Defector: 7/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
The tiny scout ship dipped into the atmosphere of Corala, skimmed a low mountain range, dropped into a mist-shrouded valley and wound a complicated trail through the mountainous wilderness, hugging the ground, before it settled to the planet's surface amid a grove of feathery-leafed trees.
"Aircar on the scanner," Alan said. His expression became distant. "It's ours."
"Settin' spoof field," Mark said. "Wouldn't want no one to get curious about the ship 'til we get back."
The aircar touched the grass beside their ship. Mark and Alan hurried down the boarding ramp and through calf-length grass toward the vehicle.
"Good morning, sir." The driver was a young man, no more than eighteen, with broad, well-muscled shoulders and a shock of curly brown hair.
"Howdy," Mark said. "Any sign o' the Patrol?"
"No, Colonel. You even confused our scanners and we knew which way you were coming. I don't think the Patrol could have tracked you."
"Who are you?" Alan asked.
"Pardon me, Colonel," their driver said. "I'm Private Lutz, from the station. You aren't the first to get here, you know. Lieutenant Bronson and Captain Mc Dougal arrived three hours ago."
"Good," Alan said.
"Yes sir. And Major Griffen's here, too. He figured he might be able to help. Colonel Philips and Major Stevens arrived half an hour ago."
"Lotsa heavy brass," Mark said. "Hope it does some good."
"Me too." Alan fell silent, the realization of what Lyn faced if they failed to rescue her descending on him like a blanket of clouds. He had been there himself. "What's the agenda?"
"I don't know, sir. They were talking about it when I left. We'll be at the station soon. Would you like some coffee?" He nodded to the thermos on the seat beside him.
Mark reached for it. "Thanks. Want some, kid?"
Alan shook his head. Mark glanced at him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get her out." Alan nodded silently.
The aircar buzzed quietly through the mountainous countryside for another ten minutes before Alan saw the light ahead, glowing soft and yellow through the mist. Lutz settled the aircar into the open garage of a wood frame house set back against a hillside. He hopped nimbly out and opened the door for Alan and Mark.
Kevin Bronson met them at the front door. "Hey there, kid. Come on in."
"Hi, Kev," Alan said.
Former Strike Commander Ronald Griffen appeared behind Bronson and stood back to let Alan and Mark into the entrance hallway. He turned his head to speak to someone behind him. "Here they are!" He turned back to Alan and Mark. "Glad the two of you are okay. We were sort of worried. Come into the sitting room; we've got a council of war going."
Alan followed the three big men through a set of double doors into a sitting room. Bronson, Linley and Griffen were all ex-patrolmen and patrolmen were all big: a requirement of the profession. And oddly enough, all three of these patrolmen owed their present occupation in the Terran Underground to Alan. The room beyond the doorway was large and comfortably furnished. A wood fire crackled in a great, old-fashioned fireplace and the floor was carpeted with a patterned gold rug. Three other men got to their feet as Alan and Mark entered. The contrast between them and the ex-patrolmen was pronounced. One was a young, slender dark-haired man of average height. Kurt McDougal had been Alan's bunkmate at Terran Space Academy, and also owed his present position to Alan. Matt Philips and Lewis Stevens were psychics, and like Alan Westover, they were noticeably short in stature.
Philips, the senior medical officer of the Lavirra Base, waved them to chairs. "Have a seat," he said. "We've been putting together all the information we've been able to gather about the Drevelle Base Hospital, where Lyn's going to be taken."
Alan sat down in the nearest chair, and the others did the same. A dark-haired woman entered the room quietly as they were sorting themselves out. She smiled briefly at Alan. "Good morning, gentlemen. Can I bring you something to eat? The 'Leviathan' docks in just a couple of hours, and I suspect you're going to be very busy soon."
"Thanks," Alan said. Mark nodded, turning to the other men. "What have you got?"
