Defector: 8/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VIII
An aircar hummed softly through the morning air of Corala toward the Drevelle Patrol Station. They were approaching from the east over the open countryside. Ahead, Alan could see the city of Drevelle and beyond it the Patrol base. On either side of him, dressed in the dark blue uniforms of Patrol doctors, were Mark Linley and Kevin Bronson. Next to Kevin, Lewis Stevens, in the outfit of an orderly, made himself small in his position next to the window. In the front seat, beside the driver, sat another "doctor" with straight, almost blue-black hair, a dark complexion and eyes of so dark a brown that they were almost black. Ronald Griffen was half Crow Indian, a fact of which he was very proud, and his mother's blood showed in his high, flat cheekbones, hawk nose and coloring. He looked back at Alan. "Time, Gregson?"
The history of his nickname for Alan had originated with the story of his defection to the Terran Underground, a move that he now acknowledged was probably a fortunate circumstance for him. He continued to call Alan by the name of the alias Alan had used at their first meeting, however, as a reminder never to take anything at face value.
"He should be here in a few minutes," Alan said. "Let's hope he's on time."
"If he isn't," Kurt McDougal said, from his position in the driver's seat, "I'll circle around. We mustn't miss him, or getting in will be a lot harder."
Alan glanced down at his light blue corpsman's outfit. This had to work, he told himself. It was dangerous, but it really looked like the only way they were likely to get past the guards at the gate. If Revolthvor would only show up on time.
"There they are." Lewis Stevens' voice broke into his thoughts. "They're coming up on our right rear."
"Got it," Kurt said, and at once their course changed in such a way that the Jilectan aircar would pass close to their own. Alan twisted, to look through the rear window. His heart had begun to beat fast and light in his chest. It was an official Jilectan aircar, all right, gleaming silver in the early morning sunlight, flanked by an escort vehicle to its right and rear.
Kurt slowed their car, allowing the Jilectan car to overtake them. The big vehicle glided past ten meters away, the official seal of Revolthvor's house prominently displayed on the passenger door.
"Can you do it?" Mark asked.
"With a little help from my friends." Alan didn't need to touch either of his power packs. Mark and Kevin were jammed tightly against him in the seat. Closing his eyes for better concentration, he reached out a telekinetic finger toward the limousine's engine.
He was almost too far away, but with both Mark and Kevin to tap for power, his telekinetic strength was multiplied several times more than the level that he could summon alone. The effect, the experts told him, was synergistic and not additive. Even Alan couldn't handle the power supplied by both his power packs constantly, but on an emergency basis, for a short period of time, it was harmless. A small vital part of the other car's engine jerked loose. The limousine began to lose altitude.
"Nice work," Lewis Stevens said. "Okay, Kurt. We're loyal members of the Autonomy and that's a Jil in trouble. Let's go see if we can help."
"Already on the way." Kurt brought the car around in a lazy circle toward the stricken vehicle.
The Jilectan's escort car had followed it down. The limousine pancaked to a rough landing on the field beneath and the Patrol vehicle settled beside it. Kurt brought their car down at a slight distance from the other two.
Griffen glanced over at Kurt. "Let's go." Together, the two men opened their doors and half-ran across the grass toward the Jilectan's car.
The door of the silver vehicle opened abruptly as they approached and Lord Revolthvor emerged, accompanied by a frightened chauffeur. The man was stammering nervously. "I'm terribly sorry, sir! I just had it in for a check last week! They said it was in perfect running order!"
The Jilectan pushed his servant aside and turned sharply to the two patrolmen that had emerged from the escort car. "See if you can repair it. I am commandeering this other vehicle." He glanced at Griffen. "Get everyone out of it. You --" He turned to Kurt, "are the driver?"
"Yes sir," Kurt answered, with a low bow. "I would be honored to take Your Lordship wherever you need to go."
Mark, Kevin and Lewis Stevens were already getting out of the car. Alan had slid to the floor of the aircar and now crouched there, gripping a blaster in both hands. Revolthvor strode forward and Kurt hurried to open the rear door for him. Revolthvor started to climb in and froze at the sight of the weapon centered on him.
"Get in, M'lord," Alan said softly. "Don't make a sound."
Revolthvor got in.
Griffen turned to the two patrolmen who were bending over the hood of the Jilectan limousine, and the chauffeur, who stood behind them, all but wringing his hands in agitation. He drew his blaster from its concealed holster and flipped it to emergency maximum. "Freeze, gentlemen," he said.
