtanshe."
"He didn't recognize the guy?" Mark asked.
"He wash not closhe enough, and he was fleeing for hish life from the Patrol. But it wash a Proshyon. We musht find out who." Sh'Froo laid an object on the table. "Our aghentsh were moving in at the time. The Patrol plashed the informer in an aircar and fled. Thish wash found at the shpot where the informer was sheen."
Lyn found herself examining the small piece of jewelry. It was a clasp of some kind, beautifully worked in silver metal and covered with glittering blue stones.
"This is Procyon work," Alan said.
Sh'Froo inclined his head. "Yesh, and it undoubtedly belongsh to a female."
Mark whistled softly. Alan picked up the clasp and held it loosely between his hands, frowning slightly. There was a waiting pause.
"I see her," he said. "She's a female Procyon, all right. I think she's sleeping right now -- and not far away. I can find her."
The Procyon's eyes widened slightly, and he dipped his head in a strangely respectful gesture. "We would be mosht grateful." He swiveled his head around a hundred and eighty degrees to speak to the waiter. "Bring their food. And notify our people at onshe." He turned back to Alan. "We have prepared Terran fare for you thish efening --"
**********
Strike Commander Thoroski lay on his bunk, staring at the overhead. The great ship was silent. Only a skeleton crew remained on the 'Leviathan' while the rest of the crew were involved with mopping up the remains of the Terran colony. He swore savagely to himself. Damn the Jils! They were going to pay for this!
But first, he must get away. He knew very well that if his mind were read by a Jilectan, sooner or later his changed sentiments must be discovered, no matter how hard he tried to conceal it. Hiding small thoughts from one of the aliens was one thing. This wasn't something that he would be able to conceal for very long. He knew of other patrolmen whose loyalties had altered in the course of their duty. The Jils disposed of such individuals with ruthless efficiency.
But right now, there was no resident Jil aboard. Lord Chalthzor would be boarding, however, upon their arrival on Ranlach, after this hellish assignment was completed. Thoroski had leave coming: three months of it. He would depart before the arrival of the Jilectan and not return.
But where was he to go after that? The question was a good one. The best thing to do, of course, was to try to contact the Terran Underground.
But how? The Underground was an elusive organization and it wouldn't be easy for a patrolman to find them, but somehow he must manage it.
There was a tap on his door. Thoroski reached over to press the intercom. "Yes?"
"Dr. Gallagher, sir. May I come in?"
"Sure."
The door slid open and Wayne Gallagher entered. He was a young man with hazel eyes and sandy, close-cropped hair, slightly below regulation height for a patrolman, but in his case an exception had been made. Few doctors joined the Viceregal Patrol and the Jils usually took what they could get. Gallagher wasn't a bad fellow, and Thoroski liked him. "Hello, Wayne."
"Hello, sir. I came up to see how you're feeling."
"Not good. Still got this damned headache. I'm ready for my leave; that's for sure."
Gallagher sat down beside him. "The pills didn't help?"
"No. What's going on outside? They about done?"
The doctor grimaced. "Just about, sir. I hate these damned assignments. Hope this is the last execution for a while. I could hear the screams all the way from here." He looked away.
Thoroski bit his lip. Gallagher was watching him, frowning. "You don't look well, sir. Are you sure you're all right?"
Thoroski nodded. "Yeah."
"It's been a rough few months. Even the best of us need a rest after a while." Gallagher stood up. "Why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll tell Ch'Dreel you're still not feeling well and that you're not to be disturbed."
Thoroski nodded and closed his eyes. He heard the door open and close, as the doctor departed, but he didn't sleep. His mind was busy.
Two hours later, they blasted off for Ranlach.
**********
tbc