"We've been monitoring transmissions from the base," Kurt said. "They're putting her on the prison level, naturally, and she'll be heavily guarded. They'll be watching for you two, particularly, but we think we've got a way around that...."
Abruptly Alan heard a voice speaking in his mind. Matt Philips was adding something to Kurt's introduction, but Alan was no longer listening. Lewis Stevens was speaking to him telepathically so that the non-psychics in the room would not hear.
*We have an agent on the 'Leviathan', Alan.*
*We do?* Alan felt a surge of hope. *Who?*
*They wouldn't tell me that. It's top secret, because of his terribly vulnerable position.*
*But --*
*He's a psychic. He'll do his best. His position aboard the ship is an unimportant one, and my informant tells me that he doubts that the man will be able to get to her, but he'll do everything he can to assist, short of revealing his position."
"Hey kid, are you all right?" Mark inquired.
Alan jerked himself back to the outer world to see Mark, Kevin, Griffen and Kurt all looking at him.
"Who were you talkin' to?" Mark asked. "Lew? Musta been. Matt was talkin' to us. What's up?"
"He can't tell you," Lewis said.
Linley raised an eyebrow. "'Cause o' my lousy shieldin', no doubt. Okay, kids, keep your little secrets."
"I'm sorry," Alan said.
"That's okay," Bronson said. "I'm sure it ain't the first time they've kept things from Mark and me. So, Kurt, you got the Jil's schedule?"
"Right here." Kurt produced a hand computer. "He's scheduled to arrive at Drevelle in about an hour, and his route's all mapped out...."
**********
Strike Commander Thoroski lay back on the bunk in the Strike Commander's quarters. Patrolman Parks was off duty and the ship was still another thirty minutes from Corala. He lay still, staring at the overhead, his mind busy.
All attempts to get near the prisoner during the shift in Sick Bay had met with miserable failure. Thoroski compressed his lips. The other guards must think him a real weirdo. What a trenchcrawler Parks must have been! Well, if nothing else good came out of this idiotic venture, at least he had done the Sector a favor by ridding it of Patrolman Wilbur Parks.
There was a sound, and Thoroski sat up, jerking around. The door to his valet's quarters slid open and Gregory Smythe entered, a blaster gripped firmly in his hand.
"Don't move, sir." Smythe's voice was perfectly calm. "If you do, I'll stun you."
"Smythe! What the devil --"
The valet advanced, the blaster held steady in his hand. "I want to know what you're doing here, sir. You're supposed to be on leave. Why are you masquerading as Parks?"
Thoroski stared at the blaster. "I could have you executed for this, Smythe. Put the blaster down."
"No sir." Smythe's hand hadn't wavered, and his appearance had altered drastically. No longer was he the slim, dapper young man with wide, innocent blue eyes. Those eyes had hardened to points of steel and the plain, nondescript face was drawn into firm, unyielding lines. "I want my questions answered right now."
Thoroski stared at him. "Are you crazy?"
The young man smiled slightly. "Perhaps, sir. But I want to know why you're here. Is it because of the Parnell girl?"
Thoroski lay back on his bunk. "How did you know I was in here?"
"I'm asking the questions, sir."
"You're a psychic, aren't you?"
Smythe went pale. "You will answer my questions, Strike Commander, or I'll kill you and throw your body down the matter converter."
"Oh yeah? You and who else?"
Smythe advanced a step, his gaze never leaving Thoroski's face. "I'm a psychic, sir," he said. "Unfortunately, I'm only a fair telepath, and your mind is a difficult one to read. I think something has happened to change your loyalties, and you're going to try to free Lyn Parnell in order to be admitted to the Underground. Is that true?"
Thoroski was silent. Smythe's expression hardened. "If it isn't true, sir, I'm going to kill you."
"It's true," Thoroski said.
The blaster didn't waver. "Turn over onto your face, sir."
"Why?"
"*Do* it! I'm not going to hurt you, but I'll have to do a deep mind probe to know if you're telling me the truth. As I said, you have a difficult mind to read."