The men froze. Mark and Kevin drew their blasters and approached. Their weapons hummed together and the two patrolmen crumpled to the grass. Mark fired a second time and the chauffeur fell across them.
Griffen restored his blaster to its holster and strode over to the limousine. "What did you do to it, Gregson?" he called.
"It's the power cable to the anti-gravity generator," Alan called back, his blaster never wavering from Revolthvor.
While Griffen was repairing the sabotage, Mark and Kevin occupied the time in exchanging their clothing for that of the patrolmen, and Kurt quietly pulled on the official outfit of the Jilectan's chauffeur.
Mark cussed softly. "It's too tight in the shoulders. Oh well." He glanced at Kevin. "Ready?"
"Yeah." Bronson adjusted his belt. "All set. Let's escort His Lordship to his aircar."
Between them, they marched Revolthvor to his limousine. Alan followed, his blaster aimed at the Jilectan's spine. Stevens opened the rear door for him with a low bow. "Get in, M'lord."
Revolthvor got in. Alan entered after him and seated himself on the floor, keeping his weapon aimed at the alien. "Just sit still, M'lord," he said quietly, "and you won't be hurt."
Kurt, now clad in the uniform of the chauffeur, slid into their own car for a moment and then got out, and slammed the door. The car rose quietly, turned and glided back in the direction from which it had come.
Alan, his blaster aimed unwaveringly at Revolthvor, was nonetheless keeping track of what was going on. His two power packs efficiently loaded the cuffed and gagged patrolmen into the trunk and Griffen followed with the Jilectan's chauffeur. There was plenty of room left over, which was just as well, Alan thought. Kurt climbed into the driver's seat of the limousine and Griffen got into the passenger seat, his credential's as a Patrol doctor, in the service of Lord Revolthvor gripped in one hand. It would not be beyond belief that the Jilectan would wish his own personnel to verify the condition of the Underground prisoner, Alan knew, and it was unlikely that anyone would question his presence in the Jilectan's car. Mark, Kevin and Lewis Stevens got into the escort car, and Lewis ducked down below the window level.
Kurt glanced back at Alan. "Ready, sir?"
"Ready," Alan agreed. "How's the uniform fit?"
"Not too bad. A bit tight in the shoulders, and I kept my own shoes. This guy must be Cinderella's first cousin. I always did have big feet for my height, anyway."
"Nobody's going to notice the shoes," Alan said. "Let's go."
The official Jilectan vehicle lifted softly from the ground, followed by the escort craft. Kurt made an approving sound. "Man, I wish our cars ran like this baby. Talk about smooth...."
Alan grinned slightly, but his attention never wavered from the Jilectan. He gripped the blaster tightly in both hands, pointing it directly at the Jilectan's midriff. Revolthvor, the noble Speaker for the Viceroy's Cabinet, was known to be a powerful telekinetic, and no one knew better than Alan how dangerous the creature he faced really was. One slip on his part and the situation could change dramatically. Revolthvor's shields were tightly up, and Alan's were down, watching those shields for any indication that the alien might be attempting to peek through them at the mind of his captor.
"Just keep your shields up," he said quietly, speaking to the Jilectan as an equal. "I'm watching you closely."
Revolthvor gave him no reply. Alan continued in the same quiet voice. "We're going onto the base. "If you make any attempt to alert the guards, my first move will be to kill you. Is that clearly understood?"
The Jilectan's eyes narrowed. "Alan Westover!" he hissed.
"That's right," Alan said pleasantly. "Remember Salthvor and Valthzor and Harthvar, M'lord. I have nothing to lose by killing you, too, so be very careful. You don't want to join them."
"You are a fool!" the Jilectan said. "You will never get through the gate. They are watching for you."
"Well," Alan said, "I guess you'll just have to make sure we aren't caught, won't you?"
"Coming up on the gate, sir," Kurt said.
Alan smiled mirthlessly. "No noise, M'lord."
The aircar hummed through the gate, followed by the Patrol vehicle. Revolthvor remained silent.
**********
Sven Thoroski strode briskly across the grounds of the Drevelle Patrol Station. The Drevelle Base Hospital was a tall imposing building, sixteen stories high. Lyn Parnell was already being taken in as he watched, floated in on a stretcher between two orderlies and surrounded by four guards.
He was careful to keep his glance at the spectacle a perfunctory one, as he turned and mounted the steps of the main entrance.