Thoroski shrugged and started to turn over. Smythe took a step closer.
Thoroski grabbed for the blaster, at the same time aiming a lightning jab at Smythe's midriff.
But the valet proved far quicker and more competent than Thoroski would have given him credit for. He leaped nimbly to the side, evading Thoroski's grab with ease. The blaster hummed.
**********
Strike Commander Thoroski opened his eyes. He was lying face down on his bunk, his head pounding. His stomach heaved and, as he moved, his mouth filled with saliva. His hands were cuffed behind him with restrainers.
"Lie still, sir." It was his valet's voice. Thoroski groaned and relaxed, trying to steady his stomach.
He flinched violently at the touch of Smythe's hand against the side of his face.
"Lie still," the valet repeated. "It won't hurt. I'm doing a mind probe."
Thoroski obeyed, heaving slightly. There was a silence and the minutes crawled by. Then, Smythe stood up and there was a click as he removed the restrainers. He didn't speak and Thoroski lay still, unable to move. There was the sound of running water, and a moment later a damp cloth was laid gently across his sweating neck. Smythe sat down beside him, holding a small, metal basin in one hand, and waited.
Thoroski opened his eyes and glared blearily at the young man. "Damn you, Smythe!"
"Sorry, sir. I had to know."
"Yeah, I guess so. Who are you?"
"An agent for the Terran Underground. Nobody but my boss knows my real name, sir, so I can't tell you. But I've disobeyed my orders, doing what I've done. I was told not to endanger my position for Miss Parnell, in spite of her importance to the Underground, but I have. Now, sir, I need to know about your plans."
Thoroski took a deep breath and grabbed for the basin. Smythe held it for him, his hands steady and firm. "Easy, sir. You'll feel better when it's over."
Thoroski's stomach finally finished its revolt and he lay back, closing his eyes. Smythe was right, as usual. He did feel better. Man! What a hellish headache! Thoroski had been stunned only once before, in field training as a patrolman recruit, and it had been seventeen years since then. He'd forgotten how bad it was.
At last, he turned painfully over and blinked at his valet. "Smythe>"
"Yes, sir?"
"You say you're a member of the Underground?"
"Yes sir."
"Are you going to try to get Miss Parnell free?"
Smythe shook his head. "I have to guard my cover, sir. As your valet, I was in a good position to pick up secrets. Captain Parnell is very important to us, of course, but my position is more so. Even when you had Colonel Westover a prisoner, I was instructed firmly not to interfere."
Thoroski's eyebrows went up. "*Colonel* Westover?"
"Yes sir. The Colonel is by far the most powerful and versatile psychic we have, but I was not allowed to try to rescue him, so you see that my hands are tied when it comes to Captain Parnell. My position as your valet was difficult to obtain and, if I lost it, it would be difficult to re-establish elsewhere. But after that last mass-execution I picked up a changed attitude in you, and then I sensed you in here when I knew you were supposed to be on leave. I had to know, sir. If you were going to defect, my position would be blown, anyway. I'd be investigated and possibly discovered. I'd have to disappear quietly and then begin to establish myself somewhere else, under a different name."
Thoroski took the damp rag and sponged his face. "So how am I going to get Miss Parnell loose, Smythe? This damned character I've chosen to impersonate was apparently in the habit of molesting the female prisoners. I couldn't get near her. The other guards wouldn't let me."
Smythe's expression didn't change. "That's unfortunate, sir. Now, let me see...."
"Attention, attention." It was the voice of Lieutenant Carson over the ship's intercom. "Normal space in thirty seconds."
Smythe seated himself again. "There must be a way to get to her, sir. Once we're at the base...." He fell silent, thinking. There was a jolt as the ship emerged from hyperspace. "She'll be taken to the Drevelle Base Hospital, no doubt, and you can get in there, too. I'll have to stay in the background, and I have to guard my cover." He smiled slightly. "Be on the lookout for other Underground agents, sir. I can guarantee you that Colonel Westover and Colonel Linley will be there, somewhere. Captain Parnell is Colonel Westover's psychic partner -- and his fiancee. So be careful. Colonel Westover can get pretty ferocious when one of his friends is in trouble."