The scanners of the hospital noted his identification card and automatically excluded the weapon scan that it performed on civilians. This was convenient, since several of the items he carried would definitely not pass the weapons check. Being a Strike Commander had certain advantages, including the master codes to his ship's armory, and he had taken full advantage of his position before this venture.
It was morning on this part of Corala and the mists still lay on the smooth green lawns surrounding the building, but the sun shone warmly and the day promised to be hot. Summers on this part of Corala were almost as bad as those in the inland regions of Shallock. Jilectans tended to prefer planets with warm climates. Thoroski wiped the sweat from his face as he went through the front doors of the hospital.
The Parnell girl would be taken to the prison level, which was on the tenth floor. According to their plan, Greg Smythe would already have been here and hopefully had completed his job by now. Thoroski sauntered toward the lift. The door opened as he approached and he started to enter.
"Hold the lift!" someone shouted, and he turned, one hand on the doors, to keep them from closing. The man, dressed in a slightly soiled maintenance suit, hurried breathlessly through, his face down. "Thanks. Which level?"
Thoroski glanced over, and froze. Gregory Smythe looked up to meet his gaze as the panels slid shut.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.
Smythe looked calmly at him. "I was just finishing my work upstairs when I heard the news, sir. They've notified Security to be on the lookout for the man masquerading as Patrolman Wilbur Parks. The real Parks has been found and identified. Too bad you were interrupted back there. I guess you didn't have time to do a thorough job. Anyway, he's come to and they're looking for the man who replaced him. They think the Underground planted an agent aboard in order to free Captain Parnell."
Thoroski said a cussword and removed the nameplate from his helmet. "Thanks. You'd better get off the lift, fast."
"Right," Smythe said. "I'll be waiting for your signal." He quickly punched the indicators for the fourth and fifth levels. "I'll get off on fourth and you'd better use fifth. That's Surgery, and there'll be lockers and things. You should be able to get your gear there, 'Dr. Vincent.' Everything's all set for you."
"Good idea." Thoroski cussed under his breath. "What rotten luck!"
"It'll be all right, sir." The lift slid to a gentle halt and Smythe got off, not looking back. The doors closed and the lift proceeded upward to the fifth level.
Smythe had been right. The fifth level was swarming with medical personnel. Thoroski moved down the corridor at a swift walk, scanning the area for his target.
There he came: a tall, dark young man clad in the uniform of a Patrol doctor. Thoroski trailed him discreetly. The doctor entered a restroom at the end of the hall and Thoroski followed. The man entered one of the stalls.
There was a corpsman there already, standing at a sink in the far corner, washing his hands, but the room was otherwise deserted. Thoroski went over to another sink and turned on the water, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. The corpsman started to comb his hair, whistling softly.
Thoroski swore to himself and drew his blaster, stepped up behind the young man and pressed the weapon to his spine.
The corpsman froze. Thoroski gestured silently with the blaster toward one of the stalls and the corpsman sidled in the direction he indicated, his eyes rolling wildly toward the visored face of the Strike Commander. Thoroski herded him inside, just as the doctor emerged from the stall three doors away. Thoroski fired and the corpsman collapsed forward to the floor. The doctor's mouth opened to yell, and Thoroski fired again.
The doctor crumpled. Thoroski dragged him into the stall with the corpsman and shut the door with some difficulty. The quarters, now occupied by three persons, two of them fairly large, were extremely cramped. Thoroski locked the door and propped the corpsman on the john, draping the doctor across his lap. Then, as quickly as he could, he began to strip off the doctor's scrubs.
There was the sound of the outer door opening, and someone entered. Thoroski held himself perfectly still, breathing softly, at the sounds of motion beyond the stall door. A toilet flushed, and then he heard the sound of water running, and of someone whistling softly between his teeth. He held his breath, praying that the man would not decide to examine the space beneath the doors and discover three pairs of legs. He held the corpsman on the seat, gripping the doctor with the other hand to keep him from sliding, and stood motionless, listening.
The water went off after what seemed an eternity, and the footsteps retreated. Thoroski let out his breath softly. Apparently the crowd in the stall had not been noticed, or perhaps the individual, whoever he had been, simply hadn't had the courage to intrude on what might prove to be an embarrassing situation.
In any case, he had to move fast. The diversion he and Smythe had arranged was due to go off in twenty-four minutes.
As the door closed behind the unknown intruder, Thoroski opened the belt pouch of his uniform. He had made a short visit to the ship's medical storeroom before leaving the "Leviathan" and discovered that the locks were pitifully inadequate to a man armed with a blaster on needle beam and single-minded determination. Now he removed some of his booty and injected the corpsman and then the doctor with a hefty dose of sedative. Moving rapidly, he closed the pouch once more and pulled the loose tunic of the doctor's scrub shirt over it. Good. No one would be able to tell that he had a blaster tucked into the belt at all. Swiftly, he pulled on the rest of the scrub outfit and pulled the scrub cap as far down as it would go on his head, covering his hair, forehead and ears.
He listened carefully. There was no one in the bathroom as far as he could tell. Thoroski unlocked the door, checked quickly and bundled the doctor out. A large, empty linen hamper stood by one wall. He had noted it when he first entered the room. Thoroski loaded the man into it and dropped the discarded Patrol uniform on top of him. With a towel, he carefully eradicated all fingerprints from his helmet, inside and out, and dumped it into the trash receptacle on one wall. Now for the corpsman.
With care, he propped the man on the john, leaning back against the wall, and closed the door, wedging it shut with a paper towel. It might be some time before he was discovered and it would undoubtedly confuse things when he was. Then, with studied casualness, Thoroski took the linen hamper and left the restroom, pushing it before him. Sixteen minutes left.
People were passing in the hall. Thoroski kept his face down and his gaze on the floor to prevent the monitoring cameras from registering his face. After everything was over, the films taken would be examined minutely, and anyone who shouldn't be there would be spotted. He didn't want to leave the slightest evidence of who the unidentified doctor in the hallway might be. Hopefully, they would assume it was the Underground agent who had masqueraded as Mr. Parks on the trip from Ranlach to Corala. Which it was, in a way....
A nurse opened the lid of the laundry hamper and dropped a dirty scrub gown on top of the uniform. Thoroski let out his breath as the man walked away, and closed the lid once more. Moving at a brisk pace, to frustrate any further such incidents, he rolled the hamper ahead of him down the corridor, toward the dirty linen room. He shoved it into a far corner of the room and pushed three other hampers in front of it. The may should enjoy a nice, undisturbed nap for some time before either the sedative wore off or someone came to empty the hampers. Thoroski left the room and strode back toward the lift, drawing a deep breath. This cloak and dagger business was hard on the nerves -- every bit as hard as commanding a battlecruiser.
Several people were already waiting for the lift when he arrived. Thoroski stood in the rear of the group, studying the toes of his shoes. Where was the lift? He glanced at his chronometer. He had barely ten minutes before the first diversion went off. Thoroski shifted impatiently, tapping a mental foot.
The doors slid open just as he was about to check the timepiece again, and the crowd entered, pressing buttons for various floors. Thoroski punched for the tenth and stood courteously back for his fellows to reach the board. The doors slid shut and the car began to rise.
When he disembarked on the prison level he looked around, trying to gather an impression of the place without betraying his ignorance. There were force fields at every window and door, as expected, but the floor seemed relatively empty. He collected an electronic chart from the nearest rack and strode briskly down the corridor, looking for a guarded door.
There it was. Two guards stood before a room on the left side of the hall. Thoroski glanced at his chronometer again. Two minutes.
He switched on the chart and glanced down the display without seeing any of the displayed date, then stepped confidently forward, flashing his prepared I.D. at the guard.
"Dr. Vincent here for consult, as requested."
As he spoke, the lights went out, plunging the floor into blackness. Thoroski heard one of the guards exclaim. The man flicked on his hand light, peering through the gloom at the supposed doctor before him. "What the hell's going on?"
"Not much," Thoroski said. "They're doing some work on the lighting system. That's happened a couple of times this week."
The emergency lighting came on, illuminating the area in pale, yellow light. Holding his breath, Thoroski handed the guard his I.D. "Could I get in, now, Patrolman? I'm on a tight schedule."
The man squinted at the picture on the small, plastic card and then handed it back. "Just a minute, doc." He produced a pocket computer and consulted a list. "Yep; there you are. Let him in, Joe."
The other guard turned and pressed a button beside the door. The force field went off and the panel slid open. Thoroski entered, finding an instant to wonder how Smythe had accomplished that bit of wizardry, and heard the door click shut behind him. A doctor, a nurse, and four patrolmen looked up as he entered. Thoroski strode over to the bed, his face down, apparently reading the chart. "Doctor Vincent here for consult, as requested," he said.
"Who --" began the doctor, but the word was cut off in the middle, drowned in the ear-shattering scream of the fire alarm. Thoroski gulped a deep breath of air and dropped the sleep pellet, ordinarily used for purposes of crowd control, that he had brought from the armory of the "Leviathan."