"Yeah. So I gathered, after that business with Foxe and the 'Patton.' Mr. Westover is a young man who has my utmost respect, believe me." Thoroski regarded his valet thoughtfully. "But as for you, Smythe, now that I'm leaving, won't you be leaving too?"
The valet smiled. "Maybe not, sir. You have a very unique type of mind, whether you're aware of it or not. I've only seen it before in psychics, which you certainly are not. There might be a chance --" He paused. "I'd better not say any more now, sir, but I have a little advice."
"What?"
"Don't let them know that Strike Commander Thoroski has defected. Don't leave any clues of your changed feelings, and don't let anyone see your face. I have a feeling --"
"Okay. I didn't intend to, anyway. So my mind is hard to read, huh?"
Smythe nodded. "Of course I'm not the best of telepaths, sir. That's intentional, of course. Telepathy is the strongest ability the Jilectans have, and the easiest for them to detect in another psychic. I can read people like Parks with no difficulty. But you're a little different."
Thoroski grunted and sat up, rubbing his neck and feeling a little smug. Things might be working out all right, after all. "I guess I'd better get cracking now. Are you going to be hanging around?"
Smythe nodded, and assisted him to put on his boots. "I'll be around, sir, but I'll be leaving eventually. I mustn't be seen delaying when I'm supposed to be on leave -- especially with an important member of the Underground in the Patrol's custody. And I'm too short to impersonate a patrolman."
"Yeah." Thoroski stood up, and Smythe handed him his helmet.
"Here you are, Mr. Parks. Oops, your mole's smeared. Better let me fix it."
Thoroski grinned. "You're a damned good valet, Smythe. You sure had me fooled."
The valet smiled. "Thank you, sir." He vanished into his apartment and returned a moment later with a leather case, which he flipped open, revealing the latest in makeup and disguises. "Here. Hold still, sir."
With deft, careful fingers, he wiped away the shoe polish and reapplied the mole. "There. Now, wait another minute, sir. Mr. Parks' chin was a little less prominent than yours. I'm going to repair that, too." He dipped a brush into a bottle and applied soft, delicate strokes to the Strike Commander's mouth and chin. "Good. Now I'll cover those worry lines around your mouth. Have a look, sir."
Thoroski did. "Man! That's great!"
Smythe smiled slightly. Thank you, sir. Oh, one last detail. I'm going to give you a pimple. Parks had a bad complexion sometimes." Another deft touch with the brush. "There. Perfect, sir."
Thoroski put on the helmet, covering the upper half of his features. The visored face of Patrolman Wilbur Parks stared back at him. He grinned at his valet.
"Good, sir. But make that grin a little meaner. Right! You look wonderful. No one will know the difference."
"Thanks," Thoroski said again. He took one last look at himself in the mirror. "I have an idea about Miss Parnell, but I might need some help. Could you do that, as long as it doesn't blow your cover?"
"Maybe," Smythe said. "Let's hear it."
Thoroski began to talk. The valet listened, adding a comment or two. When Thoroski finished, he nodded. "All right. You get the equipment, and I'll meet you at forty-five minutes after the hour." He glanced at his chronometer. "You'd better go, sir." He smiled slightly. "I'm certainly glad you're on our side now. It used to scare me thinking about you working for the Jils."
Thoroski laughed. "Funny, I had the impression that you weren't a bit afraid of me."
"You underestimate yourself, sir. I'll see you later. Wait; let me check the corridor for you." He vanished into his apartment and a moment later Thoroski heard a soft tap on his door. "All clear, sir."
He slid the door open and went out. Smythe slipped quietly past, not glancing back, and the door hissed shut behind him.
**********
tbc