The patrolmen, the doctor and the nurse went down. Thoroski stepped quickly over to the window, pulling his blaster from beneath the scrub suit's top. There was no telling how much time he had, so there was none to waste. The fire Greg had set in Security should have knocked out their own emergency power, and thus the surveillance system, and would undoubtedly keep Hospital Security busy for a little while. With a tiny bit of good luck, they would be too occupied to check on the prisoner for a vital few minutes.
He flipped the blaster to needle beam and placed the muzzle against the casing that housed the window's tiny force field generator. There was a hiss as he pulled the trigger, and a faint sputter. A thin plume of smoke emerged from the unit. Thoroski leaned out, gulping a breath of air, and once more held it. Moving rapidly, he returned to the bed and its small occupant.
Lyn should survive without her tubes, at least for a while, he hoped. Very carefully, Thoroski removed them and lifted her from the bed. She was light as a child. He started to wrap her in a sheet and paused as his eye lit on a linen hamper by the door. Without another thought, he strode over to it and lowered her into it. It would be better concealment than a sheet.
Carefully, he placed another sheet on top of her and turned to the nurse, who lay on the floor, snoring softly.
He was a short, middle-aged man with greying hair and a pronounced spare tire. Thoroski heaved him into the bed with an effort, wondering why someone hadn't insisted that he lose about forty kilos, and covered him with the blanket. He shoved the tubes hastily beneath the covers and turned to the window, speaking into the communicator on his wrist. "Ready."
There was no answer, of course. This was Smythe's part of the operation. He left the communicator on, hoping that on one would pick up the transmission for the short time this would take.
An unmanned aircar moved silently into place below the window. Thoroski lifted the laundry bag and stepped into the front seat of the vehicle. It was a Patrol car. A patrolman lay crumpled on the passenger side, half on the seat, half off. Thoroski pushed him onto the floor and swung Lyn into the rear seat and then flicked off the communicator, aware of a vast increase in his respect for his valet. Smythe was, without doubt, a very formidable young man.
He was beside one of the wings of the hospital building, he noted, as he slid behind the controls. He lowered the car casually toward the ground, barely a meter above the manicured green lawn, and moved smoothly out onto a surface street. Driving neither too fast nor too slow, Thoroski guided the craft toward the front of the hospital.
There were several patrolmen standing near the hospital entrance and, parked blandly in the Administrator's space, sat the official limousine of a Jilectan noble. Thoroski drove past, glancing idly at the insignia and the two patrolmen in the front seat, noting with mild interest that the car bore the seal of Lord Revolthvor's House, and then turned the Patrol car toward the storage huts, some three kilometers away.
He pulled the car into the deserted area behind a cluster of huts, and cut the engine. The patrolman on the floor of the car was beginning to stir and moan faintly. Thoroski glanced at him, and stunned the man again, then hauled him to the seat, beginning to strip him of his clothing. He dressed himself in the uniform and stuffed the discarded scrub suit under the seat.
He was now Patrolman Second Class Paul Oscarson. Thoroski squirmed uncomfortably. Patrolman Oscarson was somewhat larger than he was and the uniform was too large in a number of places. He tightened the belt and tried to shove his toes farther down into the boots. Oh well, he thought, probably no one would notice.
The patrolman moaned again, beginning to retch. Thoroski drew his blaster and stunned the man a second time, feeling a little sorry for him as he did so. The poor guy was going to wake up with a horrendous headache but at least it was better than being dead -- although the patrolman would undoubtedly fail to see the benefit of it for the first ten or fifteen minutes or so after he awoke.
Thoroski grinned in sympathy, the thought of his own stunner headache coming to mind. With some effort, he bundled his victim out of the aircar and abandoned him behind a row of scraggly bushes. It would be a while before the poor guy could notify anyone of the assault, and all that Thoroski needed was another twenty minutes.
No longer burdened with his extra passenger, he lifted the car boldly into the sky and soared over the storage huts toward the landing field, not hurrying, but not dawdling, either. Jil tracers would be after Lyn Parnell soon, so he had better get her off-planet as soon as possible. If he knew the Jils at all, and he certainly did, they would ban all private flights from Corala until they either found her or became convinced that she had somehow gotten away. But there was one ship that no one in his right mind would even consider as a hiding place for a fugitive.
The "Leviathan" was scheduled to leave Corala in just a couple of hours. He intended to be on it.
**********
tbc
